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, ...

  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...

  Ricmo pulled the goggles firmly down over his eyes and gunned the engine of the massive infernal machine on which he rode. From up here in the drivers cupola he had a great view, as his massive red-iron monstrosity tore over the hellish wasteland. The beast belched black smoke and hot steam, huge treads crushing anything unfortunate enough to get in its way, bushes, spindly trees, even solid rock giving way before it. The thing ROARED. Ricmo smiled and gunned the engine some more.  "This is awesome!" he thought to himself.  Ricmo had figured out the yoke and throttle, with some help, but had zero idea what most of the gauges, buttons and levers in front of him did. He was totally making this up as he went along. From somewhere below him, through the hatch that led to the secondary driving compartment, their new ally, Max Zombie was desperately yelling instructions at him, but between the creature's thick accent and the roar of the wind and engine, Ricmo could only make ...