Vignette Contest: May

[Breaker]

Traa-laa, it's May, and here are the rules for this month's Vignette Contest.

1) One submission per character. Multiple accounts by the same author are allowed.
2) Please make your posts during the duration of time allotted (which is during the month of may). 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 am running this month's contest.

I'm mixing it up a little, providing a tagline rather than a prompt. In the spirit of May being a time of celebrations, the tagline for your vignette is as follows:

An unwanted guest arrives at the celebration.

Remember to be original! Your character could be the person that chucks the unwanted guest out, or could be the unwanted guest themself, or something else entirely. The celebration type is up to you; a wedding, a birthday party, a mayfestival... time to show off some of that creativity we're always talking about.

Faites vos jeux.

[Ataraxis]

Continent of Fallien, in the Ruins of Kesta
Last Day of the 598th Festival of the Sun
Two years following the Exile of the Sesthali Last

Tribal ululations rose above the sand-whittled ruins, and the stretch of stars above seemed to suddenly falter in fear. The Chandogah, the chanter priests, were arrayed about a circle of stones, the heart of which was a beastly bonfire that fed on shorn hair, flaxseed oil and, from the charred bones that lay amidst the dry wood, human flesh and fat. The dreadful singing of seven priests grew louder: the flames sparked and roared brighter, as if robbing the starlight that seemed to dim with every chanted word. Beyond them stood a thin crowd of watchful tribesmen, their darkened skin covered in either straight or snaking patterns that resembled the sun’s rays. In their eyes: eagerness.

“Cursed she be! Even with the death of the stars, the Moon remains ever vigilant,” said one of the priests, a headdress of golden feathers hiding the baldness of his pate.

“Bring in another sacrifice, a follower of Suravani! Will the goddess come to its aid, or simply shift upon her throne?” another, his eyes crudely sewn shut, exclaimed and enquired.

“Let her come, let her come! Let her brush the sands, and be exposed.” The third spoke with a lisp as he rubbed his stubby fingers, revelling in some blasphemous dream. “The Moon is powerless on lands scorched by the Lord’s burning fingers.”

“Kashan, we’ve told you before, no ad-libbing during the ceremony,” the second man hissed, one eyelid cracking open beneath the fake stitches to shoot him an angry glare.

“Bah! You codgers told me last year to stick to that abominably old dialect? Who speaks like that anymore? Have we not evolved at all in the six hundred year’s we’ve been doing this?”

“Gentlemen,” the priest farthest away from the bickering group called out dryly. He was an elder, evident as he was the only one who conveniently boasted a thick, bushy and grizzled beard. “I shall make you all eat carrion for mocking the sanctity of this ceremony. Now bring out the damned sacrifice.”

Chains rattled as two burly men with faces streaked in red paint pushed a prisoner forward. Groans came from the stone cage where all others were kept, some weeping for the one chosen, others envying it for its upcoming death. “You, blanched one. Tell us your name, so that your Goddess knows which of her children dies, this time.”

The prisoner paused, almost as if to think. “Lillian Sesthal,” came her dry answer. It might have been dehydration, just as it might have been utter lack of care. From that unwavering blue in her eyes, the latter seemed more likely. “What’s this parade for, anyway?”

“Parade? You taunt us, child!”

“Yes, sorry. Parade is for marching displays, and you men are obviously stationary. Then, a get-together, yes?” The girl tilted her head, only mocking in her quizzical stare.

The elder priest’s, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, stepped away from the circle, closing in on the teenager. The air swooshed and four knuckles connected with her jaw. The hit sent her flying, almost disjointing her bones. She fell in a heap, raising a cloud of dust and sand, gushes of blood drawn from her lips. “This is the 598th Festival of the Sun, our celebration of our lord Mitra. He who, nearly six hundred years ago, protected us when your Goddess razed the lands! On this sacred day, I shall accept no mockery.”

“Duly noted,” she drawled, slowly picking herself up. She wiped the blood with the base of her palm, looking at the red stain curiously before brushing It off on her sweat-soaked dress. “And of what does this ceremony consist? That is, unless you feel it’s a liability to disclose secrets to the condemned.”

“We sacrifice a bunch of people, until the moon disappears,” shouted one of the younger tribesmen from the crowd. “Sorcery, you know?” Angered by the breach of propriety, the bearded elder glared at the boy, who then proceeded to wither where he stood.

“Fascinating. Then what?” The query was absent, the girl more focused on clenching and unclenching her fists.

“Then, the path is clear to rejoin our Lord,” the elder snarled, not without a semblance of solemnity.

Her gaze suddenly moved from her hands to the old man. “You mean… you travel to the sun?” she asked with a quirked brow, unable to hide her surprise.

“Precisely,” the priest answered, grinning.

“And you come back to visit every year?”

“What?”

“Well I can’t help but to notice that you’re all still here, after almost six hundred festivals. Is the sun closed year round, except for the summer? ” She scoffed every now and then, her tone sardonic.

“Well we haven’t actually been successful yet. The moon hasn’t ever completely disappeared before,” the young boy explained, forgetting himself and his predicament. “But then we celebrate and tell ourselves ‘better luck next time’, which is fine because we… well… celebrate.” Though all stood in strained silence, the girl knew from their looks that they all agreed. For them, this was simply an occasion to drink and be merry and to lose oneself in promiscuity.

Except for the elders and the younger Chandogah, who truly believed, despite their urge to reform the ritual. “This year, we succeed. A hundred prisoners, a hundred followers of Suravani. Ten of them, priestesses from Jya’s very Keep. Each year, the moon falters, child - and this year, the moon falls.”

“You do know the sun is mostly a big ball of fire, I hope. You’ll burn.”

“Of course, do you take us for idiots?” shouted one of the Chandogah, the man with the hat of golden plumage. “That’s why we’ll travel… at night.”

Utter disbelief. “Okay… enough. Nothing is worth this.” Once more, her fingers curled into fists, then loosened again. The links of her chains ruckled against manacles with the motion.

“Agreed. The festival goes on with your immolation.” At once, the seven priests unsheathed their ceremonial weapons, snaking blades of purple glass - kriss. They moved as one, closing in on the black-haired teenager, who only stared at them, arms slack and drooping under the weight of the shackles.

“Oh. No, you misunderstood: I had to stall for time, until I got the hang of this body.”

Willowy arms strained, lilywhite fists clenched into fists. They laughed at her struggle, not stopping their advance. Then, the chains snapped, sending a rain of steel shards to score their skin and pelt the sand. The Chandogah realized their mistake. In one of the tiny swipes of her arms, she’d grazed two of the priests.

