2016 May Vignette

[Bard]

Your character witnesses multiple persons breaking his/hers strongest moral code. This is not acceptable. How do you deal with it?

Thread ends June 17th, good luck.

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

Night after night since his defeat to Elijah Belov and Nanashi in the Citadel, the Telgradian revisited the valley of the Jal Shey lords in his dreams. Every detail was etched like a rune into his memory; the tiny flecks of glass that glistened within the beige bricks of rough sandstone that comprised the numerous Jal Shey temples and the dawn sun that hung low, pouring brilliant orange across the horizon. The sky was blood red, and the furrowed clouds were every shade from palest pink to deep crimson. A warm breeze stroked the sands away from his feet in wisps and bristled through his brown locks, disturbing them. Shinsou remembered how the wind whistled as it cut through his feral, incisor like teeth, leaving a tingling sensation in his maw. He remembered how his rough, jet black skin cracked in the morning heat, and how the razor sharp nails of his claws twinkled in the dawn light.

The Jal Shey soldiers by his side were waiting patiently. They had been expecting a Telgradian counterattack to come today. The Jal Shey seers were always right, and Shinsou knew what would come of their omen.

The first blood of the war would be split in the sands of the valley this day. Blood of good men who came to stop this evil. Shinsou could see that now.

Hindsight was a terrible thing.

“Cavum Ira, my lord, should we inform lord Temperance of the omen?” One of the black clad Jal Shey cultists asked, standing to attention at Shinsou’s side as rigidly as any of the stone pillars that littered the gusset of the valley. He dared not take a breath out of turn in the presence of his master.

Cavum Ira. That was the name for it. That was the name for that form, for that murderous power Shinsou felt in the Citadel. The Telgradian, looking in on his own dream in the third person, had forgotten much since his imprisonment in Kokushi, but now he remembered his Jal Shey namesake. He saw it. He saw the embodiment of evil he used to be as clear as day. Just repeating the words sent a cold shiver reverberating down his spine.

Cavum Ira, the Judgment.

“No. Let them come upon us,” came the booming response in a tone so distorted it was almost ethereal to behold. “…and we will grind them into the dirt ourselves. There is no need to disturb-”

Cavum Ira’s chilling voice was cut dead by something moving in the corner of his black and gold eyes. The sound of sand sifting underfoot accompanied the anomaly. The beast shot glances to each of his cultists present, who with such precision and synchronization ceased their talking and rested their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Nero-Ky, Shinsou’s retainer, still mid-way through cleaning and stripping down his unusual sword, put a finger to his black lips and motioned for the assembled squadron to be silent, slowly reaching down and clasping his blade within his scarred hands.

Telgradia approaches. The slender, white haired commander whispered to Shinsou, who nodded in reply, cracking the bones in his hands. The form of Cavum Ira began to emit a black, horrible, stomach churning energy. His dark claws clenched around an invisible hilt of air, the basis of which would form his dark matter if so required to be called upon.

Suddenly, all went very, very quiet.

The silence and anxiety was short lived as a male hooded figure darted from behind a Jal Shey needle monument on the valley’s edge behind Shinsou and his men, his feet pounding the sand and scattered shale rapidly. Cavum Ira wasted no time. His dark frame roared into action, scooping his clawed hand from the ground with a feral roar and guiding it expertly into a powerful upward arc. The figure’s hooded head snapped back violently on contact, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips and his long, matted black hair whipping the air about his head as the sharpened claws of Cavum Ira’s powerful hands carved a jagged crevice up the assassin’s chest and neck.

A pair of once bright, alert eyes that had gleamed beneath those black robes faded. Their last moments saw Cavum Ira’s enraged visage snarling back at them, the beast’s blackened face smattered with crimson splashes from the force of the brutal attack. The body of the Telgradian, carried by its own momentum, rolled carelessly over a fallen column on which some of the Jal Shey cultists had been sat and clumped in a bloodied mess in a pit of gravel, a crimson pool forming below the face-down corpse.

“Kill them!” Cavum Ira, “Judgment” of the Jal Shey, growled, “Saturate the sands with Telgradian blood!”

All in all, it had taken about ten seconds for the attacker to enter the small valley, charge at the Jal Shey and finish up in a crumpled, mangled heap near the steps of the Jal Shey’s main temple, but those ten seconds had passed almost in slow motion. Only now, with Cavum Ira’s cry echoing across the sands, did Nero-Ky and the rest of the men truly react. The rangers scrambled to arm themselves and then approached Cavum Ira immediately, forming a circle of defence around their commander. Cavum Ira moved in tandem with them, snaking around the fallen column he had been in front of moments ago and flicked his right hand out. Tendrils of black and purple electricity danced from his fingertips, sawing at the dawn’s air before a second flick of the wrist formed the structure of a lance of dark matter.

“There, behind the temples! They’re circling round!”

The assassins could be heard long before they came into sight. Their quick footsteps pressed heavily into the ocean of sand that blanketed every uneven surface for miles around, the crunches of their feet upon the golden grains and the pounding of their breath upon the morning air the only signs of their existence. To the un-trained ear, it was as if the patter of raindrops had reached the Jal Shey valley. To those present, it was the coming of death’s agents.

The cultists clung to the hilts of their swords tighter as the noises grew closer and closer and, collectively, anxiously awaited the first attack. Their eyes tried to follow the shadows of their assailants as they phased in and out of the standing marble columns like ghosts, but their opponents were so fleet of foot no-one could trace their movements. The growing number of audible steps, mixed with the rattling of chains, and above it all the tell-tale crackling of stone and lint as tens of men flanked the valley told the Jal Shey that they were badly outnumbered.

Suddenly, Cavum Ira picked up another sound; the familiar hollow rumbling of hooves.

“Nero-Ky, prepare the men!” Cavum Ira roared with his back turned to his commander.

“Cavalry incoming!”

Before Nero-Ky had even had a chance to respond, they were in view; the hooded men from the mouth of the valley and their outriders from the beaten gravel track into the clearing appearing in perfect formation. The ranks of black hoods, their curved, polished sabres unsheathed, ran towards the group from all angles in a nightmare sprint. The fine dust kicked up from the horses' hooves formed a cloudy trail behind the two mounted assassins charging in from behind.

“I’ll deal with the riders!” Cavum Ira bellowed, almost screaming. “Kill the skirmishers, take no prisoners and show no mercy!”

Whatever Nero-Ky had yelled in response was lost in the chaos. As he started his blurry kamikaze sprint over the dusty wasteland and across the valley carving a path between the rows of ceremonial Jal Shey temples, the smooth surface of his dark lance gleaming in the beautiful orange glow of the sun, Cavum Ira’s mind raced. He tried to calculate the possibilities open to him for killing his targets, consisting of two archers on horseback. It would not be an easy feat, of that he was sure. But whatever the method, he had to do it now. Any archer that crossed the threshold between him and the first row of temples would have free reign of the field.

All around the beast were the sounds of projectiles whizzing past his ears mixed with the battle cries of his cultists left in the clearing behind him. Ahead of him, Shinsou, in his most powerful form, could now see the maddened brown eyes of the beasts that thundered towards him, snorting and hissing clouds of white vapour into the morning air as their mounts let loose a volley of arrows that barely missed him.

