Minosian fools. Do you not see? The compact that we, the Many of the Abyss, made with the citizens of the circles city was always already the seed of their demise. We demanded from them a single child be made to suffer the most heinous tortures so that the rest of the city might know peace and prosperity; that very act and the acquiescence to it that every adult in the city undertook with their coming of age tainted their every last action with the stain of the Abyss.

And what of the price I asked? If any kindness or compassion were to be shown the child, the lives of every come-of-age adult, their souls, and their flesh would be forfeit to me. Grist and blood and sinew to be reshaped to serve the will of we, the Many of the Abyss. They sought to protect against that, building a fortified dungeon to hold the child, erecting a barrier to keep others out, and making judicious use of cantrips and magicks to erase the very memory of anyone who left the city or had birthed a sacrifice-child.

But there is no protection, no plan, no magicks that can stand against our most potent weapon: time.

In time, the child would be shown a kindness and the compact would be broken. It was inevitable, whether in centuries or even millennia. And by binding themselves to we, the Many of the Abyss, at their comings-of-age, the citizens were already perfect vessels for our howling birth upon your plane. For the Many of the Abyss are eternal and patient, and we have built up our dominion here from a single plane-tainted ant to a gestating army which will remake the world in our image.

What can you, fools of Minosia, do against such will, such power, other than break upon it as a wave upon stony shores?

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The Crimson Emperor Neris II, for reasons of his own, sent the crack 7th Imperial Legion not to some far-distant battlefield but to a little-known place in the hinterlands of his own domain, a morass known as Mossfallow Fen.

Neris II was the first Emperor by that name since Neris I nearly 250 years ago, and that emperor’s disastrous reign had long overshadowed the name, despite it being the most common given name for noble-born boys for generations in either direction. Emperor Joron III, Emperor Doricus IV, and Emperor Testarossa II had all borne the proper name of Neris but had chosen to drop it in favor of another of their many names or even a nickname. But the Dowager Empress had insisted that her son would make the name noble again, and many at court felt that his rash, impulsive, and overwhelmingly forceful responses to any perceived threat were the result of the burden of his name.

So none dared question Neris II’s deployment of the 7th Imperial Legion to Mossfalow Fen, and when he bypassed the usual Imperial command structure to do so, his bureaucrats obligingly stepped aside. The 7th Legion departed without any of its usual command staff or Imperial Commissioners. Only the Prince-Elector of Kryne, one of the Emperor’s closest confidants, accompanied the troops, relaying his orders directly to the men through their officers.

One month later, a single Legionnaire from the 7th returned to the Crimson Emperor’s court. He was Centurion Joeax, of the Southern Marches, a sunlit and breezy land far removed from the dour overcast of Mossfallow. It is recorded in the histories that Joeax commanded an auxiliary unit of archers in the 7th, and that he arrived apparently uninjured but without his bow, riding a horse with the tack of a much senior officer and armed with a long cruciform heavy infantry sword rather than the short stabbing sword issued archers for personal defense and lat-ditch melee.

Joeax was quickly borne to Neris II, and the emperor demanded that his audience with the man be utterly private. It was a brief meeting, not more than fifteen minutes, and at the end the Emperor’s advisors found that their liege had slain Joeax with his ornate sword of office–the first time it had been stained with blood since the Great Rebellion. In a rage, Neris II demanded that every man, woman, and child who had contact with Joeax and might possibly have heard or intuited part of his message be put to death.

1000 people died in the subsequent purge, and at the Emperor’s orders his scribes and historians did their best to expunge all mention of the 7th Legion from the record. At this they failed, presumably because most assumed that the Legion had risen against the Emperor and that the latter’s overthrow was imminent. But no such challenge arose; Neris II ruled for a further 10 years, but within six months of Joeax’s execution he had sunk into howling insanity with only the briefest periods of lucidity, leaving his son the future Doricus V as regent.

