2015 July Vignette

[Lye]

The endgame.

What is your character's endgame? Write them at their highest level/potential. What are they doing? What have they accomplished? How have they changed? How has the world changed? How strong are they? What are their goals? What is their role in the world? Write a post demonstrating what your character's "endgame" will be.

You have until July 31st at midnight to submit your posts. Good Luck.

[SirArtemis]

Life had changed for Artemis. Finally, after much loss, many battles, wild journeys, and unbelievable moments of overcoming incredible odds, Artemis had reached his peak - and as early on in life as his mid-thirties. Nothing could challenge the once vagabond. The magic embedded within him at birth had fully awoken. His trained abilities and natural traits had reached god-like levels. No one dared threaten the man or anyone associated with him, even very distant affiliated, for fear of retribution.

So what did this mean to Artemis? What did it mean to be a god-like figure among mortals, immune to the threats of the world around him, and to feel truly immortal?

Simple. He could retire and do what he loved: work the forge. The Norlond Forge, built anew in the village founded by Artemis and his dear friends, stoked hotter than ever. Their new town, removed from the politics of the Salvarian region, continued on fully self-sustained. The town of Claiger stood tucked beneath a large cliff face that protected the citizens with a natural shield, and Artemis now could live quietly and perfect his dreams.

Today was one of the most exciting days. He stood in his forge with the brothers Bazzak and Nalin Norlond standing back and watching their once apprentice surpass their experience (and Dwarven heritage) to become a legendary smith. They knew that on this day, he would create one of the most masterful weapons ever forged in the history of their world.

The forge's architecture, designed by Artemis himself with the advice of a close friend, stood of adamantine. Despite the metal's rarity, over time enough collected and was thus pieced together into a small yet incredibly effective hearth that could withstand unnatural temperatures; add on a few magical enchantments and you had yourself a forge of supernatural proportion. Today, it would reach levels that had not been achieved in any forge in history - the test was soon to begin.

Daros, an eccentric wizard and the advisor to Artemis on the forge's design and enchantments, had played a larger role than simply that. The years of research and efforts of Artemis himself had allowed the wizard to succeed with one of his many experiments. The wizard now had the capacity to synthesize a specific strand of liviol wood that, infused with the particular magic that it was, would smolder at temperatures beyond the breath of an ancient red dragon. These crimson logs, veined with glowing orange and red lines of magic, lay stacked at the base of the hearth ready to ignite.

Artemis stood wearing his Gade Undersuit, a full-body cloth suit that would keep the man completely comfortable despite the grueling temperatures that would be hot enough to kill most. The dwarven brothers hoped that the particular enchantment that Daros had prepared overnight would be sufficient to keep them safe; Daros encased the forge and Artemis' work area as though looking into a glass dome.

Placed into the hearth itself, where the flames would stoke the metal, lay a brick of adamantite waiting to be forged. Placed upon that, ancient dragonhorn shavings that lay finely ground into a powder. Lastly, a smaller pile of platinum dust and valaiyalman dust sat at the top of it all. Everything lay prepared, including a set of ancient dwarven smithy tools, made of diamond and engraved with runes of the Dwarven Thaynes - nothing would harm them.

Artemis closed his eyes and took a deep breath, staring at the pieces of his dream, realizing that it was all about to come true. All the research, the work, the preparation, and training would all come together into one elegant work of art. With that, the man leaned down with a flint and struck the hearth. As a spark struck the hungry wooden logs, they caught instantly and ignited so violently that Artemis staggered back a few steps and covered his eyes. After just a brief moment he recovered and looked at the brick of adamantine, watching it slowly melt down into a pool with the dusts above. In just minutes, the liquid had pooled perfectly and Artemis pulled a lever to cause the substance to spill into a pre-shaped mold. He switched his vision into the infra-red spectrum, watching the temperatures very carefully to know just when the metal was ready to work. When the time came, he lifted the blade using the dwarven tools, and got to work.

The project didn't take long; as is the case for many things in life, it is the buildup that takes time - the climax is brief. The Norlond brothers watched on in awe, their jaws slack the entire time, as Artemis worked quickly and precisely. His hammer strikes and rotations of the blade were works of art in and of themselves. His skill was unrivaled and watching the man work was a blessing few would know, and fewer could appreciate. In less than half an hour, the blade lay upon the anvil cooling. Artemis set his tools down, looked upon the weapon, and smiled. There were only fine touches left to make.

With just a hammer and chisel to work with, he etched the name of the blade in ancient elven just above where he would attach the hilt. Carefully, he slid the final piece in place, securing it with a spell that only he could cast without severe repercussions (due to his magical creation). Then, he simply walked through the magical dome that Daros had prepared and joined his dwarven companions. Once past the barrier, he removed his mask and smiled widely at the two.

"It'd done." He looked at their eyes and saw only tears welling up on their old dwarven cheeks. He knelt down and hugged them both close as they began to sob on his shoulders, truly overwhelmed emotionally by what had transpired. The blade, respectfully dubbed Graxis, would be a weapon that would survive them all. The method of creation would die with Artemis and his dearest friends. Graxium would be a substance that no one would ever replicate. It was a most exciting day for Artemis and his closest friends.

__________________________________________________ __________________

Days later, after the blade fully cooled and set, Artemis held the weapon and admired his work. He had never lacked the confidence to craft the blade, but even now, he could only be in awe that such a blade existed, let alone by his own hand.

The weapon, a short sword by the simplest definition, had a blade approximately sixty-five centimeters in length. From the hilt where the ancient elven script read "Graxis" the blades extended and split, with two identical edges running parallel around nothingness until meeting at the tip of the weapon. The entire weapon appeared eerily black with flakes of gold peppering the blade and a chromatic effect appearing when light struck the blade just right. The cross guard and handle were wrapped in black dragon hide and the pommel itself took on the avatar of Graxis himself: a golden dragon's head with eyes of silver marked by kiramaini pearls. The design was indestructible, lighter than one could imagine, sharpened to an edge that would never dull, and infused with a magic that would help find and eliminate evil within the world.

The final step, one that even Artemis felt overwhelmed by, was the premise of it all. Artemis, with the help of Daros once again, would infuse the essence of the golden dragon's identity within the blade, giving it sentience. With that, Artemis would feel validated in all that he had done. His already sentient bow, that he wore upon his forearm in the form of a bracer when not used, would be accompanied by a sentient blade. His two wisest and most influential teachers, Graxis and Judicis, would be with him always and would remain eternal.

To Artemis, this was the epitome of his years of work as a smith. There would never be a better weapon made by his hand, and he was ok with that. And finally, after much work, years of preparation, it finally came to fruition. As the ritual completed and he picked up the blade, he heard the words he had desperately wished to hear once more resonate within the recesses of his mind.

"Ah, I see you succeeded. It's good to be back with you, Artemis."

Graxis lived.

[Good for Nothing Captain]

A bright yellow sun buA bright yellow sun burned in the sky, high above Archen. It was the kind of day where even the freezing cold of the north bowed in reverence to the yellow orb's tender embrace. The hour was late, and most functioning members of society were nearing the middle of their work day. Construction workers kept busy, working hard to expand a portion of their town. The streets were a symphony of merchants calling people to see their wares and sample their foods and drink. A group of children ran past a slender teen, nearly knocking him off his feet and his glasses off his face.

It looks like things are finally back to normal, the boy smiled, correcting the posture of his spectacles.

It's have been crazy at the 'Odd Jobs' since this whole thing ended. I never thought it would happen like that. . . And Victor. . .

The boy held back a tear. He removed his glasses to soothe the bridge of his nose using two fingers and replaced his token specs. He smiled again, wider than before, and bore his teeth at the world. His grin was goofy, and filled with joy. But his eyes spoke of sadness, and pain. The odd combination made the group of children run in fear as the boy started to laugh.

He would want it like this, he would want me to keep going and smiling. . . Just like we used to.

The boy walked up the stairs to the recently vacant living quarters above the bar, where he worked. He stopped at the door, listening, waiting; hoping to smell booze and hear the grumblings of a recently woken, hung-over man-child. But nothing could be heard.

"It's about time the garbage was picked up, Mr. Glasses," a young voice said from the bottom of the staircase. Light brown hair, cut shorter than he had ever seen it, hung just above her shoulders. Eliza's orange eyes avoided the gaze from behind his glasses.

"And just who the hell is mister glasses?" he asked rhetorically. But the familiar nicknames and denial of his identity beyond the glasses was a familiar comfort. The two of them stood in silence; neither of the two could think what to say or how to move forward.

"One step at a time," a deep voice called from inside the bar. A handsome dark-elf in fine clothes moved one of the curtains, which served as a door, aside. "I don't know when I'll get there. . . But eventually, it will all make sense. Thanks again, as always, for a good drink," the dark-elf concluded, giving a short bow to the hostess inside, before turning to face the two kids.

"Yo," he said, lifting his right hand in motionless wave.

"Hey Petey," Eliza said, moving down the flight of stair, glad for a reason not to go in to her own home.

"It's not Petey, it's Peter," all three said aloud, in the same practiced voice. A laugh resounded after a short silence and exchanged glances. The small group reveled in nostalgia, and the familiar catch-phrases they all came to know and love.

"Are you going somewhere?" the boy in glasses asked, trying to avoid a silence.

