The Price of Freedom

The stage was constructed of hard, blackened wood. Weathered by years of city filth, rain and the tread of a hundred thousand pairs of bare feet. Nails protruded here and there, indicating shoddy repair over the years, and the guards on either side of the wide staircase were nudging the ascending men and women with the shafts of their pole-arms to help them avoid tearing their feet. In a few moments, the small crowd were looking on with vague interest as the dozen men and half a dozen women were lined up.

The slave-master, a corpulent man with a finely trimmed beard held in a gold ring, was treading between them, poking a man in the gut here, a women in the small of her back there.

“Stand up straight.” He snapped, his switch darting out and prodding a huge, muscled youth in the abdomen. Nearby him a teenage girl was weeping softly. The slave-master stepped over to her and lowered his voice.

“Come now, not the time for that. You smile, show your teeth, and look happy. No one wants a crying girl full of troubles and tears. Pretty girl, probably be snapped up by some young dandy eh? Yes... lovely.”

The man stepped back, his chins wobbling, and surveyed the girl afresh.

“Actually, come, Lonn!” He called. One of his guardsmen trotted over, armour clanking. The slave-master clicked his fat fingers at the girl, up and down, indicating her.

“This one shouldn’t be here, look at her. She’s far too pretty. Have her up with the nice ones! Every time I find these mistakes at the last minute! This is very distressing!”

His great bulk giving the stage cause to groan, he tottered off, not watching as the guard shoved the girl to the other side of the stage where the shapelier, comelier examples were gathered, and had her shift unceremoniously removed. Naked, she remained weeping whilst the slave-master addressed the crowd.

It was a good day for it, the crowd seeming energetic. The slave-master’s plants asked the best questions, demanded the finest muscles to be flexed, the finest breasts bared, and of course drove up the price with a careful bid placed where necessary. The weeping girl sold swiftly, tear stained though she was. A gaggle of pretty young women with personal bodyguards were in the front row, giggling and pushing at each other, demanding to see the most well muscled of the males on offer, and squealing with laughter when a mountain of a man had his breech-clout removed to reveal his endowment.

Ten of the best sold, the slave-master began lowering prices, selling a few off in bulk to a shipbuilder for hard labor, and two women to a whorehouse, regardless that both were far homelier and better fit to scullery work than the more expensive females on offer. It was a while before the plants asked the question that would set them off.

“Where’s the special ones today?”

“Yeah, last week you had the Orc woman! I watched her rip the head clean off a wolf in the pits! And tits big as watermelons!”

The slave-master raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Oh my friends, my friends. Good people such as yourselves know quality, I am aware. This week, I feared I would let you down. Why, after being the proud procurer of such fine flesh as Devon Town, who even now stands champion of the melee combat arena here in Truronia, yes! He was purchased right here!”

He stomped a sandal clad foot down on the boards beneath him, gesturing to the reverence of the place beneath his feet.

“Even the beguiling eyes of Lady Gresch, the Dawn Elf actress. Once she stood, golden hair gleaming, naked, upon this very stage, for the taking of a wise buyer. This week, I feared nothing would match such grand sales of the past. I know the finest of Truronia comes here, to me, to find their next hero, their next legend!”

He shook his head, his chins wobbling, building up to a crescendo.

“That was, until only two nights ago! When the gods themselves saw fit to throw a creature of such uniqueness into my hands, I knew not what to do. Why, what would a simple, honest businessman like myself do, when something falls into my hands I know to be wild, uncontrollable. Even my trained guards are afraid, see them quiver!”

“Come on!”

“What is it?”

“Bring him out already!”

Genuine questions. The slave-master gave a flourish, jabbering to his guardsman over his shoulder.

“Lonn! Get her! Go!”

He bowed, far as his bulk would allow, to his audience.

“Fine people of Truronia, if you seek rarity. I present to you, merchandise unlike any you have ever seen before!”

It took two guards to gingerly escort the slender figure up the staircase, and although the woman made no violent move, both kept at arm's distance. Her step was light, and would have been quiet if she had not been hobbled with a manacles about her ankles, her arms held tight behind her back with similar noisy metal cuffs.

The audience seemed disappointed.

“A girl?”

“A skinny one!”

Once herded to the front of the stage, the slave-master strode up proudly to gesture pudgy fingers covered in rings at the new arrival.

“If you seek rarer examples of flesh, seek no further.”

The woman was clearly slim, hidden behind a filthy white shift, her entire head covered in a tied sack. The slave-master made a patient pass around behind her, delighting in the theatrics.

“I never thought I’d get a chance to reveal a being of such quality, Such rarity. Only the truly specialized in taste would seek something so....dangerous?” He licked his lips, a look of mock fear on his face. He paused longer for effect, before he slipped forward to tug the ties from the girl’s back. Her shift slipped loose around sharp collarbones.

“Off with it girl!” The slave-master barked, prodding her in the back.

A snarl came from beneath the sacking obscuring her face, but the shoulders of the figure shrugged, and the shift came slipping off to the floor. The crowd gave a gasp of mixed appreciation and surprise. A few men whistled lewdly.

The revealed skin was pale, unburned by the glaring sun. Not in the welcoming milkiness of a courtesan's soft flesh, however, but ghost pale skin, bearing the harsh blue lines of veins beneath. It gave the suggestion of the wan translucency normally reserved for the dead.