They fell, one’s ribs broken while the other had nearly lost his jaw. A step forward. The tip of her boot bit the sand, sending flaxen plumes flying as she dashed and gaped the distance between the next three. Violet flashes, aimed at her heart and liver, but she sidestepped and spun, plunging her elbow into the back of the first. Before she could send her arm in a downward chop on the neck of the next poor sod, he’d raised his arms in surrender. The girl stopped dead in her tracks, but had seen a burst a strange glimmer from the corner of her eyes. Light burst, a blinding arrow that made a beeline for her heart. ‘That old man. Damn.’

Her foot tripped a large rock, one of the stones that made the ritual circle. She kicked it up, watched it trail dust and pebbles as she drew back and balled her hand. The punch had the sheer power of a naval carronade, which sent the stone sailing into the beam of sorcerous light. Collision. An explosion, deafening. Everything went white.

When vision returned, the teenager was upon the old man - he had collapsed, his face wounded in the same manner that he had injured her, only far bloodier.

Gripping an unchained shackle with one hand, she tore the thing apart as easily as she would a loaf of bread. Then, she did the same with the other. “Now, if you mortals would be so kind, I need the directions to that inn in the Outlander’s Quarters. You know, where you took this body from. I would love to return it to its snug little bed in, preferably before its owner wakes up.”

“Mortals? Then, are you the goddess made flesh?”

“Hardly… and I’m glad I’m not, what with her dysfunctional family. Now, the tavern? Please?”

Silence. Then, they nodded.

:::::

Lillian did not awake to the shafts of sunlight, the all too warm greet of a desert morning. No, she awoke to a throbbing pain on her mouth. Shifting beneath the stale bedcovers, she rose and seated herself on the edge of the bed. Looking across the bare and dusty room, she saw herself in the cracked, scuffed mirror. Saw the darkening clot on the lower lip, the dried, red stains of blood on her dress, palm and knuckles. “Oh, Suravani help me.”

“Not again.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Come.”

She nodded her acquiescence, extending a slender elegant arm to grasp his proffered hand. As always, she couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down her spine at how pale and lifeless her ivory skin seemed, especially in the dusky cinder-laden underworld. And as the door to her carriage opened wide to admit a furnace-like blast of heat into the cooled interior, it was difficult for her to resist the temptation to sit back down again and refuse to participate in the surface-deep ritual of deception that had by now become habit.

She was dressed in a simple full-length gown, a brilliant midnight blue that contrasted beautifully with both her wan complexion and the fiery hue of her surroundings. The neckline was modestly high and the skirt ankle-length, for there was more than enough indecency on show with the inordinate numbers of succubi who had turned up for the red carpet gala. A golden pendant, a pair of outstretched wings with a soothing ultramarine stone set in their midst, rested on a simple silver chain around her svelte neck – it was the only jewellery she wore. Her shoulder-length black hair was swept back immaculately and held in place by a discreetly ornate clasp; her features were plain but pretty, with unlined forehead a tad too wide sloping into a snub nose and delicate cheekbones ending in a subtly rounded chin. Not quite a beauty in appearance alone, but somewhere in the sculpt of her face there was an exquisite sense of attractiveness and peace.

As she stepped carefully from the nightmare-drawn coach, following her escort out into the forecourt, the assault began of the sights, smells, and sounds of Haidia at its most congregative. To her fore towered a soaring pyramidal temple of flame-tinted marble and dark obsidian, perfectly placed columns decorated with ornate friezes depicting famous daemonic victories and other important events in their long history. Around her in all directions spread the various villas and personal homes of Vainta’s noble elite, of which the temple in front of her was only one, albeit an impressive specimen indeed. From over the minarets and spires that adorned the temple’s crown, the faint pulsing glow of the Haidian frost jewel could be seen in the murky skies, so very barely illuminating the dizzying heights of the continent-wide cavern’s roof so far above her head.

Two impeccable long lines of ornately armoured daemons stood at attention, guarding over a long blood-red carpet trimmed with gold, leading from beneath her feet up long flights of stairs to the entrance of the temple so far above. They wielded massive greatswords of burnished bronze, wary and vigilant and certainly not to be trifled with, and the crowd of commoners that had gathered to witness this festive occasion stayed well clear of their stern gazes. That did not stop the latter however from their incessant gossip, the cheers and the jeers that ensued as one by one, prominent members of the daemonic ruling class emerged from their carriages and proceeded into the grandiose dwelling.

For even the underground daemon-world of Haidia had its holidays. And this one in particular was a day of great rejoicing and celebration, for it was the anniversary of the great victory over the dwarves that had cemented daemonic rule over their underground realm. Throughout the city, the commonfolk exulted, taking part in unbounded orgies of food and drink, entertainment and pleasure. For the nobles, on the other hand, it was a chance to prove their allegiances and flaunt their power, by inviting their rivals to grand receptions, dinners, and balls. Needless to say, the whole occasion was little more than a political charade, but it had become so ritualistically traditional that none of the generals and aristocrats sought otherwise.

The air was laden with the heady aroma of Haidian delicacies, enticing and alluring smells that nonetheless she wanted nothing to do with, lest she end up eating something she would later regret. Beneath the festive fragrances, however, lay the distinctive pungency that had characterised her life here from the day she had arrived… the rank volcanic smell of grit and ash, enclosing her and entrapping her and caging her within its cavernous magmatic walls.

But when she stepped out onto the red carpet, it was the sudden silence greeting her that made the most impression. She was used to the reception, though still it stung her to the very bone… for she and her consort were an almost extreme rarity within Vainta.

They were human.

She fancied she could hear all of the murmured whispers as they proceeded slowly, ceremoniously up the many flights of stone steps, that she could feel all of the glances both curious and spiteful that tracked her every movement. It was no different from what she had to put up with twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week, the eyes always probing, always looking for the faintest sign of weakness or treachery that would allow them to crucify her and all that were acquainted with her. Thomas’ hand covered hers and squeezed reassuringly; she tried to squeeze back, but found that it was all she could do not to shudder and flee from the unyielding walls of hate and disgust that surrounded her.

“And just why did you invite that meddling mortal in the first place?”

The voice did not bother to disguise itself, spilling down the carpet from the entrance above like rolling thunder. Twitters of agreement arose from the crowd and even the impassive guards shifted subtly, sensing impending blood on the wind.

