March Vignette

[Lye]

A pivotal moment in your character's life never happened. Describe his/her day.

You have until the 1st of April for your posts.

[Abomination]

The doors to the small cottage swung open, and a large man stepped inside, "Maria, I'm home!" Within moments of his entry, a chorus of thumps along the floor blazed at his direction, and he was beset by his twin daughters. They both jumped at him like predators, and he caught them each with one arm. "Beatrice, Bernice! How was school?"

He carried them inside and was assaulted by the wafting aroma of the food his wife was making. He entered the dining room and set the twins down, greeting his wife with a bear hug from behind.

"Emil, not now!" She said with a smile. "Can't you see I'm cooking?"

Emil laughed, "I'm afraid not, honey. I'm blinded by the smell. That wouldn't happen to be my favorite, would it?"

He had long blond hair and twinkling golden eyes. Darkness had fallen upon their happy home, and as they sat down to eat, a strange disturbance began to grow outside. It was unnoticeable at first, but soon they could not ignore what sounded like metal scraping against the ground.

Maria put down her spoon and said, "Emil, what is that? Can you go see?"

Emil stood up and walked to the window, pulling aside the curtains and peeking out. The light was low, but he definitely saw a figure in the middle of the street, dragging something long and massive behind them. A chill ran down his spine, and he carefully closed the curtains, walking back to his family with a somber look on his face.

"Maria," he said. "Can you come with me for a second?" Segregating themselves from the children, Emil told his wife what he saw.

"This can't be..." she said, her hand over her mouth, her heart racing. "The Ixian Killer?"

"It's likely the sword he's dragging behind him. But why here? I don't know anyone in town that could be a target of The Cult. He only goes after families that are involved with the Knights."

"Oh no!" Maria exclaimed. "The Robinsons! Their son joined the Knights last month!"

"Damn!" Emil clenched his teeth. "I have to go warn them!"

"It's too dangerous! What if you get caught? Then we'll all be targets!"

"I have to try. I can't just leave them to die. Take the kids to the stables, if I'm not back in one hour then ride as far away as you can."

Emil put on his jacket and attached a skinning knife to his belt. Before he left the house, he turned back and Maria was holding the twins close to her.

"Daddy's going out for a bit, you be good girls for your mother, alright?"

With no time to lose, Emil ran for the stables near the house and hopped on his fastest horse. He couldn't take the road so he headed into the forest behind the house, trying to head off the monster before it reached town. It was a clear night, with the moon providing all the light he needed to make his way.

Meanwhile, the monster was inching closer to the Robinsons' house. He had long black hair that fell over his face in waves, and his eyes were pools of darkness. Behind him was The Damned, a sword that was two feet wide, ten feet long, and weighed a ton. Due to him dragging it around everywhere with one hand, the blade was completely dull, but that didn't stop it from being a force of nature. When he entered town, it was completely silent, with all the lights inside the houses going out one by one as he approached. All that could be heard was the sword's edge grinding against the dirt road and the monster's shuffle. When he reached the Robinson household, he stopped and turned to it. The lights were still on, but there was no sound inside. The Ixian Killer put his other hand on the handle of the sword, and lifted it up into the air. With a heave, he ran forward and struck downwards, the force from the swing tearing the house apart. Dust, dirt, and rocks were blown in every direction, but he wasn't done yet. He swung again and again, stepping into the rubble and knocking down anything that was left standing. Within seconds, everything was gone.

He walked through the house, his body displacing the rubble as if a heavy carriage was rolling through. When he reached the back of it, pushing aside loose beams and debris, he saw a man fleeing in the distance. As if the sword weighed nothing at all, the monster broke into a sprint and caught up, forcing the man to stop and turn around. It was Emil, and he was alone. The blond man had given up his horse to save The Robinsons, and decided to flee on foot, but it seems he could not get away in time. The Ixian Killer glared at him, but did not move to make the finishing blow. Emil was cornered and he knew it.

"So you're the one they call Draug?" Emil asked with sweat pouring down his face, his voice shaking. "You were once like me, weren't you? Before The Cult got to you. Maybe lived a good life, maybe had a good family, but then one day it all came to an end, and you were turned into this." Draug did not reply, but his grip on the sword tightened. "My family is everything to me, you know. Last week, Beatrice showed me a drawing. I can't even draw that well. And Bernice's musical ability? She's a prodigy."

Emil wasn't even looking at Draug anymore, instead up at the moon, its fullness giving him peace of mind. "Whatever you do, you've already suffered a lot more than me. If I can go knowing that I did right by the people I care about... that's something you nor The Cult can ever take away from me. So go ahead! Do your worst!"

