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August 2012 Competition Entries Topic - Missing in Action Winner - I, Simulacrum by The Jaded I, Simulacrum by "The Jaded" The message came in just as I was finishing my afternoon lecture, from someone called “Yasmine Patel.” The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it immediately. The header was not at all enlightening - it was the standard “Yasmine Patel has invited you to VR Chat” that most chatroom providers filled in by default in their invites. Curious, I opened the message. In addition to the boilerplate invitation message and a hook to the VR room from which it originated, the message bore a few sentences supposedly entered by the sender. “It’s about someone close to you, I think you’d prefer if I didn’t say more in this message.” It said. ”The VR room is set to full privacy. Bring your friend if she can make it.” I pulled out of the classroom as soon as the last student’s avatar fuzzed out into nonexistence, and the world became a simple box of gray, on each face a different graph to tell me the performance of my computer terminal. That done, I flicked the message toward the dedicated space in the corner of my vision that sent something to Annabel’s adjacent terminal. She replied almost immediately: “Think she means Mark1.0? We should at least check it out.” I sent my agreement, and poked the chatroom handle in the original message. The tiny gray box vanished and was replaced by a simple, undecorated conference room, with a long table and a single occupant. She was pacing by the simulated window as I entered, staring distantly out at the simulated cityscape beyond. In the corner of my vision, I saw that a marker that said “PRIVATE” had appeared - this Yasmine person had been true to her word. The system must have informed her of my arrival, because she turned suddenly. The avatar was labeled Yasmine Patel, and depicted a rather good-looking dark-skinned woman of perhaps thirty dressed in business attire. As she saw me, she took a half step forward but checked herself, her eyes catching sight of the name on my avatar’s chest. “I was expecting someone else.” She started simply. There was a chime, and Annabel materialized off to the side. She was using her casual avatar, the one with the circuit-board tattoos and the single earring. She frowned at me, and I remembered that I was still using the avatar and handle that I used for my lectures, the name and face of Marcus Arden. I quickly swapped to my “real” set, the one with the face I no longer owned and tattoos to match Annabel’s. The name on my chest changed as well, to “MarkLewis”, not that I had any real right to my old first and middle names anymore. “You expected me.” I replied. “I just came from a lecture.” She seemed satisfied by this change. “Mark, my Mark that is, told me about you two.” She started. “I know you don’t really exist, but I need your help anyway.” I bristled at this, and nearly replied angrily, but Annabel beat me to it. “What can we do for you?” She kept her voice even, but I could tell that remark annoyed her as much as it did me. “Well.” Yasmine looked away. “To be honest he’d probably be angry that I found you. Not an easy thing to do.” “By intention.” I replied simply. “It would bring up some complicated legal issues if we were well known.” After all, to my knowledge there was no case law on whether an artificial intelligence could be considered a person, and neither Annabel or myself had any desire to be that first case. Even though it had been five years, thinking of myself as an artificial intelligence was hard - I had been twenty-four when my path branched, so I still remembered life in meatspace quite clearly. “Of course. I’m not here to make a mess of things.” Yasmine Patel gestured to the table. “Please, sit.” Annabel and I exchanged a look. We couldn’t really grow tired of standing, but if it made this woman more comfortable if we sat down at the simulated table then we supposed there was no harm in it. As soon as we were seated, Miss Patel seated herself as well. “As you already know, I am Yasmine Patel.” She gestured to me. “I was in college with the real Mark, perhaps you - ” I remembered her now - that was why her name sounded so familiar. I wasn’t in very many classes with her, and didn’t really have much interaction with her outside of class. I didn’t recall her being particularly noteworthy, save that she was a rather rare species - a female at an engineering/technology school. “I remember you. We had a writing class together.” I did not humor her decision to assign my past to the person Annabel and I had been referring to as Mark1.0. It was mine as much as it was his, and I resented her a bit for trying to take it from me. She frowned, but recovered, understanding my meaning. “Mark and I ran into each other three years ago, interviewing for the same job. We’ve been dating since.” She must have remembered that Annabel was the simulation of my then-fiancee, and shot an apologetic look across the table. “Go on.” Annabel waved off the pause. Mark1.0 had been true to his word - aside from exchanging digital Christmas cards, we hadn’t seen or heard anything from him since he left us to our own devices. I knew he’d keep his word, of course - he was me, more or less, and I didn’t make promises lightly. Annabel had not seen him since her simulation was started, and I’d only held two conversations with him after that, both in the first year. “Anyway.” Yasmine continued. “Mark’s missing. Neither he nor his car have been seen since last Tuesday evening. The cops looked into it, they think he might have just run away but they’re still investigating.” She shook her head. “I know Mark. He didn’t run away. He’s in trouble.” I was interested, and worried - it was a strange thing, the instinctual self-preservation despite the fact that I wasn’t tied to that body anymore. “What do you want from us?” I asked. “I want you to help me find him and get him back.” She said simply. “You know him, both of you, maybe better than I do.” I shook my head. “Look, Miss Patel - ” “Yasmine.” She corrected. “Yasmine.” I repeated. “It’s been four years since I talked to... your Mark. He’s obviously living a life of his own, but if he’s in trouble I can’t see how we can help figure out what that trouble is. I honestly don’t understand why he told you about us - I wouldn’t have, but he probably had a good reason. We can’t very well unplug and look for clues ourselves, and even if we could why would we be better at it than the cops?” I held out my simulated arms helplessly. A simple fact of life lived as a simulation was that the closest thing Annabel and I got to fresh air and exercise was in VR, like Yasmine’s conference room. Not that we could still benefit from either. Yasmine shrugged. “How about cracking passwords?“ She slid a squarish black plate across the table to me, and I realized it was a terminal prompt asking for a password, with the username “Mark” already filled in. “I’ll bet there are clues in his logs. Who’s been sending him messages should help. I can go to the cops with that.” I slid the slate back. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I need to see corroboration of your story before I go trying to break into his files.” Yasmine nodded. “Ah, yes, how silly of me. One moment.” She pulled a media window into existence in the air over the table and entered some parameters, then waved that to the wall. Like a projector’s image, the window grew until its contents were painted on the wall large enough for us to read easily. It was a police report, and detailed that the cops had been told someone was missing. It was dated last Wednesday, and I winced, seeing the name I once went by listed as missing. “The Mark I knew never tangled in anything dangerous.” Annabel looked to me for confirmation, and I nodded, so she continued. “We’re computer people. We write code for a living.” I did not bother to clarify that these days we were also teaching people to write code for a living. “Not even the dangerous military guidance systems sorts of code. Back when this happened, we were writing new chatbots.” She tapped the circuitboard patterns on her simulated arm, meaning them as a stand-in for our current state. “What’s changed?” Yasmine shook her head. “I wish I knew.” She said quietly, eyes cast down to the table. “He’s always had his secrets as long as I’ve known him, but it’s descended into paranoia. I don’t even have credentials on his terminal. Does he - do you, I mean, have a history of mental illness?” She asked me. “Nope.” I shook my head. “Pass me that slate, I’ll take a crack at it.” The dark-skinned woman sent the terminal slate my way, and I pulled up a media/search window in private mode next to it. Anyone could create a screen-capture of a police report, after all. As I made a list of things to try as Mark1.0’s password, I looked up his place of residence and pulled the local P.D. records on my own. My physical counterpart had indeed gone missing. I started digging further, going through social media records. “You haven’t tried one password yet.” Yasmine pointed out after two minutes. “I’m making a list of things to try.” I replied annoyedly. “I’ve... six so far.” This seemed to satisfy her, but Annabel could tell that I was multitasking, and opened a private text channel. “Can I help?” She offered. I replied in the text channel, in the meantime pretending to read from my media slate for Yasmine’s benefit. “Something doesn’t add up. Trying to verify her relationship with Mark1.0.” Annabel acknowledged, and moving over to my side of the table, joined me in my searching and net scrape. Yasmine, blocked from seeing our work by the private settings on our media windows and on the list of password candidates I was compiling, got up and paced by the window while she waited. Annabel found it first, a detail I would have missed. Mark1.0 had indeed been dating this Yasmine Patel, according to the social nets - but by all accounts the relationship had ended six months ago. That was a big red flag. I reopened the missing person report from the P.D. and went through all the attachments. The cops had thought that perhaps there had been a struggle in Mark1.0’s apartment bedroom, but in its state of disarray it was impossible to be sure. My alter ego’s organization problems clearly hadn’t gone away, I decided as I perused pictures of the room - the bed was unmade, the end table covered in a thick layer of opened mail and receipts, and the closet door partially blocked by a collapsed stack of tech textbooks. Nowhere in the police report was Yasmine mentioned by name or description. I dismissed my media views for a moment and rose to my simulated feet, having seen enough. “Miss Patel, you broke up with my... with your Mark six months ago, didn’t you? Why should I give you access to his files?“ She stopped mid-pace and looked surprised. “How did you...” “I’m an AI, Miss Patel.” I said calmly. “Data mining is the only way I can learn about your world anymore. Care to explain what the hell you’re about? Soliciting a hack is a federal crime now, you know.” Not that I was going to put myself on government radar, but I had a hunch that she wouldn’t call that bluff. I was right. Her avatar visibly shrunk back from mine. “Okay, okay, look. He is missing.” I nodded. “I know. You’re not in the police report, though.” “No. Someone paid me to get close to him and get a copy of his private projects. He won out on that job I mentioned, and I was getting desperate, so I...” “You conned him.” Annabel finished hotly. “You played him for years.” “Yes.” Yasmine agreed. “That’s how it started anyway. I figured he’s a tech guy, a loner, probably shouldn’t take too much for a girl like me to get his guard lowered. He’s got his private work locked down, though - I thought I’d just be able to get what I needed quick, but I never got anywhere close. His terminal would never even let me connect to the file system. Took me nine months just to get his messaging logs... That’s where I found out about Anna, and you two.” “So you hung on, hoping he’d slip up or give you access?” I prodded. “Yeah. But spend two years pretending to love someone, especially Mark, and... I dunno. I resented him, at first, didn’t feel bad about stealing from him. But it’s hard to resent a nice guy forever.” She turned away and stared out the window. “Six months ago, I told my employer I was out, and gave back the bulk of the money I’d been advanced, then I went to Mark and came clean. I told him that the job I’d been pretending to have was a fake, that I’d been living on money paid to con him, and that I had given even that up for him.” “And he threw you out.” Annabel guessed. “Probably not.” I countered. I knew myself, and thus Mark1.0, too well to think that. Yasmine Patel nodded to me. “He was more reasonable about the whole thing than I’d expected. He asked for some space, a few months to figure out if he could still trust me.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “He called me last Monday, asked to meet me for dinner that Friday. When he didn’t show, I went looking.” “None of this is making me want to give you access to his system.” I pointed out. “That’s just it. I don’t have to look far to guess what happened to him.” Miss Patel shook her head. “Your employer.” Annabel filled in. “Still after his projects.” “Right again.” Yasmine pointed to the slate. “I figure if I have what they want I might be able to get him set free. It’s my fault he’s in this mess.” Annabel pointed out what I’d been worrying about. “They’re probably after PAIC. I’ve no idea why though.” I shook my head. “Any number of reasons, but probably to weaponize it.” Both Yasmine and Annabel turned to look at me strangely. “Weaponize?” Annabel asked. “My PAIC?” It seemed obvious to me why someone would be after Anna's brainchild, the Personal Artifical Intelligence Copier, so I cast about for a way to explain that both Annabel and Yasmine would understand. “Look.” I conjured a black chess-knight from the VR menus and set it on the table. “Let’s say I’m a crime boss, and I have a star hacker who can get into anything. But I don’t use him often because he’s my only good hacker and I don’t want him locked up.” Back in the menus, I selected “Copy Object”. “I run PAIC on him, and save the profile. Now every time I need someone’s system taken down or broken into...” I brought up the paste palette and hovered my finger over the “Paste 1 beside” button. “All I do is set up a blank terminal somewhere and...” I hit the button, and another chess-knight appeared. Yasmine frowned, but Annabel nodded, so I continued. “Now let’s say I want my star hacker to break into every bank in the world at once and steal all the money ever earned.” I said, and even Yasmine began to catch on, a look of horror growing on her face. For emphasis, I moved my finger to the “Paste X” panel and dragged the slider up as far as it would go. Hundreds of black chess-knights popped into existence, coating the table from corner to corner. “All I need are terminals, and those are cheap. The talent’s always the limiting factor. And it’s not just stealing money. Even I could take down the government nets, if there were enough copies of me working together. And I’m no security expert.” The result didn’t need to be stated - anarchy. Societal collapse, probably, brought about by digital slaves in the thousands and tens of thousands. “Who was your employer?” Annabel asked. Yasmine, recovering from her shock, picked up one of the knights from the table’s corner. “I don’t know. The job came off the nets, I never met anyone. I posted anonymous status updates, they paid me enough to keep the power at my place on.” I shook my head. Could be anyone - a hostile foreign power, a crime syndicate, even just a private interest who thought to benefit from chaos. “Miss Patel, even to save your Mark’s life, I won’t try to let you into his files.” She nodded. “I’ll find another way then. I have to.” “And we’ll help as much as we can.” Annabel promised, stepping forward to put an arm on Yasmine Patel’s shoulder. “It’s the least we can do. But we can’t give them what they want.” We set to work then, mining the nets for any trace of Mark1.0. Yasmine disconnected after a few hours to get some sleep and do some real-world research, but Annabel and I stayed in that conference room all night, following lead after lead and hoping something would pan out. We didn’t and couldn’t get tired, and the severity of the task ensured we would not grow bored. We had his probable location by morning when Yasmine reconnected. As Annabel left for her morning lecture, Yasmine Patel and I sat down to plan a rescue. The plan was complicated by us only having one pair of boots to put on the ground, of course, but Yasmine had Annabel and myself to watch her back. It’s amazing what one can get to from the nets if one tries - power grid substations, security cameras, even newer walkie-talkies and intercom systems. Almost any new device running on electricity has a handle on the nets, and Mark1.0’s captors were state-of-the-art. Armed with the manuals for every piece of tech they had and the building blueprints, I knew we could do this. Yasmine never looked back, never balked at the risk. She reminded me here and there in glimpses of my own Anna, and I knew what Mark1.0 saw in her. They were a good match, as good a couple as Annabel and myself. It was too bad they started off as they did. I didn’t tell Yasmine when I ran my PAIC6.5 scanner on her. If this all went well, I intended on deleting the copy without even telling her about it, but I wanted to hedge against the dangers of what we were planning. After all, every computer professional knows that the first thing you do before attempting a risky operation is back everything up. Estelle the Novelist by ??? Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it -Truman Capote They paraded Estelle's offspring before her as she lounged languidly on the chaise longue upon the veranda. Wearing a dressing gown at sunset and smoking a pungent cigarello in ebony holder, Estelle effortlessly maintained an air of louche disinterest as one after another each of her children presented her with their tribute. Son number one... a nameless no-one. Conceived in an innocent passion- all naïveté and unguardedness- he was not remembered fondly. In his big, dead grey eyes Estelle perceived the same callowness that had led to his creation. She was ever embarrassed by him. Estelle had loved him in her youth, but as she hardened she grew to hate him and he never adjusted well. Simple and unsophisticated and ignored by all but Estelle's most fervent followers, son-number-one was the family joke. Son number two, Maurice, was confident and assured and used to the kind of life son number one would never know. He offered his mother his hand by way of greeting. First, that hand was slapped. Then his face. He cried lke a baby to his entourage, though he was a grown man. They complained querulously until Estelle's protectors whisked them away. Estelle was sick of the sight of him. When he was a baby, everyone had told he how perfect he was. She swelled with pride, and out popped a third child, Vincent. Though still held in high regard, he was not held in quite the same esteem as Maurice, though at his birth she had loved him just as much. "But look what happens to them..." she grumbled inaudibly, throwing the single rose her lone son proffered back at him. He allowed a slow smirk to spread as he regarded the red blood on Estelle's hand, drawn by its thorns. He'd turned out to be a clever little bastard. As a young woman with two sons attracting high praise, it was only natural that Estelle should want to try for a girl. She felt ready, but contemporaries discouraged her: "For why? when you have such fine sons!" Heedlessly she proceeded. The pregnancy was... tricky. The birth was unpleasant. First the midwife was called. Then the physician. Then the surgeon. Together they had to cut the baby out. Lightweight and gasping for air, she nearly didn't make it. Behind mother's back, as the infant stumbled through her early years, there were many whispers that it may have been better if she hadn't. Happily hopping forward, the wretched invalid laid a few lillies, a chicken kebab and some copper coins at her feet. "Happy birthday, mother." Estelle spat in her face. The invalid smiled- it was more than she could have hoped for. Then came Bruno. Heavy set and good-natured, he was born a number of years after the daughter. After that trauma, it was a long time before Estelle went back to the bedroom with anything but sleep on her mind. Eventually she met a kind man- sensible and money-minded- and he coaxed that desire out of her. In time, Bruno followed. Not in any way the equal of his elder brothers, he was still held up as a perfectly decent figure of manhood. With alarming regularity he was joined by an increasingly homogeneous sequence of younger brothers. One by one they marched up to kiss their mother and offer her their precious tokens. Each one produced a bag of gold coins, though of steadily decreasing size. She could not remember their names. The presentation complete, she turned to address her eldest sons once more. "What do you bring me, eldest son?" "Some weeds." "And you, second born?" He was still smarting from the slap and did not meet her eye as he handed over the deeds to the villa in Andalusia, the chalet in the alps, the cottage by Loch Ness and the flat in Knightsbridge. "My third-born. What do you have for me?" Vincent protested that he'd paid all the servants and the legal bills and the gambling debts in Monte Carlo. Estelle sneered. Following an angry wave of her right hand the servants swiftly descended upon her brood and led them off the grounds. Estelle watched them trudge noiselessly down the path towards the gates. Quite unexpectedly Estelle felt a sudden pang of guilt: did she not owe her offspring her love? But she had given them everything: she was an old woman now, no matter what they gave to her, she would never regain the youth they had taken. Estelle sighed before pulling herself together. She knocked back a tumbler of pastis and rang the bell for service. "Bring me my baby!" Estelle's new handmaid (who looked the same as the last one but was Czech not Slovak) curtsied and scurried from the veranda like a little grey mouse. She sighed again. The moors were beautiful at sunset, especially with pastis and fine cigars and piles of gold coins. After her last husband died (that sensible, money-minded man) there were no Brunos left in her. Estelle fled into the comforting embrace of obscurity. She withdrew from society. Her old friends and colleagues conversed with her only through her children, but they never had anything new to say. Estelle had always longed for a daughter. Doctors and midwives and physicians warned her she was too old, that she didn't have it in her. "Besides..." they would exclaim- "...you have a daughter- Macey! Okay, she's a spastic, but she's yours! And remember her birth- would you really want to go through all that again?" Estelle had been firm: "I know what I did wrong last time." A little grey mouse pushed a silver cross into the red glare before scuttling back into the shadows, all frantic and anxious. Estelle embraced her newborn, wrapped in Egyptian cotton, regarding her face: "You won't get old. You're as well as can be. You're brothers and sister came out fully formed. Why should you be any different?" Estelle's heart melted when her child's wooden lips mouthed "mama!" and- brushing the wire wool back from the little one's scalp- she drew the child to her breast. "Mama!" It yelped, excitedly, before suckling at Estelle's wrinkled teat. Estelle watched her child proudly. So much had gone into her creation. Every single detail was perfect. Her critics might remark at how contrived she was, fashioned from teak not flesh. They might sneer that only a mother could love her. But as Estelle stared into the fine-set emeralds surrounding her baby's pupils, Estelle felt that love, truly, and for the first time. The gloaming light was fading, the stars were out, the other children were long gone and no-one stirred. "I'm not going to share you with anyone else." Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Sep 16th, 2012 at 12:15 PM. |
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September 2012 Competition Entries Topic - An Unpleasant Discovery Winner - The Jaded's Third Party Predator The Ultimate Treasure by SilentTiger [1,197 words] Nimblefingers found himself on the trail to the mountain. He looked backward down the mountain, towards his home. He still needed the money, so there was no use going back in that direction. He looked ahead. Well, he thought, third time was a charm. Well, it wasn't the third time, it was much more than that but he was set on this path and intent to collect enough treasure to save his family. The only solution to getting the money was by looting the dragon's den which was located inside the mountain ahead. Nimblefingers grabbed his hoopak and set out up the trail, his halfknot bobbing to his steps. He knew this way by heart. He had traveled this path so many times in the last few days, but for some reason, in the kender's eyes, he never got tired of it. That rock. That bird. That little plant that just stared at him with its leaves. Nope, not tiring at all, no matter how many times he saw it. Nice proper bush and just the kind that was good to conceal things, thought Nimblefingers as he moved it aside. There before him, behind the bush, was the yawning hole of the dragon's den. He grabbed a loose rock off the ground and ducked inside. A few steps and there he stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He tossed the rock lightly in one hand all the while, waiting. With his eyes adjusted, he threw the rock in a well practiced maneuver hitting the trigger. Twangs sounded down the walls and the whistle of darts being propelled across the hall came to Nimblefinger's ears. It was only after he counted 10 chinks of darts hitting stone wall that he entered the hallway and turned down a side corridor... ...not a long time afterward, after navigating the traps he knew so well, did Nimblefingers end up at the dragon's treasure chamber. Yes, everything was still in place from the last time he was here. There was the golden throne. That shiny suit of armor that slightly glowed. The crown dripping with gems and jewels. The dragon at very tip top of the hoard, his eyes closed. The dragon was curled up so that he tail just barely touched the tip of his nose. A gentle breeze wafted from between his massive teeth. The breeze felt cool to Niblefingers, who positioned himself in front of the dragon's maw. The scales were so small and beautiful up close, and they almost shimmered. He slapped the dragon smack dab on the end of the nose. “How you doing my old white friend. Still sleepy today. Yup, I bet. Still absolutely catatonic. White out cold, you could say. Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to have a look around.” Nimblefingers slapped the dragon on the nose once more. The dragon let out a snort. Nimblefingers jumped a little, shocked. He always did when the dragon did unexpectedly snorted. It was tradition. Nimblefingers quickly slid down the pile of coins, various denominations, compositions and stampings. All precious, but not as precious to the kender as the slipper ride. As he reached the bottom and slid to a stop. Then he saw it. The ornate treasure chest. Like before, it was closed and locked. With wide eyes, he went up to the chest, curious as ever. What could possibly be inside? So often here, but never was he able to find out what was inside. Maybe today would be that day. With a flick of his hand, Nimblefingers rolled out his pack of thieves tools. He moved his hand along the line of tools until he stopped at one. Old Grampy Glaffor's pick. Gnarled and bent like the old man itself, it could get into places that other lock picks could not. Better yet, it always worked. Almost reverently, Nimblefingers pulled to the implement and rested it in his hand. Perfect. He breathed a sigh of contentment. Breaking his revelry, he bent over the lock on the front of the chest and set the pick to the eye. He inserted the pick, rolling it around inside until he felt the tumblers. With a few quick movements, that were very complicated but well practiced, he made a final twist and was rewarded with a click from the lock. He carefully replaced the pick inside the pouch and then turned towards the chest. Laying hands on both sides of the lid, he sucked in his breath. The anticipation was wonderful. Surely this time, he would find out what ultimate treasure was contained inside. Slowly, ever so slowly, he cracked the lid of the chest open, just the barest hint of a line forming. Nothing happened. Satisfied, he threw open the chest and looked inside. With that action, the trap was sprung. There was a bright light, brighter than the sun, brighter than anything that Nimblefingers had ever seen before. The light filled up his vision. Filled up his world. Flared so bright and then, when Nimblefingers thought it would never end, it faded. Nimblefingers found himself on the trail to the mountain. He looked backward down the mountain, towards his home. He still needed the money, so there was no use going back in that direction. He looked ahead. Well, he thought, third time was a charm. Well, it wasn't the third time, it was much more than that but he was set on this path and intent to collect enough treasure to save his family. The only solution to getting the money was by looting the dragon's den which was located inside the mountain ahead. But this time, this time, he knew what he had done wrong. Yes, it was an obvious mistake but he had another chance to correct it. This time, this time, he would find out what great treasure that big white dragon held captive in the chest. None of the other, thousand or millions of times counted. Only this one. Nimblefingers grabbed his hoopak and set out up the trail, his half knot bobbing to his steps. He knew this way by heart, he had traveled this path so many times in the last few days. But for some reason, in the kender's eyes, he never got tired of it. … In the treasure chamber of the dragon, a single eyelid cracked open. It watched the kender pick the lock and then open the chest, only to set off the trap and be transported back outside and back through time. The dragon chuckled and then closed his eye. The magic and time he had spent to create that chest trap was well worth the effort in the hours of entertainment alone. His only regret was that he just wished the kender would quit with that awful joke he always told. He was silver, not white. The ancient silver dragon lay there awaiting the kender's next attempt at finding out what was in the chest. If there was one thing that could always be counted on, it was this: a kender's overwhelming curiousity. That was the ultimate treasure. The End... not really. Squirrelly by lukedk987 [3,285 words] You would think after 90 days of being on the Appalachian Trail, we would learn how to pack better. “Dang it, Jack, can’t you count?” “Huh?” replies the big-boned brawler. Jack was a mystery to all the rest of us. It was enough to be corpulently obese and still be able to go ten rounds without a break. Boxing’s one thing, though. Only losing five pounds after three months of averaging 10 miles a day in the mountains just doesn’t make any sense. “You said that we could make it in seven days, so I thought—you know—three for each of us per day.” He sounded generally hurt, although he was right. I did say that, I hadn’t counted on princess Amber sleeping in so late the day before that we barely even made any progress. “I was kidding, Jack. It’s not your fault we’re a bit behind.” I winced a bit, bracing myself for the retaliation, but it never came. If there are any bros out there with relationship troubles, listen up: backpacking will NOT fix your problems. I know it sounds nice, with the seclusion and the sense of pride one gets from carrying all worldly belongings on their backs, but the added stress completely unbalances the good things. Amber and I had dated since freshman year of college, which was five years ago. I’m just too indolent and unmotivated to propose to her, since that would take initiative and anyone who has looked at my empty resume knows I have none. At least that’s what she has told me, and I have heard it so often that I’m starting to believe it. Amber is happily employed as a gym teacher; she managed to actually make a career out of staying in shape and having a killer body. I am reminded of this fact as I intentionally hike just a little ways behind her and observe. Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I can’t take time to admire my hot girfriend. But, I digress. Amber’s missed retaliation may be due to the fact that she is about fifty feet behind talking with Michelle, who I often forget is even with us. Since she rarely does or says anything, the only time she does something interesting is when she accidentally stands next to Jack, who is a full foot and a half taller than she is (we measured it once) and (for real) thirty times as heavy. I’m pretty sure that, and we haven’t actually tested it yet, but if she were to stand behind Jack’s leg, she would disappear. But hey, if it keeps Amber from arguing with me, then her non-presence is fine. So, about those granola bars… We were only one day out of the town where we got some supplies when Amber was “not feeling good” and it cost us a day of rest. I turned over how to break the news to the group in my head for the rest of the morning, and by early afternoon we were sitting in one of the bleaker shelters on the Trail. Not much better than a lean-to, this little mini-log cabin was missing one wall and was also blocked up on each corner with a pile of cinder blocks. Classy. I took a deep breath. “We’re running out of food,” I say, and wait for the groaning to subside, “but, we can’t be more than two days away from our next stop, so all we have to do is tough it out. That being said, I’m all in favor of pushing on after taking a fifteen minute break here, what do you say? “Why not?” said Amber, “the best remedy for blisters is to keep walking on them.” I really should have stopped myself, but after holding yourself back for so long, you develop some cracks in the walls. Every restrained argument was like a hurricane, and my self control with Amber recently was like a pre-Katrina New Orleans levee. The fight went on for maybe three minutes, but it must have seemed like an eternity for our friend. Oh, right, two friends. Anyway, it ended with me storming off into the woods for some peace and quiet, Jack following me, and Michelle trying to stop Amber’s sobbing. That was another thing about her that bugged me: she always cried whenever we fought. Maybe we should just give up on this whole thing. “Well,” said Jack, “that wasn’t very nice.” It is probably a good thing for Jack that I step upon something definitely not natural. I look down to see bright red scraps of canvas and white fluffy…stuffing? “Jack,” I call, “check this out.” As we examine it, we come to the same conclusion. It was a sleeping bag, or what was left of one. It had been torn up pretty bad, with the stuffing strewn all over the area and the canvas existing in four pieces. Slash marks crisscrossed each other through the canvas, which brought only bad thoughts to our heads. “Rob, we should tell the others,” Jack whispers, “whoever was sleeping in here might be out there somewhere, and could need our help.” I nod, secretly thinking that anyone we find will be far beyond our help, but at least the police could recover the body. We trudge back, and Amber greets me with a cold glare that falls off quickly when she sees the looks on our faces. “We found something,” says Jack, holding up a piece of the sleeping bag. “We need help searching the area.” Whatever issues we were dealing with before have faded now, and in a matter of minutes we fan out and begin our search. A small voice calls us over, and the three of us are soon standing behind Michelle staring at some sort of solar tent a little ways off in the woods. We all inch towards the tent only to discover this tent isn’t actually a “tent”…it’s a black tarp stretched over some sticks. The place stinks like a month’s worth of a jock’s unwashed laundry. Peering under the tarp I see an assortment of old blankets arranged to form a very pathetic bed, as well as remnants of tin cans and small animal bones. The litter extends outside the tarp as well, making it look like someone just periodically threw an armful of trash from inside the makeshift tent and just let it lie where it fell. There’s no way this was a camper. This had to have been some poor homeless person attacked by something. Or maybe he died and a scavenger found him. Either way, I think we have enough to phone in. I’m just thinking of getting the hell out of here when I notice the breathing a few feet behind me. “Can I help ya?” says the deep, crackly voice. I knew this guy in my middle school that was all goth and stuff—never spoke to anyone. This guy’s voice was probably used less. I turn around slowly as Michelle gasps, clearly startled by his sudden appearance. Out of the corner of my eye I see both Jack and Amber jump a little. “Sorry, you startled us,” says Amber with a laugh, “are you camping here?” “Have been for two years now,” he says as he smiles. The yellow teeth accent the mildew on his fringe leather jacket. I can smell him from where I stand ten feet away from him, and I don’t even want to know what’s living in his beard. A whole glob of questions come to my mind, but we stand still and silent as he continues. “I just got sick of it all, ya know? So, two years ago I quit my job, bought some supplies and moved out here. Been here ever since.” He unties a machete and slowly raises it, his eyes lingering on it just a bit too long for my liking. “I use this guy to hunt and butcher squirrels. That’s what I eat.” “What about the winter?” I ask. Slowly my curiosity was getting the better of me. “Oh, I use what money I have left in the bank to get food when it gets really tough, but I try and store nuts and stuff. I also reuse food jars I bought my first year out for makin’ jam and stuff.” “Why?” whispered Amber. I couldn’t tell if she actually meant to say it out loud or not, but he definitely heard it. “I told you, I got sick of it. I got fired, and then I tried to find a new job, and it didn’t work. Eventually, I realized I didn’t need a job to live. Everybody works to buy a living, but I work just stayin’ alive. It’s great.” As I listen to his words, my initial fears are suppressed by a bit of sympathy. I have been an outdoorsman as often as I’ve been allowed, and I would be lying if I hadn’t thought the same thing once or twice. Still, I didn’t entirely trust him. “Well, I suppose we should get going if we’re going to make our next stop on time. It’s been nice meeting you,” I say. He thanks us as well, and we begin walking back towards the shelter. We’ve gone about twenty feet before he calls back to us. “I just wanted to thank y’guys for chattin’ with me. Not all people are as nice as you; a lot of them are scared of me. That last group was rather…squirrelly.” Although I am sure it was simply a poor choice of words on his part, I find my feet picking up speed anyway, but I’m still walking, which is more than I can say for the girls. We gather, panting in the rest shelter. It’s not like we’re tired or anything, but our chests seem to not be cooperating. “He’s going to kill us,” says Amber, rather matter-of-factly. “And eat us. We need to get out of here.” I roll my eyes. “Listen, guys,” I begin, trying to stem the panic rising among us. “Okay, so he’s a little weird. But why are we here? On this trip? We came to have new experiences, meet new people, and just take a break from our lives. Now we’ve met this guy; possibly a little crazy, but more or less harmless. I’m going to go back and talk to him.” A series of whispers try to argue with me, but I just hold my hands up. “I’ll be fine. If he kills me, I’ll scream really loud, and you guys run for it,” I say, and hastily add a small smile to indicate that I was joking, as not everyone seems to be so sure. Taking a deep breath and hoping I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life, I head back down towards The Tarp. “Welcome back,” half-growls, half yells the man, “I gotta say, nobody’s come back for a second talk before.” I try to be clever, “I never got your name.” There is a long pause, and for a while I think I insulted him, but after a full minute of silence, the answer comes. “Does it matter? Once ya guys leave, ya won’t come back. I’ll be by myself again. Sit down.” He gestures to a lump in a blanket that must have a tree stump in it or something, and not knowing what else to do, I listen. “So, where did you live?” “Philadelphia,” he says, taking a “seat” across from me. I try to hide any facial expressions that might clue him in to how much he smells, because I probably wouldn’t be any basket of roses after two years out here. He smiles wide, and adds, “The city of brotherly love. That was all I did. I tried to love my brother, but he couldn’t handle it.” “What do you mean?” I ask, although he is barely listening to me. His eyes seem unfocused and he is staring at my feet. “It was a complete accident, ya see. Still, I was scared. You ever been scared, boy?” his eyes shoot up to meet my own, and seem intensely focused. “Actually, right about now would be a good example!” my mind screams, but I keep my calm. I tell him I have and he asks for details. I tell him about when my older brother locked me in our storm shelter for half a day with no lights. His eyes grow wider. “See! See!! SEE!!” he yells, each word growing louder. “It happens. It wasn’t my fault. I loved him, but too much. Nobody could see it, but I knew. I had to do something.” His eyes drift off again, settling on my torso this time, like he’s looking through me. Or possibly into me, I really don’t know. He starts again, “It was for his own good, and I thought his heart could take it. I thought he fell asleep. But it wasn’t, and I thought: Poor Charlie. Nobody would ever believe poor Charlie. So I had to make it go away, but how? How would I do that? Nowhere to go without eyes on me, no way to leave evidence.” “Evidence? What is he talking about?” It slowly began to come to me that I was getting to be in a very bad situation, and it was time to bail. I was dead wrong about this guy. No pun intended. He is dangerous, and every word I hear of this story of his is digging us a deeper hole. But there is hope yet! I can smell the oncoming storm, and feel a few sprinkling drops on my nose. “Well!” I interrupt, “it’s starting to rain, and we want to be a little further down the trail yet. It’s been nice—“ “Ya leavin?!” he barks as his eyes bore into my own again. He seems so tense, so much different than last time. I think he’s trembling a bit. I bring myself to my senses. I’m sure this guy hasn’t had a real conversation in years, and obviously something is tormenting him. Perhaps it would be better to hear out the rest of his story. I can’t lie that I am a little intrigued by what he’s talking about. I look back up towards the rest shelter. I can’t see the actual shelter because of a little hill that separates it from The Tarp. If I leave he might follow me or something if desperate enough. I sit back down and tell him not quite yet. His eyes unfocus on my chest this time as he begins his rambling again. “It was the only way, see? It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know what would happen next, how good it would taste.” The rain is in full force now, “What tasted so good?” “My brother.” “Hey, Rob, it’s coming down pretty hard! We need to get out of here!” yells Jack. I turn to see my friends standing at the top of the knoll. We need to get out of here. Truer words were never spoken. I thank the guy for a good conversation, explain we really have to figure out what to do, and join the others, glancing over my shoulder every so often. He hasn’t followed me. “What did he have to say?” asks Amber. There is a note of concern in her voice I haven’t heard since I took that fall when we were rock climbing together a year and a half ago. I turn to her and see her eyes big and bright, and realize I can’t tell them what happened. I can’t freak them out right now, since they are stretched to the breaking point already. “We just chatted for about five minutes, and then he asked me for some weed. He’s a druggy, and we should move on.” “We can’t,” said Amber. I knew right away she was right. It was getting dark. It was raining. We had about 12 miles to go before the next rest stop through the mountains in the dark on slippery rocks. Like it or not, we were stuck here. We moved into the shelter and spread out our gear, getting ready to sleep. Despite my attempt to hide my fear, the others seemed to pick up on the danger at least a little bit. Michelle was the first to doze off, although I couldn’t help but notice the camp saw within arm’s reach of her. Jack kept a hunting knife—a gift from his dad, I think—under his inflatable pillow. I was leaning against the back of the shelter clutching my hatchet. “What’s wrong?” whispers Amber. “Nothing,” I reply, perhaps a little too automatically. She lays her soft hands on my own, which are currently trying to choke a hatchet. “Your knuckles are white,” she says, smiling, and kisses me on the cheek. I relax a little, mostly out of surprise. “You always give people the benefit of the doubt. Remember when I said Jack wouldn’t be able to handle the trip? You told me I was wrong, and you were right. I’ve always liked that about you.” She curls up beside me, resting her head gently on my arm. Another few minutes and she’s asleep. I’m starting to slip away when something wakes me up. I’m sweating a very cold sweat. Something must have scared me during that half-asleep state you get when trying to stay awake when you’re tired. The rain is still pounding on the tin roof of the shelter, but there’s something else, too. I reach down, find my flashlight, and click it on in time to see a fringe leather jacket and the glint of a machete walk around the corner of the shelter. No sleep now. The slow, steady crunch of his footsteps continue all night, encircling the camp. I know, because I am awake to witness it. Every pass slows the beating of my heart until morning comes, and I am sure it has stopped completely. My heart, I mean. Sometime after my heart stopped beating the footsteps faded back into the woods behind the shelter. Then the sun rose. Once the others start to wake up I take a quick peek out from the shelter, but see no sign of the man. I finish packing my stuff as the others wake up, and I urge them to quickly do the same. “Can’t we relax the schedule just this time? Nobody slept well last night,” asks Amber. I continue in with a hiss, “That guy was out there, pacing around us all night!” They laugh, thinking it is all a joke. Still, it is apparent that I was not in the joking mood, and they pack up quickly. As we leave, they all pause fifteen feet away from the shelter. Despite the heavy rain all night, his footprints are still clearly visible. We finish the trail about a week behind schedule. At the first major city we reported our story to the police, who admitted a few missing people that were rumored to be on or near the trail. Still, nothing has come up. Once Amber heard that I stayed awake all night playing sentry, our relationship began to improve. We eventually moved in, and while things aren’t perfect, they are certainly better than before. I landed a job about a week after moving in with Amber, and this story has seen plenty of water coolers in the mean time. I always get one complaint, though: the ending sucks. Guys, for the last time, I’m not making this up. True stories don’t always have perfect endings. Third Party Predator by "The Jaded" [,206 words] Viewing: chat logs for October 9, 2012... [8:47PM] Tom.Foolery: you know, I think that’s the sort of thing that requires me to confiscate your man card Irvanos: I was never issued one of those, on account of being female Tom.Foolery: lies! There are no girls on the internet Irvanos: tell that to my two X chromosomes Irvanos: there are a few of us out here Tom.Foolery: I don’t speak chromosome. I speak internet [8:48PM] Irvanos: that’s probably fine. I think my chromosomes speak internet too by now Tom.Foolery: and you want me talking to them? Irvanos: well... Irvanos: no. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve heard something like that used as a pickup line Tom.Foolery: ? Tom.Foolery: I fail to see how that makes a good pickup line Irvanos: it was an awful pickup line Tom.Foolery: ah [8:48PM] Irvanos: crap, gotta go, errands to run. I’ll talk to you later. Tom.Foolery: allright. bye Viewing: chat logs for October 10, 2012 [3:21PM] Irvanos: Gah, bad day. Got a minute? Irvanos: and do you happen to know any relationship experts who sign onto IM? [3:24PM] Irvanos: you aren’t there. [3:32PM] Tom.Foolery: I wasn’t, sorry, meeting. Boring stuff, but it comes with the territory. Tom.Foolery: wait, you need what? [3:33PM] Irvanos: it’s a long story. Irvanos: I think the best term is ‘sordid’ Tom.Foolery: Well now you’ve gotten me curious Tom.Foolery: but no, I don’t know any relationship experts. In fact I think that it is impossible for any male to take that title Irvanos: Take my word for it, we females of the species are no better Tom.Foolery: okay? Irvanos: I think... I just got dumped. And I have no idea what I did wrong [3:34PM] Tom.Foolery: you think you did something wrong? Irvanos: That was implied, yes Tom.Foolery: And you can’t just ask them? Irvanos: umm... Irvanos: Have you ever had a breakup? That’s not how it works Tom.Foolery: erm, no actually. I have no experience with this Irvanos: of course... Tom.Foolery: Sorry? Irvanos: No it’s ok Irvanos: mind if I vent anyway? Irvanos: everyone I know irl knows the guy Tom.Foolery: go ahead. For a small fee I will even agree not to post your relationship woes to reddit. Irvanos: haha. ... Viewing: chat logs for October 12, 2012 [2:04PM] Tom.Foolery: TGIF! Irvanos: That bad a week? Tom.Foolery: nah Tom.Foolery: just looking forward to the weekend Irvanos: got a date or something? Tom.Foolery: date? Tom.Foolery: I work in accounts receivable Tom.Foolery: that’s not really a possibility Tom.Foolery: but weekends let me sleep in and then go outside [2:05PM] Irvanos: yeah, well now that’s me too Tom.Foolery: ? Tom.Foolery: Oh yeah, the breakup [2:06PM] Irvanos: yup. Tom.Foolery: something tells me you don’t have trouble getting dates though Irvanos: eh, you’d be surprised. Tom.Foolery: probably. you know my track record [2:07PM] Irvanos: true Irvanos: the problem isn’t getting *a* date, it’s getting a *good* date. Guys seem to be all looking for cheap fun these days Tom.Foolery: perhaps you’ve heard this advice before, but... Tom.Foolery: I would suggest not being cheap fun Tom.Foolery: You should aim to be extremely pricy fun Irvanos: ... [2:08PM] Irvanos: This is what I get for bringing my relationship problems to some internet creep Tom.Foolery: I would resent that Tom.Foolery: but I live on the internet Irvanos: haha Irvanos: right ... Viewing: chat logs for October 14, 2012 [12:56PM] Irvanos: crap [1:00PM] Tom.Foolery: ? Irvanos: I figured out why that guy dumped me Tom.Foolery: and? Irvanos: it’s your fault Irvanos: I kid you not Tom.Foolery: what did I do? Irvanos: he kept seeing me typing into IM and thought I was talking to another guy Irvanos: thought I was cheating on him I mean [1:01PM] Tom.Foolery: ... Irvanos: complained to his buddy that he thought I was ‘putting out more’ for whoever I was always online with than him Tom.Foolery: wow... Tom.Foolery: In my defense I thought you were a guy until tuesday... [1:02PM] Tom.Foolery: I guess I’m glad it wasn’t someone who gets violently jealous? Irvanos: haha. though I think he’d have had trouble finding where you live Tom.Foolery: hopefully. I’m not exactly the sort of guy who can defend himself when an angry meathead with a baseball bat comes for my kneecaps Irvanos: nah, I think he would have aimed a bit higher Tom.Foolery: ... you aren’t helping ... Viewing: chat logs for October 17, 2012 [10:22AM] Tom.Foolery: sigh. Dreary day getting me down [10:24AM] Irvanos: dreary? Irvanos: but it’s sunny out [10:25AM] Tom.Foolery: it’s nasty drizzle in Portland Irvanos: That where you are? Tom.Foolery: near enough. should I be afraid that you know? Irvanos: Nah. But if the next guy I date asks who I’m online with Irvanos: I will have an answer: some guy in Portland [10:25AM] Tom.Foolery: thus increasing the chances of meathead with baseball bat showing up at my door? Irvanos: well you’re far enough away that I’d be able to give you some warning before he got there Irvanos: if that makes you feel better [10:26AM] Tom.Foolery: not really Tom.Foolery: a headstart would only prolong the inevitable, I am not fit enough to outrun a meathead Irvanos: haha. probably. [10:29AM] Irvanos: so how are things in accounts receivable? Tom.Foolery: job’s dull, coworkers are more dull, but that’s the way I like it Tom.Foolery: only profession in the world where I am the most interesting person in the department Irvanos: I don’t know about that. most of the people I know who have boring jobs just save their interestingness for off hours and weekends Irvanos: how do you know that they aren’t just closeted interesting people? [10:30AM] Tom.Foolery: hmm Tom.Foolery: interesting [10:32AM] Tom.Foolery: now that I think about it... maybe Kenneth over there is a speed eating competition state champion Irvanos: that’s mean. making fun of the fat guy? Tom.Foolery: fat? he’s a beanpole. but his lunch most days could feed an army Tom.Foolery: he was the first person who passed my door while I was thinking about it Irvanos: oh Tom.Foolery: Dolores... hmm, harder. probably the matriarch of a snarky sitcom family Irvanos: haha Tom.Foolery: I could do this all day Irvanos: but don’t you have actual work to do? [10:33AM] Tom.Foolery: erm... Tom.Foolery: your point? ... Viewing: chat logs for October 24, 2012 [9:41AM] Irvanos: Yo, you awake? [9:43AM] Tom.Foolery: are you implying that I sleep at my desk? Irvanos: What do you call what happened on thursday? Tom.Foolery: a... critical failure of caffeine Irvanos: You fell asleep at your desk. Tom.Foolery: I blame you. we were up on IMs till 3 Irvanos: yeah yeah. anyway Irvanos: do you ski? Tom.Foolery: umm... [9:44AM] Tom.Foolery: I know how to put skis on and then crash into various things Tom.Foolery: I know how to do an ad-hoc slapstick parody of skiing Irvanos: haha. close enough Tom.Foolery: why? Irvanos: my stepbrother just got a job at a ski resort up there Tom.Foolery: up here? must be on mount Hood Tom.Foolery: closest place I know of with decent skiing Irvanos: that’s right... we’re going to visit [9:45AM] Tom.Foolery: we? Irvanos: my stepdad, my mom, me, and my sister. I was wondering if you’ve been to the place before Tom.Foolery: What’s it called? Irvanos: Mt Hood Meadows, I think. I don’t ski well either, but my stepdad and sister are pro. Was hoping the locals (you) knew whether it was any good Tom.Foolery: never heard of it, I haven’t been up that way in years Irvanos: darn. also trying to figure out if theres anything to do up there but ski... Irvanos: maybe some good hiking trails? Tom.Foolery: when? Irvanos: why do you ask? Planning a little creeping? [9:46AM] Tom.Foolery: haha, no. Just curious Tom.Foolery: and trying to figure out when I should make myself scarce in case you’ve found a new boyfriend by then... Irvanos: unlikely, the plane is booked for thursday afternoon and I haven’t found a nice guy with a baseball bat yet Irvanos: what are your thoughts on crowbars? big wrenches? Tom.Foolery: planning to seduce a mechanic? Irvanos: hope so, my car’s acting up again Tom.Foolery: *face palm* ... Viewing: chat logs for October 25, 2012 [11:09AM] Irvanos: hey, I was thinking... Irvanos: there’s no reason we can’t meet up this weekend, right? Irvanos: I can get free of my family long enough to find a coffee shop [11:13AM] Tom.Foolery: you know, one of the big rules I have about people from the internet is that I don’t meet them Tom.Foolery: that way people from the internet stay on the internet Irvanos: haha, that’s a good point. Most of the people you talk to on IMs are probably creeps. Tom.Foolery: present company not excluded most days. Irvanos: I would resent that Irvanos: but I live on the internet Tom.Foolery: why did I see that coming? Irvanos: So that’s a ‘no thanks’ answer? [11:14AM] Tom.Foolery: lemme think about it Irvanos: sure [2:03PM] Tom.Foolery: I thought about it over lunch Tom.Foolery: I don’t see any harm in a short meetup, coffee [2:05PM] Irvanos: that’s the spirit. [2:05PM] Irvanos: got a favorite hangout on the east side of town? Tom.Foolery: not really, I’m on the west side [2:06PM] Irvanos: hmm Tom.Foolery: you know I’m a bit surprised you want to meet an internet creep yourself Tom.Foolery: no fears that I’m some hunchbacked inhuman monster with a taste for feminine flesh? [2:07PM] Irvanos: fears? Irvanos: that’s what I *expect* Tom.Foolery: right. Irvanos: No, in all seriousness you’re a decent enough guy for someone from the internet, and I’m curious Tom.Foolery: curious about what? [2:09PM] Tom.Foolery: about what? Viewing: chat logs for October 26, 2012 [8:52AM] Tom.Foolery: How about the starbucks in Sandy? Tom.Foolery: wait, there are two starbucks in Sandy. Tom.Foolery: http://bit.ly/ORdQjN Tom.Foolery: that one [9:02AM] Irvanos: works for me. I can tell my folks I’m going shopping, saves questions Tom.Foolery: I’m a secret now? Irvanos: erm Irvanos: I guess Tom.Foolery: I’ve never been a secret before Tom.Foolery: should I feel accomplished? or scared [9:03AM] Irvanos: you are aware that if you annoy me and then show up there Irvanos: I can and will beat you to death with a ski pole... Tom.Foolery: scared then Tom.Foolery: that’s also the first time I’ve received a death threat from a girl Irvanos: *sigh* ... Viewing: chat logs for October 27, 2012 [12:52PM] Tom.Foolery: hey, you there? [12:53PM] Irvanos: briefly so Irvanos: leaving for the airport in a few Tom.Foolery: was wondering how I’d know you Tom.Foolery: at the coffeeshop Irvanos: oh right. I was gonna wear my tee shirt that says: Irvanos: “don’t worry, I’m from the internet” [12:54PM] Tom.Foolery: but anyone who knows anything would worry Irvanos: I think that’s the point... Tom.Foolery: ah. Look for chick with “I’m from the internet” tee shirt. got it. Irvanos: Anyway [12:55PM] Irvanos: I gotta go. Irvanos: I’ll leave you to finding a rental sportscar to drive up in Tom.Foolery: I wouldn’t! I will drive my sketchy white van there with pride Irvanos: haha, really? Tom.Foolery: not really. Tom.Foolery: I drive a Civic [12:56PM] Irvanos: I think I would have preferred the creeper van Tom.Foolery: I know someone who drives one though Irvanos: maybe you can borrow it? Tom.Foolery: no, that van scares me. Irvanos: I’m being yelled at, leaving now, bye Tom.Foolery: bye Viewing: chat logs for October 27, 2012 [8:39PM] Tom.Foolery: darnit, you’re offline. No phone with IMs? No laptop? Tom.Foolery: come on, be online, this is important Tom.Foolery: all right. In case you look by tomorrow [8:39PM] Tom.Foolery: My car broke down this afternoon. There’s no way I can make it to the meetup Tom.Foolery: I asked around for a ride but no-one is free, not even the creepy guy with the van, he said he has a date [8:40PM] Tom.Foolery: so so sorry about this, my coolant blew, car’s gonna be in the shop all weekend Viewing: chat logs for October 28, 2012 [10:10AM] Tom.Foolery: Someone else has been in my IM account, fair warning, the service sent me a message about account theft this morning Tom.Foolery: changing my password. Creepy. How long has that been going on? [10:12AM] Tom.Foolery: Scratch what I said about the meetup being off, by the way, I yelled at the insurance guys until they covered a rental while my Civic is in the shop so we’re on again Tom.Foolery: It’s a Toyota Yaris, though, about the only thing on earth I feel embarassed to drive. I think I’d prefer a Pinto [10:31AM] Tom.Foolery: I’ll head out at 11, see you there ... [11:15AM] MIM@734-2872: Hey, this is me on my phone account. Change of plans, other Starbucks in Sandy [11:17AM] Irvanos: Ah, there you are. Just about to head out, checking in on my dad’s phone. Still driving that Yaris? MIM@734-2872: Yaris? MIM@734-2872: Er, no, I borrowed the van after all [11:18AM] Irvanos: Er, okay. Still scare you? MIM@734-2872: Not as bad as I remembered. Irvanos: Why the change of plans? [11:20AM] MIM@734-2872: Long story, I’ll tell it over coffee. ... [12:45PM] Tom.Foolery: Hey, where are you? I’ve been here at the Starbucks a while and haven’t seen you come in [12:47PM] Tom.Foolery: Did you wear the wrong shirt? Tom.Foolery: did my Yaris rental scare you off? [1:02PM]Tom.Foolery: Irvanos, where are you? [1:38PM]Tom.Foolery: Hello? Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Oct 16th, 2012 at 01:27 PM. |
#33
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October 2012 Competition Entries Topic - Amid the ashes, romantic Winner - None. Tsk tsk. No Stranger To War by The Jaded 3538 words, disqualified from voting I watched the ambush from a tangle of rusted construction equipment, waiting for my opportunity. The Collective anti-infantry patroller was no match for the sniper. First they took out the driver, then the gunners. It was quick, efficient. It was too bad that whoever did it would probably not be having the best of days. I needed the same thing they did. A figure dashed out of a doorway moments later, feet kicking up the ash that coated the street, and climbed on top of the patroller. The attacker, dressed in a filter mask and dark, ratty coat, pulled the masks from the patroller’s dead crew, then started fiddling with the weapons locker. I sensed my opening - I needed a mask if I was going to maintain my performance for long. Damned brass hadn’t built one in, and the silicate ash here would shred my lungs before long if I went without. The figure didn’t look at me as I approached, but with an overhand toss lobbed something. Before my organic reflexes could react, my implants had isolated the object, recognized it as harmless, and muted the adrenal response. Trusting them, I caught the object, and couldn’t hide my surprise - I was holding a filter mask, exactly what I needed. “Let’s just pretend you weren’t about to do what you had planned, stranger.” The sniper called out in a feminine voice. I knew I looked like a desperate scavenger, dressed in dusty, threadbare clothes. She couldn’t see the hundred-odd pounds of metal and silicon implants I carried. She didn’t know I could fry her at a twenty meters with my coilguns. I nodded, and donned the mask slowly, warily. I didn’t bother to defend my intentions, it would have been a pointless waste of words. “You’ve got balls if you watched that and still thought you could take me unarmed.” The woman turned around, gun in hand. “You’d have been dead by now if you’d been here since the bombs.” She surmised. “Where are you coming from, stranger?” “Out there.” I said vaguely. I wasn’t going to go around blabbing what I was about, not that I knew it myself. All I had was an arrow in my HUD and a distance. “Right.” The woman stood up on top of the vehicle, and gestured to a yawning doorway. “Come on. Let’s get out of the open. They’ll come looking.” I let her lead, ostensibly. My implants swept the dim interior by radar while she cleared rooms manually, and I knew we were alone before she was even halfway done. “We’re all clear.” She finally confirmed. “I’m Nix, by the way.” “That’s a callsign, not a name.” “Yep.” Nix inspected her new bundle of masks. “What about you?” “As you like. Callsign, nickname, whatever.” I said simply. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She stopped her inspection to look at me, hand going to the gun again. “Not everyone has a name.” I replied. For those in the know, that was code - black ops field men like me had no legal name, no history, nothing. We were interchangeable and, if necessary, expendable. “Others don’t like the names they’re given. Take your pick.” Nix’s eyes narrowed. “Those are words I did not expect to hear, stranger.” To my surprise, she seemed to recognize my meaning. “What’s still here that’s worth your time?” “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I gave the rote answer, communicating that that information was secret. That I didn’t know myself didn’t even factor in. “Really?” Nix seemed surprised. “Even for a Captain? Must be serious.” “Captain?” I prompted. “Yup.” She nodded. “Or I was one. Of the Guiscard.” My HUD filled me in on what I needed to know from the ship name. Captain Nicole Exaro, trained as a Marine, decorated, wounded, transfer to navy security, promotions, captaincy, ship lost. MIA, presumed KIA. She matched the records portrait. “You’re captain Exaro?” I asked. “Yeah. Ten of us made it down here, but I’m the only one left.” She gestured up. I knew there’d been a battle here, hence the bombed-out, ash-coated city. I nodded, and pointed my hand to follow my HUD arrow. “I need to go that way, four klicks. Beyond that, I can’t say.” “Good luck with that.” Nix shook her head. “That’d be their command complex. Defensive line’s too strong.” Before I could reply, my implants screamed in my mind, and I rolled to the side, feeling my coilguns charge and extend from inside my palms. Unbidden, my hands pointed the coils toward the door, just as two Collective foot soldiers whirled around and took aim. There was a bright flash, and the soldiers disintegrated to join the ever-present ash. I turned toward Nix, and saw that she was grimacing and clutching both hands to a burned spot on her leg. One of the soldiers had apparently gotten a shot off just before he died. I left her side, active-sweeping the building with my radar, but found no more soldiers. I returned to find Nix matter-of-factly tying a strip of wetted cloth around the burn. I let her finish before speaking. “How bad is it?” I asked. “Flesh wound.” Nix replied quietly. “I think I can walk. How... what did you do? You moved so fast... no weapons - ” I held up a hand, coilgun still extended. “Weapons.” I said simply. “Someone will have heard that.” Protocol would usually instruct me to leave her and continue on my own, but she had to know her way around, that made her valuable. I had just been dropped to the surface that morning, and needed intel. She motioned for me to help her to her feet, and I complied, slinging her arm over my shoulder to help take the weight off the injured leg. She was obviously in pain, but didn’t complain, aside from the occasional hissed breath. Sweeping ahead with my radar, I helped Nix out of the building, and let her direct our movements. She picked turns seemingly at random, but I noticed we were winding closer to the city center. I kept the pace steady until we were forced to go to ground when a patrol vehicle trundled around a bend ahead. Luckily, I was able to get us out of sight before any of the turrets turned toward us. “You saved my life back there.” Nix whispered. “Sneakier than I expected from Colls.” I changed the subject to something more comfortable than thanks. “Back when some of the others were still kicking we put the fear of God into them.” Nix smiled wistfully. “They were easier prey when we started off.” “They don’t worry me.” I could tell by the sound of the vehicle that it was moving away now, rather than toward us. “I don’t want to think about how many creds went into building you, Stranger.” Nix shook her head. “I don’t know.” I admitted. “You guys are a mystery to us.” Nix pointed out. “No past. No name. No prints. Just protocol. Where do you lot come from?” “You don’t want to know.” I assured her, with a wince. Those were memories I was not prepared to relive, squatting in the ash of a bombed-out ghost town. Or ever. “Let’s get moving.” We stopped once more, to scavenge some canned goods from a store, before we found somewhere to hole up. As Nix set about opening the cans, I swept the building, confirming we were alone. Without plates or utensils, the fare became for us cold, slimy finger-food. I didn’t complain - nutrients are nutrients. “You know, this place really disgusts me.” Nix said vehemently a few moments after the food ran out. “The people here didn’t really even resist. We got in just as the last batches were going out, rounded up and shipped off-planet. Saw maybe six resistance fighters in total, none of them lasted long.” I shrugged noncommittally. The people of this world were probably expecting the Confederate navy to ride to the rescue, but the Confederacy couldn’t manage a battle strategy that was more than half-assed lately. the Collective had been targeting flag officers, and that was taking its toll. “They aren’t soldiers.” I pointed out. “What could they have done?” “More than they did, Stranger.” Nix looked away. “When you’ve got your checklist of objectives filled out, they’ll come to get you, right?” Nix said. She was looking for hope, and I knew I couldn’t give it to her. “Yes, but there will be no passengers.” She should have known this already. “Only as many seats as the mission expects, no more.” “Can’t you call in and ask? I’m a damn destroyer captain, you think I could get an evac.” Nix’s voice was bitter, understandably so. “Your personnel file lists that you’re presumed dead.” I told her. “Lost with the ship. And no, I can’t. Hypercomms are against protocol. I don’t have one.” Well, the HUD module would probably signal mission-complete to the brass, but that didn’t help her. “Screw protocol.” Nix thumped her fist against the floor. “I’m not dying on this godforsaken backwater.” I sighed, and shook my head. “I can’t do much, even supposing I get back. They won’t think rescuing you is worth another op.” Nix looked about to lose it, but after several struggling seconds she shook her head and settled back down. “Sorry, Stranger. I know you have limits, but you look so normal it’s hard to think about what all they’ve stuck inside you. I keep looking for... I don’t know. Empathy?” “You think I don’t empathize?” I asked rhetorically, annoyed. “Nix, every place I go is some ‘godforsaken backwater’ that I have no business dying on.” My building annoyance, which surprised even me, and seemed to tax the hormone regulators in my system. “I chose to be who I am, because someone needs to be. Someone needs to do the dirty work for the Confederacy, I just have the stomach for it.” My outburst, though muted and delivered in a level tone because of the regulators, seemed to take her by surprise. “I... I didn’t...” I could feel the regulators keeping my anger from turning into rage. “You didn’t know that under all the hardware, all the mods, I’m still human?” By her expression I could see that she hadn’t. “Well, believe it. But don’t think that gives me any power to haul your ass out of here.” I shrugged and lay down on my side of the room. “Get some sleep. I want to be moving before the sun’s up tomorrow.” Nix made a sound as if she was going to protest, but merely sighed and shifted into the corner, to sleep sitting up. I watched her with my radar as I was priming it to watch over us, then set about following my own advice. I woke an hour before dawn, and nudged Nix awake. I helped her limp out of the building and back to the streets. From a vantage point several floors up a vacant building I considered the situation under the pale light of sunrise. In addition to heavy antipersonnel emplacements and a veritable wall of patrolling soldiers, I picked out at least five elite super-soldiers - poor souls who had almost as much implanted tech as I did. They were hard to kill except at close range, and usually better armed than I was. The only way in I could see was surrender, but I couldn’t do that. They’d blast me as soon as they got a decent scan. But maybe there was another way... As I watched the cordon, my HUD changed, showing the names and portraits of three people, all Confederate admirals, each had at least three stars. I was apparently rescuing three people who each outranked the director of the whole black ops program. “What are you thinking?” Nix asked after a short pause, as my eyes wandered away from the window and over to her. She looked younger than her thirty-six years, and that even under all the grime and ash she was quite attractive. “I think it’s high time you gave yourself up.” I said simply. I received only a curiously raised eyebrow in response, and filled her in on my idea. She agreed hesitantly. The whole thing was distasteful, but kosher under ops protocol, and I hated the protocols for that, but I had little choice. I had to complete the mission. I helped Nix get to her feet, and down the stairs to the street. “Give me a count of one-twenty.” I told her, and turned to leave. “Wait.” Nix didn’t let go of my arm, so I turned back. “What if this doesn’t work?” I turned back, and in my mind I could not tell if what I was about to do was calculated or motivated by something more human. “Nix, trust me.” I pulled my mask down to rest on my neck, so she could see the expression on my face. “I am not throwing away your life.” With one hand I gently lifted her mask off her face, and she did not resist. “But your protocols. How can I be sure?” She asked. I met and held her eyes, then leaned in to kiss her on the lips. I kept it gentle, brief. It had been some years since I’d last kissed a woman, but I found it to be something not easily forgotten. She inhaled deeply, in surprise, but not in alarm. I wished I could have enjoyed the experience as much as she did, but the conditioning and the regulating implants kept the feeling muted. As I drew away, she nodded. “I’m... I’m sorry, it’s just... What they tell us about you lot...” She said quietly. “I’ll do what I can for you. But the mission comes first.” Again, I turned, but only halfway. “Goodbye for now, Nix.” “See you in a few, Stranger.” She replied. As I ran off, I heard her start counting. Nix stumbled out into the street, hands upraised, barely a block from the cordon. “I surrender! For God’s sake, I’m starving, I give up, don’t shoot!” She called, as dozens of weapons and more swiveled toward her. Three of the super-soldiers nearby stepped out and hauled her back behind the line. There was a brief radio conversation, and then those three escorted Nix back towards the dome. I started creeping closer, extending my coilguns. These new odds were far more to my liking. The klaxons sounded the moment I hit the weakened cordon, but it didn’t matter. By the time anyone came running, I was inside the defenses, and by the time the cordon closed over the gap I’d blasted in it, I was already inside the dome. I went to ground there, and sure enough the three elites that had escorted Nix came running back. Two headed outside, the third stood guard at the entrance, but he was expecting the threat to come from outside. He didn’t even see me coming. The guards in front of the facility’s holding cells were line soldiers, not elites, and they died rapidly. I stalked inside, and the HUD again showed me the faces of the three I was tasked with recovering, but it was Nix I found first. She was in the first cell. There was a fresh bruise on her cheek, but otherwise she looked more or less as I’d last seen her. She was alert, watching the door as I looked in. “That was quick, Stranger.” She said. “Gonna let me out?” I responded by powering up my augments and winding up to punch the metal door. Nix stepped to the side, and I swung. It fell inwards, and I tried not to show how much that hurt to do. There were only ten cells, and my targets were the only other prisoners. Giving Nix a beam rifle and telling her to watch the doors, I punched their cell doors down as well. The admirals were emaciated and scarred, but alive. As soon as I had all three, one of my implants I hadn’t noticed made a hypercomm call. My HUD displayed a timer, along with the words ‘blast extraction’ - a phrase I liked to see. I had ninety seconds. Leaving the three admirals in a cell, I ran back to Nix, and arrived just in time to dodge a withering salvo of energy beams - mostly. I got grazed twice, and felt the regulators suppress most of the pain. An elite and a group of soldiers had Nix pinned down, but there was good news - the extraction killbox was painted for my eyes right around the entrance, and the soldiers were standing in it. As the seconds ticked down, I traded shots with them from around the corner. It was no use - my coilguns’ batteries were not designed for lasting firefights, and their reinforcements seemed infinite. I had only a few shots left. As my shots became more infrequent, the soldiers got bolder, led by their grinning elite commander. Nix twice took shots at him, but the beam rifle proved useless against his subcutaneous armor. I knew all we had to do was keep him close to the doors, and the extraction shuttle would take care of him on its way down. He was advancing out of its killbox, though, and there were still fifteen seconds left. I caught Nix’s eye and gestured that we needed to stall them, hoping she understood. I used one of my last four shots on the elite, and it hurt him enough to make him take a step back. Nix used the momentary disorientation to take a shot at his face, which didn’t have any effect but to momentarily blind him. The other soldiers tried to return fire, but Nix was too quick. They only managed to superheat the wall behind her. I drove them back with another shot. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. We had to draw this out more, I knew. Nix grabbed a piece of rubble that looked vaguely grenade-like and lobbed it over. “Fire in the hole!” She bluffed. The soldiers backed up but didn’t run. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight. The elite seemed to be regaining his senses. “Get them, you fools!” He yelled. I countermanded his order with another coilgun blast. Seven. Six. My heart surged. We were going to make it. The elite dove forward suddenly, over the desk, and grabbed Nix. I jumped on his back and knocked him over, throwing Nix aside. I remembered the three unarmed admirals behind our meager defenses. “Nix, get them!” I shouted, meaning the admirals. Five. Four. Nix scrambled to her feet and limped to escort the admirals toward the melee. The soldiers trained their guns on me, but as I was currently choking their elite superior, they didn’t risk firing. Three. He was faster than I was, and his neck armor made my chokehold rather pointless. I took a supercharged elbow to the chest, which would have killed a normal human. Two. I tripped the elite, and landed on top of him, left hand around his neck and bashing at his head with my right arm until his hand closed around my fist and forced it to a stop. One. I watched the tenths of a second tick away on my HUD. “Zero.” I hissed. The front of the holding area and all the soldiers evaporated in a super-bright haze, and I knew that at the center of the haze would be an extraction shuttle with four seats. My radar told me as I struggled that Nix was pushing the admirals past my brawl and into three of the four chairs in the craft. As soon as they were secure, she hesitated. “Get in!” I yelled without looking. The elite, recovering from his surprise, managed to get on top of me. I let him think he was winning a moment longer while my coilgun charged up, then released my last shot into his neck. When the flash dazzle cleared from my eyes, the elite’s shoulders were topped by a cauterized stump, and his body was limp. I extricated myself, stood up, and moved over to the shuttle. The launch controls were keyed to me, and Nix was sitting in my seat. I matter-of-factly reached in to start the launch sequence. Nix grabbed my hand and pulled me closer, into a deep, urgent, brief kiss. I let her, not because of protocol but because I wanted to, and keyed the launch sequence with my hand as I drew back. “Goodbye, Nix.” I said simply, and the shuttle’s canopy sealed over her and the admirals. I stepped back and watched it lift up from the ground, accelerating rapidly. I towards the dome exit, picking a mask off one of the fallen soldiers. In the confusion the shuttle’s explosive entrance and exit invariably caused, I managed to slip the cordon, and retreat into the empty streets. Yes, I’d breached operation protocol by putting Nix in the shuttle, but I suspected the brass would understand. And if they didn’t, then they could go to hell, I knew that she did.[/FIELDSET] Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. |
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November 2012 Competition Entries Topic - The Rest of the Story Winner - The Jaded's The Once and the Future The Once and the Future by The Jaded [3,226 Words] It was midnight on the summer solstice, and though there was much revelry going on, none of it was nearby. The rotunda in front of the gates to the fortress of Camelot was empty, though the sounds from the main square down the road suggested it was a good party. The old man appeared in a flash of faint purplish light, transit leaving the faint smell of ozone in the air. He knew his opponent would try to sabotage the symbolic sword-drawing. He’d watched that take place months ago and tomorrow, but Morgana could well warp the timeline at this critical point. At noon, Lord Artur, a minor noble, would pull the sword from the anvil in front of Camelot’s gates, and become the first king of this land in a generation. A quick inspection told Myrlin Ambrosius that the sword and anvil were bonded together by some sort of clear glue. The stuff was old, weathered smooth - he wondered how far back Morgana had gone to pull this off. Probably all the way. A quick trip back to base got Myrlin a solvent, but he didn’t apply it at midnight. Rather, he skipped forward until the sky was graying and the town was beginning to stir before splashing the clear solvent all over the epoxied sword. A few seconds, he knew, and it would no longer be glued. The old man waited those seconds then experimentally tugged the sword’s hilt slightly. It slid out a fraction of an inch quite smoothly before he let go. A child could pull the sword out now. Could he be sure Artur would get here first? Wrinkling his brow as if getting a headache, Myrlin Ambrosius let the monument be and set the device on his left hand. One more button and he disappeared in another brief purplish flash, expression broadcasting the hope that he hadn’t made things worse rather than better. ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ It was a pleasant, clear early fall evening, and the town was just beginning to grow quiet for the night. With her binoculars, Morgan watched the keep intently, focusing on the lights in the king’s bedroom. It was the spring equinox, and Morgan knew that the man wearing the crown would be returning to his bed, inebriated and exhausted. Ambrose was growing frustratingly good at catching up, and it was time to try a more indirect approach, one he’d never think of. Slip a knife in his ribs and Ambrose would come back and stop it, meaning she’d never get to actually sink the knife. No, it was time to be more... subtle. Do something Ambrose wouldn’t notice. The light in the bedroom went out. Morgan shrugged off the thick cloak she was wearing, leaving her completely naked except for the timeslip handpiece and a thin, revealing thigh-length nightgown. She altered the device, and shifted herself in time and space again. “Who’s there?” Whispered a worried Artur from behind her. It was dark, the faintest light leaking in through the curtains. Likely, he couldn’t see her, but had heard the timeslip. “Only a dream.” Morgan whispered, stepping silently to the bedside, internally wondering if she was making the right move. But if not me, she thought, then who? No-one could be trusted. She knew it had to be her. Artur either believed her, or didn’t care. When she slipped into the bed next to him, he gladly took her into his arms. To his credit, the freshly-crowned king surprised Morgan with his skill and stamina. What do you know, the big oaf does something well, she thought, fighting against a lethargic desire to fall asleep right there. As soon as she could tell he was asleep, Morgan, hoping she had what she needed, but not entirely fearing a second attempt, poked at the handpiece, and was gone. ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ”Master Ambrosius, you said your name was?” The newly crowned king asked after dinner, when he and Ambrose had retired to a sitting room in the keep. “Yes. I’m a diviner of sorts.” Ambrose sipped the local liqueur carefully. ”A magician.” He wasn’t, but that explanation would satisfy the locals. ”I have received dire portents about attempts against your rule by another magician, a woman. Morgan is her name.” Ambrose had just come upstream from a falling-out with her, but this man didn’t need to know that. “A magician. Black magic or white?” The king asked cautiously. ”White, liege.” Ambrose assured him. ”Divining the future. Healing. Some personal travel magic. But it has its price even so. But as Morgan aims to misuse our shared craft, and so I will be here to counter her.” The king nodded. ”What proof do you have of these claims?” Ambrose looked past the man. ”I was there when you pulled the sword from the anvil, liege. So was she. There were only a few people there. Perhaps you remember us? We foretold a great event, and had come to observe.” ”Yes. I remember now. The woman next to you was stunning. I thought it was a pity that she was your wife.” ”I trained Morgan, but she is not my wife.” Ambrose corrected. ”And she is dangerous. As much ability as I, but no restraint.” The king nodded sagely. ”I will accept your service, magician Ambrosius. But I cannot make you one of my knight. You are not of any noble family of this land, even if your homeland pedigree is good.” He frowned. ”My father once kept the counsel of a woad magician, Myrlin Wyllt, his closest advisor and physician. You, master Ambrosius, will be my Myrlin. Myrlin Ambrosius.” ”As you like, your majesty.” Ambrose nodded. A title wasn’t what he was here for, but if it made King Artur feel better, he would take it. ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ Morgan materialized a few hours upstream and a hundred miles from Ambrose, and sat down in the middle of the cold woods to think. She could outsmart the old man, she knew - he never saw the potential of the timeslip. Artur was a menace - he was slowly killing off all the skilled warriors his land possessed on fools’ errands. He was well into middle age, and had no children - whoever survived all the “chivalrous” quests would be left to fight over the scraps when Artur died. It was a mess. To save the people of Camelot, Morgan knew she had much work to do, but at least all of time was her playground to do it. Well, not all of time, she realized as she started punching coordinates into her timeslip. The words “UNIT ROGUE: RTB” appeared on the handpiece in red. Ambrose apparently could do that. Dammit. Obviously, a return to the base as requested would result in nothing beneficial, so she ignored the words. It did mean she would have to avoid any time close to modern, the timeslip nets extended well back into the seventeenth century, and they’d pull her back to base for sure. First things first, she resolved, setting the device. Let’s try this the easy way. ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ “Morgan, we can’t police Dark Ages warlords. Actually, as warlords goes, this guy’s not so bad.” Ambrose pointed out to his partner. “Not so bad? You’re kidding, Ambrose.” Morgan spun on a heel and pointed to Ambrose. “We can’t sit idly by and let him destroy these people just because he had the muscles to pull apart that sculpture in the courtyard. You’ve talked to him. He’s a fool!” Morgan was pacing energetically across the stone-floored room, battling against agitation and pent-up energy. Her looks seemed to be unharmed by or even to benefit from the lack of electric lights and modern makeup. Ambrose scratched at the two weeks of growth on his cheeks, surprised how fast his whiskers had taken advantage of their newfound freedom from razors. He knew his less impressive looks had fared worse than his junior partner’s. “He’s a hopeless romantic, and maybe a hair too trusting of old stories, but I rather like him. Had he been born 900 years from now he’d have become a famous writer or philosopher.” 400 years later still and he’d be doing what Ambrose and Morgan were doing now, for the same reasons Ambrose himself did them, but he didn’t want to say that. “Besides, it’s still not our place to police who they make their leader. Where’s that in the charter?” “Ambrose, screw the charter. These people have bad enough lives as it is. How many of them will die in pursuit of a magic cup that doesn’t exist?” She flicked a derisive finger toward the crumpled parchment of the notice she had pulled from the town bulletin board. It called for brave men-at-arms to quest alongside the Circle of Knights in Gaul to search for the Holy Grail. “Would you prefer he be like his predecessor, who tried to invade the next kingdom over?” Ambrose pointed out. “Look, Morgan, even if you don’t like it, we aren’t here to fix it. We’re here to look, not to touch.” Rather than turning back toward him at the end of her pacing, Morgan hesitated, then dashed for the door. “Dammit, Morgan.” Ambrose got up and ran out after her, but it was too late. The late fall air outside carried a whiff of ozone, and he knew she had gone. “You would be that foolish.” The new generation of ‘walkers didn’t ever seem to have any sense. History was their playground, they thought. Ambrose, despite knowing the time was no issue, thought fast, and marked her in the timeslip grid as a rogue actor. That way she couldn’t go home without being held, and any other agents would refuse to help her. Rogues were rare, but they did happen occasionally. He just hadn’t expected it of Morgan. ”Dammit, dammit.” He continued under his breath, setting his timeslip handpiece to a date in the past. It was time to stop observing, and start damage control. ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ The new knight was young - maybe seventeen or eighteen, but his equipment spoke of a rich parentage. Ambrose stood behind Artur’s chair, leaning on the gnarled druidic staff Artur had given him, just watching the kid present himself. The other knights seemed to be impressed, for sure. But there was something off about him. It had been three months for Ambrose since Morgan had lit off, and he’d been in Artur’s service about a “year”. He spent those months jumping around to try to find her. He’d foiled some minor sabotage, but mostly he cleaned up after her. She always ‘slipped away as soon as she saw he was around. ”What’s your name, sir knight?” Artur asked imperiously. ”Mordred, my liege.” The young man replied. ”From where do you hail?” Artur asked again. ”Nowhere, liege. My family’s lands in Brittany were lost three years ago.” The youth replied evenly. Ambrose noted that - not even a hint of frustration, anger, or regret over that loss. Strange. ”I had hoped that through service in your court I might earn my family lands in your kingdom.” ”Who has tested this knight’s skill?” Artur asked. ”I, liege.” Gawain stood. The burly Welshman was almost seven feet tall, and towered over the newcomer. ”He has much skill, but little strength of the arm. Even so, I vouch for his prowess.” “Next to you, everyone is weak.” Artur pointed out, and the knights chuckled. Gawain smiled at the compliment. ”Sir Mordred, sit there.” Artur pointed to a seat only three away from his own. ”I will have them etch your heraldry into a new chair this very night. Welcome to the Circle of Knights.” ”If I may, sir, Circles are for druids and witches.” Mordred said. Ambrose cringed - Artur was fond of his Circle. ”If that is so, young knight, what would you suggest?” Artur replied. Ambrose could tell from the tone of voice that the boy was on thin ice. ”Nothing drastic, liege, a simple change of name.” Mordred took his seat, seeming not to notice the peril of his words. ”I would call this honored group the Knights of the Artur’s Table Round.” Artur seemed to settle down. ”A name change. I will consider this, sir Mordred. But now we have more pressing matters. This peasant revolt in the southern towns must be quelled, and swiftly. I suspect that the witch Morgana will be found at its root.” Ambrose winced, but didn’t speak. Ever since he’d told Artur about Morgan, the king was seeing her influence in every nuisance and crisis. She had of course been involved once or twice, trying to get people to assassinate the king and such, but she was hardly the source of all of Camelot’s problems. Most of her subterfuge was in the past for Artur, where only Ambrose could undo it. As Artur started giving out orders to the knights, Ambrose thought he saw Mordred glaring at him, but when he looked that way the boy was watching Artur intently. Perhaps he had a concealed dislike for Ambrose, or for magicians in general? Something to keep an eye on, for sure. ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ Mordred stood in his usual spot at the parapet, looking out over the town below. He knew that the kingdom was his by right, he only needed seize it from the idiot he was ashamed to call father. ”Your time will come soon, my child.” Mordred heard the familiar voice issue from behind him. He did not turn to look, because he knew eyes were on him, eyes that could not see his mother lurking there. ”My time is now, I think.” Mordred replied quietly, without moving his lips much. ”The king is in Gaul until Winter Solstice at least, and he left that dolt Lancelot in charge.” ”Lancelot is a womanizer and a fool.” Morgana whispered. ”Apply pressure, and he’s our man.” There was a rustle of cloth from Morgana’s robes as she set something down. ”This letter is signed by Gawain. It says that the king is dead. It is addressed to him, and it says that Artur spoke of you with his dying breath, recognizing you as his son. It also forgives him for sleeping with the queen.” “False?” Mordred confirmed. ”Of course. The only person who might see through it is Ambrose. The Myrlin.” She scoffed the title, it was a joke to her. ”He has not been seen here in many years.” Mordred scoffed. ”The old man probably crawled into some hole and died.” ”Make no mistake, he is still around.” Morgana corrected her son. ”He is conserving his resources. Avoid him if you can. Try not to kill him if you can’t.” ”Not to kill him, mother?” Mordred asked. ”He is your enemy.” ”I want him defeated, not killed. This is a time for finesse, my son, not bloodshed.” ”No.” Mordred whispered. ”What did you say to me!?” Morgana’s voice rose, building anger. ”I am going to be king. I will not be your pawn. I will kill who I please, and I will spare who I please.” Mordred’s smile vanished, then came back cruelly. ”You can’t stop me.” ”You would reject all I’ve done for you!?” Morgana hissed. ”No, mother. I would do what needs to be done to realize it.” Mordred said. ”I will not let your magician’s games get in the way. I will - ” But a metallic smell drifted to him, and knew his mother was gone. Yes, she was the woman that bore him, the woman that paid for the finest tutors to look after him, to train him to be a king. But if even that family tie would keep Mordred from the throne, then it must be severed. It was his destiny to be king. He would be king. Mordred lingered ten precise seconds, then walked away, ignoring his mother’s false letter. It was time to be King. Time to seize the moment. His way, not Morgana’s. ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ ҉ Ambrose appeared on the parapet, gnarled staff in hand, and saw the battlefield below, shadowed by a gloomy, overcast and smoke-tainted sky. What was left of the town was trampled to foundations and ashes, and littered with bodies. It looked fresh - hours old only. Two ragged, broken armies stood on either side of it - one in front of the gates, below him, and the other farther out. Between them, two mailed figures dueled, swords and shields ringing blows through the cold air. One of them was clearly Artur. Ambrose was spotted in the army below, and the call went out. Belatedly, he realized that they weren’t Artur’s troops - they bore the colors of another. Black on Crimson. Mordred? He ducked in time to avoid the volley of arrows, and set his timeslip to take him back a few hours and out onto a nearby hill. The battle was almost accidental. Artur’s army, returning early, saw the red flags on Camelot’s towers, and circled round, through the woods, right up to the town’s verge. As soon as the gate opened, they charged up toward it, not realizing that Mordred was impatiently leading his own army out to seek Artur’s force. Mordred had numbers and position, but Artur’s troops had surprise and experience. Lancelot, still inside Camelot, had closed the gates behind the usurper, letting the armies decide who would be king. Ambrose respected that decision, though it would probably mean whoever won would exile him. At last, the two armies drew back, and Artur and Mordred came to parley. Ambrose struggled to think of a way to even begin to roll this back. Could it be one of Morgan’s plots? And how could he even begin to unravel this one? How far back did it go? ”Yes that's me, and no, it's not.” Morgan, wearied-looking, was at Ambrose’s side. ”It wasn’t supposed to be like this. That’s my... my son.” Ambrose’s guard rose, but as soon as he saw her wearied, defeated demeanor he relaxed some. ”Mordred?” She didn’t look like she’d spent enough years here to raise a child to Mordred’s age. ”Why, Morgan?” ”You were winning. I had to try something new.” She admitted. ”But even he is against me now. Bloodthirsty.” Below, the two men stepped back and took combat stances. Morgan gasped. ”A duel! Disagreements aside, we’ve got to do something, Ambrose.” ”Morgan, you’ve done enough.” Ambrose waved his gnarled walking-stick in front of her. ”But he’s my son!” She started to claw at her timeslip. ”I have to do something!” Ambrose waited until she was absorbed in her frantic struggle with the device, then hit her over the head with his heavy druidic staff. Morgan fell to the ground, out cold. ”Sorry, Morgan. This one’s out of our hands now.” He muttered, picking her up. Below, the fight raged on. Mordred was faster, but Artur was, even at sixty years of age, stronger and more skillful. It was an even match. ”I’m sorry, my liege. I cannot help you any longer.” Ambrose whispered as he set his own timeslip for home. He knew he wouldn’t be coming back. With one last look at the duel below, Ambrose activated the handpiece, and he and his errant junior partner vanished in a purple flash of light.[/fieldset] Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 1st, 2012 at 07:46 PM. |
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December 2012 Competition Entries Topic - First Snowfall Winner - First Base on Europa by The Jaded and Love of Prey by Troy (Tie) Forbidden Love by TeufelHeunden (3,255 words) Swirling puffs drift down carpeting the already white forest floor in an emotionless snowy bed of harmony and tranquility as winter arrives to hide the dead leaves of fall. The hapless singing of the songbirds was absent and the only sound left was the intermittent crackling of a branch as it shook off the annoying visitors on their way down to ground. The forest becomes such an altered world in the winter. This chilly evening the moon cast its silvery stare upon the woods as the pallor trail withstood the hoofs of a lone rider while he cantered down the mountainside, sheltered in his cloak to protect him from the first snow. Heavy feelings rang through the riders mind on the way to Váltsi. Why must one so gallant and privately noble fall to such depths of decadence? Perhaps it was his only flaw, the soft eyes of the damsels as they called upon him after his victories at the games. Their bouquet of scents as they drifted through the halls when they would call upon him. He was never sure why he fell so fast but he always did. This time though he should have been more discrete in his encounter with the charming Shadar-Kai that appeared before him pouring his fine wine as he celebrated his latest victory. He couldn't help himself as she flashed her deep emerald eyes ~ her scar was delicate in its latticed embrace of her eyes, eyes that fermented with the apparition of the stars from a thousand nights. It wasn't long before they found themselves embraced in passion outside the court, in the side garden next to the lake. A passion that others might only dream of, but for them it was as real as … as… well real as the prying eyes from the jealous vision of the youngster who watched from the shadows. If he could not have such passion then they should not either. So it was that word reached King Labdacus of du Lac’s latest transgression with a Shadar-Kai. Word would spread quickly, and if Serell’s bloodline was not so closely entwined with Labdacus’s, or Serell’s deeds not so valuable to the land the transgressions would have ended long ago at the end of the executioner’s blade. But as it was, their bloodlines was intertwined and their family’s history went far back, back to the time of the wars and the founding of the edict that sent the Shadar-Kai race into slavery possessed by the other races. As a result, instead of a date with the executioner, Serell found himself this winter night on a winding path traveling to Váltsi, sent on a “diplomatic” mission. A mission that would last as long as it took for Labdacus to decide that he had paid his penance or at least the rumors had quieted down enough for him to return. This probably meant through the winter. It was times like this when he wished that maybe it had been the executioner instead. He loathed being sent to Váltsi to deal with the filthy humans. It was bad enough when he would be sent on an explicit mission that he could complete and return as soon as possible. But this time was different; he would need to stay in Váltsi until he was called back by Labdacus himself, and not return a moment sooner. As his steed navigated the rocks below, he rode above and watched the trees sway in the chilly night breeze. A sway that reminded him of the walk of Cniva Edelman as she walked around Váltsi without a care in the world. Perhaps she was the only human that he ever knew which he could stomach being in the presence of. Not so much for her beauty or her aloofness, but because of her disregard for the feeling that other humans had of the Shadar-Kai. He never sensed that hatred that they so openly showed the Shadar-Kai, how could he, he was an elf. Perhaps it was her sheltered life that allowed her to think so differently. Or maybe her own selflessness. But it was apparent to Serell that it did not permeate her pores like other humans and he could sense that. Maybe he could spend some time with her in Váltsi and if he could keep his hands to himself then he could establish a bridge to the humans and open up some new trade routes. His wandering thoughts were snapped back as his steed stumbled on a loose rock and he sharpened his thoughts back to the present. He would make Váltsi by morn and he could finally get a nice bath and sleep in a warm soft bed again. The trip from Khavárion to Váltsi had been a long one, not as much in time as in thought. Strange new emotions flooded his mind as he rode through the woods and hills. He had never felt that way before, but then again, as best as he knew, he had never been a father before. And now to be separated by royal decree from the one whom he loves and not be there for the birth of his own son ……… There had been other births that he had attended, many relatives whom had birthed solid young members of culture into this world. But while the event itself was always joyous, never before had he thought about it like this. That life inside of Lessien, while conceived in a mad moment of passion was his seed growing in her womb. Their unions those few nights were better than any he could remember; there were soulful bonds between them. He was so thankful to Labdacus for the risk he is taking, he had thought about exiling himself with Lessien and escaping so far away that no one would know they had disappeared. Yet there is much more that he could do by staying if he could only find a way. This decree on interracial relations is ludicrous. How many have lost their very lives only because of the natural instinct to find passion amongst lovers. What will Lessian and he do even after things have calmed down, they cannot live together. If he took her as a slave to protect her, then he would never be able to raise his son as his own, perhaps if he is born with no scars as he had seen before, there might be a way to make things work. Hope is such an animated emotion. He will definitely have time to think about the future, Labdacus has made it vividly clear that he is not to come home until he’s called for, or he will bring risk not only to Lessien and his child but to himself. The best thing he can do is learn how to live amongst these human barbarians. They have no love of fellow beings, only selfish thoughts for themselves. Cannot they ever realize that if they would only put themselves above such barbaric ways they could have so much more than they ever dreamed of? Well maybe that is for the better, they can stay where they are and beat each other into submission for all he cared, there are only a few that rise to the top and make their company bearable anyway. Then there is Lord Timothy, a simple minded Nobel that has known nothing else. He was granted his life at birth and readily took to the aristocratic circumstance that every minute detail encompasses. From his ridiculous powder blue gloves he wears and that lacy edging around his coat of arms, right down to the fact that he has more clothes in his bureau than most female royals back in Khavárion. He is a cordial one though; better him than Julian Lorde, which would be worse than outright exile. However, Lord Timothy has a decent family and his Eldest son does at least not take after him, perhaps he could show him a thing or two on a hunt if there is time. Serrell arrived in Váltsi and took up residence with the Allard’s where the accommodations were at least comfortable, as long as you kept your distance from the family. After a couple of weeks a snowbound hunt was planned and as he had anticipated, the eldest son, Harry was put up front with him. The conversation was amicable and the two discussed trade to which Harry displayed an amazing amount of knowledge. Perhaps Serrell was right in thinking that he will make a fine Nobel one day, either on his own or with inheritance he will do well for himself. The youngest however, Allen was more feminine than his older sister and it was easy to see that he was the prince or rather princess of the family. He stayed near the rear and was more concerned with keeping his hair in place than even participating in the hunt. Harry took the tutelage from Serrell to heart and using the skill he showed back at the estate, he brought his kill down in less than two hundred yards with a good shot to the lungs. Almost as good as Serrell who scored a direct hit to the spine followed by a quick second shot into the heart dropping his buck him almost where it stood. “See Harry, if you immobilize them first, then you get an even quicker kill, but yours was a fine shot indeed, good job,” was his only critique. Word came of his change of venue as the Edelman’s were arriving back in Váltsi. Even though he cannot breathe a word of his true reason for the stay in Váltsi, even to Cniva whom he had grown close too, at least he can feel more at ease in their presence. The day finally arrived when he would be moving and he still struggled with the fact that the Shadar-Kai in the Allard household were treated more like farm animals than any form of dignity, but such is their life and there was nothing that he can do about it, for now. At least they are treated a few pegs higher on the chain over at the Edelman’s. Lessian's last letter, every riveting syllable of it, lies on the bureau. He has it memorized word for word. Beside it, the last letter from Labdacus, a reply to his own written inquiry and equally ingrained in his head. He would have to be either dense or made of stone to miss the veiled threat, and he is neither. He knows with certainty that should he return to Khavárion before he is sent for, he will seal Lessien's fate and that of their unborn child. It seems young lord Serrell has taken his liberties too grandly this time. Even so, he knows the following statements are true. Labdacus is a very skillful liar. Only the sun knows for sure if he is writing the truth, and no amount of examining his relationship will give his conscious rest. Before Labdacus’s illness had begun, he might have staked a solid claim in his faith. Now, he simply doesn't know. If he isn't lying, his decision to leave Lessien alive at all is astonishing. It is elven law via the edict to terminate Shadar-Kai interracial pregnancies (both babies and mothers) before the abomination can be born. Labdacus is taking a highly unorthodox risk here to ensure that both live. This means either he considers his relation with Serrell equal or above his own honor, or he has a separate agenda. But it also means that he is keeping his monstrous son Tenril in the dark, which is an idea he likes since Tenril would take the first available opportunity to destroy Serrell - and enjoy it, which brings him to his third worry. If word of his little indiscretion gets out, he is finished. He will not be awarded a death sentence outright - his royal blood protects him from that - but the alternative is no better. He will be exiled, and any elf that gets his hands on him within their realm or otherwise, has freedom to kill. And they will want him passionately dead. Preventing being discovered means cutting his ears off, running for his life, gaining muscle in hopes for a more human shape, and forgetting his heirs, his habits and accent. Basically, it means he will be dead sooner or later because this is not the kind of secret that keeps. These things, and a few others, battle for his mind's attention as he secrets the letters away in his trunk and calls for the servants. It grates on him how eager the little Shadar-Kai shows up, almost skidding to a stop on soles he knows contain holes, in threads no better for a beggar but at least gaily colored. At least here they were treated somewhat better than most. He has not learned this one's name. That is a rather difficult feat when the owners themselves refer to their laborers as 'scamp', 'ragrunt', and the ever popular 'dandy' which is short for the cruelly pegged 'dandyskinned' the humans all favored. He can try and help though, when no one is looking he attempts to do so, levering the corner of his trunk, assisting the lad in its lifting, only to have the youth scramble hastily to his side and urge him to stop doing so. He relents, recognizing the failed battle for what it is and he leaves the lad instead of sending him into further panic with his insistence. He thanks him briefly and then exits the room before the youth's panting struggles with his luggage can torment him. Miss this place, he will not. He is being granted a fresh change of venue, and not a moment too soon. Weeks spent among the Allard's hospitality had been lavish but every bit as nerve gnashing as he had imagined. The family's ideals went well beyond Váltsin noble standards. They delved in the most ostentatious notions and fads. The most lavish furnishings, the righteous among churches, the best etiquette, the most proper speech. They were every royal headache in Váltsi summed up in one, and he had refrained, just barely, from clawing his own eyes out upon discovery of who had won the elven ambassador's ticket this time. But now the torment was finally to be over. The Edelman’s had arrived dockside last enday and though Thaddeus had likely chuckled and allowed his torture to extend a few days, he had graciously rescued him with an invitation for hospitality that had been impossible - on his part or the Allard's - to refuse. Thank the sun for ghostly distant relatives. He extended his steps to the foyer for farewells. Lord Timothy Allard, together with his two sons, only daughter, and robust wife stood in an uptight, proper line to receive him. One of the few things he will miss was tutoring Harry and the pleasant landscape afforded by Timothy’s wife and daughter. "Lord Serrell Boursin," Timothy drawls in pleasant sounding baritone. "It is a sad day, indeed, to see you go. You have been a most pleasurable guest - and companion. Your timing during the hunt was exquisite. I shall beg upon you to join us again before you turn home. I know our woods are not as challenging as the grand ones of Khavárion, but I hope you will take the time, and the honor, of teaching my boys some more of your skills. There is not a Nobel who matches your skill, as you are certainly aware. It was a fine time having you within my home. A fine time, indeed." He reaches with a powder blue glove to accept Serrell's hand in the elven style of handshake. ”Lord Timothy, I thank you for your most respectable courtesy of allowing me to stay with you and your family, you have been most hospitable and King Labdacus will be pleased by my report. Harry, you keep up your practice and continue to learn all you can about the trades routes that you are taking care of, you will make a fine Nobel one day.” leaning in close so only he can hear, “and keep an eye out for your baby brother, I am afraid that if he doesn’t grow up soon that he will be under your care for some time to come.” Turning back to Lady Allard, ”M’Lady, you have a fine home and family here and you have done a grand job with the children, your daughter will be a fine wife for a lucky man one day and your sons will excel I am sure.” Bidding his farewells his luggage loaded into a wagon, he mounts his horse and leaves with the wagon in tow to the Edelman’s. As he rides across town the thoughts race back into his mind like the blowing snow drifting across the road, never before now have these thoughts been so prevalent in his mind. The pain and agony of Lessien’s absence is a strange and new agony that he has never faced before and he doesn't know if he can bear the time away much longer. It feels good to be going to the Edelman’s today, but he cannot bear this separation much longer. The agony rips at his heart with each hoof fall on the snow packed streets of Váltsi. Why must he be away from his family like this ….. wait a minute, did he just think …..family, this has gone too far and he must find a solution to this mess. Things have gone on too long and it is time for a change. They are his family and he will not hide them away forever like some shame upon his name. Lessien is the mother of his son, if it is a son and as such deserves better, besides, she could do a better job at raising a Nobel in his household than Lady Allard has done so far. First Base on Europa by "The Jaded" [2,983 words] Isaac alternately paced as well as he was able and stirred the soup on the range oven with a plastic spoon. The others would be back soon, he knew. He hated being alone in the compound, even though it happened fairly often. Ever since the accident and the loss of his leg, he couldn’t go out with the others. Luckily the compound needed plenty of things done from the inside, and one didn’t need a leg to operate the telepresence rig, or Isaac would be dead weight. A hissing wind had picked up out there, and Isaac staggered out of the galley to peek out one of the round, pressure-sealed windows. Hutchinson Ridge, a huge wall of broken ice, was only visible as a vague black shape through the wind-blown dust, a storm blowing in from the Gradell Sea. The dust, of course, was tiny ice crystals, not earth-like dust. On Europa, water ice was about all there was to see. “Mobile to compound.” Alice’s voice came through the radio. ”We’re on the way back with the sample. How’s your day been, Isaac?” Isaac pulled his radio remote off his belt and held it to his mouth. The actual radio gear was in the compound’s comm spire, but the system still reminded Isaac of old walkie-talkies. “Dull. Thanks for asking. Soup should be done by the time you’re back. Looks like a storm’s coming in.” “I see it. Right over the ridge. We’ll be careful.” Alice’s voice came back. “See you in a few, Isaac.” “Yup.” Isaac put the remote back in its holster and went back to check the soup, listening to the hissing of ice-dust pounding the side of the compound grow in intensity. The powers that be had detected that particular hazard of Europa, so he didn’t worry that much - the gentle abrasion would take decades to put the compound in danger. Then the domed ceiling creaked, and Isaac, startled, looked up. Of course he couldn’t see anything. But it had sounded like there was something shifting its weight up there, something alive. He shook his head and tried to put that out of his mind. Europa was, by all indications and measurements, thus far lifeless, except for the expedition. The garage, sensing the mobile’s return, started equalizing pressure with the thin Europan atmosphere, a sound that made Isaac jump yet again. He was always like this at the end of the day, he knew - jumpy. He had jumped at the chance to go on this mission because he did well in close quarters with others, but after the accident he often found himself all alone in the cavernous compound for twelve or sixteen hours at a time. Another creak of the dome spurred Isaac to limp over to the window overlooking the garage entrance. Jupiter’s bulk was only visible as a vague orange glow through the dust blowing over the ridge, and below it the lights of the mobile shone out from somewhere on the Gulf of Blades. The tracked vehicle was slow, but it was designed for reliability and safety, not for speed. As it trundled closer, Isaac saw that its roof bore a pair of oblong, boxy containers, and knew that Ginny and Jorge would want to take their meal to the analysis room. The mobile inched into the garage, and its outer doors rolled shut. Isaac heard the pumps restoring its air pressure. Leaning heavily on the wall, he stumped toward the entryway, eager to greet the others. A gust of wind more severe than usual slammed into the dome, and Isaac heard the comm tower’s metal framework creaking audibly. It would be one hell of a storm, he decided, but didn’t worry about it too much. The compound was designed to take it and worse. The doors to the garage groaned open, and Alice stepped in, sniffing the air. “Isaac, I don’t know what you’re making but it smells delicious.” She complimented him. “It’s nothing.” He dropped his eyes in mild embarrassment. “But come on, let’s eat, it should be done by now.” Except for Ginny and Jorge, the rest of the team ate quietly in the tiny mess hall. As they had been in each others’ exclusive company for almost three years now, the silence was not uncomfortable, but instead familiar, comfortable. Isaac did not fail to notice that Alice had taken a seat across from him. As soon as her bowl was empty, she broke the silence. Though it was spoken quietly, her question was audible to the other four men and women present. “What’s bothering you, Isaac?” She asked. “You seem a little... I don’t know. Shaken.” “I don’t know, Alice. I just think being in here all day by myself is getting to me.” Isaac clinked his false leg against the table. “I’m happy I’m still useful to you all after this. But the silence, the emptiness... It gets to my nerves sometimes.” Harold and Nischa nodded in solemn empathy. It wasn’t that Alice was prying - Isaac knew that, as mission commander, she was just doing her job. “I understand, Isaac. We’ll try not to be gone too long tomorrow, only a few hours.” Alice replied. The wind continued its roar. “Unless that mess doesn’t let up, of course.” Milo pointed out. “Yeah.” Alice agreed. “This one sounds pretty bad.” Returning the stack of empty bowls to the galley, Isaac stopped at the window looking over Hutchinson Ridge. He saw nothing out there, and at first he thought the shutters were closed, until he realized that the ice dust had piled up on that side of the compound deep enough to cover the window. It didn’t bother him too much - he wouldn’t be the one to go out there and blow it off in the morning. The rest of the expedition had wandered down into the lab wing, where Ginny and Jorge would probably be explaining all the amazing things they had learned from the ice samples. Isaac found that sort of thing hideously dry, but he preferred being bored in company to being alone. “... The concentration of those silicate shards is up thirty percent from yesterday’s sample.” Ginny was saying. “So we’re getting closer.” “Mean shard size was also up eleven percent.” Jorge offered helpfully. “Bigger and more common.” “But still no idea what they are?” Alice asked. “Ah, no.” Ginny replied. “Their structure is highly irregular.” “Maybe - ” Tricia started to theorize, but was interrupted when the lights dimmed in time with a blast of wind so severe that the compound groaned. “Never done that before.” Alice pointed out. “Harold, opinions?” Harold pulled out his view slate and punched in some commands to the computer. “Hard to say, but it looks like that mess is too thick for me to talk to the weather sat.” He held up the slate for everyone to see the “signal error” message he had received. “Do what you can from down here.” Alice told him. “Isaac, have the lights ever done that before?” All eyes turned to the crippled man. Isaac shook his head. “Um, no. I’d have noticed. Not today, not ever that I recall.” “Wind speed out there is 180 KPH and rising.” Harold read from his display. “One-ninety. Damn, I’m glad there’s not much atmosphere or we’d be airborne right now.” “It’s never done this before!” Tricia, looking worried, backed up to the wall. “What if it keeps rising?” ”Relax, folks, the compound is rated for two fifty at this pressure.” Harold spoke to everyone, but he was looking at Tricia. “We’ll be all right.” “If you say so, Harold.” Alice replied doubtfully. “No way I’m going to be sleeping through that. Anyone up for a game of chess?” “You’re on.” Nischa replied, rolling the “r” sound, the only remaining trace of her once-thick accent. Close proximity with the other seven members of the group had robbed her of what Isaac had considered a very pleasant-sounding mode of speech. “My skill at that sport is unchallenged among us.” “Chess isn’t a sport.” Isaac pointed out for the dozenth time. “Of course it is, dear. You just use a different muscle group.” Nischa replied, her counterpoint as repetitive as Isaac’s argument. The exchange was a common ritual associated with the game of chess, and hearing it seemed to put everyone at ease. The team retired to the wide, high-domed common room, and Alice pulled a gamepad out and set it on one of the flimsy coffee tables. Fiddling with its settings, she got it to display a chessboard, flipped it so that the white pieces were on her side, and made her first move. The rest of the group watched the game in silence. Alice, playing aggressively, seemed to be dominating the board early on, but Nischa whittled down Alice’s pieces over time. In the end, Nischa won, but neither had many pieces left on the board. “Two out of three?” Alice asked as she tapped the “concede” button. “Okay.” Nischa agreed. “Umm, guys?” Tricia was sitting in one of the big massage chairs, looking up at the thick glass pane at the domed roof’s apex. Isaac followed her gaze. At first he saw nothing - the pane showed nothing, and he didn’t understand. Then he understood. The unmoving, grayish-white slate was ice dust. “It usually just blows past. Why is it staying put now?” He asked of no-one specifically. “Wind speed is... hmm. Thirty-one and falling.” Harold read off his display. “But the sensor up on the ridge is still reading one-twenty.” “We’re in a snowdrift.” Alice summarized. “Under.” Isaac pointed out. “The dome isn’t designed to hold weight! What if - ” Tricia looked hysterical. “We’d get alarms if the weight was trouble. It’s just ice dust. We’ll be fine.” Nischa pointed out. This seemed to calm Tricia down a little. “Next time the wind picks up it’ll clear us off.” “I hope that’s before tomorrow, or the garage must stay shut.” Jorge pointed out. “That stuff will flood the garage.” The rest of the expedition nodded in agreement. Damage to or loss of the mobile would mean no excursions to pick up supply shipments, no more science projects, no nothing. There were enough spare parts in the facility to build two more mobile crawlers, but assembly could take days, to say nothing of shoveling out the garage. “Not keen on a vacation, Jorge?” Isaac asked him. “It might be for the best. What’s it been, three weeks since we took a day off?” His mind grabbed onto the idea that maybe being “snowed in” would mean he would have company all day long for a change. “This isn’t a resort, Isaac.” Alice pointed out cautiously, moving a pawn on the chessboard to start the second game. Isaac, annoyed at the mild condescension the expedition commander was giving him, tapped his false leg against the wall. The aluminum rang slightly. “I think I know that, Alice.” Not wanting to say anything he’d regret, he limped out of the common room as fast as he could, and headed for the bunkroom he shared with Harold. “Not a resort?” He repeated under his breath as he navigated the cramped access tube to the dormitory wing. Of all the insensitive... “Isaac, wait.” Alice jogged up behind him, but he kept going. She could easily keep up with his peg-legged gait, and they both knew it. “I’m sorry, I know - ” “Alice, save it.” Isaac interrupted her. ”Three years we’ve lived in close quarters, I know it was thoughtless and not malicious, and I know you regret it. In fact, I - ” He broke off as the access tunnel creaked loudly around him. “What - ” Alice hit Isaac from behind at full speed, and knocked him over. The pair bowled over the threshold into the dormitory wing, and Isaac’s ill-fitting prosthetic slipped off and rolled away. “Alice, what the hell - ” Isaac tried to protest, but his sentence started about the same time as a groan from the tunnel. There was a pop, then the frightening hiss of escaping air, and the pressure doors on both sides of the tunnel slammed shut. “...Crap.” Alice rolled off Isaac’s back and pulled her remote off her belt. “We’re all right, what about you guys?” She spoke into it. Only static replied. Isaac fished out his own remote and pulled up a diagnostic. “No use, looks like the wind knocked something loose out there. The tower’s not responding.” “Dammit.” Alice stood up and pressed her face to the glass in the pressure door. “Tunnel just failed.” “Alarms?” Isaac asked. “Only in the domes.” Alice pointed out. “The tunnels are supposed to take more than the domes do anyway.” “Damn.” Isaac looked around for his prosthetic, not seeing it. “Where’d my leg go?” Alice turned away from the window. “What do you mean?” She saw what he meant. “Oh.” She looked around for a moment. “It might be on the other side of the door.” “Should have had Harold glue the thing on.” Isaac sat up and leaned on the wall. “I suppose I have you to thank for this.” “Isaac, I’m - ” “It was a joke, Alice. You saved my life just now. I’m not going to fault you for losing a bit of aluminum. Help me up.” She complied. Europan gravity made Isaac’s greater weight no problem, and soon she was easing him into a sitting position on his bunk. “How long do you think they’ll be fixing the tunnel?” Alice asked him. “Hours, I expect.” Isaac replied. “It’d be easier if I were in the telepresence rig. Milo isn’t as quick.” “Yeah.” Alice sat down next to him. “And with the tower out we’re - ” “Useless.” Isaac finished for her. “Get comfortable.” “You know, ever since the accident we’ve barely spoken.” Alice said after a short silence. “I’ve been avoiding you, I think.” “And I you, I suppose.” Isaac agreed. “It’s not that I blame you for the - ” “You don’t have to. I do that perfectly well myself. We knew about all the blind crevasses already, I should have told you.” “I would have known already if I’d been on the main radio channel like I should have been.” Isaac pointed out. “Rather than listening to the newsfeed again.” “Everybody knew you were doing that. I knew. I should have - ” “Alice, don’t blame yourself.” Isaac put his hand on her shoulder. “We can share the blame perfectly equitably.” She made a sort of sniffing, dejected chuckling sound. “But not the consequences.” “No.” Isaac agreed. “Count yourself lucky, the rest of us do. I’ve tasted your cooking.” That elicited a bit more laughter. “I suppose.” She conceded. “It’s just so hard to look you in the eye when I know I was at least partly to blame for your leg.” “Try it now, then. Get some practice while no-one is looking or cares.” Isaac shifted away from Alice and turned to face her. “I don’t blame you. I did, initially, but I don’t now.” Alice turned to look at Isaac, but her eyes made only furtive contact with his before darting away again. “You look good, you know.” She said quietly. “You’re doing better than anyone could expect.” “Yup. I’ve lost weight.” Isaac replied sarcastically. “But I wouldn’t recommend my strategy.” This proved to be another laugh line for Alice. ”Isaac, how can you do that? Make light of even that?” “It’s my way. The eye contact, Alice. Where’s the old you? The woman who thought herself God’s gift to spaceflight on the way here? The woman that was large and in charge, the woman who - ” Isaac broke off before he said what he was thinking: “the woman who I thought I loved.” That was all ancient history, and things had changed since the expedition had landed. She tried again, and this time got a full five seconds before she looked away again. “You really don’t blame me?” She asked. “Nope.” Isaac shrugged. “You don’t believe that?” Alice stood up and walked to the other side of the small chamber. “People aren’t like that. Forgiveness isn’t that easy, it’s - ” The sounds of whirring motors against the outer wall made both look in that direction. “That’ll be the rig.” Isaac pointed out uselessly - Alice would know that too. “They’ll have us out before too long.” “I know.” Alice paced back toward Isaac. “I... I wish I could believe you.” “You will, when you forgive yourself.” Isaac moved as if to stand, but stopped when he remembered that he was without his leg. “I wish you would.” Alice stopped, and made eye contact again. This time, she held it, looking into him for something Isaac couldn’t guess. She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but shut it again and leaned in to plant a light kiss on his cheek. Isaac was surprised by this, but not at all unhappy about it. Then she whirled and stalked out the door into the rest of the dome. “Wait, Alice - ” Isaac called after her, and her footsteps stopped just out of sight. Perhaps, he considered, their real or imagined chemistry wasn’t as relegated to ancient history as he had thought. This idea both excited and terrified Isaac. “Not sure I’m ready to forgive myself just yet, Isaac. But thanks for being... like you are. I am not sure we’d keep ourselves together without you. I’m not sure I would.” “I’m glad to help, Alice, any way I can.” Isaac replied. If Alice heard, she didn’t respond. Isaac didn’t hear her footsteps stomping away, and wondered for some time if she had slunk off or if she was still standing there, just outside the door, waiting for him to say something, and if so, what it was. Love of Prey by Troy [2,094 Words] Marcus paced back and forth in the small one-room jailhouse, lit only by the fire in the small fireplace. His plain brown eyes stormed with emotion under his close cropped black hair and the sound of his dark leather boots bounced off the stone walls. He wore a black sleeveless shirt emblazoned with an orange sword on the breast and a scimitar hung from his belt, marking him as a guard in the employ of Duke Viam’Bellator, Lord of Jericho. His pacing took him to the only window in the jail and he stopped to peer out like he had done a thousand times since his relief had not arrived. The light of the moon revealed snow blanketed hills for the first time in history and the cobblestone road that led from the jail, a holding area for new prisoners, to the prison a mile away was invisible. The snow fascinated the young guard as much as it irritated him and he stood captivated for a moment. He was staring out at history, albeit cold wet history that made travelling a pain, and all he could think about was the lateness of his relief. Some were contributing the unnatural weather to the Sorcerer Kings of the north and their plans to conquer Jericho. The city was almost in a state of panic over such a display of power. He muttered the same curses he had muttered every time he paused at the window and turned around, the sound of his boots once again filling the air on his ten step march to the bars of the cell that took up half the building. “Today of all days! Damned Sorcerer Kings! What am I going to do? Alayna is going to kill me.” Saying her name filled his head with images of the beautiful Potter’s daughter. He had been courting her for months and had finally saved up enough of his earnings to buy her a ring. What better time to consummate their love than on the eve of an invasion? A heavy sigh escaped his lips and he lost interest in pacing. He turned and walked over to the fireplace across from his desk, the only things of interest in the small jail other than the cell and the window by the door, and poked at the logs burning within. Right now Marcus was supposed to be on bended knee at the fountain in the center of the renowned Gardens of Heaven holding the ring out for Alayna to take and he was missing it because of snow! She wouldn’t understand that he couldn’t leave until his replacement got there. He could already see the hurt look on her face and imagine the silence he would have to live with for weeks. Another sigh carried him over to his desk and he picked up his thick black cloak from where it was hanging on the back of his chair. After fumbling with it for a moment he pulled the ring from a concealed pocket and dropped his cloak onto the desk. The firelight danced inside the small emerald set atop the golden band. He had chosen the ring because the stone reminded him Alayna’s eyes. “Nice ring, lad.” A smooth voice said from under a raggedy blanket in the back corner of the cell, causing Marcus to jump and almost drop the precious loop of metal. The young guard had forgotten that there was a prisoner waiting to be processed in the cell, an easy thing to do since the rough looking man behind the bars had been asleep for the entirety of his shift. The prisoner stood up and stretched, the light of the fire throwing shadows across his body and face. “I tried to give a woman a ring just like that not too long ago. Beautiful, she was, and full of a fire no man could quench.” A small smile appeared on the shadowed face as he leaned against the back wall of the cell. “Oh but I tried, though. I was convinced that I would be the one to tame her.” The smile slowly disappeared and his voice filled with what could only be pain. “She proved me wrong, of course. Took my ring, my freedom, and my heart along with it.” Marcus, having recovered from his scare, eyed the man for a moment before nodding. He had learned from his time at the little jail that most criminals were just men and had long ago given up any misgivings he may have had about talking to them. “A sad tale. Mine may be heading in that direction because of this damned snow. I’m supposed to be proposing right now.” He slipped the ring back into his cloak pocket and sat on top of his desk. “The only thing I was told when I took over this afternoon is that you turned yourself in. What’d you do to land in prison?” The shadowed face replied, “If she’s any type of decent she’ll understand after a glass of wine or two.” He shifted against the back wall before answering Marcus’ question, “Why I’m here is a long story.” “Until some of this snow clears, I have nothing better to do. Just skip the ‘I’m innocent’ bit if you would. There’s nothing I can do for you if you’ve already made it here.” The shadowed face stares back at him and no response seemed forthcoming. After what seemed like an eternity, Marcus opened his mouth to steer the conversation in a different direction. Before he could get a word out, the man behind the bars spoke, his voice dripping with reluctance, “Well… I’m not one for lying so you won’t hear me saying I’m innocent. I turned myself in a few days ago, expecting to be executed.