Vignette Contest: April

[Bloodrose]

Alright people, due to some confusion and inactivity the fourth round of the Vignette Contest is off to a late start. But as they say: "Better late than never!"

So without further ado, here we go!

Vignette Contest #4 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 (Depending on the amount of interest, I may allow the time period to extend and overlap into May. We'll see, so stay tuned for updates!). Editing your posts is permitted so long as they are edited within the contest's month.
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.

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

The prompt for the month is as follows: Your character is accosted on a nighttime street by a pair of thugs looking to relieve him/her of whatever valuables they may be carrying. A simple glance reveals that these street rats are no hardened criminals, but simple punks down on their luck...

What do you do? Show them kindness and give them your coin? Run for the hills? Beat the snot out of them? How would your character react in this situation?

Enjoy.

[A Nony Mouse]

Wasn't sure about the length requirements. Lemme know if I need to change or move this.
It was a night like any other since Travis had come to Scara Brae. During the day the city was swarmed with people buying, selling, hawking, or stealing. Bodies jostled one another as the roads teemed with life. Heat rose from the cramped stalls where merchants conducted their business. The city of Scara Brae was a completely different place when night fell.

The red-haired fighter walked through the empty streets toward his inn near the docks. He had just finished fighting a cage match at the Zirnden and the winnings were a comfortable weight at his belt. Good thing I won, he thought. I could really use this gold…

When he fought at the nightclub, Travis left much of his armor in his room. This particular night found him wearing his usual leather boots, his equipment belt, and his Damascus bracers; he preferred speed over strength at the Zirnden. Looking down the road before him, he saw a side alley angling through the rest of the shopping district. A shortcut? he wondered, deciding to check it out.

After only a few steps down the sidestreet, Travis saw a dark figure ahead of him. Knowing that running would only provoke action, he kept his pace. The stranger stopped, waiting for the traveler to come nearer. Travis’ heartbeat quickened and he began breathing deeper. Focusing entirely on the figure, he readied for an attack.

“Give us your gold,” came a gruff voice from behind him. A second man stepped out from a recessed doorway to grasp Travis’ tunic and brandish a rusty dagger across his throat. “Now!” the man snarled into his victim’s ear.

The fighter’s elbow slammed back into the thug’s stomach, doubling him over and loosening his grip on the dagger. Travis spun around and gripped the wrist holding the weapon, twisting the arm as he dealt a punishing blow with his forearm. The would-be attacker groaned in pain and the red-haired warrior relieved him of the rusty blade expertly.

Setting his foot on the man’s chest, Travis kicked off and sailed backward toward the second figure. The man had time to draw his own weapon and Travis was met with two wooden katanas as he pivoted to face the threat.

Behind him the fighter could hear the first man getting up and knew that he needed to work quickly. Ducking under the first awkward swing, Travis lashed out with his fist and connected with the thug’s side. The man grunted, but to his credit he swung again.

The second pass struck Travis in the back, the wooden blades most likely bruising, but not drawing blood. The pain made the fighter all the more ready to end the scuffle, but he didn’t want to kill the man. When the katana came down again, Travis stepped into the thug’s reach and attacked with the dagger’s hilt. The iron handle rapped sharply against the man’s collarbone, breaking the bone underneath.

The thug screamed and Travis butted him with his shoulder to send him to the ground. Stooping to retrieve one of the man’s katanas, he turned and saw the first brute readying for an attack.

The low moonlight struck the man’s face and Travis saw something he didn’t expect; fear. These men were not hardened criminals; why were they accosting a stranger in the middle of the night?

“Wait,” Travis called to the thug as he closed in. “What do you want from me?”

“Gold,” the man before him answered. “I told you that.”

The red-haired warrior lowered the wooden blade to his side and asked, “Is this your first time robbing anyone?”

Glowering, the brute retorted angrily, “No. John and I, we do stuff like this all the time. We robbed a guy just a few minutes before we saw you. Tell him John!”

The second man answered from his place on the ground, his good arm gripping his shoulder to ease the pain. “Jack, don’t be such a dunce.” He turned slightly to address his victim, pain obvious in his voice, “Me and John here just got sent home from our jobs last week, see, and our families are expecting us to be able to provide for them. We’ve been stealing a little bit of food from the merchants, but soon we’ll need money to buy necessities.” Struggling to a sitting position, he continued, “We’ve just fallen on some hard times, mister. We’re not bad men, honest. Could you spare some gold?”

Travis didn’t have the heart to see these men suffer, but they had tried to rob him. He knocked the idea around for a bit; what would he do in their situation? The gold from the cage match earlier in the night suddenly felt heavy at his belt. If he ignored these two the guilt would plague him for days.

“You know what?” Travis told the men. “I do have a bit of extra gold.” Reaching into on of the many pouches at his belt, he pulled out the purse from tonight’s fight. He hefted the bag; it contained nearly one hundred gold pieces. He hated to part with so much, but his decision was final. They needed it more than him.

Tossing the bag to Jack, he continued down the alley. Looking back to see the two men crouched over the small purse, he smiled. It felt good to help them out… and there would always be other fights. With a grin on his face, the red-haired traveler made his way home.

[Abomination]

I suppose this will be an experiment with the new incarnation I'm gonna have for Homunculus. Just a little test.

Two young men were walking down the street in the chilly Radasanthian night. At this late hour, they could only be looking for trouble, and that's exactly what they were about to find.

"Hey Jon, what is that?" asked the first, red-haired youth. "Looks like there's someone in the alley."

The second, brown-haired youth replied, "What the... you're right! There's someone there! What's he doing there, Rob?"

"I don't know," said Rob. "But let's do 'im. Maybe he's got something on 'im."

"Do we really have to do this, man? Are we this hard up?"

"Yes, we are. You heard what they said: She won't make it another month if we don't get any money."

Jon sighed dejectedly, "Alright..."

The youths approached the alley and noticed the man was staring at a fence that was separating this alley with the one on the other side, which also lead to a street. He was a tall, blonde-haired man wearing a black coat with the collars popped. He was standing perfectly still.

As the would-be thieves approached, Rob whispered, "What's he doing?"

"I said I don't know!" answered Jon, almost forgetting the volume of his whisper and giving away their approach. "Just shut it and follow my lead, alright?"

They both pulled out small knives and stayed low as they crept along towards the tall man.

"Hey! Your money or your life, pal!" yelled Jon.

The figure did not stir, not even a nonverbal acknowledgment of their existence.

"Did you hear me?!" Jon spoke again. "I told you to give me your money! I'm warning you!"

No reply. Frustrated, Jon started ruffling his brown hair with his free hand and tightened the grip on his knife in the other. Rob looked at him nervously, his own knife shaky and loose in his sweating hand.

Jon yelled, "That's it!" and stabbed the man in the back. "Huh?!"

The man still didn't move. Jon pulled back, aghast with the creature in front of him. Was it even alive? What was going on here? The tall man finally started moving. At first, he simply turned his head to reveal his jet black left eye with a yellow iris, his right one obscured by his long blonde hair. The eye was cold, uncaring, and ultimately undeterred by the stabbing.

Rob tried to reason with his partner, "Let's... let's get out here! I got a bad feeling about this! Really bad!"

Jon, still stupefied by the tall man's indifference, stumbled backwards and fell down, his mouth agape and unable to find words to tell. There was something about the tall man's piercing gaze that terrified him. It was like a bad premonition.

The tall man turned around, his mouth also slightly open; revealing the top portion of his teeth. He looked down upon the young man, and extended his hand. Rob didn't accept it, instead he pushed against the ground with his legs and dragged himself backwards like a panicked animal. What was he so afraid of? It seemed like a kind gesture, but it was just so wrong in this context. The reason was because he saw it in the tall man's eyes. It was like seeing into the future, because he saw himself being eaten alive. Why did he see such a thing?

"C, come on man! Let's go!" yelled Rob desperately, almost shaking Jon from behind by his shoulders trying to hoist him up to his feet.

Yet, it was too late. The tall man's hand suddenly started extending and grabbed Jon's throat, pulling him right into the air by his neck. Rob backed away in horror as the man's arm started sprouting smaller arms that wrapped themselves around the Jon's body. The tall man's expression remained unchanged as he tensed the muscles in his right arm, causing all the smaller arms to suddenly compress the body in the air, crushing Jon's body and breaking his neck. Then, he flung the remains into the wall.

Rob, now successfully having pissed his pants, tried to run out of the alley but it was too late. The tall man's many arms caught up to him. He saw hundreds of arms blocking the exit before everything went dark.

Later, the creature known as a Homunculus walked out of the alleyway, a slight smile crossing his lips. He still had a knife sticking out of his back.

[Godhand]

There were a few things that could make Godhand weep without shame. One of those things was an impeccable rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. He brought a handkerchief to his eyes and clapped furiously once the last note had faded. The folks sharing the balcony with him were a bit put off by his boisterous applause, but even they had to join in after such a performance. That was a feat in itself; it was rare that these bourgeois were ever stirred by any form of art. Mostly, these little functions were used as an event for a man to show off his latest trophy wife or perhaps work out some less than legitimate business with a simple handshake. These guys loved handshakes; no paper trail to incriminate them. But bless that boy for coming all the same. He'd made the mercenary's week.

