Vignette Contest: Sept./Oct.

[Taskmienster]

I'm allowing a guest to come in to offer a prompt, and changing the idea up a little bit. Instead of every month a prompt being delivered to you by the staff, the members will have a chance to get their own prompts put into the scene. All you have to do is PM myself with your prompt, and if it's accepted than you will be rewarded for your assistance in keeping this feature of Althanas going. Rewards will be 100 gold/level and 50 exp/level. The regular rewards will remain for those that take part in the contest though. So, get at it!

For those new to this, what are vignettes you ask? They're (quite) short stories written in one post that relate to the given prompt. Everyone can post their entry in this thread and at the end of April the top three will be selected for prizes! But even if you don't win a prize, there's still exp in it for you just for posting.

Here's the rules:

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 time frame.
3) The moderator judging, or the original creator of the prompt, the monthly vignette contest will post a vignette at the end, but will not be eligible for a prize. In the case that a member's prompt is posted, they will have the final post for the contest, should they want it, but will not be eligible for that months rewards for joining in the contest. If they do not want the final post before judging, the moderator judging will instead post a final entry (not eligible either) and then judge the months contest.
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.

Without further ado, here's this month's prompt, brought to you by Bloodrose!:


Justly, or unjustly, your character has been placed under arrest by local authorities.

Why? What'd you do? What's the circumstance? Go for it and have fun!


[[This prompt and Vignette contest will start today, September 16th and run till October 31st! You have a month and a half, so we can get back on monthly track, so make them good!]]

[Nightstalker]

OOC: This takes place a few years in the future, and thus ‘stalker would have a few more skills than he does currently. I own Xos, and am using him as an NPC for this post.

IC:

The Facility, Alerar’s most secret institution; located beneath a military base in the mountains near Raiaera, this was a scientists dream for it housed all of the most advanced researches being conducted by the most brilliant minds who had been “recruited” from around the world. Few worked in The Facility willingly, despite the promise of unlimited funding and resources. This was because The Facility did not exist, no one ever entered, and no one ever left. Alerar never acknowledged this secret location, but Nightstalker discovered it anyway.

A woman came to him looking to hire his services to rescue her husband, a human man named Xos Xilanthese. She had learned of its existence by her husband, who had in turn been approached by other scientists from Alerar claiming to represent the government. She had communed with the wild creatures, and from them learned of the structure hidden from the world.

Nightstalker remembered when he first approached the base. Searchlights swept the ground constantly, looking for signs of approach. Military patrols made the rounds regularly, shooting first and asking questions later if they weren’t expecting company. In the sky, airships watched the lands for many miles distant to give first warning of unwelcome visitors. Of course, it was all a training exercise, or so the military would say, all training, all to keep the border safe from Raiaeran intrusion.

Of course, Nightstalker was one such unwelcome visitor, but no one could see him coming, for he had long since learned the secret art of becoming the air itself, the ultimate invisibility for who could see the wind? No one, only traces of its passage could ever be seen. Thus, as he blew into the base, no one saw him, or thought to raise the alarm over the chill wind that had blown past them. They only tightened their jackets and strengthened their resolve to keep on the lookout for intrusion, lest their research be compromised.

Nightstalker made it down the one hundred foot elevator shaft to the first level of The Facility before his power gave out. Fortunately, no one was watching the elevator. He looked for a shadow to dart into, but the facility was so brightly lit that no shadows existed. The walls were all made of steel. Nightstalker wondered what power it took to fashion an entire building from steel, and guessed that they had the services of a team of Dwarven Blacksmiths working for them, for he could think of no other with such skill.

Nightstalker moved silently down the hall, altering his appearance to look like a drow. He spied one in the distance wearing a white overcoat, so he altered his black stealth suit to match. He wasn’t interested in the drow though. He was looking for a human.

Moving through the halls, few scientists paid attention to him, as they scurried about noses buried in clipboards as they read notes and scribbled new ones next to them. He peered into a room with a window. Inside was a drow soldier carrying what looked to Nightstalker like a mutant abomination of a gun. It had to be at least three feet long, and one foot thick. The man fired, and Nightstalker started in fear as the thing roared to life and spat out fifty rounds in the space of a minute into the target on a back wall. The soldier dropped the gun, clutching his shoulder in pain.

“Kickback is still too strong, aim is off.” A disimpassioned scientist said as he made notes while a medic rushed to help the wounded soldier.

“His shoulder is destroyed!” the medic cried in alarm.

“Oh well, such is the price of progress.” The scientist said as he walked off to share the results with others. This scientist struck Nightstalker as curious, for he was remarkably pale for a drow. Infact, his skin was grayish, instead of black. His hair was similarly grey, and his ears were not so pointed as most drow’s were. Infact, he seemed half human.

“Dr. Nasagori, how can you feel so little for another man’s pain?” the medic demanded.

The scientist paused in the doorway.

“Why should I care about an easily replaceable nobody? If he breaks, I shall get another. What makes him so remarkable that I should care more for him, than for progress?” The man asked, and then disappeared.

Nightstalker got a sick feeling in his stomach. He was all for progress, but not at the cost of the well being of others. What kind of twisted place was this? He wanted to find Xos and get out. That was his sole objective.

He moved on, but was spotted by a guard.

“Did Kilrem send you?” the man asked.

“Yes, he sent me to assist Dr. Xilanthese, where is he?” Nightstalker said, thinking up a lie on the spot. He hoped it was believable.

“Right this way, it’s about time. Xos has been whining for help with project Firestorm ever since he arrived. Hah! He actually thinks it’s possible to create something that can wipe out an entire city the size of Radasanth at once. What a lunatic, you think it’s possible?” the guard asked.

Nightstalker thought he was going to be ill. Destroy an entire city at once, what about the innocents? The man’s wife had told him, Xos came from another place, far more advanced than Alerar. No wonder he was taken to The Facility.

Finally, they arrived at Xos’s location. Nightstalker wondered what sort of machine Xos was looking at. It looked like a giant glass window on top of a box the size of a small ship. Except this window was no good, for it didn’t show anything, it was to black, as though something covered the glass from the inside.

“Ahh, just in time. Could you tell head researcher Kilrem that I’m done, and would like to go home now?” Xos said.

To Nightstalker, Xos was thoroughly unremarkable, he was possessed of a well kept brown beard that extended only as far as his neck. He was dressed the same as all the other scientists, wearing a bland white overcoat.

“Not a chance. Kilrem sent you an assistant for Project Firestorm.” The guard said, and walked off, leaving the pair alone.

“Wait! Alerar doesn’t need what that project would give it! It’s already bad enough Kilrem forced me into Project Overmind!” Xos yelled, but it was too late.

“Don’t worry. I don’t want you to do project Firestorm either. I’m your liberator, your wife sent me. My name is Nightstalker.” Nightstalker said introducing himself thinking they were alone.

“Well, well, well. If this isn’t a disappointing surprise. After all the trouble I went through to get you here. My puppet will be upset; you know Kilrem won’t let anyone leave The Facility. We’re going to have to do something about that, now won’t we?” a familiar voice said. Nightstalker recognized the man from the other laboratory, Dr. Nasagori. The man walked out from behind a pole he was hiding behind.

