Warning: This chapter gets a bit violent / sadistic towards the end. It's
that darned blood Omen 2 again - always makes me feel so . . . nasty. : [
Maybe I should switch to Kingdom Hearts for a while.
*
Breathless, the cloaked figure staggered doggedly on, its flapping rainment rendering it a repeat victim of malicious roots and vindictive branches. Fallen, winded, it regained its feet, the flash of chest and hip revealed by the billowing cloak marking it undeniably female. The woman's thundering heartbeat deafened her to the telltale sounds of pursuit, the splashing of her exhausted feet through treacherous puddles representing another hostile enemy. Not a moment too soon, her destination loomed. Forgoing caution in favour of haste, the woman half-ran, half-slid down the steep, mud-caked path that opened onto the broad plain before the Sarafan Stronghold, its magnificent façade exuding an aura of timeless tranquility.
Sanctuary.
Brushing aside comments on her appearance and queries as to her well-being from the aides that greeted her arrival, she strode purposefully to the double doors of the Lord Protector's quarters and immediately gave a knock whose force ensured it could not possibly be ignored.
"Enter," came a carrying, self-possessed voice from within.
"Lord Protector," began the woman in a breathless greeting, "I have urgent news."
The person addressed was a striking, sturdy, dark-haired male in his early thirties, currently sporting half a suit of armour, the upper sections laying haphazardly on a trestle table before him, along with a collection of tools. He turned his head at the young woman's entrance and at once interrupted the flow of information he knew was about to pour out - the girl looked fit to fall over.
Laying down a copper-headed hammer with little thought for precision, he strode to her side, taking control of the situation as though long accustomed to such practices.
"Sit down, drink this," he commanded, deftly pouring a measure of some revitalising liquid into a handy goblet. "Then tell me."
The woman hurried to obey, knowing he would not let her continue until she had done as he asked - he was quite pig-headed about such things. Gulping down a fingers' breadth of the bittersweet spirit, and already feeling much better for having the weight off her feet - not to mention the vampires off her trail - she began her story.
"Kain attacked the Cabal."
The Lord Protector, who had taken a seat next to hers, paled visibly, his fingers tightening around the stem of his own drinking vessel until the knuckles showed white.
"Go on."
"He now intends to launch an attack against us."
The knight's shocked expression belied his disbelief at such audacity.
"Well, maybe not here initially," put in the woman at his surprised glance, "But he has declared war."
"On the Sarafan?"
"On Humanity."
With a determined exhalation, the Lord Protector rose to his feet, his mind quickly running through the implications of the girl's information. Their recently-considered treaty with Vorador's inhuman Cabal would gather urgency now. If Kain was indeed to launch a strike against the bastions of humankind (and he was well aware that the Stronghold would constitute a prime target), it was more important than ever that the treaty was concluded - especially if, as the girl's intelligence indicated, Kain was being thorough enough to victimise those of his own kind who opposed his plans. He turned once more to the young woman; her willingness to act as go-between for the proposed Sarafan-Cabal union had made her a valuable ally, despite her history.
"Thank you, Seline."
"You're welcome, Lord Protector." At his lopsided look of mock-reproof, she added, " . . . Roland."
The girl found her face breaking into a shy smile, despite her best efforts. The man's light-hearted approachability was contagious: he was well-known for his relaxed attitude and skilled handling of people, as well as his impressively commanding presence in battle. These seemingly contradictory traits formed an unusual balance which had earned him the respect and friendship of all who served under him, as well as those who occupied higher positions in the Sarafan hierarchy. His rise to the current title of 'Lord Protector', a position usually associated with back- stabbing and usurping, had instead been achieved by dint of hard work, keen martial judgement and unswerving honesty. There were few who harboured him ill-will, even amongst those of noble descent who might otherwise have laid claim to his role of leadership. Lord Roland would be long remembered.
Seline allowed her smile to run its course, and then, after taking another sip of the thoroughly warming beverage, she asked, "So, what do you need me to do?"
Roland resumed his seat and picked up his goblet, savouring its contents briefly before meeting her questioning gaze with his own pensive one, and replying:
"How do you feel about another trip to Meridian?"
*
In the last two nights, his army had doubled.
