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March 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Subterranean Exploration Winner - Escape from Hell by Samurai Zero and Expedition's End by The Jaded (Tie) Escape from Hell by Samurai Zero [2,146 Words] I remember living the simple life, just a farmer making ends meet; that was until that star fell from the sky. I used to think that it was good luck, that you could make a wish, and it would come true. How stupid of me to believe such a thing. It wasn’t but a few days later that the soldiers came, they needed men, but they didn’t want to use their own. They rounded up everyone fit and young, all of those who resisted were killed, and then they had their way with what was left. Money, valuables, women, the soldiers were merciless. It made me a little glad that I had never known love; after all I don’t think I could bear to watch such a thing. We were hurdled onto wagons, and for 5 days we were practically starved as they forced us to where ever the hell they were taking us. No one could take it, some went crazy, and luckily I just passed out from hunger before I started to lose my wits. When I woke up, it was time to leave the wagon. We all looked like corpses by then, and it was then that we got treated to a meal, not the best meal, in fact it was the worst meal I’d ever had. It was like table scraps thrown together, fed to a dog, the dog didn’t like it, puked it back into the bowl, heated up and then reserved. Yeah, that’s actually a good description of it, now that I think about it, hell I wouldn’t be surprised if I was remotely correct. Well when we were finished with our food, which didn’t take long since there wasn’t much, they herded us over to the mining site. We didn’t know what it was that we were mining, but the soldiers told us to dig, and come back with anything that looked like mineral. If we came back with enough, we were fed, and if they liked what we found, we were fed well. The first few days were the hardest, the soldiers would take bets on who would die first, and sometimes they would come over and prod the one they bet on with the sharp end of their sword to “help with the process”. Thankfully this was put to an end real fast, either someone liked us, or someone needed us to get what they wanted, probably the later of the two. At first I had bad luck, all I found was stone, clay, and tree root. It wasn’t looking good for me because I hadn’t eaten well, and spring was rolling in which meant it was about to get really hot, really fast. I was right of course, and I watched as some of the men around me started to disappear, more than likely they had died, and sickening as it is to say now, all I could think back then was ”Good, less competition.” I didn’t have any friends, in fact I barely spoke to anyone outside of an occasional hello, I didn’t want to get to know anyone, too much sentimental value leads to feelings, and feelings lead to hate, anger, jealousy, sadness, etc. I figured, ”Just so long as I don’t talk to anyone, I can stay happily neutral, no friends, no enemies.” I was right, for the most part. I finally struck my first bit of “gold” sometime after summer started, it was metallic, black in nature, very light, and slightly warm to the touch. It was brilliant, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Suddenly I understood, we were mining for the star that had fell from the sky, no material on this planet was anything remotely close to something like this, I would know because my father was a blacksmith, something I was never too good at. I was excited, mostly because I knew that this was what they were looking for. I turned and ran for the opening, I nearly passed out before arriving at the guards. They almost beat me down for being so clumsy, but when they saw what I was carrying they took me straight to, who I assume was, the person in charge. It was a small cabin guarded by three of the largest dogs I had ever seen, and suddenly my suspicion of where the food came from grew significantly. I was told to wait as the dogs barked, and snarled at me. I’d never been so scared before in my life, It made me glad that they were all chained together. Next thing I knew, one of the soldiers grabbed me by the shoulder and threw me inside. I looked around, and the cabin was quite peaceful, very roomy, and almost magical. I was greeted by a very beautiful woman who told me to have a seat, and once I did she went straight to business. ”So, let’s see what you found.” I remember her saying. I simply brought out the material, and put it on her desk. Her eyes widened, she grabbed it instantly, and then rubbed it in such a strange way. She was starting to weird me out; though I’m sure the feeling was mutual. Then she looked back at me and said ”You will get a full meal tonight, a bath, and a full day’s rest. If you bring me back more of this then we can see about more.” I was ecstatic ”Wow! A full meal, a bath, and a full days rest!” After so long of working as a slave, I guess you forget the simple things, the things you take for granted every day. That day was the best day of my time there, the soldiers didn’t bother me, I had real food for all three meals, and I got a chance to relax. I guess I had never realized how much my body hurt, or how hungry I was, or how tired I was until I finally got to relax. When I laid down, I fell asleep instantly, and I slept for a long while. Of course when I was awoken, it was time to get back to work. Another thing I never noticed, was how much we smelled. When I went back to work smelling fresh, the stench of those around me overpowered my fresh scent and just about sickened me. It was unbearable for a while, until I got used to it again. As much as I tried, I couldn’t find any more of the mineral, however more and more workers began finding some of the material that had been a part of the star. The unfortunate thing was, after seeing how I was treated, workers were killed out of greed, or starvation so that they could get their piece of the pie. It wasn’t long before I saw the guards patrol with the dogs to weed out the workers who were holding out, trying to milk the relaxation for as much as they could. It was about this time that I decided, ”I need to escape from here.” Because I knew that I would die otherwise. It was a task that had never been successfully done before, attempted, but always failed. One man tried to run, but he didn’t get too far before the soldiers tracked him down, beat him down and brought him back. One man tried to fight his way out, but being so weak and frail, he easily succumbed to the soldiers blows. Another man attempted to fake his own death, but they simply used his “dead body” to feed the dogs. I wasn’t going to be able to outrun the soldiers, I couldn’t hide from them, and I couldn’t fake my own death, this I already knew. I figured, if by somehow, I could direct their attention elsewhere, I might be able to flee in the distraction and they wouldn’t even know I was gone. Even better, If they ended up killing a few of the slaves, or the slaves ended up killing each other, then they might think me among the dead bodies, and not attempt to look for me. I had a plan; all I needed now was a catalyst, something that the slaves would kill each other for. Then it hit me, I’d seen it before, but never thought about it. All I needed was to hit a vein of that star ore. So I went back in, and I dug, I went until I had just about blacked out from exhaustion, but low and behold I had found some. It wasn’t much, but it was definitely more than I had found the first time, and definitely enough to want to fight over. I walked back towards the cave, and carelessly let slip that I had found some ore, and was going to let the soldiers take a look at it before I mined it. Of course, being as greedy, and predictable as slaves are, they all went immediately to where I was mining to see if they could grab a piece before I could get back. Just as I had planned, the first ones there took what they could carry, and refused to share, hoping they could get more relaxation if they turned it in sparingly. The others didn’t like this, and they began to fight over it. Right when I heard the echoes of punching, and screaming from biting, I rushed to the soldiers ”Quick!” I said in a hurry ”The miners are fighting over a vein of that precious ore, they won’t stop until there’s only one person left! You’ve got to stop them!” I said with as much concern as I could muster. They looked at me with hate, looked down into the hole, and then they heard a loud scream followed by what sounded like punching. Dammit, let’s go boys, time to earn our paycheck I remember the bigger man saying. Once they were inside, I checked for the all clear, and I moved as fast as I could muster. I thought the hunger would wear me down, I thought the fatigue would throw me to the ground at any moment, I thought I could die, but most of all I thought of freedom. No more slavery, no more Witch, or Soldiers, or Mining, or dogs. I don’t know how long I was gone for, but I had come across a narrow stream where I drank so much water I about puked. I looked across the stream and there was a bush with berries, having been a farmer I knew these were berries that you could eat, I used to grow them myself. It was a bit of nostalgia, something I enjoyed to the last berry on the bush, and when I was done I jumped into the water to cool off. It was the best sensation in the world. I followed upstream to a small waterfall, and to my amazement, there was a cave behind it. Do you know what I found in that cave? I found the star, it must have hit the ground, bounced, and rolled all the way here to make the stream and the cave. I touched the star one last time, and strangely enough, it felt alive somehow. The small pieces I had felt before had a small amount of warmth to it, but this, this felt like energy was flowing through it, and around it. I could see now why that Witch wanted such a thing, if only to understand it and use its power. It’s unfortunate that not long after that, I heard the dogs again. Somehow my plan had failed, I don’t know how, but it did. I had no clue where I was, nowhere to go, all I could do was accept my fate. Sure enough, the soldiers were there at the front of that cave within a few minutes. I hated them, I found freedom, I found what I had been missing all along, and they were here to take it from me again. I didn’t walk out there, I didn’t even budge. If they wanted me they would have to come and get me, I didn’t care anymore because I already knew my fate. Though I will admit, that a small bit of me had hoped finding the star would save me. The other part of me just wanted them to die. The dogs wouldn’t shut up, they just kept barking, snarling, I remember hating them so much before, and now they were more annoying than ever. I remember thinking ”Just shut up! Just Shut Up! JUST-SHUT-UP!” I never saw it, but I heard the painful yelp from within the cave. Maybe it was me, maybe it was the star, maybe wishes do come true, but then again, maybe I’m just a fool. -End- Expedition's End by The Jaded [2, 998 Words] Leon sucked in a breath and tried to concentrate past the fact that beyond the boulder behind which he was currently crouched, three men with guns were trying very hard to make him dead. Three feet from his knees, the rocky dirt ended in a sheer drop - the verge of this island. Ten feet past that, the metal-ribbed canopy of Wednesday in Ghenna drifted. All Leon needed to do to avoid getting cornered and killed was jump onto the zeppelin. Jump, not miss, grab one of the handgrips, and not get shot. Gunfire rang out above him. Someone on Wednesday had climbed the ladder to the dorsal access hatch - and brought a rifle. Looked like Sarah. Leon knew that the thugs wouldn’t be more distracted than they were at that moment. He scrambled to his feet and got as much of a running start as he could with about four feet of space. A few bullets hissed halfheartedly through the air, but they went wide, vanishing into the bulk of Wednesday’s canopy. The self-sealing material, Leon knew, would handle the small leaks. Leon hit the zeppelin midway between its metal ribs, and swung his hands wide, scrambling to find one of the leather-strap handholds. He didn’t find any. The elastic surface cushioned most of the impact, but now Leon was sliding down the side of the cigar-shaped craft. Sliding down, falling - Leon heard a blast, like a shot from a cannon, and found his fall arrested by a light mesh net. He was now swinging from a rope that hung out of one of Wednesday’s little used gun ports. “Gotcha!” The voice was James’s - one of the man’s inventions had made itself useful, apparently. Leon breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been looking forward to a fall of several miles. Three minutes later, Leon dusted himself off as Marcus moved Wednesday in Ghenna to a safe distance from the island. James, the crew’s engineer and equipment man, waited for his boss to speak by folding the net carefully and packing it back into the launcher. Sarah, dropping into the lower deck behind Leon, broke the silence. “So this is the place?” She arched an eyebrow in attractive annoyance, and Leon smiled reflexively. “Why else would three unfriendly men with very unfriendly guns be up there with no ride?” Leon gestured back to the flat-topped, jagged-bottomed island outside. “Someone found the Lucrite first, and left three guard dogs chained to his treasure.” Leon’s mind drifted for a moment back to Rim, where he’d paid a few coins to a self-described divining witch, asked a pointless question, and inadvertently found himself a new adventure. That was almost two months ago. “We could beat ‘em.” James’s voice and gesture to his net launcher snapped Leon back to the present. “I could make this fire blades, or acid, or - ” Leon cut him off. “They’ve got the cave entrance fortified, and there might be more inside for all we know. Let’s try this my way first. It is after all my boat.” “Wasn’t your way just landing on top and walking in, and didn’t we just try that?” Sarah folded her arms. “My other way, then. Go tell Marcus to turn us around and bring us in from below.” “Below?” Sarah and James both asked simultaneously. “Ever wonder why Wednesday has an access hatch on top?” Leon smirked. James, always practical, responded to the rhetorical question literally. “To make cleaning the bird crap off easier?” Leon put a palm to his face. “Well... originally, yeah. But I prefer to think that it was designed for what I have planned.” Sarah suppressed a smile. She always did enjoy watching Leon’s flair for the dramatic run headlong into reality. “I’ll go tell Marcus.” Leon watched the woman climb the ladder up one level and listened to her footsteps echo toward the pilot’s station. After a moment, he returned to the task at hand. “James. Do we have a grappling hook?” James thought for a moment. “...Not as such, no. But...” He vanished into the workshop/engine room at the back of the undercarraige, returning after a moment’s loud rummaging with a simple bar of metal, studded with conical rivets. “I’ve been working on this one for a while now, should work as a grappling hook.” James tied a rope to the ring on one end and tossed it at the floor. On impact, the device made a clank as loud as a gunshot, and the rivets exploded out into curved spikes. “It’ll do, James.” Leon adjusted the empty bag slung over his shoulder and climbed up one deck, carrying James’s spring-loaded device. He was afraid to ask what its original planned use was. Sarah was waiting by the access ladder. “I’m coming with you this time.” She was standing so that Leon couldn’t get past her to the ladder, looking very serious. Leon thought she looked quite pretty when she was trying to look serious, and it only made him smile again. “When you put it that way, how can I refuse?” Leon handed her the bag. “I’ll go first, follow right behind me.” Sarah frowned, probably wondering why convincing Leon was always so easy, but stepped aside to let the man climb first. As Leon opened the hatch at the top of the access ladder, the zeppelin was just slowing to a stop about a dozen feet below the island’s jagged, irregular underside. He mentally applauded Marcus’s skill in getting the zeppelin so close without actually colliding with the rocks. Then, of course, the wind picked up, reminding Leon that if Wednesday stayed here too long, a fluke updraft could smash the craft. He scanned the rocks for a moment, and found what he was looking for - an exposed cave’s dark entrance. Bracing himself against the opening, Leon swung the hook, and missed the opening. Only then did he realize that the hooked bar could tear the zeppelin’s envelope - Leon sighed in relief as the bar clanged onto one of the metal ribs. Resolving himself not to miss again, he swung harder, and this time the hooked bar disappeared into the hole in the rock. Leon pulled on the rope, and it held - his grapple seemed to have found purchase. “I’m going up. Hold onto the rope.” Leon yelled down to Sarah, dropping the coil into the hatch and starting up. Climbing barehanded on rope was harder than Leon remembered. Even so, with no more injury than blisters, he made it into the cave. Soon Sarah joined him. “So.” She asked after a moment. “How are we going to get back?” Leon peered down at the zeppelin, already moving off for safety. “I hadn’t thought about it... Hmm.” Sarah groaned. “Leon, please, if I ever ask to go with you on one of your half-baked - ” “I know. Don’t let you come. But how am I supposed to say no to you?” Leon smiled ridiculously. “Besides, each time you worry we manage just fine. Now, let’s focus. First, let’s get the crystals. Then, you can have my hide about getting back aboard Wednesday.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “All right.” Something occurred to her, then. “What about the pickaxes?” Leon winced, realizing that neither of them had thought to carry the pair of pickaxes that they’d bought just for this expedition. “We’ll have to make do. Come on.” Leon fiddled with the object strapped to his wrist - one of James’s inventions - and soon a blue-white light shined forth from its glass face. He raised his wrist toward the darkness beyond and started climbing upward along the cave’s slope, away from the opening. Sarah shook her head, but followed. Leon was right, she knew - they always seemed to figure something out. The cave stayed tall and wide enough to walk in all the way up to their goal - a centrally-placed, high-domed cavern that Leon estimated probably made up almost a sixth of the island’s volume. A dozen or more other tunnels branched off from it in all directions, including up - in one of these upward tunnels, Leon noted, someone had fixed a rope ladder to the rock. And of course there were the crystals. Translucent, glowing blue-and-white spires of Lucrite seemed to sprout up from the cavern floor, stretching toward the roof two dozen meters above. Some of the crystals were twice as tall as Leon, and as big around Leon’s eyes widened, as did his grin. Even the thumbnail-sized piece of Lucrite in his wrist light was quite expensive. This island housed a fortune. No, several fortunes. “Sarah...” He turned back to look at her. “Yeah, Leon?” From the woman’s expression, she’d come to the same conclusion as Leon had. “We’re gonna need a bigger bag.” “I’ll settle with filling this one, Leon.” Sarah dropped the bag. “Let’s hurry up before your thugs up top decide to come down for a look.” “Good point.” Leon cast about for something to break the crystals with. Lucrite was hard, but brittle, so any old heavy object should do the trick. He spied a loose rock about the size of his foot near the wall. Obtaining it, he advanced on the largest spire of the glowing crystal, watching his reflection in its lustrous surface grow. “Leon. No. Smaller piece.” Sarah put her hands on his shoulders and spun him to face a cluster of more manageable crystals, suppressing a smile. “Okay, okay.” Leon heaved a disappointed sigh, though a part of him knew he’d never break that crystal loose - even if he did, they had no way of bringing it with them. With a forlorn look at the huge central crystals, Leon started working on the indicated set. Sarah, meanwhile, found a rock of her own and carefully tapped a handful of finger-sized cystals out of the floor. As Leon worked, he wondered if the scientists were right about the origins of this beautiful mineral. If it was, as they said, brought here from beyond the Upper Veil, then Leon and Sarah were at ground zero for a very large, and very old, meteorite impact. He wondered what the chances were - of the Lucrite landing here, instead of missing the island, and careening down into the Wastes miles below. They were astronomical, he decided. If there were indeed forces beyond the Veils with power over the laws of causality, surely this must be one of the places where they intervened. In twenty minutes the pair had filled their bag with the glowing crystals. “Okay.” Sarah glared at Leon. “Now, have you figured out how we get out?” “Not yet. Let’s get to our exit first.“ Leon spun a full circle, and realized that he’d forgotten which cave they’d come in through. “Umm, Leon?” Sarah sounded uncertain. “You don’t remember which one we came in either, do you?” Leon looked to her, smile drooping. “They all look the same.” “Yeah.” “We’re lost.” Sarah’s tone indicated that she was mentally kicking herself for the oversight. “Looks that way. Pick a cave, any cave, my dear.” Leon decided not to about it too much - after all, the thugs guarding this treasure trove still didn’t know they were here, and Wednesday in Ghenna could wait a little while. Sarah stood for a moment, then pointed to a tunnel. “This one should - ” Sarah was interrupted by the echoing sound of gunshots, followed by a ricochet from uncomfortably close to her feet and echoing shouts from above. Apparently, the guards had figured out they were here, and they weren’t happy about it. Leon wasted no time sprinting for the tunnel she indicated, pulling Sarah (and the bag of Lucrite) along by the elbow. “Let’s hope you’re right, hmm?” Leon gasped out, as soon as the two were around a bend. “Leon, I wasn’t.” Sarah set down the bag and pulled her Judicator from its holster. “This is a dead end.” Leon saw that she was right. The cavern continued - but it continued vertically down. Without so much as rope, they had no hope of climbing that. Leon likewise drew his Holdout. It was a lightweight little thing, extremely pitiful-looking next to Sarah’s large-caliber revolver - but it had more shots. “Leon, any thoughts?” Sarah asked, tiredly, as the sounds of pursuit drew closer. From the sound of it, the men knew that this wasn’t a valid escape path. “Only that I think my father would be proud to see me dying with a gun in one hand and a pretty woman in the other, Sarah.” Despite the situation, she smirked a little at this. “No clever way out?” The men were close now. They had perhaps twenty seconds. Leon tried to remember what the thugs were armed with. Millitary-grade Longjacks, if memory served - devastating close-combat repeaters. They were outgunned horribly. If only James were - “Wait!” Leon grabbed a spherical brass object about the size of a human eyeball out of his coat pocket. A single red-glass button protruded from its surface. “James to the rescue.” “What is it?” Sarah sounded hopeful. “No idea. Wasn’t listening when he explained.” Leon heard footsteps in addition to shouting now. He estimated how close they were, and wound up to bounce the object off the far wall and around the bend. Sarah’s shoulders drooped in defeated exasperation. “Great.” Leon shot her a sidelong grin, depressed the object’s button, and made his throw. The men noticed it. One of them shouted out danger, and they stopped, probably expecting the metal marble to explode, or do something nefarious. From the sound, it didn’t. “Idiot. It’s just a bearing.” This gruff voice must have been the trio’s leader. Leon’s hearty fell. “Guess not.” Sarah sighed. Leon guessed by the sound that the leader had retrieved the object, and was holding it up to show his comrades. “Look!” The leader’s voice snapped. “It’s nothing but - ” The mechanical, high-pitched whine of clockwork started just before his scream. There was a sound not unlike that which Leon remembered from a meat-packing plant in Rim - the sound of saw teeth meeting flesh. The screams lasted for a long time - Leon counted thirty-four seconds before the man was finally silent, and no other noise issued forth from around the bend. Sarah looked green in the light from Leon’s wristpiece. “James to the rescue, eh?” She sat down weakly. Leon peeked around the corner after the silence persisted for several seconds. He saw nothing at first, but a lump in the floor soon resolved itself into the prone form of a large man, heavily lacerated and leaking a puddle of dark blood. The man’s compatriots were gone, probably fled. Also missing was the sphere - and Leon was glad for that. He didn’t want to get anywhere near it now, and shuddered to think of it in his pocket. Leon heard Sarah stand, and turned to face her. “Well, one down, two missing. Let’s get out of here before they realize we only had one, hmm?” Sarah nodded. “Yeah. Remind me to have a chat with James when we’re away.” “As long as your chat doesn’t involve large-caliber guns being pointed at my engineer.” Leon countered. “Okay, fine. I need to borrow your pea-shooter, then.” Sarah gestured to the Holdout. Leon rolled his eyes, shook his head in amusement, and escorted Sarah and her bag full of Lucrite back toward the main cavern. The fourth tunnel they took was the right one. Luckily, they didn’t have to risk relying on Leon to think of a plan - James was standing in the mouth of the cavern, a pair of flight goggles pushed up onto his forehead and a pack on his back. “James!” Leon greeted him with a strange look. “About that little brass ball thing...” “How did you get up here?” Sarah interrupted Leon, with an apologetic glance at him after the fact. “Same way you did.” “Any thoughts as to how we get down, then?” Sarah asked expectantly. “That’s why I’m up here. I expected that Leon left without considering the return trip...” “Guilty, James.” Leon bowed sweepingly. “About that brass ball...” James continued smoothly, ignoring Leon’s attempt to change the subject. “So I grabbed three of the escape harnesses from Wednesday and climbed up here.” James dropped his pack and opened it, revealing the three harnesses inside. Each harness attached to a clockwork contraption on the back and a trio of folded, metal-and-leather wings. “Good thinking, James.” Leon grabbed one pack. “It’s what you pay me for, boss.” James put on one of the harnesses himself. “I’ll go first, and get my net launcher ready.” James strapped on the device and stepped toward the hole. “Marcus is circling a few hundred feet below. Plenty of room to maneuver.” “No confidence in my abilities, James.” Leon nevertheless smiled. “Now about the little - ” But James had already jumped. Above the sound of moving air, Sarah and Leon heard the whine of the slow-fall rotors on his escape harness. Leon imagined James steering through the air toward the ovoid canopy of Wednesday. “Leon, if he had confidence in your ability to save your own life, you’d be a red stain somewhere in the Wastes right now.” “I don’t think so, my dear.” Leon waved a finger. “I might still be falling. And I’m fairly sure I merit at least a crater.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Right. See you on Wednesday, Leon.” She leaned in to plant a brief kiss on his cheek before jumping out with the bag of crystals. Leon stood at the edge of the hole for a moment, rolling up the grappling line, a wisp of a smile on his face. After a long moment of leaning out over the edge, watching Sarah’s escape harnesses pinwheel toward the zeppelin, Leon leaned out over the edge, and followed her down.
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#17
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April 2011 Competition Entries Topic - A Treasure Hunt Winner - The Girl of My Dreams by DraconigenaArma Who Needs Eyes to See? by Simon “Vitus” Hild[3,300 Words] I was in a hole of a saloon near the Misty Gardens on the side of a well traveled road. When I say hole, I mean that it was dug in the side of a grass covered hill by halflings and the height of the ceiling reflected this. I couldn’t stand upright anywhere but the center of the circular room and this was complicated by a glass globe filled with glow-mold that occupied the space where my head would go. The proprietors weren’t at first happy to see me. I looked like a highwayman with worn ring mail cladding my shoulders and my sword at my side. My orc-like features did little to dissuade their initial reaction to my entrance. The hemisphere of a room was hushed when I stepped through the circular door and the patriarch of the halfings shooed the girls he’d been chatting with through another round door in the back to do other chores. He then glared at me from beneath his bushy, gray eyebrows for a moment before gesturing to a low table. The chairs were built for someone half my height, but before I could ask, the halfling gentleman was pulling a tiny chair away from the table and placing a cushion on the floor for me. I thanked him and smiled placing a couple of pieces of gold on the table. I can’t be sure whether it was my winning smile or my generosity that changed his disposition, regardless after this exchange I found the service to be to my liking. I had, in fact, a large dinner with fine honey mead topped off with a cigar of the dark, halfling leaf. For all of this I paid far more than asked and insisted they keep the difference as a tip. Soon I had met the whole family of Bagfoot who were a multitude of friendly, little people that ran this and several other small roadhouses along the Hobbit Path. We were having a marvelous time laughing, drinking and telling stories before too long. “Forgive me my hesitation, Thorn,” the patriarch Bagfoot said to me after a while, “A halfling can’t be too careful about strangers from the road. You did have the look of a robber, if you’ll forgive me for saying. I hope you do not take offense, because I see you have a good heart. I raise a glass to you. May you always be welcome in a Bagfoot tavern.” I smiled after taking a long drink of the thick, warmed mead. I always enjoyed the company of halflings and told him so. “Besides, Mister Bagfoot, I knew you would come around,” I told him with all confidence and a sparkle in my eye that betrayed a story in the back of my mind. Mister Bagfoot took the bait admirably by saying, “How could you know we would welcome you? You said this is your first time in our country.” “But not my first time meeting a Bagfoot,” I said thereby setting the stage for the tale I had been sent here specifically to tell. I was marking time in Bremmen Keep when I got the word that the Wind Waste barbarian horde was on the move. They had swarmed south for booty of all description and to lay waste to small towns dotting the northern border of the Green Ocean. Normally the Ras’Treant Forest kept a barrier between the Wind Waste and Green Ocean, but for whatever reason the long haired ponies from the north thundered out of the tundra, magic-laced pine forest or no. To combat these mounted archers, rapine in their cold hearts, who rode from the north to pillage and plunder, the Port O’ Lords was gathering troops and mercenaries to defend their holdings in the north. I was caught up in the recruitment. Ever careful to save some gold, the Port O’ Lords had only sent a crier to Bremmen Keep who explained that recruitment and payment would be done at Glasshold, the stronghold furthest north under control of the Lords. They weren’t ready to pay expenses for soldiers traveling the 500 miles to Glasshold from Bremmen Keep. These were the circumstances that led me to be on the road with half a dozen other mercenaries where upon after many days of travel we met the sage, Hollister Bagfoot. The six of us were traveling lightly along the north road from Bremmen and on horseback we were making good time until the jinn of storms reminded us of the challenges we must face in the north lands. A cold rain had come with ferocity and with it the numbing chill of the tundra whose inhabitants we aimed to combat. As if to herald bad tidings this malicious jinn cast down upon us a cold raid that persisted for two days. The beast of a road had become a wash of mud and when we approached the sage’s entourage, the road was trying to swallow a wagon whole in its muddy maw. The greedy mud monster had already claimed all four wheels up to the axels. Though the rain continued, we helped the two men in the party to get the road to regurgitate the wagon, but it was clear that it wouldn’t travel any further. Hollister Bagfoot had five apprentices with him. Two were human and the other three Halflings like himself and little help in pulling a wagon free from the mud. They did set up a meager tarp as defense from the rain. Thankfully the human assistants insisted that it be raised on the tall poles. My fellow mercenaries were all human but of the sort not inclined to help others unless motivated my gold. My half-orc instincts were tempered by my mother’s side, but this is often not recognized by the peoples of Solterra. My orc heritage carries with it the baggage of a race of murderers and thieves even though I suppose I have the heart of a sentimentalist. After listening to the quest of the sage, only I was willing to help in his treasure hunt. Had the treasure been a dragon’s horde, my brave mercenary companions would no doubt have been more than willing to face the peril of the dragon to get it. The sage could not see their expression with his deadeyes. The bandage he kept over them saved him the disappointment. This disability allowed him to overlook my own racial disadvantage however and when I volunteered to aid his small party he did not share the misgivings of his fellows who looked at me as though I had personally been responsible for every orc attack of which they had knowledge. Hollister Bagfoot was a sage of the Ancients that long dead civilization that left the landscape peppered with ruined clues of a once great kingdom. The Ancients were masters of magic in many forms and it is said that their gods yet sleep to be awakened when Solterra needs them most, but who believes in such faerie tales? Still, powerful magic was theirs to command and it was a magical artifact of their design that was the treasure the blind sage sought. Long had it been guarded by the stewards of the Ras’Treant Forest, and according to Bagfoot, it was due for retrieval. I was at first confused because I couldn’t think of any better guardian for this mysterious artifact of Ancient construction. Hollister told me that the horde brought with it more than barbarians this year. It was rumored that they were driven by a purpose from whom it wasn’t known but their aim was to capture the artifact and use it to achieve their own ends. Hollister explained that the Ancients used the chi, or mystic energy, of the earth to transmit power, manipulate the climate and even to teleport people and goods great distances. It is rumored that misuse of this power incurred the wrath of the Solterra herself which brought an end to their civilization. None of which made much sense to me, but I understood the urgency in Hollister’s voice and though my companions were not moved by his story, I was. I asked what could it be that was desired by men that could move the hordes of the Wind Wastes to do his bidding. Was it some sort of war machine that would protect armies and crush cities? The elder sage smiled and shook his head that was tilted back as if in his mind’s eye he could genuinely see the artifact he sought. “It is an instrument,” he said when faced me again from behind his blindfold, “It is a cello made of rare wood and dragon hair strings whose song, it is said, can bend one’s will to that of the cellist. It is a masterpiece that has been ensorcelled to withstand the ravages of time and hidden away to the safe keeping of those whose lives are long enough to remember.” “It’s a fiddle?” I asked gap jawed. “Bass viol,” he shrugged, “technically.” The rain kept us all shivering under their tarp but my mercenary companions were having none of some sprite-led adventure to woods that are known to be the last destination of persons now missing. I must admit, it didn’t sound like a quest worthy of noble knights and dragon slayers. Then again, I was neither of these things and the life of debt collecting for an effeminate islander had lost any appeal it might have had when I was a starving sword arm. I had left Bremmen Keep looking for adventure, be it in an army thwarting a barbarian horde or saving the world from some doomsday cello. In the morning the rain was reduced to a freezing, drizzle and my one time companions went on ahead to seek their fortune at Glasshold. I stayed with the blind scholar and his students who found my presence less than reassuring. I was generally mistrusted by his apprentice entourage but as we traveled on northeast heaving the half-repaired wagon on through muck and mire I found Hollister to be good company. He was full of all sorts of strange knowledge of long past history. We traveled for more than a few sopping days and I was happy for the shelter of the forest when it appeared on the horizon. Each day had become colder as we trekked further north. We had long since left the road and moved into the wilderness away from the settled areas of the Green Ocean that was hidden to us by a blanket of late autumn snow. We’d seen a few travelers, most of who were headed for Glasshold. Before too long in the forest, the sage asked to be led away from the camp whose blazing fire seemed impossible to leave. Yet I accompanied his senior apprentice, a young man called Barites. With me blazing a trail through the snow and Barites leading Hollister, we hiked into what felt like virgin forest for an hour or more when we came to a place where the ground was covered completely by a thick bed of long needles and canopied above with great bows of pine. Hollister bid us to stop and he sat on the soft ground to meditate in silence for a moment. The place felt eerie and cold to me. I could see my breath and hear my heart beat in my chest. Barites watched me nervously hoping his master would soon come out of his trance and let us return to camp. Without much else to do I scouted around the perimeter of the pine needle bed. Directly to our west I saw a pond that was a few hundred feet in diameter. In its center was the king of any pine tree I’ve seen. It reached over 80’ into the sky and dominated the tiny island that housed its roots. The only other feature it held was a low, stone building only 10’ on a side that looked like a children’s toy block beside the thick trunk of the tree. The pond itself was frozen over. Its gentle ripples there caught in a moment and dusted with the snow of late. It looked perilous out there, and I knew my luck even before I looked down to see my blind companion pointing unerringly at the tree with his cane. My shoulders sank. “That is our destination, good sir,” he said very politely. “You realize there is a frozen lake in the direction of your cane, do you not?” I asked trying to remain polite. “You may thank me later for saving you the labor of rowing,” said this tiny, old halfling before he quickly set out onto the ice tapping his cane rhythmically. “You should follow directly behind me now, you too Barites,” said this eccentric codger as he deftly made a sharp left avoiding a snow drift. Fearing to fall through I quickly marked time footstep for footstep behind the sage and Barites followed not to be shown up in faith in the master by a hired sword. The sound of cracking ice reminded us at every step that chill waters lay below waiting for our weight to far outmatch that of the tiny sage and send us splashing to a frozen fate. Unbelievably, we made it across with only the tapping of sage’s cane to guide us. Once on dry land, the old scholar smiled broadly and relaxed as he walked directly to the great tree and embraced what tiny part of the circumference he could manage. Shattering this strange moment of nature appreciation, the trees around the pond were suddenly alight with birds whose sudden flight shook the snow from their perches. I could hear hoof beats muffled by the snow fall and there on the frozen northern shore two figures burst out of the trees. They were unprepared for the ice covering the pond, slipped immediately and tumbled in a heap onto each other. One was a woman dressed in thick, leather armor, the other a tall, slender man in heavy fox fur. They were swearing at each other in high volume which made me chuckle, until Barites drew his blade. I hadn’t really considered the eldest acolyte to Hollister until then. I suppose next to Senior Sage Bagfoot we all look like pups, but the treacherous apprentice looked like no pup now brandishing his dagger before him whilst dragging a strange looking wooden case from the doorway of the low building. Hollister was seated on a knobby root of the pine casting his black gaze at the ground, his cherubic face in a frown making him show all his years. “It’s just an old cello!” the youth shouted at me thrusting his weapon to punctuate his claim, “If some old music lover wants it, why should you care, mercenary? Leave me be and take that dusty old halfling with you, maybe you’ll learn to love reading endless dusty tomes to him.” “Barites, you don’t know what you’re doing,” Hollister said quietly, almost to himself. His onetime apprentice was already dashing for the ice. He floundered and stumbled under the weight of the ornate case that only hinted at the magnificent instrument it protected in its hardwood shell. The man and woman from the northern shore had spotted the boy now and were scrambling toward him shouting and crying for him to stop. Of which he was having none until the horn sounded from the northern trees. I could see dark shapes churning the powdery snow. The thunder of a group of Wind Waste pony archers was clearer and their wolf-like calls echoed over the lake. The two humans stopped their bickering and turned to the woods. A shaggy pony was there shying away from the ice covered water but the barbarian archer paid his steed little mind as he took aim for Barites. The apprentice was running on the ice toward the mounted warrior and cried out, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” The case was still propelled by the momentum of the apprentice’s short run and the cello pulled at the student’s arm after his body had fallen from the archer’s cold bolt. “Barites has been shot,” I informed Hollister who still sat sadly, mysteriously on the root of the ancient tree. “Please return the cello to me, sir,” he said quietly to me, only turning his head in my direction slightly, “I’m afraid my apprentice has been led astray.” In that moment I had an image of the tiny sage trying to play this precious instrument and it was simply preposterous, the bow was as long as he was tall. Yet only a monster could refuse the request of such a kind old gentleman. Thus, I drew my dwarven blade and made my cautious way on the ice wishing now more than ever I had a blind man to lead me. The barbarian saw what I was after and let fly two arrows to fend me off, at the same time to my left I saw the fox fur man waving his hands and heard a low chant. With my hand on the handle of the cello case I saw both arrows stop in midair. One floated above my left chest, the other my nose. It was as though the whole world had stopped moving and the stillness of the forest surrounded me. Then I heard the woman in leather armor in my ear. “Get up, you brute!” she was screaming as I scrambled to my unsure feet. “Quickly,” the man hissed, “I won’t be able to stop them all.” The three of us scrambled to the island where the sage still sat peacefully on his root with his cane before him and his head tilted as if to fine tune the sounds he was receiving. The northern shore was now alive with horseman, and a braver pony had ventured on to the ice. Arrows began to land near our feet so we dragged Hollister to the south side of tree. I gripped the cello close to me with my left arm and gestured to myself with my sword, “Thorn, mercenary.” “Bethany, House Guard,” the woman saluting said with a saber and parrying dagger. “Krisknight, fugitive,” the slender mage said finally looking at my face. He grimaced, “I hope you’re a half-orc.” The barbarians had dismounted now and were creeping across the ice with their wicked bows before them. They shouted describing in what ways they were going to abuse our bodies once we fell into their hands, no doubt. More arrows dropped into the ground around us and into the tree that sheltered us. “Hollister Bagfoot, at your service,” said the sage quietly, “This is Furgard, my oldest friend.” “Charmed,” rumbled a deep voice. While we searched for this new member of our party we felt the earth moving under our feet. The great trunk of the mighty pine flexed slowly and deliberately until the east side of the tree was facing north. In the bark I saw an old man’s face that held an angry expression. Then the whole north side of the island felt as though it heaved up and Furgard’s northern roots opened wide cracks in the ice that quickly swallowed the archers who were making their advance. They screamed and shouted at the shock of the icy water and those that were not drawn into the water scrambled to the shore and then to the warm fire of their camps elsewhere. The tiny tavern full of Bagfoots stood in silence. “Mr. Bagfoot, “I said as I gave him Hollister’s letter to him, “Your great grand uncle awaits you in Crystal Loch.” This one is dedicated to my sister Angela, the best cellist I know. The Girl of My Dreams by DraconigenaArma[3,000 words] Marcus keeps his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Not above voyeurisms on any moral level, these people are just old and fat and disgusting to watch. They are enjoying themselves; Marcus is ready to vomit. The piercing sound to his left lets him know that he has fumbled himself an escape. Turning his head in the direction of the low hum Marcus bolts for freedom. A momentary blast of cool air on his face precedes a blistering hot stillness. Opening his eyes Marcus shields them from the sun baking down on the golden sand around him. In his mind Marcus handles the shift of location that came with jumping between memories well. It’s jarring, especially moving from a room lit only by candles to the blazing desert at noon, but his body reels at the discourse. His stomach churns and rebels as if the world were the deck of a small boat in hurricane seas. The nausea passes within moments, but it never fails to rear its ugly head. Marcus does a full revolution and startles to encounter the muzzle of a very large tank gun nose to nose. Marcus reels on instinct, dancing back and covering his face, as if that would save him. The controller sends a small shower of sand about as it hits the ground. As quickly as it was ripped away his mind re-asserts dominance over his body and he dusts himself off, adjusting his suede jacket and realigning his glasses in a self preening fashion. Looking over the tank he watches the hatch open and a man pop out. Lifting up one of his goggle’s lenses the man holds a telescope to his eye. Sweeping across the desert the man stares right through Marcus. Marcus continues about his business of picking up the device, dusting it off and making sure that the sigils etched into the device were completely free of sand. Once it’s clean Marcus places his hand in front of the contraption. He waves his finger across the screen of the device. In doing so he drags a small symbol across from left to right. It lights up and the screen displays a series of numbers and figures and words. Scrolling through them with a series of gestures he fiddles with a knob at the top. A piercing noise, the same one that drowned out the awful noises in the bedroom, rips through the silence of the desert. A door of shimmering reflective silver light grows from the ground to his left. It hums a low deep tone, rippling just as slightly as a still pond. Shuddering and roaring to life the tank begins to lurch towards him and the silver door. Stepping through the door his hair and clothes all rustle and flutter in a gust of wind. Momentarily one boot is still on the sand in the desert, the other on a cement walkway. As he steps completely through the shimmering doorway it shrinks into the ground and is gone, the hum with it. The tank continues across an empty desert. Marcus belches slightly, his stomach churning. The street he now stands on is crowded. People flow around him, avoiding him without ever noticing him. A girl with blond hair in pigtails sits at a bus stop, a man in wide brimmed hat with tall feather reads a newspaper at the stand and a young man in rags plays mandolin on a blanket. Carts, floating off the ground by slightly musical levitation spells are drawn by horses up and down the busy traffic way. People move past him, not looking at him, avoiding him as if he were not there. The girl waves to him. Shaking his head slightly Marcus returns to his controller, summoning the silver door again, this time crossing from concrete to tile. Again he’s surrounded by people; multi-colored light filters in through tall stain glass windows. The whistle of a train and the murmur of confined voices rise up to fill his ears. He taps the side of the controller in frustration, trying to decide if it’s broken or just hates him. Normally he has little trouble getting to at least the same year as the memory he was searching for. Conversely these jumps have been erratic, decade long errors that were not only uncharacteristic, but unexplainable. Suddenly, and without warning, his controller is knocked out of his hand as someone bumps into him. A blonde girl, red faced and embarrassed, leans over and picks it up. “You dropped this.” She says, as she looks at it curiously and slowly holds it out to him. Marcus watches her with a slack jaw, and takes the controller numbly. “Sorry.” She continues. Distracted and flustered the girl wanders away, disappearing into the crowd. The small receiver in his ear blinks brightly as his head fills with a voice shouting: “What the hell was that!” Dumbfounded, Marcus simply stares at the spot where the girl disappeared into the crowd. “Marcus, blast the branches, what was that?” “I have no idea. Let’s find out.” Marcus responds, bolting forward. He never bumps into anyone, everyone’s always conveniently out of the way, or just dodges him without ever acknowledging him. As he gets to the train, the doors close and the train rushes off, steam from the engine’s stack filling the air. Keying the earpiece Marcus sighs. “Take me out, now.” “Excuse me? You’ve not finished the job. You’re in there to get a memory, and you’ll come out with a memory.” The voice scolds in his ear. “Something’s wrong.” “Don’t care. We need the money.” The voice continues. Marcus licks his lips, and buckles. “You get one last shot and then I’m out of here even if I have to do it myself.” Marcus stands there on the curb, waiting for a response. A silver door opens next to him, without any influence from Marcus on his controller. Stepping through it he feels carpet beneath his feet. Crossing the carpeted room to a window he looks out into a well manicured suburban lawn. Out on the grass a man in dark blue robes tosses a square-ish grey ball to a ten year old in slacks and no shirt. “This is the memory you came for. Charles Jackson No. 88567.” The voice in his ear states flatly. The door shrinks away as Marcus grips the controller. Tapping the screen he presses it against the wall next to the window, which shimmers and disappears. A few more motions to his controller and the world loses focus slightly, acquiring the haze like something seen through dirty glass or a poorly focused camera lens. Marcus simultaneously drops the controller into his outside pocket and draws a thin wand from an inside pocket. He pulls the glasses off his face and affixes dark goggles instead. Aiming for the floor he chants a command and a blinding beam of light shoots from the end of the wand in a steady solid beam. Bracing the wand with his other hand Marcus begins to trace along the floor with the beam, bits of ash and burnt flecks spilling out over the lawn and the carpet. His nose fills with the smell of burning hair. Diligently, and slowly, he continues to draw a line along the ground, then up and around to form a window frame of its own, a burning and black scar. Putting the wand away and lifting up his goggles Marcus replaces his glasses before pulling out a pair of gloves from his back pocket. Approaching the burns he digs his fingers into the bottom right corner, lifting up the scene as if it were a panel of a comic book being cut out of a page. It peels away without a sound or even much effort, leaving behind a black square. Rolling and folding the image, he shoves it into the satchel he has slung around his shoulders. Digging the controller out of his pocket he waves his hand in front of it and the device springs to life. Instead of a door this time the controller hums and the world around him loses focus even more, blurring everything out of recognition. “Lets go.” He says into his earpiece. Ever so slowly the blur is replaced with a dense canopy of silver leaves as far as can be seen. The branch that he stands on is as thick as a bus. Pulling a leaf out of his controller Marcus holds it up and affixes it to a twig near his head. It attaches seamlessly.Turning around he rushes towards the trunk, as big around as a skyscraper. A series of wooden ladder ways, like a kid would make for a tree house, line the trunk, rising off and going down into a horizon of leaves either direction. A ten minute climb later, sweaty and tired, Marcus finally touches soft grass. Above him stretches the trunk, as high as can be seen, covered in branches as long as city blocks and everything covered in the silver leaves. As he sprints away the leaves and ground vibrate as a sound, with more depth and power than any sub-woofer on the planet, rolls out across the field. “Marcus.” Sliding to a halt on the grass he spins around to the tree and watches the eyes, like knots on the trunk, focus on him and the grains of its bark open up into its mouth, wide enough to fit a swimming pool in. “Yes?” Marcus replies, out of breath. “I know what you’re going to do.” It boomed, the words rolling across him like thunder. “I know, but they can’t stop me. No one can.” Marcus gives the tree his most stern look. “No one can?” It asks suggestively. He’d never seen the tree take direct action against anyone before, and the thinly veiled threat was terrifying. With that, the long crack of a mouth closed and the eyes returned to looking like nothing but knots. Left to his own devices on what that was supposed to mean Marcus spun on his heels and bolted away. Slamming open a door Marcus glares. A pace away from the door sits a small desk, empty of everything but a single scroll and a vial of ink. The paper on the scroll moves slowly from right to left, like a conveyor belt. The scroll and the desk are attended by a small impish man with no eyeballs under his clear glasses and a quill in his hand. “Nick, I need a favor.” “Are you going to tell me how someone in a memory saw you?” “I don’t know. But I want to find out. I have a hunch, but it requires you to not write anything down.” Marcus makes no effort to hide the apprehension on his face. “That’s not allowed.” “I know, but you have to. I’ll give you my cut of this memory.” Marcus tosses the satchel onto the desk. Nick’s eye sockets narrow in suspicion. “Where are you going?” “I can’t tell you until you promise.” “Fine, I promise.” “I’ve seen this girl before, but I have to be certain. I’m going home.” Nick drops his quill in surprise. Racing back to the tree he sees Batty watching him. As he loads a leaf into his controller and the real world begins to fade away he can hear the deep rumbling of the tree cautioning: “Be careful…” Marcus stands at the foot of a bed. Staring down at the man sleeping there through his spectacles Nick’s voice chimes in his ear. “So that’s what you look like!” “Huh?” “I only see through your eyes. I never see you. Hey! You’re drooling!” “Ah shut it.” Marcus growls. Sweat begins to bead on his forehead. “I’ve always had reoccurring dreams. I can’t remember them clearly now, which is why I’m here.” Wiping off his brow he approaches his sleeping form. The closer he gets to himself the hotter he feels; the sleeping form begins to sweat as well. “This is a terrible idea Marcus. You’re going to rip yourself apart.” “I’ve got to try.” Using the wand from earlier he drags it across the sleeping Marcus’s brow, whose forehead splits open and sheds forth bright white light. Holding out the controller the light envelops the waking Marcus, the world around him rushing away, and icy tundra takes its place. Despite the weather Marcus sweats profusely. He sees himself, in his pajamas, standing at the edge of a frozen lake. At the other end of the lake is a woman, the same woman from the street. Marcus’s skin begins to feel like it’s being pierced with a million needles repeatedly. “Nick, I don’t have time to cut the memory. Draw her face for me. Quickly.” “Okay, it will take me a minute.” As the pain of needles becomes the pain of daggers and a deep pressure begins to build inside his chest and skull Marcus falls to his knees. “Hurry…” He groans. In his ears he can hear the sound of scratching quill and labored breathing. “Get me out…” “I can’t!” Nick shouts in his ear, but it sounds distant. He continues to shout, but Marcus can’t hear him. The world around him begins to fade away and Marcus cannot tell if he’s being pulled out or passing out until he takes a deep breath filled with the musk of the tee. Opening his eyes he finds himself on a branch, curled up in a ball. Painfully getting to his feet Marcus pulls a leaf from his controller. The leaf is no longer silver but tarnished and burnt on one end. The tree watches him with level eyes as he walks away. Again it rumbles “Be careful.” In Nick’s office the portrait of the girl sits on his desk, a separate sheet of paper from the scroll. “Thank you Nick.” “Don’t thank me. I didn’t get you out.” With that Marcus leaves, portrait in hand. He enters another small room, with a large screen. Feeding the sketched portrait into a slot, a picture of the girl pops up. His earpiece clicks to life and Nick speaks softly in his ear, “Who is she?” He was still wearing his glasses it seems. “You won’t believe me if I told you.” Marcus, exhausted, replies. “Try me.” “The girl of my dreams.” “The girl in a dream.” “No, I’ve dreamed about this girl off and on my entire life. Always a new setting, always the same thing: a busy street, or the lake or a jungle or standing on clouds in the sky. We just stare at each other across an expanse. I just bumped into the ghost that’s been haunting my dreams for my entire life.” Marcus continues to work feverishly as he talks. Moments later his fingers trace the words that flow across the bottom of the screen under the picture. “Mina Anderson…A memory miner?” Nick exclaims in surprise. “Lost in action!” A hazard of the job everyone simply called ‘lost’ was when, rarely, a miner disappears, their keepers lose contact and they never come out again. “When was her last job?” Marcus obediently opens her file onscreen. In unison, in the same tone of disbelief, they both shout “Charles Jackson No. 88567!” Flying through the halls, Marcus’s feet barely touch the ground. In no time at all he’s racing across the field only to be cut short by the piercing eyes of the tree. In a dreadful instant that lasts forever Marcus is sure that Batty is ready to stop him. So much conjecture on why the odd miner went missing included the idea that it was no accident and the tree ate them or kept them on purpose. If that were true... The ground rumbled. “Good luck.” Its mouth turns up at the edges in what could only be a smile. Marcus realizes in that instance the tree has no more to do with lost miners than an oak intentionally tosses climbing children to the ground. Confident, he climbs. He makes straight for the station where he had first bumped into her. He searches for an hour, to no avail. Thrice over the memory repeated itself in that time, and no where could he find Mina. “Marcus. It’s time to go. You’ve been in for too long.” Nick urges him, for the fourth time. Marcus ignores him and punches his controller. The silver door opens. Within moments he is back in the original bedroom, watching the same horrible episode. Fiddling with his controller he opens a door to the desert, and from the desert to the street. There he looks to the park bench. There she sits, and waves. Marcus takes a step forward when Nick shouts “Stop!” “What?” “I get what you’re doing, but now’s not the time.” “She’s right here, what if she isn’t at the train station next time, then I come back here and she isn’t here! I won’t lose her like that.” “I get what you’re doing, following your footsteps as before. Don’t trust me, trust yourself.” Marcus stands there, conflicted. The door opens next to him. His stomach churns with worry and fret. Stepping through the door he’s immediately walked into. