Ahead, from the top of the hill, the sounds of revelry rang out. Wood to fuel a bonfire was being piled in the center of the square, and laughing children danced around an elder with an ancient fiddle. Several vendors hawked their wares and several cynics hawked their phlegm. Near the center of the unorganized urban sprawl, the gaily-painted inn sign of the Head of the Boar swung from its pole.
As Ghuto and Poc pushed through the thronging, vital mass, Poc twisted against his collar. Why did Nuncle have to hold it so tight! He just wanted to look at all the new sights! Here there were stalls stacked with sugary sweets; there a fool’s colored cloak twirled enchantingly. The sights and the constant, roaring babble were overwhelming. He just wanted to look at a few of them! Eventually though, the inn reared up ahead of them. The jostling, boisterous crowd lessened to mere passers-by.
A scarecrow of a boy with a head of auburn hair slumped across a balcony above the hanging sign. When he saw Poc and Ghuto coming up the packed dirt road, he leaned back through the doorway and shouted something inside.
As Poc arrived at the chipped front door it swung open, revealing an incredibly thin man—so thin that he made the boy on the railing look well-padded.
“Welcome sir,” the man said to Ghuto, bowing. “I am the innkeeper of this humble abode—please sir, what might your name be?”
Poc frowned at being ignored. However, the man’s odd manner of speech caught his ear and he listened in as Ghuto replied.
“I’m Jonis and this here is my nephew Selim. We were wondering if we could catch a room for the night. Could we?”
“Ahh,” the innkeeper sighed, seeming to collapse in on himself, “I am afraid we only have rooms for one available. All the farmers seem to be bringing in their broods for the Midsummer Festival—perhaps they hope to lose one or more child in the festivities. Hehe.
“If you do not mind sharing a bed, though, we do have several rooms available. I shall offer one discount. Please, sir, follow me and to see if it would meet your tastes. Also, I would rather the boy waited outside—no offence is meant to you, good sir, but he might rather upset my patrons with his dirt.”
“Selim,” he said to Poc, “wait here. I’ve got to go inside. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
“K’, Nuncle,” murmured Poc. Ghuto stepped through the door and the tall, scrawny man reentered the building. The battered wooden portal swung shut.
Poc sat down on the steps. He looked around a bit, but there was nothing interesting in sight. Then he remembered the teenaged boy on the balcony. He looked up, but the boy had receded back to his previous stupor of boredom.
“Um, hello,” called up Poc. The listless, pockmarked face peered down at him.
“Hullo,” said the boy. “Who’re you?
“I’m… right now I’m Selim. At least, that’s what Nuncle says. Who are you?”
“Name’s Jorden. Look, you’re really interesting, but I gotta go. Got lots of important things to do.”
The shaggy, ginger head pulled back from the balcony disinterestedly. It was funny, thought Poc. If he had more important things to do, why didn’t he get up and go do them?
Ghuto still hadn’t come back yet, so he tried to strike up conversation again.
He heard a sigh from above him and the funny, gangly arms lurched back into view, soon followed by the funny, bouncing hair. The face underneath it was screwed into a knot of exasperation.
“Look, kid, Selm or whatever your name is, I just really don’t want to be talking to you right now, ok? My dad’s put me on guest-watch for the entire day and I’ll probably be sitting here till the inn’s full or it’s to be pitch black. Now would you just leave me alone?”
“Ok,” said Poc, considering this for a moment.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I wish that I could sit around all day. Especially after I’ve been walking all day already.”
He heard a blast of pained air above him.
“Hey, Jorden,” came a voice from down the road, “choo’ got there? You drag it in from the forest or something?”
Several more adolescents, all pimple-faced and awkward-limbed, strolled toward them along the dirt road.
“Hah!” replied Jorden. “Just some little scrap waiting for his uncle.”
“Do you think he’s got anything worth the time?” one of the boys asked.
“Aww, come on guys, you know that’s bad for the inn’s business. My dad would get mad. Besides, look at this kid—he’s poorer than the old mud-woman!”
“Naw, naw, not that poor. The old witch doesn’t even have a penny to her name! Still, I see what you mean…”
Poc stared up at the boys who had, by now, surrounded him.
“What are you guys talking about?” he asked curiously.
