March Vignette

[Tyr]

Rules

1. One submission per character.

2. All entries have to be within the declared period. Editing your post and completely changing your submission is okay as long as all the edits occur before midnight EST on the closing day.

3. The moderator judging the monthly vignette contest may post a vignette at the end, but will not be eligible for first or second place.

4. Only on-topic vignettes are liable for rewards. The topics are broad enough that no character should be particularly limited.

5. PCs must be involved in all vignettes. How "canonical" you choose to have the events of the vignette is up to you.

6. All participants receive EXP. The top two finishers also receive GP. (Clarification: this excludes off-topic submissions, as per Rule 4).

7. Entries are assessed on the following merits:

Use of topic: Did the writer use the topic, or write something completely random and off topic?

Creativity: Did the writer make something unique out of the topic or was it more cliche?

Mechanics: Basic writing mechanics: spelling, grammar, punctuation, word usage, etc.

Notes: Additional comments.


I haven't been well lately, so I apologize for the late attention to getting this up.

This prompt is a suggestion from the past.

Prompt:

Write a scene in which your character learns something unexpected about themselves. - Ebivoulya

Vignette closes on April 6th, 2020

[Flamebird]

Corone seemed to be forever looped in a cycle of eternal war between factions. When Felicity Rhyolite had first moved to Corone, her cousin had joined the Coronian Rangers in a fight for freedom against the tyrannical Radasanth Empire. Just when that war had ended and united under the banner of democracy, more factions arose in conflict. Faith United, the Gilded Lady, and the Brotherhood of Castigars. Felicity was a member of this Brotherhood.

The relationship between the Brotherhood and Gilded Lady was as complicated as the relationship between their leaders, Shinsou Vaan Osiris and Philomel van der Aart. Felicity had no clue whether or not they were lovers, enemies, or something else entirely. Still, the organizations were attempting to prevent war and form some kind of alliance of sorts. Or maybe, it was their leaders making excuses to be on the same side. Felicity sighed as she sat in a waiting room. She currently was at a headquarters of the Gilded Lady, taking a note written from her mentor and teacher Shinsou. Of course, he said it was a business letter. Yet, Felicity could not help but wonder if it was also a love letter or sorts.

She shook her head, pushing the issue out of her head. Shinsou was too business like to get smushy over this kind of garbage. Love? Hah. Love was something Felicity was never interested in...

"A new member?"

Felicity was pulled from her thoughts. Lifting her head, she looked through her messy strands of hair. The white waiting room now had a second individual entering it. Wearing a pink skirt and white blouse, a blond elf walked in with papers held within an arm pressed against her chest. In the other hand, she held a glass pitcher of water. Her blue eyes shone as her ears perked up in curiosity.

From all the way across the room, she smelled thick with perfume. Gross.

Felicity shook her head, holding up the letter in her hand. "A letter from the leadership of the Brotherhood."

The young elf held her papers, ears dropping with a face of disappointment. "Oh."

Felicity lowered the paper as she turned to look at the door. The decorative pictures in here were swirled in fanciful paintings of bright colors. The tables and chairs themselves were rather similar in the fancy style of architecture. It was too... pretty... The elf placed the papers on a red table, turning to a rose plant in the corner. The pot had many smooth patterns and designs within the clay. The rich bush itself was a lot nicer, sporting rich red roses. It matched the room, regardless of how geared towards ladies, very well. The elf walked over and started pouring water into the plant, humming a cheerful song to herself.

Felicity leaned back. The cushioned seat was comfortable, although she never liked the color. She preferred earthy greens and strong reds. As she stared at the white door to Aart's office, she was pulled into conversation once again.

"You are not entirely human, are you?"

Felicity turned to see the elf lowering the empty pitcher onto the wooden floor. Her high heels clunked against the beams as she walked towards Felicity.

Felicity felt her anxieties rise as she lifted her hand to cover her forehead. Her wretched, big forehead. "The forehead gave it away, huh?"

The elf sat in the seat next to Felicity, crossing her smooth legs. "Your body is shorter and firmer than a human being's."

