Vignette Contest: August

[Revenant]

Welcome to all Althanas writers, new and old alike. August will see the return of Althanas’ monthly vignette contest.

What are vignettes you ask? They're single post short stories written about a given prompt. Everyone can post their entry in this thread and at the end of August all entries will be judged and the top three will be selected for prizes! Don’t worry about not winning a prize however, as everyone will receive exp just for posting.

Here's the rules:

1) One submission per character. Multiple accounts by the same author are allowed though.
2) All entries must be made during the month of August. Editing your posts, even to completely change your submission, is permitted as long as all edits are made within the contest's time frame.
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.

August isn’t quite here yet, but I’m going to open the thread early. Here's this month's prompt:

Your character is, for whatever reason, out walking the streets at night when they hear a scream.

[SirArtemis]

"What a long day..." Artemis mumbled to himself, pulling his cloak tight around his body. Finishing up at the Norlond Forge, the dwarves had already left for the day. Bazzak had instructed him to stay a bit later and finish reworking the longsword he was practicing on one last time before heading home. He was getting better with the metalwork, but the hours were truly exhausting.

He packed up and slid the door open, the wind rushing past as a reminder of the season. It was winter in Salvar and to say it was cold would be a tremendous understatement. Walking out of the Norlond Forge, the young man locked up the building and left for The Bearded Gnome, hoping to eat a good meal before heading to sleep.

The temperature change came as a shock; the transition from the warmth of the smithy to the air outside was never easy. The shift made the weather outside more uncomfortable than it usually was, but he trudged on. Every step crunched as a fresh powdering of wet snow compacted beneath the man's weight. He was the only one in the deserted streets, and his trail was the only one.

Knife's Edge was beautiful this time of year, though the temperatures made it difficult to admire. Light flurries fluttered through the air while lights lit up the darkened streets; night came early during the winter season, worsening the cold by hiding the sun's warmth. Lamps hung outside of homes and shops, which gave the streets a golden glow, making the road look like a story-tale pathway to some foreign land.

However, it was the time of the Winter Festival and the entire city felt a bit warmer. Colorful lengths of cloth hung between buildings creating the illusion that the entire city had been tied in a beautiful bow. Some homes had windows near the front, and peeking in would show a family gathered around a fire, sharing a generously sized meal and laughing and smiling.

As Artemis meandered through the memorized path to the tavern, his dark attire matching the darkness of the night sky, he heard a scream from a few homes ahead of him. It sounded like a woman's voice and the shout was shrill and brief. Concerned, Artemis ran forward a small distance to ensure everything was okay, and peeking in through the front window he saw a man and woman embracing. Beside them was another glowing fire, an old couple quietly clapping happily and looking up at the embracing pair nearby.

'Perhaps he just proposed?' Artemis thought, relieved that no one was in danger.

He watched a young girl, hopping up and down, tugging on the woman's dress. Perhaps it was her sister, excited to see her older half finally engaged. Artemis didn't know, and he really didn't care. Pulling the cloak tightly around himself again, he walked back off toward the tavern.

He didn't have a family to come home to, and though some of his newer friends of Knife's Edge felt like family, it just wasn't the same. He remembered years ago when he had a similar home to return to, but all that was lost. He was alone, and the very thought would have brought a tear to his eyes had the frigid air not dried them out so. He was cold, so cold, and nothing could warm him up: not the flames of the Norlond Forge, not the embrace of Jay, not even the delicious meals of Harki's tavern. It was all for naught.

Artemis felt alone and not even the largest crowd could change that.

He walked the streets shrouded in darkness, blending into nothingness as everyone else carried on with their lives. It was almost like Artemis was locked out of their world, destined to wander aimlessly while others lived happily ever after.

[Raithwell]

Erik Raithwell, called Raith by almost everyone who still knew him, walked leisurely through the night shrouded streets of Underwood. Celeste, his daughter, had long since turned in for the night and Raith, unable to sleep himself, had taken to walking the dim, shadowy paths to pass the time. A small part of him, the part that needed Celeste to exist, cried out in protest at the thought of leaving her alone and defenseless in their small room at the Peaceful Promenade, but Raith knew that refusing to ever leave her would only smother the girl, and smothering the girl would lead to resentment. Besides, the emotional anchor that attached him to her would let him know if anything was wrong with his daughter.

Raith was a spirit, a ghost. He had died twenty years earlier when a freak storm had tossed him from his fishing boat to drown in the seas off the coast of Corone. He had come back only recently, anchored to Althanas’ Anti-Firmament by the only two things left in the world that held any significance for him, his fishing boat, and his daughter Celeste.

Celeste had been a baby when Raith had died, barely out of her swaddling. It had taken him some time to track her down when he reformed in his new existence, but he had doggedly pursued her with the unwavering tenacity of a man who literally has nothing else to do. He hadn’t found his fishing boat yet, but he could feel the thin emotional anchor tying him to it from some great distance. Someday he and Celeste would set off to find it together, father and daughter, a team.

“Ah Celeste,” he sighed, looking up into the muted, blurry reflections of the twinkling stars that filled the Anti-Firmament’s sky. He spoke aloud with the candor of someone who had no need to fear that anyone would accidentally overhear him, his voice as invisible as his body to anyone who could not see across the veil separating life and death. “What am I going to do with you?”

Celeste’s life had been rough and abusive, a horrible life for anyone to have lived. How many times had Raith’s inner shadow, the roiling blackness of self-destructive emotions within him, reminded him of that? The oily whisper creeping up on him in the night and trying to convince him that all of her problems were his fault, that she would be better off not having to life with such pain. Raith abhorred the thought, fighting against his shadow’s sinister influence at every turn. But sometime, in the black of night when he watched Celeste sleep, it made perfect sense to him. That, he knew, was the real reason he walked at night.

Suddenly, a hoarse cry cut through the night, shaking Raith from his morbid reverie. It was a man’s cry, deep and strangled, but it was terrible, and it echoed far longer than it should have. Wasting no time, Raith plunged towards the sound, drawing on his reserves of emotional vigor to thin his body out and make it incorporeal enough to pass through the intervening houses. It was a draining task but there was something about the cry that filled him with a sense of urgency.