“ His forehead wrinkled once more in thought as he continued, “I guess I should start from the beginning. Before everything happened I was a guide and a trapper in the Great Forest just north of Jericho. I was pretty damned good at it too. Never got anyone lost and never met an animal I couldn’t track and bring down. Until Jacquelyn, that is.” Marcus turned his head slightly and interrupted. “Jacquelyn?” “Yeah, Jacquelyn.” The prisoner said, his words laced with the same note of pain heard moments before. “A black leopard, the rarest of prey in the Great Forest. She was going to make me a very happy man.” His tone became distant and filled with a sense of awe when he continued, “I remember the first day I saw her. I was roaming about checking my traps and there she was, just standing there in the middle of a path staring at me, her amber eyes weighing my soul.” He chuckled at this, “For the first time since I was old enough to hunt, I froze. The most beautiful creature I had ever seen in my life was less than twenty five yards away and I couldn’t move. That was also the first time she slipped my grasp. When those eyes finished their inspection she turned and padded off into the trees, disappearing before I could think to go after her. ” Another shift against the wall and the prisoner crossed his arms over his chest. “After that day I had no desire to hunt anything but her. Tracking and trapping her filled every waking moment of my life. I tried everything that had netted me a catch before, then traps a thousand times more elaborate than I had ever tried, I even though of trying the violent traps some of the other men employed, though I never did.” Sadness once again crept into the shadowed man’s voice. “She was too crafty for me. Every time I threw out bait she took it but somehow avoided the trap. It turned into a game but Jacquelyn had been hunted before and knew what she was doing. I had one trap left up my sleeve, though. A trap I had never had to use before and one I was sure she would never expect. Its bait had proven itself throughout history as effective.” The shadowed man pauses. Fully captivated by the story, Marcus waited as the pause stretched on into forever. When the story finally resumed, it was in a low tone filled with a mixture of sorrow and anger, “I decided to set my trap the day the snow first started falling. I thought maybe it was a sign of change and luck, an assurance of good things to come. The first flakes that touched my face ignited a need for action that I had never felt before. I was deceived. When I went into the forest there was already a trap there. It was almost identical to mine and she was walking right into it! It was sure to catch her. I saw the other tracker watching her and that’s where everything goes fuzzy.” A heavy sigh sounded from behind the bars and the man continued, “Next thing I remember is standing over the other tracker’s body, a bloody hunting knife in my hand. The snowflakes falling on my face mocked the fire they had birthed in me earlier and I knew their cold kiss was the only I would ever feel. When I looked up from the gory mess at my feet Jacquelyn was standing there, those eyes weighing me again, except this time I saw that I had been found wanting.” Just then the door reverberated under the heavy blows of someone on the other side, causing Marcus to jump again and almost fall from the desk. His relief had finally come! He runs across the room, the prisoner and his tale forgotten, and flings open the door. Standing outside is his replacement and three other guards. Behind them the snow has been trudged through and no more has fallen to replace it. “Marcus, by the Halls of Solomon, move out of the way! This blasted snow has me soaked through!” His replacement roared. Marcus did as asked, chuckling. “They made you walk in front the whole way out here, Jaunt? I’m surprised your old bones even let you walk out the door!” He glanced around as the others file in, one of them walking over to the cell. “They taking him to the prison? Why not wait until in the morning?” Jaunt sniffs at the joke, a stern look flashing across his aged face. “I volunteered, I did! Damned youngsters bet me two Ashers I couldn’t do it.” The older man watched as the prisoner was retrieved and manacled. “Duke wants to deal with that one personally and I don’t blame him one bit. Did Jeb tell you what he did when you took over?” Marcus shook his head and turned to watch the man being led out of the jail by his three escorts. As the prisoner passed the firelight fully illuminated a man that could only be described as beautiful. Lean muscle rippled under his thin and torn clothing, long dark hair fell around his shoulders, and when he looked at Marcus his gray eyes froze him where he stood. “Don’t let your woman slip your trap, lad.” He mumbled before being shoved out the door. “Well, he killed the Duke’s son, he did, and over a woman! Apparently gray eyes there was quite a playboy until he started courtin’ a woman from up north, you know the ones with the dark skin you have to pay extra for at Madame Sherry’s house. Was after her for a couple months without knowin’ that she had caught the attention of the Duke’s youngest. She didn't say nothin’, o’ course, just took his presents and words with a smile. The day the Duke’s youngest proposed to her in one of those romantic clearings in the Great Forest, this fella’ comes runnin’ out the trees and stabs him to death!” Jaunt explained, happily taking up residence in front of the fire. “Duke’s gonna have his hide for sure.” Marcus stood there stunned, staring at the door the man had just been led out of as the story clicked into place. “Speakin’ of propsin’, ain’t you got somewhere to get to! You better hurry! Alayna isn’t the type to like tardiness.” Marcus nodded at Jaunt’s words, putting the prisoner out of his thoughts. He ran over to the desk and grabbed his cloak, yelling a goodbye as his feet carried him out the door and into the snow towards the woman he loved. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Jan 17th, 2013 at 08:46 PM. |
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January 2013 Competition Entries Topic - No such thing as happily ever after Winner - Wishing Stones by The Jaded A Cry In The Night [2949 words] Boom. Boom, boom.“…and the handsome prince lifted her up onto his horse, and they rode away. And they lived together happily ever after.” ~ I can hear the trebuchets at work. The city is on fire. The pall of smoke hangs in the air, even here. As I look back, I can see tiny tongues of flame sprouting from somewhere near the western gate, bright against the night sky. Then I realise it’s starting again. “Maya!” I call out, urgently. Trying to keep the panic from my voice. She turns back round and catches my arm, muttering soothing words I don’t even hear. I want to be in control. I don’t want to be depending on her so utterly as I am doing right now. But she can hear my fear. This is my first time… and I don’t know what I’m doing. But Maya does. She ought to, she has had five children of her own, and she’s a grandmother now. Is. Was. I try not to think about it, about her grandsons upon the walls. Karamina mutters something to Maya, in their own tongue, and Maya replies with a sharp retort. I start to panic again. I am in labour, and my baby is going to be born amongst strangers, with foreign eyes and foreign tongues. Then the pain grips me. It is… intense. Maya has told me that it is just starting. I sag to my knees, and Karamina mutters something exasperated and tries to haul me to my feet. It is then that Maya slaps her. She looks sullen, but doesn’t slap back. Not Maya. Maya turns back to me and rubs my back, my hair, soothing me in my own tongue. She speaks slowly and haltingly, but clearly enough. “There, there. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s coming. It’s coming.” After the pain is done – this time at least – I do get up. You remember the princess in the story, the one who is carried off into the sunset with her handsome prince? Well, I’m her. Not much of a princess now, though. To escape the besieged capital, I was forced to flee in disguise. I’m wearing the humble garb of a peasant woman. I’m covered in grime and filth, from the ash in the air, from multiple falls into mud. And I’ve soiled myself where the squeezing pain has made my bowels loosen. My bare, naked legs beneath my skirts are sticky and damp from where my waters broke. We’re fleeing again, and there’s no time for me to try to clean myself. No princess I ever heard of had piles, either, nor swollen ankles. And now I find I’m crying in sheer relief that these two, at least, have not abandoned me. Though they’re arguing again, now, and Maya puts an arm about me as though to defend me. I’m shaking, I’m exhausted, and I know from all that my mother and my ladies-in-waiting ever told me that I have a way to go. I feel like I’m being wrenched from within, and then, when I’m let go, I only have a little while to catch my breath and try to recover before it starts again. We’re hurrying down the road, despite the danger. The army is all poised upon the other side of the city, and there’s no way that I can manage, right now, stumbling through the countryside. I pray – I pray, even though I no longer believe in any gods, that there are no scouts this side. Of course, I am wrong. We hear the thundering of horse behind us. It’s dark, so we have just seconds to hide. Thankfully, they ride past us. This time. Just before another pain grips me and I have to grit my teeth to keep from crying out. Maya keeps on telling me, “Not far, now, not far.” Despite the fact that I believe she is only reassuring me to encourage me to walk, we are in fact lucky. We stumble upon a track that leads to what turns out to be an abandoned farmhouse. The former occupiers have fled, their possessions gone with them or perhaps buried. The house is dark as I sway and clutch the open door lintel as the pain comes again. We have no light, not even a candle, so we decide to enter the stables instead. The horses have long gone, but it’s warm in the hay, and at last, at long last, I can sit down. Not for long. I have only just started to recover when another pain comes. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I am forced to recall all my lessons on regal bearing to attempt to keep steady as it comes. Nothing to do now but wait. We have a little starlight, and the glow of moonlight, what little there is when obscured by clouds and smoke. Another pain comes, and I feel myself close to weeping again. Not again; not already. I don't know if I can’t cope with this. But I can. I must. Every other woman who bears a child does. And every other woman who marries and is capable of childbirth does, so I must conduct myself amongst the best of them. Wailing and carrying on is for peasants, I tell myself grandly. Then I laugh at my own foolishness, a mere woman lying in the muck and hay. Maya helps me lift my skirts up to my waist. Even though I feel embarrassed, I am also endlessly grateful for her steady calm. Kind Maya. My husband, Prince Phillip, gave her to me as a servant when I first arrived at the castle, and she has always been so loyal. It is she who reassured me, when I was a frightened girl alone in a castle where I did not speak the language. A girl without her mother and father, without sisters or her favourite ladies-in-waiting. It was she, too, who comforted me when Phillip took to philandering ways. She would tell me that it was not my fault, that I was just too foreign, that was all. That all men tended to look aside from time to time, and women too, if she was honest. That if I dressed myself well and groomed myself, he would share my bed again. I privately thought that she was just being kind. I looked in my mirror each day and saw the truth. The exquisitely beautiful princess was no longer a maiden. Pregnancy and womanhood were taking their toll. Some women are said to be beautiful in pregnancy, but I, my hair was a mess, my ankles were swollen and my belly so big I felt like a great stuck pig. Stretch marks, too, were marring my fair skin, and it was unsurprising that he turned from me. Not least, because we had soon realised we had nothing in common. Oh, he had courted me well enough – serenaded me, and brought me gifts. At first, in the flush of excitement, a young girl wedded and bedded, I sought out his company all the time. After a while, though, once bedding was no longer so new, and interesting, and immediate - I found that I barely knew him. He liked horses. Well, I was indifferent to them. He liked wrestling. I knew nothing about it. I liked reading, and he was an indifferent scholar. I liked gardens, and he would wait impatiently for our walks to be done. Maya told me, or at least, I gathered from our broken speech together, that she thought me fortunate. He was at least always punctual, unfailingly courteous and polite, and discreet in his infidelity. My Prince Charming. Another pain came… rising in a wave that made me pant for breath. I gritted my teeth, and wondered if girls would marry at all, if they knew it would come to this. Probably. Most girls of the age I was then – I say that as though I am old, and yet I am only two years older than I was – saw marriage as when their lives would end. Strange, given that we all eagerly sought for our lives to be over... we would talk, oh, how we would talk! – about the beautiful dresses we would wear, and the glorious crowns of flowers upon our heads. How exquisite we would look! Never about our husbands. Never about afterwards. Women wed, after all, were no longer real people to us. No longer in the courting game, the game of titillation and flirtation. Of being young and desired and desirable. Accepting suits and then disdaining them. Married women, to all intents and purposes, ceased to exist, no longer being available. It was so foolish. Even amongst those who live in times of peace and plenty, marriage is never the end of the story; it is the beginning. As for myself, I found afterwards that I did still exist. And more; that I still wanted to flaunt my womanhood, to be desired and sought after and chased as a maiden is. It didn’t really work the same way, though. Looking back, perhaps that was what drove my husband from me. Though I hadn’t really understood that it would at the time, and I had meant nothing by it... And then, when war was declared, suddenly I never saw him anymore. Except once, white-faced and worried, and at a distance. The happy kingdom at peace... is unlikely to remain so for very long. The pains started to come faster, and then faster. I held Maya’s hand, and she held mine patiently as I clenched it so hard that my knuckles went white. It had to have hurt her, but she gave no sign of it... just stroked my forehead. Sometimes I would decide despite my exhaustion that I had, absolutely had, to get up and grip the nearby door, just to ease the next bout of pain by shifting into a slightly better position. I was soaked in sweat, and starting to cough from the smoke besides. It was unsurprising therefore that we didn’t hear the horses arriving until it was far too late. Soldiers, and enemy soldiers at that. Had the city already fallen? Or were they scouts, who had heard noises from the farmhouse and come to investigate? I would likely never know. There was nothing I could do, flung down in the straw as I was, skirts hiked up humiliatingly about my waist. I could have run, but not far, not before another pain took me. So Maya and I hid in the straw, and we beckoned to Karamina to join us. I don’t know what she was thinking, but she shook her head, and hissed something furious at Maya. Then she fled the other way, further up the hill. I think perhaps she hoped to flee, to run, no longer held back by the pregnant woman. What actually happened was that she ran right out into the path of the soldiers. They grabbed her, and they laughed at her. None of us spoke their language, but one of them punched her, and then spoke something that was clearly a demand. Then they began yanking her about, and I could see, or perhaps I imagined I saw, the fear in her eyes as they ripped away her cloak. She wrenched away, and then one of them grabbed her and flung her over his shoulder. It was then that another pain came. I was trying with all my might to hold my breath and not shriek as the dark, terrible pain squeezed down, but I must have made some sort of noise because they came straight for me. And met Maya. The valiant old woman leapt up, still covered in straw, seized a pitchfork from the hay and went for him. Defending me, though they hadn’t yet seen me. I was torn between a sudden fierce pleasure at her savage attack, and a natural horror as I saw the tines rip through his uniform and puncture his chest. He staggered back, crying out, and the one dropped Karamina as the other two both fumbled for their crossbows. Maya took the opportunity to stab again, and though her arms had only an old woman’s strength – not enough by any means to drive the metal deep into flesh – it was enough to make him back off. She raised it threateningly. Then the bolts hit her. ~ My baby was going to be born. Now every few moments, there was another wrenching pain. I was so tired… so very tired. No longer certain if I could survive the night. Giving birth alone, in the dark. In one corner, just visible, I could see Maya’s shoe and her swollen leg. The soldiers had taken Karamina into the house and raped her. At least, if there was some other reason for her screaming, I cannot fathom what it was. Then they had come back out – without her - and abused Maya’s corpse, too, just for revenge. One of their number was injured though, and I can only believe that that is what saved me. They decided to take their man back to their camp rather than search further. It lay still in the gloom. I wondered if they had really thought about what they were doing as they had done it. I imagined Maya as a pretty young girl, as a smiling mother. A bright-eyed child herself, in her mother's arms. Her corpse was shrouded by the night, but I could make out just enough in the lightening of a cold dawn to come to see that it was motionless. I didn’t want to look any closer, not any more. Her hands were cold. I knew that because I had crawled over to her after a time. Even though I had desperately wanted to believe she lived, I had known she was dead. Blood had dribbled from her slack jaw where she had spewed it forth as she had choked on it. Her chest was sunken and motionless, her eyes vacant and clouded in death. I wanted to close them, I knew I should - but after having felt her hands I couldn’t bear to touch her again. Those fools had ridden off without thought, without staying to look at their handiwork. To really see what they had done. She had, after all, just been Maya. Now the pain was coming in waves, waves upon waves that spilled upon each other. I could feel the pressure in my belly and below, threatening to build up so that it split me in half. I would have screamed, I honestly would, except that I had no breath left for screaming. I would have been cussing like a sailor too, except for how tired I was. I could feel fluid trickling down my legs, though in the light I couldn’t make out the color, and quite frankly I was too far gone to care. I felt like I needed the privy, only it was the baby, I knew that, and I groaned and fumbled for purchase as I tried, tried so hard to get the baby out of me. “Come on!” I told it, “Come on!” I gasped, so eager for this to be over... and suddenly there was no stopping it, not a chance I could hold it in. Much like when you want to vomit, and no amount of decorum will make it otherwise. I pushed, crying out with the effort. Not yet. With all my remaining energy I felt between my legs, and I couldn’t feel the baby. I lay back, and I would have panicked if I’d had the strength to, but instead just panted. Then another squeezing, and I cried out, and oh, oh gods it hurt! and then again, and then I could feel my baby’s scalp, and then again, and again, and then the head came and that made me scream, and then my baby was born. He slid into the hay, covered in blood and muck, with the little cord still attached. And he was perfect. I was too tired, too tired to pick him up, but I wanted to, and as soon as my arms stopped feeling like lead I did. He seemed so tiny, so frail, and then he took a deep breath and cried. And I was so glad, I’d been afraid he’d been hurt somehow, by our hardship. He cried and cried, and I held him, against the world, against everything. Maya lay dead. But in the pre-dawn light, a baby cried. I knew I would survive. Had to survive, for my little crown prince. My baby, full of so much life, so much hope, so much potential. Even though I was alone, without coin or food, in a region full of raping, sacking soldiers. My son would be the king that ruled wisely and justly, like in the stories. Not that anyone would appreciate it, for they never do; but they would at least live well enough. There is no happily ever after. There is no forever. We will all die, all come to nothing – for I cannot believe in the gods any more, not when there is so much sorrow and injustice. There is no justice; except that we make ourselves. Nothing ever stays perfect. But every cry of a newborn is a cry against that fate, and a cry of hope. Though there is no happily ever after, we have to tell ourselves those stories, to believe in them, so that one day we can make them come true. If not for ourselves, then for our children. Weak [795 words] It hung on the back of his door, pulled from the back of his closet and unwrapped from the careful layers of tissue. A suit of clothes shouldn't be able to stare, shouldn't be able to reprove or judge. Even when you've gone through so very much together, it shouldn't be able to do that. But it did, from the cream-painted door and the floral-patterned wallpaper that sat behind it, hanging there in its incongruous splendour, it judged him. You're not strong enough to put me back on. You're too old, too far gone. You don't have it any more. He didn't look at it. He looked at the photo, an old-fashioned photo on thick paper behind the glass, just beginning to fade from the sunlight. The newspaper clipping sat beneath it, but he didn't need it, the sight was still clear as crystal in his mind; the hot summer's evening, the small crowd of people, the dozen or so reporters, and the dozen or so of his friends, to see him off. The weight that had gone from him that day, as he'd carried Kathy off in his arms, when it had finally been done... The frame splintered in his hands, shards of wood and glass falling to the table in front of him. He could hear the Television, hear it in the living room, hear it in the neighbour's house, in the apartments across the street. The entity's progress continues unchecked across the country. The air-force have withdrawn, and the army are assisting the evacuation of homes and businesses in it's path. The League have... Had all been standing there, that day. Warm handshakes from the new members, warmer hugs from the old, poses for the photographers, rehearsed words about a 'new dawn', and 'changing of the guard' for the notebooks. The warmth of friends too used to each other to be formal even in the most public setting. The glorious evening when he had promised... when he had promised... You're too old for me. Not strong enough, not got it anymore and you know it. You're not going to put me on. You don't dare. Kathy was out there, too. Watching the pictures played over and over, a brief snatch of footage from a brave idiot with an i-pad standing in the path, transmitting the destruction to the world until it caught up with him. He could hear her, like he had always been able to hear her, but he didn't know if she was crying for the boy, or for the world, or for her and him and the promises that he couldn't break, but couldn't keep. Too old. Too far gone. You haven't got what it takes. Among the shattered glass, the newspaper clipping had Kathy's beaming face as he'd carried her off into the setting sun, as all of this had been behind him, all the danger, all the uncertainty, all the hiding and lying. As he had promised, with the reporters, and the rest of the League, and Kathy, that this was it, that it was over. And now... You're not going to, you're old and weak and for all you know you need to break your promise you haven't got it in you. There's not enough left of you to do it anymore. He had promised, which Kathy in one arm, to passing on to a new generation, arm locked to his protégé, caped and capped and ready for the world. Going to be the new... ...Paladin was spotted inbound towards the entity earlier this afternoon, but no news has come out since. The government has call upon anyone with news of his whereabouts to contact... They had flown of into the sunset, set themselves down under the starry sky and he had taken off the mask, taken off the cape, taken off the hero and become... Too weak. Too old and too weak, too weak to win, too weak to even fight. Too weak to put me back on. There was silence. The televisions died, the lights blackened, even Kathy's tears were still for a moment. She was out there, with the life he'd longed for, the joy they had together. He was in here, and he too weak couldn't fight it any more. His hand trembled as he too old grasped the soft fabric. With the world seeming slow and distant not strong enough he began to pull it over him. The fabric stretched and bulged in places not enough left of you it hadn't years before. He went to the window. The city was black, cold, unwelcoming. Behind him, he could hear Kathy crying again, and he knew that it didn't matter what it was for any more. Because you know that I'm right. "Breaking the News" by lukedk987 I didn’t really want to light my cigar that night, knowing that even the tiniest flame from the match would spoil the beautiful stars Chicago’s January sky, which is normally never visible. I guess I can thank myself for that, as the current blackout is partly my fault. Still, I needed something to settle my nerves before approaching the lady’s doorstep. I stood and began drawing the sweet-smelling smoke, and told myself that I would enjoy this a little while longer. I am stamping the butt out in my Barracuda when I noticed that 45 minutes had passed already. I quietly adjust my hat and got out of my car. All the years at this job, but this part never gets easy. It’s only a about 30 feet from where I parked to the front door of Evelyn’s house, but I take my time and run things over in my mind, trying to decide what to say. Not that it matters, the joy of the news will probably be all she needs. I can’t imagine being married to a man for five years only to find out he was a serial killer. She had known for…a year now, I think, and lived in constant fear. She’ll be fine. I only get myself worked up because normally telling a woman her husband was shot dead is a terrible experience, filled with tears and rage and regret. This will be different, though. I get so wrapped up in the evening’s events I actually miss the sound of the doorbell I rang. The former Mrs. Evelyn Strannsburg slowly opens the door, and I was immediately overcome by her lavender perfume and raven hair cascading in loose curls over her shoulders. Her sea foam eyes are a bit wider than usual, as if she had not been expecting me. “So,” she asks in her soft voice, “that’s that, then?” I take my hat from my head and tilt it forward a bit, “Yeah, he’s dead.” I didn’t really want to say I’m sorry, because I’m not, and I figure this woman has had her fill of lies for a while. “Come in.” She takes my hat and coat and hangs them in the closet as I make my way towards the living room, where not two months ago I had interrogated her. After disappearing in the kitchen for a few minutes she comes back with a pot of coffee and two mugs. “I don’t suppose you have anything stronger?” I ask, before she begins pouring. “Just some red wine.” “Sounds good to me.” She leaves again, taking the coffee pot and mugs with her, only to return with two glasses and a half-full bottle. In moments I can taste the sweet cabernet on my lips. “You’re right,” Evelyn says, “this was a much better idea.” We do not speak for about ten minutes; we simply finish off our glasses. I admire the restraint of this woman. Despite all she’s been through not only does she offer coffee to me first but also waits for me to finish my glass before she finishes hers. The only telling signs of her grief are a slight tremble of the ruby liquid as she clutches the stem of her glass and the sips that are just slightly too big for a woman of her poise to be taking. It has been silent for so long that I am surprised to hear her voice as she refills our glasses. “What happened?” she finally asks. I sigh, not knowing where to start. So much has happened, and, to be honest, I can’t remember what she already knows. To be safe, I decide to just tell her about tonight. If she wants more, she’ll ask. “He was hiding in a power plant. Some guy ran a red light, and by dumb luck the cop running his plate recognized Jonathan in the photo. After some poking around, I realized he must be holing up in the power plant. Tonight I finally went in after him. He shot at me, I shot back, and he went down in the control room. I also put a few rounds in the grid’s monitoring system, so you can thank me for the mood lighting later.” She laughs. What a sweet sound it is! You can always tell a singer by her laugh, they’re just different. Still, I can’t read her, which is frustrating. I make a living out of reading people, and I have no idea what this woman is thinking. She laughed when I tried to lighten the mood, but her eyes weren’t quite with it, and the laugh was too short. Her eyes were somewhere else. “I’m…sorry that you had to go through this, Evelyn. I can’t say I’ve ever been married to a murderer before, but I my secretary tried to kill me three years ago. I trusted her. It ain’t easy to deal with.” She takes a hurried sip from her wine and swallows twice, once to get the wine down and once to hold something back. Then she smiles again, but she’s trying to hard this time. “I guess a girl should be flattered, Howard. All this time, I thought Jonathan was the only man truly interested in me. You must think I’m pretty stupid, having four suitors since college drop off the face of the earth and not suspect anything.” “Evelyn, I’ve seen people make much worse mistakes. You trusted Jonathan and he wasn’t what he told you he was. He certainly loved you dearly, but don’t think this was all your doing. There were a couple of rival coworkers that bit it during promotion season.” I set my glass down and take her hand, to be sure she is paying attention. “He made those choices, not you. You can’t burden yourself with that kind of guilt.” More silence passes, and I still don’t know if my words sank in. By now we are on our third glass of wine, and out of the blue she finally starts crying. I don’t know if it is the wine, the weight of current events, or some combination of the two that sets it off, but she sobs for minutes while I do what I can to comfort her. What good would offering Kleenex and saying ‘there, there’ do for this woman, anyway? Still, I don’t know what else to do. “A whole year, I had to live my life in a shelter, afraid that any friendship I made would be misconstrued and cost somebody their life. That’s an entire year of my life, Howard! Gone. I’ll never get it back. That bastard took it from me.” Her voice dies into a strong whisper, and I get my coat from the closet and throw it over her. She’s shivering uncontrollably. “I met Jonathan my junior year in Valparaiso,” she begins again. “I was at a party with some girls, and they had all hooked up with other guys, and I was alone. He came up to me and said, ‘God, our country is really going down the tube.’ I thought he was drunk, so I humored him by asking him to explain. You know what he said? He said, ‘renewable energy research is down, inflation’s skyrocketing, and I’m at a perfectly good party where the prettiest girl here is drinking by herself.’” She hiccups towards the end, a product of trying to laugh and sob at the same time. “Like I said, Evelyn, he was very good at hiding his true self. That’s why it took the police so long to catch him, and why I eventually got called in. He even duped me a few times during the investigation. But now he’s gone, and you have your life back; your freedom to start over.” Evelyn shoots to her feet, hurling her glass across the room in the process, and with a tinkling of the broken crystal the wine soaks the white carpet a deep red. The sudden violence of this normally subdued woman scares me into reaching for my holster! She screams at me, “HE NEVER FOOLED ME!” She turns her back on me and storms towards the kitchen, losing conviction as suddenly as she gained it, and turns back towards me before she’s even halfway there. “He was all I ever wanted in life: kind, stern, supportive, and always focused on the good of people. I understand you had to defend yourself—choose your life over his—but I want you to remember that he was a good man with a very unfortunate problem. His nerves couldn’t handle the thought of losing me or losing his job, which was the pride of his existence, but he was intent on making our world a better place. I’ll always love him, Howard. The world may laud the destruction of a serial killer, but I will forever lament the loss of whom he could have been.” “I understand, Evelyn. I’m sorry for your loss.” “I thought you promised not to lie to me, Howard.” “Had I said that a few moments ago, you would be right. Now, after fully understanding the situation, and can give my condolences with utmost sincerity.” As I find my way to my car in the dead of night, I glance back at the home of the now Ms. Evelyn Dixon, a woman with strength of character beyond that of much of the human race. I look skyward as I dig the keys out of my pocket, and find that although the blackout is still in full force, the stars have lost some of the brightness they had an hour and fifteen minutes ago. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 13th, 2013 at 10:33 AM. |