Once a scant fourteen, the fruit of his vitae now numbered close on thirty, all wild, all thirsting for Sarafan blood. Although it had severely drained his system (not to mention the human herd who inhabited the vicinity of the Pillars) to create so many in so short a time, the results were well worth a modicum of suffering, a state to which Kain was by now more or less inured. It was his intention to first march on distant Coorhagen, the city of his original birth, and bring it under his control. When he had amassed sufficient forces, he would turn his armies back in the direction of Uschtenheim, and eventually, when its defences had fallen to his will, to his ultimate goal: The Sarafan Stronghold. Kain was well aware that this campaign would take time, but as an immortal, it was not as though this particular element was lacking. Besides, the longer the term of his conquest, the greater the army with which to despoil the lands of his enemies.
Kain would bide his time.
Putting his long-term plans from his mind, the future Conqueror of Nosgoth turned to inspect his troops. They were a ragged bunch, of widely varying heights and builds, and although he had endeavoured to choose those of the warrior caste, the pickings had been slim, and consequently a number of his new recruits erred on the side of portliness or emaciation. Nevertheless, he was fully aware that in a very few weeks, their vampiric constitutions would overcome such frailties of form, leaving him with a redoubtable force from which the armies of mankind would earn their bloody, tortured deaths. Their garb was his immediate concern: the motley assortment of peasant rags and rusting armour represented a sight that would likely invoke ridicule instead of the required fear. Kain idly wondered where he might acquire twenty-eight suits of black chainmail at short notice.
Progress to the North was slow, the fledgling vampires' advance impeded by the inevitable turning of the world on its axis, the diurnal illumination spelling instant death for ones so young. Kain chafed at the delay, immune as he was after so many centuries of undeath to the blistering rays of Nosgoth's sun. However, the silver lining lay in the fact that their slowed progress allowed time for the forging of armour and the acquiring of new weaponry. It was therefore a fully armed and armoured contingent, numbering close on fifty, that approached Coorhagen barely a month after their departure from the Pillars.
Starlight danced tantalisingly on Coorhagen's massive metal gates, the lustrous sparkle a reminder of the inviolate sanctity of the fortressed walls. Amber flames flickered at well-spaced intervals atop the saw- toothed fortifications, marking the location of each dozing member of the night-watch. In their rehearsed positions outside the town, Kain's fledgling ranks stood divided into two sections: the former, consisting of his initially-birthed Elite, clad in the desired sable maille: the latter, comprising the villagers he had deigned to turn in desperation for numbers, garbed in simple leather armour, the bat-like symbol of their master embossed on each rapidly-heaving chest. Kain's formidable form stood a little way to the fore, taking in the familiar sight of the gates of his home-town. What was it that was said? One could always return to one's roots. Well, this son of Coorhagen was going to come back and show his people what he had made of himself - not that any of them would remember him.
At a prearranged signal from the master of the vampires, wooden ladders were brought forth, and nature, locked in a nocturnal embrace, awaited the command in somnolent unease.
"Vae Victus!"
The imperious challenge was echoed by fifty lusty voices as wood was set to stone, and screams of anguish began to arise from every quarter of the town as Kain's vampiric forces penetrated the ancient city.
Those of Kain's army who were formerly peasants, freed by his whim from their daily labours and thrust into a night-time world of lustful violence, were the first on the scene. The nobles of the city were destined to feel their blades: these undead held a seething hatred for the overdressed, corpulent rich for their treatment at the hands of their peers. No mercy was shown, and offers of money and power were a frequent accompaniments to melodramatic death throes. The aristocracy died snivelling on its knees.
The Inquisitors were not so discerning in their tastes, but far more exacting in their methods of punishment. Wheresoever flashed the blade of one of Kain's Elite squad, there followed limitless pain for the victim. One unfortunate citizen met a group of four of the maille-clad demons after being chased down a blind alley. Their features obscured by silvered, wedge-shaped helmets, the faceless butchers advanced with palpable menace, one of their number passing a single word to inaugurate the man's ordeal.
"Quarter."