"I’ll send you to hell, Telgradian!"

Stop it! This isn't right! I don't want to see this anymore!

The hulking form of Cavum Ira slowed, calculating the speed and distanced required for his planned assault, and then suddenly dug his clawed heels into the floor as the lead horse threatened to career into him, pivoting on his right heel and thrusting the dark lance into the beast’s neck. As the horse let out a shrill scream, it threw its rider and collapsed to the sands along with Cavum Ira.

The other rider stormed by on his mount, too fast to intervene, and instead let loose another arrow that slammed into the dusty floor next to Cavum Ira’s arm. Grabbing the wooden shaft, the Jal Shey beast pulled it from the barren earth and turned just in time to meet the concussed, staggering form of the thrown rider standing over him with a dagger like some sort of drunken grim reaper. With a single thrust, the beast plunged the arrow head into the unprotected chest of his attacker, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.

"I’ll obliterate you all!"

Why won't I stop?! We can't we all stop?!

The second black-robed assassin had already dismounted, but as he approached Cavum Ira was already back on his feet, snarling ferociously. Dancing upon the murky silt of the clearing with great fluidity for such a beast, the Judgment thrust his deadly claws forward and then spun at the last second, disembowelling the man easily on the backswing. Another two hooded men tried to flank him, jumping out from behind a burial mound in an attempt at an ambush.

Cavum Ira grunted, simply swooping left to right whilst anticipating the slow and clumsy motions of the men, who, like the others he had just killed, had great trouble fighting at close combat with any degree of fluency. With two strokes of his blade-like nails, he severed the head of one of the black-clad men, and then drove his entire arm into the heart of the other, who fell, choking to the ground, blood spattering upon the beast’s face with what could only be seen as satisfaction in the Jal Shey’s countenance.

As the last of the surviving assassins scrambled as fast as their feet could take them back towards the entrance of the valley, Nero-Ky approached a blood-soaked Cavum Ira. The beast was barely out of breath, smeared in the blood of his enemies, and had succeeded in driving terror into the heart of his Telgradian enemies.

I trampled my pride, my ethics, my values. I can't bear to watch it a second longer. Wake up!

The images from his dream crumbled from his mind as they were torn apart by the weight of his own words and the severity of his tone. The black, pulsating power within dissipated back into his gut as Shinsou began to take in the reality of today; a freezing cold, stormy Radasanthian dawn. Heavy rain began pelting the windows, and suddenly the view of the looming Citadel through the flawed glass of the inn was distorted by thick streaks of water. The Telgradian stared icily at it.

“Never again. Never fucking again."

[jdd2035]

"Sail! Strange Sail!" Came from the Peregrines tops ringing down to Cain's ears.

Looking up he called back "Where away?!"

From the tops came "Two points forward, on the larboard!" Cain stepped toward the larboard rail and let his eyes focus on the horizon and they easily picked up a ship roughly fifteen miles out. It was still too far away to make out any details even with his fantastic eyesight but it did seem that the strange sail was trying to intercept.

Not knowing rather or not the ship was a merchantman or a pirate Cain decided to wait it out till it raised signals or colors and piped his crew to dinner.

A few hours later Cain heard the first faint boom of the strange ships signal gun and the Peregrines signal man soon knocked on the Great Cabins door and reported "Sir, they strange ship has raised a flag of truce and is requesting possible trade."

Cain nodded and ordered "Strike top sails, and stunsails and let her catch up with us."

The strange ship began beating up to the Peregrine at a fine pace as Cain and the idlers of the crew watched wondering what may be traded or if there was a trade at all; it had to be trade not even a pirate ship would fire under a flag of truce.

Finally after another hour the strange ship had started to come up along the weather side of the Peregrine when all of a sudden the strange ships gun-ports opened and her cannons rolled out.

~Of all the blackguardly, treasonous, underhanded and disrespectful tricks!~ Cain thought; while it was true Cain had sailed under false colors and had came up with all sorts of capers there were just things one didn't do while at sea bordering on the sacred.

First: You didn't fire under a flag of truce.

Second: After a ship has struck her colors the fighting stops. Prisoners can rebel later on but the initial action ends as soon as your ships colors are struck.

And

Third: You always fire under your own colors. You can sail under false colors all you wish but before the first shot is fired you raise your proper colors.

As the strange ships were being rolled out Cain ordered "Hard a Starboard! Set Top sails, T'galents, and Stunsails! Beat to quarters and clear for action!"

!BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM BOOM!

The strange ships great guns roared out in anger their caper being smoked (found out) but to no avail with only two six pound round shot striking the Peregrine on her larboard side stern tearing off a large piece of the rail.

Cain was angry too. Firing under a flag of truce was as near to sacrilege as one could get to a ship captain.

The Peregrine gathered speed quickly and her crew after the initial shock of being caught unaware were at their stations in double quick time sharing in their captains anger. The strange ship couldn't turn as tight as the Peregrine and thus the Peregrine was able to rake across the strange ships stern with fast and accurate fire; obliterating the strange ships stern gallery, rudder and a large portion of her quarter deck all in the first volley.

"Grape shot in the next round!" Cain ordered, his anger growing. The gun crews glared down the barrels of their respective cannons and waited for their order to fire. The Peregrine bore up along the strange ships windward side and Cain shouted "Fire upon the weather deck!! Board in the smoke!" Cain was going to board the strange ship.

The cannons erupted across the strange ships deck and blood gushed out of the scuppers and came off the deck in sheets like water after a heavy rain. As the smoke obscured both of the ships boarding hooks flew from the Peregrine onto the strange ship and they scrapped together. The crew began leaping over the the rails and scrambling through the gun-ports.

Cain himself roared over the rail of the Peregrines quarterdeck onto the strange ships quarter deck and immediately found the strange ships captain. The strang ships captain lunged at Cain with a boarding pike and in the initial melee disarmed him.

Cain filled with richous indignation was undaunted, picked up a copper belaying pin, stepped passed the next lunge bashed the strang ships captain in the face stunning him and then followed through with enough bashing to knock the strang captains face in and mush up his face in general before knocking him out.

***

Noticing that the strange ships captain was awake Cain kneeled near him and said "Normally I am a compassionate, honorable and fair Captain and would let you keep your sword, invite you to suppers in my cabbing and then leave you to be tried fairly. But you fired under a flag of truce, for that I'm going to maroon you in this jolly boat with a message painted on it saying as much. You will starve and die of thirst and be grateful for the rain that stings your dry face and finally thank the gulls, petrels and albatross' that will eat your living flesh.

With that Cain pushed the jolly boat over and set about the business of sending his prize home.

[SirArtemis]

Artemis sat at the counter of The Bearded Gnome, the inn that he called home within the borders of Knife’s Edge. Daylight still spilled in through the windows and lit up the rich wooden décor of the homey establishment. And as usual, behind the counter Harki stood polishing mugs endlessly – no matter how clean they all were already. Meanwhile Artemis worked on a sketch for a new blade design. A customer had come in with a custom order for a ceremonial blade. So after a long day at the forge and a filling meal, Artemis kept working.