It belonged to one Natosatael din’ Pholoris, daemon of the fifth circle and commander in the daemonic legions. A hulking, snake-eyed beast of a daemon, he was one of three figures that stood at the entryway to the lavish temple, greeting guests as they made their way in. Not only was he the lowest-ranking of the three, he was also the only one of them who didn’t bother to hide his distaste for the human psymage and his female companion, glaring down at them from his vantage point in revulsion almost given physical form in its rippling intensity.

“Because it was politically wise to do so,” replied a second daemon, Natosatael’s direct superior. This was Hatepiel aq’Arasiel, himself almost humanoid in appearance with the exception of his supernaturally shadowy skin and the four small curly horns that sprouted from his forehead. Quiet but powerful beyond measure, he was also the owner of this particular villa and the host for the night’s party, and thus responsible for all of the arrangements that had been made. A small measure of his might was evident in the fact that although his words were spoken smooth and soft, they carried just enough threat in them that Natosatael would not mention the matter aloud again that night.

The third figure, sandwiched in between and just behind the other two, was a lithe, thin daemon wearing dark crimson armour and strapping an opulently powerful scythe to his side. He didn’t say anything, for he never did unless he had to, and even then he was a man of few, well-chosen words. Hatepiel’s senior, and a respected and famous figure throughout the lands, it was subject to much rumour as to why he had chosen to appear at this party at all… and the darkest of those flamboyant tales did not hesitate to suggest that there was a conspiracy at foot.

Thomas saw the figure staring him down and allowed himself a quiet internal smile, pleased at how things were panning out; barely a year into his grand scheme, and he had already made contact with one of the most powerful figures in Althanas. She, on the other hand, watched as Natosatael hawked and spat his disgust in their direction, and felt the timid tremors of fear dance up and down her legs once more. It was clear, oh so clear from the reaction of the daemonic commander and the crowd around her that she and Thomas were not wanted here… and if it wasn’t for the persuasiveness of his arguments, she would have found a way to escape – no matter the cost – so long ago.

Then she blinked in surprise, and nearly stumbled upon the unnaturally smooth and warm steps, a cold chill settling like an immovable lump in the depths of her stomach. One hand went to the pendant she wore around her neck, and she nearly jumped in fear when she found that it was warm and throbbing to the touch, her arcane instincts harshly confirmed by reality.

How…? she wanted to cry, knowing that the entire inner sanctum was protected by multiple layers of powerful pentagrammic wards, impervious to all but the most extremely powerful of magicks. Not to mention that the copious amounts of obsidian in close proximity should have served to dampen the innate powers of the artefact, no matter how mysterious and indefinite they were… and yet…

There.

Slightly separated from the crowd, hidden from most views behind one of the elaborately decorated pillars, a pale ghostly spectre amongst the multitude of daemons baying for blood. He seemed just as surprised as she, although not quite as speechlessly shocked as he had been during their first such encounter two nights ago. His hair was a lighter colour than hers, flashes of copper evident in the midst of its raven black, and his half-rimmed spectacles barely concealed a wearily lined forehead and features that somehow managed to maintain an innocent afterimage of youth even after all he had been through. His eyes were dark brown, friendly and intelligent, and he was dressed as she so often remembered him; inconspicuously, hiding underneath the heavy royal blue mantle that seemed to serve to protect him from the outside world. There was something about him though, something in the way he took in his surroundings in a single glance and quickly closed his gaping jaw, melting discreetly against the marble column, that had changed since she had last seen him in person.

It was all that she could do to continue her stately procession up the steps and not draw attention to herself or to his apparition. To do so would have been to bring certain doom upon them all. Even if it was only a projection of his soul that had been attracted to her location, it had pierced – or perhaps more accurately, snuck through – enough wards and countermeasures to make an entire legion of high elven archmages jealous. Who knew what the daemons would do to him.

Who knew what the daemons would do to them.

She chanced another glance at him via her peripheral vision, and to her relief he’d somehow managed to squeeze himself against the far side of the column now, away from the prying eyes of the crowd below. However, she realised with cold foreboding, it was at the expense of being relatively exposed to the temple entrance above. And though both daemon generals were engaged in a mentally-taxing staring match with Thomas as he climbed the stairs, Natosatael’s gaze was uninterestedly roaming the vicinity and could at any moment…

Slowly her free hand reached for the pendant upon her breast, conflicted between the need to remain inconspicuous and the imperative necessity to do something quickly. It was almost hot now in her clasp, and she had to stop herself from looking down to watch it glow. Almost frantic, she closed her eyes and gave it a quick squeeze, willing him to disappear.

Natosatael’s gaze was almost upon him now…

***

A heartbeat away and a world apart, Ingwe jolted awake from his slumber, his body bathed in a sweat as cold as any ice. The hellish scene remained indelibly carved into his mind, from the fiery atmosphere to the gossiping jeers of the crowd and the musky reek of the underworld. Then there had been Yuka, so beautiful in the dark gown… treacherous Thomas, resplendent and confident in his formal tuxedo… and the daemon who had stared down at him from his vantage point so far above, a face that he couldn’t quite place but was sure that he had seen before…

It would take many long hours of exhaustive, speculative contemplation before the crack of dawn saw him asleep once more. The only conclusion that he would be able to draw when he rose again the next day was that the glowing warmth of his locket chain must have had something to do with the nature of his dream.

And yet over and over, the daemon’s words repeated themselves in his mind. The final parting shot that the hulking snake-eyed brute had flung at him before he had disappeared along with the rest of the dream, the coldly cunning voice whispering in such sibilant resonance in his ears,

My name is Natosatael din’ Pholoris, mortal… and you will suffer for all eternity for your deeds!

[Bobby]

The tavern was full. At the center of it all was a rather unassuming man. Short, relatively, and slight, he was a hard man, with a jaded look about him and dark shadows under his eyes. Not a month ago he had been a soldier in one army, and now, a month later he commanded a brigade in another. The change was almost bewildering, but between his efforts at training them, the modifications to their muskets, and the introduction of the Rebel Yell and Bayonet Charge to their combat repetoire, they had driven the royalist forces out of this part of Salvar with ease. The thunder of shots had mowed down Salvaran troops with impunity, and when cavalry had charged the Militia formations, the introduction of the Infantry Square had destroyed their formations. Medieval tactics met 18th century ingenuity, and lost.

"JARED! JARED!"

"JARED! JARED!!"

The troops that he commanded chanted his name. He could have commanded a general's rank in his old army, in this same position. Here he was simply Commander Hill, or Jared to his men. They loved him. His outnumbered troops had been able to decimate enemy forces many times their size through weight of fire and surer movements. Their commander wasn't a great general on his world. He wasn't a brilliant strategist. He was by no means a high ranking, or even line officer. He was an armorer, with a nearly 300 year, or possibly more, gap between his knowledge base and their own. That was all it took. A few hundred men destroying troop after troop sent against them.

