The frozen plains of Snow Land had always been cruel, but they were honest in their cruelty. Wind, ice, and time were enemies the Warrior Dames understood. Grawar was different.
When the creature emerged from the white horizon, the ground itself seemed to recoil. Twelve feet tall, wrapped in ancient frost and rage, Grawar’s footsteps cracked the ice beneath him like splitting stone. Each step sent a tremor racing across the plains, rattling bone charms, shaking huts, and scattering mammoths into uneasy circles. Fires vanished under drifting snow. The sky dimmed, as if Snow Land itself held its breath.
Rara, Kara, and Wara moved instantly, forming a defensive wall between the village and the beast. Their spears were raised, their stances perfect, their expressions unflinching. Yet none of them struck.
Among the Warrior Dames, Grawar was not merely a monster. He was a forbidden name woven deep into Snow Land folklore. From childhood, every Dame was taught the same law: a Grawar may be resisted, delayed, endured—but never harmed. To spill a Grawar’s blood was believed to invite ruin, famine, and endless winter upon their people. Villages that broke this taboo, the elders said, vanished beneath storms that never ended. Whether truth or myth no longer mattered. The belief ruled them as strongly as any weapon.
So the Dames fought without killing blows. They diverted him from children, dragged survivors from collapsing huts, and endured wounds without retaliation. When Grawar seized Kara in his massive grip and roared in triumph, Snow Land reached the edge of catastrophe. The law that had protected them for generations had become a chain.
That was when the ancient rite was invoked.
High above the plains, unseen by Grawar’s burning eyes, Tiwa, Fairy of Falcon, answered the call. Snow Land magic was not written in runes or spoken aloud. It moved through intention, through balance, through beings older than borders. Tiwa carried the Dames’ plea across the planet, through currents of power that ignored distance and time, until it reached the Cave of Falcon.
Within the cave, the Dwarf did not hesitate. He needed no explanation. Ancient mechanisms awakened beneath the stone, light gathering like a heartbeat. Faro stood at the center as the power surged, the Ring answering the summons before he fully understood it. In a blinding flash, the cave vanished, and the frozen air of Snow Land slammed into his lungs.
Faro arrived as thunder made flesh.
Grawar turned just as the first golden beam tore through the storm. The impact shook the plains harder than any avalanche. Ice exploded outward, snow lifting in a violent halo. Grawar staggered, roaring in fury, his grip loosening as Kara fell free into the snow. The creature charged, claws carving trenches deep enough to swallow men whole, but Faro stood his ground. Each blast from the Ring struck with planetary force, echoing across the plains, cracking ice miles away.
The battle was brief, violent, and absolute. Grawar howled as the ancient power overwhelmed him, not slain, but driven back, broken and fleeing into the white emptiness from which he came. When silence finally returned, Snow Land still stood.
In the aftermath, the Warrior Dames did something no song had ever recorded. They bowed.
Not in submission, and not in weakness, but in recognition. Faro had done what they could not without damning their people. He had carried the burden their laws forbade them to bear. Snow Land was saved without breaking its ancient covenant.
That night, celebration replaced fear. Snow fell gently instead of violently. Mammoths returned. Fires burned steady. And though Faro would not remain among them, the name Grawar would forever mark the day Snow Land was tested by its own beliefs—and endured.
In the quiet after the storm, the Warrior Dames knew one truth with certainty: some battles require strength, others require restraint, and a few demand someone from beyond the law to strike when no one else can.
Rita slipped away from the Cave of Falcon just as the forest light softened into a green-gold hush. The swamp lay deeper within Thundarr Forest, a quiet basin where ancient waters gathered beneath tangled roots and hanging moss. Among the soilmen of old, the place was whispered about as a natural wellspring, its mineral-rich waters believed to renew skin and calm the spirit. Rita knew the truth behind the legends. The swamp carried a subtle current of natural energy, not magic exactly, but something older, something that resonated gently with her body as the Shecon.
She waded into the water slowly, letting the cool swamp wash over her legs, then her waist, then her shoulders. The surface rippled with soft rings as she moved, the water reflecting leaves and sky in broken patterns. She closed her eyes and breathed, letting the tension of recent battles melt away. For a moment, there was only the forest, the water, and her own steady heartbeat.
What Rita did not let show on her face was that she was not alone.
She had sensed Faro long before she reached the swamp. His presence had followed her from the cave, careful but unmistakable, a familiar energy moving through the undergrowth. She smiled inwardly. He was trying to be discreet, but the forest always spoke to her first. From behind a curtain of broad leaves and twisted vines, Faro watched, unaware that his cover had already been gently uncovered.
Rita splashed the water playfully, letting droplets run down her arms, exaggerating her movements just enough to sell the illusion of vulnerability. Then the swamp stirred.
The water behind her bulged unnaturally, reeds snapping aside as something massive forced its way forward. A low, wet growl rolled through the trees. The Dreadmurk rose from the swamp like a nightmare given flesh, its moss-covered body dripping with sludge, its glowing eyes burning through the mist. Its claws broke the surface with a violent splash.
Rita gasped loudly and stumbled forward, her heart pounding in deliberate rhythm. She turned just enough for Faro to see the fear on her face, fear carefully crafted and perfectly convincing. Inside, she was calm. She knew every weak joint, every balance flaw in the creature’s hulking frame. With her Shecon strength and skill, she could have ended the fight in seconds.
But she didn’t move to strike.
She remembered Ronda, screaming as the red serpent coiled and lunged days earlier. She remembered Faro stepping forward without hesitation, the power ring blazing as he saved Ronda from death. Rita had watched that moment from afar, unseen, and something quiet had stirred in her chest. Not jealousy, not weakness, but a simple, human desire.
She wanted that too.
So she ran.
