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Halloween is coming and with it all kinds of Halloween themed stuff everywhere you look. In going with the spirit of the creep/scary things that go bump in the night, this month's topic is:
What's the boogie man in your closet or under your bed? (or was in your closet as the case may be)
Feel free to take us back to when your character was little and had monsters under the bed.. or maybe there still are monsters under your bed or in your closet?
“I’m gonna fucking stick you good ya little shit!”
It was a voice, indeed a phrase Duffy Bracken was all too familiar with. They were the last words he heard from the lips of his former master, the street gang leader who had delivered the strike that had scared his hand what seemed like a life time ago. They still haunted him, in his dreams, in flashbacks and in moments of doubt. With sparkling, fearful eyes a younger Duffy had stood and taken it, without offering any resistance or fight.
He had been weak.
“Hold out ‘is ‘and!”
They had, and he had simply stared up at the elder. He had betrayed them, ratted them out, turned ‘honest’ in a dishonest world. He was dead to them, though they were not so heartless as to kill him literally. They would exile him, brandish him, and scar him for life.
Duffy, for all his wondrous talents, had not yet mastered the art of being amongst company.
He feared being alone more above anything else in the world.
“That’s it,” the flashback grew real, the moustache and stubble of the one they used to call Buck Tooth Barney leering down at him through a haze of illusory recollection. “’Old I’m steady, that’s be good,” his curious accent only served to sever the seriousness of the situation he had been in from the reality.
The dagger flashed overhead, its rusty point darting down with the gentle push of a vindictive bastard.
“Ahhh!” Duffy screamed, rising from his bed with sweat pouring from every orifice and a pain jolting him to life that ran over the skin of his sticky palms like lightning, before it rose up the length of his arm and bitch slapped him back to life.
The dark environment remained abyssal until the bard’s eyesight adjusted to the surroundings. He focussed through the fear that incited heavy breathing, lank weakness and a racing heart to try and discern his location. He instantly recognised the back of the dusty green sofa that rested with pride at the centre of the troupe’s lounge and sighed with relief.
He was not twelve again, he was not being pushed again, and he was alive, and well, and healed.
“At least in body,” he pulled his palm out from underneath the thick woollen blanket that offered it’s warmth to the troupe master against the cold and bitter riposte of winter’s approach and stared with trepidation at the thin white line that marked the location of the dagger’s cut.
It was a scary moment for Duffy to accept he was afraid. He thought about it long and hard until he pushed himself upright and slipped his legs from the sofa so they dropped with dead weight to the cold stone floor of the low central circle in the Prima Vista’s ground floor. The dip served as a seating area for the troupe’s gathering, and it was here that much of the theatrics of Scara Brae’s premier artisans ran its course. The only drama tonight, at the witching hour, was a reprisal of a past role that its actor thought long dead.
“Get a grip Duffy,” the bard ran his scarred hand through his matted mess of jet black hair, and shook it free of the sweat that had soaked his every inch of being. He patted the blanket and the cushions of the sofa, only to pull back his hand with disgust. Whatever nightmare had inflicted him with the dread he felt consuming his heart, it had expunged every drop of liquor, water and life from his tired old bones.
“You’re long grown out of nightmares.”
The words bounced around the hollow and empty room, clattering against the dusty portraits of troupe masters long since dead and scrolls inked with famous quotes from the repertoire of the troupe’s vast theatrical providence. None of them would offer any comfort to Duffy in his hour of need. Each would cut just as deep as the dagger, each would slice open his skin and bare his blood, his life force to the rocky pit of reality.
“Or am I?” His self-doubt cracked open his shield and knocked him back. He fell against the sofa’s rear rise and sighed. A weight dropped onto his shoulders, all the burdens he had shed, returning with the glee of a trapped enemy freed at last.
DING DONG.
Duffy screamed.
His eyes slowly shrunk back to normal size, his breathing slowed down to a reasonable rate. The cuckoo clock over the kitchen door continued to sound out the last chimes of midnight proper. The bard rolled his eyes and pushed himself upright, fighting with the woollen folds of his bed clothes and his blanket until he was free and upright and rolling his shoulders to loosen the stiffness in his joints.
Damp, sweaty and smelling like an ox, he made his way across the floor with heavy foot falls towards the kitchen entrance. Inside, he made out the shape of the water jug and a set of tall beakers which rested at the centre of the food preparation table for thirsty workers and over active children. He smacked his parched, arid lips in anticipation and made to reach for it.
The wound on his hand flared up again, like a forgotten relative knocking on his door for the first time in many a year.
His fingers skimmed the edge of the clay handle and knocked it onto its side. With a clatter, it rolled off the table and shattered into a dozen jagged edged pieces. They scattered over the unwashed slabs that formed the rear extension of the old mansion and continued to rattle until they came to an abrupt, cautious stop. The sharp intake of breath Duffy used to tense his muscles was a sign of his regret as much as his shock – it would mirror the expression he would make when Ruby found out, and made sure Duffy was reminded who was the true master, or mistress of the house.
“I don’t fucking deserve any of this,” he grumbled.
He pulled his hand up into the paltry moonlight offered by the kitchen’s north facing window and examined the white line which glowed in the silvery beams. Duffy could not quite believe his eyes when he saw blood rolling in three tears down his wrist and the length of his exposed arms.
“What the…”
He span, a sickly sensation of impending agony rocking his senses until they could not make the future any clearer.
“Oh fu…”
He flew backwards, his own doubts, fears and insecurities crushing any resistance, just as they had done long ago when his brothers had struck him, cast him out, and severed all ties with the weak link of the street running gang.