It wasn't too long afterwards that Godhand excused himself. He hated it when Giacomazzi made him come to these things. Something about grooming him for a future desk job because, and I quote, "you can't go around poppin' people forever." Ehh, maybe he was right. Godhand wasn't a young man anymore. Sooner or later his speed was gonna fade, then his strength...And then what would be left? Just some old boozehound who'd seen better days. Better start preparing himself for it now.

It was as Godhand ruminated on these facts that two kids, two young guys, sprung out of the alley. One was carrying some sort of blade; one of those pop...Button things. Switchblade. Jesus, how long had it been since he'd carried one of those? He chuckled to himself aloud. Seemed like a million years ago. This upset one of the kids, who walked forward and shoved Godhand. That brought him back down pretty quick. The mercenary was wearing his suit. It was no wonder they thought he was rich. Still, that was no way to treat a person. Much less someone who'd paved the way for two future thugs like themselves.

"Don't do that again, kid."

"Give me all your money, old man!"

"Don't-I ain't that fuckin' old! Jesus!"

"Whatever! Just give me the damn money!"

"Have you brushed your teeth recently?"

There was a pause.

"Wha-"

In the blink of an eye, the assassin's hand was gripping the boy's jaw. Two fingers under the tongue, thumb under the chin and then squeeze. Perfect execution. The boy's friend tried to help but Godhand didn't even have to move; a quick lash of of his arm and he was in the same position.

"Now I've got you-"

"MMF!"

"Shut up! I've got you in the mandible claw. Hurts real bad, doesn't it?" There was another pause. Godhand squeezed again and then they hurriedly nodded. "I know. Now listen, pretty soon you're gonna start getting tunnel vision. Then it's going to get spotty. Then you're going to go to sleep, and I guarantee you you won't be waking back up again."

More gasping, muffled screaming, just general ridiculousness. Godhand squeezed again to get them to be quiet.

"Shut the hell up! Let me finish! Now as I was saying...I don't want to do that to you. Because it's late, and I don't feel like dragging your bodies over to Louie's so he can grind you down into fucking dog food or whatever it is he does. So I'm gonna let you go on the condition that you either quit mugging people, or you start mugging people in another part of town. Are we understood?" They nodded. "Because if I hear about some broad gettin' mugged on this street, then I'm gonna come looking for you. And then I'm gonna kill you. Do you understand?" More nodding. "Good." Godhand let them go.

They collapsed unto the pavement, clutching their jaws, tears streaming out of their eyes. Just a real rough scene. Godhand felt a little bad about it, so he fished out his wallet.

"Now listen, I'm gonna give you boys a couple of bucks, and...What day is it? Is it tuesday?"

"Y...Yeah."

"Okay, what you're going to want to do is go down to Joey's for two-for-one tuesdays. It's a good meal, you know, and you'll be getting the most out of this money." There was one last pause. "Or spend it on booze. Jesus, I don't give a fuck."

The mercenary tossed 'em a couple of bills, put his hands in his pockets and walked away.

And, you know, damn. That pianist just nailed the Moonlight Sonata. Beautiful, beautiful work.

[Tainted Bushido]

Taka walked down the street of the small village. The small tea house had closed recently, and he had to get back to the small hostel so he could continue his movement towards Radasanth. Still, it was dark and Lady Moon had hidden her face from the children of Akishima that night. As he walked down the street he felt the heavy weight of Rengoku on his hip, seeming to question his every step. A sigh escaped his lips before he muttered, "We need to rest little one, we shall continue our journey to the westerners again tomorrow..."

He had started talking to the blade on his hip perhaps a month after he had gotten it. While the circumstances of acquiring his blade had of course seen him cast from his family, it comforted him slightly, almost as if he was speaking to the poor woman he could not save. Occasionally he could hear whispers of her voice, usually after an honorable deed, but otherwise the blade remained silent. It only sang in battle, brought into the complicated dance with death with Taka as her guide. Upon reaching towards the far end of town he heard a small scuffle. It sounded like hushed whispers.

He tilted his head, as if to press his ear closer to the source of the noise while the voices stopped. Part of him began to wonder if it was only some peasants commenting on the Samurai. His question was quickly answered when he heard the sound of sandals upon ground, sifting the dirt beneath their feet. Rengoku seemed to lighten, as it always did in anticipation of battle. He whispered softly to his blade, "Not yet little one, no need to be hasty, let us see what will come of this..."

It was then he heard the voice speak a distinct word, "Now."

Immediately Taka's hand went to the hilt of Rengoku and pulled sharply, the sound of steel upon steel resounding through the night. He could hear the crunching of footsteps upon the ground even as he completed the draw and spun with the act. The slice caught one of the two would be bandits across the midsection spilling his intestines to the open air, as Taka took a graceful step past him and leveled his sword upon the other peasant.

The peasant dropped the simple Kama he held in abject terror as he saw the unflinching gaze of Taka upon his own eyes. He sputtered trying to explain the occurrence and why his friend was holding a kumade*. Finally he managed, "I am sorry Samurai-sama! I didn't mean to-"

When Taka spoke his voice took on an irritable tone, "Shut up."

The man opened his mouth so speak again, only to receive the flat of Taka's blade against his jaw, causing the man to flounder to the ground and clutch much like a child would a bump. When Taka spoke again the tone was far more hostile, "I said shut up peasant, I won't repeat it a third time. If I were to kill you, I'd be entirely within my right considering you came at me armed."

The peasant remained silent as tears glistened in his eyes. Taka could see the man was no fighter, and had relied on the element of surprise. The problem was, there was not much noise to mask his approach, and Taka had managed to hear them talking before he had actually seen them. Atop this was the persistent paranoia that kept all Ronin alive for so long, and it had made the man's pathetic attempts at a heist laughable.

Bushido would have him show his enemy compassion and courtesy. However, this peasant was of lower status, if only barely so. This meant that he did not require doing such a thing, but still, the weight of Rengoku reminded him his duty had been fulfilled in apprehending the peasant. He looked down with disdain at the dying peasant before with a flick of his wrist, the Katana sliced through the dying man's throat, giving him a quicker death than he would otherwise have suffered. He then looked upon the peasant, "Where is the yoriki**?"

"Asleep most likely," The peasant said trembling in fear after seeing his would be comrade in arms killed.

Taka nodded thoughtfully before he spoke, "If I have to awaken anyone, it will be the magistrate***, rather get this mess over with fast..."

"Please sir, not him, he'd kill me!" The man begged.

"I could kill you now, if thats any consolation to you, peasant," The words dripped disdain, as he had control over the peasants only so much as to get what he needed to survive. Any further punishment would technically have been the Magistrate's prerogative, but Taka wasn't sure if he should bother the magistrate, and instead kill the both of them. He could then leave the body for the dogs and be done with the entire night, and continue his journey west later.

The peasant trembled as he spoke, "Please, let me go, I will never do it again! I promise!"

Taka sighed, this was a conundrum. The man had committed a crime in assaulting a Samurai. This broke the celestial order in which peasants tended the lands and the Samurai protected them. Such a blasphemous breach of conduct was only punishable by death. Rengoku seemed to agree with the statement as it lightened in his hand, knowing the decision he would come to. Finally when he spoke his voice was firm, "Bushido leaves no room for second chances. It is my duty to punish you, if you cannot be punished by your Magistrate. Guardians guide you lost one, may your next life be more fruitful..."

The peasant didn't get to scream before his head was dislodged from his neck.

Kumade - A rake used by peasants tending fields. It also doubles as a makeshift weapon that peasants are known to use when fighting in wars.

Yoriki – Peasant assistant to the local Magistrate, often Budokas in that they are trained fighters of more talent and skill than basic peasants.

Magistrates – More akin to modern day police officers. Magistrates upon knowing of a person’s guilt are allowed any means necessary to get a confession from their quarry. They also carry out the punishment and oversee the smaller villages in absence of a governor.

[Karuka]

For some reason, it was impossible to just get a ship from Dheathain to Salvar directly, and thus Karuka was forced to spend the night in Radasanth. They hadn't made port until sunset, and by the time she'd wrapped up some minor business at the docks - there were always a couple of interesting little objects that collectors wanted from Dheathain - the stars were already twinkling weakly through the smoky haze that was the air.

The red-head wearily ran her hands over the rough brick of a building, trudging her way toward the inn she most often stayed at during these overnight stays in Corone. She regretted having to stay at all. Some months before, she'd been aboard a train that had come under attack by a mob led by the Church. In the aftermath of the day of fighting, she'd been left with a toddler whose mother had been killed. She'd promised to deliver the child to an aunt in Knife's Edge, and she had. Or at least, she'd tried.

