In a rickety wooden chair at the table, toiled a diminutive man
adorned in a white robe with scarlet trim. He wore no jewelry. In
fact, there were only two features of distinction about the man. His
hair was a stunning shade of white. The other characteristic of note
was his eyes. They were a radiant shade of red only seen deep in
the heart of a raging inferno. No pupil was evident in them. The
light in them burned steadily like coals in a furnace.
The man was using a quill and ink to copy information from a
tattered paper onto a scroll. His calligraphy was perfect with good
reason. He only moved his eyes and hand while writing. His
concentration was complete.
The books surrounding him were a mix of older texts on
legends and newer ones on geography or various cultures. Without
warning he would snatch one and flip frantically through the
pages. When he found the desired page, he ran his fingers along
the words until he reached the quote of interest. Then he would
carefully transfer the information to his compilation paper.
His work came to a crashing halt when the door to the room
flew open and made a loud thump against the wall. The albino was
startled and knocked over the inkwell. The black liquid soaked the
scroll destroying his work.
He was furious. His eyes became searing white-hot in color.
Nearly invisible rays of magic fired from them and struck with a
concussion against the intruder. An imperial page was shot out into
the hallway where he came to a sudden stop upon reaching the
wall.
A moment later the page stumbled back into the room. He held
the frame of the door while trying to keep his feet. “Great, allpowerful,
Necromancer, I have been sent to bring you to Lord
Mandrean.”
Necromancer’s eyes returned to their normal frightening
appearance. “Never enter my chambers without permission again,
20
Vermin! Do you have any idea of what you have just ruined, you
putrid sack of flesh? I would burn you down right now if we
weren’t running short of ignorant pages to invoke my wrath. Count
yourself lucky and get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
“Please accept my apology for disturbing you but our lord
awaits your presence.”
“Then he will wait,” Necromancer yelled as he struck the books
and cleared the desk in one angry swipe. “Tell your emperor that I
will be there when I have time.”
Necromancer crumpled the paper he had so painstakingly
prepared and threw it at the wall. He stood silently for a moment
and then reluctantly began to search for the bit of paper he had
referenced. During his search, his eyes caught sight of a narrow
shadow in the doorway.
“Are you still here, page? Your life must mean less to you than
it does to me.”
“I beg thee, great Necromancer, I have orders from Lord
Mandrean himself to escort you to his chambers. He seems
dissatisfied with the speed you display when answering his orders.
Those are his words, not mine.”
Necromancer rolled his eyes and then hung his head. He
replaced the objects on the table with a snap of his fingers and
approached the trembling page. “Well then,” he said in a calm,
monotone voice, “let us not keep his worship waiting.” He
gestured politely to the door. The confused servant led him out of
the room and down the hall.

As the room parted, Necromancer came into view. He moved but his robe showed no motion from his legs. As he grew near his eyes became a deeper red and nearly appeared ablaze as he approached the elves. He stopped directly before the guards in the front of the column.
"Captain," he ordered. "You and your men may return to your duties."
The captain looked puzzled. "I certainly would never disobey you, My Lord, but we were told these are the most dangerous prisoners we have ever held. With Lord Mandrean about to begin Court, I would think it would be wise to stay with them. After all, Lord Mandrean’s protection is the most important factor."
"Your concern is noted," Necromancer answered as anger swelled in his voice. "There are over a dozen Imperial Guards already stationed in this room. That is more than sufficient. Your men have other responsibilities they are neglecting. I suggest they return to them. As for our Dear Lord Mandrean, I am here. There is no greater protection to be had. You are dismissed. Pray I do not recall you’re questioning of my orders in the future. Such a recollection may displease me and be detrimental for you."
The captain gave the fist salute and said firmly, "By your leave, My Lord." He turned on his heal and led the guards from the chamber.
Necromancer smiled a fiendish grin as he approached Linvin. "I see you have been restored to health. That is good. I may not have use for you but I will be prepared all the same, Grithinshield."
He walked over to the twins and looked at them with contempt. Then he glared at Linvin. "I can see why you loathe them. They are miserable excuses for elves. To be fair, elves never have impressed me as a group. These 84
two are particularly under whelming. Had I been you, I would have eliminated them long ago."
"They are my kin," Linvin stated indignantly.
"A fact I am sure you have regretted on more than one occasion," remarked Necromancer. "They may be of your blood but you would have done well to shed it long ago. Your trip would have been far easier. Then again, I may be giving you too much credit. Perhaps you enjoy having inferiors around. I personally despise it, but have no choice in the matter. I have no equal with whom to associate." He moved on to Anvar. "You certainly draw a pathetic comparison to me. What is the world coming to when everyone is so scared of a circus freak like you? An Orange Magician, eh? You are better served as a sideshow trickster. At least that would earn the slightest respect. Instead you pass yourself off as a force to be handled with extreme caution. You could not harm me on your best day.
"There are many here who may fear your tricks. For that reason I will be clear. I will be removing all your restraints soon. After all, we do not want the ‘Emperor’s Prisoners’ to be uncomfortable, do we? Then you will all sit where I tell you and do nothing until called upon. If any of you make the slightest effort to escape, you will only leave this chamber when your ashes are swept aside." He paced before the prisoners with his hands behind his back. "That means, no swordplay, fisticuffs or that sad thing Anvar Greenlith calls magic. Remember, you are nothing more than a means to an end for me. Even at that, you are a backup plan. Your incineration would at worst be an inconvenience to me. So do not bother convincing yourselves that you are indispensable."