His head cracked against the heavy wooden doorframe of the mansion’s true exit, and the bard slumped to the floor in a swirl of dust, regret and innocence lost.
You’re such a fucking coward Duffy Bracken.
Wake the fuck up!
Duffy opened his eyes slowly; sleep fighting to keep his eyelids shut despite its owners protestations. Two sensations wake him properly. The first was the joy of smelling bacon frying in a skillet on a roaring Raeburn. That told Duffy that Lillith was here, returned at last from her jaunt to the only true source of night life in Scara Brae worth mentioning – the Lady Mona’s Masquerade. The second was the warm kiss of sunlight striking his temple from the small port window net to the door that lead out into the street beyond. Morning was upon him, and with it, the promise of freedom from the horrors of his own mind.
“Hello?” He muttered with a dry mouth flexed with cotton and dust.
Ruby appeared around the door of the kitchen, hair as red as her cheeks and smelling radiant as ever.
“You’ve been there all night Duffy, I don’t know what you did last night, but this place was a mess when I got here. An utter and absolute shame on you!” She wagged her finger before disappearing back into the throng of the busy cook house.
Duffy felt confusion but looked around the lounge to mount a defence. Everything was eschew, books in piles all over the floor, the sofa upturned, pictures wonky, clothes and props tattered and torn on every available inch of floor space. It looked exactly like the after math of a rather rowdy party.
“It wasn’t like that when I…” he realised something.
“Fucking ghosts…every damned Halloween!” He sighed, pushed himself upright, and strolled into the melee to do away with the damage the past members of the troupe did every year on the one night of the calendar they were allowed to perform for the world once more.
“Always hogging the limelight…”
As he bent over to pick up a brazier with lime green frills, his hand twanged. He got the same sensation he always did when a memory threatened to break his composure, and felt him spinning on the spot.
He opened his eyes slowly, and groggily, and stared in amazement at the scene that befell his vision.
Spirits danced about his crumpled and battered body, his friends and family hung from the rafters on meat hooks and nooses tight and proper.
He set his gaze on his best friend, who hung lifeless and bloodied and violated from the largest hook of all. Her red dress shone with crimson ichor, her black boots glowed with ruby fire light.
“Ruby!”
His voice pierced the multiverse.
“Nooooooo!"
It was a dark and stormy night. It had to have been; occurrences like these wouldn't have the same impact during the middle of the day, with a striking canopy of fair weather clouds lazily hanging about overhead while the sun cast its rays through my store's windowpanes.
It was several hours past closing time. I sat in my private library as the rain beat hard against the wooden roof of the two-level building. I was nestled comfortably in the red leather chair I kept in the middle of the room. On the small table next to me, two candles burned to give the room light, causing shadows to dance across the menagerie of bookshelves and cabinets that lined the walls. I took a sip from my wine glass and placed it onto the table next to the candles before turning the page of the book I was reading; an old, tattered copy of Alchemical Poisons for Journeymen. And before you say anything? Yes, I quite enjoy reading material such as this to relax. I guess you can credit that to the countless generations of assassin blood that runs through my veins.
A brief flash of light, then a clap of thunder shook the building. But it wasn't enough to drown out the knocking that seemed to be coming from downstairs. I ripped my attention from the book momentarily. In addition to the steady pounding of rain outside, there was someone definitely knocking on the door to my store. It was polite at first, but quickly turned impatient as the downpour continued. Who the hell could it be? I closed the place by myself, and I don't remember either of my part-timers leaving anything valuable of theirs behind... I dog-eared the corner of a page and set the book down on the table. Grabbing one of the candles to illuminate the way, I left the library and went downstairs to see what the ruckus was.
I unlocked the door and cracked it open slightly, holding the candle up to see what the disturbance was. All I could make out in the storm were two figures dressed in dark cloaks, their hoods pulled over their heads to keep themselves dry. "Can I help you," I hesitantly asked.
"We would like to come in to escape the storm," the shorter of the two figures replied in a harsh, yet formal, feminine tone.
I nodded to my right. "This is a bookstore, ma'am. There's an inn several blocks down the road if you're looking for a place to ride out the storm."
"Wrong answer," the other figure flatly replied. He pulled his hood up far enough where I could get a good look at his face--and I instantly recognized him.
My first instinct was to slam the door in their faces. Before I could get it shut and latched, the man shot his hand out and clamped down on the door frame. The wood slammed hard against skin and bone, cutting him. But the bastard wouldn't let go. Before I could react, the door burst open, and a lightning right hook from the bigger cloaked figure knocked me on my ass. I immediately sprung to my feet and lashed out with a knife edge thrust to his throat, which he quickly intercepted. Before I could make enough sense of his counter to properly describe it, I was flying through the air. I slammed against the counter hard--the back of my head collided with the cash register with an almost comical cling! I collapsed to a seated position on the floor; my head pounding, my left wrist twisted and writhing in agony.
The woman spoke again. "Will you invite us in for a while? Or would you prefer another lesson in manners, young lady?"
