Round Two

[Christoph]

Welcome to round two of the Vignette Tournament! This week's prompt is...

Your character receives a gift, favor, or boon. It seems great at first, but he/she soon discovers an unexpected catch.

You decide the details, including the nature of the gift and its dark drawback, whether the catch was put in place intentionally or not, and any other interpretations. Feel free to make the mood of your entries dark and sinister, light-hearted and funny, or anything in between. All of the usual Vignette guidelines stand as normal. Your entries may be canon or non-canon for your characters and can take place at any point in their histories.

The round ends 11:59 PM EST this Friday. Good luck, and have fun!

[SirArtemis]

"It's not so simple," Artemis said, fiddling with the handle of his tea cup.

"Of course not," Judicis agreed. "It never is."

Artemis set the porcelain cup down upon a matching saucer, both covered in a lavender floral pattern. "I just don't know what the right thing to do is." He let out a sigh, leaning forward in his plush chair and resting his elbows on his knees and ran a hand through his short brown hair. "I just want to do the right thing, Judicis."

The old man, or at least the form of an old man, stood straight and with arms behind his back. He wore an immaculate black suit and matching leather shoes, perfectly shined as if they had never felt anything other than the luxurious carpet beneath them. "Artemis, I know it may be hard to understand, but right and wrong are never as simple as they appear, as you said yourself." He walked over to one of the walls, all of which were lined with books, and pulled a particular volume down before returning to a plush chair that resembled Artemis'. "Sometimes you can only do what feels right and hope that you are correct." He sat down and reached for his cup, which sat beside Artemis' upon a deep blue liviol table, before leaning back and crossing his legs.

Artemis sat back as well, the purple velvet giving slightly to his frame. He let his head fall upon the back of the chair and closed his eyes. "Well what do you think Judicis? What would you suggest I do?"

Judicis' eyes fell upon the young man, the black leather armor seeming out of place in the luxurious study. "Artemis, let me ask you something first."

Artemis lifted his head, looking forward and letting his bright blue eyes match the gaze of Judicis' own hazel ones. "What?"

"What do you most value about having me in your life?"

Artemis gave the old man a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm not a living being; I'm a sentient spirit residing in a weapon - a bow to be precise. I exist only as long as a wielder exists. All this..." Judicis began, a hand motioning to the study all around, "is only possible because of you."

"I still don't follow. Axel wielded you before me, and others before him. How is this any different?"

"You underestimate yourself Artemis," Judicis said with a smile. "My magic relies on you. This room, the detail, the luxury, the warmth and flavor of the tea we are drinking, even my appearance - they are all a manifestation of your mind."

Artemis blinked.

"Why do you think you look the way you do? You know we aren't in the normal plane of existence. We are within the bow, so to speak - within my realm of magic. So why do you look the way you always do?"

"Because... I look the way I do?"

"No, Artemis, because your mind constructs you as it knows you. The reason I appear as a wise old man, sophisticated and surrounded by books, is because that is how you perceive me. I have no body, nor have I read any books, nor have I ever drank tea. My white hair and goatee, despite how perfectly and neatly trimmed, is never groomed. How is that?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Artemis, by possessing me, you have something that very few in this world will ever experience - someone who truly understands you. We share a consciousness, and with that, I can see all of your memories, your feelings, your thoughts and so forth. I am an extension of you."

"But you have your own memories, and I can't see them. Doesn't that just mean that I'm more of an extension of you?"

"Not at all," Judicis laughed. "Quite the contrary. My magic simply retains the information it collected while belonging to a previous host. By you accepting to wield me, I grant you my power, and you grant me life, so to speak. I live through you, and I feel and think and remember because of you. Everything that you are has become a part of me."

"So then what does that mean? Can I access any memory you have of Axel?"

Judicis reached for the volume he had set upon the table and lifted it up, turning the dark green leather-bound tome to face Artemis. The young man read the golden letters: Axel Denton. "What did you think all of these books were? They're stories of course - of every person who has ever wielded me, even if for a brief moment. Each book contains a snapshot of everything that individual was at the last moment before they let go."

Artemis took the book, running his hands along the rough surface and tracing the letters with his fingertips. His eyes wandered about the room, looking at the hundreds of books set upon the walls. He remained unaware that the lavender on the tea set and the velvet of the chairs matched the skin tone of Jay, a beautiful dark elf woman whom he loved. He did not notice that the color of the tea he drank matched the dwarven beards of the Harki brothers. The rich blue of the liviol table would have reminded Artemis of the robes Daros wore, an eccentric wizard, but the thought did not cross his mind.

"Yes, I do have a book of you as well," Judicis said with a smile. Artemis looked up at Judicis, not saying a word. "And no, I cannot show you it."

"Why not?" Artemis asked, setting down the book about Axel without even opening a single page. "Maybe it can help me figure out what I should do about this whole situation."

Judicis stood shaking his head before the young man even finished. "Artemis, anything that is in that book is within you. If you need the answer, then you already know where to look."

"But I don't know the answer, Judicis. I don't know which side to take in this war. I don't know who is right and who is wrong. I don't know who is the victim."

"Artemis, it's war; there is no right or wrong. You know this. You don't need me to tell you."

"Even if there isn't a clear right and wrong Judicis, there's still a better choice!" Artemis said, rising to his feet.

