2015 May Vignette

[Lye]

Your Prompt:


Most legends are told from the lips and eyes of others. Write a scene from the perspective of an onlooker which witnesses the actions of your character.

Closes at the end of May.

[Pettigrew]

In the darkness of a man’s heart, there is said to be three imps. Creatures twisted and foul beyond measure. The first is jealousy. A demon that drives a man to cruel deeds in the pursuit of balance, of obtaining what a man believes to be his. The second is aspiration. This demon drives men to usurp others to ensure their providence. Crueller than the others is love. Men kill, maim, and muster armies in the name of bonds unsatisfied.

“This is heavy stuff, Pettigrew.”

“Of course it is, Lisa.” The bard drained the last of his glass, cheap ale for cheaper tricks, and set it back on the bar. “Heavier still is that these three things drive our ‘betters’.” She put the parchment on the bar next to Pettigrew’s empty tankard.

The seamstress, and leading lady, of course, of the Restless Fugitive troupe balked. Had she a drink in hand she would have spilt it. Had she liquor in her cheeks, it would have ended up sprayed across the exotic arrangement of bottles global behind the bar.

“‘Betters?’ Please.”

“Look behind you,” he retorted.

Lisa turned to the east and set her gaze on the small gathering by the fireside. Duffy Bracken, newly returned, and the eternally virulent Ruby Winchester were centre stage. The seamstress’s worldview corrupted reality, and painted the Tantalum in ill light. All the same, she felt fear and loathing just seeing them. Her stomach churned.

“Just because they lord up their fame doesn’t mean we can’t have it as well.”

“True, Pettigrew,” Lisa conceded.

With a nagging finger, Lisa flagged down the barkeep and as they discussed orders and gin and far too much cucumber, something crossed her mind. In recent months, the Restless Fugitive was the name on the lips of Scara Brae folk. Not once, since Duffy had returned from the dead, (again), had anyone worthy of note mentioned the Tantalum. She smirked.

“Thanks,” she finalised her order.

The Rusty Ship (ill named as a dockside tavern), earned its fame because of its wholesome food and the fact it carried every type of alcohol imaginable. This providence, a darkness in a man’s heart (and kidneys), as due to the proximity to the largest dock on the island. Ships from across the globe docked here. In between the long ships of the Knights of Brae merchant vessels brought the distance close. Valeena’s Haven was isolated no more. A new age for new frontiers.

“Do you think he’s going to stay?” she asked. She cocked her head to her counterpart.

Pettigrew could only shrug.

“Of course,” Lisa quipped. “Partisan reply for a partisan politician.”

“Cut the crap.”

Tension grew in the tavern. Though the Tantalum remnants and various members of the Restless Fugitive laughed and frolicked in the corner of the tavern, between the closest of friends only turbulence formed.

“What do you mean?” Lisa enquired.

The barkeep, an Adonis in ginger set a tankard before Pettigrew and a fresh Riesling before Lisa. Both thespians took a sip gingerly before continuing their conflict. The barkeep knew better than to hover, and walked to the far end to polish already pristine glasses.

“We’ve been playing their game since we first crossed paths. It’s because of them…” He downed his pint in a feat of strength and courage (Scara Braen beer was effectively vodka mixed with salt water), and slammed the tankard onto the bar. “That we are where we are today.”

“It’s time we transcended that, Pete.” Lisa’s eyes tore at the bard’s defences, leaving him little choice but to acquiesce the point. “Don’t you think?” she added, to deliver the killing blow.

There wasn’t enough beer on the island to make this easier. He sighed.

“Look,” he began. “People are just starting to talk about us. Our performance,” he pointed east, as if Lisa didn’t know where Market Square was, “in the square.” He sighed again, “It finally hit home.”

“Hitting home is great.” She picked up her wine, slammed it down, and then glared harder. At the far end of the tavern, Ruby apparently said something witty enough to warrant an applause. Lisa felt sicker than she ever did. No amount of wine would drown out her jealousy of the red head. “What we need to do is obliterate their name, supplant it with ours, and really start to make a name for our self.”

“We’re already doing that. They’re going.” Pettigrew’s eyes sparkled with indifference. His loyalty to the other avatars of Tantalus was a difficult weight to lift. “This is a farewell tour, a fanfare, if you like.” He leant across the bar and waved at the all-too debonair barkeep.

“Are they?”

Lisa looked longingly to the end of the tavern and tried to imagine a world without the Tantalum in Scara Brae. It seemed impossible. Would Duffy, ensconced in the very brickwork of the city ever truly up and leave?

“Did you not read the invitation?” Pete shrugged aggressively at his counterpart, then turned to smile at the barkeep. “Can I have a bottle of Ambrosia, please?”

Another order, another step closer to the reckless abandonment of a thespian genii. Pete sat back on his stool and adjusted himself. For once, he was clean as a whistle, and his outfit of white shirt and grey slacks made him every bit the dandy.

“Do I ever?” Lisa shrugged. She stared into her glass.

“Listen. Look down at them, try and find a reason to hate them – I’m sure you’ll find plenty,” he sighed for the final time of the evening. He stretched. “Rest assured though, Duffy is leaving. Ruby and Leopold have other affairs to attend to.”

“And?” Lisa frowned. There was always something with Pete. The sun began to set. The day turned cold, and whimsy turned to euphoric paranoia.

