Keith Brooke - Lord of Stone

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Trace: a country where magic is dying out. A country at war with itself. A
country where the prophecies of the Book of the World have started to come
true.
Bligh: a young foreigner, drawn irresistibly to the war in Trace. A man who
has rejected religion, yet appears to be possessed by one of the six Lords
Elemental.
Bligh thinks he's going mad, but if he is then it's a madness shared by
others...
Gritty and passionate, Lord of Stone is a fantasy for the new millennium by
the acclaimed author of Keepers of the Peace and the Expatria series.
CONTENTS
SUMMER: The Year of Our Lords, 3964
AUTUMN: The Year of Our Lords, 3963
WINTER: The Year of Our Lords, 3963
SPRING: The Year of Our Lords, 3964
SUMMER: The Year of Our Lords, 3964
Lord of Stone © Keith Brooke 1998.
For private non-commercial use only. Not to be reproduced or distributed in
any form without the author's consent.
Careware: if you like this novel, please make a donation to Oxfam or
Greenpeace.
Praise for the author's earlier novels
Expatria
"Book of the Month ... highly recommended" (Gamesmaster International)
"a marvellous book" (Nexus) Expatria Incorporated
"a first-class novel" (Nexus)
"brilliantly shows a world in which religious belief is used to secular
advantage" (The Times)
Keepers of the Peace
"required reading" (Time Out)
"several years since a first novel has grabbed me the way Keepers of the Peace
did" (Locus)
1
'And out of the mayhem the Lords will arise ... '
- The Book of the World, ch.18, v.29.
The ragged people were all around him, staring and shouting and waving their
fists. Bligh looked down at the rounded stones lying scattered in the fire.
Had he kicked them there? He did not know.
He remembered hiding in the ruins, looking down at all these people as they
performed their calling to the Gods, the Prayer of the Body.
Yet now he was here in their midst and the people were enraged by his
incursion.
"No!" he said, again. Nobody moved. The only other noise was the incessant
clatter of a small radio, tuned in to a southern music station. "This is
wrong," he cried. "You can't do this. It's sick. Do you think that if the
Lords were among you they would recognise - " he gestured " - this as anything
but a cheap sham? Do you? There is nothing Holy about this charade. Nothing!
It's sick ... " He was losing track. He did not know where he had found the
words, or even what they meant.
He looked around at the people in their filthy tatters, gathered in the ruins
where they were forced to make their home. These poor people were desperate,
they needed something to believe, something to give their empty existences
some kind of meaning.
As he studied their faces Bligh realised that the time for violence had passed
and he was safe, for now. The mood of the gathering was returning to the
passionate fervour of before, only now the atmosphere had been subtly
transformed.
The people moved away, found their drinks and started to talk and laugh. Lila,
kneeling at Bligh's feet, hooked her hand into the waistband of his trousers
and pulled him towards her. Her cheeks were smeared with tears and dirt from
the ground. Her daughter was there too, pressing a jug of wine at him, small
eyes pleading with him to accept it.
He did not understand these people's response. He had wrecked their ceremony
but they hardly seemed to care any more. He drank, long and deep, then passed
the jug to Lila and watched as she pressed it to her lips.
She paused to touch the corner of her mouth. It was swollen, engorged with
blood. He did not remember striking her - had it been him?
Someone turned the radio up louder, its music insistent, shrill. Bligh tried
to come to terms with what was happening to him. The steady pressure in his
head was frightening, a sure sign that he really was insane. He felt himself
to be right on the edge of some mental precipice. It would not take much ...
"I hear voices," he said quietly. He had to explain, had to find the words
from somewhere. "My head ... I can't keep track of it all. I see bodies, too.
All day, all night. They talk to me." He drank more wine and focused on its
heat in his belly. "I'm mad," he said. "Mad."
He drank some more.
Later, the old man started his chant again. Nobody paid him any attention at
first, but gradually the people stopped talking and silenced the radio. In
their ones and twos they turned to watch, then started to clap out his complex
rhythm. Bligh felt no anger now, only a mellow sense of well-being that
centred in his gut and rippled outwards.
He did not object when Lila rose from where she had been sitting, head on his
shoulder, hand on his thigh. He watched as she found the movements of her
dance once again, her eyes locked unblinking on his. He drank some more from
the jug of wine.
