Finals: Les Miserables

[Les Misérables]

The circle of bayonets tightened menacingly, but A’lia refused to budge, protecting Phyr with her body. Between her paws she clutched the Thunderbox. In the moonlight, the artifact looked metallic, and yet somehow natural. It bore many runes along its angled edges that did not seem engraved so much as grown. It pulsated with a tangible energy the moment the catwoman touched it, as if responding to the pads of her paws.

One of the musketeers said something in Orian, a string of strange words and clicking sounds.

“Perhaps,” A’lia clicked back, “then you may take him as a prisoner. But do him no harm. And first… let us see if the legends are true.”

Somewhere at the edge of his mind, Phyr realized that A’lia was not speaking common after all… that somehow, he was simply able to understand her.

Still pinning Sa’resh, A’lia placed the Thunderbox on his chest and touched it with both paws, as if laying them over the keys of a piano. She played the runes like a musician plays a melody, and for each symbol she caressed Phyr felt a flood of energy from the box. Sweat soaked his shirt and beaded down his temples. Phyr was not especially fond of magic in any form, but he knew any movement would tempt his death.

Suddenly A’lia raised her arms, and lightning rose from the Thunderbox to stab at the skies. It broke apart the undulating auroras it touched, changing their colors and sending them shimmering in all directions. As the brilliance of the lightning faded, a soft glow emanated from the artifact. It expanded upwards and outwards until it encompassed the entire clearing between the forest and the southern wall of Meno.

The broken auroras arced toward its radiance like moths to a flame. They slithered and shimmied through the air, a rainbow of wavy energy. They sank into the Thunderbox, passing by Phyr’s very eyes, close enough for him to imagine he heard whispers from the ethereal essences. It seemed to last forever, but then suddenly the light faded and A’lia slumped forward. She lay nose to nose with the dark elf, the artifact pressed between them.

“I will see you free,” she whispered, “I swear it.”

Strong paws pulled her away. A storm of musket butts battered Phyr into a ball. He tried to protect his head with his lone arm but one of the Orians struck a solid blow to his temple and his consciousness wavered. Clawed hand-paws pulled him upright and forcibly marched him toward the breached gates. His eyes fluttered, but Phyr no longer saw any auroras in the area.

So it does more than make lightning after all.

Phyr’s feet dragged as the cat folk carried him through the ranks of musketeers and cannons guarding the broken gate. They bore him along roads so finely cobbled they seemed as smooth as cement, into a great stone building with vaulted blue doors, and down to a damp dungeon where they dumped him in a cell.

Sa’resh lay on a pile of straw as they slammed the heavy ironbound door, trying to ignore the bruises and contusions that covered his body, in particular the nasty knot that throbbed on his temple. He calmed his breathing as best he could, inhaling the stale, musty air. In that moment, he lived, and little else truly mattered.

How long before these cats decide to torture the Scourge of the Silver Furs for information? Or for sport?

Closing his eyes, Phyr drove away the panicked thoughts. He imagined himself back in Serenti, sitting on the back porch of the baron’s manor house in the sunlight, smoking a pipe in Edim’s honor. He could stay on that porch for as long as they kept him in the cell, and would keep the pipe blazing so long as he remained a prisoner.

[Les Misérables]

Time passed like molasses dripping down a spoon. Phyr ignored the hunger and thirst that gnawed at his insides and dried his throat. He made peace with the many superficial wounds inflicted by the Orian muskets. He even grew accustomed to the heavy, stale air. In his mind, he smelled the freshness of the orchard behind Baron Marwena’s manor. He still sat on that porch, smoking his pipe in peace.

The cell’s heavy door groaned open, and Sa’resh centered himself within his vision. If they were to torture him, he would need to fix his mind on something-

“Phyr?” A’lia whispered in the darkness. Her soft voice brought the elf out of his trance, suddenly acutely aware of the straw poking into his battered back.

“I live,” he said, “though I confess, your soldiers nearly killed me.”

