Next you notice the sights. The sky is bright above us; the sun at its apex in the summer sky. The world is sharp in a battle. You see every enemy soldier in front of you vividly…your focus is wide, and the battlefield is entirely within your grasp. You see the shine on stainless armor…armor soon to lose that sheen. You see fear in the faces of some…anticipation, glee, hope, and resignation in the eyes of still more. You see the future…your own death, the deaths of your enemies, the deaths of your friends, the joys of victory, the horrors of capture. Then, there is a shift, and suddenly the world blends back together into a cornucopia of brilliance and the danger, that was once so abstract, is now so very real.

I hear all this and more. I see all this and more.

I see hordes of ferals standing several hundred yards away from me. Their curved swords of cruel iron strapped to their backs with pikes and spears in their hands. I hear the smiles of my brothers next to me. I hear the sway of the grass in the light wind. I see the blood already staining my blade.

I pull my sword from the chest of the feral in front of me. Its white blood drips down the blade to my hand. The feral captain sinks to the ground, an expression of shock on his face. It is my first kill of the day and the first of many to come. The smell is sickeningly, gloriously sweet. I shake my blade, and watch as blood sprays off of it. I feel a hand on my shoulder pulling me back towards our army, which stands to the west.

“Aurum, we’ve got to move!” I turned to see Dorian urging me back. Beyond him, Rikard stood atop the body of the feral general, Syrn, and his mighty bull mount…both dead by his blade. Rikard squared his shoulders and stared at the opposing army. There were over three hundred ferals standing opposite us…all warriors in the army of the Kingdom of Fangs.

I began to run. Our plan was very specific and required utter precision, but I stopped when I heard Rikard… when I heard him roar. It was terrifying, the sound of death’s approach. I smiled. It was deep and raw, wordless…a challenge hurled out in defiance. A dare to come and face the ones who had just slaughtered your leaders so callously, and the Army of Fangs was more than ready to meet this challenge. They screamed in retaliation and charged.

They became a mass of moving flesh that rippled with the contours of the ground, a wave of fur and bone and steel. Rikard leapt from the body of the bull and sprinted after us. The seven of us fled from Sterin’s Throne, where our confrontation had taken place…back towards our meager army which held its ground a hundred yards from the stone monolith.

“Split!” Joven yelled as the seven of us hurtled back to the forty-five men. Our ragtag army was full of farmers and millers and smithies…no soldiers. For that would have defeated the purpose. They were here to serve as cannon fodder, something to distract the ferals from us.

The men hurriedly broke into their groups, six cells of seven men and one group of three. The group of three, our rangers, ran back to where their horses were waiting and leapt aboard. They would pick off any ferals who attempted to flee.

As they rushed to their circles, each headlined by one of us, they nocked arrows into their bowstrings and fired them off at the approaching horde. I stood center stage with Sterin’s Throne directly in front of me. To the left of me stood Rikard and Dorian, behind me, Joven stood and to my right were Rayn, Grey and Rowen. I stood in front of my seven men; I couldn’t remember any of their names, but I could hear the fear in their breathing and see it in their hands. They were right to fear, but their fear would avail them not, for every one of them would die this day. We were as actors upon a stage, each with our designated place. Their place was to die, and ours was to triumph.

“On my mark,” Rayn called out. It was his plan, and so he called the shots. Arrows flew by my face as the men behind fired one after another. I watched as most of them flew short and embedded in the ground, but a few of them found their marks. My skin tingled with anticipation, there was electricity in the air…we could all feel it. I trained my eyes forward watching as they hurtled towards us. I looked down and saw the X burned into the ground in front of me. Grey had read something about X marking the spot in some story years ago and had henceforth attempted to include it in all that he did, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances. I was not amused.

“Steady.” Two hundred yards, they crested the hill behind the Throne. The leaders sprinted ahead, loping on four legs, while the slower pike and spear men lagged behind.

“Steady.” They had reached Sterin’s Throne.

“Steady.” Rayn called out. The main force had reached the break.

“Mark.” His voice was calm and focused. We raised our staffs in unison and smashed them into the ground. The result was immediate. The world exploded into a shower of red glass and flying dirt as the explosion rippled through the Fields of Corug. A resounding crash shook my teeth as the shock wave slammed into us, followed quickly by the heat. Even though I was over a hundred yards from the explosion, I could still feel it cook my exposed skin.