Above him, Jorden hooked his legs over the balcony and slid down onto the jutting post that held the inn sign. From there, he jumped to the ground and thumped into the dirt.
“Aw,” he said, “just nothing, really. Don’t worry yourself.”
One of the bigger boys leaned forward.
“What’s yer name, kid?” he asked.
Poc leaned back a bit out of his way.
“Jorden already knows,” he said, “but I’m called Selim.”
“How old are you, Selim?”
“Six!” Poc exclaimed, holding up his left hand and wriggling his wrapped-up fingers. He frowned at their tight, concealing wrappings.
“Naw,” said the massive boy, “that’s five, Selim. You gotta have another finger up fer six—one from the other hand.”
“Oh,” said Poc, staring at his hand, “but I thought… okay.” He raised the thumb on his other hand. “How old are you guys?” he asked.
“I’m Gorgy. I’m fifteen myself, and the oldest of us,” said the boy. “Jorden here is one of the youngest—he’s only thirteen.”
“Wow,” breathed Poc, wide-eyed in admiration, “you guys are old. You must be almost as old as Nuncle.” The boys laughed at this.
“Choo’ doing out here, Selim? Waiting for your ‘Nuncle’?”
“Yeah,” said Poc, “I thought that it would be boring, but it isn’t ‘cause of Jorden and you guys. Isn’t Jorden’s hair silly?”
“Hey!” exclaimed Jorden, trying to cover his bouncy locks with his hands. The rest of the kids laughed hard.
“Hey, Selim,” said Gorgy. “Do you want a tour around? It’ll be fun—we can show you the best parts of the festival. When the bonfire burns down, yer uncle might even let you go coal-jumping!” The other boys laughed pretty hard at that. Even Gorgy and Jorden sniggered. Poc didn’t really understand why.
“Naw, man, naw! Don’t invite this baby!” groaned one of the other boys.
“I’m not a baby!” pouted Poc loudly, his confused good humor vanishing. “But I don’t know if I can come. Nuncle has to say ok.”
“C’mon!” said Jorden, “It’ll be fun!”
“Go ahead,” came a voice from the doorway behind them. Poc and Jorden spun around. There stood Jorden’s father, the tall, wraith-like innkeeper. “I’m sure that Jonis will be fine with it. He’s up getting settled into his room by my servant now. I hope that you enjoy the Festival.”
“Thank you, sir!” said Jorden enthusiastically. Poc still hesitated.
“I’m sure that you’ll see him later at the bonfire. If you need to see him later, you can always come back here.”
“All right,” said Poc nervously, “but you’re sure about that? I don’t wanna upset him.”
Don’t worry,” said the innkeeper warmly. He turned, still smiling, to his son, though his smile shifted shape a bit. “Why don’t you take him up to Sigurd the Baker later?” he asked his son. “I’m sure that he’d be willing to give away some of his sweet-pastries.”
“What- really? Thank you, father!” Jorden crowed happily.
The gaggle of boys took off down the street, Poc trailing behind.
“Has a Witchhunter come through here today?” Ghuto asked as he came down the stairs. The innkeeper, who had been coming back up them to meet him paused thoughtfully before answering.
“Why, sir? On the run?” Ghuto faltered for a moment, his foot hitting the next stair a fraction of a second late. The innkeeper gave half a smile and turned to follow him back down the stairs.
“No, of course not. That’s absurd! I just saw him and two others on the road yesterday - I though that he might have stopped for the night in Shelm and passed through here today. Has he?”
“Actually, sir, he has. Stopped outside our very inn for horsefeed. Very rude lout, he was. Went by the name of Melchias, and was traveling with his assistant and some girl.”
Ghuto licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak as he ducked outside, but then he froze.
“Where’s Selim?” he asked. He looked up and down the street. There was a shipment of wood; there was a pair of laborers. Where was his nephew? Dished, empty cobbles stared back at him.
“Where’s Selim!” he demanded the innkeeper frantically.
“Don’t worry, Jonis, sir. My boy Jorden and several of his friends took him out to see the sights of the Midsummer Festival. I’m sure you don’t mind.”
“I do mind! That boy has a knack for attracting trouble far bigger than he can handle!”
“What? Mischief? Then he should fit right in with the boys.” The innkeeper shrugged regretfully.