I rubbed the back of my head, trying to massage away the pain. The man, clad in his black cloak, bent over by the door to fetch the candle that was dropped in the scuffle. I looked at the woman standing in the doorway, then at him, and back to her. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
The smaller cloaked figure silently walked into my bookstore and shut the door behind her, twisting the latch in place with a soft click. She removed her cloak, revealing a woman in her early sixties. She had sharp, unattractive features; her lightly wrinkled skin was as pale as my own. The woman's raven-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and had several streaks of white traveling through it. Her eyes, as cold and grey as steel, wandered from shelf to shelf throughout my store. The man had walked past me to set the candle on the counter before removing his cloak and tossing the rain-soaked cloth onto the round table marked "New Releases". He was the more handsome of the two, with heroesque looks and a neatly kept crop of auburn hair that was combed to the right. A set of black-rimmed glasses perched on his slightly crooked nose. Both of the intruders wore the same outfit--a black buckled vest pulled over a plain black long-sleeved shirt on top, loose black slacks and black leather boots on the bottom.
I did my best not to panic and break down at their looming presence... and it was one of the hardest things I had ever done. My voice cracked as I spoke. "Mother. Lucas. You should've sent a letter. I would've prepared supper."
My mother gazed at me venomously. "Spare me your tongue, Madison, or I'll cut it out of your throat."
Dear brother Lucas pulled a handkerchief out from his back pocket and absentmindedly began to rub off the blood trickling down his knuckles. "The family spent years looking for you. We heard rumblings of your activities here in Corone and in Salvar. But try as we might, we couldn't actually locate you. And then, you dropped off the radar. For three long years."
Mother chimed in, her voice low and rough. "Do you think the family has forgiven you for the death of your brother?"
I slowly stood up, my blood boiling at the mention of the other brother. "I told you seven years ago, Trevor died when we were ambushed! Is this why you've tracked me down? So we could continue this argument?"
"Your cousin Nicholas claimed otherwise. He said he witnessed you stabbing Trevor fifteen times in a violent furor."
The ambush that cost my brother his life was set up by the noble who was our target. Someone had double-crossed us; and in the ensuing chaos, a mage who had the noble's back had sent out a demonic spirit to possess me and force my hand against Trevor Freebird. To this day, it was not known who had snitched on us; but I had my suspicions it was my rotten cousin, since his allegiance was easily swayed with the exchange of a few coins. I reminded my mother of this, rather bluntly and obscenely.
It was Lucas who replied, "Our intelligence didn't show that an illusionist was in the employ of the target."
"Shut the fuck up, Lucas, or I'll break your nose again."
He clenched his fists and took a step towards me, but mother stayed him with a touch to his arm. "Despite your past... transgressions, Madison, we tracked you down because we want you to return to the family."
Well, that was rather unexpected. My jaw dropped in confusion. There had to have been a catch.
My mother took a deep breath before explaining why they came to my bookstore during the middle of a nasty rainstorm. "As you are aware, the Freebird clan has a valuable tradition to uphold. With Trevor dead and you gone, we had to find replacements. And you know that a Freebird can't simply be trained; a Freebird must be bred. I'm well outside of the age to be pushing out another child or two..."
"...and our investigations showed that you have yet to give birth to a child of your own," Lucas snidely cut in. "What's the matter, sister, can't find a man in the taverns who will drink to the point where he'll find you fuckable?"
I had regained my courage by this point. I had no intention of returning with these two to suffer countless years of father's wrath and dangerous assassination missions that granted few rewards. I charged forward, catching Lucas by surprise. I thrust my shoulder into his midsection and used my momentum to throw him to the ground. Straddling him, I began to pound away at his unprotected face until I could feel my body being lifted off his. Just then, a magical energy wrapped itself around my neck; I was being choked! Defenseless, my hands clawing uselessly against my throat, I was turned around in mid-air. My mother stood tall, her bony right hand stretched out towards me, her stone-cold eyes glowing blue.
And in that moment, I remembered that she was a master telekinetic.
She threw her hand to the right, and I soon followed. My body crashed into a bookcase and fell to the wooden floor. With the wind knocked out of me, it took several seconds before I could rise to my hands and knees. "We wanted to put the past behind us, for the sake of the family," my mother cooed with the gentleness of barbed wire. She raised both hands up in the air and swiftly brought them down. Behind me, I could hear one of the tall, wooden bookshelves tear itself from the wall and begin to fall. Books began pouring from the shelves, their pages rustling as I quickly rolled out of the way. The bookshelf fell harmlessly, but as I was rising to one knee, I looked up to find the top end of the new release table heading for a collision course with my skull.
I screamed as I put up my arms to guard myself (fat lot of good that would do). The heavy oak hit hard and sandwiched me against another bookshelf. The back of my skull and several parts of my spine crunched against the shelves, and the force of the table pushed my arms against my face with enough force to break my nose. As the debris settled, I tried to push the table aside. My senses and strength were starting to fade. The table rolled off of me with a quick telekinetic wave from my mother. She and Lucas stepped over books as they slowly crossed the room. Breathing heavily and aching all over, I licked the blood off of my lips. As I sat broken on the floor, Mother knelt down. Tilting my head up with a light touch from her cold hand, she said, "If I had my way, I would break you in half and watch as the life slowly drained from your worthless body. But since your father would be upset with me, I'll simply give you one last warning."
Her eyes began to glow blue again, and I felt my body once more rising from the floor. With a flick of her wrist, I flew through the air towards the storefront windows. A loud crash echoed throughout the dark and rain-slick streets of Radasanth as my broken body went through the glass and tumbled onto the cobblestones outside.
The pounding rain soaked through my clothes in an instant. As I was fading from consciousness, I could clearly hear my mother say, "A merchant's life is not the life for a Freebird. Lucas, be a dear and burn this place down, will you?"