“Think about it.”

The barkeep returned with a bottle ensconced in the affairs of Thespians the world over.

“This city, Lisa, is ours.”

They raised glasses in a toast.

[Aelin Valth]

"What is he doing?"

The way he holds a sword is juvenile; he swings steel the way a schoolboy pretends with a stick. Timidity streaks though Initiate Valth's movements. There is no decisive ardor. The jeers and mocking of his peers do precious little to encourage his learning, of course. "Quiet," I call back to them sternly. "Again, Aelin."

The shadow of greatness looms from afar from this youth. He will likely never become a peerless swordsman. Not in this lifetime, I think. Erratic swings and choppy strokes envoke the image of a mental patient attempting art as he tries in vain to emulate my motions properly. "I can't," he rasps. His ragged breaths vie between words for an iota of air.

"You're no knight!" a harsh voice taunts him, though I cannot place its owner. Harshly I glance over them. No one dares to own that assertion. Aelin slinks to the dirt next to me however. He accepts it.

"Which of you was born a Master-at-Arms?" I ask them. Eyes sweep across the floor in response. Not one of them answers with more than a grunt. "I thought not," I mutter. "Back to your duties. Aelin, you get up."

With his knees in the sand, Aelin looks pitiful. His shoulders are sagged and his chest deflated, the image of a broken man. "I said get up, boy," A swift kick rouses him, but he whines softly. "And shut up with your bitching, you've got to curb your mild upbringing if you intend to stand proud as a knight."

"I'm no knight," he groaned back, "you heard them. My slashes wouldn't cut bacon from a pig."

I stifle a laugh. "Did they say that?" There is a twinkle of amusement in his eye as he smirks up at me. "No, they're not so clever. Aelin, do you know what a knight is?"

"A knight?" he asks, the awe taking his voice. Visions of heroes dance in his gaze as he considers an answer. "A knight is strong and fierce. He cuts evil down where it stands. A knight upholds order and stands for justice, even when none can be found."

A good answer, but still it lacks. Aelin is deluded by storybooks and antiquated stereotypes. "A knight," I correct him gently, "is kind. A knight is gentle and understanding. In the face of evil, he looks to the meek and assures their safety before his own."

The youth stares up at me in wonder. "A knight values life before skill. All life, not simply his own. All life is precious." I stretch out a gauntleted hand and slip both eyes closed in concentration. "Life, both organic and mystic. Your blade is as much your weapon as your magic. Do you understand that, Aelin?"

"I-I think so," he mumbles.

"A knight without a sword is no less a knight." In the palm of my hand, particles sizzle and twist, spinning at high speed until they burst in a brillant burst of light. The ball of convection spins steadily at my behest, but it never grows more than I will it. "Your entire body is a weapon. Your hands. Your mind. Your soul."

"But I can't wield a sword," he protested. "What knight do you know without a sword?"

"Perhaps," I tell him, "you will be the first. A sword does not make a knight." His chest swells with some strange sentiment. I can see the fire in his eyes as the smile stretches across his lips. "Banish this nonsense. How good you are at a single thing does not define you as a knight, nor as a person. Continue your training and show the others you are more than a blade."

"Sir!" he responds enthusiastically.

I expect much from Aelin. As he races toward the stables to tend the horses- that is his duty today- I allow the heat in my grasp to subside. The ball of fire subsides with a gentle sigh. Embers scatter in every direction, and the air grows cool again.

To think, I found him in a library.

[Erirag the Poet]

I was there when they emerged from Lindequalmë. The path from the back of the village into the forest was clear and wide, but it was the clattering of branches that first alerted me to their coming. Snapping wood and the shuffle of leaves grew louder, too slow to be any of the natural horrors that inhabited the forest. My brothers in arms and I were sure it would be more of the undead, the raised army that had been called to action by the strange red mist in the week before. Instead, an elven man pulled a makeshift sled, drenched in sweat and pale from the effort. I remember flying, my feet moving fast as we rushed to him from where we’d been laying in wait.

He was wearing a uniform I’d only seen in history books, the front pulled open and the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His golden hair was thrown and bound in a messy bun. He was unkempt and wild, but it was to be expected. The sled he pulled had been hand-bound in the forest. I recognized the vines and the crimson stained rowan. Bunches of burgundy leaves still clung here and there along the length of boughs he’d used. Resting on the sled, the body of a dead orc lay.

She was huge, larger than I’d ever imagined her kind to be. Too tall to walk through a doorframe without ducking, and almost nude, she was as beastial as any dur’taigen I’d ever seen. Amber eyes were clouded over and searching the sky in an intense, unblinking glare. Tusks protruded from her mouth, lolled agape. She wore a skirt of grass and leather, and nearly shredded gauze bindings around her chest. They did little to hide scarred green hide, as thick and tough as any dragon I could imagine but covered in lacerations. Her fists, as big as my own skull, were tangled with dark strands of hair.

I looked up, meeting the green gaze of the elf. Had he felled this beast? If so, and without a scratch marring his face, I felt nothing but admiration. Yet, why would be go through the trouble of dragging her from the Red? Stunned silence reigned. I couldn’t find the words, and neither could any of my comrades. It was the elf who finally broke the quiet once he’d caught his breath. Wiping sweat from his brow he snapped, his voice filled with years of command experience.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get a healer here now!” Someone behind me rushed away. I took another look at the orc, noting this time the lute at her feet. It was speckled in dried blood, the strings busted and curled. A bard?