Where other women on display tended towards an underfed gauntness or an adolescent skinniness, the form now standing naked center stage was a warrior work of art. The woman was a masterpiece of tight, lean muscle. From long legs built for running, to a tense stomach lined with the shadow of lean abdominal muscle. All over, the body bore tales of combat, the thin white scars of blades, yellowing bruises from the impact of fists or clubs. Through all the damage, the girl stood like she were made of stone, straight, unbowed.

There were appreciative calls from the crowd, the fitness of the subject obviously head and shoulders above the rest on display.

“Don’t be fooled. The strength in these nubile arms is like a quay chain. Why, it’s only her temper held in check that keeps her from tearing loose this very moment!” The slave-master cried, spreading his hands wide.

“How does she fuck?” Called a voice.

There was a guffaw from the audience. The slave-master addressed it with a pointed finger.

“Ah, certainly a fine question. Especially with such treats to the eyes as you are lucky to see!”

He gestured to the girl’s pert breasts, the pale points of nipples upturned to the sky and the high curving hipbones that angled down invitingly. At the apex of the girl’s thighs, a mound of bright purple hair made a visual exclamation point of her cunt.

“A clear delight in all the fleshy respects, any man can see that. Surely she is a wild animal among the sheets! But to bring this one to bed.... do you dare? For this young lady is far more than meets the eye. My fine people of Truronia, I invite you, if you so dare, to lay eyes on one touched by the fires of the infernal realms!”

Throwing his arms wide to punctuate his mystical finish, the slave-master untied the string around the sacking, and pulled it from the woman’s head.

The crowd gasped, some in awe, some in delight. A mop of unkempt purple hair crusted with old blood adorned her head, hanging over a face that surely hadn’t seen twenty summers. A face with high cheekbones and a small, cruel mouth. Her eyes closed against the sudden brightness at first, but when opened, surveyed the crowds before her with glaring yellow orbs. Bloodshot and watery, the eyes had the suggestion of madness about them, darting from face to face, observing.

The red lips turned down in distaste, and her arms made one brief tug against the manacles that held her hands behind her back.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, fine people of Truronia. Whether you seek a warrior on par with the most savage Orcress, a lover more wild than a Merrow whore, or a mind sharper than the Shattered edges, Protiya can be all, for one who dares! Show ‘em your teeth girl!”

The woman named Protiya opened her mouth into a snarl, baring a ruby red tongue and teeth noticeably sharp. Her canines were curved inwards enough to give an animal edge to the expression, not in the least softened by one on the bottom, which was cracked and broken from some savage strike to the mouth. Her expression remained a picture of disinterested disgust, but a cock to her hips suggested she took some delight in frightening people. Protiya leaned forward, extending her tongue at one of the young women in the front rows. Recoiling women squealed, silks held tight in hands and expressions of disgust and fear obvious.

Still the eyes looked, they darted. Searching. She met the eyes of a man midway through the crowd. She let her teeth close on her bottom lip ever so briefly, letting it pop out with the barest suggestion.

Before the slave master could continue his sales pitch, the man raised a well manicured hand.

“I like her spunk! I can tame her!” He shouted, stepping forward. Draped in aristocratic finery, a guard at his side. He’d already purchased himself a tall, willowy blonde that was waiting patiently nearby.

The slave-master gestures open handed to the man, eyebrows raised.

“Surely sir, you seek women of finer taste, of softer edges than this...this beast you see before you!”

The man approached the stage, the arm of his previous acquisition gripped firmly by his guard.

“She is no beast, she’s just been taught a thing or two more than once. Maybe she needs a soft touch.”

He reached out to touch Protiya’s leg from the ground before the stage. The tight limb gave a little, edging towards his caress.

The slave-master leaned towards his customer, resting his hand on Protiya’s naked hip.

“Do you think you are up to the task sir? Surely you are a man of discerning tastes, not a trader in blood for the pits?”

The man was looking up at Protiya, his viewpoint granting him an unapologetic gaze between the warrior’s legs. He wasn’t looking at the eyes, that stared past him at the guardsman. At blades, at buckles in armor.

“Two thousand, silver.”

The slave-trader threw up his hands exasperatedly.

“Two thousand he says?” He asked of the crowd. There was traditional jeering, even from those who’d never see that much money in their lifetimes.

“Two and a half!” Came the call from one of the slave-master’s plants. The portly man pointed a finger.

“Another admirer of the demon’s charms!” the slave-master looked to the man at his feet, open hand as if to grasp the next bid.

The man was staring up at Protiya, at the sharp line of her hips, the taut stomach.

The slave-master’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, concerned his plant had gone too high.

Protiya’s eyes, finished of their appraisal, dropped to meet those of the admirer at her feet. Slowly, a smile touched her wolfish features. Teeth showing at the corners of her lips. A smile full of kisses and promises.

“Can you speak, girl?” He asked.

“Speak? She can read even! A mind behind the ferocity in those eyes. Speak, girl!” The slave-master jabbed her in the gut with his switch.

Protiya opened her mouth, taking a breath, slowly.

“I greet thee. Who, heart willing, leads me over mountains to freedom. They will envy us our nest.”

Her voice was like rattlesnake kisses in the ear. Husky and dry, but sweet.

“Three thousand.” He said, smiling up at the girl.

The slave-master clapped his hands,

“If there is nothing further?” He asked of the crowd tersely, drumming fingers on the back of his hand in an apparently idle gesture, his signal for plants to stop bidding. Then his eyes glimmered with glee.

“Sold! Fine sir, quite a purchase I assure you. This one is capable of oh so much. Much more than meets the eyes.”