After a few minutes, she started to wail that twisting note that had reached
right inside Bligh earlier in the evening. She wrapped her arms around her
body, pulling at her clothes, teasing, and all the time her eyes were fixed on
Bligh's.
It crept up on him stealthily.
Sitting, watching, drinking ... then suddenly he was out in the cleared dirt
space with Lila, crying aloud, the old man's chant pulling Bligh's body about
as if he was a marionette jerked by some mad puppeteer's wires. He clutched at
his head, trying to interrupt the pattern and stop, but still his body jerked
and twisted and that awful chant pounded through his head. All he knew was the
fire, the insane twitching of his body, the undying, timeless rhythm battering
the inside of his skull.
At some point - he knew no sense of time - things started to change. A new
rhythm, a new chant, supplanted the old. The voices of the people all around,
the people with whom he had shared this grim little shanty town. All chanting
a single word, over and over again. "Who?" they cried. "Who? Who? Who?"
He did not understand, but he sensed that he did not have to understand.
"Who? Who? Who?"
Somewhere in his head, the pressure, transforming. Rising through the levels
of his mind, bursting forth to take over his senses and submerge all that he
was, all that he had ever been.
"Who? Who? Who?"
Expanding, a force that would destroy him and know no different. Rising up to
take over.
"Who? Who? Who?"
He stood and spread his hands, and then there was sudden silence.
"Who?" said the old man, eventually, his chin glistening with saliva and
sweat.
"I am ... " said Bligh, who was no longer Bligh, in a voice no longer Bligh's.
"I am the second of the Lords Elemental: I am Lord of Stone." Now, he smiled.
"I am," he said, "your Saviour."
1
'A man answers the call of his people ... and so he answers the Call of the
Lords.'
- The Book of the World, ch.8, v.68.
They heard the first gunshot as the train pulled into the station.
Bligh's grip tightened on Madeleine's hand just as the shot was answered by
three more. Facing them, a woman stared back blankly, her scrawny arms wrapped
like honeysuckle around the tall wicker poultry basket resting on her lap. Two
young girls by her side giggled and hid their faces when Bligh glanced in
their direction.
The train lurched to a halt and Bligh and Madeleine joined the throng by the
carriage's door. Movement brought life back to Bligh's legs, numb from an hour
or more on a narrow wooden seat. At the exit he realised Madeleine was
watching him closely. They had been lovers since the summer yet still he felt
a self-conscious heat prickle his skin. He leapt to the cobbled platform and
used his bulk to steady himself against the flow as he helped Madeleine down.
"Anasty." They spoke the name of Trace's capital city together and then
laughed. The whipcrack of another gunshot sounded - far too close - and they
allowed the crowd to sweep them through the station-house and out into the
street.
"We should find somewhere in which to stay," said Bligh, his Traian
distinguishable from that of a native only by its grammatical correctness.
Madeleine slung her light bag over Bligh's shoulder and kissed him tenderly on
the cheek. She flicked dark hair back from her face and turned a full circle
to look at the city. "The boarding houses won't be full," she said. "We have
plenty of time."
Holding hands, they walked on the pavement, heading in the general direction
of the Old Town. Crooked buildings lined the street, three or four storeys
high and perhaps two centuries old. Boards covered some of the small windows
and bullet-scars and soot marked the stone facades. Here and there, outside
shops and seemingly ordinary houses, long lines of people stood resolutely in
turn.
They rounded a corner, Madeleine navigating from memories of earlier visits to
Anasty, and there they came across their first barricade. Bligh looked
immediately for a pennant or banner to identify the militia responsible. They
had come from Dona-Jez that morning, a town held by the Landworkers' Alliance.
Because of this, there might be problems if their papers were examined by
Government troops.
Above the broken line of rubble and sand-bags, a chequered blue and white flag
drooped in the sultry air and Bligh said, "Syndicalist, it's okay." The
Syndicalists, with their aggressively confrontational history, were at the
more extreme end of the revolutionary spectrum, but infinitely preferable to a
Government jail.
"You have papers?" said an unshaven guard, somehow contriving to look a fine
figure in his shabby corduroy trousers and coarse woollen coat.
Madeleine handed over their train tickets and her employment card, Bligh his
passport.
On seeing that Bligh had Wederian nationality the guard beamed approvingly and
said, "You like our girls, hmm? In that case you will like Anasty, Friend, you
will like it greatly."
