Round Two

[Christoph]

Welcome to round two of the Vignette Tournament! This week's prompt is...

Your character receives a gift, favor, or boon. It seems great at first, but he/she soon discovers an unexpected catch.

You decide the details, including the nature of the gift and its dark drawback, whether the catch was put in place intentionally or not, and any other interpretations. Feel free to make the mood of your entries dark and sinister, light-hearted and funny, or anything in between. All of the usual Vignette guidelines stand as normal. Your entries may be canon or non-canon for your characters and can take place at any point in their histories.

The round ends 11:59 PM EST this Friday. Good luck, and have fun!

[SirArtemis]

"It's not so simple," Artemis said, fiddling with the handle of his tea cup.

"Of course not," Judicis agreed. "It never is."

Artemis set the porcelain cup down upon a matching saucer, both covered in a lavender floral pattern. "I just don't know what the right thing to do is." He let out a sigh, leaning forward in his plush chair and resting his elbows on his knees and ran a hand through his short brown hair. "I just want to do the right thing, Judicis."

The old man, or at least the form of an old man, stood straight and with arms behind his back. He wore an immaculate black suit and matching leather shoes, perfectly shined as if they had never felt anything other than the luxurious carpet beneath them. "Artemis, I know it may be hard to understand, but right and wrong are never as simple as they appear, as you said yourself." He walked over to one of the walls, all of which were lined with books, and pulled a particular volume down before returning to a plush chair that resembled Artemis'. "Sometimes you can only do what feels right and hope that you are correct." He sat down and reached for his cup, which sat beside Artemis' upon a deep blue liviol table, before leaning back and crossing his legs.

Artemis sat back as well, the purple velvet giving slightly to his frame. He let his head fall upon the back of the chair and closed his eyes. "Well what do you think Judicis? What would you suggest I do?"

Judicis' eyes fell upon the young man, the black leather armor seeming out of place in the luxurious study. "Artemis, let me ask you something first."

Artemis lifted his head, looking forward and letting his bright blue eyes match the gaze of Judicis' own hazel ones. "What?"

"What do you most value about having me in your life?"

Artemis gave the old man a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm not a living being; I'm a sentient spirit residing in a weapon - a bow to be precise. I exist only as long as a wielder exists. All this..." Judicis began, a hand motioning to the study all around, "is only possible because of you."

"I still don't follow. Axel wielded you before me, and others before him. How is this any different?"

"You underestimate yourself Artemis," Judicis said with a smile. "My magic relies on you. This room, the detail, the luxury, the warmth and flavor of the tea we are drinking, even my appearance - they are all a manifestation of your mind."

Artemis blinked.

"Why do you think you look the way you do? You know we aren't in the normal plane of existence. We are within the bow, so to speak - within my realm of magic. So why do you look the way you always do?"

"Because... I look the way I do?"

"No, Artemis, because your mind constructs you as it knows you. The reason I appear as a wise old man, sophisticated and surrounded by books, is because that is how you perceive me. I have no body, nor have I read any books, nor have I ever drank tea. My white hair and goatee, despite how perfectly and neatly trimmed, is never groomed. How is that?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Artemis, by possessing me, you have something that very few in this world will ever experience - someone who truly understands you. We share a consciousness, and with that, I can see all of your memories, your feelings, your thoughts and so forth. I am an extension of you."

"But you have your own memories, and I can't see them. Doesn't that just mean that I'm more of an extension of you?"

"Not at all," Judicis laughed. "Quite the contrary. My magic simply retains the information it collected while belonging to a previous host. By you accepting to wield me, I grant you my power, and you grant me life, so to speak. I live through you, and I feel and think and remember because of you. Everything that you are has become a part of me."

"So then what does that mean? Can I access any memory you have of Axel?"

Judicis reached for the volume he had set upon the table and lifted it up, turning the dark green leather-bound tome to face Artemis. The young man read the golden letters: Axel Denton. "What did you think all of these books were? They're stories of course - of every person who has ever wielded me, even if for a brief moment. Each book contains a snapshot of everything that individual was at the last moment before they let go."

Artemis took the book, running his hands along the rough surface and tracing the letters with his fingertips. His eyes wandered about the room, looking at the hundreds of books set upon the walls. He remained unaware that the lavender on the tea set and the velvet of the chairs matched the skin tone of Jay, a beautiful dark elf woman whom he loved. He did not notice that the color of the tea he drank matched the dwarven beards of the Harki brothers. The rich blue of the liviol table would have reminded Artemis of the robes Daros wore, an eccentric wizard, but the thought did not cross his mind.

"Yes, I do have a book of you as well," Judicis said with a smile. Artemis looked up at Judicis, not saying a word. "And no, I cannot show you it."

"Why not?" Artemis asked, setting down the book about Axel without even opening a single page. "Maybe it can help me figure out what I should do about this whole situation."

Judicis stood shaking his head before the young man even finished. "Artemis, anything that is in that book is within you. If you need the answer, then you already know where to look."

"But I don't know the answer, Judicis. I don't know which side to take in this war. I don't know who is right and who is wrong. I don't know who is the victim."

"Artemis, it's war; there is no right or wrong. You know this. You don't need me to tell you."

"Even if there isn't a clear right and wrong Judicis, there's still a better choice!" Artemis said, rising to his feet.

Judicis nodded, seeing the young man's enthusiasm. He stood as well, walking over to Artemis and placing a hand upon his shoulder, matching his gaze. "Artemis, if you do not know which side to take, then do not take a side. When you are ready to choose, then have faith in your decision."

"I just wish I could know."

"I know you do, Artemis."

"It's so easy for you, Judicis. You can just hop into someone's mind and know what you need to. You don't have to ask questions or worry about being lied to or miscommunication. You just get the truth, and all of it, just like that."

Judicis smiled, a slight sadness in his eyes, though Artemis did not notice. "Knowing everything doesn't always make things easier, Artemis."

[Sagequeen]

“How can I not?” The silver-haired elf-child asked no one in particular, as she sat at the bedside of her dying friend. The final beams of sunlight cleaved their way into the dimly lit room as the day crept quietly away. The little elf's demeanor was befitting of one attending her own funeral as she readjusted the thread-bare blankets that covered the young human girl. The pallor of the dying child's face was a stark contrast to the normal hues of delightful peach and rosy-cheeked joy that once colored it, now washed away like chalk from flagstones in a downpour. The elf could not bear to look at that face any longer, yet she could not bear to look elsewhere around the toy-strewn room for any amount of time.

The wisdom and age in the elf's eyes caused those who did not know Erissa Caedron to stop and wonder at the somber girl. Those who already knew her only felt sadness, and even pity, for the warrior who had done such great deeds under the banner of the Ixian Knights. Now, however, in the body of a three-year-old child, the ancient arcanist lacked the strength and ability to continue the fight, or even to completely care for herself.

A worried face peeked through the door; her longtime friend and mentor smiled sadly at Erissa.

“Come in, Troyas,” she said softly, lisping the r in his name with a cuteness that would tug on the heartstrings if not for the despair etched on the elf-child's face. Her companion gently lifted a chair from the corner of the child's room and set it by Erissa; with a sigh he sat and put an arm around her shoulders.

“There is no change?” He asked, the care and concern in his eyes brimming, bringing tears. Troyas knew the answer, and what it would mean for his student.

“No,” Erissa whispered, exhausted. “I no longer have the reserve of strength to heal a disease so extensive. I have tried, but only managed to prolong her suffering. Oh, Troyas, my weak body...” The tears flowed freely as she leaned against him for support, as the arcanist had done through the eons; her teacher, like herself, did not age. They had found each other when she was only in her twenties; he was already ancient then, having lived many lifetimes of elves. The two sat in silence, awaiting the inevitable, until Erissa looked into his eyes deeply.

“Yes, Erissa, I would,” he answered, not needing her to speak the question. He sighed heavily. “Despite the consequences, I would do it.” Erissa nodded, and gave a starkly humorless laugh that was jarring in the silence of the room.

“If I were anyone else, the gift bestowed upon me would be amazing beyond belief; I often wonder how the priestess could not have known what it would mean for me, that it would eventually be the end of me,” Erissa mused out loud.

“Do not think like that, Erissa. Her blessing was given with the best of intentions, and you have used it with the same. You have given yourself, literally, for others. It is no different than if you would give your life by dying upon a sword for this child. We are fortunate that our sort of immortality is only for as long as we want it, or can keep it. I will go to the next life, whatever it may be, with you; everything is already arranged, my Dear One.”

“Thank you, Troyas. Thank you for everything,” Erissa said. He nodded gently.

“And thank you, Dear One; it has been my honor to be your teacher.” The two drew mutual comfort from each other as they looked upon the pale face of the resting child; in the blink of an eye, a change came over the body, a sort of release and a look of peace upon the cherubic features. The final breath that had been caught up in her small lungs trailed away in a deathly whisper.

“It is time,” Erissa murmured. “I wonder if it will be as though I were never born, if there even will be another life for me?” Troyas looked at her with a grievous sadness afflicting his normally reserved features.

“I pray it is not.” The elf-child rose from her chair, looking at her teacher with tear-filled eyes. She raised her arms and called upon the name of the dead priestess, speaking the incantation she was taught; a light filled the room, and as it increased in intensity, the elf-child began to shrink, becoming younger and younger with each passing second, until, as a baby, she could no longer stand. The light became blinding for a few moments, and it winked away just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

There were only two in the room then, a living and healthy young human child sleeping in the bed, and an ancient elf whose face was wet with his tears. The door opened softly; a grief-wizened mother trudged in and walked to the bed. Her jaw dropped open with wonder and she turned quickly to Troyas. She hesitated as she saw his tears, but the joy of her living daughter quickly resurfaced.

"She is better! Where is Erissa? I must thank her for healing my child!" The mother looked around the room and back to Troyas, who hung his head. "Well, where is she?"

"She is gone," he said sadly.

"Well when is she coming back?" The woman asked, exasperated.

"She is not. You see, Erissa was blessed by a priestess; the blessing was such that should could bring the dead to life simply by giving up some of the years of her own, in essence turning back the clock and becoming younger. However, Erissa does not, did not, age. Every time she restored a life, she gave up years she could never get back."

[blackdog1]

A small amount of sweat, dirt and time was all that it took to get the wagon wheel back onto the axle.

Milo had always been impressed with the color and show of gypsy wagons and this one was no exception. For a small wagon it exploded with a riot of color that captured and held the eye. The only thing that he found unusual was the fact that the old gypsy woman was traveling alone.

