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Despite all of the setbacks in our society for the middle class, we still have the advantage over the serfs of the Middle Ages in that we have at least some choice in what work we do, and that the work does not define us as a human beings.
When you find that the work defines you and you have not chosen it you must find a means to remedy this situation. Even when you have no choice for your work, when the work is done you have 4-6 hours of the day that you define. This is the time for meals, friends, hobbies and chores. What I am trying to do is to become more efficient with that window of time that is mine in order to maximize the pleasure in life. 1. Get at least one chore (dishes, laundry, house maintenance done or started for at least one hour each day) 2. Cut back on things that do not serve a purpose. (Television just for the sake of television, social media on the web just for the sake of social media) I need to cut it back to about 1 hour per night. 3. That gives me 2-4 hours of "me" time. I should spend 1 hour a night exercising (I don’t but this is the plan) 4. After exercise That leaves 1-3 hours for reading, writing, photography/scrapbooking and gardening. No, I am not there yet on this plan, but if I can succeed at it, I believe my moods will be more positive in general and I will be living a fairly healthy life that I can claim I own instead of being owned by “life” as often happens when there is no plan. With the Summer Olympics about to begin in Londinium I thought this ancient Olympic game fact sheet might interest people. I am also including the original documents I used to teach this as files below. FACT SHEET: Ancient Olympic primarily a religious festival. Cheating was sacrilege. (Zanes), Contests for singing and playing the lyre and flute. The Olympic Games reorganized in 776 BCE and ran without interruption until 393 CE when Emperor Theodosius banned them in the name of Christianity. The Olympic flame was first introduced in 1928. The torch relay was introduced in 1936. The Olympic symbol was created in1913. Crown Games: Prize is a wreath. Four Crown Games. No pay for athletes. Olympic Games: most prestigious, in honor of Zeus, held every four years, prize is wild olive crown, held at Elis in the Peloponnesus. Nemean Games: in honor of Herakles, held year after Olympics, prize is wild celery crown, held near Corinth. Pythian Games: in honor of Apollo, held year after Nemean games, prize is laurel crown, held at Delphi. Isthmian Games: held year after the Pythian Games, prize is pine crown, held near Corinth. By 500 BCE at least 50 sets of games being held in the Greek world. There were eventually hundreds of local games. They had monetary/material gain. They paid the winners of the Crown games to come. The winner of the sacred games in Athens for the stade get 100 amphora of the finest olive oil. (9 gallons per jar.). The lowest value for a gallon of oil 12 drachma per gallon. This is the equivalent of 847 days wages for a 24 second race. An athlete could buy several houses for this amount. The winners would get an additional 500 drachmas from their home city. You could buy a sheep for 1 drachma. In 2008 a sheep cost between $50-$100 in Michigan. Winners were also given free meals by their home city. Winners also were given preference in positions of power and government. Age Brackets: Boys (to puberty) Youths (puberty to military age) Men Women not allowed to participate, although girls younger than puberty age participated in some running events and women were occasionally mentioned as winning the chariot events. Stadium: For both chariots and foot races, seats 40,000 at Olympia, turning posts at each end. Stade=200 meters. First Olympic event. Double Stade= 400 m Longest race = 24 stade (5k) No marathons Hoplite Race: 2 stade race in full armor (60 lbs) Heavy events: Boxing: No weight class, no rounds, leather straps on hands and wrists, referees Wrestling: Best of 5 falls, 1st to get to 3 wins, standing starts, cover in dust and oil, referees. Pankration: (All power): combination of boxing, wrestling, kick boxing. Anything goes except biting or eye gouging, strangleholds allowed, referees. Pentathlon: Medley of 5 events: Order of events: (1)Stade run, (2)Discus: 15 lbs, 13 inch diameter, (3) Long Jump: used 2-10 lbs weights, (4) Javelin toss, (5) Wrestling Horse events: Bareback riding, colts, mule race, chariot 6 testimonials as modeling for evidence that Greek athletes were professional athletes who were fiercely competitive: Testimonial 1: With cruel purpose you fell from above on the bodies of four opponents, an in these Pythian Games no happy homecoming was decreed for them as there was for you. As they returned to their mothers no sweet laughter brought pleasure, but they crept along the back roads, avoiding their enemies, bitten by misfortune. Pindar, Pythian Odes 8.81-87 Testimonial 2: In the Olympic Games you cannot just be beaten and then depart, but first of all, you will be disgraced not only before the people of Athens or Sparta or Nikopolis but before the whole world. In the second place, if you withdraw without sufficient reason you will be whipped. And this whipping comes after your training, which involves thirst, broiling heat and swallowing of handfuls of sand. Epictetus, Discourses 3.22.52 Testimonial 3: Here in Olympia he (Agathos Daimon) died, boxing in the stadium, having prayed to Zeus for either the crown or death, aged 35. Farewell. Epitaph at Olympia Testimonial 4: But if a man should rise to greatness by being swift of foot or by skill in the pentathlon, in the sacred precinct of Zeus near the streams of Pisa in Olympia, either wrestling or engaging in the painful sport of boxing or the fearful contest men call the pankration, he would be an honored citizen and would take the seat of honor at the games and would feast at the expense of the state and receive expensive gifts from his country to be passed on to his children… Athenaeus, Doctors at Dinner 10.414 Testimonial 5: An Olympic athlete was paid 30,000 drachmas to enter the local games. Inscription Testimonial 6: Payment to winners of the games: Stade 1250 denarii, Hoplite Race, 500 denarii, Pentathlon 500 denarii, Wrestling 2000 denarii, Boxing 2000 denarii, Pankration 3000 denarii Inscription in Aphrodisias 2nd C. CE. Note: a denarius is a day’s wage for an unskilled worker. Denarii is plural.
When I was in Italy I went to Pompeii back in 1995. One of the things I really wanted to see while I was there was the Villa of the Mysteries. The Villa of the Mysteries is a name given to a preserved villa that has a dining room with remarkable wall painting depicting scenes from a marriage and Dionysian imagery. It broke my heart that when I got to Pompeii I discovered that like many other wonderful treasures in Italy this one was temporarily closed, at least for the duration of my visit. I first learned about these frescoes back in 1994 when I became a docent at the Kesley Museum of Archaeology in Ann Arbor. Not only does the museum teach its docents about history and art, but they actually have watercolors commissioned by Dr. Kelsey from around the period of time the originals were discovered. These replicas are 5/6th scale and are exact in every detail. For years, they were just sitting on top of a cabinet rolled up where only a curious docent like me or an archaeology graduate student might happen to see them. Thanks to some endowments, the Kelsey museum now displays these wonderful watercolors in a replica Roman dining room. The colors are more vivid than the originals because the originals were treated to preserve them which has actually resulted in a darkening of the original colors. See this article for more information about the display of the watercolors.