The screams began again, screams of surprise transforming into victory from our men, and screams of pain from the enemy. The explosion had cut a giant swath within the feral’s ranks. About forty had made it through the explosion and they were bearing down upon us with all due speed.

“Break!” Rayn hollered, and then they were upon us.

I swept my sword up to meet the opening overhead strike. The weight of the blow ran down the blade and into my right arm, shaking my wrist. I swept around with my staff and knocked the feral from its feet before reversing my grip and thrusting down into its chest. As I jutted out my staff, I whispered, causing lightning to arc from its tip leaving a smoking crater where the head of another soldier had been not a second before.

My men formed around me. They were good, not great, but good enough for their designated task. They weren’t fighters though, and two of them fell before the onslaught of the nine ferals attacking us. My brothers and I had taught them how to fight, but it had only been a week’s worth of training. I whipped off my cloak and stood revealed in my chain mail. It was light enough to allow for full range of movement, but it would still protect me. I raised my staff as the second wave arrived.

“I need a lane!” I cried and the three men in front of me ducked to the ground. “Splinter!” Lightning once again arced from the top of my staff, this time in a forked pattern that skewered several approaching ferals. I heard a gurgle as one of my men took an arrow to the throat and fell, with blood gushing from the wound. Half a second later, I saw two more fall from the sword slashes of multiple foes.

Only a blur was left in my wake as I moved from one foe to the next, never straying far from the center of my cell. My men did what they were told to do…they defended my flanks in close ranks as well as they could, but they weren’t fast enough.

Once the last one had fallen, I halted my bloody advance and twirled my sword around before slamming it into the ground. I gripped my staff in both hands, holding it high into the air. The ferals circled me carefully. Perfect. They were curious.

I was the calm center of a maelstrom. There was a pounding in my ears, but I was too drunk with adrenaline and blood to notice. I didn’t move…I merely looked at my enemies. They weren’t sure what to do. I could see it in their faces. They knew I was dangerous and that…that alone, stayed their onslaught for the briefest of seconds.

“Enough.” I whispered. They snarled at me with their hateful, frothing mouths. They raised their spears: sharp and bloody. “Push!” I threw my hand out towards the enemy before me and three of the ferals went flying into the air. Their bodies came crashing back down to the ground, bodies broken twenty meters away. I lunged to the left at another group still gaping at their flying companions.

I swept my staff under the legs of one of the ferals and slammed it down into its throat; I could almost imagine the sound of the larynx collapsing inward. I deflected two sword slashes with the wood of my staff before sliding my hands down to grip it like a bat and swinging it hard into the temple of one the ferals and snap kicking the second in the chest.

I saw a flash of fur and three leapt in unison towards my back. I dropped my staff at the feet of my blade and put my palms up, setting my arms at a ninety-degree angle.

“Burn!” I screamed and gouts of flame erupted from my wrists. I stared into the eyes of the feral soldiers as their faces melted from their skulls. I forced myself to disengage from the flowing flesh, forcing myself to turn to the other wolves surrounding me. I swept my arms out, spraying the surrounding beasts and encircling myself in fire. The smell of overcooked flesh and singed hair filled my nostrils. I breathed in deep.

I reached for my sword and was barely able to get it up in defense, as a crazed feral leapt through the flames. I blocked his leap and rode the swing all the way over my head as he came down in a roll before returning to his feet. He wore the eight link chain of a commander and we circled each other warily.

This was not the usual rabble…this was a warrior. The other ferals that I had crossed blades with today were inexperienced in the ways of true warfare. They were used to the random pillaging and burning of farms against helpless peasants, not well trained warriors. But this feral, this feral knew what he was doing. I snapped back to attention as I focused on his black curved blade. Our eyes met, and then he was on top of me. I fended off a wave of furious thrusts parrying and redirecting, but always on the defensive. He was pushing me towards the brushfire that I had started a moment earlier. He was too fast and my broadsword was too big and clumsy to be much help against someone like this, someone fast and agile in close quarters.

Again, he came at me lunging in as a feint before quickly reversing back into a sweep at my left leg…this time though, I was ready. I flipped the sword around and slammed it into the ground to block his advance and then slid my twin daggers from their sheaths in the sleeves of my armor. I dove forward stabbing the feral quickly in the leg with one blade while cutting its hand from its wrist with the other.