"One of them, yes," said Bligh. "I hope to like Anasty, too." There were more
gunshots now, but faint in the distance. Still, Bligh searched the rooftops
and windows. He found that in some perverse manner he was actually enjoying
the sense of danger. He had never come so close to the fighting before.
"Ah, you are in love." The guard's smile grew even broader. "That is very
good."
"Is the fighting bad?" asked Madeleine. From her tone Bligh could tell that
she did not find the guard amusing.
"For the Government and the Queen it is," said another soldier, joining them
from a nearby building.
"A piece of advice, Friend," said the first, placing a hand on Bligh's arm and
standing so close that the smell of sweat and cheap wine was almost
unbearable. "If you want to have love tonight then don't go near to the Old
Town. That is where the Army are, for now, and there is much fighting. Go
there and you might end up in a hospital or in a wooden casket - a young man
with the love juices flowing doesn't want a thing like that."
Bligh stepped away and tried to thank the man, but they could not leave
without their papers. For a moment, the guard held ticket, employment card and
passport aloft and then he brought them down with a grand flourish. "Enjoy our
city," he said. "If you find the time."
Bligh retrieved their documents and at last they passed through the barricade.
They walked on for some time, easy in each other's silence, nothing to hurry
them. The afternoon stretched out ahead.
Then, with no warning, they were fired on for the first time.
They were passing down a wide street with lime trees sprouting from either
pavement. Horses dragged loaded wagons along the road, passing with difficulty
over the tram-lines cut through the cobbles. A white-haired news-sheet
distributor was yelling from the centre of the road while his young assistant
worked her way along a queue that led into a bakery's open doorway.
Madeleine was telling Bligh of her trips to the city as a teenager, when the
railway line through Dona-Jez was new and her parents had been able to afford
the fare. "We would go to the Arena and watch children playing football.
Afterwards, one time, I went with a friend to the docks and we ate lobster
fresh from the baskets. We - "
A single gunshot sounded with a metal crash and the whistle of a ricochet and
in one movement Bligh's arm was across Madeleine's shoulder and he was
dragging her down roughly. They hit the cobbled pavement with a jarring blow
and Madeleine gave a soft gasp - surprised, frightened. Bligh's heart thudded
explosively as, all around, the street scene froze.
Another shot rang out and the queue had suddenly vanished. Women hid in
doorways or lay face down on the pavement, clutching children, muttering to
themselves and covering their eyes with their hands.
The newspaper vendor had sprinted across the street and swept his assistant
down behind a stone water trough.
Bligh and Madeleine crawled over to join them. The trough afforded protection
from one direction, at least. Out in the street a horse pulled its abandoned
cart, oblivious to the disturbance.
"What are they shooting at?" asked Bligh.
"Who can know?" said the newspaper vendor, casually drawing a section of sugar
gum out of his coat pocket and sliding it into his mouth. "See the damaged
building across there?" Where the man gestured there was what looked like a
shop with boards across the windows and rubble heaped about it defensively.
"That was once a Syndicalist hall. They still use it sometimes. Maybe there
are Army snipers shooting at them. Or maybe the Syndicalists are just trying
to keep us on our toes, who can know? Maybe someone doesn't like The Voice -
you want one?" He thrust a copy of the news-sheet of the Unification Party of
the People at Madeleine. Bligh reached into his pocket for some coins. "No,"
said the man, stopping him. "It is free, to a Friend of the Revolution."
It was now several minutes since there had been any shots. The queue at the
bakery had reformed and a man was chasing the horse and wagon along the
street. Bligh and Madeleine said their goodbyes to the news-sheet distributor
and continued on their way. This time, in unspoken agreement, they stayed
closer to the shelter of the buildings.
They had come to Anasty on impulse, perhaps the same impulse that had brought
Bligh wandering down into war-torn Trace the previous year. He had been in
Dona-Jez for over six months - the longest time he had lingered in one place
since walking out of school, six years earlier - but finally one morning, as
Madeleine sat astride his prostrate body, rubbing his tight shoulders, she had
asked him what was wrong. He tried to explain his need to keep moving, to
assure her that it was not her fault, that it was a part of the fabric of his
being. "Then lets go somewhere," she had said simply. "We could go to Anasty.