The slave-master gestured for his guards to redress the girl, but the man hissed up at him.

“I’ll take her as is. The outfit suits her.” He smiled, and Protiya smiled back. Her expression crumpled with discomfort as she twisted in her manacles.

“Off with the steel, I have assistance.” The man demanded.

The slave-master, coming around, grabbing hands eager for coin, waved a finger in warning.

“I would highly recommend keeping the steel on until you get her home. Fast legs, this one. I’ll add in the manacles, superior quality, for just fifty extra. The girl also had some personal belongings, leathers, jewelry, so on.”

Protiya’s eyes were turned down, slowly creeping up to meet her new master's gaze.

“No, I think she’ll behave. She won’t be needing her old things.”

The slave-master tutted, but shrugged, waving a hand at Lonn to remove the manacles about the girl's wrists and ankles.

Free of her bonds, Protiya rubbed her wrists silently, and after looking at the offered limb for a long moment, took the hand that was offered to lead her from the wooden stage of the slave block.

The slave-master regained the stage after much huffing and puffing back up, and resumed his sales pitch. His echoing voice fading behind as the bodyguard gripped Protiya by the shoulder and steered her after her new master.

People parted in the rich man’s wake as he strode proudly away, followed by the barely dressed blonde, her eyes downcast, with Protiya and the guardsman last.

---

As they strode through the stone alleyways of Truronia’s market district, he began to speak over his shoulder.

“In my home, you will find all the amenities you should need. The bath house, the games quarter. You will respect the authority of my staff, and in turn you shall be respected. He stole a glance back over his shoulder, at the blonde, and Protiya looming behind.

“You, you have any skills beyond the obvious?”

The blonde coughed, like there was something stuck in her throat.

“Speak when you’re spoken to, girl. You will learn.”

The girl gave another startled cough, before nodding concomitantly.

The man sighed.

“You were four hundred silver Callans, we get what we pay for, don’t we? I’ve spent more on horses.”

He looked back, to where Protiya was staring. Always staring, that one. He smiled inwardly, eager to get her home for exploration.

“You stay out of the main halls, and enter only by the doors that border the gardens and the pools, unless you’re asked to present to the house I don’t expect to see….”

He continued, going over the houses, the rules as they strode through a low overhang and into an empty alley. He paid no heed to the filthy derelicts in the street as he stepped over them, nor the noises of scuffle behind him.

“As for the evenings, when you are sent for...”

The blonde gave a started mutter, a few words.

“Interrupt me when I am speaking, and you’ll learn, again. Do you hear?”

Irritation caused him to finally turn his head, and his intended threat died in his throat.

His bodyguard was fighting for breath through a mouthful of blood, a dagger buried to the hilt between the clasps of his breastplate.

The man stepped back in shock, his voice choking and lost in the awareness of mortality. The guard crumpled to the dust, and with not so much as a shadow to mark her disappearance, Protiya was gone.

---

The slave master was whistling to himself as he lay out the day's takings in neat piles on his desk, doing up each bag of two thousand callans with dainty bows. He patted the last bag on the top like it was a pet, and crossed the room to throw open the windows to the Truronia night. Moonlight gleamed through into his small chamber.

He began to move to his decanter, the fine red liquor his reward at the end of any day, and stopped as he passed a small chest.

Muttering to himself, he nudged the chest open with a chubby foot, and bent to pull out the contents.

Two blades, small and sharp. His careful eye squinted. Possibly silver. He placed them on the bed.

A horrid looking claw attachment. He tried it over his own hand. Too small. Pretty though, filigree carving. He placed it beside the knives.

A shortsword. Cheap. He tossed it behind him where it clattered to the floor by the bedpan for the maid to remove.

The garments he removed looked positively ridiculous next to his frame. Small black silks, some plain underthings, a set of leather armour, black, cut for a small frame. He turned them around, seeking any sign of superior design or craftsmanship.

The slave master knew the prices of many things, but garments weren’t among them. Especially a female’s. He snorted to himself. The less they had to wear, the better, as far as he was concerned. He balled up the garments tight and moved to toss them behind him, when the light from the window was blocked.

He turned, and gave a shriek.

Protiya was squatting in the window frame. Balanced with arched feet, her lithe body was luminous in the moonlight, elbows resting on her spread knees. She gave a horrible smile. His heart gave a lurch, and he turned for the door.

The woman was behind him before the slave master even taken a step. Her body pushed up against his back, her claws around his throat. She spun him in her arms and pinched his face close to hers, hot breath in his eyes.

His voice squeaked through pinched lips, and she tossed him aside. Losing his balance, he crashed into his nightstand, sending his decanter smashing to the floor in shatters of crystal.

He looked up through blurry eyes. Protiya slipped the undergarments on, then the silks, and began strapping on her leathers.

“What are you going to do with me?” He said, his voice quiet in the little room.

Protiya didn’t look back at him, only strapped the claw onto her wrist. She flexed it, and let her arm drop to her side. The black armour fit her frame like second skin. She left the shortsword where it lay, and instead swiped two of the pouches from the desk.

The slave master reached out a fat little hand as if to stop her, then thought better of it. He watched as Protiya weighed the two pouches of silver coins. She threw one to the ground, and stuffed the other into her belt loop.

She moved for the window, the armour making no sound with the movement.   

Protiya gave the man a look as she climbed out the window, her yellow eyes peering down curiously at the fat man on the floor, his bedrobe stained with wine he’d traded a teenage girl for.