The morning sun poked cautiously over the horizon.  It painted the sky in a dazzling display of vibrant colors.  The brilliant star seemed to pause for a moment while taking its first look at the world to which it was bringing light.  The majestic, glimmering light brought a caress to the silky spring clouds.  They would continue to carelessly banter about the sky, riding winds where they led.
As the dark of night retreated, a dense fog still stubbornly held the land in a cloak of disguise.  Such a spiteful deed by its dark counterpart seemed to displease the sun.  It resolved to rise steadily into the air and shine brightly down upon the usurper with all its might.  Being no match for such luminance, the night reluctantly withdrew its misty blanket and released the land to the dawn.
As the haze dissipated, it gradually revealed treetops where one might expect the ground to be.  With more and more of the air clearing, the trees appeared to spread out in all directions.  It was a great forest of redwoods which seemed quite normal at first glance.  Upon closer inspection, though, it could be seen that the trees were twice as wide as houses and were spaced out evenly, most certainly in a deliberate pattern.  It was not just a forest, but also a town.
The trees were actually the town of Missandor.  The spacing of the giants formed a grid, which created streets through the town. There were no houses there in a conventional sense.  The inhabitants lived within and upon the trees.
Missandor was a community of elves. The swarthy folk with brown hair and eyes were slightly more modest in height than their human counterparts.
As a whole, it could be said that elves were a friendly and kind people but also intensely proud and distrusting of other races.  In Missandor, however, the population was known to be accepting of different cultures and races, making for an atypical elven town.
The quiet streets soon erupted with the sounds of the market opening for business.  Stands, carts and stores of all types were opening.  In a matter of minutes, the town had gone from a simple forest to a merchant conglomerate.
Sounds of children playing all around blended with the haggling taking place at the vendors.  It created a symphony of sound which was pierced on occasion by the ringing of a bell on the local water wagon.  The wagon was pulled by two horses and driven by a kindly old elf who had been delivering this precious commodity to homes since he was a child.  He would most likely continue his task until his eventual demise.  He was a constant in the ever-changing township.

Ok we're here today with Mark Stidham, the voice actor and owner of
Buddy the Dog, from the kid's show “Here be Dragons.”
First of all Mark, thanks for being here. Can you tell us a little about Buddy? And how'd
that start?

I bought a new PC, one of those all in one without a tower so it's just
one piece and with a touch screen that I never ever use. Anyway, it
came with a webcam and a webcam program. On this program it had
avatars where you could record a video with your voice and the lips
would move. One of the avatars was this beautiful golden retriever. So
I thought, hey this would make a good thing for video marketers and
such, and for ads and commercials. I already worked on Fiverr.com so I
set up the gig with this talking dog that I later named Buddy after
one of my own dogs, not a Retriever but basic same coloring. And there
you have it... Buddy was born.

Great! We hear you have a new book out. Care to tell us a little about it?

Yes, “Study Buddy.” It’s a children’s interactive book with lessons on
all types of subjects, and most important…coloring!!! Of course,
Cheshire Grin Publishing gets all the credit for putting it all
together for which I am grateful. It’s available through Cheshire Grin
Publishing via Lulu.

http://www.cheshiregrinpublishing.com/store.html


Sounds good. Where can we get our own personal Buddy vid for the kids?