I am aware of an intense blinding light, billowing smoke, incredible heat and almost complete silence. "So this is Hell?!" I say to no one in particular. After the explosions, screams of the dying and gunfire of the last few days I expected Hell to be a cacophonous magnified echo of the sounds of war. I am only slightly disappointed. Slowly I raise myself out of the crater left where my plummeting jet fighter nose-dived into some Abrams tanks.
As my senses return, I survey the area. It is difficult to determine the death toll on the final day of the battle but there are signs of hastily made mass burials. Still many more corpses lie rotting in the sun. Thousands of spirits dance the mindless cycle of their last moments with me as their only audience. The Capitol building is smoking rubble. In the distance, the portions of Lansing that still looked inhabited are fogged in smoke and haze. I can tell from the way the sun is blazing across the field that the temperature must be reaching an unbearable high today. My war allies and companions are long gone. I am alone. Leave no man behind is a marine slogan. Grimly I note that I am hardly a man anymore. I climb up upon the wreckage of a drone and take a moment to think. I have lost so much in the last few days. My wife and friend Joe are both gone. The people who accepted me, Fast Eddie and the Society...gone. Yet I remain. I am not alive and yet I think. I can never again enjoy the taste of a good wine nor hang myself from a tree branch to end my torment. Certainly there is a price to pay for immortality. That price is madness. I could feel it coming on even before my wife was killed. I am no longer human. My last human act was getting myself and that little girl in my hometown killed. But, I have grown powerful. Each life that I took, each malevolent specter that I drained into oblivion has pushed me further away from what I was and more firmly into the realm of who I am. Who am I? I can no more answer that question than a child of four. What am I? Surely I am wise as Socrates, for I can see that I do not know anything. So what have I accomplished? Is Michigan free from tyranny? Is my nation back on the path of freedom? I have no children to dream for. Everyone I know is dead and gone. I am thinking that the best thing to do with a mythological beast like myself is to hide away in a cave far away from humanity and let the ages pass until sweet madness takes me completely for her own. No! I have slept long enough. That was the one lesson my wife tried to pound through my thick skull. I may go mad, but no longer will I struggle with the slumber of inaction. Even if I act alone and fail completely I have to try to finish what I started. Revenge is only sweet if the victory is complete. But how do I, a single revenant, no more a man, tumble the dominoes that will achieve my purpose? I find that the enemies I have toppled no longer matter as long as there are enemies left who wish to continue sending my nation toward its doom. Somehow I must find a way to Washington D.C. If I can stop the President and his allies, states will find a way to do what we did here in Michigan. But how…? I need new allies! I allow a few more moments to pass in thought and decide before seeking new allies to find out if perhaps the Society left some clue for me to meet up with them. I return to the place where we first swarmed out into Lansing from the tunnel complex. The tunnels are gone. Either the weapons of war destroyed them, or The Society imploded the tunnels to hide their secrets from mankind. Whatever has happened my time with the Society is clearly at an end. I continue pondering and walking the field when I hear the sounds of digging and scrapping. I see over by the mass graves a small group of people digging up the bodies and pulling metal scraps from the wreckage of the broken war machines. Looters! I cannot blame them for doing what they can to survive. I decide to go talk to them. The hysterical screams of the retreating people reminds me that in my haste, driven by the desire for human company, I forgot entirely about my appearance. In anger I think very hard about my form and find to my astonishment that I can manipulate my appearance. Using a small broken mirror left on the battlefield, I use the force of my will to give myself the lifelike visage of my former mortal body. Satisfied that I can fool people unless they feel my skin, I decide to find some locals, hoping to learn about the current state of affairs and perhaps gain some allies. Walking for no more than ten minutes I hear the faint moaning of men in the distance. Curious, I head into the direction of the sounds. About two hundred feet away I see a cement bunker smashed in by the force of an ancient oak tree that has fallen on top of it, a victim of a pulse weapon. The tree trunk has completely blocked the entrance to the bunker and only a small shaft provides an escape for the pleas of help from within. I can tell from the bunker that it belongs to the enemy. As I approach I ask, "Friend, how many are trapped with you?" Through the air vent a voice says, "Ten men. Four severely wounded. We have run out of water and have had no food the three days since the battle ended. Please help us get out. Go back to Lansing and get my commander. He will bring equipment to break us out." I view the area and notice a broken troop transport near the downed oak tree. Two of its wheels are missing and the windshield is blown out. There are several dead men inside dressed in Michigan infantry uniforms. I tell the men in the bunker, "I am going to get you out. Get to the back of the bunker and find whatever you can to shield yourselves. " Walking away from the protests and pleas, I realize that I must make myself look like them. I don a uniform from one of the dead soldiers...Corporal Rodgers. I chuckle to myself as a I devise a plan to get the men free. I pull out a tow chain and attach it to the front bumper guard on the troop transport. I attach the other end of the chain to the oak tree and secure the chain with pitons I found in the transport hold. I push a dead soldier aside as I step inside the cabin of the troop transport and turn the key. With a terrible banging sound the transport surprised me as it starts up. I shift the beast into reverse as smoke and flames start to drift up from under the hood. The sound of the engine straining is alarming. I soon realize the engine is far too damaged to pull off the oak tree and will soon fail. Quickly I exit the transport, get behind the beast and pull with all of my phantasmal strength. At first nothing happens then I hear the metal fatigue from the back bumper as I pull with all my might. Focusing all of my power on this one moment I give a mighty tug from the rear of the transport and hear an explosion as I am thrown to the ground. When I get up, the transport is an inferno with deep black smoke billowing out of it but I can see the oak has moved enough to allow people to get out of the entrance to the bunker. Before I can make it back to the bunker some of the men have pushed the door open and have emerged into the daylight. They look puzzled at the burning transport and then back at me. One of them says to me, "We need to make gurneys for the casualties. Two men have broken legs, a third has a broken ankle and Johnson, well Johnson is about to give up the ghost if we can't get him some help ASAP!" I say, "Let me attend to Johnson. I'm a medic." "Well then stop yapping and get in there corporal!" He says. Yes sir! I say. I come upon Sargent Johnson. I can see he has severe internal injuries. It looks like a house fell on top of him. I listen to his breathing and I can tell he has only minutes