Blood, Plunder and D&D

  I am not by any means the first to notice and comment on the mysterious behavior of Frenchmen. It’s something of a legendary thing. “So incredibly rude” says one visitor, “so lazy” says another.” “They make me want to punch them” says the American, “lebensraum” says the German. Why did that Frenchmen stop his car right in front of me, get out and leave? Why is he holding up this line while talking to a friend? Slow people on the right for Christ sake, let me pass! How long do I have to wait for some fucking service around here? So rude! All of these perspectives, while valid in their way, miss the mark. The Frenchman is not rude. The Frenchman cannot see you. Literally. He cannot see you, at least not under normal circumstances, not the way you see him. His brain edits you out of the signal coming from his optic nerve. You do not exist. To him, there is only empty air, or perhaps a barely perceived physical blockage, a rock perhaps or a tree. I know this theory sounds fantastic, but

  Freeing the Spirits      Dakhir watched  as, with a mighty swing of his holy pickax, Saint Kinga struck the stone wall of the Overseer's chamber. The raw stone shuddered at the blow, and then, with an earsplitting 'crack,' the wall split, a narrow fissure radiating out from the point of impact, racing toward the floor and ceiling.       At first, the fissure was only an inch across, but it widened rapidly, now a handsbreadth, now a foot. The entire massive chamber shuddered and rocked.     Dakhir could see a yellow-white light emanating from the crack in the wall, faint at first but brightening rapidly.        The fissure was now several feet wide, leading back into the solid stone of the wall, the light shining from too bright to see where it might lead.     The chamber shook again, severely this time. A chunk of stone fell from the ceiling, almost landing on Ricmo, who barely managed to dodge out of the way in time.      "Go! Now!" Saint Kinga commanded, gestu