RARE-ISH mONDAY Book Promo And Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike

33 thoughts on “RARE-ISH mONDAY Book Promo And Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike”

1. My only attempt at a dazzling reply is the following:

   1. I wasn’t kidding. That’s sorta the punchline of the movie…

2. “It’s very… sparkly. Dazzling, even.”
   “Well, of course. That’s why the machine to do it is called a be-dazzle-er.”

   1. ;p

3. “Young Lady, your ability to turn sound into light is very interesting but the music that you use doesn’t dazzle people”.

   1. I got that reference!

      1. 😀

4. “Give ’em the olll’ Razzle-Dazzle!”

   “Karl, shut up and throw the flashbang.”

   1. rofl

5. A short conversation heard above a planet near you:

   “Sadly, I must admit, I awoke to another bright, cheerless morning floating here in the clouds of Venus”
   “What, have you no poetry in your soul, don’t you find the day glow dazzling?”
   “How can that be when it’s always drizzling?”

6. As Karl walked into Westminster Abbey with President Velasquez and the rest of the party representing the Republic of Texas, he couldn’t resist staring at the dazzling light streaming through the stained glass windows. The light seemed to focus on the altar where, in a few short minutes, he and his companions, along with a multitude of other guests, would witness the coronation of Britain’s new king, George VI.

   (This is set in one of the events of my current work in progress.)

7. The two ships were pouring more fire into Wu Zetian‘s shields, dazzling displays of fire streaming off in sheets and explosions. Yet, the Wu Zetian didn’t fire back until the very last moment before her shields failed. Wu Zetian‘s return salvo disemboweled one of the attacking ships, tearing the shields apart like wet paper and shattering the hull of the ship in a massive explosion. The second ship tried to escape, but Wu Zetian dropped three spreads of torpedoes, eighteen in total.

   The second ship was able to shoot down the first wave, but one torpedo got into attack range and detonated, damaging the ship. The third salvo bracketed the attacking ship and exploded, the ship following soon after.

8. “Behold, Nobelians,” said Oeneas. “Nova Vegae, birthplace of dragons: a self-sustaining sea of gemmeous stardust currents, iridescent with its own internal aurora.” He chuckled. “Now you understand our exiles’ legendary treasure-hoards.”

   “It’s beautiful,” Amélie breathed, drinking in the dazzling cloudscape.

   “Indeed,” said Oeneas gravely. “And beauty must be defended. Come.”

9. “That is a purely dazzling display of practicality.”
   “Thank you. I tried.”
   “I was being sarcastic. Do you not know how to have fun any more? Why must everything be practical? Why can’t some things be just…I dunno…ridiculous, but fun?”
   “But then it wouldn’t be a dazzling display, would it?” The look she gave Marta was devastatingly earnest.
   Marta sighed. “No, you’re right. Sorry I said anything.”

10. “Oh, all sorts of tales,” said Phoebe. “I heard of a tower where a king sent his son, to see princesses of dazzling beauty in the stained glass windows, and pick his bride.”
    “I dare say,” said Julian, urbanely calm, “that Ava is glad that it is just a tale.”

11. She sighed. They always tried to be dazzling. Until she grew numb to it, and would barely notice an ordinary sort of dance, such as the merchants might give.
    It wasn’t as if she gained anything by attending. She wasn’t that fond of dancing.
    “Lady Ciara!” Lady Arabella rushed forward.

12. A golden cloud of sparkles arose about one fairy. As if they were not dazzling enough in their finery.
    She supposed the royalty and nobility gleamed in gold, jewels, and silk. To outdo them, fairies had to do what they could not. Giving gifts to the child was not enough.

13. “I am grateful that you chose to let me dance with you, but I am puzzled-”

    “Why did I pick you, dressed practically and perhaps even drably, over all those wearing flashy, even fantastical attire? It’s simple, really.”

    “It is?”

    “Later there will be fireworks. Dazzling art of fire in the sky. But without it, the world might be a slightly lesser place, but it would still be. But to make an extreme example, the dull plow-horse, were we without that, we’d starve. I don’t know what you do, but I suspect it’s important even if many refuse to see it.”

    “I’m a horse?”

    “What you are, I suspect, is essential. And I admit to flattering myself with the idea that I can realize such a thing.”

    1. Dance parties: Not the best place for metaphor. People have a hard time understanding over the music.

14. “How about this one?” said Nigel Slim-Howland, holding up the gaudiest tie imaginable.