 You can get this here:

http://www.cheshiregrinpublishing.com/merchandise.html

Kool. So tell us a bit about the show.

 I started getting some orders for Buddy to appear in this free
educational children’s show. It has puppets and diverse characters.
The more involved I became with the show, I could see how it would
appeal to children, be entertaining and they would also learn. My part
includes many different dog facts or related subjects. Secretly, it
appeals to me personally (in a hipster kind of way). I showed it to an
adult friend of mine and he freaked out thinking one of the coolest
things he’d ever seen. So that’s it in a nutshell.


Wow! Great! Okay you know we're not going to let you get away easy. Tell
us a bit about the man behind the voice. What's a good day for you?

A good day is a day I can survive with what’s left of my sanity… Just
kidding! A good day is when I can provide good services for people
whether that’s with doing a Buddy Video or creating other video and
audio services such as voice overs or Royalty Free Music tracks, which
is something I’ve been working on a lot lately You can check out my
work on that athttps://www.909music.com/gentleman/tracks
 Also a good day for me is taking care of my family and all if its
relative madness, which I wouldn’t trade for anything right now!

Today I have an interview up on two web sites.  Check it out on either http://buddytalkingdog.blogspot.com/2016/01/guest-blog-with-rival-gates.html or on http://streetlighthalo.blogspot.com/ .  I’d like to thank the good people at these sites for posting my interview.  They are really first class.  Enjoy.

Much of the Mandrean’s success over the years had been due to the fact they covered their empire with great roads. Uniform in width, six horses could hide abreast along their surfaces. A mixture of sand, gravel and lime held large quarried stones together. The recipe made for a strong, fast surface. It enabled the Mandreans to deploy their forces with greater speed than their opponents.
Messages could also travel the realm more quickly. Such logistical properties alone swung many a battle in their favor.
After years of war and little thought or attention being given to the roads, they began to crumble and had become a sorrowful shadow of their past greatness. Where once disciplined human armies marched like thunder rolling over the land, now goblin armies scurried along like rats. It showed the weakened stature of the empire and the short-term solutions used to bolster its ranks after its decimation in the war with Sartan years before.
Their ride was most uncomfortable. Potholes abounded where freezing and thawing loosened and eventually carried away stones from the well-engineered road. The elves slid back and forth in their prison with every bump along the way. It was clear from the debris on the roadside that advancing and retreating Mandrean Armies used the route on many occasions. Merchant wagon-wheels also did their part to loosen the stones as well.
The only break from the monotony of the trip occurred twice per day when the elves were released from their cage in order to relieve themselves and walk about. An idea occurred to Linvin to try to escape during that time but it was not to be. As though the goblins knew their entire story until that point, they watched them closely and never removed the shackles in spite of many persuasive arguments by Linvin and Anvar. Orders would not be disobeyed again by the troop.
For meals, the prisoners were given goblin rations. They proved to be completely inedible to anyone without the iron digestive track of a goblin. Even the salty biscuits would be welcomed. Instead, they were given rancid meat that had been improperly cured. The water they received was stale but would do. As the days blended into one another, their hunger robbed their strength. 16
 
The montage of days passed with the landscape before their eyes as the caravan followed the road north. Vineyards eventually gave way to livestock farms and small towns or villages. The people here were fearful of their own forces, having been overtaxed and treated with brutality by the impudent goblins. Townspeople peered through their windows at the elves. Linvin observed their faces as they passed. Each one wore the expression of someone looking at a person about to die.
Parents pulled children out of the streets to clear the path for the passing soldiers. Anything of value was quickly hidden. Kegs of wine were left in the center of town as an offering so the soldiers might take them and leave their home in peace. The ploy was successful as the goblins took up the kegs and continued on their way.