“She’s dead, what good will a healer do?” I found myself asking. I regretted it immediately as the heated gaze of this strange elf was immediately turned upon me. “I mean…” I stammered, heat rising to my cheeks, “It’s an orc. Resurrection isn’t easy, so why bother with this beast?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead, we lifted the sled and carried it to the healer. It took all of us, and even then we strained under the weight of the dead musician above us. I sat outside while the champion consulted with the healer. My foot traced loops and swirls in the dirt. I was still confused, but something tugged at the edge of my mind, something that told me I was witnessing the most important thing I’d ever see.

Finally, he came from the little shack, and turned to me. Tipping his head, he gestured to my blade.

“I trust you know how to use that sword. Come with me.” He started stalking back towards the forest whence he came, and I followed dutifully. I didn’t even know his name; I don’t know why I went with him so blindly.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Playing fetch. There’s an orc to resurrect.”

“Why should…” I started, but he cut me off.

“I’ve got a debt to settle, and that beast back there defeated Podë.”

[Philomel]

[[Vaeron]]

When I first ever saw her, I was astounded by her glory.

There, fighting with vigour and spirit, loose violet hair flying like a mighty lion's mane. Her grey eyes were like silver and moonlight, alive and full of passion as she pushed herself to her limits and through dust storm after dust storm at her enemies' faces. Around her corpses and maimed men were scattered, kneeling and sobbing individuals clawing at their faces and wounds. One had her abandoned dagger dug into his shoulder, and a friend was trying to tug it out as blood spluttered, threatening to drown them all. Like a ghost or one of the fair folk she moved as fast as the energy inside her could muster, all the while performing feats of magic neither I nor my companion Lavishingham had ever seen the likes of before. Dust, dirt and pebble all came to her aid as she stood between open ocean and an army of scarlet-scarved bucanneers - the same men who had felled so many of her sailing companions.

Dagger in my hand the colour of the stormy sky overhead, I stood side by side with Lavishingham. Twenty metres or so from the battle she was warring single-handedly, we were both enthralled by her - though in slightly different ways - enough not to notice the fox that danced on the ship's bannister. He himself had taken five lives, tearing out their throats apparently after sneaking up behind them and murderously pouncing. Indeed, I found the little devil intriguing and majestic, and took notice to check the way he constantly kept his eyes or ears or nose focused on the faun. It was if his entire being was focused around her, as she magic'ed her way to hell and back, destroying the ship as she did so. And most of Tanglebeard / Cardew's crew.

Turning my head to Lavishingham I saw his eyes popping from his skull in obsessive fancy. I raised my eyebrows, and then nudged him to see what I thought I had noticed between the fox and the faun. He gaped at me, saying, "hhuuhh?" in his idiotic way before I nodded properly at the pair.

"He's more than a fox. By my knowing of fauns their not naturally endowed with magic," I hinted. Standing there still. In the middle of chaos and death and battle. Though, in all honesty, there was little fighting to be done where we were, surrounded by our own side.

Lavishingham blinked. "She is pretty?"

My lack of amusement showed on my face.

Lavishingham was always the type of companion I would never had imagined myself obtaining, but did so anyway out of sheer fortune, or misfortune. However you desire to look at it. For weeks now the two of us had been sailing under Captain Tanglebeard, an infamous vicious pirate who was known for his cutting off locks of his victim's hair and wearing them around his neck. Well, actually the past couple of weeks he had not been seen, and so his first mate, Rait Cardew, had taken his place. Cardew had assumed control of the ship, and when a new merchant vessel had come into sight he had decided to command the attack of it. The main feature of the difference of their commanding tactics was that where Tanglebeard took hair, Cardew took fingers. And toes and hands and feet and noses and all sorts of extremities and non-extermities. He was a villain of a beast, literally whipping the crew into a form he deemed sensible, disabling them stupidly so they couldn't do the work, and then complaining that they did not do it as good as he desired. So then more punishments would be dolled out and ... well. A vicious circle encurred.

Pirating had never been my chosen profession. The worship of Earlon was, and indeed, that was what I had begun as - a humble human priest in an elf-stuffed world. But when the magic had been found in me at a moderately mature age, I had abandoned my priesthood and took up being a hermit instead. Hermit had led to vigilante had led to rogue had led to crime and piracy. It was easy aboard a ship when your own god was the one of stars and the sea. My knowledge of astronomy was useful to these people, my skills with the indigo dagger legendary. I cleaved my way through the enemies Cardew defined for us, whilst harbouring my dislike for him in secret. It did not take time for him to place great trust in Lavishingham and I when he took reign, mostly because he knew that trust in us meant a vague kind of loyalty from us towards him, and no wise pirate ever lets a mage be too distant. Especially one with the potential power of Lavishingham.

It was he, therefore, that I turned to when a chord struck in my mind about the connection between beast and half-beast. As I voiced my findings he just stared, until I glared back, and then made the obvious clear.

"You need to separate the bond between them," I hissed, shoving him forwards with my elbow.