“Hey, you! The hairy fat midget! Where are our drinks?” a man sitting a few meters away called, his grainy voice showing he shouted quite often. Artemis clenched his jaw at the comment. As for Harki, it seemed he barely heard the man. Normally you wouldn’t find customers such as this man in The Bearded Gnome. Truth is, Artemis had never noticed folk like this man and his small crew at the inn. It felt very strange and out of place to hear people speak this way to the dwarf that kept Artemis’ home in order.

“Tell ye what lad,” Harki began, his black beard barely moving as he spoke; it was as though the beard spoke in place of the man – that’s how thick the hair grew in. “I’ll find yer drinks when ye find yer manners, ow’s that sound?”

“Manners? The fuck? Do you want my coin or what?” The man said as he rose from the table he had just sat down in. His trio of buddies looked attentive, as if they too were ready to back their leader should anything happen. They were like vagabonds of some type, perhaps even bandits looking for a bed after managing a hefty theft. Their clothes were ragged and dirty, their hair and beards unkempt and their smell reminiscent of a drunk who’d slept in an alleyway.

“Not if it comes with yer bloody rudeness. Ye think I’m struggling for scraps ‘ere? You need yer coin more than I do. If ye don’t like it, yer welcome to go. That, or as I said, find yer manners. This is a tavern of class.”

The man angrily walked over to the bar, slamming his dirty fists down on the counter in front of Harki and just to Artemis’ left. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” he shouted at the dwarf. He whipped his hand out to the side, slamming Artemis’ drink and spilling it over the sketch he had been working on. “You don’t tell me how to live my fucking life!”

Artemis stared down at the work, hesitating for a few seconds and trying to control the building frustration. Unfortunately, he did not succeed. He curled his right hand into a fist and concentrated a bolt of electrical energy into his strike, letting his punch fly and striking the man into his liver with a shocking force. The man gurgled, clutching at his side as he convulsed and fell to the floor. The trio of goons stood in unison at seeing their boss fall.

Artemis turned toward the three, his sharp and glowing blue eyes staring them down. “Take him and leave. I don’t want to see any of you again, not here, not anywhere. Get as far away from me as possible and you might actually survive.” Artemis was not a cruel man, but he certainly knew his appearance inspired a degree of fear. His arms and part of his face were marked by tribal lines, a result of his magical birth and power. His dark armor matched his dark hair and scruff, finished off with a set of twin daggers that hung on his hips. One look could tell anyone that Artemis was a fighter not to be trifled with; thankfully, it was a message the three seemed to understand as well.

The three rushed forward to collect their buddy’s still-convulsing body. The two stronger ones grabbed each end of the man with the third delegating. Unfortunately, the one delegating hadn’t fully understood the predicament his little gang had stumbled upon. In an attempt to surprise the fighter he pulled out a concealed knife and lunged at Artemis.

With reaction that didn’t seem human, Artemis grabbed the forearm of the attacker and instead used some fire magic, singing through the man’s clothes and searing his freshly exposed skin. The man screamed in pain but as he tried to pull away, Artemis twisted his grip uncomfortably and sent a wave of nauseating agony through the man, causing him to faint.

Now two men lay upon the ground.

“Should we continue? Or do you want to each grab a buddy by the legs and drag them out?”

The fear upon the two goons left was priceless. They each did as Artemis had suggested and dragged their friends out of the tavern, knowing full well they were outmatched. Artemis watched them leave before sitting back down at his seat. While the fight had progressed Harki had taken the liberty to clean the area up.

“Good thing ye were the one to do it,” Harki joked. “I’d have lopped off a limb or two,” he added, pointing to his old battleaxe that hung mounted behind the bar.

“I know, Harki,” Artemis said with a smile. “I just have seen enough in my life to know that people can be cruel and malicious. I can’t fix the world, but if there’s one thing I can guarantee, it’s that when my friends are involved, my home, people and places I love – behavior like that is not going to slide.”

“Yer a good lad, Artie. I’m lucky to call ye a friend.”

“Likewise, Harki. Now would you mind passing me a fresh scrap of paper? I want to finish this design before sundown.”

The two resumed a casual conversation as the general evening crowd began to flock in for dinner - people who were in a way extended family. Artemis knew Knife’s Edge wasn’t any sort of haven or utopia. Quite the contrary, it was known for a good deal of unease. But here, within these wooden walls, Artemis could make a little utopia. Maybe one day he’d be able to make one a bit larger.

[Tobias Stalt]

Warning: the following is extremely graphic, and should be considered rated Aure. Enjoy at your discretion.

Daylight slowly bled away as the stench of sin marred an otherwise still city.

The streets were plastered crimson and walls splashed with viscera. Heat still rose from grotesque masks, frozen forever in expressions of terror. Tobias ran a hand gently across one of the corpses where he knelt at her side. His fingers came away thick with her blood. "Fresh," he muttered. A raven cawed somewhere in the distance. He glanced skyward.

His eyes shivered for a moment, then became opaque. Both shoulders slumped and he doubled over as his simulacra shifted. Tobias watched as his body folded and collapsed below, and he traveled an expansive distance in mere seconds. When he stopped, he was outside a window.

"Make sure you slit their throats when you're through, lads!"

The raven tilted its head in consideration as it watched the scene. One man stood over ten women, each of them in desperate struggle with a different man as he tore at their clothes. Some fought harder and with more disdain than others, and a handful resigned themselves to the wretched fate. Where he stood at the center, the tall man laughed. "This is what will happen to those who oppose our reign," he told his men. Despite that their minds had slipped to a place beyond his words, he still spoke. The Raven cawed.

Their eyes locked. "Do you crave power like mine, bird?" the man asked in a quiet voice as he walked toward the window. "Or do you judge me for this?" He gestured toward the debauchery at his back as the first man filled his conquest. "This is the fate of those who resist the strong," he told the Raven. "I will rape the world and impregnate it with a stronger future. Do you not see? I will make a better world."

Once more, the bird gave a shrill cry.

The window shattered and glass shards splintered outward. The bird went winging away. "Damned animal," he growled. "How dare you mock me? How dare you mock my world?" Blood spewed from his hand where the small bits of window gored him. He did not appear to care. "I am the true king! Witness my power!"

Behind him, a woman cried out. Lust and pain had seeped into her like the seed that endlessly pumped toward her womb. Her hot breath now beat in measure with her heart. "You're spent," the king told his subject. "I now claim my right as King," he exclaimed proudly as he pulled the woman from his servant's throbbing parts.

She sat eagerly on his own. "Now," he rasped as he filled her anew. "Do as I commanded you." Terror struck the girl as she understood. The blade touched her neck, then warmth blossomed in its wake. She wore a second smile to mirror the ecstasy of her face as she embraced the end.

Still, he thrust deep into her lifeless body.

The door swung inward, but none seemed to notice. Tattered clothes littered the floor beside corpses, and blood pooled beneath newly slit throats. Tobias waded through the mire and stared down at the scene from beneath his hood. On his shoulder, a large Raven cried out again.