to live. "The rest of you get out of this bunker and let me work! I say. They carry off the other wounded men and give me space. I begin to wonder what I have gotten myself into as I find myself alone with this dying man. I must help him live! But how…? I can see his spirit pulling away from his mortal form and sooth it back into his body with a gentle hand. Holding onto his spiritual hand I infuse it with energy and clear my head of all thoughts but the unselfish desire to help this man live. Moments seem to have passed before I notice that Sargent Johnson is trying to sit up. "Thanks corporal! I don't know how the fuck you did that but I was a dead man if you hadn't come along. Let's get the hell out of this coffin." Johnson and I head outside to the amazement of the men. "Corporal Rodgers, you are a fucking miracle man son!", their leader says. His insignia says Colonel Martins. "Johnson, I thought you were a fucking dead man! Death aint gonna get you out of KP duty son. If you had listened to me you wouldn't have been french kissing with the grim reaper just now." Martins orders two of the men to find water cans while the others finish the gurneys. After everyone has had a drink of water and a few pieces of beef jerky they load up the wounded and Martins orders a march back toward Lansing. As we march I notice several of the men whispering and looking back at me. I give them a sharp nod and they turn away from me and continue whispering. A few moments later and several of the men motion to each other in code. They set down the wounded men and suddenly six assault rifles are pointed at me. Col. Martins says, "Seems we got a fucking problem Corporal Miracle Man" You aint Rodgers. Tell me you ain't some sack o shit AWOL sandbagger Miracle Man! You got about ten seconds to clear yourself before you start sweatin bullets." Johnson says, "Jesus! Don't shoot this man, he just saved my life!" Johnson throws himself in front of me. Martins says, "You trying to piss on death twice today Johnson? Get the fuck out of the way and that is an order!!" Thinking quickly I push Johnson aside and I say, "Sir, I don't fuckin know who I am sir. I woke up in some wreckage. My uniform was gone. Some looter probably cleaned me out. I seen Rodgers was dead and didn't need that uniform no more so I borrowed it until I can get new clothes and get my head on straight." "Miracle man, you asking me to get down on my knees and jerk you off?" says Martins. "No sir, that's the truth as best as I know it. Soon as I can remember I will tell you who I am." I say Martins orders his men to stand down. "Miracle man if your story don't check out I will personally roast you on a spit and dump your carcass in Ann Arbor." "My story will check out sir!" I say. Martins seems satisfied for now but he orders his men not to let me have any weapons. We walk for a while longer and take a rest in a depression in the ground. While we are resting several men scout ahead and notice other depressions near. An image of Herb begins to form in my mind when one of them says. "It’s the turtle! Sir it is heading southeast toward Lake Erie." Martins says, "Johnson mark our position. We need to get these wounded men to base ASAP, find some reinforcements and recapture the beast." I ask, "Col. Martins sir, how do you know the turtle is in enemy hands?" Martins says, "I saw a bunch of the enemy thick as thieves rappel up the side of the turtle like something out of a fucking Star Wars movie!" For some reason the hatches were open. The turtle don't need many men, so I am sure it was overrun. We got to get that machine back in the hands of the good guys and kill those rebels!" I nod silently and we continue our march back to Lansing without further incident. I have no idea what I am going to do now but I better come up with a plan quick! As we marched back to camp I learned that in addition to Col. Martins and Sargent Johnson, the others in the unit are Corporal Reynolds, Corporal Berry, Corporal Guelph, Corporal Pederson, Corporal Hatcher, Corporal Scott and two brothers Terry and Chuck McFarlen both Sergeants. The first thing I notice as we get close to the camp is a series of long buildings with tall fences and barb wire. Gun towers dot the perimeter. The place looks like Auschwitz. I notice that the barb wire has been cut in several places. The place smells of death. Countless ghostly figures cycling around in torment indicate the incredible number of lives lost on the premises. Their screams are very agitating to hear. I ask, "Sir, these prison camps look compromised. How many people were being kept here?" Col. Martins says in an agitated voice, " I don't give a rats ass if your memory is gone Miracle Man, that information is classified which means since you don't already know you don't need to know!" We arrive at the military camp to find a building that is partially destroyed. Rocket fire has breached the wall in several places. Some of the roof has been burned and a trail of military equipment and supplies strewn about indicate that the camp has been at least partially looted. Silently the men take positions. Assault rifles at the ready, the men storm the military camp. After several intense moments it is determined that the camp is clear. Corporal Guelph and Peterson are taking first watch guarding the entrance while the rest of the unit works to gather supplies. Corporal Hatcher and both McFarlen brothers are the casualties and I do what I can to make them comfortable and to find some basic medical supplies to fashion hard casts. At least the bones were set properly so I won't have to put these men through more pain. It looks like that will not be a problem as my wounded friends have discovered a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and are working on their own painkiller. I find the plaster and other supplies I need and work on each of the men until they are set. I find some crutches and pass them around but instruction may not be useful as the men are already fairly drunk by the time I finish up with them. After everyone has settled in, we meet up in the mess hall and have a meager meal composed of canned spam, mashed potatoes and either water or whiskey for beverage. Corporal Scott asks, "You ain't eatin Miracle Man?" "I'm not hungry." I say. Col. Martins walks in, "Uncle Sam's Spam ain't good enough for you? Better eat something son, we have a long march ahead of us. I can't raise HQ on the wire so we are going to have to find a working transport on our own if we are going to follow the turtle." There is an unpleasant silence which I finally break with a question. "Would you guys humor a guy who doesn't know who he is and tell me how you got into the military?" There are a few chuckles and then a few more moments of silence, finally Johnson speaks up, "I was drafted if you want to call it that. When things got bad and neighbors started fighting neighbors, you probably remember that the Governor issued a state of emergency and called in the National Guard. The guard went door to door armed to the teeth and you either enlisted on the spot or they dragged you away in shackles. I chose to enlist. I'm not a political man, but when your country points a gun at you and says choose sides I figure they got the right to tell me to join just like they did my grandfather and great grandfather for Vietnam and WWII." Col. Martins says, "I'm one of the few career army guys around here I guess. I believe you either stand up for your country or you should leave. Too many damn liberals and homosexuals were running this country and that is why we are going through this clusterfuck today. I still believe the President will see us through this. When he does we've got to