Judicis nodded, seeing the young man's enthusiasm. He stood as well, walking over to Artemis and placing a hand upon his shoulder, matching his gaze. "Artemis, if you do not know which side to take, then do not take a side. When you are ready to choose, then have faith in your decision."

"I just wish I could know."

"I know you do, Artemis."

"It's so easy for you, Judicis. You can just hop into someone's mind and know what you need to. You don't have to ask questions or worry about being lied to or miscommunication. You just get the truth, and all of it, just like that."

Judicis smiled, a slight sadness in his eyes, though Artemis did not notice. "Knowing everything doesn't always make things easier, Artemis."

[Sagequeen]

“How can I not?” The silver-haired elf-child asked no one in particular, as she sat at the bedside of her dying friend. The final beams of sunlight cleaved their way into the dimly lit room as the day crept quietly away. The little elf's demeanor was befitting of one attending her own funeral as she readjusted the thread-bare blankets that covered the young human girl. The pallor of the dying child's face was a stark contrast to the normal hues of delightful peach and rosy-cheeked joy that once colored it, now washed away like chalk from flagstones in a downpour. The elf could not bear to look at that face any longer, yet she could not bear to look elsewhere around the toy-strewn room for any amount of time.

The wisdom and age in the elf's eyes caused those who did not know Erissa Caedron to stop and wonder at the somber girl. Those who already knew her only felt sadness, and even pity, for the warrior who had done such great deeds under the banner of the Ixian Knights. Now, however, in the body of a three-year-old child, the ancient arcanist lacked the strength and ability to continue the fight, or even to completely care for herself.

A worried face peeked through the door; her longtime friend and mentor smiled sadly at Erissa.

“Come in, Troyas,” she said softly, lisping the r in his name with a cuteness that would tug on the heartstrings if not for the despair etched on the elf-child's face. Her companion gently lifted a chair from the corner of the child's room and set it by Erissa; with a sigh he sat and put an arm around her shoulders.

“There is no change?” He asked, the care and concern in his eyes brimming, bringing tears. Troyas knew the answer, and what it would mean for his student.

“No,” Erissa whispered, exhausted. “I no longer have the reserve of strength to heal a disease so extensive. I have tried, but only managed to prolong her suffering. Oh, Troyas, my weak body...” The tears flowed freely as she leaned against him for support, as the arcanist had done through the eons; her teacher, like herself, did not age. They had found each other when she was only in her twenties; he was already ancient then, having lived many lifetimes of elves. The two sat in silence, awaiting the inevitable, until Erissa looked into his eyes deeply.

“Yes, Erissa, I would,” he answered, not needing her to speak the question. He sighed heavily. “Despite the consequences, I would do it.” Erissa nodded, and gave a starkly humorless laugh that was jarring in the silence of the room.

“If I were anyone else, the gift bestowed upon me would be amazing beyond belief; I often wonder how the priestess could not have known what it would mean for me, that it would eventually be the end of me,” Erissa mused out loud.

“Do not think like that, Erissa. Her blessing was given with the best of intentions, and you have used it with the same. You have given yourself, literally, for others. It is no different than if you would give your life by dying upon a sword for this child. We are fortunate that our sort of immortality is only for as long as we want it, or can keep it. I will go to the next life, whatever it may be, with you; everything is already arranged, my Dear One.”

“Thank you, Troyas. Thank you for everything,” Erissa said. He nodded gently.

“And thank you, Dear One; it has been my honor to be your teacher.” The two drew mutual comfort from each other as they looked upon the pale face of the resting child; in the blink of an eye, a change came over the body, a sort of release and a look of peace upon the cherubic features. The final breath that had been caught up in her small lungs trailed away in a deathly whisper.

“It is time,” Erissa murmured. “I wonder if it will be as though I were never born, if there even will be another life for me?” Troyas looked at her with a grievous sadness afflicting his normally reserved features.

“I pray it is not.” The elf-child rose from her chair, looking at her teacher with tear-filled eyes. She raised her arms and called upon the name of the dead priestess, speaking the incantation she was taught; a light filled the room, and as it increased in intensity, the elf-child began to shrink, becoming younger and younger with each passing second, until, as a baby, she could no longer stand. The light became blinding for a few moments, and it winked away just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

There were only two in the room then, a living and healthy young human child sleeping in the bed, and an ancient elf whose face was wet with his tears. The door opened softly; a grief-wizened mother trudged in and walked to the bed. Her jaw dropped open with wonder and she turned quickly to Troyas. She hesitated as she saw his tears, but the joy of her living daughter quickly resurfaced.

"She is better! Where is Erissa? I must thank her for healing my child!" The mother looked around the room and back to Troyas, who hung his head. "Well, where is she?"

"She is gone," he said sadly.

"Well when is she coming back?" The woman asked, exasperated.

"She is not. You see, Erissa was blessed by a priestess; the blessing was such that should could bring the dead to life simply by giving up some of the years of her own, in essence turning back the clock and becoming younger. However, Erissa does not, did not, age. Every time she restored a life, she gave up years she could never get back."

[blackdog1]

A small amount of sweat, dirt and time was all that it took to get the wagon wheel back onto the axle.

Milo had always been impressed with the color and show of gypsy wagons and this one was no exception. For a small wagon it exploded with a riot of color that captured and held the eye. The only thing that he found unusual was the fact that the old gypsy woman was traveling alone.

"Thank you for your time and labor", the gypsy woman said with far more drama than was necessary, "now I can catch up with the rest of my troupe."