The leader looked up from his rag doll with hatred in his gaze. "You dare intrude on my kingdom?" he hissed.

Tobias did not speak. Instead, he stalked forward. "I command you," the king barked, "to halt!"

The dark man held out his hand. The king brought his sword up to strike, but Tobias batted it away. "You don't get to fight this," the King of all Witches whispered as he leaned close. "You brought ruin to this place, and to these women," he told his fellow king. "You claimed this kingdom. You will share its fate."

His fingers clamped around the face of royalty, and screams poured into his palm. Tobias stared down emotionless into the eyes of a dead woman, trapped for eternity in the throes of unwanted pleasure.

He remembered that look.

Tobias tore his eyes away and turned slowly. The husk that once ruled this place was now hideous and faceless. Somewhere in the span of several seconds, he expired pitifully. As another man slit another throat, he became suddenly aware of his master's fate. "Gods." His face became as terrified as those of his victims. "What are you?"

His answer was a blade, cold as winter.

[Less]

The Price of a Name

It had taken weeks for Lioran to adjust to the forest of Concordia.

The forest was different from the Luthmor jungles to which he was accustomed. The trees were taller, so much taller that his spine ached when he strained his neck to look toward their verdant crowns. Concordia was not so tangled, not so venomous, but it was no less dangerous. It reminded him of forests from the old stories, with paths that led where they ought not to and beasts that no one could name. The forest had no malice, but it was vast, ineffable, and uncaring where Luthmor was dense, deceitful, and often inimicable.

For all their differences, it was the similarities that struck Lioren most. Branches still yearned upwards, thrusting leaves ever closer to the life-giving light of the sun. Roots still speared the ground, plumbing chthonic depths for precious water. Prey still gamboled about, peaceful until the advent of the predator and the onset of the callous cycle of life and death.

And, of course, the lesser races still wandered about within, getting lost and into trouble.

He knew from his contact with villages near the southwestern edge of the forest that mothers told their children to stick to the path, but the child he had been watching for the past several minutes had clearly felt no need to heed his mother's advice. Lioran could not help but grin, for after all, had he not forged his own path as well?

The child was a human boy. While he was no expert on the race, particularly their young, he would have guessed the boy was perhaps twelve years old. He was dressed in the simple cloth garments that seemed common in the villages of Tylmerande. Land-locked, and without farmland or forest, the inhabitants were craftspeople of the low variety, brought even lower by having to travel to bring back the components of their wares. Their travel left them in need of a guide, and Lioren had become familiar with the villagers while in their employ, trucking back and forth to Underwood to trade.

Crouched in the knotted roots of a massive tree, shrouded in shadow, the woodland Fae might as well have been invisible. The human boy had tromped right past him without taking notice, and then stopped to consult what looked to be a poorly drawn map before exhaling in a huff of frustration. He was obviously lost, and obviously not a threat. Lioren slipped silently from the shadows, rising with the effortless grace so common to his folk, and moved to offer his assistance.

He winced when he remembered how averse humans were to surprise. He knew that the boy was surprised because he gave out a shrill, anguished shriek. Of course, Lioran should have seen that coming. Even with a Fae presence in Concordia, most he encountered beheld his pale green skin and his moss-and-leaf “hair” and assumed he was some sort of forest spirit. Clearly, judging by the fact the screaming had not yet stopped, the boy labored under a similar misapprehension.

“No, no, I am a friend!” He held his empty hands out, palm up. His voice had a soothing, sonorous quality to it, and the boy was silent at once. He inspected Lioran all over, slowly and thoroughly. The child set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, but said nothing and otherwise moved not at all.

Lioran took that as an invitation to come a bit closer. “You are lost? What is your name? I am Lioran.” He tried on a beaming smile and kept his hands splayed to dispel any threat his wild appearance might evoke. “Where are you from?”

It only took a few more seconds of mulling before the boy opened up. “I'm from Tawnby, and I can't go home yet, I still need to find a blood crocus. And I'm not going to tell a faerie my name, because you'll just steal it and then make me bargain to get it back!”

It was Lioran's turn to be stunned. Tawnby had not struck him as a particularly learned dot on the map as he'd passed through it, so the fact that the boy had identified him was odd. “I do not need your name, as I have my own, and it is a very excellent name. Surely much better than yours.” He grinned, and lifted his arm to point at a bush that stood beside the boy. “That is a blood crocus, I am sure of it.”

The child rolled his eyes, evincing the sort of scorn that only the young can show their elders. “That can't be a blood crocus, stupid. Blood crocuses are big red flowers. My father dyes cloth.”

With the same easy grace he'd exhibited in leaving his hiding place, the fae crossed the small clearing and stood beside the bush he'd indicated. “In the late summer, they will be big red flowers, yes. But now it is spring.” He arched a mossy eyebrow at the lad. “Surely your father told you this?”

The boy's mouth fell open to reply, but no sound came out. Lioren had reached out and gently grasped the stalk of one of the slumbering flowers. The boys eues widened commensurately as he watched the bud splay open, unfurling lush and lurid crimson petals. The magic invoked was primal, but not very taxing, and before a moment had passed it was as if a season had done so for the flower. The Fae plucked it deftly and offered it to the boy, whose mouth was still gaping as he accepted it.

His hand fell to the boy's chestnut colored hair and tousled it. “Now, my young friend who is so afraid for his name, let us get you home.”

* * *

Some months later, Lioren had occasion to visit Tawnby in order to deliver a message from a ranger to his mother. It was a favor rather than a fare, as the ranger had once been helpful to him when a group of loggers had reacted poorly to his presence near their camp.

He was just about to slip back into the forest along a favorite path when he heard the sounds of shouting. The voices belonged to children, so the adults nearby paid it no mind, but ever-curious-Lioren could not help but want to investigate. There was not much to Tawnby, with its small lodgings and clear streets, so finding the source of the disturbance proved no challenge.

Near the edge of the wood, a group of boys appeared to be playing a game. Five larger ones, all dressed in the same rough-spun stuff as their fellows, had what looked like a piece of parchment crumpled into a ball. They were tossing it to one another as a smaller boy jumped up and down, producing most of the shouting that rang about the village. He was clawing at the air as he hopped, striving to catch the object of the game.

Lioren blinked as he drew nearer. He recognized the boy in the middle, and recognized that his cheeks were streaked with tears. Ill-versed as he was in human children, he rapidly came to the conclusion that this was no game.

One of the bigger boys noticed Lioren's approach and nodded to the others. The lot of them stopped and regarded him warily. “What d'you want?” The biggest of them had spoken. Lioren had some difficulty telling humans apart at the best of times, but there was some resemblance between the leader and the younger boy, mostly in their small noses and ears.

“I want to play,” he said, but did not smile. He used Silvas's voice as he remembered it, and it was often remarked how much colder his twin was than him. Coupled with his exotic accent and appearance, he was sure even a pale imitation of the brother he had come so far to find would prove sufficient to scare off a few human whelps. “Please. Throw it to me.”