"JARED! JARED!! JAREd! JARed! JAred! Jared..." The chanting trailed off as the newest arrival made himself known. He bore a white flag of parley. He wasn't sure if it was a Salvaran tradition or not, but he intended to honor it all the same. The fact that a major local nobleman was still alive to bear the message was surprising enough. The fact that he did it in person reflected almost suicidal bravery. The words that came out of his mouth soon after were therefore a shock to the battle hardened warriors of Hill's Brigade.

"By order of King Iorlean Rathaxea, the foreigner Jared Hill is declared a traitor to the crown. By his acquisition of land within this nation, and his management of such land, he has de facto accepted the duties and rights of a lord. As such his actions against the crown constitute treason under the law. As a traitor his life is forfeit to the crown. His majesty calls upon him to surrender immediately to justice, and disband his rebel forces." The long winded aristocrat had not tracked his quarry very well it would seem.

To be completed later...

[Karuka]

"Hey. Hey, wake up."

Karuka's eyes snapped open. The last thing she remembered was lying down in a fairly soft patch of grass. She did not remember reclining on a plush red sofa, which was where she found herself now. A tall, blond man stood over her, shaking her gently.

"Finally, sleepy. Come on, there's something I want to show you...something that happened a long time ago, as you'd see it. Call me Langer, and remember...everything you're about to see has been translated into shapes and words you can comprehend." He grinned at her, helping her up.

Karuka glanced at the outfit she was wearing - full armor. "I look like a Valkyrie."

"That's somewhat the point...look in the mirror. You're a raven-haired, fair-skinned beauty. Who knows who else is watching? So you'll want to fit in."

He held up her shield for her, letting her look over herself in its shining surface, if she could rightfully be called herself. Every feature in her face was sharper - her cheekbones looked like they could almost cut flesh, and the thin mouth seemed to be set in a permanent scowl, so unlike the almost-smile her own lips fell into. Only her eyes were the same - bright blue with a gold halo surrounding the pupil.

"I see. It's a dream."

Langer's mouth twisted. "Well...sure. We'll say that. Easier to understand, for now. Anyway, come on, we'll be late."

She was hurried through shining halls wrought in gold. Along the walls were tapestries embroidered with rich color and scenes of battles long past and glorious, but her guide kept a firm hand on her shoulder and had no interest in letting her admire any of them. Finally he stopped her in a spot overlooking a feast hall, already packed with dozens of people.

"Stay here, and no matter what, stay silent," Langer muttered to her before putting a casual smile on, tucking his hands into his pockets, and sauntering in. This action received a glare from an old, one-eyed man.

"Langer, I don't recall inviting you. Why do we put up with you?"

"Because you're never quite sure what side I'm on, Bredan, and you kind of hope it's yours." He flopped down into a seat, reaching over to grab a goat haunch and rip a chunk out. "Beshidhes, Uh ca be vewwy entotaning."

The feast progressed for some time, the various people at the table contributing to conversation and occasionally chiding each other on something not done or not done right - it rather reminded Karuka of a meeting of village elders.

A red-headed warrior with a long, grizzled beard turned to Langer. "So, what kinds of mischief have you been up to lately?"

"I have been keeping myself out of trouble, Donar. I did go visit your lovely daughter - her baby girl is as sweet a tot as you could hope for."

The red-head's fist clenched. "Langer, if you so much as -"

"I did nothing to them. I'd dare say I'm more fond of them than you are. Jut because I played that one joke on Balan once, nobody trusts me. Eesh, it was decided that we want that line to survive, and I agreed to it."

A blind man, heretofore silent, spoke up. "A stranger from the Orient knocks upon our door. He has come a long way, shall we give him the floor?"

"Orientals?" The old man sat up. "We haven't had an Oriental in ages. What does he want? If he thinks he'll -"

The blind man gave a wan smile, sipping at his mead and interrupting the elder at the head of the table. "You presume to know a man's mind before knowing what he seeks. Before you wrathfully launch your spear, at least first hear him speak."

With a grumble, Bredan settled into his chair. "Very well, Havard. We will know his mind before sending him out. But I don't trust him..."

"It isn't quite fair to generalize against them. After all, Etaine was quite peaceable, and she - "

"Came seeking asylum," Donar interrupted, and the hall fell silent for a few seconds until a man strode in. His skin was a deep shade of burnt umber, his eyes and hair blacker than the night sky, and there was an aura of quiet and peace around him. He met the eyes of everyone at the table, and his glance flicked to Karuka for a moment before he looked into the eyes of Bredan.

The silence was so intense that had a rat sneezed at one end of the hall, it would have been heard clearly at the other. Finally, the old man gestured at the stranger. "Speak."

"I am Sthir," he began softly in a soothing melodic baritone. "My purpose here is Althanas."

Langer leaned back in his chair, resting his feet on the table and folding his thin hands over his chest. "Althanas?" He scoffed. "What purpose have we in Althanas? The Thayne do a right well enough job, and it has been our policy to leave well enough alone. We have enough problems on our home territory with the Romans and Christians invading. I don't see any point in venturing across worlds when we're beginning to lose ground on our own territory."

"It is precisely because we are losing ground that we must at least send someone across," was the adamant response. "You face the Christians as Islam encroaches on India. Monotheism has a draw upon humans that is hard to understand, but our best way to survive is in an environment less hostile to us. Althanas is the best such example."

"It would be an act of war if we went over," countered Donar. "Aside from that, we cannot abandon this world."

"No...and I was not suggesting we go over. I was suggesting that we send people. Since Althanas does not exist in the same time as Earth, so we can choose the best examples from any time and scatter them through Althanas time or put them together. It wouldn't even be difficult."

"Who do you propose, then?" Bredan resumed control over his hall.

"Someone with as many eyes to watch over them as possible. My own council disapproves, so I brought it to one that has a line they would want to see preserved."

Langer raised an eyebrow. "You mean the descendants of Sheehan."

"Them precisely."

Donar started to stand. "I will NOT see my..."

A frail-looking elderly woman held up her hand. "There are trials they each must face here, trials that have no end and nothing they can do to help themselves. There, perhaps they can make a better place for themselves." A matron and a maiden were sitting beside her, and they both nodded in assent.

Donar glared suspiciously at Sthir. "And what would your personal interests be in Ingrid and her daughter?"

"Your daughter Ingrid has no part in my plans. Her daughter will be the key...and if you approve, we would send her daughter."

