Round One

[Atzar]

Welcome to round one of the Vignette Tournament! The following is your prompt:

Your character has lost one of his five senses (sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch). Write a story that shows how he/she deals with this loss.

The details are up to you. You can decide which sense to forfeit, whether the loss is permanent, whether it is happening in your vignette or happened in the distant past.

For example, if you decide to lose your vision, complete loss of vision would be the obvious answer. However, perhaps you simply drank a potion that disabled your sight for a limited amount of time. Perhaps you were simply blindfolded. Any of these would be acceptable interpretations of the prompt. So go crazy!

*It is also worth mentioning that the loss need not be part of your character’s canon (although you may certainly include it in your story if you wish). The situation is merely intended to be hypothetical.

Have fun! Remember, the round ends this Friday at 11:59 PM EST.

[SirArtemis]

It had been unexpected, but the change seemed permanent. As Artemis had worked the forge earlier that day, his mind had slipped for just a moment beyond the walls of the smithy to the beautiful dark elf that he had fallen in love with, and in that moment, the volatile plynt had combusted.

Unlike most metals, plynt was extremely flammable, though able to absorb liquid quite well. Thus, one of the methods to shape the metal involved infusing it with large quantities of fluid and working it in short bursts, letting it soak between hammerings. Yet one had to be aware of the delicate threshold, because once the metal no longer remained saturated, things could get dangerous.

And they did. Artemis had been working a warhammer and the large chunk of rich green metal had erupted in equally green flames. The smoke and flames had roared up at the distracted smith and as he had breathed in, the heat and chemicals seemed to have destroyed most of his olfactory receptor neurons, which were responsible for detecting odor.

And so, isolating himself while trying to cope with the shock, Artemis sat beyond the walls of Knife's Edge and by the river, letting the white noise of the water rushing past distract him. The spring melt had just begun and the waters rolled past quickly, waves bumping one another like an angry mob. He sighed, running a hand through his short dark-brown hair and letting his bright blue eyes stare into nothingness.

The air by the water was chilly and the sun struggled against the breeze, trying as it may to keep the young man warm, though his black leather armor did a fine enough job. He twirled a sprig of lavender between his fingers as he watched the tumult of the water, white foam interrupting the patches of glossy surface reflecting the springtime sun. Yet for all that his other senses were trying to tell him, hoping he remembered that all was not lost, his taste seemed to be the only one to agree as a bitterness lingered on his palette.

He would never smell the field of flowers among which he sat now. He would never be able to take a deep breath of his favorite meal - mead steak with potatoes. He would never have the smoky scent of a long day at the forge lingering in his senses as he made the short walk home from his work. Yet worst of all, he would never again smell the wonderful lavender of Jay's hair, matching her beautiful complexion. He lifted the sprig of lavender to his nose, taking a deep breath in and smelling absolutely nothing.

And with that, the whole world seemed a little less beautiful: the river's melody sang a little more dull, the sun's rays seemed a little less bright, and the cold air left him a little more numb. It was never comfortable to fundamentally alter the way someone lived their life, and what could be more fundamental than losing a basic sense that had always been there?

Artemis wondered if he would have been less upset if he had never had a sense of smell, and somehow he knew it to be true. After all, it's impossible to know what one is truly losing unless they've had it at one point; fantasizing could only take one so far.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked behind Artemis, surprising the young man and causing him to jump.

Artemis leapt off the rock, pulling out his twin mithril daggers and preparing to defend himself - though a moment later, he realized that if the person were an enemy, he'd already been dead. He hadn't realized quite how distracted he had been.

As his eyes fell upon the one who had asked the question, he saw a robed man with crescent shaped spectacles that he continuously pushed up onto his nose. His hair, a chestnut brown, seemed somehow both messy and neat at the same time as a few strands fell over his eyes and he brushed them aside.

"Good to see you too, Daros. It seems you still haven't quite picked up on the subtleties of human interaction." Artemis sighed, sheathing his daggers and letting the sorrow fill his features once more.

Daros seemed to not even notice the comment, his smile unwavering. "What's wrong? You look miserable."

'The ever perceptive wizards,' Artemis thought, the bitter taste in his mouth finding its way to his thoughts as well. "I seem to have destroyed my sense of smell while working a project at the forge - the plynt combusted," he explained with a sigh.

"Ah, that's unfortunate," Daros said, adjusting the satchel of ingredients he was carrying around on his back. As he did so, a thought seemed to strike him, as the wizard expressed an "ah-ha" moment with an upraised finger. He lowered his satchel and began sorting through the colorful mess of items. "You know, I actually just finished doing some alchemical research on plynt, and I think you may not have burned your senses."

Artemis looked at Daros with an eyebrow raised, always worried about what the eccentric wizard would do next. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I found that plynt actually emits an odd smog when burned that adheres to mucus membranes exceptionally well. It's not lethal but it is quite potent. Plynt accidents are often cited to result in a lost sense of smell, but that's not quite accurate. It's more like... a temporary paralysis of smell."

Artemis' bright blue eyes seemed to grow a bit brighter at the hopeful sentiment. "So you mean this will go away?"

"Not exactly," the wizard said, still shuffling through the satchel and too busy to miss the disappointment etched upon the young man's features. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and continued. "You see, it doesn't just go away. You need to force it to go away. So I ran some tests and... ah, here it is!" The wizard pulled out a small vial filled with a grayish-blue powder that floated within, emitting a light glow. "Glow dust!" the wizard stated, and it seemed an obvious enough name. "Here, take it," Daros said, tossing the container to Artemis. "Pop it open, and take a deep breath."

Artemis caught the vial easily with one hand and stared at it, glancing up at the wizard again before letting his eyes fall back to the glow dust. "So let me get this straight, I have to open this up and snort this glowing powder into my nose?"

The wizard lifted the satchel and threw it back over his shoulder, shrugging with a smile. "You don't have to do anything. I'm just trying to help. What's the worst that could happen, you lose your sense of smell?"

Artemis couldn't help but chuckle. "You're right," he said, conceding the point. "Nothing to lose."

"Well, you could die," the wizard added, always knowing how to make things worse.

Artemis looked at the wizard, truly wishing that the man hadn't said anything. Of course, Daros didn't even realize the effects of his statement, or the glare being thrown at him - he just kept smiling.

With a sigh Artemis held up the vial and popped open the cork, shoved the end into a nostril, and took a deep breath in. The glow dust floated in and the horrendous powder caused Artemis to start coughing instantly, each one eliciting a bit of the white and blue powder into the air as if the young man were coughing ashes. "That's terrible!" he shouted through each hack. "It smells like dwarf feet after a day at the forge dipped in garbage juice!"

It took a moment for Artemis to get past the horrendous odor that now filled his senses to realize that he even had his senses, and when he did, his eyes opened wide. "Daros! It worked!" he shouted in joy. "I can smell again!" He took a few deep breaths, letting the fresh spring smell of the flowers fill his lungs over and over. "I can smell the roses! The tulips! Even the grass!" A thought struck him, and he looked down to the sprig of lavender he had dropped when Daros had surprised them. Hurriedly, he lifted it to his nose and took a deep breath, and only one thing filled his mind.

"Jay..." he whispered, closing his eyes and hearing her soft giggles and seeing her beautiful smile as he smelled the familiar lavender of her hair.

He rushed over to Daros, wrapping the man in a tight embrace. "Thank you! Thank you, Daros! I love you!" The wizard just stood in a bit of shock, holding his satchel and unaccustomed to such displays of affection.

"Of course, Artemis," the wizard said, adjusting his glasses further upon his nose as Artemis finally let go.

"I'm going to head back. Do you need help with the satchel?" Artemis asked the wizard.

"Oh no, not at all, but I was headed back as well if you'd like to join."

Artemis smiled, nodding as he put his hand on Daros' shoulder and walked past the man. "Come on then."

As Artemis turned his back, he seemed to forget who he had been dealing with as Daros slipped a hand into a pocket of his deep-blue robes and pulled out a small pill, placing it upon his own tongue and swallowing before placing a hand upon Artemis' shoulder. However, this time, the hand wasn't there for appreciation - this time, it was for a teleport spell.

As the magic tugged at the pair and sent them along to their destination, Artemis' insides turned while Daros' remained unaffected. As they landed in the front yard of Daros' odd and exuberant home, Artemis found himself retching on the ground yet again, holding his stomach as the wizard extended a hand with a pill for the young man.

"I thought I told you to give me one before teleporting, Daros! BEFORE!!!"

Daros seemed unfazed as he continued to hold out his outstretched hand. "I forgot," he said with a shrug.

Artemis glared at the wizard, grabbing the lozenge and swallowing it quickly. "I hate you," he muttered under his breath.

[Fuzzie]

Siegfried woke up to find himself floating in the air. Opening his eyes, however, the butcher saw that his assumption was incorrect. He was actually at the bottom of a deep ditch with his head and neck supporting him against the ground and his body propped on the wall of the ditch.

“What in the blatheth…”

As he spoke, he realized he couldn’t feel his tongue in his mouth. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything; not the ground he found himself on or the temperature outside or even the clothes he was wearing. Ungracefully, he attempted to bring himself to an upright position, pulling several muscles in the process. Of course, he was not aware of this.

I…fell. Yes, I fell. I remember walking towards the forest in order to gather some wood for my training dummy; I must have fallen down this ditch when I was not paying attention. It seems I landed on my head. I cannot feel anything…I cannot feel pain. I. Am. Invincible.

Succumbing to possibly the worst logic anybody could ever put forth, Siegfried decided that with his newfound…strength…he could challenge the mightiest of champions and not lose. However, lacking his rusty old sword, he decided he was better off fighting a bear with his bare hands.

After figuring out his plan, which consisted of going into the woods and finding a bear, he started to take notice of his surroundings. The ditch must have been about eight feet deep, and he could barely make out a divot in the top of it where the ground must have given way beneath him. The other side could not have been taller than four feet, however, and he decided it was his best bet would be to climb up that side.