There was an uncertain moment during which the boys conferred amongst one another silently, their eyes moving to each other and then to the strange, imposing figure who had interrupted what Lioren was quite sure at this point was bullying. The youngest human watched it all in silence, save for a few sniffles, and did his best to wipe the tears from his face.

“Fine, you can have it. S'not as if it's any good anyway.” The leader gave the ball one final, harsh crumple and then hurled it toward Lioren's face with all his strength. The missile was not at all dangerous, and the willowy Fae caught it easily. While he was distracted, the bigger boy wheeled and gave the smallest a hearty shove that sent him sprawling to the ground. “You should learn how to do somethin' worth doin', you little priss.” With that, as if it were some agreed upon signal, the lot of then took off at a run toward the village, piping similar insults over their shoulders all the way.

Lioren moved toward the fallen boy and offered him a hand up.

“It's you. The flower fairy.” The boy hoisted himself to his feet with the fae's help.

“Lioren,” he reminded the boy gently as he offered him the crumpled parchment. The boy accepted it, still sniffling. With his brow creased in worry, he began undoing the many erratic folds that the older boys' sport had inflicted on it. Relief flooded his young features.

“They didn't ruin it.” He turned it so that Lioren could see.

It was a painting, of sorts. Mysterious greens and grays and browns shrouded most of the background, but the center was dominated by the lush, lurid likeness of a blood crocus. It was not entirely realistic, but the boy had managed to capture something about the hidden beauty of the forest with his rough strokes. Lioren found himself momentarily wordless, looking between the painting and the painter. Before he could think of anything to say, the boy's features crumpled just as his work had, and he began to sob.

“My brother h-h-hates me, he hates that I like to d-d-draw.” The painting fluttered to the ground. Lioren suddenly found himself entangled in the embrace of a very upset human child. “Father hates it too, he s-s-says there's no money in it, t-that if I'm so, so in love with f-flowers I should pick them for d-d-dyes...”

For a moment, Lioren had been unsure what to do. A white-hot wire of rage had begun uncoiling in his stomach when he realized what those older boys, what this boy's family was doing to the poor child. He would never understand humans, not if this was the way they treated one another. His own path through life had not been what his parents would have chosen for him, but rather than tearing him down, they had built him up. Silvas had been more inclined to continue their work, but they had only offered Lioren more support, since his journey was so much more unsure. Even when he had left them to search for Silvas, he knew that they loved him.

His arm slipped around the boy to return the embrace, and he whispered. There was no denying the tremor of anger that threatened to tumble him into shouting. It was vibrating through his entire form.

“You have a gift. What you see as hatred is only jealousy. They hurt you because you do what they can't. They see a future for you that they do not see for themselves. They will live out their whole lives in this small village, but you don't have to. You can do whatever you want. No one has told you that, so I am. They want to make you like them, because by being unlike them, you remind them of how little they dare to dream. They will try to take it from you, but you must hold fast to it.”

He pulled away, leaving his hands on either of the boy's shoulders and looking into his eyes. “Do you understand?”

The boy looked numb. He swallowed, and then he nodded. Very slowly, a smile bloomed on his lips. It was a small smile, unsure, but a smile nonetheless. Lioran stooped to pick up the painting from where it had fallen, and offered it to the boy. He shook his head though. “No, you keep it,” he said quietly, almost on the verge of tears again. “I'm going to paint a lot more.”

* * *

It wasn't until he'd made camp for the evening, miles from Tawnby, that Lioren looked upon the painting again. With his vulnerabilities, he couldn't abide a campfire, but the night was clear, and by starlight he could drink in enough of the details to smile appreciatively. If anything, the darkness only served to heighten the fragile, secluded beauty that the boy had captured.

His brow knit as he noticed something he hadn't seen before. The bottom right corner of the parchment was still creased, but showed a spot of brightness against the murky colors of the painting's background.

When he unfolded it, he found, scrawled in a child's hand using the same vivid yellow that described the stamen of the blood crocus, three signatory letters:

"SAM"

[Mutant_Lorenor]

It started like all things start.

With a humble dream...though Lorenor lost sight of the dream a long time ago.

Now there was a new set of dreams...ever since Sei Orlouge took him in and he'd undergone reformation with Ixian Knights, Lorenor was different.

Once...he'd been called a Tyrant, a King, a servant of N'Jal. Since the other Forsaken had betrayed Lorenor and his companions, Lorenor was lost. Reformation gave him a new sense of purpose. And the visions that courses in his old mind...a warning. The beginning was as all things began. Lorenor awoke in a ruined structure. The structure itself was an old castle with familiar markings and emblems. They were markings and sigils of a faction that no longer existed. A relic of a forgotten age. Lorenor stood up, stripped of his old mantles. Reformation was complete. Lorenor had transformed into something else entirely, no longer Spider Magi...but still Undead. The visions he carried in his head were a hint of things that could come to pass. Lorenor looked up at the old stone walls of the ancient castle. They still held burnt tapestries emblazoned with the marks of Ixian Knights. A faction that no longer existed...a leader that was no longer with them.

A friend that was lost.

Lorenor recalled the words of Sei Orlouge...they echoed in his mind. Resonated with him in that new situation. A cold and unforgiving world....he represented a message of hope. Lorenor made his way through the ruins of the ancient castle. His glowing blue eyes shone brilliantly in the dark. He found his gear as he made his way through the old castle. His sword, and his stalwart faith in the cause of the lost faction. The fellow represented all that was left of that forgotten age....or so he thought. As he stepped out of the old and abandoned castle, the mutant looked up. Stars greeted his lonely existence, and at least the constellations were the same. Just their positions in the night sky were different since Althanas had moved across space across the ocean of ages. Lorenor saw a campfire up ahead and heard voices. The voices themselves were not familiar to him. Lorenor carefully made his way towards the camp.

As he saw the embers from the campfire, Lorenor smelled a very familiar scent.

Smoke rose up from the campfire and the voices got louder as Lorenor approached the camp.

There were several figures surrounding the warmth of the fire.

Lorenor immediately knew what he was looking at.

They were Spider Magi...by how many generations? Lorenor had no way of knowing. He approached the undead adventurers, they were young by their appearance but not teens in age. They were either pure Undead or recently turned.

One of the fellows spotted Lorenor's approach.

"Simon, look what approaches." A man said to his companions.

"These old ruins...they contain ghosts of the past. The Elder was right that our patrol would encounter something." Another said calmly.

A third looked in Lorenor's general direction. "I've not seen your kind before. Your eyes...they have a strange glow about them."

"Memon, are you okay? You seem disturbed by it." Simon said.

There were six Undead gathered near the campfire, with presumably more nearby.

Lorenor kept a cautious distance from them. There is no way of knowing how much time has passed...what year...nothing...only the positions of the stars to guide me. Lorenor looked at Memon, Simon and the third Unead whose name he did not yet know. Lorenor looked at the campfire, it generated a lot of warmth. Embers crackled upwards. "You are followers of N'Jal are you not?" Lorenor boldly asked of the gathered. Their attire bore N'Jal runes.

Simon looked at Memon carefully. Memon was clearly their leader. "Memon, it knows who we are."

