It was a warm, breezy evening as The Mystic sat outside and wrote in the Doghouse Journal. It was something he’d been doing for years. He’d taken a long break while depressed, but was writing in it again because the was manic.

Strange combination being a Mystic and manic depressive at the same time. His powers just augmented the intensity of the highs and the lows, which explained why he struggled so much with the disorder. Manic depressive or bi-polar disorder as the called it now. The new generation of psychiatrists had felt the need to do “original work.” Thus came the use of small soccer goals as a point of common interest.

Tonight his mania would not let him sleep, so he sat in the backyard journaling hoping he would burn himself out. That didn’t seem likely at this moment. So it’s 12:15 AM, time to head back into the house he figures. If writing isn’t going to do it maybe some self entertainment would do the trick. “Good night froggies,” he said as he headed back into the house for the evening.

They were gathered in the courtyard, waiting for the captain to arrive to lead the patrol through the fort gates. The temple spire was painted crimson by the setting sun.”

“Blood red, I say. It’s an omen that we’ll see blood before the end of this patrol.”

“Don’t let the captain hear you talk like that. He’ll put you in shackles and send you to the tombs.”

“All of you just shut up,” said the sergeant. His glaring stare told all it would be unwise to test him.

At that point the captain rode up and surveyed his charges for the night. He would of preferred to just ride these patrols on his own. These recruits requiring more work than they were worth. But, orders were orders. He recognized this was the best way to train new recruits. He just wished he didn’t have to be the one doing the training.

“Let’s get this over with,” the Caption said to the sergeant, who immediately barking orders to whip the recruits info formation. “Patrol, on guard,” the caption ordered, and the patrol worked their way out of the fort one at a time.

The patrol wound its way along the mountain trail. They may encounter a sharp shooter assassin hiding on a high ridge, but nothing that would really threaten the patrol. It was with this feeling that the patrol came up a man huddled around a small fire. He was dressed in the robes of a priest. When he looked up at the patrol surrounding him he stood and faced the captain.

“Good evening,” the priest said. “Is there anything I can help you with? Are any of you sick or hurt??” the priest said in a warm tone.

“What are you doing outside the temple wall?” the captain spat.

“Don’t take that tone with me, I’m no priest.” the stranger said in a low, threatening voice. One of the recruits drew his sword on instinct, and from that point on the fate of patrol was set.

The Mystic of Cascadia through off his robes to reveal a leather suit of armor, a sword, battle axe, and bow and arrow. But the most deadly weapon, his staff, he raised over his head and repeated an incantation. The tip of the staff radiated a red light that engulfed the entire patrol. One by one the members of the patrol fell off their horses, gasping for breath, and eventually going still with death. Everyone, except for the captain, who watched in horror as all his troops perish right before his eyes.

“Why the hell did you do that, did you have to kill them all?” the captain asked.

“How was I to know if all of them would not react like the one who drew his sword?” asked The Mystic. “My experience has taught me to just kill all those in a armed group before they have a chance to take advantage of their number. I’ve let you live so you can report to your superiors. Hopefully they will give orders that I’m not to be threatened anymore in the future. If they don’t, future patrols are likely to meet the fate yours did.” And with that, The Mystic put his robe back on and walked on down the trail. The captain did as he was told and reported what happened to his superiors. They responded by putting a death warrant on his head. That would prove to be disastrous for all patrols that encountered The Mystic in the future.

On top of the Mystical Mountain, is a small temple, only big enough to hold one person. It was like worshiping as if he’d been doing it his whole life instead of it being the first time. When the Mystic of Cascadia, Master of the Multiverse, Falcao…. It was declared in a chant of all mystics present that the master of Truthing had arrived. His adventurers are laid down here for all to see.