A blue glow sprang up, dancing like fire above the catwoman’s paw. It provided just enough radiance for the him to make out her face in the gloom.

“Your fate will be decided by a special military tribunal,” she said, droopy whiskers shining in the light. “I will plead your case on your behalf. I am hopeful. You acted bravely, Captain Sa’resh. I believe I can convince the tribunal it will be best for everyone if you are spared and sent home.”

“Is it ever brave to stab a man in the back?” Phyr mused. “I thank you for your efforts, but I am less hopeful. I may not have a home to return to. Surely some of my troops escaped?” It did not occur to him to tell her he was no captain.

A’lia nodded and prowled back and forth pensively. “A significant number retreated successfully to their ships and sailed away. Our scouts report no living Coronians left on Oria, save for you and a handful of other prisoners taken in the battle. They will be tor-”

“No,” Phyr interrupted, “you must tie their fates to mine. I refuse to be released while my men are held and harmed.”

“I… can ask for that.” A’lia said, “but it may weaken my case.”

“To me, it will make little difference.” Phyr predicted. “If I return to Corone I will be branded a war criminal, more likely than not. Surely someone saw me stab Fordstein.”

“Someone did,” A’lia reminded him, “and I did not see anyone else. But if you truly believe this… perhaps I could arrange for you to stay in Oria.”

“The Scourge of the Silver Furs, living among them,” Phyr snorted, “I don’t think that would work. I’d rather go on the run again, somewhere in the northlands.”

“Yes… you are not new to imprisonment.” The catwoman sat beside the dark elf on the straw and allowed her light to vanish. “Tell me more of the tale of Phyr Sa’resh.”

“It is not a happy one,” he said warningly, but he welcomed the company. Making conversation with A’lia was far more calming than sitting in silence with the ghosts in his head.

“Following my military training in Alerar, I spent thirty years in a Salvic prison on false charges of treason. I escaped and evaded the law, making my way to Corone where, after spending some time as a vagrant, I became Captain of the Underwood Watch…”

[Les Misérables]

A’lia stayed and listened to Phyr’s stories for hours. He told her of the wife and happy life he’d had in Alerar, of the plot to frame him for treason, and of the harrowing time spent in the Salvic prison. He regaled her with his tales of escape and evasion, when the lawkeeper Christina Bredith had chased him across Salvar. He spoke of the crossing to Corone, the pitiful life he’d led as a beggar in Radasanth, and the path that had carried him to Underwood where he’d fallen into the position of Captain of the Watch.

The rest of his story, she seemed to already know… how he’d retired from the Watch, and moved to Serenti to work for Baron Marwena. For a time, it seemed as though his adventures were over… until he’d volunteered to oversee an expedition sending aid to the Orian resistance who crashed on the shore near Gisela.

Eventually A’lia had to leave, and Phyr lay alone in the hay, missing the warmth where her body had been. Many ghosts visited him… the memory of Elena, the young woman from Underwood who’d stolen his heart. She’d died with it in her hands, at the mercy of a vampire seeking revenge on Phyr. The pain of Elena’s murder had driven him away from Underwood.

The memory of Leon Mortier came next, the last ranger to die helping Phyr watch over the Thunderbox. The man had given his life in defence of a stranger and a young boy, given it willingly and without question. The ranger reminded him of his duty to Corone, a land that had given him much when he’d had nothing.

The ghost of Terrence Edim lurked in the darkness at the edge of the cell, before finally coming forward. The guardsman from Serenti made Phyr’s heart heavy with guilt. He’d promised his friend that they would end their adventures smoking pipes on Baron Marwena’s porch.

I shall smoke for both of us. Sa’resh settled into his mind, into the imaginings of careless freedom.

Time passed. He slept fitfully and woke often, dry-mouthed and clammy. The ironbound door creaked open, rousing him from one such slumber. A silver cat wearing spectacles and a long white robe entered, flanked by two guards carrying muskets in their blue military uniforms. The guards pinned Phyr with the long barrels of their weapons, and the doctor (at least, he hoped it was a doctor), jabbed him with a long needle.

