Drink With Me

[Les Misérables]

The common room of the Last Night's Maiden was a good place to think after midnight. Nothing moved but the flames in the hearth and the shadows they cast of chairs and stools stacked neatly on polished tables and counter tops. As dried kindling gave way and ignited heavier rywan logs, fine grey smoke rolled up the chimney and soared over the crisp winter night of Underwood. Stars and moon winked at one another amidst passing clouds, courting as playful as the town's teen aged element. The trees shivered in a northern breeze that never followed the same course for very long.

In the common room, orange firelight bathed Phyr Sa'resh's wrinkled navy skin. The ancient drow sat still as the hearthstone that made his seat. His fine brown cloak with the secretive vlince lining, the one with the crest that marked him Captain of the Watch, hung from an upturned chair's legs like a scarecrow's pants. Phyr had the hemp-laced collar of his green cotton robe open, the sleeves rolled up to display his withered arm and scarcrossed stump. Sweat and moisture from the kettle-humidifier spitted over the fire shone on his dark, leathery face. Rosewater. Elena's touch had added a soothing aroma to his clever contraption.

In Devil's Keep, the Salvic Prison that had been his home and his hell for thirty years, Phyr had forgotten pleasant smells. He remembered the first time he'd smelled flowers after that, or a woman, or even fresh air. Each step in freedom amounted to the greatest triumph of his life.

The one armed drow's azure eyes closed wistfully. When Elena held him, the smell of her skin and the brush of her downy hair made him feel that way again. Almost like a strong youth, as he'd been in the Aleraran military, a lifetime ago. He turned his head slowly, but still his neck popped louder than the growing fire. On the table beside his drooping cloak, a clear bottle gleamed with amber liquid. The world had worked so hard to kill him for so long, he'd lost an arm and clung to sanity like a weasel wrestling a snake. How now could life become so good? How could she love him?

He'd asked her in that very room. The previous night, as she swept and mopped and he pored over ledgers of recruitments and payments and every other sort of record. She'd dropped the broom and come to him, linen apron swishing about her willowy frame, and seized him by the collar with both hands. "I never wanted more than to earn a living and bear babes from a respectable man," she'd whispered so fiercely he forgot the aching closeness of her lips, "just meeting you taught me I can do more, Phyr Sa'resh. And as long as you need me I'll care for you as best I can. Don' feel you don't deserve it just since you missed out for so long." She'd kissed him then, and his numb fingers had scattered the reports and scrolls of parchment to the floor.

Elena's words were his anchor. So long as her voice stayed fresh in his mind, he knew he wasn't fading to age. The fire crackled and danced in the whisky bottle's honey-hued reflection.

The front door, built of stout oak and locked and deadbolted, opened suddenly. It slammed shut, and before the ensuing gust of night air hit Phyr's face, Joshua Cronen sat next to him. The hazel eyes of the Ascended looked into Phyr's soul, somehow seeming a hundred years older than Sa'resh himself. The man looked young enough, with his light brown hair and chiselled features. His skin bore scars but not pockmarks. It was the eyes that hid the secret - the spark of eternal youth.

"Our prisoner is locked down by the river," Cronen said, "thought you should know." The Ascended spoke rapidly with clipped crisp words and rose almost as soon as he sat down.

"Josh." Phyr raised his left hand, withered fingers splayed. A plaintive gesture from a shadow of an elf. Cronen waited.

What had Elena said about the bottle? It was one of her least favourite topics of conversation, and she always started with questions. "How many drinks today Phyr? How many glasses? Bottles? Do you even pay attention?" But there was never any malice in her voice. She understood, and the first night he'd had the strength to cork a flask of Yurik's before coming to bed, she'd wept tears of joy. "If you can't control it yourself, only drink in company. I don't see any other way around it." She'd taken to repeating the phrase often.

Cronen read Phyr's hesitation, as he usually could, and picked up the bottle.

"Yurik's Firewhisky..." he read the label in a musing voice, a smile tugging at his cheeks so the Y-shaped scar beneath his eye stretched. "Too long since we shared a few fingers of this scotch, Sa'resh." Cronen's metal-booted footsteps were quieter than the clinking of glasses he retrieved from the bar. Phyr closed his eyes and raised his chin, eliciting another pop from deep within his sternum. The sloop of glass tumblers filling with whisky reached his mangled, pointed ears, and the aged scotch's aroma blended with the woodsmoke and rosewater.

Phyr smiled. "Have a drink with me, my lord." He said as he accepted a glass.

"Don't call me that." The strange toast hung amidst the rafters as the two friends drank to their recent victory.

[Breaker]

Joshua Cronen studied the old drow over the rim of his glass as they each took a long pull of whisky. Cronen's mind writhed in its typical turmoil, about as orderly as the shadowplay on the Maiden's trakym-panelled walls. Swallowing the fiery spirit, Josh wiped his mouth then scraped a callused palm up his sandpapery chin, over the Y-shaped scar on his left cheek, and through shaggy brown hair that fell back into place draping the tops of his ears.

"How's Elena?" He asked, setting his cup down and refilling both from the surprisingly heavy bottle as Phyr followed suit.

"Working too hard and worrying about me more than any dozen others ever did." Phyr grumbled in response. The one-armed drow's voice grated worse than rusted hinges, but his azure eyes illuminated and his stooped shoulders squared at the mention of her name. He even swished the drink beneath his crooked twig of a nose before sipping, and then smacked his lips and sighed aloud.

Josh sipped his own whisky, listening to the hiss and burble of the humidifier and marvelling at the evolution of Phyr Sa'resh. It's amazing what she's inspired in him. Cronen thought as the old drow set down his glass, produced a pipe and pouch from his voluminous robe and packed the bowl full of tobacco one handed, methodical as one of his clockwork machines. The military mind that turned Underwood's Watch into a force capable of keeping the Empire at bay... but could he have done it if she hadn't stopped him from marinating in alcohol? A caricature of the Phyr Sa'resh he'd met a year ago - a navy blue skeleton in beggars' rags - danced in Cronen's mind and then dissipated like smoke up the chimney.

The Ascended settled his lithe frame on the hearth next to the drow, fine black sifan clothing seeming to absorb firelight. As they drank and talked, recounting battles and sharing wisdom, Josh shifted and twisted, stretching his tired muscles. The path back from the riverside cabin where he'd left their prisoner shackled took a full day to travel by horseback. He'd cut through the woods and made it in only a few hours, but the furious pace had fatigued him considerably. Feeling suddenly exhausted as he stood and stretched his back, Josh interrupted Phyr's tale of fooling two Empire Officers into thinking he was one of their Wraith.

"My apologies my friend... it suddenly occurs to me I haven't slept in two days." Phyr only chuckled in response, rising and setting down his near empty cup to sound of his spine counting its vertebrae with hollow pops. "Will you depart after dawn?" Josh asked as they clasped left forearms. The unique sign of camaraderie magnified Phyr's age and missing arm, and not for the first time the Ascended hesitated. Should I let him do this? Wouldn't I be the best inquisitor for our prisoner?