Houses and walls flew past Raith, sleeping couples and house pets whose slightly disturbed dreams would be their only indication that he had ever been there. But though he crossed half the town of Underwood, that man’s scream never once faltered, and never stopped. And when Raith arrived in that cold, star denied alleyway he understood why the scream went on and on. A man sat slumped on the ground, a man who's rough face and rougher demeanor were known to Raith. He had seen the man around Underwood, not surprising given that most of Raith's time was taken up by observing what went on in the world of the living, though Raith could not remember ever hearing the man's name. He was a vagrant, one of the thuggish grifters who wandered the streets living off of the charity of the kind-hearted and the laxness of the town guard. But it wasn't the slumped grifter that had drawn Raith across town, it was the other grifter standing over him. The other grifter who wore the same rough cut coat and ill-fitting cap, who wore the same rough face, who was the exact same as the slumped over drifter in every detail. Most notably in the bleeding wound that oozed from his chest.

Raith looked on solemnly as the man screamed down at his own body, a scream that Raith could now recognize as one of pain and disbelieving horror. Now he knew why more lights had not been lit, why more sleepers had not been woken in a cold sweat by the horrible scream. Only someone who could hear the voice of a spirit could hear that piercing shriek.

Only Raith.

[TwinCast]

A scream pierced the night before it was followed by a fit of laughter. Moving through the crowds Aislinn pulled the hem of her cloak hood higher up. While she hated such nightly festivals, she understood their importance. With summer coming to a blissful end, fall would some come, and with it the winter. This would be the first winter in which she would not be asking her friend, the apothecary Pierce to house nor, nor would she be healing during the winter for room and board in some strange village.

It was a marked change, for while she had endured much in her time in the caves of the Tomb, she had finally found a home. Her eyes scanned the casual crowds, and she couldn’t bring herself to wear the usual scowl that would frighten would be passerby into avoiding her. With the future she had seen and known coming to ever forward, she had given her uncle a sizable advantage in planning out his escapade.

In doing so, she also knew these people would have little to celebrate in the coming months.

Being a witch she had visions from time to time, and at the behest of a partner in crime by the name of Jensen Ambrose, she had learned how to pierce the veil of time at will. In doing so she had seen events, the colored ones being a changeable future, while those set in black and white, were the future, written into the annals of history already. She had seen much death and destruction, and it was her task to find the colored patches, before she would prepare to save as many lives during those periods as possible.

It also meant she would often spend a bit of time outdoors to cool her head after so many visions.

Tonight was different though. While taking her usual stroll through the more public areas of Radasanth, she had found a small market festival, celebrating the meteor showers that flooded the Coronian Sky this time of year. Young children were excited to be up well past their usual bed times, and a few couples sought the perfect romantic time to explore feelings. Feelings of lust and perhaps genuine love, but these were feelings that Aislinn herself had no desire to pursue.

That was, until she had encountered the vendor.

He had moved swiftly putting the vial under her nose. She partly blamed her lack of reflexes, and also blamed the lack of her usual scowl. Someone of such dubious means of selling would certainly be put off by someone who looked ready to yell angrily, and in letting down her guard she found herself suffering. Her head felt so very light as she smelled the contents of the vial by instinct, he mind already processing the contents as her eyes widened and a shriek left her own mouth.

“I tell you, these are the finest Moontae Pheromones I have ever seen! Guaranteed to put anyone in the mood within minutes! Quite a steal at only a one gold piece!” The vendor seemed to be reciting his lines almost by rote, and Aislinn was more than certain the man had no belief in his stock.

That was, until she felt her body flush.

Now, she had felt lust before, and she knew how her body acted when excited, but this, went far beyond that. Her mind had suddenly turned into a mush, while she fought to put her body in check. A hand went to her forehead where she felt a thin layer of perspiration. This was no mean feat, for she always dressed lightly, with no concern for the weather. If she was hot, this had to be her body’s rise in temperature. Her skin also took on an almost painful sensitivity, the clothing she did wear sending miniature shocks through her system, and forcing her to become even more aware of the condition she was in. Pushing the vial away she hissed, “You fool! You have the real thing! Bottle that up before you start an orgy!”

The man quickly corked the vial as his face paled, even as Aislinn clutched her staff tightly. She leaned upon it, even as dark lust filled thoughts pushed to the forefront of her mind. A soft moan escaped her lips as she felt for the first time an uncontrollable wave of desire. Gripping her hand tightly the man quickly looked at her apologetic, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know! I thought the guy was shady when he sold it to me, and I didn’t expect it to act like that!”

“How-“ Aislinn stopped herself from turning the pertinent question into a proposal, even as the torches shed their light in the street way. People continued past as she clutched the bottle and looked clinically at it. There was a highly viscous fluid in the vial, that matched the reports of what she knew were pheromones. Finally holding onto the professional detachment, “How many people have you forced this into their system?”

“Maybe one or two others?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

“Two tops. I know for certain one other couple came through and I had the girl sniff the vial, she of course wandered off with her boyfriend. Why?”

“Not enough for a pandemic, good. Now you-“ She pointed firmly at the man. So many thoughts on how to end that phrase ran through her mind, and she was trying hard to keep herself from succumbing to the lust, even as it crawled through her veins, slithering along her spine, and making her notice just how young the man looked, and how if his hair was only a tad shorter…

…she wanted to murder him, “Never open that thing again, unless you have sold it to someone. I must go…”

The man looked upon her with a keen eye before he said, “Well what’s the cure for the people who have taken a hit?”

Aislinn froze realizing with terror the answer to the question. While it had taken her a long time to dissect the pheromones, she had no problem in identifying the only known cure, mainly because her body craved it like no other. She was more than certain this was the feeling of coming into heat that Felcitiy, her twin sister, had to endure occasionally due to her animalistic form.

Looking over her shoulder briefly, she spoke harshly, “A nights rest. Now excuse me while I leave!” The words were by far hastier than she intended. She moved towards the caves quickly, hoping to escape to her room before she decided the lust was driving her insane, and sought any method available to sate it.

She also silently prayed Jensen didn’t see her in this state, because she wasn’t sure she could avoid his advances if he tried…

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“Master got me working…” Jensen sang. “Working in the caverns!” He continued as he placed his hammer down wiping his sweat on the sleeve of his shirt. Looking to his handy work he smiled in triumph. Ta’gaz had asked the immortal if he would build him new structurally sound training dummies, as William Arcus went berserk on them a few days ago. Now that the evening had come the knight was looking forward to a good night’s rest. Stephanie and Azza were at home waiting for him, and he felt particularly proud.