I pulled my two blades with me, cutting a ragged hole into his leg and rolled to my feet. The feral stumbled from its leg wound and fell to the ground. I back-flipped to where my sword was sitting and pulled it from the ground. The feral scrambled back to his feet, and I sliced down hard, seeking to bisect him from head to foot but he twisted out of the way and all I hit was his arm, which joined his hand on the ground. The feral captain turned and ran…stumbling and rolling through the circle of fire and away from the battle. His tortured cry, as his fur caught fire and mixed with copious amounts of blood, convinced me of his imminent demise. I thought no more of him as I searched for more targets, but surprisingly enough, there were none. The rest of the ferals had retreated away from my circle of death.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and thrust my daggers into the ground to clean them before returning them to their sheaths. I gathered my strength, strapped my staff to my sweat covered back, and gripped my sword in hand. I backed away and took a running start to leap out of the circle of fire, which enshrined me. I covered my face with my arms and snapped into a quick roll as I emerged from the flames. I rose smoothly back up to my feet and began to run.

Chaos was everywhere, and the smoke from a dozen fires filled the air. My brothers had done their job well, and the sounds of the dying were a testament to this fact. Men and ferals were strewn about like children’s toys after a tantrum. My eyes stung and watered. The air was thick.

As I ran toward the massive stone monolith that was Sterin’s Throne, I whirled and stabbed one, two, three more ferals through the chest. I searched for my brothers as I went along. I dragged my sword as I ran and it swept through the top of one feral’s head that lay twitching on the ground. I saw four of the others moving in conjunction with me towards the Throne. They were all alone as well.

Rikard tossed wildfyre with impunity as he ran. It would burn and burn and burn with only a lack of fuel to put it out. It was dangerous and I hesitated to use it, but Rikard was casting it like candy to greedy children. What struck me most was his laughter…it was the sound of a madman.

As I ran, I watched for ferals still breathing and out of the corner of my eye, saw a flicker of motion right before my left leg buckled, and I flew forward, face planting into the ground. My leg screamed in pain from the impact, and I looked back to see the shattered remnants of a spear strewn out behind me. An astonished feral watched gaping as I slowly rose back up to my feet. The spear hadn’t penetrated, but the skin and muscle screamed with pain. I gritted my teeth.

“Strike!” I said pointing my staff at the feral, and a lightning blast left a gaping hole in its stomach. I spat out a mouthful of dirt as I turned away from the smoking corpse.

By this time, the crows had arrived. In truth, they could have been here for some time, but I hadn’t noticed them until now. They swooped in to feast on the flesh of the fallen as well as the not yet fallen. The sky was black with them…every crow within a hundred miles had answered our call.

I saw Dorian hurtling down to where Joven and Rikard now stood at the base of Sterin’s Throne. The large stone tower loomed high above me as I approached; I was less than a hundred feet from it now and I smiled…where the battle began, so here it would end.

As I arrived, Dorian, Joven, and Rikard were already there. Rayn was making a slow advance towards us, fighting along the way. Rowen and Grey were nowhere to be seen, but I knew they would be coming from the other side of Sterin’s Throne.

Joven gestured for me to watch the flank on the other side of the Throne to see if the others were coming and watch for a counter attack. The field to the east was slanted upward and reached its apex in a hill, whereas everywhere else was flat surrounding the Throne. Grey and Rowen came trotting down the hill and I greeted them as they arrived.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing, it’s over.” Rowen smiled. “We did it. Not that there was any doubt of course, at least not with me here.” His grin was unaffected by the rolling of my eyes.

“A few ferals escaped, most so wounded they won’t make it back to Long Fang, but a few of them will live long enough to spread the word and the fear.” Joven said joining us.

“Human casualties?”

“100%” Dorian replied. I nodded my head. It was unfortunate, but neither unanticipated, nor undesirable. No one would remember them, and none of them would be alive to remind the world of what they had done. I leaned heavily on my staff as the adrenaline began to seep from my body and the pain in my leg began to throb. I gritted my teeth and along with the rest of my brothers, we made our way up the hill. What I was greeted with was…glorious.

Death greeted us…three hundred and sixty degrees of it. The world was awash with color: the flickering red of fires, the constant red of human blood, the white blood of the lupine ferals, and black with the wings of crows. The last things you see in battle are the sights. I see the future before me…our future. The one we had brought with us, the future of Carin, one of endings and steel and ruin and fire and blood. I see a future of change. I see a future of men. I looked at everything we had made, and it was very good.

