“Crimson, do ye read me? This is Thorin. Get out! Get th’ hell out, now!”

“What do you think I’m trying to do”, I shouted into my helmet mic, banking hard around a jumble of boulders. “I’m heading for the spaceport now!”

I didn’t look over my shoulder. I didn’t need to. There was literally nothing to see. The sheet of black that was sweeping across the face of the planet absorbed light, matter, energy, and turned it into nothingness. It would have been less terrifying had it been roaring and rending the earth, but the annihilation of the planet was proceeding in utter silence.

I spotted the spaceport in the distance, and kicked the bike into overload. The power plant couldn’t sustain this sort of punishment. I loved this bike, and I was destroying it. It didn’t matter. Unless I made it to the ‘port ahead of that curtain, then me and the bike and the priceless data I was carrying were going to be erased as if we had never been.

This close to the city, the buildings formed a tangled maze, as if laid out by a drunk with a serious straight line phobia. I twisted and jacked the bike around, never letting up on the throttle. Faces blurred past me, people standing on their balconies, watching the curtain draw near. I felt like slapping them and telling them to run, but there was no time left.

“What’s going on?” barked the voice in my earphones. “Crimson, are ye still there?”

“Thorin, SHUT UP!” I screamed all my rage and terror into the mic, just to push it aside and keep it out of the way so I could save my ass. The spaceport was looming up ahead, and even from this distance I could see the doors crammed with people, surging forward in a stampede, only to break against the reinforced doors.

Closed. Locked.

I banked the bike hard and settled to the ground. Even if the doors were open, there was no way I was going to get past that crowd before the dark curtain swept through and obliterated the people, the port and the ships.

“No good, folks,” I said into the mic. “I can’t get to my ship. I’m uploading the Codex now.”

I punched a button that would transmit the coded text I had come here to retrieve, and turned to face my approaching doom. “Hard to judge how long I’ve got… maybe five minutes, maybe less. Get word to my sister. Tell her… tell her I’m proud of her.”

There was no response from the radio. An indicator glowed red in the corner of my vision… I’d blown out the mic yelling at Thorin. Shoddy Imperial technology.

The curtain drew nearer, and I embraced the Force. I was no Jedi, but I had enough experience with other forms of power to channel a bit. Enough for comfort. For calm. For acceptance.

The curtain swept down upon me.

My body began to fade, motes sparking within my form like a beam of light through glitter.

And then I was gone.

Gone.

Gone.

And then.

I was fading back into existence, the glittery process reversed, and I found myself standing, unsteadily, on a hard translucent pad in the transporter room of the U.S.S. Auric. There at the transporter console was Thorin Ironbeard, very dapper in his Star Fleet uniform, grinning at me like a Cheshire cat.

I crossed the transporter in two bounds and laid him out flat with a right cross.

“You’re welcome,” he said, spitting out blood.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” I yelled, “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND!?! Tell me you did NOT just bring a Federation starship cross-dimension into the Galactic Empire!”

“What I did, young lady, wuz ta save yer ungrateful hide. Now kin I git up, or are ye gonna deck me again?”

I clenched my fists, and noticed they were shaking. Rage, fear, imminent death… it used to be fun, once upon a time. I leaned back against the bulkhead and tried to get myself under control.

“Thorin,” I said, as calmly and reasonably as I could manage, “Federation and Empire are not compatible technological spheres. Bringing the Auric here was stupid. The anti-matter containment could have failed. The hull plating could have just ceased to exist. Hell, there is NO way the transporter should have worked at all!”

“But it did,” said Thorin. “I ain’t stupid, Crimson. We ran th’ models, science and magick both. With this dimension comin’ apart at the seams, we wuz able ta force a pocket of Federation space in and extend it just far enough to git a lock on ye. The odds wuz… well, they wuz good enough to take a chance fer one o’ th’ family.”

I… well, I’m a mercenary, you see, and I haven’t cried since I can’t remember when. The sudden stinging in my eyes was due to a malfunction in the life support systems. “Thank you, Thorin,” I said.

Any hugging that ensued at that point is entirely off the record.

Later, alone in my cabin, a safe number of dimensions away from the end of the universe, I tried to mourn. But I couldn’t. It was too big, too abstract. How many millions of lives, how many billions, just wiped away as if they’d never been? How many voices stilled?