“No,” said Ghuto, sinking down onto the wooden steps, “he just- he’s one of the most unfortunate children I’ve ever seen.” His head sunk into his hands.
Behind Ghuto, the innkeeper gave a sharp, vicious little smile and nodded slightly in quiet agreement.
Poc was sure that the firewood was stacked wrong. Merely looking at it left a familiar, greasy taste in his mouth. Well, not a taste, but a feeling in his mind. It was like the deep stinging a rotten tooth. The wood was stacked in one big pile, with one leg of stacked wood reaching out to another, smaller one. He knew that he’d seen the shape they formed before, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Shefis, one of Gorgy’s friends, said that the stretching out of the fire was so that when it burned down, couples that wanted to have a baby jumped over the coals. He seemed to know everything. However, a lot of the jokes he and Gorgy told weren’t that funny. All the other boys thought that they were but they didn’t make sense to Poc.
Still, he was enjoying himself if he ignored the big pile of wood. There were lots of tents being strung up, and people with trays of hot pies wandered about selling their wares. Jorden and the others had gotten Poc a pie; they’d bumped one of the sellers so he looked at the bumper and somebody else had pinched it. It had been warm and filling and only a little of it had been gristle—but the best part was that it was all for him.
Exotic glassware was heaped on several of the tables that surrounded the square. Carpets and bolts of wool and flax were stacked in precarious piles.
Poorer people scrounged the edge of the square. The weird thing was how many of them were grown ups. Back home, most of the ones that he’d seen were young orphans that had lost their parents. There were almost no children to be seen here, though.
Ghuto wouldn’t have noticed that. Most adults wouldn’t have. They didn’t seem to really look at things—they just saw one thing and accepted it. Father might have seen it, but Father was a bad person. Ghuto had told him that when he had taken him away, but he had already known it. Father and Old Vulture were bad; they smelled like blood and pain and fear and misery.
But he didn’t want to think about them. He wanted to finish licking out this small wood bowl that had held the pie!
“C’mon Selim,” called Gorgy, “don’t fall behind! We’re going to Sigurd’s shop now—do you want to miss out on a free sweet-pastry?”
Ghuto cursed. The street was clogged with vendors and buyers who all seemed to be shoving toward him. He staggered out of the way of a tinker’s cart and then had to jump quickly to avoid being hit by a tightly knit pack of farmers. At last he found a quiet spot against a wall; an eddy in the crowd.
He wiped his forehead and looked around. Past the thronging mass, the road split two ways. Uphill, it flattened off to the village square. Below, the crowd died off and the buildings grew more decrepit. There wasn’t too big a difference between the best and the worst, though—there couldn’t even be more than two hundred houses in the entire town. It was hardly bigger than a village! His host had told him that the surrounding homesteaders and farmers had poured in for the festival and choked the town with life.
He had to keep heading for the square—that was where Poc would probably be. His darting eyes found another calm spot in the crowd ahead. It was a pocket of clear space directly across the street.
Ghuto pushed away from the wall and shoved his way past a bread-carrying woman. She dropped her basket. Ghuto breathed a hurried apology and pushed onward, but her foul-mouthed curses followed him.
Soon, though, he stepped through the invisible boundary and he was free; free from the shoving, churning mass of sharp elbows and shoving hips. He gathered his bearings again. It was curious, really. There should have been a wave of people sweeping through this section of the road. It was in the crux of the crossing, but the crowd automatically pushed around it in an arc.
He turned around and looked at the shop that was shunned by the crowd’s path. Tattered, hanging drapes and shawls weakly attempted to block out the dying light. A pair of glinting eyes stared back, holes in a smooth clay mask.
“Hail, traveler,” came a croaking, genderless voice that was muffled by the mask. “I know why you’ve come.”
Ghuto frowned at the shrouded figure. It was hunched with age and surrounded by graying robes that blended into the faded shawls around it.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Hah!” came a reply, “You know just as well as I. I won’t waste your time with any ‘cross my palm with silver’ nonsense. I have a message for you from one who seeks to help.”
“Any who would of help to me,” he said roughly, “are farther away than you could ever guess. What are you? A mere, petty fortuneteller? I have no time for your games.”
The figured laughed harshly as Ghuto turned away.
“We’ll talk later, Exiled One. Graces be with you.”