"Thank you for your time and labor", the gypsy woman said with far more drama than was necessary, "now I can catch up with the rest of my troupe."

The condition of the old, thin donkey pulling the wagon made Milo doubt that she would be catching anybody. "Good luck on your travels ma'am." Was all Milo bothered to say, there was little else that he would in any case.

Quicker than Milo thought she could move the old woman dashed into the back of her wagon and just as quickly returned to the road with something clutched to her chest. "This is for your trouble," she said, and held out a small book for Milo to take.

Milo knew how to read, but had never actually owned a book to call his own. With a grateful smile he took the offered gift, to refuse it would be rude anyway. The title was appropriate 'The Tales of The Traveler', it was well worn, but also well cared for.

"Thank you," was all Milo could say,"thank you very much." It was quite possible that he valued the old book more than she did the repair on her wheel.

With nothing more to be said, the two travelers went their separate ways both never knowing if they would randomly meet again.

That night after a travelers meal of bread, cheese and jerky, Milo settled down by the fire light to enjoy his new treasure of words. The book contained a series of short stories that did not have titles of there own, so he logically started with the first.

As was evident in the books title, it was a story of The Traveler who wandered upon a great feast set in a forest meadow. The Traveler was free to eat and drink his fill, all the while enjoying the company of happy and entertaining people. It was a simple story that made Milo feel good just by reading it. He never knew reading could be so much fun.

Later that night when Milo fell asleep, he dreamed the story that he had read and enjoyed it all over again.

Upon waking in the morning he found himself with a full belly and the residue of wine still in his head. Already satisfied, he happily began his day of travel all the while wondering what the next story would be about.

On the second night Milo sat down to read the second story, a torrid tale of love and lust between The Traveler and a beautiful and talented young woman.

Once again, Milo awoke with the residue of the following nights story and corresponding dream evident on his lips and clothes.

Milo was beginning to enjoy reading more than he ever thought he could. The words on the page were truly the greatest treasure in the world to him. The anticipation of the next nights story drove him down the road on the third day and prompted him to set an early camp to have even more time to enjoy the pleasures of the book.

Eagerly settling in by the fire long before dark, Milo began to read the third story wondering what was in store for him and The Traveler next.

In this story, The Traveler comes upon a troupe of gypsy wanders in the wilds of the forest. He is taken in and enjoys their food, wine and song all evening long and well into the night. All is well until The Traveler goes to bed for the night and as he sleeps the gypsies brutally kill The Traveler and feast on his body.

The sun was setting as Milo finished the story and his cook fire had burned low. This story has brought him no joy, only horrors that set his mind racing about the gypsy woman that he had helped and her troupe. Was the book some kind of magical trap? Or was it only the work of his imagination? Either way, he was done with it.

The fear of what this night could become had Milo fully in its grip. He threw the book into what remained of the fire and hoped that whatever magic it held would be destroyed. In a near panic he gathered more fire wood to push back the darkness and last him through the night.

Milo laid out his weapons and brewed a pot of strong tea. There would be no sleep tonight.

[Aegis of Espiridion]

The weapon flew lightly through the wintry air, catching the twilight as it danced with graceful beauty. But its landing was an unrefined heavy clatter on the cobblestones, and it skittered noisily for a few lengths before it came to a complete halt.

“What’s this?”

‘This’ was a basket-hilted claymore, single-edged and just under a metre from the tip of the blade to the base of the hilt. Its guard was bronze intricately inlaid with silver, but the scabbard that held it was simple leather and iron. The impact had jarred the weapon loose, and he could see a finger’s length of finely folded steel, glinting in crimson fire.

“A sword,” Fionan spoke the obvious, resplendent in knightly plate and tabard. His heraldry was the heraldry of the Knights of Rousay, a golden heron on a field of blue indicative of the river estuary that provided the north Salvic town with its livelihood. On his left hip was a sword almost an exact replica of the one he had just thrown at his friend’s feet.

“A very nice one at that,” Ywain agreed, noncommittal. “Why’d you throw it at me?”

“A gift, Ywain. After all you’ve done today, don’t you think you deserve it?”

“Fio.” Ywain’s elfin features abruptly contorted into a dark frown, long black hair casting his face into shadow. Unlike his friend he was dressed in simple mercenary drab – shabby leather jerkin, shabby leather breeches, a pair of high boots caked in mud and drenched with melted snow. “You know that I don’t give a horse’s whisker about the Baron and his cronies. Why’re you trying to get me in his service?”

“Because you belong there,” was Fionan’s level rebuttal. “You may not care for the Baron, or for the arrogant aristocracy that surrounds him, but you do care for the people of this town. Ywain, you’re a knight in all but name. I’m just trying to give you your rightful place… the power to do what you need to do.”

“Don’t toy with me, Fio,” the rogue warned swiftly. A cloud passed overhead, causing shadows to swarm over the fountain in the middle of the square. From where the knight stood, at the edge of the cobbled courtyard, it was as if the darkness had swallowed Ywain whole.

Then the cloud passed, and the illusion lifted, and he was just a young man again. A stubborn one, skilled at arms and strayed from the light, but a man nonetheless.

“I don’t work under authority. I don’t listen to your orders. And I certainly don’t care for companions.”

“Liar.”

Fionan’s voice was gentle, but Ywain’s eyes glinted a shade of steely grey. “I’ve told you once, I’m telling you again. Don’t try to tempt me with knighthood. I don’t want it.”

Somewhere in the distance a raven cawed. Aside from the gentle tinkle of water from the stone fish-mouths, it was the only sound that echoed from the high brick walls of the townhouses that surrounded them. The streets were strangely quiet, far too quiet for a weekday evening in Rousay, and stranger still was the fact that the two young men were the only people in sight.

Such curiosities were easily explained, however, by the bodies that lay strewn all around them. Some were armoured, in the breastplate and helm style common to the southern Salvic baronies. Others were not.

“Nine men came north this afternoon. Nine men scarred by the fighting down south, nine men looking to escape in the only way they knew how.”

Fionan Scifio reached down, blonde hair cascading over his forehead. His fingers studied the bloodstained dagger at his feet, a cheap and rusted piece obviously mass-produced by some apprentice in the king’s forges at Knife’s Edge. It didn’t even have a maker’s stamp on it, so shoddy was the work. Disgusted, he kicked it away with the steel toe of his boots, turning back to Ywain as it flitted into the shadowy lee of the nearest townhouse.

“They killed Old Tom and raped his daughter before you caught up with them. You killed three in turn, before they escaped into the centre of the town and began causing havoc. Only when we got here…”

“It’s not my fault that you were slow to react, Fio!”

“I’m not saying that!” The knight and the rogue shared the same cerulean hue to their eyes, but whereas Ywain’s went stony when angry, Fionan’s turned stormy. The sky against the ground, the Baron’s man thought. Apt enough, I suppose.

“I’m not saying that,” he repeated, calmer this time, quashing his own sense of guilt like a Berevaran giant quashed an ant. “The fault was ours. But if… if you had us at your side when you first went against them…”

He indicated the carnage around him, biting his tongue in frustration. Ywain sat unmoving, individual strands of his long hair swaying in the wind, barely daring to breathe of the coppery stench that rose from his feet.

“Don’t give me that responsibility, Fio,” the rogue said at length, weary and sad. “I don’t want it.”

“I know, Ywain.” Beneath the sympathy, however, was a gauntlet of steel. “But I also know that you won’t hesitate to do what’s right.”

The knight turned on his heels and strode away, his armour jangling noisily. The ornate claymore lay silent amongst the cobbles drenched in crimson, taunting the motionless Ywain with delusions of power and duty.

By nightfall, both it and the rogue were nowhere to be seen.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

“Daemon, I call thee.”

The young voice echoed hauntingly throughout the great hall, muted echoes taking up the chant from the heavy wooden beams that supported the high roof. His breath escaped from his mouth as frosty mist, pooling at his feet with the mana that he gathered to his cause.

“Natosatael, I name thee.”

He was still a child, barely into his teens. His build was slim and tall, and he was clad in the simple white robes that were the uniform attire of the Academy students. Messy brown hair topped an angular handsome face, eyes focused on an unseen point in the distance. Alone in the dark moonless night, the winds of magic swirling about him gave his motionless poise an eerie illuminating glow.

“The Unbound, I title thee.”

Just out of arm’s reach in front of him, the mana beneath his command began to coalesce into a wispy shape… a mirror, perhaps, or a portal. Two narrow slits appeared within, smoky supernatural whites smouldering with barely suppressed power, thin pupils dilating rapidly as they recognised the opportunity.

“The Prince of Infernal Light, I style thee.”

A flash of murky green, a ripple of stale wind rattling the wooden shutters that separated the hall from the night. The slits now belonged to a presence, a dark shadow that seemed to dominate the ground that he stood upon, the very air that he breathed. It was cold and malign, and terrifyingly evil.

Mortal… it whispered in a sibilant hiss. The majority of its features remained wreathed in obscurity, but Touma could still make out the pleased smile. Child… what a pleasure it is to meet you again. It seems as if your efforts have borne fruit, and I am able to maintain my consciousness in this plane for more than mere moments. You have my thanks.

“Spare me the sentiments, daemon,” the young boy howled back over the incessant wail of arcane power barely kept under his control. Short of years he may have been, but he knew as well as any bearded maester the dangers of heeding the words of such a being, especially one as capricious and as powerful as Natosatael. “I’m here to claim what you promised me.”

Of course, mortal child. A daemon’s boon for your troubles. Ask of me anything that you wish. The smile became a leering grin, as terrifying as it was terrible.

“You will not harm me, or anything or anybody I tell you not to, directly or indirectly,” Touma intoned, having prepared the phrases long in advance. “You will not scheme against me or my plans in any shape or form. You will aid me as I see fit, and answer any question I pose to the best of your abilities.”

Child, you hurt me. We share common goals, is that not the reason why we have helped each other so much thus far? The daemon’s low chuckle was almost a wounded sigh. And the length of my service?

“Nine years. Thrice the length of time I have spent preparing a path for you to enter this realm.”

Very well, mortal child. I am yours to command for nine years.

Touma was a kijutsushi, a spellweaver dedicated to divining and controlling the mysteries of the mind. He had mastered all manner of clairvoyant and illusory abilities, and had prepared the ground thoroughly for this night. More than any others in the land of Nippon, he and his brethren were suited to dealing with the lies and deceit that were a daemon’s second nature.

