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When the elves had crossed the great ocean and come to the Sunset lands, they had found themselves almost immediately at home. The local spirits and gods and the like had a similar – if not identical – stance when it came to the great Tellings and while their stories did not mesh, they didn’t come into direct conflict. And so, elves who wished to find higher places in the Telling without needing to challenge the established Players – a dicey and dangerous proposition even in the best of times – flocked to the Sunset lands to establish their own households, to tell the old stories in a new land.

This was all well and good ... until someone needed to actually make the props.

Oh, it was all well and good for The Smith in the tale of Brannywise and the Smith to hammer on an anvil to make the horseshoes for the penultimate game that ended with Brannywise fleeing downriver with the Smith’s wife in one arm and an horseshoe around his neck. But The Smith couldn’t also be expected to forge the blade of Kale Tall Grass. That blade was from one of the stories that had been snuffed out by the Dark Lord – no elf could dare take up the guise of the mage-smith Stormrider and hammer out a new blade that was fit for Kale Tall Grass or any of the other heroes who bore it in their stories.

To fill this need, the elves, somewhat sheepishly, had opened the ports to the Sunset lands to others.

They didn’t get who they wanted.

Elves preferred the beautiful and the kind and the merry when they would interact with mortals. They could gladly host entire villages of the smallfolk among them. Brownies and knockers? Oh, they were a delight! Dwarves, they could tolerate. Orcs were, ah, well, orcs were sometimes quite energetic, but that was still acceptable. But all those peoples had their own lands and their own worries. They had not wanted to cross a dangerous ocean and come to an unknown land populated with strange gods and stranger spirits.

Instead, those who were not wanted had come. And the elves, with fixed smiles and strained voices, had welcomed them. They had welcomed the trolls. They had welcomed the trow. And, with their smiles nearly shattering apart, they had welcomed the Fiends.

[Interlocutor/Speaker/Craftsman] – or, as mindblind races called him, Librarian – sometimes recalled the race-memory first thing in the morning and enjoyed it immensely. His great great grandfather had been there, and had committed the memory to the communal pool. The bloodline link meant that the memory could be felt fuller and more colorfully than it might have been by some other Fiend. His facial tentacles writhed in a single happy spasm and he let the memory of the disgusted Lord Winsom fade. He did have some actual work to do today.

He began with a quick circuit of Lord Winsom’s inner sanctum. The Telling that Winsom was preforming involved a poisoned dagger, placed by an unnamed and unknown assassin, in his bed. He would cast back the bedsheets and throw down his best friend’s wife upon the bed as part of their forbidden lovemaking. She would be pricked and die – and lead to Winsom and his friend’s fatal duel. As the person who placed the dagger wasn’t a Player, anyone could do it – and for his entire life, Librarian had been the one to handle such things.

He pulled the dagger from its sheath with a twist of his mind – he kept his fingers pressed together before his robes. He floated it before his midnight black eyes and gently prodded the hilt with one of his facial tentacles – to set it spinning in the bubble of telekinetic force he exerted upon it. As it spun in the air, like a magnetic compass in water, he observed it. Yes, the poison had been applied exactly as he had ordered.

The door to the bed chambers exploded inwards – rebounding off the wall with the force of the movement.

Librarian started and clutched at his chest, feeling his hearts hammering through his silken robes as the dagger clattered to the floor, rebounding off the hardwood. Standing in the doorway was Lord Winsom’s squire, Fireheart. She strode into the room, her twin swords jouncing off her hips, and snarled at Librarian. “Outside, squid. Now.”

Librarian spluttered, his facial tentacles writhing. “Squire Fireheart, you should be out in the marsh!”

“Now!” Fireheart shouted.

Librarian, feeling as stunned as if he had been clouted about the head with a pole, started to the door. Fireheart stalked around like a caged beast. As she paced around, Librarian felt her anger and frustration – and her fear – sparking off her. The emotions buzzed and sparked along his hairless scalp and Librarian hurried even faster. He had no idea anything could scare Fireheart. The first thing that popped into his head was the rise of a new Dark Lord, or the conquest of the Sunset Lands by the Dragon Empire, or a new orcish migration or...