Jumping to attention, he ran to the ditch wall and stumbled up it, spraining his ankle in the process. Again, he did not notice the damage he was doing to his body and was blissfully pleased with how handy his “new” body was.

I would have never guessed that not feeling would be so amazing. It does leave a bitter taste in my mouth that I will not be able to appreciate the touch of a woman any longer, however…Not that I appreciated it all that frequently beforehand. Now, where could I find a bear around here?

His attention turned to the forest in front of him. Looking dead ahead, he could see only trees expanding into the distance. Behind him, the ditch extended left and right about fifty feet from where he was. Beneath his feet, the grass was tall, and likely would have tickled his legs if he could feel it. Looking down, he noticed that one of his feet was twisted inwards slightly, but dismissed it as awkward footing.

After all, I cannot be bothered to take careful account for my limbs. They’re indestructible, why should it matter that my foot is out of place?

His ankle that he hadn’t sprained was broken. The fall did much more than remove his sense of touch. The air was fresh, almost scentless. He couldn’t feel the wind blowing, but could hear it rush by his ears. It was when he started using his ears that he heard a strange sound, like a table leg scraping across a wooden floor. That was when he spotted the bear.

Just a little ways off, a forest brown bear was marking its territory by scratching a tree. It had not spotted the butcher yet, or at least had not cared to pay attention to him. He obviously was not a threat to it, but Siegfried interpreted its neglect as unawareness.

Using his apparent element of surprise, he took a few steps towards the bear; it stopped scratching and snapped its gaze onto the butcher. He shrank for a moment, but then bolstered his confidence and took another long stride towards the bear. Not amused, the bear lowered itself from its hind legs and turned its entire body towards the butcher. Siegfried stopped and began to back up.

Maybe I do not need to prove that I’m invincible. The fact that I know I am is enough for me. Yes, I’ll just head back to the shop and k—

The butcher, focused on the bear, was not paying attention to his surroundings. If he could feel, he would have felt the ground give way beneath his feet yet again as he tumbled down the same ditch he found himself in earlier. Both luckily and unluckily enough for him, he landed on his head…again. This time, however, the pain stopped him from losing consciousness.

Waves of searing heat pumped through his nerves as he realized that he was sore all over and both of his ankles were beyond repair. Not even trying to hide them, tears welled in his eyes and began to stream down his face. For fear of startling the bear, however, he managed to leave his exclamation at a short yelp. For the first time, he had never felt more miserable to be able to feel the wind against his skin.

I. Am not. Invincible.

[Sagequeen]

Ah, so comfortable, so quiet, the high elf thought, curled deliciously in a tangle of pillows, sheets, and a warm, down blanket; she pulled the covers back over head and began softly snoring once again. A sharp rap at the door brought her from her slumber in the pitch black; night enveloped Underwood in its midnight embrace without even the moon to shed her silver light. Erissa Caedron was awake at once, flailing against her bed in search of a candle. The curios upon her nightstand crashed to the floor, tinkling and shattering, clattering and clanging.

Heavy footfalls echoed against the fine wooden floors; it was all she could hear over her fabulously clumsy retreat on the opposite side of the bed. The high elf tripped and stumbled against her wardrobe.

“Erissa,” the familiar voice drifted over her frightened breathing. “Time for another lesson.”

“Troyas,” Erissa cried out, angry with her teacher for his rude awakening. “What in Althanas are you doing?”

“You rely far too much on your sight; I have removed it from the equation,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What?” She asked, exasperated, blinking furiously and trying to locate the source of the voice. Troyas merely grunted, and the room was soon illuminated with crackling, green energy.

“Did you know that I once spent a year of my life blindfolded, in order to develop my other senses?” He asked, a sly smile on his face. “However, I did not then possess the talent you do now, and could not go to the same lengths you can. When the sun rises, meet me in my study. Goodnight!” Erissa watched him as he disappeared with the light; the luminescence faced as he paced down the hallway. As his footsteps faded down the stairs, the young arcanist was left once again in the dark. She sighed heavily, her heart still pounding, and she lay frustrated for the remainder of the night. Erissa welcomed the purple-pink promise of the sun's soon arrival; to her great pleasure, the golden globe peaked over the tops of the trees of Concordia, returning to her the sight she so highly valued.

The student dressed and descended into the library, through the smaller dining room and down a hallway to her teacher's study. The fireplace was cold and dead, but upon her arrival, several logs arranged themselves upon the grate and fire sprang from them at Troyas' command.

“Sit,” he requested, and gestured to a comfortable chair alongside his own before the fire. Erissa complied, an almost pert expression on her face. She eyed him questioningly. “It is true that elves possess exceptional sight and hearing; we also enjoy an enhanced sense of touch, taste, and smell. Our wines are the finest in all Althanas because our grape-tenders use every sense in the care and harvest of the grapes, and throughout the process of creating the wine. The sense they rely on least of all is sight.” Erissa nodded, following his line of reasoning. The ancient elf handed his student a small envelope, and she hesitantly peeked inside.

“It is just powder,” she said, confused.

“In fact, it is powder, but not just. Close your eyes a moment,” he said removing a small pinch from her envelope. Shielding his own eyes, he tossed the small amount into the fire; even behind closed eyelids, Erissa could see the brilliant flash. She opened her eyes and narrowed them at Troyas, the crux of the lesson beginning to set in her mind.

“You want me to-” she began slowly.

“Indeed,” Troyas interrupted. “It is your choice, Erissa, of course. I do ask quite a lot of you. If you decide to take this challenge, then once I have left the room, stand before the fire and toss the powder into it. Keep your eyes open.”

“So will you send me to the vineyard then, to learn the art of wine-making, in order to develop my other senses?” She asked, half expecting him to say yes. His musical laugh filled the small, tome-filled study.

“Of course not! You are a warrior, not a wine-maker,” Troyas laughed again softly as he rose from his chair and walked soundlessly to the doorway. “It is your choice,” her mentor said, an honest smile reassuring her before he padded down the hallway. Erissa frowned and lay moodily back in her chair, contemplating. It was so much to consider giving up, and yet the gain would be substantial. Before she could change her mind, she sprang to her feet and knelt before the fire; she watched the envelope whirl in the air, landing among the logs. The creamy white paper blackened, and tendrils of fire soon consumed the edges. Her eyes burned in the heat and smoke of the fire; a brilliant flash of white lit the room and set afire the elf's vision. Then, Erissa Caedron saw no more.

She stood gingerly, feeling off-balance and entirely unsure. The high elf backed carefully away from the fire, her calves soon meeting the plush, satiny cushion of the chair; the woody grating of it against the planks of the floor was as thunder over the forest-fire sound of the small, crackling logs. Erissa bent down, finding the arm of the chair, re-orienting herself as she shuffled around it. The student splayed her arms in front of her, searching the empty air as she stepped forward, until she felt the cool and slick vertical beam of the doorframe.

A right turn, she thought as she went through the doorway and down the hall, right hand trailing the wainscoting, fingers catching with a steady thump, thump on each beveled plank. She tumbled in a heap as her foot caught the edge of a rug.

“Troyas!” Erissa cried out in frustration.

“Come to the sound of my voice, Erissa,” he instructed loudly, from some great distance away.

“Where are you?” She called, but he would not answer. Instead, he lifted his voice in song, a quiet number she could hear drifting and echoing throughout the mansion. The student sighed heavily and rose to her feet; she chased the echoes. Erissa's progress was slow; she managed to knock over several chairs and priceless artifacts from ages past, to earn several new bruises on her shins, and to fall up the stairs. She finally found him in her own chamber, sitting comfortably in a chair. When her shin found the bed, she flopped down upon it.


The high elf walks confidently; she needs not even count her steps any longer. The closeness of an echo is enough to tell her the proximity of walls and objects. She laughs; Troyas has set a trap for her. The vase rests on a podium where the hallway opens into the library; she can hear her footfalls echoing in a sort of diorama of sound collected within the belly of it. She sidesteps, and the thump of her feet on wood becomes the thack of them on marble.

The smell of knowledge in the library is almost overwhelming, simple symbols composed of many inks on various forms of paper, spanning ages forgotten by most. Erissa hears the incredibly high ceilings, and she begins a quiet song to enjoy the reverberation of it against the buttresses, and the areas where it will not echo but is diffused instead by cloth and the uneven rows of roughly bound books of every size. A crinkle of paper catches her ear, and her song lingers in echo only for a few fleeting moments. Erissa smiles to herself as she navigates the back of the library, knowing exactly where her quarry lies in wait. Eyes unseeing, she turns her face upward to the sound of a heartbeat. Her teacher leaps from atop the bookshelves; the air is displaced and she turns to face he who disturbed it.

“Come,” Troyas said, taking her hand only to pull her from the bed; he dropped it when she rose to her feet. "Let us practice.” Erissa followed him as best she could, fighting back the regret of her decision. He led her slowly and wordlessly back down the stairs, letting his feet fall heavily, through the library and out the back doors to the wide, open lawn. She longed for the beauty of the forest, and yet she relished the smell of it, and the sound of the wind in the leaves, the birds tweeting and flapping. “You realize,” he said, “that an enemy can easily disable your sight, or perhaps prevent you from seeing him. What will you do then, Dear One?”

“You expect me to fight like this?” She asked incredulously.

“Indeed I do,” Troyas replied. “And win. Listen, Erissa, to your opponent. Feel where he is; smell, even taste his perspiration. These are the subtle things you must learn.” She shook her head and stood motionless. In seconds, she was on the ground, knocked there by her teacher. “Up – again!” She struggled to her feet, only to crash to the ground on his next attack. The student knew the drill already, those words 'up' and 'again' she had heard relentlessly as she had honed her skills in the past. To her feet she arose, just like every other time he had demanded it of her.


The sun shines sweetly on the high elf; there is no smell like that of sunshine and no song as fine as the ever-changing tinkling of the nearby river, and percussion like brushes on a drum, the sound of the whispering leaves. Indeed, summer has a taste beyond smell, the pollen in the air like salt on roasted vegetables.