But I felt as if… they weren’t gone. I can’t explain it, but it’s almost as if I could feel, for just a moment, the vital force that animated each of those lives, and they were all still alive and well… somewhere. Somewhere in a galaxy far, far away. Or maybe as close as the thickness of a computer screen.

And maybe that’s just a comforting delusion. But I’ll take it.

There are so many things wrong-headed about the design that it’s hard to know where to begin. There are no character bios. Everybody has the same origin. While you can create your own character, the templates steer you towards replicating a handful of existing heroes and villains. And the ultimate elite gear that you can earn is a battlesuit bearing the logo of an iconic hero, so you can be part of an army of identical warriors all bearing the same logo.

But I don’t hate it. It’s fun. It’s playable. They’ve got a style system so you can keep your own costume instead of whatever random armor piece you peel off a downed robot.

This is not a great game, by any stretch. The content is thin, and the game systems just don’t measure up to City of Heroes or Champions Online. Most troubling, the executives at Sony Online come off as being apathetic if not actively hostile to the entire notion of community building, player relations, and incorporating player feedback.

But at the end of the day, it’s just plain fun to explore the Justice League Satellite headquarters and meet Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and all the other classic characters that DC is famous for (although, disconcertingly, some of them appear to be carrying on some retail business on the side — guess even heroes have to make ends meet).

It’s not bad. I’m hoping it gets better.

Now if you’ll excuse me… Luthor’s kidnapped the big blue boy scout, and it’s up to me to get his Kryptonian backside out of the frying pan.

“I’m not a feminist, but I believe in equal rights for women”. Hello? That’s like saying, “I rob banks, but I’m not a bank robber”.

I submit that any woman running for the Senate or the Presidency is extremely unlikely NOT to be a feminist. The term has been loaded up over the decades with negative stereotypes. Enough is enough. There are male and female feminists. There are conservative and liberal feminists. There are feminists that are pro-porn and anti-porn. There are feminists that are anti-abortion and pro-choice. There are black, white, yellow, red and brown feminists.

Disclaiming “I’m not a feminist” before uttering anything vaguely pro-woman just serves to reinforce the view that there’s something wrong with being a feminist. I can understand why people want to distance themselves from the stereotype, but the only way to dispel it is for the entire spectrum of feminists to stop running away from it.

I am a feminist. And if a candidate says she’s not a feminist, I’m going to take her at her word. If you’re not a feminist, then do us all a favor: drop out of the race, put your apron back on, go fetch me and the girls a beer, and let a real woman have the nomination.

This is another short story based on one of my characters from Ultima Online. She was created as a temporary character to appear in a production of the Golden Brew Players, but after ten years or so, I guess she’s not so temporary after all, and deserves a bit of a background story. She’s also the only one of my characters to appear in a non-fiction book, sitting near Lord British in an illustration from Amy Jo Kim’s book, “Community Building for the Web”.

The golden sun poured its radiance down upon the countryside, and in the  temple of Apollo sacrifices were made and thanks given, but not far from the  temple an old woman reclined in the meager shade of a fig tree and cursed the  sun, the sun god, and the chariot that he rode in on.

It was a fine tirade, full of creative invective, but she found herself winded  far too soon and paused to catch her breath.

It was then that she saw the man  standing nearby. He was a rotund man, his chiton belted carelessly with a  frayed cord that did nothing to contain his girth, and he had been watching  her curse with an expression of wry bemusement.

“You don’t think very highly of the gods, I gather?” the man said.

The woman snorted. “On the contrary. I honor them with only the finest of  abuse. It is the least I can do in return for the comprehensive selection of  aches and pains they have seen fit to gift me with.”

The man laughed, and his laugh was warm and sincere. “You’re Lysistrata,” he  said. A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” she replied cautiously, “And you are…?”

He ignored the question. “Tell me about yourself.”

She snorted. “It’s a short story. I was born. I grew up. I ignored suitors. I  got old. And in the final act, I die.”

“Final act,” mused the man. “Interesting turn of phrase. Do you like the  theatre, Lysistrata?”

“Women aren’t allowed at the theatre,” she replied.