But even he was only barely prepared for the psychic backlash that accompanied the daemon’s emergence into the Firmament. Reality warped, twisted, bent in ways that had never seemed possible. Air flowed like a gale into the sixth dimension, and stars burst into light from the seventh. His stomach churned at the parade of stenches that assaulted his nose: brimstone like sulphurous egg, decay like a necromantic graveyard, rot like sewage stockpiled. Raw power tore at his face and stripped bare his mind, flaying fragments from his body and soul like a nine-tailed cat. He braced himself and fought back, and somehow, somehow, he endured.

Then suddenly there was silence.

He hadn’t realised that he’d closed his eyes against the onslaught. Slowly, warily, he opened them.

The wispy portal had disappeared, as had the howling winds and the overwhelming stink. What was left was the peaceful serenity of the great hall in all its empty magnificence, and the leathery form of an ancient daemon newly birthed into the world. Its skin was cracked and bloodily raw, the mismatched horns on its head glistening with syrupy birth-fluid. Lithe muscle and sinew twisted tightly about a bone structure that obviously belonged to no human or elf, and a long prehensile tail smacked wetly against the wooden floorboards in time with its irregular heartbeat.

Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta.

Yes, I am Natosatael. The beast grinned at the unasked question, and Touma knew that the words were truth; none other could quite manage that arrogant leer. Even without the assurance, though, he would never have mistaken the eyes… the thin slit pupils, brimming with malice and cunning, staring unblinkingly at him from perfect milky whites. My current form, I am sorry to say, is incomplete and weak. If I am to serve you well, first I must feed.

This is it. The standard price for the summoning of a daemon was the summoner’s soul., but Touma had easily foreseen that pitfall and sidestepped it. The alternative, however… There’s no turning back.

Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta.

He nearly said no. He nearly stumbled. He nearly allowed that weak innocent voice in the back of his head to get the better of him.

But in the end, his response was an expressionless nod.

“Do what you must.”

If anything, Natosatael’s leering grin grew larger. He unsheathed his claws and spread them wide in anticipation, testing their movement and response in his new form. Satisfied, he leant back on powerfully built legs and howled.

It was a sound that sent shivers fleeing down Touma’s very bones, freezing the young boy with primal fear. Extending far beyond the range of human hearing, it plucked at the very fibres of his soul, twisting them violently in a screeching cacophony. The high roof lasted only a few seconds before it was blown away, scattered apart in a cascade of broken clay tiles and splintered wood. Cool night air poured into the gaping maw, stars extinguished one by one as storm clouds began to gather overhead.

Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta-tum-ta. Ta-ta...

The daemon leapt to the ruined roof in a single bound, surveying the results of his call. The nearby town was already beginning to stir as roaming vagabonds took up sword and torch, bursting from the inns in which they stayed like hunting rats. One by one flares lit up in the surrounding hills as creatures of the night began to march towards their newfound destiny. And low in the northern sky, a flock of black wings were flying closer, ever closer, to their unsuspecting victims.

And so it begins. Natosatael laughed, a discordant and cruel echo that grated painfully upon the ears of those unlucky enough to hear it.

Hundreds were to die that night at the daemon’s hands. Touma’s innocence was only the first victim.

[Wings of Endymion]

“Again.”

The heavy crack of wood on wood echoed throughout the dimly lit underground chamber; once, twice, thrice. It was not long before the sword found its way past the staff’s defence, and the young girl was sent flying across the room for the forty-eighth time that morning. Her painfully slender form impacted against the cold packed earth and crumpled in an undignified heap, and mercilessly the sword battered her twice more before backing off.

“Again,” the voice repeated impassively.

Swaying unsteadily, she rose to her feet. A thin trickle of blood seeped from her tightly pursed lips, her face pale and set against the pain. Her bare arms were mottled with bruises ranging from dirty yellow to dark purple, and despite the cool winter air the thin cotton shift that was all she wore was drenched in steaming sweat.

In spite of her wounds, however, despite the tears of hurt and frustration in her eyes, she was smiling.

“Hai,” Kayu said, her child’s voice quavering and just about holding firm.

Another set of heavy cracks, resounding hollowly against the earth walls before escaping through the grilled window that was the only source of light. Beneath it another girl sat, patiently awaiting the end of the sparring session. Her name was Misaki, and she was both a Kanamai family ward and Kayu’s only friend. She was nine, only two months younger than Kayu.

This time Kayu lasted five blows before she was sent sprawling. This time the sword was even crueller, smacking her thrice on her backside before allowing her to rise. Misaki winced involuntarily and averted her gaze, knowing that she would be punished for that if she was caught.

“Again.”

“Hai.” The smile did not waver, though the tears were now streaming down her face.

Crack! shouted the sword as it lunged towards her legs and was parried by the lower half of the staff. Crack! it cried again as its reverse sweep swung towards her right shoulder and she somehow manoeuvred the top half in its way. Swish! it sighed as she ducked out of the path of an overhead swing, and then Crack! once more as she managed a two-handed block on the repeat blow. The greater strength behind the sword told, and she staggered back, only to catch a socked foot flush in the stomach. The breath leapt from her lungs like a punctured balloon, and she fell to the floor winded.

Misaki gasped a warning as the sword descended towards Kayu’s face.

A split second before connecting, the wooden blade rebounded from its target, repulsed as if by an invisible forcefield. Torn from the hands of its wielder, it spun tip over hilt through the darkness until it met the wall at the far end of the room. It clattered to the floor with a dull thud that echoed loudly in the sudden silence.

“Hm.” The voice deviated barely from its expressionless detachedness, the barest hint of interest worming into the single syllable. Its owner was a well-built man in his middle years, dark hair hanging long and free except for a shaved pate untouched by sweat. His stern features regarded the fallen girl for a long moment.

Kayu froze, knowing instinctively that something was wrong. No, please, no…

She felt the man bend down closer, the calloused hand reach for her head. The urge to flee was overwhelming, but she knew that would only make things worse; fighting to control the tears and the sobs, she froze like a fawn in the face of the baying hound. Misaki stifled her own cries and the instinctive desire to run, knowing from experience that if she did so Kayu would suffer for it all the more… and then it would be her turn.

His fingers were long and hard as they grasped her scalp through her scraggly dishevelled hair. But they were surprisingly gentle as they forced her to look into his stony eyes; he would never dare to leave bruises where others could see. After all, a daughter of the Kanamai family had a public appearance to maintain.

“Enough for today.”

Suddenly his face was troubled, and it translated into the growing storm upon his brow. Neither girl could hide their shock at his words, Misaki audibly gasping again. Usually he wasn’t satisfied until they had done at least a hundred exchanges. Kayu cringed as she wondered what she had done to make him angry enough to deviate from the routine.

Abruptly he released her and stood up once more.

“A week from today you are to head to the Toho Institute of Academic Learning to continue your studies and your training. The maesters have convinced me that the best way to unlock your potential is to grant you to them. You begin preparations now.”

Kayu could not believe her ears. Had she heard correctly?

“I am to study… at the Academy?”

“Do anything but concentrate on developing your talents, and I will make sure that you are removed and severely punished.”

Her heart leapt in joy, and the smile plastered upon her features spread until her entire face was suffused with bright delight. It was all she had ever wanted, to be free, to be allowed to pursue her talents to her soul’s content. She could not think of anything more that she could wish for, except… except…

“… and Misaki…?”

“She is bonded to the family, not to you. She stays with us.” His voice was harsh, cutting, final, brooking no argument. The blow was brutal, more painful than if she had been physically slapped in the face. She reeled figuratively, steadied herself, had to try again.

“… but…”

“Stop wasting my time, girl. Go.”

Again. For the sake of her one and only friend.

“Father, I…”

She realised suddenly that Misaki was beside her, touching her arm gently for fear of hurting her. Their gazes met, and between them they were more scared than ever before. As one they turned to plead their case, bravely entreating the fierceness of his gaze, but all they saw there was unyielding refusal and mounting anger.

“GO.”

The two girls fled.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“What is your name?”

“I am Nameless.”

“No you are not. What do your parents call you?”

“Xuan. Xuan Hredgarson Zenbayashi.”

“And the elves?”

“Ingwe. Ingwe Helyanwe.”

“The prophecies?”

“Tella’karythar, the Last Crusader.”

“The heralds?”

“Dawnbringer.”

“The abandoned?”

“Phoenix.”

“So, what is your name?”

“I am Nameless. Simply… Nameless.”

“No you are not.”


***

”What’s your name?”

He looked up from his books into the face of the new girl, the one who’d entered the Academy only a month or so before. His surprise must have shown, for she giggled happily.

“I’m… I’m Nameless.”

Her brow furrowed prettily. “You can’t be nameless. Everybody has a name.”

“Actually, that is my name,” he stammered clumsily, embarrassed. He found it difficult to have to explain the circumstances behind it every time he introduced himself, but it would have been even less correct to lie. “Nameless.”

“Oh.” She paused, studying him carefully. “That’s not right…”

“If it helps, the others usually call me Glasses.” And half-breed, and outsider, and barbarian, and daemon’s child, and a whole host of other names besides, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to bring it up here and now. He looked over to the far side of the courtyard where the ‘others’ stood, from where she had just come. Even now they were pointing, and gossiping, and sniggering.

“That’s not right, either.” Her frown dissolved into a brilliant smile, one that chased the very clouds from the sky. “We’re going to have to change that. What do your parents call you?”

“My… parents…?”

“Oh. Uh…” She bit her lips, endearingly. He flushed bright red in turn, trying to hide behind the rims of his spectacles. It didn’t help much, except to turn her face into a barely cognisable blur.

“They’re still alive, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He sputtered into silence, only continuing when he realised that she was waiting expectantly for him to continue. “Xuan. They wanted to call me… they call me Xuan.”

“Xu…” The syllables were difficult to pronounce in Nipponese, and she cocked her head to one side as she tried to wrap her tongue around them. He found his eyes drawn to the fine silk of her hair, the tantalising glimpse of an earlobe, the long slender line of her neck. “Xu…”

“Oh… ah…”

“Do you mind… maybe… can I call you Yann, instead?”

“Yann?”

“Yeah…”

“Umm… sure, why not. Yann… it’s close enough.” He smiled then, slowly, shyly. She smiled back.

“I’ll tell the others, then. Maybe they’ll stop calling you Glasses from now.”

He watched as she ran off at top speed, stunned mind wondering how she could run that fast. Remnants of his earlier surprise were still writ on his face like an open book.

“Yann, huh.”

She’d given him many things that day, the least of which was his new name: kindness, hope, strength, determination. The name didn’t stick – only she would use it for more than a couple of days – but the rest of her gifts did, enough that he would eventually be willing to put his life on the line for her, to go to war for her, to face all the horrors in all the hells for her.