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February 2013 Competition Entries Topic - The words of long-dead wise men Winner - akaczism's Trifling with Gods The Lost Book. [(That includes BBcode; so it is actually less)3,183 Words.] by Qiksilv In a large city it is easy for things to go unnoticed. In one building among the tens-of-thousands of buildings there was a room among the hundred that were in it that is one good example. This room, little more than a cell, had few furnishings; a simple raggedy cot stood on one side and a warped writing table with a chair stood on the other side. It had no windows and the door was small, barely large enough to walk through without turning. The smell of age and dust had accumulated in here as if no one had entered it in an age. Truly, this was a place that had been forgotten by the world. On the writing desk stood the sole source of illumination, a weary candle; it flickered softly was rarely put out. It shone upon the most expensive object in the whole cell, a leather-bound book with gold inlays. A wrinkled, weak looking hand made neat marks on the papers within. Seldom did the man attached to the hand cease he scratching, it was his job. For as long as he could remember, and that was a long time, he had written history, the passing of time, and the words of long dead wise men in this book. Alexander reached for his head, which had just started hurting, This is odd. My head doesn't usually hurt except when…Ahhh. Without looking away from hie work Alexander said, "Hello, Clive." "Why hello, Al." Said the newcomer with a cocky smile that went from ear to ear. He stood out in huge contrast to the simple apartment for he wore fine and colorful clothing that would have cost a normal man a years salary. Walking closer to Alexander, Clive peered over his shoulder at the words being printed on the page. "Writing about Antone again, my fine friend? He really does say some very good things doesn't he. His public face is full of wisdom and poetry if I do say so myself. Luckily..." Spreading a lacy, silk handkerchief the size of a children's towel on the bed Clive lowered himself to a sitting position. "Luckily, his private life is much more interesting. You should write about some of that stuff, Old Man. Then your books might be worth reading." "I don't write my books for your entertainment, Clive. And the wisdom stored within would do you a heap of good if you would pay attention." "No thank you, Al. I like my life just fine as it is. Will you please stop that incessant scratching? It's wearing me out and I'm not even doing anything."" With that Clive pulled an equally expensive handkerchief out of his shirt sleeve, dabbing his forehead daintily. "Good, maybe then you will leave me alone and let me get back to work." "Get back to work? You never stop though and we could have such fun if you would let yourself. Probably not even interested in the little adventure I have lined up for you, are you?" "Go away, Clive." "Go away? You aren't interested in the twentieth book Sephiro wrote?" "It is a well known fact that he only ever wrote nineteen, Clive." "Well known to you perhaps but no one else even knows who he is. He did many things and the things he wrote that anyone would know are commonly accepted as being the most profound words to grace human lips. Indeed, the twentieth volume is a relic that never saw the light of day since he disappeared before writing it. Don't worry though, I have found it AND I want you to have it." "For what?" "What's that supposed to mean?" "I mean nothing you give is free, Clive." Alexander's voice had managed to remain mostly level during the visit but the tone of his writing showed his frustration as his strokes got deeper and faster. For the first time in a millennia Alexander splotched some of his ink. After hurriedly dabbing the ink Alexander rested his head in his hands; his headache was getting worse. "What do I need to do to be rid of you, O Thorn in my Side?" "All I ask is that you get the book. Really, could it be any harder? I would get it myself but there are restrictions and rules that must be followed for people like me. You know how it is." "Clive, I haven't left my loft in a long time…" "Oh good, I am so glad you agreed to go. For a minute I was afraid you were going to decline." With that Clive stood and clapped his hands. "Say hello to The Giant for me, Old Friend." Clive offered as a parting word as the room began to spin. Ever increasing waves of Vertigo washed onto Alexander and he half rose from his chair, gripping his desk with both hands as tightly as possible; eyes clenched shut. The feeling faded and Alexander found himself standing and no longer in his home. Instead he faced a long corridor that stretched as far as he could see in both directions. It was minimally lit by wispy lights that were suspended from the ceiling. The block stone of the walls and floor were coated in a greasy liquid that dripped and dribbled down from the ceiling and it was not long before Alexander was coating with the stuff. Picking one of the two directions at random Alexander began his trek to…somewhere. His appearance had changed; Clive loved taking all the things that Alexander was comfortable with away whenever he sent him on one of these little adventures. Gone were the bland, threadbare robes, replaced with red breeches and white tunic with poofy sleeves. A sword hung at his waist and polished light leather armor adorned his chest. Even his age had slid backwards from where it had appeared around 65 to a more versatile 40. "Clive, why must you meddle?" The boots were definitely a boon in this wet environment but Alexander saw the rest of his outfit as a mockery to good taste, it certainly wasn't the clothing he had grown comfortable with. After hours of walking in the nondescript corridor Alexander finally saw something that was different. The promise of something to break the monotony made him stretch his legs and jog a little. What he found was a door. Made of wood it had no handle or keyhole. It was as solid as if it had been built into the wall itself. Then it spoke. "To pass through me, The answer to riddles must I see. 'I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger that touches me, Will soon turn red.' " "Fire. The answer is fire" It was not a particularly hard riddle so it did not take Alexander but a moment to come up with the answer. "You have answered the challenge, but now that there is pressure how will you manage?" A wave of warm air hit Alexander from behind. The breeze ruffled his sleeves. Turning he saw a bright, orange light shining far down the path. "Fire? Did I just give the answer to my own doom?" "If you seek to save you life, Then an answer is the price. 'I turn polar bears white and I will make you cry. I make guys have to pee and girls comb their hair. I make kings look stupid and normal people look like kings. I turn pancakes brown and make your champagne bubble. If you squeeze me, I'll pop. If you look at me, you'll pop. Can you guess the riddle?' "" Alexander scratched his head. This was a lot harder than the last and he was stuck, nothing came to his mind as he pondered. The heat got greater and he could just hear the flames. Still he could find no correlation between any of the lines, every possibility was quickly negated by another part. "The liquid on the walls must have been flammable. That would explain why it is going so fast. Of course now I am covered by the same stuff. This is not going to end well for me." Terror began to grip his heart as he realized he might no make it out alive. "Come on, Clive. Very funny, now open the door." Alexander began to beat on the door with his fists, his knocks growing in intensity till they were no longer knocks but full fledged poundings. "Come on, let me owwww!" Pain, sudden and bright, slipped into his consciousness as a large splinter from the door stuck into his hand. Alexander held his hand and sank to the ground, panting. The air was dreadfully warm at this point and the fire had consumed a lot of the air which made breathing difficult. The sound of the fire became a roar as the last option available to him as an answer to the door's riddle proved false once again. "Nothing. There is nothing that meets all of those, this riddle has no answer. Wait…" "No!" Alexander stood swiftly, hand forgotten in his earnest." The answer is "No", nothing could be all those things therefore it cannot be answered!" The roar of flame was momentarily silenced by a crash as the wood door shattered like glass, fragments falling and tinkling to the ground in a cascade of color. Cool air blew out of the door for a moment and Alexander leapt over the shards and into the room beyond, fire licking his heels as he went. As soon as his feet touched the ground there was silence. Gasping at air that was cooler and smelled of succulent food, Alexander turned to face the door to find that it was once again whole. Touching it softly he could find no trace that it had ever been broken and he could still find no way of getting it open." Welcome, Alexander. It's not often I get visitors of your caliber." Said a rich, deep voice from the back of the room. Alexander turned to find the source and took in the details of his new environment. A long, tall table lined the longest wall in the room closest to the door, it was richly bedecked with food and drinks of many kinds. Candelabras illuminated the food on the table making it glint suggestively. On the wall next to him stood a pile of treasure. Armor, weapons, gold, various paraphernalia, and it seemed he could almost make out pieces of bone here and there. He found that mildly disturbing if not exactly unexpected considering the tasks that Clive sent him on. Giving a small shudder he turned to the most inviting aspect for him, the fireplace at the end where there was a great fire which provided the majority of the illumination for the room. The final section of room held a humungous chair which faced away from him towards the fire. It was easily three times as tall as a man and as wide as four or five men standing shoulder to shoulder; it was here the voice came from. Even as he saw the chair a giant, fleshy arm appeared from from behind the back of the chair and made a waving motion, signaling Alexander to approach. "Come, come now Alexander. Don't just stand there. Come here where I can see you." Alexander approached the large man cautiously with his hand resting on his sword in case he should need it. "Not that it will do much good against…that!" As he walked around the padded chair he saw it's occupant, a very large man who was obviously well fed by the way the pounds had accumulated to his frame. In simple clothes and with no facial hair he lounged comfortably with an almost bored expression on his face. The expression changed to a large smile as Alexander came into view, "At last, someone interesting to talk to. You have come a long way and obviously gone through great trouble to see me. You are the first mortal to voluntarily come through that door since it was put in, everyone else who has come through it has been a bother and even they haven't come through in a while. *sigh* But this shall be a pleasant change from the monotony of eternity. Tell me, what brings you?" "I was told there was a relic here, a lost piece of history. Specifically a book written by Sephiro after he disappeared that no one has every read." "Ha haha. Indeed there is! You must know someone of vast importance. Very few know of me here and even fewer knew of the last book." "May I have it?" Asked Alexander in a hopeful voice. He figured it would be too easy to get it by asking but… "Why, of course! It's just collecting dust there in the corner." Alexander could feel the muscles in his jaw loosen, though he managed to catch his mouth before it dropped all the way open. "It's somewhere in the pile of things that have long since ceased to amuse me. Before you leave though may I see your sword? Come, come. No need to be nervous. It wouldn't do you any good anyway only wood from the door can kill me and it is nigh indestructible. Why else would I still be here.[/color]" He said in a sullen voice. Leaning his head on his fist the large man resumed his staring into the fire, using the sword as a toothpick as Alexander went to loot through the pile. I took him a while of sorting but he eventually found the book he sought amidst the valuables and the occasional bits of their former owners. Brushing the dust off of the old book he returned to the man to thank him properly and ask how to leave. Waves of laughter was the only response. "Leave!? The door will not open while I am alive and I am cursed with immortality, You will be here for the rest of your life, which will be short. It's been a long time since i've had anything good to eat." A that moment the Giant managed to remove the irritant that had been bothering his teeth and a small, severed arm fell to the ground. "Ah. That is better. He wasn't very agreeable at all. He wouldn't speak but just kept screaming and screaming, he tasted funny, and then he got stuck. I am so looking forward to your visit better. We can talk till there is no more to talk about then…eat. But first, pull up a chair and bring me a drink from the table. Talking is thirsty work."The grin on the Giant's face was joyous, he was truly enraptured by the thought of company; and a meal. Alexander was less excited. He had found an ancient, hidden piece of wisdom and he would probably not even be able to read it. Obediently though he walked to the table and set the book down. Grabbing a large golden goblet he was just about to pour the wine into it when the splinter in his hand made him wince. The splinter! It was from the door which was the Giant's only admitted weakness. Hurriedly scratching at his hand he dislodged the splinter and dropped it into the drink; he then poured himself a drink and returned to the Giant. The giant grabbed the goblet that Alexander handed him, which seemed to fit his large hand as well as it had fit Alexander's, and swallowed the contents in one draught. "Ah! Now that is refreshing. Thank you so much Alexander. Now tell me about the world now-a-days. It has been so long since I have been in it. Though it has been a long time since you were in the world too, eh?" The Giant began to squirm a little. "Damn, this fire. It never goes out and it get's quite warm sometimes. Do you feel the heat, Alexander?" By now the Gian't face was flushed and he looked truly uncomfortable. His breathing was beginning to come in gasps. The Giant stood, then collapsed to all fours where he threw up blood. Still coughing, his whole body had taken a reddish hue. "What… was in that…. drink, Alexander?" "A splinter from the door. Though I bore you no ill will, you did give me the book after all, I took no joy in the thought of being eaten." " The Giant slumped to the floor, no longer able to hold himself up." Bless you, Alexander. The gods cursed me and put me here long ago. It was then that I wrote the novel you now possess. I hope you find it…enlightening." Sephiro's voice trailed off and his eyes closed. The red under his skin became bright and his body disintegrated into sparks that skittered across the floor, disappearing into nothing. "Sephiro…?" Sephiro had been the wisest man for an age and now he was gone for good. Alexander grabbed the book and the room began to spin once more. After it stopped he found himself in his own apartment, in front of the bed, watching himself fade from view. Clive turned from watching Alexander to face…Alexander. "Ah, Al. Welcome back. I see you got what you went for, good for you, and that must mean the Giant is dead, which is good for me. I knew you could do it." With a winning smile Clive patted Alexander on the back, then looked at his hand as if disturbed by the fact he had actually touched the old threadbare clothing that Alexander wore. "Leave me, Clive. You have bothered me enough already." "Very well, Al. Always a pleasure. Till next time, Old Friend. Don't forget to write." With a winning smile and a clap he was gone. Alexander turned to the desk. He could feel the pressure of history that was going unrecorded and the gods were pulling him to do his task. But the potential for truth was pulling him to the book that he carried. With forced movements Alexander closed his Tome and set it aside. Wiping his hand slowly across the new book he opened it and began to read the words that just might make him rewrite everything he had ever written before. Trifling With Gods [1,499 words] by akaczism A spray of arrows fired from the missing bricks in the walls on either side of the enclosed tunnel, each one set off a mouse's breath after the one before it an unavoidable rippling series. Martha Sandtracker dropped from a sprint into a slide, skidding along underneath the assault until coming to a stop, wincing as she brought up her red raw hand to brush her thumb over the end of her nose. That trap maker had the cheek to skin her nose! Thank fortune she was a small folk and could actually fit under them or she'd be worried about a lot worse than that. "Maria!" she barked, twisting around behind her with her cheeks puffed out angrily, bracing her weight on the raw hand. A runt of a coonhound barked back, standing at the end of the tunnel she had been fleeing from. Martha sighed. "Come here! And stop steppin' on things!" Hunting dog. Wonderfully trainable. Abysmally curious. She had nearly been skewered through the middle like a sandwich that's too big for its britches, except having a toothpick poking her in the side of would've been a lot less painful than one of those stone arrowheads. Maria came trotting on up obediently, dispensed arrows rolling and clacking under her paws. Grabbing on to the dog's collar, the halfling yanked herself up. "Right. Now. Let's get out of here before anyone realizes what in Yondalla's name we've got on us," she hissed, not that she expected Maria to suddenly be fluent in Common. Taking a steady breath Martha took off at a jog again, not quite as fast as before, but they had already set off the trap she hadn't wanted be triggered from them messing around with stuff, only to be tripped up (har, damn tripwire the 'hound had stumbled across like a buffoon), and so her initial rush was no longer quite as necessary. So she thought. At the sudden drop off in the path the pair drew up short with matching yelps of surprise as a pebble was kicked tumbling into the furnace blast rising from the pit in the ground. "Feck!" Martha drew her hand across her brow and immediately regretted the sting of salty sweat where the stones had scraped it. Her right hand clench tighter inside of her locked gauntlet, futile though the equally sweat soaked grip was when it came to holding onto the decaying hand, the enchanted gauntlet the only way she could touch it without her skin immediately corrupting corroding and sloughing off in all sorts of colorfully disgusting ways. Still, whether it did anything or not, her knuckles were pale inside the protective gauntlet. She was not losing the most valuable loot of the century. Centuries, maybe. If this was real, if this was actually the lost hand of Vecna like all the crazy cult freaks were absolutely convinced it had to be, she was currently holding onto a historic relic the Beholden cultists would pay enough gold for her to retire comfortably from exploring and returned to be the richest woman the clan had ever seen. Of course, she didn't believe it was the real legitimate artifact. She was perfectly happy to play along, however, if it meant she was going to be paid off handsomely for it. Whatever made the believers happy, yeah? She really hoped what didn't make them happy was cooking her alive and molten rock. Shushing her panting coonhound uselessly, she shifted forward and peered over the edge. A crack in the earth, just like that. Of course, this place would be built over a lava pit. Of course it would. Why wouldn't it be? It had everything else, she should just be grateful she hadn't already been decapitated or eaten by the giant spider or cleaved in two by the undead left in fractured pieces littering the halls of the underground maze. "I really would like to retire," she whined to herself and she took a step back. Not that it needed saying, but that was some intense heat coming out of there. Well, Martha Sandtracker hadn't become the halfling champion for the past four years running by being weak and scared. "You ready girl?" She rested her hand on top of Maria's head in a ginger manner. Maria whuffed. "I know girl." A couple pats of the dog's head, and she braced herself, the coonhound mimicking her lowered stance in anticipation. "Mark, two, three, go!" Trusting the relic of a hand to her leather covered chest, she prayed fervently that they could both make this jump like she thought they could. The blast of hot air was unexpected, the actual force of it disrupting her ability to guess where she was going to land when she had to shut her eyes against it. She caught the sound of hissing rock and a muted yelp off to the side, and then her breath left her chest in a disrupted ack when the cornered edge of the opposite side smashed across her throat. The flash of the quarter a second she threw her arm up and all her weight behind it, desperately trying to drag herself forward. Somewhere, Maria was whining. "Shiza," she muttered as she felt the stone bricks shake. Lava bubbled. "It's gonna burst." Her voice sounded fainter then she felt. Suddenly, she felt something warm and wet dripping all over her face. Blindly, she groped in the air above her head, and as soon as her fingers locked on the collar encircling a neck of short fur, Maria finished pulling the fighter out of the way of a deadly fall. Martha grabbed the dog's head in both hands. "Never doubted you." The heavy exhalation faded out into a whistle, and she looked down at her hands, and then looked at the ledge she had just been pulled from, heat waves obscuring her view too closely. Vecna's hand. A locked gauntlet guaranteed not dropping it. They did nothing about the parts not in its hold being broken apart like the decomposing flesh and brittle bone it was, to join the burning ores and sediment in the molten crevice. Another rumble shook the labyrinthine underground. Glancing at the tiny bit of the hand left in her own, she took off at a dead run, her companion yowling frantically right beside her as the sound of crumbling stone joined in the racket. Somewhere, a boulder was coming for them to crush them flat, and as they ran Martha caught a glimpse of something immense and huffing casting its ugly shadow on the wall of an offshoot branch. This infernal place was like the land of endless adventuring clichés. "Run just bloody run!" she screamed as she threw herself around a bend with Maria at her heels. ******** Two days later, her normally ruddy complexion still looking like she had been through a coal oven with faint burns on her cheeks and a determined pale black smear above her left eye that she still didn't know what strange crumbly rock had hit her head, Martha Sandtracker stood in the small temple of the cultists, glaring eye to eye with the converted cleric had hired her to find the famed holy relic to keep with them as proof that they were literally closer to Vecna than anyone else in the city. She pulled out a bag of black and ashen grey dust and dumped it out, part of it smeared together with a putrid liquid into a thick paste inside the bag she had carried it in, and she turned it inside out to wipe that on top of the altar too. She wasn't smiling. "You know what dead men always say about trifling with gods?" she asked sharply before the charismatic but otherwise useless cleric could say anything; not that she would've been afraid if he could cast her to the underworld, but knowing she could shove her shortsword through his heart before he could say 'please' didn't weaken her fire either. "They're dead, they don't say anything!" the apoplectic follower snarled at her. "That's why we paid you to find something that —" "Ya damn right. They don't say anything about it. And I think we'd all be better off if we took that advice to heart, and didn't have anything to do with 'em." Her eyebrows shot up emphatically and she spun around to go rejoin Maria waiting outside on the streets. "Return our gold," the cleric demanded loud and cold at her retreat. Martha didn't turn around, though she paused in place while she answered him. "Not a chance. I'm happy to help whoever, but you only asked for the return of your relic, and I'm afraid that's what you got, what's left of the thing. If it ain't up to snuff, I think that's a personal problem for you and your folks. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to take a cold bath for the next ten years." Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; May 1st, 2013 at 05:01 AM. |
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March 2013 Competition Entries Topic: Of Monsters and Mutants Challenge: warning shot[s], a lucky object, and something "not normally found in nature" Winner - Spankucus' The Experiment The Experiment by Spankucus [3,007 Words] "It doesn't go there." Flaxton Mecherton cocked his head to one side, looking quizzically through his goggles at his brother, Klaxton. "How would you know it doesn't go there? It's a foot. That's a leg. Even a goblin tinker would know a foot attaches to a leg," Flaxton, or Flax, retorted. Klaxton Mecherton snorted and pointed at the large foot he held, as large as either's head. "Even a goblin tinker knows the greater phalanges are positioned interior of the lesser, single-circuit brain!" Flax swung his bald head back around to the foot, his full white mutton chops whoosing through the air. He momentarily regarded the large, crafted foot. Partially flesh, partially machine, with a single connecting male port protruding from the top awaiting connection with the female port of a leg. The foot had no "L", "R", or other directional symbols on it. However, his brother, when creating this, had left the original bulbous, knotty, and fungal ogre toes in place. And said toes clearly went from small to large. "Well, it doesn't matter to what leg I stick a foot. I crafted the skeletal frame ports to be universal. I could stick a head here if I wanted," Flax said, turning back to his brother Klax. Klax was unimpressed, stroking his frazzled beard aloofly as he was wont to do when perceiving another debate won. Few things infuriated Flax more than his brother's smug attitude. "At least if I put a head here, I'd have someone intelligent to talk to!" Klax was taken aback, stuttering and puffing himself up with righteous indignation. "Wha, wha, wha, what, What, WHAT!?!?!?" Klax stammered, pulling his long white beard randomly in frustration. "You know nothing of humanoid golem construction, you second rate parts fetcher! Obviously, inward positioning of superior digits promotes stable bipedal locomotive operations! I'll not have my experiment 478-B clumsily stumble about like you did last Gond Day!" "Me! ME! Stumbling! Clumsily!" Flax squeals, at a lost for words, shaking with anger. "You're the one that bought us the 'Around the Realms' drink card! And as I remember it . . . !" Flax continued, setting the foot down to wave a finger in Klax's face. And so Flax and Klax did what they, arguably, did best: argue. Both deriding the other's faculties. Both repeatedly changing the subject. Both feeding off the other's energy. And both, though they'd never admit it (and frankly, one would never suspect), loved every second of it. They verbally abused each other next to an approximately ten foot tall partial flesh and partial machine golem. The brothers had worked on numerous projects over the decades. From alchemy to engineering, from flight to submersibles, the brothers had contributed about as much to science and invention as they'd set it back with their hair-brained, half-baked, and utterly insane theories, approaches, and practices. If one could untangle the useful and the useless of Mecherton works, one's knowledge would rival Ioun himself. But no one ever had. And the Mecherton brothers lacked the wisdom, perspective, and humility to admit error and thus separate truth from folly. "And so that's why," Flax triumphantly stated, "the foot should be placed so the largest toe is on the inside." "You place that foot wherever you want but if your creation so much as trips in my laboratory, I will hold you personally responsible!" Klax declared. "It won't," Flax replied and snapped the foot into place. Klax hefted the other foot and snapped it into place. And the brothers went to work, making the final connections, adjustments, and alignments, their prior discussion completely forgotten. As of late, the brothers had been focusing on the juncture of nature and machine without resorting to necromancy or, really, any arcane art even partially dependent on divinity. They had reasonable experience gathering and channeling raw arcane energies as power for numerous smaller constructs. They had even invented a device capable of delivering a sharp, sudden arcane shock to a dying lifeform, potentially reviving it. Their name for it, the Soulshocker 3000 had perhaps stymied widespread adoption; but, marketing had never been the Mecherton brothers' strong suit. Or paramount concern. Their latest endeavor involved autonomous automation. Golems had certainly existed since time immemorial. But most were wholly mechanical or magical constructs. Some had been a jumble of mechanical and magical subsystems, each interacting to form a cohesive unit, but still maintaining their distinct nature. The brothers sought to seamlessly form the mechanical and arcane together, both working indistinct from the other, as one on the subsystem level. Today, their latest attempt laid upon their specially made workbench, physically complete and ready for power. "Run a level 2 diagnostic," Klax said, as he moved to the read-out console, ready to examine the diagnostic results. "Level 1 diagnostic underway," Flax responded, working a series of knobs and levers on a panel built into the workbench. Klax closely examined the read-outs, too absorbed to tell Flax why a level 1 diagnostic was unnecessary. Besides, the data was fascinating and riveted Klax's attention fully. "Actuator 48B reads outside parameters," Klax said. "That's the same one you replaced yesterday. And sprocket S59-6. No, correction. S60-6. Didn't you replace that one yesterday too?" Flax moved to the parts bin, fishing out another actuator and sprocket. Flax then walked toward the construct. Klax was so absorbed in the diagnostic results that he almost didn't catch Flax walk straight from the parts bins to the workbench and pop open an access panel. Almost. Suddenly, it hit Klax. He quickly shrieked "STOP!" halting Flax dead in his tracks. Klax whipped around and grasped the handrails, face full of distraught and horror. Even his beard burst out of his face as if the individual hairs were electrically charged. "What do you think you are doing!!?!?" Flax regarded the two parts. Actuator 48B and sprocket S60-6 were standard issue. And he was holding the correct replacement parts. He looked at them. And again. And again. His mind raced. What was wrong? Suddenly, it too hit Flax. His face brightened momentarily at the "Ah ha!" realization. But then, Flax's face darkened as the magnitude of what was wrong settled upon him. "I didn't rub them against the Lucky Gear," Flax meekly said, looking at Klax. Klax straightened, crossing his arms, and looking down on his sheepish brother. "You didn't rub them against the Lucky Gear," he repeated flatly. All work stop. Under Klax's watchful eye, Flax walked to the other end of the shop, up a raised dais, to a glass casing enclosing a spring-suspended gear. Visually, the gear was standard GI 6-1-12 gear: six inches in diameter from a one inch star-shaped hole lined with twelve large teeth around the gear's circumference. Scratched, slightly chipped, and scorched with black and red blotches, one could barely still read the ubiquitous "Gondulum Industries" factory inscription encircling the middle hole. The gear had been the only whole piece salvaged from their late father's rocket sled wreckage. Before being blasted into tiny bits across almost a hundred snowy acres, the sled had been a wild success -- for about three seconds. Then, the craft erupted in shooting flames, drowning out their oblivious father's scream of engineering ecstasy. The flaming sled had then shot straight up, blasting hundreds of feet into the air, and exploded, bursting larger than any Gond Day fireworks display (and that's saying something). It had been a good death, enviable by witnesses, first and second-hand, for years afterwards. He was posthumously promoted to Exalted Engineer, Ninth Degree, and his inventions recorded in the great Technical Manual of Gondulum, complete with an unprecedented three appendixes of designs, calculations, and equations. Even the smallest bits of the wreckage had sold for almost sordid sums, entire fortunes spent simply to have and cherish a piece of Gondulum history. The brothers, having been partners in their father's enterprise, reaped huge profits, that they quickly reinvested in their next scheme. But they simply could not part with the only piece found intact. And since that time, the brothers had fastidiously touched every material utilized in their work to the gear in a superstitious ritual intended to somehow impart their father's luck and genius to their present works. Over time, devotions had become automatic and brief, simply touching each utilized material to the gear swiftly, even conveyor belt style when the brothers batch processed a pail of screws, bolts, or nuts. But forgetting to touch an item to the Lucky Gear was blasphemous. Arguments over failed projects often degraded into cross accusations of who forgot to touch something to the Lucky Gear, rather than about what actually went wrong. Flax reverently opened the glass casing and slowly, carefully, rubbed the actuator and sprocket against the Lucky Gear. Klax absently brushed his bread back down, pulled up his goggles, and solemnly lowered his head, his earlier subtle accusation that Flax has not rubbed the original parts on the Lucky Gear forgotten. For a moment, the shop was quieted, only instruments and the main power source faintly hummed, dinged, and whirred in the background. Having respectfully rubbed each item to the Lucky Gear, Flax carefully stepped back and closed the glass casing. He then turned and looked into this brother's eyes from across the room. Klax looked back. And, for the briefest of moment, the brothers appreciated their place in existence. And, as if telepathically agreed upon, the brothers sprang back into furious action. Flax rushed to their experiment, spare parts in hand. Klax whirled back to the read-out console, snapping his goggles back down, and looking for more anomalous readings. Flax deftly replaced the faulty parts with the new, properly sanctified, ones, tossing the old ones into the reclamation bin. Flax then sprinted to the diagnostic console, starting a level 1 diagnostic anew. Klax rapidly scanned the read-out. He checked and doubled checked for indications of trouble. Loose wiring, weak connections, pooled energies, or subsystems starved of energy. He checked power flows, relay channels, biometric data, and core temperatures. Flax isolated certain subsystems and partially powered them, calling them out to Klax who checked individual subsystem read-outs for unanticipated fluctuations. Their printer spat out a ticker tape of complex alphanumeric codes and symbols. Results were checked. Double checked. Triple checked. The boys were in their element. And soon the experiment was ready. Both brothers stood, looking blankly at their screens, knobs, buttons, and toggles. Slowly, together, they turned and looked at each other, Klax by the read-out console, Flax by the diagnostic console. Flax absently stroked his mutton chops and Klax his beard. There was only one thing left to do. Turn it on. Like they shared a mind, the realization hit them together. Quickly, Flax ran across the room to the main power station. But Klax was right behind him. "I'll turn it on, you check the readings!" Flax shouted, reaching behind and pushing his brother back. "No, I will engage main power and YOU will check the readings!" shouted an equally motivated Klax, pulling his brother back from behind. Both tussled to the main power station more or less together and began pushing and shoving each other anew on the rubberized grated platform. "You've been at the read-out console this whole time! You're familiar with the readings! You know what to look for!" Flax argued, knocking his brother's hand back from a knob. "You can read the data just as well as I!" Klax retorted, trying to reach around Flax. "Besides, last time you accelerated the energy flow beyond established parameters leading to a cascade reaction!" Klax argued. Flax looked offended, his bushy eyebrows raising almost to his bald pate. "Me! Cascade reaction!" Flax spat back. "It caught fire because YOU didn't read the data properly to TELL me the experiment had too much arcane energy!" Klax put his hands on his hips and stated, matter-of-factly "I was watching for entropic emissions! If I knew you were going to fry the thing, I would have watched the power flow regulators closer!" "Well, now you can," Flax curtly stated, shoving Klax off the platform and starting to turn the power wheel. Klax, seeing the wheel start to turn, shrieked and scampered back to the read-out console, the argument completely forgotten. "Thirty-eight percent!" shouted Flax. The main power station began emit a low humming sound. "Three-eight!" Klax acknowledged. "Adjust the dampening field, down two points!" "Dampening field minus two!" Flax responded, turning a nearby dial slightly. The machinery become increasingly louder as arcane energies scrambled free of their containment, through the opening main channel, and into the experiment. "Sixty-six percent!" yelled Flax, barely audible. Flax couldn't hear Klax's response. He glanced over his shoulder to see his brother still hunched over the read-out console. He wasn't waving frantically. All must be a go. Flax turned the power up some more and reduced the dampening field, maintaining the balance as best he could, madly running mental calculations. Klax stood stupefied, reading the data blazing across the screen. It was working. It was actually working. Everything was green. The tape's readings were the same as on the console. It was truly actually really working. Klax's eyes and mouth started to open wide in shock. Flax continued to work his station, increasing the power and reducing the dampening field. Lightning flashed around him, his electrically charged mutton chops sticking straight out like porcupine quills. His goggles darkened automatically as photonic emissions rose. He yelled out "Ninety-nine percent!" but could not even hear himself. Klax wouldn't have heard him anyway even if the room had been silent. Klax stood at the foot of the bench, staring at the experiment rippling with blue lightning and arcs of yellow, red, and purple electricity. His goggles too, darkened at the sight, and his beard blasted out every which way. The read-out console whirled and chirped and spat out more tape into a heap on the floor. Klax didn't need it to tell him it was working. "One hundred percent!" screamed Flax, breathing heavily with exaltation. He looked over his shoulder to see his brother and the experiment while continuing to operate the main power station. Power up was complete. The final task was closing the channel connecting the experiment's power core with and the lab's arcane energy containment unit. Doing so would force energy to remain in the experiment, thus powering it. Flax turned back, focusing on his job. He flipped a switch to cause a rubber anti-magic disc to slide into the main channel, interrupting the flow. Klax, meanwhile, was mesmerized, seeing history in the making. Scenes of awards, honors, degrees, and accolades being showered on him for his genius flashed before him. He saw an army of automatons sweeping, mopping, cleaning, repairing, freeing all of civilization from the mundane tasks of life, enabling all to focus on study, science, technology, and achievement. He saw his place as an Exalted Engineer, Ninth, no Tenth!, Degree, leading his people into the future. Tears began to form in his eyes as a new life, a new beginning, opened before him. What Klax did not see was the experiment coming to life, straining against the restraints, and breaking the restraints, the bolts holding the leather straps shooting past Klax's head like warning shots. Klax did not see the experiment sitting up and roam its beady red eyes around the room. And Klax did not see the experiment, with its partial ogre head, settle its gaze upon him, narrowing its vision, and move a meaty hand toward Klax, menacingly reaching for the little gnome. When Klax's vision returned to the present, he saw his creation reaching for him. "I am here, my child, my wondrous child! Come to me!" Klax whispered, reaching out to embrace his success. The experiment leaned toward the reaching and awe-struck Klax, forming a mighty fist, high in the air. Suddenly, a spectacular discharge emanated from behind the experiment, dimming the lights and filling the lab with the din of raw power. The experiment, silhouetted against the light, rippled with energy, engulfed in extreme power. It thunderously roared in pain and agony, its raised arm convulsing randomly, its body shaking uncontrollably, white smoke fuming from its ears, mouth, nose, eyes, fingers, and any opening or seam. Just as suddenly, the discharge stopped and the smoking husk, eyes no longer lite red, collapsed on the floor in a heap of science gone terribly, terribly, wrong. Klax, still reaching out, then saw his brother standing on the workbench. Flax visibly shuttered as residual energy sparked through and around him. His goggles black, his mutton chops fried, his whole body somewhat crispy, Flaxton Mecherton stood holding in each gloved hand a paddle of the original Soulshocker 3000. As the excess energy dissipated from Flax, Klax lowered his arms and stood flat on the ground, his eyes still wide and mouth on the floor. "Brother . . . ." Flax whispered hesitantly, staring across at Klax as both's goggles started to lighten and clear. Klax stood silently, holding his pose of amazement and wonder, looking past Flax and simply into space. "Broth . . . ." Flax started again. "We did it," Klax said quietly. Blinking and looking directly at Flax as if for the first time. "We did it!" he said again, louder and starting to laugh. "WE DID IT!" he shouted, pumping his fists in the air and beginning to dance in place. Flax lowered the paddles and smiled, relaxing. "We did do it," he said. "It actually worked," he said again. "It really worked! It really, really, really, WORKED!" he shouted, punching a paddle up for emphasis. Klax laughed happily while doing his little jig and Flax joined in, dropping the paddles on the workbench, hopping over the still twitching experiment, and rushing over to Klax. The Mecherton brothers laughed and hugged and danced and slapped each other's backs, congratulating and complimenting the other on a job well done. And soon they began discussing how better restraints could be constructed. In Transport from Choe-Odbun 3,096 Words By Teufelheunden Kay gauged Nia as she sat in the front of the boat while he paddled through the reeds, the bow of the boat spearing the wall ahead and splitting a route through the tall stems. The rain began to let up again and it was now nothing more than a sodden drizzle, maybe they would get some relief if the sun came back out to stay. As he looked ahead he noticed that her head was lowered, perhaps she is learning some form of humbleness for her lot in life now, but he didn’t hold much hope on that, more than likely she was calculating some type of scheme to try and escape again. As they made it deeper into the marsh the sounds of the bustling streets grew fainter, disappearing while the strong salty scent of the ocean front was beginning to be supplanted by a stagnant aroma from the slow moving marsh waters. The flames that had been shooting into his gut from the torn tissue was beginning to dull down to only a throb now, the more he paddled the more accustomed his body became of the injury. He had packed some fresh bandages into it and wrapped it up; he hoped that would end the bleeding soon. As the hums and fragrances of the city pivoted into the world of the marsh, he could now hear the calls of the gants next to the occasional splash of a predator getting a meal somewhere beyond his sight. He looked at Nia again and now realized that she was starting to fall asleep; her bowed head had nothing to do with being humble as her body started to slump. Bringing the paddle inside the boat he crawled over the equipment between them and grabbed the sides of her head. Pulling it up, “Don’t contemplate you can sleep while I paddle back here Nia, you will stay awake with your head up and face forward unless I tell you otherwise.” He pulled her up square from the more comfortable position she had drooped into and sat her up squarely in the boat. It would be more painful that way and she would learn what it means to sit when she is told to. “You will not move from that position and keep your head up so I know you are awake.” Gone was the raspy, out of breath voice earlier instigated from her wounding him, his stern voice was like the day before, the voice that had commanded her to come in front him and obey had now returned. Morning fell into afternoon as Kay continued to paddle the small craft through the reeds out past the tidal waters of Choe-Odbun. The insects were becoming more bothersome now that the storm had passed and the heat of the sweltering sun began to thrust through the thinning clouds and beat down on the two travelers making a start of their journey to Korinysia. Swarms of the looming insects could be seen gathering in amongst the reeds as the bow of the boat continued to slice through them. The marsh gants crooned their songs calling to their mates and the occasional one or two would take flight as the alien craft ventured to close to their nests. After some time in the boat, Kay could finally see a break in the reeds along with an oddly tied off piece of bloody cloth on a stump amongst the reeds, something one does not see normally out here in the swamps, a warning to outsiders that they were not welcome here. He knew that they were approaching the village of reed farmers he had encountered on the way into Choe-Odbun. He slowed the craft and as they finally broke into the clearing. schhwaff THWAAPP! A sheaf arrow hit just above his right knee, and in an instance he knew that could have been through his chest instead of through the side of the boat if the archer had wanted him dead, instead it was a warning shot and his senses took over he raised his paddle in both hands above his head as the boat drifted towards the dock. The chief was there and welcomed him back as Nia sat quietly and rigid in the front of the boat. His pain was becoming bearable, but only in so much as he was growing used to it as he paddled the craft through the reeds, he had failed to stop the bleeding completely and he feared he had lost too much already. After explaining what had happened and showing them his wound, the farmers retrieved some bandages and helped him to stop the bleeding enough that he could continue on his journey. They gave him some herbs to ease the pain and some fresh bandages so he could change the dressing later that night. After thanking them and giving them some coins, he returned to the boat. He went to the front of the boat first and reaching down pulled back the leather hood where he could see the sun’s heat had been causing Nia to sweat rather profusely. He gave her some water from one of the canteens, “You have been very good Nia, I think you understand the danger we are in out here in these marshes, if not then you will recognize the dangers soon enough, tipping over this boat will mean that drowning is the last thing you will think about out there.” He took some water and drizzled it over her head letting the cool sensation douse her and provide some relief from the sun which was