Memon sighed. "The Prophet told me this would happen. I just didn't believe it until just now...The Prophet warned me of you." Memon put down what he was working on and stood up. "You carry a Message of some sort do you not?" Memon suddenly asked, his tone taking a much harsher pitch.

Lorenor suddenly recalled the very reason he was there. I am carrying a vision of the future... Lorenor focused on his entier purpose that night. He reached forward towards the Undead named Memon. Their leader, and touched the side of his head.

"I bring a warning." Lorenor suddenly said. "The Prophets of Apocalypse are not your friends. They will bring about....Ragnarok. The end of All." The memories in Loernor's head passed into the mind of Memon. Memon, showed a surprising amount of endurance and did not buckle under the weight of prophecy.

Memon suddenly smacked Lorenor's hand away. "Messenger. Your warning has fallen on deaf ears....Simon."

Simon rose from his sitting position and looked from Lorenor to Memon. "Yes My Lord Memon?"

"Who do you serve?" Memon suddenly asked.

The Undead that were gathered responded in unison. "N'Jal!"

Memon then looked at Lorenor. "Your luck is ill, friend. My companions and myself are followers of N'Jal. The vision you have shared with me is probably one of many of the Dark Lady's possible outcomes. Our Champions are working to bring such a possible future to pass:" Memon continued. "Why would we want to prevent this future from occurring if we are followers of N'Jal? Answer me!"

A lot of thoughts passed through Lorenor's mind at that point. Lorenor knew that he was once a Spider Magi as they were. I have to be careful here. I was once like them...worse than them maybe. I drew unwanted attention for our kind...

"I have come with that message. You are free to do with it what you will. I am merely a Messenger." He continued from there. "I am merely here to provide the warning. Do with it what you will." Lorenor prepared to take his leave of the situation. They were Spider Magi, but they were once allies. Lorenor prepared to leave but Memon spoke.

"You are in direct opposition to The Dark Lady. Simon, Elldryth. Destroy the creature before us in the name of N'Jal." Memon ordered of his companions.

Lorenor looked at the Undead and sighed heavily. "I am sorry that it must come down to this. You do not have to follow N'Jal. There is another way."

"There is no other choice. We have made our decisioni to serve N'Jal. Who are you to question our ways?"

Simon was already approaching Lorenor, armed with a broadsword that had a dark glow about it.

"Who I am does not matter." Lorenor looked at Simon. That Sword is an N'Jallian weapon. Similar to the ones I used to wield... Lorenor shook his head. "The choice has been made then." Lorenor suddenly began to glow with an intense light. "By Light be judged!"

And so...it began with a word.

[Fez_The_Kid]

A blanket of cloud, gray and condensed with moisture, hung against the firmament. An invisible sun marked its presence as a light stain against the natural barrier. Stubborn wind howled across leafy hills, throwing up sprinkles of green-- the protest of hardwood birches against the stripping force. Next to the shrubbery two roads cut one another like a cross, paths trodden by mounted passers-by. Anubis shifted in his saddle, carefully guiding his mare up the hill. Distant laughter filled the air.

“What’s that about?” he muttered. “Won’t hurt to check out the fun.”

A group of people were armed with rusty pitchforks and flails, centering a man reclining on a blood-smeared spot. His blood, most likely. The injured man’s face cleared up - weathered under a mask of grimaces. The men about him wore rags for clothes, stained by dirt and months-old blood stains. Peasants, Anubis reckoned. Man clearly not made friends with them.

Anubis’ mount hesitated; its neck muscles twitched under its skin, ears perked back in response to the scene. She’s spooked. Best lead her over there instead. The swordsman dismounted, held the beast by its reins and guided it over to the gathering. The wounded bloke had noticed his arrival, his gaze studying him in mixed expressions. Heads turned and bore their eyes into the same subject. He approached. “What’d he do to you?”

“Nothing!” the man cried. “I-I entered their village - in peace, I swear on me life - I--”

“Shut your trap,” one peasant leaning on a pitchfork cut in, hand cuffing the man on his head. “What’s it to you, vagrant?”

“Asked you a question,” Anubis said bluntly, a subtle snarl behind his tone. He said, folding his arms, “Answer it.”

The peasant furrowed his brows, eyeing his comrades. After a pause, he decided, “Wretch appeared in our village, wanted to trade his sword for a morsel of meat.”

“So what?”

“Oh nothin’, except a fortnight ago he and his group came down on our village - stole our goods, murdered some of us and,” he paused, “ploughed our women.” He gestured with his head, “This bastard was among them."

Anubis scrutinized the man. Something in his narrowed eyes and grimaced features screamed, “Help me.”

“So, we took his sword. Don’t think he got that morsel in return though.” The man tittered, then, “Instead of givin’ ‘im meat, we’ll give ‘im a noose,” the peasant decided, nodding to his comrades. Two flanked the wounded man, forcing him to his feet. They wrapped the loop about his neck, pulling in the knot tightly. Their swiftness and thrill while performing the actions vaguely reminded the Salvarian of rot-eating ghouls. Maybe not that close in appearance, but they sure act like them when they stumble upon a mass grave.

“Wait,” Anubis interrupted. Peasant eyes fell on the swordsman with disdain. “Let him talk. I wanna hear him first.”

The peasant leader hesitated, furrowed his brows. “Fine.”

“Talk,” Anubis said, addressed the to-be-hung man.

“M-my group - I abandoned them! I done nothing, swear it on me life! All I want is a peaceful life with me wife and daughter! Have some mercy, good folk. I beg ye!” the bandit cried.

“He promises to have changed, to stop his raids.” A pause followed, a pending exchange of cold stares. Anubis let his arms dangle at his sides. “He doesn't deserve to die.”

“So do our people?!” the leader questioned, fuming over the swordsman. “Did they deserve to die?!”

“No, that's not justified either - but he didn’t do it. No more blood needs to be spilled. I have an idea. Let him go, but if you see him near your village again, do what you want with him.”

The peasant leader’s silence meant mute consideration, turning to his kinsmen for counsel. They all shook their heads, solid rejection of Anubis’ proposal. “Sorry, but he ‘as to die,” he decided.

Anubis frowned. “Can't--won't let this happen. And I recommend you don't stand in my way.”

“Then it'll be the both of you--” Anubis’ eye traveled and studied each peasant within the interval, then, “Kill ‘im, lads!”

Pitchforks, flails and other instruments belonging to the mob glared in Anubis’ face, who watched the group with a scornful glare. “Mistake.”

The Salvarian’s blade hissed in its sheath, drawn to glare at the aggressive mob to outclass all their weapons. The peasantry charged. One at a time, each man who neared him he cut down. One life lost, then two, then three, then seven. Blood ran rampant at the spot, staining his jerkin red.

Anubis’ mare reared, neighing its displeasure.

The leader was the last one standing. He wheezed furiously, face saturated with rage. Axe in hand, he charged Anubis, a warcry outing as if rushing toward a rumbling battlefront. The swordsman cursed, ducked underneath the weapon and swung his sword inward. Anubis staggered, boots tramping the red-stained grass as he puffed. Behind him the leader’s body stood motionless. Headless. The head rolled a few feet, halted at the bandit’s foot. The leader's corpse hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Dammit, the Salvarian thought. All unnecessary deaths… for one life.

