From: Mario Di Giacomo Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.creative Subject: NTB: Dance of the Daemon #1 Date: Sat, 25 Feb 1995 12:59:47 -0500 (EST) NTB on hiatus? not if I have anything to say about it. As I promised, here's DotD #1. I can't guarantee a monthly schedule, but I will try. Oh yes, any resemblance to the new Dr. Strange is merely coincidence :). Dance of the Daemon #1: "Visitations" Underneath the pale moon, deep in the Heartland, two men were plotting to get their names in the paper, and their faces on TV. Using some rope, some pegs, and a wooden board, they were working furiously to flatten a circle in the center of a field. They'd seen it done, and were having no problems. One, a young man of about 20 years, scratched his head dully as he planted the stakes, "Hey Earl?" "What is it, Bubba?" his companion, an older man who's physique [barely contained in a pair of overalls] showed his great familiarity with the products of the local brewery, replied. "What'd you say we were gonna tell the TV fellas? I forgot!" Earl Tolliver sighed deeply, "We were driving home from the grange. We saw a strange light flickerin' in the sky. Suddenly, there was this big whhosh, kinda like a train, and a glowin' twister came smack dab out of the sky, makin' this here circle in the field." "But no one else heard it!", Bubba said puzzledly, as he began tramping down the grain. "No problem, son." Earl smiled, "There ain't no one out here for miles. They'll have to trust us." Bubba nodded, grinning sappily. He wasn't very bright, but he trusted his friend Earl. If Earl said it was true, it was true. Together, the two men finished their labors, and packing the equipment in the truck, drove off. The field lay quiet. After about half an hour, the crickets stopped chirping. There was a strange flickering in the sky, which began to spin, transforming with a loud whoosh into a glowing funnel, which touched the earth pecisely within the circle's boundary, depositing a form within, only to vanish afterwards. Proving once again that the Gray Lords of Chance have a sick and twisted sense of humor. Damien Cross brushed off the trailing threads of magic. The last he'd remembered was the fusion of the daemones. But that was fading like a dream. All that was left was the echoes of the power. In the moonlight, he regarded his clothes. Between getting mugged, defeating Rourke and his minions, and facing the self-appointed "Net-Elders", he was a mess. His trenchcoat had great rents in it, and was getting frayed about the edges. The rest of his clothes were not any better. He might be able to handle the weather better, thanks to the knowledge he'd gained, but that didn't mean he wanted to look like a bum. A whisper of memory flared to life: >>> IRELAND, ABBEY OF ST. COLUMBA, 637 AD "Must I, Brother Aurielian? It seems like vanity to me." The young novice looked up pleadingly at his mentor/tormentor. They were gathered in the scriptorium, sheets of parchment strewn around. The job at hand was illumination, and he didn't really care for it. The a-forementioned Aurelian, a kindly man with old, old eyes, smiled down at his pupil. "We do not do this to glorify ourselves, but the Lord Himself, young Bleys. These our His words, and deserve to be enhanced with all our abilities.." The novice nodded, "Of course, Brother. But is it not possible to go too far? While I was at Kells, I saw a testament whose drawings were filled with ornate traceries and weavings! Why such focus on detail? Should we not focus on the words themselves, instead of the frame?" "You show wisdom, my son." Aurelian continued, "but the book at Kells holds a special purpose." He straightened, waving expansively. "The druids of this isle, while pagans, have discovered many secrets about life. One of them is that energies of the Earth flow along certain lines, and where they cross, there is great power." "Is it the devil's?" the novice asked fearfully. "No lad, nor is it God's. It is, simply. The traceries you noticed, when done correctly, channel and control this power, allowing for great works, of good or evil. This power, this magic , is but a means to an end, not an end itself." "So the book..." "Is a focus of power, shielded away from evil by the Word of God. When the labryinth is drawn, miracles can happen..." >> THE PRESENT Damien smiled. The threads of magic, fading fast, suddenly glowed anew, crisscrossing back and forth in a weave of tremendous potency. Arms aloft, Damien spoke his spell: "Celtic knots from Book of Kells, Grant new power to these spells. Make for me the things I ask, Clothes that fit my sense of class" The glowing loom coiled about him, settling into his clothes, shaping them anew. What was once a simple red trenchcoat became almost kimono- like, and glinted with an inlaid tracery of golden thread. The power arced about him, knitting, cleaning, and cobbling his tattered garments. Soon, his cream shirt, black slacks, shoes, and "power tie" were as good as new. As he regarded himself in a conjured mirror, he felt there was something missing. True, for the first time in months his face was his own, unmarred by streaks of white or demonic casts, but still, it lacked something. Then, knowledge came, with a flash of magick. And a pair of gold-rimmed, red-lensed round sunglasses grew from his eyes. "Perfect.." he smiled. He was ready for anything. "Quite stylish," came a half-familiar voice from behind him. In the mirror appeared a shadowy form. Damien whirled, fire kindling at his fingertips. "Who are you? I warn you, I'm not in a merciful mood." The form solidified, "Once I would have said 'Dave', and we could have chatted, and maybe split a pizza. But now, I must remain..." "A Stranger. Of course. Why do you come here?" "I bring you a message from yourself." The Dvandom Stranger handed him a sealed scroll. "Once I leave, open the seals." "WAIT!!! What do you mean, 'From yourself'?" "Just open the scroll..." the Stranger murmured, as he faded away. Damien stared at the scroll in his hand. And stared. An hour later, he decided to open it. "What the heck...what's the worst that can happen?" Luckily for him, the worst didn't happen. Instead, as the seal cracked, golden lightning coruscated from the scroll, coalescing into a kilted form in an Egyptian headdress. "Greetings Damien Cross. I am Net-Amon. In these, my last few moments of incarnation, I have written this scroll. I have not much time, so please listen." "I know what my halves have been up to. While Netatron gained knowledge, the daemon Netrigan sowed chaos. In nearly two millenia, he has done much evil, which must be atoned for." The great form sighed, galaxies of power swirling, "If I could, I would do it myself. But the true Powers have forbidden my manifestation. So it falls to you, Damien Cross, to undo the works of Netrigan, so the balance can be regained. He will not hinder you, as he has regained his true nature. But the challenge, the path, the work is yours. And when all is done....all will be One. Seek the Book of Thoth." The light faded, as the scroll crumbled into dust. A breeze came up, stirring the fragments, and swirling his coat. Damien had work to do. [To be continued...] Dvandom Stranger courtesy of Dave Van Domelen. Everything else is mine. Mario Di Giacomo, SIR Creator of Netrigan & Keeper of the Otaku Files digicom@conan.ids.net "Insert random yet extremly witty quote here.." Geek Code v2.1: GM d++ H- s++ !g au- a- w+ v C+ U P? 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