The aunt had told Karuka that with little Meg's father had been killed in battle, leaving her an orphan. She'd have been happy to take her sister's child, she said, but the girl's birthmark was viewed as too ill an omen by the Church to risk having her and endangering her own children. Unwilling to leave the little child alone so young with so many predators about, she'd taken her to a small orphanage in the south of Salvar, where the purge hadn't reached yet. She'd become the child's sponsor, and was on her way back to pay for her next three months and check up on her.

A soft sheen from behind her caught Karuka's attention and made her straighten up, gripping her prevalida-capped staff tightly as a pair of matching sounds produced daggers pointed at her back. Whipping around, Karuka lowered her staff, prepared for a fight. She expected to see some hardened criminals skilled with their weapons - too many experiences with competent criminals had sharpened her expectations.

What she saw was a trio of boys holding rusty daggers in her face. Holding them incorrectly, she might add. "Give us your money and valuables, lady, and we won't hurt you," demanded the leader, a blond boy with dirt for skin. They all looked to be in a state of near-starvation, much like she'd been when she'd first set foot on Althanas.

"Put that thing away before you hurt yourself," she demanded in return. She watched as they looked at each other, confused. Surely a lone woman would have been happy to make such a generous exchange. Couldn't she tell they were dangerous criminals? Either she was stupid or she was dangerous. She was so petite and they were so desperate, though, that they banked on stupid.

"H-hey, lady," the leader started again, pushing closer and waving his blade at her, "don't make us - OW!"

With a lightning swift move, Karuka had stepped in and smacked the youth hard across his crown with the wooden portion of her staff, preferring to leave him conscious for now. His dagger fell to the ground with a clink! as he rubbed his skull, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. His companions, uncertain about what to do next, lowered their own daggers a little bit, enough for a sharp glare to make them drop their daggers, as well.

"Now, I can tell that you're grimy and hungry, and probably would be good boys if not for that fact. I don't blame you for trying to survive as best you can, but it's not a good idea to try mugging armed strangers. I've met people that would have as soon killed you as looked at you, and not all of them are far away."

She looked at them again, miserable, starving boys whose plans to get money for food that night had been soundly foiled by their target. The streets were too still now to hope for another target. They looked too pitiful for Karuka to deny them all sympathy.

"Come on. I might be able to do something for you three." They picked up their daggers, shoving them in their belts and trudging dejectedly down the street in the direction she'd pointed with that all too fast staff. They could feel her eyes on them, making sure they did as she said. Was she taking them some place to kill them? They quickly silenced that option, as it was still enough that she could have killed them if she'd wanted, right where they'd stood. Was she going to take them to the police? That seemed more likely. Prison didn't sound like a fun experience, but it might be worth it, if they were fed regularly.

They came up with another half dozen possibilities on the way, muttering to themselves, and planning on what they might do to escape if she decided to hurt them. They were whispering and muttering so that she wouldn't hear them, but it was obvious that they hadn't been rapscallions for very long. Not only could Karuka hear every word they were saying, she couldn't help but think some of the plots they were coming up with were highly unrealistic and even too dangerous. But she let them plot...it assured her that they weren't going to get bored on the walk.

After a few minutes, she ushered them into the dim light of a tavern's yard. "Stay here," she admonished them as she went in.

A few minutes later, she came back out with a lean, muscular man, who looked them over sternly. "They aren't a likely looking lot," he muttered, grabbing the nearest one and turning him around. "But if they really need a job, we really need some stable hands."

He watched as the boys murmured to each other. She'd gotten them a job?

"We can't pay much - three solid meals a day and some blankets and bales of hay for bedding, maybe a couple of coins here and there, and you'll work hard. But you won't go hungry, and when we get more established, maybe we'll be able to start giving you wages. But if you steal from me, boys..." The dark glower was menacing enough.

"We won't," said the blond. "We...we'd be happy to take the jobs." Working for food sounded a lot better than getting killed for trying to rob someone.


*~*~*~*

In the morning, Karuka peeked into the stable as she made her way for her boat. The three youths were still sleeping, but that wouldn't last long. Tiptoeing in, she set one gold coin by each of their heads.

Good luck, kids, she thought as she left.

[Bevel]

Moonlight filtered down through the clouds, casting the town’s streets in a pale light. The dinner hour had passed, and the few who walked this street –named Graves’ Way - now shuffled quickly along in the cold night air, headed for home.

As streets went, Graves’ Way suffered somewhat unduly, being neither grubby, on the bad side of town nor ridden with criminals; on the contrary, it was well lit by gaslamps and featured a well-ridden stone road.. The reason most shunned the road was that it lead to the town’s cemetery, striking out at an angle from the main promenade for funeral processions. Besides, who really wants to live on a street with such an unattractive name?

One individual didn’t mind the street so much; its wide open, well lit sidewalks and lack of large housing made for an excellent street for a nighttime stroll. The person in question strode ungainly down the sidewalk, a heavy clump for an overweight drow. He liked the peaceful night.

Well, perhaps peaceful was an understatement tonight.

“’Old it, fat man! This is a stickup!”
“Yeh! Put yer ‘ands inna air!”

The drow took a step back as two roguish young men leaped from an alley, brandishing a cheap iron dagger apiece at him. He didn’t have much choice in the matter, so he complied. The arms went up.

The first one, a tallish gangly sort with a crooked nose and beard stubble, blinked at his comrade as if to say, what do we do now? His accomplice moved forward, of average size but with tousled black hair and a boyish face. The drow’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, deducing almost reflexively that they weren’t real criminals.

“Gents,” he said with arms still in the air. The two young men jumped a bit at his word, but still brandished their knives at him. “I think – I think you’ve got it wrong. Where’s your third man?”

The shorter one glanced up at his gangly partner. “Third man?”

The drow’s heavy arms were beginning to get tired, but he kept them up. “Right, a third man. You two can’t be good robbers without a third man to keep watch.” This caused a sort of revelation in the two, who pulled their knives closer to their bodies, in a poor attempt to hide them.

“…’ow’d you know this?” managed the tall one. “Y’don’t look like a crook t’me…”

The drow relaxed his arms slightly, shooting each one a knowing look. “Not a crook? Well, if you take me at your word, I’m afraid I’m not. Just a normal, working locksmith such as y’selves on his way to the cemetery…where, I hear, there’s a rather nice few valuables buried…under lock and key…”

The word valuables brought a renewed vigor to the shorter one’s face. “V-value-bles?” he managed. Then grasping the knife more energetically, he jabbed it forwards in the air in a manner he clearly thought was menacing. “We’re comin’ wiv.”

“…eeeasy!…” hissed the drow, his eyes darting obviously around. “Well lit street, gentlemen…”

“Oh. Right,” they said simultaneously, sheepishly retracting their knives. “But there’s two of us an’ one of you, so no funny business!”

The locksmith drow looked convincingly cowed. “Er, right – wouldn’t think of it.”

Graves’ End Cemetary loomed quietly at the end of the road, consisting mainly of a large hill capped by a marble mausoleum and many small graves all around. Crickets chirruped and broke up what would otherwise be a totally silent graveyard. The mausoleum, in that manner that mausoleums do, practically emanated silence if such a thing were possible, looming coldly at the top of the hill where its iron gates remained locked.

The drow walked well in front at the promise of knifepoint, while the two crooks stayed a few paces back. The sharp ears of the drow caught them whispering amongst themselves.

“…so, we lock ‘im back in, right?”
“No, no, ‘e’s a locksmith, remember?”
“…oh, right – but s’pose we braced the door, see, with a plank…”
“An’ where are ya gonna get a plank? The mausoleum? They bury planks wiv their dead, I hear, keeps the vampires away…”
“Really? Plank sounds right useful, keepin’ vampires away…”
*smack*
“Ow, wot’d y’do that for?”
“O’course there ain’t vampires around, y’idiot. Point is, there be no planks inna marble mausoleum.”
“…oh, right.”
“Nimrod.”
“So we shiv ‘im instead?”
“Sounds good – but we’ve got to do it after ‘e gets us the valuables, else we’ll be innit all night…”

Finally, the mausoleum, and its tightly locked iron doors. This proved little obstacle for the drow, whose mechanical skills jimmied open the lock in a few minutes. The two crooks took up positions between the drow and the door, standing like gunslingers and trying to appear more than obviously ready to draw knives at the given word. They trembled slightly in the cool, dark air of the mausoleum.

The drow was as good as his word. He produced a small device which, wound by a clockwork key in its back, whirred softly as he brushed it over the thin marble slabs of the mausoleum’s filing system. All of a sudden, it rang a tiny bell which echoed madly around inside the marble hall, causing both young men to jump horribly. “Ah!” exclaimed the potbellied drow as he stuffed the device away in a pocket. “I’ve got something!”

The crooks advanced as their pigeon rolled an ancient tomb open. Incongruously, a skeleton reclined as if in a bathtub of riches; fine burial silks and trinkets of silver and jewels, even a golden tiara adorned with swans whose eyes sparkled ruby red. All of this was loaded into a pack which bulged heavily on the ground.