Her teacher is stealthy; aside from being an elf, he is ancient and a lifelong student of the art of combat. However, there is only so much he can control, and his penchant for fragrant lotion and fine cloth is his downfall. She knows his location immediately; however, his method of attack remains to be seen. The wind is slight, so the ruffling of his robes means he is moving at a high speed, yet his direction is round-about her. Erissa stands in silence and hears his sharp intake of breath, the same he always makes when focusing; the bolt will come shortly, and she hears the crackling energy fly by hear ear as she spins away from it. His smell has moved; no longer is he downwind, nor does the breeze betray him with a ruffle of cloth. The young elf stands in silence once again; in moments she hears what she needs, a gentle grunt of exertion as her teacher leaps and propels himself telekenetically at her. The smell of lotion, the rustling of cloth, the beating of his heart and laboring of his breath, he has committed himself in the trajectory, and Erissa drops to her knees, focusing her own telekenetic energy and adding it to his, causing him to overshoot his landing. He rolls on the ground and she can smell the bruised grass; he has stained his robes with green. Erissa tries to remember the color green.

“That is all,” Troyas says to her. “Your lesson is complete. Heal yourself, Dear One.” Troyas smiles and rings her shoulders with a long, graceful arm. Erissa nods, focusing her power, and in several moments the light and beauty of the world floods in on her. A single tear slips down her cheek.

[Joseff]

Sleep was always a hard thing for Essex to achieve because he was always assaulted by horrible nightmares. Not to mention the snoring of his demon familiar named Kach, the ferret looking creature sat right next to the campfire and would toss and turn all night long.

Essex woke up suddenly from a blood filled nightmare and reached for his staff. He didn’t hear Kach’s snoring and it was still dark. He looked towards the fire, he didn’t sleep next to the fire for fear it would burn him up, and lying next to the fire was Kach. Essex immediately knew something was wrong, and it wasn’t anything to do with Kach’s snoring.

Silence, complete and utter silence was what he heard. He didn’t even hear a ringing or a muffle of anything, it was just all silent. Reaching up to his ears he felt them to see if there was anything wrong, but he already knew that there wasn’t because he wasn’t hurting. He pushed himself off of the ground with his staff and walked over towards Kach. He used his staff to poke and push the little trickster.

“Oh…no mom,” said Kach as he twisted and turned from being poked, “I don’t want to go and possess anyone. I want to sleep.”

All this feel on deaf ears for Essex couldn’t hear anything that Kach was saying. Finally after a few more jabs from the staff Kach sat up and looked at Essex, his mouth moving so fast there was no way to read what he was saying.

Finally when Kach had to stop to take a breath Essex said, “Kach I can’t hear you. Something is wrong with my hearing. Did you do anything?”

Kach looked stunned for a moment his hands rested on his hips and his mouth started moving again. Essex could guess that his tone would be filled with indignation and he would swear up and down that he had nothing to do with it.

Essex looked around himself trying to find if there was any sign of an outside source that had caused this to happen to him. Walking over to his ruffled blankets he started looking around the earth there. There were small lines going away from where his head had been resting and they led into the bushes several feet away.

“Oh know…,” thought Essex to himself for he had heard of something like this happening before. There was a small creature that looked like a type of snake but it was covered in small spikes. This creature would sneak up on others and it would bite them. This creature would siphon a bit of blood from its victim and also it could cause other damages. Some of the damages that Essex had heard of were problems with the five senses, a Mage’s magic, and sometimes a few mental issues such as hallucinations.

Glancing over to see Kach was once again lying curled up next to the fire, Essex started off in the direction of the little thief. He walked into the forest and in the night he couldn’t see the small tracks in the ground. Leaning down closer he raised his hand up and with a bit of magical energy he caused a small flame to form so that he could see the tracks.

The tracks ended around a large pile of rocks that were nearly covered by bushes. Essex needed to catch the little snake and use a bit of its organs with a few other ingredients to make a potion. With the potion and a small bit of the snake venom he should be able to reverse the snake’s affects and also become immune to any future bites from this creature.

As he was looking around the rock pile he found that there were two small openings on either side of it. Smirking he pointed his hand down at one of the openings and a small burst of flames shot out. With both the flames and smoke Essex just needed to wait for the little thief to be scared out of its hole.

He didn’t have to wait long for soon the snake came slithering out. Essex didn’t waste any time, reaching his right hand into his cloak he lightly grasped a throwing dagger and with a flick of his hand it shot out. The knife imbedded itself in the head of the snake and stuck it to the ground. The snake died instantly, but its body withered and shook for a short time.

Taking his dagger out of the snake’s head he then used it to slit the snake’s body all the way down. He then used the tip to carefully look through until he had found the small venom sack inside it. Finding what he was looking for he then used the flat side of the knife to lift it out and he carried it over to a small patch of earth that he could easily work at.

Inside his cloak he produced a small satchel. Inside the satchel he pulled out a few items. Items like the ear of a bat, black rock powder, a vial of blood and a few other items. He then took out an empty glass cup and after cutting the bat ear into very small pieces he placed them into the cup. The black rock powder he placed on a small indented stone which he was using as a bowl. After the powder was sitting in the bowl he used his knife to cut the venom sack open and poured the venom on powder. The rock powder absorbed the venom with a hiss which Essex couldn’t hear. Pouring that into the glass cup he then poured the vial of blood in a clockwise direction and watched the blood slowly sink and mix in.

A few minutes passed as Essex mixed the rest of the ingredients in and waited for them to mix. The mess he had made smelled horrible and looked just as bad. Without thinking too much about it he drank the concoction down with only a small burning feeling in his mouth and throat.

It took only seconds for the potion to start working and Essex began to have a headache. His body ached and seemed to burn, which was due to the mix of venom, powder and probably a few other things that he had put in there. His vision swam for a second and he felt dizzy. Nearly as soon as it had started it was over. He glanced around hoping that his hearing was back. Hearing the sounds of a few insects and a tree frog caused a smile to dance across his face.

As he walked toward his campsite Essex thought about how thankful he was that he had paid attention to his potion lessons. When he had returned to the camp he was grateful that it was still night out and that he would be able to sleep longer. He fixed his blankets and laid back down to sleep, hoping that nothing would happen so that he would be able to continue on his way to a small tavern known as the Peaceful Promenade. Hopefully there he would be able to get some real rest, but being around others meant that he probably wouldn’t. Just before he drifted asleep he heard Kach’s snoring start up even louder, tonight it was like music to his ears.

[Bayne]

Bayne kept looking at the map, to no avail he was lost as usual, shrugging he figured he would end up somewhere important if he kept walking straight. He had ended up in a small forest trying to think where he had gotten turned around. His stomach was hurting him do to extreme hunger, he was almost willing to eat anything. Then in a clearing some purple berries became visible, Bayne thought for a moment if it would be a good idea to eat them, but decided he was too hungry to care. After his meal of about 20 berries, he leaned on a large oak tree and decided to take a long nap.

When Bayne awoke it was dark, which was weird because he had went to sleep early in the day and sleeping more than 3 hours during sunlight normally gave him a headache so he naturally woke up before that happened. Bayne stood and began walking again but realized that something was wrong, nothing was visible, and he tried waving his hand close to his eyes but couldn’t see it. Sight had left him, and the berries had obviously done it, what else could have? Now Bayne was really confused at what he should do, he was already lost to begin with. Thinking for a moment, Bayne decided to try and wait it out, and hopefully regain his precious sight.

Hours passed and Bayne still only saw black, he knew he couldn’t stay in those woods for much longer, bandits and any beasts of the night would take advantage of a blind man. Bayne decided to keep moving; after all he couldn’t possibly get more lost than he already was. After walking for a while the smell of meat being cooked filled the air, this made his mouth water, those berries weren’t filling at all and they were extremely bitter. Bayne couldn’t figure out which direction the smell came and tried to walk away from it thinking it might be bandits. After running into a few trees he heard 2 voices, one was extremely deep the other close to it but had a slightly higher pitch. Of course Bayne realized he had walked in the exact direction he was trying to avoid.

After waiting a few minutes to see if these people where bandits or some other person who would attack him on sight, Bayne decided they weren’t a danger. They merely sounded like miners from the conversations they were having. Bayne walked out from his hiding place and greeted them cheerfully. There was no response from them, after a few seconds one responded

“You lost, or did you eat the purple berries?”

“Both, actually.” Bayne said smiling and scratching the back of his head. There was silence and laughing from the two men. One of the men looked at Baynes sword noticing the many gems on the hilt, he then spoke

“If you give us your sword we will help you.”

“No, I would rather stay blind then part from this sword.” Bayne said without a thought, the two men figured they could probably take, so they began walking towards him. Bayne knew that he had misjudged these men, they were just mere thieves. But he knew beating them without sight would be tough even with the enhanced abilities that he possessed. One of the bandits punched Bayne as hard as he could in the stomach, but Bayne smirked and grabbed the thieves arm before he could pull away and threw a punch of his own straight into the man’s jaw, he flew back and was out cold. The other man was surprised at how his strong friend was knocked out from just one punch. But he decided to attack Bayne as well, fortunately for Bayne this one yelled in anger so he didn’t have to take another punch, the bandit made it quite obvious where he was at. When Bayne heard him close in he ducked hoping the bandit was throwing a punch, which he did. Bayne hit the bandit hard in the stomach and then kicked him in the chest and heard a few ribs crack. The Bandit tumbled over defeated, Bayne sighed

“This all could have been avoided if you had just helped me.” Bayne took a piece of the meat that was cooking; it was a little burnt but still edible. He began walking hoping to find someone who wasn’t going to try to kill him. Bayne heard a carriage close by, and began walking towards the sound, he stopped to see if he could pinpoint where it was. The sound began coming closer and closer, until it stopped, Bayne tried desperately to hear where it went, fortunately the horses made enough noise for Bayne to realized he was standing right in the way of the cart.