"Yes," Peter began, while he started to look for something in his pockets, "I wanted to go and let Boris and the rest back home know what happened. . ." He paused mid-search, realizing how difficult things would be, very soon. The three friends shared the unspoken sentiment, in no small way.

"I-uh, I haven't seen Ashley around," the dark-elf half-asked.

"She said she needed time. . ." the boy replied, "and a change of scenery."

"I see, I guess she isn't the only one. In the face of tragedy, some will look for a new distraction, while others look to the comfort of the past. . . We all have our own way of dealing with pain and regret. . . And so did he," Peter removed a large stack of papers from within a pocket they could not have possibly fit in, without the use of magic. "It seems 'The Jacks-of-all-Trades' have a new job."

Time passed slowly as the three caught up and said good bye. The pair walked into the bar, bidding hello to the landlady and several other familiar faces, all huddled around a table. The laughter did not end when they arrived, nor did the story telling and the exaggerated movements and facial expressions. Nova nodded a slight hello to the pair and continued to listen.

The boy and girl wandered through town, papers in hand, putting up 'missing cat' flyers. They both took one side of the street, putting the posters on walls, doors, windows and people; the latter of which protested, but their cries fell on deaf ears. While the town around them was bustling with noise, arguments and laughter, they walked in silence. Their eyes seemed glued to the ground, as if looking anywhere else might insight painful memories and bring the tears back. Try as them might to fight the pain, it was getting the better of them. A flyer fell to the ground; a sketch of a black cat with red eyes, sitting in a window took up the center. The words under the sketch read, 'contact the Jacks-of-all-Trades with any information.'

"This is just like our first job together," the boy said to the girl across the street, after several hours had passed.

"Oh," Eliza replied without looking up at him, also making the connection, "we were looking for a cat that time too."

"Victor was so excited about the Jacks-of-all-Trade's first mission," he recalled, peeling his eyes away from the ground to look at his co-worker.

"It didn't last very long though. . ." Eliza put in, meeting the boy's gaze for the first time that day.

"Yeah and the old lady dressed it up in funny clothes, and gave it weird haircuts," the boy laughed, fixing his glasses. "We'd been chasing it for days and Victor said he was giving up and going to go gamble!" the pair erupted with laughter again.

"That's right! and we were so angry with him for dumping all the responsibility on two kids. I remember the stupid look on his face when I threw a dagger at his head! He was covered in blood, but those stupid red, dead fish-eyes of his didn't even blink!"


"Hey now," the boy interjected, "that was a little too much, he nearly bled to death. . . and the bill for that medic came out of our pay. . . not that he'd actually ever paid us. . ."

"Still, afterwards we looked everywhere," Eliza continued, "I went to every single bar."

"Why would a cat go to a bar?"

"Cause it got thirsty," the girl replied mockingly, sending a dirty look to the boy in glasses before disguising her voice to sound like an old man, "a brat not yet weaned off his momma's teat has no place in a quest for real men."

"That's what he said back then too," the boy chuckled. As the pair walked, the crowed thinned and the bustle slowed to a crawl. They continued their reflective tale and basked in the reverie of good times, and the warmth of the setting sun.

"So we turned the corner, those thugs on our tail, and there they were! All those fancy kitty clothes on the floor with the cat peeing on them!"

Eliza burst out laughing, "and Victor was already there, peeing with it!"

"I swear, they both had the same indifferent expression!" the boy laughed, almost uncontrollably. Both he and Eliza walked in the center of the road, most people already gone. They circled the whole city, and the flyers were also gone. Their laughing filled the streets, and several shouts and complaints flew their way. But they just kept laughing; an obnoxious, childish and extravagant laugh, that they learned from the same man. But from their eyes, tears flowed freely. At long last, they let go.

A bored sigh drew their attention, as they passed another gambling house. Two red iris' stared apathetically at the street, under a rising moon. Victor Valentine cleaned the inside of his ear with his pinky and flicked off the contents before noticing his two employees.

"Oh, you guys are here," he began nonchalantly.

"It's been a while, huh?" Victor laughed, "I oughtta clean your clocks for leaving me like that. . ."

"It took me days to find my way out of those catacombs. . ."

"And then I got thirsty so. . . I went to a. . ."

"H-hey. . . why are you looking at me like that. . .?"

"You're the ones who left! No one even bothered looking for me!"

". . . Seriously. . . Stop looking at me like that. . . You hear me!? I'll kill you!!"

". . .P-please? please stop. . . Come on, I'll give you three copper pieces. . ."

"Hey. . . st-tay back. . . I'm serious. . ."

"C-come on Eliza. . . We're old buddies. . . R-right? Damnit! This is why you were left out of the story for so long! This is exactly why! It's that attitude, right there!"

"H-hey now, Glasses. . . I helped you out. . . Right? I mean. . . I gave you a job. . . And. . . Well this is where you get introduced so nothing else is know about you. . . But. . .This is exactly why you don't have a developed character! You haven't even been called by your name yet! Do you have a name?! I don't know!! You're pissing off both me and the author!"

"C-come on. . . Let's just be friends. . ."

"Y-you wanna die?! Eliza. . .? Glasses. . .?"

"I-I'm sorry, okay? I-" and the cool Archen night's silence was broken by terrible, girlish screams of pain. As a black cat, with red eyes licked it's paws on the roof above them, the violence continued.

Yup. . . Back to normal. . .

[Light]

The bleak dismal sky stretched infinitely in front of me, no clouds or radiant color danced around the air here anymore. The stench of burnt skin licked my nostrils as my eyes searched for any sign of life. The ground, charred and lugubrious, with the sound of crunching bones under my leather boots as I made my way throughout this graveyard.

This is what is left of Rairera. My home.

The years of war and plague swept through the land, destroying all glimpses of magic and beauty that once touched this earth. The dark elves rose up against us all, and we were all are blind to their growing power until it was too late.

I remember seeing this power long ago and I should have stopped it, but I was too young and naive to truly understand what I saw in those mines.

I wish I could tell you I was innocent in this massacre that tore through this is era, but I would be lying to you. The day I was banned from my homeland and…Amra…was the day my soul was split and the darkness overtook what little light I had left. The evil that consumes me, even till this day, still runs deep in my veins.

That…Lilith…still beats inside of me.

My boots trudged through the broken cobblestone walkways as I entered the once grand gates of Eluriland. The long forgotten grandiose buildings, now lay in ruins. Embers still floating along the musical whispings of the wind as my eyes fell upon the death that lay before me. My foot crunched loudly underneath me, as I knelt down to scoop up a small child’s skull covered in ash.

Should I feel sadness for this sight before me? Anger? Regret?

No.

They all deserved this fate. My people were too proud and blinded by their own sense of worth that this end seems fitting for them all.

When the dark else rose up against all of Althanas and their magic, I abandoned my people. While I did not want anything to do with the scum of the dark elves, I also did not want to enter a war with no end game for myself. My thirst for power and revenge was my only guiding light, everything else just seemed…pointless.

When my whole life was spent finding Amra and getting my life back, I was only met with more betrayal and disappointment. The day I came face to face with my one true enemy, I was only broken down more. All the fighting, stealing and lying was all for nothing! The fragile pillars that held me…shattered and even in death, I still found no relief from my pain.

Why did the Gods choose to make me this way? To make me a slave even in death was the cruelest punishment to bestow on any mortal. I now am cursed to walk these lands for all eternity and never be reunited with my family. I guess all the blood I spilt on my hands and the power I thirsted for had a price even I did not fully understand.

“Lilith, this place is nothing but a wasteland. What the Hell are we doing here after all these years?” Bartok’s liquid ice voice woke me from my lost thoughts. I slowly picked myself back onto my feet and began walking down Threshing Way, my old block. My fingers traced along the decaying buildings as I searched for 1402, or at least what was left of it. I could sense Bartok’s annoyance as I ignored his questions and pushed forward.

There was something I needed to get.

I wrapped my crimson cloak tightly around my shoulders as the frigid wind kicked around the leaves in our wake. Once that fateful day fell and the world I once knew ripped to pieces, the Demon Lilith’s true face came forth. Her power was unlike anything I ever felt and the destruction that followed in my path only seemed to make me more darker. I found my way towards the Crimson Hands guild and there, the flowers of dissolution sprouted and spread more chaos. I was only interested in pursuing the ultimate power and finally put an end to Eylon and…her.

Bartok was the only companion I have known for the last few months, the only one that can survive around Demon Lilith when she emerges. I guess I enjoy his company in that form, which sends shivers up my spine at what kind man I keep in my party. He usually keeps to himself until the other side of me takes control and I am finding that happens more and more each day. I know that eventually she will consume me and who knows when that day will finally come.

My very existence is to finally place an arrow though my enemies heads and finally know true peace. I just pray I will get to see that day before the Demon takes full control. I need to be the one that sees the life escape their eyes, not her.

I felt a cold grasp envelop my heart as the thought of their deaths rose in my conscious and…she began to tingle with excitement at the notion. I inhaled and slowly released the dark thoughts that caused her to stir. I needed her to keep quiet until I saw it with my own eyes and fear or anger caused her to take over. I must keep calm and composed at all costs.

I heard a rustle behind one of ruined buildings to our left, I snapped up my bow, nocked an arrow and laid my aim down the sights. “Who goes there!?” I shouted as I paced to the right to gain sight of my potential foe. I saw a blur of movement and released my grasp on my fletching as I watched the arrow sing in the air and impact with a barrel. The sound startled our company and they leapt from their hiding spot behind it. Another arrow already in place as I saw what stepped before me.

