There's a curious event happening within the Empire in the last couple of days. On August 24th, Imperial citizens celebrated what is perhaps our most controversial niftyday, Saint Bill's Day. Saint Bill's Day commemorates the release date of Windows 95 (although legends maintain in the face of all evidence that it wasn't released fully until August 24th, 1996). While we don't have clear records indicating when exactly the niftyday was first celebrated, we do know that it was cited in the first year of our newspaper (1999). We also know that, as early as 2000, the Empire's primary discussion group was already seeing users post such messages as "I don't think we ought to have a niftyday honouring Bill" and, of course, "Bill Gates sux!" Now, finally, in 2006 and on what is probably the tenth anniversary of the year I first celebrated Saint Bill's Day, it looks like the Empire will probably be doing away with the niftyday, for precisely the same reasons people argued back in 2000.

When it was first conceived of, Saint Bill's Day was a day in commemoration of "the Ultimate Nerd," a phrase which I've always been a little embarassed to use but which I have, none the less, stood behind. Gates has long been one of the closest things I have to a hero -- a misfit eccentric with too much cleverness and too little sense who made good and became one of the most powerful humans alive. I'm very much aware of the negative aspects to the man's legend -- that at best, much of the basis of his sucess was stolen from other, possibly brighter men, that he has used unholy business practices to aquire power, and that he has ruthlessly crushed weak and defenseless enemies -- but realistically speaking, that's all stuff I've got very little problem with. Gates is a very bright man who acheived great things, possibly by overly weaselly means, but still achieved them. He's also done a lot of good in the years since his 'retirement" from corporate dictatorship, and while his charitable donations have been a drop in the bucket of his personal fortune, he's given more resources (and a greater percentage of his own resources) than other, similarly wealthy individuals, and it's a vast injustice to sell that short. Bill Gates is an imperfect and sinful human at best, but who isn't, really? Even today, when the computer world has grown far beyond his accomplishments and contributions, the things he built are noteworthy and significant, and it's always seemed quite appropriate that he has a day in his honour. A niftyday on my calendar is, of course, a very small honour indeed.

This year, none-the-less, after many years of debate and windows-bashing, it looks like we'll be doing away with the niftyday. This isn't unprecedented, exactly, but it is highly unusual. In the history of the Empire, I can remember only one other niftyday being stricken from our calendar. Sad Things Day was once a niftyday in December, the day before Happy Things Day, the logic being that a sad to meditate upon losses would make the subsequent Happy Day much sweeter. At some point three or four years ago, it was rightly pointed out that there's more than enough Sad Days in the rest of the year and there was no bloody sense in scheduling more of them, so it was done away with without ceremony or regret. Nobody had ever really done anything to commemorate Sad Things Day anyway. Saint Bill's Day will thus not be the first niftyday ever to be stricken from our calendar, but it will be the first one ever removed by a mixed vote: the majority in favour of getting rid of it and the minority (including me, who could *easily* just do whatever the hell I wanted regardless of popular opinion) wanting to keep it. The loss of this niftyday is a significant moment for the Empire because there's been real discussion about a niftyday with people weighing in on both sides... there really are people out there besides me contributing! And, what's more, they're even able to make changes I don't approve of, which is exactly how things ought to work in a proper government and society.

Two things ought to be specified. First, when we talk about removing the niftyday from the calendar, we're talking about the official list of Imperial holidays, recognized meaningful dates, and there's nothing in the world stopping me or anyone else from continuing to celebrate August 24th privately if we so choose. What's at issue here isn't a question of personal freedom, but rather the sort of culture which is officially endorsed by the Empire. The one thing which the Empire has going for it that makes it separate from other micronations (and perhaps many real nations) is its strong culture, and here we see the face of that culture dynamically changing. The second important point is that the niftyday isn't being erased, never to have existed; records will still exist showing when and how the day was celebrated, and rather than pretending Saint Bill never existed, we'll more likely be lumping that day together with other significant, celebration-worthy computer-related people and things and making one non-denominational niftyday. Again, anybody who feels that Saint Bill and his works deserves recognition could then use the new niftyday as their opportunity, privately or publically, and choose for themselves if they also raise a chip to Linus and the others.

Perhaps interestingly, if the day is simply resheduled rather than deleted, then there is more of a precedent for that in our history. For years, Sat Wars Day was held on May 25th, the anniversary that the first film opened in theatres (and the anniversary of the day that many of the other films opened, too). Unfortunately, a few years back, Douglas Adams had the indecency to die without checking his calendar, and some of his more short-sighted fans decreed that May 25th (fourteen days after Adams' death, enough time for fans worldwide to hear the news of his passing and get their memorials organized) would be his day of honour. No one out there will be shocked to learn that I immediately became a supporter and celebrant of Towel Day (and I did, in fact, bring my towel to me with school that day, despite the ridiculous heat), but, horror of horrors, we now had two important, meaningful days scheduled for the same date. Towel Day ended up winning the contest by virtue of the fact that it's a widely-celebrated event whereas Star Wars Day is much more localized to the Empire. None of us could bear the idea of doing away with Star Wars Day totally, however, and so its date was changed to May Fourth, a descision we were all quite happy with once we got used to it.

So that's how things stand now. The final fate of Saint Bill's Day has yet to be set, but it will not be staying as it is now, for better or worse. In all likelihood, it's well past time for the this change to be made, given how long people have been after me on this. Adopt, adapt, and improve, as they say. Evolve or die, as they say. A culture must change with its people, as they say. And, as they say, windows has performed an illegal operation and must shut down.

If you're the sort to listen to rumour, and if you happen to be someone who's part of my social circle, you may have heard in the last couple of days that, apparently, I've made some people very upset. Personally, I don't believe these rumours for a moment, knowing how things tend to get blown out of proportion when they pass the "friend of a friend of a friend" mark. That said, I know that a few people out there are currently less than 100% happy with me because they believe they've been slighted, insulted, distrusted, or generally tossed aside. I find it curious that people would accuse me doing such things clandestinely; I enjoy insulting people enough that, when I do it, I very rarely do so with any secrecy. That said, the people who may feel insulted are those who I'd wager don't know me very well in the first place, so it's no skin off my nose, as the Melmacians say.

