Vignette Contest- January

[Call me J]

Alright, the first ever Vignette Contest is here. The rules are as follows.

1) One submission per character. Multiple accounts by the same author are allowed.
2) Please make your posts during the duration of time allotted.
3) The moderator judging the monthly vignette contest will post a vignette at the end, but will not be eligible for a prize.
4) Only on-topic vignettes will be considered for the prize. The topics are meant to be 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 5% of the EXP they need to reach the next level. The top three finishers get 100, 75 and 50 GP respectively.

EDIT- Since I got this question from two people, I want to answer it. Edits are fine as long as they are done within January.

I am the moderator in charge of this month’s contest.

The prompt for the month is as follows: While our characters often go on fantastic adventures, they cannot have these sorts of fantastic adventures every day. In this vignette, I would like to see people give me a glimpse into what an ordinary day would be like for your character.

[Karuka]

Dawn seems to come too early some days, and even more so when you don't have anywhere in particular to go. Aimless wanderers like me tend to just get up when they feel like it and walk until the light starts to die.

If I could sleep in, I really would. Days upon days of walking forward on barely defined roads without another soul to talk to prompt mindless boredom, sore feet and muscles, or, worst of all, musings and memories. We aren't aimless wanderers, after all, because we have somewhere to stay or people who really want us. We wander because we are alone.

Memories of human contact can be painful, whether good or bad. It just serves to remind us of how very alone we really are. At least in sleep, that feeling fades. Sleep is a luxury.

I'm one of those unlucky few that can't sleep in past dawn. The birds start singing and rustling around, and that means it's time to get up and start the day. I don't mind the birds, really. It's nice to hear them sing.

Reaching out with a long stick, I prod at the still-hot embers of last night's fire until it glows softly in the dim morning light. Everything takes on pale shades of gray in the early morning, giving the world an eerie cast. It doesn't help that the clouds above are a riot of color, becoming deep purples and searing pinks as the first rays of daylight kiss them. It makes the sky seem an entirely different world than the cold trees and soil that are rousing slowly from the slumber forced upon them by night.

I huddle under my old battered cloak for a few moments more. Despite having recently bought a new one, I still use the old woolen one for a blanket. I really should buy a proper blanket at some point. I've meant to in every town I've gone to, when I have any sort of money, but it's always slipped my mind.

Then again, when I get to a town, I just want a hot meal, some good ale, and a soft bed for the night. It's a luxury I allow myself every few days, when I can. I spend enough cold nights on the hard ground.

Finally, the world starts taking on soft touches of color over the gray, signaling the arrival of true dawn. Unable to ignore the call of the sunrise any longer, I sit up and shake out the old cloak before folding it up and sticking it in my bag, above the bandages and dressings made out of my old rags and poncho, and right next to my new oilskin cloak with its heavy fleece lining. So far, I haven't needed it, but winter draws closer every day.

It will be an easier winter to survive than my first here, I think, but I shake the memory off before it can latch on. The past is the past. I prefer to keep it that way.

Walking down to the stream to wash my face and re-fill my old goatskin, I wonder idly how far it is to the last town. I haven't seen one in three days, meaning that it ought to be fairly close. Settlements are generally no more than two days walk from each other.

I shiver involuntarily as some of the icy water I splash on my face slips down my neck and under my shirt. Well, now I'm awake. I fill my skin quickly, and notice a lazy glint just beneath the surface of the water.

Reaching out quickly, I snatch the fish before it even realizes that I'm there. A quick blow to its head with a rock makes the wiggling stop, and I skin, gut, and behead the thing there before taking the meat back to my fire. I'd noted the night before that I was out of food, and this came as an unexpected boon. It's always more pleasant to travel with food in your belly, as opposed to starving.

Propping the fish up on a set of sticks, I start cleaning up the campsite. There's not much mess, really, but I like to leave these places as I found them, minus the firepit. No sense letting some nitwit burn down the forest because he thinks he can make a fire on the bare ground without setting everything ablaze. I've learned that people aren't as wise as they should be.

Hel, I'm guilty of that myself. I've gotten into so much trouble it's surprising I'm alive. But the past is the past. I'm smarter now. There's no use dwelling on mistakes I've made before.

After the campsite is clean and I'm ready to go, I bank the fire and devour the fish. The sun's already high enough that long morning shadows create dappled patterns in this little clearing, and since I'm up, I might as well get moving soon. Everything done, I suffocate the fire with dirt, then pick up my roomy leather bag and staff and get moving.

I won't talk about what it feels like to walk the miles. Mostly, it's just putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that around the next bend there'll be a sign of civilization and trying to keep the memories at bay. I wish I had someone to walk and talk with me, even if it was just a cat. It'd be a little less lonely, then.

Finally, as the sun hits its peak and I'm starting to be glad of the shade the woods provide, I burst from their dusky interior and into rolling fields of ripe yellow and gold. Civilization can't lie far; this isn't an empty meadow, there are crops planted here and I can see farm houses dotted on the horizon. Beyond that next crest there must be a small town of some sort. It will at least have an inn, and that means a hot meal that I don't have to kill a small animal for, some decent ale that isn't too expensive, and a warm, soft bed instead of a dirty forest floor.

By the time I get into town, my waterskin is empty, my throat is parched, my skin feels flushed and my head feels on fire. I ought to get a hat, but I know I won't. I won't be thinking about it when I head out in the morning, and right now all I want is a tavern.

Finding one, I pay for a room and a hot bath before making my way upstairs. As I go into the bath, I grab my pretty blue silk dress. This town seems peaceful enough that I don't need to walk around in vlince, and I had the dress taken out to fit me in the last town. I had, after all, gotten it when I was little bigger around than a twig.

The bath refreshes my body and soothes my spirits. It always feels good to be clean after several long days of hard traveling, and when I'm clean I rub a soft linen towel over my body and pull on my dress. It's been a long time since I've worn it, and I feel attractive for once in my life. Back in my room, I rake a crude comb through my wet curls before grabbing my coin pouch and heading downstairs.

A cold ale and a bowl of hot stew are even more reviving than the bath had been, and for the first time in four days, I feel human again. There's no shortage of strangers to chat and exchange tales with. One man even describes an adventure he claims to have had with Storm Veritas, but having known the man, I knew that the bulky muscles and the long brown hair he described didn't belong to him. Unless the one I met was lying, Storm Veritas has black hair and an almost wiry frame.

It's a good story, though, and I keep quiet. Some of my adventures are so far-fetched that they'd be even less likely believed than this man's, and there's no harm in letting an entertaining tale live.

In the evening, I go shopping for basic provisions before the shops close. It saves time on a trip if you don't have to hunt for everything you eat, and with all the blood on my hands, I'd rather spare some lives, even if it's just an occasional rabbit or fish.

As the sun sets, I go back to the tavern and drag my weary body up to my room. It's pretty plain, just a table to hold my things and a bed, really. But the bed has a down mattress and a soft comforter that seems to enfold me in a soft embrace. Sleep is a luxury, and comfort a joy. My body is clean, my belly is full, and my bed is warm. I couldn't ask for more as I nestle in and close my eyes.

My last hazy thought as I drift off to sleep is: I forgot to buy a hat.

[Apocalyptica]

I am so very hungry today. The sun has been shining in the Red Forest for a while now, but I dare not wander outside the small cavern that my horse and I have holed up. How does Xem'Zund know my name and how do I know his? The question has been burning in my head, past the hunger, for a long while now. It is asked like a wave, beating over and over, like my heart, pumping awkwardly in undeath. He does call my name, and I do hide. Those are simple facts.

Jivantika

The word is stronger than my name was before. My hands, the dirty olive skin peeling in patches away from yellow broken nails, start to move along the rough stone floor. It's like I'm reaching out to him, as if he were my master.

"No..." my voice is scratched with disuse, like fingernails trying to feebly scream down a chalkboard. It's an awful sound compared to what it was when I was a live. I think sometimes that I can remember. Something hard, but velvet pushes against my leg, where the fraying edges of my linen dress have torn to expose my calf. The push turns, the velvet feeling sliding until it's only cold ivory against my skin, cold bone that's my comfort in these moments when the necromancer is screaming in my head, demanding that I join his Scourge. The sound of echoing bone on stone reverberates all around us, each sharp sound stinging my ears for a millisecond as it resounds and flows. She moves around, laying down like any horse would, though she is far from any horse.

My steed is made of bones, with eyes of pitch fire. What few shreds of skin still hang from her bones has nearly been turned to leather by the elements. The horn of the unicorn that was once the very symbol of purity has thinned. Now it is a long spire of brittle twisting black, as if it had been made of the cursed Obsidian Spire's touchstones. Strange as she is, however, she is my only friend. I crawl along the rough ground, uncaring when more of my dress rips, until I can curl myself around her ribs, hooking them in my arms, holding them as if they were a childhood toy or blanket.

With my eyes closed, it's hard to tell how much time passes. The hunger and the necromancer fight in my head, until finally it seems he has given up, for now. The Dark One has a whole army of my brothers and sisters, and War being woven on his looms. Xem'Zund has little time for stubborn ones like me and Huyana, the ones who may be special but are still so weak compared to his scarier things. I open my eyes to gaze lovingly on her; the NightMare who made me like this. Were it not here, I'd either have been returned to my life, and dead now to be culled for Xem'Zund, or as I was before, and culled for Xem'Zund. Either way, I would be out there, just another chunk of meat to fight this war for the necromancer, but she had made me, us, something more with the last act that had taken her final purity.

As I watched her, a twitch in her ear turned my attention to the entrance of our cavern. A jackrabbit stood, haloed in the light that came from the afternoon in the forest. It looked, this way and that, listening. Neither Huyana or I had use for breath, the moving of my heartbeat slow and soft enough that I doubted there was any mere animal that could hear it. My mouth watered, the need to devour living flesh rising up. If the necromancer had still been calling me, the hold would be broken now. The rabbit turned, showing a strange waxy gaze, the muzzle of it's small furry head dabbed with bubbling saliva.