Ghuto froze. Exiled One? Graces be with you? His heart froze in his chest. He broke away, shoving himself into the crowd. His mind whirled. Soon the shadowed stall fell out of sight. Its occupant hadn’t moved.
Only one of Phe’s – how could that – no. He would throw that out of his mind. It was just some half-wit hedge-warlock who had a knack for sticking his nose into more trouble than he knew. It was coincidence, nothing more.
He almost laughed at himself - bitterly - for that. He of all people should know better than to believe in coincidence. He needed to find Poc, now, and get out of this town.
Ahead, the dancers were beginning to light the bonfires.
“Oh, sir!” Jorden crowed excitedly, “Please sir, could we have some of your treats?”
The man laughed, his muscles rippling. He had a butcher’s muscles, decided Poc—how could he have gotten them kneading bread?
“Look now, Jordy, Gorgy. Shefis came up ahead and told me what yeh’d be wanting. It’s all ready now.”
He pulled a tray out of a cobb oven that had several scones and pastries on it. He made a show of fussing over them as the teenagers leaned hopefully toward the tray. Poc tried to get into the baker’s line of sight so that he could get a pastry too.
“Stand aside now, stand aside,” the massive man said, “let the kiddy get his first.” Grudgingly, the others sank to the sides. Poc felt every hungry eye on him. He smiled anxiously.
“Do I get to chose?” he asked, motioning to the proffered tray.
“Sure, if yeh want,” rumbled the mountainous man “but I’d really recommend this one here. It’s my specialty.” He grinned, baring a mouthful yellowed and missing teeth.
The pie in question really looked special. It was perfectly crisped, and even capped by a fresh strawberry.
“O-” Poc paused, something niggling at the back of his mind. He dismissed it.
“Ok.” He reached out and took the pastry. Everybody watched him in anticipation.
He bit down. The explosion of taste rocked his mouth and his eyes opened wide. He began stuffing it into his mouth in massive bites.
“That’s my boy!” laughed the baker. “Yeh might want to slow down, though. Savoring it’s half the delight!”
“What?” asked Poc around a mouthful. He crammed the last bite into his mouth. When no reply came except more laughter, he shrugged. “Aren’t you guys gonna eat some too?”
The tray was passed around. For some reason, they never stopped watching him as they ate their own pastries. He smiled nervously at them.
One of them whispered to Jorden, “When is he gonna-”
Poc’s stomach grumbled as he licked his mouth clean of the last small fragments. His eyes swam. He was feeling very dizzy all of the sudden, so he leaned against the boarded front of the baker’s open shop.
“Help me,” he said quietly.
Blackness swam around him and slowly blossomed inwards across his vision. Sigurd the Baker began to lean over him, but he fell faster than the man could reach. Falling, falling, he was falling into the dark…
As the last fingers of the setting sun sank beneath the horizon, the torchbearers strode forward. By now, a ring of onlookers surrounded them. Slowly, reverently, they lowered the flames to the tightly packed tinder at the bottom of the stacks of wood. The dried moss and kindling lit up hungrily, consuming itself with greedy red lips. The rising smoke shifted to flames and slowly, the larger sticks began to catch.
A few people in the crowd whooped with delight. In the shelter of an awning, drums began to beat and a fiddle began to play. As couples began to pair off for dancing, onlookers began to stamp to the beat.
Unfortunately, that meant that Ghuto’s shins were kicked relentlessly as he tried to push through the crowd. He kept up a steady stream of apologies and muttered curses as he worked his way past the well-dressed townsfolk. Too soon, the crowd compacted even further to make room for the dancers.
The few people that he had asked about Poc hadn’t even bothered with a reply. They’d just looked at him pityingly and walked away.
Finally, he made it to an edge of the crowd, where a shut-up bakery served as a backboard for several of the less enthusiastic members of the crowd.
“Excuse me,” he asked over the noise, “have any of you seen a little boy around? Goes by the name of Selim?”
“Nah, sir,” said the largest of them, a man wearing a baker’s apron. The man paused for a moment and continued, “I haven’t seen a single peeping little ‘un for several hours.”
The quick slap of leather on stone joined the mix of noises behind Ghuto. The dancers had begun. Ghuto twisted and looked at them for a second. At the base of the fire, the flames were licking higher. Ghuto turned back to the man.