Water exploded around her as she splashed forward, the Dreadmurk roaring behind her, its heavy steps shaking the swamp. Rita cried out, her voice carrying just enough desperation to cut through Faro’s restraint. That was all it took.
The bushes burst apart as Faro emerged, his expression shifting from shock to resolve in an instant. The orange falcon symbol flared to life on his chest as he stepped between Rita and the monster, power gathering around him like heat before a storm.
The battle unfolded exactly as Rita knew it would, but seeing it up close made it no less breathtaking.
Faro planted his feet in the sucking mud as the Dreadmurk surged forward, water exploding around its legs. The creature’s roar shook the hanging vines, its claws slashing through the air where Faro’s head had been a heartbeat earlier. Faro twisted aside on instinct, feeling the wind of the strike brush his shoulder as his boots slid through the swamp. He barely had time to breathe before the monster came again, faster than its bulk should have allowed, its moss-covered body rolling forward like a living wall.
Faro raised his ring hand and fired. A tight beam of orange energy ripped through the mist and struck the Dreadmurk square in the chest, lighting the swamp in a sudden blaze. The creature staggered back with a howl, steam rising from its cracked, bark-like hide, but it did not fall. It never did. Instead, it slammed its claws into the water and charged again, rage burning in its glowing eyes.
Rita watched from behind him, her breath held, her body tense with the effort of not stepping in. She could see Faro adapting in real time, learning the monster’s rhythm, turning fear into focus. He ducked under a sweeping arm, rolled through the water, came up on one knee, and fired again, this time aiming low. The blast tore into the Dreadmurk’s leg, staggering it just enough for Faro to close the distance.
They collided in a spray of mud and water. The Dreadmurk’s claws locked around Faro’s shoulders, lifting him partially off the ground as it tried to crush him. Faro gritted his teeth, muscles screaming, the orange glow intensifying around his hands and chest. The falcon symbol flared brighter, heat radiating through his body as the ring answered his will.
With a raw shout, Faro pushed back.
Power surged through him, not as a beam this time, but as pure force. He broke the creature’s grip, drove his hands under its massive torso, and straightened. The swamp groaned as Faro lifted the Dreadmurk higher and higher, water cascading from its body in sheets. The monster thrashed, claws scraping at empty air, but Faro held firm, legs trembling, every muscle drawn tight as steel cables.
For a moment, time seemed to pause.
Then Faro roared and heaved upward with everything he had left. The Dreadmurk’s advance shattered completely as its massive body tipped backward, its balance broken, its dominance undone. It crashed down into the swamp with a thunderous splash, the shockwave rippling outward until it struck the tree roots and vanished into the distance.
Silence followed.
The mist drifted back into place. Leaves settled. The water calmed to slow, widening rings. Faro stood there, chest rising and falling, mud and water clinging to him, the falcon symbol fading gradually as the surge of power ebbed. Across the swamp, the Dreadmurk lay stunned and retreating into the depths, its presence dissolving back into the shadows it had come from.
Only the sound of breathing remained. Faro’s. Rita’s.
And in that quiet aftermath, Rita knew she had made the right choice.
Rita hurried to him as the danger passed. She wrapped her arms around Faro, pressing close, her relief entirely real now. She looked up at him, eyes warm, proud, grateful. Before he could speak, she rose onto her toes and kissed his forehead softly.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice low and sincere. “My hero.”
Faro flushed, caught somewhere between embarrassment and joy.
Rita smiled and took his hand. “Come,” she said, tugging gently. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”
She turned toward the deeper forest, toward the hidden entrance of her Shecon cave. “Your favorite,” she added, glancing back at him with a knowing look.
Together, they left the swamp behind, the water settling once more into quiet stillness, as if the Dreadmurk had never existed at all.
The Dinner
As the fire settled into a steady glow, Rita moved through the Shecon cave with practiced ease, the stone walls holding warmth from the day and the scent of forest herbs clinging to the air. She cooked without haste, stirring and tasting, occasionally glancing back at Faro with a knowing smile as he watched from his chair, content and quietly amazed. The cave felt different now, softened by laughter and the simple rhythm of a shared evening. When she finally brought the pan to the table, steam rising in gentle curls, Rita offered Faro the first taste, studying his reaction with playful seriousness until his grin told her everything she needed to know.
They ate together as night settled fully over Thundarr Forest, the sounds outside shifting to crickets, distant water, and the hush of leaves moving in moonlight. Conversation came easily, drifting from the battle to small stories, memories, and unspoken understandings that needed no words. The firelight painted their faces in gold and shadow, and for a while the world beyond the cave felt far away, as if even the forest itself was standing guard to protect the quiet moment they shared.
Later, with mugs warm in their hands and the fire reduced to glowing embers, they sat together near the cave’s mouth, watching the moon hang above the trees. Rita leaned back, satisfied, her earlier performance in the swamp now just a private smile between them. She had let Faro be the hero, not because she needed saving, but because sometimes strength also meant choosing when to step aside. As the night deepened, the tale of the Dreadmurk ended not with a roar or a clash, but with peace, warmth, and the steady comfort of two figures resting safely within the forest that knew them both.
Cal Faros stood in the garden like a man who had learned to wear confidence the way others wore clothes. The white suit fit him perfectly, the red-tinted glasses hiding his eyes, his hands resting casually in his pockets as if nothing in the world could reach him. Around him, laughter and perfume lingered. Three women pressed close, each drawn to a different version of the same man—his charm, his mystery, his power.
But the house behind them was watching.
Rita Faros stood at the top of the mansion steps, arms crossed, her posture rigid with restraint. The breeze lifted her hair, but her expression didn’t move. This was her home. Her legacy. And the son she had raised now stood below, turning her garden into a stage.
Cal felt her before he saw her. He always did. A tightening in his chest, a flicker of irritation masked by a crooked smile. He didn’t turn around. Not yet. Turning would mean acknowledging what he was avoiding.