My breathe caught as my bow slowly lowered and my grasp loosened on my arrow. The fragile child faced me and stared directly into my eyes, fear captured in her features and her breathing rapid. She looks as though she has not eaten in weeks and the smell of feces emanated around her.

How long has she been here?

I felt a lump in the back of my throat at the sight of this small, elven child that stood in front of me. The orange flecks of embers whisked around her and she was almost nude with the scraps of clothes that sagged from her. My sight never left hers as I knelt down in front of her, my hand pulled around to my knapsack. She backed away as I did and I felt like she was prepared to run. My fingers clung to my object in my bag as I pulled forth a small , fiery red apple. The child’s eyes did not falter at the sight, nor did she move once I placed it on the ground for her to have.

She continued to stare at me, my intuition started to flare as we continued to gaze at each other. Something…was off. There should be no one here. This land has been abandoned for hundreds of years, no child would have survived. I felt the whisp of air pass my cheek as I watched an arrow fly by me and sink into the child’s shoulder.

The child’s loud hiss resounded in the dead air and her eyes flashed their white pupils as she pulled the arrow from her shoulder. Magic seems to have allowed her to change her appearance before me. Her positioned changed and she knelt down like a cat, ready to pounce for her feast. Bartok released another arrow from behind me, but her reflexes where inhuman. She quickly dodged and returned to her hunting stance, ready to claim her meals.

This was no innocent child, this was a cursed corpse. I snapped up my bow, but her snake like reflexes reacted quicker. She leapt straight for my throat, her claw like fingernails outstretched for me. I felt my heart skip a beat as my adrenaline kicked in when our eyes locked onto each other.

No…no.. calm down, Lilith. You can’t feel anything!

Her nails sunk into my throat and her wailing echoed along around the empty buildings as we fell to the ground. The sharp sting took the breath out of me as I felt the familiar tug from my consciousness as the Demon stirred.

She was waking up.

This corpse child snapped her canine like jaws at my throat as I tried to hold her off. I did not hear Bartok rushing to my rescue, it seems it may be waiting for her to show up. The child was getting closer and closer to snacking on my flesh and I felt the icy dread of panic seeping into my veins. How they heck is this thing so strong? These cursed lands may still flow with the dark magic that was used here, feeding it more power. I have to remain calm, but the darkness felt soo good.

I couldn’t hold her back much longer. She would take control any minute, and I can feel her salivating at the opportunity.

The child’s jaws only inches from my artery, I felt the pull from ‘Lilith’ creeping into the cracks of my subconscious until I could no longer fight it. My emotions were winning and she knew it.

At least I got to see home one last time.

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

Lilith’s eyes snapped open and the smell of the decaying earth filled her nostrils. She inhaled sharply as her deep, black eyes peered into the foe that was on top of her. She pulled her arm up and grasped around the frail looking throat of the child. She squeezed tightly and yanked the creature from her as she stood. The thing was wreathing around and clawing at her greaves, trying to consume her. Normally, she would love the sight of such a thing consuming people, but she still needs this body.

“I leave for only a short while and you merely stand around nearly getting me killed?” Venom leaked out of her tone as she held the corpse above the ground.

“I am sorry, My Lady! I knew she would lose control eventually. She has been trying to hide out from any danger.” Bartok knelt down onto his knees as he looked at his Master. “I had to put you in danger so I could see you again!” He pleaded as he head touched the ground, waiting for her forgiveness.

“Pathetic.” Lilith spat out. She squeezed tighter until she felt the snap of the neck and the child went limp in her grasp. She threw it to the ground and dusted her hands, “Chop the head unless you want it to come back and I feed you to her.

“Of course, My Lady! Anything!” Bartok withdrew his blade and scurried to the corpse and struck down hard and fast to release the head from the body.

Lilith looked around her to see where she had taken them. “Hmph. Clever girl.” Lilith whispered out.

So, she finally figured it out, didn’t she? Lilith picked up the bow and felt the cool iron graze her flesh. It felt good to be out again. The other side of her was trying to escape danger for some time and her muscles felt weak as she stretched them out. Soon she won’t need to deal with this nuisance. She glanced around and saw her destination about 20 meters north. Bartok saw her quickly make her way as he scrambled after her.

“My Lady, where are we going?”

“The other me may be naïve and fragile, but she got smarts. Coming here was not just a trip down memory lane for her, she needed something. Probably didn’t tell you that?” Lilith’s eyebrow raised as she asked. Bartok stuttered and fumbled with his cloak as she glared behind her. “I will take your silence as a no. God, could you be less useful.” She spat out.

“I apologize, My Lady! I will work on being more useful!”

Lilith’s eyes landed on her destination in front of her. She grazed her hand along the ashen letters until ‘1402’ shown thrown the grime. She wiped her dirty fingers along Bartok’s cloak as a wicked smile spread on her lips. She kicked down the door with such force, it blew off the hinges. Dust and cobwebs littered the air around them as they entered the Kaethar home. Specs of light danced on the decaying walls and the air smelt musty and wet. Lilith swatted away the spider webs as she searched for the stairs to the second floor.

Bartok opened from of the drawer in search for loot. Such a simple creature, Lilith thought. She found the stairs and made her way to the second floor. She could feel Lilidith fighting her, trying to hide the information from her.

Foolish girl. Does she not understand that I am a part of her now? A malicious smile danced on the corners of her lips as her hand turned the knob into Amra’s old room.

The door creaked open and large gaping holes were scattered along the room. Old drawn pictures lay atop the dresser to her left, Lilith went to grab one. The drawing was one of a small elven girl being saved by a knight on a white steed. She felt herself laugh at the ridiculousness of such drawings, there are no knights or saviors coming to save you in this world. She crumbled up the paper and tossed it out of a large hole to the street.

“My Lady, what exactly are we looking for in this desolate place? It has long since been searched.” The floors boards whined under Bartok’s large weight as he entered the room after her.

“What we search for is not treasure, Bartok.” Lilith’s hands scrambled through some open drawers until she found an old box buried in the back on one. She pulled the burgundy box and placed it on the counter, it creaked when she opened it. Nothing was inside.

She felt the corners until she found the torn edge and peeled back the backing of the jewelry box until she found what was hidden. Her frail fingers closed around the intricate necklace as she pulled it up to look at it. “Clever…clever, girl.”

“She came all this way for some junky looking necklace?”

Lilith’s attention snapped down to Bartok and he retracted as if bite by venom. “You do not know what this is, do you?” Bartok shook his head as fear gripped him from Lilith’s villainous glare. “This, Bartok, is how we will finally be together forever.” Lilith placed the small necklace in her pocket and she stood at the large hole facing the street from the room.

“Truly, My Lady!?” Bartok’s excitement dripped from his tone. “Bartok would like that very much!”

“Then, shall we?” Lilith held her hand out to Bartok.

“Yes, My Lady!”

With that, Lilith’s hand flashed up in front of her as she quietly spoke an incantation and the black portal opened before them. She grasped his hand and they both entered the dark pit that would lead Lilith to the one sorcerous that would help the other ‘Lilith’ disappear…forever.

As they entered the portal, Lilith couldn’t help but sing her favorite tune and know that she finally…won.


Her wrath is known throughout the black,

the gardens of death she is tending

Vengeance is her only ward

Beware the blood red rose's thorn

[The Keeper]

“So this is what old age feels like,” Regis mumbled to himself. After nearly a century of life, he felt himself reaching his end. He was relieved that the library, his everything, had been left in good hands. He could rest assured that his dear old friend Ruby would keep an eye on the man he had agreed to pass on the role of Keeper to.

So now he just waited for his time to come. His routine was the same, day in and day out. He would rise early and brew a fresh pot of tea, taking a cup with him as he meandered the same route of Underwood. He would stop at a stone bench engraved in dedication to Mother Holly, a woman who gave most her life to the orphans of the town. He would sip half his cup of tea while there, watching the world wake and the droplets of dew settle upon the endless green of the small town.

Underwood was a beautiful place to live, and just as beautiful to retire as well. The endless lines of oak and grass made each breath as delicious and fresh as could be. The songs of the many birds filled the air with a new and unique, though always beautiful, morning melody. And the people were often in good spirits. War hadn’t been to the town in decades, and people flourished, living in peace and prosperity. Children no longer died needlessly of hunger. Doctors and educators were readily available and affordable for all. His library was busier than ever and actually had an assistant working there with the new Keeper.

Life was beautiful. Regis knew this. He was grateful. Though he never married or had children, he knew love in its own right. He had fallen in love with the world he lived in, with the worlds he’d never visit because they simply existed in books, with the people of this town, with the travelers who passed through, with the adventurers who sought wisdom, and also with himself. He had learned to accept who he was. He had found peace.

He had lost all of his hair. His vision was dim and barely enough to see well past five yards ahead, even with his glasses. What was left of his vision was in part due to the few gifts Ruby had given him throughout the years to make life a little more comfortable as he made his way toward the end.

After half of his cup of tea was finished, he’d rise and wander down his path to the marketplace.

“Morning Frank,” he said to the stall keeper. This particular one had a close relationship with Regis. He kept an eye out for any books that may be of interest to the retired Keeper. After all, he could still help add to the collection. “Anything this morning?”