Before the hapless human could react, the quartet converged on him with the alacrity and eagerness of a wolf-pack. Each taking a limb in their powerful grip, the four proceeded to coax the man's extremities to the opposing points of the compass. Initially offering a heartfelt plea for his life, the man's entreaties degenerated into howls of pain as his tendons were stretched slowly and agonisingly past their breaking points, the straining noise audible to every occupant of the alleyway. The male began to throw his head violently from side to side as the fire in his nerve-endings became intolerable, and he began to thrash about in an attempt to ease the pressure. Fortunately for him, his struggles speeded the process, the added weight of his thinning muscles aiding the inevitable tearing of skin and popping of cartilage until with a final heave, the man's torso separated from his limbs. A shocked face stared up at the four pitiless creatures who hovered above him - the man's body had landed precipitously in a puddle of his own vital fluid, and the squelch was unfortunately not the last thing he heard. his tortured senses closed on a barrage of thumps as the Inquisitors proceeded to beat him to death with his own severed limbs.
Coorhagen's streets ran red with blood. It was an oft-used cliché, but this night the image held truth. Darting through the congealing streams of fluid that coursed through the central square, a young woman of noble birth sought the safety of her home. Risking a glance to her rear, the girl found that her dark-garbed pursuers had given up the chase, apparently to converge on closer prey. With a sigh of relief, she returned her gaze to the fore, to see a sight that froze her in her tracks. The creature that stood before her was unlike any of the others she had seen ravaging the city this dreadful night: it wore little armour, seemingly content with the dubious protection of leather for legs and shoulders alone. Its skin was the colour of corpse lips, its hair a silvered cascade of cobwebs, its eyes reminiscent of candle-flame.
"Keep away from me!"
Kain disregarded the command and seized the woman by the throat, lifting her from the ground in a single smooth, practised motion. The female scrabbled at her neck, at the freezing claws that were threatening to crush the life from her, and emitted a choking squeal. The predator's eyes locked onto those of the struggling noble, intent on savouring every iota of her suffering. A cruel smile spread across his savage features as he hefted the spiked mace he had pilfered from the town guard, allowing the bulging eyes of his prey to see the instrument of her destruction before swinging it sharply in a brutal upstroke. Kain continued to watch fascinated as, with each strike, the noble's face demonstrated her decreasing awareness of his tormenting of her. The future conqueror frowned: he would have to devise a means of sustaining his victims' consciousness until the moment of release. Allowing the pulped form to fall to the floor with a distracted motion, Kain sated his other needs.
In another quarter of the city, a debased creature stalked its own prey. Kain's Head Inquisitor had reached its rank by means of its unequalled callousness toward other forms of life, its bloodlust surprising even the sadistic Vampire Master. It now tracked its desired quarry to the very threshold of its abode, the overfed Mayor turning around a second too late as he belatedly sensed his pursuer.
"Please - I beg you. Do not harm me."
The Head Inquisitor stared back, its expression unguessable within the confines of the helmet.
"I have wealth - I can offer twice what you're paid."
The inquisitor began to advance, apparently still immune to the rotund councillor's offers.
The mayor cringed, resorting to the ultimate sacrifice. "There are more inside - my family. Take them instead."
As though appeased, the maille-clad figure extended a hand towards its victim in the universally recognised gesture for a closed agreement. However, its sharp-nailed hand never met the shaking, pudgy digits of the Mayor, the arm instead continuing in its advance until it met with the profusely sweating male's chest. Nor did it stop there. The Mayor's face contorted into a girlish expression of unmanly fear as the creature inserted its fingers unrelentingly into his chest. The probing digits shredded layers of fat as they progressed, circumventing the well-concealed ribcage until finally they came to rest at the aortic cavity. The obese councillor shot one horrified glance at the creature's expressionless helm from where he stood transfixed against his own front door, before the Inquisitor wrenched his still-beating heart from his chest with a theatrical flourish. The man emitted one incredulous sigh before sinking in an ungainly manner to the ground.
Kain's head Inquisitor deftly removed the sagging, three-chinned head before entering the man's abode and depositing its grisly trophies on the dinner table before the dumbstruck family.
It remained in the dining room to ensure they finished their meal.
*
Author's Notes
Ooh - I used a metaphor in Coorhagen. Aren't you proud of me?
Dunno if anyone remembers that far back (or cares for that matter), but this is the same Roland that Cornelius mentioned when Freya asked him about challenging for land. Yeah, I didn't know he was going to turn up either, but hey, I don't write these things, they just come through my fingers! Just like the cloaked figure in the last chapter - she just wrote herself into the story (cheeky cow) AND gave herself a name! Tchoh!
*brief delay in updates while Lilith takes a long-overdue trip to the loony- bin*
"Stra a aa aa nge things are happening - to me . . ." somebody take away my copy of Toy Story - please!