You must see it before it's all blown down." Walking through the battle-torn
streets, still shaky from the sniper shots, Bligh hoped that they had arrived
in time.
They stood on a crowded tram, hanging on to a broken handrail. The tram had
been hastily repainted in United Road Haulage colours, the old state livery
still showing in places through the two tones of red. Dribbles of paint ran
down the few unbroken windows and UPP news-sheets had been plastered across
the ceiling and the backs of the seats. Madeleine rested her head on Bligh's
shoulder so that he could feel her breath on his neck.
They disembarked at a place called Settlement Square. Here, the cobbled street
branched to form the perimeter of a paved rectangle containing two ornate
fountains and a statue of a mounted king which had been hauled down and partly
dismembered. Bligh remembered seeing a painting of this square, from before
the War. They had come here, now, to look for somewhere to stay.
To one side of Settlement Square was a low, imposing building, its windows
boarded and its brickwork scarred with artillery wounds and scorch marks. It
was the Metropolitan Hotel. It looked to be closed but even if it had been
open the prices would have been to high for Bligh and Madeleine.
They walked across to the fallen, partially dismembered monarch and Madeleine
said, "I was five when King Elleo died. All of Dona-Jez went into mourning,
but that was only show - for the patricians and their police. Behind closed
shutters the men got drunk and the women danced on tables and for months the
police picked on people for no reason at all, other than to show that they
were still in charge."
"And now that is all gone," said Bligh. "The people are in charge and the
statues lie broken in the streets. Do you not feel something awakening inside
you ... a new spirit trying to break free?"
"The fight isn't over yet," said Madeleine. "There's still more blood to
flow."
"Don't you feel the energy of it all?" He did not know how else to put it, the
sense of awakening he had experienced as he first crossed the border into
Trace. It had felt like some strange kind of homecoming.
He took Madeleine by the hand and led her unsteadily over the remains of the
fallen king and across between the two fountains to the street, where they had
to slow in order to pass between a tram and a loaded motor wagon. They stopped
outside the Hotel Adernis, smaller than the Metropolitan but with a
dilapidated air of its own permanence that Bligh sensed instantly was more
promising.
Inside, there was a cramped lobby with leather upholstered seats and a
worn-smooth carpet. A small UPP banner was draped across the front of the
reception desk. The price was reasonable, and Bligh chose not to haggle.
The manager left them in their top floor room with the recommendation of
ear-plugs if the shelling from across the river became too intrusive.
By now it was dusk and they stood looking out of the window, across the
rooftops to the older quarter of Anasty, where they could just make out the
broken top of the Arena. In the dim light Bligh could see what looked like a
bank of low cloud but he guessed it must be smoke from fires and the
explosions which occasionally grumbled with an insistence that seemed to grab
his innards and squeeze.
"Bligh," said Madeleine, softly. He turned to her and she continued, "You're
very special."
Awkward, he looked down into her dark eyes, and said nothing. He traced the
line of her nose with a finger, then her cheek, her jaw, her neck. They moved
together, in the window recess, and held each other for a long time before
they kissed.
The bed was old and the mattress sagged towards the middle. Whenever Bligh
opened his eyes he saw Madeleine, the bedspread, the walls, all lit up in the
gathering darkness by a faint fiery flickering, cast into their room from the
battle beyond.
The next morning they were hungry. By the time food had occurred to them the
previous evening it had been too late to do anything about it. Bligh could
have waited longer for his breakfast, but Madeleine was up and dressing before
he was awake enough to persuade her to linger. He rolled over to lie in the
warm hollow she had left and watched as she used the chamber pot and then
washed at the room's cracked porcelain basin.
Soon, the sunlight flooding in through the window proved too much for him and
he clambered out of bed and into his clothes.
"The quiet sounds wrong," said Madeleine, and Bligh realised that there was an
absence of gunfire and explosions.
"Perhaps we have won," he said. He realised that he had said we and turned
awkwardly away to find his shoes.
Downstairs in the hotel lobby some guests were milling around as two UPP
soldiers went through the reception ledger with the manager. Bligh had thought
that he and Madeleine were the only guests, but clearly he was wrong. He said
a "Good morning, Friend," to one elderly couple but it only provoked a curious
look and a muttering of Feorean.
Bligh approached the reception desk and, when he had attracted the manager's
attention, he asked about breakfast.