Felicity, pulling more strands of hair over her head, winced. "I'm half neanderthal."

"Neanderthal..." the elf muttered to herself. She looked down, "They are local to upper Berevar, correct?"

Felicity looked away, eying the plant. "And Eiskalt."

"Ah, of course." the elf leaned back in her seat. Felicity tried not to grimace at the strong, flowery perfume. She was shocked when she felt a slight tug on her head. She turned to see the elf lightly holding some strands of hair she had pulled over her eyes.

"Natural redhead? You have wonderful hair, why do you leave it hanging like this?"

A wave of irritation caused the halfling to reach up and yank her hair out of her fair hands. "Why's that matter to you? I'm not some girly girl."

The atmosphere within the air seemed to suddenly shift. Letting go of her hair, Felicity felt shocked to see the talkative, bubbly elf look down with a dim face. Realizing she had somehow offended her, Felicity reached out to take her shoulder. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"-My parents were disappointed to have a daughter."

Felicity was taken aback by her somber tone. Silence flooded her as she listened to the blond girl. "They said women were weak. They were only crybaby gossipers who cared about makeup and vanities."

The elf looked up, towards the plant in the corner. "So, my entire life, I tried to be like a man. Loose clothes, tangled short hair. I shoved my emotions back to look tough like a man. For years, I believed my own lies."

Despite just talking about hiding her emotions, tears started to flood her crystal eyes. "But that was not me."

Felicity leaned forward, listening further to her tale. "I tried to be a warrior; I joined the Gilded Lady as one. Yet, I realized I had no desire to fight. Was I weak for this? Insignificant? I asked myself, if I was not like a man was I everything my father scorned?"

She closed her eyes, pausing. The question hung thick in the air. It reminded Felicity of questions she had asked herself, about her hybrid biology. Felicity loathed her neanderthal blood and the pain it caused her. Eiskaltian discrimination, racial injustice.

"Disgusting half breed." A man whispered to a friend next to him as a little girl walked by. The hushed man glared with demeaning eyes as he spoke to his companion. "Why didn't the town officials just kill it?"

On the icy streets a young girl pulled her own hair, pointing and sticking her tongue out. "Ew! Her hair is red!"

A boy next to her scoffed. "And look at that forehead! She's too ugly to even get an orc for a future boyfriend!"

Felicity turned away from the elf, shutting her eyes as tears threatened to fall from her face. For a moment, she sat there, clenching the letter in her hand. Then, she heard the elf rustle. She turned to see her head raised, tears streaking her face as her ears pointed up in determination. Her eyes were narrowed with such a raw, real strength.

"Absolutely not!"

Felicity reached up to wipe her blurred eyes as she listened.

"I am a woman. I am a caretaker. I listen to the women here who have dealt with trauma and need care. I feed victims of Corone's many wars, and I am a nurse to those suffering wounds under our Gilded house."

The elf wiped her tears away, smiling. "I am no fighter, but I can heal. I care for my appearance, honestly." She looked down at her pink skirt and tugged it, "Pink is my favorite color!"

The elf beamed as her hands grasped her knees "I am not ashamed of being feminine!"

The woman then turned to Felicity and reached forward again. She took some of her red hair and pulled it behind her ears. "You should not either, neanderthal. Embrace your beauty."

Something inside Felicity burned. Images flashed before her eyes of picking out sun hats and applying war paint in elegant designs. Doubts crept up and screamed. I just messed around with that for myse-

"You could be more confident than those heavy, bland clothes make you out to be." The blonde stood up, bending over to clear the messy hair from her brow. "And embrace your physical appearance. Your firey hair, your strong yet curved frame, your wonderful green eyes..." The elf turned away and walked towards the plant. Felicity sat there stunned, as she plucked a rose and brought it back over. "Take care of yourself, hold yourself up with dignity. Embrace your real you."

She slid the stem between her ear, leaving the rose as a dainty accessory. She grinned with joy, "Alright?"