Maybe I should switch to Kingdom Hearts for a while.
*
Breathless, the cloaked figure staggered doggedly on, its flapping rainment rendering it a repeat victim of malicious roots and vindictive branches. Fallen, winded, it regained its feet, the flash of chest and hip revealed by the billowing cloak marking it undeniably female. The woman's thundering heartbeat deafened her to the telltale sounds of pursuit, the splashing of her exhausted feet through treacherous puddles representing another hostile enemy. Not a moment too soon, her destination loomed. Forgoing caution in favour of haste, the woman half-ran, half-slid down the steep, mud-caked path that opened onto the broad plain before the Sarafan Stronghold, its magnificent façade exuding an aura of timeless tranquility.
Sanctuary.
Brushing aside comments on her appearance and queries as to her well-being from the aides that greeted her arrival, she strode purposefully to the double doors of the Lord Protector's quarters and immediately gave a knock whose force ensured it could not possibly be ignored.
"Enter," came a carrying, self-possessed voice from within.
"Lord Protector," began the woman in a breathless greeting, "I have urgent news."
The person addressed was a striking, sturdy, dark-haired male in his early thirties, currently sporting half a suit of armour, the upper sections laying haphazardly on a trestle table before him, along with a collection of tools. He turned his head at the young woman's entrance and at once interrupted the flow of information he knew was about to pour out - the girl looked fit to fall over.
Laying down a copper-headed hammer with little thought for precision, he strode to her side, taking control of the situation as though long accustomed to such practices.
"Sit down, drink this," he commanded, deftly pouring a measure of some revitalising liquid into a handy goblet. "Then tell me."
The woman hurried to obey, knowing he would not let her continue until she had done as he asked - he was quite pig-headed about such things. Gulping down a fingers' breadth of the bittersweet spirit, and already feeling much better for having the weight off her feet - not to mention the vampires off her trail - she began her story.
"Kain attacked the Cabal."
The Lord Protector, who had taken a seat next to hers, paled visibly, his fingers tightening around the stem of his own drinking vessel until the knuckles showed white.
"Go on."
"He now intends to launch an attack against us."
The knight's shocked expression belied his disbelief at such audacity.
"Well, maybe not here initially," put in the woman at his surprised glance, "But he has declared war."
"On the Sarafan?"
"On Humanity."
With a determined exhalation, the Lord Protector rose to his feet, his mind quickly running through the implications of the girl's information. Their recently-considered treaty with Vorador's inhuman Cabal would gather urgency now. If Kain was indeed to launch a strike against the bastions of humankind (and he was well aware that the Stronghold would constitute a prime target), it was more important than ever that the treaty was concluded - especially if, as the girl's intelligence indicated, Kain was being thorough enough to victimise those of his own kind who opposed his plans. He turned once more to the young woman; her willingness to act as go-between for the proposed Sarafan-Cabal union had made her a valuable ally, despite her history.
"Thank you, Seline."
"You're welcome, Lord Protector." At his lopsided look of mock-reproof, she added, " . . . Roland."
The girl found her face breaking into a shy smile, despite her best efforts. The man's light-hearted approachability was contagious: he was well-known for his relaxed attitude and skilled handling of people, as well as his impressively commanding presence in battle. These seemingly contradictory traits formed an unusual balance which had earned him the respect and friendship of all who served under him, as well as those who occupied higher positions in the Sarafan hierarchy. His rise to the current title of 'Lord Protector', a position usually associated with back- stabbing and usurping, had instead been achieved by dint of hard work, keen martial judgement and unswerving honesty. There were few who harboured him ill-will, even amongst those of noble descent who might otherwise have laid claim to his role of leadership. Lord Roland would be long remembered.
Seline allowed her smile to run its course, and then, after taking another sip of the thoroughly warming beverage, she asked, "So, what do you need me to do?"
Roland resumed his seat and picked up his goblet, savouring its contents briefly before meeting her questioning gaze with his own pensive one, and replying:
"How do you feel about another trip to Meridian?"
*
In the last two nights, his army had doubled.