Until of course he heard another scream. That was the third one in a half hour. Angrily he dropped the hammer on the padded floor, the saw dust drifting into the air like a dust cloud as he narrowed his eyes into two slits of hate. Cassandra Remi was once again, up to her midnight tricks.

God’s did the immortal loathe that woman. He loathed her more than he did William Arcus. And he hated that guy! Stuffing his work shirt into a duffel bag the knight took a few practice strikes at the dummy, feeling the newly added weight resist his worst blows. Nodding to himself in triumph he lifted himself up and put all the tools into the canvas satchel to return to the woodworkers cave of Sei’s army.

Another moan to end the terror filled the air and he looked to the hallways that led down to Cassandra’s room. Silently he began to think of what he should do. Azza was up for only another hour, and Stephanie had a mission in the morning. He couldn’t waste time on bothering the midnight monster. He pulled his boots over his feet and sat up with a clap, leaning over to grab the satchel. Another sharp intake of breath and Jensen couldn’t stand it anymore. The bitch had to go.

He donned his jacket, fluidly letting the arms wrap around his shoulders as he felt the weight settle and moved towards the hallway. What he saw was quite possibly the worst thing he could ever imagine, worse than even Cassandra Remi going to town on a victim, worse than William’s messy fighting style, and far, far worse than Sei’s attempt at potato soup.

It was even threatening the sanctity of the noodle incident, so terrible was what he witnessed.

On the ground, hunched in a corner in the shadows was a red head, a small black cat looking to her intently as the tail flitted back and forth gently.

It’s going to be okay, Sis! Felicity told her sister. It will pass out of your system, trust me! Just got to get a grip of yourself!

Jensen eyed what Felicity was looking at with open orbs, his mouth ajar as he could not process what he saw clearly. Was Aislinn touching herself in her naughty bits?

“Whoa…” Jensen whispered loudly. Felicity turned on the spot, hissing as her tail furrowed and her claws came out. “What’s up with her, Fuzz Ball?”

“That Jensen?” Aislinn asked.

“Not a good time, immortal. Take a hike!” Jensen shook his head, unable to believe his luck.

“Oh, no this is too good to waste!” Jensen said stepping forward. “What’s up Aislinn, you look ready to…blow your load.” Jensen lifted his hands to his hips shaking his head. “How such an upstanding woman like yourself can fall so far into depravity. Who’s the hunky piece of meat you want to fuck?”

Aislinn tried to keep her calm as she looked away from Jensen, her cheeks red with embarrassment, but something was keeping her hands moving over her body. If the situation wasn’t so funny he would probably get excited. Oddly enough he began to wonder why he wasn’t getting excited by the mystic. She wasn’t a bad looker as far as he was concerned. Her tits were in the right place…Oh GLORIOUS were the tits in that right place as he observed her lower her shirt to rub them. Kyla’s ass was way hotter though.

Yet…it did nothing for the immortal. He wasn’t getting his blood moving. He looked down on Jensen Jr., debating whether to poke it a couple times to see if it fell asleep on him. Now mortified that he wasn’t aroused by a woman who was practically stripping for him in her crude show of deprevation the immortal felt like screaming.

“Jensen…please…just…” Aislinn tried to resist the immortal, tried to resist the potion in her veins and the intoxicating power it gave her. Then like a damn crumbling her passion was let out as she lifted herself moving upon the immortal quickly. “Fuck me! Just fuck me, Jensen! Take me, I don’t care how!” She was already fighting to lower her loincloth.

“AHHHH!” Jensen screeched, turning to run away. “What the hell is wrong with you lady?” Jensen shouted. “Get away from me! I don’t want your milkshakes!”

“Oh no you don’t immortal! This is partly your fault with all those sleazy things you said, and those crass actions. Now I want them all done to me, now!” Aislinn protested, pulling Jensen forcefully to the wall. Her eyes scanned his, then started looking down as her hand reached for his belt.

“Ugh! Stop, stop, stop!” Jensen cried out, his fingers nimbly fighting hers. The battle was fast and furious, but the immortal was no match for her drive. Her sexual drive that was. It surpassed his as she swatted his hand away, unbuttoning his pants and lowering the zipper. He kneed Aislinn in the stomach, hopping away.

“Get over here, immortal!” Aislinn said in a husky tone. “I can play rough if that is what you desire! I’d rather we just get it over with, but I can foreplay too!”

“Run!” Jensen shouted to himself. “Gotta run, kids and all. You remember my extremely jealous girlfriend Stephanie, right?” Jensen was tackled as Aislinn lifted her top off and used it to choke Jensen. “Ack, losing air!”

“This is rather kinky. I can see why people enjoy it!” Aislinn whispered as her tongue began darting into the side of his ear.

“Aislinn, get a hold of yourself! FUZZ BALL!” Jensen hollered. Like a whirling dervish Felicity pounced, her claws digging deep into flesh as she scratched with all the fury of an enraged battle kitten! Of course her target was Jensen’s face. “Not me, get her off me!”

“HOW DARE YOU TAKE ADVANTAGE OF MY SISTER, I’LL KILL YOU!” The cat completely ignoring that not more than a few months ago she had tried to convince Jensen to seduce her sister and give her the happy ending. Jensen was lost for words. His only companion was Felicity, and she seemed to have sided with Aislinn on the crazy train.

“Whatever, tonight is all about the passion. You want to include my sister, fine! Just take me Ambrose!” Aislinn’s tone was full of seduction, so husky, so beyond the normal limits of human control. She was a slave to this potion. Jensen was screwed…literally and figuratively.

At last he managed to roll and get to his feet, the half naked Aislinn chasing after him. “AHHHHHHHH!” Jensen was screaming like a girl, his blood singing as he ran. There was no desire to sleep with Aislinn. His dick was so far shoved up his own body that it refused to come out and see the scary monster.

“Erectile dysfunction is nothing to be ashamed of Jensen! I can cure it!” Aislinn shouted after him, Felicity darting around a corner and running off towards the family district. At the mention of his sudden complications Jensen screeched to halt, turned on a dime, and lifted his hand out slapping Aislinn across the face.

“I do not have issues with Jensen Jr.!” The knight said angrily. The slap did something for Aislinn, a wild smile on her face as she pounced the immortal.

“Treat me like you paid me!” Aislinn whispered into his mouth as her tongue tried to dart in.

“RAPMMPH!” Jensen tried to shout through muffled cries. “HELP!” he let out. “I’m getting raped!” Jensen cries were akin to a child who dropped their ice cream cone. Whiney, and not really garnering much sympathy.