Anubis turned to the bandit, sheathing his weapon. The man had been watching with a frightened, albeit somewhat victorious glare. “You alright?”

“A-aye…” The bandit stared down the bodies, almost in regret. “Why? Why’d you help me?”

“Couldn't just watch as they hung you.” A pause followed. “If I had not come, only one man would have died. Tell me, though - why the hell would you return to the village your group had attacked two weeks before?”

The man’s face folded in a frown, eyes on the ground. “Honest? I forgot,” was his blunt answer.

Anubis sighed. “Really going back to your family?”

“Aye. Back to me wife and child, haven’t even seen her yet.” he said. “If you had not come…”

“Save it,” Anubis said. “Better to make it home in one piece.”

“Thank ye, sir.” The bandit said. Thunder boomed in the distance.

“Well, you'll need to wrap that with something,” the Salvarian suggested, gestured toward the gash in the man’s thigh. “If you’re intent on seeing your child.” The first drops of rain drizzled on the leaves above them, the oak tree’s. Would have been your grave if I had not come.

“Aye, figured as much.” Nodding to the Salvarian, he said, “Fare thee well, and may fortune smile upon you.” The man turned, legging it up the northern road. So much for trying to do good, Anubis thought.

“So long,” he said bluntly, approaching his mare. Still, it was the lesser evil.

[Ayithe Solete]

Diary Day 473

They came in again today... No. Correction - he came in again today. It's gotten so frequent lately that I hardly feel the urge to go to work anymore.

I don't see why they have to treat me with such disdain. It's never going to change, not while he's here instigating the entire thing. I hate him. I hate his smug smile and the way he constantly degrades me with literally everything that leaves his mouth, and then they laugh... and then they laugh...

Something changed, though. For the first time, something really changed. Let me explain...

There I sat, as I do every day from morning till the afternoon. Looking after my mother's shop while she locates further stock. My usual and favourite round wooden stool propping me up above the counter so that I sit in clear view of the entrance. I can hear the laughing and chatter long before I hear their footsteps clunk along the wooden porch and then they enter. He walked in first, like he always does, displaying that swagger that appeals to all of the girls, but not me. He'd recently had a haircut and shave - his short greasy black hair slicked up so it appeared almost spiked. He grinned at me and approached immediately. Ignoring all the bottled herbs and spices along the wall as his chainmail and plated armour clinked with each step, he marched up into my face.

"Afternoon, Lea." He tipped his head as if to be courteous, but he couldn't hide his sarcasm from me.

They were already giggling behind him as if they had something pre-planned to belittle me. I felt myself frown in a shy manner, my eyes falling to the counter as I did. I couldn't shake the smell of sweat and dirt that emanated from them all. They were fresh from sparring and full of adrenalin so I knew instantly that they would be out of control. I looked over my shoulder to the back door. The no entry wording painted over the door, but I knew it really meant I was alone.

"I was walking home last night and overheard a rumour." His voice almost croaked as he tried to hold in his own laugh.

I regretfully answered, "what did you hear?"

"Apparently, you fucked up my sisters order the other day." His grin turned into a stern stare that I couldn't meet. I turned away only to feel his strong hand grip my arm just beneath the shoulder. "I don't think that's funny... Do you?"

"No..." I hesitantly answered, trying to hide my face from his as he pulled me over the counter, and then held me there with his fingers so tight it made me want to scream. His eyes stared with a deep intensity, locking onto me like a hawk to its prey. I was nothing to him, and his group continued to watch and chuckle as they watched.

"Did you forget who my family is? Did you forget the importance of..." He stopped suddenly as if interrupted.

"Come on, Dier." A soft female voice spoke to him. "There are more important things to do today."

I raised my head a little, just enough to see what was going on but still keeping my eye contact away from his. That's when I saw her. The shapely blonde haired and blue eyed vixen that lately seemed to hold his attention like nothing else. I'm pretty sure most of the girls here had slept with him, but this girl was new to town and now his new target. He had tried to force himself on me once, if not for my father I think I'd just be another name on his list.

"This bitch doesn't learn... She needs another lesson," he clenched his fist and I cowered instantly, unable to escape his firm grasp of my arm.

"Come on, this is boring," she ushered him to leave with a tug. Then, she glanced at me, only for a second, but I saw it. While everyone else stared at me with disdain and mockery, she did not. The look that she held for a moment was full of displeasure and concern.

"Alright," he smiled at her and released his grip, he wouldn't want to upset his new interest. Then he turned to me as I slid back to my stool. "But you disrespect my family again, and I'll use your tits as punching bags."

I didn't move. I never move until they leave. Thankfully, she took them away, glancing back one final time. Maybe it was pity, but I know she's not really like the rest of them. She looked tough, she was toned and armed and definitely a fighter like the rest, but underneath, she was more human than the rest of those pigs.




Diary Day 474

I found out her name today – Ayithe. I heard one of them call her name when she ushered them to leave me alone. I heard her say it, not even a whisper, an actual comment that they listened to.

I smiled at her but they shouted at me... As they always do. Dare I even suggest happiness? Then they kicked some dirt in my face and laughed as they turned back down the street.

I hate my life right now…

The dirt crammed up my nails and the tiny stones dug into my knees. I cannot express the pain of tiny stones into your knees, it's beyond agonising. So as I knocked the dirt off me and looked back at them, my face grimaced like a disgruntled child. At least I could listen to her conversation - an Angel amongst Demons.

”Why did you even do that?” I heard Ayithe ask as they walked away, her face was visibly upset as she glanced in my direction.

“Why not? Bitch is constantly in my way,” I hated his answer like I hated everything about that smug face. Though I could tell he was trying not to upset her. "Bitches get what they deserve. I wouldn't do that towards anyone else."

Am I really that bad? Must I be so bad that I'm the only person in this world that deserves this treatment? I can feel my hands shaking and my eyes flood with tears which quickly disperse down my sore cheeks. He makes me feel so bad I forget what the point of being alive is.

No one is coming to my aid...

I must be that bad...





Diary Day 477

I feel abused by feelings but in a strange way, I feel like I love her. As the time continues and the days go by I am hurt and enraged by the way that people treat me, and yet she seems unable to not smile in my direction.

I can't seem to find a chance to be alone with her and truly get to know her. I feel like if I could make friends that everything would be okay. She's the only light I see in this darkness of life and I want to touch it.

I want her or I need her, I'm not too sure yet. I have these feelings but I don't really know how to explain them. I need to control my thoughts and feelings that dwell inside. I know that much. Because if I'm completely honest... I don't know what I'd do if I truly let my feelings go.

I must be that bad...

Wiping the blood from my diary I feel it's the first real entry of my life. This red stain that will now mark the paper forever is my blood. It's the sad truth that I continue to cover up from the rest of the world, but this mark, this gash on my right cheek that stings every time I cry, I cannot hide this. My secret is out into the world.