The insult in question can be traced back to this past Saturday, when, it can be stated unequivocally, I did not host a party. Anyone who suggests that I held a party this past weekend is gravely mistaken, possibly mislead, certainly making undue assumptions, and in at least one case I know of, drunk. The belief that I hosted a party this past Saturday is traceable to an understandable error, because I did, indeed, have a small group of friends over, although no partying was done. Inspired by some events a month or so back, I took it upon myself this past week to organize a Pillow-Fort-Building Night, wherein a small (one might say intimate) group of people gathered together in a large, comfy room, gathered together blankets and pillows, and built things out of them before playing in the aforementioned structures (or, more commonly, chaotic piles). The evening was supplemented with pies, sodas, one of the worst boardgames I've ever played, and a surprisingly entertaining and educational documentary about heavy metal music. The evening was a tremendous sucess and a riotous amount of fun, and for the first time in roughly three years, a picture of me was taken which I don't utterly hate. This was, however, a small evening, populated by a carefully-selected and, dare I say it, exclusive guest list, and in the wake of the PFBN, at least three people, supposedly, are experiencing varrying degrees of anger that they were not invited. I say supposedly because, of course, none of them will ever say anything to my face about it; it's much more fun to talk behind someone than to them, a pleasure I indulge in from time to time myself.

When I host a party, the guest list easily tops 30 people. I'm blessed with a very large circle of friends (well, really a fairly small circle of people I genuinely like, but it extends to a fair number of people whose company I moderatly enjoy). When organizing a big, loud, messy event, that's a good number of people to have around, and the energy and silliness which pervades a house in that kind of environment is really quite remarkable. As anyone can understand, though, there are times when one does not *want* quite that many people hanging around. There are times when alcohol and other disreputable substances, the lifesblood of most parties, are not wanted at a social event. There are times when, quite frankly, people who yell a lot or break things aren't one's first choices for guests. And, sometimes the people you know in various social circles don't get along, or outright hate each other's guts, and it won't be a fun evening for some individuals if other individuals show up. Not to put too fine a point on it, some nights you want to party, and some nights you just want a quiet, relaxing evening with a handful of close friends. One thing which I don't understand and probably never will is how people can get it into their heads that all social events are, by nature, parties, and should be open to everybody a person knows.

When I sent out invitations to my PFBN, the word "party" was never used, because it wasn't a party; it was just a quiet night with a handful of friends. I had a very specific goal in mind: a night with just real, close, trusted friends, people I care about (to one degree or another). Nobody whose friendship is ambiguous for me, or whose company I merely tolerate. Nobody who has never mastered the concept of an "indoor voice" or who spouts more words per minute than I do. Nobody who's incapable of having a good evening without booze and drugs. Nobody who another invited guest would feel uncomfortable around (to my knowledge). I don't see this as a lot to ask for; I have relatively few close friends and there are times when they're the only ones I want to deal with, simple as that. Furthermore, this was a night where the specific intention was to build pillow-forts and play inside them, so 1) this required guests with a certain child-like quality to their thoughts and 2) a very small group of people, considering the size of a logical pillow-fort. I had to leave some genuinely good friends of mine off of the invitation list because there wasn't any space, or because I didn't think they'd enjoy playing in blankets for three hours. As it was, I pruned the guest list very, very carefully, to my own esoteric specifications, and even then there were at least three people who I quite literally lay awake at night weighing whether or not they should be invited (the result of which were two yes and one no, and I believe I made the right choices in each case.

It's not easy picking and choosing who among your associates to invite to an evening when, logically, there's only space for 8 or 10 people at the maximum. There are a lot of logistics to consider. Who plays well with who? Who do I like and have an easy time talking to? Who do I know is able to have a fun time simply by being buried in blankets? If I invite person A, then will I be obligated to invite person B who I'm less fond of? Is it ethical for me to say to someone, "I'd like you to come, but don't bring person B?" It all becomes even more complex simply by virtue of the fact that, to put it bluntly, several of the people I have around me are not known for keeping their mouth shut, and I would be a fool to assume that word of a PFBN won't spread. I didn't set out with the nefarious express goal of excluding any particular individuals and no one was left out as a deliberate slight. Sadly, any time one tries to plan an event with a limited attendence, it's pretty much inevitable that someone is going to hear about it and take offense. On the one hand, if I knew there was an event being organized by someone I considered a good friend that I didn't get invited to, I myself would feel slighted and offended. On the other hand, I'm reasonably certain that no good friends of mine went uninvited, with the exception of two who aren't part of the social circle from which I drew my guests and three who were out of town that weekend anyway.

There's nothing at all inappropriate about wanting to plan an evening without inviting everybody you know, and while I can sympathise with people who might have felt insulted or let down, I don't really have it in my heart to say I'd do anything differently next time. The event was a big success due pretty much entirely to the quality of people who answered my summons, and I wouldn't have risked making the evening less pleasant by changing around the roster much. Next time I throw a big party, those disapointed this time can expect to be among the first invited to it. If they're really upset, then the best solution would be to talk to me about it this time rather than grumble behind my back. Or to make sure we're closer friends before the next time time I get the urge to built a giant fort out of pillows.

One of the eternal questions of gaming is, is it better to be a storyteller or a player in a game? This is an ancient, unanswerable questions of life, with many odd parallels to such questions as "is it better to give than to receive?" and "is it better to be the torpedo or the submarine?"

If I had to pick just one, I'd have to say I prefer being a player over a GM. In the end, it's the player who gets the most fun -- the thrill of adventure, the excitement of braving the unknown, the entertainment of interacting with new people every session, and the joy of killing the monsters and taking their stuff. Of course, the player faces all those things from the other side: the the thrill of getting lost and smacked around, the excitement of having no clue where the story is going to go, the entertainment of meeting new and eternally more powerful enemies, and the joy of getting mugged and your Ancestral Holy Avenger stolen every week. The players get all of the good and all of the bad, because they aren't simply the one creating the story, they're the ones the story is happening to. Bad things never happen in a vacuum -- they happen to someone.