“Find happiness.” She cooed, and leapt from the window into the Truronian night.

Movie Review: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2

While it takes great creativity to start a film series from nothing, it takes both bravery and love to follow on with a worthwhile sequel. James Gunn is a director that, way back from his Troma roots, continues to show ample amounts of all three.

2014's Guardians of the Galaxy was the pleasant surprise of the Marvel cinematic universe. An original story, with characters positively unheard of to the every day moviegoer (and practically to comic fans as well), it proved to be the most fun and enjoyable entry in the superhero universe to date, as well as one of the highest rated films of the year.

With the predicted major releases of further entries in the MCU like Thor 3, Avengers 4, and recently reclaimed properties like licence-to-print-money Spider-Man, I did not expect Guardians to get a sequel.

Luckily, Marvel seem to realize what they have in Gunn, and he returns with Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2, once again at the helm writing and directing with total creative control. These are characters he is clearly deeply passionate about, in a story told with great bravery, and a whole lotta love.

We return to our team's adventures following the defeat of Ronan the Accuser as they ply their galaxy guarding trade far across the universe. The team fight together as a well-oiled machine, rescuing valuable batteries from an intergalactic starfish monster while listening to classic tunes. It's clear that the group have grown closer since the last film. Tighter than friends, they are virtually family, even playing group parents to the tiny infant Groot.

Returning from their adventure, the Guardians encounter the Sovereign, a race of privileged 'perfect' people. Gold skinned, beautiful, and effortlessly fabulous, the Sovereign are one of the most fun-to-hate alien species I've ever seen in film. The Sovereign find dire offence at the slightest perceived affront, and soon enough the Guardians are fleeing an army of insulted intergalactic trust fund kids.

When their pursuers are fought off single-handedly by an unknown figure, the guardians are confronted by their strangest new encounter yet, in the form of the mysterious and powerful Ego.

Elements of each character's past are explored in Guardians Vol 2, and we find out a little more about our heroes. Family plays a strong role in the story told here. There are powerful tales of families past, ranging from the hidden history of Star-Lord's parentage and the tragedy of Drax's fallen wife and daughter, to families broken in need of healing, as Gamora's estranged sister Nebula seeks her out across the stars. Even Rocket, a creature who has no true family to speak of, finds brotherhood in the strangest of places.

As before, the ancillary characters are some of the best, with some brilliant performances by returning faces like the lovable rogue Yondu, as well as many new ones. The Ravagers are wilder and weirder than ever, a complete riot. Once again, Guardians shines in its incredible use of both on set makeup and digital effects to create some standout looking characters.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 is a quieter film than its predecessor by leaps and bounds. The time between action set pieces may be a bit much for some seeking excitement, but the time is well filled, and evenly paced throughout. For a story spanning galaxies and worlds it is also surprisingly focused, with no major sub plots intersecting, preferring to focus more on one neater story.

Once again the gallery of characters is juggled well, with everyone playing their part. While Vol 2 is chiefly a Star-Lord story, characters are never left to fade into the background, and new faces like Mantis, an adorable and naive alien empath, are given ample time to shine. The merchandising-friendly fan-favorite, Groot, is wisely not turned into a gimmick, and with more economical screen time, is never reduced to being predictable or a repetitive joke. An ensemble cast of this size isn't without weak links inevitably, and for the second time I was left unimpressed with Nebula. Easily forgotten when she's not on the screen, her role seems to demand a weight that isn't reflected in the performance delivered.

A trademark of the series, the film is also packed with enough easter eggs to keep you searching, and character cameos both obvious to the casual fan, and so obscure that even comic book fanatics will be wracking their brains.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 stands apart from the other Marvel movies. Not only literally, as the story does stand alone, but in feeling. It is a story more of heart than of action, more of family than of friendship. It is a very well put together film, and bozhe moi, does it remain a lot of fun from start to finish.

Carathis (Art)

Two beautiful takes on Carathis, by Alexandra Kronz

Comic Review: Perlman's 'Gamora', Tamaki's 'Hulk'.

Women in comics have begun to see a Renaissance in the last few years, both on the page and behind the pen. Significant female characters like Captain Marvel, Thor, and Medusa are face figures and cover stars of many of the big name books on the shelves. What were once comedy one-shot personalities like Squirrel Girl have seen a massive boost in popularity, and brand new heroes like Ms Marvel are surprise international bestsellers. 

More female characters getting their own books shows some great changes to the shelves, especially considering there are some fantastic characters out there that have been done disservices in recent years, by either runs cancelled long before their time, or being relegated to the background in team books.

Two new books taking off this year deal with two such major characters, and furthermore, both books have female writers at the helm. 

Nicole Perlman writes Gamora, the solo book of the classic cosmic marvel warrior woman, more recently brought into the spotlight by her role in Guardians of the Galaxy. Gamora is a character who has suffered somewhat over the years from a lack of definition. Different writers take her in different directions, and as a result, the details of personality are tough to nail down. She was a sidekick to Adam Warlock, a love interest to Nova, and a group member in multiple incarnation of the Guardians, but never had a series of her own before. Perlman's run on Gamora, taking the character back to her years as a youth, aims to fix this problem by bringing the Most Dangerous Woman in the Galaxy to the center stage.

Under the watchful eye of her adoptive father Thanos, a teen aged Gamora learns the art of war alongside her troublesome sister Nebula. A star orphan, Gamora's entire race was wiped out by the Badoon empire, and the young woman is driven by a powerful urge to see the alien race punished for their genocide. When the last breeding female of the Badoon royal family is located on a dying planet, Gamora defies her tyrannical father and scheming sister to carry out her revenge. However the young women she finds, and indeed the inhabitants of the doomed planet Ubilex, are not what she expected. 

