The Weevil looked up from the document as he sensed music; an unearthly music like nothing he had heard before. The music swelled to a crescendo, ancient and dark; youthful and bright.
He began to perceive things with a strange double vision, overlapping images confused his sight for a moment, blinking his eyes clear at last he looks around for the tools of his trade.
Quickly donning his Carapace of Critical Deflection (+2), and making fast the Shield of Grammatical Rigidity(+3), he swept up his hammer-like Quill of Creative Chaos(+5) and flew towards the music.
The music led him ever onwards through strange vistas and landscapes, at last he arrived at the final battlefield. The forces of Literary Intransigence & Creative Chaos did do war upon one another. The field was strewn with discarded weapons of war each mightier than the last.
Weevil instinctively knew they were damaging the fabric of reality as he dove into the fray. Striking the ground with his mighty hammer like quill
He roared his battle cry of “This ends now! “ He did not seek victory, merely to weaken each side until it must sue for peace. As he strove to drive back each faction, he became aware of imposing shadowy figures around him and then a ghostly, but oh so familiar voice intone,
“On your left.”
“Uh?”
” No, the other left.”
“Now there are two lefts?”
“How many more do you need?”
As one they strove towards the same goal, grateful for the assistance redoubled his efforts while thinking “I wonder if I will be doing this all day long?”.
At last, when all was done the stood amidst the sorely wounded walls of reality which slowly begin the long process of healing themselves.
Once more the music drew him forwards; accompanied by his shadowy allies, he followed. There in a small glade stood a figure, small and yet looming, both ancient and young.
It nodded to the shadows and spoke with the light tinkling voice of youth, Harken unto me, my warriors many, You-Dik, Pork-moon, Crumb; Gin Dayker, Mon-Repose and most sugared Enid”,
“Champions! Behold your brother Weevil; for he too,
I mean she too…”
Halting with uncertainty the child grabs Weevil and flipping it upside-down the child surveyed Weevils nethers and continued,
“As I said, he too is champion and brethren to thee.
The Balance of the Cosmos thanks thee as do my sisters The Sentient Black Sword and the Shining Staff of Runes. Now go with our thanks and retire to your Rewards, Heaven, Hell, Nirvana, Valhalla, Tanelorn, The Western Isles, Los Vegas, Bangkok and beyond”. The figures fade to their rest; Weevil finds himself in his private Valhalla; looking surprisingly like a Cotton Boll; and rests.
The Balance and her sisters withdraw to consider reality in silence and ponder when they will next be required to intervene.
Somewhere in time, a ring emanates dreadful power and shines with darkness and light in equal measure..
As it’s wearer regards the Balance and her sisters in their silent watchfulness it chuckles to itself, “Well there Ragged old boy, you have outdone yourself this time”. It is filled with anticipation and eagerness, “Wait until Jerkin and Ms Preston see this entertaining reality I have created”.
Far across mind and imagination, beyond countless realities and spheres an Author puts down his pen, he idly twists an unusual ring on his finger; both worn and new, cherished and unwanted simultaneously he muses,
“Glad I wrote that story, I was tired of making poor old Weevil the bad Guy,…er.. no I mean Gal”
Quickly checking his character notes, he looks at the description of Weevils nethers and continues;
“As I said the bad Guy all the time, now he can rest in glory for a while.” He leans back and considers his next chapter.
Far across time, space, realities coalesce into a trailer parked near a movie studio, a voice calls out,
“10 Minutes Mr. Weevil, sorry Miss Weevil it falters sheepishly,”
The speaker, daring to peek at Weevils nethers before Weevil notices continues,
“As I said Mr. Weevil, 10-minute call for your next scene”.
Weevil puts down a parchment that he had found in his trailer, some weird story about a Author writing some trash pulp fantasy story or such.
Slipping into his costume and props consisting of; the Carapace of Critical Deflection (+2), the Shield of Grammatical Rigidity(+3), and the Quill of Creative Chaos(+5) he departs the trailer laughing to himself, who on earth thinks up these names.
Descending the trailers steps he hears a faint, yet oh so familiar music, as his vision blurs and doubles……?
Dark Edge of Poetry 