Ruby ascended the black iron stair case with the relish of a beast approaching a fallen prey, and all the glamour of a fine hostess clad to the nines for the ball of the decade. Each click of her heels on the black marble steps heralded one less opportunity for escape for her captive, each click of her stilettos a blade to the gullet of all of history. Atop this staircase, as was foretold centuries ago, the Crimson Mistress would realise her true power. She, like all other women, would suffer no fate decided by man, she would show no mercy, and with her wrath, leave no stone untouched by her scorn.
She licked her lips, her tongue pricked by the glimmering points of her fangs. The cold air of the valley felt dissonant and airy on her exposes skin, which shone with porcelain sickness beneath the paltry, if not resplendent harvest moon. As she stepped out onto the pulpit, she began to admire the jagged ruins which extruded from the walls of the valley, as if the gods themselves had forged a strange collage from the broken architecture of a thousand worlds. Though half clouded by mist and darkness, Ruby could hear the rushing waters that ran along the narrow gorge’s very deepest depths, carrying away the weakest structures of the long forgotten realm. Every now and then the air cracked sounds of stone breaking against stronger stone, a constant turbulence that forged new worlds and ruins from old.
“A brilliant setting for the zenith of my power,” she said smarmily. With the end of her sentence came a great flash of lightning, so strong and sulphurous it threatened to sunder the tall tower of the castle Ruby called her own with its strength. Static ran down her spine in between bolts, and three more peals of thunder and navy blue streaks tore the silence of the night wide apart before she looked back into the depths of the valley.
“All Hallow’s Eve, cradling the pure malice my contempt for the world needs, I beseech thee, castigate my woe!” Her voice skipped over the river and crashed against a tall bell tower that jutted out from a half formed amphitheatre. If she had been paying attention, she would have said a prayer of passing for the last fragment of Radasanth’s Citadel before it fell into the Abyss. The invisible energy that sprung from her syllables rolled down the valley’s far side, gouging a great tear in the granite until it fell from an overhang and it too vanished in a torrent of rubble.
The world had gathered about the citadel of the Tantalum troupe, its darkest hour clinging to the last of the Thayne Tantalus’s power. It had been millennia since any of them had seen another soul, and the solitude had driven the Crimson Mistress mad with rage. Her hair stood on end, whipped to life by sprites and phantoms. Her tongue lashed the air as she flexed her vocal chords, and her long, bloodied nails clawed out patterns of ancient magical summoning through the last air of Althanas’s long and heavy declaration through history.
It was time for the troupe to free of its long vigil over such a history. They had protected its secrets and it’s legacy in their tall tower and ivory libraries for longer than any of them could remember. They had saved the world from gods and monsters, sated rebellions and quelled uprisings in the desert lands and the frozen wastes. They had given rise to happiness in the darkest of hearts, killed daemons in the name of the light wielding saints of their heroes. They had done dark deeds that even Ruby could now never forgive herself for, despite what she had become.
She scratched her right nails down the length of her exposes arm and let the blood run cold in spectral trails down to her fingertips. The release of tension in her bones was a welcome respite, but in no time at all, a new hunger replaced it.
“Forgive me Thayne, for what we have become, and what we do now to rid our shoulders of our burdens.” Her solemnity bridled energy into the air around her scantily clad person. She ran the tip of her tongue up along her arm, the iron liquor red wine to her millennia refined palate. It tasted faintly of pork, gin, and fear.
Invigorated, Ruby spread her legs wide, planting her red knee high boots firmly on the obsidian pulpit as if the recoil and magnitude of what she was about to do might topple her over the edge and drag her away into nothing. Long unlit candles flickered to life in the base of her pedestal, casting a faint glow of amber and ochre light over the well-worn material of the last spell singer’s favourite stage.
“I sing a song of sixpence, of blood congealed and dry,
I tell of crimes committed, before the world did die,
I speak of tales unspoken, kept vigilant and true,
I sing the Last Song now with grace, to see all time be through.”
With the end of the first verse, Ruby sucked hard on her cuts, allowing the power contained within her blood to sooth her vocal chords. Arden had lain down his life only an hour before to channel his life force into her body – the silent swordsman’s last act of bravery and service to the troupe he had for so long protected with his bloodied blade.
“We warriors of artistry, we zealots of the stage,
Our lives have been in sacrifice, but not indeed in vain,
With our blood we shed our hopes, and with our deaths a tear,
We sing in glory and in love, as the End of Time draws near.”
Finally overcome, Ruby cackled, her very soul shattering. Her clawed hands spread apart and from their shaking lengths red lightning flashed. In time to the melody that sprung from her long dead heart, lightning flashed overhead, striking the castle’s tower time and time again. It’s empty, echoing halls reverberated and shook themselves apart – each strikes a death knell to the last bastion of mankind.
In between her fingertips a sphere formed, bound with ancient sigils and formed from the blood of the four Thayne borne children of Tantalus. It span and span quicker and quicker still with each drop of blood that flew from her cut to its centre.
“Oh sigh for me; oh sing for me, the children of the gods,
Reform the world anew with grace,
Deliver us the odds.”
She started to sway back and forth as a fell wind rose from the depths of the valley, pealing the tattered remnants of her once scarlet dress into tendrils of sentient silk. They whipped back and forth, adding to the growing cacophony of her spell song. One final bolt of lightning, thicker and stronger and brighter than any other bolt throughout history struck the lightning rod atop the castle.
Ruby did not flinch as the rubble from the eruption crashed down over the bell dome chambers and courtyards; each a comet to the home she had lived in for a thousand life times. There were no children in its halls no, no loved ones dying in the stone rain to care for.
She had killed them all, consumed their blood, and sacrificed their spirits to end their pain.