Whatever had once been alive in me was repulsed, but I didn't care. Disease was nothing more than an ally now. With the spirit of the forest turned upside down with the return of the necromancer, nothing was right anymore. The rabbit might have gotten a taste for flesh having nibbled on a diseased hunk of something left on the forest floor. Now it was to my advantage, as it hopped and inched closer to me, sniffing the air with a nose that moved as if it were in a panic to smell something. Some rhyme floated through from her memories, but it hadn't made sense in a while. The time to sit and try and pull apart the phrase, "hoppin' down the bunny trail..." was gone, her hands were moving in a desperate flash.

Her fingers curled and gripped around a leg. She leg go of Huyana and jerked as her arm flailed up and down with the movement of the escape attempts of her prey. Her other hand grabbed for the rabbit's head, ignoring the as it bit deep into her flesh over and over. She could feel the blinking eyelids and twitching ears under her palm as she gripped the skull, heard briefly a shrill cry before she twisted and tore, feeling the spine snap under her hands.

Still twitching, she bit deep. Her teeth perforated past the skin, her jaws clamping down and tearing it away. It dropped with a wet splat on the cavern floor and she shoved her face into the open wound, not caring about the taste of tufts of fur that caught between her teeth as she ravenously ripped flesh from bone, sucking the welling juice that came from organs and arteries. New, bright crimson splashes fell on the dark, stained linen that had long ago gone stiff with dried blood before this meal, dripping down her chin and onto the floor. As always, she offered a bite to the horse, who had no need to eat anymore, and once again went back to her meal with relish.

When she had finished, she lay back, her hands moving slowly over the cave floor. The dirt that had strewn it before was quickly turning to colorful mud as her moving touched mixed it with the blood and foamed spittle of her more enjoyable meal these days: rabid rabbits.

[Ladies' Man]

Oh, gods.

Gabriel swallows hard and hopes that he isn’t drooling as he watches the woman in the blue dress sashay away from him. He isn’t sure that his heart can take it. One more like that last one, and he might just drop dead right there on the dance floor. Not that it would be a bad way to go, but it would certainly be a shame to be the one responsible for putting an end to the party.

His grey eyes settle on the approaching figure of a young woman who walks with all the confidence of a queen. Blood is pounding in his ears the way it does before a fight, the way it does when he is scared out of his wits or too angry to do more than garble threats and growl. But he isn’t in a life or death situation, he’s standing on a waxed floor in soft-soled boots, dressed in his finest clothes and brushed and washed for the first time in ages, protected from the cold of winter by the thick stone walls of the mansion around him. He isn’t crouched in the middle of a ring of jeering schoolchildren; he’s surrounded by richly dressed couples that floated through the ballroom like stirred lilies on a pond.

“My lord,” she says, the corners of her red, red lips pointing up towards the deep liquid pools of her dreamboat eyes. Her dress is red enough to have been made of roses, but it is her skin that is soft like the petals of a flower. A ruby hangs on a gold chain over a tastefully revealed cleavage, and curling strands of hair rest on the slopes of her bosom, locks shaken loose over the course of the evening’s party. “I’ve been watching you. The rumors about your skill in dance were not exaggerated.”

“My lady is too kind,” he murmurs in reply, holding out one hand with a smile as appreciative as he dares. She isn’t the woman he came in with, but he certainly wouldn’t mind if she was the one with whom he left. “Would you like to test the validity of these rumors for yourself?”

She lays her hand on his, lifting her delicate chin in an enticing display of defiance, and he turns and pulls her after him, guiding her into his arms until his hand rests on the curve of her waist and her face is inches away from his neck. The music is low, the dance is intimate, and Gabriel’s heart is still racing.

“You are good,” she purrs with a silvery laugh, letting the hand on his should drift towards his neck as her voice drops in volume. “I can only imagine what kind of skill you possess in other areas.”

He gives a low laugh, pulling her closer and bending towards her, but when his mouth opens to whisper in her ear he makes the mistake of looking up and sees that his father is standing against the ballroom’s far wall. The man is frowning, per usual, and the contempt in his silver gaze shoots like an arrow towards the identical eyes belonging to the one with whom he is so disappointed. Gabriel turns his head quickly towards the porcelain face of the woman in his arms for relief, and as he does she turns to smile at him, but her eyes have the silvery glint of burnished metal and the bared teeth are like fangs looking for prey to sink into. He feels slender hands on his back and turns to see another beautiful woman in a pure white gown, straight black hair framing eyes that gleam with the same silver tint as the one in front of him.

“You have us, Gabriel,” she says in a voice that is cold and angry, “but where are our sisters?”

The woman in his arms sinks her nails into his hand and shoulder, digging deep into his flesh as if she had talons instead of fingers. “Why have you not saved them?”

He looks up and sees that he is surrounded by woman, eight others who glare at him with baleful stares, whose hands end in long pointed daggers that they lift with an air of grim necessity as they stride towards him.

“No!” His desperate shouts are ineffective, but he yells anyway. He does not feel their knives cutting, but he feels cold fluid running out of his body, splashing and dripping onto the waxed wooden floor. He is bleeding, and his watery blood soaks his clothes, bubbling from his wounds like water from a spring. “I’m trying . . . please, just wait!”

The Virtues do not heed his pleas. Then he is flat on the ground, and someone is trying to pull off one of his blood-stained boots.

Gabriel’s eyes flew open as he instinctively jerked back his legs, and the man who’d been tugging at his footwear jumped back with a guilty gasp and fled down the alley. Gabriel sat up and rubbed at his head, watching the man go. He wouldn’t have bothered to chase the bum even if he wasn’t starting in on what was probably the worst hangover of his life. He’d never drunk as much as he had the night before. He’d jumped from table to table asking for information on mysterious daggers on the market and bandit gangs that might have recently robbed the lord of a fiefdom. The problem was that people kept buying him pity drinks as soon as they found out about his recently deceased father and complete lack of funds. He’d toasted his dead father more times than he cared to remember and had actually started to feel a mote of affection for the man. Now, however, sitting in the alley behind the tavern, wrapped in his coat and trying to identify the liquid that had dried down the front of his shirt, he had the distinct impression that his father would not be very impressed. Not that he’d ever been impressed by something Gabriel had done . . .

He pushed himself to his feet, groaning loudly at the dizziness and pain that accompanied the movement. Why was daytime so stinking bright? The silver-eyed man set off down the alley at a lurching stumble, one hand pressed against the wall beside him to keep himself from falling over. He’d have to find somewhere else to look for his father’s murderers and the heirlooms they’d stolen. He still had no money and no idea of where to look, but Knife’s Edge was a big city. The sooner he found the daggers, the sooner he could go home and get back to his real life as the inheriting son of a lord. And if the Girls and his father were going to start invading his dreams, he definitely needed to do something to mollify them, and fast.

Gabriel staggered to the front of the tavern and saw that it was already open for the day's business. One of the friendlier barmaids that he remembered from the night before saw him standing outside through the open doorway and beckoned him in with an inviting smile. The memory of the murderous women in his dreams made him shudder, but the glare of sunlight overhead made him want to go someplace warm and dark where there would be amiable women to chat with who wouldn’t sprout knives for hands and berate him for being a failure. He smiled back at her with a shrug and a nod that made his head spin with pain. He was really thirsty...

[Nymph and Dragon]

Twyla’s eyes were fixed on the horizon, waiting with disinterest for the pinky glow that would promise dawn. Her back rested against the rough bark of a tree, her legs stretched out in front of her and numb with cold from the hours that she had spent sitting there in the dark. Her dress, cloak, and scarf were folded neatly, lying on a rock a short ways away from her, and the cool night air drifted across her bare body and face. It was a breezy night, but her hair had dried hours ago and cold temperatures were nothing new. She could hear the pool that she’d bathed in gurgling incessantly as it had been all night long. How long would it run? Years? Centuries? Never resting, never stopping its cyclic flow, always spitting water high into the sky only to suck it back in to spit it out again. It was depressing regular, the kind of thing one wanted to pee in just to get a reaction.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She tentatively pushed at the Elemental’s faint presence in her mind, drawing away with a peeved sigh when his lack of response indicated that he was still recuperating in his realm. Usually she only let him leave during the day when she had the idiotic antics of drunken humans to amuse her, but yesterday she’d kept him close, trying to get the morally bound moron to slip her secrets from her interviewees’ heads. He’d been typically useless with worrying about their frivolous privacy, and now he was being doubly useless by leaving her alone at night when all she had to distract her from the misery of her existence was pointless pondering on the human race. What a legacy, to have spent the bulk of her lifetime studying the vermin of sentient species.

The nymph drummed her fingers against her thigh and hummed a short tune, swinging her eyes across their lines of vision in hopes of snaring something that could keep her entertained. That damned dragon. He wasn’t much in the way of intelligent company, but as distasteful as his presence was, at least it was something. Up here on land where people turned to the heavens for direction, the sun had only to drop from the sky and instantly every mind was turned off, every eye shut and every brain disconnected for the so-called rejuvenating slumber that humans found essential. It was stupid, really, the way they all spent the majority of their lives flat on their backs; sleeping, mating, recovering from injuries and illnesses . . . they really only needed legs to get from one kind of bed to the another.

Twyla blinked and lifted her gaze from the hill-spotted horizon to the dark sky overhead. Tiny dots of light flickered and danced whenever she tried to focus on one, winking out of sight only to reappear as soon as she looked away. How many times had she looked up from the ocean, from a mountain, from a desert, from a garden, and seen the same flashing pinpoints of light in the dark tapestry of the sky? It was almost annoying, how uncannily enduring the stars were. Had the gods intended them to be a kind of celestial snub, a mocking foil to the beings that would pass away on the earth below?