Felicity looked up at this woman, strong and delicate at the same time. Suddenly, the annoying features of this frilly room awakened dorment feelings inside. Felicity wanted... to be beautiful. To be cherished and loved by her family, respected and trusted by her teacher, and held as a valued treasure by the world. Suddenly, Felicity recalled the irony of being raised by two men; an introverted uncle and rash cousin who both felt nothing on physical appearance or style. They encouraged her, showed her they cared, but never told her she was beautiful. A hole she forgot existed was opened up as she realized with shock that... she had a feminine side. She cared about her appearance and wanted to feel love. Looking around at this room, reaching to touch the rose, she realized that she never felt like being a girl was bad, she just never knew how to be one. All the female traits she had were shot down by scoffers, and she never had a mother to teach her to be female. After all, she had hated that half breed more than anyone else in her Eiskaltian village.

The elf turned towards the door. "I came in here to water the plant. However, I need to deliver these papers to the head social worker." She turned her head back to the redhead, an ear twitching. "Oh! What is your name?"

Felicity slumped in her seat, looking up with softer eyes. "Felicity."

The elf smiled again. "An elegant yet simple name. I love it!"

The elf turned and started to leave. The high heels slammed into the floor, the perfume smell remaining behind. Now, however, Felicity could tolerate the smell. Felicity watched her pick up her papers and leave in silence. She did not realize that hearing her name complimented like that had made her smile just a little.

[DarkDelights]

Her simple black flats splashed in the puddles on the sidewalk. The rain was cool and familiar as it pattered on her bare shoulders. Red and blue neon lights danced and shimmered on her soaking wet raven hair and she paused in front of a glass store-front window, in which a sign read:

Dr. Stienmann, PsyD

GROUP CURRENTLY IN SESSION

Newcomers welcome!

***

She wrung out her hair in the lobby, and a torrent of water pooled at her feet on the bare concrete. A pair of black stockings rose from her plain shoes, up her shapely legs, and ended in lace on her pale thighs, just below the hem of her form-fitting black dress that left her collarbones, shoulders, and neck uncovered. Her arms were pale like her thighs, and a simple black bracelet adorned her left wrist. Her fingernails were the color of the sky at midnight, as were her full lips. Much of her face was hidden behind a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses, which did nothing at such a late hour except hide her eyes.

The short hallway ended at a pair of gymnasium doors, held open wide with rubber stoppers. Within, silver folding chairs were arranged in a circle, almost every one filled by a body, intently listening to a single person who spoke in a low, shamed voice. She did not make her way to an empty chair immediately. Just inside the door was a plywood card table, supporting a jug of cheap coffee, neatly laid rows of Styrofoam cups, and a sheet of adhesive stickers and a couple of well used Sharpie markers. She picked one up and tapped it against her chin as she chose a name. Writing it down with the marker, she then removed the sticker and applied it to the stretchy black fabric of her dress that covered her left breast. The coffee pot glugged as a stream of the dark liquid filled the white cup and steamed. She added no cream or sugar, and only after a noisy pull, did she make her way to an empty seat, her hips swaying voluptuously and her flat-soled feet slapping noisily on the wooden gymnasium floor.

The speaker paused a moment as steel chair screeched into position beside her. The disruptive newcomer said nothing, and the speaker cleared her throat, perturbed, before she deigned to continue. She was in her early thirties, and was heavy set, clad in blue denim overalls with a red flannel shirt. On the lapel of her overalls, a sticker read “Hi, I'm MAGGIE.” Maggie was written in simple, neat, box letters. She had full cheeks, freckles, and hair the color of straw.

“I guess what really drew me to Duke was that he was always happy to see me. He never sighed, all annoyed when I told him about my day. He never judged me if I made a mistake... He...” tears began to well up in her pale blue eyes. A thin hand, marked with age spots, but with smooth skin and well manicured nails, reached out from the circle and came to rest on Maggie's own meaty hand.