learn our lesson this time. Freedom aint about access to the internet or civil rights. Freedom is about doing what you have to do to keep your country true to the Founding Fathers. George Washington would have never put up with rebellions and nonsense. He would have mustered an army and crushed them! Ever hear of the Whiskey rebellion son? Look it up some time when things get straight. Washington would have been leading us the same way our President has done!" I nod my head as if convinced by Col. Martins words and say, "Permission to walk around the perimeter sir!?" Martins looks sternly at me, and says, "I guess you earned a little trust son, grab a rifle and keep your wits about you. Lansing is no longer secure." I do as ordered and head outside. If I could take a deep breath I would. Lansing has been kissed by too much violent death. I need to find a quiet place to compose my thoughts and plan my next actions. I move at a brisk pace through the rubble and burned out houses. About twelve miles from the camp I find an abandoned Jeep Cherokee. It is black in color, covered in graffiti, the window is shattered but oddly all the tires are still inflated. I look under the hood and everything looks intact. I step inside the Jeep and push the start button. Nothing happens! The engine doesn't even turn over. My grandfather, father and brother all worked for Ford Motor Company. Michiganders are known as being great hunters, fisherman and auto mechanics. Other than changing a spark plug or checking the oil I am more or less at the mercy of luck when it comes to cars. I have only one guess concerning what might be wrong so I step over to the battery and drain some of my energy into it. Satisfied that I have charged the battery I step back inside the Jeep and hit the start button again. Wa-waa-waaa-vrooom! Success!! The Jeep even has fuel! I drive off until I am near a wooded area that looks like a county park and find a small lake. I turn off the Jeep and find a nice piece of wood, some wire and then I fashion a hook. I flip over a few logs and find some worms and toss the line on my hastily constructed fishing pole into the water. When I was a kid I used to fish almost every day. I fished in the canals, the swamp and Lake Erie. Fishing was one of the few activities I could do with my father where at least if he was roaring drunk he was generally in a decent mood, which meant that I was more or less safe from a severe verbal trashing as long as I was fishing. Even when the fish are not biting, it is pleasant to just stare at the water or the surrounding environment and be one with the world. My wife wasn't big into fishing so at some point I gave up on the activity. At this moment I realize how much I missed it. I whistle an old country song and my mood is greatly lifted. As I think about the old times before all the current strife and remember the simple times I find myself drifting through fond memories. On the edge of my perception I notice a flash of white in the woods and focus closely on it. Was that another of Lansing's all too numerous ghosts? Forgetting all about fishing I rush off in attempt to satisfy my curiosity. Through glen and hill I raced about the park. I probably searched for an hour, but I never found the source of the white flash I noticed in the woods. Frustrated I get back into the Jeep and head back to the base. When I arrive back at camp it is almost nightfall. The men are pleased that I found a vehicle and I bring the vehicle through a garage door on the far end of the compound. Corporal Berry is a mechanic and he makes it his mission to refuel the Jeep and to do what he can to add armor to it. He replaces the battery with a new one from the compound but says that for the most part it is in good shape. We take watches throughout the night and pass the evening without incident. With morning we have a quick breakfast and then me, Sargent Johnson, Corporal Berry and Corporal Scott take the Jeep to scout around town. Sargent Johnson says, "Hey Miracle man, why are you so chipper today? You get laid last night? I notice I am whistling a happy Zippidy Doo Da and stop. I chuckle and then say, "No Johnson, nothing like that. I just think it’s more peaceful around town." "What the hell are you talking about Miracle Man?" says Corporal Scott. "In case you haven't noticed and even though the subject is off limits, the prison camp is empty, which means they either got far away from here or they are wandering around Lansing somewhere looking for trouble. In case you didn't know it, we are the ones that locked those rebels up in the first place. They get one look at our uniforms and its going to get hot." We all get quiet until we find a cache of weapons, ammo, some canned food and a working ham radio. We load the supplies into the Jeep and head back to base. As we pass the prison camp I can't help but smile. The camp is finally silent. Its ghosts have moved on. When we get back to base it is evident that something went badly. The compound is still on fire. A bulldozer is smashed into the side of the compound's garage door. Cement blocks meant to protect the compound from vehicle attacks have been moved aside. The driver of the bulldozer is dead and his body is clearly riddled with gunfire. There are several dozen bodies lying dead around the compound. None of them belong to my fellow soldiers but from the looks of their half- starved bodies I would guess they were guests at the concentration camp nearby. Streaks of blood from the camp portals indicate that at least a few of the men were dragged from the camp injured or dead. "Oh God!" says Sargent Johnson. "We shouldn't have gone out on that patrol. Like Scott said, we knew it was dangerous. We should have been working on getting the hell out of this town and getting the turtle back!" Corporal Scott says, "We gotta find the Colonel! If those bastards harmed him I'm gonna frag the whole bunch of those low-life scum!!" Corporal Berry says, "Hey, let's not jump to conclusions, maybe our guys are hostages. Maybe we can negotiate. Maybe... I cut Berry off and say, "Maybe you should look down the road over by those telephone poles." "Fuck!" says Sargent Johnson. We hop into the Jeep and race to the area where all of our eyes remained fixed. Sergent Johnson slams the brakes and we all jump out in precision and take defensive positions. Like macabre nutcracker soldiers hanging on the Christmas tree, Colonel Martins and the other six men from our patrol are hanging from the neck from the telephone poles nearby. Some show signs of torture. Colonel Martins body was particularly brutalized and a live wire was placed in his pants, his body still smoking. I notice Colonel Martins and the other men from the company's ghosts cycling near the pole. They seem intent on harming the cycling ghosts of the rebels who died storming the camp. The ghostly rebels are chanting "Murders, Rapists, Cowards!!" I disable the electrical power running to the telephone poles. We manage to remove the bodies of our fallen comrades, Corporal Scott insisting on retrieving the body of the Colonel himself. When the bodies are all on the ground we look for something to dig graves but all we find is one broken spade. We did however have a chainsaw. We decide instead to cremate the bodies. We created a bier from the telephone poles and placed the bodies on them with some loose kindling and broken pieces of lumber. Sargent Johnson starts a prayer. "Dear Lord, soldiers know when they enlist that they may have to give up their lives in service to their nation. These men were brave. They followed their orders and did what they could in service to it. Please forgive them their sins and take them to be with you in