To him, this moment was freedom—proof that he belonged to no one, that he could live unanchored, untouched by expectation. To Rita, it was something else entirely. A boy pretending to be untouchable, surrounded by distractions because he was afraid to stand alone.
The women sensed the shift. The laughter softened. Someone glanced back toward the steps. No one spoke.
Rita didn’t shout. She didn’t move. She simply stood there, disappointment sharper than anger, letting silence do what words never could.
Cal finally turned his head just enough to meet her gaze through the tinted glass. For a heartbeat, the suit, the charm, the game—all of it slipped. What remained was a son who knew exactly why he couldn’t settle down, and a mother who knew he would have to learn the cost of that choice on his own.
Then Cal smiled again, and the moment passed.
Mother Knows the Green
Rita watched the ball disappear across the green, its path clean and certain, and for a moment she said nothing. Albort stepped back politely, already knowing this was not a conversation meant for him. Cal stood beside his mother, club resting against his shoulder, his smile easy, practiced.
“You swing like you don’t care where it lands,” Rita said at last. “That works in golf. Not in life.”
Cal sighed, half amused, half irritated. “Here we go.”
She turned to him then, really looked at him, the way only a mother can—past the charm, past the suit, past the careless confidence. “I’ve seen the women you surround yourself with. Ambition, beauty, secrets. You call it freedom, but it looks more like noise.”
“They’re just companions,” Cal replied. “Nothing serious.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Rita said calmly. “Nothing is ever serious. You keep everyone at arm’s length so no one can hurt you. Or expose you.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
Rita smiled sadly. “I understand more than you think. I know what it’s like to live with danger, to love someone knowing the world might take them from you. But love isn’t a weakness, Cal. Running from it is.”
He looked away toward the mansion, the house that had watched him grow up, that had seen too many late nights and too many empty mornings. “Settling down means giving something up.”
“Yes,” Rita said softly. “It means giving up the illusion that you can live alone forever. And in return, you gain something steadier than thrill. Someone who stands when the parties end and the masks come off.”
The wind moved through the trees. Cal said nothing.
Rita placed a hand on his arm, firm but gentle. “One day, you’ll be tired of being admired and want to be known. When that day comes, I hope you don’t realize you’ve already pushed the right person away.”
She stepped back, leaving him with the quiet and the weight of her words. Cal stared out across the green again, but this time the horizon didn’t look quite as open as it had a moment before.
Rita Faros spent the day at Cal Mansion the way she always did when she was determined to reclaim time from the noise of the outside planet—deliberately, gracefully, and on her own terms.
The morning began in the indoor pool, where sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling and painted the water in soft blues and golds. Rita moved through the pool with calm strength, her red swimsuit cutting clean lines through the water as she swam lap after lap. There was no hurry in her motion, only control. At the edge of the pool, Cal Faros sat quietly, his feet submerged, watching her with an expression that mixed admiration and thoughtfulness. He said little, and Rita didn’t need him to. This was a shared silence—mother and son occupying the same space without performance, without defenses. When she finally surfaced and rested her arms on the edge, she smiled at him, and for a moment he was no billionaire, no vigilante—just her boy again.
As evening settled over the mansion, the atmosphere shifted. The dining room glowed with candlelight, reflections dancing across polished wood and crystal glassware. Rita had changed into a black gown, elegant and understated, the kind that carried authority without demanding attention. Cal sat across from her, relaxed but attentive, holding a glass of wine as if the ritual itself mattered more tonight. Behind them, Albort moved with quiet precision, serving the meal as he always did—present, respectful, and unobtrusive. Conversation flowed gently, touching on memories, small observations, and unspoken concerns. Rita listened more than she spoke, her gaze steady on Cal, as if weighing how much of her advice he was finally ready to hear.
Later, the mansion grew quieter still. In the entertainment room, Cal settled into the sofa, the weight of the day easing from his shoulders. Rita stood nearby, still in her gown, the room lit warmly around her. When she began to host to sing, her voice filled the space—not loud, not performative, but rich with feeling. It was a song meant for one listener. Cal watched her, the edge in his expression softening, as if the melody was reaching parts of him that words never could. For Rita, it was a gift: a reminder that strength could be gentle, that love didn’t always need instruction.
By the end of the night, Cal Mansion felt less like a fortress and more like a home. Rita had swum, dined, and sung her way through the day—not to control her son’s choices, but to remind him that beneath the freedom he chased, there was something steadier waiting for him, whenever he chose to reach for it.
Moonlight filtered through the thick leaves of Thundarr Forest, turning the mist silver and green. The red snake rose from the undergrowth like a living scar in the jungle, its scales glowing dark crimson, its yellow eyes fixed on prey. Its mouth opened wide, fangs dripping venom that hissed when it touched the forest floor.
Ronda Riy screamed and stumbled backward, her white shoes slipping on damp leaves. Fear froze her in place. The forest felt suddenly too close, the shadows pressing in. She could hear her own heartbeat louder than the night insects.
Then Faro moved.
He stepped in front of her without hesitation, placing himself between Ronda and the serpent. His arm came up smoothly, muscle tight beneath his black shirt, the Power Ring of Falcon flaring to life on his finger. Orange light burst outward, warm and fierce, cutting through the darkness like a blade.
“Behind me,” Faro said, his voice steady.
Ronda obeyed instinctively, clutching his arm as she pressed close to his back, still screaming, still shaking. She could feel the heat of the ring, the pulse of power traveling through Faro’s body as if the forest itself had chosen him.
The snake struck.
Its head lunged forward, jaws snapping shut where Faro had stood a heartbeat before. Faro twisted his stance and unleashed the beam. A focused stream of orange energy tore through the air and slammed directly into the creature’s open mouth. Sparks exploded outward, lighting the trees and leaves in flashes of fire and gold.