“Yamato, we can leave this place. They seek nothing but shinier means of killing. I sought to give them things of peace and medicine, and they demanded tools of war.” Xos said, pleading with the man.

“Now, why should I leave this place? I have unlimited resources and funds. I’m well liked, I’ve given Alerar one thing after another. Why, after Kilrem goes, I’ll become head of The Facility.” Nasagori said with a smile.

“An illness you gave him no doubt.” Xos snorted.

“Yes, I admit it. I gave him his illness. I somehow managed to sneak out of The Facility, create a new disease, and infect Kilrem with it, without being infected myself and then sneak back in. That makes perfect logical sense. Why, I’d have to have an identical twin somehow to do that.” Nasagori said with a sinister smile.

Guards entered the room.

“What a timely entrance. I just discovered this newcomer is infact a spy come to steal our precious Xos away and force him to reveal our secrets. Good thing you arrived, I saw him turning to come for me to. Arrest them. Kilrem will be interested in having a long chat with the pair in the levels below where the more interesting research is being done. After all, no one escapes The Facility, no one.” Nasagori said, walking backwards in retreat and disappearing behind the guards that came to arrest Nightstalker and Xos.

Four hours later, Nightstalker realized he was never going to escape The Facility. They never once questioned him, only began torturing him. At last they stopped, and Nasagori appeared with a new Drow, one in a nobleman’s outfit.

“So tell me, how is it that Akashima has learned of The Facility?” the new drow asked.

Nightstalker started in surprise, and gasped in pain as spasms racked his body. He couldn’t move any muscle but his jaw without pain, and realized over the course of his torture, he had lost his disguise. He thought one last time of Akashima, and the love he left there, and swore to escape The Facility and return to her side, one day.

[Requiem of Insanity]

“God dammit, that’s the fifth officer who broke under HER control.” The table shook violently as a fleshy fat fist flattened the paper. “Somebody tell me what the hell is going on here!” Eyes darted around the room, but all that responded to order were shrugs and unknowing silence.

The Sergeant took in a deep cleansing breath as he slowly stood back to his full height. His fingers ran down his bald head removing sweat from his brow as he began to pace forward and back three to four steps. “Raines, Jacklyn, Green, Johnson, and now you too Hawkins.” He muttered looking to his detective team. Four men and one woman looked up to him with mild embarrassment until the woman stepped forward.

“It’s unidentifiable, but I just get this…” She struggled for words. “Wave of…of dread. I can’t feel comfortable around her. Anytime I started to gain control I felt my skin grow cold and my neck hairs raise.” She shivered just remembering the moment in the interrogation room.

A fat portly man waddled over, his breaths short as he lifted his hands defensively. “I spent a lot of time in the Salvarian army. I picked up a few trade perks on how to get a person to talk as you all know. And you know I don’t play nice just because it’s a woman.” He shook his head violently as if trying to stop a memory from surfacing. “She…she taught ME things on how to creatively use my tools for pleasurable torture. I tried to approach her, but my heart couldn’t stop racing and my skin felt clammy. It was like it was my first time!” he turned to the woman in the room. “I know what she means. I felt it too. Some undeniable power of terror running over the body like a tiny spark of lightening. It was…awful sarge…”

“And what of you three?” He turned to the silent ones, who only replied with a nod and a look as if they had been terrorized. He sighed again. “Okay, well in that case that leaves me. Watch the room, make sure there is no funny business. Jacklyn, please probe the room one more time for demonic entities or possession or some form of magic.” The portly man nodded heading to the room and hitting a button. He watched a tiny monitor, and after a minute or so it beeped back negatively.

“Rooms clear, sir.” the sergeant took in a deep breath squaring his shoulders and walking into the room.

It was a traditional interrogation room. Grey brick walls. Stupid metal table with two uncomfortable chairs sat across from each other. A recording orb was located in the upper corner above the door looking down upon the room. Sitting at the table across from the door was a woman in a black suit. Her hands were fidgeting with her black hair, tying up the ponytail tighter. She noticed the man entering and gave him no formal acknowledgment of greeting as she continued to play with her hair.

Kicking the chair out from the table the sergeant sat down with a grunt and tossed a file folder onto the table before her. Pictures spilled out of a crime scene, most notably a man with horrible cuts and limbs missing. One eyeball dangled from the socket, his tongue cut off and put into its place. His fingers were all neatly diced up and his chest was skinned except for the stomach area. His upper thighs were missing huge chunks of flesh and he had insertion wounds where his penis was impaled out his back by a large sword.

The woman smiled at the pictures.

“You have quite a taste for mayhem, Cassandra Remi.” he said harshly. “This is some seriously twisted shit your doing here. I’ve seen some pretty messed up stuff in my time, including a mage who turned bodies inside out, but this…this takes the cake.”

“It’s marvelous work, detective.” she said full of pride. “Do you know who did this?” she smiled to him poking through the folder. He slammed his hand down on the papers just a hair away from her fingers.

“I got my suspicions. Care to guess who my number one suspect is?”

“The boogeyman?” she mused. The sergeant knocked the table over, but she didn’t even bat an eye in surprise. She just looked up to him with a girlish grin, giggling like a child. “Temper, temper detective.” she clucked her tongue and wagged her finger.

“Listen to me you bitch,” He placed both hands on her chair and leaned into her face. To his annoyance she just smiled wider. “You killed a man. No! You tortured a man, a man who’s been on my most wanted list for years. Normally I’d just turn my head the other way and ignore this tragic accident, but when you kill one of my men, in a similar fashion, I can’t let that slide.”

“Anger, hostility.” She laughed. “Such raw emotions, such powerful feelings that can make the weak submit. But you see, I’m not weak. So when you come in barking like a ravenous rabid wolverine, I see something different. I see that you are scared, worried, and troubled. It means you haven’t got anything on me. Your fishing, detective. If your going to do that you’d best be off using a better bait.”

“You think your so tough, don’t you? That you are untouchable?” He let go of her chair and walked over to the folder that was on the floor. He leaned over and picked it up flipping to a particular page. “You have on you a set of cutlery, all diluted in blood. You own a sneaking suit that bends light around it. You have a giant ass fucking sword covered in blood! And why would a woman like you own an axe as well?”

“Flimsy, detective.” Cassandra yawned. “Flimsy at best.” She looked to him with baleful eyes, and he felt every part of his skin begin to crawl. He could hear a soft chucking in the back of his left ear. “You see, you don’t have any eye witness who can place me on the spot. You have no way of being able to tell if that blood belongs to a cow or a human, and you can’t possibly think that by owning a piece of cloth that it means I’m capable of murder. None of this evidence you have actually places me anywhere near the crime scene. A large amount of coincidences if I ever saw one however.” she grinned.

“You know what I can do to you?” He leaned back into her chair. “I can wrap a nice little rope around your neck, dangle you from a tree, and watch the life leave your eyes while fucking your body. I can be a sick perverted fool to you know.”