For what he hadn’t expected at all was that he would still be thinking of that moment some seventeen years later...


***

“What is your name?”

“Nameless.”

“I repeat, what is your name?”

“… I am Nameless.”

“No, you are not. What is your name?”

“… Yann. She called me Yann.”

“Hello, Yann.”

[Ruby]

Ruby tapped the edge of the small gift wrapped box on the mantelpiece. It was a solid wooden structure bound with red tissue paper and a golden ribbon, woven into an elaborate triple knot that had been tied with clear care and consideration. Two things caused the matriarch pause for thought, even though the small piece of card leant against it marked it as intended for her.

The first was the fact that the box had most certainly not been there three seconds ago, when she had turned away from the fireplace to pick up a log from the wicker basket she had set behind her. She could still feel the cold prang of the cold night on her back as her front warmed in the glow of the hearth. Even in the heat of domesticity, she paid immaculate attention to her surroundings. The Prima Vista was her palace, and she could not suffer anything out of place or unexplained.

The second was the fact that she was quite alone in the playhouse. The rest of the troupe were rehearsing on the docklands, trying to get the screens of their new portable stage to work with the heavy cranes that were usually used to load and unload merchant schooners and the long ships of the Knights Provost. They would be out long into the early hours of the morning, making the most of their brief opportunity to use the space undisturbed.

With pursed lips, she could only teeter on a knife edge. Should she open the box, and throw caution to the wind, or investigate its source like a sensible, well-adjusted adult?

“Maybe you just didn’t notice it Ruby,” she spoke softly, just in case the mystery courier were still present.

It had been a particularly stressful day. The red-headed housemaid had been up since well before dawn, and had not stopped in the pursuit of perfection since. She had baked several batches of scones, loaves of bread and cakes. She had taken dresses from the prop rails to the tailors to be tended to before lunch, cleaned the stage’s faded red carpet on her hands on knees through the afternoon and then polished the brassware and lit the fire shortly after dinner.
“Yes, that’s it, you just let it slip you by,” she picked it up with a crane like motion and lifted it to her left ear. She cocked her head and rattled the box, which made only a delicate sound, like a shaken lock mechanism on a miniature chest.

“It’s not jewellery, then,” she said with resignation. A girl could never have too much jewellery. That fact eliminated Leopold from the list of potential senders, as her husband had a penchant for sending her rings, necklaces and jewels he had found on the far flung shores of Althanas. He was not a man to fall for the allure of mystery, a fact he had discovered at the receiving end of several pointed heels.

She shook it again, before giving in and pulling at the ribbon with fiendishly quick fingers.

The fireplace at her heels crackled with diminishing life as the untended embers burnt further into nothingness. The flames danced and cast their colour onto the ribbon, which only added to its allure. All the womanly charm and stern masks Ruby Winchester wore throughout her high society low tolerance for nonsense life fell away, cracked and warped. She reverted into a bedazzled school girl, one opening a Christmas present or a gift from an estranged and lavish aunt.

She tossed the ribbon into the fire, which vanished in a rush of ash.

“What do we have here,” she tore the paper off with a pinch of her nails and added it to the soot in the chimney.

The box inside was a simple, wooden affair with a fold up lid. It was pine, unpolished and made no statements other than ‘I contain something infinitely more interesting and valuable than myself.’ She shrugged her shoulders, undeterred, and with shaking fingers, she pulled up the lid and let it fall back on its simple and delicate chain hinge.

Resting on a small bed of red velvet was something most unexpected. It had been thirteen years since Ruby had received such a gift, a gift that had been sent by a stranger every year for as long as she could remember without fail. It came on the first day of summer, as tradition and the Scara Brae official calendar dictated. Memories flooded back into Ruby’s mind like a tsunami, overwhelming both her surprise and her cold façade. No amount of balderdash or poker faced flaunting could remove the look of shock, emotion and happiness that curled her lips into a wide smile.

When she had found out who sent the gift, after she had reclaimed her memories from the curse of Lucian Lahore, her earthly dreams had been brought to life.

“Mummy…”

The clock over the mantelpiece, a mahogany cuckoo whose mechanisms were crafted by the dwarves of Kachuk began to chime midnight proper. The two little birds popped out of the uppermost hatch and rang a little duet of My Fair Canary, the signature showpiece from the musical adaptation of I Want to Be Your Canary.

“You remembered…” her voice turned into a crocodile tear fuelled praise. The lump in her throat formed, and her knees knocked.

Today was Ruby Winchester’s birthday.

Though the red rose petal resting on the velvet was a gift in the traditional sense of the word, an item received in response to an event, achievement or aware, the true meaning behind it was quite unexpected. If this rose petal was here, now, then it meant that somewhere out there in the veils of time and space, her mother was still alive.

The prospect of not being an orphan after all was a present Ruby would treasure for a long time. She was being told that she was not alone, and that her battle against Lucian’s attempts to eradicate them from the history books was to be rewarded with the one thing the entire troupe wanted…

A normal life.

She flicked the box shut, shoved it into the pocket of her pinafore and turned on a happy heel to shovel moss covered logs onto the remnants of the day’s fire. She whistled as she did so.

[Duffy]

Duffy couldn’t quite believe his eyes when he stepped out into the cold and the rain. For once, Scara Brae’s dank back streets were bustling. The Prima Vista stood on a long lane behind the richer, more grandiose buildings that lined the promenade which ran from the market district to the foot of the city’s sycophantic palace gates. He pictured the gold statues of griffons for a moment, as he always did when he felt nervous. As symbols of Scara Brae, they were an anchor for the bard in troubling times.

He had been quite happy writing the last scene for his new play, until Lillith had burst into the room screaming excitedly about a royal proclamation and how he had to go, just had to go.

A long sigh escaped his lips, dragged down to the dirty ground and darkness by the rain.

He made sure his monocle was set and his bandana tied tightly, before he stepped out from behind the stack of boxes and barrels that obscured the back entrance to the troupe’s hideaway. Ever mindful of his own pockets, having learnt from the best, he dug his gloves into his trousers, where the hilts of daggers waited, just in case.

The swell of the crowd dragged him down the road, towards the palace. There was a hustle and a bustle amongst the pepper faced, red haired strumpets and curious urchins of the city. There was mention of a beheading, which must have been conjecture given capital punishment was reserved for Saturdays. In between the rumours and lies, he picked out three convenient pieces of truth with which to warm his cockles.

A large lady with ample breasts and a horribly mismatched two piece muttered something about a robbery to her stick thin husband. Another grumbled in his direction about thieving bards and artisans, which given his infamy in this city and further afield was perfectly normal. A third, a man with a moustache from which a man could hang his tie collection informed his children, who were perhaps the most excited amongst all the crowd, that today they would see what happened if he ever caught them stealing toffee apples from the street vendors again.

“Somebody’s muscling in on my outfit…” were the bard’s wayward words.

Though Duffy had turned from a life of crime, at least, from a life of occupying himself with nothing but crime, he liked to keep tabs on the various groups that sprang to life on the streets of his home. The Scourge of course were already in his pockets, through the virtue of his brother being the Hound, the Master’s personal…tool. The Thieves’ Guild were all but bankrupt after Van Mandelo’s debauch exploits, one of Arden Janelle’s fiendish and well put together plans, and the street running groups never amounted to anything once their cocky leaders over did it and got themselves caught.

The crowd swung round a bend in a lumbering and well cobbled road. It broke out onto the courtyard before the Palace Gates and then it hit Duffy. The gates themselves were open, and in front of the entrance, there was a grand wooden stand on which stood three large thrones, golden, shining, and glorious. Guards covered both sides, and stood in a line at the front.

“Valeena, you little witch, nobody makes a big speech without my pen behind it…” if the queen was proposing a new decree in the city, it must mean an emergency. If there was an emergency in the city Duffy didn’t know about, then it had happened very, very recently.

The strength of the crowd’s curiosity caused it to fill every cobble of the courtyard, and more and more people of every shape, size and description imaginable continued to pour into the streets from a slew of alleyways and conjoining roads. Several flags flapped in the wind on the battlements of the palace, which Duffy traced through the canopy of the two enormous oak trees which stood just before the two guard towers that formed the main structure of the gate.

“Ladies, and gentlemen, and common folk of Scara Brae,” a large man clad in fine and radiant robes appeared from over the stage, rising like a god from a pool of gold. Duffy recognised him instantly, and from the hushed whispers that fizzled into silence in his voice’s sway, so did everybody else.

Mycroft Regalia Valeena the Fourth, who as far as Duffy could remember from his many lessons on heraldry, was the queen’s uncle, viceroy, and advisor on matters of state, law and legend.

“We have called this announcement with the view to proclaim an emergency decree, and thus I present to thee, her royal highness, protector of the faiths, guardian of the seas and noble child of this blessed isle’s ancestry – Queen Valeena!” The man stepped aside in a swirl of grey beard, matted hair and excessive swinging of heavy jewellery set in ivory surrounds. There were three loud and abrupt cheers, a cacophony of hand claps and matinee whistles, then silence once more.

Valeena, the immestakible beauty and terrifying edifice of the various political tyrannies set upon the city’s people appeared in a similar fashion to her uncle. The sun caught her crown’s diamond peaks in its midday zenith, and without trouble, she stunned everyone into servitude. The only noise to pierce the atmosphere was the sound of her heels tapping a rhythm on the wooden supports of the stage beneath he many dresses.

She said nothing but screamed a thousand insults of disgust at the smell of the common folk and the taint of illegal magic in the air of the city’s streets. Her face contorted momentarily before she stood before her throne, picked up the folds of her dress, and then sat in the central throne. Her uncle joined her once she had found a comfortable position, leaving the right hand throne, a jade pedestal wreathed in red silk empty. Its occupant was usually the current attaché of the queen, which meant that she, was either displeased with men or he was away on some court matter or another.

Duffy listened as the Queen began the long regurgitation of legal statutes that were required before she declared a new law or proclamation. He did not watch, however, he was too busy peering through the mass of unwashed hair and wide brim hats at somebody entirely more interesting.

There was a thief, here, now, stealing right under Duffy Brandybuck’s nose.

“The fucking cheek of it,” he spat.

A sour faced man scoffed at the bard’s impoliteness, but when he peered down over his glasses to scowl, he looked surprised, then turned back to face the Queen as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Not today, mate, you’re new in town, I get it, but not today,” Duffy adjusted his monocle again so that it served as nothing more than an accessory instead of a zooming lens before he pushed through the huddle of bodies forcefully.