“True, but that’s not what I asked.” The man leaned in towards her, so close  she could smell a sweet hint of fine wine on his breath. “Tell me true: do you  like the theatre?”

She felt light-headed, suddenly, giddy and reckless. “No,” she whispered in a  conspiratorial tone. “I don’t like the theatre. I LOVE the theatre!”

He smiled back, and… strange, how that smile could make such a lump of a man  look oddly rakish. “You’ve been sneaking in, haven’t you? Every chance you  got, since you were… what, ten?”

She giggled, swaying towards him, then righted herself with a start. “How  did you know that?” she demanded.

“I know everything that happens in the theatre,” he whispered. “I’ve watched  you watching every play. I know the places you hide. I have heard your  anguished longing to be up on that stage, to show the blundering apprentices  how a woman should be played, proud and strong.” He cupped her cheek in his  warm hand. “I know who you really are, Lysistrata, deep in your heart. You’re  an actor. And now, do you know who I am?”

Tears streamed down her face and her voice caught in her throat. “Dionysus?”  she whispered.

He stepped back, and as he did the illusion of weight melted from his frame,  revealing a slender but muscular frame, a trained body, a performer’s  instrument. “God of wine and drama, at your service, my lady.” He sketched a  bow that would not be in fashion for another one or two thousand years, and  kissed her hand softly. A warmth spread from where his lips touched, and  Lysistrata felt herself blushing like a shy maiden.

She struggled to collect her racing thoughts. “Why have you come? Why show  yourself to me?”

“Lysistrata,” he replied gently, “you were right. This is your last act.  Today. The curtain is closing on your life.”

She bowed her head in acceptance, but couldn’t quite contain a sob. “I know.  I’ve known for a while now. I just… I’m not ready… the Dithyramb is in  three weeks. Just let me see it once more.” She met his eyes, pleading. “Just  three more weeks.”

“I won’t make that bargain with you,” said the god. “Such deals end badly for  mortals, and the fates are harshest with those favored by the gods.” Dionysus  knelt before her. “I have another proposal. Perhaps it is more cruel, but it  is your decision to make, your destiny to choose.”

“That is all I’ve ever asked,” said Lysistrata.

“And what you’ve always been denied, isn’t it?”

She nodded silently.

“Here then is what I offer,” said Dionysus. “Forsake the rest you have earned.  Shake off the clutch of the grave and be my maenad. You will see wonders you  have never imagined. You will be princess and beggar, courtesan and nun.  But  wherever you are, there will be a stage, and you will be upon it, practicing  the art of theatre.”

“This is the cruel fate you spoke of?” said Lysistrata.

Dionysus nodded. “You will not remember this life. You will be denied the  peace of the grave. Lifetime after lifetime you will live, and you will never  be truly happy when you are not before an audience. Your craft, your artistry,  will be spurned and mocked for centuries, and even in periods when it is not,  only other actors will ever really understand. The hunger to perform… do not  underestimate its power. It can lift you far above the earth, and then release  you to tumble uncontrollably towards your doom. Only when you achieve balance  between your passion and the discipline of your craft will you master  yourself. Can you do this? Are you willing to try?”

The old woman smiled. “I was born for it. I do not fear this destiny. I  embrace it.”

Dionysus extended his hand to her. “Then come with me.”

She took his hand and stood. Her body made no effort to follow, and she looked  back upon herself. How small she had been, wrinkled and sad! But sad no longer  – an enigmatic smile blessed her still, unmoving face.

Lysistrata floated gracefully alongside Dionysus, young again, lithe and  beautiful. Each step felt like a dance, and the oppressively hot Grecian  summer faded into a teasing light warmth upon her etherial form.

“Dionysus? If you please… may I ask one more thing of you?”

The god arched an eyebrow. “A request already?”

She ducked her head shyly. “I know… I know I won’t remember this life, this  existence. But it pains me to think my name will be forgotten, swallowed by  the vastness of time.”

“Ah!” said the god. “A spot of vanity! Splendid! You’re already on the road to  stardom!” He waved his hand in the air with a flourish. “There. I give you my  promise, your name will not be forgotten, though the details of  your existence may be… embellished.”

She smiled radiantly at him. “Thank you!”

He offered his arm. “Shall we be off?”