“As if.” She blurted. "You can’t possibly prove me to any crime here. So threatening me is not going to make me flinch in your favor. Besides, in order to get that kind of authorization you would need the consent of your lieutenant. Who, by the way I’d like to see next. Threatening and badgering me with death and sexual assault isn’t exactly a career maker now is it?” She looked deep into his eyes making him back off. He couldn’t escape the feeling of something attacking him, and his neck hairs raised to full attention of warning. He felt uncomfortable as hell and he cursed as he realized he backed all the way into the corner.

“You did it.” He said sternly. “You killed them both.” his finger raised to her accusingly.

“And thanks to the laws of this land that protect me, I’ll be getting away with it,” she gave him the sultriest smile he had ever seen. “Had I done it that is.” She folded her legs one over the other resting her hands. “I am released at midnight, which I do believe it is. Have my things ready for me, detective. I want to sign the papers and be out.” he looked to her with a stupid blank expression, returning to reality when the door opened. The woman walked in with a sad look on her face before looking to Cassandra.

“You are free to go, Ms. Remi. Your belongings are all at the front desk. You have a few papers to sign and then you are free to wander the world again.” Cassandra gave the detective a smirk as she got up walking by, winking as she left the room, laughing like a crazed killer. All the detective could do was obey the law and watch her leave.

~*~*~*~

Slowly the detective crawled into his bedroom. He didn’t even know the name of the woman he picked up at the bar. He wasn’t even looking for women this time. Cassandra Remi got off on a fluke, and he went out and drank away his sorrows and sadness. He cursed at the system, and this woman he met agreed, buying him a drink and explaining how a man she knew got off for killing her father. He felt her gently place him on his bed, removing his clothing. It wasn't in a sexual way. Whoever she was she was just being a good Samaritan. He felt his hands raise up over his head, and something soft rubbed at his wrists. He squirmed a bit, getting comfortable as he felt his feet spread. Soon his ankles were feeling a soft tug and lazily he looked around the room. It was all dark except for one oil lamp that was held above him. In the shadows the woman emptied her bag. The sound of metal clanged against each other and she moved things around. Softly she turned to him, a look of pure bliss on her face. He blinked his eyes, and felt the soft chuckle returning to his ear. His body felt wet and clammy and his drunkenness began to softly fade away. Before long he was able to identify the woman clearly.

“You’re probably wondering why you are here…” Cassandra mused as she lifted a fillet knife up to her lips.

[Sheex]

Always was a sucker for a redhead. Sheex thought to himself as he glared at the woman seated at a table several feet to his left. She was young, maybe Sheex's age or one year less. Her hair was cut short, extending just a little past her chin. Her breasts were small, but not too small. Maybe about the size of a large apple.

He had always liked apples.

She had nice legs. Real nice legs. Sexy white legs. And green eyes. Those were nice too. All in all the woman was not too bad. Actually, she was pretty darn cute. But, for the first time in his life, Sheex did not care how cute the girl next to him was.

She caught his glare and smiled. A big smile. Her thin red lips parted revealing sparkling white teeth. She waved almost playfully at Sheex. No, she was definitely waving playfully.

That bitch.

Her outfit was simple yet attractive. She wore a green shirt of some sort, covered by a small black silk jacket that was all buttoned up save for the two top buttons. It was one of those weird half-jackets, the type that only went halfway down the back. Sheex didn't think they were the most practical of jackets, but if a woman looked good in it who was he to complain? The redhead looked good.

Mind on the game Deltin. This is serious.

Sheex tapped his fingers nervously on the wooden table before him. He glanced ahead of him. A huge table standing eight feet tall was placed there. There were three seats there. Three seats for three judges. Three judges who would be making the most crucial decision of Sheex's life. At the moment those seats were empty.

Well, can't keep my mind on the game if the refs aren't present to call it. Back to the redhead.

Her black pants matched her jacket. The pants were tight. Very tight. The woman caught Sheex eyeing her and playfully blew him a kiss. Sheex sneered at her and crossed his arms. She frowned and leaned her head to the side as if asking him to explain his anger.

Stupid broad.

"If the court will come to attention..." A man in some sort of uniform bellowed out. Sheex recognized the uniform as one belonging to the local town guards. The very same town guards who had arrested him and dragged him here before this farce of a court.

"We will now begin the trial of Sheex Deltin versus Leila Hope." Someone began to say in a deep voice. Sheex had only one response to say to that.

"OBJECTION!" Sheex shouted, slamming the table and pointing his finger forward. All eyes were on him (Sheex had forgotten the court room had seats for spectators) as he turned a shade of red. He looked up at the judges, all of which were staring at him.

"To what? We haven't even started yet!" The fat one seated all the way to the left asked with no small amount of impatience in his voice. Well, perhaps the man wasn't really too fat, but Sheex was in a foul mood so at the moment slightly overweight had become fat and fat had become titanic.

"Um. Just practicing my objection your honor. You know, warming up and all that jazz." Sheex muttered as he ran his hands through his hair. The old one seated at the center of the judge's table (Sheex's foul mood had not dissipated) glared at the wanderer.

"Then allow me to practice as well. OVERRULED! Get used to hearing that Mr. Deltin." The woman snorted as Sheex frowned. The game was not off to a good start. That and the damn redhead was smiling at him. Not evil smiling or "I'm going to burn you alive and eat your children" smiling, but she was smiling in amusement. In happiness.

Bitch. Bitch bitch bitch bitch BITCH!

"If we may continue, Ms. Hope, please state your connection with Mr. Deltin." The young one on the right stated in a calm voice. No, Sheex was in too foul of a mood to think of him as young. The dumb one. Yes, that would be the dumb one. Fat, old, and dumb.

Sheex's method of categorizing people was in dire need of a tune-up.

The woman stood up and flashed another smile at Sheex. She tossed her hair back with but a wave of her head as her pretty eyes flashed about the room. Silence ruled the court and all eyes were on her. Except Sheex's eyes. His eyes were on the window as his mind calculated his odds of jumping through it and surviving the three story fall.

"You honor, Sheex Deltin is the father of my child."

"OBJECTION!" Sheex shouted, again slamming his hand on the desk and pointing wildly about the court (you couldn't very well say objection without hitting something in his mind).

"On what grounds?" Asked the old one.

"On the grounds that it is BULLSHIT!" Sheex shouted back.

"I don't think that's an actual objection..." Muttered the dumb one.

"Overruled." Yawned the fat one.

"Damn." Sheex said softly.

"Mr. Deltin, did you have relations with Ms. Hope?" The old one questioned Sheex. He just shrugged.

"I dunno."

"That isn't an answer Mr. Deltin."

"Fine. Maybe."

"You don't remember?"

"You remember everyone you've had sex with?"

"Yes."

"Then you haven't had it enough."

Instantly the old one grabbed her gavel and slammed it down, silencing the chuckles from the crowd. And Leila. Why was it that she found everything Sheex did funny? She was the one person Sheex didn't want to make laugh.

"Mr. Deltin! You will behave properly in this court or you will suffer the consequences!" The old one shouted as the dumb one stifled a small laugh. The fat one let out another yawn and looked at Sheex lazily.

"Mr. Deltin, you admit it is possible that you had relations with Ms. Hope?" Asked the fat one as Sheex just crossed his arms and looked over at Leila.