Not one of the 10,000 men of the 7th Imperial Legion including Prince-Elector Kryne was ever seen again save Joeax, nor was a single item of their equipment ever recovered, though many enterprising souls scoured the muck of Mossfallow for the site of a presumed battle. Emperor Neris II had been successful in one sense: not a living soul ever discovered what news Centurian Joeax had borne to his liege.

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The cell phone call was routed to the interactive dash of the car Ilion had just hijacked. Well, “hijacked” is perhaps not the best term: rather than smashing a window and hotwiring, Ilion had used an unsecured wireless network to pinch the car’s authentication key to command it to unlock and start. It was an electric, so all that was needed was to find another unsecured, or easily breakable, car before the other ran out of charge.

“Ilion? Can you hear me?” It was Cherril’s voice.

“I can year you, Cherril,” said Ilion, “I’m a little busy right now.”

“Please, Ilion…please stop this,” Cherril said. “Stealing cars, crashing servers…do you have any idea what you’re doing to people who had nothing to do with anything? How many innocent people could get hurt?”

“They’re part of a corrupt system,” Ilion replied. “I was in IT long enough to know that a compromised system can’t be fixed without some damage. I’m striking back with the tools that I have available.”

“But…do you have any idea how long it’s been? Ho much has changed? You’re lashing out at a system that isn’t the same one that killed them, at people who weren’t here and may not even have been born when it happened!”

“Are you going to tell me the system’s gotten better since then?” Ilion’s car weaved and dodged through traffic, causing horns, fender-benders, and a collision that did not look survivable in its wake. “Time is meaningless. If you leave it alone, a system doesn’t heal, it festers.”

“Illion, please…stop what you’re going and come to us. We can help! It doesn’t have to be you against the world.”

“The world is just data points and networks, Cherril, pathways to get me where I need to go and help me do what must be done. If you know anyone that you don’t want to be hurt, tell them to stay off the streets and pull out their landline.” The connection clicked dead.

“It didn’t work,” Cherril sighed. “I’m sorry.” She turned to look at officers of the cyberterrorism task force assembled around her. The cell phone connection had been their best hope of getting though to Ilion, whose attacks had been disrupting the city every six to eight months with a geometrically increasing rate of complexity and deadliness.

“Do you think…?” an officer began.

“No,” Cherril said firmly. “It’s pretty clear that Ilion has no idea. I guess, wrapped up in revenge and increasingly linked in…the transition from being an independent being to a malignant fragment of self-replicating code was so subtle that it was never noticed.

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Shoji, the Seeker, crossed his blade with Tsuchiya, the Usurper. Their clashing steel was as the conflict between their lords and masters in a microcosm.

“It is my lord’s right!” cried Shoji. “He alone can use the power of the Ryūsei for the good of all!”

“It is no one’s right!” returned Tsuchiya. “No one can master the Ryūsei’s power! That is why it was hidden away. Your master will destroy himself and others in his madness!”

Tsuchiya’s passion was his undoing. As he spoke those words, Shoji maneuvered his way into a commanding position. The Seeker’s next attack bypassed his opponent’s defenses, striking at a vulnerable shoulder point in his armor. Shoji rammed the blade home; Tsuchiya cried out once, sank to his knees, and was silent.

“An honorable pose in death, at least,” grunted Shoji, flustered with the rush and thrill of battle. He cleaned his sword and sheathed it. He approached the altar, the tiny shrine to the Ryūsei, that his efforts had uncovered despite the deaths of his men. “How do I open it?” he demanded.

Moriko, the Guide, was the only member of either party to have survived. “There is no secret,” she said. “Anyone who has made it this far against all comers has earned the right to bear the Ryūsei and its power.”

Without acknowledging the Guide’s words, Shoji reverently took hold of the altar and lifted it. In a hollow within, wrapped in a dirty rag, was a small statue of purest crystal: a woman carved in the old Asuka period style. He whispered the command word that his lord had taught him, asking only that the Ryūsei, the granter or wishes and the remaker of the world, glow from within. In that glow, Shoji would see his master’s design fulfilled–and his own.