now in full force since the clouds had all but disappeared. Kay climbed to the back of the boat and was glad the herbs had already begun to help. Their affect, along with the new proper bandages helped him to steer the craft much easier into the channels on the way back up to the delta and he now felt like they could make the river by nightfall and find safety on the banks. The monsters like to test things floating on the surface of the marsh at night, and if a big enough one found them it could easily capsize them in the dark. After about an hour outside the village the afternoon had reached it midway point and he saw the flash of white close to the surface, they were getting closer to the main channel now and he at least would not have to push through the reeds as much. This was a relief for him for the wound had sapped his strength and the paddle grew heavy in his arms. Shortly after that they made their way out of the reads into a decent size channel the boat picked up speed, he looked at Nia and her head was bobbing slightly, on the next change from side to side as he paddled he brought up some of the water and let it fall onto the back of her neck. Her head jerked back up, just as he had thought she had fallen asleep. Well that was not going to happen. Continuing up the channel a marsh gant landed near the edge and no sooner had it folded its wings than a white bellied marsh shark snatched it under water in a flash of feathers and crimson fluid mixed with the foam of the strike. The water turned yellow soon afterwards as the piranha scavengers took care of anything left behind. The strike was close enough that he was sure Nia had not missed it but he kept quiet and hoped her mind would wander. After a brief few minutes, she spoke, “Please Master, may this girl speak?” she spoke in her soft poetic voice. He thought for a moment and agreed, “Yes Nia, you may speak, what would you like to say.” She tried to put her discomfort out of her mind as she answered. She really wanted to growl at him, but she knew that to rock the boat, either figuratively or in reality would not be a good idea. The activity with the gant being taken by something in the water had not gone unnoticed, and she recognized at the moment, she needed him, and it would be better if she could get him to relax a little. She knew it wasn’t going to be an easy task now that she had skewered him with that dagger and run, but she had to try her best. “Please Master Kay, would you tell this girl about the place you’re taking her, so that she is not so scared?” She made her voice soft, and even managed a little catch in her voice on the word scared. She thought that she could fool him, that it would be understandable for a young slave girl to be scared out of her wits, so scared that she reacted with violence, and stupidity, running like a scared rabbit. “This girl did not want to hurt you Master Kay, she just needed to get away because she doesn’t know where you are taking her, and she is terrified.” Her soft admission surely would break the heart of any man, however hard he thought his heart was. At the least she hoped it would soften him a little if nothing more. “You don’t fool me by saying you’re scared Nia, your actions and swift movement in the alley were no mistake. You didn’t act out of fear there; you saw my weakness and took advantage of it. That will not happen again,” he paused in his speech for a moment as he steered the boat around a submerged stump in the side of the channel. After he got the boat back on course he continued, “I don’t know where you come from nor what your true background is other than you were destined for a place in a royal house somewhere. That tells me that you are above a simple girl taken off the streets.” His breathing was a bit raspier than he normal and every once in a while a slight gasp could be heard if he paddled a little too deep and pulled on the wound. He hoped that the herbs had helped to stem any infection to the injury, but at least the bleeding had stopped with the new bandages. He continued on in silence for a bit and once more dropped some of the water across her neck. “You were purchased by Creios Dimitriou, the owner of Peacock Palisades, a house in the city of Korinysia,” he finally says. A marsh gant stands up from its nest as they pass by close to the bank and flaps its large wings as a warning not to come to close. After the gant makes its display and things settle back down he continues, “You will see that if you find your place there and do as expected of you that your life can become one of great rewards. Creios knows the value of a good slave and does everything he can to make the ones that work there happy. But if you are disobedient or do not put effort into your work the punishments are severe and you will find why you did have reason to fear.” After he finishes the last statement he continues paddling in silence. Looking up at the position of the sun he realizes that while behind, if he continues at the pace he is on they should make it out of the marsh by nightfall and he can find a place on the bank in the forest to settle down for the night. The late afternoon sun was finally laying down to the restful slumber of dusk as the sky began bleeding reds across the blue sky from the west. Kay could see the first stars appearing to the east as the crescent moon began it slow lazy climb to its sentry post in the approaching night sky. Evening was fast approaching, if not for the injury, or the time Nia had cost him this morning he would already be on the bank of the river cooking a hearty dinner over a roaring fire. Instead he labored to propel the tiny craft and its occupants out of the marsh and into the beginnings of the current. This was a good sign for it meant that they would be in the river away from the sharks by darkness. “We have a long way to our destination Nia,” he said as he was paddling against the slow but powerful current in the river as it drained the rains from earlier this morning up in the mountains down into the marsh. “We still have many days journey to go before we reach Korinysia and the Peacock to start your new life. As far as this miserable marsh, we are almost out, and be thankful I pushed so hard else we would be fighting back the monsters as they come out of their slumber at night.” The wide eyes of Nia followed the green dorsal fin, feeling the tug of current caused by the unseen mass circling below. The fin disappeared beneath the muddy waters. Kay growled quietly, searching through the muddled water as he silently drew his long knife from its sheath. The towering dorsal fin rose again from the dark, now racing directly for them. Nia gasped and struggled, vainly tugging at her bonds in futile protest. From the reeds on the side of the channel two Marsh gants lazily watched as the head drew out of the water staring at the pair with its icy cold black spheres, its mouth opening as hundreds of razor sharp teeth glinted in the setting sun, the reds and oranges from the dusk sky making them look like they were already coated in blood. Time stood still for Nia now, surely knowing this would be the end, but not so for Kay. He stared back at the beast with his own determined glare facing him down, watching his movements through the icy waters, this wasn’t the first time he had encountered one of these demons of the marsh. At the last moment before the monster struck he leapt from his seat into the water wrapping his muscle bound limbs around the creature and pulling it back underwater with a combination of his momentum and shear strength. As he did Nia could see the cold steel in his hand as he drove it into the creature before they disappeared underwater. A moment later water splashed across the side of the craft soaking her as she saw the black water turn red and the white belly of the shark luminous as it rolled out of the water, with Kay’s paws wrapped around it and his knife slicing a long deep gash across as the intestines began to flood out into the water and they disappeared again, then silence as the water went still. The gant’s called out to each other as they took flight and she could feel the wind from their wings as they flew only a couple of feet over her head. The silence persisted for what would seem an eternity as her eyes scanned the water searching for Kay. Had he succumbed to the beast, was there a mate under the water waiting to reap revenge, how would she get out of this if he didn’t return. A thousand thoughts began to race through her mind, but the most prominent one was the eyes and teeth that were inches from her as she moments ago stared at sure death. She jumped as the water broke on the other side splaying another torrent of cold water into the boat and something surfaced behind her pulling the boat into the water almost capsizing it. As she turned her head she saw Kay rise into the boat as he pulled himself over the gunwale dropping his blade on the floor of the boat and pulling himself in. Breathing in monumental gasps of air he took his seat and grabbed the paddle, and between breaths he scowled at Nia, “Look … forward slave … enough talk … for now.” Looking at him if she would guess nothing had happened, except that he had a big gash on his arm, he was drenched and his breathing was coming in fits. As she looked to the other side of the boat she could see the yellow scavengers as they flailed in the water turning it to a red foam as they feasted on the body causing it to surface with its black cold eyes giving the impression that they were staring at her in death as it began to sink below the surface. Almost as fast as it had started, Kay was already paddling straightening the craft and moving it at a brisk pace towards the approaching forest she could now see in front of them. They covered the last mile in silence as Kay recovered his breath and his strokes became a steady rhythm in the silent waters, each thrust causing her to fall back into the thwart until she realized that despite the pain her binding had become during this trip today, it was better to lean back into it than to keep hitting it with her back. They made it to the forest just as the sun laid down in its final flicker and surrendered the sky to the black velvet and shinning stars. Kay appeared to know where he pulled the boat over because there was a soft beach that they ran aground on before her got out and pulled the craft with her still bound to it ashore. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; May 1st, 2013 at 05:07 AM. |
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April 2013 Competition Entries Topic: Affected by Change Challenge: desperation, a poem, and a broomstick Winner - And Now for Thee by moozuba Ace-Queen, Offsuit by Goatmeal [2,269 words] Barticus drummed his thumbs on the green felt and looked down at his cards again: Ace-Queen offsuit. He knew this was a bad position to play such a hand, with one caller to a small raise. But I’m the blind so half the money is already out there. All the more reason not to play, you’ll have to make a decision before anyone else does when the next three cards come out. But these are two live cards. And big ones, too. If I throw it away, I know I’ll hit something on the flop. If the hand is that good, you should raise. But don’t call with a hand that doesn’t draw to anything but high pair. Fold or raise, those are the only options in this position. Barticus called the minimum bet. “Drinks anyone? Drinks?” asked the halfling cocktail waitress as she sauntered up to the table. “I’ll have a whiskey,” said Barticus. The dealer laid down the next three cards: King, Queen, Four, all different suits. Barticus felt like he’d been bailed out of a bad choice, and immediately threw in a decent sized bet. The player who had raised earlier, Barticus realized now it was a dwarf who hadn’t seen much action in the game so far, pushed in all of his chips. The other player threw away his cards like they had the plague. The action came back around to Barticus. Now what? I’ve already committed so much to this pot, I can’t back out now. But if you lose you’re out of the game. Let’s think. What could he have here? Well based on his position, he might have just been trying to buy the blind and got a lucky pair on the flop. Pair of what though? Fours? Queens? …Kings? Well if it’s Queens, my ace beats his second card. And if it’s Kings? It’s probably not Kings. “Here you are, honey,” said the cocktail waitress, handing Barticus his drink flirtatiously. He gave her a smile and an extra silver. She returned the smile and continued passing out the drinks before making her way to another table. “Are you going to write her a poem or play poker?” asked the dwarf. Well now I’ve got to call. Barticus called. The dwarf showed a King and a ten. There was no ace or queen on the next two cards to save Barticus. He went home in a huff. Stupid! Stupid Barticus! Ace Queen offsuit of all things. And calling a minimum bet out of the blind position. What were you thinking? I was feeling lucky. You were feeling lucky about that damn Halfling is what you were feeling lucky. She probably doesn’t even look that great without the costume on. Well how was I to know he had a King? Maybe because he hadn’t been playing garbage hands like Ace-Queen offsuit all night. If it had been that gnome who was in every other hand that would be one thing, but don’t call a dwarf’s bet who’s been holding his cards tighter than a tanglefoot bag all night. Barticus sighed, upset with his own lack of discipline. He’d known the right move from the start, but let himself get distracted by the waitress. And she was pretty much an Ace-Queen offsuit herself. Maybe even a Queen-Seven if she didn’t have that outfit on. He took out his frustrations on cleaning up his tiny apartment: sweeping, washing, tossing out old things of no more value. It was one part nervous energy and one part practicing the discipline that he was desperately trying to preach to himself. --- The next time he showed up to the table, he showed up with focus. When the halfling waitress came by, he waved her off without even looking up to see her pouty face at his lack of interest. He was focused on the table. He zeroed in on that same dwarf who had taken all his money the time before, oddly enough in the same relative position to Barticus this time around. And he was taking notes on the others at the table: a sylph and an ogre who took turns outbetting each other, an uptight drow to watch out for if she ever put money on the table. And most of the rest simply called and folded, called and folded. It was always good to have those sort at the table. Barticus, the dwarf, and the drow spent the better part of an hour tossing away most of their hands, occasionally taking a small pot while the ogre or the sylph were away from the table. It was one such pot where Barticus once again found himself up against the dwarf. He was the blind again, and the sylph and ogre had both folded uncharacteristically. The dwarf made the minimum bet. Up to your old tricks again, are you, Mr. Dwarf? But somehow Barticus knew there was something different here. He looked into the dwarf’s eyes and saw his cards: they were nothing, jack seven or something of the sort. The dwarf was trying to get him to fold out of muscle memory of the last time they were in this position. He also knew the dwarf was smart enough to figure out he was playing as tight as the dwarf was tonight, and would likely fold to a bet if there was nothing. He knew without even looking that the other caller would fold to a double bet. So he raised with a pot-sized bet. The caller auto-folded. The dwarf threw down his hand in disgust. And Barticus, happy to have won this bluffing duel with the one who had taken all his money the last time, showed the dwarf his own nothing hand. The dwarf’s stoic nothing face should have been enough to tip off Barticus that he’d made a very bad move. The sly grin on the face of the Ogre across the table was the clincher, however. Stupid Barticus! Now you’re going to have to throw away hands for an hour to get any respect at this table. And the dwarf knows it. And the ogre just knows I’m prime hunting, which is about the same thing. “Drinks anyone? Drinks?” Barticus shot the waitress a look, but then thought better of it. Now more than ever you have to focus. You’ve got a target on your back, and you have to get away from bad hands if you’re going to make it out of here alive. He threw away the next two hands, barely looking at them. The third hand was King-Jack, both of them hearts, and in a good position. I guess I can’t just auto-fold this one. So what do you do with it? Well, if I raise nobody will respect it. But you might not want them to respect a raise with a hand like this. If this hand hits, you’ll want a big pot. If it’s close to hitting you’ll want good odds against any bets. So what do you do? Fold to a raise. Otherwise make a small bet. There were five players that called, including the ogre and the dwarf. Barticus fingered his chips for a minute, deciding how small of a bet he should make. But then he saw the glint in the eye of the dwarf and a bit of drool dripping from the lips of the ogre, trying his best to keep some kind of poker face. They are both waiting to pounce on me. Maybe a bet is not a good idea. They both have good hands already. Better than just calling hands. If I make a raise and let them have a chance at it, one or both of them will re-raise enough that I’ll have to fold. Just call here, and then drop the hand if it doesn’t hit. The odds are good enough, and the last guy isn’t going to make a raise. The last guy called, and the dealer turned up the cards: Ace, Nine, Six, all hearts. Barticus’s eyes bulged. He hoped nobody noticed. He had the best possible hand. The only thing he could do wrong was fold or scare people off the pot before it got big enough. Little chance of that happening. The whole table thinks I’m a bluffer. Not so hasty, Barticus. You’re winning right now, but there are still two cards left. You’ve got to take down this pot before any more cards show up that could turn the table on you. The first player made a small bet, insignificant to the size of the pot itself, and nothing that should affect the decision of someone who knew what they were doing. There was one caller and then it was on the ogre. He made a hefty bet, and there were folds around to the dwarf. The dwarf made a bet twice the size of the ogre’s and then it was on to Barticus. Here it is, Barticus, take it down. He fumbled through his chips, about to push them all in to the center. “Drinks anyone? Drinks?” Wait a minute, maybe that’s not the best way to play it. Of course it is, we need to take down this pot before the next card comes out and pairs the board. The ogre was fixated on the rising mound of money. The ogre was sure he was going to win. The ogre was going to reraise it if it came back around to him. The dwarf obviously thought he had a good hand, too. One of them had a lower flush: queen high. The other had two pair. But which was which? How had they played so far? They had both called the blind. What hands were proper for calling the blind? Only the flush draw: queen, ten. The dwarf had queen ten of hearts. The ogre must have Aces and Nines. He knew the dwarf wouldn’t call with Aces and Nines and so many callers ahead of him. So how do I get the most money out of this? The ogre is too stupid to realize that someone else might have a flush, so he’ll call any raise. But the dwarf will realize that there is one hand that beats him right now and might fold to that hand if he thinks someone has it. But he’s smart enough to realize that the Ogre might not have that hand. He’ll call the ogre’s raise, but he won’t call mine. Barticus reached for the amount of the bet, and put it out on the table. His hands were shaking. He was truly nervous: nervous that one of the next two cards will be an ace that makes the ogre win. But he also knew that he wants them both to think he’s nervous, so he doesn’t try to hide it. The ogre barely thinks before pushing in all of his chips. The dwarf thinks about it a bit: looking from the cards on the board to the ogre, to the money on the table, to his own stack, to his cards. The ogre’s all in bet was much larger than the previous bets, nearly the size of the remaining pot. It put the game into a whole new perspective. The dwarf is trying to decide how likely it is that the ogre has the King high flush. He’s not even considering me. He thinks I’m bluffing and that I’ll fold. He’s going to call. He has to call. The dwarf called. Barticus didn’t even hesitate before pushing the remainder of his chips into the center. He watched the dwarf’s face as he did so. He watched the sudden realization of what was going on enter the dwarf’s eyes. The dwarf turned up his cards in disgust: queen-ten as Barticus knew they were. But he had been wrong about the ogre’s hand: six-nine of clubs. Who calls with a six-nine of clubs? Hey, he’s an ogre what do you expect? Maybe it’s his lucky number. It didn’t change anything, though. The ogre had two chances to pair the board and win the pot, otherwise it belonged to Barticus. The next card paired the board. It was an Ace. “Three pair never wins,” said Barticus cockily. The dwarf looked at him like he was an imbecile. The ogre like he was going to eat him for breakfast. Stupid Barticus! He’s actually got a better chance of winning now. There are six cards between you and that ginormous pot instead of just four. The last card: Two of diamonds. A completely irrelevant two of diamonds. The ogre stormed out of the room. The dwarf shot him a sullen look like he was a buffoon who got lucky. He’s right, you know, Barticus. It was complete luck you getting that hand when he had the next best hand and someone else at the table had a hole in his pocket. True. But it was skill that let you keep seeing cards long enough to get that luck. Now make sure you are as wise with this pot as you were getting to it. Still, he had a hard time not feeling at least a little bit giddy as he raked that giant pile of gold towards his end of the table. “Drinks anyone? Drinks?” “Yes, ma’am, I’ll have a…careful Barticus…glass of water, please.” A brief hint of sadness seemed to cross her face as she took his order. You know you’re still going to have to give her a decent tip, ordering a drink after taking down a big pot like that. I know, but it’s worth it. As long as I keep throwing away Ace-Queen offsuit, I’ll be fine. And Now For Thee by moozuba [2,138 Words] She woke with a start and staggered out of bed, groping against the rough hewn stone wall in an attempt to get her bearings. Strange bursts and swirls of light swam in a field of black as the pain overtook her, shooting through her skull and piercing her conscious thoughts like the point of a well-honed dagger. The gaunt woman lost her footing and stumbled to one knee beside her bed. Still grappling with the throbbing in her head, she lowered the other knee in submission and lifted her face toward the heavens and uttered a soft, agonized prayer. “Lord of Light, Bringer of Dawn, hear my prayer.” You hear, but do not answer. “I am merciful, for I have been shown mercy.” Is it mercy that I live when all I love has died? “I am humble, for I have beheld thy glory.” I am humble because you have humiliated me. “I serve, because I have been served.” I serve because I must. I serve whom I must. “I love...” Is there anyone I still love, in truth? “...because thou first loved me.” Her hand tightened around the leather purse resting against her bosom. I love him. Even now. No warmth of the sun shone upon the blonde woman’s thin face, no light to behold as she gazed skyward. Nonetheless, she made the sign of the sun before lowering her head abruptly and whispering the four words that have for as many years served as her personal prayer: “Death comes for all.” It had been four years since she embraced that simple prayer, merely six since they took her eyes, but felt like an eternity since she had known joy. Iris was the daughter of Mikel and Petunia Krispen, a cheerful child and much beloved in her small community of Tottingham. Her parents were both clergy in the Pelorian church. Raised in the faith, she was ordained to the priesthood at the tender age of fifteen. At seventeen she fell desperately in love with a fellow cleric by the name of Kevan Fairfield. They wed on her eighteenth birthday in the light of the rising sun. Slowly, steadily, she rose to her feet and drew a length of soiled linen cloth from her tattered robes. Carefully and deliberately, she knotted the cloth behind her head and raised her cowled hood to cast her face in shadow. Iris preferred to wear the blindfold in public because it helped conceal the scars. In her youth, she would never have kept her hood up -- preferring to bask in the radiance of the heavenly luminaries -- but now... she had come to appreciate the value of darkness. She reached to her right with one willowy hand and felt along the rough stone until her fingers closed on the walking stick propped against the wall at the foot of her bed, precisely where she left it. It was nothing more than a broken broom handle, in truth, but it served her purposes well enough. She turned precisely ninety degrees to the right and tapped the ground ahead of her with the end of the broomstick. Finding no impediments, she made her way slowly out of the narrow alley she calls home, feeling her way with the butt of her staff. The blind woman paused and inclined her head upward for a moment before stepping out into the sparsely populated street. Iris loved to feel the first rays of the sun upon her face. The way the gentle warmth of the early dawn cut through the lingering chill of night stirred feelings of faith and hope deep inside the former priestess. It was nearly her second wedding anniversary when everything broke apart. Traveling home from the great city of Andel, bearing a bundle of cloth and other essential goods for the people of Tottingham, she was beset by a vicious group of bandits. Beaten, violated, tortured and left for dead no more than a stone’s throw from the main road, but for the grace of Pelor and the compassion of a passing mummer’s troupe, Iris Fairfield would not have survived. I survived, but that is all I have done. Iris would not call it “living,” for what the beasts that accosted her left behind bore no resemblance to life. Abused, mocked and despoiled, one of their first acts was to cut out her eyes. When they had finished with her, they slashed her belly. She could still hear the gleeful, nasal voice of the man who stood over her as she wailed, clutching at her stomach, “It’s a bay-bee!” First they cut my child from the womb, then dashed his helpless body against the stones. The dreams began shortly thereafter. The men who attacked her in her dreams were not men at all, but monsters -- cruel and twisted and stinking of blood and rotting flesh. Night had passed, dawn had come. The dreams were behind her for now, and Iris hummed softly to herself as she made her way along the increasingly busy street, tapping ahead of herself and patiently suffering the constant jostling from those in too much of a rush to give consideration to a blind woman. She had not taken up residence in the most respectable neighborhood. The air that day was thick with humidity and bore more strongly the usual smells of sewage and smoke as well as the occasional whiff of roasted meats from the passing street vendors. The clatter of cart wheels, the clipping of hooves, the burble of conversation and the cries of peddlers hawking their wares filled her ears with a cacophony of the familiar and comfortable. She hummed on, nonetheless, lost in the reverie of her private worship. The tune was borrowed from the old Pelorian hymn “Ode to the Coming Dawn” that spoke of the setting of the sun and the promise of the coming dawn, but the words were a composition of her own creation. Sometimes she sang to the Lord of Light, other times to the Lady of Night. The Raven Queen, goddess of death and winter -- the counterpart of Pelor, the god of sun and summer -- was not a deity for whom many songs were written. O, children heed the raven’s call For night must fall for one and all. Here in the shadows of the day, Where wicked lead the good astray And daughters of the night conspire To silence those whose lives require The gentle touch of winter’s queen: Death comes for all, and now for thee. Iris could no longer see the sun -- either its rising or its setting. She could feel its presence, but quickly learned that she felt the darkness more acutely than the light. The sun warmed the skin, but the night chilled to the bone. In her private darkness, she accepted the duality of life -- that both light and dark, life and death, were very real, ever present and wholly worthy of reverence. By smoke and cinder, blood and bone, By breaking dawn and winter’s throne -- O, sun and stars obscure thy fires Illumine not these dark desires. Almighty guardian of death, Sweet lord of life, who grants me breath, Release me from this misery Death comes for all, and soon for me. After her attack, she returned to Tottingham where she spent each day in prayer at the chapel, asking the Lord of Light for forgiveness, strength, justice and the return of her sight. Her husband abandoned her after just one week. She was blind and barren. His love would only suffer so much. Her parents soon followed suit, claiming that she had disgraced her faith and the family name. She failed to understand what she had done to cause them such disappointment by being the victim of such a terrible crime, but the rumor mill of the village was operating in high gear. Judgment had been handed down by the court of public opinion, and Iris Fairfield had been found wanting. She was sent back to Andel to live in a convent and pray for mercy, but she never reached the convent. The city was overwhelming. There were people everywhere. Sounds, smells and voices. So many voices. She panicked and fled blindly, slamming into person after person before eventually tumbling headlong into an alleyway where she collapsed and curled into a ball, her lungs and legs burning from exertion. It was a kindly elder cleric from the temple of Bahamut that found her and began to draw her out of her private nightmare. Father Tovold. The name brings a rare smile to her lips. She was presently on her way to join the good Father in his ministry to Andel’s blind and lame. Tovold himself had a severe limp in his right leg from a bad break he sustained as a youth. It shattered not only his knee, but his chances at becoming a knight and ultimately led him down the path to the priesthood. The gods work in mysterious ways. The heavy blow on her shoulder broke her reverie and brought the taste of blood into her mouth as she bit down hard on her tongue. Metallic and sweet. She staggered sidelong and heard the sound of her walking stick skittering along the cobblestones as large hands pressed roughly against her slender shoulders, shoving her back so her head ricocheted off the brick wall behind her with a sickening crack. Paralyzed with fear and smelling the stink of soured ale on the man’s breath, she began to panic -- her mind racing through the horrific images of her prior assault. No. No! What more is there to take from me? I have nothing left to give! “Gimme yer money or I’ll bash yer brains in,” the brute demanded. Taken aback and still reeling from the sharp knock on her head, Iris couldn't seem to gather her thoughts for a reply. Money? He wants... money? Lord of Light, let that be all he requires. “I, I have a few copper,” she confessed in a small, thin voice before tremulously fishing seven coins from the pocket of her cloak. They clattered to the ground as the man shakes her violently. “Ye got more’n that!” he growls, shoving his hands into her pockets -- searching but finding nothing. As his hands tugged on the thin leather thong that held the small leather pouch around her neck, Iris felt a wave of unadulterated terror wash over her. She hadn’t considered that he might mistake her memorial for a coin purse. She felt the tug of the strap against her neck as he rasped, “Hold’n out on me? I ought’a take an ear for that.” She heard the gentle snap of the leather and felt the slack at the back of her neck as the thin, weathered strap gave way. At that precise moment, deep inside Iris Fairfield, something much stronger and more dangerous broke free of its restraints. You WILL NOT take him from me again! She wrenched her left arm free of the mugger’s hold, clutching her purse protectively to her breast as a sudden, brilliant light effused her. “You will never touch me again!” she shrieked. The man staggered back, eyes wide with surprise, clutching at the blackened and charred flesh of his chest. Iris could not see, but she could hear his labored breathing and smell the burnt hair and cooked flesh. “L-look, lady. I’m sorry, okay? I,” he stammered pleadingly. I once was blind... Iris felt euphoric, light-headed and alive. One hand slipped into her cloak as she took a single step toward the sound of the man’s labored breathing. ...but now I see. The rasping man backed hastily away from the woman whose hands burned with the ferocity of a thousand suns. Slipping on a wooden pole lying on the ground behind him, he stumbled to one knee. “Keep yer money, a’ight? Jus’... jus....” I am the kiss... Iris grasped the hilt of the rusted iron knife she kept hidden in the folds of her robes and drew it out with cool deliberation. ...of winter’s queen. The man whimpered an agonized, pleading, “Please, lady. Ple--” which was cut short as Iris gripped the man’s hair, wrenched his head back and whispered sharply, “Death comes for all.” She drew her blade across his throat, his final plea reduced to a gurgling whimper, “And now for thee.” Still clutching the purse to her bosom with her left hand, she tucked the blood-stained knife back into her robes and retrieved her broken broom handle from beside the man’s twitching form. Then, turning, Iris made her way out into the light of the early dawn, tapping her stick with each step. I once was blind, but now I see. Death comes for all... and soon for me. Daakuseiken - Prologue by Revolutionist [1,936 Words] It was just a simple ordinary morning at the New Bark Elementary School, in September the Fourth, 1990. It was ordinary for most of the people at least. Hugo Elfen was the one who was very different from the others, which made all of his days in the school rather odd. Hugo is a blonde ten year old third-grader with brown eyes, and he looks rather feeble for his age. His performance in school is average, his favorite subject being history. He is obsessed with Roman Empire, and anything related to Italy. One day, he wishes to speak Italian. Hugo has a huge attraction to birds. He always imagines himself being with a beautiful night hawk on his shoulder. The New Bark Elementary is known to be the most peaceful school in the city. The bullying cases are very rare in here, and this is the reason why the school is known to be the location where popular writers, actors & artists were grown at. The school council is run by the students of the high school. They are in charge of taking care of organizing events and nominations. The government started spending lots of budget on this school after the famous actress Byanma De'Gor announced that the New Bark Elementary had helped her to become famous. Hugo has been very energetic, spending most of the time outdoors, mostly at the zoos with his friends & parents. But, while he never does any homework, he still has high enough grades, and is acknowledged by the teachers. ------------------------------------ Hugo was full of energy the moment he entered the school. There was a small brown backpack with only a few notebooks and a couple of pencils hanging on his right shoulder. As soon as he entered, he was met by his friends Alex & Jacob. Alex is a eleven year old dark brown haired classmate ever since the Kindergarten. Jacob is the school's most bullied nine year old black-haired boy who met Hugo back in the first grade. Not a lot is known to Hugo about Jacob. Hugo never had chance to visit him, because he was never invited. Jacob never left the school without visiting the library and reading about demons at least once per day. ------------------------------------ Sitting through the second history lesson, Hugo and his two friends were doing a group project together, drawing the miniatures of the USA presidents on a huge piece of paper, with another classmate named Mark. The boy with high grades, but known to have lost his parents. The classmates tend to stay away from him, because they think that he's quite strange. Fortunately, Mark & Jacob make good friends. They can be seen hanging around at the library together very often, reading the same kinds of books – about demons – all the time. Hugo was always wondering why were they doing so. They always replied with "for fun" and very similiar responses. This doesn't make Hugo feel uncomfortable in any way. Oppositively – it makes him feel that he wants to stick with them and find out about what the hell is going on. The whole project is now lasting for more than a hour. Everyone, except Hugo's group, is either tired or bored. Hugo and his friends, however, were gifted with the ability to draw very well, and it felt like a whole adventure for them while they cooperatively drawn stuff especially if it involved famous personas. ------------------------------------- And then, it was the moment, when the time flied very quickly, but a lot happened in the meanwhile. The classroom doors were kicked open, as the mysterious figure with a black cloak stepped inside. Not even a single hand movement was made by the person, when the schoolmistress quickly grabbed her chest, falling down on her knees then suddenly losing her consciousness, as she quickly slammed her head on the floor. The reaction of the children was rather surprising, some of them screamed, some of them stayed at their desks, biting their fingertips. The cloaked figure's face was hard to notice. As much as the room had made the figure appear lightened, the air in front of the figure's face was somehow strangely darkened and didn't allow anyone to see the face. Hugo looked at the figure in a very frozen manner. He was scared, but he didn't want to show it. As the figure approached Hugo, he was about to scream, but it was no longer neccessary, when the figure grabbed Mark by the ear, pulling him out of the class, then closing the doors behind. Hugo knew, that however strong it was, it was just not acceptable to let the friend be captured like that. Giving a nod to Jacob and Alex, they quickly ran after the figure. Opening the doors, they noticed that the whole corridor was dark, but only from one side – from the left, where the figure seemed to walk towards, holding Mark by the ear, as he screamed from pain. Hugo's team started following the figure very cautiously. They were very scared, but it seemed like they were under some kind of hipnotesis. There were some other children following him from behind, but Hugo didn't seem to care much. He really didn't care about anything that moment. As he kept walking towards the darkness, the figure disappeared, and he started to lose his vision as well, before finally falling unconscious. Darkness. ---------------------------------- Slowly, Hugo was opening his eyes. It was so white and soft, that he closed them again, and enjoyed this feeling for a few moments, before finally realizing that this is not his home. Quickly pushing his upper body up, supported by his arms, he opened his eyes, noticing himself being in a square room with a cotton-like material walls around himself. It felt for him like if he was in a hospital for mentally unstable people. There was a door right in front of him, which seemed to be made of some kind of white material. The door had no handles, but it was just asking to be pushed, because it looked much more different than the walls around him. For a moment, Hugo thinked to himself, 'Why am I doing this? Why do I have that strange feeling that I'm no longer alive?' He crawled backwards, crossing his arms, sitting against the walls, a frown appeared on his face, as he blown the hair away from his eyes. "I don't know who you people are, but I'm not interested in your game... And if you really think I'll push this door open, then you're wrong." - he said rather loudly, not wondering who was he talking to. He was really confused, but the curiosity of what's behind the door didn't stop him, so he quickly pushed himself up and approached the door, slowly pushing it open. He saw a completely different room. A room tiled with wood-like plank material was shining from the magical light. And only now Hugo realized that there were no physical light sources in the previous room. In the middle of the room, a beautiful angel-like woman stands, facing Hugo. She appears to be covered with very light clothing, gems used as a major decoration in her wardrobe. Her hair was very brightly purple, and Hugo looked at those until the woman spoke. "Don't be shy, come closer. I do understand how confused you are at the moment, but just let me explain." Hugo felt like the creature had no evil intentions with him. Slowly, Hugo approached the woman, as she slowly bended down, patting Hugo's head. "I am Anuma Remi. I'm here to explain you what happened, and what you need to do to save your friend, and where you other friends went." Hugo was listening closely, as he sat down on the ground. Anuma's voice was so charismatic, that he felt like his mother was reading a poem about birds. "You are now in the Lightworld. At least, that's how you, american people from Earth, call it. You were brought here, because it was an order of our Master. It was a trap by the Daakuseiken, the Dark Society, who are responsible for the thousands of deaths in the Earth. We couldn't bring your other friends, so they're probably now in the Darkworld along with your kidnapped friend, who is currently in a huge trouble."Anuma took a deep breath, then continued. "You see, the Daakuseiken-sachu, or The Dark Warriors, are extending their lifetime, as they suck the energy off the regular humans, and the magical powers of the Light Warriors, also known as Keiseiken-sachu. And-" "Wait!" - Hugo interrupted Anuma. "What is going on here? Is this some kind of a show? Is there a hidden camera? This is just funny... You look good, and all that, but... Can you explain me, and tell me the truth? It's not funny." Anuma leaned back after Hugo's response, she looked like if she didn't trust Hugo anymore, but then a smile appeared on her face again, as she continued to speak. "Please take this..." - she pulled out a blue orb out of her small comparement on the belt. "This is a fragment of a spiritual bow. You will have to use it to overcome many challenges ahead of you." "But..." - Hugo interrupted, but it was too late – Anuma had already disappeared in the clouds of smoke, and now Hugo was sure, that he's either sleeping or this is not Earth. Either way, if he was sleeping, Hugo felt like completing this dream and seeing how it ends up. But what Hugo noticed, is that he can control his body fully. It was no dream. It was when Hugo looked at the orb which was floating in the air where Anuma's hand was. He slowly extended his curious hand to the orb. As soon as he touched it, it disappeared, but he felt like if there was a huge energy flowing in the veins of his already. The door slowly revealed itself in front of him. It seemed that there was a huge lock which didn't allow the door to be simply opened. Looking at his arm, he remembered Anuma mentioning the bow. Moving the hand in the position of the bow, he tried to pull an invisible arrow backwards, but nothing happened. He had to be in a desperation, he felt like it. Hugo began to concentrate. He looked at the lock, and began to imagine, that NO, the lock doesn't have to be here, it has to DIE. The boy's left hand began to glow blue, and a spiritual arrow appeared in his right hand. He didn't hesitate, and aimed at the lock, then releasing the shot, which landed perfectly on the target, as the lock quickly disappeared, along with the door, behind of which, Anuma was standing, holding a broomstick in her right hand. "Good. Very good! What's your name?" - she asked. "Hu-... Hugo... I'm... Oh..." - Hugo answered, as his cheeks began to blush. He couldn't resist the eye contact with her, she was very attractive. In a natural way. Anuma handed the broomstick to Hugo. He was very confused, as he slowly got ahold of it. He was about to ask, but the angel interrupted him. "I highly suggest that you sit on it, as you fall into the Rivertown... Otherwise it may hurt..." - Anuma nodded to Hugo, as the floor began to collapse, and just a moment later, Hugo found himself in the middle of the air... ------------------------------------ TO BE CONTINUED. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; May 17th, 2013 at 06:54 AM. |