    “Quite dazzling, sir. Perfect for a New Year’s Eve party at Miss Hardaway’s estate,” said his butler, Jenkins.

    “What will you and Gwendolyn do while I’m gone?”

    “Recharging and firmware updates,” said Jenkins. “Unexciting, but important nonetheless.”

15. If Jenkins’ transmission translated into English, it would have sounded like, “Gwendolyn, respond at once. You are required here.”

    It was unclear if Gwendolyn received the transmission. Jenkins intercepted her near the Hardaway estate. She was standing in front of a window, quietly saying, “Dazzle him? I can dazzle him!”

16. “Power levels critical. Shutdown imminent. Please return exosuit rig to charging cradle immediately.”
    The blinking amber battery indicator read only 3%. Time enough to get back to deck 45 and the morgue in normal times. Problem was, normal had left the station over a week ago. Chaos had been merrily dancing with entropy over the corpse of Gorgon Station ever since.
    “We need those supplies, Frank. Do what you’ve got to, just bring them back or we’re all dead, you hear?” Mike Stoner sounded tense. With good reason, of course- he was right. The forty-odd survivors holed up in the old mining level had good access to air, solid pressure, and power. But no water. No food. No spare parts or supplies. If he died out here that would be it.
    “Copy that, base. Need to find some place to juice up the rig or else I’m down to skinsuit and skivvies here.”
    “Wait one.” The older man hummed and growled softly.
    “You’re at frame 237B, right?”
    “Sure am.”
    “Try the maintenance closet. Should be visible one deck above you and about seventy feet aft.” Frank rolled the rig gently with a microburst of thrust. He’d had enough practice in the twenty years he’d spent working in one. The last week he’d practically lived in a suit. Properly maintained, it would keep him alive as long as there was enough power to run it. Even fed and watered him like a plant through the feeding port on his neck.
    “I see it. Heading there now.” Frank fed the rig power like a miser, carefully jetting towards the tiny yellow-striped box protruding from the station’s hull. Caution was also second nature to him these days. The incautious, the stupid, and the unlucky hadn’t lived enough to learn that.
    The maintenance closet looked tiny compared to his nearly ten foot armored form. It was sized for humans, not giants.
    “I’m here. How do I charge off of one of these things? The airlock on that thing looks positively claustrophobic.”
    “You’re going to have to exit the rig. Your onboard air should give you plenty of time to get in there and deploy the charging system.”
    Exiting the rig was the last thing he wanted to do just then. Bad things happened to people outside the rig. He’d seen it. The battery icon pulsed softly in his vision, reminding him that his fears mattered little to the world outside his own head. At least, he hoped they did.
    “Right. Exiting now.” Air hissed as it was drawn back into the rig’s tanks and his skinsuit automatically deployed his hood as the local pressure dropped. Sensors and other tubes retracted from his body, and the rig clanked as the ‘Open exosuit rig Y/N?’ prompt filled his vision. He mentally clicked ‘Yes.’
    Frank felt the heat from the local star as he extracted himself. Gorgon Station orbited in a field of rocky debris that might have formed a planet in another few trillion years or so, if humanity hadn’t taken a liking to the place. The airlock opened easily as if it had been installed yesterday, and he swung himself in. As he’d feared, it was indeed tight. Hull maintenance kits lined one wall of the lock, with heavy rammers and large button drills on the other. Even the ceiling held spare O2 cartridges and suit patch kits. He snagged one of the latter on general principle, hanging it from his belt while he waited for the lock to cycle him in.
    He stopped to take stock once inside the station again. The danger was greatest closer to the agronomy decks and living spaces, but only fools took that implied safety for granted. Racks of tools, lockers, and a small office to the left. Hatch to the right, crates stacked against the bulkhead. The quiet hum of machinery and the whisper of the ventilation ducts seemed normal, but still he waited. No scent of blood and rotting flesh, so far so good.
    The office was likely his best bet for finding the controls to deploy the charging station. He hadn’t even realized that there were such things back when he’d just been Frank Dawes, orbital miner for second shift.
    Inside the office was a bank of monitors, a messy desk, and terminal connected to the bulkhead itself. He flicked the switch labeled ‘Auxiliary Charging Port’ and felt the familiar sensation of heavy machinery vibrating through his boots. A flicker of motion caught his eye on one of the monitors.
    At first he thought it was another human. He’d caught himself thinking the same many times with the newly turned. This one still had patches of blond hair and most of a skinsuit wrapped around its horror show of a frame. Its claws were still blunt, and the face showed traces of the human being it used to be in life. Blackened eye sockets, no nose, too wide mouth and far too many teeth, but if you squinted and looked a bit sideways, it almost looked like a horribly burned person.
    It wasn’t, though.
    The vibration stopped and he turned away, only to glance back in shock. There was a name tag still visible on the ragged suit. D. Vickers. Diane Vickers. Sensors technician 2nd shift.
    They’d met two months ago. Both of them coming off overtime, sleep deprived and exhausted but starving, they’d ended up together at the crowded deck 33 breakfast bar. They ate and talked together for hours, forgetting about sleep. He’d called her up the next day, and they’d gone out several times over the weekends since. Nothing too dramatic. Coffee dates, late night vids, swapping music and book recommendations.
    They’d kissed and snuggled, nothing more than that. No rush. He’d been more comfortable with her than he’d ever thought possible, anxious to move things forward but enjoying everything they’d done together too much to push. He’d last spoke to her nine days ago, told her to get off station no matter what.
    Frank considered the monitor. The thing wearing Diane’s skinsuit wandered over to a hatch, bumping into it, then swatting at it with its blunt claws. He heard the thump from across the room.
    Before he knew it the button drill was in his hands. A beastly machine, it was made to break the toughest rock. It’d do. His hand found the hatch release.

