From: "Colin J. Wynne"  <WYNNE.C@fs.sciences.WLU.EDU>
Subject:      The Revenge of Victor Manwaring, part 1
X-Gated-By: The Black Marble Wombat@morticia.cnns.unt.edu
X-Gated-From: torg mailing list
Organization: University of North Texas
X-Gatemail-Version: 1.0b
Date: Thu, 13 Aug 1992 22:42:04 GMT

Here's the first installment.

Rick Pim's players, get his okee-dokee before you browse this, but
tell him I said it's alright (like that means much for *your*
campaign!)

Installment 2, comin' real soon!

CJW

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               -- The Revenge of Victor Manwaring --

Dramatis Personae:
     Brenden Marshall Llewelyn, Viscount of Harms,
          M.I.6 operative, formerly of the CIA
     Mrs. Alice Hargraves, nee Little,
          widow, fiance of Count Llewelyn, and a Werewolf
     Alain Mirandor,
          Curious Elven Sorceress
     Dame Anna Schaeffer
          Adventurous Scholar, Knight of St. George
     Lord John Kickingbird,
          Sioux Shaman, Recipient of Life Peerage
     Valentine Wiggin
          CyberPapal Prodigy
     Shadoe
          Ninja
     "Bubba"
          Ayslish Giant Bruiser

Also appearing:
     Father David Roderick Hardy,
          Sacellum priest, practitioner of the Occult
     Lord Arthur Dalming,
          English aristocrat
     Baron Victor Manwaring, a.k.a. "Mantooth"