“Now Maggie,” a calm, even-tempered voice spoke. The voice belonged to a woman who could have just as easily been forty as sixty. She had dark hair seasoned with patches of white, dissecting brown eyes beneath a pair of red, horn-rimmed glasses, and a simple but elegant strand of pearls around her neck. A stark white coat covered her tasteful ensemble, and on the lapel of her coat, a label read “Hi, I'm Dr. Steinmann.” Steinmann was written in flowing cursive. The older woman's scalpel gaze fell upon Maggie, and her voice was firm, but passed no judgement. “We've talked about this. Duke didn't listen to you talk about your day because he was interested, he listened because all pets grow accustomed to their owner's voices, and even to love them. But not in the same way you or I felt love, Maggie. Duke was a great dane. A dog. Dog's are empathetic creatures, but the way they process emotions is very different from how you and I do.”

“I understand that now Doctor, really I do,” Maggie said, ashamed. She hung her head and looked at her shoes. There was a sharp click, and a grating sound. The woman in black sparked up a gold zippo lighter and applied the flame to a long, slender cigarette. Dr. Stienmann said nothing, keeping her gaze on Maggie.

“Remember why you're here Maggie. Because your battle against the Zoophilia you suffer from will be lifelong, not something that goes away overnight. It's an addiction. You're in recovery, and you always will be, so we have group to come to when the urges feel strong, or even when they don't. We're here for you Maggie.”

“We're here for you Maggie,” the circle droned in unison. All except the woman in black. Dr. Steinmann looked at her next.

“It looks like we have a newcomer. Why don't you tell us why you're here. Everyone, say hello to Veronika.”

“Hello Veronika,” the group droned.

The woman in black smirked, and looked at the person sitting beside her, opposite Maggie. "I'd rather hear his story." The man, too old to be a teenager, but too young to have seen his twenty-fifty birthday, had a long brown ponytail, heavy black eye make-up, and a black t-shirt read “SLAYER” in red letters. On his shirt, plastered above a red pentacle, was a sticker that read “Mark” in squiggly letters, as if written by the non-dominant hand. He had only one arm. Assuming it was his turn to speak, he began in a rehearsed voice.

“Hi, I'm Mark, and I'm recovering from my addiction to auto-erotic cannibalization.”

“Hello Mark,” the group droned. Dr. Steinmann interrupted, her stare still on the woman in black.

“Please, hold on for a moment Mark. Miss, everyone present, perhaps even myself included, all suffer from a form of sexual self-expression that has placed them in conflict, either with the law, with their loved ones, or with themselves. This is a safe place, and whatever you have to say will not pass outside these walls.

“I don't really want to,” the woman in black stated flatly, taking a long, wet drag off her cigarette.

“Veronika, the relationship that this group has is built on a foundation of trust. One of us shares, the rest listen, and we all find a sense of belonging in this unaccepting world by telling our stories, and seeing for ourselves that we're not alone. Please, tell us why you're here.

The woman in black took another drag off her smoke, held it a breath, then exhaled harshly from her nose.

“Fine.”

***

The streets were ablaze. A woman shrieked in the distance. Then a child cried out. A man gasped out his death's rattle.

There was the sound of glass shattering, followed by more screaming, and low, gurgling moans which grew steadily louder.

The shuffle of uneven but heavy steps. More gurgling moans.

A slight figure, a black silhouette in the orange light cast by a nearby dumpster fire, slipped into an alleyway off the main street. The shadow picked its steps in the rubble-strewn alleyway. The light footfalls were echoed by heavier, booted feet coming the opposite direction. A drawn out moan accompanied them. The two figures collided in the center of the alley.

She had fallen backwards on her behind, propped up on her scraped hands. The other was up faster, but she did not scramble away. The smaller figure got her hands under her, and rose to her feet slowly as the large figure, what had once been a man, lunged at her. His grey hand grabbed a fist full of her black hair and attempted to force her back into a seated position. Near the mouth of the alley, a fleeing man was tackled by a blur of shadows, and a horrible, ripping and slurping noise filled the air, accompanied by screams of the utmost agony. The woman in the alleyway ripped herself out of the shambling creature's grasp with some effort, pushing it back slightly with a shove from her open palm. It lurched forward once again, still clutching a clump of black hair in its muscular hand. She clutched her bleeding scalp, and narrowed her eyes seriously. It lunged, but she was faster, and no longer caught by surprise. She grabbed the outstretched arm and spun, pinning it against the wall of the narrow alley. She dug the point of her elbow in the undead thing's throat, and it gurgled, snapping its jaws mindlessly, its blood-shot yellow eyes glowering with hate and hunger.