[The Mongrel]

When I was little, I asked my father why I looked different from the rest of my family. He set down the book he was reading me and explained that it takes a man and a woman to make a baby, and usually they both agreed to it. But sometimes, he said, bad people hurt good people and a baby happened on accident. I was an accident, and he tried to explain that very gently. He also told me that he and my mother had decided to raise me the same as my siblings, as if I was actually his. They wouldn’t be perfect at it, he said, but they weren’t perfect with Thisearia or Siegfried, either.

All they could do was their best.

Time passed, I grew. My brother went off to learn how to be a Bladesinger and taught me swordplay when he was home, my mother taught me how to sew, my father taught me lore, strategy, and literature, and my sister taught me how to be a pain in the ass. (I very soon surpassed her mastery at that, much to her chagrin.) Life wasn’t perfect - I was half Alerian in Raiaera, after all - but it was all right.

Then the undead boiled into Eluriand.

The war cost my father his life. My mother and sister, shadows of themselves with their world shattered around them, fled for Corone. Seigfried and I have heard nothing of them since. I know my brother frets over their fate, but there’s little I can do to help him from here. When the Necromancer died, we took very separate paths.

Truth is, I haven’t seen him much more recently than I saw the rest of my family.

My brother is noble of bearing and elegant of speech, valiant in battle and honorable in his actions. In other words, he’s the perfect soldier to figure in the cleansing of our blighted homeland. Me… well, I’m not so much any of those things. But I am swift of movement, light of foot, steady of hand and a fair liar. Alerar has become as much a threat as the remnants of Xem’zund’s armies, so I volunteered as a spy. I was taught the language, how to act, how to get where I needed to be and how to find and report what Raiaera needed to know.

Getting in was easier than I thought; accidents happen on both sides of the border.

My “master” is one of the admirals in charge of the air raids that rain fire down on Raiaeran citizens. I cook for him, clean for him, don’t make eye contact with him, endure his wrath when he is angry, and when he is amorous… I endure that, too. No one said being a spy was easy, but I had hoped not to have first hand experience of… eugh.

Being chattel sucks, but it does have its advantages, as far was my job goes.

My master believes I was born of a slave in Etheria, bought and sold until I had lost any sense of home or self. I am not known to have any close ties with Raiaerans or ambition of escape. I’ve got the dead-eyed, hopeless thing down to an art. And so I am invisible. If I venture into his chambers, everyone expects I am there on his business, not absconding with the cipher keys to Alerian messages. If I am in his office, I am either thought to be cleaning or bringing him food, not digging into his plans and strategies. If I am carrying something to the far end of the base, I am invisible; no one thinks I might be going to make a report.

But that will end tomorrow. My superiors back home have recalled me.

We are on a patrol near the Twilit Peaks, so the timing couldn’t be better. For the past eight years, I have safeguarded two items with the same jealous care as a mother shelters her babes: the enchanted stone I use to make my reports and a small poisoned pellet. When I crush it between my teeth, I will convulse, seize, and otherwise die very dramatically.

I’m looking forward to it; it’s the first disobedient gesture I’ll have made to the bastard who thinks he owns me.

He has little sentiment for slaves; my carcass will be tossed outside of camp and lie there for several hours. Then I’ll come back to life and drag myself to the mountains. Crossing won’t be easy, but on the other side wait proper clothes, good green food, a bed, and quite probably a reunion with my brother.

I imagine we both have stories, some to tell and others to keep secret.

[Ashla]

The damp road, a mixture of snow and mud, left a collection of goo on the girl's brown boots and pants. Short, black hair bounced up and down as a fourteen year old girl turned and ran up a entryway. She was in a brown cloak, her arms busy carrying a loaf of bread. She walked up to the door and knocked with her foot, "I'm home!" She called.

The door opened, revealing a young man with black hair and fair skin. His blue eyes sparkled, "Welcome home, Ashla."

He welcomed her in and closed the door as Ashla hopped to the kitchen. Inside, a warm fire crackled, offering heat within the chilly winds of Eiskalt. Ashla set the bread down on a pine table and removed her cloak. Her bright, blue blouse stood out tremendously against the bland room. The man walked in with a smirk, "Only took you five minutes to get there and back again."

Ashla crossed her arms, returning the playful look he gave her, "Sorry, uncle, no peace and quiet for you!" The young girl shook her finger.

Ashla's uncle walked up to her and rustled her hair affectionately, "Like I need it..."

In that moment, the door received a heavy knocking from some unknown visitor. Ashla and her uncle turned sharply, their smiles fading instantly. Her uncle walked over to the door to open it. A hanging bearskin prevented Ashla from seeing the door. A moment after the door had been opened though, the girl only heard her uncle scream. "Ashla! Ashla! Under the table! Now!"

The two shared their affections in a hug, Ashla laughing within her innocence. "Nah, you'd miss me too much if I was out for even ten minutes."

The two stayed there for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms. Then, Ashla broke their hug and bounced over to where she put the bread. "I picked your favorite, whole wheat!"