"No indeed," Phyr Sa'resh responded, "One of the lads will have two mounts waiting outside as the first light breaks, or I'll discover the reason." Releasing Cronen's sinewy forearm, Phyr reclaimed his glass and tipped his head back to drain the last drops. "I've delegated my duties to the Watch to other officers, but I'd appreciate it if you looked in on the Maiden now and again. As your own duties allow, Sheriff."

Josh thumped a fist into his chest, a casual facsimile of the Underwood Watch's salute, and picked up the bottle of Yurik's as he strode to the door. From the way Phyr had glanced at the kitchens, which stood between the common room and his shared sleeping quarters, Cronen knew the maiden he truly worried about was Elena, not the inn.

Pivoting at the door to say goodbye, Josh found his friend staring forlornly at the quarter-full bottle carried in the crook of his elbow. Josh smiled.

"Go to her, old elf. We can keep the town together for a few days without you, but you'll be all alone in the woods. Best to bring some good memories to keep you warm."

[Les Misérables]

Cronen smiled for a moment as he spoke the last words, but by the time he reached the door his face represented an illegible mask. Itr closed silently behind him and the lock clicked. The deadbolt never seemed to have been disturbed.

Phyr Sa'resh shuddered; whether from the breath of cold that stole into the room or the powerful presence of the Ascended he could not say. Even as a respected friend, Joshua Breaker Cronen could make an unsettling companion. Phyr took one last savouring sniff of his empty glass then deposited it upside-down on the nearest table. He stood and stooped long enough to stir the fire's remains, enjoying the fleeting heat on his winter-dried face. The comforting glow reminded him of Elena's embrace, and the part of his heart she had saved from Salvic frostbite yearned for her closeness. Snatching his cloak of Captaincy off the upturned chair, he started toward the kitchen on numb, creaking legs.

The drow pushed through the kitchen's heavy swinging door and paused long enough to fumble in his pockets and strike a match. The flickering flame threw shadows across the ovens, sinks, and hip-height tables, all cleaned and ready to prepare the morning's breakfast.

Phyr had to gather all his strength to get passed the liquor cabinet, knowing the symphony of spirits that stood within the simple oaken cupboard. His desire to drink gripped him suddenly, clouding his thoughts of Elena. , Phyr's mind assaulted the craving like a scorpion defending it's den. Boots, one bottle of whisky, walking stick, a weeks rations and oats for two horses... he leaned on a stone-basined sink, thinking of each item he needed to bring to the cabin by the river in turn. Two good blank books of parchment to record the proceedings, shackles and spikes, needles and hooks... The match burned down and nipped his fingers. Phyr dropped it to sizzle in the stone basin and moved onward. Three courier pigeons for communications, quill and ink, and that dusty volume I found buried in the library... Tome of the Vampyre. Finishing the list as he crept through the open doorway, Phyr felt the cravings dissolve as he heard Elena's even, sleep-heavy breathing. Her smell reached him that - always the smell of roses, with the richer bloom of womanhood basking beneath. Then he rounded the door and his tired old eyes drank her in as happily as he could quaff a bottle of Yurik's.

She lay half-curled on the downy mattress, woollen blankets covering nothing above the knees. Her white silken sleeping shift only accentuated the graceful arch of her spine an neck, the tone of her willowy limbs, and the dark chestnut hue of her long satiny hair. Laying on her side, she expanded and contracted with each breath, angelic face hidden in her mane.

Phyr hung his robe by the headboard and struggled out of his other garments. He wanted her then and there, wanted her as much as he'd wanted freedom after twenty years imprisoned. But by the time he eased himself onto the mattress the smell of her had intoxicated him, and the weight of his duty pulled him into a deep sleep.

[Breaker]

The clouds looked ripe with moonlight, they glowed so. The silver sheen flooded Underwood, reflecting off frost and snow, threatening to throw a veil across the stars. Across the road from The Last Night's Maiden the wind touched a grindstone left outside by an absent-minded smithy. Although the wind was not strong, the heavy stone rotated on its shiny steel axle. Cronen changed direction and headed for the blacksmith's shop, putting his back to The Peaceful Promenade. A successful inn known throughout Corone, the Promenade made the Maiden look like a small hut.

Josh stooped over the wheel and stopped its spin with one callused palm. It was a cleverly customised device with a seat and two pedals, rigged to allow for long periods of fine work. The stone felt cold and rough, comforting, and like it weighed more than any one man could lift. Could be the smithy's apprentice went home early and wasn't around to help move this in. Shame if it rusted. Cronen sniffed the air and studied the clouds, not sensing imminent precipitation. The cloudbursts over Concordia were as volatile in winter as spring though, the druids told him. And the frost could be as hard on axles as an hour's rain. Josh crouched and inhaled. Wrapping both arms around the wheel and the metal mounting mechanism, he expanded his chest against the pebbled stone. With the smell of oil burning in his nostrils he breathed out and stood up straight, hoisting the bulky device smoothly.

The blacksmiths' was one of the few stone buildings on the block, but had a wooden shed fixed to the south wall. A canvas flap made its only door, fluttering idly in the wind.

Cronen kicked the canvas aside and carried the grindstone into the garage as if it were a child. Leaving it in the only space large enough amidst piles of scrap metal and horseshoes, Josh brushed his way back into the night and strode toward the Promenade. The air made his dark sifan clothing cold, but he chose not to feel the chill. It would have eaten away at his tired legs and his weary mind. He heard music and merriment emanating from the Promenade's common room as he neared and turned away from the well-lit front entrance. His rooms were on the top floor of the inn, and going through the common room would take too long. Someone always wanted to ask his advice, complain about something, or on the odd occasion thank him for his work.

On an ordinary night Josh would have either braved the long-winded social niceties of the common room or simply climbed the inn's wooden facade and entered through his bedroom window. His brain and his body both wanted immediate rest, so he changed direction once more, walking lightly down the road, somehow producing not a crackle from the frosted ground.

Guess I'm sleeping at the office tonight, he decided.

[Breaker]

Sunlight filtered through the front window of the Sheriff's Office, brushing the empty oaken coat rack with yellow pastel. As more light filled the lounge the matching endtables caught the glow, haloing the parallel pair of sofas that dominated the centre of the room. Whitewashed walls reflected the golden rays, rendering the quartet of candelabras that stood sentinel along the back wall unnecessary. Crafted of dark heavy iron, each of the four held a dozen half-melted wax candles. They flanked the two brass-knobbed doors that led to the privy and records room respectively. The building was indistinguishable from its neighbours, wooden frame creaking atop its stone foundation as morning warmed the city of Underwood.

Joshua stirred on the couch facing the back wall, then came fully awake. He had slept in his clothing, the fine collar of his dress shirt wrinkled and twisted, black sifan pants creased down both legs. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and raked his short but dishevelled hair as he sat up, feet finding the midnight metal Breaker Boots he'd left unlatched on the floor. A yawn cracked his jaw and he rolled his shoulders, spine popping like a doubletime metronome. Josh allowed himself a full minute of deep breathing and meditation to drink in the beauty of the morning, contemplate the weightlessness of the sunlight, and appreciate his time alone. Feeling fully refreshed and rejuvenated from the stress of the past forty-eight hours, he fastened the bindings on his boots and stood up, mentally listing his duties for the day.