He stumbled down the stairs that circled around the center of the castle. Each step was carved ornately, and the banisters that went to either side of the stairwell were decorated with inlaid scenes of battles and history. It made gripping them easier when one had slick, slippery skin – something that Librarian was eminently grateful for. But the sheer number of the stairs and the height of the castle meant that hurrying down the stairs left him out of breath, his gills straining behind the little flaps between his facial tentacles.

He found that the foyers of the castle had the entire hunting party within it, including The Quarry. The poor troll that had been pulled off the streets to play The Quarry didn’t look as if he had been hurt much, and he was cowering behind ... behind a collection of strangers. The strangers made Librarian wish he had brought the dagger downstairs with him: Four of them were clad in solid, heavy, iron looking armor and carried what were clearly majiles. Then he took a second glance and realize that the weapons had no power gems, and were carved of metal and strange black material, not of wood and brass.

The other two were clad in lighter suits. One was green and brown, while the other was dressed in a sky blue uniform with a single gold bar on the shoulder and a few patches across the chest, written in a tongue he did not recognize. The men in heavy armor stood in a defensive position about them, while the troll ducked his head down and tried to seem as unnoticable as possible.

The elves all started to lobby questions at the Librarian – not just verbally, but mentally as well. And then the strange mentality of the strangers started to slam into him. He could feel their shock. Their disgust. Their utter confusion. It hammered into his mind and sent spiking pain through his temples. He flung up his hands, his purple fingers spreading, and bellowed: [SILENCE!]

Everyone shut up.

Librarian let out a long sigh, his facial tentacles flapping. He clapped his hands together. “You begin!” he said, using his vocalizations. The sound, he knew, was odd to anyone who had never heard a Fiend speak aloud – musical, fluting and faintly wrong. But as most of the races of Earth refused to hold their diplomatic meetings underwater, they would simply have to make due. He pointed at one of the elven squires. “Where is Lord Winsom.”

“Lord Winsom,” the squire said, his voice tight. “Is right there.”

He nodded to the stranger in the blue.

The stranger – [Helen Trevor] – scowled and put her hands on her hips. “Where the fuck are we and how the fuck did we get there?” she glared around herself. “I’m an officer in the United States AstroForce, you cannot fucking kidnap me and expect to get off without ... without some kind of repercussions!”

The words were translated by magic, and he heard the echo of them within her surface thoughts. Despite this, Librarian stood perfectly still, his gills flapping open in shock.

“ ... what?” he asked.

“I said-” Helen Trevor growled, her eyes flaring – trying to cover for her terror and confusion with bellicose shouting.

“I heard what you said,” Libarian said, shaking his head. “I ... you killed Lord Winsom?”

“I guess I did, but he was about to shoot, he, he did shoot me!” Helen spluttered, while the other stranger that stood beside her stepped closer and whispered to her – her mind more guarded, less easily read. She also had the advantage of standing quite near to someone who was shouting their thoughts at the top of their mind. Helen’s anger collapsed into a kind of relief, though, as she looked at Librarian. “Wait. Wait, you, you, you don’t think I’m Lord Winsom? These elf dipshits won’t stop calling me that!”

“Because you are Lord Winsom,” one of the squires said, sounding deeply pained.

“I am fucking not!” Helen shouted.

Librarian put his hand over his face. [Oh good gods, ] he thought. [Helen, I know you can hear me. Order your squires to ready their equipment for a grand hunt to slake your lust for combat and trials.]

Helen gaped at him. Then, slowly, she stammered. “Uh. Squires. G-Go ... do that. That thing. Uh. You know.” She waved one hand weakly. “Get your shit ready. We’ll go and, uh, hunt shit. But not people!” She thrust her finger at them. The squires, looking deeply relieved, hurried off.

In the empty room, one of the heavily armored strangers spoke – his words muffled by the helmet, but the thought of them echoing clearly in Librarian’s mind: “Sir, permission to speak freely.” At her subtle nod, he said: “What the fucking fuck is going on, sir?”

“I’ll tell you when I know,” Helen whispered quietly – into her collar. The heavily armored soldier, some kind of man-at-arms, felt as if he had heard her. Despite the fact he was in a heavy helmet, and Helen had not spoken loudly enough for him to hear at all.

Fascinating.