“If you’d stop struggling I’d be able to fix all your problems. I’ll be your slave, Jensen!” Aislinn was seductive with her touch, her lips kissing his body as she ran fingers along is nipples snaking her way to his pants. As hot as this all should have been the immortal wanted nothing more than a cold shower. Ailsinn was creeping the hell out of the immortal.

“JENSEN AMBROSE!” Came the ear piercing shrill cry of a voice he knew all to well. Silently he thanked the gods. In a matter of seconds he wouldn’t be thanking them.

“Daddy’s in trouble…” Azza whispered. Felicity nodded her kitten like head. Adorable coming from a cat. Stephanie’s foot connected hard across Aislinn’s temple, knocking the woman out cold as she kneed her unconscious form off the immortal before mounting him and slamming fist after fist after fist into his face.

“How-dare-you-touch-another-woman-you-cheating-son-of-a-bitch!” The words flowed through her clenched teeth, until the bloody face of Jensen managed to push her off.

“Did I forget to mention that Aislinn was under the effects of a potent love potion?” Felicity at last purred. Stephanie’s eyes turned on the cat, filled with hatred and rage. “If anything I noticed he was having trouble just getting ’it’ up around my sister.” Felicity looked at Jensen with a sinister smile.

Stephanie turned to the cat and began crawling over to it. Busy being smug about Jensen’s beating she was to late to avoid the hand that gripped her collar as Stephanie yanked her up to her face. “You convinced me my boyfriend was cheating on me, when the entire time it was YOUR STUPID SISTER!” Stephanie was screaming so loud. Before the cat could come up with an excuse (as that was all she had) Stephanie chucked her into Azza’s arms.

“Love the kitty, Hunny. Squeeze it extra tight!” Stephanie said turning to her lover and holding her hand out. “And learn never to cheat on me.” She added as she helped him pick up Aislinn and escort her to her room.

Azza squeezed Felicity the whole time, trying to shove bread into her mouth as she called the feline Mr. Snuffles. Jensen patted his girl on the head telling her cats love it when you pull their tails. The chorus was like music to their ears. When they tucked Aislinn in they at last had Azza relinquish Felicity. Stephanie picked up Azza and the trio walked back home. The female knight leaned into Jensen, whispered something in his ear and kissed his cheek. The immortal processed her words, kissed her back and rubbed his hands greedily together. Jensen Jr. was happy to come back and play.

((Way to inspired to pass that up, Pat. If it needs to go, I'll do it.))

[Duffy]

The Howling

How did we arrive, how did we convalesce?
Fortune has abandoned us now we are here,
Left to the son of the red fanged prophet,
Abandoned to fend for ourselves, alone
with the Howling…
the Howling comes.

We ask questions of our intent, our chances,
How can we survive the night watchman’s wrath?
Crawling through the mud, the reckoning wind,
Here it comes like a behemoth sour, alone
with the Howling…
the Howling comes…

Why have we been set upon by Evil’s masque?
Run children, run father, run mother, run son!
Our maker’s beast comes hard through the shadows,
Help us lord, save us from the ravening claws!
The Howling comes…
For us it comes…

[Vat'Clefor]

“I was walking those dark, damnable streets when I heard the scream. It was a cold scream, long and sharp, and it pierced me mind like a spear. But for all its terribleness there was a hint of familiarity to it, like there was something to it that I should have recognized but only fluttered at the edge of my consciousness, subtle and imperceptible.

“It’s true that you would think nothing of that oddity, I can see it in your eyes. You would dismiss the familiarity of the scream as the fanciful imaginations of an old man whose mind has long since travelled to distant and better places. And while your supposition may be correct in most normal cases, there is one thing that you forget when speaking to me. For I am Vat’Clefor Orlouge, born of the blood of the Ancient Mystics and scion to their treasures. Where my brothers and sisters were born with many strange and varied gifts, none we as useful as the gifts my blood bequeathed to me; the gift of knowledge.

“You still harbor doubt. No, there’s no denying it, I can see it written on your face as plain as if you were speaking the words to me right here and now. No, I’m not reading your mind, though I could do so if I wanted. There’s no need for me to do so with one as open and expressive as you. Very well, if it will make this any easier for you to believe then I shall tell you the entire tale.

“I am grateful for the room that my great-great-grand nephew has given me in his so-called Tomb. It is far more than I deserve given my history with my brother, but that is a different matter altogether and I don’t want to muddy the waters any further with its telling at this juncture. Needless to say, I am grateful for the room that this Sei has given to me and we shall leave it at that.

“As grateful as I am, however, it is my damnable curse to be saddled with a mind that thirsts like the hunger of the vampire rulers of Lavinia that I have read so much about. Did you know that that the people of the country have two universal rules with which they adhere to? It is a well documented fact that has been referenced by both Baudelaire and Volo in their … but of course. You must forgive me; I get easily sidetracked when it comes to academic matters. The point I was trying to illustrate is that my power over knowledge is both a blessing and a curse. I can never forget anything that I have learned, and can recall in an instant the minutest detail of the most minor thing imaginable, but at the same time I must constantly feed the burning hunger within my brain for more fuel.

“Because of my more violent, outbursts shall we say, and the havoc that they can cause, Sei has put a somewhat restrictive guard over my comings and goings from the Tomb. It’s all good and well to have his maddened relative wandering about where his army of eyes and ears can keep watch, but his confidence in me quickly deteriorates when that is not the case.

“Does that surprise you? That the high and honorable Hero of Radasanth should want to keep a feeble old man under lock and key? Well it shouldn’t, and if you had glimpsed the mere fragments of what I have allowed Sei to see about myself, they you would never have dared to sit this close to me. Yes well, you may have your doubts about my veracity in this matter, but I can assure you that there are some forms of madness that is contagious. Still, Sei does not like to have me wandering around Radasanth on my own. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?

“Being under constant lock and key, however, isn’t all that conducive to my condition. Sei finds plenty of time to sit with me and converse, filling my mind with his views of the world to sate my hunger, but Sei is not always here. I have already perused everything in his library, locked away every scrap of lore that can be found written down in this place so what am I to do when the hunger rears its head and there is no relief in sight? Yes of course that’s why I left the Tomb. Did you think that I would leave my room and all the warding sigils that I have carved there for anything less? There is a reason, girl, why I always keep this token with me, and why I have anointed the very flesh of my body with its purpose and meaning. Scoff all you like, fling your baseless accusations of madness and conspiracy at me if it pleases you, but I know the truth. The secret truth that lies hidden behind your flesh and bone, just waiting to be pried loose and set free upon this unsuspecting world. I know the truth damn you for I cannot forget!