Cronen strode to the privy door and pulled it open, frowning at the image that frowned back at him. The mirror showed a caricature of some rich lordling who'd spent a fortune the previous night on wine, not the orderly appearance of the Sheriff of Underwood. Spreading his hands with palms facing the ceiling, he breathed in and opened himself to the Eternal Tap.

Energy radiated from Breaker in invisible waves, and amidst a soft hissing a cloud of steam enveloped him. It scoured his scalp, grated his garments, and polished his boots in a few instants of pleasant heat. Air and water magic woven as tightly as strands of a bowstring collected the dirt, sweat and grime and compacted it all into a cube no larger than a die. A sudden gust of wind flung one of the front windows open, and the cube flew out to land in the gutter, followed closely by the residual steam.

Cronen grinned at himself and re-adjusted his collar with both callused hands. His hair looked washed and combed, his clothes cleaned and pressed. His boots shone despite their darkness. He scraped a thumbnail through the stubble on his chin and considered a shave but decided against it. As he closed the privy door the scrape of heavy footfalls on the front stoop made his ears twitch, and he spun around.

A broad shouldered dwarf wearing a heavy leather tabard burst into the room, bearded face red from the chill. He stomped snow out of his boots on the canvas mat shook long, shaggy auburn hair out of his eyes.

"Josh! How is it you always look like a prince with a score of retainers keepin' ya pretty, y'old bastard!" Boomed Terech Bodorson.

Cronen smiled broadly and came out from behind the sofas to clasp Bodorson's wrist. The Master of Ravenheart Academy spent so much time working the forge, even the Ascended's wide palm and long fingers could not encircle his bulbous forearm.

"It all comes from clean living, my friend," Josh said, sliding past the old dwarf. "I should be on my way to the smithy, will you walk with me?" He kept his tone light, but his mind had accelerated once more, thinking of Phyr and their prisoner. With any luck, the ancient drow would return from the riverside cabin before long.

[Les Misérables]

The Firewine River wound between mountains and foothills alike, an artery dividing the great forest Concordia in halves. Despite the cold season the current ran deep and swift, wearing down the icy banks by day only to have them freeze up again by night. Chunks of ice floating downstream flashed like silverbacks, throwing bursts of reflected sunlight indiscriminately at the perspiring trees.

Phyr Sa'resh crouched next to an eddy-pool and snatched a lazily rotating icicle that had been worn smooth by the waters. Groaning as he stood, Phyr pressed the ice to his aching neck. He had departed from Underwood as planned well before the light of day, and pushed his pair of mares hard, alternating his weight from one beast to the other every hour of the ride. By the time the sun neared its zenith he had found the old logging cabin, tethered and cared for the horses, and followed the sound of rushing water to the riverbank, a short stroll to clear the mind and straighten the spine.

Snow scrunched beneath his leather riding boots as he re-traced his footprints. With his only arm bent backwards rubbing the ice along his shoulder, the old drow could do little to stop stray branches clutching at his cloak and hair. The raggedy woollen cloak, which he'd selected for its autonomy, snagged so badly the fastener nearly choked him. Phyr calmly dropped his icicle and set about picking himself free, then reclaimed his cold compress and continued into the clearing.

A meadow partially pockmarked by stumps surrounded the old logging cabin where it perched on a hilltop. Built from thick old oak logs, iron nails, and pine resin, the building leaned slightly to the south, as if strong northern winds coming up from the river had beaten it down over the years. The horses were blanketed and enjoying their feedbags in the lee of the cabin, the saddlebags piled between them. Their reigns were knotted around a weather-beaten fence that ran to the mouth of the trail that led back to the road to Underwood. At the peak of the roof near the little building's grey brick chimney, a stray shingle flapped in the wind.

Phyr paused outside the door long enough to pocket the ice and grip the brass knob, then froze as his guts churned. It had been thirty years - more - since he'd employed the skill set he intended to use. I'd rather have forgotten how to do this, and lost all accompanying memories along the way. But that was not all. A cold sweat crept into Phyr's smallclothes. By stepping over the simple oaken threshold, he would mark himself as an enemy of the Hadian Underworld. A target for the Ancient Vampyres that ruled the shadows of Althanas. Straightening his shoulders like a young soldier on the parade ground, Phyr shoved through the door and tasted the chill, dank interior.

The cabin smelled of must and sawdust. There was moisture in the air, carrying the faintest hint of mildew. A small round oaken table and matching rickety chairs sat next to a heavy iron woodstove, which vented out the brick chimney in the east wall.

Phyr peered into the gloom, light from the door and single square south-facing window more than ample for his azure eyes. He could see the horses out the window, breath steaming through their feedbags. An oil lamp and a broken candle stood on the table, and piles of old logging tools rusted in the corners. Only one piece of furniture failed to fit - the long, thick lidded rywan chest pressed against the western wall.

Phyr followed the dust-void footprints to the coffin-sized box, recognising the tread of Joshua Cronen's enchanted boots. The churning in his stomach worsened with each step, and the drow could feel bile rising in his throat. A tangible radiation of wrongness pulsed like a heartbeat, coming from the chest. It seemed an ordinary artefact - the kind a mother might keep her children's winter garments stored in over summer months. But Phyr had never seen a box full of clothing barred by a heavy iron padlock.

Kneeling beside the chest felt as appealing as wading into shark-infested waters, but Phyr eased his weight to the floor just the same. He hefted the thick iron lock in his long-fingered hand, finding comfort in the cold metal. It weighed at least five pounds, the U-bar thicker than his middle finger. It was fitted through a hole that Cronen had somehow bored through the front of the chest's sturdy lid and handle, sealing their prisoner inside.

With the lock in his hand, Phyr could sense every detail of its design. He could feel the iron tumblers in his mind, see them as if the body of the lock were transparent. It took less than a thought to encourage them to shift ever so slightly, and the lock fell open. The hollow click resounded longer than it should have, seeming to echo endlessly off the cabins walls before escaping out the open door. Taking a deep breath of the heavy air, Phyr wedged his hand beneath the lid and braced his shoulders to lift.

"Yesss..." the whisper came straight from the bowels of Haide, but emanated from inside the coffin. "I have been waiting for you Sssa'resh."

[Breaker]

A playful breeze with icicle teeth flitted throughout the eaves and alleyways of Underwood. It stirred piles of snow loosely swept into corners, swayed the signs hung over inns and cookeries, and polished frost wherever it shone on rooftops and walkways alike. Carpenters hired by the town council had long since constructed wooden plankways over the slushy roads. Some were as wide as a man was tall, while others dwindled to the width of a hand's span. Few locals braved the wooden slats on such days, when the sun made the frost sparkle and melt, then the air froze it solid and slick. Even so, the residential neighbourhood of wooden homes, one of which the new Sheriff had made his office, was abuzz with voices. Men and women dressed in layers of wool and oiled leather boots slogged through the muck, carrying covered baskets or satchels, enjoying the sun as they went about their business. Childish laughter echoed between buildings, punctuated by the loud splashes of tiny feet in puddles. The smells of woodsmoke and breakfast bread mingled with the rank odour of the roads, and every so often a chef or server leaned out a shop window, shouting their selection.

