“Padre,” says the outlaw next to me at the bar. “I need yer help.”
Gold glints at the corners of his mouth. He reeks of trail dust, manure, sweat, and tobacco. The bartender bot drifts toward the till and a silent alarm. The conversations
Dee Dalsey was constantly surrounded by heroes. Big heroes. Little heroes. (One that could be either, depending on the need.) Heroes with super strength, super speed, or super senses. Not to mention the whole slew of heroes that could fly.
Yet none
I land in the field behind the castle, and the impact sends a jolt of pain through my joints. I yelp, then grimace.
Pathetic. I may be over a thousand years old, but I have a reputation to uphold!
Spreading my carmine wings wide, I roar.
The Dark Lord Vangir snapped his newspaper into crisp submission.
All around him, the summery sounds of mountain life hummed. A pleasant breeze brushed through the weave of his reclining lawn chair, working with the goblet of chilled red lemonade in his calloused hand
It is day 1,826 of my captivity. As usual, I stand silent in the treasure room, dusting cloth in hand, ankles in chains. But since it’s also Supremacy Day, I’ve seen an unusually high number of visitors. Dozens of blue people stopping by to
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