Mayonaka Senshi and the BanBan team up to fight the powers of evil and chaos in this dark, irreverent anime parody. Lead by the enigmatic Alis and her shadowy masters, the BanBan take on supernatural villains and clandestined operators. (more…)
The native people whose ancestors settled the forests of Vex thousands of years ago believe that the mighty River Fleuve is a blood vein of the very planet itself. They say that in the beginning of all things, it cut a path into the very heart of the world, where the gods had imprisoned a beast with no name. This, they say, is how light came to the world and how the stars came to be in the sky, a gift of the River Fleuve and a terrible curse.
Not a breath of air stirred as Tinjin walked slowly from camp toward the rim of the canyon. Here and there, the burnt, arid landscape blazed white with patches of melting snow that had accumulated overnight. Tinjin paused, feeling the chill lifting from the morning air as the sun mounted higher in the sky.
It was seven degrees centigrade, balmy for winter. Down in the canyon, however, it was much cooler. The lack of wind prevented the cold, moist air of the inner canyon from mixing with the warmer weather above, and the temperature difference filled the canyon with a thick fog.
Tinjin looked out across this sea of clouds. Spires and long, jagged ridges of rock rose from the vapor, like mountains and ships poised on the ocean. After eight weeks stationed on the rim, Tinjin had surveyed much of this section of the canyon and knew every cliff and crag visible from camp.
It seemed less familiar now, however, cloaked in its strange, white veil of secrecy. Cacti and small, hardy desert mammals native to this region were the only things hiding in that fog, but that knowledge did nothing to prevent a tingle from running down Tinjin’s spine. Or perhaps it was simply the chill in the air.
Isak touched a hand to his temple, his fingertips coming away covered in blood. His vision was dim and blurry, but growing clearer with time. With a groan, he propped himself up on one elbow and tried to shake the fog from his mind.
We are coming up on the end of our first year of operation here at Roggen Wulf. 2014 has been an incredible ride, and we could not be more pleased with progress we are making. It has been a roller coaster to be sure, and we expect another fast paced year to come.
We came a long way very quickly this year. We have made a lot of friends, developed a lot opportunities, and explored many potential roads to success. With just two days left in 2014, I would like to wrap up this year with a recap of where we’ve been and to give you all some sneak previews of what we have in store for 2015.
Senshi Mayonaka was a quiet, unassuming young woman. She was employed as a municipal clerk at City Hall in the village where she grew up. It wasn’t the most interesting job, but it gave her something to do and it kept some money in her pocket. The village magistrate had been a friend of her family for many years, and he made sure that she was well taken care of after her parents passed away. He was kindly and well-intentioned, if the slightest bit repetitive when he got to talking about certain subjects.
It was early evening when Mayonaka made her way home from work. She drifted down the narrow, winding roads of the old town. Elegant little buildings stood on either side of the street, most with pretty shops at ground level and apartments up above. The smell of Christmas trees and pine wreaths wafted softly on the breeze. The bakeries were making gingerbread and the scent of coffee and cakes seemed to permeate the entire village. Mayonaka sighed contentedly, enjoying the evening.
A hard, ugly sun rose over the Bolingbroke Ranch, the glare of dawn throwing long shadows over the dusty ground. Three such shadows fell across the porch of Henry King’s ranch house, their heads falling just short of King’s boots. These three shadows belonged to three men. They stood before King as he sat in a chair and took his breakfast.
The youngest of the three men opened his mouth to speak, but King held up a warning finger while he drank his coffee. It was still early, but the old cattleman had decided to start his day with a plate of fried steaks. The beans and fried eggs were an afterthought, nothing more. Taking his time chewing a mouthful of food, King said not a word, and the three men were forced to wait until it was his pleasure to join the conversation.
A chilly wind blew across the desolate moors. It stirred the cloak of the dark stranger who stood at the crossroads in the starlight. In the stranger’s arms languished a young woman; her blood-smeared body hanging limply in his grasp.
With a glint in his eye, the stranger lowered his head so that his face was hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat. Behind him he left the burning remains of the village and departed with a swish of his cloak. The chilly wind blew, the moon shown on the desolate moors, and clouds of smoke drifted by, obscuring the stars from view.
(Roggen Wulf, 2014)
There is but little along the highway between Silverfallet and Kiruna. The western coast of the Torneträsk is home to Abisko with its national park and precious little else. Except for the passing trains and the very occasional helicopter when there has been a road accident, it is a quiet place, forlorn sometimes. It was no place I would expect to hear the powerful engines that roared menacingly in the night not far from my bedroom.
My father told me of a boy about the same age I am now who was recruited to the Munckska at the time of Ådelen. He would have joined the Hemvärnet, but was instead transferred to the shores of Nakerjaure where in 1939 he trained fighters for the vinterkriget. After joining the Finns in the battle of Raate, he was sent to Oscarsborg festning, then to Hamar, to Elverum, and finally to Narvik.
What happened to him after Narvik, no one really knows.
Hal thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. The night was comfortably cool and a light wind ruffled his hair as he made his way through the deserted streets of the dark and sleeping town. It was quiet here, but he was heading for the sound. Drawn like a moth, he quickened his step. Voices rose and the banter of a piano struggled to overcome the noise of fast footfalls and clapping hands.
Hal rounded a corner to find the Razorback blazing with light. Above the door of the saloon hung the head of a wild boar carved from a log and suspended on big, cast-iron hooks. Hal glanced up at it, watching it sway on its hooks as the dancers inside the Razorback slammed the floor with their boot heels. Making for the wide, wooden porch, Hal was stopped in his tracks by shattering glass as the saloon’s window exploded out into the street.