“Excuse me sir” an older sounding gentleman said “Could you move?” Bayne smiled and responded

“Of course I can, but I ate some berries in the woods and can’t see, before I move could you tell me what happened.” The old man sighed and hopped off his cart and walked towards Bayne, he grabbed his arm a led him to the back of the cart. He let go of him saying he will be right back, Bayne sat on the ground for a moment and heard the old man return.

“Here drink this.” Bayne took the cup and drank its contents, it tasted awful. But in the blackness images began taking shape the world had color again. Bayne sighed in relief

“Thank you very much, do I owe you any money for your help?” the old man wore a cloak with a hood so Bayne couldn’t discern any features. The old man shook his head

“No this happens a lot to people, but this is the only potion I make for free, though I must say it is pretty amazing that you made it out of those woods blind.” Bayne laughed

“Yea I can be pretty lucky at times; by the way my name is Bayne.” He held out his hand the old man stretched out his hand

“I’m Victor, a wandering alchemist.”

They talked for a bit and then Victor had to leave for the business he originally set out to do, Bayne waved as Victor left, then decided to figure out where he was. Bayne pulled out his map and look at the world around him and an irritated look surfaced; he could see the ocean not too far in the distance. Not only was he not where he wanted to go, but it turns out the town was right next to the forest he had eaten the purple berries in, and now he was even farther away.

[Restless Soul]

It was a common misconception that all elves could see through the shadows as if there was light. Darkness was just as foreboding to a young elven thief as it was to any other. The difference was that the slightest light could be utilized far better by an elf than it could a human, Amras only knew it had something to do with the way the eyes worked. The specifics of the reason were as mysterious as the Thayne themselves. No matter what the underlying cause of the unique properties of the boy’s amethyst eyes were, an advantage was present at all times and he happily took it when possible. “Let the hunt begin.”

Amras smirked as he chided. Fate had contributed to his lifestyle, bringing up the teenager like a doting mother. The humble elven child of Olme ruffled feathers as a kid, causing trouble in the most obvious of ways. His parents scolding’s were harsh, their attention even harsher. With it he had learned many skills though, such as how to wield his weapons and natural dexterity. The most important lesson he had learned was not getting caught though. It was hard to scold one when there was no proof he was involved, harder still to suspect the young elf when his mischief was not noticed till long after he was missing.

The city of Scara Brae was different though, it was not the stomping grounds of the youth, it was a world altogether new. He knew the basics of lock-picking and thievery, which served him in Scara Brae as well as Olme. A business was easily infiltrated once the sun had set and the comforting still night had descended. Systems of detection, such as hidden chimes and dogs, were not so well known. A handful of gold was a bad take for Amras, especially after having spent so much time carefully picking the lock to the shop. He knew, though, that it was a learning experience and many more were still to come that night.

A quick flick of his dagger and the grate was lifted, his body slipping into the sewers like a snake. Barking echoed and reverberated against the walls of the alleyway. The bay of hounds was getting closer, too close for comfort. He hoped the underground passages would be secure and straightforward. The network of rooftops was certainly not an option for Amras, the new buildings a labyrinth to the newest thief in the city. It was certainly a fun new option to have sewers to escape to, as Olme’s were not big enough for a person, but the darkness was overwhelming.

No light penetrated the raw world beneath the city. Amras tucked the meager coin-purse into a pocket along his waist and slowly started away from the slim light from the grate at his back. As he continued his eyes did not adjust. It was pure and perfect blackness that greeted him. His heart began to beat heavily, anxiety attempting to overtake rational thought. It was the first time he had feared the shadows, the first time in his life that he had never been able to see at all. Gloom had a way of gripping him completely. He could feel his chest moving as he struggled to breathe, struggled to calm his nerves and push away the thoughts that screamed to return to the streets… and certain capture.

“Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it…” Amras began to chant to himself in a hushed and quick rhythm as he gasped for air and continued on. His focus was on every scent except sight. He could feel his eyes wide, subconsciously trying to open wider than possible as if it would force the shadows to give way. He concentrated on his chest, the skin crawling as goosebumps were restricted by the tight leather jerkin. His hair tried to stand on end, but met with the soft fabric of the hooded jacket he wore. Grime slipped between and across his opened hand, slick and unknown substances writhed between outstretched and aimless fingers.

Amras pushed back his hood, trying to calm himself. His hair tickled the back of his neck, sending a tingle down his spine and forcing him to shiver. Thoughts of spiders falling from their webs to harass him came to mind instantly. Without thinking he slapped the nape of his neck, the slime of the sewer tunnels mingling with his hair. Instantly he felt sick. Whatever he had unwittingly spread across his neck had stopped the fear of spiders and replaced it with the feeling of cool, gelatinous filth. “Keep moving damn it.”

His booted feet slowly shifted, one after another. The muscles were stiff and rigid, tensed each time his toe was placed and expectant to find solid ground. A rotten scent wafted past him, the humid air thick with the stench of decay. It was warm and gentle against his cheeks, as tender as rays of light from the winter sun, yet felt as if it was being sucked out of the tunnel. The smell was foremost on his mind though, as if the feeling of it did not exist at all. Death, decay, a lingering undertone of feces, and a hint of something metallic that just caught the back of his throat. It tasted like blood, old blood. Holding his breath made him feel better for a short moment, until he released it and a wave of dizziness washed over him and the thought of taking another gulp of fetid air appeared.

In the darkness of the sewers, without the provision of light, he was as helpless as a baby. He could hear scratching on the walls, undoubtedly rodent’s claws tapping the cobblestones as they scurried by. The drop of water from the roof of the sewer was different than any other fluid he had heard. Instead of a plop of purity he heard the gloop-like noise when a drop would strike the liquid he was walking through. Sometimes it was close, startlingly falling within inches of him. Sometimes the sound seemed miles away, and multiple drops fell in a faux-symphony. It was almost entrancing when Amras concentrated on it, a sirens call drawing him deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Time felt meaningless in the void world of refuse. He knew he was moving slowly, could feel as each step pushed aside unknown floating objects that caressed his soaked pants. Without light there was only timeless eternity to dwell on the scents, sounds, and tastes of the sewers. The guards could have given up; certainly they should have once the hounds that led them lost the trail. He could turn back, find that sliver of light that filtered through the traitorously promising grate. He could not have gotten very far, and he was certain the steps he would take going back were assured a solid footing. He could move faster backtracking than continuing his careful gait forward.

“No more,” he muttered. The thoughts were going to be his downfall. Time did not matter, it was going to pass whether he was in the sewers or caught and imprisoned by the guards on the surface. This was a learning experience, he tried to remind himself. It was not as condoling a thought as he hoped it would be. “Just… a little… bit longer…”

Minutes passed, possibly hours. Muck was thicker sometimes and he could feel the grime underfoot when it was. Other times he felt nothing in the sewers waters, and the mind of the elven youth attempted to block his other senses and linger in the thought of walking through a still and clear river. He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander. Anything that made him forget what he was doing, where he was, and how little he was going to be rewarded for his trouble was a reprieve. Especially the sound of laughter, that was something that made him almost smile. It sounded like a tavern on a cool night, filled with the citizens and people drinking.

“Laughter?!” Amras opened his eyes and looked around, able to slowly make out the smooth shapes of cobblestones. His breath quickened as his pace was hurried. What was around his legs did not matter anymore. What he was stepping through and on was in the back of his mind. He ignored the burning of his lungs when they inhaled the rank air rapidly in his excitement. He could see again. Light was growing with every hurried step. He was close, close to the laughter and the area that was once again granting him his sight. In a matter of seconds another grate emerged in his vision, through it the laughter that had given him courage filtered through. Sight returned, he quickly pushed the grate open and scrapped his way out of the sewer, bound and determined never to repeat the same mistake.

“Now, to get back to my inn and count my coin.” The young elf shook off his boots and ignored the splattering of sewer refuse that struck the alleyway around him. He did not look down to see what it was. “Some things are better left unseen.”

[Silence Sei]

"I have a right to know, Aislinn!" Anita Orlouge screamed so loud that those that had been resting in the Ixian Knights medical ward were roused from their slumber. The girl's father, renowned hero and leader of the knights, 'Silence' Sei Orlouge, had found himself in a situation which had left him unconscious for several days. It had not been until the gentle voice of his daughter became a shout of frustration towards her cousin that the mute warrior finally began to awaken.

"Anita," the response came soft, a strange tone coming from Sei's niece, Aislinn, "the smoke from that fire knocked him out cold. His body suffered a great deal of burning. We tried everything, but not even my magic can repair what tissue the flames took away."

He could hear Anita softly weeping, something the telepath had not picked up before. Slowly, he began to open his eyes, a monumental task that seemed hard enough in and of itself. A small smile crossed his lips, his eyes immediately spotting the blue dress of his daughter. The young lady turned to look at her patriarch, the hand that had been covering her mouth dropping to her side, revealing a smile to her features. Though the stream of tears still poured down Anita's pearl complexion, there was a hint of joy behind the cry now. Had his injuries been so bad that they thought he wouldn't make it?

"Papa!" Anita shouted, almost stumbling in the three paces it took to reach his bedside. She spread her arms out, prepared to embrace him, before a rather out-of-place cough from her cousin caused her pause. Both Sei and Anita looked to Aislinn, who merely shook her head. As if the gesture had lifted some sort of ward on the mute, Sei could feel the intense stinging pain all over his body, a feeling as though his body were burning from the inside. His eyes went over his features. His arms were a bright tint of red, with coal black scabs between parts of flesh. His gray karate gi had obvious singe marks to them, the smell of the fire returning to the mute's senses when he looked at the burnt cloth. Several tears slipped down onto Sei's chest, each droplet causing a surge of pain to shoot through the Mystic's entire body.

"It's....okay Anita..." his features tried to keep up the smile he had previously worn, though the emotional and physical pain he felt from his little girl's crying was causing the grin to waver. His arm a bit shaky from the pain, Sei slowly cupped his child's face in his hand, his palm pressed firmly against her cheek.

And that’s when he realized it.