The snake recoiled, shrieking in a sound that rattled the forest. Its massive body thrashed, crushing vines and snapping branches as it pulled away, wounded and furious. Smoke curled from its scales where the beam had struck.
Faro did not chase it. He held his ground, arm still raised, eyes locked on the retreating shape until the jungle swallowed it whole. Only when the forest fell silent again did the glow of the ring fade.
Ronda’s screams turned into sobs. She pressed her forehead against Faro’s shoulder, breath uneven, hands trembling.
“It’s gone,” Faro said quietly.
She nodded, unable to speak yet, but alive. Safe.
Above them, the moon slipped free of the clouds, casting calm light over the leaves. The forest resumed its breathing. And in that moment, standing together in the aftermath, Ronda understood something she would never forget.
On Planet Thundarr, monsters existed. But so did protectors.
Falcon the 3rd – Issue #3 Shecon is a highly skilled warrior with exceptional stamina, allowing her to run at high speeds and climb with agility far beyond a normal…
Falcon the 3rd – Issue #3
Shecon is a highly skilled warrior with exceptional stamina, allowing her to run at high speeds and climb with agility far beyond a normal female soilman. She wields a power boomerang that always returns to her when summoned, making it a versatile weapon. Her smart goggle, connected to the Thundarr Database Center, grants her access to facial profiles, identity verification, and night vision, enhancing her tactical awareness. Combined with her combat prowess, these abilities make Shecon a formidable force in Thundarr Forest and beyond.
The Thundarr Forest lay cloaked in darkness, the towering trees swaying with the night’s wind. From high above, Shecon—Rita Faros—moved gracefully through the branches, her sleek, skin-tight black leather suit glinting under the moonlight. Her long-heeled boots barely made a sound as she landed on a sturdy branch, scanning the ground below. The orange-toned ski goggles resting on her face enhanced her vision, allowing her to see Hogzilla, a villager on a donkey, traveling with a sack of gold.
His destination was another village—his daughter’s wedding depended on this fortune.
But fate had other plans.
From the shadows, two figures stepped into his path.
Mister Gee, a grizzled 35-year-old thug with a scar running down his cheek, cracked his knuckles, while beside him, Bad Lad, a cocky 16-year-old delinquent, twirled a dagger.
“Hand it over, old man,” Mister Gee sneered.
“Yeah,” Bad Lad grinned. “Before we get nasty.”
Shecon didn’t hesitate. Her power boomerang whirled through the air, striking Mister Gee in the shoulder, sending him reeling.
Bad Lad, however, dodged just in time. He spotted her in the trees.
Before she could react, a sharp stone struck the back of her head.
CRACK!
Her vision blurred, her balance wavered, and before she could regain control, Mister Gee lunged forward, grabbing her wrists and forcing her down.
Bad Lad cheered. “We got her! Let’s take her to the boss!”
As the world faded to black, she heard Hogzilla’s desperate cries for help.
Shecon’s Dungeon
In the depths of the castle, Shecon sat chained to the stone wall. Her wrists ached, but her resolve remained unbroken.
The Evil Master, a purple cloaked figure with glowing green eyes, loomed outside her cell. “You meddle too much, Shecon,” he hissed. “Perhaps a few nights in my dungeon will humble you.”
Shecon smirked despite the pain. “That’s cute. Do you rehearse your evil speeches?”
The Evil Master’s eyes narrowed with rage. Before he could respond, a sudden knock at the dungeon door!
The Evil Master turned sharply. “What?!”
The Evil Master open the dungeon door to find no one there, it was Tiwa the fairy of Falcon who can appear and disappear from anywhere anytime – she was trying to distract the Evil Master from harming Rita the Shecon till Faro arrives at the castle to rescue her alive.
Shecon grinned. “Sounds like some ghost is trying to get your attention.”
Falcon Arrives
Deep in the Cave of Falcon, Faro Faros—the new Falcon—stood by the fire, when suddenly, Tiwa, the fairy of Falcon, appeared in a burst of light.
“Falcon! Shecon has been captured!” she squeaked.
Faro froze.
He had heard the name before. Shecon. A warrior of Thundarr Forest. A legend.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Hogzilla was attacked! Shecon saved him, but she was taken to the Castle of Evil Master!“
Without hesitation, Faro grabbed his Power Ring to turn into the Falcon.
He sprinted to his trusted horse, Lightning, and leaped into the saddle.
“Yah!” he commanded, and Lightning galloped into the night.
At the edge of a moss-covered clearing, the massive, boar-like figure of Hogzillah stood, his muscular frame trembling with grief. The towering pigman, his thick tusks dulled by sorrow, wiped his watery eyes as Falcon landed before him with a silent yet powerful presence.
“Hogzillah,” Falcon greeted, his voice calm but firm. “What happened?”
The pigman let out a guttural, sorrowful snort before falling to his knees. “Falcon… They took it! My gold pouch! I worked for years to save for my daughter’s wedding in the Village of Pigmen—gone, all gone!” He clenched his massive fists, his heavy body shaking with a mixture of sorrow and rage.
Falcon narrowed his eyes. “Who did this?”
Hogzillah sniffled, his large nostrils flaring as he choked back his emotions. “It was Mister Gee and the Bad Lad! They ambushed me on the trade route near the Root Hollow Path. I was carrying the gold when they appeared—Mister Gee with his smooth, smug words distracting me, while that treacherous Bad Lad struck from behind! Before I could react, they were gone, laughing as they fled toward the northern caves!”
Falcon’s fists tightened. Mister Gee—the sly, silver-tongued conman with a knack for deception—and Bad Lad, his ruthless, violent enforcer, had long been a scourge upon the region. This was not a simple robbery. It was an act of cruelty against a father who wanted nothing more than to see his daughter wed in peace.