On the other hand, it's tough being a storyteller. Unlike players, who just get to have fun, a storyteller has to work. Running a game is kind of like having an extra class every week -- a fun class, but still a class -- and it even comes complete with homework and assigned readings. A storyteller has to keep track not only of what's happening in a game, but also all the things that have happened and at least three seperate possible timelines of what might happen. A storyteller has to not only follow the story but also understand it; a group of players can (and, sadly, usually do) simply muddle through a storyline without fully understanding it, but a storyteller has to know everything about the story, the motivations of every major character, and the ramifications that the story is going to have in the nearby area, any neighbouring localities, and the lives of everybody involved down through the proverbial seven generations. GMing has its own rewards, of course. You don't have the mystery of what's going to happen next or the excitement of challenging the unknown, but you do get to watch as a group of people lives through a story you've created, uncovers the events you scripted, says the dialogue you anticipated, and gets regular smackdowns from your favourite NPCs. Find me another hobby where you can kick the crap out of your friends week after week and they'll not only keep coming back for more but chip in for the pizza.

Besides that, there's the factor of control. The player probably has more fun during any given session, but the player's never really in control. At all times, the player is at the mercy of the rules as seen through a storyteller's twisted imagination. The storyteller has less of the fun but all of the control. It's probably not a concidence that most of the very avid storyteller's I've played with have had control issues, myself obviously included. Interestingly, this doesn't really seem to have any effect on whether or not they're good players, too; I've never observed a correlation between being a good player and bein good at giving up control. Rather, the players who have a greater need for control simply tend to play characters who are more in control of situations -- nothing wrong with that, obviously.

There is one great pleasure that the storyteller has, however, and not all storytellers experience this. A low quality game is played and forgotten by everyone involved. I've played in more than one game where I would swear that the players put genuine effort into pretending that the game never happened, even to the extent of never talking to the storyteller again. On the other hand, a good game -- not even a great one, just a good one, one that the players looked forward to every week and genuinely enjoyed playing, something that made some small impact on them -- a good game gets remembered and, more importantly, retold. When you're a storyteller, and you really give the players something special, they'll tell stories about that game for years, remember details from it that even the GM forgot entirely. The greatest pleasure a storyteller can have is that, years after the fact, from time to time and once in a while, players from an old game will sit down at a table and tell stories about the game they were in. You've given them something that's going to stick with them and a memory they've classified as "a hell of a story." That's a pleasure nobody who merely plays a game will ever experience in quite the same way. It's the foremost reward of a storyteller and the final proof years later that all the work you went to was worth it.

There's a lot of people out there who lead rough lives, but it's the cars who really have it rough.

There's a family down the road from me which owns a van-type-thingy. Like most modern vehicles, it has a car (or van-type-thingy) alarm. Unlike most vehicles, the alarm on this conveyance does not activate in case of attempted thefts. It does not active in case of impacts or susicious nearby activity, although it probably would if any such things ever came to pass. No, this car alarm, as near as I can figure, is set off in a Schroedingergian manner. You look at the car, and its alarm goes off. Anytime this vehicle gets perceived by a new observer, it begins honking its horn excitedly, and while it will normally get shut off by its owner in short order, it has been known to persist for upwards of ten or fifteen minutes. This alarm triggers when someone comes down the road, if they have never seen the car before. This alarm triggers when a new squirrel moves onto our street and goes around meeting its new neighbours. It triggers every time a bird sees it, since the birds have poor memories and never remember having observed it before. This must be a popular model of car alarm to have nowadays, because my understanding is that in most any four-block radius of middle-class homes, one of them will have a car with the Heisenberg Car Alarm. Of course, it's improbable that all these vehicles all have the same type of car alarm, so we can conclude that there's another cause for their highly-reactive state: nerves. They're nervous, irritable, jumpy, and neurotic. Every neighbourhood I've ever been in has at least one car which is utterly nuts and begins screaming at the slightest upset. Heck, I'd be on edge too if I was a car nowadays.

I figure it's the rising price of fuel. I know I get irritable when I'm worried my favourite restaurant's going to raise prices, let alone fluctuate every week. Plus winter's coming, which has gotta be at least as unpleasant for them as for us, since they sleep outside and very few of them owns a nice, warm coat. You slave day in and day out for an ungrateful master who slams you around, who scratches you with keys and leaves wrappers and empty drinks between your seats, who never so much as says thanks... it's like working for McDonalds. I mean, cars go out there every day, risking their lives just to get us from point a to point b, and how often do they get a proper thank you? Typically, they don't even get proper signals from other drivers telling them whether they're about to take their lives in their hands by changing lines. They don't even have natural healing, which means they're at the mercy of their masters, already known to be ungrateful, to fix them and keep them alive.

I'd suffer from screaming fits too.

Now that I think about it... The same meal week after week, poor medical care, enforced exercise times, a daily environment where the biggest and meanest always get their way, constant verbal and physical abuse from superiors... it's just like prison. Or high school. I'd say it's like the army, but in the army, if you screw up badly enough, you get to go home, and the people trying to kill you have the decency to wear a different uniform so you can tell them apart.

Lizards of Lumakspire was a 3-session short-term D&D game I ran at the request of a friend of mine in late July - early August 2006. Originally planned as a series of 4 sessions (a total of about 20 hours of gameplay) for a 4-player group, the Goddess' Smile led to it being instead an eight-hour campaign spread out over three sessions for six players, none of whom had any significant gaming experience to speak of. Anyone who has run a game knows how complex it can be; anyone who's run a game with inexperienced players has seen how much worse it can be. I've only ever met one or two other people who've dared to try running a game composed of nothing but first-time gamers, but they have all agreed with me that it can be one of the most enjoyable, surprising, and horrifying things they have ever done. This was, of course, my third time doing so, and my second time with a ridiculously large group. Some people learn from their mistakes but, Calvinist as I am, I try to avoid doing so.

Background: The city of Lumakspire is a thriving town with a population in the area of three thousand humans and a scattering of other humanoids. A trading town built up around a Spire, an ancient and poorly understood rock formation which predates human colonization of the area, Lumakspire is the seat of power of King Jotrun, ruler of the nation of Lumanantos, which radiates outwards from the Spire itself. The state religion of Lumanantos is the Church of the LightHealer, a sun god whose teachings focus on curing the diseased and curing the wounded. This church is essential to Jotrun's rule, and its power has held up the reign of his family for generations while also ensuring a just rule. The king's chief rival for power is the Guild of Light Imports, a merchants' guild which would like nothing more than to begin diversifying its influence into the political realm.