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Mina mutters, turning red in the face. She walks over and picks up the controller. Again she watches it with a curious expression as she hands it to him. He takes her hand instead. “What’s your name?” He asks her. “My name?” She looks puzzled, and says nothing. “Is it Mina?” He continues. “Yes, of course, didn’t I just say that?” She laughs embarrassed. “It’s time to go home.” Marcus informs both Mina and Nick and the world drains into soft focus. As the memory departs, and the real world returns recognition and sense return to Mina’s eyes. She blinks hard. “You, I know you.” She says, watching him intently. “I’ve been lost. Things are blurry. I know you though, from-” “A dream?” The Knife That Drinks Dreams by Darkshard[2,995 Words] The mirrors of heaven swirl above me. The light dances below. I see the deepening shade stretching out into an endless purple eternity. Suspended in stillness, I drift, and listen. After a few moments, I hear their song. There are no words here, but there is speech regardless. They are my people, my father’s finest warriors, and they, too, seek my sister. Only I know what she has sought, and it turns me pale with fear. They swim to me. The leader, a strong male with a necklace of shark teeth about his throat, ventures to ask me what should be done now. I gaze at his fine golden hair, as it floats in the water. Then I gaze through it. How is it that such beauty can be here, drifting as the kelp does on the wave, when my sister may be – I sing out my reply, and they swim away at my word. Glancing behind me as I swim away, I catch a glimpse of a shaken head. They fear to tell my father that I have gone where I shall go, but I, who knew and loved her best, know what led her here. I must seek the Sea Witch. * My Grandmother told the tale that she in turn had heard sung by her own Grandmother, long ago. It was the Long Night, when all is dim and the waters bitterly cold. Then the People gather to tell each other their news, and to share the tidings of the Silver Circles. There were tales of great hunts, of feats of prowess, of weddings and birthing, and much more besides. After an old man finished his spurious tale about the time he had spent trapped in a lake, sealed in by ice, another, a mermaid I did not know, swum into the circle. She was young, and being young the tale she shared with us was that of her first rising to the surface. It was an ill tale to tell. The waters seemed to darken as Grandmother stirred, and rose from her bed. All hushed as she did, for she was old and great among our number. The twelve oysters fastened to her tail glistened in the dark water, marking her as a woman of great power. Imperiously she interrupted the foolish mermaid, and her song was piercing and filled with woe and grief. She sang the tale we all knew, the tale that is told to little children to warn them. It is the tale of the little mermaid. Poor creature, she fell in love with a mortal, who played her false. She died and turned to foam, no joyous years below the sea for her. “Though he kissed her and more, though he mated with her, she was no more than a dumb slave in his eyes. He betrayed her, and without tongue to protest her fate, she died of a broken heart,” Grandmother finished, her admonishment stark in the silence. “Never forget, all you who long for the world above. It is not for us!” I remembered my own journey to the surface. I had risen beside a great harbour, and followed an iron whale that sang aloud to a city. The harbour was vile with oil and dying fish. Foul waters from their excrements had turned the creatures there into things of nightmare. Bones scattered the sea bed. I looked upon it, and there was neither beauty nor wonder there. Then a human had seen me from the ship, and I had turned and dived below the waves. Suddenly my sister broke the silence. I knew at once by the light in her eyes that her interest had been provoked by the tale, not banished. “But she cast away the knife for love!” she protested. It was the sort of ridiculous tragedy that appeals to adolescent youth, who know no better. Immediately I lamented that Grandmother had told it at all. “Sister,” I said quietly, and she listened as she always had, “she had looked on him but a day, and never had they spoken. What she conceived of in her heart was not love, but a dream of love. She did not know him, and died in pursuit of a longing any merman could have fulfilled.” She heeded me, but there was a glint in her eye that told me she did not agree. She was only fourteen, and had not yet gone to the surface herself. We were dearest sisters, the both of us like and unlike. Our kinship was that we sought something outside ourselves. She was drawn by the thought of those who were different from all she knew. The ideal perceived is always more wondrous than the reality, because it is never difficult to achieve. Perhaps that is true for everyone. * Her fifteenth birthday was two moons later, and I had no hint of the trouble that was beginning. I left to join the migration hunt, and it was only when I returned that I learned she had gone. I passed through the palace grounds. There it was, the statue that was now hopelessly tangled with the weeping willow. It’s drifting branches seemed to curl endlessly about the marble statue of the handsome boy. with sadness, and in the cold light the marble statue of the handsome boy seemed imperious and cruel. The branches drifted towards me for a moment on the current, and I could have sworn that it sighed, ‘Never.’ The moment passed, but I knew what it must mean. * All the merfolk know where the Sea Witch dwells, though their voices hush at the name. Past the foaming whirlpools, which cast all they ensnare into the fathomless depths of interminable darkness below...past the bleak sands where nothing lives, except the polypi, lightless predators that grasp and strangle out the life from all they touch. The heat was crushing and intense, as the effervescence of the mire about me scalded my skin. I remembered how the little mermaid had passed, and prepared myself in kind. Taking but a moment to ready myself and bind up my hair, I swam through that dread forest as fast as I might. I came to the house of bones. Sea serpents writhed about it, and I dodged them to hammer upon the wall. I sang out, demanding that she speak with me. She came. Hideous and wretched, nevertheless upon seeing me a smirk tugged at her lips. I drew back as she lunged forward, but not before she had caught a lock of my hair and tugged it forth. She seemed well pleased with herself. She twined it between her fingers, gazing at it, then suddenly stared at me with eyes that were pitch black. “You are not afraid!” she declared, seeming almost fascinated. Then another smile tugged at her lips as she released it. “No...you are not without fear. It is only that you fear different things.” “You know why I have come,” I reminded her implacably. “I told her, as I told the other,” she said, picking up a leech and fingering the squishy thing into her mouth as she settled back. “So long ago, now! I knew what she wanted, though it was stupid of her. Why chase the dream of dreaming? And in their world?” She grinned at me, her hideous teeth easily visible even in the murk around us. Then she saw my face, and laughed, knowing she had me caught. “You wonder why the world of men grows, as ours diminishes.” She touched her chin lightly with a horned fingernail, and then drew it down my cheek. “A strange creature you are. Mermaid and fey, a creature of dreaming... but there is iron in your head, and in your heart. You seek answers." “I do,” I replied gravely. Her shoulders dropped as she turned away, but she told me nonetheless. “Never, never, they would say, and far away. They let that-which-might-be remain in the hidden places, but now they call it forth instead. Draw out their dreams and shape them into a form that can exist in their world.” She gazed into the water above. “Do you hear it?” I strained, and at last I did. “Above us a blind ship cries into the void, and records all it sees without fail. As it does, the dreams of what might be below the waves are bidden into what is. When nothing is hidden, where then shall we go?” she wailed, bemoaning our fate. Despite myself, my anger at her had gone. I had my answers. “What will you ask of me?” I asked at last. “Never something for nothing. That is true even here...” She trailed off. “Did you take my sister’s tongue, too?” I demanded of her. “Yes. It is an old magic. We are not real, you know, not as they are. How then can a mermaid survive?” Her eyes glinted. “They must remain less than real, lest they return to the foam on the wave. The voiceless is never heard.” “She could have held her tongue, not had it taken,” I said stiffly. “Oh, yes. But what would the Sea Witch be if there was no blood?” Suddenly her smile was dripping with malevolence. “But for you... there will be a different bargain.” “As the sisters of old?” I asked. I moved to draw the knife at my waist, to cut my hair off, but she shook her head. “It would take more than that to cut a mermaid’s hair. How could flint cut the gossamer spun of man’s desire?” She shook her head.“There is only one knife that can. The Knife that Drinks. You know of it?” “...I do,” I said, remembering the tale. The little mermaid had cast it into the waves before she had died. I had wondered where it had fallen. Now I was to seek it. “Bring it to me,” she crooned, and her mad eyes were bloodshot as she handed me the draught. * Carefully I considered it, in the manner that had always set me apart from others. The bridal ship had left the harbour of a town, a town that was now surely a city. Likely it was on the eastern coast, as the little mermaid had looked out over the sea to await her death. I went to straight my dearest Grandmother. She wept when I told her the news. Then she told me what I needed to know. “I had the tale from my own Grandmother,” she told me, “and she herself had been sister to that little mermaid who perished. Her hair never grew again, even when it had turned white with age, and every year she would return to that place to mourn her.” She told me the way to the harbour. It was the very city I had seen in my fifteenth year. * A terrible horn sounded, pounding my ears. The sea bed was slick with filth, laid down for a hundred feet or more. It choked and sickened me. How could I ever find the Knife in this? This place was worse than the lair of the Sea Witch. Grimly I thought that the surfacers had whittled their evil dreams apart from their bright ones, casting the nightmares into the vastness of the sea and building the bright ones upon the land. I searched and searched, digging up the mud with my bare hands. Soon they were red raw and cracked from it. The horn sounded anew. Then, above it’s noise, I heard the song of iron. I swam towards the ship, driven despite my apprehension. For where eyes availed me not, the ship’s sight might. * Docked beside the waterline, the vessel rested. Beside it, the stark white building gleamed in the sunlight. I hid, still feeling the terrible tenderness in the clumsy props that my tail had been torn into. I waited until sundown, and then swam through the pool where the sick creatures were confined, tugging away the iron mesh. I had thought they had all gone, but they had not. I knew him at once, as he knew me. He had been the human that had seen me in my fifteenth year, and now he stood stock still, staring. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I,” he whispered. It was not a question. I yearned to reply, and at the same time well remembered the Sea Witch’s warning. If I spoke to him, I might turn at once to foam. Yet if I didn’t, and he held the answers I sought... From behind a winching mechanism I murmured, in his strange and guttural sounds, “Yes.” For a moment, all was still. Then, “I thought I had imagined you.” If he thought he had, maybe he had. “Can a dream be willed into life?” I asked. It was not a question. “No. Only...created, perhaps, but not called,” he said at last. “A dream has to be made of what is real, or else it remains a dream.” “Then you understand my plight,” I said wryly. “I seek my sister.” “Your...you have a sister?” There was a moment’s pause. I couldn’t see him from where I hid. “Yes. She fell in love with a mortal, of all things. I’m sure you’ve heard the tale,” I said sardonically, “but I don’t believe dreaming of a dream is the same as making that dream come true. That’s...something only humans can achieve.” As I said it I heard the regret in my own words “You mean... science?” he asked after a moment. I considered this. “I think so. Yes.” There was another pause. “Why are you hiding?” “...Just speaking to you puts me at risk of turning into foam on the wave. That’s all I am in this world, after all. How could a woman with a fish’s tail really exist?” I said, just a little bitterly. “I suppose it’s feasible as a far-fetched theory that one day retroviral engineering might have advanced sufficiently...or perhaps cosmetic grafts could – ” “ – And that’s what I mean. You learn to make your dreams true,” I said. There was a strangely compelling silence. Then I cleared my throat. “I don’t suppose it’s possible you’d be willing to just consider marrying me? Please understand - this isn’t an ill-conceived longing for someone I’ve never met, who therefore might potentially fulfil every need. It just might stop me from ceasing to exist.” “...I can’t promise you that I’ll marry you,” he said quietly, “but I can promise that I’ll think about it very carefully. Does that help?.” I couldn’t have asked for a better answer. I decided to risk sliding out from behind the machinery. He blinked owlishly at me. I did not vaporise and turn to foam on the wave. “Do you know how the singing ship works?” I asked him, remaining in the water. He averted his gaze suddenly. “Oh. The...singing ship? You mean the sonar?” He fixed his stare on the wall behind me. “Probably. It sings into the deep and makes clear what is obscured. I thought...it might be able to scry for the Knife,” I said. “The Knife?” he asked, puzzled. “The Knife that Drinks. The little mermaid of long ago cast it into the waves...and I need it to return it to the Sea Witch,” I explained. Was I feeling suddenly hazy for talking about such things? “That..oh. Oh. That’s really a true story?” he asked me, brightening. “It... really is. Can you find it?” I asked him. “I...don’t know. I don’t think the resolution is good enough, but the new array we’re going to add next week might – how large an area is it we’re looking at? Would it be possible to narrow it down by, I don’t know. Historical records, meteorological records that could be used to extrapolate shipping forecasts...” Suddenly he sounded far more certain. I found myself smiling as he spoke. “I hope so,” was what I told him, still smiling. * I will not tell of the long search, nor of how I adjusted to the human world as we patiently sought the Knife. Alan helped find my sister – who had been hitchhiking with a rather bemused young man in tow – by the expedient process of reporting missing persons to the police. Her tongue had been cut out, but she was my sister after all. She communicated rather well with signs and sketches, something I had never understood why the little mermaid did not do. She grinned at me unabashed when we picked her up, and opened her mouth to stick the tongue she did not have out at me. Eventually we found the Knife. My sister was in no mind to murder a reality so a dream could endure. She was canny enough to work it out - if the little mermaid had lived for years in the surface world and only perished because the dream she had wanted real perished as well...well, she’d better not affix herself to a dream that might die. She’s seeing the world. I’m learning to make dreams come true. I'm studying at the same place Alan’s finishing his PhD at. A fortnight ago we finally dredged it up. We sailed out over the realm of the Sea Witch and cast it into the water. I do not doubt that it will sink down to the fathomless depths below, and the debt will have been repaid. And Alan and I came to love each other - though we still aren’t married and likely never will be. We were similar people to start with, and then our dream had to be crafted, worked upon, and made whole. One day at a time. That’s because it’s not a dream of love. It’s real.
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; Jun 1st, 2011 at 12:54 PM. |
#18
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May 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Reincarnation Winner - In Memoriam by The Jaded
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#19
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June 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Degradation Winner - The Colour of Passion by Darkshard The Colour of Passion by Darkshard[1,938 words] Sister Martha stood with a huddle of the other nuns. Her fingers twined through her rosary beads, she clutched at them as though the pain of them tightened around her fingers would somehow avert her dismay. "...et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut, et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris," she whispered, gazing on the scene. The abbey stood empty, somehow already derelict. Devoid of the monks and pilgrims whose devout fervour had illuminated it with the warmth and colour of faith. For the entire dreary September day, the King’s men had been hurrying back and forth. They had been indifferent to the ominous grey cloud and the signs, to the drizzle that fell like tears upon them. Instead, they had taken away the treasures that the faithful had placed to rest upon the holiest ground in England. The Pilgrimage of Grace was done, and no one now dared voice protest. It was over – the King had won. The Holy Church, and thus all it had, was his. The reverend Abbot had been taken to the Tower of London. Despite the fact that even Doctor Layton, the King’s most ruthless servant, had found his faith and conduct faultless. The Abbot had offered no resistance, neither to his capture nor to the King’s will. He had signed the Act of Supremacy. Sister Martha had heard from one of the monks that he had willingly ceded any estate the King had asked for, in order to please the man with his obedience. It had not been enough. As the other nuns tearfully embraced each other, Sister Martha prepared herself. It would not do to falter now. Holy Father, who art in heaven...if it is thy will, then thy will be done! Dusk had fallen, and most of the workmen had gone to rest. The abbey was now empty, and the guards had dispersed. Tomorrow, they would begin the task of destroying the very shell that remained, taking it apart stone by stone. Whether for profit or simply to mark this place as the final conquest of the King over the Church – who could say? Sister Martha hurried in. She gazed up at the Holy Thorn, touched even more now than formerly by it’s symbolism. Blood and passion. For had not Joseph of Arimathea come to Glastonbury with his Nephew? Long before His years in the desert, in those of his early youth. Christ, Our Saviour, had come with his uncle. Then Joseph had thrust his staff into the earth at Wearyall Hill, and it had burst into life – a sign to all those who saw it that the Son of God was indeed near. It had been Saint Joseph, after the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, who had returned there and built the wattle church that the abbey itself had been built upon – the Old Church, which had been claimed by fire. Though the Thorn here was but a scion of the true Thorn, it too was sacred, blooming on Christmas Day. Flowering in the middle of winter as a sign for all to see, that a Light that shone in the darkness. Now though, it was abandoned. The rags of cloth that had petitioner’s prayers written upon it were all that remained. Every adornment that had value had been stripped from it. The wind gusted mournfully, shaking it’s boughs. Sister Martha, after touching two fingers to it and kissing them in reverence, turned away. Hurrying inside, she passed through Saint Dunstan’s chapel, and then was brought almost to tears as she reached the Lady’s Chapel. The exquisite arched designs, painted in hues of rare blue and royal purple, still adorned the stark walls and bare ceiling. Underfoot, she knew, were the crypts, and past those, the sacred well, whose waters were tinged red with Christ’s blood. Through the nave and past the tower, to the chancel. It’s paintings and tapestries had been stolen, the gold leaf that illuminated it with a wondrous glow stripped away. She knelt again before the altar, and grieved at the destruction of so much beauty. Well she knew that there were those, especially on the continent, who spoke against the adornment of chapels, saying that such wealth was better given to the poor. She could not deny that there was truth in such words. And yet... Lifting her eyes, she gazed at the tomb of King Arthur and his lady Guinevere. The black marble was empty now, the bones hidden. Yet there it was. For this had once been not Glastonbury, but Ynis Wydren, the Isle of Glass. In King Arthur’s time it had been an isle in truth, surrounded by water and swampy marsh. There had been a single causeway, that had formed a link between the isle itself and the rest of the world. And Arthur himself had called it Avalon. That, she decided, was why her heart cried out at what had been done. The colour that adorned the Lady’s chapel was the same kind of colour as that which adorned her imagination. When she closed her eyes and thought of the wondrous times of chivalry and splendour, of the Knights of the Holy Grail. They were the colours of passion and of beauty, the colours of truths and mysteries that were timeless. Bright and vivid, scoring the sight with the intensity of their vision, they were the colours of belief. To close your eyes, and see, scored in your soul, a world in which the ideal was real and tangible, in which man moved with nobility, with purpose and power...that was to turn your face toward the light, and so turning to it, to walk toward it. She opened her eyes, and the flames and colour of her mind’s eye faded in intensity. She knew well what would happen now, for it had happened to the lesser monasteries that had been closed before. The abbey would fall, it’s stones taken for building material and the remainder left to fall into slow decay. The paintings that depicted the hopes and dreams of the faithful would fade with time, and silence would reign where once voices had filled the chancel with Latin chants. Sister Martha prayed quietly, her cross upon herself finished with a kiss toward that sacred altar. Then she turned, and left that place. Past the cemetery in which King Arthur’s grave had been uncovered, she began the long walk to the Tor. The abbot, Richard Whyting, would not survive. She knew that now, for they would never have done this to his abbey if he was to live. Without judge and jury, nor even a trial, detained ‘at the King’s pleasure’, the only mercy he would know now would be the sound of the jangling of his gaoler’s keys, and the bread and water that would shortly accompany it. The Tor. She looked up at it as she hastened her pace. It’s long winding path and terraces were forbidding enough. But Sister Martha knew, as many did, that the Tor was far more perilous than it first appeared. Up, up she climbed, until it seemed that the mists of Avalon themselves drew about the land below, and the Tor itself was an isle. She could just make out the avenue of gnarled ancient oaks that led to the foot of the Tor. For this was the Tor of Glastonbury, the Tor of Ynis Wydren, and beneath it was an entrance to the Underworld, and the King of Annwn dwelt below. Up on the summit, there was a church built to invoke the protection of the Archangel Michael. She had seen the carvings dedicated to the Angel of Death, carrying the souls of the dead to heaven to be weighed in the scales for their sin. It had been rebuilt after an earthquake had sundered it, mark of the fell power reached up from below. Yet she was bound there nonetheless. She found the place she had been told of, hidden behind brambles, and scrambled down into the passageways that honeycombed the Tor. As bidden, she kept her eyes closed, her hand on the left-hand wall as she traversed the underground labyrinth. She tried not to think of the powers, ancient and brooding, that walked there, or that she might already be walking into the realm of the dead. Instead, she prayed that God would not let her stray from the right path. She felt again for the comfort of the holy water concealed in her sleeve. At last she became aware of a light source through her eyelids, and then a guiding hand took hers. She did not speak. She knew it was one of the monks, and his rough habit scratched her hand as they moved. Then something was pressed into her hands. She cupped it her hands, inhaling sharply. “Swiftly, Sister,” a voice whispered. Trembling, she tucked it away, nestling it within her habit as she felt the rough ceramic under her fingers. Though all that was beautiful might be destroyed, this at least would be preserved. * The crowd waited silently at the summit of the Tor. The ominous tower was to be the site of the execution of Richard Whyting, Abbot of Glaston, and two of his fellow monks. Men had worked through the storms of the night, erecting a gibbet, and a block. On the block lay a saw and a cleaver. Beside it stood a cauldron of pitch. The abbot had finally been sentenced with the vague accusations of ‘treason’ and ‘robbing the Church’. Richard Whyting had been sentenced ‘by order’, after long, secret inquisitions in the Tower. He had not professed allegiance to the Pope, denied Henry’s supremacy over the church or confessed to any treason. Now he and his fellow monks waited patiently for death to come for them. They confessed then, a broad and general statement of how sorry they were to have offended their prince. Such confessions meant little. It had become standard practice to confess, in exchange for the hope of mercy from a monarch. None was forthcoming. Above the so-called entrance to the Underworld, on a gallows beside the tower consecrated to the Angel of Death, the abbot and his followers were hung, drawn and then quartered. The abbot’s head was placed on the abbey’s gates, a reminder to all that passed never to dare to defy a king. Yet the most wondrous treasures of the abbey were never found. They were deemed to have been hidden by the monks in the secret places of Glastonbury. Amongst those items lost were books and scriptures, manuscripts and reliquaries. The bones of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere were spirited away before the King’s men arrived. The lead cross, enscribed in Latin, that had been found attached to the hollowed out log that had been their grave was never found. Last but never least was that which had been at the heart of the quest of the Grail Knights. It was the cup that was said to have been hidden by Joseph of Arimathea just below the mysterious Tor – ‘at the entrance to the Underworld’. * It is interesting to note that Doctor Layton, a ferocious supporter of the King who well understood his monarch’s need to dissolve monasteries for coin, originally reported ‘there is nothing notable; the brethren be so straight kept that they can not offend.’ This was in 1534. Three years later, he send a sudden and urgent missive to the King. “The Abbot of Glastonbury appeareth neither then nor now to have known God, nor his prince, nor any part of a good Christian man’s religion.” What secrets may have been uncovered, and whether the killing of the Abbot of Glaston was a mercenary murder for money or something far stranger, none can truly say.
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#20
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July 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Open Secrets Winner - Ashi's Destiny by Peter172 Waking Up In Vegas by Foxtrot[3,668 Words] Year 2383 - Noon - Sunday Darkness turned to light, wielding with it a sharp pain that shot though his eyes searing his brain with an onslaught of white spots and pin needles as a nasty reminder of what he did last night. He closed them again reveling in the peace of the black comfort not seeing could bring. His other senses soon awoke and the feel of soft silk sheets covering his undressed body brought comfort and confusion all at once. He opened his eyes slowly. This time letting the blur of his vision dissipate with the fog in his mind. Considering the way he was feeling he was pretty sure he must have had a hell of a good time. His hand reached up and wiped the sleep from his eyes further bringing him out of his dreamlike state despite how comfortable he was feeling. Eyes fixed on an unfamiliar ceiling he turned his head to the side to get a better view of his surroundings when he caught sight of frazzled locks of red hair lying next to him. His eyes opened wide and he sat up quickly in a panic looking in disbelief at the young woman lying naked next to him. Andrew Foxwell suddenly had a flood of memories hit him leaving him with only the ability to utter one simple phrase. “Oh sh**!” In response to the words, Isabelle shifted a bit and leaned against the body that was next to her. In her mind, she had no idea who or what this was, but at the moment she was still quite groggy and she cared very little. The body beside her was warm to the touch and that's what she wanted most at this very moment. When her brain finally registered what the words were, her eyes shot open and locked onto the man next to her, who she didn't even vaguely remember. Last night was a complete blur and sadly, this was not the first time that this had happened in her life... at least, the waking up naked beside someone she didn't know. Now, she shifted away from him a bit, but her eyes would not look away. There was no adoration in them as she was nervously holding the sheets to cover her nude form, "Umm..." Then, she noticed it... a ring on her left ring finger. She noticed a matching one on his and she gaped a moment before uttering the same simple phrase as the man who was apparently now her husband. "Oh sh**!" ------------------------- 24 Hours Earlier - Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards Andrew gripped the stick tightly. Sweat dripped off his forehead as he grit his teeth tightly. One thing was for certain. This was going to get interesting. “Damn! I missed the ball!” he cursed under his breath as a set of sparks shot from the console to his left causing him take his hand off the throttle. His lips pursed tightly while the sound of something metallic breaking free echoed inside the cockpit. A cacophony of alerts and red lights filled the cockpit drawing even more unnecessary attention away from the pilot than he would have liked. “Great..” he commented as he tried to level out the small experimental fighter’s approach to the hangar. Acrid smoke from burning wires began to fill the small space and part of him considered the idea of foregoing the tractor beam to get inside the shipyard before he bought the farm. Or had any worse of a taste in his mouth. A sudden jolt of his momentum changing told him they had him in a tractor beam before he could even make the move. The Kestrel class experimental starfighter slowly soared into one of the many hangars found at Utopia Planitia signaling the end of another day’s work. At least for him. It would be at least a few days until they had the bird up for a hop after the little shindig he put it through. The pilot crawled down the ladder set up by the deck crew and for the first time got a good look at the real damage he knew had happened. Smoke billowed out of the starboard wing as a plasma line burst and caught fire causing the crews to shoot a flurry of extinguishers at it while dousing the pilot in the crossfire. As if the taste of burnt plastic wasn’t bad enough, he now had the dry taste of chemical in his mouth. This was already turning out not to be one of his better days. Still, it was early and after a short debriefing with Lang and his brains, he’d be free to do whatever he wanted. And what he suddenly found he wanted was to get off the station for a night. “Look out!” he heard someone shout even as a loud clang echoed through the hangar. Looking back he saw one of the outboard sensor arrays lie sparking on the deck. “Oooo,” he commented to himself quietly with a cringe and turned back only to run into a young fiery haired engineer. “Sorry I didn’t mean to...” he trailed off as his eyes adjusted to the attractive young woman in front of him and a smile crept across his powdery white face, “Hello beautiful. Name’s Angel. Okay technically that’s my callsign. My real name’s Foxwell. I mean Andrew. Foxwell. Andrew Foxwell. You know just call me Angel or whatever you want and if I could screw up introducing myself any more than I am now just whack me ‘cause what’s the point in breathin’ if I can’t make a good first impress on a cute little wrench like you?” "Well, a better first impression would have been to not eff up me baby, but I guess we'll have to let it slide because it is experimental design." Isabelle rolled her eyes and moved over to the fighter to observe it up close, "You did a good number on this... it's not ready for all of the hyper maneuvering you jocks like to do. It's not a time to show off, damn it... we're testing this fighter, not breaking it." After her short rant, she turned back to him and offered a grease covered hand, "Isabelle Adelaide... Izzy, actually." At this point, she noticed how attractive he was and a blush built up her features, which was mostly obscured by engine grease. “Well Izzy, trust me when I say it’s sweet to rendezvous with ya. But you’re a few geese short of a gaggle if you think I was too rough on her. Can’t joyride around the black in this baby if we don’t ride her hard now to make sure there aren’t any creepy crawlers running free. You might not have to count on her to save your bacon down the road, but I might. Or maybe even later this week now that I think about it.” Andrew cringed as one of the deck crew began expelling a series of curses that would make a call girl blush. “Yeah probably not... anyway.... sorry about that. I’ll try to go a little easier on her next time.” He was just about to make a hasty exit when an idea hit him like a sack of wet hammers, “Hey! What’re you doing later tonight? See I was thinkin’ of hoppin’ on over to Earth later for a little fun. Or a lot of it, whichever happens. Maybe some shenanigans. And I can’t say I wouldn’t fancy having a bewitching young fiery haired grease monkey along for the ride. Whattya say?” He winked to accentuate the half-cocked smile on his face, “Did I mention the shenanigans?” After his little explanation, Izzy stood there with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. She knew that the pilots were meant to break ships, but that didn't mean that the Engineers were any less frustrated when they did do it. The curses of the deck crew washed right over her, since she was usually one of the primary perpetrators. With a raised brow, she considered his offer for a moment, "Well, I didn't have any concrete plans, but..." The possibilities went flying, but then she decided to go ahead and do it since she was young and this was the time to have fun and be reckless. "Sure, I'll go... I haven't been down to Earth in a month at least, so I think it's time for a real party." Year 2383 - Noon - Sunday - Hotel Room "Izzy?" Foxwell asked hoping that was her name. He was still a little dazed and confused about what was going on. He had a few thoughts considering the surroundings and where he was, but the fog in his head was still a little pea soup-like. Plus he still wasn't exactly wide awake yet, so focusing was not the easiest thing to do at the moment. He had memories from the night before, he just couldn't quite get to them. Not that he necessarily needed them all right that minute. Afterall, the hangover combined with the.... really nice ring on her finger combined with them both in bed together looking, well like they had forgot to dress for sleeping gave him a pretty good idea of what was going on. He suddenly noticed the matching ring on his own finger and looked to her asking slowly, "Did we? Are you? Ummm.... Are we..?" He reached over and poked her in the shoulder with his finger only to find that this wasn't a dream. Not really sure what to do he said with a weak smile, "Good morning sunshine or I guess maybe I should say ummm....... wife?" Isabelle was equally dazed as well and was having a hard time focusing as she fought off both sleep and the exorbitant amount of alcohol in her system to focus on the man who she was seemingly married to. "Must have been one hell of a night..." She furrowed her brow a bit as she focused on his face, noticing a bruise around his eye, "Looks like you got into a fight... did you fight over me?" She laughed a bit at this notion -- it was entirely plausible, albeit quite silly, if he had done so. She pointed to it, but then was once again distracted by the ring on her finger, "This is so weird..." Never had this happen before... usually I just wake up then leave... not wake up and found out I'm married! 15 Hours Earlier - Nine Fine Irishmen Pub - Las Vegas - Earth "I'll teach you to talk to her like that!" Andrew screamed balling his hand into a fist as he stood up from his bar stool. His face full of anger towards a pair of hooligans who were making lude remarks toward Izzy. First he had been hustled into buying rings off some guy on the street just to get rid of him and now this. While he wasn't a fighter by any means, he had drank enough alcohol thanks to a little competition with Izzy earlier to give him the kind of confidence that made him feel invincible. His feet took a couple awkward steps and planted themselves into the ground. One way or another he was going to teach them a lesson and get them to apologize to her. He brought his right arm up and flailed it back to launch a haymaker only to feel his hand hit something hard. His eyes went wide as he turned to see what he had just done despite having a sneaking suspicion that it was the last thing he wanted. Isabelle had enough time to realize what was coming to say, "What the fu--" but she was cut off when the punch hit her squarely in the eye. The floor soon was introduced to her rear end and she hit it hard, but luckily, the impact of both the unwelcome fist and the floor were dulled by the amount of alcohol she had consumed in their little drinking contest. Within a moment, she was standing again and rearing her fist back to retaliate, which she did to her cohort who had punched her square in the face. She was a pretty damn good fighter and packed a mean punch, so she was counting on making him see stars. If Foxwell wasn't sorry before, he certainly was now. Like in slow motion he saw her fist fly right at him. No matter how much he may have tried to move, he was frozen in time. It was only when the hard smack of her fist connected with his face that he moved only to bounce his head off the bar as he crumpled to the floor like a puppet whose strings were just cut. He was pretty sure that if he hadn't been hammered by drink he would have been in a world of hurt. As it was, he was just in a lot of pain. His eye was already starting to twitch as the area around it began to swell. Like a turtle on its back he rolled on the floor for a moment before getting a hand on the bar stool he had originally been sitting on and somehow managed pulled himself up with a lot more effort than expected to stand and stare quizzically at the identical pair of Izzys in front of him blurring in and out of his vision until they once more shifted back together into one woman. "Ouch. Ouch! OUCH! What'd you hit me for!" He shouted at her as he swayed back and forth a little unsure if he was dizzy from the punch or just a little more tipsy than he thought. If one word could describe Isabelle's feelings right now, it would definitely be 'roar'. She roared at him, "You hit me, instead of the f'n idiots who were trying talkin' about touchin' me girly bits and you hit me instead of them! What the hell is wrong with you?" The anger flew through her veins, but it became quickly blurred by the onset of more drunkenness, which soothed her and she took a step forward to him, "Come on, let's get another drink... or get out of here... I think there's a lot more we can do on the strip!" She took his hand and half dragged him up and out of the bar, having decided for both of them that something else was needed to occupy them. As they made it to the door and outside, she flung herself at him and kissed him roughly, and quite sloppily, as alcohol hindered her ability to aim, apparently. Year 2383 - Noon - Sunday - Las Vegas Hotel Room "Ummm... Izzy? You have a....." Andrew stumbled to say as he reached out and pointed at her own black eye. His face turned red as he shifted his gaze to the sheets to collect his thoughts. He couldn't quite remember exactly what had happened, but he somehow knew that he was responsible for the dark mark on her face. When he looked back up his face had an obvious cringe on it, "ummm.... you ahh..... you have a black eye too.... sorry." The sudden sound of clucking and the sight of a chicken walking across the room at the foot of their bed and disappearing into the bathroom suddenly caught his attention and only made his already confused look even more confused. "Was that a.....?" "I think it was! What the hell is that doing here?" Her question was legit -- she had no memory of it getting in here. Of course, she also had no memory of how she had gotten into bed with him. All she remembered was that it was one hell of a time... 12 Hours Earlier - The Chapel of Love - Las Vegas - Earth "Do you Andrew take this hard headed woman to have and hold no matter how all shook up she gets you 'til death do you part?" the man in over-sized sunglasses, a sequin studded jumpsuit, and slicked back black hair asked in a southern drawl while gyrating his pelvis around to an old twentieth century tune called 'Fools rush in'. The strange alter was adorned in bright lights and bright red carpet. Flowers littered the sides of the set of steps and a rail separated the couple from the man who would call himself the King. On either side of the couple stood a woman of Latin descent holding a bouquet of flowers and a short round thick mustached man with a chicken in his hands. With a huge smile and a bit of swaying Andrew stared hard at the woman opposite of him keeping hold of her hand as much for balance as for the feelings of endearment toward her he was feeling. "I do," he answered in one syllable. Although if you would have asked him, he would have swore he said two words. This was the happiest day in his life, or at least something inside him told it was. His eyes blurred as he found himself slowly falling toward the woman across from him only to quickly stand up straight again. "And do you Isabelle take this hunka hunka burning love to love you tender 'til death do you part?" the man who went by the name Elvis asked the red headed woman with a sneering smile while outstretching his arms high above his head. It was quite hard for Isabelle to focus, but she was looking mostly pretty, at least, at this stage of intoxication, she thought so, and the man across from her was the most handsome man on Earth. Her eyes were slightly glazed over as she tried not to wobble back and forth during the beginning parts of the ceremony, and each minute it grew increasingly more difficult to focus. She gave a warm smile when it was her turn, nodding eagerly to Elvis and then to Foxwell across from her. "Damn right..." She then quickly added, "I do, for sure..." For once, she felt completely sure, with no doubt lingering in the back of her head. "Then by the power and the glory, glory hallelujah invested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife," the man who would be the King proclaimed with a smile as he laid his hands on their shoulders. The man's head jerked suddenly to the side "Now kiss your baby you crazy kids." Andrew stepped, or maybe stumbled was a more appropriate word, in close to Izzy wrapping his arms around her waist. At that moment she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, or at least mostly seen. She was a little blurry at times. He leaned his head in toward her so as to almost taste her lips while his right hand moved up her back to support her as he started leaning her backward into a dip like those beautiful moments seen in the classic films from the early twentieth century. The dip may have seemed beautiful, but it was not as Isabelle returned his kiss, she held onto the back of his head. She didn't realize that soon, they were both crashing down to the ground and she then felt the hard floor underneath her with a big clunk. If she had been sober, she would have recognized that that was going to bruise, but at the moment, she could not care less. She broke the kiss and stumbled up, with Andrew's hand in hers, and held it up high. "Oh yeah!! Let's party! I'm ready for the night of me life!" Year 2383 - Noon - Sunday - Las Vegas Hotel Room Andrew turned his attention back to Izzy despite the questions that kept jumping into his head. What might have quite possibly been the greatest night of his life also brought with it the possibility of the first day of the rest of his life with a woman he barely knew. "Ummm..... Izzy? I hate to be the messenger that needs to be shot, but we need to halo out what we're gonna do about this here gettin' hitched thing. Now don't get me wrong, you're a beautiful woman and I'm pretty sure a helluva lot of fun, but..... this all happened a little too fast and well..... we have a chicken…" "Yeah, I agree... it did happen all in one blur." Isabelle furrowed her brow a bit and let out a long sigh, "I guess we'll have to figure out how to get this annulled or something... it was a fun night, yes, that's true.. but me parents would kill me if they found out I got married and didn't invite them!" She laughed a bit at the notion, "Well, I guess we should get on that, huh?" "Yeah I guess so," Andrew said as he looked into her eyes one last time. Maybe someday he'd get married, but not like this. Not in a way in which he could barely remember it. Chances were that his opportunities to ever have a future with Izzy were completely shot considering the fact that it would lead to an awful lot of future awkward moments. His face contorted to a wry smile as he suggested, "So...... break up sex?" The End Ashi's Destiny by Peter172[2,022 Words] Ashi awoke with a start. The call of his mother coming from downstairs sent a jolt of pure joy racing through his very soul for this was to be his first day at the lauded school of psionic arts, the prestigious Psionoramh, an ancient school descended directly from the order founded by Tarandas herself almost a millennia ago. Ashi bounded down the stairs to find his beaming mother, who promptly sat him down at table in their lavish dining hall. The room featured murals painted by Rathisi himself, an artist who's fame was almost as great as his fees. There was a large carved table, made of a rare dark wood that stretched so far that Ashi had to walk for a dozen paces to reach the other side. The table itself was with more than a dozen slaves--his mother had once told him as a warning--and Ashi had been careful ever since with the steel knives and forks that they ate with, lest he put a scratch in the rare wood. There was a pool of water, a liquid that was nearly as coveted as gold on the or he'd world he called home, and when he finished he was stripped bare by a pair of slaves and washed thoroughly, then dressed and handed a pouch that contained his school fees and nothing else. He would take nothing with him, for there were no school books, no writing implements, nothing but the simple grey robe with red silk trim that he wore as he was hurried to the door, where Thunf, the Mul slave and former gladiator that his parents had procured as a bodyguard for their only son waited patiently. "Be respectful o the Masters Ashi, and mind Thunf's instructions until you are safely inside," his mother said by way of parting. He hardly needed to be reminded to listen to the big Mul, since Ashi thought that he was the most terrifying person he had ever seen. He rarely ever spoke, but when he did, the young Noble nearly leaped to obey. He knew that would not always be the way, as if was very rare for a slave to dare give orders to a noble, even a child, but his parents trusted the Mul more than even their friends. Ashi was not sure why, but he was yet a child and did what his parents told him to. He had learned the hard way that his father demanded strict discipline, and on the rare occasions his cater was actually home, he would fly into a fury if he learned his son was not the model of obedience and respect. Ashi fell into his mothers arms as he was suddenly overcome with grief at the though of being away from her for the first time in his life for so long and she returned the hug briefly, then pushed him away with a brief smile and said simply, "go now, you mustn't be late" The hug was a rare display of affection. One that Ashi had rarely received even by his own mother. Atlas was a harsh world that bred harsh people and their hearts were as hardened as their bodies by the brutal nature of that world. Love was considered a weakness by many and was seldom displayed in public, since such displays often led to a kidnapping. Ashi stepped away, turned and began to walk beside the Mul with a sprightly gait that covered ground quickly, thought the big Mul seemed to have no trouble whatsoever keeping up, as each of his legs were nearly as long as Ashi was tall. They passed through the market on the way and Thunf suddenly stuck out a hand to halt Asi's progress as a soldiers riding erdlu's rode past. They continued through the market and saw the familiar sights, with vendors everywhere hawking their merchandise with all the usual aggression. A woman and one of the vendors appeared as if they might come to blows at any moment, but then they seemed to come to an agreement and ceramic coins were slipped inside the merchants hands, then promptly disappeared from sight as if they had never been there. The woman trotted off as if she hadn't been screaming at the top of her lungs mere moments ago. Suddenly, a man stepped out in front of Ashi and Thunf with a bow and a ruffling of his cloak. "I have the deal of a lifetime for you young sir," the man began smoothly, his oily tones matching the lubricious smile on his unusually handsome face, "venom taken from the deadly Huthus bush high in the mountains of the far off wastes. A small dose will cure all wounds, and a large dose will cure you of any enemies," he said with a wink that was cut off as a big, meaty fist was suddenly thrust an inch from his nose. "Begone huckster," was all that Thunf said, and it was enough. The greasy peddler backpedaled with copious apologies flowing from his lips until he was out of the Mul's reach, then he turned and vanished into the crowd. They soon reached the gates of Psiumarkh after making their way through the crowded market, and Ashi was shoved in with a grunt from his bodyguard, who turned on his heel on strode off without a word, his task completed. He was ushered to the inner sanctum, along with several other prospects, by a pair of adepts in their teens. He eventually came to a room that was made of the purest white stone he had ever seen. He squinted as he entered and was guided to a seat on a row of benches. The other prospective students were seated in lines that ran four rows ahead of him and a man with steel-grey hair and a hawkish face stood before them at the head of the class, looking slightly disappointed. "I am Master Aboeth-Ra, you will call me Master," he began in a somber tone. "Some of you have talent, some of you have a lot of talent, that is good, but some of you will fail to grasp even the most basic concepts of anything I have to teach. I pledge to be the finest Master that I can be to you, and I expect nothing less from you all. You will follow the instructions you are given to the letter. And believe me, you will not enjoy some of what you must endure to become adepts in The Way and most will fail. I hope that at least one of you has the will to succeed. You will begin at once. Each of you has been assigned two adepts that has learned the basic foci and will begin to teach you to calm your minds and unlock the power within." He finished his speech with a dismissive wave of his hand and a group of young men and women, some human, some dwarf, and even a pair of Thri-Kreen, the large mantis-men that commonly preferred the wastes, stepped into the room and began to usher them out. Ashi gaped at the Thri-Kreen and began to pray to the elements, please don't be mine, please don't be mine, but almost as if his wishes had summoned the mantis-men, they walked straight to Ashi with a lurching gait that seemed more suited to hopping about than walking. They seemed to Ashi to be identical in every way, and though the Kreen all looked alike to Ashi, he noted that the coloring's on their carapaces matched down to the last swirl and shade. "Youzz mine come with mezz," one big Kreen said with a voice that sounded as if a bee had learned to talk. Ashi groaned inwardly, but stood with a smile on his face that he hoped didn't have the appearance of a grimace. The Kreen didn't seem to notice or care at any rate, and Ashi walked sedately behind the pair of Kreen until they came to a small room that was devoid of furnishings. Both Kreen squatted on the floor with a strange grace, then pulled one a feather from his pouch and placed it on the floor in front of him and motioned for Ashi to sit across from him with one of his four clawed appendages. The first day of training consisted of the Kreen teaching Ashi the basic meditations for hours and hours. He sat cross-legged until he could not feel his legs and he was unsure that he would ever be able to stand again, but as the time wore on, he found that his mind was...opening, becoming more aware of his surroundings and he began to [u]feel[/b] the very air around him. "Veryy good," one of the Kreen droned after several hours, "I can feelzz your focus. Now lift the featherzz" he instructed, and Ashi, though he had an untrained talent that he had served him well on many occasions--the power to give him sight in the dark--he had never attempted something like this and it seemed a bit much for his first day. "But Master," he said to the Kreen, "I don't know how." But the Kreen merely pointed at the feather once more and said simply, "Yezz, you do". Ashi began to breath deeply and closed his eyes, and to his surprise, he immediately began to feel waves of power welling up from the darkest recesses of his mind. He pictured the feather and imagined with all his might that t was floating in the air before him. A shrill whistling filled the room and Ashi opened his eyes in alarm to see a trio of dancing azure light twinning before him, the opened them even wider as his stunned sense took in the rest of the scene before him; the feather floated before his eyes exactly like he had imagined, but beyond that the pair of Thri-Kreen floated as well, as stunned an expression as so alien a face could express written on their alien features. "Youzzz strongzz!" one of the the mantis-men buzzed, and a second later, the Kreen and feather floated to the ground beside each other. A few scarce minutes later Ashi found himself seated in the office of the Grand Master himself, and the man's face held a slightly panicked expression that puzzled Ashi. "Do you know what you did this day? Such a feat has never been accomplished by a prospect before," the Grand Master said solemnly. "There is a prophecy that Raam will be freed of its indifferent ruler Abalach-Re by one gifted in The Way. He said this with a measure look up and down Ashi, and Ashi gulped audibly. Prophecy? Does he mean me? But there could be no doubt of the man's meaning. Not with that look. Ashi found himself being escorted through the compound and lead deeper and deeper until he thought he would soon fall out the other side if the world until he came to a room light with torches in iron sconces. A dozen people clad in dark robes were gathered about the room and Ashi placed in the middle. One man stepped forward and spoke; "we are adepts of "The Order" a sect dedicated not only to the study and development of the psionic arts, but to the betterment of Athas through the downfall of the Sorcerer-Kings and their defiling magic. We believe Athas can be saved and restored to it's former glory, and you are going to make that possible, with our help." Ashi stood quaking in the middle of the room. How was he supposed to do these things? He was just a boy?! But the training began, pain and agony followed for long months in the subterranean den, but learn he did, and as he learned about The Way, he also learned about the magic that had destroyed his beloved home and he grew angry and vengeful towards those who had made it so. Someday he would rise to the surface and the world would be transformed. Someday soon.