With the squires gone, the foyer felt a great deal more empty, and certainly more peaceful. Helen started, then. Her head lifted up and Librarian could feel her relief and her excitement. She made a subtle hand gestured to one of the men-at-arms, and he said: “We read you. In a potentially hostile situation, will contact again when safe.”

Helen turned to face Librarian full on. “I’m Ensign Helen Trevor. This is Dr. Vidya Rachna, and these are my men.” She gestured to the men-at-arms. “Who are you?”

Librarian inclined his head and focused, unfolding his name within her mind. Helen’s brow furrowed and, next to her, her other companion blinked. “D-Did I just hear that or-” she said, putting her hand to her ear, touching it gently.

“Get the fuck out of my head!” Helen shouted, stepping forward.

“I am not in your head,” Librarian said, his voice growing cold. His clan had the memories of when they had wandered through places other than the Feylands. Most races had similar reactions – but here, he got to feel the difference between a memory and reality. In reality, having the cold wave of hostility and fear and fury and embarrassment smashing into him all at once was rather like taking a bath in maggots. His facial tentacles froze, then writhed in a single convulsive movement. Librarian forced himself to speak calmly and distinctly. “My name is Librarian, for those who lack the ability to speak mind to mind. I am the steward and the manager of Lord Winsom’s estate and narratives.”

“Cool,” Helen said, slowly. “Where are we and how did we get here?”

Librarian sighed. “Come. Let us speak in the sitting room. Portaling can make one quite tired and disorientated.”

He turned and led the strangers into the sitting room. Here, chairs made of ironwood and silver were set about near some small trunk-tables, and some servants that he had mentally called to had already laid out snacks and treats. Helen took one of the seats awkwardly, then reached up and tugged off her queer helmet. Beneath, he saw that her hair was the most remarkable set of rainbow hues. Her associate, this Dr. Vidya Rachna, had much darker skin and pitch black hair.

But it was not their hair that stopped Librarian dead.

It was their ears.

[Good gods!] he exclaimed, mentally. Helen’s eyebrow twitched and he hurriedly switched back to speaking aloud: “You’re humans?”

Helen glanced at Vidya. Vidya glanced at her.

“We’re humans,” Helen said, her voice serious. “And we need to know where we are. Your, uh, your fellow ... your ... the elves.” She put her hands on her thighs. “They did this weird had gesture and touched this rock and then suddenly, we were all standing here.”

Librarian, his hand still pressed to his chest, forced himself to calm. “You,” he said. “You are on the western coast of the Sunset Lands, in the Castle of Lord Winsom.” He paused, then wriggled his two front tentacles, the ones that normally were used to indicate a smile or a frown. “I can see why you would be so confused, if you’ve never had to deal with elves before. Ah. Okay.” He nodded. “Okay. We can deal with this...” He started to pace back and forth. “Elves, ah, well...” He shook his head. “By the Brain Mother, I didn’t know I’d ever be here. Explaining this. To humans!” He chuckled, nervously.

“How do yo know what we are?” Vidya asked, her brow furrowing. She spoke a different tongue from Helen – but the same magic that translated for Helen translated for her just as well. Librarian chuckled.

“Well, there are legends of humans,” he said. “They’re considered stories for children.”

“Riiiiight,” Helen said. “So, you guys have a big old book with humans, where some fogy old elf made up human languages and some human told your fucking bobbits to chuck jewelry in a volcano to fuck up Sauron.” She put her hands over her face, groaning. “And some elven Gary Guygax statted out humans for his fucking Offices and Starbucks tabletop fucking roleplaying game, Jesus Christ.”

Librarian caught flashes from her mind, castoffs of imagination. He saw a world of glittering pyramids set in the middle of dreadful wastelands of thin trees and sickly grass. Vast oceans, gleaming and strange towers that thrust into the air and made a constant, low droning sound. And humans. Hundreds of humans. No. Thousands. No, no. Millions. No. Librarian felt a cold chill crawl along his spine as he saw the humans that Helen had seen.

Billions of humans. Humans of such numbers that one could count them, one per second, and never run out. Humans pressed together, streaming down streets of steel and silver. Humans building. Humans grasping. Humans holding weapons. Humans marching towards Librarian – ready for his blood.

Librarian nearly sprayed his ink jets – something he hadn’t done unintentionally since he was a broodling.