Partially, he collapsed forwards, from our awkward standing still position into the thrall of the battle. Leaning into a fighting stance I readied myself for any onslaught, pulling on the power of Earlon within me that was the Ocean's Rage. Nodding my hopeless companion on, encouraging him to take the opportunity whilst the faun was distracted by two musketeers I settled on protecting myself. Oh yes, Lavishingham was (and is) entirely a nervous wreck, one who is easily persuaded and extremely shy, but he has a good heart and his power is immense. I knew of all people that this boundary mage could make a ward powerful enough to sever magic-granter from magic-user, and in that way we would surely have a better chance in this war.

Hand shaking he looked as if he were about to fail - yet he went in. I saw as he walked away from me his fingers beginning to twitch and his mouth begin to form words. Whispering in silence to no one but the wind and whatever powers gave him his uncanny, marvellous ability the man set about making the ward. He strode anxiously but powerfully towards the enchanting beautiful faun and her fox, step by step and border by border, going towards her to break their link.

Stopping a few metres away he sucked in his breath - and then released it. Energy burst from his hands, a white light that was bright and unfailing to not notice. It caught many of the fighters off guard, stunned one and knocked another off his feet. The power was charged to go directly between the two enemies, and once there it coalesed into a ball, and then blossomed. Blooming like a merry spring flower it grew petals and tendrils at an alarming rate that flew out and caught both the fox and the faun in their arms. A touch to each head and each heart it thrummed, and thereafter stayed. Stayed as the woman, that gracious prostitute faun with the white blade, attempted to perform a sort of clashing dust magic, and then failed. Failed, and flailed around further with her sword as she shrieked in dismay.

I began to stride over to them, satisfied Lavishingham had done his job well. My friend remained in his place, holding the ward. As our men scurried back, gasping with confusion but happier voices now that their greatest adversary in this campaign was downed, I came to join him. With my indigo dagger I stood, facing her and I coughed before starting.

"Hello," I said, "Would you please surrender?"

She stuck up her middle finger. I gestured, Lavishingham made the ward snake around her wrists and ankles, forcing her to drop the sword. Spitting at us she cursed in some bleating tongue, and then raised her chin, keeping up her glorious pride.

It was wondrous, maginificent, a thing beyond imagination. The next few days brought strife and conversation with her, and eventually together, with Lavishingham, all three of us inducted a mutiny. We took over the ship, she introduced me to a new life, and I came to acknowledge her as the Princess who would never wear a crown.

[Medeia]

[Written from Vivica LeFonte's POV. Vivica is one of the three main antagonists that will be introduced in Medeia and Garron's stories.]

Vivica sat fuming, bright blue eyes glowering from beneath delicately arched brows. She had spent hours getting ready for tonight, and no one even paid her a bit of attention! She’d waited so long for Ser LeThroup to make good on promises made several years ago in that quiet and magical garden, and now that her moment was here, everyone’s attention was on her runt of a little “sister”. Sister? Tch.. How embarrassing was it, that a little half-breed runt of a girl had been raised to the blood, and that she, whose blood was pure as winter’s snow had to acknowledge such a vile thing?! Father might claim her, but in her heart of hearts, Vivica never would.

It was partially due to the fact that Medeia’s existence meant her father had strayed from their mother, but mostly Vivica’s resentment stemmed from the certainty that people seemed to like Medeia better than herself. Vivica knew she was prettier than that little weasel, but where Vivica could draw every eye for a moment, her temperament was of the sort that it rarely encouraged the look to linger. She was a woman of quality and status, learning from a young age that her father was someone important, and by default, that made her important, too. She remembered all too easily when Medeia had been her own handmaid, plowing sightlessly through the halls of the palace bearing a pile of bedsheets taller than she was herself. Vivica was always quick to remind Medeia of those times too, especially when she felt that her half-sister was overstepping her station.

A scowl drew her flawless face into coarse lines, marring her beauty with her own foul temper. She’d tried earlier that afternoon to get a moment alone with Ser LeThroup. Unfortunately, her father seemed unwilling to part with his company even for a moment, and Medeia was stuck to her father’s side as usual. Just look at that outfit she’s wearing!, Vivica thought viciously to herself. It was a pretty enough dress in its own right, but Medeia’s boyish figure didn’t really fill out the cut. Medeia’s dress was fashioned much like Vivica’s own, but in a forest green with harlequin trim. Her hair was a storm of dark curls, as unkempt and unruly as their owner. It looked as if those locks hadn’t seen a brush since she’d rolled out of bed, and was that a twig stuck in her hair?!

Vivica, on the other hand, was immaculate, and just to be sure no errant hair had dared to shout its defiance, she checked the mirror hanging on the wall nearby. Just as she thought: perfect. Perfection like this didn’t just happen. No, a long soak in the tub had come first, water fragranced by the crushed petals of cora lilies. This was followed by an hour through which she sat,(fairly patient, even), while J’hara dried and combed through Vivica’s platinum locks. J’hara had gathered the gossamer strands into an intricate series of braids along the left side of her head, before cinching them with a bright blue ribbon that left the ends to curl and tumble in such a way that the fell against her cheek and flowed down Vivica’s shoulder. More time had gone into fitting her into this dress, a silken dress that matched the blue of her eyes almost perfectly. A scooped neck plummeted almost to the point of indecency, and the dress fit her snugly before flaring at the knees in delicate ruffles. Little pearl buttons ran down the back, and saphoras and penchants decorated the fluted sleeves like stardust.

