Birds whistled, chirped, and sang. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees bringing forth soft, soothing, whisperings. The usually placid lake churned and rippled causing the morning's light to wobble and bob as another rock was hurled into a watery grave. The lone figure of a giant-sized man stood at the shore, a pile of stones sitting in one of his oversized hands. In a careless and lazy manner the man would pick up one of the stones and give it a light toss. Hulgar brooded.

I'm a Hunter. I can't bring myself to say, "I used to be a Hunter." I've been a hunter for so long it's a part of who I am; I was the first Hunter for the love of Pete! It's in my blood, literally, and that's the problem. That's the whole reason why I'm warming this barstool trying my damnedest to give myself a crapulous stomach. Strong drink and the sick feeling of overindulgence seems to be the only thing I can do to suppress these accursed urges.

Lindsey threw herself onto the couch and bit her bottom lip in hopes of holding back her swelling tears. How had she wound up in the middle of the argument? Well, Lindsey knew how. She had opened her mouth after she’d warned herself to stay silent while Jeremy told his mother they would not be joining them this year for Thanksgiving.

Frankly, Lindsey hadn’t expect her mother-in-law to raise her voice two octaves and pitch a big fit over missing one holiday. Jeremy hadn’t yet explained why they wouldn’t be there, but Lindsey began to believe no reason would be good enough.

No one could move it. Over the years many had tried. Yet there it remained in the center of the conurbation, surrounded by the suburbs and smaller towns rubbing together on all sides, yet unable to do nothing to nudge it from existence. For it had been in place long before the metropolitan area sprouted.

Was it right for council members to vote and insist on it’s removal simply because progress deemed the modern edge of society held more power? Who is to say what is modern and what is not? Who among these generations can gage the power it possess? Not one of them knows how it came to be, nor why it is important to remain. They are too lost within their dark world to see the light of its value, taste the blood and sweat to shape it’s form, smell the bigotry and hatred spewed from its core, hear the cries of anguish which seared deep scars across its land, nor feel the unmoveable strength it has locked in place. They hold no memory, for it’s beginning is a foreign event, lost to all over time long ago began.

The stone plate rattled melodiously as cutlery were placed upon it; the diner took up his goblet, traced his finger around the entangled dragon expertly embossed upon its pewter surface; wiping the sweat of the vessle upon his chin, he quaffed the remains of his chilled wine and sighed. He looked up at the moon, his secret mistress, and raised an eyebrow at finding her dishabille. He leaned back and drunk in her beauty and her teasing flirtations as the clouds she robed herself in slowly began to fall away from the fullness of her form. The heat of the afternoon had been so fierce as to drive all but a few into the depths of the castle; now, in the quiet of the secluded courtyard, lit only by lanterns and the glory of his Love, he and a few intimate friends finished their anticipated repast.

“They found another one a couple of days ago, Stem.”

Stem cursed. “Where was this one found?”

“Outside of some cave in the mountains.”

“Let me guess, there's a legend about the cave. Some terrible monster is hoarding some town's gold and this poor sod thought he would be the one to slay the dragon and save the town.”

“It was a she.”

I suppose there is something to be said for job security, but after four hundred years, none of the somethings I can think of to say are terribly complimentary. For four centuries I have sat here, in my vastly antiquated chambers, doing little other than invent such complimentary phrases and I grow weary of the task. Unfortunately, as there is not much for knights to strive for in this age of chivalry but inventing new and interesting ways to die, there is no shortage of work for a court poet whose sole mission in life is to eulogize them in as untruthful a manner as possible.

“His day will come,” Chen asseverated.

“'Pupil shall never overcome master,'” quoted Junko. “Whatever your quarrel with Master Mao, it is best you bury it within yourself.”

Chen leveled a coldly calculating stare at Junko. “The old man no longer has the interests of the Clan in his heart. He has grown sentimental and weak. Our power and influence is slipping. We are not as feared as we once were. Men transgress against us and live to tell about it. It is a mockery of all we are. His time is coming; we will have a new leader.”

A lone cherry blossom floated on the light breeze, swaying back and forth on its journey to the pond below. “Sakura,” whispered a bookish gentleman, seated upon the floor of a square room, facing the tranquil garden.

“What was that?” asked his partner, who was busy deciphering a menu.

“Nothing.”

“I can't decide what I want to eat, if any of it. It's all so foreign.”

I paid dearly. My father had already gone off to war, never to return; my mother was captured by the invading enemy, bound in chains, and hauled off to places I can still only guess and imagine. My sister was all that remained to me. She was beautiful, kind, innocent, loving, and soft. She worked hard, smiled often, and worked to restore my hope. I paid dearly when I had to give her up, casting her out of my life and dooming her to one of endless toil at the hands of my betters. At the time I thought it was worth it. I so desperately wanted to be among the literati, to become one of the clerisy, that I willingly paid every price they set before me.

The door flew open with a furious kick and in strode one of the more strange creatures the storekeeper had ever seen. It was only about three feet high, with a beard that drug upon the floor, two black eyes peering out from underneath bushy eyebrows, and a stomach struggling to escape the confines of a smart waistcoat. As if this wasn't enough to make this creature seem curious it was arrayed in the most outrageous fashion! His feet were shod with the most horrific pair of boots anyone could ever imagine, save for the most nasty of orcs, for many spikes seemed to grow out of it, growing upwards, with the most prominent one sprouting from the toe. Added to this was the rather large rock being half drug and half carried, presumably this person's weapon of choice. Upon his back was strapped a folding ladder that when unfolded would stand a good head taller than the little man. Of all these odd points none compared to the chicken, perched upon what would have been a pointed hat, with an air of comfort and smugness indicating it would not move from its acquired roosting spot.