[ WP ] You 're a time traveller who has gone back five years in time to amass a fortune by placing bets . Life is good until one day you are paid a visit by the FBI .

In my mind, it's been merely a quarter century since Istamornion gave me my powers. It is strange indeed to think that it was almost a thousand years ago. I'm not sure why my old master gave them to me in particular, but they were the only things which he left behind when he died. His library, his menagerie, his knowledge... it hurts to remember the sight of it all burning, crumbling to the ground in Norman fires. `` Go,'' he told me with his last breath, `` go, Silharmon, and eternally live in all of time.'' A sharp pain burned my chest as the Mark of the Tesseract was passed on to me. 
 
 And now here I stand, ready to place all the value I have on the outcome of a game played with cards. The sight of the dealer shuffling his fateful deck reminds me of when Veneficus would draw lots to predict the future. He taught me to do so with runed wooden coinlike chips not unlike those with which my opponents and I gamble. 
 
 Five years in my future I see a mugging, and an ancient elf left in the streets with naught but a tatters pair of trousers and an odd symbol burned into his chest. He whispers some words in a forgotten tongue, and finds himself in another man's place. Five years in this man's future, he bears the cross which the elf would have. This is the price which the Tesseract demands, and the reason why I have lived for well over nine hundred years and spoken the ancient words only nine times. 
 
 *Nine... * I do n't hear myself whisper it, but I hear the laughter at the card table. 
 
 `` Hear this fellow,'' they chuckle, `` Nine? Hear this cheapskate! Nine million? Come lad, you bore us swiftly!'' 
 
 `` Billion,'' I proclaim as I slap my hand on the table. *It does n't matter, * I think, *none of this. * The players fall silent, as does the dealer. I check my hand, and all is in order. I look across the table at the pale little man, and see sweat begin to bead upon his brow. 
 
 `` You joke,'' said one man. 
 
 `` Of course he does! Look at him, does he have that much to bet?'' 
 
 `` Yes,'' I say calmly. A month of thievery has brought me this much. Think what five years could give me. The game has become deadly, and I steel myself against the battle ahead. 
 
 ____________________________________________________________ 
 
 `` All of them?'' 
 
 `` Yep. From Las Vegas to Luxembourg.'' 
 
 `` We need to find this guy. Nobody has that much luck, it's not statistically possible.'' 
 
 `` No shit. Half of these casinos are charging him with theft, the other half are n't charging him out of some sort of superstition.'' 
 
 `` The hell?'' 
 
 `` They think he's been there. Apparently he's got pointy ears.'' 
 
 `` That's disgusting. He's stealing their money and then intimidating them into thinking that he's some sort of... Elf? Vampire? Vulcan? Who else has pointy ears?'' 
 
 `` Narcissistic thieves. He's planning to return to the states in March.'' 
 
 `` Well, let's hope for his sake that he manages to avoid the Ides.'' 
 
 `` Haha. Let's hope for our sake that he does n't.'' 
 
 ____________________________________________________________ 
 
 My plane lands smoothly, but something seems off. I look out the window, and to my horror I see an army of police cars surrounding. I exit the plane, and immediately I'm confronted by two uniformed officers. 
 
 `` Is there an issue?'' I ask. 
 
 `` We have a few questions for you,'' says one. She is short and ugly, like a dwarf or a domovoi. The other one is also short, but he bears a striking resemblance to a certain svartalf whom I met several centuries ago. His ears reveal him to be human, but I question the purity of his lineage. 
 
 `` Of what?'' I ask. I feel the rectangular shape of my wallet cushioned against my leg, and anxiety follows. 
 
 `` Come with us,'' says the dwarfish woman. For a moment I retrace my steps, all the way back to the mugging. Confident in my provable innocence, I see no reason to argue with these people. I follow them into their small, uncomfortable vehicle. 
 
 ___________________________________________________________ 
 
 `` Well?'' 
 
 `` I have n't stolen a penny.'' 
 
 Over the course of this interview, I have decided that the woman has some goblin blood in her veins. I was mistaken to compare her to a domovoi, as they tend to have better manners. It has been three hours, and neither she nor her svartalf-man ( whose blood may also be goblin or troll-tainted ) has made a single step toward their goal, which is clearly to see me in their orange zoo. 
 
 I check my watch again. `` I have places to go,'' I tell them; `` if you want to speak to me again, get a warrant.'' I take my leave. 
 
 `` We'll get one,'' he mutters, `` and we'll get that pointy-eared son of a bitch before he can bankrupt anyone else.'' I smile at his misguided statement. 
 
 ____________________________________________________________ 
 
 *Ten Years Later* 
 
 A knock on my hotel room door awakens me with a jolt. Muffled voices call for me to open up. I ask them why, and a thunderous crash brings the door down. I do n't have time to count them all, but I see guns. I've never liked the sight of those things. According to these intruders, I am under arrest. A piece of paper is shoved into my face, and I feel blood trickle down the cut which it leaves. I am handcuffed and stuffed into a wholly uncomfortable automobile, and taken to the police headquarters. 
 
 Lights burn my eyes against the blackness of the interrogation room. The ghostly face of the svartalf-man looms in front of me, and his goblin bitch accompanies him. `` Seth `` Sil'' Harmon?'' he says slowly. 
 
 `` My name is Silharmon,'' I tell him. 
 
 `` What's that, Elvish?'' He smirks. 
 
 `` What the hell am I doing here?'' 
 
 `` You're under arrest for assault.'' 
 
 *What? * I wonder, *I've never hurt a fly! * 
 
 As if reading my thoughts, he reaches into his satchel and pulls out a folder filled with pictures. I turn each one over, my face growing more and more pale as I recognize the scene which each of these pictures portrays. In each photo, a poor, deathly skinny man is beaten to a bloody pulp by an angry, drunken attacker who bears a striking resemblance to me. 
 
 `` So? That's some guy who looks like me.'' 
 
 `` Not according to the fingerprints.'' 
 
 *Who the hell uses fingerprints for a mugging? Do they do that? * `` There's got to be some sort of-'' 
 
 The officers simultaneously shake their heads, frightening me profusely. They begin to speak of imprisonment. *'' Await trial... no bail... you son of a bitch...'' * 
 
 `` Listen,'' I say quietly, `` what do I need to do?'' 
 
 `` You need to serve your time,'' says the goblin smugly. I sincerely wish to slap her. 
 
 `` Barring that...'' 
 
 `` Barring *you*,'' says the svartalf. I look from one to the other, and see help in neither of their faces. Their case is infalliable, and my choices are thus few. So I begin to whisper. 
 
 *Ek fara til síðani... * 
 
 ____________________________________________________________ 
 
 So here I lay, a wretched mess, covered in bruises and cuts and filth, with a burning symbol on my chest. As I attempt to arise, I am confronted by my attacker. My eyes widen, and my heart begins to pound. 
 
 `` Hello, Silharmon,'' says the svartalf man, `` My name is Istamornion. I believe you have something of mine.''