“Don’t worry, Hogzillah,” Falcon said, resting a firm hand on the pigman’s shoulder. “I’ll get your gold back.”
Storming the Castle
The Castle of Evil Master loomed against the sky, a fortress of blackened stone.
From the shadows, Falcon dismounted and pulled out his grapple hook.
Whoosh!
It latched onto a high ledge, and with a swift motion, he ascended the wall like a phantom.
Once inside, he moved through the halls, taking down guards in swift, brutal silence.
Falcon vs. The Henchmen
Mister Gee and Bad Lad blocked his path.
“You’re dead, Falcon!” Mister Gee growled, drawing a sword.
Bad Lad cracked his knuckles. “Time to finish what we started!”
Falcon dodged Mister Gee’s blade, countering with a brutal kick that sent the older thug crashing into a wall.
Bad Lad lunged at Falcon—only to be caught mid-air and slammed onto the floor.
With both criminals incapacitated, Falcon sprinted toward the dungeon.
Finally, he reached the dungeon.
With a powerful kick, the iron door flew open.
Inside, shackled to the stone wall, was Shecon.
Faro’s breath caught in his throat.
He knew that face.
Even with the ski goggles covering her eyes, even in the battle-worn suit, he recognized her instantly.
Rita Faros.
His aunt.
The Reunion
Shecon lifted her head at the sound of the breaking door.
When her goggles locked onto the man standing before her—the warrior with the Falcon Power Ring—her heart stopped.
She knew that face.
Faro.
Her lips trembled. “Faro…?”
His jaw tightened, emotions battling within him. “It’s me, aunty Rita.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she ripped off her goggles, revealing the raw emotion beneath them.
“Oh, Faro!”
She lunged toward him, her arms wrapping around him as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Faro was momentarily stunned as she hugged him tightly, her body pressing against his.
Then, she kissed him on the lips.
The moment her lips met his, heat surged through his body. He was caught between shock and something far deeper.
Her kiss was not just relief. It was longing. Grief. Passion.
When she finally pulled away, her hands cupped his face, her green eyes shimmering.
“You’re alive,” she whispered. “My beautiful boy… You’re Falcon.”
Faro exhaled, his heart pounding. “And you’re Shecon.”
She smiled, though tears still glistened. “Yes. But right now, we need to get out of here.”
Faro nodded. “Stay close.”
The Battle & The Escape
As they fought through the castle, taking down guards side by side, it felt as if they had been fighting together for years.
When they reached the throne room, the Evil Master stood waiting.
“You think you can take her from me?” his voice hissed
“You’re too late,” he sneered. “This is my domain!”
Falcon and Shecon charged him together. Their combined attacks overwhelmed him, forcing him to retreat into the shadows.
Before they could land a final blow, the Evil Master suddenly disappeared—vanishing into a dark portal.
Shecon scowled. “Coward.”
Falcon exhaled. “He’ll be back.”
With the Evil Master gone, the castle remained standing, shrouded in eerie silence.
“We should burn it down,” Shecon suggested.
Falcon shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t know what secrets lie within.”
Shecon exhaled, placing a hand on Faro’s shoulder. “He definitely will be back; we will get him next time”
Faro looked at her, still reeling from their reunion. “Yes Aunty, we will.”
The Return to Pigmen Village
As dawn broke over Thundarr Forest, the two warriors rode Lightning, Falcon’s powerful black stallion, galloping through the mist-covered trees.
By the time they reached the Village of Pigmen, the entire town had gathered, anxiously awaiting their arrival.
Hogzillah stood at the front, his massive frame trembling with anticipation. Beside him, his daughter—dressed in a modest yet elegant wedding gown—clutched her hands together, eyes brimming with hope.
Then, Falcon raised the gold pouch high into the air.
A wave of cheers erupted through the village. Hogzillah’s eyes welled with fresh tears, but this time, they were of joy. He rushed forward, dropping to one knee before Falcon and Shecon.
“You have saved my daughter’s wedding… and my honor,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I—I don’t have the words to thank you.”
The villagers surrounded them, their cheers growing louder. The elders of Pigmen lifted Falcon and Shecon onto their shoulders, hailing them as the Heroes of Thundarr Forest.
“The forest has not seen warriors like you in generations!” one villager proclaimed.
Hogzillah’s daughter stepped forward, bowing gracefully before Falcon and Shecon. “Because of you, today will be the happiest day of my life.”
Falcon simply nodded, placing the gold pouch into her hands. “Then let it be so.”
As the wedding preparations resumed, the village erupted into a night of music, dance, and celebration. Around the grand bonfire, villagers chanted the names Falcon and Shecon, ensuring that their heroism would be remembered in legend.
But as Falcon and Shecon stood at the edge of the festivities, gazing into the distant horizon, they both knew…
The forest air trembled as the skull-faced creature crouched on the branch, its blade gleaming in the mist. Rita slid back in the dirt, breath sharp, heart pounding like thunder trapped in her ribs. Beside her, Faro rose to one knee, the Ring of Falcon burning like a miniature sun in his fist. Leaves shook loose from the trees, orbiting him in a fiery spiral. The creature hissed, red hair writhing like furious flames. Faro didn’t blink. The glow spread up his arm. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. Rita clutched the earth. The forest fell silent, waiting for destiny to strike.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Mist clung to every branch like ghostly webs, and Rita felt it on her skin, cold and invading. Her legs slid across the mossy earth as she scrambled back, breath ragged, dress streaked with dirt. She didn’t dare blink. The thing on the tree was watching them.
It crouched like a nightmare given flesh: a towering soilmen male with muscles knotted like ropes under pale skin, long red hair like wildfire whipping in the wind, and a skull where a face should be. Empty sockets stared down, black and endless. In its fist, a jagged blade glinted, thirsty.