Tuesday, 30 June, 1992:
     Fenchurch Street, London -- 6:30 pm
     A warm, midsummer sun cast its rays down upon a war weary
London, and Brenden was comfortable as the evening breezes played
about him.  He pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, and walked
towards home.
     Well, his flat, if not his home.  Home, that semi-reverent
term that provided a basis for nostalgia and longing, was somewhere
across the Atlantic Ocean, in lower New York.  But, be that home,
he would certainly not live there again as long as the Delphi
Council existed.  And that wouldn't be for very damn long if he had
any say so on the matter.
     A scowl crossed Llewelyn's face momentarily, as he thought of
why he had had to leave the United States:  high treason, they had
said.  What a crock, he had said, but there were more loose cannon
Spartans running around than even he could handle.
     Brenden forced down the vile thoughts that threatened to creep
into his head.  He had happy things to ponder -- namely, his
upcoming wedding.  He and Alice had been engaged since that fateful
night climbing in the Himalayan mountains, on their way to the
Forever City, when they had fought their way past the elements,
Yetis, gospog, Nile Avatars -- and Victor Manwaring -- to reach and
light the Signal Fire.
     What an adventure!
     Brenden's flat was in a block of three storey buildings near
the Thames, reserved for military use.  Of course, with his wedding
in three-and-a-half weeks, he wouldn't be living in the BOQ much
longer.  That thought gave him a smile.
     But, just now, there seemed to be some sort of commotion
ahead.  An ambulance sat outside of his building.  The lights were
flashing, but the sirens were off.  Bobbies and soldiers were quite
prominent.
     Llewelyn pulled an id -- a legitimate one, in fact -- and
shouldered his way through the crowd.  In fact, he had to squeeze
past milling bodies all the way up two flights of stairs to the
second storey, where his apartment was located.
     And, indeed, his room seemed to be the centre of attention.
     The leather id holder snapped open and shut like a sock
puppet's mouth as he threaded his way down the hall.  He found
someone who looked vaguely in charge.
     "Major, what's going on here?"
     A burly uniformed man with close-cropped hair and a thick
mustache, both just beginning to grey, turned towards the voice.
     "Eh?  Who are you?  This corridor is supposed to be secured."
     The id was visible yet again.  The Major grunted, "Well, I
guess you should be here then.  There's been a rather nasty event
here."
     The smell of blood had already reached Brenden's nose, and he
was now very certain that the stench was from his flat.  "Yeah.
What happened?"
     The Major pointed a knobby finger towards a knot of constables
and soldiers, surrounding one ash faced private.  "That's Private
Jackson over there.  They're just about to debrief him, and you'll
find out more than I probably know if you listen in."
     "Thank you, Major."  Llewelyn shook his hand and moved smartly
over to where Jackson was seated.  The Private was white as a
sheet, and his eyes stared, unblinking, at some spot on the wall.
He shivered incessantly, and Breneden knew, without touching him,
that his skin was clammy and sweat-covered.
     A female bobby with long, dark brown hair tied into a braid
was writing things down.
     Jackson's heavy Cockney accent recounted the evening's events
with a soft voice, as though nobody were listening, and he were
just talking because it needed to be said again and again.
     "I was on me rounds, at 'alf past four, an' I went by this
'ere room.  An', all of a sudden, I feels this cold, this absolute
numbin' chill that just goes right up me spine.
     "An' I thinks to meself, 'Ain't no right for it to be like
this in the bloomin' summertime!'  And it warn't right, neither.
I mean, I shoulda just looked in for meself, but I -- I couldn't!
There was somethin' in me brain that just keeps saying not t' go in
there.  It was like to nothin' I ever felt afore!
     "So I ran downstairs,  an' I sees Corporal Jennings.  'e asks
me what was up, an' it's like, I just couldn't say.  I could barely
bloomin' talk!  But I squeaks out enough that 'e knows somethin' is
off the beam upstairs.
     "I follows 'im up, an' we get to th' door again.  An' it's
even colder!  It was so cold, it hurt, like me teeth were gonna
crack open like frosty pavement.
     "But the Corporal went in.  And I could feel everything goin'
kind o' soft and fuzzy, an' that I was gonna faint.  I tried t'
yell, but nothin' came out.
     "Just as it all went black, I mean I was 'alf unconscious I
guess, 'cause I couldn't see nothin' but I though I could hear --
just then the Corporal screamed!  Gorblimey, but I hain't never
heard such an awful sound in me entire life!  It was just this, you
know like they say, blood-curdlin', sound!
     "An' next I knew o' anythin', I was wakin' back up.  The door
stood all broke like it is now, an' there was somethin' sticky
under me hands.  An' it was red.
     "I looked inside o' there, and God help me if I didn't just
lose it right then.  The Corporal, 'e was-  'e was-
     " 'e was all over that flat, just like you found 'im.  An' I
don't know 'ow long I just stood there, starin', an' screamin'
meself some, I think, until you showed up."
     Brenden ran a hand over his chin, and thought just how bad
that all sounded.  He hadn't known Jennings all that well, but --
according to whatever subliminal clues one judges such things --
Brenden was fairly certain that Jennings was, or at least had been,
a Storm Knight.
     Llewelyn worked his way back over to the Major.  "Excuse me."
     The Major signed a form of some kind and sent a subordinate
scurrying away.  "Yes, Count Llewelyn?"
     "Would it help if I took a look around, to see if anything has
been taken, or the like?"
     The Major pondered.  "Yes, that couldn't hurt.  Mind the
lines, though."
     "Certainly."
     Llewelyn's trousers brushed up against the police line tape as
he surveyed his room.  The closet door had been turned to splin-
ters.  Chalk marks covered the ground in shapes that might have
combined to form an entire human being; the marks encircled deep
red stains that spread from the floor to every wall, and the
ceiling.  Pieces of Jennings still clung to the wallpaper and
furniture.  Such a sight flabbergasted Brenden, who recalled that
the human body contains scarcely more than a gallon of blood.
     Near the closet, much furniture was broken, and many things
were scattered about, but nowhere else had anything been disturbed.
     Brenden turned around and met the Major's gaze.  Brenden shook
his head.  "Nothing really to tell.  I can't see anything missing,
and I don't keep anything really valuable around."  True enough --
all of his guns were in the armoury.
     "Right.  Well, we won't need the room cordoned off for more
than about a week.  I hope you can make other arrangements in the
meanwhile."
     Brenden sighed.  He would have to, too.  Maybe he could impose
on Father Hardy.  "I'll wire your office tomorrow, so you'll know
where to reach me."
     "Very good.  I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Count."
     Llewelyn nodded.
     Brenden decided he was developing a real mother of a headache
as he left the building.  Several of his comrades were in town
right now, and he would have to let them know what happened.
     Why me, he thought?