* * *

“My lord, a messenger, from the Fields of Corug has arrived.” The snarling voice of the gatekeeper Tarth called out. Lord Kaelish of the Kingdom of Fangs glared down from the Throne of Fangs. It literally was a throne of fangs made from the jawbone of Rirnef, a wolf so great that in the Mythic Age it had drunk the sound from the Island of Silence which was, an age ago, known as Nyx and was still called so on the old maps. Its garish teeth were covered in silver, and its jaw in bronze. Kaelish sat on this throne, now just as he had sat when Syrn had walked out at dawn, and here he sat long past sunfall.

Three days ago, a man arrived bearing the heads of a hundred feral rangers, but he came also with a challenge: seven Wizards against the entirety of the Kingdom of Fangs. Initially Kaelish had scoffed at the proposition; magic was a myth. Wizards. The sheer absurdity of it had made him laugh. Yet something stayed his hand, something made him pause. For, in the last five or so years, there had been whispers.

Every story was different yet they all had one underlying thread. Magic and men, always paired together. These whispers were what stayed his hand from outright dismissal. They made him hesitate, and so the King of Fangs had sent three hundred and fifty of his men along with one of his three generals to deal with the problem, but now, he wasn’t so sure even that had been enough.

Kaelish felt something in his gut; it was something he had felt all too often these days. It was the feeling of fear: fear of the unknown, the fear that something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. Syrn had not been heard from since he had left this morning at sunrise. Kaelish should have heard something…anything, and now he would discover exactly what had occurred.

“Enter, and be heard.” Kaelish hissed. The feral that was brought before him was not what he had expected, but rather what he had feared. This pathetic feral had one arm hanging limply at its side, while the other was nonexistent, and blood caked the fur of its head. Its fur was burned to ash, and it stood all but naked in front of him. It stumbled down the length of the chamber until it arrived at the Throne of Fangs where it collapsed to its knees.

“Lord, I bring word from Sterin’s Throne. They…they are all dead. Every last one of them! The Dark Ones, they killed them all.” The Fanged King’s blood ran cold.

“Speak. Your life will be weighed by your tale.” Kaelish said in a low tone.

“Yes my….” The feral coughed and wheezed out blood and saliva, “…liege. The Bloody General led us to the Fields of Corug; we arrived between sunrise and the apex of the sun. He rode out on his bull with the four captains to demand their surrender as is custom. Seven men strode out to meet him. Following them, were maybe fifty humans at most.” The feral spat out the word ‘humans’. “The Dark Ones wore heavy robes and carried long staffs. They met with the Bloody General. We could not hear what was said, but we watched as out of nowhere, the beasts attacked them. They…they butchered them. All of them. I have never seen humans move so fast.” The feral coughed twice, and then spat blood out on the floor. Kaelish sat stoic as he listened.

“When they fell, we…were shocked. We didn’t know what to do. There was chaos in the ranks; we all stood and watched as they turned and began to run, all but one. One among their number stood on the back of the dead bull and screamed a challenge at us. Some among our ranks began to scream battle cries, and we charged at them. I was swept along with the others. It was madness, mindless havoc; nobody knew what to do…all that we knew was to kill. There was no plan, no order, just blood lust. We hurtled at them, drawing our weapons. The archers hung back and arrows began to fly. The Dark Ones retreated back beyond Sterin’s Throne to where their men awaited. As we approached the… the whole world exploded. Light flashed, and I watched as all around me ferals were thrown into the air. Fires began to erupt, but we continued forward. Then we were on them. The men fell like wheat before us. They were just humans, but the Dark Ones…” He coughed again, and his body collapsed to the ground.

“Rise.” Kaelish commanded. The exertion was evident on the feral’s face. It struggled up to its knees. “Finish.”

“The Dark Ones staffs spewed lightning and their hands poison and fire. Their swords flashed and struck like thunderbolts. They moved so fast…we never even got close. We fell in droves while they never sustained a scratch. I lost an arm attacking one of them one on one. My every strike he blocked. He moved so fast. I never even saw the sword cut through my flesh.” His left leg gave out again, and he fell to the ground. Two guards moved to help him.