She took Dionysus’ arm. “I can’t wait!”

Many miles away, in Athens, a man sat before a blank scroll of papyrus, idly  tapping his stylus against his desktop. So preoccupied was he that he failed  to notice the woman materializing behind his back.

“Hello, Aristophanes,” she trilled in a musical voice.

The man started violently, nearly sending his writing materials flying. He  glared at the woman, who laughed gleefully at his reaction. “Thalia! That’s  not funny!”

She stuck out her tongue. “Who’s the muse of comedy here? If I say it’s funny,  it’s funny!”

The man grumbled and set to putting his desk back in order. “I’m stuck,  Thalia. Again. Have you got anything useful for me this time?”

The muse pouted. “You didn’t like my last suggestion.”

Aristophanes rolled his eyes. “Culturally impossible. How am I supposed to  explain this imaginary game of yours in sufficient detail that the audience  understands or cares who’s on first?”

Thalia shook her head. “All right, all right. Forget about that. Got something  new for you. This is hot. Get this: split choruses, first time ever on stage.  Topical comedy, current events. Zany antics. Lots of sex… well, lots of  references to sex. And a heartwarming message of peace to wrap it up. This is straight from the brain of the master himself!”

The man grabbed for his stylus and scroll, an eager gleam in his eye. “I knew I could count on you! What’ll we call  it?”

Thalia smiled. “Lysistrata.”

N’Shan’s tail twitched irritably as the doctor swept a tissue regenerator across the gash on her cheek. “There we go,” said the doctor, “good as new.”

She bit off an acerbic reply and settled for a simple, “thank you”. He smiled, a bit too rigidly, his posture stiff. This one doesn’t like me either, she thought.

“The Admiral wants to see you,” he said, putting away his tools, his body language screaming to her trained eyes his relief at stepping away from her.

“Of course,” she said, “I’ll be right there.” She started to stand up, and was surprised when he put a hand on her shoulder — gently! — and stopped her.

“You’ll stay right there. You’re my patient until I release you.”

She looked at him again, puzzled. Had she misinterpreted? The hostility she had seen in his stance had evaporated in an instant, and was now replaced by… protectiveness? Concern? Why? How could any rational being radiate pure unfriendliness in one breath and flip to nurturing healer in the next?

Despite her years in Starfleet, N’Shan did not understand humans.

“The Admiral is outside. He’s come to you. Are you ready to see him?” he asked.

She nodded… indication of assent. She felt awkward with the rich human gesture language they were so unconsciously fluent in, so invisible to their own consciousness that only their leading diplomats were fully aware of it. She nearly laughed when she realized that her tail was twitching. Something else we have in common, she thought.

The doctor eyed her critically, and nodded back, sharply, a decision made in her favor. “You’re fine,” he said, “But if he tries to bully you, call me in and I’ll chase him out of my sickbay.”

She marveled again at his sudden shift in attitude, and gave him a warm smile. “I’ll do that,” she purred… and stopped. He had drawn himself up again, defensively, his body now taut. What had she done to offend him?

“I’ll send him in,” he said, in what human ears would perceive as a neutral tone. They would not hear the shortness of the attack and decay of each individual syllable as she did.

The doctor left, the sickbay door whooshing shut behind him, and N’Shan leaned wearily back. The fight had not winded her — she had ended it with barely a scratch. But the effort of dealing with humans was wearing her down. Perhaps it was time to go home to Cait. Permanently.

Scant moments later, Admiral Quinn strode through the door. He was a sturdy man, with a powerful stride, and this was the first time she had seen him outside his office. N’Shan felt relieved to see him. Quinn’s body language had never shown any disdain for N’Shan — if he felt any, he never let it slip.

The Admiral pulled up a chair and seated himself without asking, and N’Shan felt herself sitting straighter with no conscious intent.

“It is my understanding that you intend to press charges against Lieutenant Stevens,” he said, without preamble.

“Yes,” she said, “that is my intent”.

Quinn’s face registered disapproval. “N’Shan,” he said, “there’s a war on. As if the Klingon alliance wasn’t bad enough, the Romulans are continuing to regroup under Sela, there’s no telling what the Caradassians are up to… hell, girl, I’ve got reports that your old friends the Kzinti are seriously considering jumping into the fray. I can’t be having officers on the sidelines right now in a court-martial over a stupid bar fight!”