The new Gamora we find here is still the fearless, brutal fighting warrior we've known over the years, but this younger (and better dressed) incarnation shows more heart, and more in her head than we've seen before. She has a voice, beyond that of 'the serious one' role she was constantly relegated to in the pages of Guardians. The teenage Gamora is entertaining, inquisitive, and even fun. It will be great to see where the run takes the daughter of Thanos as it continues.

We come to the opposite end of the personality spectrum in Mariko Tamaki's new She-Hulk series. Simply called HULK, the story takes us through the daily existence of district attorney Jennifer Walters, the woman also known as the Savage She-Hulk. 

She-Hulk has been through a lot both on and off the page in times gone past. A character depicted as anywhere from a rampaging allegory for menses, to a fourth wall breaking pin-up model popping out of her underwear, the character remains misunderstood, and often the butt of jokes. Only recently have writers taken more to the intriguing side of the character and explored the life of a working lawyer. Unlike attorney at law Matt Murdock, unknown by his clients to be Daredevil, Jennifer Walters hasn't hidden her identity as She-Hulk, so everyone from her clients to her coworkers know.

In Tamaki's new run, a side of Jen is explored that we really haven't seen before. The side of a woman broken both mentally and emotionally by the rigors of battle. After losing her close friend and suffering a near death experience at the hands of Thanos, Jen does what she hasn't in years, and returns to her every day appearance, a slight brunette, shy and stressed, just trying to start over with her life. Beginning work at her new law form, Jen meets hordes of new clients, all the strange cases that only the She-Hulk can handle. Trying to make it through her days one moment at a time, Jen struggles with PTSD, and coming to terms with the slow lack of control she finds in her own powers.

This is a She-Hulk unlike any we've seen before, taking the playful, perpetually confidant woman and showing the deep troubles present when she isn't showing her brave face to everyone around her. The exhaustion of the constant facade she presents, and the endless struggle to maintain her composure and not 'Hulk-out'. She's a sweet character, lovable and identifiable. The mysteries of her newest case, a freakish shut-in young woman being unfairly evicted from her home, are just one among the struggles she faces, as she's mansplained by coworkers in a building she could quite literally smash to rubble if she loses her cool. 

Both these books, while wildly different, are great shows of new writers work, and great new looks into classic characters. There's so much to explore here, and I'm looking forward to continuing both these runs. 

Both Hulk and Gamora are on shelves now. 

Movie Review: Logan.

There is something about the X-Men, be it the stories, the villains, the mature concepts and themes, that holds a special place in the heart for my generation more than most any other pop culture property. The scrappy, rough and tumble anti-hero Wolverine is one of the most persistently popular comic book characters of all time.

He's the favorite of millions, and his movie portrayal is one of the most beloved of any comic book character ever brought to the screen. Hugh Jackman's seemingly constant joy at playing the character has come through as enjoyable time after time, even if the films he's featured in have gone from great, to bad, to worse and back again in the last 20 years. When last year's Deadpool took the comic book movie, made it R-Rated, and walked away with the highest R-Rated opening week of all time, it was only a matter of time before the comic book names we really know took notice.

Logan is different in many respects from it's predecessors, but not different enough that it doesn't fit.
This film is the epilogue. The standing final chapter in the years and years that have passed since the goofy good vs evil of the X-Men's first cinematic outing. Logan is what happens after the spandex comes off, when all the old villains have been defeated, and the heroes have to live out their days. It's a film with a powerful reminder of mortality. Everyone, even superheroes, will grow old, and inevitably, no matter your heroism, everyone goes back to the dirt in the end.

Logan is a broken man, his seemingly timeless body suddenly aging, and his regenerative mutant powers becoming weaker day by day. The once infamous Wolverine is slowly being poisoned to death by the very adamantium that makes him so indestructible, reduced to working as a limo driver near the immense, nationally guarded US/Mexico border. There have been no new mutants born in over two decades, a dying breed swiftly becoming extinct.

Every penny he gets, Logan returns south of the border to bring to his last surviving allies, the malformed Caliban, and the feeble-minded shell of the man that was once Charles Xavier. Charles is kept locked away by his friends in a storage tanker to protect the world from the seizures that wrack his addled mind, his once incredible psychic powers now a dangerous uncontrollable side effect of a degenerative brain disease. Scraping together enough to keep Charles in his medication, and saving for the day when one day they can escape and leave the western world behind, is all that consumes the life of old man Logan.

However, a glimmer of the past greatness of Professor X remains, and in his moments of lucidity, Charles hears the whispers of  a new generation, the echoes of young mutant minds somewhere out there, crying out in need. When Wolverine is approached by a mysterious woman desperately seeking aid, he realizes that it may be time once again to take up the unwanted mantle of the Wolverine, and be the hero this broken future needs one last time.

Logan is a believable, awfully close-to-home future dystopia. Set in the year 2029, it shows so many echoes of reality that it can be a touch disturbing at time. The excesses of the wealthy so close to extreme poverty, cultural oppression verging on genocide, deportation and the promise of a better world out beyond the border are all events we see the ancestors of in the news as we speak.

