Vignettes Contest: July/August!

[Visla Eraclaire]

Bear Man, vignettes vary in length significantly, but I generally view them as a single post between the length of 1 and 3 normal posts, a couple thousand words give or take. You can look at prior months in the Crystal Ball or May's entries (which are still not judged) for some guidance.

Also, now that the deadline has been extended, please only post vignettes in this thread. I appreciate everyone's continued interest!

[Alydia Ettermire]

Here. Now there is a vignette for the contest.

Alydia Ettermire stood in front of the vast double doors, adjusting the cuffs of her red trenchcoat. An auction was going on just beyond the intricately carved oaken doors, and the polished wood, chandeliers with sparkling glass dripping from every angle and plush powder blue carpet provided an opulent setting for the wealthy to conduct their business of greed.

On the whole, Alydia approved of auctions. Most auctions were held after a person had died, and it was a way of ridding the family of things they'd never use and giving the item new life with someone who wanted it. When she was younger, she'd acquired most of her favorite books from such post-mortem sales.

Other auctions took place when people donated some of their valuables - mostly jewelery and intriguing objects that actually belonged to them - and all the money made went to support a good cause. Even now, every now and again, Aly would send a person or two in her employ to purchase items from an auction that supported a cause she approved of.

Then there was this sort of auction, one where the rich and avaricious gathered behind closed doors to take precious items that rightfully belonged to everyone and stash them away in a private collection, where it could be centuries or millennia before the objects surfaced again. By then, the rich history behind the objects, that they were part of, might be forever lost. Alydia Ettermire did not approve of that at all.

Because of the vast amounts of wealth brought to the building, security was tight. There were big, armed mooks at every possible entrance and in the windows. The auction was taking place on the second floor so that no one could possibly get past all the men to disturb the process. The roof was solid, no exits led up there, and it was tapered so that there was no place to hide on it, and the ceilings of the second floor were vaulted so that there wasn't any room in the attic. In fact, the area between the second floor and roof had so little space there wasn't any door leading up into the area because it was useless for storage.

Alydia and her people had arrived in the middle of the previous night, slipping past half asleep guards easily and making their own entrance from the roof. Two of them, the big red Draconian who, surprisingly enough, had approached her the first time they’d met and a fairly muscular human who had been a pirate before joining the gaudy thief - remained outside, disguised as security. They would be integral to the escape plan.

Meanwhile, she and Deag Uair, the wiry Fae whose connections gave her eyes all over the country, had ensconced themselves in the tiny area between roof and ceiling. They had waited in tense silence for more than twelve hours, waiting for the right moment.

Now was that moment, as the auctioneer announced a small glass figurine that had been part of the very first peaceful exchange from Fallien to Dheathain, a gesture of goodwill from the famously xenophobic desert-dwellers.

Deag let out a slow, shuddering sigh from beside the taller Alydia, fluttering up on his delicate wings to look the Alerian in the face. “Aly…are y’ sure about this, lass? What if they’re armed? Could very well be…”

Aly just grinned at her accomplice. Deag was among the best information gatherers in Dheathain, and was one of the most fun people she’d ever met…so long as the fun was had at a social gathering. Actual operations made him nervous, so it was very rare she asked him to participate. More often, he helped her locate the item she wanted and was integral in the planning process, but unless she really needed someone small or the plan wouldn’t go off without a fourth man on the team, he stayed back in Talmhaidh to await her return.

“Just be ready when I give the signal. Don’t worry so much…it’ll be fun!”

The doors swung open at her tug, and the obnoxious chatter of the auctioneer, previously muffled, blossomed into a full-blown gale of words.

“Two thousand, I see two thousand can I get twenty-five hundred twenty-five hundred twenty-five hundred over there do I see three thousand three thousand c’mon folk it’s a steal gimme three thou-”

The broad oak doors slammed shut behind Alydia with an abrupt finality, forcing the auctioneer to stop talking and drawing the bidders’ attention to the back. The sound of a board locking the room from the outside filled the sudden silence, and she greeted the room with a mocking smirk.

“I like the sound of ‘it’s a steal.’” She started walking forward, toward the platform, still addressing her captive audience with her sultry purr. “Let’s not have any chaos in here, people. I know that security forced all of you to relinquish your arms downstairs. I have a whip and a dagger, and that would be more than enough to inconvenience any of you bloated wealth mongerers. No one will be harmed…so long as there are no heroics.”