The man chuckled, watching his precious niece intensely. At least she knew one thing about food.

So the evening continued as usual, they had a (mostly) peaceful dinner. Then, Monte Icebreaker showed Ashla how to clear and wash the dishes again. The two proceeded with their normal evening activities, including a practice spar to hone Ashla's dueling skills. Monte was certain that the end of his family's line would come. He was positive his older brother was going to move in his selfishness again, move against his younger siblings again. He wanted his niece, his adopted child, to be ready for that day. More than anything he wanted her to survive, even if it meant giving his life for her's. When the day came, he reflected as they finished their duel, she would be ready. Even if it wasn't today, he was sure it would come.

Today, however, it didn't.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I put a hand up to my mouth and cleared my throat. The room's other occupant woke with a start, sitting straight up in his cushy bed in a cold sweat as his covers fell around him. "Who--who's there," he called out, his voice shaking. Paranoia had clearly taken hold of his mind.

The man stood up, lit a candle on his nightstand, and began looking around his room. "I know you're in here! Show yourself!"

"Behind you," I replied in a stern voice that was just above a whisper.

He let out an audible gasp as the whipped around, still groggy from sleeping. It took him several seconds to recognize me in the warm orange glow of the candle, but the moment he did, all of the color drained from his face. "Y-you..."

"Me," I hissed as I rose from my perch on the windowsill.

"The Freebird runt," he spat, in an attempt to save face by acting tough. "What are you doing here? What are you doing in my home?"

I took a step closer to the man. "I've come to collect on a debt."

Lewis Harkness, influential merchant, man about town, friend of the Coronian Coalition, and future rotting corpse searched his memories for a moment before his wrinkled features turned sour. "I have no debt with your clan, Freebird. It is you and your family that owe me."

"Not from where we're standing," I shot back. I tilted my head around, the bones in my neck popping as I prepared myself for anything. "You owe us everything. Your miserable little spice empire, your self-serving friends within the Assembly, all of your wealth and power... It's all yours because of the services that my family and I have provided for you over the years. Years of eliminating your enemies throughout Corone, allowing you to gain everything you hold dear... Years of false promises of payment and power from you..."

The merchant sneered at me as he set the candle back down on the nightstand, his teeth yellowed with age and tobacco abuse. "A mere stepping stone in my ascension. I could've picked any of the Families out there to help me; you should count yourself lucky that a man such as myself even bothered to notice you miserable lot." His free hand was clenched hard, his knuckles white with a defiant fury as he continued. "I am Lewis Harkness! I am invincible! Untouchable! More powerful and connected than you could ever dream of being, runt!"

"You forgot delusional as well," I spat back. "For all of your false accomplishments, for all of your lies and backstabbing, you are just a cog in their machine. You're just as replaceable as everyone else they associate with. They can and will continue on without you."

Lewis met the cold steel of my gaze with fury and anger. "The Assembly is nothing without me," he roared. If the old bastard wasn't despicable to the point where a family could stand living in the same house as him, his shouting would've woken him up. "It is with me that their power rests! I am the lifeblood of their operation! I provide the funding for all of their silly little operations! I am the Assembly! Hell, for all that it matters I am Corone!"

He held a wrinkled hand up in the air, his bony thumb and middle finger pressed together. "With a snap of my fingers, this miserable little country moves forward! With a snap of my finger, everybody's world keeps turning! And with a snap of my fingers, I can summon my guard and show you who truly is disposable!"

"Oh, I've already accounted for them," I said with a shrug. "They won't be bothering us--tonight, or ever again."

The old merchant looked confused for a second. "What?" I simply smiled back at him.

I pictured his right hand suspended in the air. In my mind's eye, I saw each of his five thin, weathered digits bending in ways that were unnatural. Each of his knuckles snapping, the tendons in his fingers tearing as his hand bent in over a dozen ways it was not meant to. My eyes began glowing blue, and I forced my will upon reality. The sounds were horrendous as they echoed against the walls of the room, a dissonant crescendo of snaps that sent electric pain up Lewis's arm. His screams were loud at first, but quickly died out to childish whimpering as he cradled his freshly-broken hand against his chest. I pictured his other hand suffering a similar fate. A split second later, it did.

Then, I began work on the thick tendons behind the bastard's ankles. My mother's favorite technique; she'll be proud of me when I report back.

The merchant fell to his knees, his cries trailing off into whimpers as he bit his lip through the pain. I slowly made my way across the expansive quarters, stalking him in the darkness. The realization that nobody was going to save him was creeping into his mind, and in that moment I saw how vulnerable and insecure he truly was. I saw him for the withered old fart that he was behind all of the bluster, deception, and money. I almost pitied him, then.