“S-sweet lord,” blinked the black-haired one, grinning at their spoils. “Would you look at that…”

“Yeah,” replied his partner in crime. “Riches fit for a king. Or, at least a pair o’ princes…”

The drow looked up at the two of them. “Er, a pair of princes? There’s three of – oh, no,” he concluded, realization dawning upon his fat face. “Look, gents,” he pleaded. “There’s enough here for all three of us – please, don’t kill me…”

Too late. The allure of gold had won over these men’s souls like so many others, and they advanced upon their locksmith with knives drawn. The drow scrambled backwards on the dusty floor, bringing a heavy wrist up to shield his face, and then-

“Halt RIGHT THERE!” boomed a voice, deafening down the marble hall. A lantern shone in like some ray of justice, illuminating two ne’er do wells perched, knives in hand, over a simple looking fat drow. “Officer of the law, an’ I’m armed. Don’t move a muscle!”

The crooks froze as the watchman advanced upon them. “Grave robbing, what what, and even attempted murder. I’ll see you two in these irons,” he said, brandishing an officer’s pistol in their direction.

“B-but ‘e,” spluttered the tall one, “’E was the one who led us ‘ere, this drow – you’re makin’ a mistake-“

The policeman looked imperiously on. “I see a fat old drow being held at knifepoint by you two ruffians. From the looks of things he’s a – well –“

“Locksmith, sir,” proffered the drow meekly, earning enraged and confused stammers from the two crooks as their eyes rolled towards him.

“Right then!” glared the watchman. “Into the irons you go, and no funny business! As for you, locksmith, I shall personally return and see you off and if so much as one gold coin is missing it’s the gallows for you, sir!”

“W-wouldn’t dream of it,” chirruped the drow. He wiped a bit of sweat off his face.

Off went the watchman, carting the two crooks into the night. As for the drow?

Bevel Kessler smiled inwardly, his pack sagging noticeably heavier upon his thick shoulders. Right now, it was the pub for him, him and Officer Hill.

That watchman certainly earned his share tonight, admitted Bevel.

[Breaker]

The dice spun across the tabletop, bounced over the stop line, and came to rest showing one pip each.

Snake eyes.

Charlie Chalkline groaned and clasped his head between wiry hands. Like his hands, Charlie's whole body was long and lean, skinny as a string bean. As the rake swept the small pile of his money away, he stood up and trudged to the corner of the casino, head down, hands in his pockets. He nodded at his best friend and got a melancholy nod in return.

"How'd you do Pete?"
"Went for broke, and now I am." Pete the Pipe replied. Pete had an uncanny knack for poetical dialogues, often accompanying himself on a pan pipe. His musical career was on hold for the moment though-- he had just lost the pipe in a game of cards. Charlie sniffed.

"Me too. Lost three straight tosses, can you believe it?"

Pete shrugged and rubbed his stomach. Where Charlie was thin, he was wide. They stood the about the same height, but Pete's gut gave him an extra fifty pounds, easy. The two hapless gamblers stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment, staring blankly at the cobwebbed ceiling.

"We gotta' get some money, Char." The round man noted. Charlie gave him a scathing look.
"An' how do you suggest we do that?"

They resumed looking listlessly at nothing in particular. Nearby, a cheer went up as the dice came up seven. It made Charlie want to kill something.

And that gave him an idea.

"Hey Pete," he whispered, suddenly filled with energy, "You still got them ol' knives?"

"Sure thing," Pete replied, a mite confounded. "Why?"

As Charlie explained his plan, manical grins stretched the droopy faces of both men.

---+---+---

A thin coat of ice covered the paved streets of Knife's Edge. Josh Cronen and Kristina Rythadine slid along, clinging to each other for balance and warmth. A gleeful glow surrounded the young lovers as they carried on a meaningless conversation, teasing each other and laughing in turn.

"You can't fool me Josh; I'm no simpleton!" Nina proclaimed. Her wide brown eyes sparkled with sly wit. Josh laughed at her stubborness.

They had arrived on the topic when a few of the neighborhood children had pelted them with snowballs from a nearby rooftop.

"I'm telling you, it's true." Josh insisted, a wide grin making him seem a liar. "A physicist name Galileo proved it a long time ago, back on my home planet."

Kristina stopped and placed her hands firmly on her hips, staring up at the tall tanned man. A few steps away the road became a bridge, with the swfit moving waters of a wider river racing far below. She spoke loud to be heard above the coursing water.

"Even if I did believe you're not from Althanas," she said, quirking an eyebrow, "which I don't incidentally. At any rate, even if I did believe that, what you say is still ludicrous. Heavier objects fall faster than light ones." She smiled sweetly, her point made. Josh shrugged.

"I don't know what to tell you, except that you're wrong. Galileo dropped many canon balls of varying weights from the Leaning tower of Pisa, and--"

"From the what? Nina interrupted, "Don't you ever get tired of telling stories? A tower cannot lean, it must stand straight!" She stretched a coat-covered arm up in the air to illustrate her point. Josh shoved her playfully and she sprawled in a snow bank.

"Now look what you've done, Josh Cronen! My nice jacket is all--"

She cut off as a pair of skinny hands grabbed her and dragged her to her feet. A tall thin man clutched a handful of her auburn hair, pressing the blade of a dagger to her throat.

Before Josh could take a step towards them a tall round man stepped in front of him, brandishing an evil looking knife. The fat man stabbed at the air to show he meant business, then proclaimed in an authoratative tone;

"Give me all your money, all your wealth, or your lady friend will bleed to death!"

The tableau remained frozen like that for a second, as if the arctic climate had chilled them all to the bone. Josh's hazel eyes met Nina's brown ones, a silent message passed between them. Then Josh looked to the fat man.

"Oh please sir," he said, placing the back of one hand on his forehead, "Please do not harm my beloved, for our love runs deeper than the ocean and hotter than the fires of Haide." Josh held the melodramatic position and Nina giggled against the blade on her throat. Confused, the fat man looked to his friend for support.

"Quit jokin' around!" The thin man cried in a thin voice, "Give us yer' money or I'll open her throat."

A look of exagerated horror seized Josh's face.

"Oh heavens have mercy!" He cried, "Here, take my money, take it all," he mimed taking items from his pockets and pretended to pass them to the fat man. "Take my horse too," he added, gesturing at thin air, "Only do not harm my belov--"

The fat man's face boiled with anger. He stepped forward powerfully and stabbed the broad shouldered agitator. Or tried to. The blade of his dagger snapped and he nearly broke his wrist.

Nina moved like lighting, twisting the thin man's wrist and tossing him over her shoulder. He landed with a thud on the hard ground. As he stood up, Josh seized both the unfortunate gamblers by their collars and banged their heads together.

"Now look here," he said sternly as the undynamic duo's eyes rolled around their sockets, "I don't want to hurt either of you, so if you'll help me prove a point to my girlfriend, I'll let you go."

The would-be muggers nodded energetically, throats bobbing with anxiety. Josh smiled.

"Thank you so much, fine gentlemen. Watch closely Nina."

With a sudden heave, he tossed them both over the railing of the bridge.

Kristina ran to the precipice and looked over. Two simultaneous wails of fear were followed by two nearly simultaneous splashes. Nina turned to Josh, a puzzled expression on her face.

"Well?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"I don't understand," she said, "the skinny man hit the water first."

Josh nodded wisely as he put his arm around her and together they slid on down the road.

"Ah yes, that can happen," he said sagely, "Since the fat man was wider, he created more wind resistance and thusly, fell a little slower."

Kristina's wide eyes got wider.

"How does wind resistance work?" She inquired.

"I have no idea." Josh replied, and kissed her on the nose.

[Kially Gaith]

Pre-quest events – Taking part before meeting Luc Kraus

Walking the streets of Corone one mid-summer eve, Kially found himself enjoying the stars that were sparsely dotted about the sky, oblivious to the quiet streets he walked.

When the cold began to set in, Kially found himself wandering aimlessly as to find somewhere with warmth. Unfortunately, nowhere immediately sprung to mind and the boy was also poor without a home or money to house himself even for a night.

The stone beneath his feet was both hard and cold, offering no warmth or comfort to the boy who was quickly getting chilled by the clean night air, the remnants of the day spiking it with the smell of Sunday roasts from nearby houses, citrus fruits from the market hours before and the delicious smell of baking bread from a nearby bakery which made the night all that sweeter. Somehow, the smell of bread, despite making Kiallys’ mouth water, did not take his mind away from the fact that he was now shivering.

With heat now solely in mind, he made his way down a dark alley with a direct lack of fear, naivety seeing that the boy would throw himself into even the most dangerous alleyways. As small feet quietly clicked against stone beneath him, he passed several back doorways to homes and stores until reaching one with a large solid frame which had apparently housed two thugs who stepped out towards him, staring down upon the lad, who was still shivering immensely.

Stepping into the path of the child, the two unkempt humans blocked Kiallys way completely. “Eee-ar, it’s a kid. I knew it, Irmeena. I told you it was a damned kid!” the large bearded fellow dressed in a full torso cloth shirt covered by a sheepskin cloak, a pair of torn pants that Kially could not discern, and old worn leather boots, two sizes to small, turned to the woman next to him, sighing.