Friday, 3 July, 1992:
     Fleet Street, London -- 2:30 pm
     Alice Little Hargraves was, as might be expected of any woman
three weeks before her wedding, shopping.  To accompany her on this
overwhelming task were two unusual people -- and, of course, also
two of her bridesmaids.
     Valentine Wiggin stood out in a crowd.  Five foot four of
leather clad Parisienne punk, jangling with metal chains and
superabundant jewelry, her two foot hot pink liberty spikes easily
cut a swath through the crowd of staid Londoners.  The multi-
coloured skin dyes that covered her face also drew more than slight
attention.
     Shadoe, on the other hand, was someone who wouldn't be noticed
until you were standing right next to her.  Her clothes were a neat
combination of traditional Japanese and conservative businesswoman.
The outfit was baggy enough to conceal her ninja-to and scabbard,
and also extensive enough to hide the body-length dragon tatoo
which wound sinuously up from her left ankle.
     And Alice Hargraves, the epitome (at least for all prying
eyes) of the proper Victorian lady, was flanked by these two as the
trio window shopped their way from one end of Fleet Street to the
other and back.
     It was a perfectly lovely way of passing the afternoon, and
Mrs. Hargraves felt about as at ease as anyone who is constantly
struggling to hold a mad, viscious beast at bay can.
     Shadoe, her well-trained senses prickling to the feel of
something not quite right, began to walk ahead of her companions,
pushing forward into the crowd.
     Seconds later, she was sure what she had noticed, as another
scream sounded from up ahead.  The other two were following after
her then.
     Shadoe noticed that she was moving against the flow of the
crowd.  People were rushing away from something up ahead, and she
was determined to find out what.
     The three broke into a small clearing in the crowd just in
time to find out.  A female form lay crumpled on the street, her
head turned in an unnatural direction, and her fine light brown
hair matted with blood.
     This time the scream was of pure madness and rage.  In the
middle of the clearing stood a British man, dressed in a business
suit, but he was foaming badly at the mouth, and blood stained his
mouth and his white shirt.
     He screamed again, panting and dripping saliva.  He turned
toward another victim, but Shadoe produced her sword -- still in
its scabbard -- and swung for his head, grazing it.  He turned
around just in time for Valentine to swing a heavy industrial chain
at him.
     The chain took the madman lightly across the chest, and he was
about to react when he saw Alice, standing at the edge of the fray.
Alice knew she could not allow the beast to take over here, with
all these people around.  But the madman noticed her, and there was
some sign of recognition in that loathesome contact of the eyes.
     Alice said, "This behaviour is absolutely reprehensible, young
man!  You must stop all this this instant!"
     Before Alice knew for sure what was happening, the lunatic was
pinioning her arms to her sides, and biting at the side of her
neck.  Somehow, in her frantic backpeddling, Mrs. Hargraves threw
him down, and Shadoe and Valentine were right in place.  The
scabbard and chain hit together, and, with a howl of agony, the
madman dropped to the ground.
     Shadoe was the first to notice the constables working their
way through the crowd, and she made a quick move to hide her sword.
Valentine strung the chain through the left epaulette of her
leather jacket, then produced a pack of French Opals and began to
chain-smoke.
     Alice was still looking quite upset as the constables arrived
on the scene.  Shadoe realised just then that somebody would tell
the officer that there had been an Oriental girl with a sword, and
that she did not want to be around when it happened.  Shadoe
stepped discretely backwards, and practically vanished into the
crowd.
     "Lord!  What happened here?" asked one of the Bobbies.
     Alice held the back of her hand to her forehead.  "Oh, my!  It
was so awful!" she said.
     The other Bobby moved towards her.  "There, there, ma'am.  Are
you alright?"
     "That, that man-" and she pointed towards the unconscious
form, "just went absolutely out of his mind!  Look at all the
people he hurt.  He was biting, and scratching, and Lord knows what
else.  He is mad!"
     Valentine was standing near the scene, sniggering at Alice's
melodrama.  The bobby noticed the blood marks around Alice's high
lace collar.  "Blimey, ma'am, did he hurt you?"  The Bobby sounded
genuinely concerned.
     "Oh, I don't think so.  I just feel a little overwhelmed at
the moment.  Why, you don't think that man is rabid, do you?"
     The other Bobby laughed.  "Oh, no, ma'am.  There is no more
rabies in England.  Hasn't been for years and years."
     "Are you quite sure, Constable?  That man seems quite rabid to
me?"
     "Well, we'll just let the doctors examine him.  I'll have to
take a statement from you now, ma'am."  The Bobby noticed Valen-
tine, and said, "Uh, we'll need a statement from you, too, miss."