The condition of the old, thin donkey pulling the wagon made Milo doubt that she would be catching anybody. "Good luck on your travels ma'am." Was all Milo bothered to say, there was little else that he would in any case.

Quicker than Milo thought she could move the old woman dashed into the back of her wagon and just as quickly returned to the road with something clutched to her chest. "This is for your trouble," she said, and held out a small book for Milo to take.

Milo knew how to read, but had never actually owned a book to call his own. With a grateful smile he took the offered gift, to refuse it would be rude anyway. The title was appropriate 'The Tales of The Traveler', it was well worn, but also well cared for.

"Thank you," was all Milo could say,"thank you very much." It was quite possible that he valued the old book more than she did the repair on her wheel.

With nothing more to be said, the two travelers went their separate ways both never knowing if they would randomly meet again.

That night after a travelers meal of bread, cheese and jerky, Milo settled down by the fire light to enjoy his new treasure of words. The book contained a series of short stories that did not have titles of there own, so he logically started with the first.

As was evident in the books title, it was a story of The Traveler who wandered upon a great feast set in a forest meadow. The Traveler was free to eat and drink his fill, all the while enjoying the company of happy and entertaining people. It was a simple story that made Milo feel good just by reading it. He never knew reading could be so much fun.

Later that night when Milo fell asleep, he dreamed the story that he had read and enjoyed it all over again.

Upon waking in the morning he found himself with a full belly and the residue of wine still in his head. Already satisfied, he happily began his day of travel all the while wondering what the next story would be about.

On the second night Milo sat down to read the second story, a torrid tale of love and lust between The Traveler and a beautiful and talented young woman.

Once again, Milo awoke with the residue of the following nights story and corresponding dream evident on his lips and clothes.

Milo was beginning to enjoy reading more than he ever thought he could. The words on the page were truly the greatest treasure in the world to him. The anticipation of the next nights story drove him down the road on the third day and prompted him to set an early camp to have even more time to enjoy the pleasures of the book.

Eagerly settling in by the fire long before dark, Milo began to read the third story wondering what was in store for him and The Traveler next.

In this story, The Traveler comes upon a troupe of gypsy wanders in the wilds of the forest. He is taken in and enjoys their food, wine and song all evening long and well into the night. All is well until The Traveler goes to bed for the night and as he sleeps the gypsies brutally kill The Traveler and feast on his body.

The sun was setting as Milo finished the story and his cook fire had burned low. This story has brought him no joy, only horrors that set his mind racing about the gypsy woman that he had helped and her troupe. Was the book some kind of magical trap? Or was it only the work of his imagination? Either way, he was done with it.

The fear of what this night could become had Milo fully in its grip. He threw the book into what remained of the fire and hoped that whatever magic it held would be destroyed. In a near panic he gathered more fire wood to push back the darkness and last him through the night.

Milo laid out his weapons and brewed a pot of strong tea. There would be no sleep tonight.

[Aegis of Espiridion]

The weapon flew lightly through the wintry air, catching the twilight as it danced with graceful beauty. But its landing was an unrefined heavy clatter on the cobblestones, and it skittered noisily for a few lengths before it came to a complete halt.

“What’s this?”

‘This’ was a basket-hilted claymore, single-edged and just under a metre from the tip of the blade to the base of the hilt. Its guard was bronze intricately inlaid with silver, but the scabbard that held it was simple leather and iron. The impact had jarred the weapon loose, and he could see a finger’s length of finely folded steel, glinting in crimson fire.

“A sword,” Fionan spoke the obvious, resplendent in knightly plate and tabard. His heraldry was the heraldry of the Knights of Rousay, a golden heron on a field of blue indicative of the river estuary that provided the north Salvic town with its livelihood. On his left hip was a sword almost an exact replica of the one he had just thrown at his friend’s feet.

“A very nice one at that,” Ywain agreed, noncommittal. “Why’d you throw it at me?”

“A gift, Ywain. After all you’ve done today, don’t you think you deserve it?”

“Fio.” Ywain’s elfin features abruptly contorted into a dark frown, long black hair casting his face into shadow. Unlike his friend he was dressed in simple mercenary drab – shabby leather jerkin, shabby leather breeches, a pair of high boots caked in mud and drenched with melted snow. “You know that I don’t give a horse’s whisker about the Baron and his cronies. Why’re you trying to get me in his service?”

“Because you belong there,” was Fionan’s level rebuttal. “You may not care for the Baron, or for the arrogant aristocracy that surrounds him, but you do care for the people of this town. Ywain, you’re a knight in all but name. I’m just trying to give you your rightful place… the power to do what you need to do.”

“Don’t toy with me, Fio,” the rogue warned swiftly. A cloud passed overhead, causing shadows to swarm over the fountain in the middle of the square. From where the knight stood, at the edge of the cobbled courtyard, it was as if the darkness had swallowed Ywain whole.

Then the cloud passed, and the illusion lifted, and he was just a young man again. A stubborn one, skilled at arms and strayed from the light, but a man nonetheless.

“I don’t work under authority. I don’t listen to your orders. And I certainly don’t care for companions.”

“Liar.”

Fionan’s voice was gentle, but Ywain’s eyes glinted a shade of steely grey. “I’ve told you once, I’m telling you again. Don’t try to tempt me with knighthood. I don’t want it.”