"Hey, redhead! How drunk was I?" Sheex asked. She just tilted her head to the side and scratched her chin in thought.

"Pretty drunk. You got into my fifteen year old scotch after all." Leila said completely sure of herself. Sheex just shrugged and looked back at the judges.

"Yup. I'd say it's possible." Sheex had to admit even though he didn't want to. It was after all, highly unlikely he stopped at just one glass. Unconsciously he reached for the hip flask tucked away in his pocket. No! Not now! Must. Stay. Focused!

"Well then..." The old one began. Sheex slammed his hand on the desk.

"OBJECTION!"

"For god sake why?"

"I have a question I want to ask her about our relations."

The judges looked at one another with puzzled expressions. Sheex's request was certainly valid, but none of the judges wanted Sheex to talk any more than necessary. Sadly, the law clearly stated that he did have a right to ask the accuser questions. The judges had no choice but to grudgingly allow it.

"Redhead! How good was I?"

"Not bad actually."

"HA!"

"Enough nonsense!" Shouted the old one, pounding away with her gavel. Sheex immediately turned and raised his arms frantically.

"Wait! Wait! I have another question!" Sheex shouted over the echoing of the wooden gavel.

"This one had better be important Mr. Deltin!" The old one shouted at him. Sheex smiled slightly at that demand.

"Hey, that last question was pretty important in my mind. I mean, yes, of course! It's really important. Really, really, really important!" Sheex said, almost bowing to the floor in humble acceptance of the judge's order. He then turned towards Leila and asked his question.

Well, he thought about asking his question. He was still a bit too smug about Leila's comment on his sexual prowess. Plus Sheex couldn’t deny it. She was quite the cutie.

"Uh. Umm. Ms. Hope..." Sheex managed to stutter.

"Call me Leila." She said with a grin.

"Okay....Ms. Leila, er, Hope, er, Leila." Sheex face turned red with frustration. The old one glared at him while the dumb one chuckled at his foolishness. Sheex then and there decided he was not cut out to be a lawyer.

"Am...am I the only guy you've slept with?" Sheex managed to eek out. Half expecting to hear "overruled" he turned towards the judges. They were silent and staring at Leila. All right, back in the game baby! Just call me Sheex Deltin, Attorney At Law!

"Umm. No." Leila said with no small of red in her face. Sensing weakness, Sheex began his attack.

"So...so there could be other possible fathers?" Sheex squeaked out.

When it came to attacking women, Sheex had always been somewhere in the region of pathetic.

"Umm. Yes." Leila said, crossing her arms and turning her head away in embarrassment. Sheex, on the other hand, leaped for joy.

"OBJECTION!" Sheex shouted at the top of his lungs, slamming down his fist as he ended his jump.

"There's really no need for that, we know what you're about to say." Muttered the fat one tiredly. Obviously sitting in court was not his idea of a good time. That was a bit of a pity as the man held Sheex's freedom in his hands.

"But...but I thought I finally had it right..." Sheex said, his voice filled with dejection. The dumb one chuckled again as the old one looked at Leila sternly.

"Ms. Hope, if that's all you have against Mr. Deltin..." The old one began. Leila frowned almost making Sheex feel sorry for her. Almost.

"But, but my son looks like Sheex and everything..." She said sadly.

"Oh come on! Looks like does not equal my son!" Sheex shouted rather loudly.

"That would have been the time to say objection." The dumb one added softly.

"Really? Can I go back and say it?" Sheex pleaded.

"No." The old one said, her voice at this point completely full of irritation. Sheex decided to kick the leg of his table in response, but very softly lest he upset the judges.

"But a wizard cast a spell. He said it was you." Leila said meekly. Sheex again almost felt sorry for her, but still not sorry enough to give up.

"OBJECTION! That's a biased source!" Sheex shouted, again slamming his hand on the table. This time he meekly added "oww" as a splinter buried itself in the palm of his hand.

“Sustained.” The dumb one said, lightly tapping his gavel.

“Really?” Sheex asked, rather surprised at not hearing overruled being screamed at him.

“Yes, now be quite Mr. Deltin! Ms. Hope, whatever tests you had done before this court are invalid.” Decreed the old one, for once on Sheex’s side. Sheex could have kissed her for that (but he wasn’t about to unless asked).

“Well...what if the court choose a wizard? Would that work?” Leila said in a last desperate attempt. Not a chance. Sheex thought with a smile.

“I don’t see why not. If it is a court approved wizard that would be acceptable.” The dumb one responded as Sheex gave him a betrayed look. He had thought the dumb one was one his side.

“Then it is decided. The court will apoint a wizard to settle this matter. In the mean time, Mr. Deltin you are to remain in this town.” The old one bellowed, slamming her gavel and ending the court’s proceedings. Sheex immediately ran forward towards the judges table.

“WHAT? Where am I suppose to stay?” Sheex demanded of the judges. He felt something silky wrap itself around his arm. He turned to see Leila clinging to him.

“Oh! Can he stay with me! Please?” Leila pleaded, putting on her best pouting face. Sheex had to admit, the girl had some skill in the persuasion department.

“I don’t see why not.” Muttered the old one, anxious to have Sheex out of the court room.

“How about because she’s crazy?” Sheex screamed at the top of his lungs while he attempted to pull his arm away from Leila. Sadly, she had him in a death grip.

“Then she’s a good match for you. This case is over.” Was all Sheex received as the old one slammed her gavel one last time. The spectators filed out of the courtroom, muttering about the proceedings. Some laughed at Sheex’s antics, others called him an idiot. All the while Leila clung to his shoulder.

“Come on Sheex! You can meet your son!” She said with glee as she tugged him along.

“OBJECTION!” Was the last thing Sheex said before he was dragged from the courtroom.

[Caden Law]

Timeline placement is unknown. Probably canon. Depending.


Allow me to introduce myself, whomsoever should one day read this. I am Caden Law, variably known as Blueraven, Commander Law or Blueraven, and on certain less favorable occasions as That Godsdamned Wizard. This letter, should it be found abroad, was written after a most dreadful run of luck in a wood that shall, hitherto, be left unspecified and was written on the Sixteenth Day of the Month of Pumpkin Kinder in the Year of Rat's Jagged Teeth from within the confines of a small village jail cell. I have been far and wide, seen much, done more, experienced things that I cannot explain, purchased and burnt something called a "Tea Shirt" for my efforts, and the event that I am about to relate is still so utterly disconcerting as to warrant distillation in the form of a written account. Perhaps that way, I'll be able to sleep a little better at night.

During my most recent travels, I ventured into a locale known locally as the Wailing Wood. I was guided in this endeavour by a gentlemen I shall refer to as Grima. Grima is a dreadful sort of person, reminiscent of the year this account is being written. He is approximately five feet tall, stooped with the mannerisms of a street urchin, and scarred from a decade or more's service with a mutual acquaintance of ours, my old employer "Eyesoff" Patton. Grima had been one of our dungeoneers until a spear trap lamed him and, finally, forced the old goat to retire. I call him old, but Grima was scarcely in his forties and of a constitution where he may yet outlive me at my current pace. But I digress.