Helen forced herself to her feet. “All right,” she said, seriously. “You had stories of humans. Well. We had stories of elves. And I haven’t read any of them.” She scowled at him. “Well, at least, those that I did weren’t fucking right. So, please. Explain to me why they all think that I’m Lord Winsom when all I did was put a few rounds into his chest.”

“Ah.” Librarian shook himself from head to feet. “Elves are immortal.”

“Jesus,” Helen whispered, while Vidya put her hands to her mouth.

The impassive men at arms muttered to one another – sharing much the same reaction as their knighted leader. Helen, though, immediately said: “So, immortal? Like, I mean, I fucking shot him. How did that work?”

“Immortal does not mean one cannot be killed,” Librarian said, seriously. “And that is how one claims a place in the Telling.” He held up his hand to stop Helen from asking more questions, sighing mentally. “Each elf wishes to be part of the Telling. To become a part of the Telling means one is able to reenact a story from the primordial days of elven history, when Earth was young. It is a great honor to tell the stories, cycling endlessly through them. This way, elves keep their stories alive, even in a changing world. But the only way that one can claim that part, the only way one can rise in elven society, is if you tell the story better than the person currently within it.”

“By killing them?” Helen asked. “This is some Star Trek level bullshit.”

“Not necessarily,” Librarian said, his voice prim. “Why, once, an elf was unseated from their place in the Telling in a baking competition.”

“Ahh,” Vidya said, sounding fascinated.

“How often does it come down to some elf punking out their chosen LARPer?” Helen asked, scowling at Librarian.

Librarian checked his mental records. “Nine out of ten times,” he admitted, somewhat apologetically. Helen put her hands over her face again.

Librarian placed his hands together, clasping them against one another. “This is somewhat beside the point,” he said. “You interrupted the former Lord Winsom in the midst of an extremely important Telling. The elves will only grow more irate if it is not resumed and done properly. They will quite literally do anything in their power to prevent you from returning to your associates and your fellow humans until the tale is done properly.”

Helen frowned. “Give me a second,” she said.

She stepped away from Librarian and then slid her helmet back on. Politely, Librarian did not skim her surface thoughts. He simply gave her a chance to speak. When, at last, she tugged off her helmet, she was shaking her head and looking grim. “I’ve been told,” she said. “That a diplomatic party is on their way. And to try and keep the situation from getting worse. Can I rely on you, being a not elf, to be able to help with that?”

“Yes,” Librarian said. “In fact, that is my purpose, that is why I was made a part of Lord Winsom’s household. I have guided another before.”

Helen nodded again. “Okay.” She smiled. “What do we gotta do to keep things from getting worse.”

“We shall begin with arming you properly,” Libarian said. “Which type of sword do you prefer to use?”

Helen’s brow furrowed. “Use swhats?”

Lucas was in the middle of goggling at one impossibly bizarre thing when Captain DuPont came into the laboratory section of the Enterprise and dropped a second impossibly bizarre thing on his lap. “Mr. Sibusiso,” Captain DuPont said, his voice flat. “I need you to stand behind me and say exactly what you said this morning.”

“I, what?” Lucas asked, tearing his eyes away from the satellite footage of the away team. The view was grainy and spotty, and showed only the vaguest hint of what could be humanoid forms. An old hat at analyzing this kind of data from when he had been working in the same spot as Teller, handling the cisvenusian spy satellites, Lucas had been able to identify the four USMC marines, Dr. Rachna and, of course, Helen. The aliens surrounding them had been somewhat trickier. He had seen that they were riding what must have been mounts – horses? - and that they had been armored. Beyond that, the footage was too low fi, to grainy, too occluded by tree cover to give anything but a few frustratingly vague hints.

The next frame on the footage was even more frustratingly vauge: there was just a bright blue flash, like a center of an LED flashlight at a rave. The next frame showed nothing but clear, undisturbed Florida wetland.

“You heard me,” Captain DuPont said. “We’ve finally got the Russians on the line.”

“R-Right!” Lucas scrambled to his feet.

Lucas spent the next ten minutes wishing he had any job but this. The Captain took the call from the Russians in the nicest conference room, where he could be captured on camera from a position of some power, sitting in a rather large and comfortable chair. He was flanked by several of his senior staff and by Lucas and Dr. Mann. Lucas supposed that DuPont wanted things to seem both military and civilian, to remind the Russians why the fleets had come here.

