The Path of Blaggers, Part 1

The Wheel of time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in a featureless little room without doors or windows. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning. It was not, however, entirely logical.

Moridin found the vacuole strangely comforting. There was a sort of office-cubicle-meets-womb claustrophobia to it, with all the same associations of security and sudden, destructive ejection. In all cases, ejection might be the nicest alternative. In fact, Moridin had to admit, it was an eminently satisfactory comparison all round.

The game board set out in front of him was, apparently, called sha’rah. He was forever getting it mixed up with Shara, which was a country somewhere in the far east of Chaggabaggawoggaland. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of roleplaying, which was why he had palm-cards.

“Mindtraps,” he muttered to himself, and looked down. The little boxes were hanging around his neck. “Check. Random musings about the past, and the Fisher piece … well, let’s just say check,” he looked down at the board and assumed the most important-looking figurine was the Fisher. Then he glanced at his palmcards again. “Flashback leading to random destructive outburst, nearly crushing Fisher piece and mindtraps … check.”

He scowled and gritted his teeth, glad there was nobody around to see him making such a fool of himself. The Fisher piece, and all the other pieces on the board, trembled and rattled around in their places. He tightened his grip on the mindtraps that were hanging around his neck like a pair of fuzzy dice. When the True Power roared through him in an unaccustomed burst, one of the mindtraps went pop and shattered into a million tiny pieces that vanished before they hit the floor.

“Oops,” Moridin murmured.

About Hatboy

I’m not often driven to introspection or reflection, but the question does come up sometimes. The big question. So big, there’s just no containing it within the puny boundaries of a single set of punctuationary bookends. Who are these mysterious and unsung heroes of obscurity and shadow? What is their origin story? Do they have a prequel trilogy? What are their secret identities? What are their public identities, for that matter? What are their powers? Their abilities? Their haunted pasts and troubled futures? Their modus operandi? Where do they live anyway, and when? What do they do for a living? Do they really have these fantastical adventures, or is it a dazzlingly intellectual and overwrought metaphor? Or is it perhaps a smug and post-modern sort of metaphor? Is it a plain stupid metaphor, hedged around with thick wads of plausible deniability, a soap bubble of illusory plot dependent upon readers who don’t dare question it for fear of looking foolish? A flight of fancy, having dozed off in front of the television during an episode of something suitably spaceship-oriented? Do they have a quest, a handler, a mission statement, a department-level development objective in five stages? I am Hatboy.
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