Grima dwealt in a small praerie house on the edge of the Wood, making a living by guiding merchant caravans through its safer passes. The route that he lead me through included a rather queer stopping point nearer the Wood's middle; a tavern. I thought it strange at the time, but now I can't help but think I was lucky to get out alive. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The tavern was a shabby little place, homely in its manner, and surprisingly well lit for such an establishment. Its patronage consisted of the usual dreadful sorts, albeit much more diverse than I've experienced of late; dwarves, drow, elves, a few truly awful men who could drag down the atmosphere all on their lonesome...and always that one gentlemen in a cloak, loudly and pointedly minding his own business in the corner. Surly type, that one.

Grima lead me to the bar and introduced me to the tavern owner, a matronly woman calling herself May. We ordered drinks. Then we ordered more drinks. I, being of a Salvic constitution, ordered some more after that. Grima by this point was, as we back home like to call it, thoroughly and utterly sloshed like melting snow in the early spring. I ordered some more anyway. Singing, dancing, embarrassing confessions of strictly platonic affection and overall hilarity ensued until finally we hit that point where the spirits take as much energy out of you as they seem to strengthen and numb you to the world at large. It was at this juncture that a terrible malaise set in; boredom. (Something I could use a lot more of, these days.) As Grima is the type to brood when drunk and I am of a mind where I enjoy being entertained, I made the costly mistake of asking my old comrade-in-mugs to tell me a story.

"Okay," he said to me in his queer little Deep Coronian. "I'll tell yer a story."

And Gods help me, the story he told was a sobering one indeed.

Adventurers of our breed, even the retirees, often hunt for strange things in strange places, and Grima had been haunting the Wood for six years before I reunited with him. For him, the Catacombs of Dead Civilizations, the old tombs and lost castles of dread kings in ages past no longer hold sway. Content he must be with the moon-lined shapes and horrors of the Wood's night, and the faltering steps he must surely take down elder paths that remain chillingly well kept in spite of no visible journeymen besides himself. He lingers in the shadows of that sinister place, his only thrill the tales he can be made to tell with sufficient embibement.

"Most awful of the sights I've seen are the shoddy little houses remote even from those travelled ways," he told me, in so many partly slurred words. "Squatty bitty things 'pon dampen slopes an' und'r shadowed trees. Hundred year hovels and more, leaning and standing and shakin' in breezes that ain't there, 'n' vinin' up good and green as the ages pass them still," he said. "Hidden now, 'less you know where to look...or 'less you don't know 'nuff to not look at all. One summer's day, Raven...I looked."

To expound upon this in the context of my former compatriot: In such houses as these have dwelt generations of eerie folk whose like the outer world is scarce kin to. Neither fair nor foul, simply amoral and asocietal; exiled on bases of belief and blood and other such trivialties existent beyond the state of nature. The scions of that loathsome lot flourish still in their own way, as Grima told me, free from the restrictions of law and order and civilization proper; cowering all the same in the ugly realities of their own rotten minds. "The blood's gone foul," Grima told me, and of that I afford myself no doubt. Such men and women, he related to me, prefer only to dwell in the houses of their ancestries and never within workings of their own hand. They have given up the fight with nature in lieu of the fight with something...else.

"T'was to one such dwellin' I came to on'a afternoon in'a Month of Sacred Jewellers in'a Year o' the Hungerin' Torch. Been travellin' for some time 'mongst the Wood that day, tr'in' ter find game for dinner, 'n' all of a sudden it starts a rainin'. An' it rains hard here, Raven." This, I assure you, is absolutely the truth. Rain in that awful Wood hits like a shower of tiny rocks, and as Grima told me, "Couldnae find a lick o' shelter under them trees. So I looked, off the naked paths and down a slip'ry slope, I found one of those ickle edifices arcana. Wish I hadn't.

"Took it for granted the place'd be abandoned. Thought nobody'd be there, see. The front was overgrown with weeds an' this greenish flower I donnae the name of. Knocked a few times as a courtesy. Tried the door, t'was open. Let myself in, only to find that the domicile was markably clean. Not a speck o' dust, you better believe me. I called out to the owner a few times, but nobody answered me. All I could hear was a crackle o' fire an'na sound like thumpthumpthumpthump; rain beatin' down on ther roof an' door. Mice squeakin'. So, I unpocketed some coin an' laid it 'pon ther table an' took a seat by the fire when something caught my eye.

"T'was a bookshelf," which is, in and of itself, a strange thing to find in a pristinely kept shanty in the middle of a supposedly cursed wood during a storm; but I digress. Grima told me that he "couldn't help meself. There 'pon 'at shelf was this un book. Un book. Stood out ferm all the rest, it did. Bigger," he spaced his hands accordingly. "An' thicker. Binding was leather, tanned dark brown. Thing weighed much as this chair I'm sittin' on now. An' those pages faded like they was exposed over th'years, like someone'd been usin' 'em heavy-like, see. Plenty o' pictures in it, but I couldnae read. T'was in the Eldest Tongue," that's Old Diamonic, if you should find this in an era when such nomenclature is faux pas. "'Cept. Queerly, see."

"How so?" I asked, because I'm stupid.

"Them letters was all backwards like. An' upside down, if the pictures wasn't. Didn't much matter, couldn't read it anyway, but it struck me funny. Rain kept up 'n' whatnot. I got tired, figgered I'd ride it out in shelter an' warmth. So I took ther book to the fireplace an' settled in fer the duration. Couldn't read it but that didn't stop me, no. Somethin' bout that book demanded it be read. Made ya wanna look at the pictures till you could figure out what they were."

"What were they?" I asked, for the same reason.

"That's just it," Grima told me in a disturbed tone. "I don't know what. I try to remember, an' I can't." He continued after a few minutes frustrated silence. "'Ventually, s'pose the owner caught me. Big berk, that'ne. Six foot somethin', couldnae weighed less 'an seventeen stone I reckon. Wore this stained set o' rags. I 'pologized for stealing into his house, course, but it was all gravy far as he was concerned. He set down beside me and started chattin' me up like a tent city joygirl on a bender," that's a cheap drunken prostitute, by the way. "An' he told me what ther book was for."

"What was it for?" I asked, naturally.

"...cannae say," Grima muttered.

By this point, we were so drunk that our thirsts became appetites became orders for food. May complied with all the charm and beneficence (sic) of a gnarl-jawed pitbull. I had Grima continue, "Did he say anything you can remember?"

"Yeah," he told me. "Some'in 'bout killin' deer was a way to go but it left 'im gameless. Gameless? Tolme 'e did, that 'e craved a good an' proper hunt with the most dangerous game -- but o' course he'd never go through with it see. That the book showed him how but hands on learnin' was...better... Gods. Startin' ter remember."

"Remember?" To my credit, I was by this point getting ready to run away anyway. I have not lived to the middle of my twenties through fire and war and grudging evil overlords by being so stupid as to not expect bad things.

"He...said to me...that ther book...t'was demesne linin'. A guidebook. An' more besides. An' I don't remember most of what he told me, but I do remember this: As he was tellin' me these things, it occurred to me that the rain'd let up a while back. No more thumpthumpthumpthump noises. The mice had long stopped squeakin'. And then...