"And you...?"

"Indeed. Please, consider my proposal. I will leave you to your feast, and return in thirteen years to hear your answer. It is not a decision to be made lightly." He made a bow and turned, and everything faded to white. Karuka found Langer standing before her once more with a smug smirk on his face.

"You still don't get it, I see. Well...soon enough, you will understand perfectly."

The Irish lass rolled her eyes. "If you knew I wouldn't understand, why did you show me?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Perhaps I wanted you to see. But, it's only a dream, right? Who knows what truths any dream might hide. Wake up, Karuka. It's a new day."

The red-head sat up, listening to the sounds of the forest around her. Birds cheebled softly in the gray dawn, just waking up to begin their day. With a sigh, she flopped back down into the soft grass, grabbing a stick and prodding at the embers of her small fire for warmth.

What a strange dream.

[Ignition]

Istraloth was an enchanting place, unless you looked too closely. The waves licked against the shores playfully, the sun always glowed brightly, and the lush palm trees always seemed to provide shade. It was perfect, just like a gilded cage. A young man who would one day be known as Tom Carraway looked out into the water despondently. He had to leave. There was just nothing left.

The green bottle that hung idly from the young man’s hand contained coconut wine that had gotten too warm to drink only a few minutes ago.

“You know, he probably meant nothing…” Daisy said. She smiled at the young man as she put her hand sympathetically on his shoulder.

He smiled back, but his eyes showed that he was just so broken hearted. The young man hadn’t turned to look back at the scattered pieces of firewood or the broken bottles. He hadn’t even noticed Daisy until she had touched him. Before then, his eyes had been focused on the sea.

“It’s alright,” Daisy offered. “It was just an off worlder- no one expects you to be able to fight an earth mage.”

Daisy’s comment stung in a way that the girl would never realize. The young man who would one day leave the island just looked at her despondently, wanting to say a litany of things that he knew would one day need to be said, but he still couldn’t find himself saying.

“So you hug me and celebrate our weakness then?” he found himself wishing to say. “We pretend that nothing matters but us and our stupid little island and ignore every time that someone else shows up and takes what they want?”

“There are still a few drinks left in the hole,” Daisy offered. “We might not have any more firewood, but we still have something to celebrate.” She smiled, but it was a forced smile, as if she hoped that if she could convince the young man that she believed in the lie, she might believe in it herself. “Everything's gonna to be alright...”

Tom didn’t say anything.

“Fine then,” she gave up. “Sulk the day away…”

The man who would one day work for some of the largest organized crime syndicates in Corone seemed unresponsive, and his eyes focused on the horizon. The sun had not yet set, and there were at least a few hours more until he would go to Enabrim and find a sympathetic ear. Until then, he would sit, exactly where he was, his back to Daisy and the others cracking open the remaining drinks.

Without realizing what he was doing, the young man put the bottle to his lips and took a sip. He spit it out immediately. The heat had turned the wine sour.

[Poison]

A lone figure drifted purposely through the streets of Knife’s Edge. The figure was very tall. It had a slim, but strong build and moved fluidly. It wore a long cloak with a deep hood pulled over its face. To its knowledge, there was only one person in Knife’s Edge that would recognized the hidden face, but no chances could be taken.

The figure now faced a set of large, iron gates. The gates were barred shut, but that didn’t matter. Over to the left, a path going around the outside of the wall could be seen. Moving quickly, the figure followed the path until it came up behind the large wall, a small servants’ entry stood in front of him. On the other side he could hear the sounds of a party and smiled in spite himself.

Just like old times and with that party in there, no one will hear the door open.

Smiling to himself, the figure silently opened the door and slipped inside the manor grounds. Unknown to him, another cloaked figure followed closely behind. This figure, however, had entirely different reasons for sneaking in through the back door of the manor.

Inside the manor, in a room near the single, large garden, Anita stood with her dearest friend and lover, Vincent Thomas VonBraughn. Today was the most special day of their life together, just half an hour ago, they had become husband and wife.

Her gown was of the purest white silk. The bodice clung tightly to her, covered in embroidery and pearl beadwork. At the top, a band of silk formed the neckline and went around the edges of her shoulders, leaving the tops bare. At the waist, the dress flared out somewhat and trailed behind for about five feet, though this was tucked up underneath so as not to drag too much on the grass. Lace decorated the edge of the train. Her long silvery hair was loose today, falling in soft waves to her waist. A silver tiara sat on her head from which hung her veil. This was flipped back to keep her face clear.

The ceremony had been relatively small. They had invited only their closest friends and his parents. It had been his parents that made sure that in the absence of having her own family to provide for her, Anita had all the things a bride needed. Anita smiled lovingly up at the man she now called husband, and wondered just how this would have worked had it not been for his parents.

Vincent was a tall man, topping Anita by around seven inches. He was strong, king and very determined. It had been that determination that had won Anita over. It had taken him many long months, but he had finally broken down her walls and convinced her to let him into her heart. Looking down at her, he returned her smile and thought back, briefly, to how they’d first met. At the time, he’d been hired to protect a lord. She had been hired to kill that same lord. That had been an interesting meeting, but he was glad of the outcome.

“Are you ready? I’m sure our guests would like to begin celebrating in earnest. All they’ve been able to do so far is chat.”

“Yes, I’m ready, let’s go.”

Taking her arm in his, Vincent led the way through the manor and out into the large garden. Anita had still not told him how she came to get it, but he’d wheedle that out of her later. Cheers greeted them as they emerged from the doors and approached the table reserved for them. Once the newlyweds were seated, servers came forward, carrying plates of roast beef, vegetables, and potatoes cooked in a variety of ways.

Amidst all this, the secret guest watched from a hidden place behind a large bush.

Half an hour or so later, Anita and Vincent rose to their feet. Vincent led her out onto a cleared off space and pulled her into his arms. While he did this a small, five-piece orchestra began playing a slow, love song.

Smiling sadly to himself, the figure stood up properly, and pulled the hood off his cloak. He strode forward out of the bushes. No one in the crowd recognized him, and all wondered where he had come from. The tall man ignored the crowd and continued to walk until he was very close to the couple, who had not seen or heard his entry.

“Ani?”

Vincent and Anita stopped and looked at the unexpected guest. Vincent, of course, did not recognize him at all. However, he could sense the unease within Anita and held her closer. Anita, however, was totally shocked.

“Thomas? But...how? You’re dead! I watched you die!”