It pushed away from the wall, but she planted both feet and put all her weight into the elbow and maintained the pin. She stared back at the yellow eyes, and dared to lean in closer. Its breath smelled like fresh blood. It was not far into decomposition, and its grey skin showed only slight pock marks from where the bot fly larva had chewed out tiny circles in the cheeks. In life, he may have been a handsome man. It continued snapping at her, and grey spittle flew in her dirty, pretty face. With a sudden surge of energy, it lurched again, never tiring. She adjusted her weight, and let her forearm take her elbow's place on the monster's windpipe.

“You'll never stop, will you? Your desire is too strong. You're hungry. Hungry like me. You won't rest until you get a taste,” she taunted, daring to bring her face even closer now that she had a stronger position. She brought her nose close, and drew breath through it deeply. It snapped at her, almost skimming the slightly upturned tip of her cute nose.

It came on again, and the creature which boasted a weight advantage of nearly thirty pounds, almost over powered her that time, but the woman drove her elbow like a stake into the undead's throat once more and re-established dominance. She smiled luridly, and mashed her other forearm into the side of the monster's head, pressing the side of its face into the brick wall.

She nibbled its earlobe as it gnashed its broken teeth. Its eyes darted wildly. She whispered softly to it.

“Do you want to taste me? Tell me just how badly you crave my sweet flesh.”

The monster howled but could not break free, having long ago been robbed of its ability to think, or reason, or plan. She bit her lip, and breathed huskily onto the zombie's neck. Her free hand slid down the monster's muscular abdomen, over its heavy metal belt buckle, and settled on the bulge of its denim pants. What she felt there was firm, and cold.

***

Her black fingernails traced a line over her hips. They drew faint red lines in the untanned skin of her legs, and the tips of her index fingers hooked the lace of her stockings. She drew breath richly, and chewed her lower lip. “Mmm...”

“Dr. Stienmann!”

The psychologist removed her red glasses, folded them, then placed them in the breast pocket of her overcoat, and raised a finger to the group without looking. “Wait your turn Janice. Tell me Veronika, what did you feel?”

Slowly, unsteadily, the left hand of the woman in black found its way back to her dress. It crept up the hem, over the hip, pressed hard into her tight stomach. “I felt...” and her hand dragged higher, faltering, finding its way to the nametag she wore. She clutched there, hand cupping. “I felt...” She opened her eyes behind the tint of her sunglasses. “I guess... That's when I knew. Like, really knew.”

“Knew what Veronika?”

“That I...”

“Say it.”

“That I...”

“Go on, please, remember, this is a safe place.”

The woman in black balled her fists and folded them in her lap and she regulated her breathing with a soft exhale. Her cigarette was now a length of ash, and she abandoned it, letting it fall to the polished wooden floor without a sound. She took another deep breath, this time one of preparation.

“Hello, I'm Veronika, and I'm a necrophilliac.”

“Hello Veronika,” the circle droned.

Dr. Steinman also let out a steadying exhale of breath, then replaced her horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. “Veronika, you are not a necrophilliac,” she said, staring hard at the newcomer, pressing her index fingers together and bringing them under her chin where the skin sagged only slightly. The woman in black said nothing, but crooked her neck to the side ever so slightly, waiting for the doctor to continue.

“Or, that is to say, you are not just a necrophilliac. The situation you described to us just now, has many more factors at work than the simple attraction to cold, dead bodies.” Steinmann held up an open hand, and with the other hand she subtracted fingers as she counted off conditions. “Teratophilia, an arousal at the sight of monsters. Anthropophagy, arousal through the consumption of human flesh. Piquerism, the piercing of flesh. And more recently coined, but still unaccredited, Necroanimatophilia... put simply, a sexual attraction to the undead.”