    ***

    “Frank? You get that rig charged up yet?”
    “Yeah, Mike, I did.”
    “Somethin’ happen in there Frank? You don’t sound too good.”
    “I’m fine, Mike. Leave it. Got supplies to grab, right? Point me to ‘em.”
    “Warehouse level, deck 41. Look for section 87B and follow the blue line. Supplies should be in an orange container in rack 3, row 17, C level.”
    “Copy that, warehouse 87 Bravo in rack 3, row 17, Charlie level.”
    “Let us know if there are any nests. There might be alternatives, but none as good.”
    “Will do. Out.”
    Frank cut the com. He powered the rig just as carefully away as he’d arrived. He told himself that the dazzling brilliance of the local star was what was blurring his vision and the wetness of his cheeks was sweat from his recent exertions. The name tag in his suit pocket seemed heavier than its slight mass. He told himself that it didn’t matter. That there were bigger things at stake than simple feelings that probably wouldn’t have lasted anyway. Perhaps someday he’d believe it, too.

17. “Wake up.” It felt to Jim (but it was “Robert Morgan” here-and-now) like one of his worst hangovers ever. Except he didn’t have the headache or any of the rest, just felt very, very wrong. If the man’s voice — “John Carter” he’d chosen, of all silly things to throw around in front of a Burroughs fan — had held any real urgency, especially any hint of combat-need, he’d have been up and on his feet in an instant. But it did not, and that opium-heavy lassitude was so slow to crawl away, and he just lay there on his sleeping bag…

    So very aware he’d let down his guard in sleep, in a way he seldom if ever had for years.

    “Wake up, Morgan. No, really, you don’t want to miss your first sun-quickening, now, we’re there.” He felt the toe of a boot nudge him in the side, none too ungently. And only the once. And kept still.

    “No, really, Robert, you should be up soon. It’s not a sight to be missed, and no way can you properly appreciate it lying flat on your ass.” She seemed to be in overall charge, going by “Emma Peel” — and didn’t have the ease-of-command in her own voice, most of the time, that “Carter” did. But either you came around quick to want what she did, or else suddenly decided you’d go along anyway…

    He did open his eyes, reluctantly. “That’s better, Morgan, you’ll feel better sooner for being up and around. You’re always asleep during Transport, one way or another, guess They want it like that.” Carter again. And, once he’d blinked the blear of sleep (or whatever) from his eyes, he saw very much the same campsite around him, the same trees around their little seaside clearing, lit by very much the same odd-but-homey orange-LED light their subdued camp lanterns still provided.

    But there weren’t, he realized as he looked around, all the same trees, only the very nearest ones. And it looked as if the sky was lit with a dim sort of deeply-reddish light, a bit like that bloody glow from a fully-eclipsed moon, only far bloodier…

    “I don’t suppose the lot of you could just be quiet and give me five more minutes, here in the blessed dark.” Lou — “Lucretia Borgia” here, though she seemed far more scientist than trigger-puller and barely had enough bush-sense to fill a thimble — didn’t sound grouchy, only cranky, and had never come close enough to “high maintenance” to be a problem. But she sounded exactly like Robert felt.