loving compassion. Amen." Corporals Scott and Berry toss a can of gasoline on the bodies and then Corporal Scott tosses his lighter onto the bier and we all stand back to watch for a moment in silence. "Miracle Man, you were a fucking rebel. I can see that now! You should have been interned with these other scumbag traitors!" says Col. Martins. I turn to the sound of the voice and Col. Martins throws a mean phantasmal right hook straight to my jaw. I go down like a rock. Sargent Johnson sees me go down and asks, "You okay Miracle Man? Hey, I know seeing our men die like that is a bad scene, but pull yourself together. We are going to need to be strong if we are going to survive this." Col. Martins says, "That's what I like to see Miracle Man, a traitor that can take a beating. Oh this is gonna be fun. How the hell you manage to look like you are living Miracle Man? No matter, one order Uncle Sam gave me I never had a problem with was harsh interrogation. You gonna talk Miracle Man? Sure as Scarlett Johansson is one fine piece of ass I hope you aint gonna talk because I am going to love water boarding your ass!" Col. Martins puts his hand on my neck and pulls me up and just as fast I clench his arm and drain his essence. Within a second, his angry, self-righteous sermon is ended. Sargent Johnson asks, "You look a little strange Miracle Man, you need some water? We got some back in the Jeep." I say, "Thanks Johnson, you are a good man. I'm going to walk off for a moment and clear my head." Johnson says, "That's not a good idea, the rebels are still near." I say, "I will only be gone a moment. Please, go load up the Jeep and when you are ready I will be back. I am confident I can find our lost turtle." Johnson says, "Okay, well you've already performed miracles, so I guess I can grant you a few minutes to pull yourself together." "Thanks!" I say. Sargent Johnson, now in charge, puts an end to the funeral and orders Corporals Berry and Scott to grab everything that is still useful and load it into the Jeep. Johnson joins them in the effort. Making haste, I rush toward the scene of the battle between my ghostly comrades and the fallen rebels. For some strange reason the ghosts all seem to gravitate back toward the prison camp. I find my former comrades circling the rebels like a pack of wolves circling an injured elk, knowing that the end of the conflict is near. Silent and without warning I embrace each of these soldiers in a deadly hug, absorbing the soldier's essence before he can scream out a warning to his remaining ghostly comrades. The rebels let out a cheer in unison as the last of the soldiers fall to my essence draining clutch. A few moments later and the last of the cheers, turned screams have ended. "Miracle Man, we were about to list you as AWOL. About time you decided to join us!!" says Corporal Scott. I can see that the Jeep is loaded to the top with every kind of gear and equipment that could be gathered quickly. Sargent Johnson is at the driver's seat and Corporal Scott is riding next to him, machine gun hanging out the window. Corporal Berry is sitting in the back seat drinking some Jack Daniels whiskey. I nod and join Berry in the back. He offers me some whiskey but I decline. Johnson says, "We will take the Jeep to where we found the tracks of the turtle and follow them as far as we can." We travel for a couple of hours. With most of the major highways and bridges bombed and booby trapped we decide to travel cross-country which is hard, rugged driving. The searing heat in the summer over the last decade or so has burned a lot of the woodlands, and then the driving winter rains cause the damaged trees to fall over at all angles along the path. Taking the path is a risk, with all the cannibals and roving bands of brigands and minor warlords taking over any area that still has inhabitants, but no army presence. The path however at least is kept clear from too much rubble and debris. Whenever we think we have completely lost the trail of Herb, we find some massive tracks in the hard baked earth where there had been a pond or small stream in recent weeks. Sargent Johnson says, "Welcome to Interstate 94, at least what passes for it these days. It should only take about six hours to get to Detroit, if that is where the turtle is going. Corporal Scott says, "Why head to Detroit, the whole place is rubble?" No one answers him. The trail of tracks has been fairly consistently heading southeast from Lansing in the direction of Lake Erie. We all agree with Johnson's assessment and take turns every hour or two driving as it is very jarring and challenging to keep the Jeep under control and still maintain any decent travel speed. I take my shift driving the Jeep. It annoys me that Corporal Scott refuses to wear a seat belt. I harass him endlessly about it until he refuses to talk to me. The terrain is more heavily wooded with quite a few young poplar and maple trees. We are driving in the river bed of the Huron River which has been cleared of most debris. It has been two hours since we located any tracks from Herb, but I have an idea where Fast Eddie and his crew are headed. Also it does not seem that the turtle is trying to break any speed records. It almost seems like it is meandering. I wonder what Eddie is up to? My thoughts zoom in to the immediate surroundings as a small white animal darts quickly in front of the Jeep as I round a corner in the riverbed. I jerk the wheel rapidly and hit the brakes but manage to hit a large rock and a downed tree in the process. Corporal Scott is thrown from the vehicle and Sargent Johnson and Corporal Berry are thrown around in the back of the Jeep like an over-tossed salad. At impact I hear a loud pop indicating that we have blown a tire. A tirade of curses and groans are thrown at me as if they will somehow take back the pain suffered from my superior driving skills. Ignoring the endless stream of profanity, I run over to check on Corporal Scott. He is lying face down near a rock, a puddle of blood masks his face. His arm is twisted at an odd angle and so is his neck. I can tell that he has but moments left to live. When Sargent Johnson was mortally wounded I was able to get privacy to perform my miracle, but with Corporal Scott I do not have that option. I turn to Sargent Johnson and say, "Corporal Scott has a broken neck. I can save his life if you agree but doing so is going to shock you beyond anything you can easily comprehend. If you consent I will fix his neck, but you must promise to at least allow me to explain after the deed is done." Sargent Johnson notes the seriousness in my tone and says, "Do it. Don't let that man die if you can help him! We will discuss the outcome afterward!" I lay my hands on Corporal Scott's neck and using my energy, I heal his broken vertebra, repair his arm and mend his internal injuries. Within seconds Scott opens his eyes and sits up. Corporal Berry says, "I know I've been hitting the whiskey today, but are you Jesus or the devil son? I never seen a real miracle before!!" How the hell did you do that??" Sargent Johnson says, "Okay Miracle Man, obviously THAT wasn't a result of being just a good medic!" We need to have a talk! Just who the hell are you?" Corporal Scott gets up wordlessly, walks to the Jeep, grabs his assault rifle and says, "He's the fuckin devil and I am going to send him back to hell!" Scott fires a burst from his assault rifle at me. The bullets pass harmlessly through my body hitting the rock and riverbed where Scott cracked his head when he was thrown from the car. Scott says "Aint natural! This is not happening! Aint real man! How come the rest of you aint fraggin his ass? Fuck all of you!" Scott points his gun at all of