"If it were up to me, we would get you for every bent copper you have to your blackened name." I crouched down next to him, and softly lifted up his head with two fingers. The fiery hatred that burned in his grayed eyes were replaced by a different, altogether foreign feeling for him--fear. "But," I continued, my voice soft, "that's why I don't call the shots. But, I do have my orders. I will collect tonight, by either coin or blood. Mother and father aren't terribly picky either way."

"The gods damn your blackened souls, the whole lot of you," Lewis spat, the last of his defiance bubbling up to the surface.

"How disappointing. And here I was looking forward to getting a new set of knives," I cooed. The warm, blue glow from my eyes intensified as I shattered Lewis's jaw bones first.

[Garron]

Rough splinters of aged wood exploded inward all over Garron's midsection, leaving him in a stinging shower of paint chips and pine. He shook off all that was left of his shield from his left wrist to sploosh into the soft sponge of dank underbrush left by centuries of season changes. Strong earthly aromas of mildew and rot spiraling eternally within stagnant forest air had been a dizzying tsunami to the senses, and he tried to push himself through steady hours of exhaustion since sunrise. His mother had never been one to play easy on her son, and today was no different; she wanted him to follow in her footsteps of life after all, and become the warrior she herself had grown to be through hard work, sweat and blood. Garron charged a lifetime depleting his lungs to a point of crippling emptiness voicing his desire not to follow in her path as a Ranger; he wanted his own path, his own... life. His pleas always slid off stubborn ears nevertheless.

That last underhanded horizontal slash barreling in from his left flank decimated his shield and bit hard into boiled leather and heated flesh with cold teeth of steel. Garron nearly hit his knees from the chest-splitting blow, and hardly kept his feet as the quick reflexes of his mother sent forth another attack; leaving him no time to think about the warm slickness he felt rush behind tunic on down to the waistband of tattered black breeches. Her sword rippled through dappled sunlight, blazing an overhead downswing with all her weight behind it, intense brown eyes focusing sight to take his right arm off clean at the shoulder. With the little strength left in his reserves, Garron flipped sopping brown hair away from his eyes, and sent his own sword up to meet the menacing steel seeking out his blood once more with a weak cross-block. The wicked song of steel violently erupted, conducting an ear shattering crescendo to ricochet within the close-knit arena, an ancient array of solemn wooden witnesses surrounding and watching Garron yet again fall at the hands of his mother Nuana from their eternal roots. He always thought if he listened close enough, a rustling laughter was heard mocking in the substantial weave of branches and leaves.

Garron fell hard on his back, feeling yet again another hot gush of blood, this one streaming down the side of his forehead from where his own blocking sword caught him, sent back down behind the force of his mother's steel coming down. He just laid there in his own blood and heaved his chest heavily with each crushing breath, wondering how someone a third of his height, and not even a half of his weight, could so easily destroy him. She moved like liquid smoke... a wraith in myrtle green robes blending in the mysterious forest backdrop. He chuckled painfully at the comparison his mind created, but she truly was incredible, and one with the wood. Nuana offered a gloved hand to hover before her son, knowing well the spar was over. "Come, Son. It's near evenfall. We have need to return to camp before the sun rests," she pointed out, all the seriousness of a seasoned scout toasted in her musk feminine voice.

Garron awoke stiff and groaning, large fingers groping at jagged scaring burned across his wide chest from where his mother closed his wounds with the glowing red blade of her dagger kissed by the fire. Blinding pain and blood loss must have finally stole away consciousness before the scalding blade went to work. He was grateful for that much, anyhow. Garron's weary viridian eyes tilted left to right, and feeling whispered confirmation of laying flat on his back atop a bed of damp underbrush near a crackling fire surrounded by chiseled gray stone when he shifted. Licking bolts of flames danced hypnotically, splaying their small clearing in a wash of flickering warm yellow and orange light; impatient renegade shadows chasing close behind their brighter foes against surrounding bark and thick brush hushed by the woven branch drip-lines looming overhead.

Much of his life was spent in this lush secretive clearing deep within Concordia, found by his mother decades ago during a ranging. This was where training and pain was well known to him, and the place where he also found a tiny shred of solace before he met Medeia as a child. Garron used to close his eyes, loosing himself in silence. Melting away into a spiritual audience with the archaic beings watching silently through kindred roots. He sometimes brought her here, and they both bathed the trees in the clatter of playing daggers and carefree childhood laughter. Hunger provoking emanation of roasted venison turning on a spit pulled him from memories clutch, nearly lifting Garron from his wounded stupor. But his battered body betrayed him when attempting to find his feet, wrenching him back helpless into a dreamless sleep; knowing full well a life of servitude was chosen for him.