Through the quagmire of perfume, armpit sweat and rotten vegetables, he approached the man with the view to have a declaration spout from his lips with as equal importance to the Queen’s. Troubling as the odours were, it made him feel right at home, and a man at home was a difficult man to dissuade from his beliefs. “Oi,” he whispered into the man’s ear, “I want a word with you mate.”

Sometimes, politics had a funny way of giving you an unexpected gift.

Duffy forgot all about his disgruntled complaints about having to attend these speeches.

A young mind ripe for perverting and turning to your side was a truly fantastic gift indeed.

[Sheex]

It wasn't every day you were sitting at a bar (enjoying a fine single malt scotch), and a man suddenly pulled up a chair and sat down across from you. It was even more unusual for the man (who looked so slick that an open flame might start a fire; Sheex put out his cigarette just in case) to pull out a small bottle, set in on the table, and tap you on the shoulder with a grin that made a guy about to sell you a nice piece of swampland look honest.

Actually, this was Althanas. Such a thing was probably perfectly normal for a lot of people.

"My fine young man," the man began, "have I got an offer for you! This, my dear boy, comes from the Raiaera, land of mystic wonder! My friend, have you ever been to Raiaera?"

"Isn't that the place that got royally wrecked by a necromancer?" Sheex asked as he decided that setting whoever this was on fire would be doing sweet old ladies everywhere a service.

The man's smile flickered like the ember of a flame that had not been quite put out; momentarily dampened, but soon to burn bright again.

"Indeed, a tragic tale, to be sure. But, before those dark days, Raiaera was beautiful to behold. Enchantments, magical crafts; my good sir, so many wonderful things to be seen!" the man held up the bottle (a pinkish liquid of sorts), as his (very unrealistic) white teeth sparkled.

"And elf babes so hot the sun feels outdone. Look pal, whatever you're selling, I think I'll pass. Magic really isn't my thing," Sheex muttered as he finished off his scotch. "There are more important things in life anyhow."

"Like that waitress you've been eyeing each time she passes by?" the stranger said with a mischievous grin. Sheex muttered that the man was an astute bastard, if nothing else, but failed to see how a bit of colored water would help in that regard.

"Because my lecherous loser," the salesman ignored the rude remark Sheex responded with (it involved the man's mother, and a broomstick handle), "this is not colored water! Indeed, it is a secret potion, crafted from by gone times-"

"That will make any woman fall in love with me? Yeah, I tried one of those once. Not only did it not work, but the girl sent her boyfriend on me when she found out I tried to seduce her with a love potion. I ended up with a bloody lip, a sore face, and my hair messed up all for the low-low price of ten gold coins! So, thanks, but no thanks. Maybe that creepy old guy in the corner will fall for it though," Sheex tossed a few coins onto the table to pay for his drink, and made to leave. Of course, no good strange salesman gave up so easily.

"Ah, but did that supplier of happy nights allow you a free sample? Eh? Eh?" the man asked as he caught Sheex by the arm.

"No," the wanderer responded slowly, "all she did was cackle and keep calling me sonny."

"Then try it my dear friend. Try, and behold the wonders of an ancient race!" the salesman offered up the bottle, and motioned for Sheex to apply some to his neck, as one would cologne (or perhaps bug spray). With a "what the hell" shrug, Sheex dabbed three drops onto his neck, and approached the waitress he had been eyeing.

"Hey babes," the wanderer said with a smile not unlike that of the salesman's, "wanna play war? I lay down, you blow the fu-"

The sound of a solid slap-to-a-pervert's-face echoed throughout the bar.

"Thought as much," Sheex muttered as he rubbed his cheek, "and no, oh very scary bartender with the bat, there's no need to be violent. I was on my way out."

Ignoring the salesman's shouts of the potion took time to take affect, Sheex strolled out into the night. There wasn't too much to do in this town, and he had just got himself more or less banned from the tavern (which as any adventure knows, has a solid hold on all adventures....not that Sheex was interested in those things). With nothing else to do, Sheex decided to kick a rock into the air, and head off to the inn.

"OW! GOD DAMN IT!" a voice screamed, "WHO THE HELL IS THROWING ROCKS? I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL-"

"Please don't be a large guy with a giant axe, please don't be a large guy with a giant axe," Sheex found himself praying as he did the responsible thing, and promptly put as much distance between him and whoever it was that was screaming as humanly possible. It was to no avail, for the wanderer was rather poor with directions, and managed to round the corner just as the injured party was finishing their sentence.

"-blow the ever loving daylights out of him!" was the last thing Sheex heard before he found himself being pressed against an alley wall, with his tongue engaged in a fierce sparring match.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Sheex whispered as he raised up his hands slightly, and felt two very supple objects. He opened his eyes to find out that before him was a beautiful woman of about twenty-three years of age, and he was kissing her passionately.

"Freaking blow me. It actually works!" the wanderer exclaimed as the woman removed his pants.

"I would hope so," was the woman's reply as she fondled him, "otherwise I'm going to be very disappointed."

Roughly a half-hour later, Sheex stumbled out of the alley, muttering something about the randomness of the birds and the bees. The woman had left just as quickly as she had come (pun intended), which was all well and good with Sheex. After all, he himself was a tad bit worn, and a shower wouldn't exactly be a bad thing right about now.

Plus his head hurt. Wait, there was an actual reason for that; he had just been tackled to the ground by that waitress he had hit on. Except now she didn't seem so get-away-from-me-you stupid-pervert; she was in a more take-me-now-you-handsome-beast.

"Jackpot," Sheex whispered, "though maybe we could grab a room? All this 'in the back alley' stuff is kinda tiring...and that wasn't a sexual metaphor...and least not yet."

But before he could do the dirty deed, the waitress was shoved to the side by a feisty brunette. Then, the brunette was punched by a red-head, who was bitch-slapped by some goth emo chick, who was down right pulverized by a rather large woman with black hair.

"Ah, I get it," Sheex muttered as he crawled away from the melee (minus his shoes...a blonde was clinging to them rather fiercely), "this is one of those moments where I repent my lecherous nature, seeing as how the whole town is about to fight over me. Well, the joke's on you God! Like I'd pass this up!"

Shoeless, and now missing one of his socks, Sheex scrambled up onto a conveniently placed box. He cupped his hands together, and screamed as loud as he could the one thing that mattered the most at times like these.

"HEY! CAT FIGHT!" Sheex screamed as he sat down, pulled out his hip flask, and sipped at it. His money was on the tub of a woman with black hair, but that red-head looked like a biter. Better avoid that one. Sheex made a mental note.

"Enough! Stop this disturbance at once!" a very official looking man shouted, as he began tearing his way to Sheex. "None of you can have this man!"

"Spoilsport. I was conducting a legitimate tournament for my affection," Sheex muttered; the man (who looked to be a town guard of sorts) paid him no heed.

"You can't have him because he's MINE! Come into my arms, you gorgeous hunk of a man you!" the guardsman screamed, confessing his undying love.

"And now is when I repent my lecherous nature. Time to exit, stage right!" Sheex swore as he made to dash away, only to be blocked by the underdog of the fight, the brunette. The wanderer rolled his eyes, and motioned at the oncoming guardsman confessing his eternal love, backed by at least one-forth of the town.

"Ah. Save me, fair knight?" Sheex asked politely.

Two days, and a riot later.

"Yes my friend," the strange salesman grinned as he sat down across from a young man at a bar, "have I a deal for you!"

A cry of alarm went out as one Sheex Deltin (now shoeless, sockless, and shirtless) stormed into the bar, and delivered a brutal punch to the salesman. Without another word, the wanderer reached into the man's pocket, and extracted the small bottle of pinkish fluid.

"Moderation," Sheex smiled as he spied a very cute bartender pouring out the drink, "is the key."

From now on, he swore, Sheex would only use one drop.

[Silence Sei]

Today was exceptionally windy for a Concordia night. The sporadic gusts of wind blew over Sei Orlouge's body, chilling his exposed arms. The Mystic continued to remain in his meditative state, however. The mute would not allow something as silly as a cold breeze deter him from is nightly reflections. Every night, the youngest Orlouge would meditate on the days earlier events. Everything from the strategies he had sent out, to whatever training regiment he participated in, to whatever foods he chose for himself to eat, each intricate detail could have made an impact on the state of affairs for Ixian Castle. It was a heavy burden, being a leader, and Sei had been the one fate had thrust this fate upon. He would not back down from such a dutiful obligation.

The grass underneath him swayed with the next breeze to roll in, tickling underneath his thighs ever so slightly. He could hear footsteps behind him, the person making said steps obvious taking great care in not disturbing the nightly ritual. As the winds danced around Sei's sitting form, the smell of alcohol, Radasanth Tonic if he were not mistaken, danced across his nostrils. Only one person in the telepaths army could swallow a drink in which the bartender just finds any form of liquid and pours it in a glass. Jensen Ambrose, the enigmatic immortal, the come back kid, Sei Orlouge's head bodyguard, and most recently, his closest confidant.

"Why did you call me here?" Jensen may have respected the meditation, but there was an obvious frustration to his tone, "Steph and I were having a night on the town."

"My apologies for keeping Stephanie from baby sitting you all night, Mr. Ambrose," Sei spoke with a sarcasm that only seemed to rise in the presence of the crimson haired immortal, "but I must ask that you do me a favor this night."

"Huh?" Jensen's surprise at the request was reflected in the stunned expression on his face (though Sei himself could not see it), "What the hell are you talking about?"

This prompted Sei to stand up and open his eyes. The mute tilted his head towards the sky, looking at the stars that tried to fight their way through the foliage of Concordia Forest. The wind seemed to pause for a moment while the Mystic gazed at the skies above, contemplating the next words to his friend. "I have found myself bogged down recently with the activities of Ixian Castle, Jensen. Every so often, I would like to be able to do what I wish. By myself. Lately I have found myself with less time to my own time. It seems as though my meditation hour is the only point in the day I get to be away from all the hustle and bustle that comes with being the commander of an entire army."

"You want a day off," Jensen's sloshed words seemed to be getting worse now. Sei turned to find that his bodyguard had managed to sneak a bottle of liquor into their little meeting. The smell reeking off of the warrior began to burn inside the telepath's nose. "I can do that, but you have to do something for me, faggot fairy king."

Sei raised an eyebrow and tilted his head not unlike a puppy. Up above, the clouds began to blanket over the moon, cascading a dark shadow over Sei's little piece of land. The strategist knew that signs such as this tended to be foreboding. Though there was no wind, the mute found his skin littered with goose bumps. Sei took a hard swallow, wondering if leaving the castle with an intoxicated Jensen, especially an intoxicated Jensen who had terms for castle sitting, was a good idea after all.

