Date: 1/24/1998 2:49 PM Central Standard Time
From: Bob Braxxx
Not perhaps twenty-four hours later, Robert sat in the same position in the Jasmine basement. His bare chest heaved in and out as he slowly caught his breath from his exercises. While his brown eyes focused in the almost pitch black room he couldn't help but notice the burning candles give a faint reflection off of the gauntlet that rested at his feet. His elbows rested on his thighs and one hand held
his chin at he sat there brooding. Most would have thought he would be celebrating his victory, but the spoils of war, and sometimes the duels, were often hallow ones. They would come in a huge rush intoxicating him only to slowly drain away, leaving the gnawing pain of desire aching at his soul. The joy at conquering one grand peak of a mountain soon gave way to the desire of a new goal, a new prize.
Victory had come much as he had planned, and despite the fact that he had a very impressive bootprint in his ribs that was leaving the most fascinating shade of purple on his skin, he had come away otherwise unscathed. The match had taken two rounds and the pomp that had surrounded it actually seemed to take longer. Through sheep and a mob of Outback patrons Robert had kept his vision clear and his motivations sound. Now the cheering and screams
had stopped and he sat once again in his training room, pondering what would come next.
His eyes focused on the Opal gauntlet resting at his feet as the flickering candle light danced within its ebony depths. The prize still rightfully belonged to the Black Rose; it was his until the formalities of the standings were taken care of. The choice had been to award it to him that night however, and Robert was of no mind to stop him. "To the victor go the spoils." Those words echoed through his mind, reverberating as if in some might
cavern. Yes indeed, the prize of victory had been sweet. It was one thing to be declared a victor but it was another to have a mark of the victory, to have something tangible that you could look to as a source of pride. Looking down to his ring-less hands, Robert knew how important that was. His Emerald ring was still in the possession of another and he was not of a mind to have it returned.
As his hand reached forward and took up the gauntlet, he turned it over in his hands. It would have to be reshaped to fit him, he knew. Ian had removed the opal from the gauntlet made for him and returned it to the original cast. As Robert had grown older, he began to get wistful and often enjoyed finding symbols and meaning where there probably was none. As he looked into the eye of ShadoWeaver he saw a bit of himself, a dark center encased in
steel. The outside almost impossible to penetrate; the darkness was almost overwhelming and nothing...nothing was to be seen or drawn to the absence of light and emotion. Robert heaved a laugh and let the thing fall to the ground, Lord knows he was no poet and the last few thoughts that tumbled from his head proved as much. Obviously his fantasy world and his reality were the only things more elusive then his true emotions.
Rising and leaving the thing on the floor, Robert moved over to the small stand where he had placed his fresh shirt. Sliding it over to fight the dank chill of his basement he turned and lit a cigar, staring down at the gauntlet again. He realized he knew so very little about the Outback's new prizes. Jake had returned from some sojourn with the stones and it seemed appropriate to somehow use them here. A new rank was needed and these various
stones had provided a means to that end. As Robert blew a wide ring of smoke he chuckled to himself, thinking how very convenient life was at times.
The stones were found to have various "powers" but Robert never learned how this was discovered, for he was never offered the opportunity to speak to Jake about them. One day they were mere stones and the next he was learning the bizarre function of each. He had watched in utter shock as the simple stones seemed to be able to do the most amazing things. At one point he had spoken out against them for fear some witch woman or various other evil
influence might have tainted them. Still, as Robert learned more about "Technology" from Matt the more he understood that when something appears fantastic, there is usually some good reason for it. Matt had told him that for most things, there was almost always a logical explanation as to how and why it did this or that. Robert, of course, had no clue what the hell Matt was talking about but being ashamed of his own ignorance and trusting his friend,
he merely tried to accept. No technology had hurt him yet (well, there was the truck accident but that was more his fault) so there should be no reason to be fearful of these things.
Armed with his new understanding, Robert had watched most of the Opals in action. He had seen Nova rip people apart with the power of IceDancer, amazed at how the man handled it almost as an extension of himself. For some reason, Nova had the ability (or perhaps just the inclination) to learn the ins and outs of his new power. The others seemed nowhere near the levels of efficiency that had been reached by Nova. In fact, as his own challenge
drew closer, Robert noticed that some of the Opals failed to wield their powers at all. It was one thing to keep the damn thing on your arm as a trophy but it was another to use the thing for what God surely intended them for--to win duels and hurt your opponent.