[Sulla]

Octavius Maecenas, Aged Sixteen, His Forty-Third Day of a Wrongful Captivity


I have asked the guards time and again for fresh paper, but stacks of it sit unused to the left of my desk. A collection of inkwells scattered on top makes it more a minefield than a place to jot down racing thoughts. My station allows me such absurd demands. Those armored thugs that stand watch outside my cell door for hours on end will nod and fetch me any creature comfort, refusing to speak a word. They stare when they believe I’m not watching them; their stern, unmoving eyes belie the slow-wittedness I’ve come to expect. Had I not heard the whispers echo down the halls, I’d believe them all too incapable of language. Yet the hushed tones of gossip reach even my ears here.

”Butcher. Monster. Demon.” They know not what I am, and use their crude peasant tongue to label me as best they can. Bless their attempts, at least they’re trying to understand.

Perhaps what I write here can enlighten them a little as to my condition; in truth, the human condition. I would have written it sooner, but I have yet to be told when they will finally execute me. It’s strange, but I’m hesitant to put pen to paper without a definite answer. It’s one thing to never leave a record; it’ll add to my mystique. People’s imaginations could be filled with frightful tales of my wickedness, I could even serve as a warning to naughty children. But to leave a half-finished, unedited collection of my ramblings? Too dense and subtle for such a shallow, sluggish audience.

As my parents’ arbiters continue to appeal my sentence, I’m left to wallow in uncertainty. They’ll never move the local judge to change his mind. Despite his impotent senility, who can blame him? I was caught red handed with the weapon, the victim of my own foolish plan and feeble body. That judge, Gilsten, called it “brutality without approach,” but even that flattery would not make me stand in respect when he entered court.

“A fiend of such great an order,” he’d begun, his jowls swaying like a rabid bloodhound, “deserves only the swiftest and cruelest of ends.” How wrong he’d been. Justice was certainly blind, but like all women, she had a hunger for the finer trifles in life.

Wealth, power, political favors; my family used all manners to make the stay dreadfully long and wonderfully comfortable. My hearth has a supply of fresh wood brought in each day to fight off the cool nip of autumn, a delightful assortment of fruits, cheeses, breads, and wines are at a snap of my fingers, my cell even has a spectacular view that can see all the way past my parents’ orchards and at the manor itself. But just beneath my tower cell I can see the gallows, built not even a week ago. As the cheerful laborers went about its assembly, madness had gripped me. The idea that anyone could decide my fate has always been a thorn in my side, so I attempted the only honorable course of action. The bloodstain on the wall above my bed stands as a clear reminder of it. Perhaps I should have asked for a letter opener as a courtesy beforehand, smashing my head against that stone wall proved far from effective. A few days of restraints and forced fed opiates had given way to more lax regulations, but a guard was posted at my door every night since.

When I had become more consolable, the warden paid me a visit for the first time. A calloused, twisted old hag, she asked if there was anything I lacked, aside from my freedom. She brought me letters from home, which burned quite nicely, and even offered to bring one of my servants over from home to stay with me for company and assistance; though she quickly rescinded the offer when I shot up out of bed with a wicked smile. How does my uncle hide that face?

I wish I knew. When my candle snuffs itself out each night, I lay awake thinking about what could have been if I followed my plans to escape this wretched life to learn from him. But that was a fevered dream in youth; I lacked the strength and will even more two years ago. I’d have fucked up my plans somehow, died on the road alone. Maybe that’s still preferable to my current situation.

It could be an eternity or tomorrow when I die, at least according to the blank stares of that guard. So I’ll continue to write, to spite him, and to bring a sense of sense to my actions.

“Senseless!” Gilsten had cried, as if he’d had some knowledge to divine the meaning of things; the fool tried me as much for “gnostical turpitude” as for murder! Him, the jeering courtroom audience, even my family, all of them are willfully blind to the nature of the world.

They’re all transparent wretches; truly hollow, sniveling, blunt creatures who go about their petty lives until they die. Each morning comes empty pleasantries and talks of the weather, before an inevitable waste of effort on some meaningless task. They cannot see the true beauty in the triumph over life. People have their crutches of success and happiness to lean upon when they deny that ember, deep inside, air to burn brightly. They feed it in small gasps when a good crop comes in, or their wife has a child. But that fire dies, agonizingly slow, until the person it’s contained within extinguishes with the flame.

There’s as much futility in it all as there is in my attempts to explain it to whatever hapless scavenger finds these pages when they clean out my cell.

But I simply must do something to pass the time.

[Alydia Ettermire]

Dawn congealed through Ettermire's blanket of smog, rousing its unwilling residents from their slumber. Light crept through the narrow cobblestone streets and slithered into grimy windows, silent but insistent. Not immune from the break of day was a tiny, crowded office not far from the Gliath River.