“Yes, and you’ll never know how much it means to me that you stayed until the end. I’ve made a deal with the Underworld. I have been given life again, but only for today. You see, even in the Underworld, we can watch those we loved in life, so I knew that today was your wedding day.”

He paused for a moment, then glanced back over at the crowd that was now completely silent. He shook his head ruefully, then spoke in a quieter tone, “Is there someplace where the three of us can go without fifty people listening in?”

Anita nodded mutely and led the way to a secluded area of the garden. She and Vincent took a seat on a bench while the other man remained standing. He sighed and gave a small bow to Vincent.

“I wanted to come so I could tell you myself how happy I am that you seem to finally be happy. As Anita said, I am Thomas. I’m the one who trained Ani and I loved her with all that I had.”

“What do you want then, Thomas?” Vincent asked, hiding his own uneasiness.

“Simply to wish the both of you all the happiness you could want. Ani, I will always love you, even if I can’t be with you anymore."

Suddenly, screams of terror could be heard coming from the reception area. All three ran back to find a yet another stranger in their midst. Both Anita and Thomas recognized this figure, though Anita was as surprised to see him as she had been to see Thomas.

“Atzar? You’re supposed to be dead, too! What is this? National Bring Dead People Back to Life Day!?”

Atzar looked calmly over at Anita. He hadn’t harmed any of her guests, but he had greatly enjoyed terrifying them. Now that his attention was no longer on them, one by one they started slipping away.

“No, I merely followed Thomas here. I have a slightly different deal for coming. If I kill you, I get to stay. You do look lovely though, I hate to ruin such a lovely gown, but I guess I’ll just have to live with it.”

He drew his sword and started toward Anita, but before he got three steps, Thomas stepped in his way. “Don’t you lay a finger on her, Rodan.”

“Rodan, now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. How often have you been checking in on Anita, hmm? Didn’t you see it when she hunted me down and killed me in this very manor? No? Well, she did. She found out my dirty little secret. Do you remember your last heist?” He smiled as remembrance played across Thomas’ face, “Yes, you do remember. I arranged that. I set the whole thing up. Anonymously, of course, and then I came home to Salvar. Carvel was a fool, but he was in my boss’s way. I worked my way into Carvel’s trust just so I could arrange such a trap.”

He sighed then and looked at it his former friend, “I really didn’t intend for you to get caught, you know. I tried to get Carvel to put different men on the team. It didn’t really matter who went, the plan was to get a supposedly secret heist to unravel and force Carvel to disband. It probably doesn’t mean much to you now, but truly, I didn’t mean for you to get caught.”

Through all this, Anita and Vincent backed a safe distance away from the two men. Anita pressed close to Vincent, half afraid of what might happen next. Vincent watched unimpressed for the most part. He just wanted it to get over with. Their reception was ruined. The guests had all slipped away, but he could still enjoy some time with his wife if these two would just hurry up and settle their differences.

“You’re right, Atzar. It doesn’t mean much at all. If you were a true friend, you wouldn’t have betrayed us at all. You deserve whatever Ani gave you and more. Now, back off and leave her alone.”

“Afraid I can’t do that, old chap. I want to live.”

That said, the ring of steel on steel sounded through the garden as a ferocious fight began. At first, Atzar seemed to be winning, but he had not counted on Thomas’ pure anger. Before long he found himself dying again. He glared balefully at Thomas as he faded away back into the Underworld.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, bastard.”

Breathing heavily, Thomas sheathed his sword and turned around.

“I’m so very sorry, Ani. I didn’t know he’d slipped through behind me and now your party is ruined.” He hung his head for a moment then looked up again, the sad expression on his face once more. “I guess I’ll get going now. You probably don’t want me around anymore.”

As he started away, Anita looked up at Vincent then walked quickly to Thomas and put her arms around him. “Never say something like that again, Tom.” She paused and looked up at him, “You were my everything and it’s taken me years to learn to love again. There will always be a special place for you in my heart, beloved, no matter where my life takes me.”

Thomas smiled half-heartedly and returned her hug briefly.

"I have but one favor to ask before my time runs out, may I have one last dance?"

Anita looked up at him, then over to Vincent. Vincent nodded almost imperceptibly. "Of course..."

With only the sounds of the few birds in the trees for a song, the two former lovers danced. All the memories of the happy times they'd shared flooded over Anita as they danced. Soon though, Thomas could feel the ties he had to the mortal realm dissipating.
.
Slowly, he pulled out of her arms and held her hands in his. He gently led her back over to Vincent and put her hands into his. Then he smiled at Vincent, “Take good care of her, Vincent, or I’ll come for you. She’s the most precious thing in the world, and the world doesn’t even know it.”

Thomas looked up at the sky and then looked back at Anita and Vincent, “May the gods bless you always and keep you safe. Hold each other close and keep each other safe.”

Before he could say another word, Anita pulled free of Vincent's grasp, and threw her arms around Thomas' neck. She smirked at the expression of surprise on his face, then kissed him. She maintained the kiss, committing to memory the way Thomas' lips felt against her own and the way his hands held her waist.

Slowly, Thomas faded away, leaving Anita holding on to nothing at all. She stood perfectly still for a moment, then turned back to Vincent. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, but then collapsed against him in tears.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"Shhhh, it's okay, Ani," he said in a low, comforting voice as he wrapped his arms around her. "Everything is okay."

"B-but-"

He placed a finger against her lips to shush her, "I said it was okay, Anita. Please, don't argue with me about this. Let's go inside and a have a drink."

Anita nodded her acceptance and the two went inside.


((Wow..that turned out way longer than I expected. Just a little note, in this vignette Poison is no longer a vampire.))

[Lakin_of_DpN]

An unwanted guest arrives at the celebration. Dark eyes ablaze like obsidian fire, settled on her in the silver moonlight. It appeared that neither of them moved, that perhaps even time itself had come to a hypnotic end. At first his mind intruded on hers in a thoughtless way, at his leisure, whispering in an arcane tongue which chillingly she understood. “Come here, I want to look at you.” Then he extended his pale bony hand to her and she took it without hesitation, welcoming the gift and offering one in return. He drew her insistently into his arms and against his hard unforgiving form. “Don’t be afraid” “It’s not as bad as you think”


She felt the cold of him, a terrifying power carefully contained. “There’s no need to be so distant. I won’t harm you.” And as she felt his undeniable strength, she savored the chorus of sensations in her body and the quickening of her heart that accompanied. A soft strangled sound poured from her, everything about him was so very strange and different from anything she’d known; it was all utterly enticing, yet at the same time sinister. “Don’t fight so hard, relax and you may find it as enjoyable as I do.” Instead of touching her lips, his mouth trailed lightly along her cheek. His tongue grazed past her ear and then descended oh-so-slowly down the sensitive column of her neck, resting against a thick, throbbing vein. “You’re really quite lovely, much more than I expected.” His lips parted in rough anticipation, so the swollen organ nestled deliciously, agonizingly in the moist valley of his mouth. With two stark white daggers, protruding rigidly downward, as if angry sentinels guarding the entrance.