"You can't go on....hold on a second," Jensen's words were quickly shut out by the end of the bottle in his hand. When he finished taking several drinks of his swill, he began once more. "You can't go on parading around with your whole 'holier than thou' attitude. In other words, if you're taking a vacation from being a hero, then don't be a fucking hero!" Sei was absolutely sure that if Jensen had not been gripping the neck of the bottle for dear life, he would have thrown it to the ground.

Sei sat there thinking about this for a moment. Behind Jensen stood Ixian Castle, the very structure that served as a testament to Sei's title as a hero. To promise to not defend the weak and helpless....could the great 'Silence' Sei Orlouge really do that? Most nights away from his home, he would find himself as he once was; a lone vigilante administering justice however he had seen fit. Now, he was here, honestly contemplating not doing any of that on this night. Sweat began to roll down the mute's forehead as he slowly nodded. It would be a difficult task, but the most that the Ixian leader could do for his friend was attempt such a thing. "You, Jensen Ambrose, have yourself a deal..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twelve strikes of the clock warned the Mystic of the time he had spent getting ready for his heroic free night on the town. He had spent several hours in his room, wondering what he could wear to not be recognized by the common people. Most of the time, such a ridiculous thing would not even be an issue, but in order to not play his part as a hero, the actor had to go undercover. His eyes shifted through the his closet, a shamefully empty little room with only a couple of gray karate gi, and two pairs of black kung fu shoes. Jomil's Touch, a long white cloth of fur, hung on the clothing rack, several of the mute's Thayne blessed items lay below it, untouched. The strategist grabbed several pieces of clothing, fabrics he did not typically wear, and threw them on a bed. Looking over the arrangement as it laid on the king sized mattress struck an idea within his head.

His hands quickly went towards a black cowl, throwing the hood of the clothing over his head. He slipped out of his gray gi and put on a button-up brown shirt, the top being three sizes too big (Sei's older, half-orc brother had accidentally left it at the castle). His gray pants were quickly kicked off, replaced by black formal wear pants. The shoes were the only thing that the warrior kept on his person. After all, who the hell would recognize the great Hero of Radasanth by his shoes?

He closed the closet door and looked at himself in the mirror. The shade from the cowl's hood provided enough cover to keep everything above the nose hidden. The large shirt and classy looking pants made the Mystic look like a completely different person. Nobody would be able to tell that this figure was the great Sei Orlouge. Not his daughters, not his brothers, not even Jensen Ambrose.

So if 'Silence' Sei Orlouge could not help the defenseless and protect Radasanth from the shadows of the night, 'Silas Ayol Rouge' would...

[Bloodrose]

It might have been spring already in some parts of Salvar, but here - just south of the Kalev Highlands - winter was not yet ready to relinquish its hold. A storm descended on Darga's Run just before dark, bringing with it high winds, heavy snow, and biting cold. The rough-hewn logs that made up the walls of the little cabin Teric and Sidsa shared groaned alongside the trunks of the pines outside as the wind howled down out of the mountains, and the thatched roof above the open-beam ceiling rustled as if threatening to tear away from the building completely.

It'll be a long night if that happens. Teric found himself thinking, darkly.

Luckily, for now, it was still safe and warm inside the single room that made up the entire interior of the cabin. A healthy, vibrant fire burned away in the stone hearth that dominated the east side of the room, and Teric had stuffed an old blanket into the crack under the door. There were blankets hung over the windows as well, just in case the storm tore the old shutters off the side of the building. All things considered, the inside of the cabin felt quite cozy; in spite of, or even perhaps on account of, the terrible weather outside.

Teric was seated in a chair dragged in front of the fire; one of the few pieces of furniture in the place. Whoever had built and then abandoned the cabin originally hadn't been much for decoration, but there were enough of the "necessary" amenities to make it comfortable. In addition to the chair Teric now occupied, there was a small table, a few threadbare rugs to try and cover the stone (and often freezing) floor, and a rickety four-poster bed against the wall opposite the fireplace. Aside from that, the cabin was empty but for the provisions the mercenary and his companion had brought with them or scavenged from the wilderness during the day.

Without any cupboards or trunks to store things in, said provisions currently sat bagged and piled on the floor in a free corner of the room, tied and weighed down with chunks of slate. Teric had lived in Salvar long enough, and seen enough winters, to know that he didn't want their food blowing away if the wind did tear the roof off.

The four-poster creaked noisily, and Teric turned from the fire to see Sidsa rolling over in her sleep. The witch had gone to bed a little more than an hour ago - close to midnight if Teric had to guess - but it was warm enough in the cabin that she had already kicked off some of the blankets heaped on top of the lumpy mattress. Somehow the young woman had also shrugged out of the shift she wore to sleep, exposing one arm and a good portion of her back as she settled with her face to the wall. Even with the dim lighting and long shadows the fire cast on that side of the room, it was easy to distinguish the intricate black tattoos that curled down off Sidsa's neck, raced under her shoulder, and then advanced up over her side towards the soft flesh of her...

"Teric Barton." A strange voice said right behind him. The mercenary's head snapped around, startled, and he came very close to burying his face in the chest of another woman.

"Wha-" The mercenary choked on the first word that rose in his throat.

As far as the manifestations of Thaynes go, Jomil's was somehow both underwhelming and uniquely terrifying all in the same breath. The slender, beautiful woman that stood in the cabin now was hardly the otherworldly, alien body one might expect a deity to chose. Her skin was the blue-pale complexion of a frozen corpse, and her hair was somehow pale and dark all at once, shimmering between the two like the sheen on a raven's feathers - only green. Gazing back at Teric from over the top of her ample bosom, inlaid into the sort of face that Salvaran bards could only dream of, were eyes as white as sun-bleached bone and befittingly haunting.

"Could you... ah, back up... a bit?" Teric managed after a seemingly endless pause. His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. Worse yet, it took him an unusually long time to pick the right words to use.

The Queen of Unmaking tilted Her head as if contemplating the request, but even as Her chin angled away from him, Teric could still feel those milky eyes on him. Without a word, Jomil took a measured step back, out of the mercenary's personal space, and air rushed back into the war hound's lungs. Conversely, as She stepped towards the fire, the flames crackling happily away in the hearth fluttered and dimmed and if smothered.

"Thank-" Teric muttered, a sudden inability to form a concrete thought causing him to trail off stupidly.

There was another lingering pause as Thayne and mortal stared wordlessly at each other from across a divide that felt less like a few feet and more like the entire, boundless universe. To put into words how strange and unnerving close proximity to a creature of such boundless power can be is difficult, but suffice it to say that Teric's body was alive with the sensation of spider webs clinging to his skin. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and all sense of time or place went right out a window that didn't exist.

Jomil's head ticked at an angle again; that questioning, troubled look that dogs sometimes give you. Her brows arched all-knowingly, as if the deity had suddenly remembered something, and without so much as a word or gesture, clothes beaded on her skin like condensation on a cold window. As pale, naked skin was concealed beneath a simple yet elegant white dress, the world came rushing back in an instant.

"Sorry." Jomil's voice washed over Teric like stale air wafting out of a crypt. Her tone was apologetic, almost meek. The exact opposite of what one assumed the voice of a deity to sound like.

Teric coughed and held his head as the pressure that had been building behind his eyes, forcing out cognitive thought, receded. His mental faculties came back almost as quickly as they had left, but the mother of all headaches came back with them.

"What do you want?" The mercenary groaned when it finally felt like his head wouldn't explode.

"I have a proposal for you." Jomil said simply. There was no flourish, no mincing of words, and no small talk.

"We made a deal once." Teric felt compelled to remind the Goddess, despite the fact that she would no doubt remember.

"For my boon." Jomil nodded slowly, as if to confirm that she did in fact recall their previous dealings. "Which you have put to remarkable use these last twenty-four years. Mortals are usually too stupid, or too soon dead, to realize that the gifts of a Thayne can be exercised like a muscle. You, however, seem to have taken great advantage of this."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Teric tried to sound confident.

"As you should." Jomil sat on empty air, and a chair materialized beneath her almost as an afterthought. One long, deathly pale leg crossed the other, and the Goddess folded her hands in her lap. "I granted you the strength of two men, and you have made it six. I granted you the speed of a hawk, and now you move faster than the eye can follow. You can rend steel with nothing but air, and blind your foes with a snap of your fingers." If it was possible for a Thayne to sound impressed, Jomil did now. "You have proven to be a most worthy recipient of my patronage."

The bed behind him creaked again, and Teric half-turned to check on Sidsa. The way she was tossing and turning, the witch would (in all likelihood) awaken at some point soon.

Try and explain a conversation with an honest to gods Thayne...

"Just tell me what you want." The mercenary said, quietly. Head in his hands, he leaned forward in the chair and put his elbows on his knees. For the briefest of moments, he felt Jomil's gaze leave him and settle elsewhere. It was just a fleeting moment, however, as the Thayne's eyes fell quickly back to him.

"Denebriel's death has changed things." The Queen of Unmaking explained. "A Forgotten One is not simply killed, and when they do die, they often leave things behind. Denebriel, for example, was responsible for locking away a great many things better left out of this world. Without Her presence to preserve the locks, there are now powers stirring in the darker corners of the world."

"Sooo.... what?" Teric replied. "What does any of that have to do with me?"

"You were there when Denebriel died." Jomil's perfect brow furrowed, as if he should have already known the answer. "You, your nephew, the wizard Blueraven. You each now bear a unique connection to the events which are soon to follow."

Teric didn't even pretend to know what the deity meant by that; the machinations of Thaynes were beyond anything he dared comprehend.

"My proposal is this, Barton." Jomil made her way back to the original point. "Serve my interests in the coming months, and I'll make the powers bestowed upon you thus far seem pale by comparison."

"Why me." Was the only thing Teric could think to say.

"Because you did so well before." Jomil shrugged.

"Teric?" Sidsa's voice, groggy from sleep, sent a jolt up Teric's spine. Jomil, the Queen of Unmaking, vanished in the blink of an eye, and the flames in the hearth leapt back to life as if the air in the room had suddenly returned. So quick was Her departure that for a moment, Teric sat staring at the space where Her chair had been, trying to decide if the events of the last minute were even real. "Why didn't you come to bed?"

"Sorry." Teric turned and greeted the witch with a smile. Sidsa had climbed out of bed and was standing next to his chair, her hand on his shoulder. She looked concerned. "Must have lost track of time. Why don't you go back to bed, I'll join you in a minute."

The worry on Sidsa's face deepened.

