The Arconian Open

[Darion McNair]

Darion's a sucker for the damsel in distress routine, what can I say? Plus he's trying to figure Ken-Dall out but she's making it pretty dang hard. Which is to be expected. Don't ask me, I just let the story write itself and go where it may. lol!

[fencerS]

A dark cloaked figure entered the gates of the seemingly desertated city on horseback. Seeing the streets were completly empty she pushed the hood of her cloak back revealing a stirking profile.
"Esay Lady," Gwyen said calming her horse for lady was feeling the same nervous feeling as Gwyen herself had.
Spying an open pub she directed lady towards the lighted doorway. Tying her horse to the rail Gwyen entered the pub and went straight to the bar.
"Bartender a mug of cocco please."
"Have you money?" Gwyen jingled her purse in reply.
"Where is everyone is this city?" Gwyen asked inbetween sips of cocco.
"Their all down at the banquet given for the competitiors of the tournament tomorrow."
"What type of tournament?"
"The swordsman's tournament to see who's to be king."
"And I suppose that the registration is closed already?"
"Aye closed this very afternoon."
"To bad. Do you know a place where I can get a room for the night?"
"I've got one room left but it won't be cheap."
"I'll take it."
The bartender handed her a large key and pointed to the stairs.
"Up the stairs and to your left last door."
"Thank you. Do you have a stable where I can put my horse?"
"Out back, you can't miss it."
Gwyen took lady around to the stable considering the circumstances in which she had come to this strange town. After bedding lady down for the night Gwyen headed up to her room to get some sleep for she was exausted form her long journey. Before falling asleep though she moved the bed in front of the door not fully trusting the bartender or the other customers that where to be coming in later. Keeping sword and dagger close Gwyen fell into a deep sleep that she desperatly need.

[Moonitic]

Zelda,

That's because Darion & I are writing it just as it should be written! Perfect!

[Darion McNair]

Amen Moonitic!

[Zelda]

Am I the writing baromoter to you guys then??

[Moonitic]

To a writer, anyone reading our work is the barometer!

And now, back to our story...

[lochinvar]

Jessira FitzUrse was tired.

The untimely death of her husband the year before had left the mid-twenties woman to scrabble a living however she could for herself and her three-year old daughter, Meera. She had a decent regular job cooking at the Bitter End, and her brother Fortalin forwarded as much as he could afford from his pay as an Arconian guard, but still finances always seemed to be tight. So when the call had gone out for temporary help in the castle kitchen, she had jumped at the opportunity to make a little extra money.

For weeks now she had been working extra shifts in the castle kitchens after finishing at the pub; the unlooked-for arrival of the Duke of Angford and the Earl of Brenwyck had tripled overnight the number of garrison mouths that needed filling. The announcement of the tournament to settle the succession had added to the workload, and tonight’s banquet had just about done her in. Good money or no, the guests had been demanding, the serving people short-tempered, and Nanni had been particularly snappish tonight. All things considered, she would be grateful to see her bed this night.

As she made her way through the darkened streets to her rooms in one of Arconia’s lesser-chance quarters, a voice called to her from the shadows.

“Good evening, Jessira.”

Startled, she stopped short and clutched reflexively at her shawl. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice cracking with sudden fright.

A thin shape detached itself from the darker shadows under the eaves of a building, moving into the feeble light cast from a torch set into a bracket of a doorway to her right. “Sorry, my dear; I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to talk for a moment.”

She looked the figure up and down, her immediate alarm subsiding somewhat but not entirely disappearing. Medium height, serviceable clothing, early to mid-thirties, with a shock of blond hair and piercing eyes set either side of a sharp nose. Not a particularly menacing figure, his clothes bespoke a tradesman or perhaps a carter--not necessarily a footpad. Still, it was only prudent to be wary; accosting people at this hour of night in this neighborhood was not an action calculated to allay suspicion. Surreptitiously her hand stole to the knife she kept hidden in her skirts, suddenly grateful that her brother insisted she carry it with her on her nightly trips to and from work.

“Who are you? How do you know me?” She hated the slight edge of panic she heard in her own voice, but was unable to quell it.

“Well, as for me I’m an itinerant teacher; you can call me Gregory. As for how I know you, I’ve seen you at the Bitter End and more recently at the castle working in the kitchens. You’ve just come from the banquet. I have to say you outdid yourself tonight; the trifle was delightful.”