Lumakspire is home to a newly-esyablished adventurer's guild which has brought new traffic, much of it metahuman and supernatural, to the area. Lumakspire typically sees some dozen adventuring parties within its walls at any given time, including The Warders of Lumak, a mighty group of heroes retained by king Jotrun to stay in Lumakspire and defend the city and the whole of the nation from threats a mere army could not hope to fight off. The Warders roster has gone unchanged for three years, and is made up of Gorm (a cleric of the LightHealer), Piter the Steelwielder (a warrior of great skill and cunning who earned his trade in the gladiatorial areas far to the South), Nayl (a young but talented mage with an instinctive mastery of combat enchantment) and Klesh the Younger (an aged, roguish werewolf who turned to the worship of the LightHealer years ago). While in the past, the Warders have slain dragons and thwarted liches, the last years have brought nothing to them more dangerous than brigands and they have begun to become somewhat complacent.

As our story begins, a caravan owned by Sire Wenlichs of the Guild of Light Imports comes to Lumakspire. An elder and one of the three heads of the guild, Wenlichs is secretly an amateur mage of moderate talent who has boosted his wealth over the years through subtle use of magic. Beliving himself to be far mightier than he truly is, Wenlichs has found, purchased, and brought home a powerful magic item capable of piercing the walls between dimensions. Wenlichs intends to open a gate linking the center of the king's court to a relatively harmless lower plane, let a few demons enter and run rampant, and allow the Warders to contain the infestation. In the ensuing chaos, Wenlichs will lead the Guild to run in, proclaim Jotrun a poor ruler incapable of dealing with crises, and seize power. The plan has been supplied to Wenlichs by one of his aides, who is secretly a magically-disguised member of an extraplanar race of lizardmen who lie in wait to bring an army to the plane. What Wenlichs does not know is that the Spire is a remnant of an ancient race of extraplanar explorers and is, in effect, an inter-planar beacon which will greatly magnify any dimension-hopping magic. When Wenlichs triggers his device, the whole of the Spire glows brightly red for a heartbeat, and then the sky tears open.

The Spire redirects the created portal from the original targeted plane to the plane once occupied by its creators untold ages ago. In the time since the Spire was built, the race that created it has left that world, and the dominant species is now lizardmen, who have crafted a vast empire using surviving magical technology. Three distinct subspecies of lizardman rule that world. The Dahu rule; they carry the blood of the great reptiles in their veins and grow throughout the whole of their lives, and as adults stand between ten and forty feet tall and can rend stone with their bare hands. The Unthor grew from the canny serpents of their ancient history, and their long, sinous bodies, two dextrous arms, and mighty intellects have led to their place as the thinkers and engineers of their world. Finally, the unnamed third subspecies make up the soldier caste, and these barely-sentient warriors form the bulk of the world's population. Among the other incredible technologies crafted by the lizardmen with the recovered technology of the ancient explorers are vast monoliths, capable of flying over the land at great speed and carrying thousands of lizardmen with ease. The Unthor have long known how to cross dimensions but lack the power to bring across a significant force. They have sent forth agents in groups of two or three to find other planes and prepare them for conquest, and one such advance scout has been posing as an advisor to Sire Wenlichs for months. When Sire Wenlichs opens a gate to the lizardmen world, the mightiest and largest of the monoliths, the Dahu'Unthor, is pulled through, appearing several hundred feet directly above the Spire in the center of the city. Kas'Dahu, lord of the monolith, immediately dispatches small raiding parties to the surface to capture monkeys for interrogation and experimentation while his vizier, Han'Dahu, prepares onboard security and the engineers, commanded by serpent-men Tae'Unthor and Marack'Unthor man the engines and weapons. The king responds by sending the Warders to investigate and, if necessary, destroy the invaders.

Session 1: The players themselves are oblivious to all of this. Adventurers in the city, all six are caught separately by lizard-man raiders in the first minutes after the monolith comes through and taken prisoner before they even know what hit them. Awakening onboard the Dahu'Unthor as prisoners, the players are found and set free to the Warders, and follow the more powerful adventurers through several rooms of the monolith in time to watch as the Warders are found and wiped out by Han'Dahu. Klesh, the Warders' rogue, evades the lizardmen long enough to pass their mission on to the players -- navigate the maze of the monolith to locate and disable two critical systems, the engines which keep it aloft and the belly-gun which is pointed directly at Lumakspire.

Session 2: The search through the monolith is grueling and dangerous. Although the Unthor engineers are passive and pose little to no threat to the adventurers, a running battle is conducted between the primes and the lizardmen guards. The two critical systems are located, but after examination, the adventurers prove unable to find a way to deactivate the main cannon. The engines are another matter, however. The monolith is powered by a swarm of caged demons, locked deep within the bowels of the monolith and tended by Unthor priests. One of the adventurers, a swashbuckling spy, sneaks away from the others, creeps his way past a veritable army of serpent-men, and, locating the kill switch hidden in the engine, releases the demons. The majority of the lizard men are killed and a sizable portion of Lumakspire is wiped off of the map as the monolith's levitators fail.

Session 3: As the smoke clears, the adventurers find themselves buried in the wreckage of the monolith, mixed in with wreckage of local buildings. The Spire has been destroyed, along with the palace, the headquarters of the merchants' guild, and a great deal of real estate. As the adventurers begin searching the crash site for surviving lizardmen, however, a new horror greets them: the humans killed in the crash are rising again as zombies, and the numbers of humans killed is considerable. The main belly cannon of the monolith was an arcane device intended to destroy a target and animate all the slain to rise again and attack those around them; the cannon's power source, damaged in the crash, is leaking necromantic energy. The adventurers locate the damaged power source and destroy it; the undead lose their animation and fall.