Once a scant fourteen, the fruit of his vitae now numbered close on thirty, all wild, all thirsting for Sarafan blood. Although it had severely drained his system (not to mention the human herd who inhabited the vicinity of the Pillars) to create so many in so short a time, the results were well worth a modicum of suffering, a state to which Kain was by now more or less inured. It was his intention to first march on distant Coorhagen, the city of his original birth, and bring it under his control. When he had amassed sufficient forces, he would turn his armies back in the direction of Uschtenheim, and eventually, when its defences had fallen to his will, to his ultimate goal: The Sarafan Stronghold. Kain was well aware that this campaign would take time, but as an immortal, it was not as though this particular element was lacking. Besides, the longer the term of his conquest, the greater the army with which to despoil the lands of his enemies.
Kain would bide his time.
Putting his long-term plans from his mind, the future Conqueror of Nosgoth turned to inspect his troops. They were a ragged bunch, of widely varying heights and builds, and although he had endeavoured to choose those of the warrior caste, the pickings had been slim, and consequently a number of his new recruits erred on the side of portliness or emaciation. Nevertheless, he was fully aware that in a very few weeks, their vampiric constitutions would overcome such frailties of form, leaving him with a redoubtable force from which the armies of mankind would earn their bloody, tortured deaths. Their garb was his immediate concern: the motley assortment of peasant rags and rusting armour represented a sight that would likely invoke ridicule instead of the required fear. Kain idly wondered where he might acquire twenty-eight suits of black chainmail at short notice.
Progress to the North was slow, the fledgling vampires' advance impeded by the inevitable turning of the world on its axis, the diurnal illumination spelling instant death for ones so young. Kain chafed at the delay, immune as he was after so many centuries of undeath to the blistering rays of Nosgoth's sun. However, the silver lining lay in the fact that their slowed progress allowed time for the forging of armour and the acquiring of new weaponry. It was therefore a fully armed and armoured contingent, numbering close on fifty, that approached Coorhagen barely a month after their departure from the Pillars.
Starlight danced tantalisingly on Coorhagen's massive metal gates, the lustrous sparkle a reminder of the inviolate sanctity of the fortressed walls. Amber flames flickered at well-spaced intervals atop the saw- toothed fortifications, marking the location of each dozing member of the night-watch. In their rehearsed positions outside the town, Kain's fledgling ranks stood divided into two sections: the former, consisting of his initially-birthed Elite, clad in the desired sable maille: the latter, comprising the villagers he had deigned to turn in desperation for numbers, garbed in simple leather armour, the bat-like symbol of their master embossed on each rapidly-heaving chest. Kain's formidable form stood a little way to the fore, taking in the familiar sight of the gates of his home-town. What was it that was said? One could always return to one's roots. Well, this son of Coorhagen was going to come back and show his people what he had made of himself - not that any of them would remember him.
At a prearranged signal from the master of the vampires, wooden ladders were brought forth, and nature, locked in a nocturnal embrace, awaited the command in somnolent unease.
"Vae Victus!"
The imperious challenge was echoed by fifty lusty voices as wood was set to stone, and screams of anguish began to arise from every quarter of the town as Kain's vampiric forces penetrated the ancient city.
Those of Kain's army who were formerly peasants, freed by his whim from their daily labours and thrust into a night-time world of lustful violence, were the first on the scene. The nobles of the city were destined to feel their blades: these undead held a seething hatred for the overdressed, corpulent rich for their treatment at the hands of their peers. No mercy was shown, and offers of money and power were a frequent accompaniments to melodramatic death throes. The aristocracy died snivelling on its knees.
The Inquisitors were not so discerning in their tastes, but far more exacting in their methods of punishment. Wheresoever flashed the blade of one of Kain's Elite squad, there followed limitless pain for the victim. One unfortunate citizen met a group of four of the maille-clad demons after being chased down a blind alley. Their features obscured by silvered, wedge-shaped helmets, the faceless butchers advanced with palpable menace, one of their number passing a single word to inaugurate the man's ordeal.
"Quarter."
Before the hapless human could react, the quartet converged on him with the alacrity and eagerness of a wolf-pack. Each taking a limb in their powerful grip, the four proceeded to coax the man's extremities to the opposing points of the compass. Initially offering a heartfelt plea for his life, the man's entreaties degenerated into howls of pain as his tendons were stretched slowly and agonisingly past their breaking points, the straining noise audible to every occupant of the alleyway. The male began to throw his head violently from side to side as the fire in his nerve-endings became intolerable, and he began to thrash about in an attempt to ease the pressure. Fortunately for him, his struggles speeded the process, the added weight of his thinning muscles aiding the inevitable tearing of skin and popping of cartilage until with a final heave, the man's torso separated from his limbs. A shocked face stared up at the four pitiless creatures who hovered above him - the man's body had landed precipitously in a puddle of his own vital fluid, and the squelch was unfortunately not the last thing he heard. his tortured senses closed on a barrage of thumps as the Inquisitors proceeded to beat him to death with his own severed limbs.