She relaxed a little more. He was most likely just another of the adventurers who had come to town in the last few days, sniffing after the prize of a king’s crown. Still, there was something vaguely familiar about him…

“Here! I know you. You’re that Thatch fellow that was stirring up trouble some time back, talking about revolution; I saw you in the square by the main gate, trying to start a riot over taxes or some such thing. I should report you to the city watch.”

“Now, now; there’s no need to get all upset. I just was exercising my guaranteed right of free speech. No harm in that, is there?”

“Well, maybe there is and maybe there isn’t. I can’t say I think much of your politics. In any case, what do you want with me?”

“I’ve been making some inquiries, Jessira, and I understand things have been a little…‘pinched’ for you, lately. It’s not easy for a young woman in your circumstances, what with supporting a young child and no husband, and all that.” As he spoke, he slowly removed a purse from his pocket, hefting it slightly. The soft clinking together of coins was unmistakable.”So I was just wondering if you’d be interested in making a little extra.”

Realization and indignation bloomed together in her face, flushing her cheeks and bringing sudden flames to her eyes. “Why, you…you…!” she stumbled, momentarily unable to think of a sufficiently insulting epithet. “You’ve got the wrong girl, if that’s what you’re thinking! And I am reporting you to the city watch!”

She swiftly moved to pass him, ire quickening her step. Then several things happened at once.

As he reached to grab her arm she swung the hidden knife in her other hand up hard and fast, aiming at his face. Almost nonchalantly he intercepted the knife hand, twisting it in a practiced move up behind her back at a painful and awkward angle. The blade dropped from her nerveless fingers even as his other hand with the purse came from behind her shoulder like an iron clamp across her mouth. With two quick motions he kicked the dagger into the shadow of the alleyway and yanked her after it, slamming her heavily into the wall.

She could feel his breath hot on her neck as he whispered in her ear; it smelled faintly of garlic, she noted irelevantly. “Flattering ourselves somewhat, aren’t we my dear? Well, you needn’t worry; your charms are certainly ample enough, but that’s not what I’m after--at least, not directly. I meant it when I said I only wanted to talk to you, so I’m going to take my hand away now and we can continue talking. But… if you call out, I’ll snap your neck like a dry twig. Believe it.”

She did. Her shoulder screamed where it twisted behind her, and her knee hurt terribly where she’d smashed it on the stone wall. She wasn’t a weak girl, but she was powerless in his hands; his body seemed to be made entirely of whalebone and rawhide, and his strength was terrible.

For a moment they maintained their position, then he slowly moved his hand from her mouth. She remained quiet, and after a moment more the tension on her arm suddenly released. He stepped back, stooping to pick up the knife; she slowly turned, putting her back against the wall while rubbing and working her outraged shoulder.

He regarded the knife with disinterest. “Just as I expected--Arconian military issue. Probably from that oh-so-noble brother of yours, I’d guess.”

“You wanted to talk, so talk. But make it quick. If I’m not back soon he’ll come looking for me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. He left with those other fools to look for that dunder-head Arcon, and probably won’t be back for days or weeks yet. You see, I’ve made it a point to become well-informed on the comings and goings of the FitzUrse family."

Unable to think of anything else to say, she asked again, “What do you want?”

“I want information,” he answered. “Information that I think you’re in a good position to provide.”

“What information?” she asked sullenly. “I don’t know anything.”

“No, actually, you don’t,” he said cocking his head to one side with a small smile. “But I have a feeling that you will find it for me.”

“The Earl of Brenwyck has an eye for the ladies, so I hear. And as I mentioned, you are a young woman of considerable…assets. You also have free access to the castle, which I do not. So this is what I want you to do.

“I want you to become…’friendly’ with the good Earl. Very friendly, if you know what I mean--and I think you do. And when you’ve become good friends with him, you’ll find out where they’re keeping the weapons that were checked and impounded today, the weapons for the tournament tomorrow. You’ll also find out how many are guarding them, whose men they are, and when those guards are changed.

“And when you know all this, then you’ll come back here to tell me. And when you’ve done all that, I’ll give you this purse.” He hefted the pouch of coins again suggestively, opening it to spill some of the contents into his hand.