Somewhere in the distance a raven cawed. Aside from the gentle tinkle of water from the stone fish-mouths, it was the only sound that echoed from the high brick walls of the townhouses that surrounded them. The streets were strangely quiet, far too quiet for a weekday evening in Rousay, and stranger still was the fact that the two young men were the only people in sight.

Such curiosities were easily explained, however, by the bodies that lay strewn all around them. Some were armoured, in the breastplate and helm style common to the southern Salvic baronies. Others were not.

“Nine men came north this afternoon. Nine men scarred by the fighting down south, nine men looking to escape in the only way they knew how.”

Fionan Scifio reached down, blonde hair cascading over his forehead. His fingers studied the bloodstained dagger at his feet, a cheap and rusted piece obviously mass-produced by some apprentice in the king’s forges at Knife’s Edge. It didn’t even have a maker’s stamp on it, so shoddy was the work. Disgusted, he kicked it away with the steel toe of his boots, turning back to Ywain as it flitted into the shadowy lee of the nearest townhouse.

“They killed Old Tom and raped his daughter before you caught up with them. You killed three in turn, before they escaped into the centre of the town and began causing havoc. Only when we got here…”

“It’s not my fault that you were slow to react, Fio!”

“I’m not saying that!” The knight and the rogue shared the same cerulean hue to their eyes, but whereas Ywain’s went stony when angry, Fionan’s turned stormy. The sky against the ground, the Baron’s man thought. Apt enough, I suppose.

“I’m not saying that,” he repeated, calmer this time, quashing his own sense of guilt like a Berevaran giant quashed an ant. “The fault was ours. But if… if you had us at your side when you first went against them…”

He indicated the carnage around him, biting his tongue in frustration. Ywain sat unmoving, individual strands of his long hair swaying in the wind, barely daring to breathe of the coppery stench that rose from his feet.

“Don’t give me that responsibility, Fio,” the rogue said at length, weary and sad. “I don’t want it.”

“I know, Ywain.” Beneath the sympathy, however, was a gauntlet of steel. “But I also know that you won’t hesitate to do what’s right.”

The knight turned on his heels and strode away, his armour jangling noisily. The ornate claymore lay silent amongst the cobbles drenched in crimson, taunting the motionless Ywain with delusions of power and duty.

By nightfall, both it and the rogue were nowhere to be seen.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

“Daemon, I call thee.”

The young voice echoed hauntingly throughout the great hall, muted echoes taking up the chant from the heavy wooden beams that supported the high roof. His breath escaped from his mouth as frosty mist, pooling at his feet with the mana that he gathered to his cause.

“Natosatael, I name thee.”

He was still a child, barely into his teens. His build was slim and tall, and he was clad in the simple white robes that were the uniform attire of the Academy students. Messy brown hair topped an angular handsome face, eyes focused on an unseen point in the distance. Alone in the dark moonless night, the winds of magic swirling about him gave his motionless poise an eerie illuminating glow.

“The Unbound, I title thee.”

Just out of arm’s reach in front of him, the mana beneath his command began to coalesce into a wispy shape… a mirror, perhaps, or a portal. Two narrow slits appeared within, smoky supernatural whites smouldering with barely suppressed power, thin pupils dilating rapidly as they recognised the opportunity.

“The Prince of Infernal Light, I style thee.”

A flash of murky green, a ripple of stale wind rattling the wooden shutters that separated the hall from the night. The slits now belonged to a presence, a dark shadow that seemed to dominate the ground that he stood upon, the very air that he breathed. It was cold and malign, and terrifyingly evil.

Mortal… it whispered in a sibilant hiss. The majority of its features remained wreathed in obscurity, but Touma could still make out the pleased smile. Child… what a pleasure it is to meet you again. It seems as if your efforts have borne fruit, and I am able to maintain my consciousness in this plane for more than mere moments. You have my thanks.

“Spare me the sentiments, daemon,” the young boy howled back over the incessant wail of arcane power barely kept under his control. Short of years he may have been, but he knew as well as any bearded maester the dangers of heeding the words of such a being, especially one as capricious and as powerful as Natosatael. “I’m here to claim what you promised me.”

Of course, mortal child. A daemon’s boon for your troubles. Ask of me anything that you wish. The smile became a leering grin, as terrifying as it was terrible.

“You will not harm me, or anything or anybody I tell you not to, directly or indirectly,” Touma intoned, having prepared the phrases long in advance. “You will not scheme against me or my plans in any shape or form. You will aid me as I see fit, and answer any question I pose to the best of your abilities.”

Child, you hurt me. We share common goals, is that not the reason why we have helped each other so much thus far? The daemon’s low chuckle was almost a wounded sigh. And the length of my service?

“Nine years. Thrice the length of time I have spent preparing a path for you to enter this realm.”

Very well, mortal child. I am yours to command for nine years.

Touma was a kijutsushi, a spellweaver dedicated to divining and controlling the mysteries of the mind. He had mastered all manner of clairvoyant and illusory abilities, and had prepared the ground thoroughly for this night. More than any others in the land of Nippon, he and his brethren were suited to dealing with the lies and deceit that were a daemon’s second nature.

But even he was only barely prepared for the psychic backlash that accompanied the daemon’s emergence into the Firmament. Reality warped, twisted, bent in ways that had never seemed possible. Air flowed like a gale into the sixth dimension, and stars burst into light from the seventh. His stomach churned at the parade of stenches that assaulted his nose: brimstone like sulphurous egg, decay like a necromantic graveyard, rot like sewage stockpiled. Raw power tore at his face and stripped bare his mind, flaying fragments from his body and soul like a nine-tailed cat. He braced himself and fought back, and somehow, somehow, he endured.