A young woman, clad in authoritative red, sat behind a desk. Files huddled around her like a dilapidated fortress, and her blue eyes scanned over the latest sheet in an endless pile of paper - or they did before a lukewarm breakfast pasty and a boiling cup of brown sludge shoved unceremoniously under the brim of her hat. She looked up into the face of her boss, mentor, and...

"Good morning, father."

"Were you working all night, Aly?" The man who stood over her was like her muted reflection. His skin was just a touch lighter than her own, his hair as silver as hers was raven. His fedora was far more modest, and it and its matching trench coat were a deep shade of tan, rather than an ostentatious scarlet. His expression wavered between mildly concerned and mildly annoyed. "You didn't come home."

Alydia Ettermire shook her head. "I grabbed a couple of hours on that old cot in your office. It's not terribly comfortable. But Rixa was coming over, and since nothing kills the mood like an adult child hanging around, I thought I would make myself scarce."

She smirked, pulling a pair of packets from the precarious piles. "Besides, it's about time I did this, and I've been looking into this, as well."

Karliik opened the first file, skimming over the neatly-written notes. Of the dozen pages within, ten of them had lines slashing across them, leaving only a pair of options remaining. "You're moving out?"

"It's about time, don't you think? You and Rixa are getting serious, and you've more than done your duty by me. It was convenient for both of us for me to stay, and now it's not. I'm perfectly capable of being self-sufficient. Ilharn. Before you argue that there's still no need for me to leave, keep in mind that the house has only two bedrooms and look at the other file."

The Chief pursed his lips and flipped open the second, thicker file. He skimmed over the first two pages quickly, then skipped to the last. "Is this real?"

The red smirk became a smile. "It's a good way to both pay forward and pay back the gift you gave me. He's been in a little trouble, but children steal when they are starving. He's smart, though. Look at the chance I had because you took me in. Look what I became. I think he could do better."

The Chief chuckled. "Let me speak with Rixa before you decide on a house. It's a good place to raise a child, and a couple our age only needs so much space. Kenate!"

Aly's former partner - before they'd both been promoted to head small units of their own - looked up from his breakfast. "Ynnf, Chff?"

"Make sure Miss Night Shift gets home safely. Get some sleep, Aly."

"Karliiiik."

Aonar grinned, wiping his mouth and swiping Aly's coffee. She wouldn't need it. "Come on. Khal'jeren knows you could use the day off."

They walked, chatting easily. They'd both been busy in the last decade, and didn't get the chance to stay in each other's lives as much as before. Alydia still would have wagered that they'd end up like the Chief and Zezrar, right and left hands, right and left brains. They'd just been working together for that long, with no desire to leave the agency.

She opened the door to an ordinary Ettermire house at the end of the journey. "Tell the Chief to stop babying me."

The handsome Alerian elf laughed, folding his hands behind his back. "I will. And Aly..."

She turned, only to find herself staring down a barrel. Then there was nothing.


~*~*~

Light drained from Ettermire as slowly as it invaded. A house toward the northern end of the city stood open at a time it should have been closed, crowded by half a dozen of Ettermire's finest crime solvers. A nauseated silence permeated the air; the scarlet bundle on the floor shood have been safely and happily alive. There was no obvious reason for her to be lying in a pool of blood with half her head blown off, but if there was one, the stone-faced man who crouched beside her corpse would extract it from the perpetrator.

"She must have gone out, Chief, or let someone in." Aonar Kenate's face was ashen; he'd known Aly since his first week on the force. She'd still been a girl, and he hadn't really been a man quite yet.

"I know she did." The Chief held out a form Alydia hadn't revealed to him before, one soaked through with blood and brain matter.


WHEREAS Alydia del Ettermire, orphan, has been properly adop d

And WHEREAS the a

-hall henceforth be known as Alydia G-




A medium-colored man entered the room, treading lightly through the scene. The Chief looked at him, red irises sharp and probing. "What's the news, Zezrar?"

"Everyone who ever had a grudge against her awaits questioning, as do a few of her old criminal contacts. We'll find the person who did this."

"The monster who did this." The Chief stood, pulling his daughter's old throw from the couch and gently covering her with it. "Yes. We will."

[Mage Hunter]

“First Sergeant, please come in, have a seat,” The formal tone spoke volumes as to the nature of the meeting. The woman standing in the doorway crossed the quaint office, a desk and two chairs. There was a painting of the Valsharess in the room, much like every Kyorl office. The flat grey tone was mere whitewash to the actions in each room. This office was probably not even the Colonel's own, merely one reserved for such a meeting before being left behind, a scrap of uniformity hiding the officers from the lower grade soldiers in the Queen's forces.

The woman entering the room carefully sat down, the long black ponytail swishing with each step, but the uniform and the braid impeccable. The Colonel had looked her over and shook his head before he began, “You applied to he ranks of the Kyorl. Further you applied specifically for the Mage Hunter Initiative. I must say that while I was impressed with your credentials, they lack the qualities we look for in a candidate for the program. Namely, you failed in the interview.”