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May 2013 Competition Entries Topic: Rejuvenation Challenge: a flashback, forgiveness, and a tusk Winner - The Big Reveal by The Jaded Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Jun 3rd, 2013 at 04:44 PM. |
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June 2013 Competition Entries Topic: A Cold Dawn Challenge: a rainbow, a toad, and a kiss Winner - Oracle Jack by The Jaded Mind Games
by Negoth [1942 words] Not all things are as they seem. Galadhon learned this the hard way. When he was given a chance for a new life, he was giddy with excitement. He had everything planned: good work, a nice home, money, freedom. But life plays cruel tricks and confuses the mind's eye. The gavel sounded; court was finally in session. “We are here for the trial of Galadhon Moonbeam,” the judge announced. He looked over to a small man just to the left of the stand. “Read the charges, please.” “Trespassing, breaking and entering, theft, assault and battery, and murder,” the man squeaked. Galadhon's sly grin flashed across his tanned face. Despite his unkempt look, slightly tousled black hair and stubble framing his mouth and continuing up his jawline, he was very attractive. I guess women would call him ruggedly handsome. His stood tall, proud, and confident at six feet one inch. His ears and fingers flashed with the most brilliant gold and silver anyone layed eyes on. His eyes held a stormy sea. “Sounds about right, mate,” he chided, then added quickly, “Except the murder part.” The judge looked up. “Excuse me?” “Y'see, I didn't kill anybody!” The judge peered at him, clearly puzzled. “I see,” he said. The court proceeded while, the whole time, Galadhon stood there confidently with that arrogant smirk as if he was proud of what he'd done. Finally, it came time for the jury to convene and determine Galadhon’s fate. As they were lighting the room, one of the jumped back, startled. A very beautiful young woman sat cross-legged on a desk in the far corner. Her blank purple eyes shone bright in the lowly lit room. Cascading onto her slight shoulders were locks the color of ebony. Her long black dress greatly contrasted her ghostly complexion. “Xandria, what are you doing here?” another man stammered. “I’ll give you three guesses,” a sideway grin came across her face, “but such bright men like you should be able to get it in one.” “What do you want from us?” Xandria glowered at him; the room went cold. “Enough stupid questions. The answer to your question is obvious—I want you to acquit him.” “It isn’t that easy,” a larger man said. Xandria looked confused. “Seems simple; I tell you he’s not guilty, and when they ask for your verdict you say ‘not guilty’. Bam. Done. Free…simple.” “And why should we listen to you?” the larger man scoffed. She grinned. “Because I can do horrible things to you. I have a very vivid imagination.” He stormed towards her. “Is that a threat, you— “We wouldn’t dare cross such a powerful being as yourself,” another man cut in. Xandria had sparks dancing on her fingertips. “Smart. So, Galadhon will walk?” All the men nodded hastily. One man blurted, “Why do you want scum like Galadhon?” Xandria studied her nails. “Every man deserves a second chance. Don’t you think?” She looked up, smiled, and with a waver of her hand, she disappeared. As court came back into session, bobody was on the edge of their seat with excitement, for they could all guess the ruling. “Court is back in session,” the judge called. He then gave the floor to the jury. The larger man stood up. “We find Galadhon Moonbeam,” he cursed himself silently, “not guilty.” For a moment no one moved or even breathed. They all stood there slack-jawed and flabbergasted. Galadhon looked slightly relieved but still surprised. The judge ended the court, but the people remained, too appalled to leave. Galadhon’s wild grin returned, and he strode out of the room as if saying, “Screw you guys; I’m going home.” Galadhon went immediately to the docks because he actually was going home. Another sailor caught sight of him and questioned, “Galadhon! What the—?” “Not guilty, mate!” Galadhon called back, raising his hands in the air. “Congrats!” the sailor answered. Galadhon went to his boat, happy as a lark, but the smile quickly faded. He grabbed his pistol and stormed into the captain’s quarters. “Who the hell—why hello, beautiful,” he said, lowering his pistol. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” he mused. “You wouldn’t have this pleasure if I hadn’t acquitted you,” Xandria stated coolly. “What are you talking about? I don’t even know you!” “I’m here to make a deal.” Xandria smiled. “Turn away from you life of greed and crime.” “Excuse me?” Galadhon inquired. “Why would I do that?” Lightning flashed. “Because I saved your lousy half-elf hide!” she bellowed. “Fine, lassie. I’ll play your game, but where will I go? The House of Lyrandar won’t accept me back,” he said longingly as he traced the lesser dragonmark on his chest. “That might have something to do with the fact that you tried to steal one of their airships,” Xandria stated matter-of-factly. “I was commandeering, not stealing; there’s a difference,” Galadhon countered. She dismissed his with a wave of her hand. “Whatever. This is your chance at a new life. Reinvent yourself. Do those things you’ve always wanted to do.” Galadhon looked up. “What?” But she was already gone. Galadhon lay on his berth. Night had fallen already, and he thought about what the Inspired sorceress had said. A new life, he thought. I can do all the things I want. But I want to be a pirate. What’s stopping me from going back to my old ways? He pondered this for a moment. He could just as easily choose to revert to his old life. What was stopping him? Myself. I am stopping myself because it’s the honest thing to do. He then thought about the irony of that statement. However, Galadhon made up his mind. He would continue to be a pirate (of sorts), but he would be an honest pirate. There’s a ton of stolen stuff that I’m sure would love to be stolen back. And with that, he threw open the doors of his cabin and strode onto the deck; his crew of three had finally arrived—two males, Aaron and Nico, and one female. She was Galadhon’s girlfriend of two years. Sylvia was Galadhon’s first mate (if you what I mean). “Alright, you scurvy swabs! Set sail for Regalport of the Lhazaar Principalities!” “Aye aye, captain!” the crew shouted back. Galadhon ran to the helm, wheeled around to face the harbor, threw his arms up, grinned, and shouted, “Farewell, Rekkenmark! Bless you!” He threw mock kisses, “And bless the whole of Karrnath!” He faced back to the helm and grasped the wheel. He gazed forward with a look of steely-eyed determination. A few weeks later, Galadhon and his crew still hadn’t reached their destination. They were just outside Karrn Bay…in the middle of nowhere. Galadhon was still at the helm (he doesn’t like when other people have control of his ship) when he noticed something odd. On the port side railing, about mid-ship, there sat a toad. How had I not noticed that before? Not that it really mattered; this species of toad was harmless, but it still bothered Galadhon. He awoke from his stupor as the ship pitched hard starboard. Another dull thud, and the ship pitched again. Sylvia’s stormy gray eyes stared at Galadhon in disbelief. “It’s a dragon turtle,” she croaked. Sylvia was tall, lean, and strong. He had such an air of confidence about her, Galadhon thought she couldn’t feel fear. Now, she looked positively terrified. Her exotically beautiful face was as pale as Xandria’s. It looked odd in comparison to the deeply tanned complexion she normally wore. The ship pitched, harder this time, to port. Sylvia screamed as she tumbled into the sea. She landed hard on her stomach. Her hat came off, exposing her long blonde hair that now floated around her. About eight feet behind her, a trident exploded from the water, and with it came a merman with seaweed-laden hair. Galadhon finally realized what Sylvia had already discovered. That was no ordinary dragon turtle, just as this was no ordinary merman. “The Devourer,” Galadhon murmured. He snapped back to reality. “Sylvia!” Galadhon stripped off his coat and boots then dove in to save his first mate. The stomach flop too everything out of Sylvia; she could barely move. Before Galadhon even hit the water, the Devourer was holding Sylvia with a knife to her throat. Sylvia struggled, and in response, the deity grasped a handful of her hair and yanked. She didn’t scream; she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Let her go!” Galadhon commanded, eyes blazing. “Let me think…no.” The Devourer flashed a horrible smirk. “Give me what I want, and I’ll consider it.” “What do you want?” Galadhon asked desperately. “Oh, that’s simple. I want you to be Galadhon Moonbeam. Forget this idea of reinventing yourself; it will never work.” “Whatever you want. I’ll go back to my old ways. Just give her back,” Galadhon pleaded. “Hmmmm, I have a feeling you’re lying, and she would much better serve my purpose.” He smiled then plunged into the darkness, Sylvia still in hand. “No! Sylvia!” Galadhon dove, but they were already gone. When he resurfaced, his crewmates had already thrown a rope ladder over the side of the ship. Galadhon scrambled up and lay on the deck, panting and murmuring, “He took her. I can’t believe he took her.” “Captain, what do we do now?” Aaron inquired. Galadhon rose. “We journey on, and I start that new life.” The rest of his journey was plagued by torrential storms. No doubt the Devourer’s work, Galadhon thought. As the ship was nearing Regalport, Nico pointed to the sky and shouted, “Look! A rainbow! I take that as a good sign, Captain!” Yeah, my life better get a helluva lot better. But I don’t see how it can without Sylvia. They finally arrived in Regalport, and Galadhon’s crewmates decided he should rest a night before tackling the town. Galadhon agreed a little too easily. He flopped onto his bed, and the moment his eyes closed, he fell asleep. Galadhon was at the helm, pointing and teaching a toddler—his son. His daughter stumbled around the deck, following her mother. The woman turned and smiled at Galadhon. It was Sylvia. She took their daughter’s hand and led her up the stairs to the helm. Sylvia sighed. “Well, they’ll be able to run this thing by the time they’re teenagers!” she laughed. “Then again, they have the best teacher.” She leaned in and kissed Galadhon. He forgot all about the wheel for a moment and embraced his true love. The world dissolved; only he and Sylvia remained. “Captain,” an outside voice, Nico, called. Not now. Let me stay here…with Sylvia. Aaron cleared his throat and tried. “Captain.” Kyrie started to disappear. No! You can’t leave; I need you. I love you. “Captain,” an unfamiliar voice cried in mockery. Galadhon snapped awake. Leaning casually on the wall across the room was Kit Alabaster, the head of House Lyrandar. Galadhon scrambled to his feet. “What do you want?” Kit nonchalantly pulled back the hammer on his old flintlock. He locked gazes with Galadhon. The corner of Kit’s mouth turned up in the slightest hint of a smile, and his eyes gleamed. “Run.” Some of us are lucky; to others, life deals a cruel hand. Galadhon was blessed with the chance for a new life…a chance he gladly took. However, this new life is full of deception and treachery. He took on a new identity in the hope of escaping the House, and in his flight, he decided to tell this story in the hope his legacy will live. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 13th, 2013 at 10:36 AM. |
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July 2013 Competition Entries Topic: Beat the Heat Challenge: a toadstool, a horrible song, and a crystal Winner - Out of the Fire by sammichweasel The Journal of Maxmillian Niel Baerz, July 3, 2009
Understanding a little of my own story will undoubtedly shed some light on any conclusions I may derive from my observations and therefore is pertinent. My name is Maxmillian Neil Baerz. I am a scientist first, a pacifist, and a solider… well I wish never, but had no choice in that, "Wehrdienst" (conscription). I endured my basic training with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, which wasn’t much. Following that, I served out my mandatory military sentence while doing everything possible to avoid a combat assignment. My extensive efforts did not go unnoticed however, and I soon found myself overseas in a war zone; as a peace keeper. An irony not lost on my immediate superior who typed a winking smiley face on the bottom of my orders. That little stupid winky face… a little smiling catalyst, starting a tiny little reaction, a reaction that altered EVERYTHING. We were out on a routine patrol in the countryside. Our orders were to clear and sweep an abandoned terrorist training facility discovered on a secluded mountain plateau. This particular location was reached via a winding dirt road from the south or via a steep and dangerous switchback foot trail which connected it to a pass in the west. My team was to sneak in along the western foot trail and recon/secure the site in the pre dawn hours. A larger contingent with some trucks approached via the southern road, timed to arrive about three hours after us. I was on point and there were three other men. Two of these were new to the platoon, Hans Gerber, and another fellow whom everyone called Chef. Hans was tall, reed thin and white as a ghost. With his white blonde hair and pale blue eyes he was positively wraith like. How he passed basic training I’ll never know. The man could hardly carry his giant oversized wristwatch, and seemed to be made of primarily of balsa wood. Looking to the East the sun was still hidden from view behind the mountain but the sky was clear. Today there was no wind, no clouds. It would be stifling. Already Hans’s face was red, splotchy and he didn’t look so good. The constant sorties were wearing on him heavily. Chef on the other hand was Asian. For the most part he seemed oblivious to the heat. He inspired to be, and had a strange infatuation with, American Prop comics and was constantly racking his brain to think of new material. He was a manic talker and perpetually cheerful. I have no idea why they called him Chef. He was in fact, extremely annoying and so I tried to think of him as little as possible. Yesterday he rambled all night long about Yoda, Yoga and Yogurt. Trying to find some common ground that he could use in his “act”. I can’t remember if he succeeded because I quit listening after half an hour. Seeing me watching him now, he plucked a mint from his pocket and pinched it like a monocle in his eye socket. “Eye Candy.” He said I turned back to the trail and looked up the mountain. “Let’s move” From far in the back I heard a sneering “Yessss Sirrrr.” Ernst. The third member of our quartet. Ernst who I met in basic training. I made the mistake of telling him my pacifist views early on and regretted talking to the man ever since. He was a cruel and bossy oaf, whom I disliked tremendously. Never called anyone by their real name. To him we were Ghost, Gandhi, and Carrot Top (a reference I never understood). Besides being a total ass, Ernst was always singing. His voice was actually excellent but that that did little to alleviate the ire it raised in everyone. Ernst’s favorite thing was picking fights, tormenting those around him, and he had a knack for it. If the situation was racially sensitive he’d sing an off color number. If there were women about, crass and sexist. Eyeing the trail I felt nervous. It was very exposed. The trip up the switchback was extremely tense. Full of rock piles and crossfire opportunities, it was the perfect ambush scenario in more ways than one. We should’ve trained HERE. But though it seemed the perfect back door to a secret lair, chock full of ideal ambush locations, if I ever there was such a thing and in the end thoroughly nerve wracking, the tedious journey up the switchback was surprisingly uneventful. With raw nerves we breached the rim of the plateau and stood staring down at the facility. With no small amount of relief, we saw that it indeed appeared deserted. The whole area was a bowl shaped mountain crater perhaps 100-150 yards in diameter with steep rock walls on all sides, excepting the two approaches already mentioned. In the center was a sort of low open air barracks area under a camouflage awning. Kind of like a collection of old sleeping mats under a circus big top, except with no walls. Near this, was an old elevated water storage tank which appeared to be connected to several water taps via an unorganized maze of exposed plumbing. Around the perimeter was what appeared to be a sort of obstacle course, the north side of which had a small arms firing range with a few human like silhouettes in front of a wall of sand bags. Looking down on it I felt a wave of relief. Hans however, red faced, sweating profusely and unsteady on is feet, fell on all fours and puked like I have NEVER seen before. Though exhausted myself, I started forward to help but when the smell hit me I gagged, and was forced to retreat. Chef, as always was… well Chef. He pointed and laughed, quipping. Look an Al-bile-no! Hee, Hee, Ho, Ho, Ha, Ha! My God. The man laughs like a comic book. Oooo. Hoooo. That was a good one. I gotta take a dump. And with that he turned and strode behind a big boulder, emitting grunting and crapping sound effects as he went. Ernst. On cue. Began to sing. I immediately made a B-line for the other side of the camp but this just encouraged him, and he belted out the verse even louder. This time to the tune of “I Can See Clearly Now” by Johnny Nash. I can see clearly now, the ghost is gone, I can see all his puke is puddlin in my way Gone is his lunch, the smell makes me blind It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright) Sun-Shiny day. I think I can make it now, the Asians gone All of the bad feelings have disappeared Here is the quiet, he’s been killing me, for He ain’t been funny (funny), funny (funny) On even one day. Look all around, there’s nothing but puke’n flies Look straight ahead, nothing but puke’n fliiiieees. I can see Gandhi now, the chicken-****, Hides behind all obstacles in our way Gone is his happiness that you’ll surely find He’s gonna run (run), run cry away. I moved quickly my anger building, but soon found other things to occupy my thoughts. I was about 60 yards from the water tank when I spotted a dark patch of sand. Ernst, who had eyes like a hawk also spotted the patch and asked. “Did ja piss yer pants Gandhi? A little leakage issue? My son has the same prob.” Miffed, I tried to block him out and as I neared the spot I could see clearly that someone had turned up the sand; probably buried something. Recently. I signaled “danger” to Ernst and everyone took up defensive positions. The other three near the western pass mouth, and I on the complete other side of the camp. Next to… something. Chef attempted to radio the approaching platoon but it was no use. There was zero signal in this bowl. That was a major oversight. We had assumed that the plateau with its elevated position would have no trouble bouncing radio waves down to the reinforcements. It seemed however that the lip of the bowl or perhaps a rise on the road was attenuating the signal. I circled wide around the spot and took up a defensive position about 50 yards beyond the patch, near the water tank. We all had our heads on a swivel and tension was high. Crouching with my back to the tank I scanned the surrounding cliffs. Every shadow seemed dangerous, one looked like a boot; another like an arm, and no radio signal. The whole situation gave me a really bad feeling. The itch of my senses was building and the adrenaline made me feel all twitchy and jumpy. Then, it all started to snowball when I happened to look down and saw a piece of exposed wire right between my boots. It was taught and led right towards the dark patch of sand. At almost the same time, I smelled an unmistakable odor waft past my nose. Petrol. My mind froze! I tried to piece some sort of warning together, deep in my subconscious the puzzle was almost assembled but my conscious mind was just fumbling. Suddenly trap doors flew up all around the compound! It happened so suddenly I fell back on my ass. A second later there were muzzle flashes and the loud report of assault rifles echoing off the walls. They were everywhere! Popping up out of hidden holes and trenches, the whole place was a giant shooting gallery. But even through this, my mind was stuck on the wire and where it led. Then; the dark patch flew up and I was looking straight at a trap door which had just popped open 20ft in front of me. A man with a scarf across his face held a small detonator in one hand and a pistol in the other. He came out of the hatch looking in the other direction but shot a look over his shoulder. Immediately he spun to face me and it was in that brief moment as we saw each other, that my life changed forever and something I never anticipated…. happened. My arms came up in a smooth arc. Like a robot. I pulled the stock of my G36C straight back, securing it firmly against the pit of my arm. I lowered my face to the stock to establish a good cheek weld, and drawing a level bead, I exhaled smoothly. Ernst would have called it “three-six spray and pray”, but looking back I can honestly say I was not really thinking of anything at all. I thumbed off the safety with a reflexive flick and it just happened. In the blink of an eye I striped a clean line up his chest, through his neck, face, and ending with a bullet through his left eye. As fast as it happened I felt as though I could watch each bullet find its mark, and even contemplate its placement before the next struck. With him left eyeless, (pun intended) I took hold of the only opportunity I could think of. I burst forward and made a running dive headlong into the hole crushing his body beneath me. Upside down, I reached down and wrenched the head wrap off of his face and wrapped it around my own. I twisted awkwardly back around in the tight space and stuffed my rifle into the corner of the hole as I peaked up over the rim. There were four other trapdoors. As luck would have it they had arranged themselves in a rough semi-circle facing the pass and the one I occupied was at the apex, thus putting two on each side and slightly ahead of me. All were arrayed facing my companions and their attention was fully occupied as Ernst, laying in a shallow depression, fired volleys blindly over the lip from his back. A quick look revealed that Chef was clearly dead, sprawled awkwardly, lying with his foot folded under his ass at an impossible angle. Visible just behind him Hans lay motionless with half his neck missing. The bright red splatter against his white skin looked fake. Like some macabre wax figure. I picked up the dead man’s pistol and detonator from the sand just as one of the assailants glanced back towards me. He gestured wildly, nodding and pointing behind me. As soon as his hand left his gun to point though, I fired twice in quick succession. The first hit him just below the collar bone and as he pitched back, head down, the second entered the top of his head. Instinctively I turned left to the next closest and put one right on his ear as he concentrated at keeping Ernst pinned down. Well placed, but unfortunately for me, as his head snapped sideways the resulting spray of blood and such caught the attention of the other man on that side. He shouldn’t have had a chance. I stared in actual surprise when he didn’t fall and it took me a long second or two to notice I was squeezing the crap out of the trigger and nothing was happening. In my haste I had “limp wristed” my last shot. A classroom lesson flashed before my eyes and a monotonous baritone voice droned through my head. “Locked breach pistols have to be held firmly. The action requires you to hold the grip tightly so that the recoil energy can work the action backwards. If you fail to hold the gun firmly with wrist muscles locked tight, you will almost certainly jam it as the whole gun kicks back instead of just the bolt. Remember it. It could save your life.” Luckily, it took the other guy a moment to notice my uniform was different from his and I dropped back into the hole pulling the trapdoor tight above me as he raised his weapon. A few more rounds went off and then I heard singing. “I can see clearly now….” BANG! Silence. The shooting stopped and I heard the remaining two assailants shouting excitedly to each other. Being a pacifist I spent most of my time trying to communicate with the locales instead of police them and now I was thankful for it. I knew just enough of the local language to piece together what they were saying. In a nutshell: The others were dead. They knew I was not dead, and they knew I was in the hole. They had by this time climbed out of their holes and were covering mine from a distance. They were at first unsure. But soon, they seemed to reach a consensus when one suggested that they both advance simultaneously, while firing, until they stood adjacent my hole where they felt sure they could shoot through the thin wood of the lid. To me, this sounded like a terrible idea, as it would likely work. I was still coming up with a brilliant exit strategy of my own when the first bullet cut through the top edge of the lid blasting sand off the wall and into my eyes. This was followed up quickly by a shot from the other side which did the same, except my eyes were still squeezed tight so luckily the sand just exploded into my open mouth. I couldn’t see or really move in the cramped space and they continued to fire and advance steadily. I briefly considered pulling the other body in front of me, however my eyes were in grievous discomfort and there was probably not room in the small hole anyway. I had my three-six, but if I jumped up I felt sure I’d be shot dead. Another volley. This time a bullet grazed the side of my head causing me to literally see my life flash before my eyes. It was not a very interesting life. BUT, as it caught up to the present it reminded me of something! I still had a detonator in my hand! With the short time left me I didn’t think too much about it. I just pulled the trigger arm and was greeted instantly with a huuuge low frequency THUMP… SPLASH……KA-BOOM. The shockwave reverberated through the soil and the air was momentarily sucked from my lungs. I squeezed my hands over my ears as I felt the pressure wave wash past me and felt the crunching scrape of sand as I gritted my teeth through the torturous squeeze. In a shaking ball, I cautiously took a tender breath, and then another, and another. Gaining confidence that I was actually alive I slowly I removed my hands from my ears and… I heard screaming. Horrible, Horrible, LOUD, screaming! This went on for some time before fading to fainter, but no less agonizing whimpers and moans. It was still more time before I could clear the sand from my eyes and peak up through the hatch. Charred bodies were all around the plateau. What I had thought was a water tank had actually been a fuel tank. My instincts and training told me it was a 2 stage blast, the first designed to rupture the tank and spray the gasoline around the clearing and some sort of brief time delay on a second incendiary charge which ignited it. I wandered over to my men. Chef had fallen out from behind his boulder and collapsed on his leg when a bullet took out his knee, another had found his head. Looking behind the boulder there was a smoking pile of excrement with a dead frog in it. No, not a frog... TOADSTOOL. I get it... Ass. Hans and Chef seemed to have been blown together in a heap. From underneath I saw something flash at me. Closer examination revealed it was the shining crystal face of Hans’ wristwatch, the strap broken but otherwise in perfect condition. It had somehow beat the heat. I stuffed it in my pocket. The unimaginable pain the men must have felt as the heat wave… WERE feeling, I corrected myself, as refocusing, I tuned into a series of faint heart wrenching sobs from off to my left. The sound was so sad, so pitiful, that shaking, I almost had a nervous breakdown on the spot. It passed quickly though, turning to hot anger as I thought of my men. I must demand more of myself. I WOULD NOT feel sorry for someone who had willed this horrible fate on another. ON ME! I walked over to the sobbing charcoal mess, and with as steady a hand as I could muster, I put the barrel of my weapon against his head and blew his brains across the sand. These last images, the burned man with his tragic sobs, have scared me forever. I knew at that moment I wouldn’t kill another living thing. I haven’t had a good sleep since that day, and I suspect I never will. Though it happens less now, sometimes it sneaks up on me and I am debilitated, completely inconsolable in my grief. As it turns out, though we did not receive word from the reinforcements, they had received word from us. They even sent out a second larger forward unit to reinforce us. When these men arrived 4 hours later however they would find no survivors. All bodies except mine were recovered and I was reported and still am considered MIA by the military. To keep the paperwork clean and effectively wash their hands of the whole mess, it was reported to my family that I was killed in action and that my remains were destroyed and unrecoverable. Out of the Fire by sammichweasel (1,063 words) The door jamb nuzzled back, its cool metal dragging a ragged sigh of relief from my beleaguered lungs. The fever had spiked a while back, probably around when I was hiding under a pile of broken tickers, but it was still nice to let the heat leech off a bit. A step, and another, and my knee decided that was enough. I was surprised it had lasted as long as it had; typically, when a fast-traveling piece of shrapnel burrowed through skin and bone, a limb would up and quit. But no, Lefty had poured it on, holding it together in the face of probably irreparable damage, and had managed to get us home without any other life-threatening injuries. It was my own fault, of course; there wouldn’t have been any shrapnel if I had kept the inversion catch to myself. Something about implosive shockwaves in secondhand junk shops disagreed with my general non-perforated preferences. However, when your options are “possibly rupture something vital” or “go quietly with the Toppers”, sometimes preferences got tossed to the wayside. Saldo would understand about the shop, given my choices; the question was if the Grinner would understand about the satchel. I had my doubts, there. Glancing down at my now brown-red stained coat, I sneered a bit at my own stupidity before sliding the torn thing from my shoulders. A couple scabs pulled free, having secured themselves to the ratleather, but I had to take full stock. Minor abrasions, a few contusions, the knee. A hole clear through my right forearm I wiggled a finger through. The tangle field had done its job fast and easy, with minimal blood loss; I’d have to compliment Saldo on that one. If I ever saw him again. My own stock of toys had been sorely depleted in the chase, but they had done what they were supposed to do - I wasn’t in Topper custody, and no one in hobnailed boots, pneumatic armor, and a felted flat-crown was smashing in my door. It would take a while to get the parts to reassemble my utility coat, but I was alive for the time being. The high tinkle of crystal settling on ceramic caught the thought in my throat. I hacked out a cautious hullo, peering around the foyer wall and into my sitting room. I wished I hadn’t. I couldn’t see much, just the pressed gator of his shoes and the clear cut wine glass held above the shoulder of my armchair, but I knew both better than I should have liked. He started humming under his breath, that horrid shanty he used when working to keep his rhythm. A thick, wide-knuckled hand crooked at me, a wrinkled and scarred finger beckoning. I swallowed the scream that was trying to run away from me and turned the the corner, opting for the wicker basket chair instead of fainting to the floor, like I sorely wished. He stopped humming, looking at me through one milky eye and one whirring electronic sphincter of a monacle-like implant. “Hi again, Niles. I think we have a problem.” His voice dragged across the paving stones in his throat, echoing more in my jaw bone than my ear. His lips, stretched thin and pale, barely moved, only the faintest glimmer escaping his mouth. “I... suppose one could call it a problem, but I see it more as an opportunity.” My own voice was wind through moss, a faint whisper down one of the old tunnels. It normally had a bit more power to it, both audible and across the aether, but at that moment I could barely muster a solid breath. “The Toppers think I’m dead. The heat’s off; I can move, at least for a while, without suspicion.” The meaty hand holding the crystal glass tightened, cracking the stem. “I don’t care how free you are to move about. I want my satchel. You understand?” I nodded, but he continued. “Do you remember how heavy that satchel felt? Of course you do, Arch said you were complaining about it when you picked it up. You’ve handled toadstool before, yes? Think about how light a single one is, dried and pressed. Now, use that quick brain of yours, and do a little math. Now tell me how much toadstool you think was in that satchel.” Shuffling in my seat, I stared hard at the decidedly intricate patterns in the faux oak flooring. “A lot.” “That’s right. A lot. A very expensive lot. And do you remember how much Arch paid you - using my money - to deliver that satchel?” I reddened, blood rushing to my cheeks and sending my already flagging nervous system into a spiral. “A lot.” He leaned forward at that, crushing the crystal in his hand with a grating twist. His face entered the only shadows in the room, highlighting the broad crags of his worn and blasted features. His agitation brought the pieces of the wine glass to his mouth, and he began chewing while talking. The whirring of his ‘teeth’ almost drowned him out, but I didn’t need to completely understand him, to completely understand him. “You will go to the Toppers. You will get my satchel, AND its contents, back. You will deliver it. This is the most important part, Niles. You get it, yes? I don’t care if you show those armored synth-liners you’re still alive and annoying. I don’t care if you bleed out immediately afterwards. You will do the job you were paid to do, or you’ll make me smile.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and for one terrible instant, I could see the nightmare inside his mouth. I shuddered, leaning back, rubbing open another injury on the wicker and really not caring. “I get it. I’ll finish the job.” “That’s a good boy.” Tears trickled off my face to the floor as he let himself out. I had heard the stories of the Grinner, but never thought it could be that terrible. The door clicked shut. I had learned one important fact; I was working for the wrong people. Shoving myself to my feet, I staggered back to the foyer to grab my coat. A thumb cranked up the tangle field. It intensified the pain, but leaking injuries wouldn’t help me get that satchel back. It was going to be a long night. Toadstool Revenge by Troy [1631 Words] Face was singing that damned song, again. He had been singing it all night and the rest of the group had tired of it. A fact they made known to the bard when a toadstool smacked the man in the head right under his green tipped white mohawk. The little fungus was probably thrown by Baroque, the Shadar-kai had a queer distaste for any voice not accompanied by a flute, or Asher, the Drow would do it just to get a rise out of Face and a laugh out of Baroque. Those two were thick, almost as thick as Baroque was with the shaggy dusk colored wolf that lay at his feet. No one was sure if the wolf, Twist they called her, was Baroque's pet or if it was the other way around. It seemed like Face was going to ignore the slight and continue his song until another toadstool followed, somehow burying itself in his massive white beard. "Cretins! If not for my songs no one would know who The Black Iron was! You would all be doomed to live a life of obscurity, never to be hired by anyone with sense and forgotten by history the moment you were buried in the shallow grave that you surely deserve!" The tips of his mohawk changed from green to red, a sign of irritation that the others were more than used to. They weren't sure if the color fluctuated because he was a changeling or if it was because he had a small bit of magic about him. Either way, the only response he got was laughter from the pranksters and a grumble from Castle. No one should have been able to hear the grumble from the tree where the Half-orc man was keeping watch but when you're as adept a grumbler as Castle, you want people to hear it. No one knew why he insisted on being in a tree every time he had watch but no one wanted to hold a conversation with the gruff ex-bandit long enough to find out. The only one that could tolerate him was Stitch and the old physician, the only human in the group, was already wrapped up in his bedroll, snoring. Just as Face was gearing up for another of his "History is important" speeches, Corvo and Rook stepped into the firelight of the camp. Rook walked straight over to Stitch and buried a foot in the general direction of the man's behind. The old man rolled over, cursing at the Shade for all he was worth, and demanded to know what the hell was going on. Rook just walked back to Corvo's side, never one for speaking unless he had to. Damned Shade felt no remorse, cared little about everything if you went by the way he acted. "Meeting, Stitch. I'll let you get back to sleep shortly." Corvo was using his commander voice, which wasn't much of a surprise to the others since it was the voice the hard Tiefling always used. "Castle, get down here." The rest of the camp assembled, a shadow of black uniforms against the backdrop of the fire. Once Corvo was satisfied with the group's attentiveness he told them nothing except what they already knew. "The contract has been terminated, along with our patron's life. No one plays The Black Iron and gets away with it." That brought a small cheer from Baroque and Asher. Both were convinced that they were invincible. The cheer died down immediately, though, when Corvo continued. "A few of the other nobles are sure to take notice. We leave at first light but I wanted to make it clear that we aren't running. We were hired for a job and we did the job. There is no honor lost in retribution when the promised payment is denied." Corvo was big on honor, even if the other six members of the mercenary squad weren't. "On the way out, we caught a contact that pointed us towards the coast. Hope you like the sea, boys." ************* As it turned out, everyone except Corvo and Rook did not like the sea. At all. Chasing pirates was exciting and it let the group work out kinks that they hadn't in a while but it was so damned hot. Twist had taken to hanging over the rail to catch as much of the spray as possible in her dark fur. Everyone else melted. Except for a certain Bard that was suspiciously comfortable. "He's holding out. Has to be. No way he stays cool with all that black silk on top of his armor." Asher stared at the Changeling, his mohawk tipped a blue green to match the sea and not a bead of sweat apparent on his body, while he plucked away at a harp on the other side of the ship. Everyone in the squad wore black leather armor except for Asher, who wore only a black sleeveless shirt on top of black breeches, and Castle, who insisted on forge darkened chainmail and a black iron shield. The Drow's shirt was sticking to his chest. "Ya, Twist is like to jump off the ship if we don't get somewhere she can run around for a while." Baroque leaned on his greatspear, it's black wooden haft slick with sweat. "Bet he's snatched an amulet or something from somewhere. Used to be a court bard, I hear. Rollin' in coin until he rolled off the wrong woman and some merchant set a wizard after him. Changing your face don't do much when a wizard is after you." Asher nodded but didn't agree. Stories like these sprung up about every member of the group and almost none were true. It was bad form to ask directly, though. The Black Iron didn't care about who you used to be, only who you were while you wore the colors. "Either way, if he's holding out on us i'm gonna tie his beard into his mohawk." The Drow walked over to the bard and squatted on his heels in front of him. Baroque followed, resting his spear on his shoulder and taking a sniff from a box hanging at his chest. The box hung on a chain around his next and was filled with "Coal", a common narcotic that was highly addictive. "Alright, Face, how're you doing it. Everyone else on this damned boat is melting into the timber but here you sit, cool as a damned cucumber." Face's eyes flickered between the two before answering, "It's a trick of concentration. Probably too complicated for the two of you, though. It takes an iron will and extreme discipline to master." The changeling waved his hand in a clear dismissal, "Now let me be, I have to make a song of our newest contract." He started to hum, warming up his voice. "I don't think so, Face. I wasn't raised under a rock. You've got some magic hidden somewhere." Asher looked him up and down, raising his eyebrow at all the folds in his silk that could hide a pocket. Face sighed and put down his harp, looking genuinely tired. "I'm telling you, Asher, it's a trick of concentration. Go ask Rook or Corvo, they'll tell you the same. Hell, even Stitch can manage it for a little while at a time. I'd offer to show you but since you don't believe me, there's no need." He picked up the harp and started his warm up again. Asher stood up and looked at Baroque, who shrugged. Corvo, Rook, and Stitch were in the Captains cabin, discussing an extension of their contract. Even if they were available, none of the three were the kind to be sympathetic. Corvo would say they were whining, Rook would just look at them like they were weak, and Stitch would gripe about people talking up the physician every time they stubbed a toe. Baroque mentioned bringing Castle down from the crow's nest but they dismissed that idea immediately. The crow's nest was cooler than the deck and Castle's obsession with a high watch position would lead to them being told to stuff themselves. "Ok Face, we'll bite. Teach us your trick." Baroque didn't like having to ask but, as much trouble as they gave him, Face was a brother and less judging than anyone else was likely to be. Face put down his harp, again, and stared at them for a minute. "You're not going to like it. The only way to gain the level of concentration needed is to put your body under a lot of stress." He looked at the two like a father telling his children something that he had hoped he wouldn't have to, "For the next couple hours the heat is going to be worse and your body is going to ache." The pair shrugged. Hot was hot and any price would do as long as they were free of it. An hour and a half later Corvo appeared on the deck to announce the terms of the extension only to find everyone but Face and Twist gone. Twist was curled up beside the changeling, looking comfortable as can be and not even panting. The Tiefling eyed his bard suspiciously, "Where are the others? I have good news." Face smiled and pointed to two ropes leading over the railing of the ship. "I'm teaching how to stay as cool as I am." he said while Corvo glanced over the side, watching two of his crew hanging by their feet and facing the ship. Every time the ship hit the smallest wave they sputtered and cursed. The Teifling smiled, "Carry on. They can wait for the news." He knew the bard carried a magic crystal that kept the weather off of him. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 13th, 2013 at 10:36 AM. |