Robert's mind was that of a military man; if the Lord graced you with a cannon, why in the hell would you use a bayonet? Robert's mind turned with this as he considered the Opal. He had a natural dislike for those "fancy" duelers, the ones who would leap higher or do bizarre moves to gain advantage on their opponents. To Robert, if you broke an arm fancily or the old fashioned way, the damn arm was still broke. While the Opals held powers
others did not posses, Robert knew he would have to rely on his own cunning and discipline to make it work properly for him in the ring. He had seen the other Opals and they just didn't *make* things happen, it required a conscious effort on the part of the wearer to *display* the powers. It was now obvious to him that some were better at controlling and utilizing this power than others were.
As Robert's mind mulled these thoughts over, he picked up the gauntlet again. To be fancy, well, that came over time. If you stood and watched long enough, the mind would be able to recreate what it saw and the body would imitate the skill of another. But with this, this was different; this power had to be drawn from within oneself, no one could unlock the secret of the Opal but the person who wore it. There was no instruction or rulebook for
the unknown, there was just one person's desire to unlock the secrets and potential contained within. As Robert's eyes scanned the gauntlet, one hand stroked over the smooth Opal he muttered to himself, "A higher level of discipline...a higher level of dedication." Robert's head nodded as his own musings were taking him on a journey, twisting and turning through the angles of his mind. "With power comes price, and what is the price of victory?
Dedication and determination."
Robert shook his head and looked about, almost as if had been in some trance. He felt the heat rise up on his cheeks as if he had said those very same words aloud to a company of soldiers. He had never been a thinking man and after quickly reviewing some of his thoughts, he could see why. Some things were better left to finer minds then the one he possessed. He took a couple of deep breaths and shook his head at himself, pondering what on earth
had gotten him so worked up to think such things as these.
Slipping the gauntlet on for the first time, Robert stood and prepared for what would be the new dimension of his training. Something new and untapped, and he didn't know where it would take him or what the result would be. He only knew that he was preparing to pay the price of victory.
The Weaver's Web
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A joke between......friends?
Date: 2/4/1998 12:36 PM Central Standard Time
From: Bob Braxxx
He had managed to make it up the steps of the Outback under his own power and still look like he was okay. It had been one hell of an effort; but, his desire not to look weaker in front of the other duelers had kept him upright. He felt his legs burn and ache with each footfall but damn it, he had done it himself.
Robert stood outside of the building hacking and coughing. Large rivulets of sweat dripped down his head and flowed over his unbuttoned shirt, soaking it and him. If it were not for the mask of night any passerby into the building would surely think him in the clutches of some bizarre malady. One hand braced his unsteady form against the building as he doubled over and tried to keep his late night supper safely within the confines of his body. His
mind wheeled and dealed and refused to focus on anything other then the wonderful misery he was in.
The feeling seemed to last for hours before giving way to a more general misery. No longer did he think he would die, now he simply wished he would. He managed to pick up one boot and place it in front of the other. It wasn’t his normal pattern of walking; rather, something closer to his three in the morning barroom stagger. At the moment, it would simply have to do. As he swayed from side to side not only feeling sick but damn
foolish he saw people that he knew pass by. They all smiled big and placed their hands on him whispering in his ear before continuing on to the Outback for their night of dueling or socializing. Robert cursed at each one, swearing a pox on them all. Their whispers were like trumpets in his ears and their clammy hands on his sweat soaked skin were heaver then the weights he had seen Jake lift. Still the “friends” laughed and moved along, so used to
the moody drunk Robert frequently was that they didn’t seem to notice the difference. He didn’t give a damn, he wouldn’t have asked for their help anyway.
He made it to the back alley and his truck before falling. It wasn’t one of those catch-the-toe-of-your-boot-in-a-crack-and-tumble falls. It was a simple exhaustion fall. He had never realized the effort the human body required to walk a few simple feet. For a while he laid there on his behind like a newborn babe. At last, he was able to gather the strength to pull himself to the tire of the truck and lean his head against the hard rubber. The
tire, slick with mud from hours of driving, left a pattern made of sweat and road grime against his forehead. He turned his head slightly only now realizing as he huffed for breath that he didn’t know where his hat had gotten off to. “Ah well, another few dollars down the toilet.” He grimaced and closed his eyes just trying to rest in peace for a moment hoping to God that no one saw him.
His mind worked slowly through the events of the night as he tried to settle his breathing to a normal pace. It had been busy but not one that should have left him like this. There had been the duel with Elle that had dragged on for a ridiculous amount of time. He had pretty much known his fate by the third round but managed to drag it out for fourteen rounds before she took it from him. She had offered her jibe at the end, what had it been? “Must
be humbling your Opal-ness to lose to a glass.” he shook his head, he couldn’t remember exactly what it had been. That in itself bespoke something of the quality of the statement. Still she had won, and she was the wife of a friend. Sometimes the thing to do to was to admit you were licked. He thought he ought to remember that jibe. He coughed hard, his sides aching with pain and murmured, “After all payback is always a...” As the
coughing became intensely violent, he lost his train of thought. He reached out a hand against the truck's cool metal side to brace himself.