“Of course, of course, please accept my apologies. Yes that was just one of my minor outbursts. You see now that I was correct when I told you that there are frightening, secret things about me that you would do better than to delve into. Needless to say, I do not leave the protection of my room lightly not only for my protection but for everyone else’s as well.

“The night though, the night air was calling to my fever licked brain. It had come upon me at a most inopportune time and there was no way to deny its incessant call. Despite Sei’s orders and instructions regarding my incarceration, it was easy enough for me to make my way outside. You would be amazed at what a little mental pressure can get a person to do. Yes, I’m certain that Sei could do it as well if he chose to, and I sometimes think my descendant to be a fool for not fully using the powers that he was born with. But again I find myself sidetracked, drawn once more from the course of my tale by your insufferable curiosity.

“As I said, it was easy enough for me to slip the bonds that Sei has chained me with and to make my way into the woods of Radasanth Park beyond. My mind was alight with the sensations that I experienced, memorizing the cut of the evening breeze as it angled through the trees, and the particular sounds that individual leaves made beneath my unshod feet. But it was the night sky that entranced me most and brought the fullness of my horror back into my mind. The stars have changed so little since the time of my birth, and yet they have changed so much. I cannot look up into that knighted abyss anymore without know full well what is looking back at me when I do so, and the very thought turns my blood to ice within my veins. But despite my terror, despite the overwhelming desire I felt to return to the safety of my warded room, the fever in my brain drove me recklessly onwards. But there was nothing the fever could do to stop my return once the screaming started.

“I had walked quickly through the forest, desiring any escape that I could find from those ominous, unblinking eyes that watched my every movement from the dark sky above. My fingers flew just as swiftly to the warding amulet about my neck, for which I have no doubt I own my life. You see, I had barely crossed three streets into Radasanth when I first heard the scream. It was damnably close to me, echoing off the storefront at my side. I knew that I was not alone in hearing that keening wail, for the building’s late night shop keep turned to give the same look of surprise and horror that welled up in my breast.

“I could see them then, the inky shapes moving in the darkness, coalescing into forms too horrible and to alien to recount. Did you know that we exist only in the curves of space and time but that there are creatures that live in the angles that we cannot perceive? It’s true I tell you, damnably true. They catch your scent and then follow you everywhere, emerging from the corners and coalescing where shape meets shape. Why else do you think I carved my room into a sphere, answer me that? They cannot get to me if there are no angles for them to emerge from! But out there, alone in the darkness I saw them. I saw them damn you, the Hounds, the Hounds of Tindalos coming for me. No, I say, they were not the shapes of people in the darkness, they were the Thayne damned Hounds!

“Answer me then, if you can, why they pursued my reckless flight back through the Park? Who else but the Hounds could loose that accursed scream which followed me all the way back to the Tomb? They watch me from outside time, damn you! That’s how they know me. That’s how they could make that scream which sounds so familiar to that you mistook it for my own!

“The Hounds are coming damn you! They are coming for me!”

*The Hounds of Tindalos were originally created by Frank Belknap Long and are open works that were incorporated by H.P. Lovecraft into his Cthulhu Mythos.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Rusty, very rusty ><. But trying to work my way back into the groove...

The town of Nenaebreth, central Raiaera, approximately two weeks after the defeat of Xem’zund…

The stars shone but dimly that night, the waning moon a mere crescent sliver in the northwest quadrant of the troubled skies. Tall roiling clouds travelled with great urgency through the darkness overhead, casting long scurrying shadows on the equally desolate landscape below. The grasses waved solemnly back with every breath of bitingly cold wind, the unseasonable chill – slowly receding remnant of the Necromancer’s deathly grasp over the land – banishing all other movement upon the moor to hushed whispers and muted trails.

The town was a textbook example of typically elegant Elven architecture, tall thin spires and gracefully curved walls and wide paved thoroughfares lined with late-blooming greenery. Long months under occupation by the Forgotten One’s mercenaries had taken unmistakable toll upon the architecture and the decor, but enough time had passed after the settlement’s liberation for a few brave signs of recovery to be visible, sprouting like hardy wildflowers here and there amongst the buildings. A token force of Elythisian Sentinels garrisoned the castle keep in the centre of the town, while the main body of their legion marched eastwards to the River Escaldor in an attempt to stall the advance of their darker Alerian kin.

The hour was late, and only a handful remained active to walk the ill-tended boulevards. Of those who did dare to weave their way in and out of the lonely pools of light cast by scattered islands of inhabitation, one was a solitary figure tattered and forlorn, a pitiful sight that instinctively stuck to the shadows wherever possible and avoided eye contact with those few who walked past him.

He was caked from head to toe in mud both fresh and dried, accented by accumulated detritus from the swampy waters of the Alye Duina and the red leaves of the Lindequalme, sharp rock fragments from the Emyn Naug and black sands from the Tel Moranfauglir. Taken as a whole, the debris that garlanded his garments wove a fascinating tale of the treacherous trail he had walked in the past weeks, if anybody could bring themselves to look beyond the incredible stench that he carried like a defensive veil about him.

Those who were resolute enough to look closer found themselves staring at an emaciated young man, his ragged clothes hanging limply off a scrawny, underfed frame. They had once been a white and fairly well-kept martial tunic of distinctly Eastern influence, swathed in a blue cloak adept at warding off the elements. But the cloak had been lost amongst the raging currents of the Elleduin, and now the tunic was torn in more places than its wearer dared to count from branches and stones and the implements of war. His boots had once been of fine light leather, but were nearly unrecognisable as such, so many were the holes and scruffs that marred their surface. A keen eye would have been able to spot the distinctive wave-marks upon the cotton shirt where heavy mithril armour had once been worn, and the angry rips on his forearm where a loyal familiar sent away had made one last attempt at trying to defy his master’s stupor.

Looking closer still, an interested observer could begin to pick out the distinguishing features that had once marked out the forlorn figure as a man, scholar, and warrior. A waterproof pouch on his belt that was welded shut with dried mud, a set of two short swords at his back that had obviously not seen action in a while, a pair of battered spectacles that perched precariously at the very tip of his nose, a golden pendant worn on a locket around his neck and clasped tightly between the skeletal fingers of his bloodied left hand. It was difficult to see from even here how he had managed to navigate such dangerous territory as the Raiaeran hinterlands, on his own, in such a terrible state.