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; Sep 20th, 2011 at 08:25 PM. |
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August 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Adventure's On The Open Sea Winner - Siren of Atlantis Massif by The Jaded Siren of Atlantis Massif by The Jaded[2,984 Words] MARCH 21 - I hate this submarine. Some of the crew called my uneasiness claustrophobia, but it’s not that. I don’t mind the enclosed spaces, the bare walls, the recycled air. I don't even mind the proximity to a nuclear reactor. I hate the lack of portholes. On any self-respecting boat you can look out, and get a sense of going somewhere. On this tub, for all you can see we might as well be back in a Norfolk harbor. We aren’t, of course. I can only wish we were. I feel like I need to see something. Some sign of a world beyond the bulkheads. I shouldn’t think too hard about it, or I’ll panic again. When we submerged this morning, Captain Giles noticed that I had trouble with the confinement. He asked why I’d chosen this job if I didn’t like submarines, and I told him that I didn’t choose this job. I’m trained to program robotic equipment, not play glorified tech support for gear on-site, deep in the crushing, cold blackness of the Atlantic. I was just the guy on the project least popular with management. This log is Giles’s idea. He said that if I just write things down when I begin to feel panic it will help me calm down. It seems to be working. Hopefully it’ll keep working for the next five weeks, or until Carter is crushed by the water pressure, whichever comes first. MARCH 23 - At least Carter isn’t as crowded as it would be if it were still a Navy attack sub. With all the weaponry and hyper-advanced combat computers torn out and replaced with twice its weight in hull support, the crew doesn’t need to be nearly as big. Besides myself, there are only about sixty people on board - less than half of the Navy compliment. I think maybe if I’d boarded this tub when it was new and almost 150 people crewed it, I might feel claustrophobia. Thank God for the small mercies. I’m still going to lose my sanity to the niggling frustration of not being able to see outside, but that’ll take longer. MARCH 28 - Not much for me to do until we get to the first drop point, so I mostly just wander around (where the crew lets me), and read books on my slate viewer. Can’t get a data connection from here, of course, but I saved a few dozen novels locally before we set out. Giles says we’ll be at Atlantis Massif in three days. If I’m lucky, I’ll go the entire time reading and sleeping, and forget where I am until I’m needed. MARCH 29 - Woke up in the middle of the night, hearing the hull creak as we slowly descend. This boat is six years older than I am, and it wasn’t originally designed to go this deep - will it be able to take the pressure? Giles thinks so, I know, but I have my doubts. MARCH 31 - Hit first drop point today. Finally felt useful, though all I had to do was start the sequence and watch the equipment do its work. Program went off perfectly, no problems - the sensor piton went into the seabed easily. The automated site selector did fail, because Carter’s screws blew the mud right up into the sensors. The hardware guys put in a camera in case that happened, so I just gave it a good spot manually from my control console. Ten minutes of usefulness in ten days of idle nervousness isn’t an ideal ratio, but it’s good to be reminded that I have a purpose here. Interesting thing - I found out that no-one powered off the external gear when we got underway toward drop point two. That means the cameras on the arm are still running (I guess if you’re powered by a military-grade nuclear reactor you don’t need to conserve power). My control console still gets the feed from the cameras, and the flood lamp is still on. Sure, can’t see much out there besides dark water and the occasional debris, but it makes me feel better that I can see something. APRIL 2 - Been spending a lot of my idle time sitting at my equipment control console. It’s got a decent enough chair, and even if I’m just reading on my viewer it’s almost like I’m reading next to Carter’s only window. Don’t know why, but it lets me relax a little. Tomorrow we hit the second drop point. APRIL 3 - I could tell we were getting close to the drop point when I started seeing the rocky, sloped bottom on the screen. Atlantis Massif is covered in irregular rock formations, and I sat at the console for hours watching the formations go by below us. Maybe I’m going crazy, but like a child watching the clouds I assigned them shapes. One long, sinuous formation became the remains of a great sea dragon, slain in time immemorial. Another set of rocks became the corroded hulk of a World War era cruiser, its rusted cannon mounts turned to fire just before the killing torpedo hit home. Still others became to my mind buildings, great monsters, huge objects, and more. I sat in the console chair for hours, finding shapes and histories for every rocky outcrop and spire that loomed out of the murk. Soon misty spouts of hot water also came into view - this drop point, I realized, was in a field of thermal vents. Most of the plumes were surrounded by colors - mostly whites, reds, and yellows - and I began seeing things swim by every few seconds. I was still there when Captain Giles signaled down that I should ready the placement gear, and I stayed there after the piton was in place and we were moving again. I only retired to my bunk to write and to recharge my slate viewer - after all, I’m not doing anything that justifies feeling tired. APRIL 5 - I think when we got close to the seabed around those vents something decided to hitch a ride. I keep seeing something come just barely into the edge of the camera’s view - a fin or something. My going theory is that some fish liked the heat that Carter gives off and stowed away in between the pieces of the piton placement equipment. Maybe one of these days it’ll move enough that I can get a good look at it. I could move the driver arm and scare it away, but the mystery fish is something that keeps my mind off the monotonous passage of time on this tub. For now, it’s welcome to stay. APRIL 7 - Hit the third drop point today. Probably means my fishy stowaway is gone - haven’t seen any fins since. APRIL 9 - Against all my predictions, I think I’m actually getting used to living on Carter. Being able to see the water outside on my control console helps, of course. I haven’t had a really bad panic attack in a few days. Getting used to something and liking it are of course different things - I can’t wait until I can go back to working at a desk in a room with a window. We’re already nearing the fourth drop point, and there are only eight on this run. Strangely enough, I've started seeing fins again, so the moving equipment didn't scare off my fishy stowaway. I catch a few glimpses of tail fin and narrow, scaled tail now and then. It’s a pale off-white color, and the scales that I’ve seen are iridescent. I imagine from my limited information that it’s some sort of gulper eel, hoping that Carter will take it to where there’s food. Hard to get a sense of size without seeing the whole thing, but it’s big - maybe up to eight feet long. I could always use the loader arm to try to grab at the fish and drag it into view, but that would probably injure or kill it even if it worked. No sense being cruel. APRIL 10 - Fourth drop point today. Since the last one didn’t chase off the fish, I didn’t think this one would, and I was proven right. As Carter pulled away from the drop point, a rock formation looming out of the murk caught my eye. I imagined it to be a submerged medieval-style fortress, complete with minaret-like towers and a domed keep. That I only got to look at it for a second is what cemented the impression in my mind. Got a full view of the fish’s tail today. Doesn’t look like the tail of an eel at all. I think it wasn’t sure about the camera at first, but it’s getting used to it. How it accepted nesting itself among all the moving parts and yet was afraid of the camera, I’m not sure. I’m probably over-analyzing things, but I had a suspicion that it’s hiding from the rig’s “eyes” and thinks it can’t be seen. APRIL 11 - I’m going to have to start hiding this logbook so Giles doesn’t think I’m going crazy. That’s probably futile, though - I think I’m going crazy. I was sitting at the console, just staring out into the water, when a set of slim, pale, long-boned fingers grasped the top of the camera lens. I jumped so high I fell out of the chair, and when I got back up they were gone. I probably imagined it, probably conjured this impression from a fleeting look at the stowaway fish’s fins, but I can’t shake the image in my mind. APRIL 12 - I slept a lot last night, a lot more than usual, but it was sleep troubled by nightmares, where rotting corpses of drowned sailors were aboard Carter and hunting me down. Probably related to me thinking I saw human fingers on the camera. My fish isn’t moving much today - only saw fins once or twice. APRIL 14 - Fifth drop point today. This is the first time I’ve really earned my keep - the arm fouled halfway through the planting routine when the silt seized one of the motors. It only took a few minutes to write a jam-clearing routine, and soon we were on our way again. This drop point was near the vents, like some of the others, except the vents seemed... I don’t know. Organized. Tended, like little farms. Maybe my imagination again. APRIL 15 - If I’m crazy, it’s elaborately so. I saw the hand again, but this time I stayed still and watched, a chill running down my spine. It tapped on the glass playfully with two fingers, as if to get my attention, vanishing again almost as soon as I noticed it. Very disconcerting. Obviously, I won’t be sharing my hallucinations with Captain Giles. I made up an excuse to have Giles lock the control console room and give me the key. It was a lame one, something about suspecting that someone had moved the driver arm while I wasn’t around, but he seemed to buy it. APRIL 16 - I am crazy, I’m sure of it. We had to go to all stop today to let the engine people replace some part or other, and... well, I got a good look at the “fish” that’s been living in my piton placement gear. Almost as soon as we were dead in the water, something pale and iridescent darted past the camera. I watched patiently, and it soon reappeared, easing skittishly into view. I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I squeezed them shut and shook my head, but what was out there was still staring intently at my camera when I was done wishing it away. I can say it no other way than to describe what I saw as a mermaid. The tail I’d seen fleetingly in the camera joined seamlessly to a very human-like bare female torso, which would explain the hand I’d seen earlier. She was hauntingly beautiful, with big, white-less black eyes, flawless off-white skin, and translucent, anemone-like tendrils on her head in place of hair. I just stared for a few seconds, and it seemed that she could tell someone was looking, because she smiled, revealing even, pointed predator’s teeth. I should have been wondering how this was possible, but the first thing that came to my mind was an entirely different question - why was she revealing herself now? When Carter started moving again, she darted back behind the camera. I considered that she probably can’t keep up with the sub when it’s at speed without holding on, and that pale face reappeared briefly, smiling impishly as if to agree with me. I must admit, I’m considering the possibility that this creature can “hear” my thoughts - after all, if an entity like that one can exist, how much more far-fetched is telepathy? APRIL 17 - Sixth drop point. I’m fairly sure now that my stowaway can indeed read my thoughts, at least when I’m at the control console. Maybe I can use that to teach her some simple hand gestures. Probably means she’s been listening to my thoughts this whole time. She can’t get entirely in front of the camera while we’re under way, but I get the occasional hand gesture (more and more of those), and sometimes she ducks her head down to smile toothily at me or to frown at untoward thoughts, but otherwise I don’t see more than I did before. She really is beautiful. Part of me regrets that we could never meet in the same room. APRIL 18 - From what I gather, my stowaway’s purpose in hitching a ride was curiosity, nothing more. It’s probable that none of her species has ever seen a human vessel - the might only guess at our existence from the occasional wreck or refuse that makes it down this far. She surely had never heard about us. Carter looked to her like a strange sea creature, and only after hitching a ride did she find out that it was a machine. That she would risk her life and certainly forsake any chance of seeing her home again to satisfy mere curiosity is something that strikes me as foreign, perhaps even primitive. It’s surely not something a modern Western human would ever do... But I’m not sure that it’s a good thing that we wouldn’t. There’s a certain romantic allure to that mindset. APRIL 19 - Second to last drop point. I tried to make her understand that we have to go back to the surface in a few days, but I’m not sure that I succeeded. I know that if my stowaway tries to follow the ship up, the pressure difference will likely kill her. She has to leave Carter after the last drop point. Not that I care too much anymore, but they’ll probably want me to do this job on the next run too. I’ll probably do it, but I won’t see this strange being ever again after we start the ascent, and that is a very depressing thought. She’s easy on the eyes, yes, but that’s not why. I’m having my mind read, and I don’t feel it as a violation - it’s actually rather a relief, especially when I’m deceiving everyone else on this blasted tub, it’s good to have someone around who can’t be lied to. APRIL 20 - Tomorrow we reach the last drop point. I think I’ve gotten through to my aquatic friend that she will die if she follows us up, and that is a big load off my conscience. I’d hate to let Carter’s dropping a bunch of sensor pitons kill someone. I’m not sure if Giles suspects me of hiding something, or if he’s worried about my sanity. It’s probably the latter. I have myself wondered if I am not just hallucinating this whole thing, but I am led to believe otherwise. I don’t think even my brain could come up with something this crazy, so it has to be real. APRIL 21 - Can’t believe it’s been a month to the day since we submerged. We placed the last piton today, and there was a sense of relief on-board, everybody clearly wants to be back topside. Except me, of course. Captain Giles broke out a stash of alcohol, and he’s throwing a party for everyone as I write. I’m at my console, as usual, and since Carter is stopped my companion is floating in front of the camera, reading my dejected thoughts. There’s nothing but rocky ridges and mud flats on the bottom here, so I’m not sure where she’ll go, but she doesn’t seem concerned. We start the ascent tomorrow, after everyone has had a good night’s sleep. APRIL 22 - She beckoned for me this morning to come out to her. Sure, I could leave Carter through one of the escape tubes, but I’d be crushed immediately, and I let her know that. She seemed disappointed, more that I didn’t trust her than that I couldn’t leave the sub. Does she know a way to protect me from the pressure, to keep me alive underwater? I have about an hour before Giles orders the screws restarted, and Carter starts the long ascent. Is it crazy that I’m really considering trusting my mystery companion, and leaving Carter? Even now, she floats there, beckoning to me, and smiling. If our positions were reversed, she’d already have taken the plunge. She's a lot more adventurous than I am. Is what I might experience in her world worth the risk, the probability that even if she can keep be alive that I'll never be going back? There’s only one way to find out. Sunken Slaver by Doggius[2,974 Words] The hulking half-breed wakes to the sounds of chains clinking together. His wrists stings from the shackles rubbing the skin raw. A rank stench of feces and urine assault his senses and he winces at the foul stench while his head pounds mercilessly. A low grumble escapes his large mouth and he reaches up to touch his head. ”Where am I?” he thinks to himself as the chains clink together with his movements. He waits a moment and lets his eyes adjust to the darkness. Shadowed shapes of other bunks fill his foggy mind and he tries to sit up. The wooden frame of the bunk creaks in protest at the half-breeds movement. Lying back down, he struggles to remember where he is or how he got here. A fleeting memory flitters across his mind’s eye. A woman turns to face him, a face that he recognizes but the memory is cut short as a soft whimper pulls him from his thoughts. Across the dark room, a cough pierces the silence. It is then when he feels a soft swaying motion and a steady creaking sound. Listening to the rhythmic creaking, he drifts back to sleep. A loud crack snaps the half-breed awake while the sound of keys and shuffling feet fills his stomach with butterflies and despair. Time has since left his sensibilities. All he knows, when one is taken from the room, rarely do they ever return. Turning his head slowly he sees two massive forms blocking the door as a shadowy figure shuffles across the wooden deck. He hears the click of manacles being opened and the shrill protest wail of some middle aged woman. ”No!” she shrieks. Resigned, the half breed closes his eyes for a moment. ”They haven’t come for me yet.” he reasons. The shuffling feet come closer, as does the wailing of the lady. The gaoler shuffles past his bunk and he opens one eye and looks at the shrieking woman and grunts in surprise. The lady is in fact a man. The half-breed smirks at the spectacle the prisoner is making and it causes him to snicker. The gaoler stops and slowly turns to him. He’s a thin man with long, stringy hair. The elderly man leans forward and the half-breed takes note of missing teeth in his mouth and an empty eye socket. With his one good eye the man looks the half-breed up and down. His hooked nose whistles with each breath and he puts his face right in front of the half-breed. The man’s breath is foul and causes the half-breed to retch. The man whispers something while motioning with his hands and the half-breed feels a slight tingle and then does his best to stifle a yawn before everything fades to black. So many days and months have passed by and the half-breed nearly forgets who he is. The slop that is fed to him is barely nutritional. The meat is always tasteless and stringy, the broth tastes like dried leather boots. Each night when he falls asleep a face fills his mind’s eye before he dives into the chaos of dreamless nights. The slamming of the door wakes Garthak as it always does. Slowly the shuffling feet of the gaoler move closer and closer towards Garthak’s bunk. Garthak watches as the old man points a boney finger at him. Garthak growls in defiance. ”It’s my time then.” he realizes, then growls again. A slight sense of satisfaction fills him as he notices the elderly man’s hesitation, his one good eye widens and he stops. Gurgling some nonsense, Garthak hears the thumping of a large creature and he looks up, looking into the face of an ugly bugbear. Something about the bugbear sparks recognition as it glares at him. A gruesome scar runs from the bottom of its right eye down to the back of its right jaw and a memory of furious fighting fills Garthak’s mind. He vividly recalls swinging a heavy battle axe into the face of the bugbear and Garthak sneers, causing his former advisary to growl a warning. The bugbear viciously hold him down to the bed with one arm, a nasty morningstar threatening violence in the other. Once the shackles are released from wrists, Garthak is roughly pulled from the bed where he is re-shackled, this time his arms behind him. The bugbear with the morning star grabs the shackles and roughly pushes him forward. ”You pay.” it grunts in halted common, but Garthak doesn’t respond. The bugbear pushes him out the door and its then that Garthak notices that the rocking and creaking have lessened. A second bugbear stands at the door wielding a 7’ spear. It glares at Garthak while he approaches and it levels the spear at Garthak as he passes. Garthak follows the human gaoler up the stairs into the dark windy night. Off to the portside, he hears the howling wind and he turns to see the faint outline of a waterspout rising up from the sea to the dark clouds above, though no storm seems to approach. With the spout holding Garthak’s attention, he trips on a piece of rope and stumbles and feels the rust flake off a rusty canon. He is led to the starboard side and is pushed to the edge. He stoically accepts that he is going to be pushed over the gunwale into the churning water below. [i]”It’s about damn time.”[i] he thinks to himself as he is pushed, however, he falls only but a few feet. He feels as though he is floating down, slowly, perhaps magically. A tingling sensation fills his whole body as he drifts down to a waiting boat below. Once he touches the waiting boat, he is quickly gagged, blindfolded and roughly shoved into a sitting position. Off in the distance, a muffled roar reaches his ears. As the boat pushes off Garthak can hear the oars slip into the water. Garthak ignores the rocking of the little boat as he continues to wonder what fate awaits him. Garthak finds himself fighting off sleep as his body rolls in time with the rocking boat. A short time later he feels himself lurch forward as the boat comes to a stop. He hears a flurry of movement, almost flinching on instinct while expecting an axe to fall upon his neck, but none is forth coming. A rough hand grabs his arm and pulls him up and out of the boat. ”Big one ‘eh? Whadda we do wit ‘im?” a raspy voice whispers. ”Take ‘im down ta the basement o’ tha Sunken Ship.” another voice responds. Somewhere nearby a loud but still muffled cheer is heard, ”It’s closer.” he realizes. As he stands there, Garthak feels the sand slipping between his toes and the cool ocean breeze caresses his naked body, the howling wind dissipates and he notices that the waterspout has faded away. A rough push from behind gets him moving but he stumbles forward, tripping on a small mound of sand and falls face first. His clumsiness gets him a mouth full of sand for his troubles. Doing his best to pull his face out of the sand, he hears laughter surrounding him. ”Four of them.” he counts to himself as he struggles to stand. A hand grabs him by his hair at the back of his skull and pulls him upwards. The pain isn’t so bad, compared to a mouth full of sand. Garthak quickly gets his feet under him but he’s not quick enough to stop the hand from pulling out a chunk of thin hair. He does his best to mask the pain. He regains his feet and a cold thin hand guides him forward. Stumbling blindly in the sand, the guiding hand lets Garthak lurch forward like a drunken sailor. Eventually coming to solid land, Garthak almost trips once more, but the guiding hand grabs him in time to keep him from planting his face into the hardened ground. Now on better footing, Garthak has a momentary thought of trying to overpower his captor to escape. However a warm and tingly sensation fills his mind. An unprovoked thought creeps from a deep recess in his mind, reminding him how gently this captor has treated him. This thought does not feel as though it’s his own though. He tries to shake the unbidden and strange thought from his head, but he feels compelled to follow the guiding hand. The hand holds him back and he hears a door open. His ears are assaulted with a cacophony of loud music and people in deep conversation. The smell of rich meat reminds him of the gnawing pit in his empty stomach. A blast of warm air greets him as he is pushed forward and he can hear the sound of a fire burning somewhere in the room. Hastily he is pushed forward and he hears another door being opened in front of him as he and his captor quickly traverse the room. At the first step, Garthak almost misses it and falls down the stairs, but a soft prod in his mind causes him to slow down and poke gently with his feet, searching for the step. At the bottom of the landing, he hears another door open up and for a moment he hears nothing but his own breathing and the breathing of his guide. Inside the room, death and the copper smell of blood over-power his senses and he feels a hand untying the gag from behind, then his blindfold. As his eyes adjust, he is blinded by an un-naturally bright glowing orb suspended right in front of him. ”Am I being led to my slaughter like some common sheep?” he grumbles tersely, squinting and still shielding his eyes. The only response is the shuffling of feet and a cough that sounds like it’s coming from above him. After a moment he hears the sound of someone clearing their throat while the bright orb darkens slightly and floats upwards. ”Whether you will be slaughtered like a common sheep, that is up to you to decide.” a soft elegant voice says. The door behind him slams shut and he spins around quickly. Through the darkness, Garthak notices a weapon leaning against a wall and then the area grows bright. Looking around, the muscular half-orc begins to realize what’s happening. ”Sunken slaver” he curses. A band of brigands and ruffians who kidnap anyone they can. No one kidnapped by the Sunken Slavers had ever been heard from again. He stands in a fighting pit, blood stained sand covers the floor while the rich sit in a ring 10 feet above the pit. On a raised platform, Garthak sees a tall man with handsome features. His elegant garb indicates the speaker is of high stature in society. The man takes a deep breath and begins to address the crowd in a language that Garthak doesn’t understand. Suddenly, a wooden door opens across the arena with a loud bang. Garthak quickly turns in a defensive crouch. The crowd begins to cheer and chatter and it appears to Garthak that they are placing bets. A scuttling noise can be heard and some monstrosity crashes through the door across from Garthak. Long articulated legs reach up to a large bulbous body. At the top of the body is a dark skinned woman, naked from the waist up. At this creature’s emergence, the crowd erupts into a great cheer and shouts of un- intelligible words of some strange language fill the arena. Having never seen such a hideous creature before, Garthak is taken back at the sight of such a vile thing. Although the female form is quite attractive, behind the red eyes is malice and hate. In a melodic and soft voice, the woman points at him with one hand while lifting up a mace, the head in the shape of a spider. When she points at Garthak, he notes purple flames on his shoulders, but no pain. Instinctively he tries to put out the flames but he cannot extinguish them. Looking up, he sees the spider like woman scuttle towards him with shocking speed. He turns and begins to rush towards the weapon leaning against the wall and everything goes black. ”Dark magic” he realizes with trepidation. Breathing heavily from the creeping panic that begins to fill him, he quickly but cautiously moves through the darkness, reaching forward, so he doesn’t run into the wall. A third step pulls him from the darkness and he accidentally kicks the handle of a rusty axe. Bending down to get the weapon, he feels the air rushing over his head. The mace misses his head by inches. A foul smell seems to follow the mace. Still crouching, Garthak reaches down and grabs the axe. His attack is slow and clumsy. The spider like creature merely lifts its leg. After a moment it dawns on him. ”Drider” he recalls. The prickly sensation of fear holds him paralyzed for a moment as the drider begins to speak in her dark language. As she completes her spell she points at him again. Three crimson bolts shoot from her fingers and Garthak dives to the side and rolls barely avoiding the magical bolts. In a smooth motion he rolls to his feet his axe ready in hand, the three bolts come out of nowhere, blasting into his chest. Sharp stinging pain erupts in his chest and blood begins to slowly weep from the three wounds. He cries out involuntarily in pain as he staggers backwards. Grimacing in pain, Garthak does not fall. ”Come on, you piece of trash.” he bellows, fighting to mask his pain and fear. Crouching slightly he watches the Drider slowly turn and then rush towards him again. The woman on top of the bulbous body swings her mace but misses badly as Garthak ducks and reposts. A loud shriek erupts from her mouth, louder than he expected from such a small framed body, as his axe bites deep into one of the front legs, nearly severing it clean off. The drider scuttles back a little and Garthak can sense the atmosphere begin to feel electrically charged. A bright light flashes in front of his eyes as his mind and body inexplicably explode in pain. His muscles clench tightly as lightning erupts from her fingers. He falls to the ground in agonizing pain. His body involuntarily twitches and smokes slightly while a painful groan escapes his mouth. Grievously wounded, Garthak weakly grips the handle of the axe and struggles to stand, blood seeping from his ears and nose. Standing tall, he growls again, a metallic taste in his mouth mixed with the copper taste of blood. His heart beat flutters as the electricity shudders through his body. Pain echo’s through his mind and the realization of death grips his heart. The drider lifts up her arm and Garthak hears a faint click, his mind registering the hand crossbow. Fortunately, the small dart flings past his face, missing him by a fraction as he sluggishly dives to the side. Panting in pain Garthak unsteadily stands while the Drider creeps towards him. White ichor drips from the leg that hangs by a thread of skin. The crowd cheer’s the violent battle and Garthak can hear his labored breath. Feinting to the right Garthank rushes to the left and dodges a kick from the spider legs. He swings the axe in an overhand chop and it thuds into the soft underbelly. The drider shrieks again and the crowd cheers at the sheer violence of the fight. Overextended Garthak makes an easy target. The drider kicks Garthak in the chest and a loud crack is heard as he sprawls across the floor. His vision swims as he struggles to stand. His breathing becomes more shallow as his cracked sternum sends wave after wave of pain throughout his body with each breath. Fighting to manage his pain, Garthak’s vision is narrowed to a tunnel and he does not notice her casting another spell. With great determination, Garthak manages to stand on wobbly legs only to be caught in a line of webbing that springs from one wall of the arena stretching across to the other. Slowly the drider stalks its prey while Garthak does his best to pull himself free from the web. The cheer is a raucous frenzy of battle lust and joy, but Garthak barely hears it. Pulling one arm free, he is filled with a fleeting thought of hope as he continues to struggle to free himself. The drider slowly stalks forward. Focusing on freeing himself, Garthak does not notice the drider close in. Stepping on the web, the drider climbs over the sticky cords and moves behind him. She bends forward and whispers something softly in his ear. She gently kisses his tense neck, then bites it, ripping off a piece of his skin and spits it to the floor. Blood gushes down his torso and legs as he howls in pain. The pain is immense and an odd feeling begins to flow through his veins. Warm at first, but then it grows to a burning sensation, building in intensity. The pain grows and he hears a thud from behind. Stars dance blindingly in front of his eyes. The muscles inside his neck begin to erode and consciousness begins to fade, pain wracking his body. Garthak tries to formulate a thought but his mind is filled with confusion and fear. The cheering crowd begins to fade, with the last of his strength. He looks up and as he is dying, the magic is removed, the realization stirs a word. A word that he gasps with his last dying breath. ”Drow.” The thud of his lifeless body is drowned out by the cacophony of cheers.