Cronen and Bodorson strode along a wide walkway shoulder to elbow, sure footed even as they scanned their surroundings and talked in hushed tones. They wound their way out of the neighbourhood of single story houses and onto the main South Road. There they turned north, heading towards the city's core where many successful tradesmen kept shop.

"An' it's not enough he's expectin' me to have replicated that bloody musket of his by the time he gets back." Bodorson's boots beat the walkway with such force they shook to the foundations. "No sir, Capatain bloody Sa'resh sent me a message with the stableboy who saddled his mounts this mornin'. Asked if I'd take over training his officers. Every night! As if I'm not bloody busy enough at the Academy." The dwarf bit his tongue and ducked behind the Ascended, allowing a grey haired lady in hooped skirts and a long, glistening fur coat to pass. Three female retainers in fine woollens displaying a family crest followed, eyes on their mistress, ready to spring in to action lest she slip. Glancing over his shoulder and blowing scraggly red hair out of his eyes, Bodorson continued, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I hope they taught him how to make demons talk quick in the Aleraran Army, otherwise I'll be overrun before he can return." He gave an extra hard stomp as he moved back beside Josh to demonstrate his feelings on the matter.

Josh absorbed fresh air and sunshine as he listened to Terech, smiling at passing locals and keeping his body open, non secretive. The people of Underwood had enough to worry about, living off winter stores greatly depleted by the recent civil war. No one outside their small circle of trust needed to know that Haidia was once more gathering its forces in cavern beneath the earth.

"We must know what she knows," Josh responded, clapping Bodorson's broad back and leaning in as if uttering a joke. "Until then, we've no information on their numbers or movements. We must wait for Phyr to return, and prepare for the inevitable conflict without inciting panic." The Ascended's stomach rumbled as the smell of pastries became particularly prevalent, wafting out the open oven vent of the Welcome Home Bakery, a family establishment just off the main road. "To that point, I'll take the officers' class," he said, enjoying Bodorson's comical relief and making a mental note to visit the bakery on his return trip. "I'm familiar with the men Phyr's been training, and my evenings are unoccupied now we’ve moved the prisoner.” Josh faced his friend as they arrived at an intersection of four walkways. The sun warmed his back, and he could hear the ring of hammer on anvil over the sounds of day several blocks to the east. Behind Bodorson the walkway grew thick with bustling bodies, signifying the beginning of the academic district. “Why don’t I visit you at the forge tonight?” Josh suggested, “I’d like to have another look at that long gun myself.”

Bodorson clapped his hands and rubbed his heavy palms together, the sound like sandpaper on bark. “Sounds a like a fine plan to me, m’lad. Should be off now, my beginner’s smithing class may burn the place down if left alone too long. Hahaharr!” The dwarf turned and sauntered toward the crowd of clerks and messenger. He hopped to the ground before he reached the main pack, preferring to battle slush and mud than wait on fancy-booted citizens. Before long his short stocky frame vanished behind a bend in the busy boardwalk.

Josh turned away and made for the smithy, enjoying the less crowded district. As the ring of hammer on anvil grew louder he realized he could not see another living soul ahead of him. And then a voice echoed around the corner, coming from the lane adjacent to the blacksmith’s. A young shrill voice, screeching a single syllable.

“Heeeelp!”

[Les Misérables]

The she-demon's cackles chased Phyr from the cabin. A fiery solution of shame and confusion roiled in his chest, and he fought the urge to vomit. Half leaning on the coarse log wall, the drow stumbled around the cabin, mouth gashed and gasping.

The horses looked up at his approach, one a dark chestnut, the other dappled grey. With their ears laid back and their feed bags drooping they looked like strange otherworldly creatures.

Phyr felt better as he approached the mares, his eyes intent on the saddlebag with the single bottle of whisky he'd packed. Shouldn't have started without a drink, he told himself, grabbing the Grey's bridle.

The dappled mare shrieked as if he'd stuck her with a blazing forge iron. She reared up on her hind legs, kicking and blowing, the silver-haired drow barely falling away from her flailing hooves. Oats filled the air as the Chestnut spat and screamed and shook off her bag, nostrils flared, eyes rolling in sudden panic.

Almost having his skull split open torched some of the cobwebs from Phyr's mind, and he scrambled to his feet, instincts taking over. He calmed his breathing and approached the trumpeting horses with an even gait, palm outstretched, uttering soft sounds when he could be heard. He berated himself inwardly for spooking the poor beasts as he rubbed their noses and flanks in turn, even nuzzling his cheek against their powerful necks. Although his Dragoon training in the Aleraran Army happened a human's lifespan ago, Sa'resh managed to calm the mares in a matter of minutes.

After packing away the feedbags and re-tying both bridles, Phyr fished the bottle of Yurik's out and took a long drink. The sun and chill had helped his nerves, and the drink convinced him he was ready to re-enter the cabin. Josh had warned him that even restrained, their prisoner's psionic attacks could give the strongest minds pause. This time the Haidian witch won't catch me off guard, he vowed.

A thin film of grey covered the sun as the old drow slung saddlebags across both his slim shoulders, stump upraised to keep the one on the right from sliding. The wind settled its rush as he hoisted the willow cage containing three messenger pigeons and trekked around the old log cabin. The loose shingle atop the roof stopped flasking in the slackened breeze.

Phyr took a deep breath and stepped onto the wooden floor. He set the cage on the table and slipped the bags down next to it. The coffin - he could not think of it as a mere chest anymore - mocked him from across the room. A desire to drain the entire bottle of whisky and gallop away from his ghastly task gripped him, but he set himself against it. Like a sheepherder seeing to his flock, he drove every last bit of the terror out of his mind, until nothing remained but Phyr and his memories. Phyr and his knowledge. Phyr and his damnable talents. Fire, he thought, is what I’ll need first.

He stood, walked to the other chair, and gripped its back firmly. Already know the other one holds my weight, he reasoned, and I expect no guests. He rolled his shoulders then whirled, swinging the rickety old chair against the log wall with all his weight.

A crack like a musket shot filled the cabin, followed by the skitter of oaken shards on the rough floor. The pigeon cage erupted with feathers and panicked cooing, and even the horses left off eating oats from the snow to look in the window and watch the one armed drow scurry about grabbing chunks of wood.

Phyr had a small fire licking the stove’s belly within minutes, the warmth on his hand and face a blessed comfort. He fed it one of the heavier pieces, careful to ration his fuel, then revisited the forest to find a long stick. The chill cemented his confidence, and once inside he sat and took his time in fashioning a torch. He had entered a sanctuary in the back of his mind where no emotion could touch him. He’d crafted the sanctuary as part of his rigorous military training, and survived in it through thirty years imprisoned. He needed no empathy for what lay ahead, only his past and his one good arm.

