November Vignette

[hoytti]

Vignette will be open until November 30th, midnight. Rules and guidelines available here.

Okay guys, I'm the new Vignette head as Mordelain retired from it. Here is this months Vignette.

Your character just met his/her worst enemy. How did it happen?

[black shadow]

Training... It seemed that's all Ardon did these days. Some longer than others, and some more challenging. But that's what made the day fun. The challenges his brother Bronark would come up with each day tested his abilities, and forced him to overcome them, or die.

It was noon, and the sun beat down hard on the two of them. Sweat was barely visible along Bronark's forehead. He always would be the first to sweat. Ardon took a deep breath, smelling the sweet aroma of the cherry blossoms all around him, and could practically taste the sweet fruits they bear. He felt peace. But peace would no longer be upon him. He heard a sound from the trees, and began to listen.

"Brother, there's 18 men, all riding horseback." Ardon spoke. "Some have swords, other have bows."

"What? wait, there..." Bronark said, realizing what was happening. "Ardon, run! Go, and don't look back!"

Ardon turned and took one step, only to be stopped by a tall white horse.

"Where do you think you're going?" The man on the horse asked. "Oh wait, no where." the man said laughing. "two little princes out all alone. What were you doing, picking flowers?"

"When we get back, you are going to wish you never knew who you were dealing with." Ardon said.

"Is that so?"

"No, it isn't. Just let us go and no one has to get hurt." Bronark said.

"Ha! You think you can just talk me out of killing you? Think again. I'm going to enjoy every moment of this. Kill them all!" The man exclaimed.

"Run!" Bronark said as he pulled out his sword and cut the legs of the horse. Ardon began to run, scared for his life, he did not look back. Arrows flew past his head, as he heard horses fall to the ground. When Ardon reached the castle walls, he had realized what he had done. He had left his brother to die. He looked back to where he came, and saw but one man... The one whom had ordered the attack. He was holding something, and at first Ardon could not see it. But as he focused more on what it was, he realized the horror of it all. The man held his brother's head by his hair.

The gates opened and two guards grabbed Ardon as he tried to charge again. Tears filled his eyes, and his vision became clouded. His brother was now dead.

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Ardon was thrown into his room by the guards, The door behind them was then locked.

"Your father wishes to speak with you. He will be here in a few minutes. I suggest you get a grip." The one guard said as he sheathed his sword.

Ardon took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Where is he!" Ardon heard his father yell from the halls. He Swung the door open, knocking the two guards on the ground. "Get out! This is private." He said. The two guard stood again and left. "Tell me, son, exactly what happened out in the fields." he asked.

"Dad... Bronark... He died... I couldn't stop it. I wasn't strong enough. They killed him. He sacrificed himself for me."

Kransov grew angry at these words. "You ran! Like a coward, you ran! You let your brother die! How dare you!? You must fight! If one is to die, then both must! Or one fights to survive! Guards! Take him to the arena! We are done here Ardon." He said as he turned away and walked out of the room. The guards came in after him and began to drag him to the arena.

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Ardon was on one knee. He had his head down, and his sword by his side. I must not lose. For my bother, I cannot lose. He thought to himself as he stood and faced his opponent. The Body of the man looked familiar, but Ardon could not put a name to his face. He looked younger than him. Ardon then began to get a bad feeling about the fight.

"Turn and face me!" He yelled to his opponent. The man stood and turned. Ardon then realised who he would fight. "No! I wont! Father this is madness! You would rather two of your sons die today?" He said as his brother lunged his sword at Ardon's throat. He stepped to the side, causing his sword to slightly cut his throat. He fell to his knees and grabbed his throat.

I must get out of here He thought to himself as he stood and began to run. He grabbed a bow from one of the weapons racks. Arrows from the other guards began to fly. I'm so glad that our archers are pretty bad. He thought as he exited the arena, and eventually the walls of the city.

"You are no longer welcome here, and you are no longer my son! You will be hunted down! There's nothing you can do to stop it!" Ardon heard his father Yell as he continued to run for his life. His father had now become his enemy.

[Ashla]

OOC: This is a flash-forward to an event in a future thread.

Ashla sighed; here she was again, back where she started! Here she was facing her greatest enemy- yet her family -again... She scoffed, "And I call you 'uncle'." Some of her hair fell over her face, covering her right eye. She glared up at the man, her eyes showing a mixture of anger and amusement. Meanwhile, her enemy returned her glare with a look of nothing but pure hatred.

He sneered at her, "And I call you 'niece'." He returned her insult.

It was a crystal clear night. In the heights of summer, Eiskalt had not a hint of snow- yet the deathly dark, smooth water their boat floated upon still seemed terribly cold. Fireflies were lighting the black night sky, reinforcing the stars' sparkling lights. Despite the fact that everything around them was nothing but beautiful, Ashla very much was having enough of these stupid guards holding her arms behind her back. On her knees still, Ashla rolled her eyes, "So what are you going to do now?" She eyed the sword that her uncle had, sheathed on his leather belt.

He was towering before her; his eyes were reflecting her family's Icebreaker talents and his eyes showed the fiercest anger in his crisp ice glare. His eyes were candy coated with a layer of aggressiveness. Despite his terrifying glances, his mouth shared Ashla's smirk, "Indeed." His hand fell on his blade, but his grip was very loose. A moment later his hand drifted off and was clutched, "But not by the swift swipe of my blade, dearie, no. That death would be too quick for you to feel at all. No, another, harsher death would be much more suitable for the likes of you."

Ashla couldn't help but gulp, "Wh-what do you have in mind then?" She tried not to sound fearful, but her conflicting feelings of just about everything right now were getting the better of her by the minute. She sounded rather frightened now.

The man laughed as he bent down to her, "You will take a little dip in this great lake we are sailing on. In this... splendid night, you will sink beneath the waves and shall never return." He ordered the men behind her with a hand signal and moments later Ashla could hear something metal fasten against her ankles. Her eyes widened in fearful realization, she was really going to die!