The thin woman, addressed as Irmeena arched her head to snap at male next to her. “Wha’s yuh fuckin’ point? He mi’ be some rich kid, aye?” Followed, were probing eyes about the child, looking for anything of value, taking note that his shirt and pants were as torn as her own. “Or mebbe no’…” Shaking her head, she placed a hand to her forehead, she sighed outwardly. “We co’ always sell ‘im”

Kially remained shivering before the two, looking up at each person as they took their turn at speaking, until eyes locked upon the woman at the mention of ‘sell’. Just what was she going to sell? She was wrapped up in a simple shawl, pants dropping to her ankles where ruffles hid her boots, her clothes would hardly fetch a penny, being torn and probably crudely sewn.

“Thrinst, search him.” The domineering female continued to speak, the male did not comply. “He’s jus’ a kid…” Kneeling down before the child, he placed a hand to the child’s cheek, turning his head first to the left then the right. “He dun’ deserve no trouble…He go’ less than us.” Standing back up, Thrinst found himself shoved into a wall. “Yuh too damned soft!” stated Irmeena who immediately dipped her hands into the childs pockets, finding nothing more than a few herbs and berries, all partially damaged or split from daily life, the herbs had dried and were beyond any monetary value. “DAMNIT!”

Kially by now, was getting rather frightened and found himself unsure of just what to do, shivering violently as he complied with the two before him, unaware that they were trying to remove from him anything of value, which he just did not have.

Standing back up to his feet, Thrintis began rubbing his sore shoulder, having slammed directly into a wall. “Wha’ the hell ya do that for?!” Irmeena was quick on the receptive, squaring upto her accomplice, raising her voice loud enough to make Thrinst shrink into her grip. “Look, yuh bastard! I marri’d yuh on tha promiz tha’ yuh’d suppor’ me, if it wa’nt for you, we’d no’ be in dis mess., ar’ kids u’d ‘ave food an’ we’d be livin’ it good.” . During this, both thugs were entwined in their own affairs, no attention upon the boy that stood confused and cold before them.

During the chaos, a trio of Coronian night guards had heard the commotion and came to the entrance of the alleyway to investigate, shouting down it, the line of guards of old. “Halt! Who goes there?!”

The married couple suddenly grew silent as their hearts stopped in their chest, turning from their squabble to that of the heavily armed guards at the other end of the alley. “Leggit!” Turning rapidly, the two darted towards the other end of the alley and into the main street. The three guards quickly followed, giving large chase as Kially backed himself up into a doorway to allow them to pass. One guard stopped before the boy, looking over him for injuries, noting that the boy was going blue with cold, the guard generously threw his own finely crafted cloak over the boy, patted him on the head then chased after the couple who had accosted him

Down the main street came many calls, all that of the Coronian guards, the shouting for the attempted thieves to stop, of which had obviously been refused as loud footsteps and clinking of armour continued into the darkness until even the loud calls grew more and more quiet as they carried further into the distance. Kially had been fortunate and avoided slavery, injury and even death - He'd be more careful in the future.

[MoonRunner]

Hot and heavy was the dusk as the great silver and gray wolf waited, sprawled in an ever enveloping shadow at the base of the town well in the center of the square. As Kyprith awoke from his half doze, his panting increased in intensity. Unwilling to move, he communicated his annoyance to his pack-sister, who was bartering with a local inn keeper on wither or not Kyp can stay in the room with her.

This is stupid, Karyna communicated as the inn keeper said something along the lines of large wolves are bad for business, He’s not even accepting extra money!

Then the inn keeper said something that Kyp couldn’t catch, making Kary bite her lip hard, smack down some coin for a drink, and storm outside, only remembering to snatch her summer cloak because the wolf gently sent a wordless reminder. He slowly stood up, stretched the full length of his immense form, and turned slightly to take a drink from a bucket left unattended. Snorting once at the stale taste of the warm water, he trotted over to Kary’s side and walked alongside the seething redheaded girl. Knowing better, he didn’t even try to be curious about what got her so infuriated or mention that sleeping out in the open plains would be more comfortable than in some stifling inn.

As they gained distance from the inn and its close-minded owner, Karyna’s pace slowed as her temperature decreased. Once she was merely miffed, Kyprith mentioned something about the weather being too hot to be angry, making the edges of her full lips curl gracefully into a small smile. As they neared the edge of the village, they noticed that there were two men following them. Just to make sure of the two strangers’ intentions, Kyp and Kary ducked down an alleyway. Kary scolded Kyp for his thoughts about how he was going to rip out their throats by stating that they couldn’t be very intelligent to attack a girl with a huge wolf companion. So he’d better be gentle!

Just as they thought, the two strange males did duck in the alleyway after them. Trying to avoid a fight through intimidating the brutes, Kyp turned around to face them, bared his teeth, and crouched to show that he was ready to kill. The two thugs stopped just as Kary also turned to face them. Expecting to see two hulking and mean looking thugs, she was surprised to see two thin men with haggard faces and dreary eyes. One had lost an arm, so that would make him useless for a lot of labor intensive jobs. The other had had his eye gorged out. These weren’t professional thugs at all, they were just desperate.

“Can I help ye?” Kary asked in an authoritative but kind tone.

The one who lost an eye, shook his head and mumbled something before starting to turn away to leave; however, the other had other ideas and commanded in a hoarse voice: “We’re takin’ a tax from all who pass thro’ here wi’out contributing tae ‘e local wealth.”

“I’d be willing and able tae contribute, except the inn keeper was unwilling tae let my companion here intae the building,” Kary said telling Kyp to relax; with a shake, the wolf stretched out of his crouch and sat on his haunches, panting heavily from the heat: the transformation from feral beast to tame companion was instant and complete. “So, if either o’ ye can find me an’ Kyprith, here, a place tae stay for the night, I’d be more than willing tae pay the welcoming household for their troubles.”

“I’m sure my wife wouldn’t mind the…dog,” the man with one eye spoke up, “As long as he doesn’t make a mess.”

Dog! The great wolf sniffed at what he considered to be a great insult.

“He’s perfectly housetrained,” Kary replied, patting Kyp on the head to tell him to hush, turning away from the one armed man who seemed more than a little bewildered with the way things were turning out.

“An’ how is he ‘round young children?” One-Eyed asked.

“He doesn’t have much experience around them, but he’ll be fine.”

“Well then, let’s get the dog and ye fed and settled in for the night. I’m Jordan and this brute here is my cousin Imsyck.”

When introduced, Imsyck smiled a bit bashfully, making Kary decided to pretend to forget like he had demanded a ‘tax’ from her just moments before. Within moments, they arrived at a humble but well kept cottage, which housed the families of the two men with her. There were three small kids who were just heading off to bed, and all but the youngest continued to do so. The littlest one, a girl with a heedful of chocolate brown curls squealed and toddled over to greet Kyp with the biggest hug around the neck she could. He, stunned, looked up at Kary with huge eyes asking what the heck was he supposed to do with this tiny human. Kary laughed and left him to handle it on his own as Jordan’s wife showed her where she would be sleeping.

[Flames of Hyperion]

I kind of took the prompt and ran with it, hopefully not too far… don’t think it came out quite as well as I would have liked it to, though… ^^;

The mists swirled gently about his feet, the moon that fabled ghostly galleon as it floated behind smoke and cloud in the heavens above. Air nipped cool and moist at his exposed cheeks though his heavy cloak protected him from the worst of the insidious damp, the salty breeze tinged with just a hint of malodorous stench... spoiled fish, perhaps, or the rancid remains of a meal brought up against the wanlit cobblestones. It was that time of night just before the witching hour and the streets of Scara Brae were a drastic contrast to their daylight disposition; deathly quiet and deserted aside from late stragglers returning from their alcohol-fuelled jaunts, and a few other hardy souls braving the dim thoroughfares.

The Auld Hoose was quickly swallowed up in his wake, even the strategically-placed lampposts failing to pierce the thick twin veils of fog and darkness. Hazy pools of pale light flashed by like milestones as he strode his customary quickstep towards the night's lodgings, wary of the oceans of gloom that lay in between. I may have tarried a bit long, he admitted to himself with a rueful mental grin, but in truth he did not regret doing so, for the company had been impeccable and the information gleaned priceless.

Sight was almost a useless frivolity in this world, smell and sound just as ineffectual. But those in tune with the winds of magic are well renowned for their fabled sixth sense, and whilst Ingwe was certainly no master wizard, he was indeed a mage-in-training. Hence it was that he was aware of his tails long before he heard the soft footpads dogging his own, long before his peripheral vision caught the shadows that moved in perfect time to his, long before the white gyrfalcon on his shoulder crooned a soft warning into his ear.

"I know, Hayate..." he murmured, gentle but accordingly guarded. "Let's see..."

Of a sudden, his strides grew even longer; an abrupt turn around a corner and he disappeared from sight for a brief moment or two. It was a simple ruse, to be sure, but it was rewarded a moment later when their hasty pursuit brought them into a secluded alleyway, where the mists were not quite as thickly settled and the darkness not quite as dangerously oppressive. And where Ingwe awaited their arrival, the falcon discreetly absent from his shoulder perch.