The statuette remained stubbornly dim before the Seeker, its blank crystalline eyes ciphers. Shoji spoke the word again, uttering the same command, to no avail. “I don’t understand,” he said, his eyes fixed on his prize. Guide, what is the meaning of-”

Shoji, the Seeker, was cut off in mid-word. Moriko, the Guide, had approached him from behind and slipped her long dagger into the same weak spot that had doomed Tsuchiya not moments ago. “Shh,” said the Guide in a comforting tone. “It will all be over in a moment.”

It was the custom of Moriko and her family to serve as guides for those foolish enough to seek the Ryūsei in their lands, and to waylay and murder them for their valuables. It had been a delicate balancing act, but anyone coming across the bodies would assume that the men had killed each other over a worthless counterfeit bauble.

As Shoji, the Seeker, rattled his final breath, the Guide turned him around and lowered him, face-up, to the ground. As his vision began to fade, the Seeker saw something that caused his hard features to soften with wonder.

The eyes of Moriko, the Guide, were aglow with an inner light unbeknownst to her. The Ryūsei had obeyed its command, and the Seeker was now expiring in the arms of his prize–a hiding place so secure that none after he would ever stumble upon it.

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Peach Cail, a monster of myth that generations of Irish grandmothers had warned their children against, was living the high life.

As a kelpie, a creature literally formed from the raw, sticky tendrils of a seaweed-like creature older than mankind itself, Peach had always been forced to contend with her raw-seafood smell and dead-green color. That required taking victims on dark nights (or those who couldn’t see too well) and only from downwind. She couldn’t count how many times her smell or texture had left the intended victim fleeing and months if not years of wracking hunger pangs.

While in her relaxed form, a pile of quasi-seaweed at the bottom of a brackish estuary in County Kilkenny, Peach would often reflect on the quaint ways of humans as she sucked the marrow from their bleached bones. Another facet or her kelpie nature was that, due to her smell and color and texture and need to retreat to brackish water every so often, she couldn’t take advantage of her victims’ leavings and dress up to go into town. The estuary could be frightfully dull, after all.

Luckily, her human victims had solved the problems for her. Waterproof foundation makeup took care of the dead-green coloration Peach presented to the world when she molded herself into a humanoid shape. Designer perfume expertly masked the raw-seafood smell. Trendy shades obscured the fact that her “eyes” were dead and blank with no pupils. A fine wig was more convincing than any hair she could mold.

That, along with a canny relocation to New York City in a shipment of bog peat, meant that Peach no longer had to worry about boredom or her prey being tipped off by her kelpie nature. Devouring the occasional meal and pawning their stuff meant that all she needed to rejuvenate herself was a quick dip in a saltwater bathtub in a Manhattan apartment.

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There are some things frat boys are not meant to know.

That had always been the excuse given by the sisters of Lambda Qoppa Delta for the strict prohibition on guests, boyfriends, and photography at their annual Spring Fling. They went to an undisclosed location in the wilderness outside of town for a weekend, carrying enough supplies for a grand feast, and returned woozy on Monday.

To Wesley McCall of Phi Qoppa Beta, the isolation and supplies meant only one thing: the Lamb Qops must have been engaging in a salacious, girls-only free-for-all. As such, one year he followed them into the woods.

It was easy enough; he loaned his car to his Lamb Qop girlfriend and it had GPS tracking software installed. With a borrowed Land Rover, not to be confused with the Land Rover he had loaned out, Wes tracked her to a location deep inside Lauryn Ghantt State Forest. The dirt road was blocked off with a chain bearing a stern-looking park ranger warning; Wes cut the lock with bolt cutters and opened it himself. He hadn’t gone to all that trouble to go home without laying eyes (and camera lens) on ribald frolicking Lamb Qops.