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September 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Revenge Winner - Honor Among Spacers by The Jaded Druid's Revenge by Peter172[2598 Words] Prologue Flames crackled as they licked up the boughs of the pine, spruce and elm trees in the heart of the Makenish Forest. Clicks and pops rang out over the woods as knots of wood exploded from the heat, and far below in the valley, a pair of Hobgoblins stood watching with black callous eyes, slight smiles of satisfaction stretching their thin lips. "It may burn too much of it," said one of the Hobgoblins, a scar-faced brute with a permanent scowl and a face that only a mother could love. "Bah! It just means we'll have more land to build on Fregus," the other hobgoblin, a small, bandy legged hobgoblin with a mass of scar tissue where his left eye should be, replied offhandedly. "True, Grunth, true," Fregus replied and the smile stretched wider. "Mayhap the whole forest will burn to the ground and our work will be made all the easier," he continued. "We will still have to dig out the stumps before we begin to dig down to what lays below," Grunth added with a resigned sigh. "But any help will do." The pair of hobgoblins turned and began to walk away as the flames behind them grew into an inferno and the forest was consumed in hot red flame. Mackenish Forest: Eastern Grove The canopy of leaves overhead sent the sun's rays cascading down in rivulets of shimmering greenish-gold hued light that gilded the morning dew on the forest floor to golden brilliance. The trees rustled as the breeze passed through in pleasant waves that waved the boughs to and fro in a graceful dance of nature, and the songs of the many varieties of avian life that inhabited the area accompanied the dance with a merry tune that sent shivers of pleasure down the stubby legged dwarf's spine as he walked through the heavy undergrowth with a smile of pure delight at the sights and sounds that set his sprit soaring higher than the birds had ever dreamed of flying. He stepped out of the bush with burrs stuck to his beard and mud caking on his sturdy leather boots, then climb atop a boulder with a grunt of effort and atop it. The view afforded from this lofty perch was one of his favourite things in the world. He could spend hours just gazing down at the awe inspiring nature below in all its grander and endless bounty. He was tall for a dwarf, standing at nearly four feet two inches tall and weighing in at a hefty two hundred and ten pounds, with a thick beard that often carried burrs, but was rarely ever cleaned. His sky blue eyes seemed out of place on such a rough, weathered face, and they seemed especially intense because of the contrast. His long, bushy hair was plaited down his back in strangely neat braids that ended in wooden beads, which often rattled like certain snake's tails when he walked, and the staff he carried, a dark wooden pole that was taller than he, and as thick as his powerful arms around. It seemed Gus hands could barely grip the wood, but he held fast to it as he perched on the rock looking down. The smile departed his lips slowly as he caught sight of the conflagration below and a gasp that was part misery, part rage forced its way from his gaping maw. The valley was aflame! He had to do something. All the animals would burn and he had to do something! He ran down the slope on his stubby legs for a few feet, then he began to change, calling upon the primal energy of the land. The earth below his feet, the trees, the plants and even the animals around him were broadcasting a raw and potent energy that few even knew existed. Gargur Nurzak was one with that power though. He knew it, felt it, and could draw on it. The primal energy that radiated off all living things was not something that he stole for his own use, or even borrowed for a time. No, he used it, drew it in and through the use of the power, he actually added to it through his own internal source, strengthening the bond between himself and the primal with each use, each change. His hands sprouted dark, thick, wiry hair that grew like magical weeds, and then began to roil under the skin. They rapidly changed shape and became hooves as he fell frosts and the touched down, the rest of his body following suit and changing into his favoured form to quickly traverse the forest, a great boar. He barrelled through brush without a care to the brambles and thorn, thanks to his thick, leathery hide and made the trip in short order. Gargur did what he could, he herded as many of the forest animals to safety as he could, but there was little he could do about the fire, and after a time he had to give up, lest he be overcome with the smoke himself. Fire was part of nature, and he could accept the loss of an entire grove, or the whole forest itself, if need be, but he had seen no lightning, and there had been enough rain of late that the trees were not over-dry. There could be no other explanation for the fire, but the deliberate act of a humanoid with the intelligence and calculated malice towards his beloved forest home, and as he watched in the aftermath he saw the ones who must be responsible for the setting. "Hobgoblins!" He swore as he saw a large group of the foul creatures swarming into the valley, carrying tools and dragging carts behind them. What do they want here? He wondered as the rage began to take hold of him. He shook silently for a moment, debating rushing down and taking as many as he could down before he fell himself, then sighed as he realized that would solve nothing. He was an unusually practical dwarf and that practicality saved his life, as he turned and walked away, once more in his normal guise. The old witch, Velitsia. She will have an answer, he thought, and set off for the western-most corner of the grove at a run. The old woman's hovel sat in the middle of a marsh, atop a mound of mud with only a small dirt path built up to just above the swamp level and only as wide as a thick snake. Gargur strode across with ease and knocked briefly before entering to find the crone sitting in front of the hearth, stirring a pot of stew. "Velitsia, wisest of the western marshes and keeper of the secrets of the coven of Haklik. I seek council and succour, Gargur spoke smoothly, using the old tongue, following the protocol of the wise one's of old. He didn't have to do so, but he knew the crone loved the words and he figured that considering what he must ask of her, a little bit of flattery and a glib tongue wouldn't hurt. "Oh my dwarf! Aren't you just the silver tongued lord of the devils himself?" She cackles deeply for a moment, the asked, "So what is it that you want my dear? It must be important to be bothering me at such an hour." Gargur was unsure of what she meant by that, being as it was the middle of the day, but he shrugged the storage remark off and spoke. "My forest has been violated by the foulest of the foul. Intentional fire starters of the hobgoblin persuasion, and I come to you for the revenge. You must show me the secrets of the coven, so that I might have a chance at the revenge I seek." The words came out in a rush, lest he be stopped before ye could speak them. Once they were out the crone gasped and her countenance took on such a pallid hue, that she resembled a bleached skull with greasy black eyes staring daggers straight into his very sole. He shuddered at the horrifying visage as it transformed before his eyes into her true self, an ancient creature, long past due for death to claim her, but clinging to a semblance of lute regardless. She said nothing, and merely fetched a rusty dagger from the shelf behind her without even a backward glance and slit her bony wrist from her elbow toner hand in a rough jerk of her surprisingly powerful old, wrinkled hand. Gargur expected a jet of crimson to spew forth, but only a few sullen drops of blood bubbled slowly forth, and then trickled down the parchment-like skin. She grasped his arm suddenly, her bony fingers closing on his thick, hairy arm like iron manacles, and sliced his skin in an agonizing slit that ran across his arm, and then thrust her own bleeding appendage against his. Violet light exploded at the corners of his vision and he began to lose consciousness, his vision faded to a dull gray, then all went black. He awoke with a start as a bucket of icy cold well water was dumped unceremoniously over his head. "Pfft, Pfft, what the?" he sputtered. ”Welcome back dwarf,” said the crone. ”You have what you came for. I care about these woods as much as you, perhaps more, they are my home. Now be gone, and cleanse those vermin from the Makenish!” She said and Gargur felt his ears pop, and looked around to find that he was standing in the clearing just to the North of the encampment of the hobgoblins, and their kobold workers. He felt different…the trees and animals, the very sun itself seemed to be infusing him with power. His eyes narrowed as he heard a cheer and saw then kobolds drag something out of the ground, and he suddenly knew what was going on here. The object they were gathering around was a statue, and he recognized it as one of an ancient, demonic goddess, whose thirst for power had lain waste to the forests millennia ago, according to legend. They wish to raise her again and bring back the dark times, he thought grimly, recalling the prophecies of her resurrection. All it would take to start the whole process, would be for the blood of an innocent to be shed upon the dark altar of her ancient cult, and they might be only a short dig away from reaching it. Gargur could not let that happen. Gargur reached deep within his steely soul and tuned his senses to the surrounding woods, gathering the power of nature until his heart sang with the joy of it, then turned his gaze on the milling kobolds and their slack-jawed leaders as he strode out of the woods, the air around him crackling and swirling, so that his clothing and braided hair whipped about him. He saw no point in mincing words, so when the pair of hobgoblins started to blurt something that sounded like, ”what the!’ he just sent forth the gathered power in the form of a tremendous gust of icy white wind that sent kobolds toppling like bowling pins. The little dragonoid creatures squealed in fear and began to flee, but Grunth and Fregus stood their ground, though they slid back a step or two. The pair of hobgoblins rushed forwards as their steel tulwars slid from their scabbards with a steely hiss, and they were slashing at Gargur so fast he could hardly react. He stumbled back, his beard suddenly having been trimmed for the first time since he was a boy, then as he fell, he felt the change come over him and he was slithering over the ground and through the bushes with the pair of confused Hobs expelling profanities behind and above him. Gargur slid through the bushes on his belly, his forked tongue slithering out between his lips to taste the air before him. He could smell the prey on the air and he used that to slither around behind them. He knew they couldn’t see him, but that was about to change, as presently he was growing taller and sprouting legs, then claws, then teeth sprang forth from his jaws. He loosed a blood curdling roar and the pair jumped right over the bush they were hacking at and sprawled to the ground beyond, but surprisingly, they came right back up swinging, the pair of steel blades faced the bear and claws flashed as steel rang out and came back crimson. Fregus fell to the ground with a groan, grievously wounded and bleeding to what would surely be his death if he didn’t find the attention of a healer soon, but Grunth was still standing and and with a look of horror on his face, Gargur looked down to see the steel of Grunth’s tulwar protruding from his abdomen. He fell over backwards and the blade slipped out with a sickening sucking sound, then Gargur was on the ground and looking up at the savage, revolting countenance of Grunth the hobgoblin. ”Looks like you picked the wrong guy to mess with dwarf, he said as he sneered in Gargur’s face, his own face only inches away, offending Gargur’s senses with his fetid breath. ”Oh I picked the right guy alright, look at your buddy there. You didn’t protect him very well did you? And against only one dwarf,” Gargur replied clamly. ”What do I care about him for anyways? He was just getting in my way. When the dark goddess is returned, I alone will be at her side now. No one to share the glory with,” he said with a leer as he stuck his blade against Gargur’s throat. ”Any final requests before I cut your throat dwarf? Anything you’d like to say?” He asked with a look of loathing for Gargur. It was plain that the hobgoblin had no intention of granting request. He just wanted to get Gargur’s hopes up before the killing stroke. ”I have just one thing to say before I go” Gargur said weakly, gesturing for the hobgoblin to come closer. ”And what is that dwarf” Grunth asked slowly and bending down close as if he couldn’t wait to hear. ”Crocodiles have sharp teeth!” Gargur snarled into his ear and Grunth’s eyes widened as he saw the dwarf under him changing, growing scaly armoured hide. And those eyes, those yellow, eyes that gleamed with triumph and an uncanny intelligence stared into his very soul as he felt terrible power of the jaws clamp down on his throat and his trachea being crushed. Then the crocodile began to thrash about violently and it was over in a matter of seconds. Gargur sucked in a rattling breath and stood with blood streaming down his side for a moment, then began to draw in the life giving energy all around him and the flow of blood slowed to a trickle, then stopped completely, then Gargur walked back to the hole in the ground, picked up a shovel and began the laborious process of filling it back in. In a few years, no one would even know it was here, he thought when he was finished, and with a little help, I think the lads will heal even quicker, he thought, and then began to trickle the healthy power of the forest back into the scarred patch of land, and a moment later, a few stalks of green slithered out of the ground. ~The End The Pain of Youth by Solomon777[1769 Words] Mariam Jenkins turned ninety-eight today. The voices of her family called to her and her heart filed with joy at hearing her only grandchild, Luna, somewhere in the background. Luna’s voice was angelic when she laughed. She was holding her eyes shut as being led out to see her loved ones; they had planned a surprise party for her. This was such a great moment. Her eyes were very heavy, and they did not want to pull open, even though she could feel her soft hands drop away. Her family called about excitedly through the muffle of the darkness. Why was it so hard to open her eyes, she so wanted the party to begin. A few more tries and her lids stayed clamped like tiny vises. In her mind she began to laugh, laughing brought her security in hard times. She thought ‘oh’ these old eyes are gonna’ open, I’m not missing this’. Another strained try and her lids fluttered to see her four sons, Lucas, Steve, Julius, and Michael, looking down upon her with extreme concern painted across their faces. Their wives and others, she couldn’t quite make out, where in the background. Finally, her daughter-in-law, Amy, looked at her and Mariam knew what was going on. She recognized the signs. Amy’s face was bright red with sadness and frustration. Her make-up had run from the tears she had shed. Mariam looked around confused at first, and then she realized she was not at home, not in her kitchen or her living room. The fluorescent lights of the hospital cast a bright reminder of a place she had been more than a few times before, St.Lukes Main. She reached out with only a small tinge of fear in her heart. ‘Is it time?’ Michael took her aged hands, now so feeble. Michael’s eyes filled with tears, which he blinked back, his mother’s hand felt as if the stale breeze of the hospital could blow it away like ash. He was the youngest of the brothers, and the only one not married. Who would do this? His own heart ached with his mother’s pain. He looked down her body to the massive bandage where she had been attacked. She was so happy when she left her birthday party. “Be brave boys.” she whispered. “Where is Luna?” Julius brushed a few wisps of her white hair from her face. “It’s okay Momma, were all here. She’s right outside.” he choked. She squeezed Michael’s hand in comfort. He couldn’t hold his emotions back much longer and the pain from deep in his heart flowed freely down his cheek. Lucas took his younger brother by the shoulders and led him away in comfort. He gave him a hug and said “Never fear Mikey, she’s going to a better place.” Lucas’ wife, Brenda showed arrived to take Michael, while Lucas went to say his last to his mother. Brenda brought him to the room’s window and he watched the cars passing idly by, no wiser to the hurt above them or the attack that brought it about. Why? It seemed all too short a time before Michael noticed there was a doctor in the room. It was the words that blasted with clarity in his mind, as if it had been shouted into his face, “She’s gone. I’m sorry.” Michael had lost the strength to move from the window. He stood, tears falling from his eyes at his failure to protect the woman who had raised him, his mentor, his mother. Several floors down in the hospital, Doctor James Goodwin entered his office and dropped the medical file on the seat near his door. He locked the door and closed the office blinds. He was angry, and this time he had to do something about it. The last case was tiring, and though his professional mannerisms kept feelings at bay, he recognized the unnecessary wrong that had occurred in Room 678. He rubbed his face and walked over to the sink; he scrubbed as if getting ready for surgery, and washed his face. Mariam Jenkins turned ninety-eight today. She had been walking into her backyard to throw the garbage away from a party that her family had thrown for her earlier that evening. According to reports, the youngest son, Michael was inside the house washing the dishes, when a thief ambushed the elderly woman in the backyard. Realizing she had nothing of any worth, the bastard stabbed her repeatedly. Some of the rusty steak knife’s broken blade had been removed down in the trauma room, and the condition of the murder weapon further upset James. The whole brutal attack had been completed within about fifteen seconds, and Michael didn’t find her until he had nearly finished the chores he was doing. The young man carried her bleeding body into the house and called the emergency authorities. James turned to see the polished skull that sat atop his desk. It stared back at him as if telling James that he knew what needed to be done. The Doctor was an established trauma surgeon with the hospital, having served for years, and last year he was appointed to one of the chairs on the Surgical Board of Directors; this scientific knowledge wasn’t going to help here. Focusing on the skull, he scooped it up and went to a small table at the window of his office. He pulled the felt cover from the surface of the table to reveal the highly detailed pentagram carving underneath. He set the skull in the center of the pentagram and stood back to look at it. Moonlight cast a long shadow from the skull to the tabletop and to the floor. He fished a key out of his pocket and opened his desk’s side drawer. From it, the Doctor drew a moderately thick book that appears to have been burnt. He sat the book down and began a slow chant in a soft voice. “Lo’ Kehzef, Lo’ the Heart, Lo’ Kehzef, Lo’ the Pain, Lo’ Kehzef, Lo’ the Heart, Lo’ Kehzef, Lo’ the Pain….” He continued lighting a candle with a small book of matches he kept nearby, and placed it beside the pentagram. In Room 678, nearly all of the family had gone, leaving the four brothers to watch while their mother was respectfully removed to the hospital morgue below. Out in the hall the four of them walked aside one another. “I will call you all tomorrow, I must see to the wife. We all loved Mom very much.” was shared among all of the brothers except Michael. He nodded and understood; the youngest brother was needed elsewhere anyway. Lucas and Julius shared handshakes and hugs with all and departed. “Why don’t you come home with me Mike? Amy and Luna would love to have you around.” Stave pleaded. Michael had since stopped sobbing, but his face still revealed his mood, “It’s okay; I’ll come by later. The police said they wanted to speak to me afterward.” He shook Steve’s hand and said “I’ll call to tell you I’m coming over later.” One final hug and Steve left Michael at the hospital elevator. Michael very uncomfortable traveling in an elevator, and preferred the stairs; it was much more fitness oriented. He rounded the third flight of stairs and saw a trashcan that had been provided for the convenience of staff and visitors. He smiled weakly and rummaged around in his jacket and took the handle of a broken, rusty knife from within. He tossed the item into the garbage with a smirk. He thought briefly, ‘soon all my debts are going to be paid with good ol’Mom’s insurance. Thanks Mom.’ He skipped a few more steps down and happened to land on both feet, hearing a little girl’s voice immediately behind him. Startled, he jerked around to see nothing. He snickered to himself, “Ha! Stupid, you believe in ghosts now!” ‘It must have been my shoes on this tile. He took another step toward the stairs and the perfectly audible girl’s voice called out behind him again, “Mikey?” Snapping back around, Michael looked straight into the eyes of an unkempt mound of hair and the dirty face of a homeless man. The man was quite large and said only a simple, “I believe in ghosts.” and shoved Michael from the top of the stairs. Michael flew from the stairwell and landed on his back at the next landing, an audible crack echoed up and down the rest of the stairwell. Huddled in a heap on the landing the stranger walked calmly down to Michael’s broken body. Weeping in pain from the massive shock of his crushed vertebra Michael shouted breathlessly “Help me! Who are you?” The stranger knelt down to look at Michael, “I am a messenger, of sorts. You won’t remain here alone for long.” The stranger turned to walk the rest of the way down the stairs. Crying from a pain that shot cold spears into his mind, Michael screamed, “Who…how…that ol’bitch sent you?” The stranger stopped and looked back at Michael’s crippled form, “No…Luna’s pain called me to answer her.” The stranger turned to leave. “I only provided an answer, a truthful answer.” The stranger stopped on the next landing, some twenty paces away from Michael. “Michael, so that you know justice is being served, the police will find the broken knife you’ve thrown away. They will match the traces of evidence to you. You will suffer in prison on earth for the rest of your days, and I will be waiting for you when you are sent to Hell.” Michael strained against the pain to curse aloud at the stranger as his image faded from the landing only for the space to be taken by an onrush of medical staff that clambers into the stairwell to find Michael in a huddled mess. Not far below, three floors away, Doctor Goodwin stared out of his office window, a shot of rum in hand. A voice, deep and soul-less called from the bleached skull that still sat on the pentagram effigy. “James…it has been a long time since you’ve called Kehzef forth. You know what happens to your soul when you’ve called on his power to many times.” James finished off the last of the rum and dropped his chin to rest on his chest, Loking down he mumbled “Yes, Lucifer…I know what happens.” Honor Among Spacers by The Jaded[3108 Words] The bar on Crossroad Station was marked only by a colorful insignia spray-painted on the doors. It didn’t really need a name, being the only bar on the station. It was crowded, but Derek Talowe managed to get a seat at the bar. He didn't really pay much attention to the other patrons, human or otherwise - Derek had come to Crossroads to take a life, and that knowledge occupied his mind thoroughly. As he started slowly consuming the fourth cheap drink of the night in as many hours, he pulled a palm-sized device from a pocket and, as he'd done every ten minutes since he'd arrived, checked its battery and settings. In theory, the proximity detector would buzz when Dom Kavellor got close. The rest of the plan was more than a little improvisation - but Derek had resolved that before the station’s lights came back up for simulated morning, Kavellor would be dead. The only hitch in the plan was that Derek didn’t know what Kavellor looked like, hence the proximity detector. Doing a search might raise red flags with his target, after all. ”Expecting a call?” The woman’s voice startled Derek, and he turned to face an attractive brunette human of apparent age of thirty. She had slight, makeup-concealed circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in some time, but her manner was energetic, probably because of stimulants. The double row of metal studs implanted in her left temple marked her as having been a strike pilot at one point or another, but the fact that the studs were not rubbed to brilliant shine by constant use meant that she probably left that line of work some time ago. ”Waiting for an old friend who I heard was in dock.” Derek lied. ”Thought I might have a few beers with him. Just setting my prox, so I don’t have to watch the door.” Derek waved the device for emphasis. ”Clever.” The woman nodded. ”But what if your friend is carrying a scrambler?” ”Don’t see why he would. He’s not wanted, as far as I know.” It was true. Kavellor had managed to pass under the radar of the law, simply because his crimes had been committed during a war. The woman took the empty stool next to Derek, and pulled a small silver hemisphere from her pocket. ”One makes enemies too easily out here to take chances. Why, once I was attacked by a Vriehg in a space station bar because I’d followed him into dock too closely.” She put the scrambler back in its place, in the same motion tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear with the opposite hand. ”That’s when I started carrying one. You never know who you’re going to insult by accident.” ”That’s true.” Derek nodded, then paused to take a drink from his latest synthesized-flavor beer approximation. ”Happened to me once, too. Getting attacked in a station bar by a Vriehg, I mean.” ”Really?” The woman leaned on the bar, a little towards Derek, or perhaps a little away from the obese Jalxu merchant on the other side of her. ”What’d you do, make faces at him out the window?” ”Hardly. Looking at it from his side, he had reason to be angry.” Derek shrugged. ”I was on dock approach, and took a micrometeor right in the life support mechanics. Vented everything in the system, and I mean everything.” That was back when Derek was flying a long-haul transporter with a fully closed life support system. The waste tank blowing was what caused the confrontation. ”I barely got into the station before I ran out of air.” Pausing for effect, and for another swig, the man turned slightly toward his audience. ”Apparently, this Vriehg named Ko’dh’la was in approach pattern behind me, and... let’s just say his hull and viewports needed a really good cleaning that day. He did a gene scrape on the stuff and, surprise surprise, he found my DNA in there somewhere. Came into the bar fuming, crests all extended, with this huge rusty knife...” Derek chuckled. ”It took three meshweb rounds to glue him to a wall long enough that I could explain that it was an accident. But once he got that, he was pretty understanding. We had a good laugh about it after I cut him out of the web.” At least, Derek was pretty sure that the sound that Ko’dh’la had made was the Vriehg equivalent of a laugh. Regardless, the other had not again tried to cut Derek into tiny pieces with a knife, so the situation was defused. The woman chuckled lightly at the story, and waved, trying to flag down the bartender. ”Is what you’re drinking any good?” She asked, gesturing to the bottle in front of Derek. ”Not in the least.” Derek grimaced. ”But it’s cheap.” Something was wrong. Derek’s target should have been here by now. What if Dom Kavellor decided to stay on his ship until he departed, or worse, he was already here, but wearing a scrambler, like the woman had suggested? ”Thanks for the warning.” The bartender arrived. The brunette ordered something expensive-sounding. ”By the way, what’s your name?” ”I’m Derek.” Derek extended a hand. ”Dominique.” She accepted the handshake. ”You’re ex-military, right? You don’t hide it well.” ”Yeah. Old habits die hard, and all that.” Derek shrugged. ”I fought for Lyrandon for a while. They were crazy enough to give me command of a light frigate.” And while Derek was off pounding Merseillan ships during the war, a Merseillan privateer named Dom Kavellor had made it his business to intercept each and every supply shipment headed for Derek’s home, a newly-established foothold colony on Uridor II. The colony, unable to sustain itself on the partially-terraformed world, was wiped out. Nine thousand men, women, and children had starved, including Derek’s parents and siblings. ”Lyrandon?” Her eyebrows shot up, then slowly came back down, and Derek tried to figure out what that meant. Probably that she had enemies there, or that she was Merseillan. On Crossroad, Merseillan ships weren't uncommon. ”Fought against Mersailles, then?” ”Yeah. But that’s ancient history.” Derek waved dismissively. ”I haven’t held a commission in nearly a decade.” Dominique relaxed visibly at Derek's words, just as her drink arrived, something bluish and murky served in a glass. After sipping from it, she leaned in a little closer. Derek could smell her perfume, even over the smells of three hundred beings and of an approximately equal number of intoxicants. ”With all the species in the galaxy, it continues to amaze me that humanity still manages to go to war with itself.” ”It's not unprecedented.” Derek pointed out. "The Tushavo almost never stop fighting each other." ”I'd like to think...” Dominique paused to take another sip of her drink, and leaned in a little closer. ”I'd like to think we're above that sort of petty squabbling.” "I don't know. If humanity's good at one thing, it's killing humanity." Derek pointed out jokingly. Dominique winced slightly then, and shook her head. Derek attributed the brief expression to painful memories. He knew that pretty much anyone who made a career in space had something in their past to run away from, and didn’t think too much on it. ”Sometimes it seems that way, but I’d prefer to think of it in slightly more... Optimistic terms.” The brunette pointed out, though there was little feeling in the words. Derek did not respond, except by looking back over to the door and checking the settings on his prox again. ”Something wrong?” ”Yeah, the guy I was hoping to meet here... isn’t here.” Derek shrugged. ”I was thinking I might take a walk around the station. Even if I don’t bump into him, it’d be good to be somewhere less crowded.” ”Yeah, but that means moving away from the alcohol.” Dominique pointed out. ”You sure you’re up for that?” Derek chuckled. ”We’ll see.” She was charming, he admitted. On any other day she’d have his full attention, but today Derek had more pressing matters to attend to. Pulling a currency tab out of his coat pocket, Derek paid the bar, finished his beer, and stood up. ”Mind if I come along then?” Dominique gestured to the rest of the patrons in the bar. ”Good company looks to be a premium tonight.” She was right. Besides themselves, the only other humans Derek could see in the bar were a large cluster of filthy-looking mercs clustered around an exotic, hookah-like device, lounging in narcotic stupor. Making casual conversations with other species was possible for the well-versed, of course, but Derek figured that Dominique wanted a bit more than conversation out of the evening. Derek thought for a moment, trying to think of a reason to dissuade her without hinting at his purpose, but could think of nothing offhand. ”Sure.” He felt confident that, when he found Kavellor, he could "lose" her, then locate her after his deed was done. Dominique finished her drink and settled up, and soon both threaded their way out of the station bar and into the main thoroughfare beyond. The lights were dimmed to simulate night, but not enough to pose a hazard. Most of the other establishments on this level were closed at that hour, so traffic was light. Along the outer wall, a series of large viewpanes gave a stunning display of the stars, and of the Witch’s Head nebula. Crossroad Station was on the wrong side of the cloud to see the long-nosed old woman’s face that the ancient earth-bound astronomers had seen, of course, so it just looked like an amorphous mass of wispy blue. The pair got a quarter of a way around the thoroughfare ring before either spoke again. Derek eventually broke the silence. ”So, Dominique, what brings a woman like you all the way out to Crossroad?” Derek’s tone indicated that he was both conscious of and mocking the old cliched line. She grinned. ”This and that. Looking for somewhere to make myself useful. And you can call me Dom. So many spacers get trapped in all those sounds that...” She stopped, seeing Derek’s reaction. ”What?” Derek, looking a little sick, thought fast. This was a development he hadn’t expected, but it fit. The scrambler, the initial reaction to his mention of Lyrandon... Had Derek just spent the first part of his evening making small talk with the murderer of his family? He had to be sure. ”Uh, nothing. My guts don’t like the stuff I was drinking.” Derek struggled to compose himself and go back to making small talk without a change in his manner. As they walked, Derek steered toward the docking bay where his ship was berthed. If Dom noticed, she didn’t mention it, at least until Derek stopped at the boarding hatch. Derek, for his part, did his best to keep up the light banter until he stopped in front of the mating lock. ”This your ship?” Dom leaned over the console near the portal and brought up the vessel identification. ”A Freerunner-14. I’m impressed. Lots more fun to fly than anything I’ve ever owned.” She leaned on the wall and grinned. ”Did you come all the way over here to show off?” ”I wanted to see if my friend left me a message.” Derek typed a few digits into his commpiece and the hatch opened. ”But if you’re impressed, that’s a bonus.” With a wink, Derek beckoned inside, though he shuddered even at the idea that he might be pretending to flirt with a mass-murderer.. ”This will only take a moment. You can come in if you’d like.” Derek sincerely hoped that his suspicion was wrong, but his gut told him that it wasn't. Dominique did come in, as Derek was hoping. Trusting the ship’s automated security to not let her into anywhere sensitive, he excused himself and headed for the cockpit of the little ship. Rather than check for messages, Derek queried the computer for a list of all personnel onboard. The computer returned two names, as expected: his own, and that of Dominique Kavellor. Derek winced, then typed in a few more commands. ”Derek!” Dom’s voice, piped up to the cockpit by the ship’s computer, sounded more curious than worried. ”Everything all right? You’re taking a long time up there.” Derek hit the last key, and the computer sealed the outer doors. Drawing his beam gun, Derek headed back down to kill Dom Kavellor. ”Uh, Derek?” Dom sounded a little concerned, as she tried to glean information from a console. ”The door’s sealed - ” She turned around from the console and saw the gun. ”Oh.” ”You don’t look all that afraid.” Derek aimed at her, finger on the trigger. ”This is not the first time I’ve been held at gunpoint,” Dom replied. ”May I ask what this is about?” ”This is about the colonists of Uridor.” Derek’s hands shook a little as they gripped his gun, but not enough to impede his aim in the enclosed space. ”My family among them.” Dom winced at the mention of the dead colony, but otherwise met Derek’s gaze silently. ”You killed a world, Dom Kavellor. It takes the worst kind of monster to do that.” ”Does it?” Dom sighed, and it seemed that a good deal of the energy animating her seemed to drain out. Derek frowned, but didn't answer the rhetorical question. He figured he'd let Dom speak - he could stomach pleading, attempted bribery, begging, or worse and still, he felt sure, get the job done. ”There’s an old saying. ‘You either die a hero or live to see yourself become the villain.’ Heard it? No?” Dom took a step toward Derek, and he kept the gun on her. ”I didn’t set out to starve Uridor. I set out to shorten the war, make Lyrandon send ships after me instead of after the rest of the Merseillan fleet.” She dropped her gaze to the deck. ”I only learned later how many people had died as a result. I see that colony in my dreams, you know, even though I’ve never been there. Crumbling buildings being slowly eaten by a cold desert wind. And bones everywhere, picked clean and white. The skulls of all those thousands, glaring from where they fell, and every breath of wind whispering curses on my name...” Dom shuddered and closed her eyes, as if to banish the image. The gun did not stray from Dom’s center of mass, but this was not what Derek had expected. He considered that it was a trick, that Dom really was the bloodthirsty buccaneer that would starve a colony intentionally to help the Merseillan war effort, and that she was also skilled at play-acted remorse. Could it be an act? The woman spacer looked back up at Derek. ”If we’d been captured or just blasted by a patrol, I’d have been a hero on Mersailles.” Dom pointed out. Derek realized she was probably right. "But instead... they threw me out. I don't blame them." ”Is this supposed to be a defense?” Derek asked. Dom shrugged. ”There is no defense. This is my side. If a good man like you still has it in him to pull the trigger knowing both sides, then I probably deserve it.” It was Derek’s turn to chuckle, and he put malice into it. ”Good man? Hardly. I came to Crossroad to kill you in cold blood, Dom.” ”But you could have shot me in the back as soon as you knew who I was. Pragmatically, you should have.” Dom took another step, and the gun was mere inches from her sternum. ”Honor’s rare among spacers. You came here to kill a monster, and I don't blame you for that.” Derek kept his aim, trying desperately to see any sign that she was acting, playing on his sympathies as a defense. After all, Dom had not denied her crimes, had not denied starving Derek’s family among thousands of others. That she showed remorse years after the fact didn’t void what she'd done, but it did show that she was still human. That maybe, just maybe, Dominique Kavellor was more than the sum of her actions. Dom, taking advantage of Derek’s preoccupation in thought, moved in a flash, stepping aside and grabbing for the gun. Derek reflexively fired, and the beam went wide, lighting a glowing red spot on the bulkhead behind the intended target. Dom twisted the weapon, forcing him to drop the gun and kicking it into a corner. In less than a second, Derek was disarmed. Then she stopped. Rather than trying to subdue Derek, she released his hand and leaned against him, encircling her slim arms around his neck. "There, that's better." Derek, disgusted, tried to pry her off, but found Dom to be far stronger than she looked - that and the almost unnatural speed with which she'd disarmed him caused Derek to suppose that combat implants lay beneath the smooth skin of her limbs. "Dom - I'm not going to forgive mass murder because you throw yourself at me." She smiled, and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I know. You're too good a man to even entertain the thought. I could have knocked you out and put you out the airlock, you know. Probably should have." "Just like I should have shot you in the back, right?" Derek tried again to pull her arms off his shoulders, but as much as he strained he didn't even budge them. Dom gave a wordless sound of agreement. "That makes us even, yes? You spared me, I spared you." "I haven't spared you yet. You're still stuck on my ship." Derek countered. Dom laughed. "Am I?" She released him, and jumped back, holding Derek's commpiece in one hand. Derek hadn't felt her remove it from his pocket. As she did so, she pressed a button on the small device, and the outer doors opened behind her. Derek knew that if he dove for his gun, she'd be long gone before he had it in hand. "I'll find you again one day, you know." "I'm sure you will. But before you do, you need to figure out what you'll do with me when that happens." She tossed back the commpiece. Derek reflexively followed its path, and when he looked back to the hatch back into Crossroad, Dom Kavellor was not there. Vincenio Avenges His Love by Vitus[3298 words] A sorrowful violin filled the air under the low ceiling of The Grotto with a long, slow dirge. The music was filled with such a striking, lonely, mourning that the patrons of this cellar of a saloon had fallen silent. The musician’s bow slowly caressed the strings that cried under his emotive hand. Behind him on a stool the lithe, gypsy girl whose hips dangled with bells that shook in a most provocative way only minutes before, now was still and tapped her tambourine in a slow, labored beat. Her eyes were closed and her voice stolen from The Grotto patrons now. The light was too dim to see her weeping. Vincenio felt betrayed by the song. For him revenge was at hand, he imagined a more triumphant song after all the years of struggle and hatred. Here was justice finally to be had! Yet Vincenio felt the sorrow of the tune as deeply as any in the place. His mind was pulled inexorably to the event that brought him here in the first place, and he feared that the notion alone weakened him. To steel himself to the matter at hand, he held the knife he kept near to him all of those years. It wasn’t a good knife. The blade was pocked with rust and the handle was made from simple wood that showed all the signs of wear. Its blade was just long enough to damage a man’s lungs, or his heart, were his attacker skilled enough. The knife didn’t belong to Vincenio. He had taken it years ago from the breast of his love, and now very much intended to give it back to its rightful owner, who was by no coincidence sharing the sorrow of the evening with everyone else at The Grotto. Vincenio Vincenio’s loss was not unique, perhaps, in the manner of it happening, nor even that of his vow to avenge the death of his love. What seemed -at the time- to be a random act of violence which was motivated by simple greed, in the end turned into the catalyst for one man’s obsession and another man’s career. What is perhaps saddest in this tale is that Vincenio saw the attack before his eyes. In broad daylight he saw sweet Antigone bringing a small basket of wild strawberries, lily behind her ear and all, from the end of Market Street. The noise and bustle was too much to be heard, so Vincenio watched his love as he tried to move faster through the crowded street. The thug lunged from behind a livery stall and plunged his dagger in her breast without hesitation. The attack was so violent and sure that Vincenio felt as if he were under a spell. He saw the man’s face clearly just before he plunged into the crowded street, but Vincenio was frozen with shock for an eternity of a second. In moments he was at her side with tears of sorrow and frustration. He held her and called for help and the constable and swore at the sky and disbelieved it all at once. Others came who knew about these things and even a priest was made to come, but he was too late to perform any miracles. He watched with others on the street as the tender woman he loved lay on a red carpet over the cobblestones of Market Street and for a moment everyone could only mourn. The Vigil must have been asleep that day for though they called every watchman to search, they did not lay their hands on the murderer. Soon other things drew their attention away. The City of Crystal Loch welcomed so many travelers that it was impossible, even after only a short time, for them to devote to the investigation the time it required. They determined that the attack must have been by a traveler, who now had moved on to find other victims. There was one man, however, who was not so easily dissuaded from the truth. For Vincenio, he had not been able to protect his wife, regardless of circumstance for excuses. Vincenio’s honor was in question and to redeem himself in his own eyes, he had no choice but to find the man responsible, and destroy him. For their part, Vincenio discovered, the Vigil were correct when they assumed the attacker had left and found other victims. After a few months of digging, Vincenio had established that the attack had been an initiation rite for a kind of fraternity. These were men with no conscience, who would hire themselves out to commit murder. Vincenio was a gentleman of a noble house and was trained in fencing and riding. He was no assassin when he left his home, Crystal Loch in search of this murderer. Linus Linus was a child lost. In a city of thousands, abundant though the resources may be, there are always casualties. He had no knowledge of his father, and his mother was taken by disease given to her by the brothel in which she worked. So familiar and typical of the urchins of Wes-Kha, Jewel of the Empire, was Linus’s story that he rarely spoke of it. To him the past was nothing and only the need of the moment mattered. Thieving came naturally to him. He had been encouraged by his own mother before her death to feed himself by any means necessary and one of his few fond memories was when a butcher was set upon by an angry customer with a club and young Linus dragged an entire leg of lamb home to his prideful mother and her date for the evening. The guild had found him soon after he had paid a longtime partner in crime by giving him his half of the stolen goods in the currency of inches of sharpened steel. He had, in truth, been terrified when he’d been confronted by a man who appeared in this filthy room. The tiny space he rented above the stench of a dye shop was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. This kept the rent low and the thieves at bay, or so Linus had thought until he saw the shadow he cast from the light of his tallow candle move, lengthen, and stretch until it took the shape of a silhouette on the wall opposite Linus. He had sat dumbfounded when a cloaked man stepped from the wall to give him a letter wrapped in stiff, black paper. The shadow vanished as quickly and the terrified thief would have thought it a dream were he not, in the end, holding a letter with instructions concerning an invitation and an obligation for initiation. The note assured Linus that “they” would be watching. After reading the instructions on the letter, Linus had joined a caravan to the fabled City of Crystal Loch to find a place where no one knew him to do the deed, in case all went wrong. Years later- though Linus by then made it a practice to never dwell on the past- he would occasionally look back on the event with a kind of clinical fondness. His attack on an “innocent” in a place with “many witnesses and in daylight” was precisely what he had been advised to do. The murder had been swift and neat with no chance of the weapon being traced as he’d stolen it from the Wes-Kha butcher who’d already paid his youthful thievery with a leg of lamb and Linus had left it in the heart of that beautiful young woman, thus “destroying something beautiful.” No one could say Linus hadn’t decided to incorporate a little style in his affairs, even if he didn’t understand that the love of two people was another beautiful thing destroyed in that violent act. Though the instructions had struck Linus as unorthodox, he felt he had nothing to lose by the murder, he’d never intended to stay in Crystal Loch at all. He was confident that “they” were indeed watching him by some magical means, most likely, which couldn’t help but make him think of the consequences for turning their offer down by NOT doing the murder. Besides, he had been all in the moment he took the letter. Departures Vincenio’s family was wealthy enough for travel and when he suggested he’d like to get out and tour to get his mind off his wife’s murder, they had encouraged him. His demeanor had been brooding after Anigone’s murder, and he’d taken to studying in his chambers, or punishing fencing partners after all the instructors had refused to work with him any further. So when he suddenly must travel to the Jewel of the Wes-Kha Empire, they quickly arranged for everything he would need. His own motives he kept to himself for the most part. He didn’t want anyone dissuading him, he’d made the mistake once and that had been enough. “Vincenio, don’t be a fool,” Michael groaned over his sore body and frothing ale, “Wes-Kha is a city of tens of thousands. You’ve got few enough friends there and far more avenues for disaster as well. This…this thing was tragic, of course, but there was nothing you could have done. Finding this creature and putting him to rest wouldn’t…I say this because we are fencing partners and friends, I hope…Killing this man won’t bring her back, Vincenio.” Anger had flashed in Vincenio’s eyes, and for the first time since they were tiny boys playing together, he wanted to smash his fist into the face of his friend. They were friends, however, because Michael always spoke the truth and Vincenio respected that. In spite of his best friend’s integrity, the driven man had already made his arrangements for Wes-Kha. “I won’t rest until he’s found, my friend,” Vincenio had put a weary hand on his friend’s shoulder then, “And you will see how truly I am your friend when you understand the pain you feel is only a reminder that I am teaching you to be a better fencer. It may save your life” Michael had known then that Vincenio would find the man who’d taken his one true love. Vincenio had the same look in his eyes when they were boys and he saw something he wanted. He fixed those piercing eyes like a circling hawk and he would take his plunge at the prey. No matter what his wiser friend might say or do. So they had talked a long time that night about old times mostly. They didn’t mention Antigone much, but she had been such a part of Vincenio’s life, it was hard not to. In the morning Michael woke among many empty bottles in Vincenio’s parlor face down on the gaming table. A pastry was left on a plate and all Vincenio’s bags were gone. A warm, elixired cup of coffee rested on a torn piece of parchment that only read, “Wish me luck.” Arrivals Linus had traveled from Crystal Loch that very night and made his way to Potter’s Portage before he stopped. The Potters, stout, hair-footed brothers who ran an inn and caravanserai were happy to stable his mare. They offered a fresh mount and Linus agreed, thinking a switch of horses couldn’t hurt. By the time the sun was up the next morning, he was traveling along the River Loch and wondering when the guild would find him and what happened next. In truth, he was excited. No one had ever shown any real interest in him, not even his mother, really. His skills weren’t generally appreciated he discovered, even among other hustlers and brigands who’d been his primary company since he was a boy. Even they knew there was nothing Linus wouldn’t do, and it frightened even the thugs and thieves who kept their own brand of code of conduct. Linus felt he was above all of it, and proved that much often enough. The act of killing held no real significance for him any more than taking a purse or keeping a promise did. Indeed, some whispered that Linus had no soul; he even whispered it himself. He would discover how wrong he was on that count. He was met on the road to Wes-Kha by several travelers who seemed very friendly and Linus had toyed with the idea of robbing them. He never got a chance, though. While sitting around the fire during the first evening, a couple of others joined the group and there was much strong coffee being handed around on small saucers and turbaned men with great menacing beards bustling around the fire. Linus remembered one of the newer men asking across the fire to the men next to him if he would, “Get out the tobacco.” Linus was confused, because he didn’t think the two men knew each other. He didn’t have much time to act on his suspicions. A thick, silk cloth had slipped over his head and in a moment, his world had gone blank. He came to in a gypsy camp lashed to a sapling. Linus searched frantically for clues about what was happening, he felt the warmth of a fire behind him and he heard music drifting from somewhere distance. They were in a forest with fire behind him at the center of a clearing. To his left he saw a garish tent that was big enough to sleep a dozen men. There was a lamp within and the shadows from people inside were cast on the side of the tent. He could see several shapes of people within the tent when one became more distinct. Though there was no entrance to the tent on the side facing Linus, sure enough, the shadowy silhouette soon materialized into the shape of the same man Linus had seen in his dank room. “Welcome home, Linus,” the man spoke to Linus in a strange hypnotic tone, “You must meet my grandmother.” Confrontation For the next four years, Vincenio followed Linus from Wes-Kha to Lor-Akhar and every city in between. For the first two years, Linus didn’t even know he was being followed, but as time went on and Vincenio collected more bits of information, his presence could not be ignored. In his arrogance, Linus thought nothing of the pursuit and many times he had thought he’d finally shaken the tail free. Before their return to Crystal Loch, Linus had seen no sign of Vincenio for three months. The guild was a shadowy group to say the least. Linus never met more than three of them at a time and he was led to believe they pulled the strings of many powerful men. He was eager for the notoriety he sensed being a part of the assassins would bring him. He never knew he was being played. His last assignment in Crystal Loch had been easy, if rather high profile. He’d finished it with ease and with no hint of the mysterious pursuer, Linus was confident enough to celebrate in a tavern suggested by a Student of the Word he’d passed in the street. At first, Vincenio refused to believe his own conclusion, that Linus was headed back to his childhood home, where this hellish nightmare began. All the travel and the filth he’d sorted through, every criminal and hustler he’d had to shake down and bribed seemed to deny that the answer would be so simple. It was as if there was another force bringing the two men together, and had he given up his pursuit Vincenio would have picked up the scent again upon his return home once Linus had come to hunt again. He wasn’t smart enough to save the Malkedesh Baron, however, and it wasn’t until his sudden death that Vincenio knew he finally had his prey. Though his hawk eyes hadn’t fallen upon his quarry yet, he wasn’t searching for him in the far reaches of the Wes-Kha Empire. He sought him in the playground of his youth. The street performers and entertainers of Crystal Loch have an efficient communication network and Vincenio knew many of the performers from before Antigone died. When Linus appeared in The Grotto, Vincenio had heard about it in no time at all. The violin called out its last breath of sadness as Vincenio strode boldly across the floor of the cramped establishment. He held the knife in his hand and thrust it forward pointing at Linus who was looking for a quick exit over his shoulder from his seat at a table right in front of the performers. Seeing no easy way through the crowded patrons, Linus returned his gaze to his condemner. In that instant he knew the man before him and his eyes grew wide. At his side he carried a sword of his own, but were he to try to draw, he might be run down in an instant. “You,” Vincenio let the word hang uncomfortably in the air as if floating in the smoke and stillness of the room, “You and I have business. On your honor, if you have any, defend yourself.” Vincenio drove the point of the rusty knife deeply into the oak table in front of Linus who quickly thrust himself away from it and leapt back to draw his rapier. The two men squared off with far less room than is normally required for fencing. The low ceiling and people swarming away from them made their combat difficult. Linus’s errant blade found a bystander’s leg and in that moment Vincenio had him. His blade held Linus frozen with its deadly point drawing only a drop from the murderer’s neck. “Enough,” the gypsy girl called. She moved for the first time since the song had ended, stepping up from her stool, her tambourine -now forgotten – fell to the floor. She looked older now and the wrinkles in her face became more pronounced. Linus’s face fell when he looked more closely at the violin player. He knew the man who appeared from shadow now and so knew who the singing gypsy maid must truly be. She was a maid no longer, her posture stooped forward as she crept toward Linus who was held still by a sword of which he was no longer aware. The gypsies face now showed more lines than one thought possible and her full form showed bones through what was once a costume designed to tease a man’s libido. Her tambourine had been replaced with a polished, white skull. The empty sockets glowed red and she held it before Linus whose mouth struggled to make words yet produced no sound. The gypsy hag face twisted in such a mockery of a smile that Vincenio dropped his sword and shrank away from the task that had possessed his mind so completely for four long years. The hag paid him no mind but let the red glow from the skull envelope Linus. His legs kicked and he feebly clawed at the air between the skull and himself, but after a short time, he no longer moved. The violin player had been quietly collecting his instrument in a hard, wooden case while the rest of the panicked patrons watched in shocked horror as Linus’s soul was taken into the skull, this proving he had one, and that it had been in danger for a long while of being damned. In a flash, all the lamps of The Grotto went out. When they were lit again, the performers had gone and Linus’s body laid lifeless with only a drop of blood on him where Vincenio’s blade had drawn it. In some way, Vincenio’s soul was saved. He was relieved of the burden of his guilt and thirst for revenge, without becoming himself a murderer.
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October 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Build A Story Around The Lyrics Of A Song Winner - The Founder by The Jaded The Founder by The Jaded[2, 652 Words] Inspired by the song, Oblivion by 30 Seconds to Mars Jack trudged through the hard-packed Arizona desert, processing what he’d just been through. They’d finally done it, he kept thinking. Finally found a way to get at the Academy. The device strapped to his wrist, no bigger than a wristwatch, was useless for its original purpose now - if it still functioned as designed, he would not be walking through triple-digit heat in a tight-fitting black jumpsuit with nothing to drink. The knowledge that he had only to go another thirty minutes or so to reach Salome was a comfort, but also a nagging reminder that starting an hour ago, Jack couldn’t just press a button and find himself sitting in a cool, air-conditioned restaraunt, sipping a cold beer. The facility control room was a mess. What consoles weren’t dark were either on fire or blinking madly, a cacaphony of warning lights and sirens competed to disorient Jack’s senses. the Founder, an ancient, pinched woman, threaded her way through the ruined space as her life’s work groaned and creaked, dying. Hopefully, most of the Academy personnel made it out, Jack was thinking, but at the same time he knew there were nowhere near enough time to program everyone's wristpieces. She noticed Jack come in, but didn’t change her trajectory. The old woman fiddled with one of the more intact displays for a moment, and it popped open, revealing a small space. ”Wait for me in Salome. Wait for me to be ready.” She called urgently across the room, tossing the contents of the cubbyhole to Jack - it was a wristpiece data card. Jack wanted to argue, but the Academy shuddered again, and a sickening, rushing sound started from somewhere in the depths of the structure, rising toward them. Jack panicked, pushed the card into his wristpiece, and - The rise leveled off, and Jack saw a road at the bottom of the other side. Grateful for the downslope and the promise of nearing civilization, Jack hurried forward, reaching the road in a matter of minutes. Uncertain which direction lay toward Salome, Jack looked in both directions. Hills and curves obscured both not too far from his location. Just as he was about to pick a direction at random, though, a car pulled around one of the bends and headed in his direction, an old, beat up Chevy. Seeing Jack, it slowed down. Jack got a good look at the driver -a woman, maybe twenty-five, stick-thin, with thick-rimmed glasses and a mass of unkempt dark blonde hair settling around her face now that the animating wind from the car’s motion had settled. ”You lost?” She called out. Jack went to answer, but something about her seemed familiar, something he couldn’t place. It was unlikely he’d seen this girl before, could it be that he’d once met one of her ancestors, or maybe one of her descendants? Possibly. The Academy had taught Jack that the world wasn’t as big a place as people thought. ”I’m...” Jack tried to start, but his dry throat caught on the desert dust and he managed only to cough for a few seconds. ”Trying - to get to... Salome.” He managed to force out, loud enough that the woman in the car might hear. ”I was just going there. Want a ride?” She asked, and Jack wondered immediately why she would trust him in her car. Grateful of the offer, though, Jack nodded and approached the car cautiously. As Jack got in, the woman put her foot on the gas and he was pressed into the seat a little bit too much for his liking. ”Only a few minutes out.” She said, loudly over the wind in the open windows. ”You air force?” She gestured with one hand at his jumpsuit, without taking her eyes off the road. Jack, after a moment to recall what he knew about twenty-first century American military organizations, nodded cautiously. Her association of him with that group might be what made her trust him enough to offer a ride. ”Is it that obvious?” ”You crash out here or something?” She replied to his question with a question. ”Umm... Or something.” Jack replied enigmatically, intentionally so. ”Not at liberty to say. I’m Jack.” The truth of how he’d come to be walking across the desert was a bit more complicated, of course. ”Helen.” She responded. ”Cell phone’s in the bag in the back seat, if you need to make a call.” Jack looked back, to see that the back seat of the car was filled with period electronics equipment, some of it almost top-of-the-line and some more antiquated. Sitting atop the whole mess was a large, bag-like purse. Jack shook his head. ”I’m good for now. My orders for this situation are, stay in the area, someone will find me.” Jack hoped that sounded like something an Air Force pilot would say. ”Secret project, eh? Fine.” She seemed intrigued. ”I won’t press.” ”You seem to have a project of your own going on.” Jack gestured to the back of the car. ”You in robotics?” She laughed, a high-pitched sound that Jack found unsettlingly familiar, but could not place. ”No, physics. These days a physicist needs more hardware than a factory to do any real work.” She shook her head. ”It’s a long-shot project, but I got funding for it, so...” She shrugged. Jack nodded, but let the conversation drop off, when over the next hill he saw a glint of sun off of metal. As they cleared that rise, Jack got a good look at Salome - it was pitiably small, nestled in the dry hills. In short, a perfect place for the Founder to hide a bolthole, should she decide she needed one in this time. Just enough civilization to have the comforts, not enough to really risk having something discovered. ”You have any money on you?” Helen asked as the car passed the outer line of buildings. ”That flight suit looks a bit snug for pockets.” ”I don’t. But I can get some. Is there an ATM around here?” Jack knew that the Academy had bank accounts with all the major financial institutions of every period in history that had financial institutions, for just this purpose. He’d need an ATM card, of course, but Academy gear provided for him there. ”Yeah.” Helen looked like she was holding something back, but didn’t for very long. ”But I shudder to think of where you might keep an ATM card in that flight suit.” She looked embarrassed for saying it almost immediately. ”I don’t have one. A card’s heavier than the data it stores.” Academy rule: Never carry with you what you can fabricate once you get there. Most Academy travel gear had to be fabricated from raw energy prior to departure to avoid risk of some interesting and dangerous particle physics paradoxes. ”But I can reprogram any old blank gift card to access my account.” Helen looked confused at this, but shrugged it off. Probably not technology widely available in this time, Jack considered briefly. He had to be more careful than he usually was on outings, he decided, since there would be no going back and cleaning up after himself in a second run through unless the Founder’s ace in the hole here in Salome was more than monumental. Despite obvious misgivings, Helen took Jack to a convenience store, where the pair managed to convince a tired cashier to give them a blank gift card. Jack took the card, slipped it between his wrist and the watch-like device there strapped, and went into the restroom, more to let the wristpiece do its light-flashing magnetic-strip reformatting trick in privacy than because he needed to use the facilities. Back in the car, Helen drove the two blocks to the bank in silence. Jack fiddled with the card, but said nothing, not wanting to bother his benefactor any more than necessary. Jack got out and headed for the blue-and-white ATM in the wall, for the first time not sure how much money was in the account. To the perspective of the bank computer, many other travellers like him would come later to both add and remove funds, travellers whose journeys were to Jack in the past. Who could say what was in the communal account at any given point along the stream? Despite Jack’s worries, the ATM spit out $400 in crisp twenty-dollar bills without complaint. The gift card recovered, Jack returned to the car, where Helen was still waiting. ”Thanks for the help, Helen.” He offered her five of the twenties. ”I think I can manage from here.” She waved off the money, and Jack wondered if he’d acted wrongly. Was that a faux pas in this culture? ”It’s almost six. What do you say you buy me dinner and call it even?” Jack considered. It wasn’t going to hurt anything, and if the Founder arrived she’d be able to find him no matter where he was. ”Deal. Though you’re going to have to tell me what’s good in this town.” He got back into the passenger seat, and Helen, with a quick smile, turned the car back toward the main road. The sun was just beginning to sink behind the hills, and Jack shielded his eyes from its waning rays. After only a minute or so of driving, Helen turned off the road into the parking lot of a small, beat-up looking structure whose sign claimed it to be a family restaurant. ”Best restaurant in Salome.” Helen explained. ”But that isn’t saying much.” Jack was in the ready room, prepping for a mission to the Second Dark Age, when the Academy shook and the Founder’s voice came over the speakers. ”Attention. All personnel evacuate. This is not a drill. Evacuate the facility.” That was the first time that Jack had ever heard fear in the old woman’s voice, and that scared him more than the thought of the Academy, a structure constructed outside time itself, was under attack. It went without saying that the attackers were the Gaunts, but there wasn’t time to wonder how they’d managed to find a way to get at the Academy’s unreachable base. Jack ran to the Founder’s command center, hoping that he could at least get the old woman out... ”You all right, Jack?” Helen asked, and Jack started. He looked down to see a mostly-eaten plate of steak and potatoes in front of him, and looked back up to Helen. She looked rather worried. ”Uh, yeah, just a bad memory.” Jack shook his head. ”I lost focus there for a moment. What were you saying?” Helen sighed. ”You asked me about my project, and just as I started you spaced out. You sure you’re all right?” Jack merely shrugged a response, so she continued. ”I was saying, what my project amounts to is a stab at wormholes. There’s a lot of complicated physics stuff that quantifies it, of course.” Jack, his Academy training covering more about such things than Helen realized, nodded. ”A wormhole to where?” He asked. ”They need an in and an out, you know.” ”I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.” Helen waved off the question. ”I don’t think this is going to work at all, it’s a slim chance. We’re not even sure wormholes are possible. But if they are, think. Instant travel. Maybe time travel.” Helen grinned. ”It’s worth a shot.” Jack suddenly realized why Helen had looked and sounded so familiar, and at the realization his jaw dropped. ”Y-you...” Helen frowned. ”You all right?” ”You’re the Founder.” Jack managed. ”You sent me back to before.” ”Jack, you’re not making sense.” Helen looked really concerned now. Holding up a finger, Jack tried to regain his composure. Wait for me to be ready. She wasn’t talking about escaping the Academy in the first place. The old woman had sent him here to make sure that her younger self became the Academy’s Founder again, because she’d remembered him being here. But no - the Academy lived in a meta-time bubble. Its time stream was not dependent on this one... Jack’s head hurt as he tried to figure out whether this Founder would found the same Academy or a new iteration, or simply a parallel one. Had the old woman even known herself? Now with a distinct headache, Jack signaled for and paid the bill, and the pair headed back for Helen’s car. But once they were inside, she didn’t start the engine. ”All right, spill it, Jack. What got you so flustered in there?” Wondering whether or not he would cause more paradoxes telling Helen what he knew or staying quiet was just as painful, so Jack decided he might as well tell her. ”Fair warning, this is going to sound crazy.” ”I’m a physicist.” She responded, as if that implied some degree of inherent insanity. Jack shrugged, and leaned back in his seat. ”I’m not a pilot. I’m... What I do is hard to explain. I work for the Academy.” ”What academy?” Helen asked. ”No. The Academy. The organization that...” Jack expected Helen to not understand what he was about to say. ”...That you lead. You’re the Founder.” Helen started to speak, to protest, but no words came out for several seconds. ”You’re from the... the future.” She shook her head. ”A time traveler.” ”Not the future. The Academy does not exist in time or space, and we thought it was impossible to get there without going though its defenses.” Jack shrugged. ”We were wrong. The Gaunts got in. I got out as the place fell apart.” ”Gaunts?” Helen asked. It was too dark to see her expression, but Jack guessed she was not taking this well from her tone. ”It’s a long story.” Jack didn’t want to scare her off - the Academy knew so little about them that there wasn’t much to say, other than that they were superhuman beings that killed Academy personnel on sight, and on several occasions tried to use Academy wristpieces to infiltrate the facility. ”But I know I was sent here to help you do something.” ”Something like what?” Helen’s voice sounded uncertain. Jack was surprised she hadn’t run off by now. ”I don’t know exactly.” Jack sighed, and was quiet for some time, until an idea occurred to him. ”But why don’t we start with your little wormhole project and go from there?” He gestured toward the backseat, and the cargo stored there. Helen chuckled, a thought occurring to her. ”What if you cause a paradox?” ”It wouldn’t be the first time.” Jack shrugged. ”They aren’t so bad.” Besides, the more Jack thought about it, the more he thought that the Founder he knew remembered this conversation. ”And what if I say no?” ”You would have already.” That she hadn’t, Jack took as a good sign. ”Fair point.” Helen went quiet after those two words, and didn’t speak again for nearly a minute. Eventually, she spoke up again. ”What was your Academy for?” Jack smiled in the dim light. ”At first, to preserve a piece of this world, because the Founder knew of the coming Dark Age. Later, its scope... broadened. I’m not sure how long in its own time the Academy stood. A long time.” Jack turned fully to Helen. ”Being the Founder won’t be easy, but make no mistake when I say that it is integral to humanity’s emergence from the dark that’s coming.” And Jack knew from his many trips to the time period in question how deep the Second Dark Age would grow to be. ”All right.” Helen nodded. ”I suppose there’s no harm in starting my long-shot wormhole project, at least.” She started the car at last. ”Who knows where that will lead?” ”I do. Hopefully, you will soon.” Jack responded quietly, probably inaudibly considering the sound of the engine, as they pulled out onto the road.