"Anita..." Sei spoke calmly at first, his daughter's pleading eyes reflecting just how badly she wished to help him, "....why can't I feel your face?"

The girl quickly removed her father's hand from her features, taking a few steps back. There was no coldness to her cheekbones, no wet sensation crawling down his fingers, he couldn't even feel it when she had gasped for air in a sob. His fingers, his hands felt nothing. The mute's eyes widened, bringing his digits across the sheet of his bed. Nothing. He traced the blacked scabs that lined his arms. Nothing. He raised a single finger to his face, catching a tear that rolled down his cheeks and stared at the drop. It slowly rolled down from the top of his finger tip down to his finger nail before disengaging from the finger altogether. Still there was nothing.

"Daddy," Anita spoke, trying to break it to Sei the best way that she could without bringing him into a panic, "you saved a lot of people. Those kids wouldn't have gotten out if not for you. Aislinn says there’s a small chance you'll get the feeling back in your fingers, but.....your whole body was on fire by the time that Jensen had came in to save you. Daddy...I....I..."

"I....can't.....feel?" It was as if he had been struck by some breakthrough realization. He stared at his thumb, rolling it against his other four digits, hoping that he would be able to feel something, anything. It wasn't until he tried to readjust himself that the mute realized all he could feel was pain. The burning sensation, the constant stinging, these would be the only feelings he would know for the rest of his life. His eyes slowly moved towards the table that lay at his bedside. Normally, Aislinn would not allow patients to have their weapons in the ward, but Sei was the exception to the rule. He could see the glimmer of a bladed ring, a sore hand reaching out and grabbing the weapon.

Without allowing the others time to think, Sei sliced open his left index finger, watching as a trail of blue blood flowed down into his palm. He had become so enveloped in this revelation, so stunned that he had lost his sense of touch that he had drowned out the screaming of Aislinn and Anita. It was not until his hand was forcibly removed from the chakram that he saw it. His right palm was a darker color now than the rest of his hand, the acid of the weapon known as Ter'Thok attempting to eat through his flesh. It didn't matter, it was not as if he could feel the pain anyways.

He moved himself up from his bedside, his features becoming a scowl. The smell of burnt flesh returned to his nose anew, this time from the burns cause by his own blade. Placing his two feet on the group, the warrior quickly stood up. He stumbled a bit towards the exit of the medical ward. Looking back towards Anita and Aislinn as they both asked where he thought he was going.

"There is.....always danger abound," Sei spoke with his normal sincerity, though he was unsure himself if he were genuine, "Just because you can't feel....it doesn't mean you can't feel. People still need me. They can take my touch, my sight, my hearing, smell and taste, but there is one sense they will never be able to take from me. He smiled and continued to leave the room, allowing his relatives to linger in on his final that.

"And that is my sense of duty."

[blackdog1]

The searing pain in Milo's head as he awoke helped push the memory of the previous night to the front of his thoughts. Cradling his head as he lay as still as possible, he swore to himself to never spend another night drinking with Monks who brewed their own strange brands of drink.

With the specter of the mother of all hangovers awaiting him, Milo took a few slow moments to prepare himself for the misery that would envelope his morning. Taking stock of his condition, he was glad that his stomach was calm. Vomiting in the morning while sober was horribly unpleasant. Thankfully, his hands did not tremble as he lowered them to his sides.

White light and more pain were the result of finally opening his eyes. His vision was consumed with bright and blinding white light that slowly subsided with heavy blinking and regularly holding his eyes closed. After a few moments both the pain and the intensity of the light began to dissipate into a throbbing haze of gray.

As he sat up on the cot, Milo tried to swallow down the growing panic of losing his sight. Casting his useless gaze about the room, he was disappointed in being unable to make out any differences of light or dark, sun or shadow. He may not have had his sight, but he did have hope that things would get better. He already knew that it could not be much worse.

Milo swung his feet over the edge of the cot and slowly lowered himself to his hand and knees. A quick circuit of the room led him to believe that he was in a cell, a simple monks cell, that contained little more than a cot, a chair and his personal gear.

Holding his bow by the end rather than the grip, Milo felt ready to venture beyond his cell. The stone walls of the hallway did not allow for sounds to carry from the outside and made the scraping and tapping of the bow on the floor seem all the louder.

His anxiety grew with each shuffling step as small questions floated into his head. How far had he gone? Was he going in the right direction? The little questions soon gave way to larger ones. Was there anyone here that could help him? What would his life become as a blind man?

Attempting to rely on his ears instead of his eyes was little help. Most of the sounds that he heard were ones that he was making, the remainder were either too foreign or too distant to help him in any way and only added to his confusion.

To help keep himself from going too far into the realms of questions and doubts, Milo search his memory for blind people he had known or seen in his travels and tried to remember how they had lived their lives. This course of distraction led him to a less than promising conclusion. All of the people he remembered had one thing in common; a lack of true freedom and independence. They were all tethered to something, whether it was a person, group or a place, they were restricted in some manner or another.

After what seemed like long distance to walk there finally came the familiar sounds of conversation. The men were still a good distance away and Milo was unable to make out the details of what was being said, but the simple rhythm of speech kindled the spark of hope. At about the same time, he noticed a change in the way the sounds around him echoed. For better or worse, he had just entered a much larger space.

Milo stopped, unsure of what was ahead of him, he was afraid to move any farther. As doubt began to fill his thoughts and freeze his actions, a familiar voice called to him from the near distance.

"There you are Milo," the Monk calmly said, " you saved me the trouble of coming to fetch you."

Milo knew the voice quite well, he had made the acquaintance of Brother Aiden about two years ago.

"I'm blind Aiden," Milo stated flatly. It was much easier to say than he thought it would be.

"Let us go go down stairs and join the others for a bite to eat," Aiden carried on as if Milo had not spoken at all. He gently took Milos arm with hands led him down the stairs.

Milo began to wonder if Aiden had lost his hearing as he had lost his sight, but quickly abandoned the idea as ridiculous. He just as quickly returned his focus to the task at hand, stairs were far more difficult to navigate without your sight.

The sounds and smells of the common eating room came at Milo like a wave when Aiden pushed the door open. No one seemed to pause their activity or conversation when they entered, as if leading blind people about was a normal occurrence here.

Taking an offered seat at the large table that Milo knew was before him, he immediately smelled the vile brand of spirits that these monks brewed. As if by instinct, Milo reached his hand out and clasped the cool tin cup and brought it to his lips.

With the drink in his guts and still burning his throat, he could already feel its effects. The pain in his head began to lessen and if he was not mistaken there was a subtle change in his eyes.

The conversation in the room quickly quieted, then completely stopped. One voice then spoke and Milo knew that he was the person being addressed without his name ever being spoken.

"Welcome to the Brotherhood."

[orphans]

As a general rule, most adults understand that most children like tasty things. In addition, most adults understand that if one child says something tastes good, other children will crave what is supposedly “good” until they are allowed to try it. Mother Holly, the caretaker and den mother of the Underwood Orphanage knew this rule well…

…and Azza, age ten, was no exception to the rule.


“I won’t say it again Azza, you’re not getting any.” The normally even and levelheaded Holly was nearly at her wit’s end as a small girl followed about behind her in the orphanage.

“But Yuma said it was yummy. Azza wants to try.” Picking up the hem of the den mother’s skirt, Azza flopped onto the floor and tugged lightly both in an effort to grab her attention and stall Holly from entering the adjoining office.

“No! I’ve already said you won’t like it.” There was little the woman could do as she turned to look into the small girl’s maroon eyes with her own hazel ones. “Besides, shouldn’t you be outside? It’s a wonderful day and the snow is finally all gone.”

“Azza likes inside. Not as hot,” was the matter-of-fact retort the small girl gave as she stared up at her elder. A sudden smile brightened her features as she quickly sang and rolled about, “But Azza goes outside after one spoonful?”

A sigh heaved out of the woman as she tugged her long skirt free and stooped down to quickly ruffle Azza’s white locks. “You really want to have a taste of what I gave Yuma?”

The small girl stopped rolling and did her best to nod her head while on her back. “Yeah!”

“Really?” Holly questioned once more as she brushed back some of her own faded brown hair. “Absolutely positive?”

Azza gave a perplexed look before flipping onto her tummy. “Absoloootly!”

“Alright…” Standing up, Holly arched her back slightly and was rewarded with a few pops. “I suppose one spoonful is fine.”

“Yay!” Jumping up off the ground, Azza followed airily behind her elder, humming lightly. Mother Holly only made a few amused glances towards the small child as she took down a box from the top shelf. Settling it onto her desk, Holly waved for Azza to come closer.

“I’ll ask once more, are you sure?”

Azza pouted as she did her best to muster a glare in imitation of Holly’s stern demeanor. “Yes!”

Holly chuckled and popped the lid to the box and took out a small bottle. From a drawer close at hand, Holly snatched a spoon. Eyeing Azza, Holly saw that the small girl was ogling the bottle of medicine. Shaking her head with a devious grin, Holly uncorked the stopper and poured a spoonful of an amber liquid. “Say aaaah.”

Giddy with excitement, Azza opened her mouth wide and did as she was told with a hearty, “Aaaaah!” The spoon slipped in and Azza closed her mouth, then swallowed. It took barely a second for the small girl to exclaim with an equally hearty, “Bleeeehhhh!!!” as she frowned.

Despite usually having the best of intentions, Holly couldn’t help but laugh as she ruffled the girl’s hair some more. “Didn’t I say you wouldn’t like it?”

“Blaaaeh!! But Yuma said it was yummy!” Still trying to rid herself of the taste, Azza scrapped at her tongue with her fingers in a vain attempt to expel the vile experience.

“Yuma likes bitter things and don’t do that Azza, that’s dirty and won’t help one bit. You’re just going to have to wait for it to go away this time. Now run along outside, I have work to do.” It took little effort to shoo the little girl out of her office as Azza desperately ran for the well outside.