Up on the platform, Alydia held out her hand for the object the man was trying to hawk, and directed him down into the audience with his assistant. She took a moment to examine it, to admire the natural shine of the cillu glass and the beautiful colors granted to it by a thin layer of valaiyalman melted over it.

“This is a unique item…an item connected with the history of Fallien and Dheathain both. I can see why any of you would be eager to get it into your greasy palms, eager to call such a beautiful work of art your own. But it is not your own. It doesn’t belong to you, it doesn’t belong here, and not one hundred or one hundred thousand pieces of gold will change that this is an object that belongs to everyone, not some selfish man with means.
“Where would you take it…you? Corone, to your private collection? Or you…you would put it underground in your family mausoleum in Salvar. Good luck keeping it when you’re invaded by…whoever thinks they’re running your fief at the moment. And you? Oh, I know you. You would take it back to Akashima to grace the chambers of your new bride. It must be hard, having someone so demanding that despite being the son of a Duke, you haven’t yet proven yourself as a worthy mate.”

Alydia flicked her hair back over her shoulder, still holding the item aloft. “The thought that something like this, something this beautiful, this meaningful…this important…should be up for grabs to the highest bidder is nauseating. What, if this is relegated to a bookend in Radasanth or an ornament on a desk in Shushiken Shigai in Akashima, will connect the people of Dheathain or visitors from Fallien to that important point in history? An object does not make history, no, gentlemen…but it provides a tangible connection between the then and the now, between what happened, what was then and what everyone there hoped might be, and the people who have benefited or been effected by the goings-on that this object was part of.”

There was a soft grating, and then the door started pounding as security tried to break it down. Alydia had to suppress a grin; Deag had made sure she’d have the time, no matter what, to make good her escape. She’d have to ask later how he’d managed to seal the board to the door, but that wasn’t important at the moment.

Tapping the figurine against her palm, Alydia turned her red lips into a frown. “Well, it looks like our little chat is being cut short, so I’ll come to the point: none of you, not a single one, deserves this item.”

The glass figurine vanished, pulled into her pocket. She raised her voice so that Deag, waiting above, would be able to hear her above the other noise. “But, I am a sporting type! So I issue you a CHALLENGE, gentlemen!”

At the shouted word, there was a rumbling in the ceiling and a small section of it crashed down to the floor just in front of the dias, followed by a slender rope.

A feral grin slashed across Alydia’s mouth, and the door finally burst open, allowing security to pour in. If they got to her, they would surely rip her limb from limb, but that wouldn’t be happening today.

“Catch me if you can.”

With a short running start, the Alerian thief leapt forward, grabbed the rope, and vanished into the non-existent attic, pulling her escape line with her. A moment later, a section of the roof blew out, courtesy of Deag’s skill with small explosives, and the Fae and thief burst out, running down to the back. Two guards were standing there, waiting for them, but they jumped down anyway.

The human caught Deag, and the Draconian caught Alydia. “Did you get it?”

“We got it. Let’s go.”

They raced off south, into the cover of the jungle. Other disturbances and a few clever traps kept the other security guards far enough behind them that within ten minutes, the group was gone beyond hope of recovery.

~*~*~

Three months after the incident at the auction house, an anonymous donor gave the Fiorar Museum of the Arts a beautiful statuette made of precious Fallien glass, along with a brief manifest detailing its importance. It went on display a few months later, standing proudly on a pedestal, right above a bronze plaque that told the tale of how it had come to Dheathain in the first place.

Far away, a scarlet thief drank a toast to history. Another heist well done.

[Flames of Hyperion]

I’m afraid I doubt it’s the best of my efforts but really… Ingwe? Speeches? They really don’t mix very well…

“The enemy flees before us in disarray!”

The speaker was not much to look at, flanked as he was on either side by some of the most powerful elf-lords in eastern Raiaera. The gleaming silver of their ithilmar mail completely outshone his dark hair and the dirty white of his tunic, while the bright embroidery of their banners dominated the brilliant blue sky overhead. His eyes were nearly hidden by the flash of sunlight on his oversized spectacles, but even so the determination and courage that they harboured emanated like a soothing balm towards those who looked on.