“Well,” he said, “thanks anyways.”
“S’ no problem,” rumbled the man. “You’re just looking out fer your kid.” Wondering what baby goats had to do with anything, Ghuto made off along the side of the wall. Behind him, the baker relaxed and leaned to whisper something to one of his fellows.
“Master Jonis, sir!” came the cry.
Ghuto’s head whipped around and he stared into the dark alleyway. A vaguely familiar head of red hair stared back.
“Who are you?” Ghuto asked. The lad hopped back a step.
“I’m Jorden – the innkeeper’s son.”
“I remember your face, yes. Wait a second… your father said something about you leaving with Selim. Where is he?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, sir! He’s this way, but he’s had a bad fall!”
Ghuto pushed past a hapless woman and bounded over to the lad. Unreasonable fear curdled in his stomach.
“Where is he?” Under his furious gaze, the boy shrunk back.
“Just this way, sir.”
“Then lead me there!” Ghuto growled. The boy spun around and ran back along the alleyway. Ghuto followed closely in his footsteps.
The plank swung out of nowhere, directly at head height. Ghuto tried to duck, to dodge, but it was too sudden. The wood cracked into his face and his mind erupted in starbursts if pain. His neck snapped back and he crumpled to the ground. Black spots leached across his vision, growing and swallowing him in their depth.
Light. Dark. Light. Shadows shifted across his shut eyelids. He hurt. His neck, his face, his stomach – all three pounded in a symphony of bruises. Dried blood caked his forehead and clogged his nostrils. His eyes were swollen heavy and tight.
He cracked them open and saw the flickering flames. Tall shadowy figures, blurred by his waking, cavorted deamonically back and forth across his vision. They whirled and casting his eyes in shade, then light, and then shade again. Silhouettes loomed jerkily, claws of shade darting across the ground and flicking back and forth as the fire flared hungrily.
Drums beat a tattoo through Ghuto’s aching head and matched his pounding heart. They thrummed through his core and pounded the beat of the ancient earth. They spoke of secrets and carnal terrors long forgotten by man. They spoke of death.
The air was heavy with the rancorous scent of burnt flesh and the copper tang of blood. Ghuto smiled bitterly. Just like home. Just like that hell from which he had rescued Poc-
Ghuto scrambled to his feet ungainly yet urgently, all but forgetting his injuries. Poc. He stumbled forward, bursting into the cobblestone square. He almost vomited.
The square was draped in a multitude of limp or bare, writhing bodies. Naked, masked dancers of both sexes whipped themselves with razored chains, twirling and laughing. The fire flickered behind them, illuminating the scene with a baleful red glow.
It raged. It was one massive pile of blazing fuel with a stack of wood spilling away and ending in a crescent. Across the shaft was a short perpendicular stacking – completing a massive rendition of the symbol of the Dark Prince.
The vile name whispered itself, coiling treacherously through his mind. The mere act of remembering it allowed it to slide in and plant fear and debased urges into his psyche. Why not simply relax and join the massed throng that carpeted the ground? Why not moan with pleasure with the rest as sparks hissed against their sweat-slicked skin? To delight in pain, to drift through its throes rather than fighting it, drowning in it. His sore neck tingled with a raw, delighting sensation. What was a mere boy, after all-
He had to find Poc. He had to save Poc.
Ghuto drew his belt-knife and ran along the wall, trying to shake the fugue of pain and confusion that had sunken into his head. A naked cultist tried to lovingly embrace him and he stabbed his knife up to the hilt in its arm. As he ripped the blade messily out, the man shrieked with delight and fell backward. Ghuto ran along the edge of the courtyard and leapt over a mound of supine bodies.
Where was Poc? Ghuto was clueless, but he knew that he had to get away first, that he had to plan his next step. Ahead of him, several of the cultists that had managed to keep their wits somewhat around themselves were forming a wall of flesh. His roving eyes swept to the center the square beside the fire, where the conductor of this vile orchestra stood – the baker. A writhing, coiling serpent was tattooed across the man’s sweaty back. It seemed to shift and undulate in the flickering light.
Ghuto faltered and pawing hands groped at him. A slash of his knife sent out a spray of blood and another severed an outstretched thumb. A hole opened in the fleshy mass before him and he dove through. He slid and staggered to his feet, continuing to run. His treacherous eyes drifting back to the baker and the fire. There was where the awful stench came from – small, burnt bodies littered the crumbling wood and hissed as the flames embraced them. Ghuto almost sunk to his knees in shock and despair.