And then, if one finally managed to get close enough to sneak a look into his face, one would finally realise how. There was nothing left there – a shell of a husk of a shadow of what had once been a person – except for just about enough of a spark in the depths of his sensitive eyes to determine that it had been nothing but stubborn force of will, sheer bloody-mindedness towards a single goal, that had sustained him and driven him through the remnant horrors of the war’s aftermath. The skeletal contours of his brow were not merely haunted, but thoroughly desecrated by what he had been through. There was no life left, only sorrow so deep that those who were unlucky enough to gaze upon it felt as if they would never feel any joy again.

In him, the taint of Xem’zund had well and truly left a mark. In him, a trace of the Necromancer’s legacy lived on.

The ghastly figure seemed to be headed through Nenaebreth, rather than towards any point in it; the streets, the buildings, and all the frivolous trappings of civilisation only happened to be the latest scenery on the road to whatever destination he was headed to. In fact, he barely seemed aware of his surroundings, more than once stumbling upon a stray rock or bumping into a wall before using it to support himself along the path. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, he’d nearly made it through the town and out the other side before disaster struck.

Inevitably, it was a young girl. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, an elf-maiden barely into her teens who’d experienced the full horror of the flight from Eluriand and the refugee camps in Anebrilith. Inevitably, as well, she was still a pretty thing despite it all; even the forlorn traveller, in his barely cognisant state, recognised that.

The door opened in front of him, abruptly and jarringly. Her face popped out, followed by her slender body and finally an empty pail of water obviously destined to be filled at the well in the centre of town. She was smiling for a moment, and then, when their eyes met by pure, sheer chance, she was screaming.

For an instant, he didn’t know how to react, and behind what little shock his mind could muster, a little voice wondered why she was screaming so. It took a little while longer for it to realise that she was screaming at him, and that he was simply too tired to care.

She was still screaming as he gave her a wan smile, a smile that was as bleak as the lonely trek he had made halfway across the continent towards his unseen goal.

She was still screaming when he disappeared just like that into the wilderness, and the dark night claimed him once more for its own.

She was still screaming when the Sentinels arrived but minutes later, wondering what could have caused such a commotion.

She only stopped screaming long after the rumours began to fly, that Ingwe Helyanwe still lived… though nobody knew for sure just what price he had paid.

[Wings of Endymion]

Winyaurient, Citadel in the Clouds, northern Raiaera, the next night…

“I can’t believe you did that.”

Yuka Kanamai was not known for raising her voice, especially in anger. But the adamantine undertone she wielded like an unsubtle sledgehammer was clue enough to her companion not to mince his words any more. Distorted by the containment wards of the nearby arcane machinery, amplified back to her by the lengthy enclosed hallways that doubled as streets in this womb-like world, it was vaguely reminiscent of the powerful inflections used by sorcerers the world over to enact their spells. Of course, in her case at least, that assessment wasn’t too far off the mark.

Belatedly the young woman began to walk again, padding softly but swiftly across the polished marble floors. Her shoulder-length black hair, unadorned and let loose, jolted purposefully upon her neck with every stride; her eyes like bright onyx were fixated on the corridor ahead of her, intentionally kept away from the gilded mirrors that adorned the walls to either side. Her choice of clothing did much to emphasise her slender silhouette as she passed through the dimly lit shadows, the hem of her tunic trousers rasping silently against the floor, her thin cotton top clinging tightly to her skin as she moved.

“You knew all this, and you were keeping it from me…?”

The walls abruptly began to reverberate in the background, the mana engines powering the levitation fields that kept this particular citadel hanging in the skies screaming the hour as they sent a fresh pulse of energy through the ancient systems. Some castles had their churches and bell towers; Winyaurient had its arcane machinery. Its denizens either got used to the cacophony after a while or were driven to abandon their holdings, but thanks to Dwarven skill and tradecraft, the potent whines were at least adept at keeping the time.

The mirrors that hung the length of the passageway shook as well, rattling like frozen teeth in time to the beat of the castle’s heart. Only when the vibrations subsided did the blurry visage next to Yuka’s reflection, conspicuous by the absence of its counterpart in the real world, regain focus. The image of a handsome young man clad in flowing robes of distinctly Nipponese origin kept pace with her movements, carefully groomed amber hair and powerful blue eyes discretely allowing her to take the lead and thus channel her aggression elsewhere.

“I was waiting for confirmation,” his suave voice tried to assuage from the shadows. “There was no evidence to suggest that…”

“To suggest that he fought against one of the most powerful necromancers that this world has known, went missing presumed dead for two whole weeks, and only just yesterday was witnessed in Nenaebreth? I may be gullible, Thomas, but I’m not stupid…”

“As I said, Yuka, there was no evidence. I didn’t think he had it in him to go through with it, much less…”

“… much less survive?” She came to an abrupt halt and whirled in place, directing a fierce gaze into the glass. Even the ever-composed Thomas had to raise both hands in supplication, attempting to ward off her uncharacteristic ferocity.

“… much less lose his mind and wander the countryside like a common ghoul, scaring little girls out of their wits,” he tried to explain, eyes narrowing subtly as he identified something in Yuka’s expression that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t quite concern, it wasn’t quite fear… but whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“He wouldn’t do that intentionally,” she countered, eyes flashing defiantly. “Something’s happened, Thomas, and you know it. You may not like him much, but you do know him almost as well as I do… and between us, we probably know him better than anybody else in this whole world.”

“That’s not saying much,” Thomas pointed out, in the mock-playful manner that he knew would rile her further, and perhaps allow him to identify what was vexing her so. “It’s a miracle, really, that we still remember his face… also, that he’s still got a face for us to remember.”

“That’s not fair either, Thomas. You know what he’s like, always trying to take on more than he can handle and actually getting away with it most of the time. And just because he’s shy and respectful and thus the polar opposite of you, doesn’t mean that…”

“Alright, alright, enough already," her friend cut her off, tiring of the argument. "I told you what you wanted to know. It’s up to you what you want to do with that knowledge, but don’t involve me any further.”

The look that Yuka gave him again nearly pierced the glass, threatening to shatter it by sheer intensity alone. But Thomas – whether feigning or not – paid it little further attention. Arms hidden before him within the folds of his robes, his gaze had suddenly turned sober and extremely serious. The temperature in the pearly marble hallways dropped below freezing as he made it very clear that whatever news he delivered next, he was certainly not going to be playful about it.