“With one hard-fought victory, we have managed to turn the tables on Xem’zund’s armies in the east. Our brethren in Anebrilith will find their burden lightened… Tor Elythis is no longer under direct threat of siege, and the stronghold of Karazund will remain hidden for long years to come.”

The armies that he addressed were in little better state, with very few not bearing some sort of wound from the Battle of Nenaebreth the day before. The elven levies of Tor Elythis dominated the landscape to the right, a five hundred strong of spear, bow, and horse that stood tall and proud despite having borne the brunt of the fighting. Opposite them were the wild mountain warriors from Karazund who had signed up to their cause, powerful fur-clad humans and muscle-bound dwarves whose ferocious counterattack had been crucial to their victory. In between the two were arrayed the haphazard remnants of the volunteers from Scara Brae, an assortment of peasants, squires, tradesmen, and gladiators who possessed both the skill to have survived their numerous trials and the luck to have made it thus far. Without exception, their eyes were fixated on the young man who had been the catalyst for their spectacular strike through the Emyn Naug at the heart of enemy-controlled territory.

“Now it is time to build on this victory.”

Ingwe let the words hang for an instant in the expectant silence, tasting for perhaps the first time in his life the power that oratory held over the hearts of the living. Their fervour stirred briefly like a light zephyr, gentling tugging at the pennants as it built skywards into the azure heavens.

“Now is the time to prove to our foes that there is always light beyond the darkness… that there is always a dawn after the long night… that no matter how eternal the winter, a spring of courage and hope always lies beyond.”

He concentrated on enunciating clearly every syllable that left his tongue, delivering them with a conviction that he barely felt but had to provide nonetheless. Each word he spoke left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, and it was then that he knew for sure that he would never get used to public speaking: that the rush of adrenaline that flew through his veins and the bright spotlight upon his every gesture was most certainly not for him.

But, for the sake of the men he had fought alongside, he could not have possibly refused the request of the senior leadership of the Legion. For reasons he could not fathom, they looked up to him as an exemplar of the ideals they sought to embody. It was up to him now to act like it.

“Now is when we must strike a blow, in the name of freedom and justice, against the dread necromancer that threatens us all.”

The colours before him were blinding in their intensity, as if the land had suddenly sprung to life after long seasons of dismay and decay. But Ingwe was focusing on the sea of faces that looked up to him and his every word; some with parental pride, others with eager faith, and the rest with a faint hint of desire… a desire to believe that perhaps, just maybe, what he was saying could be true.

He recognised many of them, particularly those who he had fought alongside since landing in Anebrilith some months ago. And it was their unyielding belief in him that gave him the strength to conquer the uncertainty in his knees, the faint quaver in his voice that threatened to transmit itself like some viral infection to everybody who listened.

It was thanks to them that he was able to proclaim, clarion and fearless, where previously he might have faltered.

“The road ahead remains dark and unlit. Our enemies still control most of the countryside… they lay siege to Aurient and Eluriand, and vast swathes of Timbrethinil have been desecrated by their corruption.

“Yet still we stand, tall against the darkness that threatens to engulf us all. And I have faith in each and every one of the faces before me that they will do their utmost to defeat this menace, for the sake of whatever it is that has brought them thus far… whether it be the safety of their loved ones back home, the thought of those that have already fallen before this evil, or the needs of those who are even now enslaved by our foe.”

He took one last deep breath of the chilly air, savouring the weak tinge of optimism in the air. It was their responsibility now to take that seedling of hope and nurture it until it cast its rays of brilliance across the entirety of the land, sprinkling further such kernels in its wake.

“Forth! Today, we liberate Nenaebreth from the clutches of Xem’zund, and strike against him the first blow of reckoning!”

As a resounding cheer echoed across the open plains, Ingwe stepped back beneath the awning of the tent behind him, closely followed by the aredhel that had stood to either side. Only when he was safely out of sight from the men he would later lead into battle did he let the tension flow from his body, almost slumping to the ground from weak-kneed relief.

“I don’t know how you managed to get me to do that,” he accused those around him, each and every one of whom was stifling a humorous expression at Ingwe’s comedic capitulation. The young man’s face had flushed a shade of red deeper than any beetroot, and at a closer glance, there were beads of relieved sweat trickling down his cheeks. But there was no time for him to relax, and within moments he stood once more at the head of the men he fought with, his grim expression set upon the buildings in the distance and his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilts of his twin blades.