As the torch moved across the cabin its light splashed what shadows had concealed. A skin of cobwebs covered the ceiling, and a little steel shone throughout the rusted iron scraps.

Phyr had harnessed the torch to his belt before lighting it, so that the flames preceded him by a pace. Standing sideways to the coffin, he crouched and got his fingers under the lid. Lift, twist, blind her with the fire. Stick it in her mouth if she talks. He rehearsed the plan mentally one final time, and then he could put it off no longer.

The hinges shrieked a wordless protest as the lid of the chest came up.

[Breaker]

Cronen's boots became as slick as black ice as he leapt forwards and slid along the edge of the plankway, a dark blur speeding through the greying day.

A boy and a youth were clinched violently in the depths of the mud next to the boardwalk. The youth - a long fair haired clerk whose woollen finery was sheeted in mud - kept trying to draw a longsword from the leather scabbard on his hip, all the while screaming at the boy who grappled with him. Four or five years younger and shorter by a head and neck, the dark haired boy clung to his opponent's sword arm and scabbard with both dirty hands. They circled and sidestepped, mud spraying beneath their shoes, neither willing to let go of the sword, neither able to gain a dominant position.

"Heeeelp!" The cry came from the stoop of an abandoned tannery, and a snowball exploded upon the lanky youth's shoulder. Crouched in the lee of the old wooden shop, a tiny version of the first boy packed another projectile of ice and stones. Dark eyes wide with rage and fear, prominent features contorted, the boy let fly as he screamed again, attacking his brother's assailant the only way he could.

Spray from the slushball spattered the back of Joshua's neck. It would have found its target on the lanky youth's face if Josh hadn't caught the teen by his double-stitched collar and yanked him bodily up onto the walkway. The action jolted his shoulder and slowed his momentum, and he commanded his boots to grip the wood with static friction and ground to a halt. He held the foppish clerk - who had gone limp with fear - at arm's length and snapped his head around.

"Stay there! I will have words with you." The Salvic brothers - for with their identical strong jaws, sturdy frames, and dark features they could be nothing else - stopped as if the boggy alley they'd been scampering down had frozen solid. Turning back to the clerk, Josh used his free hand to brush some of the mud from his fancy cloak, and set him on his feet on the boardwalk. "Now you," he said quietly, hazel eyes boring into the youth's brown ones, "tell me what happened."

"Th-those little goblins attacked me, m'lord!" The youth stammered, nervously finger-combing his blond locks. "I was only takin' some papers to town hall, and those boys attacked me with ice and rocks!" The slim youth stomped along the boardwalk and knelt to retrieve his leather scrip from where it lay on the ground, his long arm easily reaching. "See!" He raved, standing and shaking mud from the bag. "They made me fall in the mud, laughing like it was some joke! Ruined my best cloak, and might have done the same to my master's documents!"

"So you thought you'd draw your blade and teach them a sharp lesson?" Nothing had changed in Josh's gentle tone, but the teen's angry red cheeks went as grey as the gathering clouds.

“I only meant to scare them m’lord, I-I-”
“Let me see that sword.” This time, the Ascended’s voice was hard as mountain rock and flat as a prairie.

The teen drew his sword awkwardly and presented it handle first. Josh took it and held it parallel to the ground in both hands. Polished steel reflected the bleak sky. From tip to pommel it was an ordinary longsword, its only decoration a few words engraved in the hilt. For Howard, From Master Quincy. Josh closed his eyes and remembered the round, well fed face of Quincy Hagglefoot, a local merchant originally from Scara Brae. Quincy had lost his right foot valiantly as a young soldier, but preferred to encourage rumours that he had traded the appendage to gain an advantage while bartering with Fallien Glasswalkers. He was a good man and a good merchant, if a little crafty and vice-driven for Cronen’s liking.

“Quincy gave you this blade?” He asked, watching the teen’s throat bob as he swallowed to find his voice.

“Yes sir, for a year’s true employment. Just two moons ago--” he cut off suddenly, struck dumb.

The steel sang as it snapped beneath the sudden pressure of Josh driving it’s pommel and point together. It broke cleanly near the middle, and he slid the pieces one after the other back into the slack-jawed clerk’s leather scabbard.

“Quincy’s eyes must be going dull,” Josh said casually, “that blade was flawed, boy. Probably would have broken already if you’d ever crossed swords with anyone. Here,” he produced a thick gold coin from a special pocket sewn in his sleeve and pressed it to the youth’s palm. “Take this, and your weapon to the Ravenheart Academy after making your delivery. Find Master Bodorson at the first forge and tell him all that transpired. If you speak a false word, I will know of it. One of Master Bodorson’s staff will see to the replacement of your cloak, and Terech himself will teach you how to mend your blade stronger than ever before.”

Howard’s brown eyes had glazed slightly as the Sheriff of Underwood spoke, but he shook himself out of the reverie. He thanked Cronen and turned to leave, breaking into a brisk jog after several steps, and running out of sight, the sound of his footfalls fading around the corner.

Somewhat surprisingly the Salvic brothers had stayed throughout the interaction. They came out of the alley and seated themselves on the stoop of the abandoned tannery, flat dark eyes watching with more fascination than fear. The older boy, perhaps twelve, stood up in front of his brother who looked only six or seven years old. Scowling, the younger one leaned sideways to get a look at the strange man in black.

Cronen leapt off the plankway and landed lightly on the stoop, a yard away from the boys. He knelt, getting as close to their level as he could, and extended a hand to help the smaller one to his feet.

“My name is Joshua Cronen lads, Sheriff of Underwood. What do your parents call you? I could use the assistance of two brave boys such as you, but as a rule I never work with strangers.”

[Les Misérables]

The coffin yawned like a bottomless pit.

Empty. How...

He'd left the chest unlocked when he fled her voice. Cronen had assured him she was bound within the crate, and the sun glowed strongly overhead. How could she have escaped? A sharp prickle lanced up his spine and Phyr whirled about, drawing the torch from his belt and wielding it like a blade. He was alone with his saddlebags and the glowing iron stove. Damn me for a song-deafened fool. There were stories of powerful Ancient Vampyre who could walk in the day, even if only for short periods. Standing on a hilltop with no ready shade, the cabin had seemed such a secure place to hold a being allergic to sun. We told each other not to underestimate her - such a folly. We are children by comparison. Newborn babes...

Phyr shuffled across the room and jammed the tip of the torch back in the stove. He attacked his pack, lone hand scrabbling at clasps and tugging at drawstrings. Scarred fingers sorted dexterously through undergarments and odd tools until he found his quill and inkwell. With short anxious breaths echoing hollowly in his throat he flattened a carrier scroll between a wrench and a pair of pliers, and set to the difficult task of writing on the tiny parchment one handed. After minutes of hunched, spine-knotting work, he had three smudged but legible words.

She escaped. Help.