Once there, Azza drew a fresh pail and dumped the entire bucket of water into her mouth (or tried). After a few times, the flavor seemed to have washed away. Sodden and miserable from the experience, Azza pondered what she should do. It was still a couple of hours before dinner and the other children had already gone down to the small stream.

Quite suddenly, it dawned on Azza that she had a few sweets still stashed away in her pillow. Running back inside with soaking wet sandals and clothing, she B-lined to her bed. Reaching past the sparse filling, she fished out a small wrapped piece of candy.

“AZZA! OUT!” The furious voice of the orphanage keeper snapped Azza to action and had the small girl bolting away before Holly could say another word.

Once outside again, and clear of any dangerous intents that the den mother might have, Azza looked to her prize and unwrapped it carefully. At last! True relief from the horror of before…

Yet, as Azza took the candy into her mouth and chewed for a few, she quickly realized that there was nothing to savor. In fact, the piece of candy was bland! It didn’t take long for Azza to figure she the medicine had numbed her taste. After all, she could still feel the grains of sugar.

And so, Azza sat chewing the flavorless candy and for a few unhappy hours, learned to never question her orphanage keeper again.

[Aegis of Espiridion]

It was a good day for contrails, he saw. The sky was the vibrant hue of a robin’s egg, so crystal clear that he fancied he could even make out the stars despite the midnoon sun. The only blemishes upon the cloudless azure were a pair of white streaks lazily making their way overhead, thick plumes that trailed outwards in their wake due to wind shear.

Somebody’s already up there.

He stood perched upon the very edge of the sheer precipice, sandy brown rock falling away at his feet like some hungering maw. All around him was difficult mountain terrain, jagged peaks and etched valleys carved into the landscape eons ago by retreating glaciers, but what made his current location especially valuable was the blast of cold wind that whipped violently at his face and harried his long black hair. The thermal updrafts, or the ‘daemon breaths’ as the locals called them, were singularly essential to the task he was about to undertake.

Neither did he stand alone in the face of his undertaking: at his feet rested a Hibernian cloudskimmer, a sleek craft native to the inhabitants of this inhospitable land. Its body was mostly hollow to save weight, carved from fossilised lightwood excavated from the lowland bogs. Attached to this were two gull wings, frames of the same material as the body spanned with lightweight canvas sail, and an upturned u-shaped grip which the pilot could use to steer and control his craft. Vectored thrust was provided by an ancient and priceless mana engine embedded in the rear, which also powered the enchantments that protected the pilot from the destructive forces of flying such a vehicle. The cloudskimmer was about as generic as such craft got – Hibernian windriders were known to be as unorthodox and rebellious as the winds that bore them, and loved nothing more than to display such attitudes on their beloved steeds – but even then it was a lovely natural shade of greenish blue, its nose tapered and threatening, its back slightly hunched so as to give its pilot a better view.

Regrettably, said cloudskimmer did not belong to him. It belonged to the red-haired, red-bearded, red-freckled Hibernian windrider who was currently bellowing at him at the top of his lungs. Not that Ywain could hear him, however, for the howling wind simply whisked every last bellow into the cloudless sky above. He couldn’t even read the man’s lips, due to the bristly red moustache that obscured his view and his general unfamiliarity with the Hibernian tongue.

No doubt something to do with keeping the craft safe, not taking any unnecessary risks, not underestimating the wrath of the sky-goddess Cailleach Bheur, so on, so forth.

Ywain responded as best as he felt able, by meeting his fellow’s eyes – thankfully not red, but the same celestial hue as the sky he sought to ride – and nodding and smiling pleasantly. Unfortunately his actions seemed to have the exact opposite effect as intended. The pale-skinned Hibernian, already close to popping a blood vessel with the sheer effort of trying to talk over the wind, started to accentuate his renewed mute shouting with violent waves of his ruddy hands and viciously flaming glares.

Much more of this, and he’s literally going to fall off the edge. And that would be bad, given that it was a long, long way down… and it was Ywain, not the Hibernian windrider, who had one hand on the cloudskimmer’s controls. I wonder what he’s trying to tell me. What to do if the mana engine fails mid-flight, perhaps? Or how to land the thing?

Whatever it was, the rogue had to admit, it certainly made for an interesting sight – a wild-eyed small Hibernian, dressed in gaudy leather jerkin and breeches and clutching the prestigious winged crop of his profession, capering about the narrow ledge like a madman. No matter how hard he screamed and gestured and bared his yellowed teeth in Ywain’s direction, the relentless gale stole all semblance of meaning and intent into the great beyond. He might as well have been a mummer’s act, or Ywain deaf and dumb, in the face of his unforgiving surroundings.
Time, perhaps, for a slightly different tack.

“Don’t. Worry,” the rogue mouthed, not bothering to expend the effort of attempting to overcome the constant howl in his ears. “I’ll. Be. Okay.”

If anything, the already white face of the Hibernian windrider grew even whiter. The small man redoubled his efforts frantically, and then a desperate wave of his arms overbalanced him dangerously and nearly carried him over the cliff, almost plucked away by pagan Cailleach Bheur herself. He tottered backwards before collapsing on his haunches, suddenly drained by his brush with death.

Well, there’s only one thing to do now, then.

The grin that spread over Ywain’s face was somewhat cheeky, somewhat apologetic… and wholly lost in anticipation of the thrill to follow. One long leg kick-started the cloudskimmer by pushing it over the brink, honed reflexes ensuring that he was in full control before it was swept away from beneath him. The mana engine stuttered once before firing, and in the brief instant before the ground below disappeared into the distance, he could make out the terrible wrath and despair written on the windrider’s coarse features. And then the Hibernian was just a speck amongst the dusty brown, and the whistling wind finally faded into the background as the cloudskimmer’s protective wards kicked in.

Actually, I wonder if he was telling me not to take his cloudskimmer without his permission?

Ah well, who cared? The entire sky was his, now, and the paired contrails overhead beckoned like an implicit challenge. Keen eyes forward, long black hair streaming behind him like a makeshift cape, Ywain revved the cloudskimmer’s engine and gave chase.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

Ask him which sense he was most wont not to lose, and he would answer sight. Such instinctive feelings were doubtless based in man’s ancient, primal fear of the dark, where the unknown and the predatory lurked waiting to prey on the helpless. Even now he sometimes had nightmares about flailing in such darkness unable to wake up. His fear of blindness was deeply rooted, nurtured in him from the moment he sprung wailing into the light from his mother’s womb.

And to be fair, he found that as long as he had sight, he could deal with the majority of the situations that he encountered. Perhaps not optimally, for his eyes were fickle and unreliable servants at best. But given enough time to concentrate and respond to his surroundings, a solid sense of vision could compensate for all of the other senses combined. And he was nothing if not competent at buying himself time.

Ask him which sense he didn’t mind losing, then, and he would instantly think of taste. But a serpent’s tongue could taste far more than the food in his mouth, and he was loathe to abandon such an advantage even if he could still eat well by retaining his sense of smell. The latter too was more important to him than it might seem at first glance, for his extraordinarily keen and perceptive sense of smell often provided the first sign of warning he had of approaching danger.

Hearing, thus, was not as crucial to him as an early warning as it might be to others. But hearing also implied balance and acceleration and the sense of position, and he knew more than most how difficult it was to move about without those vital inputs. Many were the times whilst he was still learning to control his powers that he had lost control of his inner ear functions, and had been forced to abandon an assignment because he was unable to coordinate his movements properly.

Ask him which sense he didn’t mind losing, then, and he would eventually answer touch. To the untrained mind, perhaps, it was a strange choice. Without touch, they would ask, how could he feel? How could he perceive? Was he not inhibited by the inability to experience sensations upon his skin?

The answer was no.

For touch encapsulated temperature, and if he could sense temperature then he would feel the flames licking at his body, hungry heat charring his skin and melting away his muscle as it greedily consumed him where he stood.

And touch also encapsulated pain, and if he could sense pain then he would be in unholy agony due to the curved blade impaled through his torso, and the myriad of deep slashes, badly bent limbs, and bloody bruises that marred his form.

And neither of these sensations was conducive to the task at hand.

One more step. One more tortured stumble beyond the wide-eyed young soldier who’d just stabbed him through his chest, heedless of the fact that his toes were crumbling away with every passing second.

Just a little bit more… just a fraction…

There. The name on the parchment became clear, even through the haze of smoke and diminishing consciousness that blighted him. The single piece of information that he had been instructed to collect, the one word that would allow him to bribe a nation or ignite a war at his very whim.

As he faded, he was left with innumerable sensations seared into his mind. His sight going blank at long last as his eyes succumbed to the heat. The taste of fear upon his tongue from those who’d finally taken him down. The smell of charred flesh and burning lamp oil as the room and its occupants caught fire. The screams of the damned and the cries of the injured, some of them only vaguely recognisable as his own.

But no heat. No pain.

And then the mirror shattered, and he was back in his own body at last. Seated in the middle of a quiet room full of reflective surfaces, lights dimmed and outside noises muted, the serenity of his sanctum soothed the images from his mind and left only the vital information that he sought.

For Touma Kamikaji was a psy-mage, a mind controller. And it made sense for him not to feel the injuries suffered by his sacrificial pawns as they died to give him power.

The question thus remained… did he feel anything in the first place?

Only he could possibly know the answer to that, and if he did, he wasn’t telling.

[Wings of Endymion]

“By dose is blocked.”

“I can hear that, thanks. Pass the salt, will you?”

“I cadt taste adythig. We sit dowd to a hot beal for the first tibe in bodths, and I cadt taste adythig.”

“I sympathise.”

“… really?”

“Nope. At least have the good grace not to give your cold to me, okay? Salvar is taxing enough as it is without having to deal with sniffles at the same time.”

“I dodt like you.”

“Well at least your inner angel is beginning to show. Maybe the fire is warming you up somewhat. Pass the pepper please?”

“I really dodt like you.”

“You could at least try eating, couldn’t you? Now, I know you’re not a big fan of roast meats… so the broth, perhaps?”

“Too salty.”