In the end, he was as good as his word. Within a matter of hours, the undead forces had been driven from the town, and the first blow had been struck in what was to become known as the Spring of Retribution Dawning.

[Requiem of Insanity]

"And low and behold, I shall be the woman who brings you to victory!" Cassandra shouted to the masses before her. "While you are all but peasants I shall use each and every one of you filthy cretins as bait for my great trap. You will not have the comfort of knowing your deeds will be remembered."

The peasants all shifted uncomfortably before her, looking up at this crazed woman with the axe and sword in hand. She was a goddess to them, and she asked for their deaths. Nothing more.

"Now stop your dribble and quit thinking about it. Your collective thoughts combined couldn't equal the amount of knowledge I possess on matters such as these. So stop your anomisty and rally together. Hurry and die, I need a new garden."

"But, mistress. You ask for our heads, bu what are you risking? This land is under attack, and we need your guidance to get us through." Cassandra sighed heavily lifting her hand to her head.

"Did I not just demand you to stop thinking? Your mindless brains couldn't make a coherent thought out of any of you. Give in and hurry up."

"But, what are you going to do in return?"

"UGGGHH!" Cassandra slapped her head. "I will probably go and take a nap. Eat a steak, and watch you all be run into the ground by the lances of the enemy. Is that better?" Cassandra looked to them.

"Um...Ya," one said.

"Sure, sounds about right."

"Good, now go fucking die for me." Cassandra ordered. "Your deeds will be in vain, but I will get a new garden." She walked back behind the curtain, and the masses left. After a moment she returned, the rest of the masses returning. "What?"

"Well, which way is the battle, mi'lady?" One asked.

"It's not like we have a map." Cassandra sighed again.

"First you must go to the third tower in the east. There you will find a key. Pick up the key and take it to lord Hakumen in the edge. There he shall hand you a golden egg. You must take the egg to the wizard of myr, and ask him to give you passage in exchange for the egg. He will take the egg, and you will pass through to the yellow brick road. There you shall find some travelers. Jump them and take all they have and move pass the emerald city. There will be a hill upon which stands a red demon. Together you must all find the one virgin and sacrafice it to him. This may be a boy if you wish. After the demon has his way, you must kill him. But not before he has risen back to full strength. After that take his blood to the fountain of virgins. Dump his blood in and watch as a vial appears. This vial is the tears of Virgo. Take them and walk to the crab shack, and ask for Cancer the corrupt. Blast the tears in his eyes and kick him while he is down. After that you will turn left at broadway, pass GO street and pick up two hundred gold coins. Advance forward and make three lefts and a right. Bam, your there."

There was a moment of pause, then the masses all nodded as if this made sense and walked off. Cassandra shook her head, before she lifted her hand in alarm.

"Ouu, it was a right, not a left....ah well they'll find it." She said walking back behind the curtain.

Applause and laughter errupted from the audience of watchers as the comedy of Lord Breton the thirds folly came to a close. With a deeper sigh Cassandra realzied she would have to stop acting and start acting again, her real life nothing but a lie to those around her.

[Bloodrose]

Sweat! Teric wrung his hands nervously, his mind racing. Seated in an uncomfortable wooden chair, the mercenary was eyeing the nearest door longingly, his left leg bouncing on the ball of his foot as he fidgeted absently. Vaguely, behind the raucous din of his thoughts, the old war-dog could hear someone talking, and somehow their voice was making his anxiety worse. Something about the way their voice was trailing off - almost as if they were finishing a story - was sending up warning flares in the veteran's mind. I'm sweating for Pete’s sake! I don't even sweat before a fight these days. Maybe I should just get up and leave...

"Teric?" A neutral voice broke through the barrier of his thoughts and grabbed the warrior's attention. The voice was expectant, as if waiting, but gentle. "I believe it's your turn to share with the group."

It's not too late to run! The thought clawed at the back of Teric's head even as his feet moved under him and he rose out of his chair. The four wooden legs underneath him creaked as his weight was lifted off them, the chair scooting backwards across the rough wooden floor. The veteran stood fully upright, squaring his back and setting his shoulders even as he paused to look around the room.