She was hoisted up to her feet by her oppressor as he jeered, "You will finally get what you've always deserved."

Ashla's head tilted to the left, "Still judging people based on their heritage alone I see. Have fun being lonely for the rest of your idiotic life." She spat.

Fulgur I chuckled, "And you," He replied, "Have fun dying." Ashla felt him try to push her overboard, but she braced herself and was able to stop him. She needed to tell him something.

"Look, before you kill me, you need to know something." She held his deep, hateful glare, "Despite everything, I forgive you."

He only kept glaring before whispering, "What?"

Ashla smiled, her heart was heavy but free at the same time as she spoke her free choice, "I forgive you. However, I doubt someone else will." She was referring the her cousin and Fulgur I's son.

However, her uncle still seemed unshaken as he simply pushed her overboard. Ashla could briefly noted the side of the red wood boat before she sank beneath the suddenly foamy waves below.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

The Fourth Wall WILL Break!. . . Everyone was making quotes. . . I just wanted to fit in. . .

Finally, The red-eyed man thought, as he lifted himself to the top of a steep cliff. The Monastery of Truth.

The grand temple towered over the world atop the tallest mountain in Salvar. Victor Valentine trudged to the enormous decorated gate, more than five times his size. His red eyes scanned the face of the temple, admiring the fanciful designs of dragons and monsters falling to noble and valorous men. The drifter scratched his head, unsure how to open such a massive door.

He decided to knock.

The door was sturdy, almost immovable, and the knocks echoed harmoniously into the world. Victor kept his eyes fixed above, waiting for the door to shift, when a low creak came from below.

A short bald head peered from a small crack in a smaller door. The monk's thin eyes scanned the strange black haired man, moving quickly from his tattered and darkened brown coat to his worn boots. With nary a word the orange-robed monk pulled Victor inside and slammed the door closed. The sleeves of his robe flew in all directions as he set to work, locking the many intricate bolts and padlocks on the small door.

"Hey, so-" the red-eyed man began but was promptly cut off by the monk, a finger pressed against his thin lips and madness clutching his every word.

"You seek the truth, yeeeeeees?" the monk cackled in hushed tones, "good. . . goooooooood. . . The truth hides here for the Raukorad to find. . ."

"How do you know that nam-" Victor once again began to ask but the monk pressed a finger, this time against the red-eyed man's lips.

"Elven. . . means. . . 'Red demon'. . ." The monks eyes scanned every direction of the inner temple, as though the walls whispered to him. "You seek your true enemy. . . But you do not know who. . . who. . . whooooo. . ."

Victor tried to follow his erratic gaze but to no avail. It moved from the many smaller structures to the colossal sculpted walls which ran the entire length of the temple. Victor squinted to see the end of the place but, even illuminated by the high Salvar sun, the temple seemed to darken at its end, hiding its secrets.

"Alder. . . Damian. . . Diade-" the monk whispered into the drifter's ear, sending shivers down Victor's spine and causing him to jump back.

"You know these names," the monk whispered, taking the red-eyed man's hand. "At least two. . . you suspect them to be enemies, one to have lost his way. . . But you still know not your true enemy. . . But the walls of Truth whisper, you find your answer here!"

The monk ran ahead, pulling the drifter behind him, Victor's indifferent expression leading him forward.

They ran for longer than the red-eyed man cared to, finding their way under the cover of a cave.

"The Cave of Truth," the monk explained as they continued to walk, "illuminates your inner demons. . . But this is not what you need. . ."

The pair left the cave after minutes, entering a large open field. A waterfall defend their approach over the rocks their boots trampled. Numerous men sat around a large boulder in pairs, two knights whose armors were bronze and red respectively sat, legs crossed, back to back. A man and a woman sat facing each other, hands cupped and smiling.

"The Rock of Truth," the monk mentioned as they passed the groups, "illuminates the heart of your loved ones. . . But your goal is elsewhere."

"Look," Victor protested, still being pulled by the monks iron grip, "I get it, everything here is truth, but I just need to-" Victor was once again interrupted by the monk.

"Keep off the Grass of Truth!" the monk warned, "it shows the truths you are not ready to see!"

Victor groaned as they approached the massive waterfall. A blonde, spiky-haired man in an orange overcoat stood before it.

"The Waterfall of Truth," the monk explained, walking past the orange man as he sat in meditation, "it lets you combat the enemy within when you are ready. . . You are not ready. . ."

"Hey! what's that supposed to mea-" Victor yelled when the pair came to a halt before a large gate.

"The Gate of Truth," the monk bowed, "it lets you use Alchem-"

"Hey!" Victor interrupted, "that's a totally different story! and I'm sure that guy is from another story too!" the red-eyed man pointed to the orange-coated man.

"You know the truth?!" the monk exclaimed, shocked, "Goooooood, then come, your answer awaits."

"I just wann-" Victor yelled before being pulled once again in another direction.

The two walked around the Gate, which seemed to lead nowhere and stand on its own in the field. They approached a staircase of stone, spiraling upwards.

"The Staircase of Truth?" Victor guessed, sighing.

". . . No," the monk looked at the man, confused, "this is just a staircase. . . your journey lies at the top!"

"Wait!" Victor protested, "I just nee-"

The man was shoved forward, forced to climb the stairs. Victor had to squint in the new room, fully white and blinding, with only a hole at its center.

"The Hole of Truth," the monk explained.

"Oh come on! You're not even trying anymore!" Victor yelled in disapproval. The monk only shrugged and pushed Victor down into the hole.

A dark void enveloped him and when the red-eyed man opened his eyes he was standing in a small green room. A short leather chair stood before a light brown desk with a strange device atop it. Bizarre looking furniture made the red-eyed man feel trapped, perhaps in a strange prison. . .

A man sitting behind the desk moved his fingers furiously, with pauses when he sat in thought.