“The First Song is the Last Song, a duet with the mind,Her words were almost being drowned out by the lapping winds, the sound of rock falling and the churning stormy skies over head. Though no lightning cracked and no thunder rolled, the last part of reality began to crack. Ruby fell silent, her verses sung, her energy spent, her emotions long faded into nothing. The sphere between her finger tips showed signs of her life in its vibrant cage. Visions appeared, like memories bound in a ruby snow globe. She saw Duffy first, a youthful smile and a playful spirit quashed by her blade’s advance through his heart.
I sing a song of sixpence, to erase all that I find,
My notes and my accompaniment, shall wipe reality clean,
With the blood of the fallen, I am finally redeemed.”
Lillith appeared second, her last note played on her ghostly shamisen echoing in Ruby’s mind. Her death was too visceral even for the power of blood magic to reveal. Her monstrous soul quelled the reaction she would have given in too long ago. Arden appeared last of all, in between memories of the very early years of the troupe – of long walks in the sunshine, of oni and tea and gin soaked spectacles on autumn nights.
“My faithful brother…” she mouthed, the words not quite forming with sound. As she let the sphere go, it fell into the Abyss, like a fire fly’s ember descending into madness.
The Crimson Mistress watched the heart of the Thayne Tantalus, reformed with the troupe’s sacrifice disappear into the river of time. Sound vanished first as time restarted. Ruby could only watch in the anti-noise as the pinnacles of the Windlacers fell into the river, accompanied by the crystal spires of Dheathain’s Fae cities, the strange bronze domes of Fallien’s temples and the slate covered villas of Scara Brae. Her arms fell limply to her sides, her fangs dripping with blood, her hair silent and lifeless and stuck to her brow with perspiration – all the vestiges of her beauty were gone.
The light began to fade next, drawing from the skies down like a sunset heralding the arrival of the night.
The silver sea in Ruby’s mind was next, but not before it exploded brightly as if were truly alive for the first time since its Thayne was sundered long ago.
For a long time, Ruby saw and heard nothing, but felt her heart beat strongly and slowly in her rib cage. Though her flesh had died centuries ago, and her blood had been replaced with that of her friends and lovers and family, she could her the great muscle that had given her so much beat out one final rhythm.
Then, there was nothing.
No life, no laughter, no murder, no joy.
Infinite bleakness, infinite blackness, a void.
Today was not a particularly good day to die, but Ashley thought that it would do. The fact that he had any choice in the matter whatsoever made the decision slightly easier. So many lives were snuffed out like a dying flame at the blunt end of a wick, without warning, without remembrance. At least he had Malefor to carry out his lash wish, to keep his name alive through the chronicles of history.
“Fat fucking chance,” he mumbled.
Today would have been a good day to die, had Malefor Kolwezi not sold his pupil down shit creek without so much as a match stick to paddle with.
“When I get my hands on him…” he said softly, the thought of bloodshed and tearing the liche limb from phantasmal limb putting moisture back into his cracked lips.
“I’ll make sure he does not see it coming like I did.”
Ashley had known in the pit of his stomach that Malefor would fall for his old ways. He had screamed it aloud that he would be eventually betrayed by that bastard ghost.
“I imagined it was going to be a little more sudden, though,” which he was slightly thankful for.
Here he was with his arms tied with rotten sewer soaked rope and his mouth muffled with a foul smelling cloth. His discomfort stood as testament to the untrustworthy nature of the recently deceased.
Ashley had been casually strolling down the central broad walk through Beinost’s dishevelled and run down market district in the late afternoon sun when they had appeared. He did not know quite how to describe them, only that there were several blurs, several humanoid shapes moving in the mists. After the commotion, there arrived the awkward silence that often accompanied danger. Ashley had just enough time to gasp before a sharp pain struck him over the back of the head like a thunderclap between his ears.
Somebody had knocked him out on purpose.
“Who would want me to suffer, never mind work for one of the very things that made Anebrilith burn?”
It was a question he would ponder for a great deal of time before arriving at the conclusion that he did not know, and never would. Some people worked in mysterious ways, and others worked for the thrill of being able to create chaos where silence reigned.
The mud stains on his clothing were testament to how far he had been dragged. The blood congealing on the back of his legs vigil to the fact that he had travelled far in his indignity.
Ashley struggled and shuffled, feebly attempting to stabilise his slouch against the hard stone wall that he had been cruelly thrown against upon his arrival. It had been an ordeal, he wagered, and one he was thankful he was unconscious for. The smell of death, blocked drains and dusk air was embedded in his nostrils and refused to budge, even with the overbearing smell of incarceration lingering around his battered and bruised body.
By his limited ability to reckon with his bearings, he was somewhere beneath the north shore of the city’s docklands. He could recognise the smell of desperate woman, salt water and singed corpses anywhere, and they only came together as a trio where the huddled citizens of Anebrilith had been murdered helplessly whilst they sheltered in the vast grain hoppers that had once raised high into the sky above the singing ships and shanty huts.
Ashley did not strike out the possibility that his environment was all an illusion. He had learnt enough of the principle schools of magic from his father to know that magic could create worlds, and not just flame, famine and fancy. He could be anywhere, from the snow-capped peaks of Salvar’s decimated mountain ranges to the crystalline spires high over the Fae lands of Dheathain.
Wherever he was outside the small poky and dimly lit cell did not really matter. All that mattered, was just how was he going to get out that damned liche’s trap?