Compared to cramming his awkward handwriting onto the minuscule paper, rolling the scroll and getting it on the pigeon's leg was easier than fencing a one-eyed dog. He cooed softly, calming himself as much as the bird, and slipped it over the wire hook the messenger wore like an anklet. Phyr cradled the indignantly fluttering bird in a loose grip and kicked the cage shut as he walked to the door and let it fly. He watched the sky until the bird vanished over frosted treetops. As it vanished his shame welled and tears trickled down his cheeks, threatening to freeze. Everyone in Underwood would be in danger because of him. He hung his head and wiped his face with long silver hair.

He saw a bare footprint with clawed toenails - a woman's size - two paces away in a muddy bit of slush. Phyr rubbed the damp silver stubble beneath his nose and spat in the puddle housing the clue. He'd have little chance of catching the demon, and she'd slaughter him if he did.

Sa'resh sighed, and turned to retrieve his walking stick.

[Breaker]

"Good work boys," Cronen called across the Last Night's Maiden's dining room, "Miss Elena needs all her cooking sampled for taste and quality." Josh grinned as he watched the Salvic brothers devour chunks of crusty bread and steaming bowls of stew. "There have been complaints."

Turning towards a tap on his shoulder, the Ascended realized Elena had punched him. She couldn't hide her smile however as she stirred and covered the massive stewpot before turning to check the rise of a moist lump of fresh dough. Mutton bones and seeds and stems from peppers and onions and all manner of vegetables littered the countertops. The woman was a whirlwind in the kitchen.

"Such adorable lads," Elena said as she sampled the stew on a long wooden spoon, adding a dash of pepper and a deep green spice, "What were their names? I can't be certain I heard right, with those Northern accents."

"Rawdon is the elder, Lothen the younger," Josh mused as he leaned against the doorframe. Behind him, spoons scraped bowls and logs popped in the hearth. The boys had spoken little of their parents, but from the few facts they mentioned and their fluent but accented Tradespeak Cronen guessed Lothen had been born in Corone, his older brother having arrived as an infant or toddler. It was a testament to their hardiness and Rawdon's protective nature that they'd ventured from Radasanthia, through war-torn Concordia to arrive safely in Underwood. A silver lining in the great storm of civil war. Elena's spirits seemed buoyed by their presence, but then she was cheerful more often than not, and after much deliberation he and Phyr had decided not to tell her about the vampire they intended to torture.

They favored a falsehood as close to the truth a possible. Phyr had told her he was making for the ferry landing in order to sail to Lornius - the island prison south of Corone - and interrogate a prisoner whose information might turn the tide of war. In truth he'd only altered his destination and left out certain facts, to stem her worry and explain the necessity of an extended absence.

"Your certain it's not too much trouble?" Josh inquired as Elena tipped the rising dough onto a freshly wiped counter and slammed both hands into it. "Glad you didn't hit me that hard," he joked.

"Not at all! I like to relax during the dinner hour, my staff takes care of the bustle. 'Tis what I pay them for!" She punctuated each word with a knead or flip of the loaf. "I'll set them up with some of Phyr's charcoal and parchment in his study... perhaps they'll draw more than they say."

Josh shook his head in wonderment at her insight. Feeling as though he'd found the best place for the boys, he thanked Elena and interrupted her baking just long enough to brush her cheek with a gentle kiss. "You hold this Town together as much as any of us," he told her.

"I know that!" She snapped in mock severity and swiped at his departing form with her spoon.

Three members of the Underwood Watch on their leave-day occupied stools along the long polished bar. The Salvic boys feasted in the far corner, and the only other patrons so early in the afternoon were a pair of young elven lovers. They cuddled so closely on the rosewater-steaming hearth dominating the center of the room, it was difficult to tell where one's flowing hair and lithe limbs ended and the other's began. The watchmen, Josh knew, were doing their drinking in the Maiden as a favor to their Captain. Wise and experienced though he was, Phyr worried enough for any dozen beings.

Josh strode along the alley between the bar and the first rank of tables, nodding and saluting the off-duty guardsman with fist to chest. The brothers stopped eating and looked up expectantly, the elder seeming upset at the disturbance, the younger excited.

"Alright lads, here's the next task for after you've eaten your fill. Miss Elena needs someone to keep her company this evening. Can I count on you two?" Cronen inhaled deeply and flexed his shoulders, rocking on the balls of his feet as the boys locked eyes, and then Rawdon replied for both.

"Lothen wanted to go with you. I'd rather stay with the pretty lady." Lothen giggled and Rawdon kicked him lightly beneath the table, cheeks afire.

"So would I, honestly," Josh said with a wink, clapping them each lightly on the back, "but a Sheriff's work is seldom done." He exited the building to the sound of spoons scraping bowls with renewed vigor.

[Les Misérables]

Phyr trudged through the forest. Laden branches clutched at his cloak and snow piled on his boots with each step. He stayed alert, long nostrils flaring, wild eyes flitting, head turning on old shoulders so often his neck clicked regular as a clock. He had never been one for winter, or walking in the woods.

Winter is a time for sitting by the fire, and trees are for making fire, he thought angrily as he tugged himself free of a reaching willow.

The tree rattled back to its resting position in a sudden shower of snow. The depth of the forest pressed in. Though the sun still had an hour or more above the horizon, Concorida's great canopy cast a spell of perpetual night on all who lost themselves inside.

The one-armed Captain had been searching long enough his calves burned, and his knees and quadriceps began to stiffen. He'd followed scarce tracks more on account of luck and his comfort in darkness than any real tracking skill. He hugged the shadows about him as he moved, breathing in the power he wielded over them. He touched the metal toys of death concealed beneath the cloak with his rudimentary brand of magic, feeling slightly sullied in acting through arcane means. But it was a long time since Phyr Sa'resh allowed a little dirt to stop him finishing the job.

He paused in the lee of a towering oak, leaning against the frost-glazed trunk and calming his breathing. Silver hair stirred ever so slightly as wrinkled azure ears wiggled in minute patterns. Some of Phyr's senses weren't what they'd been a hundred years ago, but his hearing was healthy as ever. Beneath the ebb and flow of wind in the trees, the scarce scampering of non hibernating creatures, and the occasional whump of trapped snow falling free, he heard a voice.

Laughter, and a second voice. Harsh and guttural yet somehow smooth with an over emphasis on the sibilant 's'.

Lesser vampyres... I am a fork-tongued fortune teller's fool!

It took Phyr a moment to regain his sense of direction, but he oriented himself off his own track and raced toward the distant cabin. Branches scraped his cheeks and fatigue threatened to drive him to his knees, but he fought onward like a shipwrecked swimmer in endless seas. He made enough noise to raise demons, and soon he could hear them whispering in his wake.