"Umm," Victor started, causing the man to scream and jump from his seat. Turning around to take a look at the intruder, the man's eyes widened with terror then squinted in confusion.

"Victor?" the man asked cautiously, trying to stand straight.

"Yeah. . . do I know you?" the red-eyed man asked, equally cautious.

"I'm," the man began then stopped short, an epiphany hitting him like a bag of stones, "[/B]HOLY FUCKING SHIT![/B]" he yelled, looking from the strangely bright window on his desk to Victor. Words seemed to write themselves through the screen, and the man's shock only increased.

"I'm. . ." the man cleared his throat to sound imposing, "I am Good for Nothing Captain. . . I guess. . . And. . . I guess I'm kinda like your father."

"What?!" the red-eyed man protested in disbelief, "that's not true! that's impossible!"

"No, seriously," Pavel insisted, "I write on this site, poorly I might add, but you're my character. I write your story. . . without me you wouldn't exist."

"I suppose next you'll tell me you control my thoughts and actions too," Victor scoffed.

"Sure! watch!" the man smiled, turning back to his glowing window. He pressed his fingers against a long rectangular box which seemed to make more words appear on the other side of the screen.

'I really want a Jr. Bacon Cheese Burger and strawberry milk. . .' Victor thought, his eyes widening in disbelief, What the FUCK is a 'Jr. Bacon Cheese Burger' and how can milk be a strawberry?! 'Batmaaan! nana nana nana nana, nana nana nana nana, nana nana nana nana BATMAAAAAN!'

Victor turned in terror expecting some kind of horrible bat-creature. When non appeared he looked in awe at the unassuming man with such incredible mental abilities.

"So. . ." Victor eased his tension, "so you can put thoughts into my mind. . . that doesn't mean-" but he was once again interrupted, this time by the click-clack of the board and immediately he started doing push-ups. Within moments he began jumping-jacks followed by moving his hands, up and down straight ahead of himself while bouncing slightly with his knees.

"Ok!" the red-eyed man yelled, "enough!"

"See," the blonde haired man smiled.

"Wait. . ." Victor's eyes began to widen, "so then you. . . you're the cause of all this?"

"What?" Pavel asked, unclear of the man's train of thought.

"All the people I've lost. . ." Victor began, rage starting to fill his eyes, "everything that happened, the torture, the murder, Eliza?! All of that was you?"

"Umm. . ." the man stuttered as a small gray kitten stood, stretched its body and yawned, eliciting a simultaneous, 'awww,' from both men. Then they turned their attention back towards each other.

"It was nothing personal," the Good for Nothing Captain continued, "I just thought it would be a more interesting story."

"INTERESTING!? Nothing Personal?! You [b[ruined[/b] my life! you orphaned me! TWICE!! Took away the only person who loved me like a mother! and killed a child FOR NO GOOD REASON???" Victor yelled, reaching for his sword, but in the time it took for him to pull it from its sheath, a clatter from the board made the thing vanish as though it were never there. Victor looked around, enraged and took a black and yellow axe-like object. On closer inspecting the thing looked like it was made up of small bricks.

"Batwing!" the blonde man yelled and pounded at the keyboard with blurring fingers.

"Actually, I don't think I'm going to use that," Victor reconsidered, "the bat-wing looks really cool bt-dub. . . what the hell is 'bt-dub?'"

"Don't worry about it. . ." the man sighed, relaxing now that his possession was no longer at risk. Just then the red-eyed man lunged, strangling the author against the table. With hacks and coughs, the blonde man tried to loosen the grip around his neck. Reconsidering he placed his feet against Victor's chest. With a heavy heave he launched the enraged man off himself who crashed into and continued to type.

"Fuck, I have a test at 3:40 on Nicomachean Ethics. Sorry!" the blonde man apologized.

"Oh no you-" Victor began but was instantly surrounded by darkness.

"Was it enlightening?" the chipper monk asked, as the red-eyed man found himself once again atop the staircase in the Temple of Truth. Without a word, Victor kicked the monk down the spiraling staircase.

"Fuck. This. Place." Victor growled, "I'll find someone else to give me directions to Akashima."

Just as the man descended the stairs, words began to appear beneath his feet.

'Sorry. . .
You have a sad beginning, but I have a feeling things will look up eventually. . .
Also Akashima is east of here. . .
Good luck!
-Good for Nothing Captain'

"Fucking good for nothing. . ." Victor grumbled as he headed for the exit kicking the monk forward.

[Oliver]

Nice Weather For Ducks

In which Oliver meets Jack, the soon to be bane of existence.

The more time he spent in Radasanth, the deeper Oliver Midwinter questioned his faith. He wandered aimlessly through the streets and strolled pointlessly through the courtyards. Each time he ventured into a new, but long-forgotten nook, he was equally as disappointed. He could not remember. He could not recall. He could not recite.

Albion was becoming a distant memory.

“Even my family,” he sighed remorsefully.

A soft breeze danced through the maze like tunnels of Radasanth, carrying with it the familiar smell of sea, sewer, and silk dye. Though war was still recent in the memories of the island’s populace, its signs were fading from the cityscape. Scaffolding was coming down. Roads opened. Shops were happy to trade long into the night.

“Even my friends…”

He had few of those in the world now. His encounter with the scribe Baxter Arlington had shattered his confidence. He had difficulty enough opening up to people before his exile, and now it was almost impossible. Save for his mentor, his time passed alone, in thought, and in self-loathing soliloquy. He found sanctuary in abandoned gardens and crumbling temples.

Oliver had searched everywhere. His quest to find his father was proving futile, and no matter how hard he tried, or what information he uncovered about his whereabouts, it never lead anywhere. The name Gideon Midwinter seemed well known amongst the magical community, but perversely, nobody knew the face that went with it. He was a legend, a myth, and perhaps, an illusion.

“Are y’okay, mister?”