Gold. A lot of gold. Even in the darkness, she could see the heavy round coins glinting yellowly in his dark palm.

“And you really think I’ll do this thing just for your money, is that it?” She tried to inject a note of scorn into her voice, but her eyes kept straying back to the gold…

“Well, yes. For the money, and for this…” He pulled something else from his belt where it had been hidden under his cloak and held it out to her. It was a small rag doll.

With an sharp intake of breath, she snatched it. It was Meera’s ‘Pufkin’. Her daughter doted on it, and never went anywhere without it. Struck mute and trembling, she looked up again into dark eyes as bland and empty as a shark’s.

“Such a lovely child,” he said conversationaly. “It would be a shame if anything were to happen to her.”

“Well, dear, I won’t keep you,” he said briskly. “You have work to do, and so do I. Meet me here two hours before dawn with the information. Oh, and give my best to Meera. I do so love small children.”

With that he faded into the darker shadows, leaving the stricken mother alone in the alleyway.

[Zelda]

Hang on a chicken picking minute....didnt I lock Thatch up? or bash him up or something? And all this is obviously taking place BEFORE the Queen meets latenight right?

<small>[ 08-19-2002, 07:08 PM: Message edited by: Zelda ]</small>

[lochinvar]

Gregory Thatch disappeared after the aborted attempted coup. No one saw him after, or has seen him since...until now.

And it can take place before, after, or simultaneous--whatever suits your fancy, Your Majesty.

[Zelda]

Thats right....I think this would have to take place b4 I meet latenight, mainly as that takes place the morning after the banquet.

[arcon]

Lochinvar its good to see you writing again.
Now , if we can just get the Dame back.

arcon

[Darion McNair]

“You want what?” The innkeeper asked, dumbfounded. Holding a lantern up to see Darion’s figure better. By his attire he was clearly no more than two foot lengths away from his bed when he had to answer the door.

“A cot please. I have an...unexpected guest and I need an extra bed for the night.” The innkeeper scowled at him for the inconvenience but retrieved the cot for him. After a small payment, the Bosconian native turned and left.

The door closed behind him, he took no more then ten steps before stopping dead in his tracks. An arrow had shot by his head and lodged a few inches ahead of him. He dropped the cot and quickly ducked just in time for another arrow to catch a few wisps hair.

Freeing his blade he shot back up to a fighting stance to see a tall man charging him, weapon drawn. Darion had no time to think, he barely got his blade to a head parry before it made contact. The other came around to his flank but Darion slashed his sword arm before he could get it there. As the attacker let out a gruff shout, Darion used his unarmed hand to grab the other by the hair. With a flick of the wrist, his blade was against the other’s throat and sharp pull later the attacker’s lifeless body fell to the ground.

Darion stood there for several moments just staring at the body. He was right, there was an assassin after him and it wasn’t just Ken-Dall who was trailing him. Replacing his sword, he bent down to look for any means of identification on the man. His height was a clear sign he was an agent of Dion. Other than the obvious, the was no means to identify who he was or who employed him specifically.

It had begun, and he knew it would not stop unless he was dead. More would come after him. Darion was a blemish on their record. The one resistance leader they had not disposed of. He was the only one who cared that a far off country had been invaded and subdued.

Retrieving the cot, he went back to his room, his pace a bit quicker.

“About time you got back.” Ken-Dall said as he entered the room. From her seat she noticed some spats of blood on Darion’s clothes and on the cot. “What happened?” She finished, her voice more concerned as she got up from the chair.

“I was ambushed as I was on my way back.” he told her, flatly. He threw the cot on the floor and collapsed in the chair. “I’m okay, the assassin is dead.” She ruffled her eyebrows in disbelief and walked over to the cot to take a closer look.

“You’re not kidding.” She murmured, looking up at him.

“I wouldn’t kid about something like that. I told you I had enemies." Ken-Dall didn’t know what to say, the fact that he was wholeheartedly honest with her seemed to stun her. It was a sharp contrast to what she would have done.

“We may sleep tonight, the next one will not hunt me for another few months. Not until they discover this one has failed.”

“The next one?” Ken-Dall repeat, still quite stunned. She watched him setup his cot and began to realize that maybe there’s more to him than she first thought.