N’Shan closed her eyes, remembering. “Admiral Quinn,” she said, “There were three surveillance cameras positioned in the bar, to the best of my memory. Have you reviewed the record of this incident?”

Quinn nodded. “He approached you and said something. You said something back. He took a few steps away, you turned your back, and he struck you from behind. You planted a palm in his face and he went down like a sack of potatoes. End of fight.”

“Do you want to know what he said to me?”

Admiral Quinn slumped back in his chair, suddenly looking very old and tired. “No, N’Shan, I don’t want to know, I want my officers to shake hands, forget it ever happened, and go back to fighting the enemy instead of each other.”

“He propositioned me, Admiral. In terms so lewd that I will not repeat them save to a board of inquiry. A stranger walked up to me and proposed a vulgar liason with language that would make an Orion blush. And I told him to go away. That’s all I said. Go away.”

With a sigh, Quinn stood up and walked over to a terminal. He began poking buttons. “N’Shan, I want to show you something. I want your honest appraisal. And if you want to proceed with the court-martial after this, I will not stand in your way.”

A photograph appeared on the screen. It was a human woman in a provocative pose. Perched atop her head were a pair of cat-like ears attached to a plastic headband, and a false tail drooped limp and lifeless behind her. N’Shan hissed softly. The woman’s posture radiated pride and confidence, rather more than the flimsy costume called for, and an aura of sensual desire. “She… she wishes to be Caitian?”

Quinn shook his head, “These images are centuries old, N’Shan, long before we made first contact. She’s emulating an earth creature called a cat.”

N’Shan flicked an ear at him. “I know of cats,” she said. “Captain Data keeps one.”

The Admiral nodded. “Spot. But Spot isn’t exactly… sorry, I’m getting off the subject. These images survived the Eugenics Wars, and the number of people who are interested in them is not insignificant.”

“And Lieutenant Stevens is one such?”

“Not exactly. Stevens has a complex psychological reaction to images and stories such as this. The counselors tell me that he has a strong attraction, followed immediately by a stronger surge of self-loathing and guilt. He externalizes this as hatred and anger against humanoids that provoke these feelings in him.”

N’Shan strove to make sense of this. “How does such a one pass the Academy psychological profile?”

“The psych panel… let’s just say in wartime, standards are not always enforced as they should be,” replied Quinn.

N’Shan sat in thoughtful silence. “He is a danger to others, to discipline and good order,” she said at last.

“Oh, he’s relieved of command,” said Quinn. “Until that psych profile shows me he can control himself, his duty station is the counseling ward. If it were up to me, I’d drum him out so fast he’d cause a doppler shift. But somewhere underneath that self-hatred is an officer that we can use. And with a war on, I need to use every tool at my disposal.”

Quinn stood up. “I could work around the loss of Stevens, if I had to,” he said. “But N’Shan, I need you in the field. I need you out there now, today. I don’t need you here at base in a court-martial that might drag on for weeks or months. If you feel you have to press charges, I’ll back you up every step of the way. But the threat of charges might be a better motivator than the charges themselves would be.”

“I will consider,” said N’Shan.

Quinn smiled. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander.”

As Quinn turned to go, N’Shan’s eyes settled on the screen again. “Admiral… this image. It belongs to Stevens?”

Quinn punched a button and the screen went blank. “No, that image was given to me by Doctor Evans, along with some insight into the situation. And Doctor Evans’ only psychological conflict is that he finds himself intrigued by a certain young woman with whom he must maintain a strict doctor-patient relationship.”

N’shan blinked slowly as the admiral left the room, and studied the ceiling. Humans! she thought to herself. And then simply, Men!

There are two things that are true; 1) we were both in Alaska at about the right time, and 2) the daughter has my eyes.

But I have never been that drunk in my entire life, and if I had been, I wouldn’t have been able to… ermmm… perform.

So I’m almost completely, reasonably, pretty darn sure that Bristol Palin is not my daughter.

No further questions, please.