[Breaker]

Despite the delay, Josh remembered to visit the Welcome Home Pastry and left smiling at the owners' jocularity between bites of his favorite strawberry scone. They imported the best rice and amaranth flours from Akashima, and used honey and their own goat's milk and butter in a time-honored family recipe. The sweet crumbly taste lingered in his mouth as he endured a dusty meeting with some of the mayor's stuffiest clerks regarding how much of the autumn stores to sell to other cities. They want my bloody opinion on everything. What do I know about the apple market? The cold air followed by the heat of Bodorson's forge cleared his head. Terech was slightly cross for being sent a such a sparrow chested ninny, in his words, but admitted grudgingly the lad had done a fine job mending his blade. Together Josh and the dwarf examined the musket clamped between two aligned vices.

The weapon was a marvel of modern Aleraran technology. Crafted from dark grey titanium and sleek black eklan, it was an assassin's tool. Phyr had captured it during Kron Sha'keth's assault after reading the younger dark elf's tactics like a field manual. Phyr was an expert gunsmith, and with Bodorson's burly arms and vast smithing experience at his disposal he'd been well on his way to replicating the fearsome firearm.

It wasn't until Josh stepped back into the Last Night's Maiden that the sweet taste of strawberries turned to ash in his mouth.

He smelled blood and saw bodies. Three young couples including the canoodling elves. Three guardsmen with throats torn open. All helpless and washed in gore.

"Help me, please!" It was a child's voice, coming from the kitchen. Lothen.

Breaker took two steps, and a psionic force slammed him like a sledgehammer. He stumbled...

Where am I?

Snow crunched steadily beneath my black boots as I raced through the forest. Tree branches whizzed by either side and above, shaken by the speed of my passage. Layers of sweat, grime, and blood froze my clothing and hair into imitation armour of black and crimson. Gore masked my tired face. My lungs labored as I powered up the stiff slope, leaping from rock to fallen tree trunk, willing myself to silence. Two nights of fighting with no sleep between was taxing - even for my body. I slowed to a trot, and as the press of my breathing, the pounding of my heart, and the crackle of my encrusted clothing quieted, I heard a voice. My lungs burned for it, but I stopped breathing completely and became a statue.

In the stillness, the voice pushed through layers of vegetation and snow, reaching my quivering ears. A child, calling for help. A chill marched up my spine and bit the nape of my neck, and suddenly I felt the full cold of the night air, the ice on my skin, the empty silvery moonlight.

Snow sprayed as I sprinted after the voice, churning the ground with each step, stealth abandoned. Tree branches swatted my shoulders and face, snapped off against my hips. Banks of ice and snow exploded beneath my boots until I reached the edge of the thicket.

Long dead grass swayed all around the child, a girl of no more than twelve with flaxen hair wearing a coarse burlap dress. She cried out to me, reaching with one numb hand, the other latched onto her ankle, her face contorted in pain. A root ensnared her ankle, rubbing the soft flesh cruelly. I sensed earth magic at work, embodying the root and keeping the girl trapped. Where did she come from? Why was she here? The questions were far away, issues for future consideration. The girl's lips were blue as she shivered uncontrollably and called for help again, reaching out with frostbitten fingers. I stepped into the thicket, and her wail became a demonic cackle.

[Les Misérables]

No use to run, lone armed dark one.

Phyr's gasped as he ran. Each breath stabbed through his lungs and threatened to disembowel him, as if the air were truly made of ice. His cloak trailed behind him rattling a collection of torn-off branches, thorns and burrs. Blood dripped down his cheeks and he had his right eye crunched around a stinging swat from a pine sapling. But those moon-kissing pointy-toothed palefaces hadn't caught him. For all his years and physical stiffness, the old drow had the stamina of a young stallion. He could maintain the short-striding run for hours whether traveling uphill or over flat ground, and it served him well. He powered up a snowy hillside strewn with rocky outcrops and eased his pace while increasing his speed down the other side, using gravity and the slippery surface to his advantage. Cronen had taught him similar techniques for many of activities; running, fighting, even walking and eating. The economy of motion allowed for greater energy conservation and more critical thought.

They're catching me, Phyr realized as another telepathic message hit him like a friendly buffet from the Breaker. Clarity of mind was lovely until one clearly realized one was in mortal peril.

Slow your pace, this is no race.

Why the damn rhyming? The voices in his head frightened Phyr almost as much as the prospect of facing the vampyre. They did not pant nor choke as he. They sounded like children singing a play-dancing song. For all Phyr knew, they could be running circles 'round him. Like cats that played with a mouse 'till it died of terror. If they let this mouse gain some ground before they catch him, they'll find him more painful than appetizing. His own voice sounded youthful and scared by comparison to the mocking mental laughter of the vampyre. Their cackling reverberated in his ears and compelled him to collapse and hold his head, but he soldiered onward. Through a familiar copse of cyper. There. His cabin. His salvation.

Phyr climbed the last hill like a three-legged rabid cat, foaming at the mouth and using all of his limbs to propel himself at the oaken doorway. Ice slashed his palms and knuckles and snow soaked the knees of his trousers, but he felt himself slip outside the influence of their Haidian telepathy.

"Ha!" He gasped as he slammed the door behind him. By the light of the embers still glowing in the iron stove, he wrapped his arm around the table's strongest leg and dragged it over to the door. He dumped it upside down and then kicked and lifted its edge to brace beneath the knob. A simple brace, it might buy him some seconds.

The musty air made recovering his breath difficult. Phyr hooted and blew, failing to clear his sinuses or his throat as he rushed to the empty rywan chest. It was no true coffin, rather a thick-sided heavy-lidded trunk. The likes of which a maiden might receive her dowry, and years later store the winter garments of her husband and children during warm seasons. Elena had a similar trunk. Phyr wedged a foot between it and the log wall and heaved and kicked 'till he created some space. He put his shoulder to the back and shoved, sobbing for air. He felt like the coals in the pot-bellied stove were in his lungs, in his guts, in the muscles in his legs. But he barreled onward, gaining momentum as the floorboards screeched in protest. The chest left two lightened furrows in its wake, but it struck the iron stove with enough force to knock the entire contraption over. The chimney flue pulled out of the wall, and cold air rushed in. Smoke gathered among the rafters as coals skittered across the floorboards, hungry and searching for tinder.

Phyr fed them everything. Cobwebs, dead leaves gathered from the corners, even the remaining parchment he'd brought along. Flames licked up the sides of the displaced trunk as he scooted the coals to a pile at its flank. The side furthest from the door. The trunk had only truly begun to burn when the door shattered inward. The vampyres peeked in from either side of the empty portal, fanged smiles fading in the flickering light as they saw a fire between them and their prey.

The old drow had expected some warning; more telepathic taunts or scratching at the door. Even caught off guard, Phyr had a plan and followed it without hesitation. He slid out of his cloak and wrapped it about his arm, protecting his skin as he smashed out the glass panes of the window. Cold flowed around his sweat-slicked neck as he turned and tossed the heavy garment on the fire. Made of good wool and cotton and soaked near through by his frantic scramble up the hill, it hissed and gouted smoke like a row of spent cannons.

As thick clouds filled the room Phyr threw himself headlong out the empty window.