Oliver turned to face the intruder. His eyes widened in surprise, but when they saw who was speaking, he relaxed.

“Aye, kid, I’m alright.” He turned back to the cool waters of the ornamental pond, and tossed another stale chunk of his crust at the gaggle of ducks. The boy approached. “I s’pose.”

“Why you doin’ that?” the urchin asked.

Oliver looked quizzically in the direction the boy was pointing. He chuckled.

“I am feeding the ducks.” He stated the obvious with a sudden interest. “It makes ‘em happy.”

The boy walked to the edge of the pond, set a bare foot onto the marble edge, and peered into the water’s below. The pond was sunken, and swallowed up the faded beauty of the courtyard with its still radiant blue bottom. Coins were visible in the depths, obscured by the rippling wake of the frenzied birds.

“Funny things, isn’t they.”

Oliver had to give some thought to the question. He let the idyllic scene steal him away.

“I guess so.”

He had never really thought about ducks in any other way than ‘duck’. Nature, to the sorcerer, was everywhere. It was something to revere, when appropriate, but not to find humorous or mundane. He shrugged, held out his crust to the boy, and cleared his throat. The urchin looked back across his shoulder, and weighed up the offering.

“Is that…for me?” he asked, bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

Oliver shook his head. “You give it to the ducks.” He paused. “Or, you’re supposed to. I guess,” he stood, “you could eat it too, if you’re hungry.”

The boy cocked his head at the bread, as if expecting a trick. There was hesitation, then surprise, and then joy. He snatched it hungrily, and then it dawned on Oliver that the interest in the ducks was a rouse. He smiled.

“What’s your name, kid?” He set his fists onto his hips, stood cocksure, and watched the urchin devour chunks from the bread in a flurry of crumbs.

“Jack,” he said noisily, between scoffs.

“Where about are you from?”

Jack paused, as if he were about to be run over by a wagon. “I…what’d mean from, sir?” He continued eating gingerly.

Oliver frowned. “Yes, where are you ‘from.’ Where were you born? Where do you live now?”

Jack gestured at the courtyard with arms wide, and then continued eating. Whilst Oliver tried to divine the meaning in his cryptic message, the bread vanished. The ducks quacked boisterously, swarmed at the pond’s edge longingly, and then drifted away disgruntled.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You’re from Radasanth. Which part?”

Jack frowned. He brushed himself down, removing the crumbs from his grubby, formerly white shirt. “I live on the streets, so I am sort of from all of it.”

Oliver felt guilty. He should have realised.

“Oh, Jack. I am sorry. I just thought…” He trailed off hesitantly.

“S’allright, people do it all the time,” Jack replied with a warming smile.

Standing opposite one another, Oliver took a moment to inspect his newfound friend. Jack was just a little shorter than he was, and thinner. He wore a white shirt, brown slacks, and no shoes. His hair was black, greasy, and unkempt. His face, though bright and cheerful, was grubby with what Oliver hoped was coal dust and day-to-day city grime. He carried himself with guile, arced feet, and a bounce. Whatever circumstances afflicted Jack with bad luck and homelessness, it did not appear to be getting him down.

“You don’t mind them thinking that?”

“They believe what believers aught.”

Oliver furrowed his brow. The boy’s thick accent, strange colloquialism, and heavy mannerisms were becoming difficult to translate. He had picked up one or two turns of phrases since his arrival a year ago, but the city was a melting pot of interaction, personality, and culture. He doubted if he would ever consider it home.

“It’s not right. You can’t help where you live.”

“I like it,” he clucked.

Oliver shrugged. He guessed that if a man was happy with his lot, he was in no place to judge him for it.

“Say…,” he mused. He rubbed his chin. “Do you know anything about wizards?”

“More than you know about ducks,” Jack replied, sharp as a knife.

“Well then…,” Oliver erred. He looked the boy up and down once more. “How about you and I help each other?”

Jack scrutinised Oliver in return, and puckered his lips. He dropped his hands to his sides, breadless.

“Why shu’ I ‘elp you?”

“I really don’t know anything about ducks?” Oliver changed his line of questioning; upon realising Jack was not your everyday street urchin. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Jack shook his head. “They don’t like bread,” he stated.

“They don’t?”

Jack pointed to the water. “White bread bloats ‘em, and they can die if they eat much. They’re just too stupid t’realise…you know,” he made a gesture that mimicked a large man, “too late.”

Oliver chuckled. “Well, I guess I owe those ducks an apology.” He walked to the edge of the pond, regal attire dancing in the limelight, and cyan hair wavering in the soft breeze that broke into the courtyard through the myriad alleyways, which lead into and out of the long-forgotten sanctuary. “Sorry ducks, I didn’t know!” he heckled.

The ducks turned cautiously. They quacked. They turned away, and continued their chaotic glide over the water. They retained a sense of direction, managing to avoid one another, but did not seem interested in anything other than pecking furtively at the floating bugs and leaves.

“Now…I’ll feed, clothe, and maybe employ you…,” he said, turning back to Jack. He rested his hands on his hips. He peered over the rim of his spectacles. “If you help me find someone I’ll make it worth your while.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, sniffled, and remained silent. It was a sure sign for Oliver to continue, that he was still interested, but not pledged to anything.

“You live in this city. You’ve probably heard and seen things I could only dream of.” Oliver was certain some of those dreams were nightmares, but he did not want to press the boy for any more harrowing tales of his misfortunes. Life was what life was. “So what do you know about a man called Gideon Midwinter?”

Almost immodestly, Jack’s eyes lit up like candlewicks. He beamed a smile, and let out a laugh that sounded far too rumbustious and mature for his diminutive stature.

“That old goat?” he asked incredulously. “He lives on the northern edge of the city, in a battered old tower.” He danced on his tiptoes, mocking a noble born man, “wearing his haughty taught robes and preaching clandestine mysteries to the orphans, in nit’ wrong, to lord it up like that caus’ ‘e got a beard?”