Coorhagen's streets ran red with blood. It was an oft-used cliché, but this night the image held truth. Darting through the congealing streams of fluid that coursed through the central square, a young woman of noble birth sought the safety of her home. Risking a glance to her rear, the girl found that her dark-garbed pursuers had given up the chase, apparently to converge on closer prey. With a sigh of relief, she returned her gaze to the fore, to see a sight that froze her in her tracks. The creature that stood before her was unlike any of the others she had seen ravaging the city this dreadful night: it wore little armour, seemingly content with the dubious protection of leather for legs and shoulders alone. Its skin was the colour of corpse lips, its hair a silvered cascade of cobwebs, its eyes reminiscent of candle-flame.
"Keep away from me!"
Kain disregarded the command and seized the woman by the throat, lifting her from the ground in a single smooth, practised motion. The female scrabbled at her neck, at the freezing claws that were threatening to crush the life from her, and emitted a choking squeal. The predator's eyes locked onto those of the struggling noble, intent on savouring every iota of her suffering. A cruel smile spread across his savage features as he hefted the spiked mace he had pilfered from the town guard, allowing the bulging eyes of his prey to see the instrument of her destruction before swinging it sharply in a brutal upstroke. Kain continued to watch fascinated as, with each strike, the noble's face demonstrated her decreasing awareness of his tormenting of her. The future conqueror frowned: he would have to devise a means of sustaining his victims' consciousness until the moment of release. Allowing the pulped form to fall to the floor with a distracted motion, Kain sated his other needs.
In another quarter of the city, a debased creature stalked its own prey. Kain's Head Inquisitor had reached its rank by means of its unequalled callousness toward other forms of life, its bloodlust surprising even the sadistic Vampire Master. It now tracked its desired quarry to the very threshold of its abode, the overfed Mayor turning around a second too late as he belatedly sensed his pursuer.
"Please - I beg you. Do not harm me."
The Head Inquisitor stared back, its expression unguessable within the confines of the helmet.
"I have wealth - I can offer twice what you're paid."
The inquisitor began to advance, apparently still immune to the rotund councillor's offers.
The mayor cringed, resorting to the ultimate sacrifice. "There are more inside - my family. Take them instead."
As though appeased, the maille-clad figure extended a hand towards its victim in the universally recognised gesture for a closed agreement. However, its sharp-nailed hand never met the shaking, pudgy digits of the Mayor, the arm instead continuing in its advance until it met with the profusely sweating male's chest. Nor did it stop there. The Mayor's face contorted into a girlish expression of unmanly fear as the creature inserted its fingers unrelentingly into his chest. The probing digits shredded layers of fat as they progressed, circumventing the well-concealed ribcage until finally they came to rest at the aortic cavity. The obese councillor shot one horrified glance at the creature's expressionless helm from where he stood transfixed against his own front door, before the Inquisitor wrenched his still-beating heart from his chest with a theatrical flourish. The man emitted one incredulous sigh before sinking in an ungainly manner to the ground.
Kain's head Inquisitor deftly removed the sagging, three-chinned head before entering the man's abode and depositing its grisly trophies on the dinner table before the dumbstruck family.
It remained in the dining room to ensure they finished their meal.
*
Author's Notes
Ooh - I used a metaphor in Coorhagen. Aren't you proud of me?
Dunno if anyone remembers that far back (or cares for that matter), but this is the same Roland that Cornelius mentioned when Freya asked him about challenging for land. Yeah, I didn't know he was going to turn up either, but hey, I don't write these things, they just come through my fingers! Just like the cloaked figure in the last chapter - she just wrote herself into the story (cheeky cow) AND gave herself a name! Tchoh!
*brief delay in updates while Lilith takes a long-overdue trip to the loony- bin*
"Stra a aa aa nge things are happening - to me . . ." somebody take away my copy of Toy Story - please!