Satisfied with her reflection, Vivica slid across the hall with what she thought was the grace of some elegant bird, a swan, perhaps. Catching Medeia’s eye, Vivica offered Medeia a glacial glower before plastering on her most winning smile. “Lovely to see you too, sis,” Medeia snickered, offering her sister a raspberry before turning back to her father, her features lapsing back into seriousness. “I don’t care what you’ve got planned, there’s no way I’m marrying this old, fat geezer!” She grimaced and turned to Ser LeThroup. “Oops…Ah, no offense meant, really. I’m sure you’ve got a great personality and all, but---“

“That’s enough, Medeia!”, their father stormed, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “I don’t recall asking you what you wanted!”

“Well, don’t you think somebody should?!”, Medeia retorted, cheeks on fire and a bright gleam in her eyes. Her hands curled into balled -up fists by her sides. “How could you even think for a second I’d like being bartered off like a pony? Besides that, you know I love Garron with all my heart, and if I cannot marry him, I will marry none. How could you ask such a thing of me?”

By now, their voices were raised, and everything around them had come to a halt. Ser LeThroup was making a valiant display of ignoring the entire exchange, turning to examine a nearby hanging mural. The tips of his ears were bright pink, however, and there was little doubt that his cheeks were much paler in hue. Vivica couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t even think clearly. If looks could kill, both Medeia and their father would start rolling around on the floor any moment in their death throes. Father planned to marry this trollop to Ser LeThroup? She must have misunderstood what was being said. A hand snaked out and dug nails into Medeia’s arm, turning the girl to look at her.

“Excuse me? I must have heard wrong…,” she hissed, the words pitched low enough that those around them would have to strain to hear. “There’s no way Father would marry you to this man! The nerve of you to think he would offer you such a high station! Do you still not yet know your place among us?!”

Medeia didn’t bother to whisper back, instead choosing to speak boldly, like she always did. “I wish you had heard wrong, ‘dear sister’,” her small mouth turning in a frown. “I don’t give two figs what he wants. You should marry Ser LeThroup, Vivi. I’m sure you two would get along famously.” Twisting, she tore her arm free, and whirled back around to their father.

“See?! Even Vivica thinks this is a bad idea, and she never agrees with me on anything!” Petulance touched her speech, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “She’s right, you know? I don’t deserve any sort of high station, and I’d be terrible as a ruler. Could you imagine me giving orders?”, she asked. “It’s not like anyone would listen anyway…”

Their father sighed, some of the color draining from his cheeks. “It is because you do not want the burden that it is placed upon your shoulders, child. Vivica is as beautiful as her mother, truly,” he turned to smile at his eldest, perhaps trying to soften the sting of his next words, “but she has no head for running the barony. She and Victor are spoiled rotten through and through, and it is by my own doing, I know well.”

“Your unique perspective and your generous heart are what Corone needs more than ‘pure blood’, Medeia. I fear what power would make of your siblings with time. Why must you make everything so very difficult for me? I don’t ask that you marry out of love, but out of a sense of duty to your country, to your people. I don’t say this to hurt you, Vivica, but perhaps it is time you heard it. No one else would dare to say such things to you, and who am I, if not your father?” He moved to pat Vivica affectionately on the shoulder, but she shrugged it off, blue eyes glittering with hateful tears. She didn't trust her voice enough to respond at the moment, so she only offered a withering stare.

“My perspective and my heart are not Corone’s to take,” Medeia replied acidly. “If you expect me to cower and do what you want, my dear father, you are sorely mistaken!” With that, Medeia stormed out in a fury of shifting greens, leaving behind those gathered in awkward silence.

“I’m sorry you had to hear this, Sebastian. I’m sure she will come around in time. The trials of daughters…” Slinging an arm across Ser LeThroup’s shoulder in camaraderie, Father led him away from Vivica, the two exchanging laughs and words freely.

Vivica's whole body felt numb. That’s what her father really thought of her and Victor? Jealousy, hurt and anger flooded through her in equal torrents. Medeia and her little friend would pay for this; they all would. When the dust settled, she and Victor would be that power that her father so feared they would become. Already the wheels in her head were turning, and she stole away to find Victor.

[Ashla]

I'm so scared, so confused. Where's mommy and daddy? Who's these people? Why did they put me in this cage? With their sticks with blades, they looked down on me like... like... they didn't care. They didn't care about about the tears falling down my dirt ridden face. They didn't answer my cries for my parents. They just wanted me to stay put, to live no life behind these darn bars.

I pushed myself as far against the wall, into the corner, as I could. I dare not argue with them. The one time I tried they... it hurt... they hurt me. What did they want? Where were mom and pop? What was this shadowy place? The men with pointy sticks walked around outside the barred room they shut me up in. Back and forth, back in forth. It made me anxious, but I dare not let out a cry. The last time I made noise...
I don't know how long I was there. I was starving. So thirsty... I shivered as I hugged myself, watching them. I heard something though, the sound steadily rose, catching my attention. I heard something I hadn't heard since... the raid on our farm. I silently cried, tears falling as I desperately thought, Please don't them take me away again.

Suddenly, the door swung open. I then saw her... a woman with black hair, dressed in dark clothes. She raised a humongous knife, larger than daddy's hatchet, and started fighting the men. Who was she? The way she moved, the way she swung her pointy tools. It terrified me. She knew what she was doing, and she was... going to... make those men sleep for a long time, just like grandpa...