She probed again at the Elemental’s consciousness. Where was he? It wasn’t like he had a family or something to return to every night. He didn’t sleep either, so what was he doing in that alternate realm of his, dancing with butterflies and telling stories about her to all his Elemental friends? Stupid. He was stupid. It was stupid. She was stupid for wasting time thinking about him. She didn’t sleep and anyone else who wasn’t at home at this time of night was either too dangerous or too drunk to bother talking to, so she might as well spend her night hours doing something useful. Only there was nothing useful to do. No sailors to lure, no men to seduce, no ships to sink . . .

Twyla snorted in laughter at her own train of thought. Sorry, hon. You don’t do that kind of stuff. You aren’t a Siren anymore. She wasn’t absolutely sure, but she was beginning to think that the words hurt less and less each time someone said, thought, or yelled them at her.

“You aren’t a Siren anymore,” she murmured, her voice like molten crystal in the cool air. Her mouth twisted into a cynical smile as she leaned her head back against the tree behind her. Her eyesight wasn’t Elven, but she was sure that it wasn’t her imagination that was making her think that the sky was lightening over the hills in front of her. Soon it would be dawn, and with the day would rise the loathsome insects that she had dedicated her miserable life to studying. Only a few more hours until the start of another day of walk, talk, and stalk that would bring her just a little bit closer to solving the mystery of their mystifying survival. Another day of barely suppressed rage and utter revulsion that was only hidden by the hateful scarf she used to bring herself down to their level. At the end of the day, when the sun was once again hiding from the tedious animals that dotted the earth, she would find a body of clean water for her daily swim. And for the short time that she was submerged, she could pretend that she wasn’t alone.

And then she would find somewhere to sit again and wait. The hours would creep by just as slowly as they had this night, oozing like sap down the trunk of a tree. And life would go on and on and on, and who knew how long she’d live with the Elemental’s soul in her body, grating her unceasing days devoted to the things she loathed most of all and yet could not force herself to disregard. It was an obsession grounded in revulsion, but it was an obsession nonetheless, an addiction that she didn’t have the strength to overcome.

There was a small pop in the air beside her and the Elemental appeared on the ground at her side, his presence in her mind swelling to its usual intruding intensity.

Miss me?

She dropped her smile and threw him a scornful glare. “Not a chance.”

Nice to see you, too. His forked tail flickered in the grass and he followed her line of sight to the sunrise that was just starting to get interesting. Are you going to get dressed before the unsuspecting owner of this garden stumbles upon you during the morning stroll that’s he getting dressed for?

“No.”

The dragon sighed. What’s the plan for today?

“Since when did I start trusting my secrets to lackeys?” Twyla scoffed.

Since they started having full access to your head and any secrets contained therein anyway. He paused, theatrically tilting his head to the side before speaking again across their link. [/i]Still investigating that unicorn rumor, I see, the one you got from the guy who puked on your dress right after he swore that it was real.[/i] A trickle of skeptical amusement floated across their bond, but Twyla pointedly ignored it and him, keeping her eyes on the now blue-streaked sky. You know it’s illegal to break into government buildings to search for mythical creatures, even if you are just ‘following a lead.’

“I know it’s not saying much, but I really do like you more when you’re not talking.”

Aw, I knew you'd admit those warm feelings you have for me one day.

Twyla barely heard him. The sardonic smile had returned to her face and her eyes stayed pointed straight ahead as she murmured with fond resignation, “There you are.”

A rosy glow was beginning to send tendrils of light into the brightening bleakness of the sky. The sun was coming up.

[Corvus MacCallum]

Even the barren wilderness could be swamped in sound, when there is nothing upon its white surface but a trophy toting warrior that made his living in slaughtering fearsome beasts that could make platoons quake in fear. Each fall of his cloth wrapped feet let the Highlander feel the snow wastes attack at his nerves... a Highlanders blood pumped at a fierce rate through the body, this allowed it to keep the extremities full of feeling since the vital fluid was able to recirculate through the body and gain needed heat and oxygen. He was naturally designed for this enviroment, this was home, but that didn't make it an easy arena for him to travel in, the wastes would claim any life it could no matter how strong or dedicated. While his weapons and in particular that poncho clinging to his body in the flesh shredding winds were rather pricey to the right kind of person Corvus still considered himself a vagabond... a man with no need of coins or a steady place to exist in.

His nights were sometimes full of various weight trials, or popping the arm out of some braggart in a tavern stocked with drunken stories and garbled words. In reality however the biggest component of a wandering slayers was the wandering aspect, he had to travel. His eyes and a few stray spikes of white crested hair were about all that could be made out of his face, currently his ponchos slack material was pulled up into a hood and limited mask... a thankful specification for the hair being blown about and striking against his oft-closed eyes was only sharing its black hue with white due to heavy snow. Travelling at night through the snow wastes of Salvar, warmed his heart to think of the shocked looks and gasped cries of 'madness, pure madness' he would be forced to listen to if the travel plan was mentioned among seasoned adventurers.

There wasn't a whole heap to keep the mind occupied when meandering through a frozen unfeeling expanse of snow, sleet and solitude. In general it was a setting nice to look at and view but walking through it from noon to sundown got a tad samey.

While each step forced spikes of pain through the barely covered pads of his furred feet, that was about the only pain he could feel. A Highlander had imcomparable endurance given enough training and it prevented all those niggling burning and straining sensations that would fill the legs after a fairly lengthy jaunt. A lengthy jaunt it has to be said with no firm destination, he had chattered with a few bards and merchants... always good to get several insights... about towns, villages or forts that would offer the kind of violent native fauna a monster slayer could make a good name for himself off. All spoke of an isolated town to the far north that continued its survival through a multitude of element mages that could keep their area safely sculpted to keep them alive.

A magic enthused enviroment, might provide some information

His torso twisted itself to the side, allowing his shoulder and covered head to take the brunt of snowfall, left arm sliding itself free from its right-sided brother and coming down from below the protective shelter of his Blaze hide poncho. A few shakes got the snow clear of his sight and eyed the glowing jewel embedded in his gloves palm, now and again he could feel a surge travel through his arm, to his mind it was clear the Alchemist he'd received it off had no clue what the item truly was and just shrugged it off as useless.

Behold how my fingers shall fing!

They might not have finged but his digits did flex and twist with all the might they could... which was quite a lot considering who it was attached to, but they did not fing.

Bugger...

It had only been a few moments but his fingerless glove and the fingers jutting from those holes made to allow them acess required a vigirous shaking, flakes and powder failing off and just leaving the oft-times damaging moisture behind. His arm was quickly returned to its heat hoarding haven underneath his poncho, entwining with its brother-in-arm and fighting at the chill. His upper body also straightened up and shook free the snow that hadn't slid from the surface of his carved hide garment. The Highlanders eyes flitted themselves sky-ward for a few simple moments, gazing at the sparkling pin-pricks that gave rise to the creation of deities and worshipped formations, his own people weren't religious by pretty much any stretch, a mixture of spirit appreciating pagans and simple respect for past acheivements. As such the gods meant to be shown in the sky were a section of many that received no prayers or gifts from the village of wolf-men, practicality was a steady aim of most Highlanders and churches were not practical nor rewarding for a people without perspective narrowing faith.

When his eyes left the night sky they turned immediately to the snow stretching out a few feet in front of his methodical ploddings, it was important to hide the idea of distance from your mentality when traversing such a vast distance. If he were to look at any horizon around him it would have been met with nothing but snow and perhaps the faint image of a mountain range, in the snow wastes there is almost truly nothing there. Prey and predators few, as were the more exceptional beasts of nightmarish enchantments, he could be utterly alone and be that way for days. Due to that simple common sense had him stock up on the hunt and preserved foods, all stuffed inside his covered backpack, fresh kills just wouldn't be an option this far out.

For many they imagined a vagabonds travelling would allow their minds to expand in all directions and aid them in the pursuit of universal truths. To have a mind so idle that it will fire up into the realms of genius just to keep working... in reality however...

This place is cold and my feet hurt...

Genius needed elements and events, not just snow and low temperatures, would be awhile before Corvus had a chance to think about the great mysteries of the world. For now he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without the tiniest notion of rest.

[Chiroptera]

So you were walking down the dusty road out in the middle of Nowhere’s wilderness, happy as a leper with sunburn and just about as popular, when all of a sudden the sky above you turns an ominous grey color like bathwater after a date with the chimneysweep. You stop walking—a relief, since your feet are sore and your knees are griping anyway—and you tilt your head back to look up and see that the sky is covered in a blanket of clouds that are keeping the sky warm from the earth’s radiating chill. You wonder if maybe the farmer you asked directions from hours ago might have been overestimating the distance to the next town. You wonder half-seriously if running would enable you to get there before you got drenched. Then a big fat drop of water spatters on your forehead and is swiftly joined by a cousin who splats happily into your peering golden eye. You wish you had a better arsenal of curse words.

The rain’s already falling faster, drumming against the dry soil in a cadence that would have been downright catchy if you were a connoisseur of rhythm or had even the slightest appreciation for music. As it is, you tuck tail and run with a girly squeal, your big black blade slapping against the back of your left calf as you dive for the shelter of a conveniently overgrown tree. Despite what the fairy tales have told you, you’ve already learned the sad lesson that no tree bough is actually really waterproof, but the trickle coming from the leaves is still kinder than the celestially upended bucket that’s pouring its chilly contents onto the earth now. All you really want to do is throw a (waterproof) blanket over your head and sulk until the sun comes back out and apologizes, but you’re old enough now to know that things like that only happen in stories, too. People don’t apologize; they laugh in your face for being pathetic and then kick sand onto your already salt-stained wounds just because they can. You’re not stupid enough to think that the sun would be any different.