One threat remains to the city: a scattered few tracks show that a small number of lizard men escaped the crash site. With difficulty, these tracks are followed to a warehouse some few blocks away from the crash. As the adventurers storm it, they are shocked to find that the warehouse has been customized ahead of time to be a hiding place for one of the Dahu, and towering a full thirty feet tall and wielding a staff which radiates deadly magic, Kas'Dahu roars a challenge to the monkeys who have thwarted his plans. In the battle which follows, most of the adventurers are nearly slain but it is the lizardmen, weakened and battered, who fall. Lumakspire (most of it, at least) is saved, and the treasures accumulated by the lizardmen scouts is enough for even the most jaded of the adventurers to buy a feeling of sucess. The Icicles

Unit Name: The Icicles
AKA The Devil's Icicles, The Icicle Lancers, The Blue Diamonds
Unit Colours: Shadow grey armour, enchanted blue shoulder pads, ice blue unit symbol and jump packs.
Unit Symbol: An ice-blue diamond on an enchanted blue background.
Unit Type: Space Marines, Tactical Squad
Specialty: Heavy Support

One of the lesser known Space Marine units in the Empire, the Icicles are a small but well-trained force who train to fill the role of heavy support in combat. Where the Crustulum Mortis excel at close combat and the Empire's Finest with away an enemy with ranged fire, the Icicles are masters of fielding tripod and platform mounted support weapons which can rain utter devastation on a foe from half a battlefield away. It is said that the great warriors of the Icicles can calculate a parabolic trajectory faster than they can aim and fire a pistol by line of sight, and such stories are not far exagerated. The vehicles of the Icicles are among the best-kept and most powerful in all Imperial forces, and their mastery of the rare superheavy class vehicles is second to none. While the Icicles lack the resources to engage a powerful foe on their own, in a supporting role, their presence or absence has turned the tide of battle utterly.

Part of the reputation of the Icicles comes from their possession of one of the few existing and intact Landshaker vehicles, the titan-like quadrupedal troop transport which has long inspired terror in enemies of the Empire. The Landshaker, Iceberg, is piloted by an elite crew of five, and to be assigned to the Landshaker is considered one of the great honours the Icicles can bestow. The Iceberg bristles with three lascannons, two plasma cannons, and a heavy assault cannon in addition to carrying the combined firepower of all troops inside it. Smiley-faces as tall as a full-grown man are emblazoned proudly on either side of the Landshaker's main torso, and Icicles' own flag sits on the roof of the Torso's front, proclaiming itself to the heavens, though few of the Iceberg's puny, land-based foes will ever see it where it sits.

The title of Frostlord is traditionally given to the commander of the Icicles. Many believe that this is to symbolize the all-consuming power of cold: its ability to freeze, to bring all life to a standstill, and destroy the most powerful fortifications. Other believe this is simply because the first warrior to originate the title had no sense of subtlety.

Tactics: The chief tactic of the Icicles is to set up at maximum range to their targets. The Icicles will establish a perimeter of artillery, with which they can set up a wide circle of fire. Elevation is important to this tactic, as the artillery must be high enough to locate and follow targets. Once the initial circle has been established, Icicle squads will begin advancing with heavy weapons, either mounted or on combat platforms. The first role of these advance scouts is to move forward alongside tactical squads from other Space Marine units and supplement their firepower, but the long-range of these heavy weapons also allows to serve as uniquely unsubtle sniper posts, and initial, cautious strikes will be made against enemy vehicles. As the lines near and the battle proper begins, the Icicles as a unit will begin to advance. It is at this point that the Icicles' own vehicles will advance, moving at speed across the terrain and sending a hail of death (and the occasional snowball) into enemy lines. While these tactics do have one significant weakness (relying as they do on more combat-hardened troops to absorb the enemy charge away from the Icicles), they have proven quite effective in the past and have prevented casualties both among the Icicles and among those units drawing fire away from the Icicles.

The word zombie can, itself, be said to be a poor label. Consider, for example, how the word "vampire" is often subdivided into such subtypes as Lugosia, Nosferatu, Modern Goth, Chinese Hopping, and so forth, because society has recognised that there are such vast differences between types of vampire legends that it's at best misleading to simply use the word "vampire" and assume people will know what you're talking about. Similarly, the word zombie has become imprecise and innacurate because of the vast disagreements about what exactly a zombie is and what the word oughtta apply to.

Webster's dictionary, normally my dictionary of choice, fails us in this instance. Although Webster gives us five (perhaps six) definitions of the word zombie, none of these definitions are the one most of us first think of -- the walking hungry corpse. The closest Webster comes is "a person held to resemble the so-called walking dead" which accounts for students attending 8:30 classes but not reanimated corpses. As is so often true these days, it is Wikipedia which gives us perhaps the best and most comprehensive definition of the word zombie -- but because it's wikipedia, I refuse to cite it publically and will speak of it no more.

Let us construct, for the sake of argument, a working definition of the word zombie. Let zombie = "a corpse or other form of deceased human remains which has been animated by chemical, electrical, or supernatural means." We can further specify the etymology or put in a clause about eating human flesh, but this seems unnecessary. Ontology is all well and good, but at a certain point one has to break down and say that enough is enough and everybody is probably talking about the same thing at this point. There are, however, certain salient points which are worth specifying, because of the frequency with which they appear in zombie stories. First, zombies have a distinct tendency to consume human flesh and, in particular, human brains. Second, zombies tend to be in less than perfect shape, hence their colloquial and derogatory nickname, rotters (which is, to be fair, still a good sight better sounding than leeches or furballs). It can be argued that, in popular culture, broadly speaking, there are two classes of zombies: the Romero class zombie, and the O'Bannon class zombie.

The Romero class zombie is exemplified in the film Night of the Living Dead and its direct sequels of varying quality, Dawn, Day, and Land of the Dead. The romero class zombie is nothing more than a reanimated body, operating more or less independent of the brain -- it has no thought, strategy, or planning, it is easily distracted by lights and sounds, and it congregates towards any sounds which often leads to pack formation and groupthink-like behaviour. The Romero class zombie is relatively delicate, returning to being all-dead if sufficient damage is done to the brain. This class zombie has an insatiable hunger for flesh of all types, and will consume an entire human to feed. The purestrain Romero class can be said to have one additional feature, which is the capacity for individual evolution. Under proper conditions and by no means in all cases, the Romero class zombie is able to learn, adapt, and grow. These zombies can redevlop skills they possessed in life, form rudimentary language skills, and with time return to a human level of intelligence. It has been surmised that given time, a Romero class zombie would continue to evolve and eventually surpass its maximums while alive, but this is debatable at best. It is worth noting that the Romero class zombie is that which is most commonly observed in popular culture, and it can be argued that Night of the Living Dead was, if not the first true zombie film of the modern era, it did at least redefine the entire concept of zombie in a manner which has endured for decades largely unchanged.