    “Not going to be dark nearly that long, Lou. We’re going to hit the upslope of sun-quickening pretty much any moment now.” Emma’s voice had that no-nonsense, tell-you-straight tone in it again, that she’d had in his first interview after he’d answered a help-wanted ad right out of “Glory Road.”

    “Look straight up, everyone, it’s always straight up. You’ll see a dim red glow, like coals in a fire. It’s about to get a lot whiter and brighter, till it’s full day. John, if you please.” And Robert saw him pull some sort of remote-control box out of a pocket, and all their lanterns went dark in an instant.

    It was clearly there, now, a big red sort-of-moon glow. More like the deep red of hot iron, really, than the coppery blood-and-ashes light of a total eclipse; and now that their own light had gone, it spread over all like emergency lighting. “Okay, now, what exactly is that? It can’t be a star, they don’t stay lit if they’re that color. And I do know there’s nothing like that in the sky of Earth.” Lou, of course, still in her old habit of saying what everyone was only thinking. Or maybe what only she would.

    And it was a somewhat bigger circle than the moon or sun, deep red light fading off toward the edge till it was almost hard to tell where it ended; and around it was a suggestion of foggy dimmer light much the same color. But only a suggestion, just as it was much harder to see each other now.

    And then it started to get less dim, gradually but steadily. Still red, but shading up towards cherry red and then towards a brighter orange. And something about all that made chills run up Robert’s spine.

    As you could see more and more, a short stretch of sand and then a sea rolling softly in the distance. And then more distance, and more sea, and as you looked up… no end in sight. Like looking up at that big wave in that SF movie. No horizon, only more sea and more islands, into misty distances but still nothing but more sea and more land until… “Oh, crap. We’re in Pellucidar. We’re inside a world.” His own voice.

    “We can’t be, there’s gravity. No gravity inside a sphere, Newton proved that back in the day.” Once again, Lou. Saying it out loud. (And by now you could clearly see there was a circle where the land of their clearing ended, and the sand of that beach began. That looked drawn with a compass. By light that was still orange-ier than the much-prized ‘Golden Hour’ sunlight, but rapidly getting less so.)

    “Ah, yes indeed, Miss Borgia. But that’s Newton; and this world is thinking more Yukawa, or perhaps in the end most like Proca. If you have a short-range sort of ‘gravity’ the math works out fine, as I am sure you’ll verify for yourself, sometime soon. And, Mister Morgan, though you may be reminded of reading Burroughs novels sometime in your misspent youth, you ought to be aware that this, ah, inner world here is nearly twice as big as could possibly fit inside Earth. Not quite four times its total area, though the outer surface does clock in at right about that.” Emma Peel’s voice was something far more like merry than stern or even genuinely formal; it was as if she could, being back here now, ‘let her hair down’ properly and comfortably at last. And her soft rich smile at that was… dazzling.

    The “sun” in the sky — could he be doing the math right, figuring it at about a hundred miles across? — was still not dazzling, but seemed at least practically bright as day. Though it was also a lot more like the color of an incandescent light bulb, maybe a low-wattage one or even one on a dimmer, than the bright white of the Earthly sun.

    “Okay, so we’re not going to float up off the — inner surface of the shell — into space. But can you, and I suppose I’m asking you, Emma, tell us how it is we’ve not gotten simply broiled to death the moment we got here? I mean, planets radiate their extra heat to space, but it’s not like we can see any space from here in any direction, is it? Which ought to make this quite the oven, or even more a reverberatory furnace. Not that I’m complaining, but how is it we’re not all cremated nice and ashy by now, with that thing up there in the sky?” And Lou pointed skyward, her diatribe finished.

    “Interesting thing about the sky here, if you look at it in visible light you can see the sun and around it the landscape of the world. But if you look at it in thermal infrared, it’s all deep cloudy darkness more than a few degrees above… where the horizon ought to be. Something up there absorbs longwave heat and sends it… somewhere else. As you can also verify, Miss Borgia, there’s so little overlap between a blackbody spectrum at 5600 K and one at 300 K (sunlight and what we, ourselves, radiate), that it’s not hard at all to split the two almost perfectly. So it’s likely all radiating away to space, thousands of miles out there somewhere, far under our feet.” At which the look on Lou’s face (now quite clearly to be seen) was priceless. Not at all abashed or chastened, far less defeated; merely… calculating, in a literally slack-jawed way most of us never get near. Endearing, really, once you knew her.