Then suddenly there was silence.

He hadn’t realised that he’d closed his eyes against the onslaught. Slowly, warily, he opened them.

The wispy portal had disappeared, as had the howling winds and the overwhelming stink. What was left was the peaceful serenity of the great hall in all its empty magnificence, and the leathery form of an ancient daemon newly birthed into the world. Its skin was cracked and bloodily raw, the mismatched horns on its head glistening with syrupy birth-fluid. Lithe muscle and sinew twisted tightly about a bone structure that obviously belonged to no human or elf, and a long prehensile tail smacked wetly against the wooden floorboards in time with its irregular heartbeat.

Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta.

Yes, I am Natosatael. The beast grinned at the unasked question, and Touma knew that the words were truth; none other could quite manage that arrogant leer. Even without the assurance, though, he would never have mistaken the eyes… the thin slit pupils, brimming with malice and cunning, staring unblinkingly at him from perfect milky whites. My current form, I am sorry to say, is incomplete and weak. If I am to serve you well, first I must feed.

This is it. The standard price for the summoning of a daemon was the summoner’s soul., but Touma had easily foreseen that pitfall and sidestepped it. The alternative, however… There’s no turning back.

Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta.

He nearly said no. He nearly stumbled. He nearly allowed that weak innocent voice in the back of his head to get the better of him.

But in the end, his response was an expressionless nod.

“Do what you must.”

If anything, Natosatael’s leering grin grew larger. He unsheathed his claws and spread them wide in anticipation, testing their movement and response in his new form. Satisfied, he leant back on powerfully built legs and howled.

It was a sound that sent shivers fleeing down Touma’s very bones, freezing the young boy with primal fear. Extending far beyond the range of human hearing, it plucked at the very fibres of his soul, twisting them violently in a screeching cacophony. The high roof lasted only a few seconds before it was blown away, scattered apart in a cascade of broken clay tiles and splintered wood. Cool night air poured into the gaping maw, stars extinguished one by one as storm clouds began to gather overhead.

Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta...

The daemon leapt to the ruined roof in a single bound, surveying the results of his call. The nearby town was already beginning to stir as roaming vagabonds took up sword and torch, bursting from the inns in which they stayed like hunting rats. One by one flares lit up in the surrounding hills as creatures of the night began to march towards their newfound destiny. And low in the northern sky, a flock of black wings were flying closer, ever closer, to their unsuspecting victims.

And so it begins. Natosatael laughed, a discordant and cruel echo that grated painfully upon the ears of those unlucky enough to hear it.

Hundreds were to die that night at the daemon’s hands. Touma’s innocence was only the first victim.

[Wings of Endymion]

“Again.”

The heavy crack of wood on wood echoed throughout the dimly lit underground chamber; once, twice, thrice. It was not long before the sword found its way past the staff’s defence, and the young girl was sent flying across the room for the forty-eighth time that morning. Her painfully slender form impacted against the cold packed earth and crumpled in an undignified heap, and mercilessly the sword battered her twice more before backing off.

“Again,” the voice repeated impassively.

Swaying unsteadily, she rose to her feet. A thin trickle of blood seeped from her tightly pursed lips, her face pale and set against the pain. Her bare arms were mottled with bruises ranging from dirty yellow to dark purple, and despite the cool winter air the thin cotton shift that was all she wore was drenched in steaming sweat.

In spite of her wounds, however, despite the tears of hurt and frustration in her eyes, she was smiling.

“Hai,” Kayu said, her child’s voice quavering and just about holding firm.

Another set of heavy cracks, resounding hollowly against the earth walls before escaping through the grilled window that was the only source of light. Beneath it another girl sat, patiently awaiting the end of the sparring session. Her name was Misaki, and she was both a Kanamai family ward and Kayu’s only friend. She was nine, only two months younger than Kayu.

This time Kayu lasted five blows before she was sent sprawling. This time the sword was even crueller, smacking her thrice on her backside before allowing her to rise. Misaki winced involuntarily and averted her gaze, knowing that she would be punished for that if she was caught.

“Again.”

“Hai.” The smile did not waver, though the tears were now streaming down her face.

Crack! shouted the sword as it lunged towards her legs and was parried by the lower half of the staff. Crack! it cried again as its reverse sweep swung towards her right shoulder and she somehow manoeuvred the top half in its way. Swish! it sighed as she ducked out of the path of an overhead swing, and then Crack! once more as she managed a two-handed block on the repeat blow. The greater strength behind the sword told, and she staggered back, only to catch a socked foot flush in the stomach. The breath leapt from her lungs like a punctured balloon, and she fell to the floor winded.

Misaki gasped a warning as the sword descended towards Kayu’s face.

A split second before connecting, the wooden blade rebounded from its target, repulsed as if by an invisible forcefield. Torn from the hands of its wielder, it spun tip over hilt through the darkness until it met the wall at the far end of the room. It clattered to the floor with a dull thud that echoed loudly in the sudden silence.

“Hm.” The voice deviated barely from its expressionless detachedness, the barest hint of interest worming into the single syllable. Its owner was a well-built man in his middle years, dark hair hanging long and free except for a shaved pate untouched by sweat. His stern features regarded the fallen girl for a long moment.