With a long sigh Ashley took the time to once again weigh up his odds. From the numb sensation growing in his fingertips, he doubted he had the patience of strength to break free of his bonds. Short of his fingers literally dropping off, the only way out of this was through talking with whoever decided he was a worthy catch was conjuring up a whole lot of luck, fancy lights and the best wizard’s voice a wizard could voice.
“So talking it is…” he grumbled, and not for the first time today.
Of course, Ashley would have talked his way out of his current predicament had there been anyone to actually talk to. As he struggled against his wrist bonds as feebly as he might, he tried to work out how much time had passed since he had been taken from the streets to this very awkward moment. Had it been hours or days, or maybe even weeks? He simply did not know.
“Chances are I won’t find out at any rate,” he mumbled, biting his lip to warm it against the chill and damp air. Wherever he was, it was not a luxurious lounge or a well-lit and hedonistic library. It was dirty, grubby and uncomfortable.
Nothing you’re not used to already Ashley.
Ashley blinked.
“Hello?” He whispered coyly, as if the shadows might jump out at him if he disturbed them.
The cell fell into silence once more, except for that clichéd sound water made when it dripped slowly through damp stone in a dungeon. There was perhaps a hint of a draft coming from somewhere too, but he was so cold and damp he could not be sure what his body was imagining and what was the impact of the environment.
“There’s nobody there you old coot,” he mentally chided himself, giving up with frustration at attempting to free himself.
Wherever he was, and whatever he was going to do about it, it did not matter in the end. He felt death coming in his bones, it seemed to speak to him without words, fondle him without rotting fingertips.
“A wizard knows two things,” he recited from memory.
The sound of dripping water stopped.
“Where his hat is,” he chuckled, because he knew exactly where the Reluctant Hat was at this precise moment. “Secondly, he knows exactly when he’s going to die.”
This was not through some innate arcane talent. No, it was because wizard’s saw things that mortals did not see. Through the providence of the Tap, they saw spirits. The spirit that slowly formed from the shadows to stand ominously over shadow was one all wizards knew, even though they had never actually met him.
“Oh."
The words literally fell dead in the air, dropping onto his lap like paperweights onto a well worn desk.
"It’s you,” Ashley grumbled.
“Wizards in every dimension and universe…they’re always the same,” the creature said from beneath its black cowl. It almost seemed pleased with itself.
Death appeared in many forms.
A demon.
An old man.
A small lesbian dwarf*.
None were quite as memorable as the skeletal man with the scythe though. In countless cultures across Althanas, and indeed across the multiverse this was the thing most life feared above all else.
“You don’t look well.” Death said bluntly. His voice seemed to suck the air from the room, as opposed to whisper words and life into it.
As a necromancer, Ashley had seen Death too many times to count. Each opportunity had been wasted, however, as the spectre had flittered away without paying the living wizard any attention. Death, it was often said, did not have time for his fans.
“Are you here for me properly this time?” He made a passing reference to the incident involving three guardsmen who had been dismembered by a werewolf three moons ago on the walls of Beinost.
“No.”
“Oh good,” Ashley said humbly. “You had me going there for a minute.”
Death moved slowly, but he moved with conviction. He moved with considerable conviction to stoop down and look Ashley square in the eyes. He did not disturb the air, or smell of anything. Ashley just felt cold and putrid.
“Not just yet.”
Ashley shrugged. He was tied up in a basement, unable to conjure his Grimoire due to thermic disturbance in the cell and separated from his beloved tower and its bacon griddle. Dying was just a finale to a particularly unexciting life tending the dead.
Quote:
* Death appeared before the dying in whatever shape the soon to be deceased wished him to be. It has been well documented that the dwarves of Kachuk are a little perverse in their views of the gods. That, or they equate sexual fantasies with heaven, and Death is picking up the wrong vibes.
"Trick or treat!"
Two shouts hit Seed's ears; he adjusted his ragged clothes, and gently shook away a slight headache with a smile. At the doorstep of the small room he rented, two children held out bags expectantly. With a grin, he reached behind him into a bowl of candy, and then dumped a handful into each bag.
"It's good to see you Guy. You too Nami," Seed said with a smile. A young boy, dressed as a swordsman, complete with fake sword and utterly necessary fighter's coat (why it was necessary was beyond Seed), bobbed his head up and down as he managed his prizes.
"It's nice to see you too," the boy offered politely. The girl (dressed in a black coat too big for her, a blue shirt, and black pants) said the same as she traded a few pieces of candy with the boy.
"I can figure out what your brother is supposed to be, but what about you Nami?" Seed asked as he leaned against his doorframe. The little girl, no older than eight, smiled brightly.
"I'm Sheex Deltin!" she chirped as a light chuckle escaped from behind the children. Seed looked to find a man and woman, arm in arm, watching fondly.
"I really can't say I was fond of that choice, but being as it's a special occasion..." the man began. The woman interrupted with a laugh.
"Yes, you were so against it! Oh, how you scolded her while you bought her that shirt! And how you kicked and screamed when she wanted to wear your old jacket! My valiant hero," the woman leaned her head against the man's shoulder, "bested in three seconds by an eight year old girl. A new record."
It was at this point the little girl scrambled up the man's shoulders, and pointed off into the distance.
"Now the wanderer departs! Off to the unknown! I shall discover a vast fortune of unknown delights! With my daddy!" Nami shouted at the top of her lungs, giving the man a few good kicks to spur him onwards.
"You know, when I was a wanderer, I walked," Sheex Deltin (the real one, not the eight year old) muttered.
"But Daddy! My feet hurt!" Nami complained.