No. Poc – no. No! He looked frantically around – there! Several children were tied to a heavy shaft of wood. Not all of them had been sacrificed. Murdered.
Ghuto roared like a pained beast, charging heedlessly over the sprawled flesh. There, on the log, was Poc. Blue-gold eyes gazed calmly into Ghuto’s, surrounded by welts and bruises. Rage gaze him wings, lifting him and driving him forward like a hurricane. The baker’s face contorted with glimmer of recognition and he brandished a blackened sacrificial dagger toward Ghuto.
Just before Ghuto reached the man, a weight slammed into his back and he was borne to the ground. His chest slammed into the hard cobbles and his knife skittered across the stone into the flames. It vanished in a shower of sparks and a cascade of coals. A wash of boiling air radiated out from the fire and Ghuto broke out in a sweat. He heard heavy breathing above him and a bare, grimy foot dug into the fore of his back.
“I thought,” breathed the baker heavily, “that you had said, that you destroyed this fool!”
“I’m sorry, Master Sigurd,” came the defiant reply from Ghuto’s arrester. “I left him for dead in the alley. He has a thicker skull than I had assumed.”
“Check then, next time!” roared the naked Sigurd angrily, glistening in the heat of the fire. This close to the flames, all of his hair had been singed off. He stalked angrily forward and seemed to think better of it. Instead, he turned to the row of children bound to a log.
“This is your brat, isn’t it?” the baker growled, cutting at the leather bond holding Poc’s hands. “Or your nephew? Well, how about he goes on the fire next then? You’ve caused enough trouble.”
An animalistic shout ripped itself from Ghuto’s lips and he twisted. He grabbed his captor’s leg and rolled to one side, twisting violently as he did so. The slick flesh spun in his grasp and the person on top of him tumbled to the cobbles with a crack. Ghuto got his first look at the man; a heavyset youth with black hair and a rictus of hate and pain.
“Gorgy, you fool! Get him!”
The lad staggered upright and lunged towards Ghuto. Ghuto used his forearms to absorb the blow and twisted away. Gorgy followed, favoring his good leg.
Ghuto snarled and shoved, pushing the unfortunate lad into the crackling bonfire behind him. They wrapped around the boy greedily, eager to take in this new fuel. Sparks and coals showered out from the thrashing boy, and a heavy, charred log fell atop him. Pinned underneath the log, his screams were drowned by the laughter of the flames.
Ghuto turned slowly to Sigurd. The man had Poc under one arm, his hand wrapped over the boy’s mouth. The other one wiggled his sacrificial dagger. Ghuto took a step forward and the man laughed, half-shoving Poc towards the flames. Ghuto’s heart froze and he jerked with fear.
“Don’t take another step, Jonis,” said the muscular, sweat-soaked man. His naked flesh seemed to shimmer and flow in the light. “Not if you value this child’s life.”
Ghuto quivered with impotent rage. He let out small, snorting breaths and flexed his fingers. The hands and arms of the cultists behind him wrapped around his limbs, ensnaring and caressing him.
“Of course,” sneered the man, “I’ll still kill this boy afterwards. An eye for an eye, you see. You killed Gorgy after all.”
“No!” shrieked Ghuto struggling against his captors and only being dragged backwards.
“Oh yes,” said Sigurd, licking his cracking lips with a dry tongue, “and I’ll enjoy every second of it.”
A braying snort cut above the laughter of the cultists. All eyes turned. A tall, matt-furred beast, shadowed by more of its kin, stepped into the square. It looked around with obvious disgust at the sprawling figures around the square, many of whom hadn’t even stirred to watch the confrontation with Ghuto.
“Give us the boy,” growled the beastman in its guttural tongue. Oblivious, the cult master raised his arms in a mocking greeting.
“Look here!” he crowed to his followers. “The forest-brethren come to join our celebration!”
“Give me the boy!” snarled the beast crudely in Reikspiel.
Sigurd smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly.
What sphinx of plascrete and adamantium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Imperator! Imperator!
Last edited by Mossy Toes; 06-15-09 at 06:57 AM.