"Felt wet, up here." He patted the top of his head. "Looked up. An' Ronus as my witness, there was a damn red spot six inches wide in the ceilin'. My host o' course just kept talkin'. Talkin'. And, Raven, it...it was like his mouth opened beneath the skin. His chin sucked in every few words, see. And then he told me something. Told me somethin'....somethin'...

"It's not the deer."

At which point, May set a plate of deermeat on the counter in front of us.

Sufficed to say, I blew out a wall and ran until my legs could carry me no further. I then proceeded to steal a horse and run some more. Which is what landed me here.

What makes the whole thing...unsettling to me, is not Grima's story or anything else of the sort. It's the fact that I felt like someone was watching me from the moment I entered that tavern to the moment I put pen to paper. An older presence. Even now, I feel it. I feel it, the way the deer feels the hunter. I am not alo The letter ends here.

The whereabouts of the Wizard Blueraven remain unknown.

[Inkfinger]

Takes place between Byzantine (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=17778) and By The Skin Of Our Teeth (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=19017).

Beware. Here There Be Dragons.

Die With Boots On
(Being a Somewhat Dark Experiment in Point Of View)

When you first wake up, your head hurts so bad it feels like someone bashed your temple in with a crowbar, and then used that very crowbar to lever off the top of your skull – simply to allow the dancing golems access, of course.

Then the room processes: you feel the cold stone on your face, see the long shadow swaying in the oily torchlight, smell the stench of sweat and terror and waste and pain - and all witticisms about headaches die unspoken on your chapped lips. This is far too real, this time you’re in far too deep; you grabbed a tiger by the tail and found - instead of an angry kitty – that it was a chimera, and you haven’t caught the cobra’s head in the right place not to get bit.

Nobody told you there’d be monsters in the shadows.

You’d known, of course, that trying to undermine two well established….establishments like the church and the monarchy at the same time wouldn’t end well. You knew, from the beginning, that it was probably going to end in pain. But somehow, once you realized that both sides were wrong, and that neither side cared about the children their pride was killing…

Well.

Thirty-two years of keeping your head down went into the fire like so many ruined pages.

Play with fire, you’ll get burned. Play with monsters, you'll get bitten...

You hadn’t expected monsters to be like this.

You hadn't expected monsters to be like him.

Sure, the signs are there: his nose has been broken too many times, his brown hair’s cropped short and scarred through in the back, like a soldier’s; he laughs too quick at nothing, smiles too kind to be real, and he’s quick to mindless, pointless rage…

But his voice is deep and clear, and he speaks, almost always, like a father to a child – gentle. Soothing. Almost seductive. Your first few days in the cage, you almost trusted that he meant every word that fell from his lips.

But that was then.

This is now.

And now you know the truth.

There’s something unhealthy about his tiger-green eyes, and that’s a problem, because right now those eyes are raking up and down your body in a way that makes it seem he can see right through your torn clothing. It’s a dismissive gaze, for all its hunger; the look you’d give a tool, something to be used –and, more importantly, thrown away- without a second thought. He notices you awake and smiles, a lazy smile, a crocodilian grin that promises so much pain. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, and he reaches up to wipe it away, licking his thumb without taking his eyes off of you.

And with a sudden rush of bile, thick as tar and twice as stinking, you realize. You realize without knowing how you realize, with an animal instinct deeper than panic, that Kamen – kind, sweet Kamen; Kamen who trusted you to get him out – died with this bastard watching, his hand shoved down the front of his pants.

The soot-soaked ceiling swallows your hoarse, incoherent shriek of rage. And he simply laughs, sauntering forward. He’s a great hulk of a man, broad shouldered and muscular, and he seems to eclipse the torch light, his blue-gray coat soaking the warmth from the room.

“Caelric,” he says, conversationally, though his throat and his words are tight with a lust that you dare not think of, ‘lest you break down and cry, “Take a look around, boy. Tell me, what’s different?”

Reluctantly, you obey, scanning the small execution chamber, not knowing exactly what you’re looking for. You can’t look towards the gallows – the message there is simply you failed. You can’t look towards the guards – the message there is simply you don’t own yourself any more. You can see the scenes that once decorated the walls – the Saint Denebriel, head bowed in holy contrition; Her prophets, carrying out Her wishes, the signs and sigils of the true Wizards’ works, lining the places where the walls meet the ceiling – though the colors have faded through the passage of years.

Uncertain, you look back at your tormentor, your friend’s murderer, and he simply smirks, spreading his hands as if this is a child’s game.

“Keep looking,” he mouths, without saying the words, “You’re getting warmer…”

It takes all your willpower to look away again. When it hits you, it does so with the subtlety and finesse of the golems’ crowbar.

There’s not a Clergy member in sight.

Not even a choirboy.

You can remember them all too clearly to this point, in seven separate shades of pain; through the tearing sting of the bullwhip, the bone-deep agony of the carving knife beneath your thumbnail, the breathless sobs of the simple beatings… the white and blue and gray robes were a constant; a single thread woven throughout the entire tapestry of torment, holding it together in a cohesive pattern.

Holding it together, and holding something out…

That thread is gone, and with it is mercy, and reason, and any hollow semblance of civilization that might have still remained.

When you look back to the captain, mouth dry with the twin specters of realization and denial, his greatcoat is off, abandoned in the corner, and his fingers are working at the laces of his shirt. He sees you watching, and the cobratigerhungrypredator gleam in his eyes only grows.

It takes a moment for that gaze to sink in, but the millisecond after that moment you’re running as hard as you can for the locked-and-barred door.

The millisecond after that you’ve got splinters in your hands, and the edges of your vision have gone white from bashing your thumb, your naked thumb, right where the nail is supposed to be, and used to be, into the doorjamb. You can hear laughter, somewhere, behind the sound of your own screaming.

It still takes four of them to drag you, kicking and yowling like a madman, up on the scaffold. Kamen swings there, his lifeless carcass swaying in what little breeze passes beneath the sooty door. You plant your feet, or try, but a week of torture, a week of weak eating, and you might as well be a mouse trying to enter a bull fight. They skid out from under you, and you hit well-worn boards hard enough to give the golems another chance on the dance floor.

The room yaws wildly, torches and tormentors spinning like comets behind your eyes. You strive, desperately, for a point of reference that isn’t moving - or isn’t moving as madly – and the only thing your watering eyes can fix on are Kamen’s boots, three feet off the floor.

He’d been proud of his boots; kept them clean even in the deepest winter. Kept them polished and shining, even when you were the only one around to see; the last vestiges of a time when the army was something to be proud of. That army had failed him, stolen his childhood, his family, driven him to your side, and now…

Now those boots are scuffed, stained with mud and dust, blood and rust – blood both old, faded to nigh-obscurity against the brown, and new – dripping ruby red from the knife wounds deep in his sides.

Hanging’s too good for ‘em.

Suddenly Kamen’s boots aren’t the best thing to stare at anymore.

You are not dead.

Not yet.

Probably not for a long, long time.

You know that.