The silence in the room over the next minute was palpable. The uncomfortable shuffling of feet and hoarse, stifled coughs where like thunderous booms. Then, Dr. Stienman reached into the pocket of her sensible slacks, producing a small white rectangle of cardboard.

“Here is my card,” she said, holding it out to the woman in black, who accepted it hesitantly, scanning it with her eyes while mouthing the word “Teratophilia.”

“I want you to come see me in my office at noon this Friday. We've only scratched the surface here today, and I think that we have a lot of work to do before you're ready to enter the recovery stage."

“...Thank you, doctor,” the woman in black said softly, tucking the business card into her cleavage. She rose from the folding chair and smoothed the hem of her dress. Without another word, she accidently kicked over the full cup of coffee she had poured herself and left at her feet, and the wave of still-steaming liquid washed away the small pile of ash, and she left.

[Stonecutter Cartel]

“I'm thinking... something about two city blocks. No, make it three,” the dwarf said with a sneer. His dining partner, Kathgar Drummond of the Radasanth Cityworks Council, casually tucked a white napkin into the neck of his silk jerkin. He seemed unphased.

“You know that's an absurd request,” he laughed, straight-faced. “I can't even do one. You'd be lucky to get a rundown shack on Beggar's Street.” He paused and scoffed. “Three. Perposterous.”

Bugsy had stopped listening sometime earlier, and was fishing through a satchel. His napkin was still on the table, and it was unlikely that it would get used. A waiter, bald with a sleek, thin moustache, arrived with a silver platter. He spoke with a refined, mechanical voice.

“Fingerling potatoe, turnip, and daikon, roasted with olive oil, savory, and thyme. Fried prawn, drizzled with lemon butter and a dusting of cayenne. And, duck-confit! The sommelier has recommended a Raiaerian merlot with accentuated oak tannins-” he was cut off.

“Yeah yeah, red wine. Thanks bud,” the dwarf mumbled, already doling out more than his fair share of the plattered dishes on to his plate greedily. He swirled the root vegetables and prawns together and forked a large mouthful, chewing noisily. His pudgy fingers grabbed a portion of the duck and he fed it into his mouth before he had finished the rest. He choked, then took a long, gulping draw from the glass of wine the waiter had poured, finishing the draught in one go. The waiter did little to hide his revulsion, and the counsilman appologized profusely until he left.

Bugsy burped, and resumed rumaging in the satchel that hung on his chair with his greasy fingers.

“Aha!”

He produced a manilla envelope, now stained with duck fat.

“Knew you weren't gonna go for three. Ha! Knew you weren't gonna go for one,” he said, chewing still, half of his loaded plate now empty. He dropped the envelope on the potatoe dish and resumed making short work of his lunch, leaving the councilman, who felt his appetite slipping away, to ponder.

After a long pull from his own wine, he opened the envelope, avoiding the grease while Bugsy's lips smacked juicily.

He pulled out an eight-and-a-half by eleven photograph, and studied it carefully. Then another. There were ten in total.

“You're blackmailing me,” the councilman stated flatly.

“Yup.” Bugsy belched. “And there's not a damn thing you can do about it, so I'd start thinking of ways to make it happen if I were you. Bugsy Belched again. And again.

The councilman gagged, and his hands began to tremble. He finished his wine.

“Listen, Mister Stonecutter. Surely we can-”Kathgar was interrupted by a loud hiccup. “I said, surely-” another hiccup. “Mister Stonecutter, are you quite alright? Are you choking?”

“I'm fICCUP. Fine.” the bald dwarf hiccuped again. His face was flushed and he sweat profusely. He poked at a single surviving potatoe with his fork, but couldn't spear it as his hand began to tremble violently. He couldn't breathe.

“Poison!” he choked out as his throat began to swell. His skin had taken on a curious greyish-purple hue.