Faro rose to one knee beside her, jaw clenched. He looked impossibly young in that moment, a soilmen boy with red hair and fear in his eyes. But fear wasn’t all. In his hand, the Ring of Falcon began to glow, a trembling spark at first. Then it flared, lighting the trees with a surge of orange fire like dawn breaking in his palm.
Leaves spun around his arm, drawn to the glow as if gravity had shifted. Rita felt the heat lick her cheek, warm and alive. “Stay behind me,” Faro whispered, voice shaking but sure. She heard duty in it. She heard destiny. She heard the echo of every Falcon before him.
The creature shifted. Bark cracked under its weight as it pressed forward on the branch. Its grin stretched impossibly wide across bone, a hollow threat. It raised the blade.
Rita’s fingers dug into the soil. She could not run. Even if she tried, her body refused. Something ancient in the forest was awake now. Something older than fear.
Faro stood, arm outstretched, the ring a burning star in the ruins of the night.
Moonlight clung to the treetops like pale fire, and the clearing below held its breath. Falcon’s boots carved backward through the soil as he dodged, heartbeat rising like thunder in his ribs. He had never seen a thing like this; he had never even imagined it. Murder Dog lunged again, his bare feet silent, his movements too smooth for something so monstrous. The skull that served as his face caught the moonlight, hollow eyes gleaming with a hunger that was not human.
Falcon’s ring pulsed. The orange glow flickered in time with his fear, brightening each time he lifted his fist. He could feel it, like a second heartbeat, like something ancient inside him had woken up just to witness this moment. The forest bent around them, branches twisting like they were afraid to get too close.
Murder Dog’s blade cut the air where Falcon had been only a breath before. He stumbled, stepped wide, barely caught himself. His throat felt tight, his voice locked behind terror, but he managed to raise his hand. The ring’s glow crawled up his forearm like fire made of memory.
“Who are you?” Falcon asked, but the question fell flat, swallowed by fog. Murder Dog offered no answer. The red hair that hung around his skull swayed like bloodied strands of a nightmare, and his chest rose and fell with the quiet rage of an animal denied its meal. Then he moved again—fast, impossibly fast—and Falcon felt the air break beside him. The blade never touched, but he felt its promise.
Somewhere behind him in the trees, a branch snapped. Perhaps the forest wanted to run. Perhaps it prayed. Falcon planted his feet. He did not know how to fight someone like this. He barely knew how to fight at all. But he knew how to survive. And the ring, warm now, seemed to whisper that surviving was enough. For now.
Falcon’s stance changed. His breath steadied. Murder Dog halted mid-stride, skull angled, sensing the shift. They faced each other as the fog thickened, as the moon hid behind thin clouds, as the world trembled on the edge of whatever came next. Falcon’s fist rose, ring flaring.
The first chapter of fear was ending.
And the night, impossibly dark and wide, opened its mouth to begin another.
ChatGPT Generated Falcon 3rd Gallery is a visual archive of concept art created for the Planet Thundarr universe by Omar Saif, in collaboration with AI as a creative assistant. These images represent evolving character ideas, locations, and story moments from the Falcon III saga — from forest encounters and Thundarr City skylines to Rita Faros’ iconic looks and the world that surrounds her. Each visual is a step in the ongoing development of this universe, blending human imagination with machine-generated interpretation.
In the blazing sunlight of SouthBank City, where life burns with color and contradiction,
Faro Faros walks hand-in-hand with Rita — unaware that shadows trail them like ghosts from the forest.
**LOVE AND SHADOWS IN SOUTHBANK CITY**
*A poem inspired by the moments before destiny returns.*
In SouthBank City, where the sidewalks gleam,
Where summer hangs like a half-remembered dream,
A boy with fire for hair and a falcon on his chest
Walks with a girl whose laughter makes the world feel blessed.
He holds roses like secrets he’s rehearsed in his palms,
Petals trembling like sparrows, like psalms.
His Power Ring glows like a promise half-told,
A story of flames, of courage, of gold.
And she—
Sun-soaked in yellow and bottle-green skies,
Is a sunrise that learned how to walk and disguise
All the wars she has fought in the back of her mind,
All the storms she has weathered, the ghosts left behind.
Their smiles touch without touching, like prayers and like sparks,
Two souls who found daylight after life lost its marks.
But love, on this street, is never alone;
It is watched, it is tested, like metal on stone.
A billboard above gnashes teeth in a grin,
Mr. Clown’s voice slithering, *I am watching*, again.
He is laughter made poison, a carnival’s ghost,
A predator advertising fear like a host.
And farther behind, like a breath held too long,
Stands Ronda Riy—
glass-eyed, brittle, sky-blue and wrong
for this moment so tender,
for this chapter she can’t mend or
undo,
as jealousy stings like a splintering truth.
Yet the couple stays steady—
like dawn and like dusk,
like fate holding hands with both passion and trust.
For Faro and Rita are kindle and spark,
Light in the daylight, flame in the dark.
Her smile is a sunrise he never outran,
His touch is the proof that she finally can
let the forest and battlefields blur in her soul.
So remember this moment
when the thunderclouds come—
for even a hero needs somewhere called *home.*
Faro left Rita’s room, his chest still alive with the pulsing shadow gifted to him. The apartment was silent but for the faint hum of the city outside. The hallway stretched before him like a tunnel of dread, and there—just as before—the dark one-horned figure hovered, waiting. Its jagged horn glowed faintly green, and its cloak of shifting smoke licked the walls like living fire.
Faro stopped before it, his expression no longer trembling or broken. He looked the shadow in the face and spoke with a steady, commanding tone.
“I want more,” Faro said. His eyes burned with unnatural light. “I want them both. Ronda and Rita—together. In the master bedroom.”