"Teric, it's morning." She said, pointing to the window closest to the door. Even with the blanket tacked up over the glass, it was hard to mistake the glow of the sun peaking through the cracks. "You feeling alright?"

[orphans]

Exactly one hundred years ago…


“What’s this?” Azza asked as she turned the small cube about as if doing so would answer her question. Across from Azza, a woman with overly long hair and curious brown eyes only giggled. A frown took hold of Azza’s lips as she brought a hand up to scratch her head, disheveling her unkempt white hair. Slowly, she rolled her maroon eyes to the woman before her. “Seriously Besal, what is it?”

More snickering came from the brown eyed woman as she managed softly in a bell-like voice, “A gift, Sister Azza.”

Azza’s face fell as she looked to the woman in exasperation. “Sometimes I wonder why you’re our Matriarch,” Azza began, but quickly stammered out, “N-no offense though. I just thought you’d be more…”

“Formal?” Besal finished as she stood up. “Seeing as it is our first meeting, perhaps I should be.” Looking around the garden patio that was forever locked in winter, she moved to pick a small pink flower covered in snow. “That would be more proper, yes? After a long life though, one tends to not care so much.”

Unsure how to answer the woman, Azza maintained her frown and returned her attention to the small box. She could tell it was made from silver; that much she knew from just looking at it. “You still didn’t answer my question of what it was though.”

A perplexed look settled onto Besal’s delicate features as she looked to Azza. “But I have. It is a gift, no?”

“Alright… what’s in it?”

Slowly, a smile spread itself onto the Matriarch’s face. “Your futures.”

“Come again?”

“Your futures,” Besal repeated, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

A single hand on Azza’s temple did little to alleviate her frustration. To say Azza wasn’t pleased to receive a gift from the Matriarch herself would have been completely mistaken. Azza just wished it didn’t involve so much mystery. “Okay, say for a second I believe this little box holds my… futures. What do I do with it?”

At that question, Besal’s smile faded a bit. “That would be a question that no one can answer, but you.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

Besal blinked her eyes exactly twice in surprise as her head tilted ever so slightly to the right. “You don’t want your futures?”

“I…” she began but frowned once more. “I want a future, but shouldn’t I be striving towards one instead of having many of them given to me?”

Besal chuckled to the answer. “You are wiser than you may think, Sister Azza.”

Visibly reddening from the praise, Azza’s russet wings fluttered slightly as she struggled to recompose herself. “I uh… have my moments?”

Smiling still, Besal nodded her head. “Whatever you choose to do with your futures, I’m sure you’ll navigate just fine and find the future that you want one day.”

“But not today?”

Considering the question, Besal turned slowly as she mused with a quiet hum. “If you can open the box, then you can certainly find out today.”

Inspecting the box more closely this time, Azza glared at it. Somewhere in her mind, it seemed like the right thing to do as she could find neither crack nor breach on any side. “Besal… I don’t think anyone can open this.” Not hearing a response, Azza looked up to find herself alone in the garden patio. “Of course I would get a gift from the Matriarch and not have it explained. Might as well give me a rock and tell me the same thing.”

Fuming in annoyance but with nothing better to do, Azza sat down and began to fiddle with the box for the rest of the day and well into the night. Eventually overcome by frustration, the young woman returned to her room and stashed it away in a corner. There, the box remained as the days turned to weeks, then months, then years.


---------


It was only after Azza had committed her heretical act of slaying her own kin many years later did the silver box crack at an unseen seam. Gradually, the crack slithered horizontally along the sides to weave knots and glyphs. It did so until the small box was aglow with iridescent blue light that brightened the small modest room that was once Azza's.

“Do you regret this, Besal?” a tentative voice asked, wavering on the edge of uncertainty and resolute purpose.

“No, Sakuya, I do not. I feel guilty, yes, but no regrets.” Lifting the glistening box between her gentle hands, Besal enclosed it within her palms slowly. “I’ve awaited nearly two millennia to right my mistakes, Sakuya.”

“But was it necessary to mislead Azza in such a manner?” While a hostile question, Sakuya’s tone was nothing but simple curiosity. Because of such Besal turned with clouded brown eyes and for the first time for centuries, looked tired.

“I mentioned that I felt guilty, no?” Opening her palms, a silver chain ending with a similar colored vial had replaced the box.

Sakuya chuckled at the woman as an absentminded hand lifted to brush at her own wolfen ears. Noticing her actions, she lowered her hands and held them together before glancing to Besal again. “An Oracle’s Grace… are you sure your heart is ready for this, mother?”

For a long time, Besal made no movement to respond and kept her eyes locked on the pendant. “I’m as sure as Azza wanting freedom…”

[Christoph]

Sorry for the delay, everyone. Thank you all for you participation and patience. Here are the results:

*

Artemis: Let me open by saying that you have come a long way since I last worked with you on your writing. I'm impressed by your progress. Hopefully my commentary here can help you continue along your path of improvement.

The first thing that I noticed is that you tried to cram too much information into sentences. To explain, you would take a sentence about one thing, often describing an action of some kind, and then tack on some extraneous information. This distracted from the action. Now, some of the information you present this way (visual details of objects and characters) need not be removed entirely, but rather given their own sentences to give the reader whatever information you believe necessary before moving on to the action or whatever else.

I liked the opening of the conversation. I first started reading only expecting to scan the first paragraph or two and return to it later after playing some Skryim. Instead, I ended up forgetting about Skyrim and reading on. That is no small feat, my friend. I think you waited too long to reveal Artemis's dilemma, though. It would have worked better to just say that he was considering his stance in the war right away. I liked the concept of Judicis. You did a good job of presenting it and making it interesting.

My primary gripes with your entry are that your story ended before it ever went anywhere. You wrote the start of something and then just... stopped. This resulted in the second problem; you failed follow the prompted very strongly. Your only ties to this round's prompt were some veiled implications rather than something that actually happened in the story. You set up something nice, and I was highly surprised and disappointed to see your post's sudden end. Had you continued and made the story progress into something, going through some sort of actual plot and conflict, you could have been a serious contender for this round.


Sagequeen: I've never read your writing before, and I have to say that your prose is pretty good. You've got a fair bit of subtle elegance and finesse in your style. You do fall into the trap of overdoing it, though. I like literary flair as much as the next guy, but remember that the more you use figurative language and other literary techniques, the less impact they have. Keep a sense of proper emphasis and always ask yourself the purpose of each metaphor and fancy turn of phrase. Also, try not to drag such passages on. A strong piece of figurative language is often concise, emphasizing and enhancing the subject rather than distracting from it. Your bit describing the dying child's pallor in the very first paragraph provides a perfect example of this. It was a nice idea, and I liked what you intended, but you overdid it. Specifically, you probably could have simply left out the words "in a downpour".

You repeat words unnecessarily here and there and had some instances of weak verbs and inefficient prose (feel free to contact me if you're not sure what the heck I'm talking about, lol). For example: "was a stark contrast to" might have worked better as "starkly contrasted". I'm nitpicking here, but I like to give everyone some practical tips for improvement. Speaking of nitpicking, the following caught my attention: "lisping the r in his name" -- I don't think you can lisp an R sound. (I might be wrong, but I think you might have meant that she -rolled- the R.) That said, I didn't count it against you, so don't worry.

My main issue with your entry was the overall narrative. It felt like you had a storyline in your mind that explained everything going on in your vignette, but then you started your entry too far into said story. That made it a bit tricky to figure out what was going on and what the characters were talking about a lot of the time. Obviously you clarified it by the end, but you essentially skipped over the first half of the prompt, giving it only a cursory nod in the middle, and at the end as you described the boon's drawback in more detail. I would have liked to read about Erissa receiving her strange powers first.

I liked your characters, though I would have preferred a little more information about them. Still, you showed me quite a bit about their relationship through their interactions, which is always a plus. Also, where Artemis perhaps gave too much visual information about his characters, you didn't give enough. It wasn't a big deal, as such details weren't particularly important, but it's always nice to let the reader know what he's supposed to see.


Blackdog1: I like that you wrote a complete story with a solid beginning, middle, and end. You stayed true to the prompt and portrayed both how Milo received the gift and transitioned into the catch. The concept you chose was solid, though you could have paced it better. A few extra paragraphs worth of writing overall would have helped better develop and more smoothly transition between each of Milo's readings.

Your prose suffered from two main problems. First, you overused weak verbs quite a bit (was, be, is, etc), which generally made your writing feel drier and less precise than it should have been. Feel free to PM me or catch me on AIM if you would like some helpful tips and advice on the matter. Second, you too often tell rather than show. For instance, take the following: ""Thank you for your time and labor", the gypsy woman said with far more drama than was necessary". I find myself asking what you meant by that. What made her thanks dramatic? Her hand gestures, her tone of voice? Don't just tell the reader something. Show them. Let them see why and how.

In closing, while you fell short in its execution, I liked your plot idea.



Aegis of Esperidion: Your opening paragraph suffered from a common pitfall of trying too hard. In an effort to use some literary flair, you overdid it with adjectives. If you want to be fancy, spice up your prose with some figurative language or other literary techniques. A common problem that you haven't escaped: you use "was" and other weak verbs more often than necessary. It didn't become a huge problem with your entry, but it's always something to look out for. You had some instances of repeating words in close proximity as well. For example: "His heraldry was the heraldry of the Knights of Rousay". Feel free to contact me for further explanation on the subject if you're not sure what I mean.

There was clearly some subtext regarding the relationship between the two characters in the opening conversation that you didn't properly explain. It would have given the beginning of your entry a bit more context and meaning. You also waited far too long to set the scene for your story. You would have done better to describe the surroundings at the beginning. And finally, you set up your character being presented with and receiving the gift of a knighthood, but leave the 'catch' at best implied.

Random nitpicky things: "On his left hip was a sword almost an exact replica" -- I think you're missing something here, and the sentence on the whole would benefit from some syntax adjustment. And... Protip: "Base of the hilt" is called the "pommel". :P



Whispers of Abyssion: You took a classic approach to theme. I can respect that. While it wasn't exactly fresh or original, you made it feel authentic, which is just as good in my book. You clearly possess a strong grasp of your narrative style. You gave the scene a dark and foreboding tone that fit it well. I think you fell a bit short at the end, though. Obviously, this deal causes the suffering of many others, but you didn't portray its negative effects on Touma very strongly. You said that he lost his innocence, but what does that mean? He essentially sidestepped having to give up his soul to bring forth this demon. Perhaps you could have concluded with him realizing in some way that he has damned himself anyway through his actions. Something like that. I wanted to see just a little bit more.