     Brentwood, Exeter -- 9:12 pm
     In the countryside near Brentwood, Essex, was a small building
of wooden sides and thatched roof.  It didn't look like much at
all, but inside of it lived a very good mage, well along in years,
whose greatest joy at this stage of his life was in mentorship.
     He did not actively seek students; rather, he let his
reputation stand where it might, and preferred for students to seek
him.  Magician Gindel would teach the very basics to an aspiring
practitioner, or powerful spells to an advanced mage, or knowledges
to those who wished to learn.  Gindel, however, would teach no one
whom he felt was undeserving of that which they sought.
     Alain Mirandor had discovered Gindel several months ago, and
had grown fond of his tutelage.  When she had most recently gone to
London to visit her friends, she was one of six students studying
with the Magician.
     In London, however, she had become acquainted with a friend of
Brenden's named John Kickingbird.  John had, somehow, become fairly
good at magic, without ever really studying it.  The fact amazed
Alain, almost as much as some of the weird magical feats she had
witnessed David Hardy perform.
     So, with a good word from Alain, Gindel had allowed John to
come study theoretical magic, and Alain was sure it would be a
great boon to him.
     A sudden yawn caught her by surprise, and Alain carefully
closed the tome on magical manipulation she had been reading,
allowed herself a luxurious stretch, and walked out into the crisp
night air.
     The weather was clear enough for her to notice that fabulous
celestial body shining peacefully down from on high.  The Moon,
these Core Earthers called it.  Alain still missed the world of
Aysle, but the Moon was one reason why she didn't mind this world
of Earth.  Imagine!  Having a glowing orb in the sky at night, as
well as in the day.  Truly a wonder.
     But, as she stood and admired the three-days old moon, a dull
throbbing ache built up within her ears.  At first, it wasn't even
enough to notice, but it quickly became painful.  John and two of
the other students were outside now, all holding hands to their
ears.
     Suddenly, the bright sliver of moon ceased to shine.  Alain
forced herself to look up, and could not see the white crescent.
It wasn't immediately obvious, but then she noticed motion.  There
were bats.  Thousands of bats, three feet by the wing, at least,
and half that long.
     The procession filled the sky, and their high-pitched keening
washed across the land like a powerful surf.  For long minutes,
they blotted out the sky, until, at last, the throbbing began to
subside, and the moon came out from hiding.
     Alain sat on the ground, and waited several moments until she
trusted her hearing again.  "John, is this sort of thing usual for
this area?"
     John barely heard her over his ringing ears.  "No," he said
with a shake of his head.  "Not at all."
     Alain nodded solemnly.  "Not for Aysle, either."