This dark and truly adult film shines brightest in the main characters, and there are some performances here that are an absolute joy to behold. The aging titular hero and his mentor form a duo here that is probably better played than ever before. Logan is an honest, lovable, yet tremendously flawed hero, nuanced and complex. Patrick Stewart returns to the series to play the absolutely gripping, heartbreaking side of Charles Xavier we never thought we'd see. New protagonist Laura, the fulcrum of the film's plot, is one of the best child performances I've seen in years, her unfortunate character equal parts fun, frightening, and very moving. New faces, like the albino mutant tracker Caliban, and the villainous G-man Donald Pierce, fade a little into the background in comparison to the brilliant main characters, but there are no bad performances to be found.

The film does not shy away from using it's R rating thoroughly, be warned. You're not taking your kids to watch Logan leap around in spandex fighting Magneto this time. Logan rips through people with a glorious, shockingly graphic abandon here. In my viewing the audience was audibly shocked to gasping during the first fight scene. It is brutal, it is bloody, and it does not hold back. The very concepts of the movie itself are also of a more mature tone than you'd normally find in superhero properties as well. Real world themes of discrimination, child abuse, and persecution of the underclasses are all dealt with here. Also getting to hear Professor X say 'fuck' is a moment we've all been waiting for without knowing it.

If there's anything Logan lacked, in my opinion, it was a strong villain. With a hero as grand as the Wolverine, you need someone for him to go up against that matches him for strength as well as personality, and the latter was severely lacking here. It's a new story, only tenuously connected to previous entries in the X-Men franchise, but the big part of me that was aware it's the last one, really wanted to see a final showdown between Wolverine and his timeless nemesis, Sabretooth.

Logan might not even really be considered a superhero movie. It's a dystopian road movie, closer to the likes of Mad Max or Book of Eli than to X-Men. It's dark, and might be unforgivably so for some viewers. Part of the charm of comic book heroes is, they stay the same heroic age forever. We don't want to see our heroes get old, it feels too real. Logan will take your previous impressions of the X-Men characters and take them places they have never been before, and if you can handle it, it's one of the best films the genre has ever produced.

Cerce Stormbringer (Art)

My long time fantasy heroine Cerce, by Maria Giada del Vecchio

The Body of a Warrior.

Inspired by the art of Tess Fowler and Frank Frazetta. 

===

Jacca had the body of a warrior.
He was bronzed from years under the sun. Hiking in the mountains, working in the fields. He had the corded muscular arms of a fighter, who swung the blade of his great-sword with practiced precision. He had the scars of a life in soldiering, and the hard, dark brow of a million drunken brawls.
Jacca had the body of warrior, and Jacca was dying.

Stabbed in the back, of all things. By a common bodyguard. To think, he'd felled giants. Jacca gave a curse and tried once more to reach for the leather wrapped hilt of his great-sword, but it remained a hairs breadth out of reach, his huge calloused fingers clutching at nothing but dust.

Balerath loomed over him. The old wizard sneered as he nudged at the fallen warrior with a pointed toe slipper.

"All this muscle, and where does it get you, eh? Such a waste." He muttered, before giving a sharp kick to the side of his fallen enemy.

"Any last words?" He asked grimly, gesturing his open hand at Jacca in a strangely limp-wristed yet clearly threatening gesture.

The warrior gave a chuckle through his bloody teeth as he looked up at Balerath, the old man's curly hair seeming a wispy coronet in the temple light.

"Tell my wife I shall see her at the gates."

Balerath tutted away the curious sentiment with a toss of his head, and raised his hand to the guard who lurked at his side.

Jacca had no fear in his eyes as his assassin moved in for the killing blow.

===

The child's feet sent dirt flying in his wake as he darted through the stone buildings on either side of the street. He flew up the steps to the simple house at the end of the row. A plain affair, hammered together by steady hands, and without stopping to knock, he thrust open the door and called out.

"Miss Caja! Miss Caja!" His shrill voice exploded. He sprang down into the low hearth, where a pot hung over cold white coals. A heavy hand fell on the boy's small shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Caja looked down at him, her brown eyes wide. Her bushy black hair was tied back with a simple string of cord, and her brow was damp with sweat. In one hand she held a hammer. Standing, she was entirely twice the boy's height, and loomed over him, her broad figure making the rest of the room look a little smaller.

"Please, Irri, if you need something, just knock nicely. Don't scream your head off in my house and scare my chickens." Caja's voice was calm, commanding. She gave a reassuring smile, the big scar across her cheek used to frighten the children around the village until they got to know her.

Irri didn't return the smile, responding only by rushing to press his face into her heavy leather shift and bawling.

Caja placed a hand on the boy's head, and remained quiet. When the boy stopped in his heaving enough to open his mouth to speak, Caja shushed him, and whispered.

"It's okay little one... I know."

Caja knew Irri would spend all day waiting by the village gates to watch Jacca return with some giant dead thing tossed over his shoulder ready for the spit, and would trail him all the way back asking questions about old adventures, old battles. There's only one reason Irri would come to her in tears.

There was a gap on the wall where Jacca's best blade normally hung, and Caja studied it solemnly.

"You idiot, Jacca." She said, quiet as a ghost.

Kneeling, she rubbed at Irri's cheeks.

"You know what warriors do? They go to the great Abyss beyond, with fire in their hearts, and where they battle demons in grand victories beside their glorious ancestors. So don't cry."

Caja rose, and went over to the other side of the room, the place where her best sword was still hanging.

Irri rubbed his snotty nose with his hand and spoke through sobs.

"They said...they said if anyone else comes up looking... looking for trouble they'll get the same."