<small>[ 08-21-2002, 06:05 PM: Message edited by: Darion McNair ]</small>

[Swordsman]

Ahm...somebody care to fill me in on this Thatch character? I remember no such riot, etc... Even a historian can have a patchy memory.

Also: The weapons were never impounded for the tournament. They were inspected, and then returned to their owners. Nækos and Blade for sure would never surrender their sabres, and Senyik fought with his Shadow Catcher just after she was inspected.

I will get back to writing, soon!

[Darion McNair]

And there was evening and there was morning, the tournament day. . . . .

Darion awoke in the morning and sleepily sat up. The slight pain in his back reminded him that he did not sleep on an actual bed. Looking across the room he saw Ken-Dall still fast asleep in his bed. His deep sleep had gone uninterrupted. Aside from the assassination attempt they were safe. It seemed more people wanted him dead than her.

He stood, making no noise so his guest would not awake. He gazed out a nearby window, it was a beautiful day out. Darion knew he had to prepare his mind for the tournament, it was so clouded and on edge he was surprised he got to sleep. He needed to get away for a while and clear his mind. The young warrior didn’t want to be thinking about Ken-Dall the split second he needed to parry-riposte. Strapping his sword to his side he locked the door from the inside, and left. He made his way down the street toward the tournament area. As he walked, Darion worked to steel his mind, he was bothered by nothing, all else except the tournament was as far away as his homeland.

He thought of the possible opponents he observed yesterday both in the tournament area and the banquet. Several looked formidable: there was one who was not human, he overheard someone say he was a Talruum. He wasn’t familiar with that species but he didn’t look all that hospitable.

And then there was the one in black, who was apparently as adept in subtlety and disappearance as Darion was himself. There seemed to have been an unspoken mutual respect between them at the banquet, but Darion feared his own swordsmanship would not even begin to match the one in black.

The tournament area came into view now, not many people where there yet. Those helping run it were hurrying this way and that busy with setup but no competitors could be seen. Darion thought of what his old Sword Master had told him: “The one day you’re late to a tournament, that’s when they’ll actually be on time.” He wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t start till noon. Glancing around at the several shops lining the street, one caught his interest. The sign on it read “Arconia Courier” suddenly he had an idea.

Darion thought it was very rude of him to just leave Ken-Dall without her knowing. He would send her a message, to let her know that he’d see her at the tournament. He walked inside and up to a thin, spindly man behind a desk. The man was engrossed in much paperwork and almost didn’t notice the newly arrived customer.

“Good morning sir.” Darion began, politely. “I would like you to send a message to someone staying at the....” He struggled to remember the name of the inn “the Firenight Inn. Have it delivered to a room under the name of Darion McNair.”

“Of course sir, and what would you have on the message?” The spindly man replied, making ready with his quill and parchment.

“I’ll write it.” Darion returned. Grabbing the quill and a blank piece of parchment on the desk and wrote. The contents of the letter was very gentlemanly, worded as only he could. He finished the letter and folded the parchment twice. “Deliver it to a lady by the name of Ken-Dall.” he added. It was then that Darion thought to ask another question. “Have you ever delivered a message to a man named Naekos Servaya. He is a very skilled swordsman and I wish to speak with him.”

The man thought for a moment. “Naekos...no one by that name. But there is one they call The Swordsman who lives near here. Best fighter in all the land they say.”

“Where can I find him?” Darion replied, quite interested.

“West of here, a cottage. I’ve delivered there before. He seems to live quite well actually, some say he’s head of a special team that takes orders from the King and Queen themselves.”

“Thank you, and please, deliver the letter soon.” Darion left after paying for the message. His emptying bag of gold coins reminding him how desperately he needed a job.

And so he headed west, following the roads in the town until they dwindled from cobblestone to dirt country roads. He asked people along the way, it seemed that the Swordsman was a legend throughout the land and several were able to give Darion clues to which he refined his direction.

On the outskirts of the town, there was a cottage. Darion was amazed that he had found it. But he had managed to and now he was going to approach the Swordsman hoping that he and Naekos Servaya were one and the same.

He walked to the cottage door and knocked several times, hard. He was determined to prove himself. He said a silent prayer knowing that the tests and trials to come would no doubt push his limits.

[Swordsman]

Note: This is the night before Darion's last post.


The night was yet young, and Nækos had work to do. The smith’s first trial would be this night; what it would be, he still was unsure of. There was the tournament ground to be checked, preparations to be made.