“There’s something else that you need to know. About Maeril and Ar’zhanekkar, and what really happened to the last of Xem’zund’s Death Lords just before Caden Law finally off-ed the Forgotten One for good.”

Yuka listened carefully to what Thomas had to say, and her face too grew cold and stony.

Five minutes later, the young woman finally emerged from the passageways. Her route brought her into a terraced courtyard, an exquisitely cultivated garden wreathed with exotic flowers that blossomed beneath the fertile starlight. Her delicate features, however, took in none of this beauty; they remained deathly pale and set in grim determination, unchanged from when she had received Thomas’s final warning.

There was no sign anymore of the ghostly apparition that had previously walked alongside her. Instead, she recognised three more familiar faces amongst the scattered throngs that walked the courtyard, seated on the benches and awaiting her arrival: a stocky young man bedecked in lacquered red armour, and a pair of half-elven women with light blonde hair and fine features, one bearing a long slender staff and the other with a short bow slung across her shoulders. They rose as one from their positions as she approached, and she could tell from the tentative expressions on their faces that they already knew.

“We have to find him,” Yuka spoke with no further ado, trying to dismiss what Thomas's information from her mind in order to concentrate on the problem at hand. “We have to find him and save him…”

Before it’s too late.

[Knave]

I hear them; I hear everything. I hear the three on third floor of the tenement rutting with all the energy their bodies can give them, the pulse of beating hearts, masculine and feminine cries given to what I only sometimes consider human. Down stairs, I hear a story read aloud to children from their grandmother, and my mind fills in the gaps that agitated rustlings and wizened, thoughtfully crafted words leave of heroes and chivalry. Outside, beneath my window, I hear the cries, the pattering of feet and the stones they kick aside in the brutal dance of pursuit and pursuer.

I have been listening to them for the last half hour, the screams and grunts having gone on since I returned home from walking the streets as other men, living the life of an eternal impostor. My attention flickers as I stare up from my bed. ‘Which one to follow I‘ I wonder… ‘they are all so delicious, these human experiences.’ My hand twitches, my feet tense to move, yet I am not ready. Not quite ready to witness life in action from which to draw my inspiration.

I hear the stumbling, the crack of pipes on stone as someone large swings and misses. He curses. She screams. They run on to repeat this two more times before reaching the bend. My presence will not change the story greatly, and while the broadcasts my ears find me are sharp, they bleed together and I would much rather my eyes behold the tragedy in all its clarity. There is something in watching scenes of bitterness that bring back those days of mine upon the stage…

The chair squeals with joy as I stand and push it back. Lean and wiry as I am now, I am still quite heavy, and I can understand the seats relief at having me gone. I like to imagine that everything is not as it appears, thus I am not alone… and yet as I prepare to leave, I erase the identity I have chosen. My lips, which were full, tighten into lines, and fuse to leave me no mouth. I narrow my eyes in the mirror; they stay that way. I do not recognize myself; I haven’t for years, but now more so that I have removed all the trappings of human expression.

Donning my cloak, I open the window, and vanish through it onto a fire escape ironically made of wood; I land next onto the filth, my legs bending to absorb the shock, my head low to catch the scents that hang on summer’s air. The spirits have touched him, and the Devil’s Rum follows him in the air. She is on her period, and the perfume of baby’s vomit rides her thighs. I hate my nose. They stink of each other, and so I know that during the day they are together.

I run to catch up with the show with only the poor light of dim lantern posts to illuminate me. I follow the screaming, the smack of the back hand, the screaming curses, ”Motherfucker.” Radasanth usually has so many pleasant people; I have to admit it is nice to see them acting naturally. To remain out of sight, I pass through the shadows and the darkness their clings to me as I vanish down the alleyway. I am as invisible as I need to be, there is no light to reveal me, and I may watch at my pleasure while they show just who they are.

She stands unharmed, the bottle of rum now broken in her left fist. The shards of glass pepper her hand, but she does not know, or does not care. I circle, taking in her lithe frame, and sneering voice, his slurred raging as his hair grows damp with his own blood.

“Look at you, can’t even control yourself in public, and when you lose control you can’t even get it up enough to do anything with it.” She screamed, brandishing the bottle to protect her right to speak even the unsavory bits of truth. I retreat a few feet silently as she flails her hands in pain and aggravation. She‘s older than he is by a few year, I‘m lean in to examine her face, noting the beady eyes and half-cruel half-frightened expression. She does not notice me, though at this distance she could… no, he is the center of her world now. “They’re your boys, why is it I have to feed them? Why is it that when I do, you still cry like a child?” Her purple bodice heaves, the weight and pounding of the chest it contained straining it. The lack of modesty tells me she is no stranger to this setting… these streets.

The man stands, his swaying the result of either inebriation or concussion, and I would laugh if he were to fall. The eyes are different colors, their pupils different sizes, he could drop at any moment, and I expect he will, but he does not. No, as I live and breathe and sit upon these backdoor steps, he slurs his words, and finishes his sentence with a desperate, “Ye understand muh!” He is as naked as a man can be, all protruding belly and bulging briefs from the neck down, and I cannot imagine her not outrunning him…

She smacks him. It is not a tender thing, and his head turns under her palm. I feel sympathy for his pain, but touching my cheek, I never turn away. Its one of a dozen more that have made his face red with blood instead of sauce, and he looks like he is willing to fall, but he rears back, and knocks her to the side, instantly looking sorry, his mouth opening and closing as the words to apologize are lost to him.

Quick for revenge, she cuts him for his hand to her, running the edges of broken glass up the side of his head, breaking off even more. Blood spatters the concrete as he collapses, and dirt cakes him where he falls. Raising a hand to defend himself, he is kicked, and she enjoys it. There is no end in sight. There would be no exit that did not end in murder. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.” I say aloud, laying a hand on her shoulder.

She looks through me, expecting the obvious when the obvious is not there. I reveal myself, my carapace not that much different from the night, and spilt the skin over y teeth for a reassuring smile. The woman’s heart skips a beat out of fright. It stops as lightning flows through my hand. She goes limp instantly, as her nerves are set ablaze. It is always a bit too much to handle. She loses all continence. Dropping to her knees, her eyes stare up at me as I feel her pulse. I shock her again. Nothing. Electricity surges in her veins, and on the third try, I can feel a pulse. I let her fall; she is awake, dazed, confused, paralyzed, but awake.