Still unable to rise, he refocused his thoughts to replay the rest of the night through his head. He tried to find out just what had brought him to this point. His second duel was with a woman he had never met before. He had tried to find another partner, someone with whom he was familiar; but, sadly, this woman was the only thing to be had. The duel had been uneventful. She had grace enough and she was able to score her share of points. Again,
Robert failed to remember the exact circumstance but he knew at some point the woman had called him “boy.” Normally such a thing wouldn’t get to Robert; but, after losing to one woman and then dueling another who did not even know him yet offered insults....well he was not about to let the night continue on that trend.
For the first time in competition Robert began to use the powers of the Opal he had won. He had spent hours of practice with the thing trying to get used to it’s powers. He would position himself against the lifeless dummies he trained with and focus his attention on creating images that would hopefully confuse his opposition. He had met with more success than he had originally anticipated. The images flew from his mind into the gauntlet
unbidden. In a short time, he began to think his original assessment of the difficulty of using the gauntlet had been wrong. Perhaps it was that easy to maintain and control. Either that or he had some natural affinity for using the thing. He thought that was a long shot. It was more likely that the stone's innate power was using him than that he was using it.
Yet, he stood in the ring that night much like the one he had set up at the Jasmine and he was beginning to labor with the thing. He called forth the images he had spent restless hours on, and they refused to appear. He swore to himself silently often overconcentrating in an effort to get the blasted thing to work at all. During that entire time of of calling forth to the ShadoWeaver the woman, the one Kelli had called “Kerbuchard” moved
around the ring, dancing blows off his skull. Loping around the ring, losing whatever grace he had to begin with, Robert stalked after the woman whose blue eyes seemed to mock him wherever he moved. The way she had looked at him he'd damn well felt like a boy in the ring with a parent. Her look gave him the staunch impression of, “It’s okay Bobby your going to lose, but it’s *okay* to lose.” He wanted to scream at that women and her blue
eyes, but every time he tried to speak he couldn’t get out anything above a grunt.
On they had danced, one round into another. The time between Izzit’s calls seemed to drag on and on before he could move in to strike. He cocked his arm one time to jab, only to feel the weight of the gauntlet nearly drop him and his punch to the floor. Once again, Kebuchard danced around him those eyes never leaving him. He stumbled back into his stance trying desperately to maintain his pride. His friends were here, his enemies were here, damn
even his ex-wife had managed to find her way into the Outback. He drew himself up, gathering as much bearing as his exhausted frame would allow. Blocking out everything he roared at the Weaver to respond to him. It was not a controlled command but the screaming of a man desperate for life. For the first time Robert felt that he couldn’t win the duel on his own. Those dancing blue eyes, the people in the crowd -- he couldn’t fail himself, not
now. He had to win and he knew the Weaver could make that happen.
For a long, unstable moment there was nothing but a distant click. The Weaver appeared to be out to lunch and was not willing to pick up the phone no matter how many damn times Robert let it ring. Still, Robert screamed at the thing seeing the woman draw closer to him. Finally! The Weaver erupted and an image spewed forth from the onyx depths. As Robert slipped back into the practiced dodge -- the completion of the particular combination he had
worked on with the Weaver -- he saw the image was almost deformed. It had nothing of the sharp properties that had been consistent with his practiced images. Robert had tried to paint the Cistine chapel using finger paints and it looked every inch a child's work. Kebuchard had seen the image and had taken visible note of it, so he would not have that element of surprise again. He swore to himself and beat back the feeling of fatigue and self doubt
the Weaver had extracted as the price of its summons. He managed to beat it this time and win the duel.
Rising to his feet at last, somewhat comforted in the fact he knew just what the hell was going on, Robert managed a few wobbly steps. Unlocking the door to the “Beast,” (the name he had given the truck out of deference to his brothers suggestion,) he poured himself into the cab taking a few moments to clear his head before gunning the engine to life. He let it idle for a while as he took a moment to lean over and roll down both windows. Letting
the cool night air flood into the cab, he began to shake again as the chill wrapped itself around his bones. At least it was making him more alert and the feeling of nausea was slowly passing. Removing the E brake with a loud snap and depressing the gas, he rolled off slowly towards home and the Jasmine. He had considered removing the gauntlet now that it’s function was complete for the night; but, as he drove down the road, his right hand resting
on the steering wheel, he could already see that his forearm was red and puffy. An almost assure sign that the metal thing had caused his entire forearm to swell. Getting his prize off his arm was going to take a good greasing and more then a few moments of unpleasant tugging. Robert snorted at his own train of thought. Neither of those two concepts were entirely foreign to him so it shouldn’t be any different from any other night at his little
cathouse.