“Stop! I told you to rise, captain.” Kaelish said. Once again he struggled up to his feet and Kaelish knew that he was almost gone.

“Then the crows came. En masse they descended upon us, attacking even those who hadn’t fallen. They were crazed, wild, ferocious…they feasted on all but Them. I watched as they slaughtered all of us…the wounded, those crying their surrender, all of them. I ran, as fast as I could and it still took me an eternity to arrive here. They followed me here I know, I saw them.” The feral’s eyes grew wild and Kaelish knew that now all he would get was paranoia and fear.

“They are here…in Long Fang! They are Spirits of Death, three hundred men against fifty and they received not a scratch. They are not men, but demons.” The feral captain sputtered out his last word before collapsing into unconsciousness. A pool of blood had marshaled around where he lay. The Lord of Fangs sat brooding on his throne.

“Leave me. Tend his wounds; he is valuable and will be useful in the future.” Two guards strode forward and lifted the captain from the ground and pulled him out of the Hall of Fangs. His words were…disturbing to say the least.

“Close the gates, no one in or out. Double the night watch, anything out of the ordinary is to be killed. No chances. Now leave me, all of you.” The guards nodded their understanding and the rest of his cabinet bowed gracefully before removing themselves from the chamber. Kaelish felt a shiver run up his spine. Things had changed. Magic, long the domain of children’s tales and The Stone, was once again real. Humans…how dare they? How dare they do this to him? Kaelish seethed. Jethro would burn for this. This meant one thing…War! Kaelish knew it. This changed things. The Heart of Fires had been found, and it was in the hands of humans.

The Dread would not be pleased.

Welcome to the Twilight of Ages.

Here is the beginning of a story where the actions of the characters make them heroes, but their stories will make them legends.

Vizien is the cold-hearted, self-serving, lying, manipulating, handsome son of a gun Grand Inquisitor of Humanity.  Vizien’s job is to know everything, and it is a job he does very well.  Vizien was an interesting character to me because he was virtually non existant until about a year into writing the story.  Tendra’s story in Gemport was almost entirely about her family and Jeric, with Rowen coming in at the halfway mark.  There were a couple of extremely minor characters, such as the physician, but other than that, there was no one.  As time went on though and I came closer and closer to the conclusion of the story, I began to feel like there was someone missing.  That someone, was Vizien. 

Fantasy storytelling to me is all about archetypes, and taking those archetypes and twisting them around and upon themselves.  A common fantasy archetype, as epitomized and popularized by Grima Wormtongue in Lord of the Rings, or even Jafar from Aladdin, is the evil advisor who tries to make the ruler ineffectual and weak.  He uses lies and treachery in order to manipulate the ruler into doing exactly what the advisor wants him to do.  I took this fundamental baseline, and I thought about how I could change it.  First off, Jethro is not a weak, moral ruler, he is a conniving, smart, and treacherous king, so I made him a match.  In the initial drafts, that match was to be one of the Seven, namely Joven.  Instead I created Vizien.  What makes Vizien different, is that he isn’t manipulating the king, as much as the king is manipulating him.  In the Jethro- Vizien relationship, we almost see a fatherly approach.  We don’t see much of Jakob, but from what we know of him by way of Tendra is that he is the stereotypical knight character.  The knight in shining armor there to rescue the fair maiden and slay the dragon.  That is not at all what Jethro is like.  Jethro and Vizien are more father and son than Jethro and Jakob.  Jethro seems to be teaching Vizien how to rule like he does, by always being a step ahead.  However, just because Vizien is the apprentice, doesn’t mean the apprentice can’t one day overcome the master.

Delving into motivations, Vizien, like other great decievers wants power.  He rose very quickly through the ranks of the, for lack of a better term, spy game.  This is both an asset and an impediment.  For one thing, it makes him enormously confident.  Vizien is able to get what he wants through force of will, reputation, or by less savory means.  He has no doubt in his own power and in himself.  He only shows doubts when he loses at his own game, and that only happens once, because as confident as he is, Vizien is even smarter and more proud.  He takes slightes to his pride deadly seriously.   Rising to his current position so quickly has given him an enormous amount of power, but it has also made him impatient.  He sees the throne clearly before him and wants it, and he is going to get it, by any means necessary.  Vizien, though young, knows what he wants, and he has clear ideas on how to get it.  He will stop at nothing to achieve his goal.  He has experienced setbacks, but he always, always will be back with an even more devious plan.  Vizien is a character that makes the other characters watch every shadow, because one day he will be there, ready with a knife at thier throat.