The first two minutes of the conference call were spent getting the communication architecture of the two fleets to synch up. Some bug in the software or misalignment of the hardware meant that they spent those two minutes looking first at static, then at the Russian equivalent of a ‘please hold, interface loading’ screen. When that screen blipped out of existence and was replaced by a close in shot of the Russian’s CO, Lucas hoped that his expression didn’t show what he thought. The Russian captain was a woman who had been beautiful, once. But someone had ensured that she’d forever after be referred to as ‘striking’ by generous people and ‘scary as hell’ by anyone else: One entire cheek was furrowed and twisted by what had to be a close in encounter with an incendiary weapon.

“Captain Zlata Lyudmila Markova,” she said. “Commanding officer of the Russian Federation forces in the extrasolar system. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Captain DuPoint?”

“Cut the crap, Markova,” DuPont snapped. “We’re in a polar orbit – we know what you’re doing in Russia.”

“We are not doing anything in Russia,” Markova said, her voice studiously neutral. She was nearly accent free - in fact, she sounded almost American. “We are currently orbiting an extrasolar planet that merely looks like Earth.”

“We still know what you’re doing,” DuPont said, scowling.

“Do you?” Markova asked, dryly.

“We have detailed orbital surveillance that shows you delivering material and supplies to the natives of this planet,” DuPont said, his voice growing more heated.

“Our high command had the foresight to send us with a significant number of trade goods,” Markova said, blandly.

DuPont nodded to Lucas. Lucas gulped. He just had to say what he had said before. He stepped forward. “Uh, analysis of the weight, uh, the size of the compartment, as well as signatures picked up from the surface, including light flashes, the way that the trade goods were distributed immediately after you left, it is extremely evident t-that you, uh, you have sold, or, er, given weapons to the natives of this planet.” He gulped. “I mean, they marched out an army formation – or at least, it looked like one from orbit, and distributed the weaponry!”

“You’re arming the natives,” DuPont took up the slack as he stepped forward. “Natives that, according to everything we’ve seen, are centuries behind us in terms of technology. The United Nations charter-”

“Does not apply in this solar system,” Markova said, her voice cold. “And even if it did, Captain DuPont, we have observed your shuttle’s movement over the northern continent of the western hemisphere...” She said, her voice so precise, so detached. Lucas almost admired her for clearly making an effort to remind everyone in the room that this was not Earth. “You are also interacting with the natives. We do not see any reason to police your activity. You should not feel any need to stick your nose in where it is not wanted.”

“We’re not selling AK-47s to knights on horseback for the oil fields of Siberia,” DuPont said, his eyebrow twitching. “If you don’t cease these activities immediately-”

“You’ll what?” Markova asked. “We have a fleet. You have a single ship, American. The orbital gauge won’t stop that. Good day.”

The line cut off.

“W ... Was that wise?” Lucas whispered. “Just telling her what we know?”

DuPont sighed, his anger fading. “She had to know that we knew. Now she knows that we know – meaning she has to relay that back to the Russian high command.” He looked at Lucas. “Start working on an org chart for the logistic chain it’ll take to bring a major fleet here. And...” He chewed his lower lip. “I want you and Mann to work on bringing more of our people down – once we secure a landing site that is worthy of the name.”

What he didn’t say hung in the air: Because the Enterprise may have to try taking on the Russians, if we’re ordered too.

Lucas nodded. He turned to go, then paused. “Sir,” he said, quietly. “That will mean a general war in the SOL system.”

“I know that,” DuPont said, his hands clenching. “She knows it. She has to know that, the Russians have to know that. But this Earth, this second Earth, it’s...” He shook his head. He didn’t need to lay out the treasure trove underneath them – the mysteries and the dangers they had already run into were only adding to the wealth that was waiting down there. Lucas rubbed his face – and as he left with Dr. Mann, he could hear the bridge crew beginning to discuss the ‘Trevor situation.’ That made his stomach knot in worry.

Dr. Mann shook his head. “This is a terrible day,” he said, quietly. “I hoped to never see it.”

“A general war,” Lucas said. “M-Maybe it’ll stay in space? In this system?”