Finally feeling like he could manage a smoke without coughing it into his lap or swallowing it whole, Robert searched for his duster pocket looking for his stump of a cigar. “Damn!!” He cursed and smacked the steering wheel. he had forgotten his duster in the Outback in his haste to get out. He felt like crap, he had at least another 20 minute drive and he had no smokes. Looking at the gauntlet and the dark Opal that rested at its center Robert
mumbled at it, “Ian should thank me for taking you off his hands. A damn cursed thing you are...” As he continued his ride Robert could almost feel the twitch on his arm; a sure sign that the Weaver shared it's owners dark sense of humor.
From: Bob Braxxx
He had managed to make it up the steps of the Outback under his own power and still look like he was okay. It had been one hell of an effort; but, his desire not to look weaker in front of the other duelers had kept him upright. He felt his legs burn and ache with each footfall but damn it, he had done it himself.
Robert stood outside of the building hacking and coughing. Large rivulets of sweat dripped down his head and flowed over his unbuttoned shirt, soaking it and him. If it were not for the mask of night any passerby into the building would surely think him in the clutches of some bizarre malady. One hand braced his unsteady form against the building as he doubled over and tried to keep his late night supper safely within the confines of his body. His
mind wheeled and dealed and refused to focus on anything other then the wonderful misery he was in.
The feeling seemed to last for hours before giving way to a more general misery. No longer did he think he would die, now he simply wished he would. He managed to pick up one boot and place it in front of the other. It wasn’t his normal pattern of walking; rather, something closer to his three in the morning barroom stagger. At the moment, it would simply have to do. As he swayed from side to side not only feeling sick but damn
foolish he saw people that he knew pass by. They all smiled big and placed their hands on him whispering in his ear before continuing on to the Outback for their night of dueling or socializing. Robert cursed at each one, swearing a pox on them all. Their whispers were like trumpets in his ears and their clammy hands on his sweat soaked skin were heaver then the weights he had seen Jake lift. Still the “friends” laughed and moved along, so used to
the moody drunk Robert frequently was that they didn’t seem to notice the difference. He didn’t give a damn, he wouldn’t have asked for their help anyway.
He made it to the back alley and his truck before falling. It wasn’t one of those catch-the-toe-of-your-boot-in-a-crack-and-tumble falls. It was a simple exhaustion fall. He had never realized the effort the human body required to walk a few simple feet. For a while he laid there on his behind like a newborn babe. At last, he was able to gather the strength to pull himself to the tire of the truck and lean his head against the hard rubber. The
tire, slick with mud from hours of driving, left a pattern made of sweat and road grime against his forehead. He turned his head slightly only now realizing as he huffed for breath that he didn’t know where his hat had gotten off to. “Ah well, another few dollars down the toilet.” He grimaced and closed his eyes just trying to rest in peace for a moment hoping to God that no one saw him.
His mind worked slowly through the events of the night as he tried to settle his breathing to a normal pace. It had been busy but not one that should have left him like this. There had been the duel with Elle that had dragged on for a ridiculous amount of time. He had pretty much known his fate by the third round but managed to drag it out for fourteen rounds before she took it from him. She had offered her jibe at the end, what had it been? “Must
be humbling your Opal-ness to lose to a glass.” he shook his head, he couldn’t remember exactly what it had been. That in itself bespoke something of the quality of the statement. Still she had won, and she was the wife of a friend. Sometimes the thing to do to was to admit you were licked. He thought he ought to remember that jibe. He coughed hard, his sides aching with pain and murmured, “After all payback is always a...” As the
coughing became intensely violent, he lost his train of thought. He reached out a hand against the truck's cool metal side to brace himself.
Still unable to rise, he refocused his thoughts to replay the rest of the night through his head. He tried to find out just what had brought him to this point. His second duel was with a woman he had never met before. He had tried to find another partner, someone with whom he was familiar; but, sadly, this woman was the only thing to be had. The duel had been uneventful. She had grace enough and she was able to score her share of points. Again,
Robert failed to remember the exact circumstance but he knew at some point the woman had called him “boy.” Normally such a thing wouldn’t get to Robert; but, after losing to one woman and then dueling another who did not even know him yet offered insults....well he was not about to let the night continue on that trend.