[Breaker]

The ground vanished. Snow and grass and earth caved downward with me as I realized the complexity of the earth magic. Too late. I Curled into a ball and struck a rocky outcrop an instant later. The impact shattered my kneecap and flipped me sideways as I plunged. Pain swallowed my left leg and bit hungrily into my spine as I cracked the solid bottom of the cave. Through blurry eyes I watched the silver sky disappear as the root structure re-wove itself thicker than before, blocking out the light. In darkness I heard the faintest scuff of careful footfalls, felt the channeling of earth continue. Then a woman drew a long, rasping breath.

"Yesss."

Not a woman. A vampiress. A hand of molten lava gripped my stomach. How had I not sensed her? I scrambled to a standing position, back braced against an invisible rock wall, weight balanced on my right leg. Tested the left leg and found it folded under a fraction of my weight. The earth magic ceased, and a second set of muted footsteps joined the first. How had I missed them?

"Yessssss."
"Yesssssssss."

The single syllable hissed by two wicked mouths echoed about the cave. I shifted, unable to track their movement through the spiraling sounds. Something struck my midsection so hard my spine chipped a shard off the rock wall. Mouth agape, I pitched forwards and sprawled on the rough ground. The earth magic sprang up, stronger than before, and thick roots erupted from the ground all around. I rolled and wound up pinned on my back, oak roots as thick as my waist holding my arms and legs down. The unseen speakers let their cacophony fade, and slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

I lay in the corner of a small chamber carved from living rock. The slightest silver sheen still emanated from above, making the bulky walls glisten with moisture. Two ghastly women occupied the center of the chamber. One was taller than the other and had shades of grey in her long black hair, but otherwise they seemed identical. Same smooth ageless face, same satanic smile. Same evil obsidian eyes. Judging by their power which I sensed all too clearly, they were both ancient as the roots that bound me. The younger of the two, with perfectly straight, perfectly dark hair, held the flows of earth magic tighter than a soldier grips his sword in his first battle. They were both staring at me like their favorite sweet.

"Greetingsss Breaker of the Ascended. I did not expect to have a visit from you so soon. I am Esstania of the Forgotten." The taller vampiress, the one with grey in her wavy hair, introduced herself as she slithered toward me. Her underling fell in behind, silently raising a long-nailed hand that summoned a ball of flames to the air six feet above my head. In the sudden firelight I could see they were both naked, clothed only in that midnight hair that failed to make them modest whatsoever. Whether from the enchanted fire or the dire situation I began to sweat, blood and ice melting off my chest and face. I should have closed my eyes, but I watched the shift of smooth muscles beneath the skin of Esstania's creamy legs. She straddled my hips and settled her weight on me, letting the faintest gasp escape rosebud lips.

"Go on then, forgotten one." I twisted my head, offering my neck. "Have a taste. Something tells me you'll not favor the vintage." Her clawlike fingernails raked my chest, shredding my shirt and drawing angry red lines from collarbone to navel. My back arched involuntarily, lifting her an inch of the ground, my mouth wide and gasping for air. She raked again, this time shredding the front of my pants but missing the skin beneath.

"I have no interessst in taking your blood," She whispered, eyes afire with black mirth and rapture. She ground her hips against me again and drew another eight lines down my sternum. Blood seeped from the scratches. "Not when you can give me the most powerful shadow-child sssince the birth of Haidia." She kissed my chest and let the blood stain her lips, bare thighs caressing my naked body. I sought the serenity of meditation but her claws gouged my shoulders and I sucked another deep breath, heart rate increasing, head spinning.

"Yessssssss... give me my prodigy babe, Breaker."

[Les Misérables]

Sa'resh twisted frantically through the air and landed legs first on the steep incline behind the cabin. Frozen ground swept up and struck his side as he attempted to roll like the Breaker had taught him. Gasping for air and sucking sharp snow he skidded to a halt amongst a blissfully soft frigid heap. Phyr would have traded all the whisky in Kachuk to rest his bones in that icy womb, but he surged to his feet shivering from the chill. Somehow he found the horses and quieted their frightened cries, hacked their bonds free with his dagger and slithered atop the smaller beast bareback. They needed no more encouragement to take to the road with hammering hooves. At first he clung to the larger beast's mane lest it stray from company, but it showed no sign of leaving his side. His hips clung to the first mare's back and his thighs pinched heaving flanks with all their might.

Wind howled past like a pack of wolves, biting Phyr's fingers to the bone. Trees creaked and groaned beyond the earthen road, reaching for the old elf with skeletal fingertips. He hugged the mare's neck as best he could as she settled into a distance-devouring canter. At times the slipstream of snow became so thick Phyr could not see the dappled horse matching his mount stride for stride. Ice winds shredded his ears, made stronger by their speed.

The old elf fell into a trance, forcing his fatigued mind to hammer out a plan. He would ride the smaller mare until his arm was ready to give out, and then slow and switch horses. The adrenaline would give his arm new strength, and the larger mare's neck would be easier to grip. If he made it.

[Breaker]

"Get out!" Breaker roared, expelling the ancient Vampyre's powerful tethers from his mind. He was back in the Last Night's Maiden, smelling the blood of the fallen. He was standing in the open doorway to Elena's kitchen, feeling the ambient warmth of the ovens. He stood like a scarecrow and stared at the Haidian Queen. "Never again, Esstania." He hissed as he forced the last of her influence away.

The elegant Vampyre swayed as if struck physically by the repulsion of her magic. Her regal features never wavered in their fiendish grin. She kept swaying, adding a seductive flick from her hips. She was clothed in a gown of shadow, weightless material that might well have vanished when pressed against flesh. Dark as the dress was, it ran darker down her front. Those thick lips were coated, pearly fangs stained crimson almost black. All for him. Vengeance for caging her. He had bested her the last time she invaded his mind, but this situation staggered his usual swagger.

Where is Elena? Where are the boys? The boys... Josh choked back bile, biting off the urge to vomit. He made himself look past the demon in the dress, to the stoves where a single pot boiled. The largest of Elena's collection, a fine piece of Coronian steel. Acrid fatty water spilled over the brim and hissed on the flames. A thick bone the size of a boy's femur protruded from the steaming pot.

"Help me... the cry was so faint, barely audible above Esstania's cackle. It emanated from the glowing oven. Lothen. The seldom heard Salvic accent of the younger orphan.

Power raged in Cronen's belly and flowed out to his limbs, fingertips flaring. He pulled water from the rancid air, water that twisted and froze into flanged spikes of ice. Twenty strong and glistening in the firelight, they they swarmed to menace the vampyre.

"You dare not kill me!" Esstania cried, pulling her gown open to offer breast and throat. "My blood is as precious as yours, Breaker. To my kind and yours. So long as I carry your child..."

Josh attacked.

[Rayleigh]

Thread: Drink With Me (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23953-Drink-With-Me/page2)
Participants: Breaker & Les Misérables
Type: No Judgment

Congraulations!

Breaker receives:
1,500 EXP
90 GP

Les Misérables receives:
700 EXP
80 GP

[Rayleigh]

All EXP and GP have been added!