But as someone grabs your arms, twisting them behind your back; as someone’s hands close around your ankles, pinning them to the rough wood; as someone deftly pulls your shirt over your head, running a practiced hand down your sweaty spine and beyond…

You can’t help but wish you were.

[Requiem of Insanity]

Soooooooooooooooooooooooooooo...

Nov, then Dec...?

Just sayin...

[Requiem of Insanity]

For the love of all that is holy, somebody judge this!

[Christoph]

I’m not a mod, but I have plenty of past judging experience. Seeing as this contest has been sitting here unjudged for a very long time, I decided to take it upon myself to wrap it up. That, and a fellow member asked me to. This is also a request for the staff to please officiate my judgment and hand out the rewards I give. Hopefully they go along with it. They had a guest prompt, so why not have a guest judge, right? This is in no way meant as a slight against the staff.

And now for the judgment!



Requiem of Insanity:

Your opening lines fell short from what I think you intended. The first line of dialogue, for instance, didn’t quite sound right. Also, “fleshy fat fist flattened” is all nice and alliterative, but you go overboard. I would have removed either fleshy or fat. And isn’t paper already flat? It seems odd that it could be flattened any more. It was just an odd sentence on the whole, like you were trying too hard to impress the reader. The whole first paragraph just seemed rather sloppy, to be honest. I’m certain that you KNOW what you should be trying to do, but you don’t get it quite right. Try reading your stuff aloud during your revisions.

From what I can tell from your entry, you’ve got a creative imagination but a flawed delivery. Your prose suffers from tragic inefficiency, which makes the whole thing drag on far more than it should. Obviously everyone has their own style, but as a general rule I find that most benefit from making the effort to say more with less. You do well in avoiding passivity, so kudos there, but your writing should be tighter. Always aim for tighter and less passive. Like with sex.

My main problem is the lack of clarity. Ambiguity and confusion can be a potent tool if used to create mystery in the plot. You use it to make it hard for the reader to figure out what’s going on. That’s rarely a good thing. It actually hurts the suspense, because the reader doesn’t know what to be anxious about.

This might be a petty gripe, but I found that you make magic sound way too casual. Maybe that’s how you see magic in Althanas, but I didn’t care for it. That’s definitely just my opinion though, so take it with a grain of salt.

Then there are the characters. They just seemed hard to believe. The sergeant, for instance, got unrealistically angry after the very first little jab from your character. Anybody with experience in interrogation would be able to handle more than that. You were going for the sadistic offspring of a female Joker and Hannibal Lecter, but it just didn’t sing for me. It was very unbelievable. The ending was all right, but a bit predictable. On the whole, the story had potential conceptually, though it wasn’t the freshest thing in the world, but definitely needed a more polished delivery. With that, and a more refined, elegant integration of magic, I could see this passing as a respectable work of flash fiction. Your entry definitely had the most potential, and had you actualized it, you would have gone from just barely not placing to possibly taking first.


Nightstalker:

You have a lot of the same problems as Requiem of Insanity, only taken to the extreme. Your writing drags on and little seems to happen save for incessant masturbatory passages about your other character, Xos. You use too many commas and your sentences switch back and forth between unnecessary fragments and annoying run-ons.

Just take your opening as an example. “The Facility, Alerar’s most secret institution” -- what was the point of making this a fragment? Just go right out and state “The Facility was Alerar’s most secret institution”. Then the next sentence goes on and on. Your opening almost hooked me, but your lack of polish turned me off. Proofread, revise, polish, repeat.

You had a somewhat interesting concept at least, one that could be worth developing further. It struck me as a prologue for a larger story, so maybe try exploring that. On the whole, it wasn’t too bad, but definitely needed a lot of work. 5th place.


Sheex:

I’m on the fence about your opening. On one hand, it just screams cliché. On the other hand, that’s not always bad. I read it, and just knew the redhead was trouble. The problem, much like Requiem of Insanity, comes from delivery. A little more polish could help set the mood a bit better. Also, you repeated his name twice in the first paragraph, which only made the fact that he has an odd name worse. A pronoun would have worked better, I think, but now I’m just nitpicking.

The way you go on about the girl’s breasts was at once awkward and kind of amusing. The “He had always liked apples” was nice. My main gripe is that the character sounded more 17 and less 23. Maybe that’s just me. Also, you drag on the description a bit too much. I get what you’re going for, but if you’d tightened it up a bit, I would have felt drawn in much more. Especially since you end that passage by stating that Sheex didn’t even care. Well hell, if he doesn’t care, why should I?

“She waved almost playfully at Sheex. No, she was definitely waving playfully.” -- I liked what you were going for with this line, but it dragged on too much. Your style in general gets much too repetitive. There ARE times to be repetitive, but they are rare. And you keep going on about how attractive she is. I get it. She’s hot. I know the effect your going for, and I commend you for portraying the main character’s constant distraction (again, even if he seemed more 17 than 23), but I would have trimmed it down a bit, so you get the same impact without beating the reader’s face in with it.

I got a bit annoyed at not even getting any hint as to why Sheex was so irritated about the woman even while admiring her appearance. If the opening passages didn’t drag on so much, I might not have minded, because then it would have flowed naturally to the answers.

Once the trial starts, things pick up. The dialogue was brisk and funny for a while, even if Sheex seemed like a character I’ve seen a hundred times before. You pull it off well enough for me not to mind that much. You do tend to improperly format your dialogue though, which annoyed me. It’s: ‘“I’m saying stuff,” said Person.’ Not: ‘“I’m saying stuff.” Said person.’ It CAN be: ‘“I’m saying stuff.” I do stuff.’ Sheex was an okay character. It’s rare to see stupid-funny done properly, and you come close.

You had a fair handful of typos, but nothing too horrible. The plot was amusing, though a bit predictable. On the whole, not a bad effort. A strong third place.


Caden Law:

I have to give you credit: you pull off pretentious verbosity better than most. Maybe it just happens to fit the form of narration, but I found your prose fairly effective. Your opening paragraph was the most interesting boring passage I’ve read in a long time, if that makes any sense. You jumbled some of your tenses here and there, but it wasn’t too horrifically distracting.

I liked how you described the tavern. It presented Caden as a genre-savvy fellow, which I have a soft-spot for. I also have a soft-spot for making fun of the “cloaked man in the corner” cliché. Reminds me of a time when I ran an RPG that included a circular barroom, one with no corners, to prevent those sulky types from darkening the atmosphere. But I digress. I like how your narration keeps me more or less interested without making the outcome obvious.

It did start to drag on a bit in the middle. I found myself getting a little bored, even though fairly interesting things continued to happen, and I kept asking, “So… when is something going to actually happen?” Then I started asking, “IS anything going to actually happen?” And the answer turned out to be “Not really.” You’ve got great talent with atmosphere and mood, but seem to falter with actual plotting. On the whole, it was a good start, a sort of decent concept, a slow delivery, and a disappointing development. That, and it all seemed so familiar to one or two Lovecraft story’s I’ve read. Still, the redeeming qualities put you at first place for this contest.


Inkfinger:

I saw that you’d done your entry in second person and I was… skeptical, to say the least. The first paragraph, I have to say, didn’t draw me in. As you may have noticed, I spend a lot of time and put a lot of stock in opening paragraphs. They really are that important. I feel that your opening didn’t do your intentions justice. It didn’t draw me in or set a strong mood. You got a bit better in your second paragraph.