It even crosses your mind—as you slide off your backpack and lean back against the tree trunk—that the unexpected bad weather might be some kind of divine punishment. You of all people certainly deserve to be punished, as your conscience is happy to remind you every single day of your pilgrimage-like journey. You killed that boy, it whispers, even though you really didn’t. You killed that dryad, it mutters, even though really didn’t. You killed that old man, it hisses, and you hang your head in shame. Life sure turned out differently from how you expected, huh? You aren’t the hero you thought you’d be, the sword-toting savior who’d come swooping down from the stars to rescue your mother like a knight saving a princess from an evil dragon. You technically still have a chance at succeeding, except that you’re a failure as a knight, the princess is really a witch, and the evil dragon is your mother, who is also the witch.

You shake your head, letting the dripping strands of your too-long bangs make their attempt at slapping sense into you. Your hair is too long, in need of a serious trim, but you don’t trust people to have unsheathed metal objects behind your back anymore. You finger the brand on the back of your neck, your permanent reminder that people can’t be trusted, that no one does something for somebody else without expecting something in return. As weird as the puckered flesh feels, you find yourself reaching up to touch it all too often, as if you need to remind yourself that it’s there. It is! It always is. You turn your head a little and sniff at your bracers, wincing and dropping the hand quickly. How long has it been since you last aired out your forearms? Gross.

With a sigh you pull the clasp on your harness that releases your sword and you swing the big black blade off your back and set it onto the ground. Then you put your back against the tree again and slide down until your rear hits a root that keeps you a few inches off the ground. Not that your pants are clean or anything, but you were raised to be fastidious, and old habits die hard. You cross your ankles in front of you, frowning at the new scuffmarks you see on your boots, and take one last breath of fresh air before you start working at the knot on the seam of your left bracer. They were your father’s, and even though he was reputedly a Big Man, the bracers fit you like tailored underwear, protecting your skinny arms from wrist to elbow and, by extension, from head to toe. They’re made of leather, and cheap dyed leather at that, but they’re still the only reason you’re alive now and not rotting in a dry well on Scara Brae or buried in a shallow pit in Salvar. You keep getting yourself into stupid situations, see, and it’s the bracers job to keep you alive. They seem to be doing a pretty good job.

But you, of course, you just grumble as you peel the leather off your pale skin. You wonder why, if they’re magical bracers, they couldn’t just come with a built-in self-cleaning spell or something like that. You’re not satisfied. You never are, because you’ve been raised to think that dissatisfaction is an admirable quality; something along the line of reasoning that a person with impossibly high standards is never content until something is done right. Truth is, you’re just never content. You always wonder if you should have done things differently, if a smile here or a cleverer comment there could have brought you to that Place of Perfection that only a tiny part of your too-hard-thinking brain knows doesn’t exist. You stew yourself in the past, simmering in guilty juices until you’re long past done, looking around for someone to come over and stick you with a fork to prove to the world that you’re worthy of your place on the table.

Your arms feel naked without the bracers, and your whole body feels powerless and vulnerable. You don’t try picking up your sword; you know your greatest straining won’t budge that big black blade. A shiver rolls down your spine and your golden eyes flicker around you as you’re suddenly wary like a mouse in an open field. What if someone attacked you? True, the chances of a highway robbery were slim, but it happened. This might be your unlucky day. Heaven knows you’re due for one. You’ve only lived this long by sheer luck and the mercy of generous acquaintances.

Not wearing the bracers makes you feel different; weaker, certainly, but self-reliant in a way that’s become unfamiliar. When was the last time you thought, Oh no, my bracers are gone, I’m going to have to save myself! and not looked around for someone dangerous to save your sorry rear?

You stand up and fix the collar of your jacket, relishing the feel of the chilly air against skin that’s been sweating under leather for far too long. Apparently all the time you spend outside has been affecting your skin; you have a tan line that makes your forearms look like corpse flesh. You step away from the tree and extend your hands out in front of you, walking straight forward like a zombie until you’re up to your elbows in rain and the hems of your jacket are getting splashed on. You’re not six years old anymore; your mother isn’t standing three feet behind you with a worried frown, watching for danger like a doe at a pool. You’re seventeen now, and you’re not going to run out and dance in the rain because you know that the water would ruin your sword harness, because you know how uncomfortable it can be to walk for miles in wet, chafing clothes, and because you know that if anyone came up the road behind you they’d think you were loony and put a cork in the fun or an arrow in your back.

You reluctantly pull your arms out of the rain, sighing again at the thought of another few hours of idle brooding. You’re still standing up when you look out at the bleak sky and really ponder for a moment what your Elven blood will do for your lifetime. You are only seventeen. After a moment a small smile turns up the corners of your mouth as you reach to undo the buckles of your harness. You weren’t going to make it to the next town by nightfall anyway.

[Elijah_Morendale]

It was going to be a long day in cold Salvar.

I sat at a table placed against the far wall of my inn room, occupying my time by having a bit of a Solitaire tournament against a deck of cards. I was currently down by fifteen points, only defeating the cursed deck three times. I swear, this game is the card player's equivalent of repeatedly punching yourself in the face. It sure felt like it whenever I lost, only to find out that the exact card I needed was face down underneath a three or a four.

Nadia sat on the windowsill, gazing longingly out of the open window at the bustling port town down below. "I'm bored, chief."

"You're always bored," I quietly replied. It was true, and she knew it. That feisty imaginary redhead of mine was always complaining about having nothing to do.

She looked at me, her thin eyebrows furrowed. "Well then, let's go do something!"

"I don't feel like going out today."

Nadia grumbled to herself. "Then deal me a hand. I show you how to rock out at that game."

I looked down at the piles of cards that littered the table, then back at her. "You do realize that Solitaire is a one-player game, right?" I placed the five of hearts onto the six of spades before revealing the next three cards from the deck.

She shrugged. "Okay, then let's play a real game."

I ran a hand through my shaggy black hair before giving in. Had I said no or ignored her, she probably would've screamed at the top of her little imaginary lungs until she had gotten her way. I was going to lose again anyway, so I picked up the cards, shuffled the deck a few times, and dealt myself and Nadia each five cards. I pulled out my coin pouch and drew out two hundred gold, a hundred going to myself and a hundred for Nadia for betting. Her bright green eyes lit up as she ran over to the table, clapping her hands excitedly. "Oh boy, Poker!"

She picked up her hand and leered at each individual card. "Are deuces wild?"

"No," I replied while putting five gold into the middle of the table.

"Damn. Okay, how about fours? Or sevens?"

I raised an eyebrow, peering at her over the top of my glasses. "I've never played with wild cards. I consider it cheating."

A devious smile crossed the redhead's lips. "Cheating, eh?" She called my bet. The gold coins pinged against one another as they collided in the center of the table. We sat in silence for a few seconds, until she slapped two cards on the table. "Two, please." I dealt her two cards, then took the three out of my own hand and replaced them. Nadia's eyes narrowed and her grin widened. She cackled with glee as she threw thirty gold into the pot.

A small smirk crossed my own lips. "You've got a terrible poker face, you know," I said as I called her bet and threw an extra ten in.

"I'd be more worried about how thoroughly I'm going to kick your ass, chief." She threw in a few coins to match my raise. "But do you think you can out-bluff me with that measly two pair you have?"

I looked down at my hand. Four, seven, four, six, seven. "What the..! How did you--you're cheating!"

Nadia sat back in her chair and crossed her arms defiantly. "Keep it down, the baby's sleeping."

I continued to shout at her. "What the fuck! Now you see why I don't play games with you?"

A few knocks on the door cut me off. The old iron knob turned and the door opened, revealing a rather sickly teenage girl; the innkeeper's daughter. Shadows enveloping her sunken brown eyes, her pale skin suggested that she hadn't seen the sun in years. Her thin black hair was scraggly and wild, even when pulled back in a ponytail If you dressed her up in some ratty clothes and gave her a mug, she could probably make a decent living on the streets as a beggar. "Is everything okay, Mr. Morendale?" The girl's voice was weak.

I looked down at the cards and the pile of gold strewn on the table, the empty chair across from me, then at the girl. "Yeah, everything's peachy here." I laughed uneasily and sat back down in my chair. The girl stared at me with an unnervingly blank expression for a few seconds, before offering a meek "okay" as she shut the door. I could've only imagined what was going through her mind at the moment. Daddy, daddy, there's a strange man yelling at nobody upstairs!

Nadia chuckled lightly to herself. "For once, it's gonna be you who gets us kicked out if you keep this up." She flipped over her hand, revealing a flush before reaching out and pulling the pot over to her side of the table. I collected the cards, shuffled them, and dealt the next hand. Three jacks and two kings, a good deal. A few coins clanked against one another as I opened the bet.

"All in," Nadia quickly retorted.

I stared at her. "You sure you want to do that? I mean, I actually have some good cards this time."

She shruged lightly as she pushed all of her coins into the middle of the table. "All in, motherfucker. Take it or give me your damn money."

A light sweat formed on my forehead. I didn't know what she was up to, maybe she thought she'd be cool try and bluff or something, but I decided to take the risk. With a smile, I pushed all my coins into the pile on the table. "You're going down this time, firebush."

Nadia put on one of her patented toothy grins as she flipped over her cards. Royal flush in hearts--the only suit I needed for my jacks to make a four of a kind. I slammed my fists on the table and screamed at her, "Cheater! You fucking cheat, every fucking time!" The redhead merely continued to smile that vicious smile at me. I stormed over to the window with the cards in hand and threw them outside. The fifty-two pieces of laminated cardboard fluttered in the wind as they fell two stories to the ground. "There! I'd like to see you win now!" She merely replied with another high-pitched cackle.

I was too hysterical to notice that the innkeeper was standing in the open doorway. He was by no means anything like his daughter--he was as wide as the doorway itself, made that way by years of running a rather successful establishment. He was well dressed and well groomed and his rosy cheeks shined in the sunlight. The broken china doll of a daughter was looking even more frightful and pale than the last time as she wrapped her bony arms around his flabby biceps like a security stuffed animal. His booming voice filled the room. "Mr. Morendale?"