"Oh, all right then. If your feet hurt," Sheex began. The woman, Leila Deltin, let out another laugh.
"Bested in two seconds! Another record!" Leila giggled as she wrapped her arms around her husband. "New rule! You have to spoil me just as much as you spoil Nami!"
"Crap," Sheex muttered as Guy laughed, and Nami continued to mercilessly urge her daddy onwards.
"If your daughter's you, who did you dress up as Sheex?" Seed asked before the family departed. Sheex shrugged, as best one can while being kicked by an eight-year old determined to fill up at least three-fourths of a pillow case with candy.
"Sex god," was Sheex's response.
"Dad!" Guy blurted out; the father's lack of decorum sometimes embarrassed the son.
"I see. And you Leila?" Seed turned towards the smiling woman.
"Sex goddess," was her response as she gave her husband a good squeeze.
"MOM!" Guy screamed; the mother's lack of decorum always embarrassed the son.
Seed wished them well, pitied the neighbors, and shut the door to his tiny apartment. There wasn't much in there; bed and bath, a very worn bookshelf filled with what appeared to be mostly children's books, one of those half closets that barely hold anything, and a small dresser to hold the things that wouldn't fit in the closet. With a sigh, Seed adjusted his wild hair. It was mangy, but nowhere near as bad as it used to be a few years ago. He even showered regularly now, certainly a step up from the vagabond he had once been. All in all, he could not complain of what he had. Still, on this night of ghost and ghouls, who was the scariest of them all?
Many years ago...
"Are you ready?" a little girl asked. She had long black hair, down to her ankles. Her skin was white, her eyes the darkest of blue. Her lips were tight in fear, her tiny hands trembled as they gripped their make-shift weapon: a frying pan.
"Ready!" a young boy but a few meager years older responded. His fiery red hair was a stark contrast to the girl's black hair, but his eyes were the same shade of blue. His skin was the same slightly pale white, but his hands shook just as much. However, he had a broken broom handle as his weapon.
"This is the big one bro," the little girl whispered, "we're after the scariest of the scariest tonight! If we get this one, we're the bravest of them all!"
"Bravest of them all!" the boy echoed. If he played for his own sake, or for his sister's, not a soul could tell. Gripping tightly their mighty weapons, the children faced down the impenetrable darkness of their parents' room.
"Mom and Dad are out; there's no one to save us. Are you ready for this Fir?" the little boy asked. The young girl gave a fierce nod, and donned her protective helm; one wooden popcorn bowl.
"Ready Seed!" the girl chimed as she handed her older brother the helmet of the mightiest heroes; a rusting bucket. Side by side, with smiles on their faces, the valiant youths began their adventure!
Into the impenetrable darkness they dove, where the light of day could not be seen. Softly now, quietly now. A rustle here may have been a demon from hell, a shake there may have been a skeleton knight! Shaking, creeping, crawling, the heroes pressed onwards!
A shadow moved! The boy raises his mighty weapon! The girl cries in fear; the family cat attacks! A hiss! A scratch! A cry!
Smash! Hack! Smack! Sounds of battle shatter the silence of the night! A flurry of fur, a gashing of flesh! One more snicker snack, and the boy has bested the fierce gatekeeper! The hero holds his head high as the family cat skulks away; oh what a battle!
The warrior-maiden kisses the wound on the hero's wrist; a smile of love is shared between the two. But, the journey is not yet done! The scariest beast awaits the heroes in the most forbidden of places! Their parents' closet!
The gigantic door creeps open, beckoning the young adventures with the doom of the unknown. Fearlessly they press onwards, willing to face the terrible beast within! The boy's teeth chattered nervously; the girl's hands are wet with frightened anxiety. A nod. A smile. Onward now! Face your demons!
The children cry, and charge into the battleground, weapons held high. And who do you think awaited them in that darkness? What is that one creature that we can never run from, no matter how hard we try? Who must we, as men and women, face at the end of the day? Who judges our sins, who mocks our weakness, who pierces us with guilt? This beast, this demon, this very embodiment of fear; what manner of wicked creature awaited the valiant youths, willing to face the darkness, so long as family was by their side.
With a smile, the grown man reaches into his dresser. He digs his hand through socks and shirts; he need not see what he is looking for. His fingers touch upon it; a frightful chuckle escapes his lips. Gripping tightly his foe, the now aged man thinks back to that dark night, where he and his sister faced the most awful of demons.
"Riddle me this," says the man in the future as the boy in the past screams in fear, "What manner of thing there do I see staring back at me? What is the creature that, when I look upon its face, shows me everything I am; all faults and hallowed glories laid bare before mine eyes. After all, the thing that scares me most of all..."
The heroes huddle together, safe in each others arms. They have faced their demons, and have lived to tell the tale. What more could they want? The little girl buries her head in her older brother’s chest, clinging tightly to his warm body. The little boy shivers slightly, and wraps his arms around his frightened sister. The man remembers the adventure fondly, and pulls from his dresser an old mirror. He sees his reflection, and lets out a laugh.
“IS ME!”
Princess Jasmine shuffled softly down the dark blue carpeted hallway of her uncle’s palace. She carried a stuffed teddy bear with brown “fur”, black eyes and a purple dress named Beary Ann by one arm and yawned as she followed her adopted older brother Eric and her uncle, Odan Kamasha, King of Moriah. At two and a half years old, her black hair hung to the middle of her back. Tonight it was in two braids, one on either side of her head, so that it would not get too tangled while she slept.
BOOM!
