A Death's Gate Metal #2

Link: the atari 2600 label generator. It generateth thy label with apparente dysdain.

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In a house a mere ten miles south of the Union border and sixty yards from the next house over, a retired nineteen year old warrior of Order, who was also secretly a half-elf, lived. His name was Oren, a name which meant "pine tree" in Hebrew. Unlike the pine tree, Oren had managed to isolate himself completely from even those people whose house bordered his own. It had taken careful planning.

Six years ago he had announced his departure from society to the trees, the grass, and the spider who lived under his door-jamb. Unwittingly, his protestations and frequent sobbing during the interlude had attracted the attention of Tiffany, an unwitting servant-girl who lived next door. She had approached him, wearing the most comforting look she could muster. Oren's eyes became the size of embarrased dinner-plates, his almost-pointed ears flapped out directly sideways, his sweatband clenched his oddly clumped hair higher atop his head, and the last she saw of him was a flash of his Japanese-style wooden shoes. She vaguely remembered a shirt with an inexplicable red circle, and oddly gray sweat pants. His walk gave the impression of a stick-figure who had sprung to life and was remarkably spry but non-flexible. Confused, Tiffany went home and thought no more of the incident.

Six years later, as Oren stared over the door-jamb, something confronted his eyes which did not sit right with him. He took a mental inventory of things in the yard he was used to: there were the trees, the grass, and the spider corpse who lived under his door-jamb (the spider had always studied necromancy, but Oren felt that it had gone too far this time, and therefore they had not spoken in a year). Everything seemed present. This was important, he knew that. Suddenly, inspiration struck him a sharp blow to the side of the head. While he took a short breath to recover, he realized that the problem with his yard was not anything missing, but rather, something EXTRA.

The skeleton warband's encampment had definitely not been there the night before. Oren was sure. He had checked the immaculate records he kept of what was in the yard. A long time ago, Oren had also kept records of what was not in the yard, but as these records quickly grew lengthy as he discovered entirely new things his yard did not have every day, he had given it up.

Oren opened his battered copy of The Order Warrior's Guidebook, vol. II, to page 81: unwanted infestations of evil. Carefully, he read over the directions. Each step he took was purposeful, each breath methodical, as he took his polished pike in hand and proceeded outside.

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