I watched as another man, with another pointy stick, rush in. He instantly jabbed one of the men guarding me with it. Red stuff came out, he let out this terrible, terrible scream and fell. The woman, she suddenly... where did that ice come from? Ice suddenly choked the other guard. The woman extended her hand, more ice covered his head. The ice churned pitch black, and the girl clenched her fist.

I saw a red liquid, mixed with something black, seep down; covering his jaw and neck as he collapsed.

He did not move.

For a moment, silence came across the room. What terrible fate was this? Would they turn on me too? My heart skipped a beat as the woman looked into the cage, right at me.

I did not move.

Maybe if I don't move, I thought, She won't see me.

She did however. She bent down to one of the motionless guards and picked up a set of keys. She then turned to me.

Every step forward she took, my heart beat heavier. When she used the keys to open the cage, I felt myself go pale as the moon in the sky. She then walked right up to me and bent down to my level. I barely was awake, what would she do to me?

She simply extended her hand to me and... smiled. She smiled. It was one of few times I saw a smile like that, it made me want to cry even more. It was a smile just like mommy's...

I finally broke down. I didn't care how loud I bawled, I didn't care about the tears that fell from my eyes. I missed my mother. To my surprise though, my cries were met by the strange woman hugging me. I needed comfort, I realized, even from a monster like her. I dug my tiny fingers into her black shirt, throwing my head on her chest. She hugged me tighter in return.

I felt one hand come up to my head. She rustled my dirty blond hair. Her voice, young and beautiful, whispered into my ear, "Come on, let's get you home."

Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't a villain after all...

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Madison tells me it will do me good to keep a journal. She tells me that it's a good way to sort out my feelings and experiences as I make my way through this world at her side. She tells me I may find answers to questions just by writing them down in this little book.

She is smart, and I trust her in this matter. I will do as she suggests. However; half of the candle has burned away since I picked up the pen, and I only have these two lines.

I find that my problem is that I do not have questions. I have observations, curiosities, and comments; but no questions.

She has made me aware of what I am--a parasite borne of science and dark magic, based off the Dur'Taigen of the Lindequalmë and the processes that made her into a Briarheart. She named me Hyperion; the first. She helped me through those first days, as I was getting accustomed to life. She gave me words to use, books to read, experiments to watch. She helped me learn and grow, and for that I suppose I am thankful.

There are other acts of kindness that she has shown me; I was allowed to pick out my own wardrobe, including several sets of robes from the desert nation Fallien and two masks made of mythril. Madison tells me the masks are necessary for me to be able to travel with her. I suspect that is because I do not look like everyone else. But, she is smart, and I trust her in this matter as well.

I do wonder something about her, though. She prefers that I accompany her in her travels as much as possible. I do not have any problems with this, because it means that I get to see the world; but it does make me curious. Madison is very friendly towards me, and has grown quite fond of my company. She talks to me a lot, about the things she would like to do, the places she would like to see. She talks to me about the Crimson Hand, and how she wishes she could just run away from them. She tells me she would in a heartbeat, if it weren't for her need to watch over their leader. Madison tells me that with the secrets she knows and the things she's done, the one named Lichensith would hunt her to the ends of the earth.

I can sense that this last part stresses her out, but I sense that there is something more to her anxiety. There have been some nights where I can hear her sobbing into her pillow, whispering the name of someone I think may have been family.

I wonder if she keeps a journal too. She is smart, but I do not trust that she does.

Madison has asked me questions about how I feel, about my needs and desires. She writes them down in a notebook as I tell her everything, including my muted desire to kill. I catch her muttering to herself, about calculations and corpses and personality types, as she jots my words down.

Yesterday, there was an accident in the lab. Madison and several of her associates were conducting more experiments with those like myself, but according to her there was a slight miscalculation. The beast that she was experimenting on broke its bonds as the parasite I was borne from began overtaking its body. Madison shouted at me, and I immediately leaped upon the beast. I tore at it with my teeth and claws, but found that it was tougher than she imagined. The beast threw me off its back and turned its attention towards Madison.

I tried to chase after it, but found it unnecessary. Madison's vines turned red, and black wasps began crawling out from her arms. With a single word from her mouth, the insects began swarming the creature. It spun around in circles and howled in pain as it was stung repeatedly, its movements slowing as the venom began working its way through the beast's body. Madison shouted at another one of her associates, who ran over to a cabinet and took out a small crossbow and a handful of tranquilizer darts. The associate fired several into the beast, which quickly succumbed to the effects of the drugs.

Madison deemed the experiment a failure, muttering to herself about variables and incompatibilities as we dragged the beast to a safe location to be burned to ash.

But, I know that this will not set her back for long. She is smart, and I trust that she will find what she seeks soon enough.

[The Mongrel]

She was quiet on the boat.

Everyone else cheered and caroused, lured from Corone to the Raiaera by the promise of riches and glory. Burly adventurers, portly merchants, scrawny thieves, all put aside their differences to eat and drink together. In the back of our heads, we knew most of the ones brave enough to actually set foot in the Red Forest wouldn’t be making the return journey, and so we were all friends. Be boasted, we pissed on each other’s boasts, we planned and plotted.

All except for one.