Gathered together in the small alcove off the church's main hall, assaulted by the stench of unwashed bodies and stale coffee, a dozen faces stared blankly at Teric as he cleared his throat and kicked his feet a little.

"My name is Teric Reginald Barton," the mercenary started slowly, "and I'm an addict."

"Hello, Teric." A half dozen voices replied in unison, joined simultaneously by the mumbled responses of the other half dozen. A couple faces seemed to be keenly paying attention, but most of the assembled group - predominantly middle-aged men - seemed preoccupied with staring around the room or paying particular mind to some invisible object in their lap. One face, the face of the mediator sitting nearly opposite Teric, seemed very interested.

"Please, tell us about your addiction." The mediator, younger than the group median, but already balding and sporting a nice paunch around the midsection, pressed. "Start with what you are addicted to."

"I'm addicted to fighting." Teric offered up in response. "The more dangerous the better. The more I get hurt, the better."

That answer seemed to arouse the interest of the group, and there were even a few snickers from a couple of skin-and-bones junkies who looked for all the world like they'd just come off a four day opium binge. The mediator seemed confused.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but did you say fighting?" The portly man asked quizzically, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

"Yes, fighting." Teric confirmed. "You see, I'm a mercenary by trade - have been for the better part of forty years now. It's all I know. I don't have a home, a family, a wife - not even friends. I've passed on all of those things on my way down the road, looking for a quick coin wherever I can find it. I've been doing it for so long that it's almost become a physical part of me. If I go to long without a brawl, I get this hunger. It's like a knot in the bottom of my stomach, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, it just grows and chews me up from the inside. I've tried drowning it with booze, I've tried distracting it with pleasurable company, and once I was so hopped up on smokeweed that I even tried to cut it out with my own knife. Yet, it seems that no matter what I do, this knot won't go away until I'm on the battlefield fighting. It's like a craving, like I need that danger, the threat of imminent physical harm, and no substitute will do. It's gotten so bad that more and more these days I find myself only smiling when my sword is crossed with someone else's. I visit the Citadel so often that every monk there knows me by name..."

Teric was rambling and he knew it, but it didn't really matter. It felt good to try and put into words what it was that had been bothering him for the last several months. Even though the only feedback he got from the group was a bunch of blank stares, and one confused, worried look on the face of the mediator, there was something very therapeutic about just venting his problem to a bunch of anonymous strangers.

"Well, thank you for sharing." The mediator blinked several times and shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts before smiling. "Eric, you're up next." The man added as Teric sat back down.

[Wilhelm Bosche]

“I feel somewhat strange being selected to give this speech. It's almost impossible to look into an audience of people who knew a man personally and pretend to tell them what he was like. As a historian, I can't even begin to scratch the surface, where many of you have plumbed the depths of this man's character,” Wil shifted at the lectern and looked down at the front row. A line of relatives and close associates stared back at him. One man seemed to stop clinching his teeth after the initial concession.

There was a statue behind him, a little more than life size, of the man of honor. It was the third anniversary of his death and the people of Uiria assembled in the grassy courtyard outside the building where he had done much of his work. Attendance was moderate, high among students in the areas he had taught, many of which had known him and all of which had known of him, lower among the common townsfolk who remembered him, if at all, has a nuisance.

“And so, rather than telling you how he really was, I will tell you what I actually know. I will tell you how Eudaemonian history records him. I will tell you his legend, and perhaps some of you will do me the honor of correcting me once it is done,” he opened a book in front of him and flipped to a marked page.

“Arius Mephisto was one of the first children born after the Exodus of the Eudaemonians from Old Earth, also known as Alpha Space. His parents, Hanaka Otani and Rieter Mephisto, were two of Architelos' leading scientists, responsible for the breakthroughs that brought about the Phase Engine, and a new age of technological splendor. At a young age, he showed promise and leadership qualities that were sorely lacking in a society of eccentric scientists and visionaries. Little more is known about his formative years, as the Mephistos were a private family that never dedicated their records to the Archives.

Though he taught science here in Uiria, this was largely a fluke of circumstance. He was considered significantly below average in his technical and academic aptitude among his peers. This was one of the major reasons that his life took the turn that it did, toward military service. It was an option he largely made for himself, with the help of his influential parents. Eudaemonia, as a dimensionally isolated society, had no need for a military. Arius initially joined the city's civil police force, though even this organization had relatively little to do. After numerous discussions with my unfortunate namesake, Director Wilhelm Otani Bosche, Arius eventually convinced the Directorate to support and supply a specially armed police division.”