us and backing away, bolts into a full run up the other side of the river bed until he is out of sight. Berry and Johnson look over at where Scott ran and then look back at me intensely. I say, "Might I suggest we fix that flat while I explain things?" Berry I'd take a drink from your whiskey bottle right about now, but perhaps you are starting to see that I can't enjoy it." Both men are torn between natural fear, a small measure of loyalty to me for my aid to Scott and Johnson, and some inner curiosity to learn something truly mysterious. In the end they both surrender to the Fates and decide to hear me out. Berry even helps me with the flat tire. I begin my story, "I was a hermit. I was only interested in knowledge. I lived in a small village in an old farmhouse with my wife and my wonderful little dog. I had everything I wanted. As the Nation's political situation got more extreme and politicians moved farther away from the intent of the founding fathers I became increasingly angry but still I didn't do anything. I had a friend who tried to get me involved in politics, tried to get me to help change things for the better but I was always afraid to commit to it. I immersed myself even deeper into reading until I was well versed in histories, philosophies, languages and dramas. However, the local priest began to exert his influence, bullying me and wrecking my garden. I knew when I complained that I would be marked as a trouble maker. It was bad enough that I did not believe in his god. One day, a tank driver came through and killed my little dog. I knew someone ordered it done and suspected the priest. I lost all fear, and rushed out in anger firing an old pistol at the tank driver. He killed me. Yes I really am dead. I am known as the revenant. I have even been called the chosen one. I am driven by revenge. While my dog has been avenged, the priest and tank driver destroyed, my wife was a casualty of my anger. She was also killed by the priest, but her ghostly form joined me along with a few others trying to help the rebels bring back the America I read about in books. Scott was not too far off calling me a devil, for a devil much like me killed my wife before I destroyed him. She paid the price for what I am now. I miss her terribly. I can't answer all your questions about ghosts. Most ghosts just cycle mindlessly around in a loop of their last moments as a living being. Some are sentient like me. I did my best to resist my desire for revenge and instead try to work for peace but in the end mankind seems bent on its own destruction. It is my hope to aid those who would see a return to freedom and justice. For me, that means siding with the rebels. The occupiers of the turtle, better known as Herb are my friends. If you wish to join me you are welcome. If you feel it is a betrayal of your beliefs to side with the rebels, I understand." Berry and Johnson are silent for a moment. They look at each other and then Johnson says, "The US military is destroyed in this area. We are safer with you. If it is okay, we will take our chances with you and the rebels for a while. If it seems like you are doing good things we will join up. Neither of us were happy with the concentration camps or the way prisoners were treated. We were following orders, but the orders have gotten harder and harder to justify. It had gotten to the point where many of us in the army didn't know what was right or wrong anymore. Kids shot at us, women hide explosives under their dresses. Even old people could be dangerous. We learned to trust no one. Fire first when threatened. You see it in the way Corporal Scott reacted." I say, "Thank you for trusting me. I shall endeavor to earn that trust. I should go after Scott and try to bring him to his senses. It is too dangerous to be out on your own, even with a rifle! It is getting dark. You stay here and set up camp. I cannot be harmed by warlords or brigands. " Johnson says, "My better judgment says to come with you, but we will set up camp for the evening. Scott couldn't have gotten far." I head off, no longer concerned about appearance I move at my fastest speed. Approximately ten miles from our position in the riverbed, I find a small fort. It is well hidden from the main path. Trees, scrub bushes and netting have been used to hide the building from the casual onlooker. From the outside it looks like it can hold about thirty men. The building is shaped like a Viking longhouse and I can tell from the smoke that a large hearth must be blazing inside. This seems most peculiar to me considering how hot it is outside. I approach a window and look in. Around twenty adult men and women rest leisurely on deer skin rugs near the edges of the hearth. Children are busy playing games and shouting. The hearth is blazing with hot coals. Over the fire are two wooden spits roasting dinner. Scott is one of the roasting victims. The other is a feral pig. Four men turn the spits and add sauce as they prepare supper. I enter the front door and say, "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Barbarism, even cannibalism is understandable when one is desperate. What I cannot tolerate is the torture. You roasted that man alive. He was my friend. When you lose your humanity, I shall come for you. I am revenant. I am revenge!!!" One of the men fires a pistol at me. Another man fires a bow at me. The projectiles pass harmlessly through me. Anger rises into my being. The next thing I remember, a familiar voice is yelling at me. "Dude, You have become a monster!" It is my friend Joe. I say, "I see you are still a ghost!" Joe says, "What are you going to kill me too?" "What are you talking about Joe?" I ask. "Dude, I've been following you since you woke up. Why the heck didn't you just return to the tunnels and rejoin The Society?" Joe asks. "The tunnels were blocked, that's why. Sure I could walk through the tons of rock, but to what purpose. Obviously The Society was trying to hide its location." I say Joe says, "Okay, let’s skip forward a little then. Let’s say you are right and the tunnels really were blocked. I'm not even going to ask why you are mixed up with the enemy troops...tell me instead, why the hell did you extinguish the essence of every ghost in Lansing?" "What are you talking about Joe?" I ask hesitantly. "YOU know, all the ghosts running around on the battlefield, in the concentration camps, wandering aimlessly through the local cemeteries...You destroyed them all dude! Every friggin, last one of them!!" Joe says I say, "That...that is not true. I did destroy some ghosts, but they were all evil." Joe says, "So all ghosts are evil and now you have moved on and are killing humans?" "What are you talking about Joe, are you trying to piss me off??" I ask. "Look around you my friend, what do you see?" Joe asks. Lying around the floor of the cannibals' fort I notice them...all of them. Every man, woman and child from this fort lay dead, their faces locked in masks of horror. I collapse onto a bench, my head in my hands and sob. When I look up again my friend Joe is gone. Before I can get up to head back to Johnson and Berry, my fur covered ray of sunshine jumps into my lap and licks my face. I look at my dog and smile broadly. "Miracle Man, we were about to list you as AWOL. About time you decided to join us!!" says Corporal Scott. I can see that the Jeep is loaded to the top with every kind of gear and equipment that could be gathered quickly. Sargent Johnson is at the driver's seat and Corporal Scott is riding next to him, machine gun hanging out the window. Corporal Berry is sitting in the back seat drinking some Jack Daniels whiskey. I nod and join Berry in the back. He offers me some whiskey but I decline.