Saturday, 4 July, 1992:
     Fleet Street, London -- 12:02 am
     Midnight.  The heavy clouds more than covered the little
sliver of moon in the sky tonight.  It was dark, and quiet.  It was
Valentine's kind of night.
     She got along with her companions, and they were even amusing
sometimes.  But getting away from things, and not having to deal
with people, could be so relaxing sometimes.
     A tower of pink hair and the glowing tip of a cigarette moved
back and forth on Fleet Street.  Valentine didn't know exactly why,
but she wanted to come back to where that man had flipped out.  She
also had her Kyogo slung at her side.
     Valentine had been out for almost an hour, now.  She had seen
only three other people, and she was fairly certain they had been
really drunk.  She turned around and walked the other way back down
the street.
     Valentine was halfway down the street, when she fell to the
pavement, the wind knocked out of her.  She rolled and brought the
Kyogo around on-
     Nothing.  She knew something had hit her, damnit, and there
was nothing behind her!  She fired a burst into the darkness, and
heard it ping off a building nearby.
     Claws raked her chest, and Valentine staggered.  "What the
Hell?!"  She flipped the Kyogo to full auto, and let fly.  She
could hear the plate glass windows shatter and crash to the ground,
but she still couldn't see anything!
     Valentine turned, and ran for a streetlight.  She had barely
made three strides, when it caught her, and sent her crashing face
first into the street.  More gunfire proved just as ineffective as
the previous bursts.
     She scrambled to her feet, and made a mad leap for the nearest
storefront, so she could throw her back against it.  The gun barrel
sought desperately for a target.
     A cloud drifted away from the moon, allowing some light down
into the street.  Valentine gasped.
     Standing in front of her was a humanoid shape, midnight black
and transluscent.  It stood five foot four, and had spiked shaped
projections extending two feet from its head.  It also had long,
wicked looking claws, in the same black, hazy material.
     And when it opened its mouth to issue forth that cackling,
maniacal laugh, fangs glistened in the moonlight.
     It moved, and Valentine felt pain in her side.
     The voice was like fingernails on slate, and it came from
everywhere.  "You have been such a fun little toy!  You make me so
happy!"  And it laughed again.
     Fear welled up inside of Valentine, cold and sickly.  She
dropped her gun and dove through the nearest window.  The glass
broke across her face and head, gouging skin.
     The last thing she heard as consciousness slipped away was the
laugh.




     St. George Street, London -- 1:37 am
     Alice picked the phone up on the fourth ring.  Shadoe was more
than happy to let the Victorian woman tend to thing.  Alice found
the annoying device just too charming, and that fact relieved
Shadoe from the annoyance of answering it for as long as Alice
stayed with her, which would be until after the wedding.
     "Hello?" inquired Alice.
     "It's me," came the response, practically dripping with the
kind of malice and frustration that one occasionally needs to vent
at the world in general, when the real cause is either unknown or
unavailable.
     "Valentine, whatever is the matter?  You sound so-"  Alice was
about to say, 'unlike yourself', then realised the inherent falsity
in that statement.  "-so upset.  Where are you?"
     "I'm in jail."  Alice had no desire to learn French, and the
stream of profanities went unappreciated past her ears.
     "How did you get there?"
     There came a long, deep sigh.  "I was arrested, that's how!
They think I was breaking and entering some fluffy little boutique
on Fleet Street.  I was attacked by something, damnit!"
     Alice gasped a sharp inspiration of breath.  "Dear!  What was
it, Valentine?"
     More profanity.  "I don't know!  It kept hitting me, and I
shot at it, but I couldn't see a thing!  Right before I went under,
I thought I saw, I don't know, like a silhouette or something.  It
messed me up pretty bad.  And of course the coppers didn't find
anything."
     Shadoe had heard enough to come padding silently from her
room.  She listened as Alice asked, "That's awful!  Have they let
a doctor see you?  Are you alright?"
     "Nothing too serious, and they did drag me through the
infirmary the way to my cell.  Will you just get me the Hell out of
here?"
     Alice cupped the receiver for a moment.  "Shadoe, she's been
arrested.  She says she was attacked, but there was no evidence
afterward.
     "Valentine, dear, do we have to post bail or something?"
     "Yes.  Post bail.  A thousand pounds.  And get here as soon as
you can."  A deep male voice on Valentine's end of the phone spoke
briefly, and then Val started screaming.  "What the Hell do you
mean, they can't bail me out until tomorrow morning!  I want out of
her now, damnit!  I didn't do a thing!  Hey!  Let go!  Let-"
     There was a loud thunk as the phone clattered against
cinderblocks.  Then, a British voice spoke.  "Is this Mrs. Alice
Hargraves?"
     "Yes.  And with whom am I speaking?"
     "Constable Kiley.  Miss Wiggin has been returned to her cell
for the evening.  Do you have something to write with, miss?"
     Alice rummaged for pencil and paper.  "Yes, Constable, I do."
     "Right."  He gave her the address of the station, and said
that the clerk would be in at 7:30 am, and that she could post bail
to him.
     "Anything else I can do for you, ma'am?"
     "No, thank you.  Just take care of Valentine, please."
     "Will do, ma'am.  Goodnight."



