by Turkish Stringfellow, thedoctor and The Eurostar
A neutral gray mist wrapped the horizon of nothingness, deftly avoiding giving any hint as to distance or solidity. Quick, melodic rasps of hot breath panted out in wisps of black smoke, drizzling like a steam engine from the edge of the giant's clenched jaws, curling with pause along the curved fangs, arching from each side of his mouth. Wide-split pupils, draped in the shade of a full moon, stared with indignity toward the comparatively small man before him.
The small man, in comparison, stood sideways before the old god. Head cocked up to his left, one neo-purple eye locked firm upon his situation, Turkish Stringfellow's remained as ever calm and collected, hands folded behind him.
"Who calls Varkunth... Inheritor of the Nothing?"
It lacked any words. No vowels. No inflections. It was a stream of sound, unbreaking and accusatory, sounding like claps of a far off storm. It echoed with a low whistle, drifting with the stale breeze of a dead land. It was meaningless... to anyone else.
"I am Turkish Stringfellow," he replied with his heart, never moving his lips, the meaning of thought firing through his will. "I am the servant of that which I do not know."
A quiet glow of light, coming from nowhere, continued to sparkle against the heavy, metallic spikes that protruded from the lord's armor; reflections singing songs of the birth of rain. All four pupils sharpened with pinpricks of clarity as they perused the mortal form before them.
"The Prophet of One?" Flashes of photo-inverted lightning coursed across the near-and-far realm.
"Am I?" Turkish asked in return, his expression never altering, yet the sincerity evident.
"The Arm of the Scion forgets his role? Can the time of the God-Slayer come so soon?"
Turkish glanced downward as the words sparked fleeting spirits of feeling within him. "If it is, as you say, my Lord... then, I must find my beginning... as, with this limited knowledge, I know not the manner for bartering with one such as yourself."
"The Prophet calls the Never-Master. The Darkness is revealed. The Army of All makes fire and haste through Haven. The Darkness must never find Hope. That is the way it is written. That is how it shall be."
"I call no master. I make no war. The knowledge you speak of is forbidden to my thoughts. Forgive my lack of knowledge."
The great lord snorted with a general impatience, not directed toward Stringfellow. "So. The Prophet does not call the Never-Master. Yet we meet. How I tire of the small things calling upon me to be trotted out like a light in the darkness. A necessity when needed, and then sent away when ignored. How I crave to be unchained from dogma, that I might lay waste these small things for such indignance."
"I understand." Turkish nodded. "Physical forms toy with the threads of reality, thinking themselves to be the grand tailor. Calm your gale, and sheathe your thunder. There is no war to be made today, Lord Varkunth. Allow the servant to deal justly with this intrusion upon your solace. Rest as you were, and prepare for the days to come."
The great lord peered at this being before him for a moment, pondering the wisdom. "The words of the Prophet are honored, and the Arm of the Scion respected. When next we meet, the steps of Haven shall bleed the wine of Babylon."
Suddenly, there was a great wind, tossing and snapping at Turkish's robes, even as he bowed his head with understanding.
Then, slowly, voices began to drift back into his hearing. He looked up to see the new stranger and someone dressed in a black trench coat standing before him, Naecken crumpled at their feet.
Turkish looked down at Naecken, his arm completely missing, then, with a stern eye, back up at the two men.
Grimm looked at Turkish, then glanced over at Dirk Bell. Suddenly, he jerked back toward Turkish, realizing the growing expression of the piercing eyes.
"Whoa! Whoa... fella. Wasn't us. Swear," his deep voice calmly explained, hands jutted out in front of him in a defensive posture.
"Nice robes," Dirk began, staring up at the six-foot-seven-inch bald man before him. "They have a sale on Tattooine, or something?"
Turkish just cocked an eyebrow, leaning down to cradle the unconscious Naecken in his arms. "We must find a safe place for Naecken to rest," he spoke, hoisting the man up like a child. "It will be some time before we know whether he can regenerate the arm or not."
He began heading toward the surface passage, noticing a thick ice encrusting the floor. Nevertheless, he asked friction to reverse itself, thus negating the lack of it, his bare feet gripping the ice like rough stone. He paused, looking over his shoulder.
"Accompany me. I will not be able to effectively defend myself while caring for Naecken," he spoke to the two men.
"Screw that... I just got here, and the fight's still going!" Dirk responded, the echoes of battle coming from adjacent tunnels.
"The others can handle it," Turkish replied. "However, the choice is yours."
"What about the ice?" Grimm asked, cautiously stepping toward where the ice met the open cavern.
"Have faith," he replied, extending his ability over Grimm's footsteps.
Grimm began following Turkish toward the surface, looking over his shoulder at Dirk.
"You coming?"
Dirk turned his gaze to where the sound of battle was coming from. He saw a reason to follow the weirdo in the robe and the skull-headed biker, but his thirst for recognition as a fighter was just as strong.
"Damnit!" He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a quarter and tossed it in the air. Chance was going to decide this one. The ting sound repeated on the floor of the cave until the quarter was finally at rest. Dirk picked it up a looked at it. "I guess it's Obi Wan and Ghost Rider for me."
He sheathed his katana and followed them over the ice to the outside.
The shaft toward the exit was covered by frictionless, perfect ice, yet the three heroes were easily walking on it, carrying Naecken, while Danny Hearn and Pete Glover were still fighting with the last composite monster.
The old wizard Aurochs observed them from a crevice darker than the rest of the very dark tunnel, wondering what would happen when they stumbled over Lord Sghiassaha, master of the cold lands, the giant woolly elephant that had just put Tobias Christopher out of commission.