“Ah, so there’s nothing wrong with your taste buds at least. You were lying when you told me that you couldn’t taste anything.”

“It was a turd of phrase.”

“I see. Well, if you don’t like the broth, perhaps the fish?”

“That’s Kebiran chilli, isdt it? I’ve already burdt by togue on the shribp…”

“Aha, so there’s nothing wrong with your eyes either! Furthermore, there’s enough sense left between your mouth and your mind that you can taste the spice! Are you sure that you wouldn’t rather burn your nose free of its imprisonment?”

“… I would rather eat raw bidt by the hadful.”

“Bidt… oh, mint. I’m sure that can be arranged, if you so wish. Well, if you won’t have the fish I shall. Pass the sauce?”

“… I really dodt like you.”

“Fine, have it your way. If you’re going to be stubborn, I might just offer you nothing more than this here bread. Would you like some?”

“Too tough, too cold. Whed was this baked?”

“You’re truly in a bad temper today, aren’t you? At least your fingers can still distinguish texture and temperature, though your tongue seems wont only to give a lashing. Shall I invite the kitchen servers out so you can tell them in person? Or would you prefer that I do the job myself?”

“Deither. Stop teasing be.”

“Why should I? It’s so much fun… oh, stop glowering at me like that.”

“I dodt like you.”

“Haha. Now there’s a surprise. So let’s get this straight… you can taste the salt in the broth, you can see the chilli on the fish, and you can feel the staleness of the bread… but you can’t smell the tasty aromas of the rest of the food on your plate?

“That’s what I said id the first place.”

“Oh yes, that’s true. My apologies, I’d completely forgotten. Pass the herbs, please?”

“You’re bead.”

“Bead? Mean, perhaps… actually, certainly. What else is new?

“Dothig buch.”

“Oh, don’t sigh like that. At least you’re well enough to sit here and complain.”

“True.”

“So all you need is food, right?”

“Dot ady of this, though.”

“I thought as much. This is why I took the liberty of using the last of the rice and some vegetables that I bartered from the innkeeper to make porridge for you. Thought it might be easier on the stomach… you know, not so offensive to your remaining senses. Tomi should be through with it any moment now.”

“…”

“Ah, there it comes. Stop crying and eat up while it’s still hot.”

“… thag you.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

His eyes opened with a start. But the world was a hazy blur, an undignified tumult of colourless smears that reminded him of a poor artist’s palette or an incomprehensible painting. No matter how hard he tried to blink the fog from his eyes it would not lift. His head swam painfully as he tried, and failed, to make sense of it all.

He had been dreaming. He was sure he’d been dreaming. Nostalgic and bittersweet, tragic and heartbreaking and oh so real. Oh so real…

… because it was real.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still relive the sight of the Prince of Infernal Light as it tore through the Academy like a serrated blade through flesh. He could still watch as spells and swords alike failed to harm the monstrosity, and as six-year-old Kenta bled his last in Kayu’s arms, spitting defiance at the beast until the very end. He could still reawaken in the midst of a burning wasteland strewn with charred corpses, aching in a thousand different places as he wondered where the daemon was and why he was still alive.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still recall the banshee screams as he walked the Road of Guilt, mothers and wives blaming him for the loved ones who would never return. He could still listen to the silence etched into his very soul by the path of solitude he had walked for eight long years, studying and training and preparing so that what had happened would never occur again. He could still shiver at Kayu’s final farewell, just before he’d left Nippon for Althanas, as he only later realised that she never meant to see him again.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still remember the stench of his flesh smouldering beneath the Dread Necromancer’s spells as they carved a wound that would never heal into his chest. He could still retch at the rank reek of the underground lair that had become both prison and sanctuary, the aroma of necrotic death mingling with desperate heroism as he fought to keep placing one foot before the other. He could still smell the faint vanilla perfume of Kayu’s hair as she slept in the towers of Winyaurient, oblivious to the darkness that loomed over her as he watched on helplessly.

His eyes couldn’t see, but he could still revive the taste of failure crowning his tongue like stale fur as he watched the world burn. He could still force down the dusty ash that was all the sustenance he could find in the ruined heartlands of Raiaera, the murky muddy streams of Salvar that had clogged rather than soothed his parched throat. He could still gag at the blood and herb poultice the healer had used to counteract the corruption coursing through his veins, in an attempt to slow the plague that was eating him whole.

He had been dreaming, to be sure. But the dreams had been rooted in true memories, and his mind had recreated them so well that he had almost relived his entire life in a single night. The frosty steam of his pulsating breath brushed the skin of his upper lip, laboured heaves of his chest echoing throughout the empty room and its bare wooden walls as he only slowly regained control of his thundering heart. Even with all his willpower focused on restoring reality, it was a long and cold eternity before he had calmed himself enough to unclench his fists, thus releasing the sharp nails from where they had embedded themselves into his palm.

Only then did he realise that he was biting his lip to stop himself from crying out, hard enough to draw blood. The salty metallic tang lingered accusingly in his mouth, blocking his nostrils and making him want to retch once more at the nightmarish memories of war and death. Another eternity passed before he could convince his jaws to relax.

I have to stop doing this, said the rational part of his mind. But another, quieter voice told him,

Don’t you deserve it?

At last, he opened his eyes again. But the world was still that hazy brown blur, cold and hostile. He shivered once more as he shrugged the blankets from his spare frame, trying to picture the room in his mind’s eye. The scent of molten candle wax was the bureau, and the muted murmur of voices was the door, which meant…

He vented all of his anger and frustration into a surge of arcane power, and the extinguished fireplace roared into flame with an explosive woosh. Streaks of brightly dancing red and yellow now joined the background brown, but still his vision did not clear. It was almost as if his body did not want him to see his current surroundings, refusing to transmit the information gathered by his eyes to be comprehended by his mind.

But he knew that there was one last thing that he could – that he had to – try.

Slowly he forced his weary limbs from the bed, fumbling along the wall until his calloused fingers finally found what he sought. They closed, with a gentle touch almost unthinkable from his previous outburst, around a thin metallic frame. The movements that brought it to his face were not graceful, but they served.

When he opened his eyes for the third time, he was greeted by the spartan decor of his host’s bedroom. The fur-strewn bed from which he had just risen, the violently erupting fire in the far corner of the room, the rest of his belongings arranged neatly upon the wooden floor.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp cold air, and exhaled slowly. Then he began to gather his effects upon his person.

The road ahead was still long and perilous, and he had come too far to turn back.

[Bloodrose]

"You're cheating." Sidsa's tone was indignant. "You can still see."

"No, I can't." Teric countered, straightening up and squaring his shoulders with the source of the witch's voice. He had a wide length of burlap tied over his eyes, which on its own was good enough to blot out his vision. It was also scratchy enough that the mercenary kept his eyes shut under the blindfold anyways, for good measure.

"Can." She didn't sound convinced. On top of that, there was a little grunt in Sidsa's voice as she argued; a sound similar to the exertion involved in throwing something. Teric put his hand up in front of his face just in time to intercept the snowball meant for his forehead. "See!"

"You want to come redo this blindfold yourself?" Teric responded. "Will that satisfy you?"

Sidsa didn't give him an answer, but the veteran could hear her moving forward. Standing just over five feet, and weighing eighty pounds soaking wet, the young woman was extraordinarily light on her feet; as one might expect. Even still, being light-footed could do nothing to muffle the soft crunch of snow being packed underfoot.

"Down." Sidsa ordered.

Teric took a knee, bringing him down low enough for the young woman standing in front of him to reach behind his head and untie the blindfold. When the burlap came off, Teric opened his eyes - blinking several times as the cold Salvic air hit them. Sidsa was standing right in front of him, her face just a little higher than his own.

Not exactly what one thinks of when thinking about witches.

She was in her early twenties; short and slender, with hard but beautiful features. Like a lot of the wilder folk who made their homes north of the Osolav river, she had a rugged sort of aesthetic about her; more muscular than a waif, with a lean, almost gaunt face. That face, and her sapphire blue eyes, were framed by long dark hair gathered into braids and dreads, decorated with feathers and a few beads. She wore an odd assortment of black leather and mismatched fabrics in a dress-like configuration, reminiscent of the Esseker gypsies in Fallien (only a continent and an ocean away).

"Cheater." Sidsa said again, as she unfolded and refolded the strip of burlap to make the blindfold wider.

"Like I said, I don't need my eyes to beat you at darts." Teric replied, very matter-of-factly. A dozen paces behind Sidsa, hanging from the wall of the small cabin they shared, was a cork board sectioned off into scoring areas. It was old, beat up, and covered in mildew from hanging outside for what looked like years, but the small iron darts they'd found on the mantle still stuck good enough.

"We'll see." Sidsa said. Newly widened blindfold in hand, she covered Teric's eyes once more and tied it securely behind his head. The burlap covered his face from the tip of his nose all the way to his hairline now, eliminating any chance that he could see past the layers of folded cloth.

"New wager?" Teric asked, rising blindly to his feet.

"Closest to the bulls eye wins. Loser does dishes for a week." Was the witch's response. Her hand took his, and Teric felt something cold and metal being pressed into his palm. With his off-hand he held the dart sideways by the tip, and carefully positioned the fingers of his throwing hand around the projectiles heavy middle.

"Go for it."

Sidsa stood to his right, and there was a moment of silence as she (Teric assumed) aimed up her throw. A light breeze wafted through the clearing their cabin sat in, sending smoke from the chimney blowing in their direction. Another minute, and the breeze passed, and Sidsa finally threw.

The sound her dart made when it hit was not the sound of an iron point biting into cork. Instead, it sounded rather like an iron dart hitting the log wall of the cabin itself.

"Shit." Sidsa hissed under her breath.