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; Nov 1st, 2011 at 11:43 PM. |
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November 2011 Competition Entries Topic - A Heist Winner - Boot, Chute and Boogie by Vitus Just Rewards for Queeth the Quasit by Landifarne[1005 words] The quasit shuddered slightly and a warm trickle dribbled down the thing’s spindly legs. Accompanying this release, the foetid stench of the demon’s caustic urine immediately wafted into the chamber’s still, stagnant air. Unable to contain its present fear and anxiety, the diminutive fiend had lost control of this most basic bodily function as it couldn’t help but recall the power its Lord had exhibited that fateful day, burning its unholy commands into the quasit’s mind for eternity: “Do not fail me, QUEETH!” the Tyrant of Molvordugrax decreed. “Bring me the soul of the wizard Dolgrim and I shall form you anew, in the trappings of a greater servant. Within my realm you will have free rein to maim, torture, slay and sate your hunger on all of your fellow nigglings. But, FAIL me in this, and within my gut I will digest your being for a thousand millennia.” Shuddering again, but this time in anticipation of its imminent reward, Queeth cursed each and every one of the thirty six years of service it had been forced to render unto Dolgrim the Damned in return for the once-living human’s immortal soul. And, the niggling demon twice cursed-nay, cursed a seemingly infinite number of times the eight hundred and forty seven additional years that it had further slaved under the hands of Dolgrim the Lich…for the bastard mageling had indeed managed to turn himself into a lich before his death, and thus avoid capture by the demon lord of the three hundred and twenty sixth abyssal layer. But, today! Today the hated lich had made a grievous mistake, the quasit thought to itself. The undead mage had actually opened the vault containing his phylactery and dismissed the chamber’s wards without considering that his demonic familiar was lingering nearby. On top of this, Dolgrim had been immediately called away. All that was required of Queeth was to get outside the magical boundaries of Dolgrim’s Tower with phylactery in hand! After that, a quick teleportation back to the demon layer of Molvordugrax would give Queeth dominion over thousands of its own niggling slaves! Oh, such exquasit joy! Slithering through shadows towards the enormous treasure mound lying squarely in the center of Dolgrim’s vault, the agile Queeth glanced about in a most furtive manner, ready to leap instantly back towards the door. Approaching the pile, the quasit tentatively reached out its hand and wrapped its scaly fingers about Dolgrim’s phylactery, a small face-less, limb-less clay figurine shaped in some bloated, grotesque semblance of a human being that Dolgrim had acquired during his extensive travels across the landscape of the Planet Holun. Grasping the figurine, and enveloping it in its deceptively strong fists, the smallish demon scurried from the room in haste, eager to make a quick escape. BooM! CrAsH! Zzzap! siZZle! Contingency wards erupted all around the hapless quasit. Explosions of blue-green fire leapt from the basement’s walls towards Queeth’s face and stones fell from the ceiling, threatening to crush the tiny creature. Yet, Queeth dodged and rolled, making the vault’s door while having miraculously avoided harm. Outside the chamber, ozonating lighting bolts shot vertically downward, blasting from rusted metal spikes that lined the tops of the hallways the tiny demon coursed through. And, like the spittle streams of an old, toothless codger, jets of trenchant acid sprayed in menacing patterns from nozzles sticking out of every passage corner. Yet, not one trap or spell smote down Queeth, the fleetest of fiends. Up! Up, to the tower’s peak ran Queeth, where lay both freedom from lich-slavery and the promise of reward! Reward for Queeth! Now the quasit was visibly shaking in orgasmic glee…only one final barrier to cross. Success was at hand for the miserable, so oft-put thing. Behind it, despite the undead wizard having rotted, hole-pierced lungs, Queeth could hear Dolgrim’s bellowing voice, raging in undisguised fury, “Queeth! What have you done? Queeth, you sniveling leech, bring back my figurine!” Bursting through the last outer door, Queeth smelled the sweet fragrances of the night and knew it had won. Leaping to the closest merlon, the quasit clutched Dolgrim’s phylactery tight and jumped, triggering its innate ability to teleport as it fell. “Ah, Queeth, you niggle-worm,” the Tyrant chortled, “thank you for bringing me Dolgrim the Damned! I am sure the wizard will be well entertained, here in Molvordugrax! Ha! Ha! Ha!” With that, the god-like demon lord held up Dolgrim’s phylactery and concentrated on the object for a brief time. Knitting its gargantuan brow, Weneeoth, lord of the three hundred and twenty sixth layer, manifested its near-divine powers and drew forth Dolgrim’s soul. Hovering above the plane’s surface, Dolgrim’s shade was materially insubstantial, but quite evident to the lord’s host of demons. Grabbing a nearby dretch, Weneeoth placed its mouth over the small demon’s face and sucked out the soul of the doomed being. Then, exerting itself psychically, the demon lord forced Dolgrim’s shade into the formerly occupied body. “We cannot have you ambling about as a knock-kneed dretch, Dolgrim,” Weneeoth declared, “a more suitable form I see in this statue of yours.” With that, the demon lord pointed an index finger at the former lich-mage and shot a verdant green beam of energy at the newly created demon. Striking Dolgrim, the beam pulsed and caused the former human’s dretch body to expand and roil in nauseating ripples. After just a moment, Dolgrim’s form now resembled the proto-human appearance of the lich-mage’s old phylactery. Limb-less, and without a head, the new demon squirmed about in a worm-like fashion. “Harken, Queeth!” Weneeoth bellowed, “Dolgrim is now Lord of the Larvae…and you are his slave and herald, tied to him for eternity! Go forth and frolic amongst your peers! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” “But you promised to make me greater”, Queeth whined in its diminutive rat-like voice, “you promised me!” “Promises are of little value, Queeth, to those who slay, maim and torture”, the demon lord said, waving away his new pets, “...but I do promise that you shall enjoy the taste of your just rewards.” Gato by Solomon777[3238 Words] Excitedly, Juan, a converted Tectan Indian, reached the ears of Father Miguel DePlaya around daybreak. The clergyman drowsily got up from the sleeping pallet on the dusty floor of his humbly furnished hovel. He stood looking about the leaf and mud dwelling that he had resided in for the last year. Miguel called out trying to calm the boy, “Juan, my son what is it? What is of such urgency that you could not wait for breakfast, or at least wait for me to awaken?” Father Miguel, a man of around thirty years, pulled on his priestly vestiges and pushed aside the colorful blanket that covered the doorway of his hovel. Outside he found a young man of dark skin, out-of-breath and standing at the short walkway leading into the small village of Telmect. “Papa Miguel, we…we,” He still struggled to speak the few Spanish words to make sense, “have found a writing.” In Juan’s hand he held a three-foot-long roll of leaves and dried sinew. The priest could only smile through the long moment before he spoke, “Juan, the church is uninterested in another leaf-scroll with your native culture spilled across it. However, I assure you I will take heed of what you have said.” He held out his hand for the large artifact. Juan handed the item to the Father carefully. “Let me take it and I will keep it safe.” Miguel couldn’t help but recall the words to him by Father Emilio Castillon when Miguel had arrived here that ‘all cultural doctrine for the native peoples was to be removed as it would hinder the teachings of the church’. Father Miguel thought this tactic to be a necessary wrong as it is only best for these people to be saved. Their true culture can always be revived in academics. These people need to find the truth in belief as a foundation to the truth of the world. Taking the wrapped piece from Juan, Miguel eyed the half-dressed young man with a shake of his head. “Thank you Juan.” He turned and let the blanket of his doorway fall closed. He dropped the leaf parchment on his sleeping pallet before collecting a brimmed cap to keep the hot sun at bay. He headed for the doorway once again and stole a last look at the scroll before leaving his hovel. Telmect had just started collecting the sunlight of the day and the dawn shadows were long through the jungle forest. Some of the native children ran along the outskirts of the garrison where the Spanish soldiers, under the command of the conquistador Javier Delroso, had rooted their barracks. Father Miguel smiled watching them play. The children were of the families that had already accepted the doctrine of the church and thus were free to run about. He looked toward the village center, where the chief of the Telmect Tectan sat. The old man was still stoic in his savage beliefs. It was a life passion for Father Castillon to convert the stubborn old native before he died. Thus far, the religious battle was for naught. The Spanish barracks was over shadowed by only one other building in the area of Telmect, the church. A large structure, the church housed offices for Father Castillon and Father Miguel, as well as provided a service area for several brothers in faith and converts from the native population. Father Miguel nodded to the soldiers, who stood their posts in a relaxed manner. He was impartial to the men, as they simply cast aside the Tectan as savages and nothing more. Though, Father Miguel admired the engrossing culture and architecture of these peoples. It saddened him to know aspects of the culture were being destroyed, yet it was for the good of these people. “Good morning Father?” a gruff voice called out. Father Miguel turned to find Captain Delroso walking his way. The man wore his twin pistola at all times, and the signature Spanish espada hung low on his right hip. Delroso’s features where clean; the sliver of a mustache and beard, black in color, was well trimmed. He smiled as a predator at the Father. “Did you find your errand boy, he babbled something to me this morning, but I simply didn’t understand his devil’s tongue. You must work with the boy to learn his Latin.” “Yes of course,” Father Miguel agreed. It was better not to argue with the Captain as the man was always set in his own ways. “Juan came to see me. He was excited over an item he’d found.” “Truly.” The Captain was unimpressed. A boy ran up to Father Miguel and handed him a freshly halved papaya, which the Father accepted and gave the child a blessing. The dark, red nectar of the papaya coated Father Miguel’s fingers as he took a few into his mouth. “Is that all you have for me Captain, you seem to have something on your mind.” “Yes Father,” Delroso looked worried for a moment, “I believe those powerful cats have moved into this region. My men have reported seeing a jaguar, though dark in color. They say possibly black, but it was twilight when the beast showed itself.” Delroso looked at the Father, “Stay away from the forest edge until we can find this devil-kin.” Both men stopped to face each other for a moment. Father Miguel nodded agreement, “Agreed, but the work of the church will not stop because of one cat, Captain.” “It may not Father, but the cat could send a faithful follower of the church to an early grave.” added Captain Delroso. Father Miguel smiled, “Yes indeed, and noted. I will await your word before any further trips to the ruins.” The ruins in question were the pyramids, and the hills they inhabit, dubbed Xilchen Itza. They were great structures, built under the shadow of Mount Xtotomono, and the Spanish marveled at their wonder. It was even rumored about a plan to bring them before the throne in Madrid. Yet, all attempts proved futile as they were just too large, and only depictions and artifacts were taken back to Spain in their stead. Since Father Miguel’s original plan of action for the day had been ruined by natural causes, he stopped in to see the women of the local Telmect peoples and had some more fruit for breakfast. After breakfast he returned to his hovel. He found the ancient leaf-scroll awaiting him. The Father lifted the scroll from his sleeping pallet and, following a brief moment where he stared at the sinew bindings, he unraveled the tie and let it roll open on the floor of his hovel. He was at first struck by a sense of bewilderment that the scroll was not written in the hieroglyphs of the Tectan peoples. His mind struggled to grasp the meaning when he placed the first of the words, then the first sentence took hold in his mind. He shook his head and looked at the scroll with renewed vision. The scroll was written in an ancient language, that much was true, but it was not anything from the New World. “Latin?” he exclaimed in an unbelieving whisper. He examined the first sentence again, ‘These are the writings of Julius Gaius, of Rome.’ Father Miguel looked up from the scroll and the notion of the ancient city played through his mind. He had been there when he was a youth. Why would a record be here, in the New World? In Latin? ‘My name is Julius Gaius, I was born a slave in the lands of the Egypt and traded to the Roman Empire in betrothal of the Roman Senator Antony Census Gaius. I had been made free upon my own battle prowess, and adopted into the family of Gaius attaining the position of centurion as a marine for the Empire. ‘My first battle was the victory over Carthage. ‘The anger of the sea god had afflicted my fleet ten days past. Our numbers are now only ten triremes of the three hundred our Emperor had met the Carthaginians with at sea. I have taken command of the ten triremes that had survived Neptune’s rage. Thus far the men support me. However, the days in which we have been met with an endless sea has caused my word to be against that of Neptune‘s will. Some of the marines had found this a bad omen.’ Father Miguel looked up from the scroll noting a sinew binding too weak to hold the leaf together. Roman’s, how did they make a sea journey this far? No one before us could have done that. Could they have…it was a mad thought. Carefully he spread open the remainder of the scroll to continue reading. ‘A second mutiny has been defeated by my marines yesterday. I have seen to it that they are not to question my authority. Our number has now been reduced to only a single trireme. The mutiny before this had seen six of our own ships strike battle in panic against the remaining four loyal to my name. All six triremes fell to the sea. Neptune has indeed touched the madness of these men.’ It appears the ink has been changed, as well as the quill Gaius had used in his earlier writing. How many days had passed from the first writings to these new ones; days or weeks. ‘My lookouts have seen birds. We only have a few remaining old mariners aboard. They speak of the sea birds and how they are both the harbingers of the sisters fortune and despair. Which one will be our future is in the hands of the Fates as I write these logs.’ Father Miguel was startled by the heavy rains as they began to noisily pelt the outside of his hovel. He rose and looked out the makeshift window recalling again how he needed to fashion a set of shutters. He had learned a long time ago not to have valued materials, the good book included, near the window as the possibility of getting saturated ran high. He collected a short, wooden cup from beside his sleeping pallet and set it out to collect rainwater. As he did a streak of lightning shattered the dull gray of the sky. It had struck nearby, but Miguel could see no visible trace of the damage. Spreading the scroll out once again he searched for the spot where he had been interrupted. ‘I do not know when my ships reached land. I only know the excitement of my marines upon setting foot on solid ground. Our number had been reduced to not barely enough to moor our trireme, which had been named Morta, after the Parcae who controlled the manner of a mans death. This place is unlike any other land I had ever seen. The foliage is foreign to me. I have seen some animals similar to those of Egypt, the men have told me of snakes also in the region. However, none bear the markings similar to those I have seen through either the Empire, Egypt, Greece, Thrace, or Macedonia. I have never been to the Etruscan lands. Could that terrible storm had sent us across the sea. I shall soon have this answered for me, for the next day we encountered the barbarians of this region. They were not the Etruscans. ‘She calls herself, Embutu, and she says that she is the daughter of the clan chieftain. She is quite captivating. The brown skinned, dark-eyed woman came to us alone and she kept calling us messengers. From what we understand, my fellow Roman’s and I are to visit Embutu’s village soon. ‘Xilchen Itza is no mere village. The stone pyramids of their temple would rival the temples of Egypt. The carved pillars and golden-arched palace structures area equal to the great monuments of Rome.’ Father Miguel stared at the word that taken him by surprise. The very ruins he was drawn to were mentioned in this ancient parchment. The Roman’s had certainly been here! Miguel jumped up from where he had taken a seat on his sleeping pallet, too anxious to sit. He grabbed the now overflowing cup of water from the sill. Taking a swallow he sat back down and noticed the scroll’s writing was nearly complete. He wondered if their was another scroll…more information, he needed more. This was too startling of a revelation to ignore easily. He read on, ‘Embutu’s father is a mountain of a man. He stands nearly two heads taller than I. His grip is like the hard, as the skull of a bull. His name is Otan. Otan’s soldiers outnumber mine fifty to one. I have cautioned my men before not to make enemies, as we know not where we are headed, yet remain vigilant. My senior soldiers warn me that my soldiers will not bow down easily. However, the large force that had been revealed to us assures me mine was the correct strategy. ‘Otan introduces me to his senate, he calls them his council. To them, Otan refers to me as his son. This confuses me. One man introduced to me by Otan is called Gattomono. Gattomono looks upon me with dead eyes. ‘Several rises of the moon have passed. Embutu has visited me on several occasions and we have grown close. The days when I write of this are no different. I find my affections for her are growing and I look forward to her arrival once more in the beachside village my marines have constructed. We call our home, Nova Alexandria. ‘I have not returned to the mighty pyramids of Xilchen Itza since the last time I wrote of it. Embutu is our only contact with the tribe, who call their people the Tolmect.‘ Father Miguel noted the similarity to the Telmect peoples they reside with currently. ‘A strange sickness has come over a few of my marines and they have disappeared. This is very troubling and I am asked by my soldiers to bring the mysterious event to Embutu’s notice. She may have knowledge of this sickness. Yet, she does not provide any knowledge of it and I have nothing to warn my soldiers of. I fear, in secret, that this sickness has something to do with the Tolmect. ‘I had been alerted in the early morning to screams from my men. A large cat, named Jaguar according to the Tolmect, has been seen. With the sickness leading my men off into the darkness and this large cat amid the forest, it is no wonder I have not seen my marines again when they walk-off in madness. I petition my marine veterans to lead hunting parties after the cat. We should have an answer quickly. ‘Embutu came to me late in the night. She cast a spell upon me, ceasing my speech as she spoke. Otan has expressed displeasure in my fellow Roman’s and I. She says to me what I have never heard before. That her people had fled here from across the sea, when the conquering armies of the Pharaoh, Unktehpt, were entering the lands of Egypt from the south. Otan, name of the chief, took their number upon the Tolmect’s ancestral ships, that flew among the heavens, and found this land of purity; untouched by the hands of the Pharaoh. Her father, then built Xilchen Itza. She said to me that now that I am aware of her people, we Roman’s can never remain alive to tell of them. Embutu warned, if we were here, and in their paradise; then others would follow. Thus, I am writing this. To remember Julius Gaius and know the Tolmect. Father Miguel pondered a few moments, “Ships, flew through the air?” He looked about and up. The thatch roof of his hovel was strong and well constructed, and did not leak. He smiled and shook his head, nonsense. ‘It has finally come. My marines have all been killed in the night. I, only I remain. I, Roman. ‘Embutu has come to warn me of Gattomono’s arrival. I ready my belongings and sword to make for the mountains farther inland. To fight Gattomono would be my end and perhaps the end of Embutu for telling me of the treachery. I flee as the with the sunlight, yet my beloved Embutu warns that Gattomono does not tire easily of this chase. ‘From atop a mountain named Olocotk, I make my stand against Gattomono. Embuttu warns me that this is not a mountain, but a ziggurat to navigate air ships by. Embutu has fallen ill yet her sickness is unknown to me. She says she has been cursed and forsaken by Otan. She is dieing. I stay beside her until Gattomono arrives. Only one of us will leave Olocotk. Five nights pass and nothing happens; the forest spreads around as far as I can see and is silent. I stood by in my dreams as Embuttu walked off of the edge of Olocotk, falling away. Yet, she lays before my waking eyes. She passes on to the afterlife and the realm of Elysium, as Gattomono arrived in my mountain tomb. He is alone and without escort. ‘Remember me for I am Julius Gaius of Rome.’ The writing on the scroll ends there; Father Miguel turns the scroll over to find nothing but the back of the pale brown of the leaf it had been written on. The rains had stopped just as sudden as they had started yet the Father couldn’t tell when that was. He carefully rolls the scroll up in his hands and ties it shut with a small strand of rope. He ponders the scroll. This was no item relating the culture of these people, it told of a new race of witchery and mystery, of blasphemy. So many questions. Was this true? How is it that the scroll is written in Latin? Is there more evidence of the Roman’s who lived here? So much to search for. A rapping sounds on the wall outside Father Miguel’s hovel. He walks out to find the plump figure of Father Castillon leaning slightly forward to peer in on Miguel. He quickly smiles toward the younger clergyman, “Ah, Father Miguel, I just past Juan and he tells me he gave you an old scroll?” Father Miguel was only too eager. He brought it out before Father Castillon, “Yes Father, it’s remarkable!” Father Castillon interrupted, “Yes, well I wanted to review this item myself. Would you mind?” Miguel didn’t hesitate, “Of course not.” He released the scroll to Castillon. Castillon turned to leave heading toward the jungle. Father Miguel added, “You’ll no doubt see reason to deliver that to the church as quickly as possible, Castillon. It’s a monumental discovery.” Castillon turned a hollow gaze back to Miguel. “I agree, it must be a ‘monumental discovery’. We shall speak later of this, Father Miguel.” Father Miguel returned to the confines of his hovel and drank of his fresh, rain water until he emptied the cup. Whipping the blanket-cover aside, Commander Delroso entered stared wide-eyed at Miguel. His espada drawn, ready for action. Shouts from his soldiers were coming from outside. “Commander?” Miguel remarked, not understanding the situation nor the intrusion. “Did you see anything?” Delroso barked. “N-no, Commander?” Father Miguel asked again. Delroso stared long and hard at Miguel, “The native boy, Juan, has been found slaughtered not far from here and there is fresh jaguar track at the door to your hovel!” Exclaimed the Commander. Boot, Chute and Boogie By Vitus[3206 words] The Set-up The church door crashed closed and Salas cringed at the broadcast of his entrance. The saints looked down from their stained glass home catching sun in their condemning eyes to show their disapproval of the intrusion. Even the stale smell of the incense burned last Ash Wednesday seemed to condemn him. In the front of the Catholic Church the priest stood before the altar and cleared his throat causing some feedback in the sound system. A young man in the sound booth next to Salas scrambled to adjust the volume before the robed man in front began the prayer that sent Salas back twenty years. The soundman glared at Salas as if it were his interruption that made the screech in the system, but Salas gave no apology. “We believe,” the priest began, “in one God, the Father, the all mighty, the maker of heaven and Earth of all that is seen and unseen…” The rest of the church began to recite the ancient prayer in unison with practiced cadence. Salas joined in the chant; though the pangs of guilt echoed through his mind for he didn’t truly believe, not anymore. His proclamation of belief was a lie, but to have abstained would have made him both rude and a liar. The shadow-runner could carry the burden of lies, but Salas had no stomach for rudeness. After the mass was finished, Salas sidestepped the line forming at the altar to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. Even his hypocrisy had its limits. He scanned the room with precision letting his slightly tinted glasses touch everyone with its scan. In a small window on the inside of the spectacles he could see the face of the person for which he was looking. The nearly invisible digital camera was taking quick snap shots of everyone that passed, while his commlink’s processor tried to match any of them with the girl pictured in Salas’s virtual display. Neither the computer nor Salas was having any luck. Well, I’ve been stood up before, the `runner thought to himself, but never at church. After the congregation had filed out and even the priest had found his way to the rectory, Salas walked past the long rows of hard pews and rubbed the numb behind he remembered from his youth. He looked up at the grand statue of Jesus on the cross which had scared him terribly as a child, though he had never spoken of it. “It scares me too, sometimes,” a voice called from above. Salas leaned back to see where the voice came from and his display on his glasses began to flash, but he didn’t need it to know this was the woman who had asked him here. She was the one with the problem. He unconsciously pushed his glasses higher on his nose and quietly disengaged his mug-shot processor program. She had a face that was sullied by the implication that it was a mug. No booking department had taken a photo of this porcelain masterpiece, they wouldn’t have dared. She walked slowly down from the choir loft using some narrow stairs that deposited one into the sound booth where the same young man that had glared at Salas was now collecting his things and watching the striking woman with his electronic passkey in his hand waiting for her to join Salas in the entryway. “What makes you think I was afraid,” Salas asked without paying any notice to the soundman, who was quickly sliding his keycard to lock the booth and slithering away with a side-long smirk. “You’re a man of compassion,” she replied, “How could you not be moved by his suffering, even if you don’t believe he is the son of God?” Salas paused watching his would-be client carefully. “I’m a man of compassion with rent to pay who isn’t about to speculate one way or the other about the nature of Christ’s divinity, particularly in a Catholic Church,” Salas looked around at the place. It seemed vast, empty and cold to him. “Let’s just have a cup of soy-caf down the street and discuss your problem. It’s more my custom to meet a perspective client in an office, rather than a house of worship. Not that I’m superstitious, I have just the place for things like finding new clients and negotiating fees without the added flattery and implied requests often given to a ‘man of compassion’.” Salas took his favorite table in the corner that had decorative books on the shelves to make it seem retro. The books needed to be dusted often, but the table was always free and that made it his favorite. The café’s menu popped up on his glasses display and he quickly put in an order for both of them. Before the coffee arrived he turned to his would-be client. “So what makes you come looking for the service of a compassionate man?” She turned her eyes on him deciding to disregard his sarcastic tone. She was poised and seemed a bit out of place in the bohemian atmosphere of the coffee house. The penetrating rhythm of the background music seemed to wash off of her as if she were a still pond and the pop music was only a drop of oil. The noise went around her. She cleared her throat and began to lay out her situation. “Mr. Salas I’ve been informed by trusted parties that you are a man who can get things done and does not ask uncomfortable questions. Further, it is in regard to your discretion that you were of particular interest to me,” she casually lit a cigarette taking a long drag while she looked Salas dead in the eyes, “Someone actually said I could trust you. Is that true, Mr. Salas? Are you a trustworthy man?” In his career as a street hustler, Salas had thought he’d heard every introduction to a job. When one runs in the shadows, there is little room for trust and few would expect such a thing from a hired gun, wheelman or hacker. Salas had done plenty of legal gigs, the kind of thing a private detective would handle. He’d taken incriminating pictures and tailed employees suspected of selling secrets but never had he been asked if he was trustworthy. For a stunned moment he was at a loss to reply. He smiled slowly and looked in to her natural brown eyes, “If you are coming to me, you must have already satisfied yourself on that matter. All this talk of trust, compassion and discretion makes a man wonder about the sensitivity of the matter at hand.” Salas had been watching a latte artist who was wrinkling his nose in disgust as he emerged from a storage room. “It is regarding my most recent ex-husband, Dr. Oglethorpe. He has taken something that is dear to me, and I want it back,” the one-time-Mrs. Oglethorpe glared at the clerk behind the counter who was pantomiming crushing out a cigarette while she took a long, deliberate drag. The Mark Dr. Thaddeus Oglethorpe was a successful man. Though his recent divorce was an unfortunate financial matter, his prominent career at the Doc Wagon Medical Research Laboratories on the Grand River was still rocketing along. His willingness to compromise on ethical issues had served his research team well and thus had pushed his company, Aerosol Nanite Microtech, into a new age. He was winning again and now he tasted the reward. He took off his designer, leather shoes and put his stocking feet on the sill of the window looking down seventeen stories to the Grand River below. He leaned his head back and accessed his secretary’s commlink sending her a message that he shouldn’t be disturbed for an hour. He wanted time to think, and by that, he truly meant to gloat. Dr. Oglethorpe observed the city beneath him. Several stories above the streets, covered walkways connected the great, multi-block buildings of downtown. The climate controlled tubes crisscrossed all through the city landscape. The streets were a drab, gray and dirty backdrop to the cool, blue light of the “gerbil tunnels” that connected all the major buildings of downtown. Between that and the his new helicopter shuttle service that came with his most recent bonus, Dr. Oglethorpe’s rare, leather shoes hadn’t touched the ground within the city limits in six months. He did a big stretch in his oversized chair and glanced over his shoulder to find the crystal bottle of cognac he’d had filled this afternoon when he caught sight of his most recent red badge of courage. As if to remind him of a conquest, there it sat between his executive titled name plate, and a picture of his villa in Venice. The simple, Russian nesting doll did look out of place on his desk. Oglethorpe used the cold, black glass of a desk more to separate himself from anyone obliged to sit across from him than as a genuine work space. He had the two chairs there made a little lower than his to add to the effect. On the wall hung a framed degree, which was a bit old-fashioned, as well as his debate-team plaque, and another degree on a shelf next to a small golf trophy. The Russian nesting doll was painted simply and though it showed some cracks from age, the artistry was still exquisite even after more than 120 years. The woman’s hair was hidden beneath the painted red hood that was faded in some places. The shading was done with a delicate wood burning process, and tiniest details were meticulously painted down to the peasant woman’s delicate fingers that were laced piously in front of her. Her eyes were cast down at the glass desk of Dr. Oglethorpe, who knew the doll fit in perfectly with the décor. It was, after all, a token of conquest just like all of the other trophies in the room. The Job Salas walked casually into the tall office building in the medical center in downtown Grand Rapids. He had acquired a low level ID badge through some older connections and had a friend hack into the work schedule to give further legitimacy to his fraud. He wore the work-clothes of a maintenance man and had picked up a tool-belt at the swap-meet in the barrio. He knew that his badge made him only a temporary technician. He had security clearance for exactly nothing, and the radio frequency identification chip in his badge would only get him in the door. Secure areas would no doubt pick up the signal and react to his pathetic security clearance with bells and whistles. His client’s object of desire was an antique matroyshka doll that was hand crafted and given to her by her mother. The divorce had not gone well, apparently and though Mrs. Oglethorpe had been willing to part with almost anything else, the gift from her mother, who had since passed, was something she would not give up. Salas was a bit stunned at the notion of being paid so well for a snatch-and-grab run. The client had explained that Oglethorpe had felt shafted by her lawyer, which was ironic as the grounds for the divorce was Mr. Oglethorpe’s infidelity. This begged the question, who was the shaft-er and who the shaft-ee? Regardless of the vindictive circumstance of the event, Salas found himself casing the Aerosol Nanite Microtech Headquarters and calling in a few favors to get into Mr. Oglethorpe’s corner office. Though it had the look of an office building, security in the building was as tight as any research facility. It took Salas an entire week of talking to various connections on the street to allow him the access with a key-card and a good excuse to be there. During his general investigation of the building, he had heard of an eco-terrorist plot to make a grandiose scene aimed at bringing to light whatever horrible research they were doing. Salas knew that if the scene was a large enough diversion, he might slip up to the executive floor unnoticed. The Problem That Oglethorpe was in the building Salas was certain, he'd spied his helicopter that morning. He made his approach on the day that the eco-terrorists were supposed to strike, and he had skulked about enough to find out what needed to be done to get to the seventeenth floor. The executive suites could only be accessed by the executive elevator bank that was under close scrutiny by the building’s security. Salas had arranged for his badge number to be cleared for work that day, and it was a small thing to slip into the building, but quite another to hang around waiting for the show to begin. To let him linger, he changed his technician garb for some cover-alls he pinched from a janitor's closet. He cleaned the bathroom near the executive elevators with a mop and bucket for over an hour before he had to invent some other job that would keep him near the elevators, but not something that would attract the attention of the rent-a-cops and the other staff. After all, he wasn’t Ed Heady, the name on his badge, and he wasn’t sure that Ed ever worked in this part of the building either. Anything could look suspect if given any close examination, so Salas had to avoid that at all costs. He was checking the garbage can liners for the third time in so many hours when fate intervened. He tried to be casually on his way and act as if he didn’t notice the security guard approaching him, but he couldn’t avoid him entirely without looking suspect. Salas did his best acting to look calm and even a little bored when the man approached him. The guard wore the authoritarian expressions most cops take as he walked to Salas and demanded to know what he thought he was doing. Salas quietly explained he was just cleaning up as he reached for the concealed stun-gun in his over-alls. The guard sneered and said he ought to do a better job, there was a real mess in their bathroom. With a thankful nod Salas headed that way. Salas slipped into the bathroom and found that there indeed was a mess. There was a dress that was torn and crumpled on the floor behind the commode in one of the stalls. Salas knew that the dress wasn’t there an hour ago. He examined it more closely and found it was large enough to be fit for a floral patterned tent. I also found a pair of new, silk socks from the Morrisey Elan Collection. What was a large woman taking her clothes off in the men’s bathroom for, and why would she leave a pair of $100 socks? The realization came in a flash. The eco-terrorists were in the building and were guilty of poor fashion sense! He brought the dress and socks out to his environmental services, drone-cart and stashed them in the garbage while watching the guards at the elevator down the hall. Two had left and the other two were in a heated conversation about something happening on the upper levels. They were debating whether to go to the control room or stay at their posts. One guard obviously wanted nothing to do with the action, while the other was hot to try his new taser. They had obviously had words before and the lazy one was getting the brunt of the argument. Salas eased his cart up to the two of them, and picking up the name of the lazy one said, “Leon, you’ve got to let me up to the 17th floor. They say they’ve got some bad mess up there that I’ve got to get cleaned up right away.” The two looked at him as if the request was made by a degenerate chip-head. “You don’t have authorization to…” Leon’s adversary began. Leon countered with smug authority, “I’ll take him up.” Crap, Salas thought, how do I get this guy’s eyes off of me? On the way up the muzac played and the two tried not to make eye contact on the way up. Suddenly, Leon put his hand to his ear and looked nervously at Salas. It was plain that he was getting instructions from his ear-bud as he nodded his head and mumbled, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I’m on my way right now, sir.” Then he turned to Salas, “I’ve got to let you off on the 17th and then go on up to the roof. I’ve got to shut down the elevators for a minute, too, but you’ll be busy anyway, right?” Salas hoped the guard didn’t notice his flushed face or his hand steadily creeping for his stun-gun, but Leon was watching the floors light up on the elevator wall with intensity. He didn’t consider at all that Salas was anything but a janitor. I whoosh of relief blasted Salas in the face as he pushed his cart out into the hall and he saw Oglethorpe’s suit number down the carpeted hall about 20 yards. The door was open and about half a dozen men in suits were hurrying down the hall away from Salas of whom they took no note. They were bustling down to the stairs to escape to the private helipads on top of the building. There were four in all. Salas supposed a couple of them would have to share their luxury ride. Leaving the cart, Salas slipped down to the good doctor’s suite where the door was now shut and locked. A simple keypad was in his way, but the jam on the door wasn’t very snug. Salas took a small, plastic scraping tool that he’d found in the janitor cart, and used it to pop the lock as easily as it would remove gum from beneath the cafeteria tables. An alarm sounded when the door opened, but amid the alert and the emergency lights flashing from the hall, Salas saw the Russian doll within a doll resting quietly on the desk of Dr. Oglethorpe. Salas found himself sprinting for the stairs that the executives had taken, hoping that the alert he triggered would be confused with whatever was happening on the upper floors. He heard the blades of helicopters beating the air and as he turned the top landing before the door to the pads, he saw destruction and salvation all at once. The security guards from the elevator below were surrounding a man wearing women’s makeup and no socks. On the floor beside them was a parachute packed and prepared for a jump with the guide chute in neat order next to it. The guards turned their attention from the cuffed man on the floor to Salas, a la janitor. They looked stunned, and in that pregnant instant, Salas knew what to do. He burst past them in mad dash, grabbing the base-jumper’s pack as he went. The cross-dressing terrorist began to yell, kick and scream making enough of a distraction for Salas to throw the `chute on. In moments he was floating through the tall buildings of downtown and aiming for a park with a shallow pound that waited like a blue catcher’s mitt. The parachute above him read, “Sic Semper Tyrannis!”
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; Jan 2nd, 2012 at 12:54 AM. |
#25
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December 2011 Competition Entries Topic - Holiday in the Trenches/Battlefield Winner - 12-24-40 by The Jaded Short Story by Thaenor [1,968 Words] It was a dark night and no star was seen shinning in the sky. The moon was high and the townsfolk’s seemed to be asleep, except for an inn where men were drinking, talking and listening to the beautiful tunes of Elyst, the local bard. The crowd applauded as he finished his last song about the love and betrayal of Rosemira, a princess of ancient times. OYH sings a song of war! - shouted a drunken man to the bard. A song of war is it? - replied Elyst confidently - well I'll shall sing you a song that will make your blood boil, for this song is sang to warriors, to inspire them before they jump into combat. - The crowd bursted with cheers, glasses of mead and wine tilted as the drinkers were happy with the bard's words. Playing a few chords from his lute Elyst began to sing. There was once an army More powerful than any party Of the greatest heroes Such devastating forces Were powered by massive horses That gave him more than strength. ... There was magic in the bard’s lute, and a vision formed before everyone's eyes, showing want the bard was singing about. "TO ARMS!" shouted a bearded large man. There was a hill not far away from a large city, surrounded by enormous walls. Inside there were white houses and large statue of a warrior in a fountain in the center of the city, not far away from it there was a white castle with a huge marble tower that pointed to the sky. The castle doors were closed and everyone was ready for a war. Outside, many warriors charged, quickly covering the small distance between them and the walls of the castle. Looking to the sky, dragons approached through the air, dragons of many different species, sizes and colors. Aryamis, a beautiful white haired elf, lead a group of archers who were stationed all over the walls with readied arrows, ready to pierce the hearts of the incoming soldiers and dragons. The castle's forces were not outnumbered and much less scared by the attack, they too had dragons and many soldiers prepared to defend the incoming attack. The large bearded man was Talmanjar, leader of the ground forces from the castle, Buttershade, was its name. The battle erupted harsh and ferocious. Dragons fought each other in the skies, while their riders, either with pikes or arrows or even magic, fought fiercely. Down in the ground, Aryamis and the rest of the archers poured burning oil on the incoming soldiers and pierced with arrows. The more persistent ones managed to climb up ladders they had placed themselves and managed to kill some the archers filling their swords and the ground with blood. Aryamis had just released an arrow when she was surprised to see an enemy soldier lift his sword high, she had quick reactions but even those could not save from the already descending sword. For her surprise the soldier was then hit with a fireball that sent him flying outside of the walls. Aryamis looked up from where the fireball came and saw a large blue dragon with an elf with long brown hair and leather armor. Faltora was that young elven mage, overseeing the battle in the skies, which was no less peaceful than the one on the ground. Dragons managed to grab one another in an attempt to bite each other’s throats and ended falling towards the ground, some managed to release before they hit the ground, but others... crashed violently either outside the walls killing many soldiers or inside where they destroyed houses and sent debris blocking the now crowded streets. Why were they fighting you ask? Old grudges mostly, and the fact that Buttershade, was adapting and welcoming elves, orcs, dwarves, not only inside their walls but to some politic charges. They were no less fit that any other man, but the other kingdoms did not see it that way. They had to "purge" that city. Aryamis took her time for those thoughts and a few more, now that the blue dragon assisted the defense of the archers. She thought of the days before the war where she was willing to do anything to avoid the bloody match. She had visited an ancient shrine and wish the old gods to prevent the conflict, but she felt ignored by the mythological beings. On her way back she spotted an old man, living in a tree house. The sigh was unusual for that forest that protected the ancient shrines wasn’t exactly the place one would choose to live. The old man seemed strange, nearly bald, extremely thin, planting flowers that Aryamis didn’t recognize and whispering some strange words of a forgotten dialect. The old man noticed the elf and quickly invited her to have some tea, as visitors were rare in such a place. Aryamis walked in and told him about the war and what she was doing there. Surprisingly the man said: Oh yes… I see. The roots must watch over the leaves of its branches. Aryamis was confused with the old man’s words, but dared not ask for an explanation. There is a price you must pay thought? I can give you these scrolls, they will assist you in the battle that awaits you. What will these do? – asked the elf, she could not make heads or tails of the ancient runes in the scrolls. – Where did you find these? – the old man seemed bored with the questions and Aryamis felt she was disrespecting him, with the right words she thanked the man and bid him farewell on his journey, the old man did the same. Hey! Wake up! – shouted Faltora. Aryamis snapped out and saw an enemy soldier climb a ladder right in front of her. She wasted little time, releasing her arrow and hitting the man’s eye. He fell on his back, breaking the ladder in his fall. Pulling her thoughts back together the elf removes the scrolls from her pouch, they were 5 in total. Trying to read was worthless, those ancient runes belonged to a forgotten language, she could only recall the word “fire”. Reaching to her inner magic she allowed the arcane energies to flow through the scroll, making the runes glitter and shine, she became enveloped by a fiery shield, and arrow pointed at her nearly hit her in the chest, but the shield burned the arrow before it could hit her. Well… so much for summoning an elemental or something usefully…this would, however, be more useful on the ground – thought Aryamis. The very ground trembled all of a sudden as the main gates to the city fell, allowing the enemy forces to charge in. Talmanjar was amongst the front forces and dealt with many enemies at the same time. Shouting his name, Aryamis tossed him another scroll and he too became enveloped by flames, burning the enemies around him and even some of his own soldiers that fought close to the general. The elf did not waste time blaming herself for the accidentally lost men or if the general understood what had to be done. Swords clashed behind Aryamis, turning around she saw Faltora battle a group of soldiers that, unlike the rest, were covered with a black hood and hide leather armor, they were equipped with sharp short swords and concealed knives and had already left a collection of dead archer bodies behind them. Protected by her shield she jumped over the first few assassins and began fighting the ones that were just arriving, hoping her fiery shield would burn the ones behind her. The battle that unfolded was hard to describe, all she could hear were sounds of clashing blades, despite the background was filled with a cacophony of clashing swords, raged and dying screams of many soldiers and dragons. Aryamis sword had just killed one of the assassins and the she saw another dagger approach the fiery wall that surrounded her. For her great surprise the wall didn’t restrain the dagger and it keep moving and buried itself in her flesh, she felt the cold metal more than the pain itself and a large flash made everything white. The elf lost track of time and space, it could have been months, years or maybe just seconds… she forgot where she was… until a hand grabbed her arm and her eyes cleared out. She was still in the wall, but the ground now wasn’t grey as it used to be, there was a large black mark around Aryamis and soldiers around her, both friendly and enemies appeared to have all been burned. Faltora’s hand was the one that grabbed her and she was now standing, watching the destruction that took place on the upper side of the wall. What…. – she didn’t have time to finish her question for Faltora was already starting to speak. But she could not hear him. Aryamis noticed the fires were now gone, and realized that they did in fact explode. Another explosion occurred, somewhere bellow, her thoughts flashed and she cursed the moment she threw the scroll to Talmanjar. The ground beneath her feet crumbled and they fell, hitting the ground and then nearly being buried alive by the debris. During the fall both elves were grabbed by the dragon that took them to the skies and gave Aryamis a new view over the battle. The line of enemy soldier prolonged and she saw, far away from the castle, men sitting on top of horses that looked very unusual. The horses were incrusted with jewels and were dark purple; they seemed to emanate a strange energy. Enemy soldier hurt and crippled during the battle approached and touched the horses, becoming renewed and willing to fight again. Aryamis had an idea, she had very little time to set it in motion and she knew it was likely to kill her and maybe even the dragon and Faltora, but there were little choices left and little time to ponder on a successful plan. She whispered Faltora her thoughts and the elf agreed, as well as the dragon. They used two of the scrolls again, 2 fiery balls formed in the sky, startling many dragons flying by and burning the blue’s back a little. With a quick descent the large blue dropped Aryamis and Faltora as close as he could to the strange looking horses and flew back. The elves quickly killed as many soldiers as they could, although some jumped towards the horses and recuperated from any damage they had suffered. They were overwhelmed and running out of time, when the blue came back, holding a large caldron dropped all of its content over the elves. The liquid engulfed the flames and started burning itself, incinerating the soldiers and some of the purple horses. Aryamis shivered as a drop of the fiery liquid hit her in the shoulder and she realized the defenses were fading and the shield would soon explode. She had only time to want Faltora and jump towards one of the horses, holding it by the neck. Everything exploded and shortly after that another explosion knocked the two elves unconscious… or dead, it was for Aryamis to tell the difference. The elves woke up moments later and both horses and man were burned to a crisp The soldiers who were still fighting quickly fell, and the rest ran for hills with fear. And so Buttershade won its title of the burning city. – said the bard, finishing his tale. The crow was amused and glasses tilted again. For the victory made so many years ago was still sang and celebrated with the same energy has it was in the day. The End.