"The ones from the old man with the beard? With the silly looking clothes on?"

Irri nodded, his eyes red from rubbing.

"I know the ones. They won't hurt anyone else. You go off home now. Tell your old man I shan't be around to shoe the horses this afternoon as planned."

===

Caja left town without a word to anyone. She stopped for water at the village well, her sword gripped in her hand, the worn leather of her work shift heavy under the sun. Her hair was hanging free, long black locks shading her brow. It was a walk that took her through the height of the afternoon. First through the fields that bordered the village, then through the fields that carried on green and lustrous for miles, to the moors that overlooked the valleys below. By the time Caja arrived at the the mountain pass, the sun had long begun its descent into the west.

The old markers that once directed travelers to the monastery had been broken and defaced in the decades since the peaceful place had been abandoned. Balerath had moved in some time later, filling the locals with unease and lining the pockets of cheap mercenary bodyguards.

Jacca just couldn't leave an old wizard alone, Caja should have known that. If there was a fight to be found, her Jacca would get himself in it. She remembered the time he staggered back home with his head bound in bloody bandages, having fought a Dwarf to a standstill after accidentally insulting the Dwarf's sister. Can't take those boys anywhere.

As she trod the broken steps leading upwards, she tested the weight of the sword at her side. A plain longsword, straight and sharp as a blade of grass. She'd hammered many in her time, broken twice that number, probably.

As she came to the front of the old temple. She found herself stared down by two men flanking the open gates. The pair looked awkwardly like opposites of one another. The first being a man of bulging muscle and bald head, the second, a wiry little man with a prodigious beard.

The guardsmen looked to each other with a confused exchange, sizing up the warrior before them. Caja approached calmly, the blade at her side in silent threat. Her bare feet padding panther-like on hot stone.

The bald one gave a curt not to his bearded companion.

"Old man said there'd be more of 'em. Always is. Bloody barbarians. Like flies."

The bearded one laughed at his companion, and unlatched a heavy axe from it's place on his belt, he stepped towards Caja confidently.

"Since I'm the gentlemanly type, I'll give you a chance. Old Balerath says I gotta do you in if any more of you people turn up around here looking for 'im. But it'd be a shame to nick off that pretty head, so how about you call it a day and turn around eh? No 'arm done."

Caja looked at him, her big brown eyes took the measure of him in a few seconds. His cheap leather armor, his over-heavy weapon. The way he stood with all his weight on his right leg. She raised her blade to point at him.

"You'll find a grave soon as you like should you not let me through, worm. I will give you one chance. Step aside or I assure you, harm will be done."

The bearded guard turned to his friend and gave a great shrug.

"It's always the pretty ones that are crazy, always."

Caja stood motionless, her sword extended, eyes narrowed. There was a chill in her gaze that sent a shiver down the man's spine.

The guard swung his axe for Caja, aiming for her breast.
Caja moved fast, hopping aside and out of his reach, the head of his axe swinging wide and taking his weight with it.
Caja tried to pivot, but the leather of her shift tugged at shoulder and hip awkwardly. She growled in frustration. Instead she stepped in close, the ball of her foot coming down full force on the instep of his left foot. Cheap boots crumpled, and the man howled.
The guard tried to raise his arm to have another go at her, but something in his chest was cold, and it seemed to take the strength out of him.
Caja's blade slipped deep into his heart as it stopped beating, and she slid him off and to the ground. She swung her blade free of blood in a quick flicking motion, and leveled the blade at the bald man who stood staring at her.

He stared down at his fallen companion with confusion and shock.

"Fuckin' hell." He coughed out, fighting to pull up his mace in time as Caja came forward like a bull.

The big man got his mace loose in time to block Caja's huge overhead swing, the weight of it knocking him back a few steps. He fought to retain his footing as she came at him again, her blade swinging. The warrior's woman's assault came too fast to get an opening, and he let out a gasp of shock.

Caja twisted into another swing, bringing her blade around at head height in a decapitating swing. The rough leather of her shift was tight about her chest, and it tugged uncomfortably as she moved. The heavy garment slowed her just enough to give the guard the advantage, as he stepped his big form outside the reach of the swipe, and came at her with his spiked mace. The head of the weapon missed braining Caja by an inch, ducking aside with a roar of rage.

The guardsman stepped back, carefully balancing his mace in his hands, eyeing the warrior that opposed him.

Suddenly, Caja grabbed at the buckle on her shoulder and tugged, tearing it open. She continued to unlatch and pull at the heavy garment, until it broke open and came loose, falling about her feet. Without the heavy leather shift made to protect her from the heat of the forge, Caja wore not a stitch. Standing naked in the shadow of the mountain above, Caja stretched to her full height. She felt the sudden rush of cool air against her skin, raising gooseflesh. The blood and fury of the old days were rushing back to her, the memories of leaping from boat to boat in the savage harbours of the barbarian coast, when the only garments that wouldn't soak through and weigh her down were none at all. The heavy blade in her hand was all she needed. She smiled the smile of a wolf mother in her den.

The guardsman stared, jaw slack, at the naked woman before him.

Stripped of all, Caja had the ruddy burnished skin of a worker. She had the soft curves of a woman. The hard edges of a leader. The lips of a wife. The eyes of a hunter. She had the heavy tits of a mother. She had the scars of an old soldier.
It was the body of a warrior.

The guard stuttered,

"What are you doin'? Are you mad?"

Caja licked her lips, her body slowly lowering into a fighting stance.