Oliver remained stoic, expressionless, and reserved.

“Wait…why?” Jack stopped his dance, and fell still.

“Gideon Midwinter is my father, Jack. My name is Oliver Midwinter.”

Jack derived a conclusion.

“I dun’ believe it…!” the urchin exclaimed, gob smacked.

Oliver blinked. “You know about me?”

“I’ve been lookin’ for you for weeks!” The ducks quacked ominously.

Oliver struggled with the information he faced. Circumstances often went against the sorcerer, not along with him. He had been searching for his father for so long now he had started to give up hope, and yet, here Jack was, supposedly with all the answers.

“You’re going to have to forgive me…” he said, matter-of-fact. “I have been trying to find Gideon for a year.”

Jack straightened up, rested his hands on his hips, and beamed a broad, welcoming smile.

“Then its good ya found me!” he half-roared.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t looking for you Jack. You found me, if anything.”

Jack smiled. “I was sent.”

“Wait…” Oliver lurched. “What?”

The courtyard and pond teemed with suspense. The ancient, cracked brickwork of the surrounding buildings seemed to degrade further. The slither of sky visible between the rooftops and the washing line maze danced with the distant promise of sunlight. Somewhere in the beyond, a market place bustled on the fringe of the senses.

Jack tried to sound sincere. “When you put yourself on the roster in the Citadel, One-Eyed Eyre saw the surname.” The boy shrugged. He pointed to a southerly exit. He knew it ventured out onto the frontier boardwalk that connected the Emperor’s palace with the Citadel in question. “Things sort of…came to a head.”

Oliver folded his arms across his chest. His cyan hair danced with a flourish. He felt his tendrils of power reach out for anything to stir to life. He wanted to throw the leaves into the air, throw stones into the pond, and tear fragments off his clothing. He wanted to do anything to vent his anger.

“Take me to him,” he demanded.

“Hey, don’t get snappy with me. You’re the one feeding ducks white bread and moping in the shadows.”

“This is just like him, thinking of himself when he has left everyone in the dark,” Oliver pouted. His restraint failed, and the leaves at his feet began to spiral about his person. When they reached chest height, they eviscerated.

Jack rolled his eyes. “You’re as immature as he said, but alright.” He pointed a second time, as if to make the gesture obvious. “That way, we’ve got a good distance to travel, so get a move on…you're going to be red raw when I'm done with you!"

Oliver did not bother to argue further. He turned on a heel, stomped in the indicated direction, and quickened his pace. His head was spinning with incredulity, and his heart pounded in its cage, a rattling rhythm of curiosity mixed with fear. If Pastel’s wise words about his destiny were worth the man’s reputation, then not only was Oliver about to reunite with his father…but come sundown…one of the Midwinter men would be dead.

"At least the ducks got something out of this...," he grumbled.

[Leopold]

“I am a god,” Leopold said.

The room went quiet. It had been boisterous for hours. Four words undid an afternoon of bickering and contempt. He rested his palms on his lap, nodded gruffly, and waited for the inevitable fall out. People did not like their place in the world undermined by divinity.

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Clarissa spurted. Her usually composed visage soured. She slammed her hands onto the beer-stained table, and leant in towards Leopold. “Are you drunk Mr Winchester?”

Leopold shook his head. He sorely wished he were.

“So is this a joke?” Malefor asked. His deep, cigar stained tone filled the room with condescension. Several other members of the guild pricked their ears. The wine cellar teethed with severity.

Leopold shook his head. He sorely wished it were.

“I am afraid not, Mr Gumption. I am entirely serious in my claim.” He nodded appropriately. The Verger of the Wine Seller Circle leant back abruptly in his chair. “Is it so hard to believe?” he continued, raising an eyebrow in his colleague’s general direction.

Six pairs of eyes stared at Malefor. They turned, slowly, to stare at Leopold.

“It is preposterous,” the man said, quite bluntly. There was ludicrous claim in his tone, without the increment in pitch or body movement. The smell of another drag on a cigar proliferated drama through the room.

“I would not make such claims if they were not founded. You ask,” he gestured towards Malefor with a kind hand, “if any of us have something to declare.” Leopold did. “I have thus made a declaration.”

“You have had too much to drink, Mr Winchester,” repeated Lady Clarissa. She continued to knit a sock, entirely enthralled with her handiwork, despite all that went on around her. “I suggest an early night, and a strong, sweet, and slowly drunk peppermint tea.” This was Clarissa’s answer to everything. It was second as a solution only to piercing its heart with a knitting needle.

The silence in the room was palpable. It settled on the mantle, the hearth, and the dusty wine racks. Leopold took it upon himself to rise from his chair. His lapel flapped, his coattails wavered, and his head leant eschew. Several of the group made to rise with him, but Clarissa’s hand broke free from her stitch.
“Did you want me, Mrs Montague?” Leopold asked, questioning her motives without the need for bitter retort.

She shook her head. She set her handiwork onto her floral lap, and sighed.

“Please be seated, Mr Winchester. We have much to discuss still, and every diversion or absence only prolongs our disbanding.” The moot of the Guilds-man circle was never short. On this day, it was considerably longer than it had ever been. Everyone was growing tired, weary, and irate. “Say what you must, and let us move along quickly now.” She picked up her knitting afresh, and continued to work on it.

Leopold sat. All the eyes save hers settled squarely on him.

“I am a god, born of Berevar.” He produced a small trinket from his pocket. It was a golden pin, depicting a raven. “In the days before the wars of the Tap, I was called Rayven. That name became Rajiv, Death, and finally Raven.” His account of his history was considerably condensed. Had he recalled all his names, they would have dropped dead out of boredom.

“I have heard of you…” Clarissa pursed her lips as she spoke. “My grandmother was a preacher of the Sway before the war.” After the war, she had been nothing more than a corpse. Leopold smirked. “You are a relic, now, if that.” She glanced up between stitches. Nervous glances turned her way, and then fell back onto Leopold. “Why is this relevant?”