He was a heavily muscled man, his physique made more imposing by the golden plate armor encasing his body. He was not old, but neither was he young, and his lined face and iron-grey beard bespoke of a life of hard labor. Atop his head was perched an old, dusty brown hat, incongruous against the platemail but somehow suiting the face so well that it seemed a part of him.

With a sigh, the man stirred from his thoughts and reached into the pouch at his side. He pulled out a plain gold ring, glinting faintly in the dim light, and set it upon the anvil. He couldn’t read the inscription, but the words upon the ring were engraved into his memory.

“Our Love is Forever Golden”.

He picked up an old hammer leaning against the cold forge and brought it up above the ring in a single fluid motion. He stood there, poised to strike, to flatten it into gold leaf in one mighty blow.

A woman’s voice whispered behind him, “Do it, Thorin. Set me free.”

Thorin Ironbeard, Golden Knight, Master of the Forge, lowered his hammer and turned towards the voice. He had known she would come, somehow, but he expected her to be more… ethereal.

But she was not. She leaned in the doorway of the smithy, solid, arms crossed, regarding him with a small smile. She wore her fighting armor, the armor he had so carefully crafted for her, her bow slung carelessly across her back and her cloak fluttering idly, though the air in the smithy was still. On her left hand glinted a ring, the twin to the one on the anvil.

“Ursula,” he whispered. And then, gruffly, he muttered, “Ye ain’t real.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied, her smile fading. “I’m a construct of your memories. The only person who has the right to tell Ursula’s story is Ursula.”

“Then why’re ye botherin’…”

“Because,” she said, “you have a right to tell YOUR story, and I’m a part of that. Look into your forge, Thorin. What do you see?”

Thorin stared into the cold gray coals of the forge. It had been years since they had stirred to life. They stirred now, however, the dust and ash whirling away, the coals glowing to life, a blast of heat billowing out to ruffle his hair like a lover.

He looked up. The smithy was gone now, replaced by an open field ringed by forests. The sunlight dazzled his eyes. Ursula had moved behind him and he felt her armor pressed against his back.

“Thorin!” she yelled, “Look out!”

Orcs emerged from the forest, a half-dozen of them, snarling and waving their weapons, advancing upon them step by step. He smelled the sharp, rancid scent of them, and their mad yammering assailed his ears.

“Piece o’ cake,” he growled, and hefted his warhammer. But something was wrong with it. The balance was off, and the thrill of magic that ran through the weapon was absent. He took a step and noticed that his armor had changed as well – it was dull iron, too heavy, poorly fitted, absent any trace of enchantment.

He heard Ursula’s bowstring sing and glanced over his shoulder at her. The shot was wild, clumsy, the arrow arching far wide of the nearest orc. The orcs, emboldened, sprang forward. He swung the hammer and missed, badly, stumbling awkwardly. An orc took the opening, driving its scimitar into his side. He felt the poorly forged metal give way, and the impact drove the wind from him. Behind him, Ursula grunted, and droplets of blood sprayed over his shoulder.

“Ursula!” he screamed, and swung wildly, feeling the shock up his arms as his hammer connected with a orcish skull. The creature stepped back and shook its head, barely injured by the blow, grinning now with hungry eyes.

In the distance, over the din of battle, he heard another voice. “Over here!” it yelled, “Hurry!” There was a tower in that direction, and a man stood in the doorway, armored like himself, gesturing at them frantically. Thorin took another swing, clearing an opening in the circle of orcs.

“Go!” he yelled, grabbing her cloak and swinging her towards the tower. He swung a final time in a broad arc, fending the orcs off for a second, and ran after her, across the field, into the tower. The man slammed the heavy steel door shut behind them, and the enraged roars of the orcs faded behind the thick stone walls.

“Hail and well met!” said the man. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Late?” replied Ursula, with a shaky laugh. She wrapped a bandage around a shallow slash on her arm. “We’ve been camped out there for three days, waiting for you!” She shot a sideways glance at Thorin, a teasing smile quirking the corner of her mouth, the excitement of battle still hot in her dark eyes.

“Sorry,” the man said again, and the look of contrition on his face was unfeigned. He turned to Thorin with an apologetic grin. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Joshua Rowen”.

Thorin offered his hand, but his fingers went through Joshua’s, and the tower faded and dwindled until he was standing once more in the empty smithy. Ursula stood again in the doorway, whole and unbloodied.