The O'Bannon class zombie as a concept grew out of the Romero class, through the indirect sequels to Romero's films, Return of the Living Dead parts 1 through 5. The O'Bannon class zombie is thus arguably a sub-class of the Romero class, although such intricate complexities are beyond the scope of this paper. In essence, the O'Bannon class zombie is very similar to the Romero class, in that it is an animate human corpse which feeds on the living. The O'Bannon class zombie has several important distinctions, however. First, the O'Bannon class is much more durable than the Romero class. Although many individual O'Bannon class zombies can be dispatched by destruction of the brain, particularly in later outbreaks, the O'Bannon class zombie is frequently able to survive extensive brain damage, and even full dismemberment may result in a pile of animated limbs. This makes the O'Bannon class zombie much harder to dispatch and, presumably, also greatly increases the number of potential cadavers capable of reanimation in a given outbreak. The O'Bannon class zombie is often susceptible to electrical damage, presumably due to widespread destruction of neural tissue. Second, the O'Bannon class zombie is notable for its predilection for brains rather than simply flesh. An O'Bannon class zombie will typically devour the brain of a victim and leave the body intact. In addition to this being a vast difference in "dietary needs," this also leaves a larger proportion of intact "post attack" cadavers to animate in turn, leading to a higher number of rising bodies in each infestation. It is the signature of the O'Bannon class zombie to vocalize this hunger, with the ubiquitous and well-known mumbling of the word "brains!" Thirdly, whereas the Romero class zombie appears to be able to rediscover rudimentary intelligence with time, the O'Bannon class zombie animates with intelligence apparently largely intact. While full intelligence is often not present (presumably due to loss of some brain tissue to decomposition), most if not all O'Bannon class zombies are able to speak at least one word, and more advanced individuals have been observed to construct simple machines, operate radios, carry on conversations, and even use large-group tactics in combat with humans.

It is interesting to note that although Romero is acknowledged as the father of the modern zombie archtype, the single word most associated with zombies as a genre is "brains!" which actually comes from the O'Bannon class. It can be argued, however, that since the O'Bannon class zombie is directly derived from the Romero class, it all comes from Romero if you trace it back.

In retrospect, of course, several of the past year's Entries seem somewhat ironic, notably numbers 225, 180, 154, and, just a little, 127.

As probably all of you out there already know, I've finished my first year of medical school. As many of you already know, I'm also about to start my first year of medical school. This is due to the curious phenomenon of "low grades" as opposed to, for example, redundant temporal mobius paradox or something. Let it be stated outright that in my first year, I never failed an exam (we wrote something in the area of 10 of them). However, the policy at McGill is that any student whose cumulative first year average fails to get over a certain point is asked to repeat the year, and that's where I find myself. Their judgement is fair; I spent the entire first year very near the bottom of the class. In particular, I had great difficulty in two of our units; I had the misfortune that these were the longest two, and grades are weighted based on the length of a unit, meaning they brought me down disproportionately. Ironically, I actually exceeded the class average on the last exam of the year ("Diseases, Infections, And Oh Yeah, Some Medications"), but the last exam wasn't factored into the cumulative average of the first year. Pretty typical of my luck in school, really.

And thus, as we enter August of 2006, I find myself in precisely the same place that I did in August of 2005, with a very few exceptions. For example, I already own all my textbooks.

Let's be 100% clear: whatever else may be said, my brilliance isn't in doubt for a moment. Whatever else may be true, I'm very, very clever. That said, I am and always have been a poor worker and a terrible studier. Faced with a topic I have an affinity for -- psychology, for example, or philosophy) I can breeze through a textbook cover to cover in a couple of days and score 80% on an exam. On top of that, all modesty aside, I really am a great writer, and I can crank out a grade A, 1000 word term paper in a lazy sunday afternoon, usually on my first draft. I finished university with an a- average, graduating with distinction and making the dean's list, and I never had to work as hard as the average person in my class. That's not to say I didn't work -- I earned every point I scored -- but it all just came easily to me. Classes that didn't come easily to me, such as organic chemistry and advanced physics, I tended to do just enough work to pass and then focus on other, more important courses which were actually relevant to the kind of thing I'd be doing with my life in the future. The trouble is, in my entire year of medical school, I had precisely four questions asked of me which were psychology related, and pretty close to 100% of the rest was, in essence, organic chemistry and physics. And anatomy, of course, which is 100% straight memorization.

Quite frankly, I'm lucky to have scored as high this year as I did.

While my brilliance isn't in question, my study habits clearly are. I'm very wise and stunningly clever but I'm not a genius. I don't memorize well. I've studied four languages in my life and to this day I'm functionally unilingual, no matter how good I am with that one language. I worked hard this year, and spent more time studying than I ever had before. I spent entire days trying to work -- not always working, mind you, but trying just the same. This didn't sneak up on me, either; probably every person I know heard me go on record during the year about how I knew I was working as hard as I was able but not as hard as I needed. See, I'm lazy, hedonistic, and highly disctracable. I may sit down to study and even resist the impulse to read comics or check e-mail, but no force on earth is powerful enough to keep my mind from wandering, often in four or five separate directions at once. I'm very smart, but I've never really learned to study. This year, I've got another shot at changing that. The astute reader has some idea of how high my hopes are on that score, but here's hoping.

The real kicker is that I honetsly don't believe my marks will be much better this time around. Whatever my other flaws, I've always had an excellent understanding of my own strengths and weaknesses. This isn't the first time I've repeated a coruse, and history shows that even when taking the same class for the second time, I tend to not do much better unless the material is taught in a different way (it won't be) or the tests are substantially easier (which they won't be). For the moment, staring into the oncoming year's headlights, I really have no reason to believe I'll do much better than I did this past year. There's some hope, obviously, because 1) I really did pick up a lot of material this past year and 2) I expect to feel subconciously motivated enough to work harder this year than I did last year. That said, it's not a huge hope. One way or another, though, I'll know soon enough; we'll write our first final exam after only four weeks of classes, so by the first week of October I can expect to know whether I am or am not scoring any higher when push comes to scantron.

I will not give up my gaming for the extra night per week of studying. I will not cut back on my comics. I will sure as hell not begin actually taking my studies seriously, because if I did, then in many ways, that'd be the end of me. I *will* work harder while I'm working. I will choose to study the extra hour on the weekend rather than watch my brother play Destroy All Humans. I will attend every lecture that I possibly can, even though I sat through it all once already. I will focus harder in labs than I did. I will do my best, just like last year, and see if my best is better.