She didn’t speak to anyone unless she had to, she didn’t join us in revelry, she made no prideful remarks. She skulked about the ship during the twilit hours with her hood up and her shoulders hunched. When I saw her face, her features were tight and her expression grim. She didn’t even give us her name.

She was a slender slip of a woman. Her light steps and dark attire marked her as some sort of vagabond. Though she was an elf, she wasn’t fair like the Raiaerans, hearty like the Concordians, or dark like the Alerians; she was something in between. Maybe that was the source of her anxiety. She wouldn’t be welcome in Raiaera.

The night before we docked, she came out to the deck to really stand among us for the first time. We didn’t even know her name, she was so aloof, and though a few men tried to talk to her at the railing, she made no response. She was only with us physically.

Her eyes – green as magnolia leaves – focused beyond the dancing ripples and punctured the shadows on the distant land. Her head lifted a little bit, nostrils flaring slightly as she breathed in the continent’s air. It might have been her first time to see her ancestral lands. She might have been born in Alerar and escaped its confines, but if she was hoping for acceptance, she was bound to be sorely mistaken. Or it might have been her first time back in many decades, and it was not a return she was much relishing.

She stared out for a long time, long enough for many of the adventurers to lose interest and head below for one last night of fun. When she stood alone, I stepped up to her, thinking to offer the unhappy elf a word of comfort or reassurance, but before I could speak, she was gone, out of sight in the blink of an eye.

Most of us didn’t get into the forest; our caravans arrived too late to get us there. But the last I saw her, she was out-walking the oxen and not looking back.

She didn’t have the look of a survivor. If she made it in, she probably died along with so many other fools.

I hope she finds what she’s looking for in her next life.

[Maia]

Contrary to the belief that was cultivated outside of Raiara and Alerar, the long lived elves of both nations were close to humanity than they would ever care to admit. They formed bonds of friendship, loved and drank. They made and hated enemies, tortured themselves over past mistakes and misplaced things. Ururviel, a professor of the Istien school and librarian of no small renown, firmly believed in the stick shoved up the collective backsides of her nation. She also believed that cleaning up after the tragedy that was Xem’zund’s attack was nearly as tedious as her students own research.

So much had been lost in the assaults, the defenses of Istien making it one of the few areas in the entire country to remain stable after the despotic necromancer was defeated. Yet the fighting had crossed the borders of the college near the end, and buildings were razed and torched. Riots amongst the population, elf and human alike all panicking in the flames of the attack. It was finally repelled, and it was Uruviel herself that placed the stasis fields over the still smoldering buildings. It had nearly torn her heart in two to see the work of her people up in flames, but she never expected how numb she would become to it. There were several dozen living on the old campus and Uruviel was sometimes disturbed at how the weight of the sword on her hip became so familiar.

It was in one of the torched libraries, locked in a heavy iron case and sealed with a waxy substance, that Uruviel found an old friend’s work early in the morning. Several inexpertly bound notebooks, and a smaller pamphlet that with Kristel Report neatly written across the front and a large red splotch that still smelled faintly of wine.

The elf snorted, unable to stop the grin from spreading over her face at seeing the neat, but very plain handwriting that characterized the Kristel Report. It’s author was a younger student that had studied under Uruviel, on a scholarship after something or other that the elf had forgotten long ago. There was so much she just didn’t pay attention to before Xem’Zund’s attack, but memories of the student came flooding back. She actually laughed as she opened one of the smaller notebooks, a diary it appeared, and saw her own handiwork at pranking the probably human girl. It was always just so easy to tease her, a bright blush erupting on her face.

Uruviel settled on a slightly singed chair, eyes beginning to absorb the report in her hands. The morning sun shone brightly, providing plenty of nice light. It was only the synopsis, an innocuously titled fifteen page synopsis that, according to that neat handwriting, only touched the highest level of what was contained within. The elf couldn’t help but roll her eyes, sighing in exasperation even before beginning to. Everything the author did was long and detailed, carefully crafted and just so dry that the deserts of Fallien seemed like a lush garden. It was such a far cry from the actual woman who left Raiara several years before, fleeing with the army.

The late afternoon sun a finally begun dipping below the buildings as Uruviel suddenly realized she hadn’t moved since she had begun reading the Kristel Report. She had read the report nearly a dozen times. She almost didn’t believe it at first, but she trusted the author implicitly. She had shifted out her own notebook, a large, mostly empty ledger. It was practically bursting with thoughts and connections now, all of it trying to make sense of the implications that came from this synopsis and its accompanying notebooks.

The notebooks that accompanied the synopsis held some of the research, its original owner not bothering to provide a coherent organizational structure to it. They were marked with simple numerics, listing them as books one, two, four, and eleven and thirteen in a series. Notes were scratched into the margins haphazardly, focused entirely on putting the writing into physical being with no thought to who might read it beyond her. It was a direct view into the anxious, brilliant mind of its author, carefully hidden behind the neat typing of the synopsis.

Uruviel shuddered, chewing on her lip in imitation of her friend. The elf was often amazed at how brilliant the girl could be, but she was numb now. She had magics scouring the rest of the ruins, but she knew that there wouldn’t be anything else of note. She had already found the second, slagged safe with paper ash within. All that remained of this incomplete copy of the Kristel Report was in her hands, and, theoretically, with its author. Uruviel gathered the notes together, putting them into a neat stack and reading the first line of the long synopsis again.