“So that’s how you remember it?” she said.

“That’s how’t happened,” Thorin replied.

“Perhaps,” she said, with a dubious smile. “I don’t think we were that helpless, or the orcs that tough. We did survive those three days, after all. But there’s much more to see. Our wedding day, the day I opened the Brew, the day you made Grandmaster… the day it all… changed.”

Thorin shook his head. “Th’ Dark Tower messed with yer mind.”

Ursula sighed. “You don’t believe that. You know we were… drifting apart… before that. And deep down, you still think it’s your fault.”

Something akin to grief creased Thorin’s weathered face. “Ain’t it?”

“I’m not real, Thorin, remember? I can’t absolve you. You’ll have to absolve yourself.”

“Aye,” he said. “I reckon.”

“So will you do it?” she asked. “Will you destroy the ring? Will you set me free?”

Thorin took a deep breath and turned to face her squarely. “Yer already free,” he replied. “Ye always wuz, Urs, n’ so wuz I. I jest din’t see it at th’ time.” He tapped the ring with his forefinger. “Mebbe our love weren’t ferever golden. But th’ mem’ries are, n’ always will be.”

Ursula smiled, and it was the smile he remembered from the beginning, the brilliant, joyful smile she had given him on their wedding day. “You’re smarter than you look,” she teased.

“Iffen ye say so,” he replied with a shrug. “Mebbe a li’l bit smarter than I used ta be. Mebbe. Now if ye’ll ‘scuse me, there’s a pretty pink woman in that tavern yonder a’waitin’ fer me ta step up ta th’ plate. We got us a town ta resurrect.”

Ursula’s smile did not waver, but she did, her form glowing and growing translucent. As she faded, she blew him a kiss and he felt a damp warmth on his cheek, but from her lips or from his own tears he could not say.

***

Thorin woke slowly, stirring in his chair. He blinked the sleep from his eyes as his workroom swam into focus. He took a deep breath, and the smoke from his forge mingled pleasantly with the scent of herbs from Kita’s alchemy table.

His eyes focused on the shining new anvil next to the forge, and the golden ring sitting upon it. He took the ring and tucked it back into his pouch.

“Nobody can see ferever,” he said to the empty room. “But love is always golden.”

He stood and stretched, and walked down the stairs, heading for The Golden Brew and Kita’s warm embrace, ready for the next chapter.

Behind him, deep within the forge, an ember stirred to life, its warmth slowly spreading.

Among those playing the game at launch were three friends who had adopted the character names Joshua Rowan, Robert the Red, and Sir Lancelot.  They formed a guild that they called The Golden Knights, Guardians of the Way, and set themselves the task of defending a chokepoint called The Crossroads against other players who had taken on the roles of killers and thieves.

Shortly after launch, one of Joshua’s real-life friends expressed an interest in the game, and soon created a character on the same server as the Golden Knights; Ursula. Her husband at the time, watching over her shoulder, soon got an account and created a character of his own; Thorin Ironbeard. That’s me.

My hammer-slinging blacksmith did manage a few victories as a Golden Knight, but my primary focus was on mining and crafting armor and weapons for the guild. Ursula, however, formulated other ambitions. She proposed building a tavern, a place for the Golden Knights and friends to get together after a day of fighting, kick off our greaves and just enjoy some down time.

So while the rest of us went off and fought murderers, hunted monsters, sweated over a hot forge or followed other paths, Ursula created The Golden Brew.

And she sat in that building, and waited… for hours, for days, for weeks, for months, for people to show up.

They did. Slowly. At first it was the Golden Knights and allies. But it was also people who just happened to wander past. In more than one instance, it was a thief or murderer intent on an easy score, who instead found a different way to play the game. And then it was people who had heard about us, from people who had heard about us…

One night, Ursula, Kita Talith and myself were relaxing and chatting about real life, and we discovered that we had all been involved in theatre. One thing lead to another, and soon we were wondering about how we might stage a play inside the game. That was the birth of the Golden Brew Players. And while Ursula had almost single-handedly grown the Golden Brew into a major institution, the Players took it to a whole new level.