Months ago, Leopold and Clarissa had fought at the Ice Henge over such a matter. Knowing what she was, and that she knew all he had been made the matter pressing. Leopold had waited far too long to pluck up the courage to challenge her openly. She would not be able to hide in the snowdrifts now.

“It is relevant because I have considerable,” he placed emphasis on the word, “influence in Salvar’s recovery.” He had just that. The rebuilding work in Knife’s Edge and the surrounding towns was entirely possible because of Leopold’s mercantile wit and charm. His caravans were the lifeblood of the tundra.

Malefor and the other guests shuffled their feet nervously. Arrayal, Paula, and Melanie sipped their refreshing drinks in silence. John and Peter resorted to pretending to read their trade manifolds and diaries. They all searched for something to distract their attention.

“Influence in a warring region is just that.” She relinquished herself of her knitting. Her eyes, silver, green, and sparkling pierced Leopold’s defences. “It is control over rubble and rock and ruin.”

With bourbon stained glee, Leopold broke into a smile bordering on mania. She had fallen for his bait. The trap for Clarissa Montague’s fall was set.

“I am not interested in the rubble, my dear compatriot.” He set the pin onto the table at the centre of a beer stain. “My particular investment in the snow wastes is all down to what it will one day become.” Leopold Winchester’s tastes of late had shifted. Once, he invested in the here and now. He had lived in the transient for too long.

“What do you see it becoming?” Malefor interrupted. His sense for drama, bad timing, and money was impeccable.

Leopold turned to his colleague, nodded, and gestured wide.

“I see it becoming the playground of the gods.” He left his words hanging in the smoke stained air. Clarissa and Malefor, and John too, all stared at him expectant. “The stomping ground of the gods of the old and of new.” He smirked.

“You mean your harem of success?” Clarissa spat. Had she a needle gripped in her bony hands, she would have driven it into Leopold’s heart. She settled for bitter words.

“Now, Mrs Montague, let the man speak,” Malefor chided. Every bottom on every chair shifted uncomfortably.

She clucked, dropped her gaze, and fidgeted.

“I told you this in good faith, because I believe I can utilise my heritage to the greater benefit of the Guild.” As far as truth went, this was it. Leopold intended to further the power of the Guilds-man Circle. Their gain would be universal, Scara Braes’, immense.

“What sort of benefits are we talking about?” Malefor slid his empty glass forwards. Paula rolled her eyes, long dubious of his assumptions, and refilled it. He was of the old guard, a man that believed women served his every need for their betterment. Paula did not hit him with the glass only because she benefited very well indeed from falling in line.

Leopold breathed deep of the stale air. “When the Church, in its attempts at revival, hears of my interference,” and of his efforts to save the Sway’s corruption, “they will have little choice but to reward my company handsomely.” The statutes of the barons and lords made this a perfectly possible reality. “I will of course declare, and share, all of the profit gained.” There was not an inch of deception in his voice. All the same, Lady Clarissa scoffed.

“By which you mean you will disappear into thin air.”

If that had been an option for Leopold, he would have vanished centuries ago. He reasserted himself with a gruff clearing of his throat. He stared wistfully at Malefor’s fresh drink.

“If I possessed the talent of dissipation, Lady Clarissa, I would fade from your esteemed presence before your looks did.” He applied just enough sarcasm and barbed words to keep her on edge. Over the years, she had become the only obstacle to any advancement in the Circle’s development. He, out of all his colleagues, was the only one to work out how to defeat her stoic nature.

“It is a shame you have not.” She spat, with all the enmity expected from a bitter rival and hirsute nemesis.

He rolled his eyes. With a steady hand, he tucked his locks behind his ears, wiped the spit from the corners of his mouth, and pointed to the door. It was a gesture for the waiter, dutiful and silent by the rear wall, to retrieve something planted hours ago. The young boy, black hair, fingers, and thumbs scuttled from the cellar. The sound of the heavy iron bound door pulling open made Malefor jump, and Paula wince.

[Dr. Why]

A young man stood at the edge of a field of horrible vegetation, as the small existence that was life ticked on to the end of the earth. His hair, a broken nest of split black, linking in a braid down his back., blew in a strong wind. His hands lit up with flame, and the world was transformed into a pyre of insane heat and smoldering fury. And so, time stopped. The man who stood there was now at the head of a massive army of fire elementals, which were blazing trails of lava into the distance, where the slow blaze went ahead, incinerating the world.

"Timeslayer" He spat out the word, as if it were the most fatal poison... "I come, beware."

Timeslayer woke up screaming, his body soaked in sweat, his hands suddenly cloaked in the weapons he called the Gauntlets. The sheets below him were shredded and ripped in places from where he had moved and sliced through with rage and grief. His eyes flicked with the colors of time, a gold hue, and a shining silver. Why it happened, he did not know, but it still urt in his head. there was a knocking on his door, so the Dr. stepped into some pants and walked to the small opening in the front of his house, which was more of a box between two shops, and pulled it to the left, letting in bright sunlight.

"What?" he grumbled, shaking the weariness out of his body, limb by limb, so he raised his head, and saw a man in a uniform, the brass clinging slowly, and reflcting in the early morning sunlight, he was carrying a sword, which had a small notic in it near the base, and was wickedly pointed.
-----------------
Slowly, the guard lowered the sword, half expecting the man to strike out at him, but as he saw the weariness in his eyes, the shadows showing that he had not slept well in weeks, if not months. He grumbled a what, shaking out his arms, and then plunging his arm into the air beside im, where an orb of light hovered, which seemed to be a substantially sized storage space. Garret Sir'ser, one of the many heads of the Salvar Guard, watched for a second, before asking, his voice trembling a bit, knowing what this man had done to people who he didn't like in the Citadel before

"I heard a scream, was something wrong?"