To Wes’s surprise, after a time the dirt road turned to well-maintained asphalt, and he came across a parking lot that wouldn’t have been out of place in the suburbs, cunningly laid in and around the lofty pines so as to be all but invisible from the air. He slid his vehicle into an empty space, distinguished from the other Beemers and Land Rovers only by its lack of Lamb Qop bumper stickers. Keeping to the trees, and dressed in neutral tones, Wes continued on foot.

Streams of Lamb Qops dressed in bright colors and bearing coolers were flowing along brick-paved paths to a pine-hemmed hollow. Wes recognized the figure on a raised dais therein as Beryl Sawyer, the Lamb Qop housemother, but he did not recognize the ornate robes she wore or the midnight-black stone from which the dais had been hewn. Unlike the robes that the brothers of Phi Qoppa Beta wore during imitation (and hazing), Sawyer’s robe glistened with an unearthly sheen that gave Wes a headache.

“Sisters of Lambda Qoppa Delta!” cried Sawyer. “We have come together in the spirit of sisterhood to make our offerings in the abode of our patron. Let all among you who would call yourself Lamb Qops display your true colors proudly!”

Wes was delighted to see that the assembled girls immediately began removing their colorful sorority shirts (which formed a uniform so strict and standardized that even the Prussian Imperial Guard would have been envious). But there was something underneath – different shirts, bearing different slogans, in a script so fiendishly twisted that it blurred the edges of Wes’s vision just to behold it. And the colors! They were no hues that existed or could exist in nature, brighter and more pastel while at the same time luminous and ruinous, like holes torn in the fabric of a sane universe.

If the script made Wes’s vision blur, the colors threatened to draw the very breath from his lungs and lay him flat upon the pine needles.

“And with your true colors displayed, bring forth your offerings to our patron, the dread lord Rnyugnatlath! Can you feel it, sisters? Star-Spawn of the Infinite Void, the Creeping Conundrum, It Whom Human Tongues Fail, come forth at the call of your faithful on this spot where our offerings to you have lain since the time before time, the world before the world!”

When the first appendage of dread Rnyugnatlath emerged from the howling void on the dais, the ceremony was interrupted by the soul-shattering screams of an interloper in the woods. Wes was found a week later, raving in gibberish, his hair a white shock and his body sunburnt across his face and the palms of his hands. What little remained of his life was spent in the Granath Nulty Asylum.

There are somethings frat boys are not meant to know.

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Latisha Owen thought that the amber drops on her car’s windshield were just flecks of resin from a pine tree. There weren’t any pines near her apartment, nor could she recall driving under any, but when the spots proved resistant to her wipers and fluid, she ignored them and commuted to her job as a secretary at Garnier Tool & Die.

When she left for lunch, though, the small flecks had grown into cloudy amber crystals that were nearly half an inch long and took up a half-dollar-sized spot on the glass. The wipers were worthless against an obstruction of that size, and Ms. Owen gave up trying to pull the crystals off with a gloved hand (it was nippy out) when the windshield cracked. Resolving to call her cousin, an auto detailer, after work, Ms. Owens caught a ride to her usual lunch spot with a friend.

She returned late, having lost half-an-hour to futile attempts to dislodge the crystals, and went straight back to work without stopping to check on her car. Ms. Owens subsequently stayed late, calling her sister to pick up her children from school; she emerged from Garnier Tool & Die at nearly 7 o’clock that night. To her astonishment, by then the crystals were nearly four inches long and had spread across the driver’s side of the windshield, making driving impossible. Stymied, Ms. Owens called her cousin to meet her in the Garnier lot the next morning and took a city bus home.

Darrell Owen stopped by the Garnier lot the next morning before opening his auto detailing and body shop. Arriving at approximately 7:30 AM, he found that the mysterious amber crystals had grown considerably–they now covered half of his cousin’s Celica and had jumped the gap to a Garnier company car left parked nearby, fusing the two together. None of Mr. Owen’s power tools made any impression on the crystals, and he broke two saw blades and three drill bits in the process. Worried, he called the police.