“Good to see you Regis! You look a decade younger today!” the man answered with a smile. He was a thin man, well groomed with a very neat mustache and comb over of dark brown. He wore a simple set of trousers and a light tunic today of dark blue.

“Stop it Frank,” Regis said with a chuckle, “don’t give an old man too much hope for tomorrow, in case it doesn’t come.”

“Oh come now, don’t be so morbid. You’ve been saying that for so long that I think the Thayne’s wouldn’t let you die if you wanted. They’d just reincarnate you in a fifty year old body; just so you feel familiar is all. We all know you were never younger than fifty.” The two men shared a laugh before Regis continued his stroll through the town. He still dressed well with a white collared shirt, black trousers with a matching black overcoat, and finely made dress shoes to complete the ensemble.

He noticed the fruit vendors setting up shop with their harvest. He saw the tailor hanging out some of her new seasonal wear. He watched the new orphan keeper taking the children for a stroll to their local park. All the while with a smile, sipping tea from his favorite porcelain tea cup, rimmed with a golden décor and colored with lovely sky blue floral patterns.

After the hour stroll, he’d find his way to his loving library. He’d make his way up the familiar steps, set down his teacup on the porch by his favorite seat, and head inside as the new Keeper was settling in. He’d greet the man, decide on a random volume to read that day, take it off the shelf, and kick off his shoes once he sat upon that very seat of his.

And so went his days. Routine. Relaxed. Comfortable. He had earned retirement, and no one would argue. Some joked that if the Thayne’s were in need of a librarian, he’d be the most qualified man they had. And through it all, he knew every person who lived in Underwood and they knew him. He had a family. Something he never had growing up. And if there was one thing the books had certainly been right about it was this:

“Near the end, it isn’t the money you’ve made, what you own, or the legacy you’ve left behind; it all comes down to the relationships you have with those around you.”

Regis was a grateful man. And one day, sitting in his favorite chair, he closed his eyes for a short nap and never opened them again. Stories are still told of the smile on his face when they found him, and the name of the book he had held that day.

How to Brew a Memory

[Glories of Myrmidion]

“For Althanas! For glory!”

On a wave of a thousand hooves he thundered towards his foes. Soot and cinder smothered the distant horizon. The mud below his feet churned into a morass of smog and slime. Behind him followed the knights of the Army of the West, their lances bearing the pennants of a dozen devastated homelands. To his right sallied the riders of the Army of the East, wielding bow in accord with spear. To his left rode the elnaith of the Silverwind, resplendent in their glittering ithilmar mail.

All knew that none would survive the hour.

On this day the light of the Thaynes would perish, consumed by the same shadow that had plucked the stars from the sky above. An empty black void now lingered where once the sun had risen. In its death throes the moon mourned its passing, ablaze in baleful crimson fire. Roiling darkness surged towards the world’s final bastion of hope, desecrating the corpses of the millions caught unawares, devouring every shred of life from the overrun grasslands.

Such was the ultimate fate of Althanas, helpless in the jaws of the apocalypse that the learned ones called Cataclysm.

Jehan cared not. His sea-green gaze saw only enemies to his fore, and comrades to his rear. His broad shoulders felt only the thunder of his steed between his legs, and the heft of the sword in his hand as it pointed the way forwards. Corrosive death infiltrated his nostrils, and hollow silence his ears, but neither mattered in sight of his doom. Battle beckoned, and glory, though none would ever learn of his deeds on this day.

The embattled allied line of grim-faced footmen parted before him, and now he rode amongst the shadows that would be the death of them all. They retreated like wisps of smoke before his charge, wailing like the banshees of legend, tearing at his greaves with raking claws of ethereal ebony. Like a massing tide they regrouped just beyond the reach of his blade, always watchful, always wary, hissing like a spiteful tomcat in equal parts goading and triumph. They knew he could not harm them. They knew how easily they could wring his neck from his body.

Onwards still he rode. Miasma rolled in, thick banks of black fog advancing on an unfelt wind. First the banners of the East faded from his sight, then the silvery shimmer of the Silverwind. Alone at the head of his men he continued the charge, away from the knoll where the remaining few Chosen made their last stand.

The knight to Jehan’s left was the first to die. Tendrils of night speared him through his helm, and his head dissolved in a bubbling mess of frothing bone and boiling blood. The rest of his body followed suit as the darkness ate away at his flesh. His screaming steed, and two more riders splattered by the gore, followed him into the Lady’s Grace.

The knight to his right somehow parried three blows by the shapeless shadows that haunted him. Chanting the Litany of Defiance at the top of his lungs he swung his warhammer in turn, though it carved through the inky black without causing harm. Still he sang when they cut down his steed from beneath him and dragged him from the saddle. Still his melodious refrains echoed through Jehan’s mind, even as he left the disintegrating corpse in his wake.

“For Althanas!”

One by one the pennants fell around him. One by one the steeds ceased their thunderous beat. One by one the screams went silent.

But onwards Jehan rode, straight and true to the last, across the ocean of bloody mud and into the folds of everlasting night.

When the shadows parted in his wake, they left only the unblemished silver steel of his breastplate in his grave of rot and devastation.

[Faustuss]

Faust studied the painting, admiring every stroke of color. The artist had been remarkable, mixing simple pigment and water into an image that contained light, depth, and raw emotion. It was a pity the woman had died so young. Given another thirty years or so, not even the most gifted of seers could predict what she would have created.

Faust sighed and tore his gaze from the painting. There would be time to peruse his gallery later. All the time in eternity. He traced a lazy sigil in the air with one skeletal finger and manifested himself in the citadel’s throne room. His allies and generals stood around a table, arguing over maps and diagrams. He shook his head. But then, he’d never expected assembling an army of vampires, wights, warlocks, necromancers, lycanthropes, and Crimson Hand assassins would be an easy task. They, he included, had been the world’s misfits for the last thousand years. Distrusts, anger, and violence had helped them survive this long and were not easily forgotten.

“Gentleman, ladies,” Faust spoke, and the room fell silent instantly. Standing well over six and a half feet tall, Faust cut an imposing figure. The crimson robes he wore served the double purpose of catching their attention and masking the blood he was about to spill. “Let us not forget who the enemy is. The Ixian Knights and their patchwork alliance. They, who have rejected our offer of eternal life and tricked the world into doing the same!” Around the table, voices rang out in assent.

“My lord,” a bear of a man spoke. Umbar was the only one in the room who stood taller than Faust, and more than three times as wide with bulging muscle. “The fortress is directly over the battlefield. Should I deploy my men?” Faust had to admit that even he respected his lycanthrope general’s loyalty and competence. The man had been almost as useful as the floating citadel to which he referred.

“Yes, general,” Faust replied, smiling. Some members of the group paled visibly at the sight. The lich gestured to a servant, and the boy hurried over bearing a staff of blackened wood. “I will join you shortly.” General Umbar nodded and hurried off. “Do the rest of you know your jobs?”

“Aye,” the assassin spoke up. “Me and my boys drop in behind the lines and pick off the Orlouges one at a time.” The hired knives had been expensive, but if they lived up to half of their reputation they would be worth every coin.

“The coven is standing by and ready to reanimate the fallen,” a woman said. At first, even Faust had had difficulty seeing past her golden hair and clear blue eyes. She looked like an enchantress or a nobleman’s wife. But beneath it all, she was the most competent necromancer the lich had ever met, including himself. “Our own, and the enemy’s.”

The rest followed up with similar affirmations, and Faust nodded, satisfied. Now it was time for his part. He made his way across the throne room, the rhythmic fall of his staff echoing off the cold stone walls. With a gesture, the ebony double doors flew open and silver moonlight spilled in. It reflected off the lich’s polished bones and illuminated the chaos of the battlefield bellow. Faust smiled again. He didn’t mind being fashionably late to the party. He raised the staff to the sky, chanting words in the arcane tongue. The heavy syllables hung in the air, driven into reality itself like coffin nails.

With a roar that shook the bones of the earth, a dragon once slain by the Ixian knights tore free from the ground and flew up to the floating citadel to meet Faust. It landed in front of its master, and the fortress shook with the force of the impact. The beast was beyond a doubt his finest handiwork. Without a word, Faust mounted the dragon’s decaying back and commanded it to take flight.

Faust thought back to the painting as the beast swept over the battlefield. It was too late to save the artist from death’s grip. While Faust worked magic in a more conventional sense, his wife’s talent with paint and ability to create beauty was even more extraordinary. She’d still died to the pitiless ravages of time just like a common animal. Even five hundred years later, the lich still raged at the injustice of it all. But today, that would change.

Today, Faust would usher in a new dawn of unlife across the land and share his gift with the world. He considered himself something of an artist as well, taking his will and changing the canvas of reality itself to suit his vision. He glanced down at the assembled Ixian forces, and felt something like sorrow stirring in his hollow chest. It was almost a pity the future had to be painted in blood.

[redford]

Forty years.

Forty years to the day since he’d started working at this forge at the edge of Radasanth. It was still a humble home, but built with strong beams and foundation. John looked out the window. Night would be upon him soon, and he would need to get to work. There were two diagrams in front of him, a crown and sword with magical enchantments so complex and obscure that it had taken John weeks just to obtain designs for some of the sigils, much less learn what manner of magic to infuse into them and just how to engrave them.

