JNels

   Ra San-Tell watched Jak climb into the wagon, his face furrowed in displeasure. At his side was the blind Madame Zii, bundles of fresh blankets in her hands. San-Tell looked aside at her, noting her bemused expression. Often, he wondered what it would be like to see through those sightless eyes for a day. She could see nothing of color or shape, but of people she could see beyond what he could even pretend to understand. She claimed she wasn't a fortune teller, able to see into the possible future, but her predictions eerily held true, even if they weren't always clear for others to grasp.   "You think I am making a mistake," she said, h

   His head swam and his eyes opened, leaving the slimy world of nightmares behind like a retreating tide on a hazy beach. He was thankful he could not remember any of the dreams, although he wondered if the world of the conscious offered any better protection from his nightmares.    Where was he?    Jak sat up slowly, his head sore and throbbing like a drum. He looked around and tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was in a clean room, lying on a small bed bolted to a wall across from a round green door. The room itself was tiny and barren, with space enough for a small wood chair-also bo

   For Malath, the memories were unwanted, but unstoppable. He tried to push them away, but as he rested with a goblet of wine, seated on the windowsill watching the sun dip towards the horizon, he found that they wished to fully claim him. Mind and soul tugged at distant memories, desiring a return to his childhood once more. He was unable to resist.   So be it.   He was ten years old again. And experiencing what his youthful mind could only process as a true adventure.   He had left his mother early in the morning, embarrassed at the way she fussed over him, making certain he was dressed warmly for his trip into the foothills. He told

   Thomas Mangrieve savored the feel of the sunshine on his face and the faint smell of lilacs as he stood among the small flower beds. He was a stocky man who had seen the end of his fifty-seventh summer, as attested by his grey hair and matching square-cut beard. He was wearing a simple mauve tunic that was partially unlaced, revealing a clean undershirt. He looked for all the world like a pleasantly wealthy merchant not the ruler of an entire nation.   Though there were many who felt that Treavior was too small even to be considered a true sovereign nation. It encompassed less than a fifth of Asintha's total landmass and was surrounded b

    Jak & Haddo: The Weave. By Joseph Nelson.   Standing alone, Haddo took a deep, cleansing breath of morning air, and raised his sword. He could tell it was a grand weapon, even though he had little experience with such things. The intricate Elven scrollwork on the curved blade of the scimitar, the keen edge of which was sharp enough to slice through wood core with relative ease, all of it spoke to him, reminding him that this was no toy or practice sword. This was an instrument of violence. And in trained hands, it could wreak unimaginable havoc. In Haddo's grasp, however, it was clumsy and more dangerous to himself than to any opponent.