I don’t have a whole lot to say about yours, really. You did the second-person better justice than I expected, but I don’t think it met half of its potential. I think the pacing could be a bit tighter and more edgy -- trim out unnecessary words and I think it would help. On the whole, not too bad. I commend you for taking a risk here. A fairly strong second place.



In closing:

1st: Caden Law -- 100 GP and 750 EXP
2nd: Inkfingerl -- 75 GP and 375 EXP
3rd: Sheex -- 50 GP and 225 EXP
4th: Requiem of Insanity -- 450 EXP
5th: Nightstalker -- 225 EXP

I added 50% extra EXP to everyone, since they waited so long. The staff will need to approve that, of course. (As well as this whole judgment in general, since I’m doing this as a member.)


And now to go along with the vignette tradition, I present one of my own:


Plink, plink.

The constant staccato of water dripping onto stone echoed through the void of unconsciousness. Elijah’s world slowly rose from the throbbing sea of blackness and silence. Small dots of light came first, pinpricks forcing their way through his aching skull. Next, an unhealthy chill passed over him. Was it from cold air or merely a product of his own body? He groaned and struggled to move, but a stabbing pain in his head and neck left him immobile.

Plink, plink.

He focused on the dripping, forcing the pain from the foreground of his consciousness. Where was he? How had he gotten there? Who put him there? Those questions needed to be addressed, but concentration proved difficult. His memories still lingered just out of reach, hidden behind a wall of pain. He slowly opened his eyes, squinting in anticipating of bright light. Instead, darkness greeted him, and that was even worse. Only tiny specks of phantom light hovered above him, a product of his throbbing head that faded whenever he looked too hard.

He was in a jail cell of some kind; he knew that much. As the pounding pain in his skull subsided, he started piecing together the events that led him here. He had sailed from his home to the exotic land of Dheathain with some merchants. It seemed like a good idea at the time; he wanted to explore the arcane secrets of the world and the merchants liked having a young, talented sorcerer on call. They traveled to Suthainn, the ancient capital of the Draconians. And then he found a bar.

“I need to be less predictable,” Elijah groaned. He tried to recall what had transpired next. He had entered, ordered a vaguely familiar drink and fell into his usual carousing habits, completely ignorant to native customs and mores. He remembered offending someone, somehow, and a fight broke out – half a bar full of angry, scaly men against one foreigner.

He had gotten scared, as much as he hated to admit it. He resorted to pyromancy, his most deadly art, to preserve his anatomical integrity. And that was when the guards showed up. Things got blurry after that. He could only surmise that, given the flammable nature of the entire city, there must have been stern laws against setting things on fire with magic that he was not aware of. He sensed a pattern forming. Then there were the Tree Folk that he may or may not have injured. He sighed. Magic had lured him to Suthain, and now it would likely result in his death. His own foolishness clearly had nothing to do with it. Clearly.

Plink, plink.

The obnoxious dripping quickly began grating on the captive’s nerves, and the cold stone floor beneath his back had long since grown intolerable. He stood up with a defiant grunt, and subsequently bashed his head painfully against a low wooden beam that his poorly adjusted eyes hadn’t seen. He staggered unsteadily and slipped on the puddle of water that he should have known was there, falling squarely onto his back again. The water mocked him by dripping on his face.

Eli snarled a stream of frustrated curses and struggled back to his feet, carefully avoiding the acquisition of any more head injuries. He felt around for a minute, and then felt rather silly. A quick flick of his hand summoned a swirling ball of flame into his palm, offering ample illumination. His cell was a cramped ten-foot cube. The beam he had smashed into turned out to be a large, gnarled tree branch. Yet, the floor, walls, and ceiling were made of stone blocks, and the door was solid iron.

“Seriously? This entire city is made from trees, and yet they manage to find a stone cell to lock me up in.” The imprisoned sorcerer sighed and leaned against the wall. His sense of hopelessness waned quickly however, and the intense need to escape filled the void. He did not want to be around when his captors returned to execute him, or whatever else they had in mind. Sure, perhaps they merely intended to issue a fine, but he could not afford to take that chance. As usual, he needed to weasel out of the consequences of his actions, but how?

He had left all of his arcane tools on the ship for fear of them being stolen in the city. The local authorities would have confiscated them, anyway; they seemed meticulous like that. They had doubtlessly stuffed him into the stone cell because they knew that he would have simply burned his way out of any wooden one. If they assumed to hold him with stone, however, they had vastly underestimated him.

In the past, he had mused over potential methods of escape for similar situations; suffice to say he led a rather… adventurous life, so getting into trouble was only a matter of time. His ideas worked in theory, but he had never actually carried them out. Many things could go wrong. Even a minor mistake could leave him a huge shard of hot rock up his nose. Still, he preferred a little risk to rotting in a cell.

And so, Elijah went to work. He began by examining the branch. It squeezed through a hole in one wall and out the other. Closer inspection revealed that it tapered and rose slightly from right to left, suggesting that left would lead him further from the trunk of whatever tree his cell had been build upon; that would be his way out. Next came the hard part.

He sat down cross-legged in front of his chosen wall, placed his palms against the cold wall, and took a deep breath. He began to focus. His consciousness delved into the stones, and for that moment he knew them as intimately as he would a brother or lover. He saw the quarry from which they had been cut and the great effort and ingenuity by which they were brought high into the trees to construct his cell. He could feel the suffering they had witnessed over the years, of prisoners both innocent and guilty.

Fire would have little effect on solid rock, so he would need change the stubborn material. Slowly, he laced tendrils magic through the wall, bending the stone to his will and changing it. Transmutation was tricky discipline that required extreme focus and deep understanding of both the laws of matter and how to bend and break them. Elijah never cared for rules as a general principle, so he took to the art almost as naturally as pyromancy.

With painstaking effort, he transformed the stone into a rarer and more volatile substance: Fire Rock, from which the southern states derived their terrible explosives. The process proved, as the two materials were quite different, but he’d practiced in the past with pebbles and small stones. He needed only to adjust for scale.

He continued his work for several minutes, until nearly fifteen cubic feet of wall had been laced with a marbling of the volatile transmuted substance. He spent some time adjusting the amount, changing some back to rock again; having too much could end in disaster. Finally satisfied, he stood and traced an invisible glyph over the entire wall with his fingertips. He bit his thumb until it bled, and traced it along half of the glyph, and then blew air over the other half, forming a sympathetic link between the spell and the two meager sources of heat in the cell: the air and his own body.

He forged the link in his mind and activated the spell, and then darted into the far corner. He shivered violently as heat flooded out of his body. The temperature in the cell dropped dramatically, until his breath froze in the air. The stone beneath his s spell began to glow with heat. His teeth chattered and his toes and fingers grew numb.

Finally, the lines of Fire Rock exploded under the focused heat, shattering the wall and sending shards of stone flying across the cell. The wall collapsed into a pile of rubble. Without a moment’s pause, he darted to freedom. A rogue sorcerer could not be contained by mere walls.