Interestingly, of all the people I've spoken to, not one person has suggested *not* redoing the year. Every physician and dentist I talk to emphatically states that being in their profession is the finest thing in the world and worth accomplishing. Half the doctors I talk to end up telling me that they had to redo a year too, or do an extra qualifying year, or didn't get accepted on their first application anyway and had to do a year or two of graduate studies before reapplying. I've known since eraly on how improbable it was that I'd be accepted on my first try, and maybe this is the cosmic balance reasserting itself. "Didn't mean to let you in so soon," the gods are saying. "But you're right on schedule now, so have at it." Apparently, it's something of a tradition in my family for the doctors to have to repeat a year... or two... or have to change schools entirely after being expelled... so from that perspective, I'm right where I oughtta be.

The truth is, whatever else I may say, I learned a lot of amazing stuff this year. I've done things this year most people I know couldn't even imagine. I've held a human heart in my hands. I've drawn a smileyface using human intestines. I know why bird flu is a danger and whether or not there really is any cause to worry. I know how HIV works and where it first hits the body. I've poked holes in brains. I've drawn blood from a living human. I know how cancer works and why certain things are carcinogenic. I know what genes caused my Hirschsprung's Disease and what the precise probability is of having my form of it. I know why diabetes causes foot damage and impotence. I know why skin is stretchy and why bones aren't. I know what a spleen does and I've poked several of them with my finger. I've had my hands inside the reproductive systems of dead senior citizens. I know which artificial sweetners are good for you and which aren't and I know what the difference is between saturated, unsaturated, and trans-fat. I know why some cholesterol is good and some is bad, and I can draw little pictures explaining it. I can read an X-ray, CT, and PET scan. I can name most of the muscles and bones in a human body and I know the most common injuries to many of them. I can make explosives out of twenty common household products. I know how allergies work and I know why asthma closes the throat. I know what parts of the brain to remove to create mindless slaves. I know what the difference is between leukemia and cancer. I know how AIDS medication works and why bacteria become resistant to antibiotics. I can name deadly medical conditions which my unique physiology makes me totally immune to. I know what SARS is, why is caused a sudden horrific epidemic, and why it vanished on its own overnight. I know why terrorists choose to use anthrax. I know how they get the caramel into the caramilk bar. All this incredible knowledge is mine, and cliche as it is, knowing why a doctor precribes penicillin instead of streptomycin really *is* power, even for a non-physician. Whatever my other reasons for staying in medicine, one of the most powerful motivators is that I could never bring myself to pass up on the sheer volume of beautiful, beautiful information.

I will not yield to the Universe, not this easily. It can knock me down but it cannot make me stop pointing up at it and laughing. Here's to hoping I still feel that way this time next year.

Neil Gaiman is, in my moderately educated opinion, the only man who has ever written Sherlock Holmes better than Sir Arthur did himself. The tone and language of his work is easily the match of my favourite genuine Holmes story (which is, for the record The Final Problem; this will come as no surprise to many of my readers). My love of the Victorian writing style has always resulted in my having the strong urge to start toying with language (not necessarily write, but play around with the meaning and interaction of words) whenever I read a particularly good piece, which most of Doyle's works certainly are and which Gaiman's A Study in Emerald most certainly is.

Fun Fact of the Day: When I reread most of my own work, I "hear" it with an upper-class English accent. This, too, will come as no surprise to most of my readers.

And now, Fun With The English Language. You have been warned.

Weasel: 1: any of various small slender active carnivorous mammals (genus Mustela of the family Mustelidae, the weasel family) that are able to prey on animals (as rabbits) larger than themselves. 2: a light self-propelled tracked vehicle built either for traveling over snow, ice, or sand or as an amphibious vehicle. 3: a sneaky, untrustworthy, or insincere person.

Rook: 1: a common Old World gregarious crow (Corvus frugilegus) that nests and roosts in usually treetop colonies. 2: to defraud by cheating or swindling. 3: either of two pieces of each color in a set of chessmen having the power to move along the ranks or files across any number of unoccupied squares See also: The graphic at the top of this page.

Rookery: 1a: the nests or breeding place of a colony of rooks; b: a breeding ground or haunt especially of gregarious birds or mammals (such as penguins or seals). 2: a crowded dilapidated tenement or group of dwellings (as a place where one might find a room with many doors or a place filled with many usual, disreputable individuals).

Seal: 1: any of numerous carnivorous marine mammals (families Phocidae and Otariidae) that live chiefly in cold regions and have limbs modified for swimming. 2a: something that confirms, ratifies, or makes secure; b: a device with a cut or raised emblem used especially to certify a signature or authenticate a document (particularly a a medallion or ring).

Otter: 1: Any of various largely aquatic carnivorous mammals of the weasel family that usually have webbed and clawed feet adapted for swimming. For centuries the common seal was misclassified as belonging to this group (hence the seal family "Otariidae"). 2: The fur or pelt of an otter.

Pelt: 1a: a usually undressed skin with its hair, wool, or fur; b: a skin stripped of hair or wool for tanning. 2a: to strike with a succession of blows or missiles; b: to assail vigorously or persistently; c: hurl, throw, particularly snowballs; d: to beat or dash repeatedly against.

Snowball: 1: a round mass of snow pressed or rolled together. 2: any of several cultivated shrubby viburnums with clusters of white sterile flowers, called also snowball bush.

Shrubbery: a planting or growth of shrubs.

Shrub: 1: a low, usually several-stemmed woody plant. 2a: an aged blend of fruit juice, sugar, and spirits served chilled and diluted with water; b: a beverage made by adding acidulated fruit juice to iced water.

Tea: 1a: a shrub (Camellia sinensis of the family Theaceae, the tea family) cultivated especially in China, Japan, and the East Indies; b: the leaves, leaf buds, and internodes of the tea plant prepared and cured for the market, classed according to method of manufacture into one set of types (as green tea, black tea, or oolong), and graded according to leaf size into another (as orange pekoe, pekoe, or souchong). 2: an aromatic beverage prepared from tea leaves by infusion with boiling water. 3: any of various plants somewhat resembling tea in properties. 4a: refreshments usually including tea with sandwiches, crackers, or cookies served in late afternoon; b: a reception, snack, or meal at which tea is served. 5: slang: marijuana.

Cookie: Etymology: Dutch koekje, diminutive of koek cake. 1: a small flat or slightly raised cake. 2: an attractive woman. 3: a small file or part of a file stored on a computer containing personal information or a record of pages visited.