“An examination of the necromancer Xem’Zund; including several focuses on the history of the primary subject, a thorough examination of the nature of its magical energies empowering thralls, the source behind this, and a theory of an emulation of its powers, with initial results and suggestions on improvements;”

“Primary Author, Maia Kristel”

[Lye]

Closed, to be judged soon.

[Rayleigh]

General Thoughts: For this particular vignette, I was looking for the prompt to be applied in a very literal, very clear way. Overall, I found that I was most impressed by pieces that really got inside the onlooker’s head. It was not enough to merely include someone else in a conversation with your character; I wanted to see you flesh out the new perspective that you were writing from.

Medeia – First Place
I thought that this was a fantastic piece overall. You used the prompt in a very creative way; by focusing on the many differences between your onlooker and your character, you were able to teach the reader quite a bit about them both without growing repetitive or overwhelming. You told a complete story with just the right amount of background information, a clear conflict, mounting tension, a climax, and a resolution. Well done.

200 EXP
200 GP

Erirag the Poet – Second Place
This was beautifully written. You used just the perfect amount of description to guide your reader without bogging him or her down. I also appreciated the way that you used your onlooker. Writing from the perspective of someone who dislikes your character can be difficult, but it is also an excellent way to address your character’s flaws, or stereotypes surrounding them. You were true to the prompt throughout, and your nod to the events in the Red Forest was really great. Finally, I enjoyed the bit of mystery that you kept up until the last sentence.

240 EXP
150 GP

Pettigrew
Without a doubt, your strength here was persona. You breathed life into your characters in a way that few authors can, and you managed to give each very unique quirks and personality traits. With that being said, I did not feel that one of your secondary characters drove the focus of your story the way the prompt requested. While you described Lisa’s actions, Pettigrew was present enough that I did not really sense a shift in perspective. I would have loved to have seen a bit more of what was going on in Lisa’s head, or perhaps a bit more about how Lisa viewed Pettigrew.

100 EXP

Aelin Valth
This was a very sweet piece. Your use of first person really helped put the reader inside your onlooker’s head; you were wise to choose that approach. I really enjoy how you used this opportunity to draw attention to your primary character’s flaws. I also appreciated the character development that you included here. Aelin learned an important lesson from his mentor here, and I rarely see that level of growth in vignettes. You did have a few grammatical issues, mostly involving tense changes, which is common if you are not used to writing that way.

100 EXP

Philomel
I thought that this was a really interesting story. I really liked learning a bit more about one of your side characters. You used this opportunity to tell the tale of “the bad guys” in one of Philomel’s skirmishes, and in doing so, you portrayed her very differently. It would have been easy to simply describe her as you normally would, but that was not what the prompt asked, and that was not what you did. I enjoyed the fact that she was captured by your onlooker, though I would have loved to have seen a just a bit more information explaining how they became friends. I certainly would not expect another thousand words, but compared to the rest of your piece, your ending was very abrupt. On that matter, a few paragraphs in the middle of your story felt a bit too heavy narrative-wise. It read a bit like the history portion of a journal, and I don’t think that all that background information was necessary.

400 EXP

BlueGhostofSeaside
Of all of this month’s vignettes, you did the best job getting into your onlooker’s head. You let it shift not only your perspective, but also your writing style. It takes a very dynamic author to achieve that, so great job! This did affect your pacing just a bit, as you had quite a bit of internal reflection, while the bulk of your action was limited to only a few, very simple lines. Perhaps this was a stylistic choice, meant to further portray how your little girl processed what was happening, but I felt that the middle of your story was slightly lacking as a result.

350 EXP

BlackAndBlueEyes - Close Contender
Let me begin by complimenting your use of a journal. It was a really unique approach to this vignette, and it worked quite well. You did an excellent job demonstrating how your onlooker looks up to your primary character. Maddy is portrayed as almost a parental figure to Hyperion, a theme that you craft through the use of simple repetition. His constant comments about Maddy being smart comes across as very childish, which I think was fantastic. Through this, you taught your reader quite a bit about Maddy as well. I was excited to have seen a side of her that I wasn’t accustomed to. My biggest critique here was that there was no real tension, or clear direction. It was more a list of observations, which I suppose is the nature of a journal entry. You did a nice job of incorporating some action near the end, but a bit more would have really added to your piece.

600 EXP

The Mongrel - Close Contender
You did an excellent job of getting inside your onlooker’s head. Her opinion of Illara perfectly matched the story that you wrote for her. My only issue here was that your post was a bit on the passive side. While your character was limited to observing Illara, a clear choice that you made given the elf’s lone tendencies, the story still felt a bit lacking. It was a nice piece, but when I finished reading it, I was unsatisfied. A bit more action, or perhaps a more memorable run in with Illara might have given your vignette just a little more zest.

200 EXP

Maia
This was a very creative, very unique interpretation of the prompt. Your onlooker interacted with your primary character without being in the same room as her. It was a challenging approach, but you pulled it off very well. My only critique would be that your story had just a touch too much description. I felt a bit like I had to trudge through it to get to what was really important - what Uruviel learned, how she reacted to what she read, and what the piece was about. I enjoyed that building mystery, but I do think that a couple of your paragraphs toward the end could have been condensed.

300 EXP

Thank you all for participating! This was tough to judge, as there were so many excellent submissions!

[Rayleigh]

All EXP and GP have been added.