He stood by the window with a snifter of brandy.  Swirling the container of precious liquor in his hand, he called out, “Jelena, could I at least have some ale instead of this lamp oil you’ve served me?”
“Anvar,” bellowed the woman, “This is an important occasion and I will not have it sullied by serving that swill you and Dirk took such delight in drinking. You are holding the finest brandy in the land.  Savor it and let me see to my tasks.”
Anvar inhaled the bouquet and then sipped in a conservative fashion.  His face wrinkled slightly.  “I honestly do not see why you are making such a fuss, Jelena.  After all, it’s just Linvin coming home.”
“Do you see him?” shouted Jelena as she ran to the window.
“No,” laughed Anvar.  “I was merely saying that this gala you have prepared seems rather…extravagant for Linvin’s tastes.  Would you not agree, sister?”
Jelena stormed over to Anvar.  “Having been through this past year with me, I would think you of all people would see a need for celebration.  This house has been like a mausoleum since Dirk left.  I have one good thing left in this world and that is my son.  Is it so wrong to shout to the world that he is home?”
“It could be,” Anvar said before taking a larger drink from his glass.  “You know how I feel about this.  It is an unwise and unneeded risk.  One that may very well get us all killed.”
“The gala will have tight security, I assure you.”
Anvar came face-to-face with her and said with frustration, “You know that I do not speak of the gala.  Has time blinded you so that you do not see the impending danger?  The risks have not gone away, Jelena.  Bringing us together again and announcing it to the world will only compound those risks.”
“Dirk has been gone over a year and there is not the slightest hint of danger.  You are paranoid, dear brother.  Even if there was a danger, it died with Dirk.”
Anvar struck his forehead in disbelief.  “Dirk is not what they wanted!  They have just been biding their time.  How can you be so ignorant of the impending doom?”
“Because all I can see is my son!  He was practically stolen from me as a boy and sent halfway around the world to be raised by strangers.  My boy has lived more years away from me than with me and I want him back!  I want him home!”
“Even if it costs us all our lives?” Anvar asked as he held his weeping sister.

You wouldn’t think a glass would mean so much, but it can.  Yesterday was bagel day in our house when bagels at Panera were on sale.  After purchasing some I drove home and immediately prepared one with cream cheese.  Then I decided to have a glass of apple juice along with it.  I opened the cupboard and I saw a very familiar glass staring at me.  It was narrow at the top and particularly at the base.  The sides were wide and rounded.  The color was smoked glass and there were a Detroit Lions insignia on it.  I chose the glass and filled it up.  Then I just stared at it.  It had been in my family for as long as I could remember and with rambunctious children who broke everything, it seemed, somehow this was never smashed or even cracked.  It was my father’s main glass.  He gave up drinking when I was 3 but was still addicted to his Diet Pepsi every day.  It was a ritual.  When my father would come home, my job was to get the glass, fill it with cold Diet Pepsi (he didn’t like ice in his drink or to have it warm so we always had to have it refrigerated,) and take it to him once he reached his chair.  Then he would watch the nightly news.  After dinner and a quick nap, Dad would use his short wave radio to see what countries he could tune in.  He was always excited when he found a new station out there he could barely hear.  It gave him such pleasure but made it so difficult to do homework with the BBC Home Service blaring through the house.  Then Dad would call me downstairs to refill his glass.  We had giant ceramic ashtrays we used as coasters.  No one in the house smoked and so we never thought of them as anything but coasters.  I would clank the glass down hard but nothing ever happened even in the hard ashtrays.  If Dad was out of town on business I would use the glass.  My oldest brother is Type 1 diabetic and has been since childhood.  As a result, my mother would make Kool-Aid with Sweet and Low.  No matter the recipe, she could never make it taste good.  So I would take the glass and fill it ¾ of the way with Kool-Aid and the rest of the way with Diet Pepsi.  Then I would stir it.  The end result was not bad.  I would watch my cartoons and drink but never broke it.  Years and years went by and still that glass was used, even by my children, but it never broke.  Without even realizing it I took the glass as one of the few items I kept from my Father’s house after he died.  So there I stood with my apple juice, holding the glass that had survived everything and I thought of my Father.  I finished my drink and put it safely in the sink.   One day my children might want it.  What a long life for a fragile glass.    