Johnson says, "We will take the Jeep to where we found the tracks of the turtle and follow them as far as we can." We travel for a couple of hours. With most of the major highways and bridges bombed and booby trapped we decide to travel cross-country which is hard, rugged driving. The searing heat in the summer over the last decade or so has burned a lot of the woodlands, and then the driving winter rains cause the damaged trees to fall over at all angles along the path. Taking the path is a risk, with all the cannibals and roving bands of brigands and minor warlords taking over any area that still has inhabitants, but no army presence. The path however at least is kept clear from too much rubble and debris. Whenever we think we have completely lost the trail of Herb, we find some massive tracks in the hard baked earth where there had been a pond or small stream in recent weeks. Sargent Johnson says, "Welcome to Interstate 94, at least what passes for it these days. It should only take about six hours to get to Detroit, if that is where the turtle is going. Corporal Scott says, "Why head to Detroit, the whole place is rubble?" No one answers him. The trail of tracks has been fairly consistently heading southeast from Lansing in the direction of Lake Erie. We all agree with Johnson's assessment and take turns every hour or two driving as it is very jarring and challenging to keep the Jeep under control and still maintain any decent travel speed. I take my shift driving the Jeep. It annoys me that Corporal Scott refuses to wear a seat belt. I harass him endlessly about it until he refuses to talk to me. The terrain is more heavily wooded with quite a few young poplar and maple trees. We are driving in the river bed of the Huron River which has been cleared of most debris. It has been two hours since we located any tracks from Herb, but I have an idea where Fast Eddie and his crew are headed. Also it does not seem that the turtle is trying to break any speed records. It almost seems like it is meandering. I wonder what Eddie is up to? My thoughts zoom in to the immediate surroundings as a small white animal darts quickly in front of the Jeep as I round a corner in the riverbed. I jerk the wheel rapidly and hit the brakes but manage to hit a large rock and a downed tree in the process. Corporal Scott is thrown from the vehicle and Sargent Johnson and Corporal Berry are thrown around in the back of the Jeep like an over-tossed salad. At impact I hear a loud pop indicating that we have blown a tire. A tirade of curses and groans are thrown at me as if they will somehow take back the pain suffered from my superior driving skills. Ignoring the endless stream of profanity, I run over to check on Corporal Scott. He is lying face down near a rock, a puddle of blood masks his face. His arm is twisted at an odd angle and so is his neck. I can tell that he has but moments left to live. When Sargent Johnson was mortally wounded I was able to get privacy to perform my miracle, but with Corporal Scott I do not have that option. I turn to Sargent Johnson and say, "Corporal Scott has a broken neck. I can save his life if you agree but doing so is going to shock you beyond anything you can easily comprehend. If you consent I will fix his neck, but you must promise to at least allow me to explain after the deed is done." Sargent Johnson notes the seriousness in my tone and says, "Do it. Don't let that man die if you can help him! We will discuss the outcome afterward!" I lay my hands on Corporal Scott's neck and using my energy, I heal his broken vertebra, repair his arm and mend his internal injuries. Within seconds Scott opens his eyes and sits up. Corporal Berry says, "I know I've been hitting the whiskey today, but are you Jesus or the devil son? I never seen a real miracle before!!" How the hell did you do that??" Sargent Johnson says, "Okay Miracle Man, obviously THAT wasn't a result of being just a good medic!" We need to have a talk! Just who the hell are you?" Corporal Scott gets up wordlessly, walks to the Jeep, grabs his assault rifle and says, "He's the fuckin devil and I am going to send him back to hell!" Scott fires a burst from his assault rifle at me. The bullets pass harmlessly through my body hitting the rock and riverbed where Scott cracked his head when he was thrown from the car. Scott says "Aint natural! This is not happening! Aint real man! How come the rest of you aint fraggin his ass? Fuck all of you!" Scott points his gun at all of us and backing away, bolts into a full run up the other side of the river bed until he is out of sight. Berry and Johnson look over at where Scott ran and then look back at me intensely. I say, "Might I suggest we fix that flat while I explain things?" Berry I'd take a drink from your whiskey bottle right about now, but perhaps you are starting to see that I can't enjoy it." Both men are torn between natural fear, a small measure of loyalty to me for my aid to Scott and Johnson, and some inner curiosity to learn something truly mysterious. In the end they both surrender to the Fates and decide to hear me out. Berry even helps me with the flat tire. I begin my story, "I was a hermit. I was only interested in knowledge. I lived in a small village in an old farmhouse with my wife and my wonderful little dog. I had everything I wanted. As the Nation's political situation got more extreme and politicians moved farther away from the intent of the founding fathers I became increasingly angry but still I didn't do anything. I had a friend who tried to get me involved in politics, tried to get me to help change things for the better but I was always afraid to commit to it. I immersed myself even deeper into reading until I was well versed in histories, philosophies, languages and dramas. However, the local priest began to exert his influence, bullying me and wrecking my garden. I knew when I complained that I would be marked as a trouble maker. It was bad enough that I did not believe in his god. One day, a tank driver came through and killed my little dog. I knew someone ordered it done and suspected the priest. I lost all fear, and rushed out in anger firing an old pistol at the tank driver. He killed me. Yes I really am dead. I am known as the revenant. I have even been called the chosen one. I am driven by revenge. While my dog has been avenged, the priest and tank driver destroyed, my wife was a casualty of my anger. She was also killed by the priest, but her ghostly form joined me along with a few others trying to help the rebels bring back the America I read about in books. Scott was not too far off calling me a devil, for a devil much like me killed my wife before I destroyed him. She paid the price for what I am now. I miss her terribly. I can't answer all your questions about ghosts. Most ghosts just cycle mindlessly around in a loop of their last moments as a living being. Some are sentient like me. I did my best to resist my desire for revenge and instead try to work for peace but in the end mankind seems bent on its own destruction. It is my hope to aid those who would see a return to freedom and justice. For me, that means siding with the rebels. The occupiers of the turtle, better known as Herb are my friends. If you wish to join me you are welcome. If you feel it is a betrayal of your beliefs to side with the rebels, I understand." Berry and Johnson are silent for a moment. They look at each other and then Johnson says, "The US military is destroyed in this area. We are safer with you. If it is okay, we will take our chances with you and the rebels for a while. If it seems like you are doing good things we will join up. Neither of us were happy with the concentration camps or the way prisoners were treated. We were following orders, but the orders have gotten harder and harder to justify. It had gotten to the point where many of us in the army didn't know what was right or wrong anymore. Kids shot at us, women hide explosives under their dresses. Even old people could be dangerous. We learned to trust no one. Fire first when threatened. You see it in the way Corporal Scott reacted." I say, "Thank you for trusting me. I shall endeavor to earn that trust. I should go after Scott and try to bring him to his senses. It is too dangerous to be out on your own, even with a rifle! It is getting dark. You stay here and set up camp. I can not be harmed by warlords or brigands. " Johnson says, "My better judgment says to come with you, but we will set up camp for the evening. Scott couldn't have gotten far." I head off, no longer concerned about appearance I move at my fastest speed. Approximately ten miles from our position in the riverbed, I find a small fort. It is well hidden from the main path. Trees, scrub bushes and netting have been used to hide the building from the casual onlooker. From the outside it looks like it can hold about thirty men. The building is shaped like a Viking longhouse and I can tell from the smoke that a large hearth must be blazing inside. This seems most peculiar to me considering how hot it is outside. I approach a window and look in. Around twenty adult men and women rest leisurely on deer skin rugs near the edges of the hearth. Children are busy playing games and shouting. The hearth is blazing with hot coals. Over the fire are two wooden spits roasting dinner. Scott is one of the roasting victims. The other is a feral pig. Four men turn the spits and add sauce as they prepare supper. I enter the front door and say, "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Barbarism, even cannibalism is understandable when one is desperate. What I can not tolerate is the torture. You roasted that man alive. He was my friend. When you lose your humanity, I shall come for you. I am revenant. I am revenge!!!" One of the men fires a pistol at me. Another man fires a bow at me. The projectiles pass harmlessly through me. Anger rises into my being. The next thing I remember, a familiar voice is yelling at me. "Dude, You have become a monster!" It is my friend Joe. I say, "I see you are still a ghost!" Joe says, "What are you going to kill me too?" "What are you talking about Joe?" I ask. "Dude, I've been following you since you woke up. Why the heck didn't you just return to the tunnels and rejoin The Society?" Joe asks. "The tunnels were blocked, that's why. Sure I could walk through the tons of rock, but to what purpose. Obviously The Society was trying to hide its location." I say Joe says, "Okay, let's skip forward a little then. Let's say you are right and the tunnels really were blocked. I'm not even going to ask why you are mixed up with the enemy troops...tell me instead, why the hell did you extinguish the essence of every ghost in Lansing?" "What are you talking about Joe?" I ask hesitantly. "YOU know, all the ghosts running around on the battlefield, in the concentration camps, wandering aimlessly through the local cemeteries...You destroyed them all dude! Every friggin, last one of them!!" Joe says I say, "That...that is not true. I did destroy some ghosts, but they were all evil." Joe says, "So all ghosts are evil and now you have moved on and are killing humans?" "What are you talking about Joe, are you trying to piss me off??" I ask. "Look around you my friend, what do you see?" Joe asks. Lying around the floor of the cannibals' fort I notice them...all of them. Every man, woman and child from this fort lay dead, their faces locked in masks of horror. I collapse onto a bench, my head in my hands and sob. When I finally look up again my friend Joe is gone. Before I can get up to head back to Johnson and Berry, my fur covered ray of sunshine jumps into my lap and licks my face. I look at my dog and smile broadly. Luck is a very important part of Norse culture. In my Midgard campaign most players learned early on the value of luck. Some, like Aesa the Lucky seemed to have an incredible amount of natural luck. The Luck Feat became almost as essential as Improved Initiative in my campaign. I have included the file for Luck.