Councilman Drummond eyed the dwarf extortionist warily, saying nothing. Bugsy fell from his chair and began to clutch and claw at his throat, his cheeks puffing out and his lips withdrawing. His eyes bugged weirdly. Drummond grabbed his napkin and threw it on the table, snatched up the envelope, tucked it under his arm, and briskly stepped over the dwarf, whistling jauntily as he headed for the glass door of the fine-dining establishment.

Bugsy wheezed and gasped, and the waiter and front-of-house manager arrived, along with a few concerned bystanders.

“Sir! Sir are you all right? Are you choking?” they asked, much to the dwarf's irritation.

“POI- son,” he wheezed at them.

“This dwarf has been poisoned! Call the guards! Call the healers!” At that point, his head looked like a blueberry, and he stopped breathing.

-

Broski could have been Bugsy's twin, but he was a year his junior, and had a shock of fiery hair and a long red beard to match, contrasting his brother's slate-grey beard and cleanshaven head. He had left his ax at the hideout and wore only his breaches, tunic, and work boots as he pushed his way through the commotion in the city street. It was then he saw Bugsy, lying prone on a wooden stretcher, a pinch-faced elf in white standing over him and clucking her tongue. Broski could barely suffer looking an elf in the face, but he did, asking after his brother's condition.

The healer frowned, then shrugged.

“He'll live. He had a severe allergic reaction and his airways closed. We gave him epinephrine, but he needs rest. He's lucky to be alive,” she stated, as if they owed her.

“Yeah yeah, here's a song. Thanks fer yer help,” the killer muttered as he slung Bugsy's limp arm around his shoulder. The elf harumphed and began gathering her kit.

The two dwarves, one limping along and the other bearing him, made their way back to the slums where they already had a single room dwelling on Beggar's Street.

“Gonna make it?” Broski asked. Bugsy could only speak with strained effort.

“Gack! Fuk- Prawns.”

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

The March vignette is now closed for judging!

Results will be in as soon as possible.

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

Philomel told me to close this, but Mikhael has very kindly pointed out it was to remain open until the 6th.

Which, of course, it now will do.

Sorry about that! Carry on...

[Mikael]

Mikael Leviasi ia Saiph
Location: Citadel Leviasi ia Saiph

---

Mikael wandered through the hallways, his footsteps echoing off the pristine marble white stone wall and floor, his eyes lazily focused on the small scroll in his hands. There was no natural light, so the young elf made do with the mage fire burning along the walls to read his scroll, not that it contained much worth but it distracted Mikael from the hallway itself. It never felt warm, nor inviting to walk through his family’s home, at least not anymore.

The purity of the marble white stone acted more as a test to grade himself against, to assure he was free of stain, than of anything else. The stonework showed master craftsmanship of the stone mason, a reminder of how Mikael must be like a stone but also readily flexible to allow the masters to fit him into the family. His father needed no physical chains to clasp this young elf to the family, the sheer force of will that surrounded Mikael encased him with a chain unlike any other.

Stopping near a turn in the hallway, Mikael sighed as he took a small side-step back, the next moment a translucent hand swatted past Mikael’s face and the owner of the translucent hand nearly collided with the corner of the wall. With a slight gasp and a final grunt, the would-be attacker landed on the floor with a soft thud. Of course, the floor was stone so nothing soft about such crash landing, the groan of pain emitting from the translucent figure was evident to such fact.

A bemused expression slotted into Mikael’s face, but as the figure slowly lost their translucent quality, Mikael’s face returned to the rigidness that it was once minutes before. The figure was another elf, though unlike Mikael, the elf in question had rather dark brown locks of hair and the most bright green eyes. His face was rather torn between laughing and wincing in pain, and perhaps unfortunately for Mikael, the laughter won out and the noble elf winced at the sudden loudness of the fallen elf.

“Quiet Nassa,” Mikael barked as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand and gave Nass the most annoyed of looks. “-You’re lucky to be terrible with concealment as I am masterful with my senses, else you might have found yourself concussed and bleeding.”

His words held a bite, but this only encouraged Nass to laugh some more as he slowly stood back up, shaking off what was left of his pain. “-And you’re lucky I am smart enough to know that about you! Else you would need to explain why you dirtied the floor with someone’s blood.”