"I am Caja the frost, little man. Prepare yourself."

He hadn't the time. Without the restrictions of her shift, Caja moved like lightening, darting forward and putting the curve of her entire body behind the swing of her blade. Her hair swooped behind her, a wave of black through the air, too fast. The heavy head of the guards mace came up short, the steel of her blade cutting through the curve of his shoulder pad and deep into his collar.

The guard gave a gurgling attempt to muster his weapon up, but Caja crushed his fist in her own, pulling it tight to her and tugging his whole body forward. Her forehead met his nose with a wet crack and dropped him to the ground in a heap.

Caja stepped over his fallen form, the yawning mouth of the temple before her. The she wolf could smell her prey.

===

Down the long hallway Caja strode, the cold stone of the floors chill on her bare feet. It had been long seasons since she'd felt her heart beat like this. It reminded her of when she met Jacca. She'd broken his collarbone and his left arm in two places, and he had broken her nose and cracked the pommel of her best sword before they decided to call it a draw and get to know one another. Like fire and ice they were. He with the heat in his blood, the flames of conflict, she with ice in her veins, cold and cruel in battle.

Balerath was stooped over a low table, mulling over a great tome of some no doubt nefarious knowledge, when Caja kicked open the temple door, sending it crashing into the room. He half turned at her entrance, then turned again fully, shock in his eyes as he gazed her over.

"What is this?" Balerath's face twisted in shock and confusion. He waved a gloved hand madly at a guard snoozing with her feet up across the room.

"Is this what I pay you for? A second intrusion in one day?" The wizard snapped.

The girl found her feet lightly, her body covered in the snugly fitting black cloth of an assassin. Deft little fingers played with the hilt of a scimitar hanging from her hip.

"You savage ones are bold ain't you? Coming in here making a racket." She said as she approached.

Balerath stepped backwards from the battle floor, his eyes snapping to a tall black staff standing across the room.

"Don't chat with her, kill her!" He barked. The assassin gave a shrug.

"What are you worried about? You scared of a noisy barbarian with her undercoat out?" The girl gestured at Caja's body. "When's the last time you got to see a naked bird anyway you old shriveled up..."

She nearly didn't dodge the chair that came flying at her head. Darting aside, it sailed across the room and smashed against the stone wall. Caja flung another seat under arm at her to sidestep, the pantherlike steps of the naked woman taking her into melee range with the assassin in moments.

Both women were fast, the blade drawn and darting in the assassins hand in time to curve away the first heavy blow from Caja's sword. The girl could see the bulge of Caja's muscle, and knew that she couldn't trade blows without breaking her wrist, so opted for playing dirty.

Rolling backwards into a neat crouch, the assassin produced a handful of metal shavings from her belt, tossing them up in Caja's face. The warrior stepped back, blinking furiously, a low roar beginning in her throat.

The assassin was up and leaping in the blink of an eye, the razor edge of her curved blade coming down in a huge swipe, aimed to split the nude warrior down the middle. Even blind, Caja was faster. Moving beyond conscious thought, her body twisted sideways and leaned back, the blade slicing down a whisper away from her flesh. Close enough to shear hair from her crotch, the blade passed by to clang into the ground where her feet had been a split second before.
Dropping the curved blade to the ground, the Assassin stepped in with a vicious little dagger, curved upward for sticking into guts. The assassin almost pierced Caja's stomach as she thrust out, the serrated tip slicing the flesh below Caja's breasts. Caja snarled into the girls face, jerking an arm out to catch the assassin in the teeth with her elbow. She spit blood into Caja's face, and twisted nimbly to strike again with the awful little blade. Turning it with the hilt of her sword, Caja shoved her elbow inside the girl's reach, and jerked it up, pulling up the assassin's shoulder and with it, opening her side. Caja's knee came up like a battering ram, cracking ribs and crushing lungs.
The girl's eyes bulged, and she was gasping for breath as Caja stepped back to kick her in the gut full force, bending her over double. Caja brought her sword overarm to slice off the brunette's head in a clean arc.

The assassin's head was still bouncing as Balerath tried frantically to ready his staff. A twist here, a somatic whisper there, the crackling staff was hard on his arthritic old hands. He tried to ready the thing, his face twisted into a sneer, as Caja slapped him across the mouth with the back of her closed fist, her bloody knuckles crunching again his jawbone. An arm shot out to the staff, and pulling it from old hands, sent it clattering to the ground. It snapped under the stamp of Caja's bare foot with a flash of crackling energy.

Balerath hissed exasperatedly, "How many of you people do I have to kill? How many?!"

Caja licked her lips. Salty, "Oh you only had to kill one. You were done for right then."

Caja lifted Balerath by the collar of his ridiculous robe, his reedy legs kicking at her shins. He pointed a gnarled finger at the headless assassin that lay nearby.

"Her! It was her who killed the other one! Not me!"

Caja gave a cursory glance to the fallen fighter, before smiling at the wizard.

"Then my work here is just about done."

There was terror in Balerath's eyes as Caja pulled him close in an embrace of death.

===

Caja stood in the entrance to the old cave. The wind kicked up dust about her naked body. It bothered her not.
She looked into the west, where the sun was bidding a deep red farewell to the day. She whispered a quiet farewell to Jacca the flame. They had agreed to await one another, bloody and battling, at the gates of the Abyss. She wiped blood from her face with the back of her hand. Wizard blood, like the old days. Perhaps they were coming back, the days when the ice would need to flow in her veins again. It would be a long walk home.