Light configuration.

He put the Talruum sabre on his back, handle down. His pants were thin and simple; no sewn-in sheathes. The shirt was a sleeveless tunic, even lighter and smooth. A pair of blackleather pads were strapped to the bottoms of his feet. He blew the only candle out.

**************************************************

A squirrel on the path to the castle felt a small breeze over him and noticed a shadow flicker and slide. A moment later, the scent of a man – only not quite – startled him away.

**************************************************

One of the city watch guards on duty at the outskirts squinted at a shadow that shifted a few feet away. A flash of green appeared in a dark face a second later as the shadow skirted a light, but the guard dismissed it as imagination.

**************************************************

Jessira Fortalin wandered, dazed, from her confrontation with Thatch. Another shadow detached itself from the rest behind her.

“Don’t worry, you and Meera will be alright.”

She whirled to meet the low voice, dagger at the ready. A cold-skinned hand cupped her flush face gently for a moment, and a pair of emerald eyes stared blankly at her. As she swung her dagger, though, the apparition vanished before her.

As the rest of the world slept dead to the world, the halfling was completely alive.

**************************************************

A bow and a handful of arrows in a back alley caught his attention. Moonlight glinted darkly off a splash of blood on a nearby window frame, and a look within disclosed a body. The cut throat appeared to be the work of a rapier, the forte in particular.

Nækos tugged thoughtfully at the straps securing his sabre, tightening the little bit of slack that had worked in during his running.

On to the castle.
**************************************************

Hanging upside down from a ledge, he could see Zelda sleeping peacefully.

**************************************************

A few minutes later he hung from another windowsill and pulled his head up over the edge. Josephine slept just as peacefully within. On a whim he swung up to a crouch on the sill. The pad of his left foot tapped quietly against the stone and he froze in place, an obsidian gargoyle set with two dark emeralds. A moment later he crept inward, fixed the tangled sheets over the girl, and dropped back over the stone sill.

**************************************************

As he moved about his night rounds, the Swordsman thought more about Senyik’s words. Smiled…laughed…but what does it matter? He could long for them no more than a blind mand could long for the color red. For how was he even to know it? Nækos knew only that he longed.

Change was coming. He could feel it, practically taste it on the crisp breeze. His trip to the outlands this time would be more than the usual enforcement; it was time to start recruiting vigorously before the coming invasion. They would have time, he knew. The Russ would be careful and thorough. How much time, he did not know.

But there would be time later to discuss this, and other matters of concern. For now, he’d thought of the smith’s first trial.

**************************************************

As with most of the city, Senyik slept soundly in his bed at The Bitter End. Nækos noted with silent approval that the elegant broadsword lay on the floor right beside the bed, and the smith lay on his back. The better, in such a position, to see the room with movement of only the eyes.

Senyik’s outline was barely visible in the darkness, completely invisible to any fullblood’s eye. Nækos crept in the window to a deep shadow and crouched, drawing the sabre silently. Senyik slept. Nækos drew the tip lightly across the stone, producing a barely audible ring.

Senyik’s eyes snapped open in the dark.

Pass test one. Senyik hadn’t moved more than his eyes as he scanned the room. He still looked asleep. Slowly, then, his right hand slid up his leg, then stopped. He’d drawn a dagger beneath the sheets. He continued bringing his arm up a little faster now, affecting a leisurely stretch in his sleep as he rolled to his side. Good…

A sudden sweep of his left leg cleared the bedding from him and brought him to his feet in a ready fighting stance.

Nækos held his breath, then slowly let it out. Senyik’s eyes fastened, unseeing, on his shadowed corner.

Nækos charged. Senyik kicked Shadow Catcher into the air, snatching her from her scabbard and letting it fall, moving instantly to parry. Stopping short, Nækos sheathed his sabre and spread his hands in the moonlight. “Very good, my friend. Very good.”

“Nækos!” he hissed. “What do you want?”

“For you to kindly lower your weapon. I was testing you; I must say you passed with flying colors.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Do you have an alternative? If you try anything on me, I will kill you. And shouldn’t I want to test a man before I recruit him?”

“Why did you charge, then?”

“To see your reaction. Ask, why did I stop?”

“True enough.”