"What," I shouted at him in the midst of my hissy fit.

He jumped a little. "Is something the matter?"

"Yeah, there's something terribly wrong here!" I pointed at Nadia with extreme prejudice. "She's a goddamned cheater, that's what!"

The innkeeper and daughter looked at the empty chair for a few seconds, then at each other. Looks of puzzlement were etched on their faces. "Uh, who, exactly, is a cheater?"

"That woman, right over... there..." My voice faltered towards the end, and my accusing finger dropped to my side. I came to the slow realization that I had been playing a silly card game with an imaginary friend. Nadia's cheating was only a dirty trick my mind was playing on me. I sat down on the bed as the reality of the situation sunk in. This wasn't going to end well, I could feel it.

The man's booming voice had a hint of fear in it as he spoke. "Sir, please, you're scaring my daughter. She didn't sleep at all last night. She kept on waking me up, complaining that she could hear you talking to someone in your sleep. But every time she checked in on you, you appeared to be talking to the wall. You see, little Julie has a condition..."

I waved a hand to cut him off. "Don't tell me about her condition, I'm having a hell of a time dealing with my own." I glared at Nadia, and she looked at me as if I had just kicked her in the throat for no particular reason.

He continued, "Look, Mr. Morendale, I'll refund your money or whatever you want, but please... Just leave, for the sake of my daughter." He put his gigantic arm around her and hugged her tightly. A small tear streaked down her face.

I buried my face into my hands. "Yes, yes, whatever," I quietly said. I hastily shoved my gold back into the small leather pouch that contained the rest of its shiny brethren. The big man and his daughter moved out of the way. As I left the room, I paused in front of them. Looking at the poor girl, I tried to form some sort of sensible apology. "Hey, kid, I'm really sorry..." I reached out to pat her on the head reassuringly, but she let out a small cry and ran down the hall and into an empty room. The door echoed as it slammed shut, causing her father and myself to jump a little.

I shook my head apologetically at the guy. "I'm terribly sorry about all this, I really am."

He reached out with an open hand that had the gold that I paid for the room with. "Please, just take it and leave."

Begrudgingly, I took the gold and left the inn without another word. I stepped over the scattered playing cards that littered the street--a memorial to my thin and fractured grasp of reality.

"So let me guess. This is my fault as well."

"You're damn right it is."

Nadia crossed her arms and scoffed. "What the fuck ever, asshole."

We didn't speak for the rest of the day.

[The Writing Writer]

The silence was maddening, even for he whose mind had been long gone. He sat, motionless, his eyes fixated on the bare strip of pale parchment laying upon his desk. Right of the parchment was an inkwell, filled with a thick, crimson liquid. The inkwell itself was ivory in color, but in the dim light of a single candle it appeared to be more of a pale orange. Within the inkwell, rested a quill. It was not a typical quill as it was not a feather, but it did just fine. It was not as functional as a typical quill would be, but the thin, sharp quill was symbolic, as was the unusually pale parchment and the deep crimson liquid. All were connected; once bound together, they were stripped apart only to be reunited in a more beautiful form.

It was difficult, at times, for the poet to find the words best suited for the parchment. Each was different from the previous, both in appearance and in origin. The poem not only had to be beautiful and lyrical in nature, but it also had to tell a three-part story. First, it had to tell about the parchment itself. It then had to explain why this parchment in particular was chosen. Lastly, it had to tell how the parchment was obtained, as this variety of parchment was rare, and could not be purchased in your local marketplace.

The poet was having trouble focusing. Normally the words flowed like honey from the pot, spilling onto the parchment in a rapid, yet delicate flurry of ink and quill. Hundreds upon hundreds of times the poet had danced this dance, and each time he had come out with a masterpiece. So what was so different about this time? Why did this parchment, this ink, this quill not speak to him? Perhaps the answer was in the aquisition of the three. It had been a very unique experience for the poet. He closed his eyes, and as he reflected upon the events of the day, his hands moved. And so began yet another composition of insanity.

" So strange a tale, though it must be told.
Forgive my words reader, for they are not gold.
Where as most tales I tell are of terror and gore,
This tale is of something so much more.

I first saw her bathing in the sun.
The ties to her clothes were all undone.
She lay there, skin bare, pale as a ghost.
A magnificent bosom did she boast.

Her skin was flawless, not a freckle or scar.
Not one blemish or boil, not a single mar.
Her hair was as dark as the sun was bright.
But something about her did not seem right.

Apart from her being bare amongst the trees,
Something about her put my shattered mind at ease..
No longer did I want to torture or kill.
In fact, I felt regret for my seeking of thrills.

I moved slowly, feeling warmer as I grew close.
I nearly lost myself when her scent met my nose.
It was the sweetest mixture of vanilla and cream.
I had thought, perhaps, I was lost in a dream.

As I emerged from the wood and came into her sight,
She did not run or try to fight.
Instead she smiled...she smiled at me.
She welcomed this maniac, and she did it with glee.

She reached out her arm, and took hold of my hand.
She lay me atop her, our bodies in the sand.
I stared, mouth agape into her golden eyes,
And felt her warmth against my thigh.

Without warning or indication, she kissed my lips.
As her tongue met my mouth, my hands met her hips.
She felt as rose petals, and tasted of mead.
And in but a few moments, want became need.

My worn, stained pants were hastily stripped,
And my matted, greasy hair just as hastily gripped.
She pulled me inside her, and I felt her embrace.
What a glorious look she wore on her face.

Ecstasy clouded what transpired next.
But I'm sure we all can take a good guess.
Unfortunately it was a heaven, short lived,
Once I noticed her motionless ribs.

It was the first time I can remember that stinging in my eyes.
My eyes began to leak. I'm told this is to cry.
Why had she done this? Let me feel her embrace.
Was it her last wish before she left this place?

It matters not, for as soon as she died,
I could again feel the broken shards of my mind.
And so I did as I would have done any other day.
I tore her skin, blood and bones away.

I never knew her name, never heard her speak.
And yet she is the first to have made my eyes leak.
I will remember her always, and think of her much.
And perhaps forever, I will long for her touch. "

The mad poet lay his quill upon the table, and soflty blew a warm breath onto the parchment. Once it was dry, he removed it from the table and gazed at it approvingly. It was one of his better works.

Taking his candle in one hand, and his poem in the other, he moved slowly towards the wall at his back. He held the candle high and gazed at all his works. There were exactly two hundred and forty-five poems on that wall. Two hundred and forty-five lives claimed by his hand. Though he wasn't sure whether or not he had taken the alabaster woman's life, he felt that she belonged on that wall with the rest. She had been special, yes, but all in all, she was just another page on the wall.

The mad poet set his candle at his feet, and picked up a nail and hammer that lay next to the wall. He began hammering, and the silence was broken.

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

((NOTE: This is set before the Salvarian conquest of Haide.))

A gentle breeze swept across the grassy plains outside of Veinse. The construction had come along very nicely and the city was nearly complete. The citizens were pleasantly going about their business and all seemed right with the world. Even the mighty High General of the Demon Army had some time to relax. He and his family were enjoying the nice day by spending some time outdoors.

Well, Zieg dil' Tulfried and Xeppa were enjoying the day. Kaza, however was having less fun. His father had decided that Kaza's magical training had been put off for too long, so for the past three weeks, Kaza had been training under one of the Magi, the Haidian magical contingent. Zieg sat in a brilliant blue tunic and black slacks under a tree with Xeppa laying contently in his lap. Never one to be completely unarmed, the demon knight had his blade, the Gamygym, easily within arm's reach.

"Again, Kaza," the Magi insisted. The half-demon child's head drooped slightly before conjuring yet another fireball into his right hand. He let the ball hover in the air and conjuring a ball of ice with his left hand. Sheer concentration crossed the boy's face as he forced the two balls within one another, until they became one ball. The fireball had becoming encased in a sphere of ice, a difficult task considering the inherent properties of both fire and ice.

With a motion of his hands, the ball of fire-and-ice was slung across the open field toward a target that had been erected about fifteen yards away. It flew straight and true, impacting against the target. The target became frozen solid, before exploding into shards of ice and wood.

"Very good, boy. Your training is done for today after you repair the target." Zieg knew this to be the hardest task, since Kaza always seemed to complain about how difficult it was. Zieg watched in amazement as the pieces of wood came back together into one solid piece. Soon the target was whole again and, with a flash of light, seamlessly together.

The Magi nodded to Kaza and saluted the High General before making his way back to the city. Kaza came running back to his father, excitement literally bursting from him. Zieg forced Xeppa out of his lap and stood up just moments before Kaza leapt into his arms.

"Did'ya see that! It was perfect this time!" Zieg nodded before lowering the platinum-haired half-demon to the ground.

"You did very well, Kaza. Your training is coming along very well." He smiled, before Xeppa leapt onto the boy. The two wrestled around on the ground, enjoying the soft grass beneath them. Zieg smiled again and wished these days would never end.

[Poison]

Poison smiled smugly to herself as she slipped out the small garden gate of the large estate she was leaving. The silver-haired vampiress was quite pleased with how well tonight’s hit had gone. Everything had gone perfectly for the first time in a long time. Her timing had been perfect and she’d not had to kill anyone other than her target. She hated having extra kills, but it was worse for someone to see her. Best of all, the night was still young, so she headed back to the inn at which she’d taken a room.

The tavern area was filled nearly to bursting. This neither surprised, nor annoyed her in the slightest. In fact, it pleased her greatly. She was very hungry after her night’s work and had a wide variety of males to choose from. As she walked through the tavern to an empty barstool, she allowed her hips to swing sensually. A small smirk adorned her lips as she sat at an angle to the room. Casually, she opened the top three buttons of her shirt, thus allowing a spectacular view of her cleavage. Waving down the barkeep, she ordered a glass of red wine.