John’s mostly gray hair hung with streaks of golden down to his shoulders, slightly obscuring his the vision to left and right. The cigar smoldered between his teeth as a haze around his head slowly thickened, his oversized frame sitting in an oversized chair. He pondered the sheets sitting in front of him, covered with magical runes of varying power and origin. There were two spaces left to fill, one at the front of the crown, another at the pommel of the sword. He was trying to make the best of the choices he possessed. His lips pursed as he leaned forward in the chair, beginning to stand. His joints popped as he stood upright, and his knee refused to extend fully. He grunted in pain. It was getting harder to move lately.

But long ago John learned the trick of moving his limbs when they were stuck. He concentrated on his back, Where the two inch plate that covered his back had grown of some powerful, ancient metal that defied explanation. The metal moved like quicksilver down his legs, covering them. Two plates formed at either side of the leg, and forced it to move. Where John’s limbs and muscles failed him, his stubborn will forced unwilling joints into action. He groaned softly as he forced his legs to move with the metal.

The gauntlets he’d found when he was still a boy proved to be useful in many ways.

At first, it had been simply an increase in his skill with his fists, though he could not remove the gauntlets from his hands. Through the years, the gauntlets grew into a full set of armor, and eventually he’d managed to exert such control over the mysterious alloy that he could concentrate the armor to a point on his back, leaving the rest of him uncovered. Though, even now he still could not remove it entirely.

John willed his legs to move toward the door that stood at the corner of his room, opening it to a walk in closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves, covered in books and sheets of parchment. His hands moved over the shelves, searching for a very particular sheet with a sigil designed to absorb and strengthen the magic in the ones around it. Not powerful on it’s own, but if placed in the right configuration, it could make the two pieces substantially more powerful. He returned to the drawing table and took a quill, practiced, steady hands drawing the sigils in their respective locations. He sat back and looked at his work.

Now, for the difficult part.

-----------------------------------

The barn of the old farmhouse served as a makeshift forge for the first twenty years that it was here, before the Anvil arrived.

The Anvil appeared one day as an earthquake struck Radasanth. It rose from the ground as a two foot square beam of enchanted iron, and extended, John assumed, to the very depths of Althanas itself. It was engraved on the sides with glowing red veins that pulsed intermittently. Whether a fluke of some long-forgotten magic or the gift of a Thayne, he cared not, only knew that the Anvil could heat the metal that sat upon it to insane temperatures, and allow him to forge the adamantine armor for which he was known, at least to those who knew about such things.

John walked toward it, holding several pieces of ore in his hands. This would be a culmination of his skill. Although perhaps he would be able to forge other pieces like this, he was sure of it. This was the pinnacle of his skill, and there was nothing else to be done to increase the enchantments of the piece or the quality of its forging.

He wondered, briefly, if this was to be his legacy to leave the world. The sums of his accomplishments flashed through his mind quickly. Champion of the Citadel, Monk of the order of Ai’Bron, master of all styles of unarmed fighting, and now, one of only five smiths in the world with the ability and skill to fashion Adamantine after the craft had been revived by Artemis.

John wondered where the man was now. Undoubtedly he’d left the world with a great gift, John thought, but even such fame as he possessed would fade. A man’s achievements were measured by how they stood against time. But like a mountain stream wearing away the rock on which it sits, time wears all men, and all of man’s achievements to dust. John felt the inevitability of age, of infirmity, and eventual death, and wondered.

So much of his life, when he faced death, there was also the presence of adrenaline. There was always danger in death, excitement as John took the chances he did. But now, as his body failed him, there was no excitement, no adrenaline to distract him from the marching of time toward his end. His lips pursed, and he spit the cigar out of his mouth, shifting his long gray hair from his eyes. But this, this set of armor was to be his legacy, it would be how men knew that John existed. This adamantine crown and sword would stand against time as a monument to all that John was. And whether or not they knew him as the smith, or even knew the name John Cromwell, was their problem, not his.

The Anvil pulsed with a more intense ruby glow now, painting the inside of the barn with red light. John never did figure out how it knew when he was at the forge, much less knew how hot to heat the metal, but honestly, he hadn’t cared. The Anvil heated whatever was placed upon it to exactly as hot as John wanted it. He looked down to the pieces of metal in his hands, soon to be nearly indestructible, and wished that he’d cared a little more about how the things around him worked, and not cared simply that they did. He sighed, it was too late for that now.

Up until now, he’d never tried to forge adamantine at such intense temperatures. He hoped the Anvil would be able to.

The veins on the Anvil glowed brighter and John began to feel the heat radiating off it's surface. In response, he formed the metal on his back into a shell that covered his entire body in seamless half-inch armor. The Anvil’s surface grew hotter, but John’s armor shielded him from the heat, if not from the force of its radiance. He spread his legs a little and his armor molded again, pushing tendrils of metal into the dirt below him, anchoring him like a tree in the wind as he laid the pieces of ore upon the Anvil. The pieces began to heat and John looked through slitted eyeholes at his armored hands. The metal on the nvil began to glow and John’s hands closed into fists, two thick, silvery plates growing at the bottom of each. The metal glowed brighter, and John brought his hand down with a reverberating clang as sparks flew, bouncing off his armored body.

His hand bounced off the stacked pieces, no discernible dent or deformity in the ore he was forming. He brought his other hand up and down upon them, following it with a rhythm that he’d perfected for fifty years. Stroke after stroke fell upon the ore, and slowly, gradually, the lump began to flatten. He used the stability of his legs to add strength to his blows. Eventually the ore was a flat plate, and John’s left hand formed a wedge. He placed it in the middle of the plate of metal, pounding it with his other hand until a folding line formed. He moved it aside, and used the line to fold the metal over, layering it on itself. His fist returned from wedge to hammer, and began striking at the lump again, flattening it. He repeated the process another ten times before the barn caught fire around him.

The heat of the Anvil was such that it managed to light the walls of the barn aflame. A new source of radiance appeared, and the barn’s old, dry wood was quick to burn. John dared not take his eyes off the metal he was forging, continuing to pound and fold upon it as the barn came down around him. The roof eventually fell, John’s armor protecting himself and the metal as he bowed over it to protect the metal from any impurity. The roof was thin and aging though, and fell around him in ashes and dying flames as he protected the Anvil, or at least the ore upon it from impurities. Still rooted in place by his boots, John stood straight again, looking up. The clearing in which the farm sat was lit by the red light of the Anvil. A few brave stars shone in the sky as John looked back down. There was still work to be done. He resumed his blows on the metal, settling back into his rhythm, and folded the lump over another seven times before splitting it into one large lump for the sword and one smaller one for the crown. The enchantments that were to be placed upon the crown and sword linked them together, and it seemed fitting to John that they should come from the same lump of metal.

The sword would be first. He beat upon it until it lengthened into a thin pole, then flattened it until it roughly resembled a blade. He forged two edges to it, and lengthened two small protrusions into a handguard. The tools he used were many and various, though each one was available to him in seconds because of his affinity with the armor. He set the sword aside, it would now only need to be sharpened and fitted with a proper handle. He removed it and set it down, turning to the lump that would be a crown.

The crown was much easier to form, and within an hour the circlet sat, finished on the cooling Anvil. He grabbed the sword leaning on the Anvil and the circlet, pulling his metal roots from the ground. His steps were slow and painful as his armor retreated to his back, and it was only John’s stubbornness that kept him from crying out in pain from his joints. His eyebrows furrowed and his mouth became a grim line.

The sky began to brighten in the east as John set about polishing and sharpening the blade with the only tools that could be used on adamantine craftsmanship. He retrieved the adamantine engraving set from a box in his closet, as well as several sharpening surfaces. He collapsed into the chair in front of his designs, and took a moment to light a cigar before he began the task of polishing the crown and sword.

Soon, a sharpened sword sat in front of him, as well as a silvery crown that gleamed in the still-morning light coming from his window. He took an adamantium-tipped engraving chisel, palming it’s thick handle as he eyed the sigils on his design, carefully making sure they were all in the right place before beginning to carve on the metal. The muscles in his arms began to weaken, and before long his hands trembled such that he needed a break. John cursed his failing body under his breath, attempting to take deep breaths through his nose. Before long, he was engraving the sigils on the crown, finishing it with three deep-set stones of diamond, ruby and emerald on the front. The sword he finished with a piece of ivory from an ancient red dragon, winding the handle round with the finest leather he could procure. After finishing, John took the sword and stood, swinging at the other chair that sat next to his table.

It was almost like swinging through air. The chair clattered on the ground, now in two separate pieces. John smirked a little. It was still a clumsy, ugly swing he had, despite all his other abilities.

Now, with the finished pieces sitting on his table, the finest he’d ever made in his life, perhaps the finest since the forging of Graxis, he fell into the only whole chair in the room, taking the cigar from his lips. His forearms sat in the arms of the chair comfortably and John closed his eyes, finally done with the pieces. Perhaps he would be able to take a nap before Vincent came for the crown and sword. It had taken a lot out of John, and he slowly drifted toward unconsciousness. Minutes passed, and the glow that produced a thin tendril of smoke from his cigar went out.

-----------------------------------------------

There was a knock at the door. A voice familiar to John called from outside.