Kayu froze, knowing instinctively that something was wrong. No, please, no…

She felt the man bend down closer, the calloused hand reach for her head. The urge to flee was overwhelming, but she knew that would only make things worse; fighting to control the tears and the sobs, she froze like a fawn in the face of the baying hound. Misaki stifled her own cries and the instinctive desire to run, knowing from experience that if she did so Kayu would suffer for it all the more… and then it would be her turn.

His fingers were long and hard as they grasped her scalp through her scraggly dishevelled hair. But they were surprisingly gentle as they forced her to look into his stony eyes; he would never dare to leave bruises where others could see. After all, a daughter of the Kanamai family had a public appearance to maintain.

“Enough for today.”

Suddenly his face was troubled, and it translated into the growing storm upon his brow. Neither girl could hide their shock at his words, Misaki audibly gasping again. Usually he wasn’t satisfied until they had done at least a hundred exchanges. Kayu cringed as she wondered what she had done to make him angry enough to deviate from the routine.

Abruptly he released her and stood up once more.

“A week from today you are to head to the Toho Institute of Academic Learning to continue your studies and your training. The maesters have convinced me that the best way to unlock your potential is to grant you to them. You begin preparations now.”

Kayu could not believe her ears. Had she heard correctly?

“I am to study… at the Academy?”

“Do anything but concentrate on developing your talents, and I will make sure that you are removed and severely punished.”

Her heart leapt in joy, and the smile plastered upon her features spread until her entire face was suffused with bright delight. It was all she had ever wanted, to be free, to be allowed to pursue her talents to her soul’s content. She could not think of anything more that she could wish for, except… except…

“… and Misaki…?”

“She is bonded to the family, not to you. She stays with us.” His voice was harsh, cutting, final, brooking no argument. The blow was brutal, more painful than if she had been physically slapped in the face. She reeled figuratively, steadied herself, had to try again.

“… but…”

“Stop wasting my time, girl. Go.”

Again. For the sake of her one and only friend.

“Father, I…”

She realised suddenly that Misaki was beside her, touching her arm gently for fear of hurting her. Their gazes met, and between them they were more scared than ever before. As one they turned to plead their case, bravely entreating the fierceness of his gaze, but all they saw there was unyielding refusal and mounting anger.

“GO.”

The two girls fled.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“What is your name?”

“I am Nameless.”

“No you are not. What do your parents call you?”

“Xuan. Xuan Hredgarson Zenbayashi.”

“And the elves?”

“Ingwe. Ingwe Helyanwe.”

“The prophecies?”

“Tella’karythar, the Last Crusader.”

“The heralds?”

“Dawnbringer.”

“The abandoned?”

“Phoenix.”

“So, what is your name?”

“I am Nameless. Simply… Nameless.”

“No you are not.”

***

”What’s your name?”

He looked up from his books into the face of the new girl, the one who’d entered the Academy only a month or so before. His surprise must have shown, for she giggled happily.

“I’m… I’m Nameless.”

Her brow furrowed prettily. “You can’t be nameless. Everybody has a name.”

“Actually, that is my name,” he stammered clumsily, embarrassed. He found it difficult to have to explain the circumstances behind it every time he introduced himself, but it would have been even less correct to lie. “Nameless.”

“Oh.” She paused, studying him carefully. “That’s not right…”

“If it helps, the others usually call me Glasses.” And half-breed, and outsider, and barbarian, and daemon’s child, and a whole host of other names besides, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to bring it up here and now. He looked over to the far side of the courtyard where the ‘others’ stood, from where she had just come. Even now they were pointing, and gossiping, and sniggering.

“That’s not right, either.” Her frown dissolved into a brilliant smile, one that chased the very clouds from the sky. “We’re going to have to change that. What do your parents call you?”

“My… parents…?”

“Oh. Uh…” She bit her lips, endearingly. He flushed bright red in turn, trying to hide behind the rims of his spectacles. It didn’t help much, except to turn her face into a barely cognisable blur.

“They’re still alive, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He sputtered into silence, only continuing when he realised that she was waiting expectantly for him to continue. “Xuan. They wanted to call me… they call me Xuan.”

“Xu…” The syllables were difficult to pronounce in Nipponese, and she cocked her head to one side as she tried to wrap her tongue around them. He found his eyes drawn to the fine silk of her hair, the tantalising glimpse of an earlobe, the long slender line of her neck. “Xu…”

“Oh… ah…”

“Do you mind… maybe… can I call you Yann, instead?”

“Yann?”

“Yeah…”

“Umm… sure, why not. Yann… it’s close enough.” He smiled then, slowly, shyly. She smiled back.

“I’ll tell the others, then. Maybe they’ll stop calling you Glasses from now.”

He watched as she ran off at top speed, stunned mind wondering how she could run that fast. Remnants of his earlier surprise were still writ on his face like an open book.

“Yann, huh.”

She’d given him many things that day, the least of which was his new name: kindness, hope, strength, determination. The name didn’t stick – only she would use it for more than a couple of days – but the rest of her gifts did, enough that he would eventually be willing to put his life on the line for her, to go to war for her, to face all the horrors in all the hells for her.

For what he hadn’t expected at all was that he would still be thinking of that moment some seventeen years later...

***

“What is your name?”

“Nameless.”

“I repeat, what is your name?”

“… I am Nameless.”

“No, you are not. What is your name?”

“… Yann. She called me Yann.”

“Hello, Yann.”