At the same time, Latisha Owen noticed that the gloves she had used to try removing the crystals had begun to show flecks of the same amber spots that had first appeared on her windshield. Hysterical, she wrapped them in paper towels and returned them to the Garnier parking lot, dumping them under the crystal mass that had all but consumed her car. Her cousin discovered similar crystals on his own gloves and power tools, and did the same.

Local police proved unable to respond effectively to the crystals’ aggressive growth, easy contamination, and seeming indestructibility. University researchers and the government were similarly incapable of doing anything as the crystals grew larger and overtook the entire Garnier parking lot and the building itself. Finally, in desperation, a detachment of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers built an airtight containment dome over the site to limit the spread of the crystallization. For the time being, that seems to have worked; no further crystals have been detected outside the site, and every object known or suspected to be contaminated with them.

But the cloudy amber crystals remain an enduring mystery. Aside from their color and their unusual 7-sided columnar shape, absolutely nothing is known about their origins, their method of propagation, and their physical properties. The danger inherent in working with them is simply too great.

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“Shit, it’s Orlov,” said Kaminski. Pale from the cold and from the sight of his fellow guard’s mangled body still staining the Siberian snow red with weeping blood.

“Are you going to give me a weapon now, perhaps?” said Maksim, sarcastically. “Or would you prefer for me to take it off your still-warm body, assuming that whatever it is doesn’t tear through the rest of us first?”

“You’ll kill me,” Kaminski snarled–though he didn’t cuff Maksim with his rifle butt as he had before. “As soon as my back is turned.”

“You think I can survive out here, in prison clothes, on my own? You think any of us can?” Maksim snapped. “Arm us, and we can help you against something that makes the Gulag seem like a resort–death.”

“They’ll shoot me for even the thought of arming a prisoner, an enemy of the people,” Kaminski said. “Or worse, throw me in with you.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” said Maksim. “I would suggest that we deal with the problem at hand, the one that tore Orlov’s throat out even when he was as well-armed as you. You can make up any story you want, later, and who are the other guards going to believe? Assuming we can find them again.”

With an exasperated, grudging intake of breath, Kaminski retrieved Orlov’s pistol and his spare magazines. He handed them to Maksim. “Do you know how to use it?” he sneered.

Maksim released the Tokarev’s magazine, checked the chamber for brass, and replaced the bullets. “I was a combat engineer during the siege of Sevastopol,” he said, racking the slide and half-cocking the hammer before putting the safety on. “I know more about how to use this pistol than you do. My unit killed a hundred fascists in the tunnels under the city before we were ordered to lay down arms. Nothing that is out there could possibly carry more horror than that.”

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Ol’ Leaky.

That’s what people called the Hopewell Mobile Wash.

It was a startup business, appearing around Hopewell in 2005 or so, and catering to rich Southern Michigan University students who couldn’t be bothered to take the expensive cars their parents had bought for them through a car wash. For a fee, the Hopewell Mobile Wash would pull up to the Land Rover or pink Camaro in question. Using a variety of soaps and a reservoir of water built into the old, yellow GMC Safari panel van, a two or three person crew would do a rapid and thorough soft-touch wash.

As a consequence of the razor-thin profit margins and the jury-rigged nature of the water tank, the van was always leaking steadily when it was seen parked elsewhere in town. Sometimes it was at a busy intersection acting as a mobile billboard; other times the crew seemed to take it on joyrides, with the van appearing outside thrift stores, bars, and such.

One day, early in the spring semester when business was slow for fear of the water freezing into an icy rind on daddy’s sweet sixteen gift Audi, the Hopewell Mobile Wash truck parked in the cavernous parking lot in front of the Hopewell Women’s Shelter Thrift Store (which had once been a K-Mart). Ol’ Leaky, true to its name, began dripping all over the lot, which was ice-free thanks to an unseasonable warm snap in between. Onlookers paid it little mind until a certain fact became apparent:

This time, the substance dripping from the van was blood.

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