As per seemingly normal, most heads had turned to see what new person was coming into the room. After watching her for a few minutes, most of those heads turned back to what they’d been concentrating on before, whether it was a drink, a conversation, or both. A few of the younger looking men kept sneaking glances at the silver-haired temptress, but none made a move yet. All could see the sai hanging at her hips and weren’t sure whether she was entirely approachable or not.

Still, Poison was not worried. She would decide whom she wanted this night and was absolutely positive that she would get exactly what she wanted out of him. She looked out over the tavern, noting who was watching and who was more interested in what was going on at their own tables. The ones that weren’t watching her didn’t interest her in the slightest. Besides that, she preferred the taste of a young man’s blood as opposed to an older man.

As she looked around, her eyes fell on a young man, looking to be in his early 20s. He had short brown hair with eyes to match. Poison watched him for a few minutes. He was taller than she was by at least six inches and probably had a solid 20 pounds on her. The weight was pure muscle though. The brunette had broad, strong looking shoulders, a narrow waist and shapely legs. Poison’s eyes lit up as she made her decision. Shifting her weight, she moved so that he could better see her and stared lustfully at him over the rim of her wine glass.

Across the room the young man in question was joking with his friends. He was the only one who was completely sober, but the rest were not too far gone in their drink yet. He kept glancing at the girl at the end of the counter, but did nothing more. His friends on the other hand, kept trying to encourage him to go talk to her. He refused to listen to them though. The last thing he wanted was trouble. He glanced at her again and this time their eyes met. Her gaze held him fast for what seemed an eternity before he tore his gaze away sheepishly and tried to concentrate on his friends.

Poison stood gracefully from her seat and crossed the floor. She came to a stop beside the brunette and smiled at him, but being sure to keep her fangs from showing. She flashed a quick smile to the rest of the boys, but then made it clear that she was there to talk to the brunette.

“Good evening, my name is Angelina, but you can call me Angel if you want,” she said as she leaned toward him, “What’s your name?”

The 20-something’s friends snickered as he hesitated, then cleared his throat, “Oh, I’m Charles, good to meet you, Angelina”

Poison put on a mock pout, “I thought I said to call me Angel? Never mind, do you live around here?”

The brunette seemed a little nervous at first as she began talking to him, but he soon relaxed. Poison ignored the other men at the table and they soon drifted away, snickering to themselves as they found another table and called for another round of drinks.

At the table, Poison leaned in close to Charles, determined that he would be her meal and entertainment for the night. She had finally convinced him to drink a glass or two of wine and he was definitely starting to be more malleable. Giggling at something he said, she leaned in slowly and gently placed her lips against his. This proved to be the best move she could have made as the slightly inebriated Charles returned her kiss eagerly. Still giggling, she scooted her chair as close to his as possible and kissed him again, this time holding it for a few seconds, tasting his lips and letting a tiny moan escape her throat.

“Mmm, you’re a good kisser, Charles. I think I want some more . . .”

Smoothly, she turned in her seat and placed her legs over his. In the same movement, she slipped forward and looped her arms around his neck. This time when she placed her lips against his, she traced his lips with her tongue. A small shudder ran through her body as he slid his arms around her slender waist. Very pleased with her progress, she gently parted his lips with her tongue. Moaning softly, she broke the kiss and trailed her lips down to his neck.

“Mmm, maybe we should go somewhere more . . . private,” she whispered in his ear.

“Well, umm, I don’t know,” he stammered.

“What? You know you want to,” she breathed against his neck as she shifted in his lap. “I have a room upstairs, already paid for and everything.” She kissed him again, then took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on . . . ”

At that point Charles gave up the fight against temptation and followed her up to her room.


~*~*~*~*~

“Angelina” stood on her knees over Charles, smiling down at him as she fought to gain her breath. Her long silver hair had long since come loose from its usual ponytail. It draped forward over her shoulders, partially concealing her breasts. Laughing lightly, she leaned forward as Charles’ hands slid smoothly over her hips and up her sides. Hungrily, she pressed her lips against his. His arms wrapped around her tenderly, but with obvious exhaustion. Poison softened her kiss, then slowly moved off of him to lay at his side, propped up on one elbow.

“Mmmm, you’re quite the lover, Charles,” she murmured as she lazily traced circles over his bare chest. He started to answer her, but she laid a finger over his lips, “Shhhh, no need to answer that.” Smiling, she raised up completely and leaned over him, “In fact, there’s no need to say anything at all.”

She smiled then, this time allowing her fangs to slide out. Before Charles could react, Poison darted forward, sinking her fangs deep into the side of his neck. Ecstasy greater than any she’d felt over the last few hours filled her being as she drank deeply of the rich, dark red fluid flowing from Charles’ neck. It almost threatened to overwhelm her, make her want to drink every last drop his body could produce. However, she forced herself to pull away.

Staggering away from the bed, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Charles lay very still on the bed, blood still oozed from the twin holes adorning his neck. Poison looked around and found his shirt. She used it for a hasty bandage and, when she was sure she had not drunk enough to kill him, she dressed herself. Before leaving the room, she looked at him, disgusted with herself for having tricked him into being a meal.

“Good night, Charles.”

[Saxon]

Soft, afternoon sunlight poked through the staggered canopy of trees that rested upon flowing seas of wet, green grass. People sat across from one another upon stools, chairs and the like at round varnished tables where quietly they continued their normal Sunday routine in one of the bigger and better parks within Radasanth.

Shit.

Staring down at a smooth, varnished table where ornamental pieces of ivory and ebony sat staggered upon a checkered board of olive and mahogany, Saxon rested his chin upon his clenched fist as he sat perplexed at his current misgivings. Upon the board, two horse-like figurines sat on either side while tall, elongated figures with crosses mounted upon their tops were locked in combat as they were flanked by a wall of figures, looking more like weird versions of upside-down bolts than actual soldiers, that sat too far away to be of any use. Off to the side, a small, rectangular box ticked away indifferently as the dimple of a small, black plastic button stood defiantly in the air.

Exponentially, the ticking sound grew over the dull, steady silence as many other pairs of competitors sat in quiet speculation as they waged virtual warfare with the promise of glory and small sums of money should they win the titanic struggle. Pulling his arm to the side of the table where fallen enemy soldiers and commanders laid in rows, the weird sat back in his chair and looked to his opponent. Sitting with his hands folded across his chest, white wisps of hair sat upon an ebony brow plagued with liver spots and other blemishes unbecoming of a younger man, but common amongst the older folk. Iron-rimmed, rectangular spectacles sat upon the man’s nose as he stared back at Saxon through hooded eyes,” You goin’ or what?”

“ Well, damn, Gus. Give me a minute, will ya’? Backed me into a corner here,” Saxon snapped as he looked back down at the board.

“ Son, if you can get out of this mess, I’ll pick up lunch. Just make a decision before Death decides to take me, eh,” the old man said with a grin plastered upon his face.

Tapping forefinger to lip, Saxon considered his move carefully before picking up a figure similar to a tower and pushed it two paces towards the wall of soldiers and tapped the black button upon the clock,” You’ve got a deal, ya’ old fart,” he said.

“ Oh, getting brave now, are we? Should’ve never traded queens with me, otherwise this would’ve been over by now, Mark,” the old man said as he lifted an ivory horse shaped-figure into the air and moved it in an L-shaped pattern towards the pair of kings and tapped the button upon the clock,” Gotcha.”

“ Whatever you say, Dad,” Saxon said as he tugged upon his lip reminiscently,” How’s Maria doing?”

“ Fine, got recommended to the Church to make some sculptures. Naked women, I think,” Gus chuckled as he tugged his brown sweater against the breeze that caused his wisps of white hair to waft gently until he pulled upon the pouch that sat across one of the wheels of his chair and pulled out a checkered flat cap,” Gettin’ mighty cold again, Winter’s just around the corner, damn it.”

Not bothering to look up, Saxon yawned and nodded as he picked up his cross-bearing figure and sat it perpendicular to the old man’s and tapped the ticking box,” Check.”

“ You suicidal or somethin’? Play for real now, Mark. Like we used to, eh?” Gus said as he sat the cap on his head and pulled the wool blankets upon his lip closer to his stomach.

Looking up at the withered man, Saxon nodded and said,” Alright, pop.”

Pushing his cross-figure back a pace, the old man tapped the timer and wagged a finger at the pallid figure dressed in a pin-striped suit,” Only time I’m letting you off the hook, boy. Don’t squander it. By the way, Maria wants to see you.”

Looking up at him, a look of mild surprise became visible and vanished instantly upon the weird’s face as he gazed at the old man. Holding back several thoughts of his own, Saxon could only manage to whisper,” Makin’ doubled-stuffed like last time, pop?”

The elderly man looked at him for a minute in complete confusion before mouthing the words,” W-who are you? Where am I?!”

Reaching over the table and grabbing the old man’s aged hand, Saxon felt the man struggle to pull away as he screamed and threatened to knock the table to the ground,” Get the fuck off me! What the Hell is wrong with you?!”

“ Gus! Pop! Its me, Mark! Just calm down!” the weird said as a sea of faces both old and young stared at the pair as they struggled, fallen pieces of ivory and ebony tumbling haphazardly into the soft grass.

Gus’s glazed eyes stared at him with no recollection whatsoever of what had transpired as he wrenched his hand away from the weird,” Quit touching me, damn it! Look, people are already staring. What is with you, Mark?"

Saxon let go and relaxed as he sat back on his side of the table, a feeling of helplessness overwhelming him as he said hoarsely,” Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that, Dad.”

“ You’re startin’ to creep me out, son. Y’know that?” Gus said as other people shook their heads and returned stubbornly to their game.

“ Whatever, Pop. Let’s just play before we have to get back, eh?” Saxon said with a forced, toothy grin while on the inside memories and emotion were intertwining themselves as he stared helplessly at the same man that had saved his life all those years ago. Stubbornly, the weird wrestled with his right arm and forced his hand to grab onto his ebony, tower-like piece and tugged it three or four paces to the right and past the wall of soldiers, resting it near the ivory horse-like figure that sat stubbornly across the board.