The figure leaned forward, its hollow ember-filled eyes widening. For a heartbeat, silence hung in the air like a suspended blade. Then it laughed—deep, echoing laughter that rattled the apartment walls and shivered through the floorboards.
“Ahhh, Faro…” the voice hissed, curling around him like smoke. “You are no longer the frail, broken Falcon who wept on this floor. You are becoming something else. Something darker.”
The shadow raised a clawed hand, brushing the air just above Faro’s head. Sparks of black energy crackled between them, humming like caged lightning.
“To demand not one, but both… the fantasy of your boyhood and the lover of your youth, under the same roof, in the same bed… This is not love, Faro. This is power. This is domination. This is the hunger that carves kings and monsters from men.”
Faro did not flinch. He clenched his fists, feeling the strength surge through him, and repeated, “I want them both.”
The figure’s laughter deepened, its horn glowing brighter. “Very well. Call them. Draw them into the master bedroom. I will grant you the strength to bind their will to your own. But know this, Faro: every step you take down this path pulls you further from Falcon… and deeper into me.”
The hallway darkened further, the very air choking with shadow. Faro’s heart raced—not with fear, but with anticipation. His desire had twisted into resolve. The apartment on SouthBank Avenue was no longer a simple dwelling. Tonight, it was becoming a temple of temptation, watched over by a demon with one horn and a cruel smile.
And Faro, no longer Falcon, was ready to see how far the shadows could take him.
Faro stood in the hallway, the dark power humming through his veins like fire. The one-horned figure lingered just behind him, a smoldering shadow stretching across the walls, whispering in a voice only Faro could hear.
“Call them. Command them. They will come to you.”
Faro inhaled deeply, then walked toward the master bedroom. He opened the door, and the shadows thickened inside as if the room itself had been claimed by the figure’s presence. The bed seemed larger, more imposing, the curtains quivering though no wind touched them.
Faro turned back toward the hallway. His voice was low but carried with unnatural force, vibrating in the air like a summons.
“Ronda. Rita. Come to me.”
From down the hallway, Ronda stirred first. Half-asleep, she rose from her bed, barefoot, her glasses left on the nightstand. Something in Faro’s tone pulled her forward, bypassing thought or hesitation. She walked slowly, dreamlike, toward the master bedroom.
Rita followed soon after, her green eyes sharp but dazed, her steps reluctant yet undeniable. It was as though the power running through Faro reached into their very cores, drawing them both closer, binding them to his will.
When the two women entered, Faro stood at the center of the room, his shadow stretching unnaturally behind him, taller, darker, echoing the figure looming invisibly near. His chest rose and fell with controlled breath, his eyes burning faintly with the energy that wasn’t his own.
Ronda blinked up at him, confused. “Faro… why are we both here?”
Rita’s voice was sharper, suspicious. “What are you doing?”
Faro’s lips curled into a faint, almost cruel smile. “I asked for you both. Together. And you came.”
The air grew heavier. The women glanced at each other uneasily, their confusion mixing with the strange pull they couldn’t resist. The figure behind Faro laughed softly, its horn gleaming as if feeding on the tension.
“Yes…” it whispered, though only Faro heard. “Take them. Bind them. This is the test of your true desire.”
Faro stepped forward, placing a hand on each woman’s shoulder. The power coursed through him and into them, making them shiver as though touched by lightning. Both looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes—one with fear, the other with fragile trust.
And Faro, once Falcon, now something else, stood between them, feeling the full weight of the choice he had already made.
The master bedroom breathed like a living thing. Shadows clung to the corners, thick and shifting, the faint glow of the city outside cut off by curtains that swayed without wind. Faro stood at the center of the room, the force in his veins pulsing outward like invisible chains, binding the space to his command.
Rita lingered near the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, green eyes sharp with suspicion. “Faro… this isn’t right. Why did you bring me here with her?”
Ronda, smaller and softer in her frame, stood closer to him. She tugged nervously at the hem of her nightdress, her bare feet curling against the floor. “Faro… I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
Faro looked at them both. The horned figure was behind him—unseen, but there, its laughter a whisper in his mind. Take them. Show them what you are now.
His hands rose, and without touching them, both women felt the force ripple through the air. Ronda gasped, clutching her chest as warmth spread through her, while Rita staggered slightly, her breath quickening despite her resistance.
“I brought you both here,” Faro said, his voice deeper, carrying a weight it never had before, “because I want you together—with me. I want what I’ve always wanted… all of it, without choosing.”
Rita’s lips parted in outrage, but her body betrayed her—her breath grew heavy, her pulse racing as the dark energy inside Faro pressed against her will. She shook her head, her hair falling wild over her shoulders. “You… you’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you, Faro!”
Ronda looked between them, confused and trembling. Yet when Faro stepped closer to her, placing his hand gently against her cheek, the fear softened into a dazed calm. “Faro…” she whispered, leaning into his palm.
Rita snapped, “Don’t touch her like that—” but before she could finish, Faro turned his other hand toward her, and she froze. A shiver ran through her as though invisible fingers had traced her spine. Her body quivered, her resistance bending under the force of the shadow running through him.
The one-horned figure’s laughter filled the room though only Faro truly heard it. Yes… command them. Make them yours. Together.
He pulled both women closer, Ronda on his right, Rita on his left. The bed behind them seemed to swell in size, its silken sheets rippling as if waiting. His arms wrapped around their waists, and he felt the surge of their conflicting energies—Ronda’s innocent trust, Rita’s reluctant surrender—both feeding into him, making the shadow fire burn hotter.
For a moment, Rita’s eyes locked with his, pleading. “Faro… don’t let this thing control you.”
But Faro’s smile was faint, dangerous, his voice a whisper meant for them both. “I am in control. Tonight, you’re both mine.”
And as he guided them toward the bed, the horned figure’s shadow loomed taller, its single glowing horn casting a dim green light across the room, watching the scene unfold like a dark priest at an unholy rite.