Teric smiled. He raised his arm up so that his upper arm was parallel to the ground - his elbow pointed at the target. He knew where it was because he had squared his shoulders to it when Sidsa removed the blindfold, and had been careful getting up to keep his shoulders facing straight ahead. There really wasn't any sort of skill or trick to it, but Teric wasn't about to reveal that all Sidsa had to do to win was make him spin a circle a few times. Fingers already wrapped around the dart, he made a few practice motions, careful only to move at the elbow while keeping his shoulder and wrist firm. With a flick, he sent the dart flying, and was rewarded with the sound of iron hitting cork.

"Cheater." Sidsa said again, a little less convinced this time.

[Lillith]

Daggers drawn and hair tied back, Lillith Kazumi resembled an epitome of efficiency and murderous intent. Without a word she cleared the expanse between the tall double jade doors of the winter palace and set foot on the top stair that marked the beginning of the long descent into the village. For centuries, the geisha of Imamate household had begun this very same journey on the first day of spring, relinquished of their duties as house maid and confident to the Duke of the frost spires.

Few people knew of this tradition, save the Duke and his unfortunate charge. Meiko in the cities of Akashima grew up through hardship and trials few could imagine with the hopes of one day being an attendant for the royal houses, but few would ever find out the truth – the richer you were, the fouler your manners, darker your obsessions, harsher your punishment for crossing lines not yet set.

This time, however, Lillith Kazumi had not taken the duke’s rage to heart. She had returned it, full force, and buried her tanto into the circular depths of his shoulder blades mid-coitus. His groan had mingled with his screams, despite his continued throes of pleasure whilst she twisted the steel red handled blades in polar circlers to twist sinew and grind bone.

She had of course been grateful for the invitation to the palace, her third in a run. Other geisha had vied in secret for the luxury, waiting at midnight for a courier to deliver the fabled rose scented scroll over rooftop and steeple and palisade. The only visitor to their chambers at night was the bitter cold of the north region of Akashima. If they had dared to look outside their windows, to poke their painted, porcelain visages of beauty and conviction into the brisk night air, they would have caught a glimpse of a female ninja stealing away their dreams.

The truth of the matter was that the duke invited as many geisha as he could pay for, a desire not tempered by his diminishing wealth and receding hairline. Thirteen in all had arrived at the bottom of the winter palace’s steps three days ago, and it had been Lillith’s delight to inform each of them in turn, waiting of course until at least half way up the four thousand great steps to turn them back – threateningly, delightfully, with whatever means she could bring to bear to achieve her goal.

Her experience alone would have to suffice the duke.

Many things had been acquired during the night, some which would require poultices and atonement. Most important of all however, was the small jade effigy of a lion that jostled in her pocket as she let out a sigh, stretched her blades overhead and clanged them together with a clash. Her wrapped feet began to move and she picked up a quick pace, half running against the cold howl of the peak’s wind yet making work of the long descent with little exertion.

With the effigy in her possession, Lillith’s mind settled on the things she had lost during her stay in the north. Though the war between the spirit warder tribes had reached its inevitable conclusion, her endeavours here were to aid the progress of the civil war – to free Akashima from the Empire’s grip whilst the tyrant is weak and its enemies are at their strongest. Once she might not have thought twice about it, but this time, the loss of the last dwindling shards of her dignity troubled her.

Though the assassin had a cold, almost psychotic glare expression on her face, in her heart and mind she was a scared and lonely woman. Beset with troubles, emotions long thought abandoned or conquered and left to fight on the frontier alone with her brother’s return to Scara Brae, care and concern had become sisters to her tanto and wild passion for espionage.

Looking to her left, the Cliffside quickly turned into a perilous and sheer drop into the snow bound mist. Though the wind was howling, it did so only with passion and not with strength. It caressed the lofty heights of the upper peak to Lillith’s right before it dropped in an arc into the unknown. In summer, when the sun thawed the snow and left the pine crofts resplendent with green foliage brighter and more radiant than the most precious of jade artefacts, the palace became a warm and welcoming fortress of solitude.

She cared for her home above everything else. Even her family were expendable when it came to the kingdom, to its heritage, people and its wile. Like men to money and woman to pleasure, Lillith served the interests of the kami, the god spirits of her people with an unwavering, immortal dedication. Everything she did served a higher purpose than the reunification and emancipation of Akashima – she was working for the return of the Elder Kami to Althanas proper, to free them from the exile inflicted upon them by the ancient Spirit Warder Guido.

“Love me in winter, loathe me in spring, fight me in autumn and laugh through summer,” she recited the first line of an old poem she had recited to the Duke the previous evening. His jasmine scented chamber, a cliché on all accounts in the long list of men she had slept with and their strange attempts to seduce their charges had swirled with pleasure when she had spoken the verse. The pleasure had been hers at hearing the history of her lands given poetic justice.

She could smell nothing at all now; the cloud of mist had dredged away all sensation from her nostrils.

She could feel nothing but worry in her heart, and the snow turned the world into a long ladder of black lines against a piercing white background. The snow blindness would take days to fade if she did not hurry.

She could taste nothing on her tongue, which was fur lined and dog breathed from too make rose wine, sake and Ambrosia gin she had deemed appropriate to bring as a gift for her host. That would not change for many days, until she settled her battered and worn body into a hot, scalding bath filled with flower petals and lavender soap.

Why did I do this? She wondered.

“Hate me for all the things I have done, but not for why I do them,” and with that, she turned a bend in the winding road, feet slowly cooling and skin half blue, the road ahead long and her words her only comfort.

Lillith Kazumi was slowly losing her senses to the bitter disposition of nature, but she was willing to make the biggest sacrifice of all to fulfil her dream – she would give her own lives to return glory to the world of the dancing dragons and lantern kami, her mind, tongue, eyes and nose were put fragments of that pledge.

[Atzar]

First of all, thank you all for participating in this round! Following are short assessments of each entry, in the order they were submitted, with the winner’s assessment in bold – aside from that, the rankings will not be revealed.


SirArtemis: In this round, I felt that several people took awhile to ‘get into the flow’, so to speak. You were one of them – the first few paragraphs seemed awkward and forced to me, almost as if you weren’t entirely comfortable with the beginning of your post. Once you got going, however, I felt that your entry got much better. Your interactions with Daros are entertaining, and lend a depth to your character that I feel is sometimes missing.

Fuzzie: This was funny! Your entry was a unique take on the prompt – while most people saw the loss of a sense as an impediment, you treated it as an advantage (albeit a temporary one). You don’t make as much of an attempt to add detail or depth as some of the other entries, but this was a fun, creative entry to the contest.

Sagequeen: You have a definite voice with your character – her personality comes through not just in her thoughts or words, but in the way you write. I felt that your entry was an effective snapshot of Erissa’s training; well done.

Joseff: Your entry was creative, and I liked the “witch’s brew” direction you take with your potion-making. To improve your writing style, focus on adding detail and refining your technique. It’s impossible to discuss technique in any depth in a single paragraph, so my advice is this: there are several excellent writers here on Althanas. Read some of their work, and pay specific attention to what you like about their writing. If you see something that a writer does that you especially enjoy, write something of your own while trying out that technique, and see how you feel about it (this can be something you show to others, or something you simply do on your own).

Bayne: Your story was solid. The best way to improve your writing is to add detail. For example, some mention of the difficulties he faces while trying to walk through the forest blind would have really helped bring this to life. Also, read Joseff’s assessment – I think my advice to him would help you a lot as well.

Restless Soul: Had I written one of these vignettes myself, mine probably would have been most similar in concept to yours. In place of the lost sense, you paid a lot of attention to the other four, and there was a tension in your story that I felt was very effective. You were another case in which I felt that the beginning was forced, and that you improved as you got into the flow of your post. Overall, though, this was a very good entry.

Silence Sei: This was a good story. What kept it from being great, in my opinion, was a lack of imagery and powerful details. The story itself was very good, but I feel that there are times where your writing could be enhanced by stronger, more poignant words and phrases, especially in a dramatic tale like this one.

Blackdog1: I’m very pleased with the variety amongst the entries thus far – they’re all very different from one another, and this one continues that trend. I did feel that you rushed the ending of your story – it ended quickly, and it left me wondering what happened. Were all of the monks blind? Was Aiden really deaf? The end of your story left me guessing a little too much.

Orphans: Typical Azza! You still have a cheerful, “bright” style of writing, and your portray Azza’s childish personality well. It seemed like you were just getting started, though, and then it… ended. What happened next? Was the loss of taste permanent? I hope not. I think you had the makings of an excellent entry here, but you pulled it out of the oven before it was cooked all the way through.

Aegis of Espiridion: I enjoyed this interpretation of the prompt – the inability to hear over the gale was a clever idea. You have a clean, refined style of writing that I was very impressed with (and that goes for your other entries as well, even if I don’t explicitly state it three more times). Well done – I enjoyed this one.

Whispers of Abyssion: Another creative use of the prompt. I also enjoyed the way that you withheld some important information until the end, leaving me in the dark for much of the story.

Wings of Endymion: The lighthearted tone that you used in this entry was effective, especially given the darker nature of the stories you submitted with Whispers and Flames. I was a little bit hampered by my lack of familiarity with your character in this case – I didn’t know who was who.

Flames of Hyperion: This entry won the round – congratulations! Aside from your effective writing style, the thing that set this one apart from the rest was the powerful voice you used in writing this. In this story, I got a good glimpse of what Ingwe has been through, and I thought the detail that you gave me was very strong. The bit with the glasses at the end was also a nice touch.

Bloodrose: You are another writer with a clean, effective writing style. This was a fun, lighthearted entry. Your use of the prompt and the story you attached to it was entertaining and made for a fun close to this round.

Lillith Kazumi: Sorry! The round ended at 11:59 on Friday, and this entry was more than a day late. For future reference, each round begins at the beginning of each Monday and ends at the end of each Friday. This entry won’t be ranked, but please still feel free to participate in the rest of the tournament!

Congratulations once again to Flames of Hyperion, the winner of this round!

I recognize that my critique of each entry is brief. If you'd appreciate a more in-depth assessment of your post, please contact me through PM or AIM (my handle is Ark Ether) and I'd be more than happy to give you a more thorough response. Thanks!

EXP rewards will be posted shortly.