Tapping the timer, Saxon paid close attention to the old man as he talked at him and gazed into his pallid face with those dull, listless green eyes. Memories of years long past inextricably came flooding back with the sounds of gun and mortar fire causing the grip of shell shock to cause the eldritch to freeze in place. It had never been like this before. The weird hadn’t thought of the war in years. Decades. What he had done, who he had saved.

Who he killed.

The old man that had been his guardian angel seemed to be a living reminder of what the old, forgotten battle had taken. It had been years ago. Decades. Certain circumstances arose and Saxon had been forced to join the Coronian military to help combat against a region of rebels led by a horrible tyrant that the nation had later absorbed and overthrew. Relax, Saxon’s thoughts told him, Just relax. The war’s over. All the prices have been paid. Your just paying him the annual visit. Don’t get worked up about it.

But the eldritch couldn’t. The more he looked at Gus, the more he remembered. Memories upon memories of fallen enemies, comrades, and the sound of mortar fire drowned out whatever the veteran had been saying to him. Bewildered, Saxon felt part of him refuse to sit here. He couldn’t look upon this man whom he had wounded so greatly.

Whose life he had ruined.

“ I said are you THERE, kid!” Gus snarled from across the table, rousing Saxon from his stupor.

“ Yeah, yeah I’m there, sorry. Just remembered we gotta get back soon,” the weird repeated as he tripped over his words.

“ Right.. well. It’s your turn. Check, by the way,” Gus said.

“ Oh, right,” Saxon whispered as he looked down upon the imposing horse-figurine that sat one L away from snatching his king away, the timer ticking away methodically.

Looking down at the cross-like figurine, the weird almost felt himself gasping for breath as his lungs refused to take in air. He was drowning in the past, in the wake of a crime he had inextricably allowed to happen. How could this man sit here and be able to face him when Saxon had been solely responsible for it. Now the eldritch sat here, decades later and looking as young as he had the day he had done that unspeakable thing while the hero of the story sat rotting from the inside out within the dull, splotched husk of his former self.

Reaching for the king as memories flooded within him, Saxon saw the glazed look upon Gus’s face and his hand jerked backwards, accidently knocking aside his own king into the wall of soldiers. The irony burning within him, the weird looked away as the old man snorted,” Ah well. Can always play again, right?”

“ Yeah, right,” Saxon said as he stood up and walked over to the side of the table and bent up to pick the pieces as the old man tried to push the pieces methodically back into his pouch. If only it had been that easy, the weird pondered, To pick up the fallen pieces and put them back in place and call a do-over. It wasn’t like that anymore. A man could no longer decide his own fate and take back whatever transgressions he committed, no matter what they had forgotten, were stuck to them forever. It was only a matter of time until it happened.

Until Gus remembered.

Handing the last of the fallen pieces to the old man, the eldritch stood and grabbed the mahogany board and folded it in half before handing it to Gus. Picking up the snake-like syvriak that had rested upon his chair, Saxon pushed the tip of his fedora up with his thumb as he looked past the trees and into the deep blue sky. Wouldn’t be too long before he had to visit the grave again and pay his respects. Maybe Mark would’ve approved of this if he were still alive, the weird wondered.

“ Hey, you comin’ or what?” the old man said as he rested the satchel in his lap and spun the wheels of his chair to back out,” You’re not getting out of buying me lunch before we get back. I don’t care if you finished or not, got it?”

Saxon looked down and nodded,” Yeah, pop.”

Watching the eldritch circle behind him and grip the handles to his wheelchair, Gus sat back as Saxon pushed them towards the curb and onto the path leading out of the park,” You feel like fish? I think some tuna would do us both some good, eh,” the old man said as the flat-cap turned and the old face tried to stare stubbornly at the eldritch.

“ Yeah, I think I’d like that,” Saxon said as he walked onward, his staff clacking softly against the pavement.

A long silence passed before Gus said,” Y’know, you remind me of someone.”

Startled, Saxon whispered in fear,” Who?”

“ Guy I knew. Upstanding fellow. Had served with me in the war way back when, I can’t really recall what he had done but I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy, y’know,” the old man explained.

“ Oh,” Saxon exhaled with relief and then said with a hint of curiosity,” Why don’t you tell me about him?”

Slowly walking down the path snaking through the trees and back into the city of Radasanth, Saxon listened as Gus tapped into the tattered memories of his ruined mind, and a feeling of nostalgia passed through them both. It was the first and last time the present had acted as a conduit for the past and the future, and whatever feelings the eldritch held, he knew that no matter how many years, decades, or centuries he’d live, he would never forget this moment.

For the both of them.

[The Barbarian]

Tyrael’s eyes focused on the group of children playing with a ball in a small clearing just on the outskirts of town. The sun was high in the air, shining brightly without a cloud to bother it. The wind blew slowly through his hair and he glanced up at the out of place hawk that circled above. He doubted any mice would be near the thundering steps of the kids running around, but the warrior figured the raptor was out of any other options.

Desperate….yea I hear ya.

He sighed again and took a small drink from his cup of water. The hangover still hadn’t left him and he groaned as one of the kids jumped over another to kick the ball. He turned away, slightly dizzy and slightly in agony from both child and turning.

Never again….not takin’ on a dwarf in a bar unless I’m gettin’ paid.

He lurched to his feet and the old bench moaned gratefully. It apparently hadn’t been used much in the last decade and Tyrael’s five minutes of sitting on it was enough to last another round. Downing his water, he licked his lips and turned his attention down to the main street of the town. It was quiet, except for a few people running errands. The slow pace this place set was a welcome change for the barbarian. He’d been tackling undead this and giant that for almost a year straight.

This was like a little vacation.

Yea, in a library where breathin’ too loud gets ya in trouble.

He grumbled to himself and slowly shifted his hulking mass towards his rented room. It was a few buildings down, but the length seemed like miles. If he could make it to the next doorway he’d be surprised. A nice nap after dunking his head in some cold river water might do the trick for this hangover that haunted him more than the ghosts he saw.

As if on cue, a specter busy with something walked by his face and through a wall into the general store. He had been muttering something about revenge and buried treasure. Tyrael’s bloodshot eyes (even though to anyone else they appeared full glowing blue, they still felt like hell to him) stared for a minute at the barren wall where the ghost had walked through. Two minutes. A tumble weed bounced by his large boots on the third and near the fourth a leaf was blown by the wind and smacked him in the face. It twittered for a moment and launched back into flight, ready to surprise someone else.

He shuffled off once more, still as slow as a snail in molasses. Helping someone with vengeance and getting all kinds of nifty treasure sounded great, but he couldn’t fight off a kitten with a bad temper in his state. So he ignored the ghost’s rambling and focused on getting a bucket filled with icy relief as soon as possible. The aged, poor excuse for a pillow on his remnants of what could almost be taken for a bed sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world. He was half-asleep/passing out in mid-shuffle when a ball came rolling past him and stopped a foot away from his body.

“It’s not MY fault! The leaf poked me in the eye!”

“Well I’m not gonna get it!”

“He kicked it! He should get it!”

“Yea! Let Chris get squashed by the big guy!”

Tyrael’s eyelids drooped in annoyance at two things. First, the mention of his existence (because now they might bother him) and their ball in his way. He didn't have the strength to kick it and to go around the road block might tack on another five hours of shuffling and he just didn't have that kind of time. Two, the loud squealing voices of ten year old boys afraid of him. Normally, he’d be laughing and getting along with the small children, regaling them with some of his amazing stories, giving them piggy back rides, and telling the lads useful tips like eating their vegetables and how to properly hold your ale mug. However, their noises were like dying cats clawing at a chalk bored. His teeth grinded together as the pain rumbled in his head; he looked over his shoulder slowly.

The squabbling boys all stopped in unison.

Even the hawk who was preparing to shriek felt an odd feeling in the air and held its cry.

“Get. Your. Ball.” Tyrael growled loudly. The half of his face that they could see was mostly covered by strands of jet black hair streaked with a few snow white ones here and there. His sapphire eye glowed menacingly at them. His fists curled up tightly. He was ready to explode.

The leaf came back and slapped him in the face again. Or was it another leaf? He couldn’t tell because he grabbed at it quickly and crushed it, causing the kids to run away in terror. He would’ve laughed at their stupidity, but the sudden movement he made was more than he could handle. He swayed from side to side, making a vain attempt to keep a balance by throwing his arms out, and fell to the ground.

He was very conscious, just unable to coordinate movements. He lay there, unsure of how long, only wishing he could be rid of this plight. Small footsteps skittered in his direction and he sighed, small plumes of dirt rising away from his mouth..

“I got it! I got it!” A boy said triumphantly as he hopped over the mass of warrior on the dirt road.

I just….want….some rest. He thought pitifully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such a weak state. He didn’t hear any of the boys playing in the clearing, so he figured he was alone, until the feeling of small padded feet traced the length of his back.

What in the hell…

He tried to move but his body failed to respond. The padded feet feeling continued to where his neck and lower back of his head met and suddenly there was a warm, furry feeling followed by a relaxed and content purring.

Ya gotta be shttin’ me.

The tabby kitten dozed on the mighty warrior as easily as he would’ve on a goose feathered cushion. The last time a small animal had used him as resting post, Tyrael had enjoyed it with a side of potatoes and onions. He couldn’t do anything about it though, and decided letting the issue go would have to do. The purring is kinda cute…this isn’t so bad. I might just fall asleep here and wake up rested.

He was about to close his big glowing eyes when something blew into view about ten yards away from him. It twitched and wiggled from the slightest kiss of the breeze. It seemed to have a sense of eager delight in the mischief it could cause.

Tyrael sighed as the leaf blew a couple yards closer to him.