“Hey John! Did you get a little carried away in the barn? The whole thing is burned to ashes...” it said, and a hand opened the door to reveal an older gentleman, tall and lithe, with slightly graying hair pulled back out of his eyes. John’s eyes did not open.

Vince took two steps forward and grabbed the sword by the handle, swinging it easily as the sigils glowed red before fading. He looked down to the crown, then to John. His look changed from mirth, to sorrow, then to a mix between the two as he looked down to the crown and sword, then back to John. He placed the crown on his head and a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Rest well, old friend, gods know you’ve earned it,” he said quietly, turning to leave.

-----------------------------------------------------

“Hey, most of the papers in there were rotted up, but I found a couple books we could probably sell to that crazy magician that lives up the street, yeah?”

A voice answered. “Good. Here, what do you think about these gloves?”

“Those? Probably too tarnished or rusted to sell for anything, anything useful anyhow. And besides, you gotta get them off that skeleton first.”

“Well I tell you one thing, I ain’t ‘fraid of no skeleton,” a clattering followed. “And besides, look it’s just the dust, see. Really thick actually,”

“You an idiot? This whole place is full of dust! Now let’s get outta here, I wanna make it to the magician’s house before nightfall.”

“Alright boss. At least let me keep the gauntlets; see they even fit perfect!”

“Whatever, let’s go.”

[Flamebird]

Felicity sipped at the coffee and set it down on the rich, oak table. Across from her sat a teenage girl with blond hair and brown eyes. She did not touch her tea, she appeared too restless. Felicity fixed the girl with a sad smile, “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her in years.”

The girl’s face hardened, “But- you were her apprentice!”

Felicity sighed sadly, “Hanuh, I understand how you feel.”

The teen, Hanuh, stubbornly shook her head, “No you don’t! If you did, you’d help me!”

Felicity smothered her red hair out, “Look, honey, I wanted to see Ashla get well as much as you even want to look into her eyes.” Felicity pushed her cup aside, the seriousness of this conversation taking over even her positive nature.

Hanuh pushed herself up, the liquids in the cups shaking as she slammed her hands on the table, “Liar!”

Felicity looked at the girl for a moment. She reminded her so much of her mother; passionate, determined… darkly ferocious… The red, leather suit, the plumb hat though. Her features spoke of someone raised in some form of richness, a richness provided by an old friend of both. Daisuke, you raised her well. Felicity closed her eyes, remembering the earliest days of her training under Ashla Icebreaker’s wing. Back when Julius Tabor was alive and Ashla was a better person. After Hanuh’s father died though, the remaining light in Ashla had flickered to darkness.

Felicity opened her eyes again. Hanuh, in a sense, also reminded her of herself. A stupid determination, a simple way of thinking. Felicity was so dumb back then, but Ashla had been able to handle it. Now, it was Felicity’s turn to return the favor to her daughter.

Felicity calmly stood up, eyeing her with careful sternness. “Ashla meant everything to me when she first took me in, but Ashla’s gone now.”

Hanuh’s eyes equaled in firmness, a warning look in her eyes attempting to take control of the situation. It once again reminded Felicity of her old mentor. Felicity would not be shaken by her blood again. “Hanuh, are you sure you really want to find and meet your mother, whatever she looks like…”