Wil took his eyes up from his book and notes to survey the audience. The sense of boredom was almost palpable, and he flipped ahead several pages in response.

“After a great deal of tiresome politicking and other inane historical details, Arius Otani Mephisto was selected to lead the excursion back to Earth, to retake the world for the enlightened Eudaemonians and forestall a total apocalypse thereon. The place he found himself was alien to him, despite the best research that the Directorate could provide. Elements of culture long repressed by civilized society had reemerged and anachronism ran rampant. The killing fields of Alpha Space would be the crucible that had the most formative impact on the rest of Arius' life, in my humble opinion.

Out of economy of time and the sensitivity of this occasion, I shall leave out the gruesome and gritty details of those days. What ultimately mattered, both for Arius and for history, was that it was there that he found the woman, sadly no longer with us, that would be an anchor for the rest of his days. It was there that he chose that woman, the Valkyrie defender Linnea, later Linnea Mephisto, over the society that had raised and indoctrinated him. Scholars debate endlessly whether such a choice was one that should be considered noble, selfish, or merely random. For my own part, I do not think Arius would have considered it any of these. For him, I don't think it was a choice. For all his rationalism, his strong beliefs in the power of scientific and technical progress, he was an emotional man. Looking into the eyes of a woman he had come to love, he would not sacrifice her for the mere idea of loyalty. This was what lead both of them to Althanas, Gamma Space, which was to be their refuge.

I feel great shame that my lineage traces its way back to the Director that ordered Linnea's execution, and my name will brand me with that shame for the rest of my days. I take great pride, however, that while my family produced such a monster, my somewhat more tenuous relations also produced the man that disposed of him, Nijin Bosche. I pause to discuss this foil of Arius Mephisto for but a moment. For after his defection from the Eudaemonian cause, Arius was hunted by Nijin relentlessly, until his capture, where for a brief moment they were united against the Director. Unfortunately, shortly thereafter, Nijin assumed the Director's mantle and ordered a joint execution of both Arius and Linnea.”

The crowd seemed significantly more pleased with the recounting of the twisted melodrama of Eudaemonian politics. Wil was pleased to see eager eyes and figures leaning forward in their seats. He suspected that even if he added in further inflammatory detail, such a speech would never garner the attention of modern Eudaemonians. This was an old and dirty tail of politics and betrayal that made them think about themselves and their values. It was far too tiresome for such a complacent lot.

“Through what most have termed fortuity and some would say fate, the pair escaped. They jumped from Architelos, floating in the sky off the coast of Corone, straight into the ocean. Linnea cushioned their fall, suffering critical damage to the intricate devices that produced her wings. When they awoke, they were here. I believe that the time Arius spent in Uiria was the time he was most proud of. Eudaemonia generally will remember him as a brave but disloyal rogue that played a heavy part in the Civil War that was to follow. I believe that scholars who observe more carefully will find that he was not a figure that stood for ideals, a great man who changed his names. I think that under history's bawdy cloak of fame, he was just a man, a man many of you knew. He was a man deserving of our respect, and I believe that this commemoration is more than he would have ever wanted.”

Wil paused and closed the book, pondering whether to deliver the last line of his speech, but ultimately looking up, a bit unsettled and continuing.

“My untimely condolences to his family. You, not his historical deeds, not this town, or this day, you are his legacy.”

[Visla Eraclaire]

"Any final words?"

The black robed man barely waited for a response before he knelt down and brought the torch in his hand toward the kindling. From her position atop the pyre, Visla quickly interrupted him.

"Yes!"

She stared out across the muddy town square at the scowling faces of simple peasants. They were uniformly ugly people, dirt-faced, unwashed, but more than anything closed-minded. Visla found them ugliest in their base prejudice and sheepish loyalty to their empty faith.

"I want each and every one of you to remember this till the end of your bleak little days. The day you killed someone you didn't even know. The day you came together as a mob and burnt another human being simply because you were told it was the right thing to do. Would you burn your neighbor? Your sister? What makes me any different?" she spat her words at them, knowing it would change nothing, but determined to instill what shame she could.