The manager gestured at a tall window to one side of his desk and said, "Our
kitchen ... my apologies." He turned back to the two soldiers as Bligh walked
over to the window and looked out at the shattered walls and heaps of rubble
where the hotel kitchen had once stood.
They went outside.
A small crowd stood on one side of Settlement Square, holding assorted
Cooperative and Syndicate pennants over their heads. As Bligh and Madeleine
stepped out, a double line of soldiers emerged from a side street, kicking
high in the southern style which had looked so comical the first time Bligh
witnessed it. The soldiers marched past the crowd, their rear brought up by a
single boy carrying a Landworkers' Alliance flag, its pole supported by a
sling across his shoulders. In a few minutes the procession had disappeared
from sight and the onlookers began to disperse.
Madeleine found Bligh's hand and led him away from the square in search of
food. After a short time they came across a knot of people gathered outside a
church. A wagon was pulled up in the street and a number of men were aloft,
sorting bags and parcels thrown up from the crowd. A short distance away, a
horse backed up, kicking at the air as a man clung, determinedly, to its
harness. Bligh and Madeleine watched for a while, then as the crowd thinned
they approached a gowned priest and asked him what was happening.
"We are collecting for the soldiers," he said, breathing heavily after his
exertions in loading the wagon. His face shone with sweat and he rubbed at it
with the carmine sleeve of his gown. "There are coats, boots, trousers. There
are tins of milk, cheeses ... oat bread that will keep for weeks and then have
to be soaked in water to make it palatable. There are books and razors and
many other items, too. We collect them for the Unification Party of the People
and we pray to the Lords for Their forbearance."
"They bet on both sides," said Madeleine, as they walked away and the priest
began the difficult task of harnessing the horse to the front of his heavily
laden wagon.
"Hmm?"
"The Church. In Figuaras and Mountsenys the priests will be collecting for the
Army and preaching against the Lordless uprising here in the East. Before the
LA took Dona-Jez our priest tried to rally the people against the revolution.
He tried to strike the fear of the Lords into them. Now he works in the fields
and calls the people 'Friend' but they do not forget."
Bligh recalled stories of priests being lynched or driven away, as a
succession of towns and villages had been liberated over the three years of
the Civil War. Strangely, the churches themselves were largely untouched.
There was an echo of this division in Madeleine, herself: her cynicism about
the Church could not belie the persistent core of her own faith.
They emerged onto a street that was bounded on one side by a narrow strip of
parkland and beyond that the River Ana. On the far bank the city took on an
entirely different character: the streets were narrow and treeless, the
terraces of stone houses and shops had been lower and more haphazard even
before large sections had been ruined by the fighting. Church towers were
visible over the rooftops and, silhouetted by the morning sun, the curving
outer wall of the Arena dominated one section of the skyline.
"I lost track of where we were," said Madeleine.
Down among the trees, now, Bligh could see gun emplacements shielded behind
broken masonry and sandbags. Soldiers lazed in the late summer sun, while
their colleagues sat and cleaned their guns or played cards or argued with
their friends.
The first gunshots of the day broke the peace, but nobody seemed too
concerned. "Breakfast?" asked Bligh, setting off towards a nearby eating
house.
Empty stone tables and chairs were scattered across a paved terrace, but a
murmur of conversation escaped through an open door and Bligh could see that
there were people inside, eating and drinking and reading the news-sheets.
They went in and ordered sweetbreads and anise tea, refusing the horoscope
cards the proprietor thrust at them in place of change. The prices were
clearly the reason why people chose to queue in the streets rather than eat in
places such as this. Later, Madeleine told Bligh that he had only been charged
so much because of his Wederian accent. "We will take it outside," said Bligh,
smiling at the answering crazy foreigner look on the owner's face.
The fighting started up before they had even broken the first sweetbread.
Bligh touched the stone of his seat, the stone of his table, finding
reassurance in the cold contact. He looked across the river to where the
explosion had sounded so close. There was no smoke or falling masonry as he
had naively expected. One of the light artillery guns on the riverside sent a
shell across into the Old Town but it failed to explode and the soldiers
returned to their lazing, their books, their arguments.
"Tea?" said Madeleine, holding the pot over a cup.
"Hmm. Sweetbread?" said Bligh, breaking the first small loaf and putting half
on Madeleine's plate.