--------------

Timeslayer delved back into his plethora of aliases, picking one known as Draco Maelfire, he responded with a nod, but then just said, the old voice tired and lightly laced with an old power, that had waned over the years, for without a purpose, a man has no life. So, how the world went on, and he just simply said

"A nightmare, nothing much."

So, with that, he closed the door, walked back, pulled out the shirt from the air next to him and slipped into it, getting a feel for the new material, a testing bit, from a blacksmith, who was also a tailor, who spun steel into a thread thin enough to sew, and therefore involved it into a shirt which protected as well as kept the wearer warm and covered. When it was on, Dr. walked out, taking up a sprint, and running out to the edge of the tiny town he was in, the cool air of the north caressing his skin, the wind blowing, but not hitting Timeslayer as the TechnoLight barrier in front of him blocked it. There was a rustle in the tress before him though, and a youth walked out from the shrubbery, strolling along, but he turned at the sight of Timeslayer, and Dr. came to a steely recognition, the young man from his dream, the pyrokinetic, who had killed so much life, with no regard to the safety of others.

"Why do you come, Timeslayer? It has been fated that i come to YOU, not the other way around..." the youth spat, as he drew out a dagger, one that glowed with an eerie grey light. Dr. stepped back, yet still drew out his Gauntlets. The dagger was pointed at him, and he felt his will shattering, his dominance ripped to shreds before the pain came, a burning affair, limited by only the boundless amounts of energy he was dedicating to resist the mental breaking that he was being subjected to through that infernal device, that horror that was taken unto him by a, thing far younger, far less powerful than a Watcher.... Known only to some, which echoed a kind of energy, the dagger shined brightly, and it became a beacon in his mind as the power increased.

-------

With a final push, Timelsayer sighed, and as the young devil stood there, powerless agaist his victim's own death, s the Dr. dissipated into sand, becoming one with Timeheart for a little while at least. He knew there would be another meeting....

---------

(Six months later

--------

Timeslayer thought bck on that day, which had started off so strange, and wondered how it had happened. Why the devil came to him, why he did not resist more than his token effort? He knew not.... Why had he not done anything? Why had he even gone out that day? So, he went over it again. Nothing came to mind, other than that old shadow, the one that hugged the ground, the one that looked slightly different that day. The subtle change...Dr. shook his head. and walked off the mountain peak he was perched on, and as the sand blew away, a laugh could be heard, the sharp chuckle ricocheting through the valleys and hills...

[Sanste]

This post takes place in Sanste's future and hopefully foreshadows a future adventure without giving too much a

The nightmare played again like a badly scratched recording. Looking around, his surroundings appeared blurry but gave the impression of a ruin. Sounds and smells were non-existent. Breaking into a sweat, Sanste began running at the recognition of the all too familiar setting. But the nightmare in its twisted sense of humor, trapped him in a cube of liquid air giving the young man plenty of time for the complete hopelessness of the situation to settle in.

Hellish screams soon echoed through the dreamworld from Sanste as he felt the dreaded object approaching. The blood stained book floated steady around his back to finally rest in front of his eyes. The book's cover had been sliced hiding the title but the young man knew all too well what it contained. As if reading his thoughts, the bloody cover turned amidst Sanste's screams and pleads for mercy. Words, phrases, and paragraphs jumped into the young man's mind eager to increase his anguish. He tried closing his eyes to no avail, the pages had already been burned into his mind the words kept coming. Finally, after what seemed to be a century, the last page of the monstrous book turned. The book closed with a solid thump which was completely unheard through the continuing screams.

The nightmare slowly disappeared, seemly regretful that it could not hold its victim any longer. The blood book was the last thing to disappear as Sanste finally awoke to a world of darkness and void of all sensations. In this world, screams still echoed through his head but only his rapid breathing came out of his mouth. The world had forsaken Sanste because of that man. The cursed nightmare, the dark secrets in the book was all that man's fault. Everything had been taken away and in its place was the burden of pain, suffering, and lost which was left by his worst enemy.

Choking from his scars and wounds, Sanste forced his mind to accept the pain and the ever present curse. He had lost everything. Now, it was his turn to destroy the gods who had just laughed at his cruel, unjust fate and had hidden his worst enemy. Their weapon, the deadly curse, Sanste would force to serve him and turn it into a weapon worthy of Satan himself. The innocent boy had died long time ago in hell, replaced by a demon in human flesh.

[Lucius]

Specialist Kazumi walked through the lower hold of the Atomos in silence. Her heart beat faster than it should. Her eyes dilated with anxiety. Her eyes glistened with anticipation. What she was doing warranted a court martial. The only outcome if somebody found her was execution.

“You can do this…,” she whispered, voice muffled by her rebreathe mask.

She turned right, onto a service corridor, and spied her objective halfway along the passageway. Before the war in the Eluriand sector, Administrate vessels retrofitted with internal maintenance mainframes. These devices allowed specialists full access to repair systems from centralised panels dotted throughout the ships. The purpose had been to prevent hull breach and contamination incidents from cutting off expertise.

“Leopold?” she whispered. She turned the right pod on her mask, clicking the Comms to life. “I have located the service panel. Am I clear to begin viral uplink?”

Without thinking, she broke into a run. Her boots, cushioned by gravity resisters made no sound. A microfilm layer, designed to prevent dust and debris from disrupting the Atomos’ advanced, bioorganic sub-systems, protected the polished steel of the walls. Everything about this ship, Lillith deliberated, was working towards its own downfall.

“Proceed as planned Specialist,” a husky voice replied. Lillith smirked.

“Affirmative captain,” she said softly. She pulled her mask up when she arrive at a glowing amber panel, and stared at it intently.

The system coded in a modern dialect of mandarin. Though not fluent, Lillith made out the symbols for uplink, and held out her right arm. It clicked, as internal gears whirred. Her palm glowed as white, geometric shapes appeared just beneath the skin. Her upper arm, a series of nodules and data spheres, triggered a temperature change, and began self-regulating itself.