"You're not quite professionals, are you," he observed wryly, but without the disgust or contempt that another man may have borne. He saw them to be both slight of build, though their heavy hooded cloaks concealed their torsos and limbs from view and their faces were shrouded in a sea of shadows and swirling mist. Instinctively he slipped into a subtly defensive posture, at the same time as their own steps turned decisively more aggressive.

"You still have the opportunity to back away," the warrior-mage pointed out, but he might as well have saved his breath for all the effect that his words had. Closer, closer still their cautious paces brought them, one painstaking yard at a time. From this distance he could tell that they were so very much alike, the slender athletic forms of the figures that rustled the cloaks, even the way that they moved as they edged towards him. Skilled too, he noted, though the hems of the cloth they wore were wearing thin and scruffy, and their hands were tainted with grime in the misty moonlight. Ruffians, down on their luck...? was the first thought that wandered through his mind, although the words he spoke were altogether less pondering, "... although it seems like you want something from me... I have to warn you, I'm short on coin and not exactly inclined to making it worth your while..."

Still no response from his hooded attackers, as each breathless second brought them that much closer. He shifted position warily as the figure on the right sought to outflank him. The nervy silence lent itself to the pounding adrenaline-fuelled heartbeat in his ears and the single bead of dew that trickled down his ashen face, stark counterpoint to the focus and concentration evident behind half-rimmed glasses.

A moment's pause. For a brief eternity, nothing moved, nothing sounded, not even their final exhalations into the moisture-laden air.

Then there was action.

The one in front seemed to disappear in a blur, speed of movement bringing the assailant into striking range almost before Ingwe could blink in shock. As he belatedly sought to defend himself, however, it was the one to his right who struck, one slender dirt-encrusted hand reaching out to grab the travel pouch that he wore at his waist.

The pouch that contained all his valuables, from what small amount of gold he carried to the venerable tome that was his life's work-in-progress.

Not likely, he cursed, twisting his body neatly out of the way. But the movement was not enough and he had to trust to an instinctive duck when the decoy's leg suddenly lashed outwards and upwards in a scything sweeping motion. He could almost feel the bruising from the whiplashing air as it passed by mere inches from his face.

"You're rather skilled for mere footpads," he muttered darkly as he recovered with an awkward backstep, his mind reeling at how close that had been. "And not after my life, either, it seems. Just who are you... what do you want from me..?"

Again there was no reply, no indication even if they had heard his question, though they stood so close now that he fancied that he could almost reach out and touch them.

Not that I really want to, but...

This time it was the thug on the right who led, fist cocked as he - or she, even - feinted high before coming in low with elbow primed for his groin. Ingwe anticipated the deception and was ready with a gentle palm to knock the blow out of the way, but as he did so the other attacker darted in beneath his guard. His dancing steps free were desperate now as hand missed pouch by the width of a split hair; a low grunt, indeterminate and non-descript, and once again his opponent's leg lashed out acrobatically, aiming now to catch the back of the knee and cripple him.

It was a dextrous technique that caught him almost completely by surprise, and he was forced into an ungainly half-jump backwards in a desperate attempt at a dodge. Success... but short-lived, as his feet touched ground precariously off-balance.

For a moment he wavered, on the edge of falling. Then capricious Mother Nature played her hand. For the cobblestones, not the surest of grounds even at the best of times, were slippery and wet with the night's mist.

Up went his limbs, down came his head, and he landed hard on his backside, the air knocked from his lungs with enough force to pump a blacksmith's bellows. The cloak he wore acted to somewhat cushion his fall but the uneven stones were painfully bruising nonetheless, and he could tell immediately that there would be a couple of nasty blue-black patches on his back the next day... assuming, of course, that he should survive the night.

To his credit however, Ingwe may have lost his dignity, but he never lost his wits. As the first thug's hand came down from the cloudy heavens like a flash of lightning, reaching once again for the pouch at his waist, the Nipponese managed to coerce his body into rolling away from the attack; an awkward but effective manoeuvre that somehow bought him the time and space necessary to scramble back to his feet.

He looked quite the sight by now, although of course he didn't exactly have the means - or the self-assurance to spare the time - to look. His spectacles had not taken kindly to the rough fall and were now gently askew on their nasal perch; his cloak was soaked with dew and the white tunic underneath streaked with street dirt. He was breathing more heavily than his adversaries, scraggly strands of sweaty hair hanging down over his eyes and threatening to obstruct his vision. Somehow however this didn't surprise him in the least.

"Not going to be dissuaded, are you..." he whispered, and this time he didn't even bother trying to make himself heard. There was a sad and sorrowful undertone to what he said, resignation and determination rolled into one, along with the faintest of hopes that they would heed his words and leave him be.

It'd be so much easier if they...

A third time they came, without waiting for him to regroup or even finish his thoughts. Intent they were on making away with that pouch, although for what reason he knew not. Now though there was a hint of anger in his movement as he cast away their blows, parrying and riposting with an intense fury that matched their desire to steal his belongings and more than made up for their numerical superiority. Every strike was now met with an artful counter, every blow with iron guard, and soon their exertion was as laboured as his. But for all his finesse and guile, they matched it with equal skill and cunning.

It was stalemate. Yet still they did not give up.

Something snapped as they moved against him again, and now Ingwe's emotions flared. So far he had not drawn weapon for neither had they; his innate code of honour meant that he would not wield steel against naked flesh. But for an instant his feelings got the better of him, wrath long held in check touching the surface of his mind at boiling point, flames dancing in the corners of his eyes as he subconsciously wished fire and destruction upon the two ruffians.

His senses only returned to normal when he perceived a sudden, similar surge of arcane power within his foes. The instant was as if somebody had poured a bucketful of ice-cold water over his head, an abrupt moment of crystal clarity that marked the rebirth of a sane voice of reason.

"Just who are you...?" he asked, lowering his defensive stance without warning and gazing at them in wonder. Deep within the innermost workings of his psyche, he realised that he'd felt those particular mana surges before. "Do I...?"

As one they looked towards each other, and even through the depths of shadow that he perceived their faces to be, he saw that the glance they exchanged was concessive and yielding rather than hostile. Said realisation was affirmed by the fact that they too relaxed their postures, their bearing now non-aggressive, if not quite friendly.

"We bear a message from a mutual friend," the one on the left spoke. The voice was muffled and nondescript, certainly not one that he could recognise, speaking harsh but flawless Elvish. "Leave these shores... leave now, go back to the lands from whence you came. Enough misfortune has come as it is."

He frowned, puzzled. "Was that why you tried to mug me? To convince me to go...?" A brief pause. "And what do you mean by misfortune?"

"Just leave," the other assailant - the fast one - replied. Ingwe couldn't help but feel his ire grow once more, seeing that they seemed set on ignoring his words in general and his questions in particular. It was the final word, though, added almost as an afterthought, that left him particularly perplexed;

"Please."

For a moment the young Nipponese wavered, wholly uncertain of how to respond. The pair of them had just attacked him and attempted to make away with some of his most priceless possessions. Down on their luck they may have been, but mere street punks they were not... although the label of hardened criminal scarcely seemed to fit them, either. If he had been inclined to analysing the turmoil that sundered his mind, it would have come up with phrases such as confused and torn.

So instead he smiled, a smile as gentle and as warm as it was determined and unyielding. Holding one hand high to summon the falcon that circled overhead, he felt secure enough now to take his eyes off them as he looked to the skies, seeking the stars above and beyond the city's cloudy blanket, seeking the inspiration and the promise that they held.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he answered, his voice soft but firm. "There's something that I need to do... something that must be done here. And until I accomplish that..."

He let his voice trail off into the night, a small puff of moistly warm air expelled from his lungs and lost amongst the gathering mists.

Was it sorrow that tinged the hoods as they made one final response?

"Don't say we didn't warn you," the first speaker sighed, with a hint of what could have been interpreted as resignation. Ingwe gave them a curious questioning little half-smile, willing them to go on… but then they were gone, slinking away into the fog like spectral wraiths. Within moments all was quiet again, even his pounding heart as it gradually restored itself to a normal speed within his chest. In fact, the night was so silent now, it was almost as if they had never existed at all.

All that was left behind was the myriad newborn questions that dwelled in his mind, and no sensible answer to satisfy them.

[Gem]

Gem was woken from a sleep he had been in for awhile by an extremely painful headache. Although it wasn't impossible to guess what was going on, it was only confirmed when he heard somebody speak.

"It won't come off!" The voice yelled out. Gem's eyes shot open at the realization that what these guys were after was thejewel on his forehead. Every Welge had one of these jewels on their heads, It was connsted to them in a similar way as fingernails are connected to us. It was as much a part of them as hands and feet are a part of us.

Looking the two wannabe Jewel thieves over, Gem suddenly realized just how much of a wannabe they were. These two were inexperienced to no end. If Gem wasn't a heavy sleeper, he would have easily heard these guys coming. they had hiking boots with steel toes, and, though one was carrying a crowbar, the other was carrying a chain that dragged on the ground. No smart thief would wear or use anything like that. Street thugs, on the other hand, just might.

