Shado was out there somewhere in the wastelands; and he was in danger (Extreme danger). Even with a syntho-fire on the bar in front of him he felt a shiver go through him. He felt the tall shot glass of Portamentian Gin shaking in his hand. He knew that Borg Dekayan was out there as well; Skulking in the shadows of a bedarkening night.

"Dekeyan," Draven cursed to himself under his breath, "Dekyan and that damnable tomato plant."

One of the hot pierced bartenders seemed to have overheard this muttering and stared at him with a disinterested scowl that Draven recognized as barely concealed lust.

"Hey baby," Draven said broodingly (and darkly), "Saving the world is somebody else's job now."

Her eyes flashed with something Draven couldn't read and then produced the familar tall blue bottle and refilled his glass. At the same time she pulled a shotgun out from behind the bar and blew away a radiation mutant that had just stumbled through the front door. She turned away from Draven as her hand moved to the headset she wore. She moved quickly and started giving orders to the bouncers through the radio, leaving Draven with his his thoughts. His thoughts remained on the paper thin plasma display he held in his hand. The image on it framed a perfect Neo Klanng night of low hanging brown clouds, obscuring the tops of the ruined sky scrapers and reflecting the purples, blues, and reds of the sea of neon below.

"Somewhere out there", Draven thought, "Borg is raising hella-trouble in the West Sayeed."

"He's kicking out the baddest of vibes and I'm not there to assist old Grimm," Draven hissed.

Lifting his shiny metalic head up, Burnbot booted up, his led eyes flashing purple, he turned to his handsome (but haggared) master.

"Command sequence alpha override," Draven lulled, "Back to the standby mode we have both garnered for ourselves here in this wasted land."

It had been many cycles since the Burnt Out Sorcelator had lived a true tale of heroics, hacking and adventure, many a monthalon since he had engaged himself in some mission, Lame or Extreme. Now, he sat in the Bionic Boar, ogling the hot goth punks, and entertaining the script kitties and cheap upgrade junkies near the terminals with his tales of Extreme Sorcelation and Gnarly Hyperboarding.

Looking at the roiling brown clouds, Draven wondered if he shouldn't leave it all, go back to a life as a great Mechanosaurian Sorcelator, forge new infostreams for himself, and pirate those of others. He could still return, he mused, return and live off the new tales here in this hidden dive of glowing gin and tight-fitting leather. Lately, Draven had found he was exhausting his well of stories to impress and beguile the punks of Neo Klanng.

He had been improvising lately, and improvising lamely. Many a drunken night he had crafted a poorly-conceived tale and he was beginning to suspect that even the mutants were now only humoring him and no longer believed his recountings.

The Bionic Boar was starting to let out. Few were left to stagger back to the sewers or shelters, and fewer still remained to buy Draven drinks on their cred-sticks in exchange for Draven's many epic recallings. Tonight the angular waitress, her stick thin body wrapped tight underneath her black leather outfit, was the only one left to listen. Would he enthrall her with tales of battle and mercy on the wing of a burning jet plane? Would he remain where he was, content to tickle her ear with an Sorcelating saga or two? Or would he get up from this composite plastimetal stool, lay down his tube of blue protein and rejoin the great fight for the world of Fehtahn?

---

Draven Mechanakorging, former Mechanosaurian Sorcelator of Fehtahn, awoke on a cold polystyracotton pillow, the smell of synth-smoke and ozone in his nostrils. He turned to peer over his shoulder. Pale and harshly beautiful, gaunt cheeks smiled back at him sardonicly. Her shirt's black leather straps un-tied and lying limp on her alabastor shoulder. Her close cropped blonde hair was still perfect. In the background of her thin form was his robot, dormant in sleep mode, a background program probably executing a dream routine about burning.

"Tell me more about Sorcelation, Draven," she whispered, "Tell me more of the bedarkening and the vengance."

Draven turned over briefly to look out the simu-window of his room. Holographic snow-splattered mountain ranges were lit by an enduring sun. Somewhere beyond the false vista and across Fehtahn was his old friend, in trouble. Somewhere out there new stories were still being lived... TO THE EXTREME.

--Taken from Tome 2, Night after Dark