Hanuh firmly nodded her head, “I have to. She’s my mum after all.”


~~~

Felicity led Ashla’s child through an old library, filled with old files Felicity had collected since she was in her early teens, like Hanuh. Felicity stopped midway in their walk, a puzzled Hanuh stopping as well. It was a simple place for a library, old books and fresh papers pilled and cluttered onto rickety pine shelves. The oak floor has no carpeting and desperately needed sweeping. Hanuh coughed under the level of dust in the room. Felicity bit her lip, she never was an organized person. The young woman pulled out an old book, written in messy handwriting from an uneducated individual. That individual was Felicity.

The redhead handed the messy booklet, already with spare pages flying out, to the girl, “I kept this journal a month or so after I started, as suggested from Ashla. It may guide you to her favorite haunts, but…” Felicity shrugged, crossing her arms over her green blouse, “She might not even enjoy those spots anymore.”

Hanuh took the book carefully and looked down on the old, leather binder, “You sure this will help?”

Felicity sighed, “It’s the best I can do.”

Hanuh looked at it again before looking up at Felicity for a moment. Without another word she turned to leave, an attitude filled stomp sounding across the aching floor beams. Felicity sighed before speed walking after her through her house. Located on any regular street in Radansanth. As Hanuh exited the door, Felicity called out to her, “Wait!”

Hanuh stopped and turned to face her, the pre-teen giving her a look that told Felicity she wasn’t planning on hanging around much longer. She had her mother to find after all! Felicity knew though, from her own experiences, that even if Hanuh was her daughter, whom she’d last claimed to love, Ashla was not the warm hearted leader she used to be…

The night left the white moon shining onto empty stone streets, slightly piled up here and there with garbage and random junk. Barrels and an empty cart could be seen on the street, and several laundry lines holding freshly cleaned clothes hung from the above windows. Felicity and Hanuh were the only two souls there. The sound of an owl hooting in the distance did little distraction from the conversation at hand.

“Hanuh,” Felicity spoke calmly, “Your mother was a beautiful woman. I had complete respect for her when our training first started. Unfortunately, your mom…” she trailed off, attempting to find the right words, “She… she lost herself. She left you behind because she knew where she was going, she knew. She wanted what was best for you, and that meant making sure you didn’t follow her path. Hanuh, I-”

“ - Enough!”

Felicity’s words were interrupted when the twelve year old pulled out a rapier from the sheath on her waist, dropping the book, and racing towards her with nothing but pure sorrow in her eyes, “You know nothing!”

Felicity dodged her first blow, eyebrow poking up over her lash back. “If I knew nothing, why did you come here?” she asked the child. It was Felicity’s turn to be the master, to make sure Hanuh didn’t fall down that same, devastating path her mother did. As she dodged the swipes of the steel blade, Felicity continued her speech, “If I didn’t know anything, I wouldn’t be here to tell you you’re acting like a fool!”

The child did not pay attention to the wisdom of the words, she only fed off them in detestment. She cried out, breaking the silence of the sleeping streets, and thrust towards Felicity with twice as much force.

Felicity did something surprising though… she let her hit her.

The blade went right through her arm, and for a moment, Felicity grimaced. A second later, she grabbed the sword from even its blade and yanked it from Hanuh’s hand. Hanuh’s brown orbs widened as Felicity grabbed the hilt of the rapier and pulled it out of her own arm effortlessly. As she pulled it out, an orange energy burned off her skin, protecting her in a cloak of magic. Felicity then lifted her arm and let out a punch. The energy flew towards Hanuh like a fireball, throwing the child back. Felicity watched as the girl fell to the cold ground, light burns on her clothes and face. Felicity allowed the energy to dissipate. She had complete control of an ability she once considered loose and violent, and it was her greatest strength. Far stronger even, than what she just unleashed. She walked up to Hanuh, taking no notice of the candle lights shining through the windows now. She extended a hand out to the moaning girl, “I was being easy on you.”

Hanuh refused her hand, straggling up. Despite her attempts to look cross, she stared in engrossed awe at the wound she caused her. Felicity smiled, pushing herself passed the blood soaking her right arm. She felt no pain, as her powers allowed herself not to feel such things, but to a child like Hanuh, this might of looked…

“Hanuh, you have potential, you have only your mother’s strongest traits…” Felicity lifted her red, soaked arm, “… but if you keep searching, this would be the least ugliest of sites you will rest your eyes on.”

Hanuh finally looked intimidated, blinking rapidly as she stepped back.

Felicity smiled though, “However, I cannot stop you from searching. I simply ask you proceed with caution… take it from someone who knows your situation quite well.”

Hanuh looked up, doubt filling the teen’s eyes, “Wh-where do I- where do I even start?”

Felicity felt a tear fall down her face, recognizing the pain of abandonment of her former mentor in her, “Once again, I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her in years.”

[Ashla]

”If you keep searching, this would be the least ugliest of sites you will rest your eyes on. However, I cannot stop you from searching. I simply ask you proceed with caution… take it from someone who knows your situation quite well.”

The blond saw her own blood in the grass, shaking violently, pulled by her hair strings from one of many enemies around her. One, gruff voice sounded somewhere above her, the grip on her hands, pulled against her back, tightened. “Kill the girl.”

Hanuh Stormhollow’s eyes widened in terror. Was this the end? Slipping from her home at night, all that searching and traveling, was this the end result? She could not move, being so exhausted. She continued to vibrate, another drop of blood falling from her cut cheek. Tears began to fall as well, I never got to see mom…

Just then, a shouting erupted from further away, Hanuh was instantly dropped. Screams, the sound of swords clashing… It was all cluttered together in clamoring static, but she heard some things more clearly.

“It’s the silhouette of sufferings!”
“I-it ca-an’t be-e…”

Hanuh lifted her now blood bathed head to see… ice. Ice literally fell like light snow… and all those men were dead. One person remained; her silhouette against the fogs of Concordia’s morning dawn. Hanuh’s eyes widening, the mysterious figure matching her collection of details on…

The woman walked right past her. Hanuh was able to catch a brief - a brief - look. Luxurious, long black hair. Fair skin, belonging to a model. A blue eye looked straight ahead, emotionless and dark. Her outfit was dark blue, the black cloak running behind like a shadow. A sword was seen on her belt as well as a masterwork crosspistol. Hanuh’s heart skipped a beat, it was!

Adrenaline pushed Hanuh to turn to face her, “MOTHER!”

Her lonely cry echoed against sturdy pine trees, against a sea of mist.


~~

A cloak fell of a lithe woman’s body as she entered a modest hut. Something was wrong with the picture though, the walls were layered in coats of ice. The floor boards could not creak, as frost filled the cracks. The young woman breathed out, cold breath escaping her pink lips. She sighed and sat on the bed, her black and navy blue outfit rippling. She looked up at the brown ceiling with a heavy heart. “Hanuh…”

She’d just saved her daughter from certain death. Those men, the followers of Siiaum, her old enemy. Hanuh had run into them looking for her. Ashla Icebreaker, the silhouette of suffering, one of the strongest Icebreakers ever, the woman notorious for many crimes as well as a justifier against crimes, fell back on a small bed. Hanuh, honey, you cannot follow my path…

Hanuh was thirteen years old now. All those years Ashla spent away from her, watching her precious little girl grow up, it was for her own good. Ashla knew she could not stop Hanuh from longing, and she used it to her full advantage. She knew her absence in her daughter’s life would drive her. It hurt Hanuh, she knew it. She knew because it hurt her as well. However, if Ashla could do one right thing in life… it would be bringing her daughter to do everything she could not: to bring Althanas as a whole into peace.

Ashla was a person of war and pain, it had been a long time since she knew peace. The closest she ever was though was in those brief moments she crossed paths with her child. Hanuh did not know it, but Ashla was watching her. Despite Ashla’s sins, she was hoping to make one right in her lifetime; so she watched her. Ashla made sure that, even if Hanuh could not see it, she got what her mother could give. Ashla could not directly come up to her, nurture her, but she could be the push and shove driving her into better strength, better futures. A mother’s love, it was a heavy burden with joyous rewards. Ashla would do what she knew was best, even if it meant never seeing her… but she was watching her.

Icebreaker was the villain now. Even in the eyes of the child she was so dedicated to, Ashla could not undo what she had done under the cloak of a name she called ‘Ayleth.’ A sick charade that only birthed the opposite of everything she’d ever hoped for. Twisted beyond recognition, when she realized the answer had been in front of her the whole time, Ashla had finally come out of that frozen shell again. She could not undo what she’d done, but she could leave one good thing behind. The soon to be legendary Hanuh Stormhollow.

Ashla got up again, walking towards the door again. She opened it to see the rolling plains of Raiaera. The young woman threw her cloak on, the ends fading and forming like the rising and falling waves of a black ocean. She walked along the hills for a while, leaving a small house behind. Eventually, her walk ended when she heard a voice behind her, “You kept your promise.”

Icebreaker turned to see an elf, red hair and golden clothes. He had one, fancifully curved sword, glowing blue in his hand.

The woman narrowed her eyes, pulling her hands up to two matching swords on her back. She pulled out two, steel swords. One had a red diamond, the other blue, in their hilts. She smirked, the young woman determined to get the best of her second apprentice – former apprentice – this time, “You may not be able to take me to justice, but falling upon my blade this time? It will be a sad sight…”

The boy scoffed, “We’ll see about that, Ayleth…”

Ashla pulled the two blades out in lightning speed, pulling them into an offensive stance that displayed all the agility and ferocity she possessed. The elf, a noble now dedicated to the protection of the civilized places of his country left, had taken a violently different path than her first student, Felicity Knopsnider, had taken. Knopsnider had strayed from her, challenged her to several violent fights before leaving her for good. Now, Ashla reflected, I understand why.

Ashla Icebreaker lunged towards her second student, who also had turned against her for understandable reasons. A cry filled with all the pain, hate, tears, and joy she had experienced echoing across the landscape as she faced up to her second pupil once and for all.

[K-Zu-Ziro]

Part Two, First – Something's Different Today

Railways and River Cobbles

A reminder of the cobbles lining the alpine stream of her childhood, the sparrow's feathers were a palette of greys and browns. He, the little bird, hopped from the clean steel of the rail onto the sun-baked wood of the sleeper. She watched from the bench on the railway platform while waiting. Jealousy was the wrong word, but envy was not. “I could fly anywhere” she thought. The daily commute to her awful job killed her; a job she loathed to the brink of suicide.

Curving around the track, it came into view. Its front plate was almost a face, a subdued smile of apology. Before the train could get too close the sparrow fluttered into the cerulean expanse. Daydreams never lasted. Every day they escaped her, whipped away by the inevitable squall of the punctual locomotive steaming into the station. The presence of the railway carriage in her view was a violent affront to her sanity. Ornate, burgundy, trimmed with gold paint and driving the letters SEA (South Eastern Aleraran) down her dry throat.

Finding a secluded seat provided a modicum of relief. But, fending off the creeping gloom was not possible. Wrinkles carved during a life of woe defined her mother's face as it entered her mind's eye; police at the door delicately presenting the gift of a broken heart. "How could I do that to her…" her conundrum was confounded by the impossibility of both life and death. “As long as I get my loose ends tied up then maybe it wouldn't cause everybody too much bother?” her thoughtful monologue managed to emulate a disagreeing dialogue. Gas oven would be adequate in the end.

She looked up to see a young man take the seat opposite her, but felt no resentment as a result of her privacy having been invaded. He smiled, without imposing. “That is the most beautiful smile!” joy spilled out in her words, positively uncharacteristic.

Luminescent pleasure snuggled around the core of her mind.

“Work? It's not that bad, really it isn't.”


Borders and Bigotry

A cockroach in the kitchen proves an offensive invasion; the gall of shit eating vermin to present itself at your dinner table. Urgh. Unclean. Unevolved. Paramount, though: unwelcome. The perfect analogy for the foreigners flooding over the border, mused a resentful immigration officer. With a ratcheting thump his stamp printed off centre on a blank page in the man's passport. Sticky black ink marred the point of impact. Date of entry, point of entry and the visa's date of expiry.

“Thank you, sir.”

Professional pleasantries made it easy to hide his hatred. The traveller turned and took but one step away before the officer sneered through the pinpricks of his little eye sockets and down the line of his skinny nose. Stubby ears, hardly elongated at all, he noted. Short stature, so lacking in elegance. His accent, absolutely vile. He loathed him for his race. Fuck them and fuck their children for what they are.