The Courtroom or Throne Room as Mandrean sometimes called
it was in the center of the second floor of the palace. It was a grand
hall. The floors and walls were polished marble with gold and
silver ornaments. There was a gallery in the back. It was along
either side of two colossal doors with brass handles. They served
as the main entrance and exit for everyone except the most
important members of the empire.
Precisely etched in the main floor was a map of the continent,
which reached from one wall to the next. It was complete and
detailed. The only odd thing of note was there were no political
boundaries anywhere.
Lord Mandrean was true to his heritage in believing that it was
his duty if not his right to expand the empire and let none stand
against its might. He saw no reason to chisel borders into the stone
when he would frequently be moving them.
The map faced the front of the room. Behind the map sat the
centerpiece of the hall. It was his magnificent golden throne with
jewels encrusted in its sides and arms. Silken pillows cushioned
the already padded seat and a golden stool was stationed along
side.
Still, the most intriguing part of the hall was the ceiling. It was
a crystal dome. Though the view was not clear through the frosted
glass, it allowed for sunlight to enter and illuminate the marble.
With the room shaped as a rectangle, pillars along the perimeter
supported the circular dome. A lantern hung from each pillar for
additional light. Torches had previously been used, but the format
was changed due to secondary fires they started two years before
during the room’s destruction at Linvin’s hands. Each column
stationed a goblin guard. The number of soldiers present seemed
exorbitant, but it was used more for effect than protection.
The gallery was full as it always was when court was to be held.
No commoners found a seat there, however. Rather, noblemen,
businessmen and foreign dignitaries filled the seats. They were
becoming restless waiting for the session to begin and openly
quarreled.
Four Chairs of Honor were placed before the mob. In each sat a
general. Though their uniforms were identically colored in
mandrean green, they each displayed their individuality through
the decorations that adorned them. The display went from modest
to extraordinary.
At last Necromancer entered the room and took his place
hovering next to the throne. He was melancholy as ever.
A trumpeter emerged from a side entrance and called for
attention. “Good people, please rise as I present to you the
emperor, Lord Mandrean the Thirteenth.” He followed his
statement with a chorus of the national anthem. The gallery took to
their feet and began to applaud as the emperor carefully walked to
his throne in an effort to not step on the sorest parts of his feet.
Mandrean was covered in the finest silks with military honors
sewn into the cloth. Gold lace brought an illuminating luster to the
navy attire. A modest crown highlighted his head. If it had been a
prestigious occasion, he would have decked himself in his full
ornamental dress. With the routine nature of the agenda, Mandrean
dressed the part and saved his neck the weight of his enormous
crown.
He sat and called a servant to bring a pillow to be placed on his
footstool to cushion his feet. He proceeded to rest them with
obvious pain.

As an artist I have a built in level of tolerance for artistic expression that others might find offensive.  Even that layer of understanding, however, has limits.  Before Christmas It put together a playlist of Christmas songs I had on the computer.  I had the classics but also favorites like Bruce Springsteen playing “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” and “Merry Christmas Baby.’  I can’t get enough Clarence Clemens on the sax.  There was U2 and Bon Jovi playing “Please Come Home for Christmas.”  The list goes on.  As I was listening in bliss a rap song came on.  I have nothing against rap as an art form until it gets nasty.  This song went there fast.  It was by a group my daughter and son like called “Hollywood Undead.”  Being an artist I tried to have an open mind and listened to the whole song before passing judgement.  When it was done I was sickened.   Then I stopped and thought about a conversation my father had with me as a young boy.  I was heavily into progressive rock.  On this particular day I was listening to Genesis and imagining myself behind the drums playing like Phil Collins.  Then my father came in and told what I was listening to was not real music.  It was garbage.  He took me downstairs and made me watch Looney Toons cartoons.  He explained the background music was real music.  Then he played the 1812 Overture and used it as another example.  I actually liked that piece and respected orchestra music but felt in no way did it make my music garbage.  As I aged and went to college I admit I listened to less cerebral music like Guns N Roses, AC/DC and all sorts of alternative rock (which would now be mainstream.)  When I came home freshman year and played “Eruption” by Van Halen I thought my father was going to blow a circuit; and there weren’t even words in the song.  As I sat in my room I remembered my mother telling me about her parents’ reaction to Elvis and the Beatles.  They were so tame compared to what I listened to.  Music continues to push the boundaries of what they can get away with.  On Christmas I mentioned to my daughter that her song ended up on my playlist.  She begged me not to play it for her mother.  Then I looked at my granddaughter opening a present and said, “I wonder what the music will be like that she enjoys and you find offensive one day?”  I can’t imagine how crude it will be but I think I will be one of those people listening to the Oldies station by then.