Drusilia looked at the Colonel, the anger of rejection tinging her normally dark skin a brighter hue. She shifted more formal as she spoke, restraint showing in her voice, “What do I need to do to be accepted?”

The Colonel raised an eyebrow before he spoke, “Are you saying, that you feel you can do something to convince us of your dedication? That was never in question Sergeant.”

Drusilia Liadon's face dropped at hose words before she spoke, “If not my loyalty, if not my dedication, I have nothing further to give the cause than my life, and I pledged that!”

The Colonel raised a hand before he spoke, “Sergeant Liadon, you are without reproach, in fact while I cannot induct you into the Mage Hunters, you are being inducted into the Kyorl. You are a fine member who shall join the ranks of the Valsharess' Elite. The Mage Hunter program, requires that you have a certain mental fortitude, fortitude that you simply lack. If you were to be put through the paces, the program would shatter your mind, and well frankly, that's not a risk I'm willing to take.”

Crestfallen, didn't begin to describe the thoughts racing through the mind of the Drow. She looked at the man before her with a pained gaze, “I'm honored Colonel, I truly am.”

“I know, it's not what you wanted. One day you may thank me fore saving you from what they go through.”

“Sir, war is war, it doesn't matter how it is painted up, the only thing that changes is the race of the bodies on the ground,” Drusilia's response was direct. It caused the Colonel to startle for a moment the succinct words catching him off guard. Was it possible they had made a mistake? Had she merely acted in a manner she hoped they would want to see? His eyes narrowed as he looked at the women for a moment.

“That it is Liadon, that it is. That's why I want you alive, to be a part of the Kyorl. The Mage Hunters is a desperate attempt to offset the Bladesingers that Raiarae has. Make no mistake Sergeant, I don't trust those freaks any further than I can throw them. Most die in the training, their mind snapping under the strain, they are rabid dogs one perceived slight from attacking. I don't want to see you like that soldier. Soon enough they'll realize their fault and slaughter the whole lot of them. I'd rather the Kyorl clean up after themselves as well, and for that I'll need soldiers like you.”

“I'm going to clean up a perceived mess?”

“That you are Lieutenant,” The colonel replied before patting her on the shoulder. She frowned at those words and looked up at him. He then reached up and tossed her the stack of papers on his desk. One set was the rejection of her application, the other was her new orders to report to the Academy for the remainder of her training. Looking at him she stood up swiftly and saluted.

“Thank you sir, for this opportunity,” Drusilia responded, her pony tail playing in a non-existant breeze.

“I have utmost faith in your abilities Lieutenant, don't make me wrong on this one,” The Colonel left going down the hallways with a practiced ease. Moving outside his aide came up with another stack of papers before he spoke;

“Did she pass?”

“She did indeed, her devotion never wavered. Continue to give me applications, lets see how many screw ups we can dump into the program before we pull the plug. Liadon will front the mission, call it a training exercise, only have them kill the damn Hunters and claim they went berserk. I'll of course investigate because she was promoted to under my command, and those freaks will be out of my hair. Disgrace to call them Kyorl.”

“Of course sir. And the Magicite?”

“Burn it, I'd rather the Kyorl remain clean of that stuff. Let the alchemists kill themselves trying to figure it out. The queen will give us the fruits without any of the spoils.”

[Philomel]

Lonely (A life without Veridian)

Its lonely today.

Philomel woke up in her rented pantry room, finding she was flat on her back. Blinking, she stared up at the low wooden ceiling, and lay there for a moment, listening to the wind blow in the trees outside her window. There were oak and ash trees, the ash holding little significance but the oak being important to her mother. Her lips pursed together as she considered the day's work and what it might bring. She listened to the song the wind made, but it gave no clear answer. All it did was remind her that she was lonely.

After a sigh she rolled over, and off the bed. Landing, rather elegantly, with her hooves beneath her, she started to collect herself before dressing. Today was a warm day, and thus she dressed in a loose almost see-through shirt over a black bustier, and placed a loin covering with material belt over her hairy bottom half. Taking up her keris dagger, steel and most beloved, she tucked this into her clothes, careful to hide it completely, before heading straight out of the door.

She waved past the large monk troll who stood in the large hall. As usual he was chopping up delicate herbs with a meat cleaver, the rounds of his fat swaying with each slice. He barely looked at his renter as she dodged past him, lithe and quick, to grab fresh bread and then head out. All she heard was a snort before she managed to get out of the front door and head away up the garden path.

Indeed, the weather was fresh today. It gave her a sense of life, with the relaxing breath of the breeze swimming over her skin. The sun hung like a white orb in the soft azure sky, with no clouds in sight. The oak trees lining her path led onto the pain road, inviting her to join the rest of Radasanth in the business of the day. All was well, and all was calm; however it still felt so utterly lonely. A year and a half already of independence in the whoring market had by no means as yet brought any steady lovers. Just favoured clients.