“No!” Something was wrong. When she looked into his eyes; there was nothing there, just two empty black holes. The silence, the apathy, and the lack of humanity made her feel vulnerable before him. He was like a vacant shell, with the living being drained away. She watched him like one mesmerized, her eyes trapped by the way the shadows caressed the dead white of his skin. “Don’t touch me like that.” “I’m going to do more than touch you my Dear! Much, much, more.” Creaking wide, the jagged cave of his mouth folded back, layer by layer. Spread open like a trap set and waiting to be sprung. Leaving a pale, thin line for lips and elongated incisor’s with vicious intent. “There must be pain at first, but never again I promise you.” “Easy”


The snare snapped, he thrust his fangs powerfully into her, driving deep, tearing through the tissue and into the glorious vessel. The warm, soft dampness seeped into the grim expression of his mouth. “I am going to take you now. Open for me” Naturally her head arched back, she stopped breathing and her entire body responded instinctively to his, opening in spite of herself. “That’s right relax.” Before she could summon the strength to fight him off immoral swords stabbed again and again, suckling down to the brink of bone and the two hollow pits in place of eyes, created from nothing but darkness, illuminated like the brimstone of hell itself. The grinding weight of death seemed to grow heavier each second, threatening her very existence. He fed, until the guest of honor arrived…Immortality.

[A Nony Mouse]

The small house was packed with partygoers; so many that it was difficult to get from the kitchen to the outside. Travis greeted people as they flooded in; it seemed that the entire village had come out to celebrate with him. It was the red-haired lad’s sixteenth birthday and he had spread the word for the last month. His hard work had been rewarded; friends and family from all over the region had come to celebrate with him.

His aunts had spent the entire morning cooking the food they had prepared in previous days, readying the buffet table in the yard with a variety of goodies. Travis forced his way through the crowd, eyeing the delicious spread all the while. “When can we eat?” he wondered out loud, licking his lips hungrily.

“Attention!” he father stood on a stool near the front door, clanging a large spoon against the bottom of a pot to quiet everyone down. “As you all know, today is me son’s sixteenth birthday!” A cheer went up from the assembled masses and his father continued when it had quieted down again. “And so,” here he paused for dramatic effect, “It’s time for his birthday bumps!” The crowd roared and turned toward the birthday boy, eliciting a groan from the redhead. He hated some of their traditions.

Two of his older cousins came through the crowd toward him, wide grins splitting their faces. Travis struggled briefly, but soon let them grab him by the shoulders and lead him to where his father waited. When they had cleared a small area, they unceremoniously flipped Travis upside down. “Count with me!” his father shouted.

“One!” They bumped his head lightly on the ground. “Two! Three! Four!” By the time they reached fourteen, Travis had a small headache forming as the blood rushed to his head. They could go a little faster… “Sixteen!” After the last bump, his cousins flipped him over and clapped hi heartily on the back. Slightly dizzy, Travis smiled dumbly and grabbed the doorframe for support.

As members of his family approached to wish him a happy birthday, his father announced that it was time to eat. Friends and villagers alike formed a long, snaking line toward the buffet table where Travis’ aunts continued to pile food. Roasted lamb, leek soup, soda bread, bacon and cabbage, and every manner of potato that you could think of. It was going to be a grand feast.

During the feast, everyone conversed with everyone else. It didn’t matter if you typically didn’t talk, it was a special day. The air filled with friendly banter, sweet reminiscing, and light-hearted arguing. Travis couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.

Slowly the conversation died down and Travis turned to see what was happening. Stumbling up the path from the village was the town drunk, Alexander. He hadn’t been invited because when he drank, which was all the time, he had a tendency to be overly violent. The birthday boy shrank back behind his father, wondering why Alexander had decided to show his face here.

Three of his uncles rose from their seats, making their way toward the man. He laughed as he tripped over his feet, stumbling closer to the buffet table and breathing deep its aromas. “Ye dinnah e’en invite meh?” he slurred, his speech barely recognizable. “Whey was I nah invited?” Anger gleamed in his eyes and he lurched toward the closest of Travis’ uncles. Stumbling into the larger man’s open arms, the drunk suddenly whipped out a knife. “Ool show yoo!”

Travis’ uncle grunted as the dull blade tore through the flesh on his arm. As soon as the blade cleared, his meaty fist flew in to crunch against Alexander’s temple. It didn’t faze the man though, he nearly flew away from his target, whirling about to face anyone else hoping to detain him. Men from all along the length of the table stood, intent on dealing with the nuisance as best they could.

Finally the fathers of two of Travis’ friends managed to secure the drunk and escort him back to town. As the womenfolk bustled about, tending to the broken items and wounded men, Travis sighed. “Why did he do that, father?” he asked, perplexed by Alexander’s strange actions.

“Some men choose a path of loneliness and then lash out when their world comes crashing down around them,” his father explained. “Alexander isolated himself from everyone, but expected them to stick around so that he could hurt them. When everyone left the village to come here, he saw the truth of his choices.” Pausing a bit to think, he then added, “I think that truly affected him.”

The rest of the party was a bit subdued, but Travis managed to have a good time. Despite the intrusion, the rest of the partygoers tried to revive the atmosphere. It helped when his mother brought out the mince pies she had baked. Everyone dug in, temporarily forgetting Alexander’s antics. Travis chuckled wryly as he thought, It certainly will be a memorable birthday…

[Raelyse]

“To me.”

A hundred goblet simultaneously lifted into the air, ninety nine celebrating the joys present in inebriation sourced from another’s pocket, while the odd one out stood highest in the air in celebration. Every glass was filled to the brim with the finest wine this luxurious bar had in stock and more than a handful of gold coins was wasted as each glass was thrust into the air, spilling much of the contents on the floor before being promptly replenished. Few who held the wine glasses in the hand had any idea why they were the fortunate recipients of free, fine wine and even less were in fit mental state to deduce much of anything.