"Next. Please."

Another “cockroach” came forward and his mind swelled with venom; but before it could burst, the revulsion escaped as a wisp of cirrus in the height of summer. His mind's malice was eclipsed by the rise of a glowing joy, a spot of pure light radiating through every notion.

“No matter who you are, you love your children. We're all the same in the important ways.”


Iron Oxide and the Fear of Death

“...Loving wife & mother”, the finale to the tarnished plaque screwed, rustily, to the park bench upon which he sat. The symbol “&” had been used to save money at the engravers. He leaned forward. Movement brought a painful grunt that he typically endeavoured to stifle, the young need not be reminded of the hardship stalking their future. The succession of moments constituted a war of one. A war of one against the onslaught of inevitability. Tired and old, he wanted nobody to witness his final capitulation.

Failing eyes strained through the morning glare. Since retirement, the routine of feeding the squirrels every morning had played a part in keeping at bay his awful fear of death. As a particularly plump representative of the species snatched a chunk of bread from the old man's hand he realised, it had grown ineffective. Rusty red, alive and glutinous, the bushy tail disappeared into the shrubbery with a bound. Jealousy was the wrong word, but envy was not. To be young again, looking forward … not back.

All of a sudden, he reeled back in his seat and grinned, toothless and naive. In an instant his mind had been scrubbed clean of the fear and in its place was anticipation. For the first time in fifty years he was optimistic about tomorrow's sunrise.

“Why be afraid of death, life is yet to live?”


Part One, Second – Thirteen Hours Earlier

Telepathy united the desires of one god, one commander and one nation—funneled through fate into a final conflict. Today was ordained, blessed by the flushing burst of a tangerine twilight. Eight feet tall and gangly, K-Zu-Ziro stalked a narrow rooftop ridge a hundred feet high. On reaching the edge, its elongated limbs bent to an acute degree and became devoutly static, producing a nightmarish silhouette in the sinking sun. It had become a living gargoyle, a grim decoration atop the last free palace in all the world.

The genderless horror fixed its bug eyes on the unfolding victory below. An unfathomable swarm of rodentine soldiers washed through the city streets in a torrent of genocide. The rotund little fuzzballs were members of the Divine Army of the Empire of Hostoland. A final slaughter for a final kingdom. Citizens, not soldiers, remained to face the rat people who worshiped the Black Tree God. Average Hostians peaked at three feet tall, but the speed with which they climbed their victim's bodies it barely seemed a disadvantage. Shredding a throat between gnashing incisors was less demanding than cracking into some of the tougher nut species found on Althanas. Typically well groomed, the invading Hostians found the blood matting their fur an irritation, and the strings of elvish fat between their teeth positively unbearable.

K-Zu-Ziro leaned from the building and stepped into a deadly plummet only to ascend with a deafening buzz. The creature's wings had been restored and it hovered, menacing, before an ornate tribute to king and queen set in stained glass. A bubbling spout of acid sprayed from the over-sized insect's mouth. The goop sliced through the glass, critically undermining its integrity. The window shattered into a rainbow of falling shards.

Chilling screams sang above the din of war as the anxious evening air flooded the royal hall. A bumbling swirl of royal finery came hastily at the lithe bug; the prince was all trim and tassels, sword and sash. The Child of the Black Tree God ducked a swing of the royal blade before snapping the assailant's head off with a deft snap of its pincer. The boy's parents, king and queen, died locking their hands in a whisper “It'll be okay.”

Tapestries flanked the long hall, telling the grand history of the last free family of Althanas. Humanoid endeavours were alien to K-Zu-Ziro; it did not glance sideways to appreciate the magnitude of today's victory as part of time immemorial. Single minded, the commander of the Divine Army of the Empire of Hostoland made for the relic set atop an altar at the room's terminus.

Clasping the relic revealed its secrets. Translucent rock encased the bleached skull of a horned bovine. Sharp appendages extended out of the rock to form makeshift handles. Flipping the rock over it was possible to see the cavity where the animal's brain once was—a crystalline formation was in its place. The segmented structure held the warmth and glow of an impossible flame. K-Zu-Ziro parted its slobbering mandibles and began to break the rock down with industrious pace. The relic crumbled and failed under the assault of the scissoring jaws.

This kingdom, through its precious artifact, had been a sanctuary of pure minds. With the relic destroyed, the spell was shattered. Mahia T-Zu-Hosto, parent to K-Zu-Ziro and living god to the Hostians, was finally able to slip its influence into every sentient mind on the entire planet. The future for itself, its species and its adopted children, the Hostians, was secured. Truth be told, T-Zu-Hosto had captured freedom itself. In turn, it offered reparations. Liberty was exchanged for unwavering contentedness, in a deal the Black Tree God felt was fairly reasonable. All souls were at ease with their place in the universe. For the first time, tranquility reigned.

“Work? It's not that bad, really it isn't.”

“No matter who you are, you love your children. We're all the same in the important ways.”

“Why be afraid of death, life is yet to live?”

[Tobias Stalt]

Chilled wind wrapped its tendrils around the Salvic peaks as dawn bled out over the horizon. Blistery snow raged intermittently across the sky and blurred the gray heavens with a wall of impregnable white. A long figure in drab black swayed left to right with every step, ascending the mountaintop. "A thousand years," a frigid, feminine voice crooned, riding on the air currents. "No man has walked these peaks in as long."

"And no man ever will," a hoarse voice croaked from the murky depths of the black hood. "No man who will ever be remembered."

Silence fell over the scene of eternal winter as the figure turned to peer down over the land he left behind. Slowly, a curved dagger appeared from the folds of his cloak, and the figure raised a pale hand. He drew a line across his palm that blossomed deep crimson and splashed across the snow. Steam roiled upward from the frosty ground as the man trembled and his body shivered.

"Taste the winter, Tobias Stalt."

When the hood raised, lightless amber eyes glanced out at the world as it faded before him. His youthful face twisted into a mask of morbid apathy, creased with the wrinkles of age and leathery from hard work. "In my youth, my father believed," Tobias said quietly, "that we are all born for a purpose."

"The fallacy my dear mother peddled like opiates," cooed the gentle, somber voice. "That your lives have innate purpose. That your continued existence is precious. You have seen this, haven't you, Stalt? You have seen the sum of all the good in this world?"

"There is no good in this world," Tobias answered, his face twisted like he tasted bile.

"No. It was gone long ago." He watched as the wind shifted, and the snow converged before his eyes. A beautiful woman swathed in midnight smiled sadly toward him, her eyes deeper than the abyss. "My darling Tobias," the woman whispered as she strode close. Tobias dropped his knife and closed his eyes.

"Are you finally going to take me?" he asked her, tears welling in his eyes. "Am I finally free?"

Her lithe arms wrapped his neck in a loose embrace, and when he opened his eyes, the woman was gazing deeply into his own. "Oh, no. No, no. Not yet, Tobias," she reassured him. "I will. I know you long for it. I know you have for many, many years." The sadness in his gaze caused the woman to glance away. "You are yet needed," she told him. "I need you here."

"When?" Tobias felt his arms turn to dead weight as he suddenly desired to reach up and wring the life from her. "Tell me when," he sobbed.

The blood at his feet began to boil, and a steady stream gushed from his palm to feed it. "Do you feel the storm coming?" she asked. Tobias nodded only slightly as he watched his life twist and writhe in the frost. "The Days of Torrent cannot be brought on by my hand. You know that, don't you, Tobias?"

When he matched her gaze, his lips flattened into a line. "Yes. I know. Even now, you're trapped. I can feel the sealing magic." Her gaze hardened as he spoke, mocking her. Her hand flew at his face, but Tobias did not flinch from her. The pain stung; he hoped she would end him for his insolence, but she hit no harder than any mortal woman. His shoulders sagged.

"I can make you live forever if I choose to, Stalt. Do not tempt me." She pulled him close with unnatural speed and strength, and her lips came perilously close to his. Golden hair flowed down her back and her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. She brushed gently over his forehead with a gentle kiss. "Believe that my word is my bond, and one day, you may see a world that is uncorrupted."

To see that world... is the one thing I live for.

The ground began to shiver as the blood began to coarse down into it. The mountain itself sighed and then screamed. Rocks cascaded down as the face of the peak exploded. Tobias and the woman stood facing each other as Salvar itself began to quake beneath them. "I believe you, N'jal," he told her.

"And I will show you the new world, Tobias."

[Rayleigh]

Closed. Judging will take place shortly.

[Logan]

Glories of Myrmidion - Winner - 300 EXP and 300 GP


This piece reads like the epilogue of an epic I wish to read. It is done with flawless execution both mechanically and in length, while still providing a fitting conclusion that leaves the reader feeling the story is complete. Yours may be one of the shorter pieces presented, but it was the most conclusive all the same. Well done.


Tobias Stalt - Runner--up - 250 EXP and 250 GP


Your ability to convey the vast depths of emotion is hard to put into words as a reader/judge. The picture painted in this piece is vivid, yet leaves plenty to the imagination to fill in. The highlight of the piece, by far, is the final two lines, and the moment of shock and awe. It leaves me wanting to read more, and to do so in such a short piece takes a lot of talent. Well done.


The Keeper - Runner-up - 200 EXP and 200 GP


I love the simplicity of life depicted, especially one so close to the end. The way you showcased who Regis not only was, but also is, is masterful without being too long. There were a couple of very minor mechanical errors, but all in all this piece does a great job of reaching the target while not overreaching.


SirArtemis - Honorable Mention - So Close - 500 EXP


Your descriptions of the forge, the materials, the actual working of the blade, and even the blade itself are magnificent. When combined, all of these work together to actually show the level of craftsmanship Artemis possesses at endgame level. Most of all, I genuinely appreciated the ending as it has this feeling of also being a new beginning, and that resonated well with me. Were it not for the similar path redford took, this would’ve been top 2 for the creativity. It lost a bit of originality with redford forging a similar path (pun intended).


Light - Honorable Mention - 300 EXP


The dichotomy of Lilith and Lilidith in your piece is well done, but there were some basic mechanical error which slowed reading it down just a little. Still, it is well written outside of those mechanics lapses, and it reads quite well. Your depiction of Eluriand in the aftermath of something apocalyptic was beautiful and captivating. A job well done, if not a bit overdone on the length.


Good for Nothing Captain - Honorable Mention - 300 EXP


The characters have such individual personalities, and the dialogue worked rather well. This piece read easily enough, but I never really got a sense of what the endgame was really. The broken fourth wall was a cute ending, except it left me fairly confused and at the same time curious to read more.


Faustuss - Honorable Mention - 250 EXP


The respect and loyalty Faust commands from the various evil entities shows just how much he has grown by end level. The piece has no mechanical errors, which is a tribute to your quality of writing. My only real qualms with it are a lack of true conclusion, which shouldn’t be taken necessarily as bad form, and a lack of setting, though that can be somewhat expected with shorter pieces.


Redford - Honorable Mention - 250 EXP


This piece is clearly a fitting final chapter in the novel of John’s life, and much like SirArtemis, your descriptions of the forging process are simply magnificent. I’m not sure this was the best place to introduce the Anvil and its backstory, but it did make sense in the overall story. I especially enjoyed the ending, a subtle nod to the fact the gauntlets are as much their own story that will long outlive their wearer. The two problem areas here are mechanics and length, but overall this is a very solid piece.


Flamebird & Ashla - Honorable Mention - 250 EXP (each)


Your pieces here, both Felicity and Ashla, highlight how far you’ve come as a writer. They are both quite well-written, with only a couple of mechanics issues in each. Each conveys a separate end game, yet still presents the growth of the characters by that point in beautiful ways. From Hanuh to Felicity’s growth of her own powers, and even to Ashla’s abode, it all paints a vivid picture of what lies ahead for each. The only thing really missing is truly a fitting conclusion of some kind, but both provide a sense of “I want more”. Well done.


K-Zu-Ziro - Honorable Mention - 350 EXP


Such a well-written piece, and one that points to quite the impressive creature by endgame. There were a couple of very minor misspellings, but other than that the mechanics was spot-on. The liquidity between the beginning three snapshots followed by the sudden flashback to a few hours before was too jarring as a reader, but otherwise the piece is very, very well done. You’ve always been a fantastic writer, and this character lends itself to such unique points of view.

[Hysteria]

exp and gp added!