When we get back to base it is evident that something went badly. The compound is still on fire. A bulldozer is smashed into the side of the compound's garage door. Cement blocks meant to protect the compound from vehicle attacks have been moved aside. The driver of the bulldozer is dead and his body is clearly riddled with gunfire. There are several dozen bodies lying dead around the compound. None of them belong to my fellow soldiers but from the looks of their half starved bodies I would guess they were guests at the concentration camp nearby. Streaks of blood from the camp portals indicate that at least a few of the men were dragged from the camp injured or dead.
"Oh God!" says Sargent Johnson. "We shouldn't have gone out on that patrol. Like Scott said, we knew it was dangerous. We should have been working on getting the hell out of this town and getting the turtle back!" Corporal Scott says, "We gotta find the Colonel! If those bastards harmed him I'm gonna frag the whole bunch of those low-life scum!!" Corporal Berry says, "Hey, let's not jump to conclusions, maybe our guys are hostages. Maybe we can negotiate. Maybe... I cut Berry off and say, "Maybe you should look down the road over by those telephone poles." "Fuck!" says Sargent Johnson. We hop into the Jeep and race to the area where all of our eyes remained fixed. Sergent Johnson slams the brakes and we all jump out in precision and take defensive positions. Like macabre nutcracker soldiers hanging on the Christmas tree, Colonel Martins and the other six men from our patrol are hanging from the neck from the telephone poles nearby. Some show signs of torture. Colonel Martins body was particularly brutalized and a live wire was placed in his pants, his body still smoking. I notice Colonel Martins and the other men from the company's ghosts cycling near the pole. They seem intent on harming the cycling ghosts of the rebels who died storming the camp. The ghostly rebels are chanting "Murders, Rapists, Cowards!!" I disable the electrical power running to the telephone poles. We manage to remove the bodies of our fallen comrades, Corporal Scott insisting on retrieving the body of the Colonel himself. When the bodies are all on the ground we look for something to dig graves but all we find is one broken spade. We did however have a chainsaw. We decide instead to cremate the bodies. We created a bier from the telephone poles and placed the bodies on them with some loose kindling and broken pieces of lumber. Sargent Johnson starts a prayer. "Dear Lord, soldiers know when they enlist that they may have to give up their lives in service to their nation. These men were brave. They followed their orders and did what they could in service to it. Please forgive them their sins and take them to be with you in loving compassion. Amen." Corporals Scott and Berry toss a can of gasoline on the bodies and then Corporal Scott tosses his lighter onto the bier and we all stand back to watch for a moment in silence. "Miracle Man, you were a fucking rebel. I can see that now! You should have been interned with these other scumbag traitors!" says Col. Martins. I turn to the sound of the voice and Col. Martins throws a mean phantasmal right hook straight to my jaw. I go down like a rock. Sargent Johnson sees me go down and asks, "You okay Miracle Man? Hey, I know seeing our men die like that is a bad scene, but pull yourself together. We are going to need to be strong if we are going to survive this." Col. Martins says, "That's what I like to see Miracle Man, a traitor that can take a beating. Oh this is gonna be fun. How the hell you manage to look like you are living Miracle Man? No matter, one order Uncle Sam gave me I never had a problem with was harsh interrogation. You gonna talk Miracle Man? Sure as Scarlett Johansson is one fine piece of ass I hope you aint gonna talk because I am going to love water boarding your ass!" Col. Martins puts his hand on my neck and pulls me up and just as fast I clench his arm and drain his essence. Within a second, his angry, self-righteous sermon is ended. Sargent Johnson asks, "You look a little strange Miracle Man, you need some water? We got some back in the Jeep." I say, "Thanks Johnson, you are a good man. I'm going to walk off for a moment and clear my head." Johnson says, "That's not a good idea, the rebels are still near." I say, "I will only be gone a moment. Please, go load up the Jeep and when you are ready I will be back. I am confident I can find our lost turtle." Johnson says, "Okay, well you've already performed miracles, so I guess I can grant you a few minutes to pull yourself together." "Thanks!" I say. Sargent Johnson, now in charge, puts an end to the funeral and orders Corporals Berry and Scott to grab everything that is still useful and load it into the Jeep. Johnson joins them in the effort. Making haste, I rush toward the scene of the battle between my ghostly comrades and the fallen rebels. For some strange reason the ghosts all seem to gravitate back toward the prison camp. I find my former comrades circling the rebels like a pack of wolves circling an injured elk, knowing that the end of the conflict is near. Silent and without warning I embrace each of these soldiers in a deadly hug, absorbing the soldier's essence before he can scream out a warning to his remaining ghostly comrades. The rebels let out a cheer in unison as the last of the soldiers fall to my essence draining clutch. A few moments later and the last of the cheers, turned screams have ended. The reason I was checking out something awful tonight was to see if I could find the creator of some hilarious medieval tapestries that I "lifted" from their site some years ago. I didn't find the author but I did find a blog called WTF D&D. Looks like they review old Dungeons and Dragons books and adventures and then proceed to trash them. I only had time to read two of them but they were both pretty funny. Here is the link
The Norse or Midgard calendar has twelve months. Each month has 30 days. Each week contains 10 days. For timekeeping I would explain to the players for instance when asked about the date: "It is 2nd week Thorday of Midsumar" and they would know it was time for the annual Althing during the summer. In my campaign the start year is 1076. It has been 1076 years since the mortal Thor and Odin met their end on the battlefield and became gods. We would mark checkmarks in the week columns to more easily track time.
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