As for the characters, what you gave me was good, but I wanted more. I can tell that both the demon and Touma are likely fascinating characters, but they fell a little flat in your vignette because you didn't give the reader enough about them. They were like pretty paintings -- appealing in their way and well-made, but ultimately two-dimensional. Then again, I'm probably nitpicking by now, haha.

You have a solid writing style that flows nicely and paints strong mental pictures. You tend to stumble when describing people, though. Also, I wish you had described the 'mana' a little more clearly. I got a vague impression of a misty miasma, but I wasn't sure. Feel free to get a little figurative when describing something supernatural. You had a few odd word choices sprinkled throughout the story, such as "young boy howled back", that I didn't feel fit where I found them. Also, in a paragraph about halfway through, you wrote a very repetitive passage -- " brimstone like sulphurous egg, decay like a necromantic graveyard". And so forth. You format many of the sentences and pieces of sentences as "X like Y." I realize that you might have done this intentionally, but I don't think it had the desired effect.


Wings of Endymion: You used a strong style in this entry, though you also had some instances of what I call 'inefficient prose'. In other words, at times you use more words than necessary, or generally describe something in a manner more complicated than you needed to. This breaks up the flow a bit and draws the reader out of the story. For instance: "Her painfully slender form impacted against the cold packed earth" -- 'impacted against the cold packed earth' would be tighter as ' stuck the cold packed earth."

Another random nitpick: In the fourth paragraph (second if you don't count single lines), you describe her face as "set against the pain", which evokes an image of a stony and determined expression. Then in the next paragraph you said she "was smiling", which contradicted the mental image I had formed based on your writing. I doubt you intended this as a contradiction, but as we know, a writer's intention doesn't matter if said intention isn't transferred properly to the reader. Fortunately, the fix is really simple, and hopefully this concept will stick with you and help you in the future. Simply change "was smiling" to "smiled", making it an active sentence describing an action as it happens. It would describe a change in her expression, rather than potentially confusing the reader with contradictory descriptions of her pre-existing expression. And if I've stopped making any bit of sense by now, feel free to shoot me a PM or an IM and I'll give explaining it another go, lol.

On a similar note: "her child’s voice quavering and just about holding firm." This suffers from two clarity issues. First, you say "her child's voice", which sounds like you're talking about somebody else -- IE: her child. Obviously, I realized what you meant, but it jarred me out of the story again. Second, you describe her voice as both quavering and just about holding firm. Which is it? Those two things are usually mutually exclusive. Now, don't despair. Take this nitpicking as a compliment. This is pretty in-depth stuff, and I only got into so much detail because your work is at quite a high level already. This forces me to dig a little deeper to give you useful feedback. I found a bunch of little things like this in your story, though some of it might have resulted from poor proofreading. Again, please shoot me a message if you would like me to go over it with you in more detail.

I promised myself I wouldn't, but I'll include one more example: " were now streaming" -- Try "now streamed".

On a less technical note, I think you should have just gone out and revealed the identity of the man overtly in the paragraph where you describe his appearance. There's nothing gained by not doing so. The story itself was simple but emotionally powerful. You paced it well and made me care about the characters. Best of all, you effectively touched on both elements of the prompt within the story. Overall, well done.



Flames of Hyperion: You gave us a short entry and an interesting take on the prompt. I loved the gift, but you never fully explained the catch or drawback. You seemed to rely on veiled implication, but I definitely didn't catch what you intended, if you intended anything. It would have been as simple as revealing the other speaker in the first and third parts, and giving some details as to the situation, to give the exchanges (which were well-written otherwise) some context.

I don't have much to say about your writing style, as it did not feature prominently in this story (which consisted primarily of dialogue). I think you overdid some of the reactions of the two characters in the middle section. I get the awkwardness of youth. We've all experienced it. I just think you overdid it a little bit, made it feel somewhat exaggerated when a slightly more subtle touch would have served better. Despite that, it was pretty cute. Even for me, and I have a heart of stone and all that jazz.


Ruby La Roux: I like how you gift-wrapped the gift, ha. Not metaphorical interpretation for you! No sir. I can respect that. You formed a strong hook right away without wasting much time. Though you slowed down a bit too much later, your opening got me interested. You had some of the best character development in the round. I can't say that I really LIKED your character (I didn't dislike her, mind), but I got a strong feel for who she is.

Your style is pretty solid, I have to say. As somebody who really hasn't read your work since a good ways back, I'm impressed by your progress. I would describe your style as simple but clean, which is certainly acceptable. I did stumble across a few odd bits here and there (you know where to find me for more details). Also, mentioning a Christmas present, even in comparison, didn't feel right since this is Althanas and not Earth. You made a lot of mention to the fireplace and then never did anything with it. That made me sad.

You also took waaaay too long to reveal the gift itself. The delay didn't create suspense, but rather annoyance. You certainly didn't gain anything by not just telling the reader as soon as she opened the box. You could have still explained the history of it all after showing us what it was. If anything, it would have worked even better given the nature of the gift. A rose petal is a strange sort of gift, especially delivered in such a package. It would have piqued my interest much more effectively and made me must more intrigued regarding the explanation behind it.

I like the nature of the gift. It was unique and carried a lot of emotional weight, even if touched on a lot of seemingly complex backstory that I wasn't familiar with. Unfortunately, you never really established a strong drawback.


Duffy: You seemed to stumble for an opening with this entry, going in a little circle before moving ahead. I liked how you described the city. I felt immersed in it. Your style was solid for the most part, if a bit simple.+1 Internet for using the word "strumpets". Also, watch repeated words -- "a man with a moustache from which a man could hang his tie collection". You used "a man" twice. And finally, you failed to portray any real drawback to the 'gift' Duffy received. Or rather, you turned the prompted in reverse, starting with something back that unexpected turned into a boon. On one hand, you broke away from the prompt's guidelines a bit more than I would have liked, but on the other hand, it was cleverly done. Cleverly enough so that I finished the story feeling annoyed that you had ignored the prompt, only to think back and go, "I see what you did there."


Sheex: As a man who works in sales, I love portrayals of sleazy salesmen in literature. Have I got a deal for you! So, brownie points for you on that front. Overall, I liked the story concept and the overall direction of the plot. You covered your bases with the prompt and etched out an amusing little misadventure. You did stumble on your execution, though.

You use parentheses a LOT. I'm not one of those types who think they have no place in creative writing, but I definitely advocate using them sparingly. Your opening paragraph stumbled a bit with its very odd tense structure. You painted a nice picture, but it felt a bit sloppy. You've got a decent developing style, but you seemed... how to put this... unsure of yourself. You had a penchant for using a lot of words to describe something that required far fewer more precise and effective words. For instance: "The man's smile flickered like the ember of a flame that had not been quite put out." We know that embers come from flames, so you need not state that. Honestly something like "flickered like a dying ember", for example, would have served much more effectively if you made some minor adjustments to the second part of the sentence. It's just a suggestion and example, of course. You could have improved it in a variety of different ways.

Despite all those shortcomings, your story amused me in its off-beat, cheesy, tongue-in-cheek, genre savvy, forehead-slapping sort of way. It makes me want to suggest something radical -- perhaps you should switch to first person and see how that suits you. I bet it'd fit your style quite well. And if you order now, these compliments and tips will be yours, along with a free pair of kitchen shears, for three easy payments of...



Sei: You had a decent core concept -- a stressed hero looking for a break. You stayed true to the prompt, which is good. You perhaps rushed through the receiving of the gift and the catch, moving quickly to Sei weaseling out of the drawback, but it wasn't terribly rushed by vignette standards.

Your writing felt a bit rushed, and I spotted a fair number of typos throughout the story. You also suffered from a general lack of polish -- odd wordings, sentences and paragraphs that just didn't flow right, and so forth. I figure you just didn't have the time to proofread as extensively as you should have. It also felt like you couldn't settle on a narrative point of view early on. At first, you seemed to write from Sei's PoV, but then started telling the reader about things Sei specifically didn't see. Third-person omniscient is a hard but perfectly acceptable method. Just stick to it if you want to go that direction, or make sure to avoid it if you're not intending to use it.

Your story's main weak point was dialogue. Both what they actually said and how you presented it fell flat with me, unfortunately. I had a tough time believing the characters or getting a realistic feel for their relationship. Their interactions just didn't fit or flow well. Also, you mentioned that Sei is both a mute and a telepath, which is fine. As someone unfamiliar with your character, I would have liked for you to show as well as tell; show the reader how he communicates. Describe the process and the sensations. Give the verbal exchanges more life.


Bloodrose: You took an interesting and rather subtle take on the prompt, if maybe a little too subtle. I liked the idea that the drawback of his boon was getting roped into even more service to creepy goddesses, heh. I liked your dialogue and characterization well enough, though the goddess came off as a bit too human to me. Also, you lose automatically for using different font colors. ... ... >_>

Jokes aside, you did take a little too long to really get going. You spent too much time in the opening paragraph describing things that just weren't that important. Setting the scene is all well and good, and painting a good mental picture for your readers is certainly important, but use moderation and keep a sense of what is and isn't crucial to the story. Also, while your prose is generally strong and you have a good personal style and voice, you tended to... overwrite things a little. By that I mean you expressed things inefficiently at times, using more words than necessary. Sometimes it feels like you're trying to add too much unnecessary information. Other times your prose sounds too... how to put it... too casual. Accost me over PM or AIM and I'll go over some examples in more detail. All in all, it was still a very solid entry, though perhaps not as good as I expect from you.


Orphans: Your dialogue has always been your strongest area, and it remains true here. I found the words exchanged believable and the character development effective. On the negative side, you tended to over-describe actions. For example: "as she brought a hand up to scratch her head" -- it's generally understood that one needs to bring up her hand to scratch her own head. No need to point that detail out specifically. I wish you had described Besal a little more in the first paragraph, give the reader a clearer picture of her age. You also get a little overly wordy in some spots, but not terribly so. Other than those issues, your writing style is pretty solid.

My primary concern with your entry is that I never really understood what was going on, or why it was important. I also found it difficult to piece together a strong tie to the round's prompt. The gift was not portrayed as anything great or desirable to your character, and the drawback was at best hinted at and never really portrayed or explained. I would probably understand everything were I familiar with your character, but you should never depend on the reader knowing anything about the characters and metaplot not actually included in the story itself.

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Results!

This was a fairly close round with a few strong contenders. In the end, Wings of Endymion comes in first, with Sagequeen and Bloodrose tied for a close second place. Congratulations, and well done to everyone! I hope to see you all in the upcoming rounds. Keep up the good work.