I recently went back to try and rewrite a chapter of Twilight of Ages because I was kind of unhappy with it, but after four false starts and a couple serious attempts I realized that the first draft was the best one.  I simply couldn’t write the chapter again because I couldn’t get in Galeerial’s head.  To me he is a completely different character now than he was then.  Reading Twilight of Ages I see Aurun and Tendra and Galeerial and the others and they are so… old.  Not age wise, but life wise.  It is like going back to two day old left overs.  Sure they are still good after zapping them in the microwave, but they don’t taste as good as the turkey that is in the oven right now.  As you can see I am also on a metaphor binge.

Anyway, the point is that even though my novels are plot driven, rather than character driven, evolution occurs and has to occur.  This is not just my understanding of the characters, which admittedly has grown has I have worked on this project for the almost two years, but because of their circumstances.  Nobody could stay the same person after what I have thrown at them, everyone changes and a big theme in The Heart Quest Saga is taking three very different characters whose situations take them all to a single convergence point of circumstances and then spins them out as they deal with their circumstances in different ways.  Just as I am not the same person as I was two years ago, neither are my characters and it is nigh impossible for me to go back to thinking in the same way that I was two years ago just as it is nigh impossible for me to think like these characters months in the past. 

It is an interesting phenomenon that I am just now feeling.  Usually my stories are one and done short stories.  Sure the characters progress, but they are never really given much room to maneuver or even much time to change from who they were in the beginning.  But in The Heart Quest Saga I don’t have that luxury, or even that ability.  Static characters are dead characters, and that as they say, is amore.

Yesterday was my dad’s birthday, however I was posted my racist zombie column in a haste of ire, and wanted to at least give a day so that no one would think that those posts are related, which they aren’t in any way shape or form.  But anyway, onto the subject at hand.

I shaved this morning using Gillette Foamy shaving cream.  Now this is a wholly unremarkable fact except that this is the same shaving cream that my dad used for the entirety of my life.  When I was home for Christmas Break I pilfered a couple of cans to use in college.  The first time I sprayed it onto my fingers I was overwhelmed with nostalgia and thoughts of my father.  This is the scent that I associate with him.  i have no idea why, but every time that I pull out that bottle think about him involuntarily.

My dad is a good man.  He is an inherently flawed man, yet a good man nonetheless.  My dad is a man born out of time.  He is a man who believes that a man’s word should be his bond, and that a firm handshake is enough to seal a deal.  He is not a naive man by any means, but he lives by this code of honor and principle that is rare to find in a world where most people would sell thier grandmother’s dentures and eyeglasses for a quick buck.  My dad is a man who would have been more at home living in the 18th century farming in northern Virginia and voting to form a Constitutional Congress.  Like Captain America, my dad is a man out of time.

By that same token, he is 54 this year, and he is still just as young at heart as a man twenty years his junior.  There is nothing my dad loves more than going out into the street in front of our yard and having a catch with a football or baseball.  Every Father’s Day we drive to the nearest baseball diamond and have batting practice.  My dad goes to every one of my little brother’s baseball games and still corrects his form.  He, like many fathers, lives through his children, but more than that my dad lives for his children. 

My father taught me the meaning of sacrifice, and selflessness.  The meaning of honor, and honesty, and pride, and perseverance.  He taught me in two ways.  The first was discipline.  My dad was a hard man to please, which meant that when he complimented you he meant it.  Every time.  Yet that also meant that you had to work for it.  My dad was a spare the rod spoil the child kind of a father and I wouldn’t have traded him for anyone else in the world.  Without that I would have been a lazy slob of a man with no pride in myself.  The second way he taught me was by example.  My dad gave 100% 100% of the time.  He is wholly dedicated to his tasks.  He is uncompromising in his pursuit of excellence, and it is that example that has served as an inspiration to me my entire life.

So Dad, I’m sorry this comes a day late, but I figured you would appreciat not being grouped with the rascist zombie blog.  Thank you for everything, without you I would be nothing, and if you ever need anything, I’m sure I will be able to think of something.  HA.  And just so you know, Superman is 71 and he is still leaping tall buildings in a single bound.  But no matter how old you get, you will always be Superman to me.