One did have his wits about him though and he knew exactly why ninety nine well established men were having their fair share of prestige alcohol rolled down their throat. Raelyse was celebrating leaving the barren, endless planes of Alerar for the lands where the grass really was greener. And there was no better way to christen an occasion known to the Myrusian than to douse the occasion with a king’s bounty worth of alcohol. The chorus of cheers that rang in his ears repeatedly as wine filled glasses were repeatedly thrust into the air was a tune that Raelyse had dreamt of for so long, yet not one that he had achieved with any degree of success so far.

Raelyse’s sojourn in Alerar had promised so much, yet delivered so little. The wine, so sweet it could have come from Bacchus’ private collection, suddenly turned bitter on the tip of his tongue as he remembered the ultimate fruitless waste of time Alerar had been to him. Nothing had been accomplished, nothing had been achieved. His efforts should have been directed towards a more promising avenue, but the Myrusian had stagnated in a place of comfort. The decision to leave was always there, but he had never chosen to take it, because that would require effort and difficulty. When he finally did leave, he realized how much strength it had taken and how much better off he was for it.

But yet, he could not find just cause for celebration. He had entered this bar in fine spirits, eager to share his mirth with whoever was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. But even when the echoes from the cacophony of cheers had faded and the last patron stumbled drunk out of the bar, Raelyse still could not bring himself to finish his first glass. It stood there, bobbling in the transparent goblet like a purple alcoholic sea, its fragrance filling the Myrusian’s nostrils with the scent of bitter disappointment.

“Closing time, buddy,” the bartender said, moving for the open doorway, a cruel gateway to the cold night. “Thanks for the business.”

Raelyse rose slowly, the glass of wine still entwined between the fingers in his right hand. As he reached the door, he solemnly slid the goblet into the bartender’s grasp.

“It’s not the product, it’s my tongue.”

Shrugging, the bartender slipped the last of the sweet, potent drink down his throat and closed the door as Raelyse stepped out, leaving it slightly ajar to throw his last words the Myrusian’s way.

“Whatever it is, it’s the first time I’ve seen a host shrug a party. What changed you?”

Raelyse turned slightly, his silver hair shimmering in the half moon’s light.

“Disappointment is never welcome, but when it interrupts mirth, it is downright crude.”

Raelyse would never forget this night, for it was a night that reminded him that a celebration could never be bought, it needed to be earned through one’s own work. He had not yet done enough, but was more than eager in the near future, to do so.

[Breaker]

Well, I've finally determined the winners and written my own vignette. Rememeber to check out June's Vignette Contest (http://althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=16297), which promises to be excellent.

Now, without further ado, this month's winners.

1. Ataraxis
2. Karuka Tida
3. Flames of Hyperion

Congratulations you three, and a big thank you to everyone who participated.


The sound of thousands of crystal goblets clinking together filled the festive tent, an ominpresent ovation of otherwordly chimes. The low buzz of conversation basslined the glass pitched symphony. Veritable groves of tables filled the massive royal blue tent, the enchanted canvas lavished with silken lace. Tinker Rythadine himself had sewn powerful magic into the taut material, keeping the air inside warm despite Salvar's marrow freezing chill.

It was a day of celebration, in fact it was several celebrations all rolled into one. Some nobleman's daughter had come of age (although I wasn't certain what age that meant-- she looked fifteen.) The usual well-funded birthday festivities magnified greatly to include the beaming young woman's wedding day. Like so many children of the state, the youthful bride had been promised to another at birth. Both she and her new husband seemed happy enough though.

Probably just 'cuz he gets to get his dick wet, I thought, regarding the grinning groom with his waxed toothbrush moustache.

Mine was probably the only face out of the hundreds in the tent that didn't wear a wide, shit-eating grin. Dating a high-ranking officer in the Salvarian Special Forces meant I got dragged a long to a lot of social events, and all the phony pleasantness began to burrow under my skin. I glanced at Kristina, who looked gorgeous in a slinky red dress despite how unusual the garment was on her. She normally wore hip-hugging trousers and tight jackets that...

I let my mind toy with well-archived images of Kristina for awhile while my hand toyed idly with the cotton tablecloth. I was alone at the table; Nina and the other two couples we ate with had gone off to mingle with the upper class and congratulate the happy couple. I tugged at the tablecloth and watched the goblets and platters that pinned it down shake. I thought about the old trick where the magician tugs the cloth out without disrupting anything, and bunched the muscles in my arm.

A man in jewl encrusted robes stepped up to the pavilion next to the entrance, ending my potentially disastrous experiment before it began. He was one of the wedded younlings' fathers, I couldn't remember which. The grandiose man raised both hands and a hush fell over the guests. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another sound filled the air.

Whistling pipe music trailed into the tent, growing louder by the second. Hundreds of heads turned to look just in time to see a gaily dressed fellow dance into the enclosure. He pranced about, floppy hat flopping, all the while tootling away at the pan pipe clutched in his hands. He performed a one-man waltz between the tables, with hundreds of onlookers watching in confused silence. The holy Father at the podium seemed at a loss for words and merely stared until the piper frolicked out the rear tentflap. The speaker cleared his throat.

"Ahem... err... Friends! Thank you all for..."

And then the rats came.

Like a tidal wave of squeaky plague they washed beneath the fabric and through the entrance, whiskers twitching, tails sweeping, beady eyes darting as they followed the music that was trailing off in the distance. Some of the rodents gnawed holes in the enchanted canvas, letting in lances of cold air. They scurried beneath tables, men and women alike leaping on top of chairs to escape the scampering scavengers. The gentle lilt of idle conversation became a stacatto serenade of disgusted shouts. Many wept as the rats trounced through the untouched dessert table.

Okay, that's where I draw the line.

The sudden appearance of the disease-carrying rodents had actually made me chuckle, but the devestation they laid upon the lovely layercake struck me in a soft spot. I had been looking forward to a piece of that cake.

My chair tipped over in the wake of my take off as I sprinted out the rear exit, long legs overtaking the swarm of rats, crushing many as I raced through them. It took only ten seconds to catch the piper despite his considerable head start. I wasn't even winded as I grabbed him by the neck and held him aloft.

"You just killed your last cake, jackass," I informed him, and tossed him in the nearest river. Luckily, the rats decided to follow.

And now, the rewards!

Ataraxis gains 350 EXP and 100 GP
Flames of Hyperion gains 150 EXP and 50 GP
Bobby gains 100 EXP
Karuka Tida gains 450 EXP and 75 GP
Ignition gains 100 EXP
Poison gains 200 EXP
Lakin_of_Dpn gains 100 EXP
A Nony Mouse gains 200 EXP
Raelyse gains 500 EXP
016573 gains 500 EXP

I hope to see all of you at next month's contest!

[Zook Murnig]

EXP/GP ADDED!