“What are you doing?” Phyr demanded, “What is… thish…” His words slowed and slurred as the injected substance spread through his veins. His head slumped sideways and his eyes lolled, but remained open. Whatever they’d given him, it was more effective by far than any shackles.

The guards hoisted the dark elf between them easily. His boots dragged on the stone steps as they bore him up out of the dungeon. Sunlight blinded Sa’resh as they carried him outside and threw him in the back of an armored wagon. The doors slammed shut and the heavy lock clicked.

With a great effort, Phyr managed to roll over so that he could see out the barred window at an upward angle. Rotting vegetables struck the bars and bounced off the ironbound walls. Shrieks and hisses followed the spinning wheels as a pair of horses pulled the wagon out of the city.

We are bound for my execution, Phyr thought, it must be a particularly painful method… why else would they sedate me? He tried not to think about how the cat folk might put enemy commanders to death, but with each rotation of the armored wheels, his feeling of dread increased.

[Les Misérables]

The wagon wheels trundled along and Phyr lay on his back, gazing at the sky through the window bars. Clouds drifted past, and his ability to control his limbs came back gradually. His mind had turned to thoughts of escape when he smelled the salt of sea air.

The dark elf blinked and rolled over, fighting the rubbery feeling in his muscles and rising to his knees. He craned his neck and got the best angle he could out the small window.

As the wagon crested a rise he spotted the masts of the Orian ships, and the watch towers he had so recently taken.

They are taking me to the harbor.

The implications of the information took a moment to make sense in Phyr’s drug-addled mind.

They’re not going to kill me.

Relief washed through Phyr’s body on the heels of the toxin, giving him fresh energy despite his empty belly. He sat up with his back against the wall, listening to the wheels on the dirt road, and the comforting sound of seabirds squawking. The gulls had been curiously absent the day Phyr had landed in the harbor leading Corone’s armies.

The horses slowed and the wagon creaked to a stop. The Orian guards unlocked Phyr and force-marched him down a long dock and onto a corvette which bobbed with the tide. The ship appeared outfitted more for speed than combat, with extra sails and only a few long guns. The snake and eagle banner had been removed, but Phyr recognized it as part of the fleet he had sailed south with. The cat folk walked him to the quarterdeck and left him leaning on the bulwark, still finding his legs after the effects of the sedative.

The door to the aft cabin swung open, and A’lia strode out, wearing a flowing green dress that matched her eyes. Her whiskers had some spring to them, and her ears were turned fully forward.

“It is good to meet you again in the flesh, captain Phyr Sa’resh.” Her paws spread the skirts of her dress in a dainty curtsy.

“Have you been dreaming of me again?” He asked, performing a courtly half-bow with his lone arm tucked around his waist.

“Fighting for you,” the catwoman reminded him. “Tooth and claw.” She gathered his scent. “It was well worth it. You deserve your freedom.”

“How?” Phyr asked. He felt like he was floating away on the breeze.

“I made many arguments in your favour. I spoke of how you intentionally spread your forces thin, and how your hand severed the head of the serpent. I may have inflated your role in bringing us the artifact… the Thunderbox, as you call it.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Does it work?”

“Like a miracle,” A’lia purred, “I began with the capital, and have been cleansing the lands toward the harbor ever since. Already some of the flora and fauna begin to re-emerge. Life is insistent. And so too was I. The men we took prisoner are all below. They shall return to the northlands with you.”

“We?” The dark elf said, “Do you count yourself among the purebreds now?”

“Phyr Sa’resh was not the only important topic of discussion at the tribunal,” A’lia admonished, “I showed the ruling council how the segregation of our people led to the arcane saturation in the first place. It is shaky still, but the groundwork has been laid for progress together. In two or three generations, the term “mixed fur” may no longer be considered an insult.” Her eyes smiled sadly. “And that is something, at the very least.”