“Maybe,” Dr. Mann said, his voice quiet. “My family, my old family, has roots in Kashmir. During the Troubles, they fled, because the region became an open shooting ground between the Russians, the Indians and the Chinese. Why? It was a fine place to plant nuclear warheads. Short ranged nuclear warheads.” He fixed his eyes on Lucas. “You work in Logistics. Tell me: How many nuclear warheads orbit Earth now? How many ships bear them? How many-”

Lucas held up his hand. “You don’t need to lay it out for me. Dr. Mann. I know how bad it its. But there’s nothing I can do about it!”

Dr. Mann frowned. “I don’t know.”

Lucas sighed.

When he sat down at his desk, those three words echoed in his head. He looked at the spreadsheets he had whipped up, at the chokepoints that were created by the infrastructure of the SOL system and the lack of infrastructure in the SOL-2 system. Everything that had once been important and vital had been thrown out the window – who cared about Ganymede or Mars or Ceres when there was a whole second Earth for the taking? An Earth with technology that apparently included castles, sailing ships, rocket propelled guided munitions and whatever had happened to Helen...

Lucas jerked his head up, then started to put in requests for information. A request for why he wanted the information came back. Lucas laid out the supposition he had. This put him in touch with the sensor staff on the bridge – and the confirmation was made within minutes. Lucas practically ran to the senior staff meeting room. The whole of the senior bridge officers were still there, and Captain DuPont had his hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve uncovered something?” he asked. “Lieutenant Fiore says you uncovered something big.”

Lucas nodded, then tapped at his handheld tablet, bringing up the image he had isolated, then flicked it to try and bring it onto the conference room screen. But the tablet’s program immediately got confused and instead started to play a random file from his music list. He fiddled with it, scowled, muted the music, slammed the tablet onto the table, and said: “Helen, uh, Ensign Trevor got teleported nearly five thousand kilometers instantaneously. She was on Florida, then the next time we picked her up, it was in California. In the Bay Area, right?” He paused. “That means the natives have this capacity. If they have it, we can get it. If we can get it, then the entire orbital situation changes completely. We have enough munitions that all we need to do is to put a nuke on each Russian ship and...” He nodded. “Boom.”

Captain DuPont nodded, slowly.

“I like the way you think,” one of the senior officers – Lucas recognized her as the missile commander.

Captain DuPont frowned. “We’ve been informed that Ensign Trevor, in a stunning display of incompetence, has managed to get herself caught up in some kind of ... native political power struggle by shooting a local leader dead.”

Lucas pursed his lips. Thanks to he and Helen spending a good chunk of three months watching cheesy sci-fi movies together, he could immediately think of half a dozen TV episodes that this was exactly like.

“Apparently, she’s got to win a swordfight,” DuPont said, frowning.

Lucas blinked. “I know how to sword fight.”

Everyone looked at him.

Lucas looked around. “I ... I mean, I took a fencing course. In Uni.” He coughed. “Mostly foil. It was years ago, though.”

Captain DuPont nodded.

Lucas was mentally kicking himself the whole way down. The shuttle creaked and groaned and finished emerging through the cloud layer – and Lucas’ self recrimination faded to nothingness as he looked out the window and saw the vastness of California underneath him. It was California as it had been – California as it might have been. There was the occasional village that he could see through the thick greenery, and the occasional hint of some large structure lurking between the trees. But the trees were what dominated the landscape. Endless, rolling forests, a vast carpet of greenery that breathed in carbon and sighed out a vast profusion of oxygen. The ocean was further away than he expected, and there was no pyramidal shape of the San Fransisco arcology – instead, the shuttle started towards a large clearing that was set out before a huge castle, with a small collection of people standing before it.

They watched as the shuttle bumped and jounced on the rough ground – its engines screaming and its airfoils roaring as they caught the air. But the shuttle was a combat shuttle, designed to make hard landings all across the Earth for suborbital conflicts. He handled coasting to a stop in this clearing with aplomb.

When the door opened, Lucas stepped out and saw that Helen was in the knot of people. She had been dressed in an ornate set of armor that looked gaudy and impractical as hell – all curving loops of carved wood, resting across her space suit. But despite being of alien manufacture, it fit to her body perfectly. Her helmet was off and her rainbow dyed hair ruffled in the wind that blew across the clearing. Next to her, looking as if she had never been more excited in her life, was Dr. Rachna.