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; Feb 1st, 2012 at 01:15 AM. |
#26
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January 2012 Competition Entries Topic - Hardboiled Noire Winner - Cigarettes and Lipstick by Klazzform Working Vacation By Vitus[3,300 Words] January 30, 2012 I was in a bar called The Radio and munching on the celery from my Bloody Mary. Gino had been excited when he called me. He knew my work as a freelance investigator left me open to take unscheduled breaks from time to time, and he had some windfall in Florida he wanted to talk to me about. Why he’d thought of me to go with him, I had no idea. I hadn’t spoken with the man in a couple of years; I hadn’t considered him as one of my crew for a good while. The afternoon sun exploded into the dim light of The Radio after I’d just ordered a second drink and there was my old school chum framed in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder to the street behind him for a second before quickly closing the door and walking toward me. “Hey, Salas,” he said, “Wow, long time no see. “ He shook my hand, got a drink, then settled into his barstool and thanked me for meeting him. I assured him it was nothing at all, and asked about this vacation. “It’s great! You remember my Uncle Chic, right?” I told him I didn’t and reminded him that we hadn’t talked in a long time. He smiled nervously at that, and apologized for not keeping in touch. I didn’t think that was necessary, really. I hadn’t called him either, but he was brimming with enthusiasm and talking as if we’d been raiding sorority parties together just last week, rather than a decade before. It was soon evident that his Uncle Chic, whom I’d apparently met sometime during our Salad Years, had died and left his small piece of Florida beach property to his favorite nephew and Godson, Gino. The favored nephew wanted me to join him in a trip to have a look at the place and get an idea of what it was worth. Further, he assured me that Fort Walton was a happening, resort town so thick with bars, beaches, and bikinis you couldn’t swing a stick without hitting one of them. “You used to work construction, right,” he said more as a statement than a question. I still nodded my acknowledgement and added that I’d only done it to get through school. I was a P.I. now, took a lot of dirty pictures of spouses cheating on each other and hadn’t swung a hammer to pay the rent in many moons. He brushed off my professed ineptitude as nonsense, “You’re the smartest guy I know, and I never knew a laborer that got his building license except for you.” “I let my license expire six years ago,” I said and finished my drink. “But it’s not like you forgot what a sagging roof looks like. Damn it, man, I’m asking you to come spend a week with me in paradise and you’re draggin’ your feet? What gives? Where’s the old party monkey I used to hang around with, eh? While I was doing keg stands, you were getting girls all teary-eyed, playing Hotel California on your guitar! Are you telling me you don’t NEED a vacation? This is America, Salas, we ALL need a vacation,” he was smiling at me now with the eyes of a salesman reeling in the rube. His argument was too compelling to ignore. My last job was a weird one and a little too high profile for my liking. I was figuring it might not be such a bad idea to get out of town for a few days, but something still hung in the air that I was missing. Were I the investigator I’d like to be, my sneaking suspicion would have prompted me to ask some more questions of my old friend. Visions of sunny beaches and pretty girls in cigarette boats, however, somehow clouded my judgment and I agreed to meet him the next day. Gino got a job in sales, after we’d left college. I’d lost track of him mostly because of all the travelling he’d done over the years. I’d heard he’d been in Vegas and New York through friends of friends, so I wasn’t surprised that I was picking him up at a hotel outside of town, near the airport. The trip was a solid eleven hours of driving and I was going to suggest taking a plane, but with the short notice, it would have been difficult. I was also guessing Gino wasn’t going to foot the bill for my plane ticket, so I’d kept mum. I was pulling my small bag out of the trunk of my little, sporty car and wondered if I was being overly cautious by taking my piece with me when Gino burst out of one of the hotel room doors. He was mashing a hat on his head and carrying a coat in his hand which he quickly tossed in my trunk and followed it with my own bag saying, “Let me help you with that, man.” I was still staring at him when he closed the trunk, and quickly slipped into my passenger seat insisting, “Let’s hit the road! I can’t wait to see the new place.” “So I’ll be driving, then,” I asked with a sarcastic sort of innocence. My old pal only shrugged and mumbled something about his car being in the shop. I climbed in and continued in the same tone, “I’m afraid what I’ve got in the gas tank may not get us to Florida.” Gino reached in his pocket and produced and enormous roll of cash and gave me his best salesmen smile, “You don’t have to worry about gas money, amigo. I got you covered.” The first few hours of the ride were spent rehashing old college exploits. All the best stories were told and we talked about friends that had come and gone. We went through all the old war stories twice and finally fell into a steady silence of distance riding. We were long into Alabama before I broke down and downloaded a book to listen to. All the while I noticed Gino had a thing for the mirrors in my car. First, the one on the sun-visor needed inspection, then something was in his eye and he needed my rear-view on the windshield. Finally, when he let the wind blast through the little car to reach out and adjust the passenger side-mirror, I had to say something. I turned to Gino to tell him to quit looking at himself in the mirror so much, he’d be liable to break one, but never said a thing. Gino was pale and shaking with his hand still holding the side-mirror, he wasn’t aware of me for the moment. He was whispering an expletive under his breath and his eyes were fixed on the mirror. I looked in my own mirror thinking something massive and horrible was coming our way. I only saw the cars and trucks on the highway, as ever was behind so far. “Huh,” I noticed quietly, taking another glance in the side mirror, “that little, black SUV has been with us since Indiana.” Gino’s eyes were still fixed on the mirror, but I could see the wheels turn quickly in my friend’s head. He paused for a moment, like he was about to give a pitch, and then he said, “Loose him, Salas. Like you used to do in that muscle car you had and lost the cops that night, you remember.” How could I forget? He’d told that one three times only hours ago. I knew why the cop was following me back then. I didn’t know why this guy was following me now, but I was willing to bet a glance to my right would have filled in the blank. My little roadster isn’t the eight fearsome cylinders of my Detroit muscle car that I demolished back-in-the-day, but it was as nimble as a ballerina and about as heavy as a touring bike. I let my tail creep up closer to me while I called up my navigation program on the dash. I found what I was looking for and began to increase my speed again. Once over a rise in the divided highway, I laid the gas pedal down, so that when he caught sight of me again, he’d have to go faster still to catch me. I was sailing along in the far, left lane when I saw my off-ramp appear from around a long, gentle curve ahead. There was all kinds of traffic on the road, and I knew I’d have to be careful when I made my move, but I was betting my tail wouldn’t be ready when I lunged for the exit across two lanes of traffic at speed. My little two-seater broke right and nearly gave an elderly man a heart attack for staying in my blind-spot for the past twenty minutes. The tractor-trailer next to him was a larger concern for me, seeing as how were we to be flattened under his massive tires, I’m not sure the driver would notice right away. We might be dragged along for miles. The truck-driver blew his horn to protest my ridiculously aggressive driving. I was putting lives at risk, but from the sweat trickling down my old chum’s neck, and the fact that he was un-phased by my driving and still was locked on the mirror, I could guess that at least one life was at risk before we’d ever left home. He was searching for his pursuer that I came to realize we now shared. The SUV was, in fact, our pursuer, but not for long. My roadster obeyed my direction without hesitation. She slipped across the two lanes as a dancer in Swan Lake. Holding close to the road, she kicked up the gravel of the off-ramp shoulder in disdain of the others on the highway. They were beneath her. In truth, my heart about came out of my chest when an iron stake with a reflector on top looked as though it would take Gino’s, white-knuckled hand off that still gripped the side-mirror. I swallowed my horror as we sailed up the off-ramp with the accompaniment of the sound of screeching tires behind us that faded ever so quickly. Our troubles weren’t over, the off-ramp was a popular one, and I was fishtailing in an elegant sort of way toward a nearly stopped, station wagon. I was trying to straighten the roadster out, but her orientation, though not a legal direction, per se, was a direction clear of cars. I straightened the wheel instead, and gave her more throttle, which took us straight into a busy four-lane street that was divided in the middle by what looked like a gently dipping median. Still ignoring signals, signs, and painted lines on the road, we streaked across the lanes and hit the dip at alarming speed. In that moment, time crawled. I felt as though all the tires had left the ground, and a sickening scraping noise from beneath my comfortable seat had announced a new noise to be made by my little dancer for the duration of my working vacation. She had a growl now to match my mood as I pulled my angry, hurt car into wooded, dirt drive that hid us behind a junkyard of rusted cars, and corroded memories. I didn’t talk to Gino as I popped the trunk and opened my bag to find my piece. I removed it from the box and glanced around again to make sure there wasn’t a wondering sheriff who was curious about the auto-acrobatics of late. I saw Gino’s coat and grabbed it intending to throw it on the ground and leave him in…wherever we were in Alabama. It was heavy with weight in the pocket and I now counted the number of handguns to have been in my trunk to be two. A number I would have answered incorrectly to an officer of the law had I been asked to explain my little escapade. I was enraged enough to consider putting a bullet in Gino with his own gun, but the salesman was gone now. His face was curled up in brutal desperation. He literally held one hand in the other and begged me to take him as a client. He dropped the knot of money from his pocket on the ground in front of me, to which I reacted only slightly less violently than if it had been a live grenade. “Get serious. That money is probably out of the pocket of our SUV-driving friend back there. I can only imagine why he’s chasing you, but I would start with that cash. I don’t know what you’re into Gino, but you’d better come clean now,” I folded my arms and waited. Out it came, big deals and bad habits. Gino got a taste of the cash and was in the Vegas jet set for a minute. Sure enough he was in over his head. He needed a lot of money fast and this deal with his uncle was a god-send. He had to arrange a transaction in Florida in a hurry, though. The sorts of people to whom he owed money, were not the sorts that were patient about paperwork, escrow accounts and title insurance. Once he sold the property, he’d have what he needed to pay them off. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. Besides, maybe we’d have just driven down, no hassles. I figured if it all happened fast, it really would have been just a vacation for you and me, but here,” he picked up the cash, “Take whatever you need from it. It’s all I’ve got from my last big win in Vegas.” Knowing in my heart I’d regret it, I said, “Keep it, Gino. You’ll need it if this deal goes through.” The properties along the Emerald Highway at Fort Walton Beach ranged from posh, beach mansions, to part time fishing shacks with heavy foliage covering the lots. Uncle Chic, according to Gino, was a man in the garment business, but his modest shop didn’t bring in the sort of money he was spending. Gino explained that he had been “connected.” He wasn’t a wise-guy by any means, but he knew them as was considered an associate. Regardless, Uncle Chic hadn’t been to Florida in years, so he expected the place to be a little run down. “What about the hurricane a few years back,” I asked Gino as we crept along looking for the address. He looked at me confused for a moment and then simply shrugged. There was no telling what we would find. The navigation software had to tell us where the address was, since there wasn’t even a mailbox at the street to be seen. Once in the driveway, the leaves on the ferns and trees grasped at the side of the car which gave its new, throaty rumble to keep them at bay. We inched along the way for a few hundred curvy yards before we saw a smallish beach-house with rotting, wood stairs to welcome us in. There was debris everywhere which, I was quickly calculating, further depreciated the value of the property. “Did you get a key?” I asked. He produced two keys, one of which opened the door, the other we could only guess. I was surprised the door opened so easily but the smell stamped out optimism. I was about to tell Gino it might not be worth as much as he owed after all, when I happened to look out the back window through the grime and the dirt I saw the Gulf of Mexico stretching out to the horizon and swallowed my words. “I’m supposed to meet with some real estate lady today,” Gino said absently beside me while we both looked at the ocean. “So soon,” I asked, but was cut off by the noise of someone walking in the front door behind us. She had on a business suit and boots with low heels. Her hair was cut in a bob like the flappers of the 1920’s and her lips were bright red and cast in a disappointing frown. “Hello, Gino,” her voice was firm, as if Gino should know her but Gino’s face showed nothing but confusion. She then smiled and explained she was the real estate woman who had contacted him after Uncle Chic’s untimely death. She produced a business card, which Gino accepted without looking. There house wasn’t big enough to deserve a tour, but she allowed us to go first up the stairs to the one room above. It looked as though this room was in better shape with less water damage. There was a desk and a chair and a lamp was on the floor. We had our backs to the dame when we cleared the last step but were stopped in the center of the room by the sound of a gun being cocked. “Now open the closet safe, Gino. I know he sent you the key,” she was standing with feet planted two strides from either of us. Her weapon was a .45 with more rounds in the clip than I would care to dodge. Frozen I waited as Gino opened the door to the closet and lifted some of the floorboards up easily. Beneath them was a stout, little safe still sealed and water tight. Gino opened it and heaved out a duffle bag. Gino unzipped the bag as instructed and I saw his bottom lip quiver when he laid his eyes on the money. It was breathtaking. From Gino’s slight struggle to pull the bag out, I’d guess it weighed about forty or fifty pounds and all I saw were hundred dollar bills. After zipping the bag up again, he reluctantly handed the money over. “I guess that bastard Chic has finally made good on the divorce, eh Gino?” she said as she threw the bag over her shoulder with the gun still leveled on us. I could tell Gino was mad with rage, but his ancient, handgun was still in his coat pocket in the front seat of the car. Mine was in the small of my back, but I was no quick-draw artist. She had us dead to rights. While she was backing out I heard another car coming up the drive. Our old pals in the black SUV were crashing through the foliage like a brush hog. Chic’s estranged ex-wife, or so Gino told me under his breath along with a colorful expletive, was making for a motorcycle that was neatly concealed in the overgrowth. Two men jumped from the SUV and made for her. Without hesitating a second, the former Mrs. Chic leveled her gun and dropped the driver whose partner ducked for cover. “Now’s our chance,” Gino cried, and dashed toward the car. What could I do but follow? After a few shots, Chic’s wife was on the bike and bringing it to life with a roar to match that of my roadster Luckily, the SUV wasn’t entirely blocking the driveway, but I was competing with the bike to be first through the narrow gap. I heard the shot, but I wasn’t prepared when a pretty, lady’s business suit slid across my hood to Gino’s side. I came to a halt and felt the impact of the bike in the side of the car. I looked over to see goon number two hit the sand with a red pool beneath him. Gino was grabbing the bag, while I was grabbing his gun and pretending to check for a nearby carwash. “So what’s my cut, Gino?” Cigarettes and Lipstick by Klazzform[1,688 Words] She walked into my office like a cool breeze. The cigarette smoke, clouding the air, swirled around her as if it were alive and desperately wanted to embrace her. I couldn’t blame it for trying. The moment I saw her I knew I was in for trouble. And not the good kind either. No, she was the kind of trouble that men fought and died over, professing their love even as there blood flowed out of their veins and into the cracks on the sidewalk. I sat back in my chair and tried to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest as she approached. “Mr. Benedict?” Her voice was like honey and it tasted good in my ears, but it didn’t do a damn thing to still the traitor in my chest. “I am.” She took a seat in front of my desk, the silk of her dress pressing tight against her thighs as she crossed her legs and pulled a cigarette case from her handbag. When she took out a smoke and pinched it beneath her red lips, I considered a heart attack as a viable option to having to look into her blue eyes. Instead I reached across the desk and lit it for her. She inhaled and her chest heaved. “I’ve got a job for you Mr. Benedict.” Of course she did. All of them had jobs. A dame like that didn’t come looking for a bum like me unless there was a job to be done. “Cheating husband or something gone missing?” I’d been doing this job for a long time and it never failed to be one or the other. My bet was something had gone missing. You’d have to be a fool to cheat on a women with stems like that. She gazed at me through a cloud of smoke. Her eyes were penetrating and I shifted in my chair, attempting to disguise it by lighting my own cigarette. “You think you’ve got it all figured out don’t you?” I stared right back at her, trying desperately to keep my gaze on her eyes. It must have worked because her gaze dropped after a moment and she seemed to slump a little in her chair. “I didn’t mean any offense, Miss…?” She flicked some ash off of her smoke into an ashtray on my desk. Her nails were as red as her lips. “I’d rather keep my name private for the time being if it’s alright with you, Mr. Benedict. It’s not crucial is it?” I shook my head. “Not at all, but it helps to know what to call you.” “The job I have won’t take much of your time.” She looked back up, but focused her eyes on something over my shoulder. “That photograph behind you. I knew the man in it.” I turned and studied the frame hanging on the wall. “You knew Harry?” She nodded and a funny look came over her features. “You were much younger then. How old were you?” The question took my off guard and I had to think for a moment. “Twenty one…twenty two. Can’t say that I remember exactly. It was a long time ago. Right before I started this line of work. Why do you ask?” “Harry was a close friend of my families.“ She glanced away again and took a drag. Her fingers were trembling. “Jesus! Look at me!” She smiled and took a deep breath. “I must look a fool sitting here asking you about old things like that.” I smiled too. Hell, you couldn’t help but smile when a dish like that was showing her pearly whites. “Not at all! It just took me by surprise. You couldn’t have been more then a kid when Harry passed. Didn’t figure on you knowing him.” She nodded, but seemed unable to say anything. Her smile faded slowly and I felt my heart dry up and blow away with it. Once you’ve seen beauty like that, its departure seems to make the world a little darker. “Why don’t you tell me what you came here for?” I said. She nodded and reached down into her handbag. When she pulled out a gun, I can’t say that I was surprised. Like I told you. A dame like that brings trouble in spades. I wasn’t going to let her get the best of me though. I just leaned back in that chair of mine and took a drag off my smoke and said, “I only accept cash.” She smiled, but this time I had a hard time finding any beauty in it. It’s hard to find beauty in anything when its looking over the barrel of a gun. “Good!” She said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be the kind of man who would beg. Not like you made my father beg.” “So it’s a daddy issue is it?” I said, watching her trigger finger. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me who he was so we can avoid any messy complications?” “Oh, so you’ve made more then one man beg in your lifetime, is that it?” She was good. I had to give her that. “A man in my line of work makes enemies, honey. Sometimes it takes extreme measures to get the kind of information that I need to get in order to do my job. Yeah, I’ve made a few men beg in my life, but they all deserved it.” I looked from the gun to her eyes and held them there. “Every last one of them.” Her blue eyes narrowed and my heart thumped in my chest for a different reason now. “You remember who took that photograph behind you?” She asked. “I do.” “Then you remember my father.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It just came out in a rush and even though I regretted it the instant I did, I can’t say that it didn’t feel good to see the look on her face. I might as well have stood up and slapped her. “Frank Monroe was a drunk and a thief!” I said. “And that’s being kind. I hate to trample on a man’s memory, especially in front of his daughter, but if you’re here to get revenge for what happened to him, then someone’s been lying to you sweetheart.” “You old bastard.” She whispered the words. Or maybe she hissed them. It depends on your point of view. “My mother raised me alone after you sent him away! I grew up without a father because of you!” “No, darlin’” I said. “You grew up without a father because of him. He was not the kind of man that you must have built up in that pretty head of yours. Even if he hadn’t of died in prison, he wouldn’t have stuck around for you. I knew Frank. All he cared about was where the next bottle was coming from and who he could swindle out of the dough to buy it.” You’re probably thinking I’m a fool for saying it and you’re probably right, because the first bullet that tore a chunk out of my shoulder hurt like hell. I never did know when to keep my trap shut. The shot seemed to surprise her even more then it did me. She almost dropped the gun, but then she steadied herself and stood up. Reaching across the desk she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, cool as you please. “God, that felt good.” She said. Her voice kind of quivered, the way a woman’s does when you get done kissing her good and proper. It wasn’t the kind of thing you like to hear when she’s just shot you and still has a loaded gun pointed at your head though. She walked around the desk and pushed my chair back with her foot so that I had to face her. I couldn’t move much except to hold onto my shoulder and try not to pass out. “You know what my mother had to do to make a living after he got sent away?” She asked. The gun had to have been warm in her hand. I know the feeling well. “I can imagine.” I said. She nodded. “Good, then I won’t have to spell it out for you.” She paused and her eyes shifted so that she was still looking at me, but seeing something else. Apparently she was going to spell it out anyway. “I used to hear them. The men who came to the house. Drunk and desperate. Lowlifes. They’d beat her sometimes just for the hell of it.” She looked down at me, her gaze clearing again. I knew what was coming, but there are worse things then going out looking into the eyes of a beautiful woman. “Sometimes they’d come for me.” The second shot took me square in the chest and I knew that was all she wrote. The cigarette dropped from my fingers onto the carpet at the side of my chair. All I could think of was that it would burn a hole. Strange what you think of when you’re on your way out. I watched her, watching me. She wasn’t smiling anymore and her hand kind of shook causing the smoke that curled out of the barrel to slither like a snake before mingling with the cigarette smoke in the air. She took the gun and walked around the desk, placing it back into her handbag. Straightening up she looked back at me over her shoulder. “So long Benedict. Thanks for doing such a good job for me. The checks in the mail.” I tried to speak, but all I could do was watch her walk out the door in that black dress. I don’t know what I would have said anyway. Probably something about not accepting checks. It didn’t matter. The lights were dimming. The sun was slipping over that distant horizon and somewhere a dog was barking. That’s the way the tune goes right? One more hole for the gravedigger to fill. So long Miss Monroe. Pleasure doing business with you. In the Driver’s Seat by Peleus[1,237 Words] When they cut me loose, Kurt picked me up in his ’84 Buick Skylark and tossed me a pack of cigarettes through the open passenger window as a way of hello. Nice to see you too. He saw the shirt, chambray blue and the name Thomas on the left breast. I stood with the car door opened so he’d see it as I smacked the cigarettes against my palm and opened the pack. I had the shirt tails tied at my stomach over the blue jeans that hadn’t been worn in 10 years, and I tucked the pack into the waistband. I could see it in how he looked at me, he didn’t like the shirt, but he didn’t say nothing about it. He just sat in the driver seat, his lanky arms draped over the steering wheel and his seat too far back. “Girls don’t wear it like that no more,” he said. “You gotta watch you some TV or read a magazine.” “I ain’t a girl no more neither, am I?” I got in. He started the car. “What you want to do now?” he asked, eyes forward even though we still weren’t moving. I put the cigarette to my lips and pressed the lighter into the dash. I looked back at the granite walls covered in dust and morning sunlight, the glassed in guard towers and the barbed wire. “Get the f*** away from here is what I want to do,” I said. * * * He laid with his head on my stomach, face turned away. We were twisted in the sheets that wrapped around my legs and his beard scratched the skin above my belly button when I breathed in. His breath hit on my thigh. I sucked in on a cigarette and tipped ash into the glass ash tray on the bed. My other hand hooked a finger into his dark hair and smoothed it back over his ear, over and over. I smelled like his sweat. The sunlight cut across the room and twirled smoke in slats of light.“You kept that old CD player,” I said. I remembered the weight of it in my hands. “It don’t work no more.” “Why do you still have it then?” “I don’t know. I can’t get rid of it, I guess.” I took in another drag of smoke and blew it out. “Seems to me something like that you’d want to get rid of.” “I think I keep it so I don’t forget.” I let that stew a second. I thought to comment, but didn’t. Instead I smoked. “You could’ve come see me sometime, you know? Why didn’t you?” He lifted his head up and looked toward me—not at me, just toward me. He didn’t look at me much when we made love. His eyes were on me, watching as he pawed at my breasts. He watched himself go in me, leaning back just enough to look down the length of our naked bodies. But he kissed with his eyes closed. He put a thin arm over my stomach and propped his head into his palm. He’d lost a lot of weight since I’d seen him last. I remembered his arm a lot meatier. I remembered all of him meatier, filled out and healthy. Now there were really only his eyes and the shape of his face. The rest of him was flesh covering bone. A few more wrinkles around his eyes than I recalled too—crow’s feet. Probably ‘cause of him smoking too much, drinking too much. I got my wrinkles from more than just smoking and drinking. “I went twice. First time to see if I was on your list. The second, I got up to the window and showed them my IDs—even got my birth certificate from my mom’s s*** in storage.” He stopped and let his eyes drift down. "They took my picture. Weirded me out, you know?" He reached for my lit cigarette and took a drag then handed it back. “When they wanted me to walk through the metal detector—I don’t know. I think I got scared. I didn’t know what to say to you.” “You keep a CD player so you don’t forget, but I don’t see you for ten years.” I pulled in a drag of the cigarette and forced it out, an angry cloud that disturbed the smoke caught in sunlight and twirled it. “It would’ve been nice to see you at some point, you know?” “I didn’t forget you,” he said. “I felt forgot.” He laid his head down again on my stomach with his face turned away again. His body trembled. I felt it where his arm lay over me. It was like he was cold or he cried. “I never forgot you,” he said. I was supposed to put a hand on his shoulder, give it a pat, and tell him it was okay, that sitting in a cell for ten years was really nothing. A growing experience. Nothing else. I’m better for it and learned my lesson. Isn’t that what people say in situations like that? I did put a hand on his shoulder... “Get off me.” I gave him a shove. He didn’t move so I pushed him harder. “Get the f*** off me. I gotta get outside, get out of here.” I balled a fist and he finally moved to roll onto his back then come up naked on his knees still on the bed. He stared at me as I fished on the floor for the same panties I had on 10 years ago. “What the f***, Elaine?” he said. I pulled on my underwear then pulled on my jeans. I couldn’t get dressed fast enough. The blue work shirt was thrown over a chair in his bedroom. I put it on and worked the buttons. “What’s going on?” he said, getting to his feet. He stood almost a foot taller than me, skinny as pole and pale white. “Throw that f***in’ CD player away.” “How about you throw that shirt away,” he said. He grabbed at the sleeve of it, and that’s when I hit him. I picked up a few things in prison, and how to knock somebody square in the jaw was among the best of ‘em. Hurt the **** out of my knuckles. I was ready for him to swing back, but he didn’t. He just stood there like he was stunned, like his body was too weak to fight back. His hair fell over his eyes. “This shirt ain’t what killed him, is it?” I’d put it on the day after, the day they came and arrested me, Tommy’s name sewn on the breast. I cried and drank Jack Daniels and I kept touching the smooth stitching of Tommy’s name when they knocked on my door. I told them I did it in a signed confession and Kurt told them nothing. They didn’t look no further. To them, I was just some kid looking to make some quick cash, and it all went wrong somehow. When they asked me who was driving, I lied and told them I was. Kurt told them nothing. I got ten for vehicular manslaughter and Kurt got nothing. Tommy... well, he got dead. Scratch that. Kurt got a CD player. “When you going to be a man, Kurt?” He said nothing back, so I left him there standing naked in his bedroom. The Wrong Side of the Glass by lukedk987[2,360 Words] I had spent most of my life hunting criminals. Sometimes they were evil bastards, and other times just petty, self-centered losers. Point being, I left my nice, cushy job in the oil industry and swapped it for the crappy quarters of the private eye. I had counted myself lucky to be on good terms with the cops and was often paid as a consultant on some of their bigger cases, mostly because I'm smart, and many of them are not. Point being, I've hunted lots of criminals before, but this was the first time that I was making my life as a wanted man.Detective Bob Richardson was a tall, lanky fellow who looked like an unholy cross between an avant-garde art student and Sherlock Holmes. He was quite partial to pipe tobacco, and always wore a black mock-neck with a tam for a lid. He spoke in some fancy professor talk that irritated the hell out of me, but he is a good man at least. How many other not-so-good men would meet at a run-down cafe at midnight in the bleak Chicago winter? When I walked in on him he was complaining to some waitress. The poor gal was very sweet and naive, at least that's what her doe-eyes told me. Such a fine specimen (and blonde, too), I gathered that she was usually tipped well, and had to field few complaints. I know I would never complain. Then again, Bob is a little oblivious when it comes to women. "I say, my dear, you surely must have a spot of cranberry herbal tea sitting around somewhere. I will not partake of that vile sludge you call coffee, and it is late. I need the tartness of the cranberry upon my palette to--" "Richardson, just shut the hell up and take whatever the poor girl gives you," I abruptly stated. I may be a man on the run, but if I have a chance to bring such a babe along with me I'll gladly take it. Apparently my chivalry was lost on her since she scurried away to the kitchen without so much as a longing glance. It really hasn't been my day. "Howard Kaiser, are you telling me you have the audacity to appear late to our rendezvous and then on top of that deny me my proper drink?" spoke Bob, his brows crunched in disapproval. "If you were any sort of a man you would get a damn coffee like the rest of us," I said, offering a handshake. He took it and we dropped the joke, each grinning at the site of the other as we took a seat in the darkest corner booth we could find. "I heard you saved an orphan," I continued. "By jove, I did! Nasty business, this prostitution ring. Some would say a fate worse than death. But the guys responsible are behind the proverbial bars, and the young lady free to live her life with a pair of happy foster parents, so all is well. I have heard that you have had a rather different experience of late." I buried my face in my hands at his words. "That's an understatement," I began. "I got an anonymous tip at my office that a shooting had occurred, so I told them to call the police and I would head over to investigate it. When I got there, the guy was dead and naked in his bed. A terrified woman was tied to his bed, and I released her. She took off through the window as soon as she could, and I saw my backup gun lying on the floor under the window! I have no idea how it got there, but the unis didn't care. They hauled me in, and I relayed my story. Turns out the call to my office came from a burn phone." "You have a backup gun?" interjected Richardson. "Who doesn't? Anyway, they accused me of vigilantism. The situation felt strange, so I punched my guard in the nose and made a break for it. I've been set up, and I need you to get me into that crime scene so I can find the man responsible. "The woman, you mean," interrupted Richardson, "you said the tip came from a female voice." "Yeah...I did, but she might have been put up to it," I covered my reply well. I never mentioned the woman on the phone. What the hell did Richardson have to do with all of this? I looked out the window, half expecting an ambush and half to see if the rain had let up. Neither was true. "I need to take my mind of this whole thing for a minute--clear it, you know," I continued, "this orphan was a teenager, right?" "Oh yes, wonderful young lady on route to womanhood. I fear for her on the streets, since only her naive eyes betray her true age. She even has a sort of mature, husky voice. Hopefully her new parents will be able to fend off any unwanted suitors--or worse, mind you." Richardson stopped short at the end of his sentence, and it appeared that I was taking my gambit a bit too far. Richardson may be a pompous snob, but he wasn't an idiot. Still, it was enough of a description for me to realize that was the woman who "tipped" me. He continued, "Enough about me, let us use our waning time wisely. Who do you think is setting you up?" I couldn't hold back my laugh. "If I knew that, I wouldn't need your help!" I lied. I knew Richardson was involved, but still needed his help to figure out why. What did he have against me? I need more time to work this out. Hopefully this will stall him a bit, "John Janda's sentence was up four days ago. He got out early on good behavior. I caught him embezzling from his company five years ago. I know he has both motive and means for a trick like this." "I remember that case..." Richardson began. He was running over our history and possible scenarios that could have led to this situation. Richardson sure was a talker, and he did not notice I was only barely paying attention to him. I knew that Richardson had gotten his orphan friend to place the call to my office, probably in exchange for pulling some strings in the foster system. I strain my head to think of what he might be involved in, but nothing comes up. I had only worked one case the entire month: the murder of Roy Angler, a photographer for the Sun-Times. Crap, Richardson is winding down, I better get him going again. "Those are all possible, I guess, but how are we going to get enough evidence to tie him to it?" I asked, waiting for a reply. "If I get you in, I'm sure we can find something. You have such an eye for that kind of thing," responded Richardson in uncharacteristic brevity. He must be in a hurry to get me back to the crime scene. That is where he has arranged for Chicago's finest to haul me in. Nice try, you hawk-nosed mongoose! I think I know what that B.S. degree you hold really stands for now. "This is an awful big risk for you, Richardson, and I wouldn't want you to do something you don't want to do. This could jeopardize your career. Why shouldn't I just go and beat the information out of Janda with my fists?" That ought to get him going for a while. I have known for a while that me being a little rough around the edges and graduating from a two-year program leads Richardson to assume that I might be dumber than him, and I can use that to my advantage. While Richardson lists all the reasons my idea sucks, I rack my brain again for details of Angler's case, while muttering 'uh-huhs' and 'I sees' at my windy backstabber. Angler was murdered for the contents of his camera. They contained some important politicians being in some places that would definitely lower their PR. Angler was little more than a muckraker, though, and had little actual crime on film and more of poor moral taste. There was one picture, though, of a wanted drug dealer meeting someone in an alley. It was too dark to see the face, but now that I remember it, it was a tall skinny guy wearing a tam. I had gone through the pictures myself and handed over all the ones essential to the case. I was the only person besides Angler who saw that picture. "Hey Richardson," I interrupted, "what were you doing with Ricky the Horse that night?" I swear I had never seen a man loose composure so quickly. He aloofness dissolved to reveal a primal creature, a snarling animal that would do anything to save its own hide. He had also lost his professorial accent. "Well, you reasoned it out, did ya?" he scoffed. "I thought I had it made. I used to be the best assassin the drug lords could buy. I got sick of all the running. I wanted the hell out! I assumed a new identity, a new character, and was breaking off my last tie when that peeping photographer had to get a picture of me." "How did you get that State Senator to kill Angler for you?" I posited. "I didn't. That was the beauty of it. He went after him himself, got caught, and those photos were going into the evidence folders never to be seen again. All I had to do was get rid of the one guy who had looked at the pictures." "Not to give you ideas, but why not just kill me?" "Too risky. You are blunt and have a habit of bad-mouthing the criminals. All I had to do was put you in that awkward situation, and the police drew their own conclusions. Also, you would be too preoccupied with clearing your name to remember the photos. Hell, you wouldn't have even figured it out if I hadn't been so loose with the details of that poor little orphan girl!" Richardson threw his teacup at me, and I threw my hands up to defend myself. I stood up, gun drawn, and he was holding that same waitress around the neck from behind, gun to her temple. Apparently it wasn't her best night either. "So, a hostage will keep you under the radar?" I asked. The guy must have been losing it. "Nobody will come looking for me if nobody alerts them. I'm going to drop her off safe and sound at the Sears Tower in an hour," he indicated his victim with the muzzle of his pistol. "I have a police scanner in my car. If I hear anything that sounds like the police are on to me, she dies. You may have outsmarted me, but I know you wouldn't forgive yourself if I put a hole in her beautiful head." The poor girls' eyes were wide with fright and tears, and her body trembled like a leaf. Despite the situation, I took some time to admire her perfect hourglass figure and blonde curls that just gently touched her shoulders. Yeah, it would be a shame for her to die before I get a chance to take her back to my place. I drop my gun and let him walk out the cafe. Once the noise of his car fades away, I set about hailing a cab. "Union Station," I direct the driver, and he drops me off there in about 35 minutes. Plenty of time for me to report a robbery in progress at the Bank of America at Wacker and Monroe. I carefully make my way down to the waterway that separates the Sears Tower and Union. The canal is spanned by an iron grid bridge that always makes me nervous when I drive over it, given the way it rattles. Today it is my best friend. Pull my pistol out and lean against one of the supports, taking careful notice of the construction of the bridge. Cop cars have unique engines, and Richardson's has a distinct whine in the carburetor, I noticed. Usually these things get fixed right away, but he must have been too busy setting me up to report it. Almost exactly an hour after I left the cafe I hear the whiny squad make its way to the tower. It stops, and I can hear the click of hurried heels on the pavement. The car comes across the bridge, and I unload several rounds through the iron mesh into the undercarriage. Some hit fuel lines, some hit tires, but either way he isn't going too far. He gets out and starts to run, but by then there are several officers of the peace who are detaining him for questioning. I head back up to street level to get the whole mess cleared up. A couple hours later it's morning and I'm knocking at the door of her apartment. Being an investigator sure has perks, one of them being I can usually find people with minimal effort. She opens the door wearing a silk robe that falls gently over her curves. Her eyes are still red, but she is for the most part calm. Interestingly enough, she is still wearing her makeup. "Long day for both of us, huh? I just came to make sure you were okay." Her hand reaches out to me, and then slaps me hard across the face. "Why the hell didn't you do something earlier?!" she screams. "You let that lunatic carry me off with a loaded gun!" "Hey, Sweetcheecks, I think I did pretty well given the situation. I for one think a thank you is in order." The door slams hard in my face. "I'll take a raincheck!" I yell, and make my way towards the elevator. It had been two days since I was at my office, and the brandy was getting lonely.