There was a machine-gun now, stuttering from the depths of the Old Town, and
the Cooperative soldiers began to stir again, wandering back to their
positions, firing occasional rifle-shots across the river and into the
apparently deserted buildings. Once a bullet ricocheted off the road nearby,
but Bligh guessed that it was a misfire rather than an answering shot from the
Army. He thought perhaps the Government had abandoned Anasty weeks ago and the
revolutionaries were firing at memories. A radio came on, adding to the din of
conversation from the eating house and Bligh and Madeleine ate breakfast in
their own cocoon of silence.
They returned to the hotel as dusk was settling, their thoughts turning to
food again. They hesitated in Settlement Square, wondering where they could
go.
"The Metropolitan does a good dinner," said a man, coming down the steps of
the Hotel Adernis. He had a haggard face, with short sandy hair and a hook
nose that made him appear to squint. His clothes were grubby but made of a
northern linen which indicated a sophistication most chose to hide these
days.
"I thought it was closed," said Bligh. He recognised the man as one of the
other guests from this morning. "The windows are boarded over."
The man shrugged wearily. "Wood is cheaper than glass," he said. He had the
sort of nondescript looks that gave no indication of age: he could have been
twenty-five or he could have been twice that. His accent was foreign, but
Bligh was unable to place it. "Please. Be my guests for this evening," he
said. "Humour me."
"We weren't - " Madeleine began, but the man held up his hands to stop her,
then changed his gesture into a wave towards the Metropolitan.
"Please," he said again. "I've eaten alone too often recently."
From the outside, the Metropolitan looked like a ruin, but inside it was as if
the War was a continent away. The floor was polished to a near-flawless shine,
the chandeliers glittering and complete, the serving staff dressed crisply in
dark uniforms.
Bligh and Madeleine sat with the man, who called himself Divitt Carew. Their
table was covered with a white cotton sheet, and there was silver cutlery and
a slender candle and cut crystal glasses for the wine which appeared soon
after they were seated.
Bligh glanced at Madeleine and saw that she shared his discomfort. The streets
today had been overflowing with goodwill and egalitarianism. The war had been
responsible for shortages and suffering on a large scale but the spirit it had
stirred was constantly a wonder to Bligh. All this finery turned his pangs of
hunger to nausea.
"So what draws you to the war in Anasty?" said Carew.
'Draw' was a good word for Bligh. "Fate," he said, tentatively. "Chance. I do
not know." Somehow it had always seemed inevitable that his travels would
bring him here. He had no explanation.
"It's a part of me," said Madeleine. "Whether I like it or not."
"Ah, but you are a Traian, it's your fight. Bligh, here, is Wederian, no?"
"Marish," said Bligh. "But I was schooled with a Jahvean Brotherhood in
Stenhoer, so you are partly correct. I do not know. I came here and liked the
atmosphere. The people are so welcoming, they are free. It is as if they are
waking from a bad dream. That has to be worth something."
Their meals arrived, Carew having ordered for them all. He stuck his fork into
a piece of meat and said, "So you've been reading the propaganda-sheets. Are
you planning to stay here in Anasty? Are you going to join the fight?"
Bligh felt cornered and he did not know why. "It's not propaganda," he said.
He found that his hunger had returned with the arrival of the food. "I have
been talking to the people. There was a priest this morning, collecting gifts
for the troops. People will queue for hours in the hope of some food, but the
very same people give freely to the soldiers who fight for them. You ask a lot
of questions," he finished, accusingly.
"You have to forgive me," said Carew. "It's my profession. I'm a journalist,
with the Conservative Journal." Carew's paper was one of Feorea's leading
national dailies. "I ask questions out of habit. Ignore me. I don't care. Just
enjoy your meal."
After a while, Madeleine asked, "Have you been in Anasty for long, Divitt?"
"On and off," he said. "Near to three years, I suppose. But I'm never in the
city for long. The Journal can't afford many of us so I have to cover a lot of
摘要：

Trace:acountrywheremagicisdyingout.Acountryatwarwithitself.AcountrywherethepropheciesoftheBookoftheWorldhavestartedtocometrue.Bligh:ayoungforeigner,drawnirresistiblytothewarinTrace.Amanwhohasrejectedreligion,yetappearstobepossessedbyoneofthesixLordsElemental.Blighthinkshe'sgoingmad,butifheisthenit's...

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