     Page Street, London -- 8:51 am
     John Phillip Souza marches blared at deafening volume from a
small flat some ten blocks south of Westminster bridge.  Alice,
Shadoe, and Valentine were trying to figure out what in the world
was going on as they trudged up the stairs, practically fighting
the pulsing sound waves.
     As they reached apartment 2-C, Alice suddenly recalled -- but,
of course, she couldn't explain it to the other two over the noise.
Today was some sort of holiday for Brenden, but she couldn't
remember what anyway.
     Valentine stubbed out a cigarette and laid into the door with
all of her frustration and pent up hostility.  "Open the fucking
door, Brenden!"
     Minutes of pounding on the door served only to bruise her
hand, increasing her targetless wrath.
     Shadoe produced several small, metal tools, and had the door
open in seconds.  The three moved in.  Shadoe's delicate ears hurt,
and Alice cringed away from the sheer volume.  Valentine found the
stereo, and though, "I'd shootthe damn thing -- if I had my gun!"
She settled for pulling the plug, and listening as the record wound
its distorted way down.
     "What the-" said Brenden, as his wet head appeared around the
bathroom door, his Beretta 9mm looking for targets.
     "Hey, what's going on?"
     Valentine scowled.  "Get out here, will you?"
     Then Brenden noticed Alice's blushing form, and he said, "Ah,
let me put some clothes on first.  I was taking a shower."
     Five minutes later, modesty and propriety having been
satisfied, Brenden found out about what had happened in the wee
hours of the morning.
     Valentine finished with, "And they won't give me back my gun
or anything!"
     Brenden nodded.  "What do they still have?"
     "My gun and my cyberdeck!"
     Alice laid a hand on Brenden's.  "Is there something you can
do for the poor dear?"
     Brenden smiled.  "I'll see what I can do."
     Several phone calls later, Brenden announced, "I have a
meeting with somebody at M.I.5 Monday morning.  We'll see what
happens then."
     Alice stood up.  "Well then, I'll have to go back to Shadoe's
flat and start getting ready."
     The entire group was to attend a formal event at the home of
Lord Geoffrey Mountbatten later this evening.  Brenden had
declined, insisting that he had guests in town early for the
wedding.  "Well, then, you'll just have to bring them all along,
won't you?"  Brenden foresaw an...interesting evening.
     Brenden looked confused.  "But we needn't be at Lord Mount-
batten's until 6:30 this evening."
     Alice looked pained.  "I know, but I think I can make it in
time nonetheless.  Until tonight, then."