“Initialising data stream with the Atomos A.I.”

With a thought, her arm lurched into the panel, fingertips triggering organic connections between her A.R.I.A system and the ship’s panel. In a second, she was hard-wired into the ship’s mainframe, and her eyes turned milky white, her body deathly cold. Her exo suit locked into place to keep her upright.

“Warning. Warning. Warning. Hyper-drive Chamber compromised.” The ship’s internal alarm system erupted into life.

Lillith lurched backwards, as though somebody had thrown her out of the panel. She balked, vomited bile, and rested on her haunches to compose herself. She was far from used to the cybernetic systems newly installed in her body. For a few, painful moments, she heard the ship’s voice in her head, screaming at her, clawing at her circuitry.

“Warning. Warning. Warning. Hyper-drive Chamber compromised.” With a repeat of the protocol announcement, the corridor burst into flashing lights and danger.

A door to Lillith’s right indented into the wall, hissed, and split in two. The amber light in the corridor intensified. Lillith rose, smiled weakly, and put the mask back over her mouth. Her lips were dry. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Her skin beaded with sweat.

“Here we go…,” she said meekly as she stepped to the door.

The first thing she noticed when she slipped inside the heart of the ship was the size of the room. Unlike the Prima Vista’s engine room, which ran the length of the ship, the Atomos was nothing more than a cube shaped room, twelve feet tall and twelve feet wide. Everything about it said clinical, precise, and necessary. Lillith frowned. She had a picture of the drive in her mind, but this far removed from that as possible.

“Hardly worthy of a flagship,” was her natural, smarmy response.

The door behind her shut, sealed tight, and vented the light from the room. In a second of darkness, everything changed. Still half-wired into the ship’s A.I, Lillith felt a presence in the room that was anything but friendly. The lights returned, but pure, white, and overbearing. At the centre of the room stood holographic figure.

“I…,” Lillith mumbled. Everything she saw was impossible. The room was a white, featureless cube. The light had played tricks on her, leaving her unprepared for the simplicity of what she saw. “You…you’re not real!” she protested.

The hologram had shoulder-length hair, wore a mockery of the Prima Vista’s long abandoned space suit design, and held in each hand a single-shot sonic pistol. They were designs from a long-abandoned Administrate project to project the voices of the citizens of Raiaeran Bard-Colonies.

“Hello, Lillith,” the hologram said. Its voice, manifesting as female, ran down the specialist’s spine like lightning. “I have an inkling you’ve got questions, but allay them for now. We need to talk about the person standing on the other side of those doors, intent on ending our reunion.”

Lillith bolted about, hesitated, and then turned back to the hologram.

“Ruby…I…who?”

The hologram of Leopold Winchester’s wife smiled. It was a warm, unthreatening gesture. She pointed to the door, and abandoned her grace.

“Sei Orlouge. He is not the ‘hero’ people are lead to believe. The war in Eluriand was a military coup. His family profited from it, so he is to be benefited greatly by Duffy’s meddling in the wormhole.”

“How do you possibly know that?” Lillith spat.

Ruby dropped her hands to her sides, flickered, and manifested with more clarity and realism. The detail was amazing, but it did not sway Lillith.

“I am this ship, sister. I hear all and I see all. I cannot explain so you simply have to trust me for the Prima Vista.”

“You ask that,” she paused to adjust the panel on her arm, “whilst I’m trapped.” She locked the joint, and twisted her wrist full-circle. Her elbow clicked. A pistol slipped into her hand. “I need more than that!”

The door behind her slid open. Without ceremony, Lillith turned to stare her enemy down. True to Ruby’s word, the nemesis of unity in the galaxy was none other than its supposed protector.

“Hello, Ruby…” Sei Orlouge whispered. He grinned. He stepped forwards. Three gunshots fired in unison.

[hoytti]

Thank you all for participating in the vignette. Our winners are Sanste and BlueGhostofSeaside respectively.

Black Shadow receives 150 experience.
Use of Topic: It's on topic and a great encounter.
Creativity: I think I've seen something like this somewhere before, but I don't know.
Mechanics: There was only one spelling error and that's it.
Notes: It was a great read and I enjoyed it.

BlueGhostofSeaside receives 240 experience and 150 gold.
Use of Topic: A great encounter between angry uncle and hated niece.
Creativity: Creative but familiar.
Mechanics: Didn't see any mistakes in this, you are getting better at writing.
Notes: I love and loathe the cliffhanger ending.

Good for Nothing Captain receives 100 experience.
Use of Topic: On topic and interesting way of looking at it.
Creativity: I never thought of the fact that we are our character's worst enemies.
Mechanics: No mistakes my friend.
Notes: I usually hate it when people break the fourth wall. But it still was well executed.

Oliver receives 200 experience.
Use of Topic: Hmm, they don't look like enemies...
Creativity: I love that they talk in front of a duck pond.
Mechanics: There were many spelling mistakes but that's it.
Notes: “Sorry ducks, I didn’t know!” Best line of the story.

Leopold receives 200 experience.
Use of Topic: I'm guessing the enemy is Lady Clarissa.
Creativity: It's a literal meeting!
Mechanics: A few things here and there but besides that well done.
Notes: It feels incomplete.

Dr. Why receives 100 experience.
Use of Topic: Definitely an enemy.
Creativity: Not much different from Dr. Who.
Mechanics: A spelling mistake here and there.
Notes: The fact that you practically copied Dr. Who hurt your score. Be more original when using this character and your score should go up.

Sanste receives 200 experience and 200 gold.
Use of Topic: It's there, if you squint.
Creativity: I actually like that this was in his dream.
Mechanics: Near perfection.
Notes: Dream mode rocks and rolls.

Lucius receives 100 experience.
Use of Topic: Interesting act.
Creativity: You took the flexible time line literally going in the future.
Mechanics: Few mistakes.
Notes: I like how it is more futuristic than historical or modern.