    “And I’ve forgotten something traditional and important, like Crossing the Line in an old-style ship. Everyone, it is my distinct and personal privilege to say… Bienvenue a l’Enfer. Welcome to Hell.”

    [Was already thinking about something much like this, but the vignette made it all come right into focus…]

18. Yep, this bad guy just won’t let go… This may end up in some draft of the final product, actually.

    —

    Anya raised her wand and dashed to her usual place behind Harry and Carlo. The only thing keeping her from berating herself for her own carelessness was the fact that Major Gehring seemed as stunned as the others by the sudden appearance of the monsters. Some demons could cross over from the other side at any time, she knew that, but how could they have missed the wild dogs twisted into Hellhounds? Or the other possessed animals for whom the only cure was annihilation?

    Perhaps the most unsettling thing of all was how their guest reacted. Mr. Jirair, the man Governor Drechsler sent to accompany them on this expedition, didn’t look impressed at all. He simply sighed, shook his head, and walked to the front of the party.

    “What are you doing, Mr. Jirair?!” the Major asked, stunned by his audacity.

    “Taking care of the problem that you were too blind to see,” he retorted, an arrogant smirk crossing his face as he drew his sword. “Watch and learn, knights of the Order of St. Azriel.”

    Mr. Jirair held his blade vertically in front of him, edges facing to the side, as a dazzling array of light formed around the hilt. They quickly formed into a constellation that Anya recognized as Draco before erupting in a burst of vermilion light. Countless fiery meteors followed the flash, bringing death and destruction to the horde. Unholy screams pierced the air as the monsters howled in pain. The scent of brimstone accompanied the creatures’ deaths, too, and Anya had to breathe into her scarf to keep from vomiting. She never got used to that no matter how many demons the others dispatched in front of her.

    Yet it was over in minutes. The only thing left of the horde was ashes, which were soon scattered on a breeze. The threat eliminated, Mr. Jirair sheathed his sword before turning to the group. “Shall we be off, then? Or do we need to let Lady Anya recover her composure first?”

    “I-I’m all right.” she insisted, managing to meet the sorcerer’s gaze despite herself.

    “If she says she’s fine, she’s fine,” Harry grumbled, giving the newcomer an irritated look. “Let’s get on with it already, Jirair.”

    “I don’t believe you outrank the CO in this instance, Mr. Stidolph.” Mr. Jirair spat, giving the much larger man a look of contempt.

    “I agree with him,” Major Gehring stated. “Please, lead on Mr. Jirair.”

    “Of course. Try to keep up, everyone!” the sorcerer said, walking ahead and waving everyone onward.

    “Are you OK, Anya sweetie?” Scarlett asked, giving the cleric a concerned look as they walked.

    “Y-Yes,” she stammered in reply. “It’s just that magic of his…”

    “It’s Astral School, same as what your sister uses, right?” Carlo asked, hanging back like he usually did when Anya had a shock. “That looks like some next-level stuff, though. Think she could work magic like that someday?”

    “P-Perhaps.” Anya replied, unable to put one particular thought about Antanas Jirair’s magic into words. She had seen Chryssa cast Astral Magic countless times and none of her spells were ever like that. Anya didn’t feel any of the familiar power of starlight in his spell that invoked Draco’s power.

    Rather, she felt the fires of Hell itself.

19. Yep, this bad guy just won’t let go… This may end up in some draft of the final product, actually.

    —

    Anya raised her wand and dashed to her usual place behind Harry and Carlo. The only thing keeping her from berating herself for her own carelessness was the fact that Major Gehring seemed as stunned as the others by the sudden appearance of the monsters. Some demons could cross over from the other side at any time, she knew that, but how could they have missed the wild dogs twisted into Hellhounds? Or the other possessed animals for whom the only cure was annihilation?

    Perhaps the most unsettling thing of all was how their guest reacted. Mr. Jirair, the man Governor Drechsler sent to accompany them on this expedition, didn’t look impressed at all. He simply sighed, shook his head, and walked to the front of the party.