     St. George Street, London -- 5:02 pm
     Slice, thrust, pivot, move, and slice.  Shadoe padded around
her living room, while Alice worked at whatever it was that
Victorian women needed to do before being sociable.
     Forward and thrust.  Of course, Brenden was supposed to be by
shortly before six, thought Shadoe.  She'd have to get ready
shortly.  But the workout felt good.  She'd be done shortly.
     Moving through a turn, she caught movement out of the corner
of an eye.  She completed the turn, and brought the ninja-to up to
ready.
     It seemed for a moment that nothing was there -- but then
nothing batted her blade out of the way.  Instinctively, Shadoe
dove and rolled across the bamboo mats.  She stood quickly to
fighting position, and this time saw it just before it struck.  It
looked like the perfect ninja night-suit, as black as mist.  But,
she realised, she could see through it!  As it swung horrible,
deformed claws at her, Shadoe felt fear root her to the ground.
Icy tentacles kept the sword in place as the claws ripped across
her arm.
     Blood trickled.
     And Shadoe realised that this thing was exactly the same size
as her.  She also noticed that, despite the bright lights in the
room, she cast no shadow.
     Of course not; her shadow was moving about, stalking her
across her own living room.  Shadoe felt a chill pass over her.
What manner of thing was this?
     With Shadoe's own flowing grace, the creature moved in.  Part
of Shadoe's brain, so well-trained that it disassociated itself
from the paralysis of fear that threatened to overwhelm the rest of
her body, moved the ninja sword in a constant series of blocks and
parries.
     After several exchanges, she realised that the thing  never
stepped directly in front of the lamps.  Maybe that meant something
-- if it really was something of shadow.
     The ninja parried again, then retreated with one of the lights
directly at her back.  If she could lure this creature-
     But it did not follow.  When Shadoe had backed out of immed-
iate range, it turned and swung at one of the lamps, shattering it.
A swath of darkness cut through the room.  Shadoe could feel a cold
sweat break across her forehead as she realised what was happening.
     Then she heard a scream from the other room, from Alice.
Shadoe stood helpless and uncertain, her mind clouded with the
doubt born of overwhelming fear, as the creature shattered two more
bulbs, throwing fully half the rook into darkness.
     Suddenly, Alice was running from her bedroom -- and her own
shadow, brought horribly to life, tore at her back with fangs and
claws.
     The ninja shadow creature leapt onto the fleeing woman,
carrying her down to the ground.  The second shadow threw its head
back, showing its midnight black and razor sharp fangs before
burying them into Alice's side.
     Shadoe saw blood splatter on the mats before the two stood up,
and faced her.
     She had to run!  To go anywhere but here!  Shadoe held her
sword limply out in front of her as she backed unsteadily away.
But the two beasts did not move!  They just stood, staring at her.
     And then, Shadoe felt something behind her.  Slowly, she
turned, with despair boiling over in her gut.  She turned, and saw
the demon standing over her.
     Eight feet tall it stood, made of darkness and evil.  Angular,
menacing spikes projected from it's joints.  It was all points and
sharp edges, from its six inch fangs so black they seemed yet to
glow, to the long, gnarled claws which scraped the ground at its
side.
     With a deep, gutteral, inhuman noise, it dropped its jaw and
laughed.  Then, bllodlust showed in its glowing red eyes as it
swung a taloned hand at the helpless ninja.
     A powerful overhand swing battered Shadoe to the ground.  She
was lying in blood -- hers or Alice's she knew not.  Through
dimming vision, she felt waves of nausea assault her as she watched
the first two shadows melt back onto the ground, beside their
respective bodies.
     She saw the Shadow Demon standing over her as the blackness
conquered her.

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>>                                         wynne.c.j@p9955.wlu.edu  >>
==  Colin J. Wynne                                  - or -          ==
<<                                      wynne.c@fs.science.wlu.edu  <<
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