[Ruby]

Ruby tapped the edge of the small gift wrapped box on the mantelpiece. It was a solid wooden structure bound with red tissue paper and a golden ribbon, woven into an elaborate triple knot that had been tied with clear care and consideration. Two things caused the matriarch pause for thought, even though the small piece of card leant against it marked it as intended for her.

The first was the fact that the box had most certainly not been there three seconds ago, when she had turned away from the fireplace to pick up a log from the wicker basket she had set behind her. She could still feel the cold prang of the cold night on her back as her front warmed in the glow of the hearth. Even in the heat of domesticity, she paid immaculate attention to her surroundings. The Prima Vista was her palace, and she could not suffer anything out of place or unexplained.

The second was the fact that she was quite alone in the playhouse. The rest of the troupe were rehearsing on the docklands, trying to get the screens of their new portable stage to work with the heavy cranes that were usually used to load and unload merchant schooners and the long ships of the Knights Provost. They would be out long into the early hours of the morning, making the most of their brief opportunity to use the space undisturbed.

With pursed lips, she could only teeter on a knife edge. Should she open the box, and throw caution to the wind, or investigate its source like a sensible, well-adjusted adult?

“Maybe you just didn’t notice it Ruby,” she spoke softly, just in case the mystery courier were still present.

It had been a particularly stressful day. The red-headed housemaid had been up since well before dawn, and had not stopped in the pursuit of perfection since. She had baked several batches of scones, loaves of bread and cakes. She had taken dresses from the prop rails to the tailors to be tended to before lunch, cleaned the stage’s faded red carpet on her hands on knees through the afternoon and then polished the brassware and lit the fire shortly after dinner.
“Yes, that’s it, you just let it slip you by,” she picked it up with a crane like motion and lifted it to her left ear. She cocked her head and rattled the box, which made only a delicate sound, like a shaken lock mechanism on a miniature chest.

“It’s not jewellery, then,” she said with resignation. A girl could never have too much jewellery. That fact eliminated Leopold from the list of potential senders, as her husband had a penchant for sending her rings, necklaces and jewels he had found on the far flung shores of Althanas. He was not a man to fall for the allure of mystery, a fact he had discovered at the receiving end of several pointed heels.

She shook it again, before giving in and pulling at the ribbon with fiendishly quick fingers.

The fireplace at her heels crackled with diminishing life as the untended embers burnt further into nothingness. The flames danced and cast their colour onto the ribbon, which only added to its allure. All the womanly charm and stern masks Ruby Winchester wore throughout her high society low tolerance for nonsense life fell away, cracked and warped. She reverted into a bedazzled school girl, one opening a Christmas present or a gift from an estranged and lavish aunt.

She tossed the ribbon into the fire, which vanished in a rush of ash.

“What do we have here,” she tore the paper off with a pinch of her nails and added it to the soot in the chimney.

The box inside was a simple, wooden affair with a fold up lid. It was pine, unpolished and made no statements other than ‘I contain something infinitely more interesting and valuable than myself.’ She shrugged her shoulders, undeterred, and with shaking fingers, she pulled up the lid and let it fall back on its simple and delicate chain hinge.

Resting on a small bed of red velvet was something most unexpected. It had been thirteen years since Ruby had received such a gift, a gift that had been sent by a stranger every year for as long as she could remember without fail. It came on the first day of summer, as tradition and the Scara Brae official calendar dictated. Memories flooded back into Ruby’s mind like a tsunami, overwhelming both her surprise and her cold façade. No amount of balderdash or poker faced flaunting could remove the look of shock, emotion and happiness that curled her lips into a wide smile.

When she had found out who sent the gift, after she had reclaimed her memories from the curse of Lucian Lahore, her earthly dreams had been brought to life.

“Mummy…”

The clock over the mantelpiece, a mahogany cuckoo whose mechanisms were crafted by the dwarves of Kachuk began to chime midnight proper. The two little birds popped out of the uppermost hatch and rang a little duet of My Fair Canary, the signature showpiece from the musical adaptation of I Want to Be Your Canary.

“You remembered…” her voice turned into a crocodile tear fuelled praise. The lump in her throat formed, and her knees knocked.

Today was Ruby Winchester’s birthday.

Though the red rose petal resting on the velvet was a gift in the traditional sense of the word, an item received in response to an event, achievement or aware, the true meaning behind it was quite unexpected. If this rose petal was here, now, then it meant that somewhere out there in the veils of time and space, her mother was still alive.

The prospect of not being an orphan after all was a present Ruby would treasure for a long time. She was being told that she was not alone, and that her battle against Lucian’s attempts to eradicate them from the history books was to be rewarded with the one thing the entire troupe wanted…

A normal life.

She flicked the box shut, shoved it into the pocket of her pinafore and turned on a happy heel to shovel moss covered logs onto the remnants of the day’s fire. She whistled as she did so.

[Duffy]

Duffy couldn’t quite believe his eyes when he stepped out into the cold and the rain. For once, Scara Brae’s dank back streets were bustling. The Prima Vista stood on a long lane behind the richer, more grandiose buildings that lined the promenade which ran from the market district to the foot of the city’s sycophantic palace gates. He pictured the gold statues of griffons for a moment, as he always did when he felt nervous. As symbols of Scara Brae, they were an anchor for the bard in troubling times.

He had been quite happy writing the last scene for his new play, until Lillith had burst into the room screaming excitedly about a royal proclamation and how he had to go, just had to go.

A long sigh escaped his lips, dragged down to the dirty ground and darkness by the rain.