The man uncovers his face, and sees only the woman. The expression he wears is one of anger, fear, relief, and sadness… he never sees me. Not when I lay my hand on his shoulder, not when I plant my sword in the cobbles between his legs. Not when I speak to him thusly, “Show me who you are.”

I watch as he sluggishly stands, and I watch as he makes an end to this story.

I don't normally touch 1st person, so if anyone has some feed back, I'd like to hear it.

[Silence Sei]

His journey through the streets of Radasanth was steadfast. Tonight, there would be no heroics, no strategies made for his Ixian Knights, and there was no battle important enough to miss this date. The cold wind stinging his face, he began to think that the Thayne themselves did not want him to reach his destination. He could hear the merriment all around, a beautiful (if but chilled) night in Radasanth. It was a time where all the torches held just the right amount of light, when all the stars cascaded down in a symphony of romance.

It was a time for lovers, not for heroes.

He found himself at his target rather quickly. Though it had seemed like hours, only minutes had passed from his Tomb to the stones that stood erect over the dirt mounds. Whenever he went out, he told his people not to follow him, ever. The stern words finding themselves in ones mind typically steered away the more stubborn soldiers. He walked through the area, both hands caressing the granite stones as he had done so. He closed his eyes and allowed the loose specks of gravel to fall off of his fingertips, harmlessly to the ground.

It took about half a mile for him to reach the end of this grisly area. He had made sure that all of the underbrush and perfect lighting from the city kept his cemetery hidden from the eyes of other. It took great skill to plant the bushes in the right spot, to find the perfect position where fresh dirt would not alert ones senses. It had taken him three years to set up the camouflage, and another two to make the tombstones. Some of the graves were completely empty. There wasn't anything left of those bodies to bury. A few of the monuments had cremated ashes, but only a few actually housed a corpse.

He turned to the stones, tears welling up in his eyes.

Terry Rouge. Kylin Rouge. Ryoki Nishoba. Leopold Stevens. Godhand Striker. Thoracis Rakarth. These were the people either confirmed dead, or presumed to be so. These had been some of his closest friends, his lover, his mentors. Now, they were nothing more than dust and bones.

Duffy Bracken. Allis Grave Nill. Talen Shadowalker. Arden Janelle. These were the names of people he had slain with his own hands. The guilt always found a way of rearing its ugly head back into his mind. To take a life was something he had to atone for. He had to honor these people. Despite the fact that these warriors had returned from their untimely demise, he still owed them a debt.

Several more stones were planted on the ground; names not chiseled and stained in blue blood as the others had been. These were the bears of Berevar, the Draves of Ixian Castle, the wolves in Concordia. Any beast he had to kill in order to either defend himself or others, there was a burial mound for each of them.

The pit of his stomach felt as if it were in his throat. He wanted to take it all back. He wanted it to be his life instead of theirs. If he didn't have so much he had to live for, that he had to protect, he would have willingly switched places with them. These thoughts drilled themselves into his head over and over again. He approached two stones beside one another.

Ryoki Nishoba and Kylin Rouge. His lover. His best friend. He gripped each of their tombstones as hard as he could. Blue blood drained onto the granite, the unmoving stones tearing into the fingertips. Taking in a deep breath, he let the tears pour out. He did the only thing he could do. The one thing he did every year. The thing nobody thought he could do.

Sei Orlouge screamed. And like last year, one of the most romantic nights in Radasanth became one of the most eerie. Once more, 'The Banshee of Radasanth' sung its haunting melody.

All in their honor.

[Revenant]

The man’s scream lit a fire in William’s blood, a fire that the Revenant had not felt in quite a while. He spent so much time on bended knee before Sei Orlouge now that he almost forgot what it felt like to run free and wild, letting his passions consume him. Not that he regretted the time spent ‘getting in touch’ with his human side as Sei would call it, but his human side was just that, one side of him. The other side, the one that stalked the streets of whatever nameless backwater gathering place he currently found himself in, craved the blood, fire, and destruction for which he had been birthed. Being placid and helpful was all good and well, but every now and then the demon in him needed a release.

Another scream from William’s terrified prey spurred the Revenant on. His demonic nature made him inhumanly strong and fast, so there would be no escape for the man. Still, William didn’t want his fun to end too soon, and slowed ever so slightly. There was enough blood on his claws already that he had worked through his immediate urge to kill. It was time to enjoy the wonderful bliss that came to a predator from stalking its prey.

There poor stupid fools had tried to defend themselves, initially. Half a dozen hastily armed militia men had confronted him at the outset. The laughable, clumsily wielded weapons they brandished proved to be no match for the steel hard bone of William’s claws or the savage aggression that drove the demonic creature. Their shaky morale broke as soon as he was among them, and then there was nothing left to stop the monster from claiming his prize.

Soon enough, however, William knew that his game would have to come to an end. The first rays of light were already beginning to climb over the distant horizon and, like it or not, William had a mission that he needed to get back to. Sighing wistfully, William brought the full brunt of his power to the fore, catching up to his prey in an instant. A quick thrust and a splash of hot blood on hotter skin cut the man’s final scream short. William paused, savoring the feel of the flesh and bone parting under the lightest touch of his razor-sharp fingers, knowing that another spirit had just been sent to the Pyre.

What would greet him upon his arrival to that fiery judgment, he wondered. Assuming the magic that had transformed him would allow him to die at all. Would he be judged poorly for his actions, or would the powers that be judge him heroically for fulfilling the purpose at the core of his existence? He didn’t know, and philosophy had never been a topic dear to his molten heart. Either he would one day find the answer or he wouldn’t. In the end, that was all that mattered.

Right now, as the light of dawn washed over him, William simply reveled in his kill.

[Revenant]

And this month's vignette contest comes to an end. The finalists, as judged by me, are as follows:

1 - SirArtemis (100 gp)
2 - Silence Sei (75 gp)
3 - Flames of Hyperios (50 gp)

Thank you to all who participated in this month's contest. September's contest is already underway. If you have any ideas for a monthly prompt, send it to me and maybe you'll get a month of your own.

Experience for participation as follows:
SirArtemis - 200
Raithwell - 100
Twincast - 150
Enigmatic Immortal - 400
Duffy Bracken - 300
Vat'Clefor - 100
Flames of Hyperion - 450
Wings of Endymion - 300
Knave - 100
Silence Sei - 600
Revenant - 300

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added