I felt the greatest relief when he left the shop and yet I'm crying. I cannot stop and I don't know who I can go to for help. I think I'll sit here for a bit, resting my head against my stool behind the counter, hidden from view with my legs almost crippled by emotion. This isn't comfortable, but I don't want to move.

I think I'll stay here and if a customer comes in I'll pretend I'm gone. The shops quiet today anyway.




Diary Day 479

I saw her for the first time alone today. I wish I had spoken to her...
Though, I probably shouldn't be surprised...

She stood in the doorway, never coming inside and not uttering a single word. I really wanted her to, I really needed her to, but in this moment as her shocked face gasped at my gashed cheek she failed to answer my silent call for help. I must have only been a couple of seconds, but it felt like an eternity as we watched one another. Her hand covered her gaping mouth that has gasped in surprise. Her caring blue eyes looked sore, like she wanted to cry, like the sight of me reminded her that she was now dating a man who abused another for his own personal amusement.

I brushed back my long black hair, rustled and tired I hadn't washed since yesterday, but I didn't care anymore. What was the point in me trying to look reasonable when I would be ruined by the end of the day. She looked away as if in deep thought, her blonde strands swaying across her as the tame breeze blew into the shop.

The wind chimes rang and the door lightly swung with a small thud against the wall, and then she looked back at me. I think she was going to say something, but for some reason, she turned away and left the entrance to the shop. Was she horrified by what he had done? I hoped so.

I wandered over to the shelves by the door and adjusted a few of the labelled herbs. I didn't want the wind blowing them to the floor, but in truth, that was an excuse as I just wanted to watch where she was going. When I peered out of the doorway I could see her walk had turned into a dash, her leather attire, some sort of red skinned creature I hadn't heard of before, made her stand out amongst the locals. She didn't wear the heavy armour of her colleagues, but I heard she was a skilled fighter.

Why exactly did she sprint off?





Dairy Day 480

I used to recognise myself when I looked in the mirror, but I guess it's funny how reflections can change over time or even a day.

I don't know where I'm going to go, after today... Today, today started with yesterday. Let me explain what came of it...

Today was just like yesterday, with me sitting in silence upon my little stool staring out of the small window of the family shop as the bright sun illuminated the sky. It's glow often sparked tiny rainbows that reflected off the bottles and onto the floor. I counted them once, thirty-two rainbows.

I hadn't seen a customer in a short while, nor had been visited by that knob head of a man. So as I heard a limping walk approach the door I felt myself sit upright. The light tap followed by a heavy thud, I imagined an old man with a limp, so I was shocked to see who walked in through the open door.

She leant against the doorframe, her attire torn in various places, her hair askew and distressed, her cheeks red and bruised and her stomach appeared in a similar tortured fashion. I shot upright to my feet and stepped back as if to retreat. I was afraid who else was going to come through that door and my heart raced into action as the thought of running crossed my mind.

Her small singular plat that covered her face was the only part of her that looked untouched, and as she raised her head to look at me I could have cried a thousand tears. She had been badly beaten and her right leg limped as she approached the counter to use as a rest. I hurried my stool around and placed it under her bum.

My breathing was almost as heavy as hers, but not filled with the same pain that she physically had endured.

"Hang on," I searched the nearest rack of bottles to find a Fennelin - A strong pain relief. I'll give you something to help with the pain."

"He won't... touch you... never again." Her voice trembled and croaked as she held back her pain.

I turned to her confused, "what do you mean?" She had clearly just been beaten silly by him, at least I could help her.

"He won't. I made sure of it."

I placed the Fennelin next to the mortar and pestle on the counter, we always had plenty of these. She had my entire attention, but it would only take a moment to grind this up with some water and then help her ease the pain. "He's a real knob head and I'm sorry he did this to you too. I wish I had said something.." I felt myself begin to rant, only to be stopped by her steady hand that rested on mine.

"No. I confronted him and he attacked me. He tried to force himself on me, but he failed."

She smiled at me in that caring way - she still looked lovely even beneath the bruises.

She turned her wrist and unclipped her large braces that covered her forearm, I had always thought they were for defence, and a spray of blood seemed to dry stain on the metal. Then she flicked a small switch, and a blade flicked out in a frightening fashion. I jumped but didn't step back, I felt I really trusted her even if this was the first time I had ever spoken to her. Our eyes met after the release of the blade and I knew exactly what had happened. I didn't need to ask, but a surge of excitement flew through me, my arms tingled and my heart raced and I just wanted to hug her better.

"You didn't deserve that," she wiped a tear from her sore eyes. "You didn't deserve anything. He was an awful person."

"Thank you."

I mustn't be that bad after all...

[Three]

^_^ . o O (( incredibly short profile explains my st00pid character ))

Three's essence emerged from a conduit hidden to the existing world. From cerulean heights, this being rode the wind's dust with timeless detachment towards its destination.

Meatlessly vaporous of an invisible sort, Three watched through a window it couldn't touch. A screened window in the Deep South. The thin mesh of the screen was broken in places. En masse, moths had fluttered into a webbed mausoleum of spidery making. Every night for years, they came. And every day for years, nobody cleaned the fucking window. Nor were the weeds discouraged, the fucking ivy was never cut back and it wanted the whole house for a ruinous rural wreck. Tickled by the old-woman-who-swallowed-a-fly-ness of it all, Three swooned at the dainty delight of a little songbird pushing through one of the larger holes to feast on the muy gordo spiders. Inside the window was a rotten kitchen sink.

Three fled the yellowed panes of the window and slipped between the ears of a sweet local lady who was approaching the house. The young woman was blessed with the innocence of a milky complexion hued blue by the scandal of her great grandparents' cousin loving marriage. Jennifer's hair was Germanic white and her eyes were Germanic blue. She was clambering up the loose brick steps of her dilapidated abode while thumbing the cracked glass of her insufficient data plan device. The overdue notices from AT&T stuffed tight at the back of her mailbox. Paid for or not, the self-important pish posh of Twitter tweets comprised a fleeting sort of entertainment.

Smarting from a little shard of her screen's glass cutting her thumb, she opened the door and tossed her phone onto the long unused kitchen stove. It tumbled into the rest of the trash obscuring the still connected gas burners. The appliance had degenerated into a storage spot for whatever took her fancy. If it wasn't for the fire hazard, maybe a Caucasian or two would re-pin it as a delightful upcycle! From there she turned to the sink that Three had watched from the window.

"These stink, Jesus fucking Christ."

At the top of the pile of dishes was a small plate caked with Sweet Baby Ray's Barbecue Sauce. It had dried on. When it dries on it's an inconvenience to scrub off. Jen pushed that plate to the side. The next one was the same. Another one rested under that. Four, five and six dishes down was the same. She enraged.

"They need to fucking rinse off the fucking plates when the fucking shit is fucking not fucking dry. And they need to put the shit directly into the fucking dishwasher!!!"

Jennifer's tight tendons clenched at a trash bag. She flung every single dish from the sink into plasticy blackness and threw the whole disgusting lot out the door and into the driveway. Her bother, her father and her teenage son--all residents at County Road 1308's worst "house"--had shit on her for the last time.