He made sure his monocle was set and his bandana tied tightly, before he stepped out from behind the stack of boxes and barrels that obscured the back entrance to the troupe’s hideaway. Ever mindful of his own pockets, having learnt from the best, he dug his gloves into his trousers, where the hilts of daggers waited, just in case.

The swell of the crowd dragged him down the road, towards the palace. There was a hustle and a bustle amongst the pepper faced, red haired strumpets and curious urchins of the city. There was mention of a beheading, which must have been conjecture given capital punishment was reserved for Saturdays. In between the rumours and lies, he picked out three convenient pieces of truth with which to warm his cockles.

A large lady with ample breasts and a horribly mismatched two piece muttered something about a robbery to her stick thin husband. Another grumbled in his direction about thieving bards and artisans, which given his infamy in this city and further afield was perfectly normal. A third, a man with a moustache from which a man could hang his tie collection informed his children, who were perhaps the most excited amongst all the crowd, that today they would see what happened if he ever caught them stealing toffee apples from the street vendors again.

“Somebody’s muscling in on my outfit…” were the bard’s wayward words.

Though Duffy had turned from a life of crime, at least, from a life of occupying himself with nothing but crime, he liked to keep tabs on the various groups that sprang to life on the streets of his home. The Scourge of course were already in his pockets, through the virtue of his brother being the Hound, the Master’s personal…tool. The Thieves’ Guild were all but bankrupt after Van Mandelo’s debauch exploits, one of Arden Janelle’s fiendish and well put together plans, and the street running groups never amounted to anything once their cocky leaders over did it and got themselves caught.

The crowd swung round a bend in a lumbering and well cobbled road. It broke out onto the courtyard before the Palace Gates and then it hit Duffy. The gates themselves were open, and in front of the entrance, there was a grand wooden stand on which stood three large thrones, golden, shining, and glorious. Guards covered both sides, and stood in a line at the front.

“Valeena, you little witch, nobody makes a big speech without my pen behind it…” if the queen was proposing a new decree in the city, it must mean an emergency. If there was an emergency in the city Duffy didn’t know about, then it had happened very, very recently.

The strength of the crowd’s curiosity caused it to fill every cobble of the courtyard, and more and more people of every shape, size and description imaginable continued to pour into the streets from a slew of alleyways and conjoining roads. Several flags flapped in the wind on the battlements of the palace, which Duffy traced through the canopy of the two enormous oak trees which stood just before the two guard towers that formed the main structure of the gate.

“Ladies, and gentlemen, and common folk of Scara Brae,” a large man clad in fine and radiant robes appeared from over the stage, rising like a god from a pool of gold. Duffy recognised him instantly, and from the hushed whispers that fizzled into silence in his voice’s sway, so did everybody else.

Mycroft Regalia Valeena the Fourth, who as far as Duffy could remember from his many lessons on heraldry, was the queen’s uncle, viceroy, and advisor on matters of state, law and legend.

“We have called this announcement with the view to proclaim an emergency decree, and thus I present to thee, her royal highness, protector of the faiths, guardian of the seas and noble child of this blessed isle’s ancestry – Queen Valeena!” The man stepped aside in a swirl of grey beard, matted hair and excessive swinging of heavy jewellery set in ivory surrounds. There were three loud and abrupt cheers, a cacophony of hand claps and matinee whistles, then silence once more.

Valeena, the immestakible beauty and terrifying edifice of the various political tyrannies set upon the city’s people appeared in a similar fashion to her uncle. The sun caught her crown’s diamond peaks in its midday zenith, and without trouble, she stunned everyone into servitude. The only noise to pierce the atmosphere was the sound of her heels tapping a rhythm on the wooden supports of the stage beneath he many dresses.

She said nothing but screamed a thousand insults of disgust at the smell of the common folk and the taint of illegal magic in the air of the city’s streets. Her face contorted momentarily before she stood before her throne, picked up the folds of her dress, and then sat in the central throne. Her uncle joined her once she had found a comfortable position, leaving the right hand throne, a jade pedestal wreathed in red silk empty. Its occupant was usually the current attaché of the queen, which meant that she, was either displeased with men or he was away on some court matter or another.

Duffy listened as the Queen began the long regurgitation of legal statutes that were required before she declared a new law or proclamation. He did not watch, however, he was too busy peering through the mass of unwashed hair and wide brim hats at somebody entirely more interesting.

There was a thief, here, now, stealing right under Duffy Brandybuck’s nose.

“The fucking cheek of it,” he spat.

A sour faced man scoffed at the bard’s impoliteness, but when he peered down over his glasses to scowl, he looked surprised, then turned back to face the Queen as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Not today, mate, you’re new in town, I get it, but not today,” Duffy adjusted his monocle again so that it served as nothing more than an accessory instead of a zooming lens before he pushed through the huddle of bodies forcefully.

Through the quagmire of perfume, armpit sweat and rotten vegetables, he approached the man with the view to have a declaration spout from his lips with as equal importance to the Queen’s. Troubling as the odours were, it made him feel right at home, and a man at home was a difficult man to dissuade from his beliefs. “Oi,” he whispered into the man’s ear, “I want a word with you mate.”

Sometimes, politics had a funny way of giving you an unexpected gift.

Duffy forgot all about his disgruntled complaints about having to attend these speeches.

A young mind ripe for perverting and turning to your side was a truly fantastic gift indeed.