For the first time in competition Robert began to use the powers of the Opal he had won. He had spent hours of practice with the thing trying to get used to it’s powers. He would position himself against the lifeless dummies he trained with and focus his attention on creating images that would hopefully confuse his opposition. He had met with more success than he had originally anticipated. The images flew from his mind into the gauntlet
unbidden. In a short time, he began to think his original assessment of the difficulty of using the gauntlet had been wrong. Perhaps it was that easy to maintain and control. Either that or he had some natural affinity for using the thing. He thought that was a long shot. It was more likely that the stone's innate power was using him than that he was using it.
Yet, he stood in the ring that night much like the one he had set up at the Jasmine and he was beginning to labor with the thing. He called forth the images he had spent restless hours on, and they refused to appear. He swore to himself silently often overconcentrating in an effort to get the blasted thing to work at all. During that entire time of of calling forth to the ShadoWeaver the woman, the one Kelli had called “Kerbuchard” moved
around the ring, dancing blows off his skull. Loping around the ring, losing whatever grace he had to begin with, Robert stalked after the woman whose blue eyes seemed to mock him wherever he moved. The way she had looked at him he'd damn well felt like a boy in the ring with a parent. Her look gave him the staunch impression of, “It’s okay Bobby your going to lose, but it’s *okay* to lose.” He wanted to scream at that women and her blue
eyes, but every time he tried to speak he couldn’t get out anything above a grunt.
On they had danced, one round into another. The time between Izzit’s calls seemed to drag on and on before he could move in to strike. He cocked his arm one time to jab, only to feel the weight of the gauntlet nearly drop him and his punch to the floor. Once again, Kebuchard danced around him those eyes never leaving him. He stumbled back into his stance trying desperately to maintain his pride. His friends were here, his enemies were here, damn
even his ex-wife had managed to find her way into the Outback. He drew himself up, gathering as much bearing as his exhausted frame would allow. Blocking out everything he roared at the Weaver to respond to him. It was not a controlled command but the screaming of a man desperate for life. For the first time Robert felt that he couldn’t win the duel on his own. Those dancing blue eyes, the people in the crowd -- he couldn’t fail himself, not
now. He had to win and he knew the Weaver could make that happen.
For a long, unstable moment there was nothing but a distant click. The Weaver appeared to be out to lunch and was not willing to pick up the phone no matter how many damn times Robert let it ring. Still, Robert screamed at the thing seeing the woman draw closer to him. Finally! The Weaver erupted and an image spewed forth from the onyx depths. As Robert slipped back into the practiced dodge -- the completion of the particular combination he had
worked on with the Weaver -- he saw the image was almost deformed. It had nothing of the sharp properties that had been consistent with his practiced images. Robert had tried to paint the Cistine chapel using finger paints and it looked every inch a child's work. Kebuchard had seen the image and had taken visible note of it, so he would not have that element of surprise again. He swore to himself and beat back the feeling of fatigue and self doubt
the Weaver had extracted as the price of its summons. He managed to beat it this time and win the duel.
Rising to his feet at last, somewhat comforted in the fact he knew just what the hell was going on, Robert managed a few wobbly steps. Unlocking the door to the “Beast,” (the name he had given the truck out of deference to his brothers suggestion,) he poured himself into the cab taking a few moments to clear his head before gunning the engine to life. He let it idle for a while as he took a moment to lean over and roll down both windows. Letting
the cool night air flood into the cab, he began to shake again as the chill wrapped itself around his bones. At least it was making him more alert and the feeling of nausea was slowly passing. Removing the E brake with a loud snap and depressing the gas, he rolled off slowly towards home and the Jasmine. He had considered removing the gauntlet now that it’s function was complete for the night; but, as he drove down the road, his right hand resting
on the steering wheel, he could already see that his forearm was red and puffy. An almost assure sign that the metal thing had caused his entire forearm to swell. Getting his prize off his arm was going to take a good greasing and more then a few moments of unpleasant tugging. Robert snorted at his own train of thought. Neither of those two concepts were entirely foreign to him so it shouldn’t be any different from any other night at his little
cathouse.
Finally feeling like he could manage a smoke without coughing it into his lap or swallowing it whole, Robert searched for his duster pocket looking for his stump of a cigar. “Damn!!” He cursed and smacked the steering wheel. he had forgotten his duster in the Outback in his haste to get out. He felt like crap, he had at least another 20 minute drive and he had no smokes. Looking at the gauntlet and the dark Opal that rested at its center Robert
mumbled at it, “Ian should thank me for taking you off his hands. A damn cursed thing you are...” As he continued his ride Robert could almost feel the twitch on his arm; a sure sign that the Weaver shared it's owners dark sense of humor.