Mikael narrowed his eyes to a near slit, and displayed no other emotion past annoyance. Nassa, or Nas'satho'lor, a name Nass was never fond of, stood only half a meter away from Mikael as the two elves stared at one another. Neither appeared ready to admit to any sort of fault so Nassa took another step forward and placed one hand on Mikael’s chest and the other on top of his shoulder, “-Come now Mikael, unlike you I only spend a few hours here and I’m ready leave the moment my time is up, I can only imagine how it must be like for you!”

The hallway around them both continued to glow faintly by the mage fire, accenting the pure white marble that layered both the floor and walls. The two lone figures remained still for a moment but that changed when Mikael took a single step forward, this caused Nassa to take a step back, his eyes continued to look into Mikael’s own, hopeful in fact. Mikael simply uttered “-Hands off. Out of my way.” His eyes narrowed further, his words turned cold and his presence seemed to fill the hallway.

Nassa slowly moved his hands away, and took another step back as he turned his head and began to leave but suddenly Mikael spoke “Stop.” Nassa turned back but couldn’t meet Mikael’s gaze, something felt heavy in the air and he wasn’t sure how to approach Mikael. Or even if he should at all.

Mikael eyed Nassa for all but a moment before speaking “Never come to this side of my home.” Mikael turned around, his back facing Nassa as he continued along the hallway. The tension in the air left as Mikael left Nessa there, but the young Elf didn’t feel guilty, or anything much besides impatience.

His footsteps echoed for several moments, his scroll no longer near his eyes but falling to his side, barely held by his fingers. Mikael looked at the walls around and with an almost wistful air about him he touched the walls. Perhaps, it’s not so bad here. The marble white stone remained pristine even through decades of his travels through these very hallways, it all remained so pure and strong.

Mikael knew his future was certain. Certain as the very stones his family had laid before him.

---

[Ayvriel]

It started with a wish.

Even at a tender age, Ayvriel knew.

The third and youngest, her parents wanted a songbird. Even while she was blessed with tutors and all that her heart could ever want, Ayvriel knew that she wanted to shadow her brothers on the path they would forge, be it in the halls of politics or on the fields of battle.

Thirty and barely even starting on her life’s journey, the young maiden set her eyes on the White Spire. A school of learning, renowned for many a scholar and spellsinger celebrated in the city of Tor Elythis. Young as she was, Ayvriel could sense the misgivings in her parents even as they allowed her to study under the wise magi.

There had been no expectations for her to soar high.

Yet she exceeded what they wished for in a third child.

Beloved by Selana, they whispered.

Perhaps so, for songs and magick came as naturally as breathing to Ayvriel.

Decades of studying and learning and discovery has cumulated in the end of the first chapter in the book of her life. In her years as a student of the White Spire, she has seen much. Of life extinguished and corrupted by the touch of necromancy. Of cities once lively in shambles and eerie in the aftermath of war. Never once allowing herself to be cowed by sorrow and suffering, Ayvriel was unwavering in her determination.

She asked to be granted permission to undertake the rite of passage, a path that was essential to every elf of the White Spire who wanted to pursue mastery of their song magick.

Her journey began with a seedling of a thought that would merely be an inconvenience, a necessary suffering for her to triumph over so she could become a fledged spellsinger.

Ayvriel has never once thought of her life as restrictive before.

Yes, she needed to mind her mannerisms and ensure her words were beyond reproach.

Yes, she needed to smile kindly and sing for the gilded who came to sigh at her songs.

She wore her obligations as a scion of Leviasi ia Saiph with grace.

She wore her duties as an apprentice spellsinger of the White Spire with pride.

And it was only when she was far away from the only home she has ever known, standing before a meadow of flowers that she realised.

That before, she was a songbird in a gilded cage, oblivious to the shackles that bound her.

That despite the uncertainties of her days and the dangers she may face–

–She was free.

[Tyr]

Closed for judgement.

Great turnout! Thank you all for your participation!

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

Hi everyone. Apologies for the delay; I am working on the judgment for this and will have this up by Monday latest.