"Do you know how much that hurt?" Gem looked at them angrily as he spoke.

"Then maybe you shouldn't attach your valuables to your forehead" The man with the chain replied.

Gem just stared at them in awe at how stupid they were. He didn't even feel like explaining that the jewel was embeddid into his skull at this point, but there was a way to make them lose interest. Gem shot a fireball out of his jewel just over each of their heads.

"Sorry, that jewel starts firing off randomly once every hour. you still want it?" Gem lied. Next thing he knew both of them ran away. Gem started laughing as he realized neither of them thought to go after his wallet.

[Ignition]

Empty Bottles Keep Me Honest

It was a pity, I had been hoping to enjoy the night air. Radasanth was even dirtier than I remembered, and the only thing different about the air as I made my way out of the city was the pollution was just a little bit fresher. My Istraloth lungs craved for something better, even though I supposed that I should have just been grateful than to be out of jail. It started to storm. I smiled, the rain might get me wet, but at least the air would seem fresher by the time the rains were over.

The alleyway was dim and narrow, with the lights from the nearby factories my only source of protection from stepping on any of the pieces of broken glass or scrap metal that littered the alley. I was grateful that the prison seemed willing to give me a pair of boots when I left, I dreaded to think about walking through the industrial parts of Radasanth without proper protection.

I was thinking about a warm cup of ale when the two boys came out of nowhere and surrounded me. I cringed. I should have been sharp enough to catch them, but I wasn’t. Prison might have made me tougher, but I wasn’t as alert as I was when they first threw me in. Now, I was paying the price. My heart was pounding, the only thing I could think of was that I hadn’t spent enough time in jail for either the Trax Syndicate or Rocky Blackwell gang to forget me. I had weapons on me, but I knew I wasn’t going to be quick enough to use them. Unsure of what else to do, I balled my fists, hoping that I might be able to catch them unawares.

One of them muttered something generic demanding my money, and the second added an exclamation. I laughed in relief, by the sounds of their voices, I could tell that they were just a pair of kids, kids far too young to be out on wetwork for any self respecting organization. A clap of lightning betrayed them as nothing more than street rats trying to make a name for themselves, their weapons were makeshift daggers made of industrial scraps.

If I had wanted to I could have killed them right there. However, I was in no rush. “What do you want?” I asked, somewhat coyly.

“We already told you,” the first boy said, his voice sounding more nervous now that I hadn’t tried to run or beg for my life. “Your money, your things, anything on you…”

Normally, I wasn’t much for talking, but talking was the only way out here. I could have subdued the kids, but I wanted to give them a shot. If they listened, they’d be a bit wiser the next time they assaulted a stranger. If they didn’t, then, we’d fight and I’d leave the both of them dead. It would’ve been a greater loss for them than it would be for me.

“What do you think I have that you really want?” I asked. “You see me, a pair of boots and a shave is the only thing different between me and you.”

The boy in front of me stammered. He waved his makeshift dagger back and forth, more out of frustration than a desire to intimidate me, his friend kept insisting that they do something soon, but I could tell that I had gotten on both of the thieves’ nerves. They were just showing it differently. The one in front of me wanted to run, the one behind me wanted a fight.

“Run,” I said. “I won’t hurt you…”

Before the boy could respond, I was alerted to the sound of glass crunching behind me. The boy behind me, had stepped forwards, only to step on a broken bottle. He howled in pain, and dropped his meager weapon to nurse his foot. I punched him in the jaw none the less, sending him spiraling down to the ground.

By the time I turned around, my first would be robber had run away. Undeterred by the defection of his friend, my failed assailant came after me a second time. This time, I wasn’t just going to leave him with a broken jaw. A quick, kick to the groin and a well placed shard of glass I had picked up from the ground finished off the kid before I could he could even have even howled for mercy. I scowled as I looked at the blood on my hands, wondering if bad luck wouldn’t end up with me getting thrown back in jail less than an hour after getting out.

Before I could panic, I remembered that I was near O’Reilly’s Pub. O’Reilly was always game to let someone clean themselves up for a decent price. I was sure enough hadn’t changed since I’d been put away that the bar wouldn’t still be open. It might cost me what meager gold I had, but I couldn’t afford to put a price on freedom.

“It’s just a damn shame,” I thought, looking at the body of the dead boy who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. For a moment, I considered reaching into his pockets and seeing what coin he had to offset my costs, but then I stopped. I was about to be out a few coins, but the dumb kid had lost his life. Gold pieces to O’Reilly suddenly seemed a small price to pay. I walked away, with the faint taste of vomit in the back of my throat.

The rains stopped just as suddenly as they’d started. I couldn’t tell if the air around me was any cleaner.

[Raelyse]

A thousand people could pass me by and not one would stop to pay me any heed. Unremarkable people don't usually get noticed. Tossed in the shadows of others, I am forgotten as soon as I leave the line of sight. I have no talents, I have no skills... I am without distinction in every way. I am garden-variety mediocre sprinkled with hints of unexceptional. People with these kind of traits don't get very far in life and who am I to break the trend? I am no trend-breaker, I am just average. In a sea of heroes, I occupy the lowest rung of the food chain, the pathetic organism that exists only to make others look extraordinary by comparison.

My name is Pratley LëS'ťrăňğë... and that is about the only thing about me that is remotely interesting. It's not even my real name, I'm not sure I even have such a thing as a name. I have quite a stereotypical origin. I was abandoned as a child, from parents unknown. After that, all the luck in my life was used up in one small act. Despite this, it is one that I am nonetheless grateful for. An elderly man found the crying infant I was and raised me as his own. I remember little of him; most of what my mind tells me about him comes in dreams, but what I do know was that he was kind and benevolent, despite his poverty. When I was two years old, he passed away and I was passed on from place to place, taken care of at people's whims, until at fifteen I was old enough to break free and fend for myself. Sometime during those formative years, I can't remember how old exactly I was, I got the name that I now go by, if only to keep myself from going insane. I ran into a scholar in a bar and the friendly man asked me what my name was. When I could not give him an answer, he dove into his book and read the first name that popped up to him in its many pages. With no other way to identify myself, I chose that as my name. After my meeting with the scholar, those two words also became the only things that I could write.

Now, I am sixteen years old and living somewhere in Radasanth's slums. I only know this place's name from passerbys speaking as they walk by whatever alley I am hiding in. They are my only source of information and thus, I crave them. I live in a different place every day, searching for a temporary home with just enough shelter to last me the night, before moving off in the morning so as not to quarrel with the other homeless. It is not a life of anguish or hardship, for I have never known anything else that is better my comparison. Everyday, my only aim is to find just enough food and liquid to pass the day and eavesdrop on passerbys as they walk by, trying to learn. Sometimes I don't understand, even when they speak in Common. But I listen anyway... because this is my life.

Today is a good day though, one that makes the seems a little better than the others. I have wandered into a place I have never seen before, a part of Radasanth that is different to the others. The people here walk that much quicker, with their chins lifted that much higher. It is almost to the extent that they do not notice me as I scuttle, hunched through the crowd and into the alleys. It is in the latest alley that I find a dagger, originally of poor make but rusted beyond repair now. Despite this, it was the most lucrative treasure I had ever found. It is a weapon, my first. I had seen other homeless rob people, but it is not a route that I had ever ventured down. Pratley LëS'ťrăňğë is much too scrawny and weak to attempt such a thing. But now that I have a weapon, I can be a thief. I can be something more than mediocre.

A white haired man walks by the alley shortly after I find the dagger, his back straight and his shoulders arched backwards. He walks with confidence of which I have never seen, but he also walks with a cane in his right hand, a tool that I have seen many fragile old people use to help carry their frail bodies. This one was slightly more energetic in his movements than they were, but my excitement overcomes my intellect. He is a man with hair as white as I have ever seen and he walks with a cane... how strong could he be?

I scurry after the white-haired cane man for a few minutes, hiding whenever he makes a corner or turns his head, before he turns into a deserted alley, away from the crowds. As he does this, I realize that this is as good a chance as I will ever get. I sprint after him, faster than I have ever run before, not caring that he would surely hear my bare feet against the floor. My rusted dagger tightly held in my right hand, I shout out to the man.

“Youse cashes or youse living?” I say, my weak voice imitating the ones of the successful thieves that I had seen so many times, doing just enough to catch his attention. It is only now that I realize what a mistake I have made.

The white haired cane man turns around and it is obvious then that he is not old, he is not crippled and he is definitely not vulnerable. My eyes had tricked me before. His hair is actually a vibrant silver and it shines in the sun brighter than any light my eyes have seen. His face has not seen the first challenges of age, for it is youthful and handsome, with striking features that humble all the others I have seen. Even through his affluent clothing, I can see muscles tense with power. I have made a grave mistake.

“You... street rat,” he says, his voice, trembling with fury and vibrating with authority so furiously that it makes my bones shake. “You dare to speak to me? You dare to mug me?”

