Well, here we go. Maybe someday, I`ll break the 3K mark. I think this is one of the worst stories I`ve ever written, but as I am often over-critical of my own work, I`ll leave it up to you all to decide. Just an FYI, the first song I include in this story is an original; the second is "Valley of the Damned" by DragonForce. It`s a good song. --- An old man sits alone before a fireplace.   His eyes are somewhat dimmed by the passage of time, but still they view the pictures laid upon his mantel, stormy grey irises flickering over faces, mimicking the terrible, howling winds that gnash at his house`s walls.   He hears the winds; he is no fool.   The last news he heard from Tasnicaport was that they`ve evacuated everyone in the area to hurricane shelters; they were calling it a thousand-year storm. Then he turned off the television. "No..." says he, eyes lifting the merest inch.   "You will not drive me from my home, not today." Outside, angry lightning flashes four, seven times, quicker than the eye can perceive.   Thunder peals like a juggernaut`s battle cry in answer.   But it cannot intimidate him. The old man pulls down one of his pictures.   The image is not faded, as many of these tokens of the past so often are.   He cares about them too much, needs his family, even if they are memories lost to time. "The Metler family has lived in this house for generations," he murmurs, whether to himself, the storm, or no one, not even he can be certain.   "I won`t leave now, never." He leans back in the chair, and his eyes close, as if it were an automatic response to that motion.   Outside, the storm rumbles its rage against the house. --- "Madira, to that house!" "Gregor, we`ll never make it!" "Daddy!   I want to get out of the rain!" "Matthias, stop shouting, we can barely hear you!   Save your strength in case you have to swim!" The floodwaters were up above the adults` waists, and they were swimming as much as walking.   Carrying a ten-year-old and what personal possessions they were able to rescue before the caravan was washed into a gully didn`t help, either. "Madira, we must press on!   It`s the only place we can possibly survive!" The house in question was situated on a hill just high enough that its front stoop was relatively dry.   It was large, boxy, and somehow withstanding the hurricane`s onslaught. "Gregor!" Madira, who had been carrying the pack, suddenly slipped, and her husband watched in horror as her face disappeared beneath the roiling brown water. "Matthias!"   The boy didn`t need to hear anything but the fear in his father`s voice.   He leapt from his father`s shoulders and began to swim for shore.   Gregor dove into the water, and found his wife a short distance away.   He pulled her up, coughing and muddy, from the undertow, mumbling praises that she hadn`t been swept away.   He said nothing to her, but put an arm around her and shouldered the pack, leading them back in the direction he came. "Daddy, Mommy!   It gets easier the closer we get to the house!   Come on, hurry up!"   Matthias was not panicking, though he was certainly frightened.   And as he said, they soon found that they could walk more than swim, and eventually dragged themselves from the surging waters up onto the soggy hill that gave the house refuge from the worst of the storm. "Madira, I`ll take the pack.   Go knock on the door." "We`ll be lucky if anyone hears us over this din, Gregor.   We should just set up in the lee side; it`s better than sleeping in the river." "Just knock, Madira.   It can`t hurt."   He was overtaking his wife`s pace now, catching up to their son who was doing his best to keep out of the rain in front of the door, underneath the small overhang.   He knocked instead. The family huddled around the door, catching their breaths and praying that someone kind would hear their knocking.   It was what seemed like an eternity before the door was answered, and their bunching up caused them to push forward into the man who`d answered the door. "Hey!   Who are you?   What do you want?" "Please, sir, I`m sorry for our intrusion.   Please, let us take refuge in your house, it is the only one standing for as far as we can see.   Just for the night, sir, I beg of you." "Why didn`t you evacuate when the constables came around?" "Sir, we are but poor wandering entertainers..." "Gypsies!"   The word was spat in Gregor`s face.   "I`ll not have scum like you dirtying up my house!" "Reginald?   Reginald, who`s at the door?"   The voice was feminine, coming from the upstairs.   "For pity`s sake, let them inside and close the door!" "But, Rosemary..." "Reginald, it is storming out.   You`ll flood the house if you leave that door open any longer!" Reginald stared sullenly at the family as they entered his sanctum, dripping large puddles.   He slammed the door against the wind`s advances, securing three latches.   They were infinitesimal defenses compared to the storm. "Now, who is it who`s come?" Rosemary was coming down the stairs now.   "You poor dears, caught out in nasty weather like this!" Rosemary was rather the antithesis of her husband.   While Reginald was somewhat rounded, with a reddish face that belied a taste for spirits, his wife was slender and pale, with delicate hair so light blond it was almost white.   Her eyes were a bright blue, and every movement she made was graceful and exact.   Reginald was also twenty years her senior.   She smiled at her soaking-wet visitors, and the room lightened a bit. "Rosemary, they`re just gypsies.   I knew it from the moment they pushed inside.   You shouldn`t have made me let them in." "Reginald, I`ll not have that sort of talk in front of our guests!   You can`t simply expect me to leave another person outside in the worst storm ever, can you?   Please excuse my husband, he`s a tad old-fashioned."   Reginald harrumphed, but his rage was checked. "It is okay," Gregor began.   "We are... used to sentiments of that sort.   We are very grateful for your hospitality, however, and I promise we will be gone come morning, storm or no." "Tut!   Perish the thought!   You`ll stay right here and wait for the storm to abate.   Come, we need to get you out of those soggy clothes and into some nice warm towels!" The gypsies were taken aback, as was Reginald.   They had no idea how to react to this woman, and so her will was done.   Soon, they were sitting around the fireplace with warm drinks, wrapped in towels and blankets to stave off the chill.   The contents of their pack were spread out to dry; Rosemary found herself entranced by the guitar they carried, which she took care to dry by hand with another towel. "This is a gorgeous instrument!   Where did you get it?" "My grandfather made it," Gregor replied, "and many more.   Each was different, each had its own personality, he liked to say.   That is the only one I have left, sadly.   The others were sold long ago." She cradled the instrument and stroked its strings while Reginald busied himself with not watching her. "Can you play it?" she asked abruptly.   Her eyes were full of need. "Yes, I can," Gregor replied, smiling at her.   "Would you like to hear a song?   I feel I must do something to repay your kindliness." Rosemary beamed at the gypsies, excited as though she was half her age.   "Oh, would you?   I don`t mean to be rude, but I do think a lively tune would brighten the stormy night, and I`ve never heard gypsy song before." Gregor`s eyes glimmered, infused by the woman`s enthusiasm.   He finished his drink and took the guitar from Rosemary, taking a few minutes to tune it; the rain had dampened its chords, but not its spirit, and soon he was busily strumming out a pizzicato tune, the like of which neither Rosemary or Reginald had heard. Presently, Madira joined him, taking a somewhat wet tambourine from before the fireplace and keeping time.   She nodded to Matthias` questioning glance, and he too joined in, standing up in his skivvies and beginning to dance while his mother sang in Old Tasnican.   The tune was merry and energetic, and even Reginald seemed interested, tapping his foot to the beat.   She sang the song once, and then, feeling that their hosts were quite content to hear more, sang it again in their common tongue. "Dance, dance, my little boy, My little turn-around. Dance with your feet upon the ground. Dance with your arms up in the air. Dance with your head tossing wildly. Dance with your spirit soaring high. Dance for your father and me. Dance, my little turn-around." "I can`t believe," Reginald breathed when the song was done.   "My mother used to sing me that very song, when I was a little boy, to put me to sleep.   The tune was slower, but I recognize the words.   I never knew what it meant." Madira smiled, not a little shy.   "It is an old song.   The slower version is used as a lullaby, yes, but the words are a little different." "Could you play another song?" Reginald asked, his wife smiling to herself, pleased with his newfound exuberance. Gregor nodded, and Madira began to sing once again.   This time, Matthias sat and pulled out a little pennywhistle, accompanying his father to the slower tune.   It was more somber, but had the sort of strength that could lead armies into battle. "On a cold dark winter night, hidden by the stormy light, A battle rages for the right, for what will become. In the valley of the damned, a warrior with sword in hand Travels fast across the land, for freedom he rides. And the sign from the master on high, He screams aloud and across hear the cry For the kingdom of fire and ice And the power to be alive. Be strong, ride on, carry on through the war! Come along carry on, living for ever more! On the wings of death, by the hands of doom, By the darkest light from the darkest moon, Crossing silent seas, over mountains high, For we stand as one tonight! On the black wind forever, we ride on together, Destroying your evil with freedom our guide! When the master will call us, He`ll stand high before us, Our hearts filled with splendor, Our swords will shine over the light!" Reginald smiled.   "That was wonderful.   Thank you." Rosemary`s smile died as the sound of a crash came from the upstairs.   "Lacey!" Gregor looked puzzled, watching the woman leap up from her chair and dash up the stairs.   "Do you have a child, too?" he asked. Reginald nodded, gravely.   "That was the old oak in the back of the house, I`m sure of it."   He stood.   "I knew it was getting rotten...   I should have taken it down sooner."   He began to climb the stairs, but was met halfway by Rosemary, who was carrying a young girl in her arms. "Reginald, we need to get to the cellar now!   The tree just barely missed Lacey`s bed, and now the upstairs is being torn apart by the wind!"   Without a word, husband and wife picked themselves, their daughter, and their guests up and left by the back door. "Where is the cellar at?" Gregor asked, shouting to be heard above the driving tempest. "It`s in the middle of the south wall!   Go help Rosemary, I need to get something from the house!" Rosemary, Lacey, and the gypsies fought the downpour, Gregor nearly stumbling over the outside door to the root cellar.   With great difficulty, he was able to open the latch and one of the doors, herding the women and children inside.   The wooden door closed behind him with a slam. Rosemary lit an oil lamp, and the five looked at each other in the gloom. "Where`s Reginald?"   The thought came to Rosemary suddenly. "He said he had to get something from the house.   He`ll be right here," Gregor replied. "He`s gone for the chest, I`ll bet.   Why couldn`t he come with us and just leave it be?"   As she talked, Rosemary moved back to the cellar entrance and began opening the doors. "Wait, no, it`s too dangerous!" Gregor called, and followed her back out into the storm from whence they had come. Madira sat by the lamp, keeping the children huddled against her. "Your name`s Lacey?" asked the boy.   The girl just nodded, shy in front of strangers. "My name`s Matthias.   Matthias Metler.   Don`t be scared, okay?   It`ll be over soon."   Lacey nodded again, her head a cloud of blonde curls, and wrapped her hand around his. After a few minutes, the doors opened and Reginald entered, carrying something heavy that clunked down the stairs. "Rosemary?   Lacey?" "The children are here, Reginald,"   Madira replied.   "Did you see Gregor?   Or your wife?" "Rosemary?   Where did she go?" "They went back out, looking for you!" There was a thunk, a gust of wind slamming the cellar door shut behind Reginald.   He threw his shoulder against it, but something held it fast. "No, no!   Rosemary!" He looked at Madira, who looked back at him.   Both their faces were painted with shock and fear. Gregor and Rosemary were found after the storm had abated. --- The old man snorts, a loud crash from outside waking him from where he has fallen asleep.   Picking the photograph from his chest where it has fallen, he replaces it atop the mantel and begins to shuffle towards the stairs.   It is a slow climb for him, his legs not what they used to be, but he doesn`t have to reach the top of the stairs to know what has happened.   Harsh winds whip rain into his bedroom and the hallway.   The old maple that grew in front of the house has crashed through the roof. He makes his way back down the stairs, collects his portraits and then moves into the kitchen, opening the door that leads to the root cellar.   In his ancestors` day, the only way into the cellar was from the outside, but modern times declared a safer, more convenient way to reach it. He switches on a light, which immediately goes out.   Halfway down the steps, he remembers where he left his flashlight, but his attention is diverted by the sound of angry wind and something wooden banging against something else.   He knows that the old cellar door has come unlatched; he will find no solace in the cellar unless he can fix the door. Forgetting the flashlight, he makes his way past stacks of old books, dusty and starting to mildew, old furniture covered in plastic, and a rotting guitar case.   He mounts the few wooden steps below the outer entrance to the cellar, a hand shielding his face from the fury of the storm. He begins to struggle with the door, which is flapping against the outside of the house and making a large dent in the siding.   His old muscles can barely keep it under control. Then, he looks up as a lightning bolt illuminates the storm`s greatest weapon: a cyclone spins slowly towards his house. Eyes full of fear, he finds new strength as adrenaline courses through his body.   He pulls the door shut and fumbles for the latch.   Another lightning bolt strikes, quite near, and he can feel the door still fighting him. Then, he stops, standing stock still as a voice sings in his head. On the black wind forever, we ride on together, Destroying your evil with freedom our guide! When the master will call us, He`ll stand high before us, Our hearts filled with splendor, Our swords will shine over the light... The door swings open. He is found when the storm abates.