The bed seemed to breathe beneath them as Faro drew both women closer. Ronda leaned into him with a trusting warmth, her small frame trembling, while Rita resisted with words but not with her body—her pulse betraying her, her breath quickening each time the shadow-fire within Faro brushed against her will.
He guided them both onto the silken sheets, the three of them sinking together as though the bed had been waiting. The shadows in the corners of the room thickened, draping the walls like curtains of smoke. Above them, the one-horned figure loomed—half unseen, half real—its horn glowing faintly green as though sanctifying the act in darkness.
Ronda’s voice was soft, fragile: “Faro… I’m here.” Rita’s voice was sharper, defiant even as her body trembled: “This isn’t you… this thing has changed you.”
Faro silenced both with his touch. His hands burned with power, each caress a surge that made them gasp, made their resistance falter, made their trust deepen. What had once been simple love or hidden fantasy now transformed into something larger, more dangerous—an act not of intimacy, but of conquest.
The horned figure’s laughter rippled through the air, low and resonant, as if echoing in their bones. Yes… take them both. This is the altar of your desire, and you are the god upon it.
The night stretched on, shadows weaving around the bed like serpents. The movements, the gasps, the tangled bodies—all blurred into a fever dream of power and hunger. To Faro, it was more than passion; it was rebirth. Every moment fed the dark fire inside him, every shiver from Ronda and Rita fanned the flames higher.
At last, silence fell. Ronda lay curled against his right side, spent, her face peaceful in sleep. Rita remained on his left, awake, her green eyes wide and haunted as she stared at him. Her lips trembled, wanting to speak, but no words came.
Faro lay between them, his chest rising and falling steadily, his eyes faintly aglow. He felt not guilt, not shame, but triumph. The man who had once been Falcon was gone. In his place was something darker—something greater.
At the foot of the bed, unseen by the women, the horned figure still hovered, its horn gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
“You see now, Faro,” it whispered. “You were never meant to be Falcon. You were meant to be mine.”
And Faro did not deny it.
The next morning.
The first rays of sunlight broke through the blinds of the SouthBank apartment, casting long golden bars across the master bedroom. Faro stirred awake, his body heavy, his mind clouded. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if the night before had been real or a fevered dream born from exhaustion and regret.
Ronda lay curled on one side of the bed, her glasses set carefully on the nightstand, her breathing soft and steady. Rita was on the other side, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, one arm draped loosely over Faro as though clinging to him even in sleep.
For a fleeting second, Faro felt a warmth he had not known in years—family, closeness, intimacy—but it was quickly poisoned by the memory of how it all came to pass. The shadow in the hallway. The horn. The deal.
He carefully slipped out of bed, his legs trembling as he stood. In the bathroom mirror, he saw himself differently. His eyes glowed faintly green, the trace of power the dark figure had placed in him. His skin carried a restless energy, like he could lift mountains or call down storms if he wished. And yet… his chest ached with emptiness.
When he returned quietly to the hallway, the one-horned figure was still there, hovering as if it had never left. Its grin was wider in the morning light, though its body still dripped shadows like smoke.
“Well?” it rasped. “You tasted what I gave you. You had both, as you wished. Do you feel like a king, Faro Faros?”
Faro lowered his head, his voice ragged. “I feel powerful… but also hollow. I don’t know if it was me or just your gift that carried me through. And I don’t know what kind of man I am anymore.”
The horned figure chuckled, the sound like dry leaves on fire. “Then you are ready to decide. Keep my power, and you will never doubt yourself again. Refuse it… and you go back to being the broken boy who cries in the hallway.”
From inside the bedroom, the faint voices of Ronda and Rita stirred, calling softly for him. Faro clenched his fists, torn between the warmth of family and the cold promise of unlimited strength.
The morning after was no ending. It was the beginning of a choice that would define the rest of his life.
Breakfast.
The smell of toasted bread and fresh fruit filled the small kitchen of the SouthBank apartment. Morning light poured in through the curtains, glinting off the simple cups of juice placed on the table. Ronda had tied her hair back, her round glasses perched neatly on her nose, while Rita sat across from her in a silk robe, her green eyes sharp and unreadable.
Faro walked in last. His steps were slow, deliberate, as though every movement carried the weight of an unseen burden. He sat between them, his hands still trembling faintly from the lingering energy of the horned figure’s gift.
For a while, only the clinking of plates filled the silence. Finally, Ronda cleared her throat. “Last night… was different.” She avoided his gaze, pushing at her food with the edge of her fork. “You were… stronger than I’ve ever seen you. Almost like another man was inside you.”
Rita gave a low laugh, her tone edged with something between pride and suspicion. “He was more than himself, Ronda. I felt it too. But I wonder…” Her eyes narrowed at Faro. “Was it really you, Faro? Or was someone else whispering in your ear?”
Faro froze, his chest tight. He remembered the glowing eyes in the mirror, the shadow waiting in the hallway. He couldn’t tell them the truth—not yet.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly, staring down at his untouched plate. “All I know is… it didn’t feel right. Not fully. I was there with both of you, but part of me… part of me was somewhere else.”
Ronda finally looked up, her eyes wide behind the lenses. “Faro… are you saying you regret it?”
Silence pressed down on the table. Rita leaned forward, her voice low and cutting. “Regret? Or fear? You’ve always been torn between us. Last night, you tried to have it both ways—and maybe you did. But something about you feels… tainted.”
Faro’s jaw tightened. He wanted to tell them everything—that a dark one-horned figure had given him temporary power, that the choice still lingered in the air like poison—but the words died on his lips.
Instead, he simply whispered, “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
Ronda’s hand trembled as she reached for his. Rita pulled her robe tighter around herself, her stare unblinking. The breakfast table became less about food and more about truths hanging heavy, waiting to break free.
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