Some invisible force pries open my hand and my dagger flies across the alley, smashing against a dust bin and falling to the ground. I try to turn and run away but find that not one muscle of mine will move. I cannot move at all, and it is a strain just to blink the sweat from my eyes. The silver haired man has raised his free hand, his open palm pointed straight at my chest. Even though I have never seen anything like it before, I know that he is using magic. It constricts my entire body and I have no chance of breaking free.

“Do you know who I am?” the man says and he releases the hold on my lips, just enough for me to speak.

Despite my teenage years, this is still among one of the first times that anyone has ever spoken to me. I do not know what he has said, for he speaks with an accent that I have never heard before. I know he is speaking Common, but I can only understand a few of his words. “Me... is... Pratley... Pratley LëS'ťrăňğë...”

For a brief moment, nothing happens. Then, a sharp pain runs through my entire body. I am shocked, whatever happened had happened so fast that my brain does not have the time to react. When it gets a chance to work again, it tells me. My body had flown through the air and collided with the wall of the alley with titanic force, shattering several of my brittle bones.

“I don't care who you are!” the silver haired man shouts now, so loudly that my ear drums feel like bursting. He is standing in the same position, but I am several feet to the right from where I was a moment ago, curled up against the wall. “I am Raelyse! I am Perfection!”

Those words, I understand. I do not know why, but they hit the mark with me. I understand.

The silver haired man walks towards me, his eyes, as blue and beautiful as the sky despite the rage coursing through them, staring straight at me and sending chills through my body. If I could turn away, I would. Or would I? This man is remarkable. He can use magic, he is proud, he is so sure of himself. I have never seen anyone who was anything like him.

“And you... are a street rat,” he says, his voice tinged with the disgust that I have heard from so many as they walk by me, only it was so much more prominent with this man. “A feeble creature that does not deserve to walk on my feces.”

With that, he turns around, all of his words sinking into my brain, everything understood.

“Raelyse,” I say. I had wanted to say it softly, but instead it comes out audibly loud and the silver haired man hears me. He stops for a moment before turning around, visibly agitated. He had calmed down in his disgust, but now his anger had returned.

“Why do you speak my name?” he screams, saliva flying from him and landing on me. Spit, usually disgusting from other mouths, actually feels cool, almost relaxing and comforting against my face. “You are not worthy of it!”

Pain surges through my body once more and I know that the silver haired man is using his magic once more. Like the last time, I see the end product before I see the process, because my brain cannot react fast enough to tell me what is happening. My frail frame is pushed against the wall by invisible, powerful hands which repress every muscle in my body. My feet are actually three or four feet above the ground and a powerful force is crushing my throat. I choke, but my ears are alert enough to tell me the sounds the moving lips of the silver haired man are making.

“If you like my name so much, then wear it like a badge of honor. It will at least bring significance to your pathetic existence,” I hear, though my brain is already beginning to shut down. The silver haired man represses his magic, and the pressure around my throat is alleviated and my body falls abruptly to the ground with a thud. Before I can think for one moment that the worst is over, a scorching pain runs through my forehead, a burning sensation that is more painful that every other discomfort put together that I have felt over my life. My mouth opens to scream but my brain shuts down before this happens and my world turns black.

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

I do not get the luxury of entering a world where men are all equal though, because some time later I awake. A heavy rain has just passed and my body is soaked. The pain in my forehead returns but it is more a discomfort know, not the searing pain that was severe enough to knock me out. I reach for it instinctively and feel the area, realizing that there are indentations, there are marks in my forehead that weren't there before. I scramble towards the nearest puddle in the ground and wait for my reflection to appear in its murky depths.

My eyes scan my unremarkable face briefly before they settle on my forehead, the source of the sensation. I see it now, sprawled across my forehead, seven wounds marked into the shape of letters and put together, a word. I cannot read it, but my mind jolts and makes the association, and the word rolls off my tongue and out of my lips.

“Raelyse, Raelyse, Raelyse, Raelyse, Raelyse,” I say, over and over again. His name had been carved into my forehead, a scar that would never heal. How exactly he had done it was a mystery, but I cared not. For the first time in my life, I was special. The last words that Raelyse said echoed in my head once more, a sentence that suddenly was so true. I reach down and half looking at my forehead and half at the ground, I use my index finger to write those seven letters in the wet dirt on the ground. I had just learnt a third word to write, and one that was potentially more important than the other two put together.

Raelyse was the most amazing person that I had ever met and now he was going to be with me until the day I died. I suddenly realized that I would never be mediocre or unremarkable again, I would never be just another face in the crowd.

Because I, Pratley LëS'ťrăňğë, had been touched by greatness.

[Bloodrose]

After fifty-two years of getting backstabbed, double-crossed, bought out, and sent on suicide missions, you'd think Teric would have at least learned not to cut through back alleys after sundown. Maybe it was the slight buzz of the alcohol making him careless, or perhaps it was the fact that dark alley's don't seem so scary after you've faced all of the worst in the world and come out breathing, but either way the veteran veered that into the darkness anyways. The two brick buildings rising up on either side made for narrow passage through the less than pleasant aroma of old garbage and stagnant rainwater. It was the kind of alley where Teric regretted walking into it, but rather than turn around and go back, he pushed forward to try and get out the other side as quickly as possible.

"Taking a shortcut?" A voice, male and young, caught Teric's hazy attention as he passed a pile of old crates stacked to rot in the alley. The mercenary hadn't had so much to drink as to be stumbling drunk and incompetent, but he'd had enough to make him a little slower on the uptake. It was more of a problem now than it had been in his younger days - another side effect of his age.

Teric didn't bother to answer the scrawny punk of a kid who emerged from the shadows like he was some sort of bandit badass. There were no weapons drawn, but the shaven-headed twit was resting his hand of a dagger hilt at his belt like it made him intimidating. More intimidating, if only just slightly, was the sound of a second stranger entering the alley way behind the mercenary.

"I imagine that anyone eager enough to cut through an alley like this one is eager enough to pay some gold to get where they are going." The kid's line sounded so practiced that it lost all sense of swagger and badassery, instead coming across as hollow sounding and dull. Maybe it was just him, or maybe he really had consumed too much alcohol, but Teric felt more like he was an unwilling participant in some play than he felt like he was being mugged.

"Get out of here, kid." Teric shook his head, dismissing the 'Billy Badass' punk with the knife completely. "I don't have time for this."

"Look, just give us your money, alright?" Fear. Hesitation. Even if he had been rolling in his own alcohol induced vomit Teric could have picked out the strain in the dagger-wielding boy's voice. Something told the mercenary that these kids were first timers - newly lowered dregs that hadn't gotten the knack of taking things from people yet. How sad, to see kids so young reduced to such a life so fast.

"Seriously, boy," Teric emphasized the word to try and break the young man, "I don't have the time nor the patience to put up with this sort of thing."

"Don't call me boy!" Desperation. The knife was out now, and the second stranger behind Teric, the one as of yet unseen, could be heard rustling around for something.

"Don't do anything stup..." Teric found himself cut off midsentence as something jabbed him in the back. There was the clink and scrape of a dagger running across the mythril chain shirt Teric wore beneath his shirt, and the unknown stranger let out a distressed, surprised yelp.

Whack! Teric's elbow swung around and caught the young man behind him right in the temple as the mercenary turned to confront his attacker. The older warrior's speed, strength, and the fact that his bones were harder than most metals combined to deliver that one crushing elbow, and the poor sap who tried to stab him collapsed in a broken heap.

"No!" Shaved-head, the one doing all the talking, let out a cry that told Teric he and the fallen kid were pretty close. Brothers maybe, although they could've just been fast friends watching each other's backs on the street. The veteran was about to warn him not to do anything equally as stupid as his comrade, but the kid rushed forward anyways.

Young punks, they never listened to their elders.

The dagger fell to the ground uselessly as Teric deftly grabbed his attacker by the wrist and disarmed him with a quick jerk of his arm. A simple foot stomp caused the boy to yelp in pain as he doubled over, but Teric mercifully knocked him out cold with a backhanded fist to the side of the head.

"Stupid fucking kids these days." Teric checked to make sure both kids were still breathing. The first one would have a hell of a headache, and the second would probably have a broken foot to go along with his - but both of them would live. For now at least. The veteran wasn't in the charitable mood to give them money, but he did them one better. He took the daggers they'd been using and ditched them down a sewer drain once he got back to the main street. He hoped, for the sake of those two boys, that they took the hint well enough to heart and found a better way to get what they needed.


This month's winners are the three that stood out the most, for various reasons:

1) Bevel receives 100 GP and 100 EXP
2) 016573 receives 75 GP and 400 EXP
3) Flames of Hyperion receives 50 GP and 100 EXP

A Nony Mouse receives 150 EXP
Homunculus receives 150 EXP
Godhand receives 400 EXP
Tainted Bushido receives 100 EXP
Karuka Tida receives 400 EXP
Kially Gaith receives 150 EXP
MoonRunner receives 100 EXP
Gem receives 100 EXP
Ignition receives 100 EXP
Raelyse receives 500 EXP
Bloodrose receives 350 EXP