"You're a witch! Devil child! Demon spawn!" the shouts of men and women from the crowd seemed to provide a fairly simple answer.

"What do any of you know about demons? Or devils? Or witchcraft? That's right, it's unholy to know anything about them. Ignorance is the only safe thing, isn't it? That's what your robed leader here tells you. Blessed is the mind too small for doubt! You tend to your dirt fields and backbreaking labor while he makes all your decisions. You don't know anything more about your gods than you do about demons. You could be worshiping a pit-spawned fiend for all you know. You wouldn't question it!"

"Father Martin protects us! Shut your foul mouth! Praise the Light!" their responses were becoming more reflexive as the conversation quickly went beyond their depth.

"Protects you from what? From me? From spells I've never cast and things you've never seen, he protects you. He protects you from things your fearful minds invent. You're in more danger from things of this world, famine, disease, and war, than you'll ever be from devils or demons. The Nine Hells are not concerned to steal your firstborn and the Abyss seeks grander things than to wither your grain. You don't matter to them. You matter to greedy barons who grift you for taxes. You matter to petty warlords who seek only conquest and slaughter. You matter to pompous clerical overlords who need ignorant followers to do their dirty work. You're all fools!"

The rabble at that point simply shouted incoherently, mostly for Visla's blood. There were some that had enough wherewithal to take her prodding to heart, but they were lost within the tumult of a hateful mob. A figure pushed through the hollering, shaking mass toward the front and looked up toward the scaffolding where Visla was displayed atop wooden pilings and flammable refuse.

"We've heard enough," the black robed figure grinned beneath the shadow of his hood and leaned once again to light the pyre.

As his hand reached down, a claw came forth and severed it cleanly. The woman in the front row stepped onto the scaffolding with the holy man's blood dripping from her talon. She bore her demonic horns to the crowd and they scattered like terrified rodents. The executioner held in his screams and slinked back to the ground, too terrified to stand, or speak, or run.

"How long were you prepared to wait?" Visla asked Aelva, as she was loosed from her bindings and helped down by her succubus.

"Long enough to hear your lovely speech."

[Duffy]

Who Knows Where The Time Goes?

The inner sanctum of the Prima Vista’s lower lounge was brimming with excitement. It was utterly overflowing with chatter; stuffed to it’s rickety old joints with snotty nosed teenagers, unaccustomed matrons of honour, and suddenly-initiated individuals. Silence descended as a sprightly youth clambered down the stairs in a maelstrom cacophony of metallic chinks, material swishing and heavy boots on the ancient stairs. It seemed to him like only yesterday was his first time embracing the mahogany descent into the true hearth of the Tantalum.

Gather your wits about you, for the speech you impart is God’s Word.

“Hello everyone, thanks for coming draw today, I’m d’greatful, it’s busy, that I know,” he stopped on the last step to keep his head above the rest, not in arrogance, but to ensure he could maintain eye contact with everyone. “I wouldn’t call you out ‘ere if it dent mean much, you know ‘ow it is!”

Let man see into your eyes, for the eyes are the gateway to the soul.

He swallowed his butterflies and sautéed the dying breed of stallion that was rampaging around the meadow of his heart. Bile was not a particular delicacy anywhere civilised in the world and he was certainly not going to start a new gastronomic fancy. He was sure the more accustomed and well mannered members of the Tantalum would not be altogether pleased with a show of nerves so early on in the day. Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn’s eternal whip, he would set off for the city beyond the water, the city he didn’t know but dreamt of so fondly each and every night for two turns of the moon. Who knew where the time would go?

With this stance, you can command armies to sleep, and sailors to land.

“I ‘ave to go for a while. No’where fancy like, and I sorry for hankering and pankering and not telling’ ya sooner…it’s been a hard decision, and I leave a few commandments for ya to follow; the troupe will keep turning and churnin’ out the plays and performances, and keep up it’s good and charitable work in this district, and ‘hopefully, if Ruby can finish her connections in the upper echelons of society," he glanced over his shoulder to search for agreement from the crimson delight. "Hopefully," he started afresh, "we can work on the far side of the city wall too…”

With these words, the nation of the godless children will find faith.