The Brew and the Players captured the imagination of not only other residents, but also of the in-game staff and eventually the designers of the game. Richard Garriott, who created the Ultima Series, came to two of our plays and bestowed awards upon Joshua and Kita. The in-game staff provided special landscaping and decorations for the tavern. Kita was interviewed for the New York Times. We ended up being mentioned in books, seminars, theses and academic symposiums as a shining example of virtual community-building.

Time moved on, as time is wont to do. Ursula and I split up in real life; Kita and I became romantically involved. I banked the coals of my forge and closed up the doors, deciding it was time to explore the other MMO games that had sprung up in the intervening years. And explore I did; Dark Age of Camelot, Second Life, Everquest II, Star Wars Galaxies, World of Warcraft, EVE Online, Lord of the Rings Online, Dungeons and Dragons Online, City of Heroes… others, many others.

But I never connected like I did in UO. Even when I hooked up with former members of the Golden Knights in other games, there was something missing. I was doing what I always did in UO, for the most part, which was largely wandering about on my own, finding whatever passed for a crafting system and making gear for myself and other players.

And at the end of the day, I’d log off. There was no down time. There was no kicking back around a fireplace and swapping stories while Ursula passed around Inga’s latest culinary experiments. There were ‘friends’ — people who wanted to group with me, wanted me to make them armor, wanted just to idly chat — but there were no FRIENDS, nobody I would trust with my back in a heated fight because it just wouldn’t occur to me NOT to trust them.

Ultima Online is dated. It’s a 12-year-old game based on 12-year-old technology, and the most recent attempt to get the graphics up to modern standards was a failure (I desperately hope they’re working behind the scenes to address that, but I have my doubts).

But no game since has succeeded in recapturing the sense of community of UO, as represented by The Golden Brew and The Golden Brew Players. There is still life in this old game. There are still lessons to be learned from it. And there are still adventures awaiting.

Come see for yourselves. Tell ‘em Thorin sent ye.

One draw that UO has that so many others don’t is a dedicated contingent of contract staff (Event Managers) that run events and scenarios, playing characters in the game and interacting with players and player communities. It’s an extension of the successful and popular volunteer program of the early days of UO (which was derailed by a lawsuit).

Advice to developers: in-game staff is critical. Obviously out-of-character support is vital (and just as obviously most companies short-staff support — when your accountants start tearing their hair out and screaming that you have far too many GMs, then you probably have about half of what you need).

But it’s just as important to have staff in the world that are part of the world. Your NPC queen should stand up from her throne now and again, stretch, and stroll down to the nearest player-run village to borrow a cup of sugar. Or something.

Retrospectives were composed, memorials were planned. The event coordinators on the Baja Shard named things after us (including their website).  It was a touching tribute, the best funeral we could hope for.

So naturally, we decided to spoil it by not being dead after all.

My wife, Kita Talith (her game name), started it all by waxing nostalgic over the message board posts (which I did as well). But then she decided to reactivate her account to wander around a bit and reminisce.

And then she ran into an old friend, James the Animal Tamer. And he greeted her effusively and gifted her generously. And with that endowment in hand, she had an idea…

We’re back. We rebuilt near the original Trammel location, just a few screens north along the coastline. We contacted Joshua Rowen, founder of the Golden Knights, and secured his blessing to make Kita guild leader. And now we’re plotting our grand reopening… but though not officially launched, we’re already drawing in a small legion of roleplayers.

Why go back to UO, a game with hopelessly outdated graphics, a multitude of “loose-end” bugs, and server populations that are laughable next to juggernauts like World of Warcraft? One word: community. UO has always had it. WoW hasn’t — at least, not in the same sense.

I can’t describe the difference. But from the moment I first logged in, I knew — I was home.

Shout out to Leyf and any of the other Golden Knights of old who might stumble across this. We’d love to have you back, even for just a visit. Leyf was instrumental in keeping the Brew running for as long as it did. And I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention Ursula, who came up with the original idea for the Golden Brew and grew it from nothing into something very special and timeless.

And thanks to our new friends and acquaintances, who have been enthusiastically spring-cleaning their dusty old gear and gold from their vaults and dumping it on us… but more importantly, have been sharing their tales, trials, tribulations and triumphs. Those stories and those friendships are what makes the Golden Brew fizz.