Never with a dwarf again…

[Siren]

"Ordinary days are boring as hell. On the same old ship going some direction you've gone before with no other vessel in sight and no hope of harbor. All around you are men you've known for months; enough time to have either gotten bored with their (lack of) bedroom skills, if you were even interested in them to begin with.

"I hate ordinary days. I like excitement and adventure, even if it's just getting into port and grabbing a damn orange. I always bring a big bag of oranges with me whenever I get the chance to buy some, but they never last more than a couple of weeks. I can never seem to stop eating them, even though I know that I'll be at sea for months and months on end and ought to make the damn things last. I just can't seem to.

"I really hate how hot the sun gets. Honestly, we've been sailing for millennia, can't we think of something to combat the sun? Dehydration drives men crazy, you know. Yeah, I know you're tied to the mast for insubordination, but I don't give a damn. Chatting at you is a lot more fun than swabbing the deck.

"Oh, yeah. That was your chore before you mouthed off to the captain. Great going, champ. Now they want me to do it. Apparently I'm entertaining to watch. I wonder if they'd pay me more if I were to swab the deck naked...

"Don't look at me like that. When you're used to being the only woman on a ship filled to the brim with more men than you can count, you get used to using so magnificent a figure as this to your best advantage. Oh, right. You've been a pain in the ass on this voyage, so you haven't seen it in all its glory. I think you're one of maybe...six? On a ship of thirty men, that's pretty sad, mate. And it's not even that you're bad looking, it's not that you don't have some muscle to your frame. It's that you are a pain in the ass. I don't mind people that are irritating, but I try to steer clear of people on the captain's bad side. You understand.

"Honestly, I wish there were more things to do on ship for regular crew. When you're not scrubbing the deck for mindless hours, there's nothing to do but gamble, drink, and tie knots in random bits of rope. That's right. That's all there is to bloody do on this ship.

"It'd be nice to be captain myself. Why the hell not? I'd be able to stand up front, steer the ship - what? Psh, no helmsman's going to be on my boat, when I get it. I'm going to steer my own damn ship. Anyone else touches the wheel without my express orders will risk getting his family jewels hacked off. Eunuchs make better shipmates, too. No raging testosterone.

"And instead of catering to the men's gambling and sexual urges, I'd be able to do exciting stuff like...I dunno. Is making navigation charts fun? I bet it's better than being so bored you shack up with whichever unbathed sailor looks best through a haze of alcohol.

"Then again, I don't think I could really live anywhere but at sea. There's just something about the gentle roll of waves underfoot that feels right, and land air doesn't breathe as easily as sea air. There's also so much less freedom on land. You can only go so far. Get a boat going in the right direction, there's pretty much no where you can't go. You can't walk to Fallien from Alerar, after all. And I'd love to see someone try to foot it from Corone to Raiaera. No...it's a dull life on a ship, most days...but much better than an ordinary day stuck on land.

"What's this now? All stop? Hells yes. Bye, I'm off for a swim. There are some very enjoyable times in an ordinary day...and this is one of 'em."

[Bloodrose]

One, two, three. Jab, jab, hook. Left, left, right. Repeat.

Each blow to the hanging bag added another cloud of chalk and dust to the already hazy air. The stuff was everywhere, settling over anything and anyone like a gauzy white film. It literally sucked the moisture out of the air, and mixed with a man's sweat and stuck to him like a doughy mess. Breathing in The Longshoreman's Gym on the corner of Dockside and Elm was a labor intensive exercise in its own right, but the types who graced this ugly place weren't ones to complain about the atmosphere...

Teric grunted habitually as he slammed his fist into the accommodating bag, finishing his latest set. The early morning sun hadn't even fully crested the horizon, and already the oldest man in the small complex had been training for over an hour. Other early morning risers, day laborers and City Watch mostly, were just warming up with the snap-snap-snap of jump ropes hitting the floor and the metal clank of free weights. The veteran, on the other hand, was well into his routine, dripping with sweat and working over one of the many hanging punching bags frequented by brawlers and warriors down from the Pagoda.

Jab, step, jab, duck, jab. Repeat. The burlap could scrape even the toughest calluses raw, so Teric had taken to ignoring the red discoloration and the burning sensation on the tops of his knuckles. Raw knuckles was simply another of the mildly lingering pains that accompanied any heavy workout, just like achy muscles and the occasional bruise or sprain. The latter few items on that list, actually, worried an older man like Teric far more than a little skin missing off his fists...

These days it seemed the workouts were getting longer, the injuries more common, and the payoffs less noticeable. In bygone days a younger Teric might have trained once or twice a week, and that was more than enough to not only keep him as strong as an ox, but to improve upon his condition as well. Injuries were few and far between, as it could have very well taken a warhammer to dent those dehlar-tough muscles, let alone tear or sprain them. The curse of age, of course, catches up with everyone sooner or later. It had caught up with Teric a few years ago, when his peak had passed him by and his body had refused to cooperate anymore. Old routines which had kept him in peak physical condition for decades could not keep the muscle mass from wasting off his bones, and decades of wear and tear had made getting hurt easier than ever.

Those years ago, when his body had decided to play hardball, Teric had decided to hang up the sword. Retirement was the only option for a waning warrior. His candle was burned down to the wick, and it seemed the only thing left to do was sit and wait for the flame to extinguish. Retirement, however, was a long and boring wait for a man to long accustom to vigorous work. Waiting could not help him, his old routine could not help him, and so the veteran had come up with a new routine.

You're. Not. Too. Old. Each word was a fistful of anger dissipated into the bag. He got a few looks sometimes from younger men, delighting in the wary, admiring looks his brutal training regimen drew from them. If training once or twice a week can't help you, then train every day. Was the conclusion Teric had reached. It was hard at first, getting into a strict regimen like that. His old bones didn't want to play along, and his muscles ached day in and day out. Getting yourself into shape at Teric's age requires three-fold the commitment and effort it takes a younger man, and the gains of each workout were a pittance to boot. Work twice as hard, each half as much. Work three times as hard, earn three quarters as much...

The hard work was paying off, however. These early mornings the last few weeks had been getting easier and easier, if only a modicum so at a time. He was sleeping better, and his body didn't require as much rest as before. His appetite was returning, for that too can fade as an aging stomach grows weary of digesting. He was more regular, his muscles did not hurt so much, and the time he spent completing his regimen was less. The warrior had hit his second wind now, and the strength, speed, and agility of his youth was returning...

They'll see. Teric thought, finishing his workout with a cool down session of light sparring with the bag. He allowed himself a brief moment to look forward to the cool, cleansing shower at the end that would wash the heavy chalk dust off his skin. I'm not too old, and woe be it to anyone who underestimates me because of my age...

[Call me J]

First of all, thanks to everyone who posted in this month’s vignette competition. The end decision was really tough, there were a bunch of strong vignettes, some of which were better in certain areas than others. In the end, I picked the three that I liked best, because I felt that was the only way I could decide from about six or seven very strong contenders. These are the winners.

1st- Chiroptera
2nd- Siren
3rd- Apocalyptica

All spoils are listed below, based on the formula in the first post. However, first, I offer you my vignette. Enjoy.


Every night I pray. I suppose I seem like a hypocrite for doing it, given how many different women’s beds I fall asleep in every week, but we all have our little hypocrisies. That’s how we know that we’re still alive, because we’re caught between trying to be what we want and settling to be what we are. As I run my hands through the hair of a woman whose name I think is Gisele, I wonder if Damon ever had this problem. Ever felt as though his desire and skill weren’t enough to face the world at large. I don’t think he would, he was always too strong, too brave.

Sometimes, I wish people didn’t have legends about my father. When I was in Carnelost, that was all I heard. Here in Alerar, it’s even worse. It seems the farther I go from Damon, the more tales I hear of his valor. I don’t think it’s fair at all. These people didn’t know him well enough to be talking about him as if he were a close friend of theirs. I don’t know him that well and I’m his son.

The only thing that consoles me is that Gisele never found out my last name. When I entered the bar this time, I introduced myself as Loman Burns, a wandering salesman from Radasanth. I use other aliases, other nights. Tuesdays, I’m William Brown, a warrior from Shanleh, and on Saturdays, I’m Gerry Gavilea, disgraced Raiaeran noble. I don’t really have the discipline to give myself more aliases that stick, and sometimes when I walk into bars, people recognize me as Jame Kaosi. I hate it when that happens.

Fortunately, it hasn’t happened much lately. That’s good, because when it does, I hit a real dry spell. It isn’t that the women aren’t crawling over me then, it’s that they are for the wrong reasons. I want them to sleep with me because I’m cute, because I’m rich, because I’m muscular or because they’re lonely. I just don’t want them sleeping with me because I’m the son of Damon Kaosi. I’ve gotten far too many things in my life already based on that association.

As I pray, I never know exactly what to pray for. I wonder if I should pray for something for my partner of the night, that she forgets me soon, that I forget her, that she finds someone whose life is infinitely less complex than mine. I wonder if I should pray for Raiaera, and all the refugees that I have never met that are now crowding the border towns on the other side of the Twilight Mountains. I wonder if I should pray for Damon, just because he prays for me. Most of all, I wonder if there is any point in prayer since I’ve already seen the Mya, and if my prayer works, why they haven’t rescued me by now.

Rewards
Karuka Tida receives 350 EXP
Apocalyptica receives 100 EXP and 50 GP
Ladies’ Man receives 100 EXP
Nymph and Dragon receives 150 EXP
Corvus MacCallum receives 200 EXP
Chiroptera receives 250 EXP and 100 GP
Elijah_Morendale receives 200 EXP
The Writing Writer receives 100 EXP
Zieg dil’Tulfried receives 450 EXP
Poison receives 150 EXP
Saxon receives 100 EXP
The Barbarian receives 150 EXP
Siren receives 100 EXP and 75 GP
Bloodrose recieives 250 EXP
Call me J receives 300 EXP

[Karuka]

EXP/GP added! The Barbarian levels up!