"I should kill more people," Philomel muttered, pausing for a moment in her step. "Certainly those Order folk will like the money I bring in."

She yawned slightly, thinking over her small dealings with the Crimson Hand and where it had brought her. It had made her stronger, faster, swifter, and more dangerous, but no where near had brought her the power she had desired at the start. She continued down the path, and noticed that across the main road from where her path would bring her there was a new old man.

He was sitting, cross-legged, and summoned tiny earth balls from nowhere, then forming them into shapes. Around him was gathered a small crowd of children, all giggling as he magically made tiny dirt birds fly into their hair. Rolling her eyes Philomel turned away from the magic user and turned onto the main road, but heading down the other way than where his crowd was gathering from. Magical folk were few and far between some days, especially those who could play with the earth element - but Philomel was never amused by their tricks. Magic was beyond her, not a use to her, for where would she even gain an ability like that from?

Silently, by herself, she continued her way until she came to one of her favourite pubs, called the Sultry Satyr. In a way she cared for this because it spoke of her own species. In another she liked it because of the strange-eyed curious beasts that came here. It was also easy, this close to the docks, to get weary-eyed sailors and make them hers for the day. Today it was early, she knew, but there would be some clients.

Philomel pushed her way in, feeling the usual pangs of loneliness of her lonely life as she watched several kinsmen laughing over drinks together. Her life had told her friends were dangerous and a liability and love - well that did not exist. With her mother having been a victim of rape there was little more to desire from life, or indeed hope from life. Love was a folly, it was a fool, but Philomel was an expert in bringing it to her clients and letting them believe it was the most powerful thing in the universe ...

She got to the bar and nodded at the barmaid who had once tried to make friends. Philomel had flatly denied her. The girl was no use to her, after all. Far too pale and flat-chested. Instead she waited until a man came and made the offer to her, seeing her dress and placing many numbers together to get the correct answer. Beginning her day of work, the faun-whore took her first lover, a magician apparently, and came up with cruel thoughts for his kind as she gave him all he desired. Outside she heard the strange howl of a lonely fox, a sound which struck with the agonised chords of her heart - yet she kept going. And working. And pleasing.

All for her life's lustful work.

[Lye]

Closed. Awards will be announced shortly.

[Lye]

1st: BlackAndBlueEyes (3431)
Compelling scene, effective use of imagery, pacing, and dialogue to convey plot. One noticeable error where "the" was used instead of "she". The style is very active an engaging. The way the telekinesis was written was easy to understand and colorful. Not too familiar with character backstory, the important event is apparent in the conflict of families. Weakness can be found in brevity and the extent to which the story relies on dialogue.

1,100 EXP
200 GP

2nd: Sulla (14778)
Active and engaging. The event is apparent and has something to do with imprisonment or the crime which lead to imprisonment. Pacing is consistent and strong. Imagery plays to the imagination enough to set a scene. No noticeable errors. Weakness, some passive tense could have effectively been changed to an active tense.

160 EXP
150 GP

3rd: Alydia Ettermire (8606)
Topic use is clear in the scene between Alydia and her father. The topic of the moving out is the focal point. While dialogue isn't terribly engaging, it is effective. Weaknesses lie in the scene break, allowing for a second scene/second post. More efficiency in dialogue would also improve the post.

350 EXP
100 GP

Abomination (4101)
Strength: Pacing and flow.
Weakness: Lack of resolution and unclear event focal point. Assumed to be the Robinson related?

500 EXP

The Mongrel (17739)
Strength: Engaging and witty. Strong personality presence.
Weakness: Low action, and spans a great deal of time. Focal event unclear, assumed to be related to enrollment as a spy for Raiaera?

150 EXP

BlueGhostofSeaside (16205): Close Contender
Strength: Good pacing and lighthearted tone.
Weakness: Middle paragraph out of place. Seems as though the writer wanted to go one way, then changed directions.

350 EXP

Garron (18042)
Strength: Brevity and focal event having to do with the sparring event. Colorful vocabulary.
Weakness: Abundant run on sentences, and overuse of vivid imagery bogs down pacing.

100 EXP

Mage Hunter (2000): Close Contender
Strength: Focal event clear between Mage Hunters and Kyorl. Strong use of dialogue to drive story.
Weakness: Pacing suffers in the larger blocks of dialogue where setting and character action would have been effective.

350 EXP

Philomel (17225): Close Contender
Strength: Strong theme and subtle focal event of a mundane, routine life. Excellent foreshadowing in the howl.
Weakness: Pacing suffers in the lack of dialogue or action. Scene is very passive and lacks strong reader engagement.

350 EXP

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added