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February 2012 Competition Entries Topic - Losing Your Sanity Winner - Solitary by The Jaded Trippin' by Troy[1,968 Words] Rend smiled, his black eyes bright with impending victory, as the back-alley game was explained to him by the ugliest man he had ever seen. “If the coin rests on your blade for more than a second, you’re disqualified. Remember, whoever wins gets a sample of Rook’s newest batch.” The man looked at Rend and his opponent and tossed two copper pennies into the air. Rend immediately set his hands in motion. His ityalskera spun deft circles keeping the coin bouncing in the air. Two feet of leather wrapped steel with a foot and a half blade on each end; the double-bladed sword was perfect for this game and allowed Rend to show off while his opponent struggled to maintain a rhythm with a clumsy broadsword. His dark green cloak, almost black, fluttered behind him, the silver web pattern stitched into the wool blurring as he twisted through the air and leapt back and forth in a dance that usually ended with enemy corpses all about him. His armor, made of supple animal hides dyed the same color as his cloak and riddled with silver studs, conformed to his movements perfectly. The brace of daggers at his waist never shifted; securely fastened under the bright red sash he wore. Too easy… Off to the side amidst a group of on-lookers, Tyr watched his friend at play. The shadow wolf didn’t like cities. They made him itch and they were too confined. If it wasn’t for Rend, he would have slept outside the walls in the forest. He lay down and rested his head on his paws, one a dusky gray like the rest of his fur and the other white. His icy blue eyes studied the face of the Shadar-kai that had been with him since he was a cub in the Shadowfell. A braggart’s smile creased the wolf tattoo running from his right temple to his chin and the myriad earrings in his left ear sparkled as the sun hit them. His gray flecked black hair was bound in a pony-tail and whipped about while he danced. Tyr liked to see his friend happy. Soon enough the man with the broadsword, caught up in Rend’s display, missed his coin. He sheathed his blade, scowling, and stomped off as it hit the ground. “Looks like you’re the winner. Pretty good with that funny blade you got there.” The ugly ruffian said, handing Rend a small pouch of smoke colored dust. “Rook could use a man like you. If you need a job come back by around dusk.” Rend laughed, emptying the contents of the pouch into a small silver box hanging from a delicate chain around his neck and sniffing it. “My skill would be wasted in a back alley running for a man like Rook. The reason you do business in the shadows is to keep it from being seen. Where’s the fun in that?” Rend swaggered past the man and into the street, whistling for Tyr. In truth, he didn’t want the job because he didn’t care to associate with people like Rook’s ruffian. His parents raised him with a sense of right and wrong and, though loose and flexible, he followed their guidance as much as he could. Dealings with shady people were a necessary sacrifice, though, if he wanted to get his hands on the illegal substances he often craved. “Well, Tyr, we have some time before work. Why don’t we take a walk around the square? Maybe we can find a couple meat pies.” Leaving the alley he caught a glimpse of what looked like a shadow following him. My imagination… The plane his travels had brought him to was a close reflection of the Prime Material Plane but it only housed the most boring parts. So far, the work with the best pay that Rend and Tyr could find was patrolling the nearby forest for monsters. Nothing else interesting enough to keep the two plane hopping adventurers here had presented itself. Rend decided that after a few more days of earning decent coin they would find transportation to some other plane, hopefully one a little more exotic and challenging. The only redeeming feature of the city was the square. Completely indoors, it was a place of the senses with a thousand different sounds and sights and smells. The aroma of spices and fruit mingled with the smell of alcohol wafting out of the taverns at each of the four corners. People from all over the small City-State came to the square to peddle whatever they could and if you looked hard enough you could find anything in the press of bodies. Rend opened the small silver box and took another sniff. As he was closing the box he noticed the same shadowy figure from the alley watching him, crouched behind a couple of stacked crates. It wasn’t my imagination. What does this guy want? He almost started toward the shadow but a cloth merchant with a variety of crimson silk caught his eye. He needed something new to tie his hair up with and the expensive looking material seemed perfect. He sauntered over to the merchant’s awning and started discussing prices. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the shadowy figure had followed him and was now hiding under a table displaying various knives. When he turned his head for a better look, it was gone. Must have realized I saw him. He bought a small strip of crimson silk and replaced the worn leather band in his hair. He turned and continued down the line of merchants when, again out of the corner of his eye, he saw the shadow dart behind a barrel. “You want a drink Tyr? Of course you do…” Rend practically dragged the shadow wolf into the nearest tavern and sat down at an empty table facing the door. Can’t sneak up on me this time… He ordered some cheap wine, holding his cup under the table so the wolf could share it and stared at the door. After an hour of no one else entering the tavern, Rend set about deciding if his victory in the coin game merited a new tattoo to go with the multitude he had under his armor. He had just decided that it didn’t when a small clock sitting at the bar erupted with the sound of bells. Rend sighed. It was time for another boring walk through the woods. He left a couple coins on the table, not bothering to look at them, and headed out the door with Tyr to the guard post at the northern end of the city. He had to check in before he left and let them know about the shadowy figure following him. They assured him that anyone following him would be questioned. He headed out the gate, taking a small sniff from his box to hold him over until the end of the patrol. Rend shuffled into his room at The Traveler’s Rest a few long hours later, Tyr behind him. The entire patrol he had felt the shadow lurking just outside his vision, trying to grab him from the shadiest portions of the forest and he wanted to forget the fear he felt. It wasn’t an emotion he was used to and he didn’t like it. He dropped his pack beside the door and sat on his cot. I won’t go outside tomorrow until an hour before it’s time for my patrol. I’ll arrange for us to leave as soon as possible… His confidence partially restored by his plans, he took a sniff from his box and drifted off to sleep. * * * Two days later the sun crept through the tiny window and lighted on Rend’s face. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his face was swollen from lack of sleep. The past couple days were a waking nightmare to go with the ones he was experiencing as soon as his eyes closed at night. Tyr padded over to the cot and sat beside him like he did every morning when the wolf decided it was time for breakfast. Rend sighed and slowly pulled himself to his feet. He reached for his box immediately, needing a pick me up before he moved too much. He cautiously opened the door to his room and peeked out. Seeing no one he started to creep down the stairs, flinching at every noise from the common room below. Impatient and hungry, Tyr padded past him and sat under a table near the kitchen door. Rend made it to the table a couple minutes after the wolf and sat glaring suspiciously at every other patron in the inn. Every table, every chair, the bar, it all cast a shadow in the early morning light and every shadow was a potential enemy. When the barmaid brought out his food, he put the plate on the floor next to him and let Tyr eat all of it. He hadn’t eaten since the first day he saw the shadow. Poison my food.. That’s something a shadowy thing would do, isn’t it? After breakfast Rend took his companion back up to his room and lay on his cot. Tyr wouldn’t need lunch and he could catch his own dinner while they were on patrol that night. He groaned. The patrols were the worst part of his day now that he had stopped leaving the inn. Hours of darkness spent at the height of awareness searching for a shadow among the thousand shadows of a nighttime forest. Last patrol, though.. We are leaving tomorrow morning. It won’t chase me to another plane.. It won’t…. * * * Rend inhaled deeply, his nose stuck in the small silver box. He was camped almost within sight of the city walls. He felt horrible for not actually patrolling but as soon as he left the gate he knew he wouldn’t be able to spend another night on the fringe of insanity. He heard Tyr snore and opened his eyes, taking in the moonlit forest around him and sighing. We are leaving tomorrow…. It won’t follow me… Rend stared into the trees and almost didn't notice the shadow creeping up behind him. He jumped to his feet and spun his ityalskera defensively in front of him, his heart pounding. Oddly enough, the Shadow was wielding a double-sword as well. "Tyr, it’s here! Get up!" Tyr opened his eyes and stared at Rend for a second before closing them again. His snoring immediately permeated the air for a second time. What....? Why isn't he.. His train of thought was cut off by a blade streaking toward his face. He managed to duck the attack but the shadow pressed forward, unrelenting. Rend's eyes lit up, unable to deny a challenge, even in the midst of heart-gripping fear. He met the Shadow's blade with his own. Spinning slashes and deft thrusts were met with skilled parries and counterattacks. As the night wore on, the combatants grew more and more daring. They danced across the small campsite for what seemed like hours, neither gaining the advantage, until Rend tripped the Shadow with his ityalskera. He cried out in triumph, vanquishing the Shadow with one swift thrust to the heart. He heard Tyr snore and opened his eyes, taking in the moonlit forest. What...?!?!? He scrambled to his feet and looked around but there was no evidence of the epic battle that had just taken place. He looked over at his shadow wolf companion, "Tyr, he was here right?" The wolf ignored him and continued its noisy slumber. Rend, confused, reached for his box to take another sniff. His hand stopped halfway to his chest and he narrowed his eyes, looking down at the box. Touche..... Solitary by The Jaded[2,197 Words] The hissing is incessant. I know there’s a leak, somewhere, letting out my precious air. For the dozenth time in as many hours, I query the computer, and it tells me that there is no drop in air pressure in what's left of the hab complex, and that the recirculators are working normally. If only the thing had an audio pickup, it could hear the hissing and know that it was wrong. According to the chime of the computer's clock marking the hour, I should have gone to sleep seven hours ago, but with that hissing there’d be no way I could sleep. It’s everywhere, I’ve wandered the hab complex (what’s left of it anyway), all three rooms of it, all four of its cramped access tunnels. I can’t find anywhere where it’s noticeably louder or quieter. The only computer consoles I have are in the command blister, and I don't like the place one bit but I needed to query about the hissing. The overhead triple-pane glass dome just reminds me of the vastness beyond the bulkheads, each star in the blackness the watching eye of an alien, a stranger, an enigma. I'd learned pretty quickly into the trip that I would be having an antagonistic relationship with that compartment of the ship. At least until recently I didn't really have too much reason to be in there. These days I have to go in, but I know to avoid looking forward or up. There used to be more to the hab complex than the bunkroom (with its adjoined pair of washrooms), the command blister, and the forward lounge, but that was weeks ago. The two sealed hatchways in the lounge and the dead-end access tunnel leading aft from command are a testament to that. What’s left aft of those three sealed blast doors with their glowing red warning lights I can only guess at, and if the computer knows it won’t tell me. Its wireframe diagnostic just shows those parts of the ship in a dim gray that I vaguely remember means that the ship’s computer has no working systems in those areas. There was even more to the crew than just me, but I'm trying not to think too hard about that. I’ve tried all the tricks I know to find the leak, using the computer and otherwise, and all have failed. It’s here, somewhere, and there’s only so much pressure hull left. There's nothing for it but to comb every square inch looking for it manually. After all, if I don’t find it, pretty soon the recirculators won’t have anything left to recirculate and that’ll be it. Manually checking every surface with my hands is taking a long time, too long. The hissing is all there is in the silence of the ship, though, and I’ve nothing else to do about it besides curl up in a corner and wait to die. I flip Mack's lucky buffalo nickel to decide where to start - the lounge, or the bunkroom. No matter what, command will be last. I fail to catch the spinning coin, and it falls to the floor with what seems to be an ear-shattering metal ringing sound as I scramble to stop it with my foot. The coin comes up tails when I finally stop its roll, so I head for the bunkroom. ”You’re never going to find it that way.” I can imagine Celeste, the computer tech, saying as I comb the bulkheads behind the double-stacked beds. I can almost imagine her petite, slim, olive-skinned form curled up on the bottom bunk in the aft corner, one slim hand cradling a multiop slate and the other tapping idly at the controls on its surface. ”If you fix the computer, it’ll find it in ten seconds.” She suggests, in a tone that implies that it’s of little concern to her but that she is just offering friendly advice. ”That was your job, Cel.” I shoot back, before I remember that Celeste, like the others is gone. She’d been in the aft part of the hab complex. Her bunk, like all the others, is empty, but made tidily by my idle hands days ago. Only my bunk, on top closest to the door, is in a state of disarray, the sheets and thin blanket thrown haphazardly aside when last I rose. ”I can’t do it myself.” I finish my retort quietly, not that anyone’s here to hear it. Another hour, and I’m satisfied that the bunkroom isn’t where I’ll find my leak. I go into the forward lounge, and beginning to feel the number of hours I’ve been awake, I type a command into the food processor, requesting coffee. While it complies, I feel carefully around its housing for the tiniest draft, the faintest spot of cold that would signify an atmosphere leak. There’s nothing. Given that I’ve been awake almost a full twenty-four hours by this point, I know the coffee’s only a stopgap. And depending on the size of the leak, if I fall asleep, I might wake up, or I might not - it’s hard to say, with the computer cheerfully telling me that nothing’s wrong. Luckily, the machine only takes about two minutes to make a pot of coffee, and its upbeat chiming noise interrupts this dismal train of thought, reminding me to grab a mug from the cleaner, into which the aromatic black liquid is dispensed. Yeah, the coffee from the machine always tastes indescribably wrong, but at least it’s dispensed at exactly the proper temperature to be sipped immediately. I take grateful advantage of this fact before setting the mug on one of the lounge’s small tables to check the next section of bulkhead. As I pass Mack’s favorite lounge chair (not that it was any different than any of the others, mind you, no-one but him could ever tell the difference), I wish for the hundredth time that I had someone else to help me. Not that Mack would - the tall, thin, hawk-nosed pilot never was one for repetitive tasks, or really labor of any kind. ”Bah, you think the computer’s lyin’ to you about a leak, and you trust the rest of what it says, Rob?” He’d probably be saying. ”You’re going off all half-cocked again. Look. If the computer’s gone south you might have bigger problems. If it hasn’t, then there’s no leak and you’re just hearing things. You’re not doing yourself any favors feelin’ up the whole ship.” Except, of course, that Mack would have known that I was no computer whiz - I can barely muck around with the basic queries and commands. Four months of travel in, Celeste still hadn’t gotten me to learn much more than the basics. I suppose I could open the computer hub itself and take a look, but what would damage look like? It’s not like a modern computer’s components turn to black ash when they malfunction. In fact, I am pretty certain that a broken component will look to the untrained eye just like a working one, and that just by messing around in there I could break the computer worse than it might already be. Mack would understand that, and he’d probably just go check the computer himself, or more probably get Celeste to do it, muttering about “useless deadweight PhDs” all the way. Mack’s piqued exit, of course, would probably prompt Jamie to speak up. ”Ignore him, Rob.” She was the ship’s doctor and psychologist, a middle-aged woman about my age, who’d managed to cross the forty year barrier still in shape where I had not. ”Just keep yourself busy, whether that means trying to help around here or not.” I could almost imagine her seated across the lounge behind me, a mug of coffee cradled in her lotion-softened hands. ”You do that, and we’ll get you there, don’t you worry.” Jamie, of course, wasn’t there - the chair where I’d imagined her voice to come from was empty when I turned to look. I wished she was, though. Of everyone on the ship, she and I were the only two who hadn’t been trained more than cursorily in the workings of the vehicle that would be our only habitat for almost a year. That meant she'd at least understand my predicament. At least Jamie was onboard for a reason - she kept the people, rather than the mechanics, humming along. I was practically part of the cargo. Ironic, that now I’m all that’s left. I realize that I’ve been re-checking the same bulkhead panel for who knows how long and grab my now-merely-warm coffee, draining the mug. As I turn back to the bulkhead, I realize something - the hissing is gone. Or am I just so used to it now that I can’t hear it? I hold my breath for a few seconds, listening for the hiss until my heartbeat thuds in my ears and makes listening for anything impossible, and I don’t hear it. The ship is perfectly silent. I laugh aloud in joy and drop heavily into one of the lounge chairs (Mack’s, in fact). Whatever the hissing was, it’s gone - maybe the computer found the leak at last and sealed it off? I wage a silent struggle, debating whether to get up and navigate the access tunnel to the bunkroom. It only occurs to me that I might fall asleep in the chair, coffee or no, long after I’m too far along to care if I do. The next thing I know, Jamie’s leaning over me, fingers to my throat. ”He’s just sleeping.” I hear her say with a touch of relief, and in response I shake my head clear of the cobwebs and groan. ”And now he’s not. Gave me a scare there, Rob.” ”Wha?” I struggle to piece things together. The last thing I remember is falling into this chair, alone on the ship, after the hissing sound stopped. ”What’s - ” ”We were in the aft lounge, and tried to call up to see if you were up for a game of cards.” Mack fills in from behind Jamie. I see Celeste standing behind him, in the open hatchway - one of the two I think I remember being sealed. ”Are you? The others are watching some horrible old holoconvert movie back there, and we need a fourth.” ”But I thought - ” My mind races. Why do I remember two weeks alone in the forward section of the hab complex, and certainty that everyone else is dead? Was it a dream? ”You thought it was a good time for a nap.” Celeste chimes in, interrupting, and Mack chuckles a little. Jamie just shakes her head, and straightens. ”Come on, Rob, you in?” With a sigh, I stand creakily from the chair, and Jamie steps aside to let me follow Mack and Celeste back aft. I stop, though, at the open blast doors. The access tunnel to the complex hub looks perfectly normal, and the two younger crew don’t notice my hesitation. Jamie, though, does. ”You all right, Rob?” She asks with a touch of concern. ”I think so.” I say with a sigh, turning to her, putting my back to the hatchway. ”Just a bad - ” There’s a sickening crunch from behind me, then the sound of metal tearing, which builds into a shriek of air rushing. I find myself pulled backwards by a sudden rush of air. Jamie lunges forward to grab me, but our hands merely brush as I topple backward into the rush of air, sucked back, and toward a gaping hole where the hub used to be. The blast door seals and I lose sight of Jamie as I tumble backward in the rush of air. I get one look at the infinite blackness beyond the torn edges of the ship, and - I jolt awake with a start, my adrenaline pumping. I remember the dream perfectly - what a cruel, unfair thing of my brain to do, I mentally grumble. Just to be sure, I stand and take a good look at both blast doors on the lounge’s aft bulkhead. Both are sealed, and the panels set in the middle of each glow red to signal the loss of pressure on the other side. ”Jamie would think I was losing it.” I mutter under my breath, turning to go to the command blister to check on the status of what's left of the ship, still powering along on autopilot toward its destination. ”You are.” I imagine Jamie’s voice from behind me in the lounge, replying. ”But would you rather it had gone like it had in the dream, with our positions reversed?” I stop at the open blast door that stands between the lounge and the command blister access tunnel. ”Not sure. Would you?” I reply, answering the imagined question with another question. Jamie doesn’t answer, though, no matter how long I give her. All I hear in response to my lonely words is a directionless hiss permeating the air, the sound of air slowly escaping into space.[/FIELDSET] My Own Worst Enemy by Dainn[1,587 Words] “Only twelve gold pieces good sir, a bargain!” Said the weaselly looking stall worker. I never pass up a chance to look for rare or unusual spell components whenever I come across a bazaar. What does bother me though, is that every stall worker from the High Forest to the Great Sea always tried passing off junk as if it were imbued with powerful magic. I may be young for a wizard, but I am no fool. “What could possibly convince me to pay twelve gold pieces for a enchanted mirror? Let me guess, it will tell me who is the fairest of them all?” I said with a sneer. “Not at all good sir! This mirror has powerful magic, cast by a powerful wizard. It is said that only a wizard with enough power can survive using it.” “Yes, yes, I’m sure the famous Jaraon himself enchanted your mirror. What does it do?” I demanded impatiently. “See the engraving around the rim?” He pointed out, “I’m told it instructs you on how to see that which is the greatest danger to you.” With my hand hovering less than an inch above the surface of the mirror, I cast the simple spell that would reveal whether or not this mirror was really enchanted. A faint glow appeared around the mirror, I could feel a rather strong vibration in the tips of my fingers. This mirror did indeed possess a rather strong enchantment. “I’ll give you five and a half gold pieces.” I said firmly. The stall worker smiled, and we got down to the one form of business that surpasses all language barriers: bargaining. We eventually settled on eight gold pieces, and a handful of spell components that were not common in this part of the world. As soon as I got home, I locked myself in my laboratory, and begun the tedious work of translating the arcane script around the rim of the mirror. After more than a day, I finally had the inscription translated. It was not instructions per say. It was a spell. One of the most complex incantations I have ever come across. The sound of the clock in the front room telling me that it was three in the morning reminded me of how tired I was. It took me a week to prepare to cast the spell that would activate the mirror. I had to gather strange spell components, some of which cost a small fortune. Then I had to commit the words of the spell to memory. When the proper night arrived, I had everything ready. The proper warding spell was cast, to keep errant energies from interrupting my spell. The circle was drawn on the floor with salt. I was committed. Nothing could cross that line until the spell was completed or there would be drastic consequences. On the stroke of midnight, with the proper incense smoking, and the right candles burning, I started casting the spell. “Ut a elit quam, fermentum convallis velit.” I chanted as I tossed black rose petals and sulfur into the fire. “Vivamus eget sem condimentum magna euismod dapibus eu non neque.” A raven feather went into the fire. “Nullam at tortor odio.” With my dagger, I made an inch long slice on the back of my left hand. “Vestibulum et purus sed justo convallis tincidunt.” A spoon full of blood was collected and held over the flame. “Suspendisse molestie vulputate neque, non sagittis ligula mattis eu. Proin mollis bibendum lorem id convallis.” The blood was poured onto the mirror, linking it to myself. Grabbing the mirror by the handles on each side. I looked down into its black depths, and whispered, “Show me!” A pounding at my door caused me to jerk my head up, disrupting the spell. “Fist of the gods!” I snarled as I stormed over and threw the door open. “What in the abyss do you want?” “Sorry to bother you Wizard Rallak.” The nervous youth said apologetically. “Never mind. It’s too late to do anything about it. What did you need?” I asked. “I-it’s my sister, Wizard. Sh-she wont wake up, and she feels on fire.” The youth stammered. Another villager comes down with the sickness and they think the Gods have abandoned them. I gathered some common healing herbs into a satchel, and gave them to the kid along with instructions on how to use them. Once the youth left, I collapsed on my bed, and shouted in frustration. A week of my time, and a small fortune wasted. It would cost small fortune to gather the needed components, and take another week were favorable to try casting the spell again. As I went from shop to shop, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me, but every time I looked around, there was no one there. This shop was my last hope. “What can I help you find, Magus?” The shopkeeper asked as I entered her shop. “Do you have dragons blood?” I asked in a whisper. “Mm. Dragons blood. Very powerful, very rare.” She said as she stared into my eyes. “Yes, yes, do you have any?” I demanded. “Very expensive. Ten gold pieces a vial. You can pay hmm?” It was too late to try bargaining. I had made the mistake of appearing desperate. I slammed the gold on the counter. A withered hand shot out of her robe, the gold disappeared, and a small glass vial appeared in its place. Finally. The last component needed to cast the spell. Tonight, I would learn who was dangerous to me. As I left the shop, a decrepit old man, dressed like a beggar, grabbed my staff, right above my hand. “Beware the mirror young wizard. Destroy it. It will only harm, it can not help.” He said, before disappearing into the crowd. “Crazy. Must have been driven mad.” I said to myself as I headed home. This time, I cast wards all around my house. No one would be allowed to disturb me this time. Layered like an onion. The outer shields would keep regular people and animals away. Each successive layer was more powerful than the last. In the end, it would take a powerful wizard to disturb my spell casting. When the proper night arrived, I had everything ready. The proper warding spell was cast, to keep errant energies from interrupting my spell. The circle was drawn on the floor with salt. I was committed. Nothing could cross that line until the spell was completed or there would be drastic consequences. On the stroke of midnight, with the proper incense smoking, and the right candles burning, I started casting the spell. “Ut a elit quam, fermentum convallis velit.” I chanted as I tossed black rose petals and sulfur into the fire. “Vivamus eget sem condimentum magna euismod dapibus eu non neque.” A raven feather went into the fire. “Nullam at tortor odio.” With my dagger, I made an inch long slice on the back of my left hand. “Vestibulum et purus sed justo convallis tincidunt.” A spoon full of blood was collected and held over the flame. Thump! I tried ignoring it. “Suspendisse molestie vulputate neque,” Thump! “-non sagittis ligula mattis eu. Proin mollis bibendum lorem id convallis.” The blood was poured onto the mirror, linking it to myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a coin fall off of a bookshelf. By the time I saw it rolling across the floor, it was too late to do anything but shriek. The concussion of forces was powerful enough to leave me unconscious for the next two days. It took me two more weeks to gather the components needed to try casting the spell one more time. I had to sell a large quantity of my spell components, not to mention brewing a number of potions for the villagers in order to earn enough gold to purchase the components again. I cast the wards around my house, again. This time, I even removed everything from my laboratory that wasn’t absolutely necessary in casting the spell. Nothing would be allowed to interrupt my casting! When the proper night arrived, I had everything ready. The proper warding spell was cast, to keep errant energies from interrupting my spell. The circle was drawn on the floor with salt. I was committed. Nothing could cross that line until the spell was completed or there would be drastic consequences. On the stroke of midnight, with the proper incense smoking, and the right candles burning, I started casting the spell. “Ut a elit quam, fermentum convallis velit.” I chanted as I tossed black rose petals and sulfur into the fire. “Vivamus eget sem condimentum magna euismod dapibus eu non neque.” A raven feather went into the fire. “Nullam at tortor odio.” With my dagger, I made an inch long slice on the back of my left hand. “Vestibulum et purus sed justo convallis tincidunt.” A spoon full of blood was collected and held over the flame. “Suspendisse molestie vulputate neque, non sagittis ligula mattis eu. Proin mollis bibendum lorem id convallis.” The blood was poured onto the mirror, linking it to myself. Grabbing the mirror by the handles on each side. I looked down into its black depths, and whispered, “Show me!” “NO!!!!!!!!!!!!” I shrieked. In a rage, I flung the mirror at the wall as hard as I could. There, still visible in the scattered shards of the mirror was my worst enemy: Myself! The Awkward Awakening of the Mad John Smith by Ziggy the Blue[2,391 Words] Can it never know peace? Will it ever know normalcy? It has lived ten thousand lives. It will live ten thousand more. To answer the call is to know the best. To answer the call is to know the worst. To not answer is a fate worst then death. Yet there are those that would defy the call. They run from it their whole lives in fear. But the world will find them. The world always does. They will become what they must. It will hope more. It will rage more. It will love more. It will hate more. It will loose more. It will live more. It will die more. It will do more then any of us. So that we may do more once it is gone. Then it will rise again as it always does. This poor thing called ----. ------------------------------------------------------------ The Awkward Awakening of the Mad John Smith. By: Ziggy The Blue He looked toward the old clock in horror as the seconds ticked by. Then the hands took their positions like performers on the clock face in preparation for their dreaded song. The noise of the bells from the old, court house clock rang through the wretched man’s head as he cringed at the sound that was like the very gates of hell crashing open and calling for him. As quickly as the horrid noise came, it was over and John opened his eyes in relief. He hadn’t had one of his episodes, which seemed to be more frequent when the bells rang, and could feel a small tidbit of relief. The sound of chuckles behind him broke him from his relieved state as he turned to see a few people standing about, staring at him as if in anticipation of his impending break down. All were familiar with John Smith, the town eccentric who made a living lighting the oil lamps that lit the old, cobble streets of the decrepit little town, and had come to find his odd fits and frenzies somewhat entertaining. That was the nature of men in John’s home town; a small port town somewhere east of Cardiff that was nearly imposable to find on a map and whose name was different depending on whom in town you asked. The port had very little business and the town was on a swift decline which was reflected just as much in its citizens as it was in the crumbling, unattended buildings that were abandoned and left to rot like festering wounds. The nineteenth century was coming to a close and the rest of the world would soon be celebrating a new, shining era. That would not be the case for this old town or its citizens who had been left behind by the progress of the rest of the world, and, if anything, were reverting back to the more primal and decadent ways of centuries long past. As it became more and more obvious that John was stable, or at least what the citizens accepted as stable for the twenty something year old man who wore his dirty coat over old clothes probably donated to him by the church, they started to disperse with disappointed sighs and razor sharp comments to find other entertainment in their houses of ill commerce and opium dens. “Only thing your good for is a laugh and you can’t even do that right!” shouted a woman in a thick, Cornish accent. It was this comment that seemed to cut John the deepest. Ever since he could remember, John had suffered from minor delusions, horrible night terrors, and odd episodes in which he would see thousands of faces that were like his but slightly different and hear thousands of voices saying thousands of names. Though these episodes were random and only occurred once or twice a week, they seemed to be connected to the clocks chiming at the top of the hour. Even so, all these things came together to produce a shaky, paranoid man who had no practical skills and could barely take care of himself. There were only three things in the world John was thankful for: he had never had a family which he did not regret as he would only be a burden to them, he had never been thrown into an asylum, and he had one friend, one was more then enough. Her name was Sasha, a young women of around nineteen who cared for the two, skinny horses the town reserved for messengers but who were never used anymore since their were no messages to be received nor delivered. Even so, Sasha, whom was an orphan from the age of seven, had been given the low paying job to support herself. She was one of the first people to ever give two damns about John, and the feeling was mutually returned. John would visit his friend at least once a night and share old bread with her and give her loose coins that had been dropped by passers by before returning to his shack at the edge of town from which his screams could be heard for some distance as his nights were filled with visions of dark worlds covered in blood and fear, or beautiful landscapes that seemed to stretch beyond the man’s ability to perceive. The mad pace in which his dreams would shift from wonder to horror along with the impossible realities in which he seemed to be dragged were all more then John’s mind could handle and he often awoke in tears and mad laughter, screams of rage as his tightened fists drew blood from his palms, or intense sorrow and longing which he could only associate with lost love which he had never felt. It was an insane game which seemed to define John’s being, but he kept playing it out of fear, for if he ever excepted one of those names, one of those faces, or any of those worlds as his own, then their was the chance he would cease to be John Smith. John made his way toward the old, rotting stables where Sasha, no doubt, awaited him. The sun had gone down and the moon now shone not far above the horizon. The stars glowed gently in the sky, but John did not enjoy their beauty. To him, the stars were as eyes and the moon was the face of an unfriendly visitor from the abyss. John longed for cloudy nights when he need not feel their presence looming over him, and wanted nothing more then to get home and hide from them. John wouldn’t be deterred, however, from visiting his friend who would be eagerly awaiting him. As he approached the stables, though, he could hear a foul laughter coming from within and the whining of some injured thing. John opened the door to the stables and saw both horses were dead, and Sasha tied to the far wall as she struggled against a man while two other men looked on laughing and eagerly awaiting their turn with the girl. John screamed when he saw them, and the three looked back at him at once surprised. Their surprise did not last as they just started laughing again. In that moment, John did not see three men, but one, hideous, three headed, twelve limbed ogre that was only moments away from stilling the only thing his friend could call her own. “Look boys, a’ if killin’ dim horses an’ wettin’ our poles ain’t enough we gets ta kill a nutter!” Spoke one of the three heads of the beast as it seemed to break from the main body and run at John in a bloody frenzy. “Somebody help us!” screamed John as he lifted his arms up to defend himself from the club which the thing that was a man had produced. The strike came hard and sent John to the ground as the ogresque thing started beating him savagely. John could hear a voice mumble something and the beating stopped but the laughter didn’t. No doubt the three aspects of the ogre wanted to share in his death but had decided to wait until they were finished with their female prey. John heard the muffle scream as Sasha cried out toward him. He had to get up, he had to help her, he had to do something! Just then, at the worst possible moment, he heard the town’s big clock strike the hour and the bells ringing so loud! John could feel them coming, the names, the faces, the voices! John screamed and all present, even the dead horses, seemed to look upon him. At its worst it was like a tormented soul from the deepest reaches of the pit screaming in pain, fear, and horror as an angel offered it shining salvation in exchange for some destiny that would be horrific but full of unimaginable wonder, love, and hope. John looked around him and it was as if the roof of the stable had been ripped away and the stars above were as the eyes of the universe staring down at him in his torment as the moon pleaded with him like a white faced harlequin, crying tears for him but not being able to wipe away it’s wicked smile! He could hear God whispering to him to not be afraid and the devil laughing and celebrating the death of the man called John that would let beasts like the ogre three loose upon the world! John was scared, he was in pain, death was so close, oh how it would relieve him of his torment! “John…please don’t die…” John heard the words come from the parched, quivering lips of a young, hopeless girl, and for a moment there was peace as John looked upon Sasha’s tear-filled eyes. John knew, and at last he was ready. John was flung back into the storm within his mind, but now in place of tormented fear was something John had never felt before! John Smith read all the names that swirled within him and heard the voices of all the faces and accepted them all as his horrific scream became something new that burned the ears of the ogre and brought an indescribable sensation into ever fiber of Sasha’s being! The faces within John Smith all screamed the same as every host of heaven sung in tearful glee and every hoard of hell screeched in fearful defeat! As he plunged deeper and deeper into his soul and the scream grew louder and louder, John saw the single name that he shared with ever one of the tens of thousands of faces, and in that moment John knew what he felt that was reflected in his scream! It was fury the likes of which no storm could compare, and John grasped the single name like a sword and stood before the three aspects of the ogre! Standing before them was a thing that had tens of thousands of faces, tens of thousands of limbs, tens of thousands of voices that screamed out in a righteous fury that seemed to cause the very sky to burn! The moon laughed the stars danced, and all the world seemed to shutter in that moment! One of the three men that were the ogre fell dead from the mere sight of the thing that was John, while another went mad and fell to his knees trying to scratch out his eyes! The third man that was ogre ran in some primal desire to kill the thing that brought it pain, but with a shining fist of ever kind of gold and light, the thing that was John struck down the animalistic attacker shattering it into a thousand unnamable shards. Sasha looked on at the beautiful thing as tears streamed from her eyes and her very soul was filled with unnamable feelings! She couldn’t breath, her heart was pounding too fast and too hard, and her entire concept of the world had been changed into something shiny and new. Her mind just couldn’t comprehend!!! Then, Sasha slept… Sasha opened her eyes slowly and could feel strong arms beneath her, carrying her with no effort. She looked up to see the face of the one who had saved her and was surprised to see John. No, it wasn’t that she was surprised to see him as much as it was to see him as a normal man again. Sasha could tell though that the man she had known was still their, but he was also changed. It was John’s eyes that made Sasha realize what he had become. She could see her old friend’s soul in those eyes, but she could also see youth in them, like the eyes of someone who saw all things as new and brilliant, but Sasha could also see age in those eyes, like the eyes of one who had seen all things and had become weary because of it. It was an odd contrast that caused the young woman to feel a sort of tragic joy that she could not describe in words, for she knew the world needed this man, but he could never be part of the world. He would save countless people, but never be able to save himself. He would help humanity forward, but he would eventually be left behind. Sasha knew a word that had become the name of John Smith, though it was not the only word as there were infinite other such words throughout the vastness of the universe and of universes unfathomable. Still it was the only word she had for him and the only name he would need in this world. It was blessing and curse, boon and burden. She spoke the word in a whisper and John smiled upon hearing it, recognizing it as the name he had run so hard from that he had hidden it away in madness and himself in fear. But no more, he would take his name, title, birth right, whichever you wished to call it, and he would wear it proudly. For he is, was, and will be again called… HERO He has accepted his fate. A companion awaits. Consort in arms. The sword will be drawn. A path made clear. A shining new day. To God we pray. A Hero to save. Oh, Fortuna by Malleus Malaprop[1,250 Words] “He lays awake, still...” A puckish child, bright red hair beneath a bright white cloak; something like sorrow and admiration in her voice as she hops up onto the young man’s desk. “Poor thing.” A lovely woman, whose auburn hair spills out over her own white robe. “I do wish we could do something for him.” The long robe swishes across the hardwood floor as the woman steps up behind the young man’s desk, and the auburn hair swishes across his hard-lined features as she casts her own green glance over the young man’s shoulder. ... Everything is closing in again, chaos swirling down the toilet of his life into one great irrational funnel, tunneling down through him . The boy sits quiet, composed. Just writing. Inside, he writhes and coils and rebounds. Facing out, he sounds a silent scream in all directions. The scream becomes a wail, which implodes infinitely inwards, searching, finding, boring new depths of despair. Despair, he thinks, is a thing which people cannot feel without knowledge and desire. The full understanding of a desire coupled with the full understanding of that desire’s impossibility. No, not impossibility, not here—that’s why this is worse. Possibility, simplicity, and still the knowledge of an arbitrarily unattainable desire. This emotion has no name, for it is only the nameless that can bore so deep. ... Bright green eyes under the white cloak, peering up to an auburn sympathy. “Can’t we?” “Now you’ve got her going. You both know why we can’t.” A great lady, of silver hair and evergreen eyes; full of wisdom and anticipation. “And watch your words.” Leaning back against the young man’s bookshelf, the lady scowls just slightly as she adjusts the sleeves of her bright white coat. ... Pity? No, he doesn’t believe in pity. If anything, this is anger—a swelling, seething, boiling and burning anger with no target to incinerate, no enemy to destroy, no definable cause, no forseeable exhaustion. Nothing to rail against, no challenge to overcome; no release and no limit. This anger, he thinks, will grow and grow, and he with it, until he becomes so large that worlds will fit in the space between his atoms, and he can find the peace of lonelieness, at least. ... “My words?” Deep emerald eyes batting. “Why, which ones?” A childlike giggle. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on.” Flash of evergreen; a wry smile. “You know very well what you said.” Mock hurt, followed by a lovely smile. “What did I say?” Another fit of giggles from atop the desk. “Dangerous words!” the girl softly sings. Wink. “Too true.” An evergreen glare, and then— “Oh, go on, if you’re so clever! What did she say?” ... Standing in the center of his mind, surrounded by the void—and he himself the flame, the sun, the heat, the light. In his mind, he can rail against the darkness. Great solid walls of it to beat on and rage at and hurl himself against...though they are his creations, not his opponents. They will fade like smoke and he will be left again with nothing to fight. “It makes no sense!” he screams. “No sense!” A formless, mocking voice rises from the void. “Who ever said the world made sense?” “I did, damn it!” The boy sees himself made of light, feels himself made of heat, stands with his shoulders set back against the nothing. “It took me twenty years to say it,” he cries, “but I’ve earned that right, goddamn you!” He whirls around, searching for the voice, finding no body to match it...only the nothing. “It is you who make life senseless!” Holding the image of a snarling animal, desperate, fighting for its life, he faces the void. He faces it spitting and swearing, growling, hackles raised, claws out, thirsting for a life’s blood that does not exist. “Why—how can anything be so arbitrarily difficult as this world? No challenge, no achievement, just painful chaos and long-suffering tradition. Give me a puzzle; I will solve it! Give me a task; I will accomplish it! But this!” The voice becomes his own, even as it assaults him. His own derisive laughter peals through the fog of nothing so close around him. His own bitter cynicism, voicing his own bitter fears. “Do not lie!” the voice rebukes. “I know you,” the voice declares. The fog begins to resolve, the formless to take a form he knows too well. Every word shapes the shadow to match the mirrored voice. “You do not solve puzzles. You do not accomplish tasks,” it says. “But you begin. Oh, yes, you begin and you begin, yet you are impotent to complete. Oh, thou incomplete man,” the voice intones, “yours shall be the legacy of endless beginnings!” ... Even the great lady’s evergreen eyes are narrowed in a certain sympathy, as the young man sits wracked with potential energy and unspent motion. Now the woman giggles; now the child is still...bows her head...takes a deep breath. From beneath the bright white cloak, two whispered words escape: “I wish.” ... Truth, all of it truth. The boy screams again, but the scream has lost its righteousness. He screams in nameless fear and anger at the truth of it. He screams in an agony of honesty, the sound of it no longer emanating from a burning center, but being ripped away to die in the freezing void— A soft knock at the door; the young man puts down his pen. Wide-eyed, sweaty-palmed, he stares at the pages before him. The knock again, no louder but somehow more insistent. He looks at the door a moment before he stands to open it. He does not see the woman standing beside him in her white robe, nor the child sitting on the edge of his desk, kicking her feet. He isn’t looking for them. He sees the young woman on the other side of the door, frowning. Red hair let down, green eyes narrowed by weariness and concern. “It’s late,” she says. “Aren’t you coming to bed?” He smiles in a manner which he hopes is reassuring. “In a little bit.” A pause. “I was just working on something.” Green eyes glance at the desk, see the pages covered in text and smile. Such a warming smile...he feels some little bit of that life-heat return. “When can I read it?” “When I’m done.” The frown returns. She sighs and says, “Don’t be too long. You have work in the morning.” He nods, trying for another smile, succeeding in form if not in function. The door closes; the boy sags back into his chair. His tired eyes attend again to more immediate surroundings...was it dark before? His hand scrabbles in a desk drawer for his phone – to check the time – when the chiming of a church-bell somewhere renders the action redundant. The bell chimes, and the grinning girl’s feet stop kicking as she glances up from within her white hood. It chimes, and the lovely smile turns distant and wistful. The silver-haired lady sighs. Reaching into her white coat-pocket, her well-worn hand removes one burnished old gold coin. The bell chimes, and the coin rings sharp as she flips it across to land in the young man’s desk drawer. He doesn’t notice it land. Closing the drawer, the young man stands...stretches...and walks out of the room, completely unaware of how is fortunes have been persuaded to change. Tomorrow shall be an interesting day. Night in the Amusement Park by Negoth[1,613 words] I peer down. Heights never held power over me. I actually feel more comfortable up here: above ground with the park my dominion. I feel as if I can fly. Perched atop the highest ride in the park, I grin as I survey my kingdom. Everything knows where it’s supposed to be. The whole scene is perfect. Right here, right now is paradise, and not a soul ever sees how happy I am here. I, Ida MacGreggor, am queen of this place. Nothing can change this night. Then, I feel a strong surge through my body. I go numb. With my grip slowly slipping from the metal it was clenched to, I scramble and grope for something, anything to hold: something to stop me from falling. I know this fall can only mean death. I know if I fall, I will never again see my kingdom, and she will never see her queen. Slowly, I drift back to my senses. I regain my feeling, but as I push up to a standing position, pain shoots through my entire body. My rather unpleasant encounter with the ground will assuredly leave some very unyielding marks. At this moment, reality hits me. That ride stands at over one hundred feet high. I was at the top when I fell. I-I should be dead. Without hesitation, I bolt, as fast as my legs allow, to the gate. I yank at the handle but to no avail. No! No! No! This thing is always open. I can’t climb over. This fence was made so you can only enter through the gate. My cell phone, of course! Jeez, all this panic for nothing. I extract my cell phone from my pocket. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. I am about to send my call when I notice the display on the screen: NO SERVICE. Great. Now I’m really sunk. I have no way to get out of the park, even from the outside. I might as well try to enjoy myself. Huh, the park’s lights are on. I could’ve sworn… I feel a drop of cool moisture on my face. Lovely, now it’s raining on me. The closest tent is the Fun House. I make it under the awning just in time before it starts to rain harder. I’m moving into the warmth of the carnival tent when I feel something brush my elbow. Startled, I spin around and launch myself backwards. My panic was a little premature, for my elbow had just brushed the giant figure of Laffing Sal. Somehow, I had managed to forget this was here. I don’t know how. She traumatized me as a child. She was tall, easily six feet, and she wasn’t exactly thin. Her ginger hair was in tight curls and down to about her shoulders. Her hideous mouth was missing a tooth and set in a permanent grin. When activated, she would swivel in a sort of “dance” and a laugh track in her pedestal would play. Why anyone would put this monstrosity on a pedestal in beyond me. I release the breath gathered in my lungs in a sigh of relief. Honestly, I don’t know what I was expecting. I mean, I knew the thing was there…but it wasn’t supposed to be right there. I scan the layout of the Fun House in my head. Sure, Laffing Sal was supposed to be in the Fun House, but she had always stood in the right corner farthest from the entrance. She had moved, but as far as I know, I’m the only one who comes here. This whole night has been full of mystery. I wonder what time it is. I need to go home eventually. On the far wall of the tent, there is a big, old cuckoo clock. Chiming every hour, it still works. I had been here longer than I thought; the clock read 11:58. I had no idea it was so close to midnight already. I guess time really does fly when you are having fun. I am pulled from my trance by the chime of midnight. A horrible, sadistic laugh rings throughout the air. The clock has never even come close to sounding like that. Slowly, I turn around. Looming over me is the grotesque figure of Laffing Sal. Her piercing laugh is the only sound of the night. Her teeth are jagged and sharp in her foaming mouth. Her eyes are red like fresh blood. Too surprised to scream, I flee to the tent’s exit. Wait, this provokes an attack of opportunity. That, and I was flat-footed, and she would’ve gotten a surprise attack. I would lose for sure. What am I saying? I have to get out of here! After running for about ten minutes, I chance a peek back. Not far behind is Laffing Sal, closing in fast. Still too frightened to contemplate what is happening, I run again. If there was one time I had to literally run for my life, this is it. Legs, don’t fail me now. I scan the blueprints of the park, looking for someplace safe. I am able to put enough distance between myself and Laffing Sal so I may duck into another tent. I hide and remain motionless. For a moment, I thought she would float past the tent, but I had no such luck. She is smarter than I could’ve imagined. Quietly, I rummage through my pocket for my phone again. I don’t know what possesses me to do this, for there is no service. In my blind haste to check my phone, my lucky coin drops out of my pocket. Everything happens in slow motion. I stare at the coin, not realizing what events are occurring until I hear it hit the ground with a thud. The sound of the metal colliding with the floor seems magnified one hundred times over. Panic rushes through me. There’s nowhere to hide and nowhere to run. Laffing Sal’s hideous laugh shatters the night. She turns in my direction but makes no move to unblock the exit. I try to make myself as small as possible, hopefully, unseen. If I can only draw her away from the door, I might seize a chance to escape. She starts to move slowly towards me. It’s now or never… I sprint to the door, bobbing and weaving to avoid Laffing Sal’s flailing arms. Just as I am about to leave the tent, I fell something tug at my long, auburn ponytail. I am thrown backwards into the plastic body of Laffing Sal. She turns me around to face her. “Such a naughty child, trespassing on my turf. Naughty children must be punished,” rasped Laffing Sal, still foaming maniacally. Something in the far back of the tent catches my eye. I think I see movement. It’s just as I thought. Every night I came to the park, I was never in solitude. “Oh, God, you’re not alone!” I gasp, glancing nervously between the figure in the back and Laffing Sal who holds me tight in her grasp. The shadowy figure emerges from the back of the tent. “NO!” I scream. “It can’t be…” I wake up at home…in my bed. Was this just a dream? I try to go over the night’s events in my head. I remember Laffing Sal’s touch burning on my skin; her laugh is etched in my mind. Nothing was more real. When my parents see I am awake, they ask me to come downstairs and talk to the police. I hear them whispering downstairs. “I’m worried about her. She kept laughing and going on about these monsters in the Bronson Amusement Park,” explains Mom. “Well, we’ll talk to her and then make the decision,” declares the policeman. “What decision?” I inquire. “Honey, this man is going to ask you a few questions about last night,” Mom says comfortingly. “What decision are they going to make?” I ask again, sternly. The policeman clears his throat. “What happened last night?” “I was chased by the Laffing Sal in the Bronson Amusement Park. You remember that thing,” I say. “You do know that is an inanimate object, right?” he said with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know; it was possessed or something. It was real! I can hear her, still, in my head!” I yell, scared. The policeman turns to Mom. “I’m afraid so, Mrs. MacGreggor,” the policeman says. Mom makes her way to me. “Honey, you just had a horrible dream. You were here all night.” “You’re all lying! I know where I was! I know what happened!” “Do it,” Mom says uncomfortably. The policeman advances too quickly for me to react. I feel the needle piece my skin. I feel the impact of the floor on my now limp body. Everything spins around me. I hear the voices of Mom and the policeman before I am out completely: “That was too close. She must never know…” Once again, I awake in my bed. I slept all night, but then why am I so tired? As I am dragging myself out of bed, an image flashes across my mind, and I hear a terrible laugh. I double over from the sheer volume and terror of the…memory? I have no idea what I just saw, but something inside me is telling me otherwise. That image and laugh are such strangers, yet I know they are more. There is something tugging at the back of my brain. It wants to reveal itself, but it can’t. Only traces poke through. I live for the day when that “memory” makes itself known to me. Where the Furies Nest by lukedk987[3,131 Words] I could have taken my spring break at Dayton Beach with my friends, getting drunk and doing all sorts of stupid things and loving the hell out of it. However, Vera--my wonderful Vera--talked me into going to Japan for spring break. She is an anthropology major specializing in Eastern cultures. Being a lit major, I was eager to explore the culture behind my recent Japanese Fiction class. We came with our two friends Beth, the opinionated law student, and Richard, the nihilistic philosopher. So far we were having the time of our lives. Then Troy shows up in the morning. "Dude," he begins, apparently addressing me, "John, man, those Asian hookers are nuts, man!" As he raises his hand for what I assume to be a high five, I mumble something about coffee and leave him hanging. While the rest of us were members of the Japan club, here to appreciate the culture of the land we have dedicated at least part of our study to, Troy is a mechanical engineer here for a job interview. He tagged along with us because we gain a group of five discount through our campus travel agency if we shared an itinerary. That meant we get to bear witness to Troy's escapades and complete lack of any culture whatsoever during our last break of our senior year. There was no time to let Troy's stupid antics get to me now, since we had to pack. Today we were going to visit Aokigahara, the infamous Japanese woods were many people chose to end their own lives. Vera had suggested it as an interesting crossover between cultural and forensic science. Beth and Richard left right away in the morning, and we were going to make our visit in the afternoon. Until then, we had other stops to make. It was a long travel and each of us were eager to get out and stretch our legs once we reached our destination; it is always invigorating going somewhere that has no cell service. The woods themselves are pretty, and not amazingly different from our National Parks back home. Sure, the trees were of different types, but the palettes of greens, blues, and browns make it look to my untrained eye like any other picturesque forest I had ever visited. The only thing to tip us off was the first sign, placed conspicuously next to the main road that ran past the woods. Think of your family, it read. We walk into the woods, slowly at first, then relaxing after a while and our gait grows longer and more easy. We stroll for about twenty minutes before we stumble upon our first body. Vera tells us that it is most likely about six days old, and I want to throw up. I love movies and television, and had seen my fair share of gore in my day, but nothing prepares you for the real thing. The poor fellow hangs from a noose that was pulled over a branch and attached to another tree. His right arm and left leg are tangled in the rope somehow, and it left his body contorted at all sorts of unnatural angles. The biggest thing is the hue of his skin. All wrong. Of course it isn't going to look like a body at a funeral, which truly have little difference from the day they died, but it is also wrong compared to movie corpses. Movies have old, brown palettes and fresh gray-and-red palettes for their cadaver palettes. Unfortunately reality is more black and green, and the green is tinged with the gray of indifference. I also noticed his skin was beginning to separate from the rest of his body, a post-mortum leather jacket that was about to be shed. I did not look at his face. "That dude got iced," says Troy. How witty. We walk around for another while, but don't really find much else. It getting late, and we have to get back to catch our train. I guess it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. We walk back the direction we came, and after 45 minutes of walking come to the dreaded realization that we were lost. "We can't be lost," says Troy, "we just follow the same path backwards. We never took any forks, and I know my directions better than anyone. Besides, we are right back where we started half an hour ago." "That's really stupid," I blurt, "even for you. We can't be exactly where we were. We must have just turned off a little ways, but we can't be in the exact same spot." We keep on walking, and just around the bend we see our grotesque hanged man again. "Impossible," I mutter, and check the map again. What did I do wrong? "We just need someone who knows their directions to lead," says Troy, apparently oblivious to how little I need him talking right now. "The path we took in went due northwest, with no major variations. Now that we are back in the same spot, we can go straight southeast and find our way out." Troy leads the way, and we follow, eager now more than ever to get out of here. After another 45 minutes of walking, with Troy keeping a close eye on our direction using both my compass and the sun, we can see the same body hanging from the same damn tree. An icy chill pokes at my heart, and even Vera, our most level-headed companion, looks bewildered. "Maybe something is throwing off the magnet?" she posits. "Hey, you!" yelled Troy, "how do we get out of here?" We turn quickly to his direction of sight to see if perhaps there is another who could guide us out of here, but nobody is to be found. "I could have sworn he was there," Troy gasps. He explains that it was some dude wearing dark clothes and an old-fashioned hat that hid his face from view. As we rush over to where we think the shady figure was, we freeze dead in our tracks. Actually, poor choice of words, since Richard was lying dead on the forest floor, neck broken in an awkward angle. We kneel next to him, and Vera whispers, "Oh, poor Richard. He must have fallen out of that tree or something." "How do we know that guy didn't kill him?" asks Troy. "You mean the guy only you can see?" I respond. Vera brushes Richard's hair aside to reveal perimortum bruising. We get up, and a hush falls over us. It is the sound of a wristwatch chirping out the hour. Filled with joy at not being alone in Dante's forest, we sprint towards the sound. Vera screams, as we find Beth leaning up against a tree. Her tongue hangs loosely from her mouth, and blood has formed a scarlet bib on her white T-shirt. "John, I'm really scared now," quavers Vera, moving close to me. I grab her and hold her tight, smelling her hair, reaching desperately for some comfort in merry-go-round of insanity. "It's okay," I whisper. "We have each other. We can make it out of here. We both knew that those two had some unresolved issues, and I guess the emotional trauma made them snap. But we'll be okay." "John," she whispers, "I wasn't talking to you." I back up from her embrace, and see her and Troy staring in the same direction. Try as I might, I cannot tell what they were looking at, but it did not bode well. It dawned on me that somebody may be orchestrating all of this. Whoever this sick bastard might be, it may be time we found him instead of trying to run away, which has not worked so well yet. Not wanting to lay a hand on lovely Vera, I slap Troy across the face. As he comes to, I beller, "You saw him again, didn't you? Answer me!" "I don't know what you are talking about! Don't you go crazy on us, too!" "The man in dark clothes with the old-fashioned hat, you mentioned him before." "I was seeing things." "Everyone has seen this person, moron! Has it occurred to you he might be doing this to us? Where was he?!" Troy points to a tree about 30 feet away. I walk there and examine the area, but no trace of him is to be found. Impossible! How could he not have left footprints in the mat of dead leaves? Troy and Vera are behind me now, and they both seem to be okay. "We are going to find him," I say. "He cannot take the three of us. Then we'll get our answers, and get the hell out of here." I walk in what should be the logical path of retreat of our mystery man. Troy points out that it's beginning to get dark since Mt. Fuji to the west of us makes for a much earlier sunset. We stop and discuss our plans, since it seems unlikely that we will be able to track down the madman who is torturing us before dawn of the next day. We elect to build a camp, and begin the process of picking out a spot that provides clear visibility in all directions. We find a clearing at the top of a knoll, but it is already claimed. Another chilling corpse has laid itself to rest there, impaled on a steel post bearing another sign. Choose Life. Were I not in such a state of primal instinct I would have made a comment. I hear Vera sobbing behind me. As I walk over to her, I realize that her sobbing is making me very, very frightened. Vera has always been a world-class skeptic. If she is becoming emotionally unstable, then perhaps I should be too. "Where's Troy?" I begin, trying to buy myself time to think of something to say. "He's getting firewood. He said he has a lighter he could use for a campfire." I put my hand on her shoulder, "We're all scared, you know. I think that between the three of us, though, we'll be fine. All we have to do is get through this night." "Actually, it will be just us now. That man whispered to me while we were walking. I didn't want to believe it was him, but the words were clear enough. 'The others will die, and you cannot help them.' I imagine Troy is off perishing at this moment." "Why didn't you stop him?" I whisper with a quiet intensity instead of raising my voice against her. "I don't know!" she wails, "I'm just so scared. I can't explain what's going on and it scares me. I've been so wrapped up in trying to rationalize our problem that I have let Beth, Richard, and now Troy go to their deaths." She chokes out the last word of her sentence and buries her face in her hands. I'm so worried about her. Still, I know Vera. She will come around, and sometimes she just has to be left alone. I quietly take my leave to search for Troy. As I run through the woods yelling his name, I realize that the darkness is coming faster than before. I start to jog, and then run as I brace myself for the worst. I stop to catch my breath, only to hear footsteps behind me. I wheel around, yelling, "Stop right there!" "Dude, it's just me." "Oh thank God," I sigh as I walk up to Troy, who was carrying a large bundle of firewood. I take half the load from him, and he leads me back to camp. Vera is still crying, and when he asks me if she's okay, I just tell him to leave her alone. "Dammit I can help too!" he yells, throwing his wood to the ground. He closes his eyes and breathes a few breaths, collecting himself. "I'm so sick and tired of being treated as a tool. That's all an engineer ever is: an asset. I'm no better than a plasma torch or a friggin' vacuum cleaner. Even now, I heard you call me your pack horse as we walked back to camp. Did you think if you whispered, I wouldn't hear you? Who's the moron now!" "I'm sorry," I mumble. I didn't want to say that it wasn't me who was whispering. How could he have heard it when I couldn't? "No more jokes on my part. We're all in this together, and we can't turn on ourselves if we want to survive." We somberly nod, and sit back to back and try to get some sleep, Troy offering to take first watch. Shortly after offering some of my water to Vera so she can take her Vicoden (she is still nursing a nasty knee injury, and the running sure didn't help), I fall asleep. When I wake up first it is the dull gray of early dawn. Troy forgot to wake us, that idiot! As I take time to calm myself and speak to him in a constructive manner, I realize that only Vera and I are leaning against each other. I rouse her, and she groggily gets to her feet. We are both utterly exhausted from yesterday's trials, but the blood comes rushing back to us when we discover Troy, hanging from his own noose from the nearest tree. As I approach him I notice that he has placed two yen over his eyes, an ancient burial custom that apparently his family uses. The coin in his left eye dislodges, revealing a half-lidded bloodshot stare. I can feel it arousing my guilt for my mistreatment of him, and I lead Vera away. She hasn't said anything all morning. She is normally very reserved, but this is a different kind of silence. "I should have stayed up with him," she finally says. "Or, I should have taken Beth's watch and used it to wake us up. This never should have happened. It's all my fault." "No, Vera, please stop..." "The whole thing. If I hadn't suggested it, we never would have come here. I also had the knowledge to prevent all this. I knew Richard had severe depression. I should have convinced Beth and him to come with us. And common sense says we can't trust ourselves to stay awake our full time of watch! I was so busy with taking care of myself, I neglected everyone around me. I thought I was better than that." "I'm still here! Focus on me, keeping me safe. There was little you could do about the others, we were all thrust into this unprepared. But, tragic as it is, the others are gone now. It's just us, and you know me better than anyone. Let's keep each other alive." "But you are strong enough on your own," she replies. I laugh, say that I wish, and start heading towards the mountain. She borrows my canteen again, and for the first time, I swear that I can hear voices. I can't make them out, though. Fuji looms larger and larger as we approach it, until it goes from being a figure on the horizon to part of the terrain. I can still hear something, a grating voice that I honestly can't tell if it's a man or a woman. I turn around to check on Vera. She says she hasn't seen or heard anything, but that she's really tired. I can tell, too. Her skin looked slightly clammy and sunken, her eyes drooped quite a bit. Maybe it was time for a rest. We stop and sit down, and she leans into my lap. "I love you, John," she says, "thanks for just being great when everyone needed you to." I don't say anything, just stroke her hair. I haven't been that great. "I'm sorry, too, John." "Those deaths are not your fault," I say, but she never answers me. She begins seizing, and I frantically turn her on her side, trying to insert a piece of bark in her mouth so she doesn't chew on her tongue. After a few minutes of struggling she goes calm. Very calm. "No," I whisper in my blind panic as I roll her onto her back and begin compressions. "No, this can't be, I won't let it happen!" I compress and breathe until my arms feel like lead, but still there is no response. I finally, lean my head against her in exhausting, bawling my eyes out. I am alone. I croak, "I am alone in the woods and have nothing left to live for." "That's right." I scream and jump back, landing on my tailbone. The figure was standing beside me for a while now. Seeing him up close, I can see it is actually a her, wearing what appears to be a black toga with a more modern-looking coat over it. Her wide-brimmed hat seems to be of an Italian Renaissance style, and it obscures her face. I am glad it obscures her face, since I am not sure I want to know what it looks like. FInally, I get up. "That was your voice whispering to me. I realize what you were saying now." "Do you?" 'How will you live when she's gone,' I quote. I still cannot see its face, but I know it is smiling. It was right all along. It knew all of our personal flaws, insecurities, and regrets. It used them against us. I would ask it what she is, but it doesn't matter now. My life with Vera is gone, and I want to go with it. "Here, sweetie," it says, and offers up Troy's pocket knife. "Just across the neck, then, and it will be short and without too much pain." "Why can't you just kill me?" "There are rules in the universe. Besides, where's the sport in that." I know that two days ago I would have found that comment twisted and utterly distasteful. I realize this, but for some reason it does not connect in my brain. I just smile a bit, not really caring anymore, and take the knife from her. "I know it's stupid, but I have to know," I start, "why did you do this to us?" "This is my home," the creature rasps. "You came in here mocking it." I draw the blade quickly across my throat. It burns sharply for a bit, but fades away as I can feel my consciousness slipping. I fall to my knees, and then prone, as stars obscure my field of vision. The last thing I see is the she-creature planting a small sapling next to my face. Then all goes black.