A long moment passed as the breeze played between them, and Phyr’s thoughts turned to his future. He looked northward, across the open sea.

“Your mind wishes to take you home,” A’lia sad softly, “and yet a part of me wishes you would stay. Tales will be told of how the Scourge of the Silver Furs nearly conquered Oria, and in doing so united her people.”

“I think I had little enough to do with that,” Phyr chuckled.

“Perhaps,” the catwoman’s eyes gleamed, “but the story is better with you in it.” She reached out a padded paw to touch his cheek, and then nuzzled him swiftly with her wet nose. Although the gesture was foreign and bizarre, Phyr could feel the emotion behind it. A’lia coughed and turned away, paws bunching the fabric of her dress. “Your remaining men should prove a sufficient crew for this ship. You are all free to go home.”

“Home,” Phyr mused, “I’m not sure I have one anymore. The retreated forces will bring word of my betrayal to the barons of Corone. I will be branded a traitor… not for the first time.”

“Perhaps another of the northlands would be more suitable,” A’lia suggested.

“Perhaps.” The wind snatched the word.

“The tide is high,” A’lia pointed out, “you will not find a better time to depart. Farewell, Phyr Sa’resh, and may we meet again.”

“So long, A’lia,” Phyr said, only then realizing he had never learned the catwoman’s surname, or if she had a surname. He watched her dress ripple as she strode off the ship without a backwards glance.

For a time Phyr gazed at the harbor, and then the men joined him on deck. Palmer was among them, still wearing his angled bandana, and stationed himself at Phyr’s right side, ready to assist.

“Mister Palmer,” Sa’resh said, “take her out to sea.”

“Where away, captain?”

A myriad of memories flickered through Phyr’s mind, ending on something Fordstein had said back in his manor house. He’d had Terrence Edim cremated, he’d even shown Phyr the urn. Edim had always wanted his ashes scattered on the pearl shores of Serenti, the city he’d lived in and loved for so long. Phyr had promised him they’d share a pipe on Baron Marwena’s back porch.

“Captain? What heading should we take?” The men raced about the deck, making preparations to cast off.

“Corone,” Phyr said at last, “the port of Gisela.”

[Max Dirks]

Les Miserables

Story- 5/10 (It became clear after your cliché introduction of A’lia that you might have been suffering from some writer’s block. Thereafter, the story was as unassuming as Fordstein’s death. I gave you some respite for your conclusion. Though it seemed almost ripped from the pages of Mockingjay, it was a fitting end for the Scourge of the Silver Furs).
Pacing- 5/10 (The faster pace of writing at the end of the thread did not fit the somber contents of the events it was describing; I suspect this was because you were rushing to finish)
Setting- 6/10 (From the auroras to the arquinta trees, you did a reasonably good job of describing Oria; however, except for a handful of posts, most of the settings, like the harbor slum to Meno, were generic. You also pay a surprising amount of detail to wardrobe, which I appreciate)
Action- 5 (Just another drawn out battle, much like your first thread)
Dialogue- 5/10
Persona- 7/10 (The relationship between Phyr and A’lia was solid, but it lacked the dynamics of some of the other threads. While I appreciated you carrying the theme of the washed up former captain forced into a situation that he didn’t want, the realization he was responsible for his own action was trite. The inclusion of the ghosts was an obvious cry for character points, and they had little relation to the current story)
Mechanics- 9/10 (Mechanically, your thread was the best of the finals. I was only able to find two usage errors and a handful of subject/verb inconsistencies. Nice work)
Technique- 5/10 (You used solid imagery and simile – and some onomatopoeias– but I did not appreciate any advanced literary or narrative techniques in your story)
Clarity- 8/10 (Along with Gum, your thread was the easiest to read. What prevented you from gaining a perfect score here was lack of sentence diversity in several places)
Wildcard- 10/10 (All factors met)

Total - 65/100

Rewards will be added at a later date.

[Rayleigh]

1698 EXP and 182 GP

Rewards added on 4.0.