Cake: 1a: a breadlike food made from a dough or batter that is usually fried or baked in small flat shapes and is often unleavened; b: a sweet baked food made from a dough or thick batter usually containing flour and sugar and often shortening, eggs, and a raising agent (as baking powder); c: a flattened usually round mass of food that is baked or fried. 2a: a block of compacted or congealed matter ; b: a hard or brittle layer or deposit. 3: something easily done.

Ice: 1: frozen water. 2: a state of coldness. 3: a frozen dessert containing a flavoring (as fruit juice). 4: slang: diamonds.

Diamond: Native or artificial crystalline carbon that is the hardest known mineral, that is usually nearly colorless, that when transparent and free from flaws is highly valued as a precious stone, and that is used industrially especially as an abrasive.

Nifty: Etymology: origin unknown. Very good, very attractive, very desirable, very valuable.

Weasel: The niftiest animal known to human science. (Editor's note: admittedly, this one does not come from Webster's.)

Don'tcha just love it when stuff goes full circle?

Among the many varied war-machines of the Imperial Guard, an astounding number of variations in vehicle types and designs can be found. It has been suggested that Imperial engineers have never constructed any two vehicles quite alike, and while this is no doubt an exageration, the old cliche is certainly exemplified by the Landshaker, an all-terrain superheavy troop-transport, mobile headquarters, and heavy-weapons platform all in one. Only a handful of Landshakers are believed to have ever constructed due to the trendous cost and manpower which must go into the construction of each of these transports.

Standing fifty feet tall at it highests point and stratching just a few feet longer from nose to tail, the G-Quad Landshaker resembles little so much as a vast steel dinosaur crossing the land when seen from a distance. The main body of the Landshaker is a thirty-five foot long rectangular "torso" tall enough for two men in powered armour to stand one on the other's shoulders and wide enough for them to stand two abreast. This central compartment is supported by four powerful legs nearly thirty feet tall, each ending in four splayed claws able to find purchase in most any surface. A short six-foot neck connects the main compartment to the head, from which the pilot, surrounded by data outflows and sensor feeds, controls the Landshaker and passes situation updates to those in the main compartment. Two flat wings emerge from the sides of the main compartment, each bearing a mighty heavy weapon turret and the soldier who operates it.

Excluding passengers, the Landshaker transport is optimized for a five-person crew. Most vital to the Landshaker's operation is the pilot, who sits in the vehicle's head-like cockpit. The Landshaker is a complex unit, and can take years to learn to pilot properly. In the hands of an elite controller, the Landshaker moves and reacts like a living thing, crossing a battlefield with a grace unbelievable in something of its size. Three primary control systems are at the pilot's control: two hand controls, a system of foot-pedals, and the interior display system. The Landshaker has a highly complex series of secondary controls, and if necessary, the entire vehicle can be controled from the cockpit by a single trooper. Footpedals at the base of the pilot's seat control the Landshaker's primary movement. Subtle application of pressure and rotation to the pedals are used to orient either the entire vehicle or the head alone, articulating upon its neck. Far more important for control of the Landshaker are the two control sticks. Using these two sticks and the buttons and controls on them, the pilot can moderate the Landshaker's speed, targeting, tactical calculations, and numerous onboard systems. The two control sticks are essential for operating the Landshaker's weapon systems -- in a fully crewed Landshaker, the pilot control only the four heavy lasers mounted in the sides and underside of the cockpit, but these controls can be slaved to any or all of the other onboard weapons.

The second and third members of the Landshaker's crew are the heavy weapon mount operators. Where the pilot sits safe behind multiple layers of armour and shielding, the brave troopes who stand by the turrets stand exposed to the outside for maximum maneuverability and angle of fire. The heavy weapons of the turrets are interchangable, and most commonly one side will carry a heavy laser while the other side holds an autocannon or other heavy slugthrower. These heavy weapon mounts are able to cover the entire battlefield together, each having some 190 degrees of rotation without risk of hitting the Landshaker itself. The turrets are furthermore able to aim downwards to roughly -45 degrees forward and backwards or fire at up to 87 degrees of elevation. In the hands of a trained and coordinated firing team, these hevay weapon mounts can shred most any defense by the time that the pilot's gun arrays have even selected their target order.

The fourth member of the Landshaker crew mans the rear-targeting heavy laser built into the Landshaker's tail. Although both side turrets are able to rotate to fire behind the Landshaker, the rear firing arc does have one dedicated heavy cannon. This cannon ensures that no enemy unit is able to sneak up on the Landshaker without risk, and furthermore provides security for the Landshaker's back when the other weapons are needed pointing forward, as is most commonly the case. When not needed to fire, the rear cannon operator acts as a second "brain" for the Landshaker, helping the pilot sort through tactical data and target assignments and warning the flank turrent mounts of where their attention is most needed. Finally, the rear cannon covers the Landshaker in the event of a retreat being necessary -- though few Landshakers have ever been reported fleeing a battlefield.

The fifth and final crewmember aboard the standard Landshaker occupies the optional position of terrain watcher and expediter. This crewmember manages damage control within the main torso as needed, stands ready to relieve the flank gunners if needed, and performs any other duties within the Landshaker which become necessary. When not otherwise engaged, it is common for the fifth crewmember to go "topside" through the dorsal hatch and monitor the battlefield through binoculars and relay vital data to the others onboard. It is also not unheard of for this crewmember to observe the terrain via sniper scope rather than binoculars.

While the Landshaker can operate with a single pilot and is optimized for a five-person crew, the Landshaker is at heart a troop transport, and it is a rare Landshaker which enters the battlefield without also carrying a squad of troopers. The Landshaker's large size is designed specifically to accomodate a squad of space marines in full powered armour and up to twelve of these warriors can easily ride within the vehicle, albeit under somewhat cramped conditions. Smaller troops, wearing standard armour, can fit inside more comfortably or in large numbers, and with difficulty a twenty-soldier squad can lie within the Landshaker waiting to pounce on an enemy line already withering under Imperial fire. Larger troops, such as battledroids, rarely ride within a Landshaker as they rarely require the added armour on their advance towards enemy lines, but small groups of battledroids have been known to enter battle via the Landshaker and few sights are more dispiriting to an enemy force than the already awesome Landshaker opening its bay doors to disgorge four Warbots with weapons blazing.