A particularly loud clap of thunder startled the tiny princess and she ran head long down the hall until she smacked into her uncle legs. He smiled as he stopped long enough to pick her up.
“It’s okay, Jas. It’s just thunder. It won’t hurt you.”
“Scareded me!” she told her uncle pointedly as she laid her head against his chest.
“I know, but you don’t need to be scared anymore. Come on, Eric, we’re almost to you room.”
Eric had been the one to bring the newborn Jasmine to Odan after her home had been attacked and her parents murdered. Odan had made Eric Jasmine’s older brother and had been raising the two of them for the last three years. Eric was now ten years old and quite tall for his age. The thunder did not bother him at all, but he obediently sped up at the request of his “uncle.”
“It’s okay, Jassy,” he told his little sister. “I’ll be in the room right next to you. If you get too scared, then you can come sleep with me. If that’s okay with you, Uncle Odan?”
The big man nodded and the three went in to tuck Eric into bed. Confident in himself, the young man settled into bed and was almost asleep before Odan had even closed the door.
“Now it’s your turn, little Miss.”
“I sleep wif you.”
Odan bit his lip, it was hard to say no to his niece, but he wasn’t going to bed for a little while yet. “I’m sorry, sweet girl, but you need to sleep in your bed. You’re a big girl now, right?”
Jasmine frowned and crawled over the bed covers as her uncle set her down on her bed. He pulled back the covers for her and she obediently settled in. “Shhhh, my angel,” he said as he kissed her forehead. “You’ll be okay. Eric is right next door and I’ll stay here for a few minutes until you fall asleep, okay?”
Jasmine sniffled and nodded. “Okay, not leave?”
“No, Jasmine, I won’t leave yet.”
Odan took a seat in a rocking chair and sat quietly as he watched his niece. Her room was quite large for such a little girl, but he had figured it was simpler to let her have her big room now than move her all over the palace as she got older. Gossamer curtains pulled back at each bedpost hung around the princess’ bed. A small stool stood to one side for her to climb in and out of bed. To the princess’ right was a large window that overlooked the gardens. He could just make out the shape of the tall tree that grew right next to her window. The walls were lined with toys that sat on the floor which was carpeted in deep blue.
It did not take long for the little girl to fall asleep despite the storm. Odan kissed her forehead one last time, pulled the purple coverlet up to her chin and quietly left the room. He left the door open a crack so there would a little bit of light to shine in should Jasmine wake in the middle of the night.
SCRAAAATCH! SCRIITCH! SCRATCH!
Jasmine woke up suddenly and looked around. Her uncle was nowhere to be seen.
SCRAATCH!
She looked to the window, clutching Beary Ann tightly, but didn’t see anything. Then she felt it. Something was crawling up her arm. She shrieked and rubbed at her arms frantically. Then she saw two sets of glowing red eyes peering at her from over the foot of her bed.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!
Footsteps thundered down the hall as both Eric and Odan (now in his night clothes) came to see what was wrong. Odan turned up the lamp. Jasmine turned one terrified, tears-brimming face toward him, then scrambled out of bed and ran to him.
“Monster! Monster!!”
Odan knelt and held her gently, “Shhhhh, it’s okay. Shhhhh, what monsters?”
She sniffled and sobbed out brokenly, “Eyes red…. scratchy noise… It walked on me!!” Her tears began anew and Odan picked her up and held her close as he comforted her.
Eric looked around the room, trying to figure out what had scared his sister so much. He saw a stick with a string poking out from under the bed. Curious, he bent and picked it up. It was then that he heard shuffling under the bed, he peeked under and then his normally friendly face turned into an angry scowl. He pulled the stick out to find a toy spider hanging from the stick.
“You may as well come out now, Avery and Jonathon. I know you’re under there.”
Odan looked at Eric who held up the toy spider. “I’ll bet this is what ‘walked’ on her, Uncle.”
Odan frowned as the two boys, equal in age to Eric, skulked out from under the bed. Their eyes no longer glowed red (it had been a cheap magic enchantment for a one time use), but their guilty demeanor told the king everything he needed to know. “I will speak with you in the hallway. Go and wait for me there.” He watched as the two walked away. “And more the worse for you if I come out to find you’ve run off.”
Eric looked at his uncle, then wisely followed the two miscreants and kept the spider toy hidden from Jasmine’s sight. Spiders scared her badly, even toys spiders.
Odan held Jasmine close, “It’s okay now, the monsters are gone. Would you like to spend the rest of the night with me?”
Jasmine nodded tearfully, clinging to her uncle with one hand and Beary Ann with the other.
“Alright, Princess. Only for tonight though, okay? Tomorrow we’ll put down monster repellant so they can’t get into your room again, okay?”
“Okay,” she sniffled.
Odan shifted Jasmine around a bit so it would be more comfortable to carry her, then he, Eric, Avery and Jonathon marched down the hall. Avery and Jonathon to explain to their mothers why they were out of bed at 2:00 in the morning with the king for an escort back to their rooms. Once that was settled, Eric went back to his own room and Odan took Jasmine to his. Comforted in the presence of her uncle, the princess was soon asleep. This time, she didn’t wake again until it was time for breakfast.
Thanks for all the entries! I'll have the results up in about week (providing of course nothing IRL gets in my way)
EDIT:
And the winners are...
1st place - Black and Blue Eyes
2nd place - The Soulforged
EXP/GP
BaBE - 500 EXP 200GP
Soulforged - 240 EXP 175GP
Duffy - 500 EXP
Ruby - 300 EXP
Hallow - 150 EXP