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; Apr 1st, 2012 at 02:31 AM. |
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March 2012 Competition Entries Topic - Open Topic Winner - Honor Amidst the Chaos by lukedk987 Sages of Mozilla by ICWolf[1, 232 Words] The wind was blowing, lightning was cracking. All the windows were smashed by the storm’s force. The engines groaned to a halt. Rain hit Soul’s sunned skin and scarred face. He woke up; his hopes were dashed as the airship fell through the gray clouds. He ran down the wood and copper halls. Despite the danger of impact, the flames charring the ship, and fatigue of travel setting in, Soul felt that the prior owner of Eleanor had terrible taste. The engine room was in ruin. The copper guided a lightning bolt straight through to blast the engine that kept the ship aloft. That much raw power ruptured the boilers and exposed the potassium salts. Soul improvised tools and parts. He cannibalized the copper moldings, wishing that there was gold. He used his steel arm to fuse the heat sync to the turbine. He prayed for lightning to strike as he wrapped his repairs in the freed copper. He heard the crew above. Working away at the sails to form a cushion. The captain told Soul that this was the most likely maneuver in case of storm. The men were out there in the rain and the engineer ran out, inspired by the men above. He made a trail of copper connected to his arm. The metallic limb was highly conductive, an unfortunate discovery on behalf on its own. Now he was counting on electricity’s tendency to follow the least resistance. He cried out to the men to stay away from the metals. They were preoccupied with keeping their ship aloft, even as they were crashing. A bolt of heavenly power struck Soul. Electricity arched off, marking the wood and singeing dark grooves into Eleanor. The main engine croaked back to life. The man cheered as their lives were saved mere yards above the land below. Soul felt no pain from the energy forced through his body. His only drawback was he could not bend his smallest finger at will. He collapsed, asleep from exhaustion. Travel and rushed repairs were for the young; this was weary for the old man. He had one journey left in him and could not wait to get there. The forests were perpetually ablaze. The land was harsh and shifted under its surface. On occasion geysers of liquid stone erupted into existence. The sky was stained a sulfurous yellow a thousand miles from its volcanic epicenter. In the mouth of this fire spewing beast was a Mecca for smiths, jewelers, and machinists. Soul’s steel arm was feeling heavy. He traveled many intense days in a pirated airship. With laws barring travelers from the Land of Fire, a pilgrim had to be friendly to those in cloaked enterprises. His stump ached from rapid climate change between the volcanic city and the wide plains where he had spent so many years. He pressed on through the crowded causeways of this city sculpted of silver and steel, the temple his main objective. The alleys were packed with sky pirates and quick-eyed merchants. Some buildings had oxidized from a few years of neglect. Despite the heat the radiated from the molten stone below the streets felt as cool as an autumn zephyr. The whole metropolis felt alive, breathing deep and making gentle music with its low humming. Soul felt relaxed here. Nobody took a second look at his arm with confusion, only admiration at its craft. He contained his smile of pride at his own workmanship. A smile of pride on a street so full of thieves and outlaws might be confused with look of innocence and naivety. A man that lives as long as the grayed soldier held on to no purity of virtue. Only remorse and desire to mend what has been destroyed lived in his heart. The grand library under the spire temple of fiery copper and subdued malachite revitalized Soul’s memories. Memories from before his trek, before his slavery to the shamans of the southern lands, before the war of the gods. This library stored the same volumes of engineering and science it had thirty years score before. He waited here and meditated before he was prepared for the temple. The main chamber was carved from warming stones. Seven somber pewter statues stood. The largest was an elder man in heavy robes, cut to free the strong hands of a grand metal worker. A crown of golden clockwork adorned his head. There was no name plate, but Soul knew who it was. It was the god he was swore his mind and skill to. It was the likeness of the grand god of experimentation and innovation, the wise Mozilla. He stood as pillar of reason for the last thousand years. The last war of the gods…the memories still hurt Soul. The mighty Behemoth rose among the shamanistic states. He heated their blood with his hunger for power. His legion spread out consuming lands and engulfing the people in an animalistic ignorance. The volcanic city held against the flood. The shaman’s magic allowed them passage through the steel streets. The sheer number of bone and leather clad soldiers over power the clockworkings and steam-machines of thousands of machinists. Many geniuses fell to the blood fueled spells. The horde only grew stronger and more enraged with every death, with every step gained or lost. The great sages of Mozilla stood against the rush. Each took a main causeway to protect, the preservation of knowledge deep in their hearts. Their machines of several dozen feet pushed the savage men. The miracles of cogs, springs, and the freshly harnessed electricity gave the devoted time. They unleashed the greatest weapon the city had to offer, itself. The steam, the city’s lifeblood, was unleashed by the wisest of wise men on the invaders. The barbaric magicians were purged from the land of fire. Soul had witnessed it all. Now as he knelt before his god, clasping his prosthetic limb he was buried in regret. He saw too much of his comrades’ corpses being used as fuel for the enemy’s vicious war evocations. He fled in fear from that fight. He forced himself through streets of blood and boiled flesh; into his own cowardly exile. Now the faces of his closest brothers stood solemn in the honor of their martyrdom. He wept for his own cowardice, for the cost his brothers paid. Most of all he wept because he was sad and alone in a wasted life with fear and emptiness as his legacy. This ancient tear riddled man was the last living sage of Mozilla. He was the last of a guild of machinist with the cunning of foxes. He was the only person that understood the secrets of transmutation. He felt the weight of these accomplishments as the pressure of guilt. He laid himself before his brethren, begging for forgiveness. A voice resonated in Soul’s head. “Rise my machinist. Feel no remorse.” Soul recognized the voice. It was Mozilla speaking directly to him. It had been so long since he even heard a whisper from the deity. The calm, almost objective voice awed the man. The voice spoke again, “You helped to rebuild the world Soul. You and your arm helped spread our knowledge to those corrupted by Behemoth. Come forth.” Soul found himself in a brass hall. His brothers were with him. They marched forth, into the light of knowledge. The Curious Tastes and Methods of Clan Gnarl’Firlth by thedudeler[2, 686 Words] Zat’Modin ran with terror through the narrow stone corridor. An experienced minor, he had tunneled out of countless collapses and as a dwarf, his tales of combat were equally numerous. But fumbling over the crags and bumps in the stony floor, trying desperately to escape his predator, something beyond terror coursed through his constricted veins, a sense of alienation and despair that only comes from the betrayal of your own kind. Being unfamiliar with his surroundings and elderly by dwarven standards, his bared feet were bloodied and his nails cracked as he sprinted as fast as his stout legs would take him. With short exasperated breaths, he tried to navigate his way through the tunnel. He reached into the right pocket of his simple tunic and raised a fist sized crystal to the wall, illuminating his only chance of escape. The corridor split into two, he dashed to the right, but the glimpse of the torch behind him numbed his mind and like a frightened animal danced frantically between the entrance way, finally running to the left corridor. It was no avail; the hall only took him a few feet into the stone before coming to a dead end. “Damn! Damn!” he screamed, touching the unforgiving wall, he turned behind him, and there the bulky silhouette of his killer. Zat’Modin gave out a vicious roar and held out his hands to his chest and curled his fingers like claws. “I only ran because I have no desire to kill another dwarf, but this ends now!” The figure pulled out a slender metal spike from a colorful poncho. Zat’ Modin realized that it was not a dwarven piece, the bright reds and yellows made that all too clear. As they slowly walked toward each other, Zat’Modin studied the curious mask that hid the face of his enemy. Braided strands of dried grass wildly covered the perimeter of the whole with some of the braids able to support their own weight, almost doubling the height of the assailant. A bulbous tipped nose extended almost a foot from the red, grimacing face. Huge yellow eyes, with a heavy scowl painted on looked on from the flickering torch, as he raised his weapon over his head. A beaded necklace dangled in front, with a brown, rounded pendant of a female figurine hanging down to the stomach of the killer. Zat’Modin had had enough, he charged, letting forth a roar that echoed throughout the mine. The masked killer silently dodged, missing the enraged and sloppy assault. With a quick descent of this arm, he pierced the back of the neck of the doomed dwarf, another clean kill. A locomotive style mechanical trolley, forever powered by the fanatical maintenance of the master dwarven engineers slid through the open caverns leading to the base of the isolated mountain. “And you thought the Council of Stone didn’t take you seriously!” Skulag chuckled. Her partner, Mirtneb hid his amusement with Skulag’s jesting, but he was running through all the ways he could playfully return the jab in his mind. They had been journeying for some time now, but were nearing their goal, the mining camp of Dur’eden. “What is your meaning, Skulag” Mirtneb smugly replied, trying not to grin. “No matter that the Iron Guard demoted me from citadel guard, with nary a warning or explanation. Then they tell me ‘we believe your talents would be best recognized elsewhere’ only to send me on days of travel to matters so severe as an infestation of giant rats in abandoned mining settlements? No, I trust they have me in the best faith!” In all truth, Mirtneb enjoyed working with Skulag, but as a gnome he suspected that his expulsion was due more to a unusually xenophobic member of the guard than any deficiency in his wit or prowess. With Skulag, a precocious little thing with golden hair so unappreciable in the dark underground, he investigated complaints from smaller dwarven cities and villages on the outskirts of the Citadel’s territory. Along with properly documenting their investigations, they were charged with neutralizing any threats to the well-being of the village, which usually meant clearing out a mine of rats, spiders, or at worst, goblins. But Dur’eden was not abandoned; it was resurrected only two months ago when the Clan Gnar’Firlth purchased the rights to a mine deep in an isolated mountain, quite removed from any other major dwarven population, but was able to forge several profitable trading partnerships with various underground races who shared the dwarven eye for coin and goods. Anything from pure metals and jewelry to subtle dwarven tapestries and sheen spider silks. Especially prized were the pelts and meats from Clan Gnar’Firlth’s expansive badger and mole-rat farms. “Well, these would be serious rats, Mirtneb! Since the mine opened three miners have gone missing, dwarves, no less!” “What else have you dwarves managed to accomplish besides cracking rocks? What is your point?” he retorted. “We know that whatever Clan Gnar’Firlth disrupted, it must be a truly nasty foe. Consider it! Three dwarves in such a short time! If it managed only to nab a few of you flighty gnomes, then a few rats might still be a possibility.” Skulag said with tense lips, trying to hold back her grin. She twiddled her golden braids, trying her best to look as coy as possible. When they arrived, the ruling council was waiting for them, standing together before a tall stone gate that protected the mining complex. Mirtneb and Skulag had been sure to learn about them prior to arrival. At the Clan’s helm was Orgin Gnarl’Firlth, ancient by dwarven standards. He stood among the council donned in a heavy green cloak, the front laced together by his elegantly braided beard beaded with stone miniatures of ale glasses and hops, the end of each braid capped with a glyph, together spelling “Gnarl’Firlth, kin of Hanseath” in dwarven script. He, along with the two other members of the ruling council organized the purchase of the Dur’eden mines. Hopsnips Gnarl’Firlth, Orgin’s younger brother, who simply wore a brown silk tunic, which contrasted his white beard and mane. He constantly wore a penetrating scowl, made all the more intimidating by his glimmering axe, always hanging from his braided leather belt. The most distinguishing feature of the last member waiting was his nose, or rather what served as his nose. Nobody was surprised when the raucous and bullish Ragnar Gnarl’frilth, drunken son of Hopsnips lost his nose in an ill-planned skirmish with a drider, but when he crafted a grinning bronze mouse head and let it heal into his nose, some members of the clan questioned the lad’s ability to serve on the ruling council, but during the famously reasonable dwarven meetings, the fears were elated and the Clan eventually learned to make use of the novelty of the thing to entertain the eccentric races of the mountain depths in their trading deals. ”Many fond welcomes little gnome and precious she-dwarf!” Orgin cried, lifting his arms and throwing a pitcher of ale in the air as he walked to greet the two. The brown ceramic pitcher shattered on the massive golden silk tapestry blanketing the entrance to Dur’eden “To you as well” replied Mirtneb, “but I’m afraid we’re here under rather grim circumstances, I’m sure— “Oh come” the Clan leader interrupted, pulling the two towards the stone gate, “we’ve all the time in the world to discuss such things, and buildings too!” the stinking dwarf chuckled at himself. He pushed the agents passed Hopsnips and Ragnar, and with an incoherent mumble commanded the stone door down into the floor, and again raised it when the party had entered. Dur’eden consisted of two massive caverns connected by a winding cavern into a medium sized mountain. The first chamber was the main hall, stocked with stills and barrels of dwarven ale. Domesticated mole rats walked freely in the chamber, and occasionally, you could hear one scream as it was being slaughtered in the open cafeteria. Fresh meats were always being cooked and consistently served, the oily aroma penetrating the whole chamber. The walls and floors had been carved with the subtle geometric patterns of dwarven art. Around the chamber were equally spaced large polished amber stones that glowed dimly lighting the whole of the chamber, each one surrounded by glimmering sheen tapestries. Ten fifty foot stone benches, in two rows of five were in the middle of the floor. “You’ve arrived on a special occasion! Oh yes! You know not many see the cheery side of Clan Gnarl’Firlth, it’s all trade and stock, you know” Orgin said absentmindedly. Indeed the chamber was grandly decorated. And the particularly fine wear and the extravagant beards donned by the dwarven men suggested it was an important day. Orgin had split off from the group, distracted by his waning inebriation and want of more lively company, went off in search of a fix. “We are celebrating the founding of Dur’eden, or rather it’s re-founding. Do try to keep up. ” Hopsnips said dourly. “We arrived not two months ago! Look how lively the place is!” Ragnar said, his bronze nose grinning in the dim light. “What’s so special about a two month anniversary?” Skulag inquired. “Oh come, where’s your spirit, she-dwarf?” Ragnar snorted. “Don’t be a brute!” Hopsnips yelled, quickly turning around to bonk Ragnar on the head. “Your wits serve you well”, taking on a sudden air of serenity, “two months ago we came here, ending harsh times for the Clan. But it was also at that time when our dear Orgin returned, so we celebrate with twice the praise to Hanseath!” “Returned?” Mirtneb said, raising his eyebrows. “Oh Aye!” Ragnar ejected, ‘he was gone for seventy years, we thought he was happy or dead, maybe both! Haha! But come, the mead is flowing and we’ve as much meat as your tiny stomach will bear little gnome and she-dwarf! Taste the finest the Clan Gnarl’Firlth has to offer!” The night passed quickly into the haze of the dwarven drinks and celebration. Drums and horns echoed through the hall, pierced with wailing stone flutes and the whoops of partying pygmies. Mirtneb had actually lost track of Skulag for several hours as they were pulled through the mass of bodies, but nonetheless enjoyed the company and hospitality of the Clan. When he did manage to find his partner, he found her emptying a pitcher, egged on by Orgin and other senior members of the Clan. It was then that Mirtneb noticed something about the Clan Gnarl’Firlth: it was incredibly old, even by dwarven standards. Glancing across the hall of nearly two-hundred dwarves, Mirtneb had only noticed maybe thirty under a century in age. “Mirtneb, you’ve returned!” Skulag exclaimed, wiping the froth from her face with one of the tapestries mounted on the wall. “I certainly hope your taste is reliable…for the noble Clan leader Orgus Gnarps’Film has opened his dark label!” Mirtneb, already powered by dwarven spirits, looked on as Orgin poured the heavy ale in the stone jug nearly as tall as his arm was long. “A toast! We toast our clan!” Orgus exuberantly yelled. “But come! There are matters to attend to promptly, to the mines!” After one walked through to the far end of the main hall of Dur’eden, the passage narrowed downward to the second chamber of the settlement. This was a dark, undecorated chamber. At the far end of this chamber were four small holes, entrances into the mines proper. The chamber was dim with the red glow of the smiths refining the precious metals and coal brought up from the depths. The mines themselves extended far into the mountain and were being expanded at a truly marvelous pace. Orgin, along with Hopsnips and Ragnar escorted Mirtneb and Skulag into the esophageal mines. The drunken agents stumbled behind the council, who Mirtneb noticed, seemed to have shaken off the effects of the party as they silently grouped together about fifteen paces in front of the agents. Soon the agents felt their inebriation take a disturbing turn. Darkness came across vision and the last thing they saw was the look of terror in the eyes of the other as they fell to the ground, unconscious. Mirtneb woke first, but he could see Skulag shifting her weight and mumbling. As his head bobbed to the sides and his eyes struggled to remain open. Though he saw nobody he heard the voices of Orgin and Hopsnips Gnarl’firlth. “They do not suspect anything, but you’ve just squandered anytime we may have had. They will wake soon and now we’ve got him to deal with? Damn it all!” Orgin’s booming voiced carried heavily through the dark mines. “I know I know, let me think!” Hopsnips snapped. “He is only a problem in the short run, we can put him to use as the others, but what to do with them?” Mirtneb’s struggling mind was now paralyzed, for though he did not yet realize the identity or fate of “him”, he knew that he and his partner were ‘them’? “Might we use them?” Hopsnips enquired. ‘Perhaps a gnome will not prove so unsettling to the stomach, and as any dwarf knows, cave-ins do happen, the citadels will think nothing of it.” “Don’t be a fool! They are not mere whelps to the citadel, the gnome is Iron Guard, they will not accept our explanation without a body. Even so, the shamans were very specific, it must be our kin.” “Curse your shamans, Orgin! I wonder why the council decided to trust you, you’re a dangerous traitor!” Next Mirtneb heard the thump of Orgin’s fist against Hopsnip’s rebellious head. The gnome slid back into unconsciousness. “Not more than two weeks ago” Orgin growled. “We cut through to the other side of this mountain. On the other side is a wasteland of stone and filth. These wretches will have no memory of the last few hours, we will place their trolley out there with them, in shambles. They, along with the Guard will think it was simply a terror of the wilds, nothing more. Come, get the others, we’ve bodies to move.” Hopsnips merely moaned in compliance. Morkarin Gnarl’Firlth awoke for another day in the mines. It had been an usual few weeks to say the least. For one thing, two agents arrive at the night of a Gnarl’Firlth celebration, only to leave before the next morning. He worried for his clan also, as no one had seen Ragnar since the party, and word was he had gotten drunk in the mines, but what dwarf gets lost in his own mines? No matter…just another working day he thought to himself. After prepping his beard and adorning his simple tunic, he headed to the main hall, still stinking from the anniversary celebration. He went to one of the small bon-fires where cooks prepared the daily meals. Morkarin received his portions and went to a stone bench and table, both carved out of the side wall of the hall. He took three large gulps of beer to cleanse the morning tastes from his mouth before enjoying his stew. He took a slice of bread and tore a large section of it, and swirled it around the meaty steaming bowl. Today it was especially rich! He dunked the rest of his bread in, soaking it completely before greedily shoving into his mouth. He picked up the stone bowl with both hands and brought it to his mouth. As he quickly drained the bowl of all it’s nutritious contents, something went wrong. He felt a heavy, metallic object pass into his mouth, causing him to panic. The other dwarves rushed to assist coughing Morkarin. Now belting over at the stomach and turning purple in the face. A good Samaritan rushed in and wrapped his arms around Morkarin’s heaving stomach and began to perform the Heimlich maneuver. The hall fell silent as Morkarin belted, and trails of stew, beer and spit followed the bronze rat head that flew on to the floor. Honor Amidst the Chaos by lukedk987[2, 229 Words] Siegmund's grandfather was a lousy, rotten, dirty, drunken, wicked bastard son of a mangy dog. Everyone knew it, although few spoke about it in his presence. Having come from a moderately wealthy family, he had lied, cheated, stole, and mistreated those in his charge as poorly as he could without drawing undue attention to himself. He was overly obsessed with land, even for one of landed wealth; he annexed and invaded, challenging many other lords to skirmishes and duels to gain control. He was a good warrior, but not invincible. HIs mistreatment and general failure of character led many of his servants to seek new alliances when his back was turned. When he was finally slain in battle, his family was little better than peasants. Their societal status, as well as much of his wealth and land, was all but gone. His father died at a young age, taken by a strange, enfeebling illness. He had lived his life trying to restore the name of their family, and bestowed this message of utmost importance to Siegmund: Chivalry keeps us true to ourselves, and contrary to opinion, Chivalry applies to all. Left with these words, a disgruntled following, and little else, Siegmund inherited his empire, and began forging it. He saved little coin for himself, instead using it to legally purchase land for his growing peasant population to spread to. He made it a point to walk amongst the people every Sunday, after Mass, and see if his subjects were happy. This is not to say, though, that he did not have any interests for himself. He loved the written word, having been taught by his mother to read and write, and spent heavily on codexes and manuscripts. Having amassed the largest library outside of the local monastery, he kept it very tidy. Often was the night were the moon would set before his candle would be extinguished. While he read bestiaries, herbals, and alchemical manuals, his favorites were the fechtbuchs, the books on combat. He had learned basics of the fighting arts from his father, and found great joy in unlocking new secrets of this ancient practice. Siegmund is in his twenty-second summer now, and after five years of his hard work, his family has something to show for it. Not thriving nor flourishing, but growing like the sapling oak, shooting up for the sky so it can eagerly bare its leaves and nuts is an apt description of the land he has rebuilt. He has kept out of conflict for the most part, but his men have fought valiantly on the rare occasions they have had to. Siegmund knows that, by all accounts, he should be happy, yet something gnaws at him. Naturally, it is the girl. Clara is a bright-eyed, fully endearing lass of eighteen summers. She grew up two fiefdoms from Siegmund, although strangely they had not met until his father's funeral. He gave little thought to courting her at first, saving his time for undoing his grandfather's handiwork, but as prospects for his lands improved the more he entertained the thought. She seemed quite taken with him, and for the last year their courtship had been very successful. That did not matter anymore. Her father had promised her to an Italian gentleman, Filippo, since he had made a sizable price that Siegmund simply could not compete with. Filippo cares little for her, or any other people for that matter. Part of her dowry included a nice strip of land by a large river, which would be ripe for farming. Knowing that he was losing all the efforts of his carefully planned courtship to a business deal had Siegmund in a rather sour disposition. His mood must have shown during his Sunday walk, as one buxom commoner was kneeling and had addressed him, "Is something troubling my majesty? I do not desire to pry, but if it something I may help with, I would be willing." "Nay, fair maiden, there is little you can do. A young vixen has captured my heart, and now another man has bought her from me." "Why not fight for her?" "It is right of her father to promise her to the suitor who is willing to make the biggest sacrifice," spoke Siegmund, but his words were hollow. It certainly did not feel right to him. "There is a way to fight him and legitimize your claim to her. Captain the Melee at the tournament next week. The winnings would make a noble bride price. We have all seen your skill in combat, milord. But I shall speak of this no further, and ask my leave." He gives it to her, and she returns to her cottage. Sigmund thinks through this scheme on his way back to his manor. It has been a long while since he had tested his skills against another knight, but he feels he could not let her slip away. Yet, it is quite a gamble. The melee is a dangerous, unpredictable competition. It lies at the conclusion of a knightly tournament, after its lesser cousin, the joust. The melee is little more than a mock battle, with all the uncertainties and dangers attached. Two captains each lead a team of knights into combat, and the defeated knights are then held for ransom against their benefactors. Although weapons are modified for safety, there are still mistakes, and they can be costly. He ponders it for a while, and decided he was fed up with making concessions all his life. Aside from his literary collection, he has kept little coin for himself. Siegmund now wants to share his happy home with someone, as his estate continues to grow and develop. Besides, Clara is more than a meager statement on a treatise. He spent the night readying his gear, and the next morning he saddled up his horse and rides forth to the tournament grounds. It is a day's ride, and he camps the night just outside the arena. The rising sun finds him already up and about, and soon he is meeting with one of the factions participating in the melee. Not sure of the best way to approach, he simply steps forth, "I wish to command this faction, and lead us to victory." It was not too long until a large knight, a full 5 foot 9 inches, stood up. "Who are you?" he rumbled in his basso voice. Siegmund and the large knight, named Gotthard, exchanged addresses, and Siegmund discovered he was addressing the captain of the team. Neither one of them had to say much else, and they head outside. Siegmund and Gotthard step into an octagonal ring, and they each took up a warhammer: often the weapon of choice in such judicial disputes. Both raise their hammers in vom Tag, Siegmund knowing his enemy will make the first move; to crush him with sheer brute strength. As the expected strike comes, Siegmund counters with a similar strike of his own and, feeling the strong bind, lets his opponent's blow slide off the the side as he whips his hammer around for a low Zwerchau, catching the giant knight behind the knees and pulling his leg out from under him. As the mountain of steel crashes to the Earth, Siegmund steps in and secures Gotthard's wrist under his foot, ending the bout. The next week of training is not as tough as the other members of the team would have thought. Siegmund has them work against dummies for the most part, with very limited amounts of fighting between them. In truth, Siegmund wishes them all to stay unhurt for the upcoming Melee, where there will be plenty of injury to go around. As the day closes and the crowds pour in, Siegrmund feels his minimalist training approach has done a good job. "No need to beat ourselves up this week," he tells his men on the eve of the championship. "We all know how to fight, and we shall save our savagery for when it will most count." After several flagons of ale, the lot of them went to bed. The tournament seemed to drag on forever. Being the final and most climactic event, the melee had to wait until all the tilting and foot combat and archery games were done. Siegmund guessed there was barely an hour left of sunlight when the ranks of his team were assembled opposite the opposing army in the arena amidst the silent anticipation of the spectators. Siegmund rode out to greet the opposing commander after inspecting his lines, and they shook hands. He returns to his allies, the command is given, and all erupts in pandemonium. It does not start swiftly, but rather the two lines charge. The trample of horse hooves, the rattling of armor, and the battle cries should be loud, but Siegmund cannot hear them. All is next to silent until the ranks collide. That mighty crash of lance tip on breastplate shocks the senses into the moment, and noise of battle erupts. Lances shatter, and about half a dozen knights on both sides are dismounted, trying to avoid the rest of the cavalry's step. Siegmund curses himself for missing his target, but he lands a solid blow on the shoulder of the second man. As his opponent struggles to regain his balance, Siegmund bears his lance around and strikes him with the side of it as he rides by. Although the high-backed saddle prevented the enemy knight from unhorsing, the saddle was knocked at a funny angle, leaving the master of the steed to try and regain his mount. The third man Siegmund hits square in the chest, breaking his lance and driving the poor man at the point almost horizontally off his saddle. He then is forced to duck as an axehead soars over his own bucket helm. He had heard of that English captain who rode out against Robert the Bruce, and did not wish to share his fate. The pitch of the mock battle is like the peen of a bell, sharp at first but decaying rapidly. Siegmund is on foot now, his horse being wounded, and he is with Gotthard. The others have been captured or injured. A quick glance around the empty arena shows nobody else, so the battle is won. Why is nobody cheering? Gotthard grunts and falls to the dirt, and Siegmund wheels around to find a lone knight from the opposing faction had hid behind a horse's corpse. Despite the armor, a sharp, unannounced blow to the back of the head will take the fight out of anyone. Siegmund screams, "Where is your honor, you yellow dog!" A very familiar voice answers, "Is that not the way things are meant to be? Whatever it takes to win?" Filippo. The crowd is booing, but it makes no difference here. Gotthard is down, and Siegmund has to take him alone. Siegmund draws his sword, and winds up into Ochs, circling his opponent while changing sides of his guard. Filippo just smiles, drawing no weapon. "That is the problem, you know, with our society. We are urged to take into our hearts the plight of our neighbors. If we all worry about ourselves, the rest will fall into place. I have had no revolts against me, no wars. All people know that I cannot lose. I find a way to win, one way or another." Filippo's German was lousy, but Siegmund caught enough to know that he did not like what he hears. "Your people will abandon you without courtesy." Filippo's smile grows broader, "Out of fear they cling to me." He closed in on Sigmund without a weapon. Confused, Sigmund just barely saw Filippo reach into a leather pouch on his belt and toss a white powder into the air. It stung Siegmund's eyes and nose, and he lost his balance. When he regained a semblance of his senses, he saw Filippo with his sword in hand, striking down on him. Filippo's strike was weak, but strong enough to force Siegmund back. Siegmund's mind raced for something to do, but was coming up short. Suddenly, he remembered. His messer! He had equipped it as an afterthought, but now realized it may be his salvation. He draws the long knife from the middle of his back, and tucks his left hand behind his back as he brandishes the weapon, enough of a surprise to Filippo for him to halt his offensive. "Peasant's weapon," he hears his foe grumble under his breath, before lunging with a wicked thrust to the heart. Siegmund does not parry the attack, but steps wide to the left of his attacker, causing the point to glance off his shoulder plate and slide harmlessly down his back. Continuous with the step was a crossing strike, biting enough into his gauntlet to cleave the leather and cut the side of his palm. Filippo drops the sword in surprise, and Siegmund grabs his wrist, tossing him over his wrist onto his back. The fight was over. Filippo would be ransomed back to his forsworn lord, and the money would be used to up the bride-price of Clara. As Siegmund was riding out to meet his newly betrothed, he could not help but feel that the greatest victory was showing people that Lady Justice does indeed side with the virtuous.
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; May 2nd, 2012 at 02:32 AM. |
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April 2012 Competition Entries Topic - At What Cost, Victory? Winner - Last Writes by Avonic Last Writes by Avonic[777 Words] Last Words My name is Stephan Oldswheel, sworn priest and cleric of the Raven Queen, may she keep you safe in the dark places. I suppose I must count myself lucky, due to local beliefs about spirits and the like, I’ve won the right to put my story down in writing, I suppose they believe it will give my soul rest and keep me from spooking their kids. As I write this, I can hear the banging of hammers and the sawing of timber. Hopefully my end is swift and I make it to the Raven Queen’s silent halls with speed. I write this as my testimony, and my final plea of innocence. This is my tale, as it pertains to my trial and execution. I was trained a priest of the Raven Queen in the capital, Almon, and from there I was assigned to a small little church out here in the village of Zara. The people here are quaint village folk, the countryside is lush and their simple life is good. My small stone chapel serves as the town’s place of worship, and the graveyard. But enough of that, if you’re reading this, future researcher the person your probably really interested in will be mentioned next, don’t worry. Mika, a simple name really, but it suited the boy well. He came to me in a storm. One night as I was preparing for bed, I heard the crying of a babe, I hurried out, and sure enough, there he was, wrapped in a fox skin, bawling on my doorstep. I was a simple man of the cloth and not supposed to have children, but what’s a man to do? I took him in as my son. He grew healthy and strong, a brilliant child. But life in the village got hard after that storm. It stopped raining, and the rivers became weak and polluted. In contrast the boy was the picture of health, he never got sick, never seemed tired. He was stronger than many twice his age. It was for this the villagers began to hate him, none of their children were anywhere as capable as him. I was not blind to this as some in the future may say, no I realized what he was very early on, but I hadn’t the heart to tell him. He bore the mark of the Raven Queen; he bore the mark of death and fate. Unfortunately for us, in the following years, the townsfolk began to suspect the same. They called me a traitor, they called me a fiend. And from their point of view I suppose I am, after all I have a duty to protect this community and be their spiritual guide, but he was my son even if not in blood… how can you ask a father to give him up just so that a small village can live comfortably? The massive draining effect on the vitality of the surroundings makes sense, he was draining energy from the nature spirits in the area so he could grow strong, as soon as he’s older, he will be free of his need to feed on them and will be a great and powerful force, I’m certain he will change the world. He was a good child, kind and compassionate. They couldn’t have expected me to choose them… could they? I suppose in their situation I would have expected my priest to do right by me, but I am not them. I could not give away my son to them, not when they came to the church with their torches and their ragged flags calling themselves bringers of peace and justice. They were just desperate and superstitious farmhands screaming about ill omens, bad fortune and sacrifices. They were not a true court. They left me no choice, I was trained in many clerical arts, and one is that of channeling divine fury on your foes, that’s what I did. I raised my holy symbol on high and smote any who tried to stop my seven year old son from escaping. He had a little food and water, a knife and good shoes, he’ll make it away, he’ll be okay. But once he was off, I couldn’t stand to hurt my countrymen, my old friends. No one was killed in our fight but still... justice must be done. So they’re building me a gallows. I’m at peace with this end, even though I must die for my adopted son… in a way we both win In a way, we’re both free. -Stephan Oldswheel, Priest of the Raven Queen May she keep you safe in the dark places The Ends of Worlds by The Jaded[2902 Words] Captain Leon by ICWolf[1000 words] The tattered union jack fluttered in the wind. It was one of the remnants from Canada’s days as the airship capital of the empire. The once proud producer of war ships against Japan’s massive naval fleet now sits rusted by the very steams that drove it forward. With conquest of the Pacific islands, the empire held colonies full of raw resources and the slave labor of a broken people; the Canadian provinces were casted aside with the starving Americans. The loyal soldiers and engineers that once were the beating heart of Britannia’s favorite pet now lay cast in the rubbish along with Greece and India. Canada and her people have lain in a heap since the war decades ago. A grayed man sat at his usual table in The Gilded Engine. A storm was brewing, his joints could feel that. The bar was near empty during the harsh winters. Many of the younger patrons fled down into America for the warm weathers. The man was not bothered by the lack of company. He was absorbed in thought, guilt’s magic transforming his face into a hollow mask of human sorrow. His background melted into his past. Cannon shots and cracking timbers echoed into the distance. The aerial union jack was flying high. The man stood tall shouting orders on the deck. The only thing that kept his men in order was him. All around were sights of horrid captains. Charred planking and scrapped metal tumbled down from the heavens. These were reminders to the man. If he could not keep control of his men’s fears and passions they would fall before the Japanese war machine. Black smoke curled from the oriental ships and hindered the sight. It was a darkness that robbed the sight and coated the lungs, robbing it of air and birthing pandemonium in the minds of green recruits. It was scuttlebutt among the fresh fliers that the Japanese had no fear of death and taunted the reaper. The man knew that this was nothing except fear of the foreign. While the drive of the near suicidal Japanese soldiers was staggering in comparison to the suckling babes that the empire drafted, the captain knew that his men could overcome this disadvantage. His men possessed a vital advantage to this bizarre single-mindedness, a spark of creativity. Several of his men were of French and Irish decent. This made for a crew beaming with creative ancestry. Man descended from artists and writes. His pilot was a half baked fool from India that volunteered for royal service. The man chanted during combat, “I am a leaf on the wind. Watch me soar.” The man himself was a cousin of Louis XIV. His courage and heritage earned him a nickname among his fliers. To them he was Sun King Leon, commander of the skies. If only those men knew that he only focused on how to keep him and his alive through the showers of allies and the toxic smoke of foreign steamers. The captain considered himself nothing more than the luckiest many flying under the union jack. If this persona of thane of the heavens kept his men stable and willing to fight, why would he bother to break it? He was one of the only men from the original division to have kept airborne. He considered this plot of global expansion to kept coal in the empire’s boiler a fool’s attempt to patch a sail with gold. The question that tingled his brain was why they were fighting so strong against a nation a millionth the size of whole empire? Surely it cost more to kept troops fed and recruited into the royal militia. What was life going to be like after the war? What was victory going to cost? Inquisitions of the future stopped there. There was always a conflict between forethought of life after the war and trying to get there during the war. Rapid change of altitude to evade debris and enemy flames played hell on the mind. “Swimming in Air” was what the soldiers called the effect. Soldiers called the captain indomitable, a stronghold of Britanian moral and the loyalist man the crown had ever seen. He never thought that. He questioned his reasons for sailing under the flag and why he didn’t just flee with his lovely Avarice Monk in the midst of the fray. No one searched through the wreckage after it hit the ocean. A chance of flight over fight ended as the Sun King Leon was captured. The captain was tortured, locked in a cage. The free spirit of an aeronaut was confined in a chunk of refined and toughened earth. The stillness was maddening. The cruel Japanese did not fear death and made the captain share in that insanity. He longed for death, craved it, love it. In no way did he fear his demise. He only thought of what was the reason behind the war. Why must he and his men, his friends and brothers in arms, be the ante for victory? He never wanted a hand in the war and joined only so his ship would not be scrapped for a warship. In the end, the man of supposed limitless fidelity tattled the secrets of the empire away. He withheld nothing. Once the empire declared victory over the east, all of the prisoners were released and relocated to Canada. Townships were started by funds that were thought to come from the new coal and iron mines. The inhospitable tundra was thus populated as a trash pit of likely traitors. The man sat in reflected and regretted not fleeing with his men when the chance revealed itself. He sat drinking sweet whiskey in the only bar in the township he was dumped in. The once glorious Sun King Leon was reduced to a remorseful drunkard. The best flier in the western skies was ruined by a war started by twisted kings’ attempts to burn water in place of coal.
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Stop by and visit the DnDOG Short Story Competition in the Library. Show your support by voting for the story of the month! Last edited by Klazzform; May 23rd, 2012 at 01:41 PM. |
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May 2012 Competition Entries Topic - Here There Be Dragons Winner - Carpe Diem, Amate Draco by The Jaded and Blasphemy in LA by davide15 (Tie) Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Sep 16th, 2012 at 12:17 PM. |
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