“I wont’ be long, no more than three weeks and no more with complications than a month, there will barely be a new cheese man in the sky and all will be well,” even as he said it, Duffy doubted he could keep his promise. The time he’d allowed for the completion of an unknown, fantastical, ephemeral task barely allowed him the comfort of the supposed journey length. What would he do when he got there? “Ruby is back’, like summer a comin’ in, so she’ll keep ya all goin for a bit. The stores are full from Lysander’s Flock,, no doubt you’re all fat on wheat, chaff soup and Roddens!”

You are my children, each and every one you. Tantalised by the heavens.

As he allowed a moment to pass in spurious and tightly conversed controversy, he took the time to run his gaze over the shoddy stone work and the cluttered corners of his home. The crates in the far right corner were overflowing with costumes and long discarded dresses, some of which were made by Lilith…others no doubt plucked from their helpless gallows down alleyways and on summer shown lawns. To his left, Ruby and Pete were standing to attention with hands held solemnly behind their backs. They reminded him of puerile and ignorant lieutenants, hanging on to his every word in blind abandon. On the far side of the room, behind the many arrayed cushions, benches and upturned boxes were the hastily erected boxes surrounding the downstairs windows. Beyond these, the streets of Scara Brae started in grim silence, bloody, dusty, repetitive silence. They spread out for miles and miles, and turned into great squares, ancient boulevards and crumbling acropolis boardwalks.

I am sorry I cannot stand and claim to be this creature I profess…

He would miss it dearly. No memory had he of a life before the streets, no recollection of his parents or the melodies of an early childhood; he was not fortunate, or perhaps, if he had held another perspective, he was too fortunate to not have endured those trials. “You’re all rell good people…each and every one of you. From snotty scamps to the more outstandin’ seamstresses, matrons, healers and songtress quintets,” he raised a fist to the four blonde sisters plumped in a line on satin cushions in hues of violet, plum and something approaching melon. They cheered together, a harmonious and ghostly choral sound of gratification. “I’ve left a copy of the play with Ruby, she’s probably memorised it already and most of you know your parts. You’ll be in Sadomy Square tomorrow, o’course, the hidden agenda is to steal the Mangrove’s luscious fruits to give to the old widows on Carnaby Road…I’m sure you know how to pull a distraction sweep - I’ve left the last of the fire wyrds on the stage, you can fin’em yourselves,” he smiled and placed his hands on his hips.

The truth of my existence, it clots the very nature of the Gods - my brothers.

It was a turgid atmosphere, a humid and sodden air, the smell of which reminded the troupe master most ungraciously of a back passage and a long night on the ale. The light from the kitchen broke the twilight and the smell of what he presumed to be veal permeated the air, Guess it’s dinner time… “Well, that’s ‘bout it - let’s eat!”

You are my children, and I am Lucian.

Duffy sighed with a resentment at having to depart with such uncomfortable words. He felt guilty at harbouring such a secret, at knowing Lucian was live. He felt wrong for feeling compelled to find the answers he sought on distant lands, on rocky, barren, alien worlds. Under his breath, so that nobody but his own ego heard him speak, he muttered something he had dreamt of and called out in his darkest of nightmares, his blackest of nights…

“You are my children, and I am Duffy.”

[Visla Eraclaire]

Thanks everyone for participating in my vignette prompt. I enjoyed reading all of the entries. I won't linger long in commentary, but I was greatly impressed by everyone's writing and I think this was a success, despite the long delay and two outages during the contest.

I'd like to add that it is no burden to me that I cannot choose my own entries, because I think that are by far less good than everyone else's. Also, I had great difficulty not only in ranking the three entries I chose, but in determining which those three would be. Fortunately, the GP is a mere pittance compared to the xp rewards and more importantly the enjoyment of these fun little exercises.

I hope some of you will submit prompts for this coming month of September. If no one does, I have one in my back pocket that we can use.

Best wishes, and without further ado

Results
1st place -- Flames of Hyperion's stirring military inspiration 100 gp
2nd place -- Where in the World's noble heist speech 75 gp
3rd place -- Bloodrose's inventive introduction to his addiction support group 50 gp

[Taskmienster]

Congrats to the winners!

I will be going through and adding the rewards for this one and the previous one this week, probably on Friday when I have some freetime.

On that date, I will also be putting up the new Vignette for September! If you have a prompt, please PM me with it and I'll consider which one to put up. If I don't get any, I'll make one up for you all to work with.

Thanks!