“And how? Had I really meant to hit you, I couldn’t have stopped so fast.”

“True again. There going to be more tests? I tell you, you spooked the hell out of me!”

Nækos smiled. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

“Not for a second.”

“Exactly.”

Senyik shrugged. “Well, now that I’m completely awake, what do your plans for the rest of the night consist of?”

“Probably some packing, then off to bed. No, wait. I need to check the tournament grounds.”

“Good thinking. Mind if I join you?”

“Can you be silent?”

“Yes, but why? Are you doing something illegal?”

“No, but don’t you think two armed men wandering the streets in the middle of the night will arouse suspicion?”

“Actually,” Senyik pulled a dark green shirt over his head. “Actually, I’d think two unarmed men would be more suspicious.”

“Really? Why?” Nækos sat on the windowsill as Senyik pulled a pair of leather boots on over his baggy pants.

“Who in their right mind wouldn’t carry a sword at this hour? It’s the nonsensical that causes suspicion.”

“Hm.” Nækos rolled backward and dropped out the window, landing with a soft whump in the street below. A minute later, Senyik opened the front door.

“See, I’m a little more used to law-abiding society.”

“Are you calling me an outlaw?” Nækos whispered as they walked down the moonlit street.

“Nope, just saying you don’t normally operate within the usual framework of law. You’re a vigilante, a merc. You follow your own rules. And why are you whispering?”

“You don’t care if we’re heard?”

“Why should I?”

“Any reason we’re speaking only in questions?”

Senyik laughed. “Can I ask you something?”

”Would you stop if I said no?” Nækos was laughing aloud now too.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“Should I?”

“You’re laughing, Swordsman.”

“Hey, you didn’t use a question – Smith!”

Senyik stopped. “How did you like that, Nækos?”

“Like what?” He sensed Senyik was serious now.

“Levity. Happiness. Humor. Joking around. That’s what we’ve just been doing. And you know what? We’ve been doing it while walking down the middle of an empty, brightly moonlit street.”

Nækos considered for a moment. “Perhaps there is something to it.” He smiled a little.

“It’s just better for you, my friend.” Senyik walked on. Naekos looked at him curiously for a moment, then followed.

[Swordsman]

“Sand flooring.” It was a statement, but also a consideration as Nækos crouched thoughtfully in the middle of one of the big circles.

“For lack of grass?” Senyik was walking slowly around the circle’s edge.

“No, they had time to plant, even if only weeds. Blood absorption. Somebody’s anticipating some serious fights.”

Senyik nodded pensively, a gesture unnoticed by his companion.

The tournament area lay on the outskirts of the city. A large field had been cleared for the huge bleachers that enclosed perhaps a quarter mile square. Centered on one side was a collection of covered boxes, probably for royalty, judges, etc. Directly before this box was one of the three main circles, a hundred meters across. It was flanked by four smaller circles, each fifty meters in diameter. In the far corners were two more hundred-meter circles. The size made Senyik wonder if there would be melee events.

“What is the wind like around here?” he wondered aloud.

Nækos stood and turned a little, imagining what the day felt like. “Southerly in the morning…rolls around the…west – to a northern afternoon breeze.”

Silence descended again over the moonlit grounds. A moment later, “I think this is about all we’ll learn here tonight.” Nækos turned and began walking off.

“Heading home?” Sleep was starting to sound good to Senyik.

“My cottage, not home,” Nækos corrected. “It’s just over that ridge,” he pointed beyond the Official box, “and I’ll need a little rest for the tournament. You’ll need even more.”

“Definitely. Which way is the inn again?”

Nækos started to point, then hesitated as he considered something. “Well, it’s off that direction, but the cottage is a lot closer if you don’t mind a rug to sleep on.”

“Not at all,” the soldier nodded.

Nækos looked up at the sky; the moon was about directly overhead. Night-noon. My noon… Sunrise was maybe five hours away. Just right.

The two warriors didn’t share another word on the walk through the woods, and proceeded to their resting places and sleep just as silently. Yet even as two more heartbeats became slow and regular in the night, a delicate tie was established.

[Swordsman]

Just a heads-up: It won't be for a while, but when I get around to the tournament, I'm just going to go ahead and start writing it. If the shipful of people isn't back yet, we'll just adjust. The deadline has come and gone; I'm going back to improv.