    “What are you doing, Mr. Jirair?!” the Major asked, stunned by his audacity.

    “Taking care of the problem that you were too blind to see,” he retorted, an arrogant smirk crossing his face as he drew his sword. “Watch and learn, knights of the Order of St. Azriel.”

    Mr. Jirair held his blade vertically in front of him, edges facing to the side, as a dazzling array of light formed around the hilt. They quickly formed into a constellation that Anya recognized as Draco before erupting in a burst of vermilion light. Countless fiery meteors followed the flash, bringing death and destruction to the horde. Unholy screams pierced the air as the monsters howled in pain. The scent of brimstone accompanied the creatures’ deaths, too, and Anya had to breathe into her scarf to keep from vomiting. She never got used to that no matter how many demons the others dispatched in front of her.

    Yet it was over in minutes. The only thing left of the horde was ashes, which were soon scattered on a breeze. The threat eliminated, Mr. Jirair sheathed his sword before turning to the group. “Shall we be off, then? Or do we need to let Lady Anya recover her composure first?”

    “I-I’m all right.” she insisted, managing to meet the sorcerer’s gaze despite herself.

    “If she says she’s fine, she’s fine,” Harry grumbled, giving the newcomer an irritated look. “Let’s get on with it already, Jirair.”

    “I don’t believe you outrank the CO in this instance, Mr. Stidolph.” Mr. Jirair spat, giving the much larger man a look of contempt.

    “I agree with him,” Major Gehring stated. “Please, lead on Mr. Jirair.”

    “Of course. Try to keep up, everyone!” the sorcerer said, walking ahead and waving everyone onward.

    “Are you OK, Anya sweetie?” Scarlett asked, giving the cleric a concerned look as they walked.

    “Y-Yes,” she stammered in reply. “It’s just that magic of his…”

    “It’s Astral School, same as what your sister uses, right?” Carlo asked, hanging back like he usually did when Anya had a shock. “That looks like some next-level stuff, though. Think she could work magic like that someday?”

    “P-Perhaps.” Anya replied, unable to put one particular thought about Antanas Jirair’s magic into words. She had seen Chryssa cast Astral Magic countless times and none of her spells were ever like that. Anya didn’t feel any of the familiar power of starlight in his spell that invoked Draco’s power.

    Rather, she felt the fires of Hell itself.

    1. Didn’t mean for it to post twice or get delayed. I guess this was my first big WPDE moment?

       1. You could’ve been censored for saying the name of a French general! ^.^

          1. I’m afraid my history nerdery doesn’t run that deep, unfortunately. I forgot where I came up with said demon’s mortal alias if that was the offending name. Or if it was the Major’s I do remember that but that’s what fit him. Characters can cause a lot of trouble, huh?

             1. In this case, it was Banshee’s Catholic geeking– told the story about how he was saved from being killed because he had a little shrine to his daughter in his car and the picture caught a bullet or something; one of those where she’d replied to herself, wordpress filtered the first one but didn’t filter the second, but it didn’t post the second because it was a reply to a spammed comment, and then I got spam-canned because I wrote the name down in testing for error. 😀

                1. All of that must have been from before I started lurking in the comment sections. 🙂 But I figured I was due for a WPDE moment sooner or later so why not now, right?

                2. I got canceled for mentioning The Vote-Stealing Machines Which Shall Not Be Named. I did not take the hint. Then Sarah freed ALL my posts from WPDE Purgatory and I had to assure everybody that I really wasn’t the sort of loon who would post 7 or 8 near-identical messages in an hour.
                   ———————————
                   Elections are far too important to be left up to a bunch of uncontrolled voters. The Party MUST exercise oversight and management to prevent mere voters from electing the wrong candidates!

20. (from a space opera I want to get back to one of these days)

    The moment she saw the flash of scintillating light, Jenny averted her gaze in alarm. A bedazz hunted by dazzling its prey to the point of confusion.

    Jenny restrained her reflexive impulse to shoot it. The alien creature, yet another nasty little gift of the Gorga lords, resembled a sea urchin made of crystal. It would shatter when hit by a bullet, sending those glasslike spines in all directions in a deadly rain. Worse, some kinds of bedazz contained a venom sac that would poison the whole area and kill everything within the spray radius when ruptured.

    There was a trick to killing a bedazz without getting yourself killed in the process. However, it wasn’t easy, and required both skill and patience.

    1. Sounds interesting. 😀

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