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August 2013 Competition Entries Topic: Five Hundred Years Fast Forward Challenge: a letter, a lover's trinket, and a big mistake Winner - Slaying of Innocence by TeufelHeunden Five Hundred Years Forward by Doggius - 1,868
I watched her leave in stunned silence on that fateful Valentine’s Day. ”Here.” was all she had to say as she held out an envelope without looking me in the eyes. I said “Hi” but received no reaction from her so I took the envelope. Without hesitating she turned and walked towards her car as I stood at my apartment door with confusion written all over my face. A cacophony of sound escaped through the open door of the dark and smoky apartment. A high priced entertainment center vomited the chaos that matched the flickering images shown on the big screen TV while the occupants laughed at the silly, nonsensical jokes about parental lineage and other insults that were flung carelessly between the numerous guests; similar jokes that I’d normally hurl with equal enthusiasm. Though, my mind was mired in a fog of bewilderment that slowly began to coalesce into realization. My name was hastily written on the envelope with her familiar, tight looping scribble and suddenly a sense of foreboding crashed over me. I stood in the doorway alone and confused when a voice pierced that fog for a moment. ”What’s up dude?” Eric asked in his unnecessary feign of interest in hopes to quench his curiosity. He saw me standing there as he crossed the hall from the kitchen in our three bedroom apartment and I let the heavy brown door go that loudly slammed shut. My eyes had not moved from the familiar script on the envelope as if I could penetrate the fibers and read what the contents read inside. A startled curse drew my attention upwards as Dan cried out in the living room. I turned my head towards the shadowed movement and finally noticed Eric as he peered at the envelope. ”Oh, uh, nothing man.” I responded absently, my eyes returning to the envelope as trepidation began to set root inside me. ”What’s that, UPS?” he prodded. I just ignored his annoying attempts to pry the information from me; the information that I still couldn't properly process. Her arrival was totally unexpected; it wasn't like her to show up unannounced. I shuffled towards my room while my brain ignored Eric’s continued attempts to sate is growing curiosity. I heard Dan call out my name yet I chose to ignore him. My mind was racing though it was unable to move forward, like a tire spinning stuck in the mud. I had swung my door shut before I sat down on the edge of my bed and opened the envelope with shaky hands. Inside was a card that I pulled out and a tear formed at the edge of my eye unannounced. “Happy Valentine’s Day”, it read, in big colorful letters with the complement of pink hearts, lots of curly marks and, I opened the card. Doggius, The last two months have been real hard on me. You have grown more and more distant and when I woke this morning, having not heard from you in two weeks, it dawned on me that I'm not the most important thing in your life anymore. When you moved in with Eric and Dan, I thought it would have been a blessing, getting you out of your parents’ house. But I was woefully wrong. I realized that you'd much rather hang out with your boys and get high rather than spend time with me. Me, a person of whom you say, repeatedly, that you love more than life itself. Yet for two weeks that love could not bring you pick up a phone and call me, just to say hi or see how I was doing. Two weeks, Doggius. Did you even miss me? I went out and got this card because I wanted to surprise you with some big news, but my sister told me to wait and see when I'd hear from you. I waited and waited and you never called. I'm pregnant, Doggius. But, because you weren't there for us to talk about it, I had to make the most difficult decision in my life. I have decided to not keep it. Next week I'll be going to terminate the pregnancy. Liz My heart stopped. My eyes slowly went over the last paragraph again. A soft tickle caressed my cheek and a moment later a tear fell and landed on the card. The tear spread slowly over her name like spilled liquid slowly moving towards the edge of a table. My hand unconsciously caressed the necklace that she had given me which was a golden chain with a Thor’s hammer pendant. A little trinket she had said coyly, a trinket of her love; of our love. Feeling the pendant did not bring forth any comfort or answers to the mounting questions that began to assault my mind. An onslaught of thoughts, words and images had me paralyzed with fear and confusion. I replayed what had just happened in my mind which inevitably drug up another memory. The muted scratch of my cat, Felix, dragging his paw in his litter box slowly and repeatedly aided in the clarity of this memory; the last time Liz had arrived at my apartment unannounced. It was the second day after I had moved out of my parents’ house and I was busy unpacking when I heard a knock on the door. Eric had left to run some errands while Dan was at work. I opened the door and my heart fluttered when I saw who stood there. I could not help but smile as her bright blue eyes reached mine. She smiled her mischievous smile and shoved an orange tabby into my arms. “Here” she said as her eyes twinkled with happiness. I recognized the tabby and realized that I now owned her cat named Felix. I wasn't sure how much time passed before the most basic human needs required my attention. Still in a fog I shambled out of the room and ate. Dan offered a beer, Eric other devices as I sat there and confirmed both of their suspicions. I put on a brave face and covered the fresh wounds as I explained what happened. I had shared with them what the letter said, all except for the last part. My mind was still putting itself together after that bombshell and it was something they wouldn't comprehend. I had gotten the courage to call and spoke to Liz, briefly, the day before, then on that day when I went to picked her up. I tried to talk to her more as I tried to fix things yet my mind was frazzled and she asked me questions far beyond my ability to answer. Deep down, I protested her decision screaming “No” over and over again. Yet that protest never reached my lips. That afternoon we shared a moment of such great emotion that had it had bonded us, for that moment in time. Regardless of how I felt in my quietest desires there was nothing I could do to change what had happened; to undo that big mistake. Fifty years may have passed and that fateful decision would reveal their initial consequences. That one organism may have had the proper knowledge and training but was not there to note the strange sounds emanating from the scanner that searched the stars for proof of life outside our world. Excitement would have flared while society’s eyes turned towards the sky. Wild eyed children with grand imaginations would have focused their attention to the wonders of reaching out further into the galaxy. Yet, that momentary blip of strange and squelching sound was misinterpreted as merely the mundane sounds of the far off cosmos. One hundred years later that fraction of a second of sound, that had been missed, would have heralded the sudden arrival of a starship; her intentions would have been communicated as peaceful. Without that interpretation her sudden appearance was met only with fear. Similarities between those filled with fear and those that came with gentle intentions had gone unnoticed. Fear filled the land locked hearts making them unable to understand the sounds emanating from the advanced ship that slowly drifted high in the atmosphere. Fear struck out first as misunderstanding pushed the button that launched the first salvo of armaments. The peaceful sadly shook their head at the feeble display of aggression. Reluctance filled their hearts yet they knew what they had to do. Two centuries of painful enslavement filled with respites of war and humanity had slowly begun to evolve as the fearful and the peaceful both were enslaved. Fear begat war and war begat death and death begat another visitor who smiled at the destruction. Aggression and conquest was this new visitor’s life. Peace was for the weak and the weak were to be conquered. New slaves were found to fuel the war machine who was the new owners of that blue planet. Under slavery and aggression the differing factions of humanity began to slowly understand. Fear and prejudice was the downfall of the fearful and patience was a key that had been missing from so long ago. Enslavement never suited humanity and they would not rest until they were freed. Primitive defiance fought against the ruthless technology that was wielded by calloused hearts. The destruction was inevitable. Fast forward five hundred years as a fireball crashed to the dead earth. Dirt and dust erupted at the impact and it gave birth to a mechanical machine. Silently this machine woke and stretched its mechanical extremities before it began its slow quest of exploration. Could this planet have ever harbored life and if so what kind? The machine wheeled its way along pre programmed mathematical equations unthinking in its course. It cycled between its tools before it selected the appropriate one while its internal clock indicated the time. Preprogrammed orders were responded to while the information it gathered was sent back home to a giant space ship that drifted thousands of miles away. The special alloyed drill bit pierced the dirt drawing forth dust and crushed rock while the computers processed the information. A glint of gold fell unnoticed as a golden axe head was slowly covered by the dirt falling from the drill. Information was beamed back and equations were calculated while the risks were assessed. The survival of the children inside the belly of the ship was all that mattered. A decision was finally made and the ship sent forth her pods to test their theories with hope that they were right. Each pod birthed new inhabitants to this dead world. Large humanoid creatures with simian like appendages began to slowly populate their new playground. The planet renewed from dust and dirt to a flourishing new world filled with life. A flash of a golden glint pulled at the attention as a hand dug into the dirt and pulled forth a golden pendant that hung from a gold chain. A flash of an image brought forth a soft gasp as the pendant was examined closer. A sense of compassion and love flashed through the curious mind while a solitary tear caressed its cheek and dropped onto the pendant just before the hand closed. The Trail Grows Cold by Tongue [2394 words]
Alone. In the dark on the outskirts of town. Winslow Williams stood quietly gazing at the stars. His pupils were dilated from the peyote and the brilliant cosmos streamed into his brain unabated. The sound of hooves approaching did little to faze him. He was lost in his thoughts. Such a clear night! I can see the light leave each star and watch it travel all the way to my eye. It’s….It’s….Glorious! The riders were coming at full gallop. Their chatter could be heard carrying clearly on the cool night air as they raised their voices to hear one another over the rhythmic pounding. Where do you think he’s gotten too?, barked the first shrilly. This was Alfonse, a tall lean man with a hook nose, he was not a bright man, but he was fast with a gun. What ‘sat? grunted the other, Brant, a short fat and pig faced man with a temper to match his looks. Winslow. He hollered. The Saloon I gather. Slip around back. His keen eyes narrowed reinforcing his already bird like countenance. Got it. Spat the leering fat man With that the two split up, each peeling his charging horse around a tall cactus, and Winslow, who was standing unnoticed behind it. As they crashed through the sagebrush and over the sandy rise Winslow turned towards the sound, confused. Buck must be grazing over there’bouts. Buck? Here Buck. Heeeere Buuck. Behind him 30 Yards, his horse Buck lay bleeding on the sand, lung shot, the noble stud had carried Winslow for miles before collapsing in a heap. Still clinging to life, but only just, it had no more strength to give. Trying to make a sound to catch its beloved master’s attention, it could only manage a bubbling wheeze before its ear dropped and the big grey twitched no more. Out to pasture I imagine. Winslow thought. With a brief sigh and a skip in his step he started walking towards the dazzling lights of town. Pushing his hands deep in his pocket he found a small polished stone statue. The one that Sylvie gave him… He paused one foot of the ground as the possibilities rattled around his racing mind. A moment later, aware he was still frozen he put it down and chastising himself. Sylvie! I must focus, she’s in grave danger. Pulling out the the little figurine he grinned admiring it once again. It was a faceless female form of translucent green stone. Bringing it close to his face in the dazzling starlight he admired its curvy hips, flowing hair and voluptuous bosom. Kissing it gently he rubbed the smooth belly, tracing the smooth finger worn curves with tenderness. Tracing and retracing the familiar paths with his finger he felt the doll grow warm, and deep inside the translucent jade, a new star started to glow. It started as a small pin prick, minuscule, but impossibly bright. Gradually the figurine became hotter, until too warm to hold any longer, he placed the figure on the ground and yanked his hands back from its now searing surface. Don’t fear Sylvie. They can’t hide you when I’ve got your little magic doll. Soon the sand was smoking and he had to turn his back, closing his eyes as a brilliant pulse of green light strobed past him. And then. He turned around slowly and stared in wide eyed wonder at the dazzling lights and bright billboards of a sprawling city. He was standing in the central square again the buildings reaching impossibly high into the clouds. A large sign with block letters read “Welcome to Xavier” Sky cars flashed by overhead and the cacophonous sounds of a bustling metropolis crashed in. I’m coming Sylvie. Walking briskly up the street he knew he had to find her fast. But he also knew she’d leave him a trail. First left. He scanned the metal sidewalk with dogged determination. Walking head down he ignored those around him. A flapping green flipper flitted by on the left, a black diamond crusted hoof on the right, but still he kept his head down. Up one block, over one block, back to his starting point. Now right. They must have entered nearby, she must have passed near hear…somewhere. Sylvie….Sylvie. Almost back to his starting point in the massive central square he is rewarded. A small scrap of lace stuck to a subterranean air vent. Bending down he gracefully plucked it fluttering from the grate. Examining the edges of the grate he could see the clamp screws had been removed. Good girl. Standing he stretched and then stood off to the side as he watched the foot traffic come and go. Aliens and creatures from around the galaxy cruised the streets on unfathomable errands. Trying to look inconspicuous he waited for a break in the traffic before darting forward and yanking the grate open. Jumping down the 8ft shaft he landed hard on the concrete floor of the access tunnel, rolling into the shadows. The grate above teetered for a moment before it fell closed with a crash. He watched the opening above for a few moments and when no one appeared he tiptoed from his shadowy corner and looked down the short access tunnel. At the end he could see a stairway bathed in harsh light from somewhere above. All Clear. Moving quickly he traversed the short tunnel and found a stairway leading up. Slowly he ascended the solid metal stairs and crouched listening at the door. Not much could be discerned, so he pressed an ear to it. The faint muffled sound of music and voices reached his ears. Standing he took a deep breath and drew his pistol. Thumbing the tumbler he held it up to the hot white light above his head and spun the chambers to ensure they were all loaded. We’re live. Taking another deep breath he turned the handle slowly, opened the door just enough to slip through, and stepped in. It was a small room, dimly lit. The access door opened into a shadow alcove behind a strange writhing plant thing in a shiny metal pot. As the music becomes clearer he finds he can make out individual voices. The banter is totally foreign but one word catches his attention a word he recognizes “Drink”. It was…a bar. Peeking around the corner he takes in the scene, peeking through the plant thing, while keeping his face clear of the writhing stalks. Across from the his access door is a long bar, and two occupied tables. An array of the most unpleasant creatures in the galaxy were present. One scruffy looking Harbunger, two (sneering in disgust) Lithocks. A decidedly delicate looking Ivorite, and the bartender, a tall, fat, cuddly teddybear-like Furlinger. No sign of Sylvie. He eyed the room from the shadows trying to formulate a plan. They’re too spread out. I’ll have to wing it, Sylvie needs me. Stepping from behind the reaching plant, it was the bartender who noticed him first. Raising a hand in salute, and an eybrow in confusion, the tall grey Furlinger addressed him. Sorry, I dint see yus there fella. Evenin. What’ll ya ave? Winslow said nothing and the conversation stopped. For a long moment the tension in the room was marked only by the metronome like “hum, tick, hum, tick” of the blinking red letters on an “OPEN” sign by the front door. He heard one of the Lithocks move behind him. Like as not blocking the rear door. While the other drifted casually towards the front entrance. He had his hands down but Winslow could see he seemed to be attempting to hide a large plasma rifle alongside his leg as he nonchalantly turned sideways, pretending to look out the front window. Clearly seeing the danger, the bartender sunk out of sight. Moments later the beautiful Ivorite raised her hands, and catching some signal from the Lithock behind him, she slid off her chair and ducked under the table, spilling a glowing neon green drink as she bumped her head. The Harbunger seemed oblivious. Stirring his fizzing drink with a long mangy finger he looked mournful into the glass unaware that anything was amiss. Speaking to everyone in the room Winslow slowly moved a hand to rest on his sidearm. I’m a only gonna say this once. Where. Is. Sylvie. The tall Lithock by the door lifted his keen face to Winslow. You knows where she is. She’s dead Winslow felt his heart stop. A twisting pain in his chest. He’s lying. Then take me to her. Show me! he demanded. You know I can’t do that., the keen man replied. There was a long pause... The Lithock brought up his Plasma Rifle and an impossibly quiet zzzZZZZZZTTTttt crackled through the air as a bright flash of energy sizzled by Winslow’s ear. Dropping, he drew his own sidearm and the BOOMING crash of the shot seemed to scare the Lithock senseless. But the man behind him was moving. He heard screaming. It all came apart. ************************************** Walking across the stained floor boards Sherriff Ike Corflin surveyed the scene. His boots crunched on broken glass as he stepped over a nearly headless body and he slid a little in a puddle of blood as he rounded the bar. Looking behind it he shook his head again and a deep sadness filled his eyes. Abe too. Gods! I’ve had enough. Turning he gave the body a wide berth this time as he headed for the door. Running up behind him Deputy Swan touched his arm gingerly. There’s a witness. The dancer. The sherrif turned back slowly and nodded to the young Swan. Send her to my office. Striding across the road to his office Sheriff was oblivious to the commotion of the gawkers outside. Sitting down hard at his desk he put his head in his hands for a while before looking around for something to take his mind off the tragedy. A pile of unopened mail and an unread telegram sat on the corner of his desk. They’d been there for days, but now he felt that a little correspondence might be just what he needed. He sifted through the letters before finally deciding to get the telegram out of the way first. But he had no sooner plucked it off the pile than the tall beautiful woman appeared in the doorway. Pale and shaking she did not wait for an invitation to sit. Unsteadily she headed directly to the only other chair and sat down gingerly. You were there? he intoned. She nodded weekly before starting unbidden, wishing only to clear her conscience so she could leave this place. And never come back., she thought. There was only the three of us. Abe of course. A prospector, Billy…Billy Creedmun I think, and me. After about an hour Billy was so drunk he could hardly move. I kept waiting for im to fall out of his chair but he just started into his drink lost to all. Abe was getting frustrated and wanted to toss him out when the two strangers arrived. One was tall and hawk faced. He didn’t say anything but the other fella a sort of piggish brute, he called him Alfonse. The pig man was named Brant. When he came in he gave me a really creepy look up and down and then introduced himself. They were looking for someone. A wiry thin man they said. Skinny, real skinny they said, like he hadn’t eaten in a week, oh... an yellowish skin. We hadn’t seen him so they just waited. One at the front, one at the back…… Go on. the Sherriff coaxed gently. … I was just about to head upstairs when all of a sudden he was there… Just standing there. By the cellar door near that tall fern. He walked into the room and he said… “Where’s Sylvie?” And Alfonse told im that she’s dead. So he says. “Show me.” And Alfonse said “No.” He seemed to struggle with this a might. Alfonse tried to reason with him though, he held both hands out to the man and asked for the man’s gun. What did the man say? Nothing, I dun think he heard…his face got all screwed up and he started SCREAMING! What was he screaming? N-N-N-Nothin. Just SCREAMING for all ees worth. And then? She swallowed hard, her lip trembling.He started shooting…. He shot Alfonse in the stomach, turned and shot the other un, the pig faced one in the head. I crawled under the table. But I could still see im. He walked behind the bar and shot Abe and then Billy. Billy was just staring in his drink and the man walked right up to him, put his gun against his head and…Then… Then he reloaded. Reloaded? She was sobbing now fighting through the last of it. Y-Y-Y-Yes. He reloaded....shot everyone again… In the head… again. Even Billy… Then he said…Something about “the trail grows cold” and he walked back out, through the cellar door again. , snuffling and gasping she finished with a rush. He was shocked. Stammering momentarilty, he had nothing else to say. Awkwardly, he dismissed her and sat back in his chair, the telegram still clutched tightly in his grasp he spotted the word "URGENT" on the dog eared corner and turned it over. Should have got to this long ago. "URGENT. Dead or Alive. Warrant for one Winslow Williams. 6 ft. Blue Eyes. Last seen near Sackville, Kansas Territories, headed west towards Xavier County. Posse from Sackville first volunteers regiment is in pursuit. Provide all possible assistance." The name was immediately recognizable. Looking to a wanted poster near the door he looked at the wiry man with the sunken eyes. The poster seemed to be watching him. Reading it again, he recalled the details clearly. “Williams is not mentally sound, highly temperamental and prone to excessive violence. Height: 6ft, Eyes: Blue, Hair: Black Crimes Murder (Davies Grewnon 42, Lionel Potts 26, Harry Jacobs 62, Ellen Ormanson 19, Paul Finch 29, Ester Kinney 51) Attempted Murder: (Geoff Harbol 25, Red Filchman 30, Corporal Fred Sewalt 31, Howard Hellier 29) Additional: Since the death of his wife Sylvie, excessive consumption and liver disease has left Williams with sunken eyes and yellow pallor. He is unstable and to be considered armed and dangerous. Govern yourself accordingly." The telegram dropped from his hand and flitted gently to the floor. Slaying of Innocence ~ A Life for a Life ~ TeufelHeunden 1,673 words At this point, I lay. Dying. I don't have long to convey you my story. I'm being executed. The axe swings down. I'm choking on my next last breath. It's a horrific feeling. I'm looking up. Is the sky radiantly blue today or is amplification of color something fading vision does before it ends for the final time? My assailant rears. The axe swings down again. I know why this is happening. They say I killed a child. The only child I ever really knew. Is this my sentence? An eye for an eye? My attacker rears one final time. The axe swings down. It's silent now. I'm not feeling agony anymore. I'm all alone. Things are going dark. I contemplate if someone like me goes to heaven? The year was 1912. I was born. I never knew my mother, I grew up alone. That didn't trouble me too greatly as most of us grew up alone back then - to some degree having to do with an industrial revolution and expansion of the nation, it was common for those similar to me to be alone from early on. I did okay. I found my place. You don't actually miss what you've never had. As time went on, my home became home to others. I had what some would call neighbors. My neighbors came and went many times. There was a blacksmith, a sheep farmer, and then a writer and his wife along with many others. All built homes and all left. There was even a church, they lasted the longest. I can remember the monks tending to the flowers in the garden they built across from me, and all of the beautiful gregorian chants. This was how my life was for countless years. I outlived everyone I ever knew. Living hundreds of years until today. I was strong and when the war came and killed almost everyone I still stood afterward. There was so much death and destruction, but life has its ironies as things returned afterwards. The flowers that the monks had planted decades before rose from the ashes of destruction and bloomed. I thought maybe I would be at peace again. I learned again to be alone, just like when I was born. I watched the starry nights roll past and the suns come up time and again delivering a new natures painting every night and day for many more long years. Things changed somewhat in 2482, however. As I'd experienced so many times before, new neighbors moved in. A man and woman, who were very much in love. He left to work I presume most days and she would remain at home, puttering about. These people differed though. By then I was already old, older than they knew, but right from the beginning I felt included, I felt coveted, and eventually I felt treasured. Clara, was her name. Blonde. Graceful. She would stroll over during the day and offer me a drink and sit with me. She had the man build her a chair so she could sit next to me, now and then to read out loud, occasionally to sit quietly, and other times just to sit and hum a soft, and charming tune. I liked her company greatest when she did that. There was the time though that saddened me greatly; she came to sit in her chair with a letter. The letter told her of the death of her mother. She was very sad as her cheeks flushed and she cried for hours looking up at me for comfort. Having never knew my own mother I didn’t know what to tell her so I just stood there. She eventually got up and walked away turning back with the tear stained letter in her hand and smiled as she looked at me. I am not sure what I did but it seemed to ease her sadness. For nearly a year Clara continued to visit me. I recall one other time she came to sit with me. She was dressed in the most stunning white, full length dress, caught up and windswept by the breeze as she approached. I remember that day, because she did something strange. I recall her touching my side and telling me she loved having me here. I recall she said that I let her feel safe and at home. I liked that. She showed me the trinket that the man had given her, a sparkling gold band that she wore around her finger. I told her I liked her dress and the ring on her finger. She was a beautiful woman so I told her that too. She either didn't hear me or elected to ignore me. I think it was the latter. After that she stopped coming to visit me. An old bugger like me flattering a attractive woman like Clara? Had I destroyed our friendship? Several months went by with no visit from Clara. I'm unsure how many. Perhaps five? Then, one day like any other I awoke to a cry I'd not heard before. It was an annoying cry, and it seemed to never stop. I later learned on that summer day I had awoken to a baby crying. Clara had given birth to a darling boy named Daniel. It wasn't until Daniel was 3 months old that Clara brought him over to introduce him to me. Just like time hadn’t passed between visits, Sarah sat in her chair beside me, Daniel on her lap, and began to hum a soft, and charming tune letting me to peer over at this newfangled, tiny person. I adored him instantly, and he; me. Years went by and I witnessed as Daniel matured from a baby to a toddler. Clara would escort him over to where I lived, in the beginning carrying him, the next few years with him trailing at a slow pace, and then Daniel would visit me by himself. He'd sprint my way with a cheerful smile, jumping on to me and hugging on for dear life. I'd sway and moan like I was falling over, and he'd laugh. We'd both laugh. We played like that for several months, always him swarming and clawing and holding on. Sometimes he'd sit quietly and talk to me like his mother. Expressing his thoughts. I liked that. Now yesterday morning as I slept I was awoken brusquely to a howl from a tiny voice. It was Daniel. He had slipped up on me. Before I might focus with my old senses I was struck fast in the mid-section by something sharp. Another jab and another howl soon followed. My vision cleared and I soon realized I was locked in combat with a 3ft tall pirate. Pirate Danny he called himself. Canvas clothes. Eye patch. Pirate hat. Wooden sword. Another howl joined a spinning attack and I laughed and tried to sway a counter-measure. I was too slow. Stab-howl-giggle-duck. The battle was unrelenting for several minutes. An old bugger and his tiny opponent. I grew tired. In an attempt at sneaking Daniel moved to my left and vanished behind me. My stare didn't follow him. I pretended not to notice him circle around me in order to assist his endearing notion of a surprise attack from behind. I waited. Silence. I waited longer. Too long. Did I fall asleep? Daniel suddenly appeared and startled me. His face twisted. He had a play sword - where was it now? The day seemed hazier. How long had it been? He made no sound but instead the shriek in his eyes could have shattered glass, and he fell to his tiny knees. I attempted to reach out to him. I couldn't. I just stood there, trapped, frozen to the spot. I tried to yell. But made no sound. Daniel stopped struggling. Life swiftly left his pleading, panic-stricken eyes. He died right there. He perished right in front of me and I did nothing to help him. The next thing I recall was a scream from Clara. She bolted to Daniel's lifeless body and seized him. Scream isn't the word. She produced a sound that can only come from a mother, seeing her dead child. A sound that only a nightmare could produce, or sick mind could imagine. She looked my way. Said nothing. I said nothing. I couldn't. She scooped up Daniel and stole him away. I didn't follow. Late afternoon turned to night. I must have fallen asleep. When you're this old you get tired so easily. This morning, the day of my murder, I awoke to Daniel's father assaulting toward me, shouting, his dead gaze sealed on me and unwavering. He didn't alter stride or course. A robotic slant toward me. An axe produced. One word uttered from his lips. Murderer. The first strike went straight into my torso. Downward vertical. Not accurately aimed. A strike of vengance. I felt nothing except what can only be defined as a hard push. Adrenaline, I think. The second strike was more calculated, horizontal, and into my side. I couldn't defend myself. Then another strike, and another, and another. It wasn't until I fell face down that I realized the degree of what had transpired. Half of me was where I was just standing, the other half, this half encompassing my conscience, lay here. Gruesome, utter horror. Blood everywhere. It is quiet now. The attack on me is complete. The last thing I heard Daniel's father say before he left was, he never knew I was poisonous. If he had known that he would have cut me down years ago, had he known. I never knew my seeds and pods were poisonous to people, to tiny boys who innocently eat them. You see, I'm what is known as a Yew Tree. I stood here, 20 feet tall in the same place I was planted 576 years ago. All this time I never knew my deadly budding. I'm sorry Daniel. I contemplate if someone like me goes to heaven? Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 13th, 2013 at 10:36 AM. |
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September 2013 Competition Entries Topic: Birth of a Hero Challenge: a tattoo, poison, and chimes Winner - What Makes a Hero by SirAlvin What Makes a Hero by SirAlvin(2969 words) Daemon. I’ve always hated that name. Ever since I could remember, trouble followed me. I’ve been travelling for three years now. Given my short and squeaky appearance, you would think that I would stay away from all this senseless brawling but it’s something that I must do. It’s the only way to spread the truth. And here I was quietly drinking in The Golden Boar, celebrating a successful hunt and buying drinks for everyone, when an orc suddenly pulls me out of the bar and threw me into the muddy ground. Like I said, trouble always finds me. I have met many orcs and I must say, they are very interesting. I removed my muddy shirt to reveal dozens of markings on my body, words and drawings in red and yellow covering my torso and arms. These were my trophies. I’ve been hunting a certain murderer responsible for everything that’s happened to me. And the moment I heard those wind chimes outside The Golden Boar, I knew that this will be my lucky day. And as I face this ugly, snot-faced orc, I can’t help but remember. ****~ ****~ (sound of chimes) “Hey. Hey… Are you okay?” I slowly opened my eyes, a sharp pain coming behind my head. “My name is Pakgu Gash-nul from the trading village of Suethi and you are Daemon, my companion of four years. Can you hear me?” Shouted the handsomest orc I have ever seen. He was carrying me like a damsel in distress into a building. As I managed to open my eyes, bright lights blinded me. “I think I remember you. Where am I?” “We are in The Golden Boar. The finest tavern in the capitol. You fainted as you were tying our horses outside.” He kept shouting and it was not helping. “I can’t remember anything.” I said as people were busy trying to help. Within seconds, I was chewing on some roasted boar’s leg and some ginger beer. “What happened?” “You fell and you must have hit your head on the horse fence. Are you sure you remember nothing? Do you remember who you are?” “I am the son of a bootmaker from… somewhere. I was travelling with you, wasn’t I? “Indeed you were. Do you remember anything else?” I tried hard to think. I removed my glove and massaged my eyebrows and on the palm of my left hand was a tattoo. A red smiling face. I have no idea what it means but I know that I made it. “No. Nothing else.” I found it surprising how I seem to be okay with it. After the pain has subsided, I felt normal. Like everything is okay. And how could everything be okay if I have no idea who I am. “You must be wondering who I am. I am...” “Pakgu Gash-nul from the trading village of Suethi.” “Oh so you heard me! Or you remember.” “Its here.” I raised my coat sleeve and showed him a tattoo on my left hand. It said Pakgu Gash-nul trading village Suethi in red ink. “I get the feeling I forget things a lot” “Sadly, you are very accident-prone and every now and then, you end up hitting your head on something hard and lo-…” “I see.” I shouldn’t have interrupted him. He looked nervous and worried. He seems really groomed for an orc and everyone here seems to like him. “Are you okay?” He kept looking at me as if I was his son. Was I? Why can’t I remember anything? He kept offering me an apple and I couldn’t think properly. “I need to pee. Thank you for everything.” His surprise caused him to drop the apple he was holding and I was able to kick it up with my feet and catch it. “We have a room upstairs. You can wash up there as I settle our tab. Try not to stumble on the stairs Daemon” Whoever Pakgu is, he seems to be the most cultured, behaved and handsomest orc in all of the land. As I walked up to the room, I can’t help but wonder about everything. For someone with quite good reflexes, I am said to be accident prone. I removed my gloves and my boots, and I headed for the wash basin in the room. ****~ ****~ That sound, I have heard it before, many times before. I looked out the window to see Pakgu pushing the wagon inside a hut for fear of rain. He fixed the boxes behind it containing various cloths, silverware, candles and bottles and covered all with a thick wool cloth. He then gently reached for the wind chimes on the left end pole of the wagon. He was trying to remove it as per request by some of the sleeping guest. As I washed my face and peed to my heart’s content, I noticed a yellow circle now on my right palm containing an angry face. I removed my shirt and immediately I remembered. I wore my boots and gloves and was about to run down when I heard Pakgu coming up. Pakgu, the orc who took care of me, who served as my friend, my teacher and my father, was on his way. Four years, he’s been nothing but good to me. “Daemon, are you dressed? I’m coming inside.” The water basin I had in my hand was not that heavy. But balancing on a chair behind an about to open door while staying absolutely still was a challenge. And for someone who’s supposed to be careless and accident-prone, I found it rather easy. “Daemon? Where are you?” He said after opening the door. He took a step and even from behind the opened door, I can feel him change. What once was heavy footsteps of an orc disappeared. I could hear the sound of a blade being pulled from its sheath along with light footsteps backing away. And before I missed my chance, I kicked the wooden door close. It was enough to knock Pakgu down and immediately, I jumped from the chair and went from behind the door to see the orc on his butt. Before he could reach for the dagger that fell a few inches from him, I smashed the water basin on his head causing him to lose consciousness. Running down the stairs, the tavern girls were on their way up, curious of what the crash was about. “Pakgu fell down. He needs something from his wagon.” I said as I ran down to the hut outside. I removed the cloth cover and saw the red and yellow bottles that are also drawn in my torso. A sharp wind whistled past my right ear and the pole holding the wind chimes broke as Pakgu’s dagger missed my head by a mere inch. I quickly took the wagon out and readied the horses and with only a few seconds to spare, I was out in the rain with Pakgu shouting behind me as I raced out of the city. “You can’t hide from me Daemon! I will find you” He shouted as he held up the wind chimes in the rain. ****~ ****~ It’s been two years since I ran away from Pakgu. I spent most of my time looking for the truth and now I find myself outside the village of Suethi. And what I found out surprised me. “Excuse me, is this really Suethi? The trading village Suethi?” I asked an elf waiting in line by the local medicine shop. “It indeed used to be called that but it is now known as Theti, a cleric’s village focused on healing” replied the elf. “Since when?” I must admit, I was indeed confused. “Why since we won it back against the orcs who enslaved the potion makers” I have experienced a lot of headaches before but the one I am having now takes the cake. “Are you alright? You don’t look okay Daemon.” “What? How did you know my name?” “It is written across your forehead, child. If there is anything else you need, do not hesitate to ask.” “Just one more. Who is Pakgu Gash-nul?” Heads turned towards me. I could see expressions of shock from the faces of elves, humans, dwarves and even the trees seem to have been quite disturbed by the mere mention of the name. The elf I was talking to quickly grabbed my hand and dragged me. “Where did you hear that name Daemon?” With his speed and my short legs, I tripped at least a dozen times until we reached a hut where he just barged inside and sat me in front of an elderly woman. “Who is this person Aras? Why do you bring him here? Said the old lady. I guess it wasn’t obvious enough with a name tattooed on your forehead. “I am not old and I asked who you are and not what your name is.” Great, a mind reader. “I don’t know.” Said Aras as he looked at me one last time and left the room. “I am Melian. Now, who are you?” Immediately, my head felt hot, it was as if my brain was boiling. And everything came back. And the sound of wind chimes came. ****~ ****~ I woke up seven years ago by a lake in Southern Klom, face down on the dirt, probably left for death. Around me were corpses, crawling by the looks of it, their faces frozen in pain and their eyes, those blood-red eyes, haunting me every second it can. I could not stop it, whatever contents my stomach had came rushing out of me, red, but not blood. I staggered to the lake. I washed my face and pain shot through my body as I fell down. And as I opened my eyes through pain and tears, I saw me. My eyes, my blood-red eyes brimming with dry tears and on my forehead, etched across like a tattoo, was a name, Daemon. … I woke up to a peaceful sound. The wind was playing beautifully and chimes could be heard dancing from afar, The night sky was bright and if it weren’t for the dead bodies around me, it would count as a beautiful night. I tried to stand and surprised myself when I managed to. I did what any person would do. I checked the corpses for some copper. Every now and then, I might have accidentally crushed a hand or stepped on a leg, but I needed to survive. As I relieved the gentleman closest to me of his coat and boots, I noticed an empty red bottle in his outstretched hand. ****~ ****~ Without thinking, I grabbed the bottle and ran to the sound. ****~ ****~ “Pakgu Gash-nul.” he said to me. “From the trading village of Suethi.” “Daemon.” He looked me up and down as if inspecting the quality of a merchandise. He took his lamp and held it to my face making me squint my eyes, and for a second I saw something. He placed his lamp back on its perch and before I could say anything, he tossed me a piece of bread and a waterskin. “Here’s the deal human...” “I can understand you. Am I speaking orcish?” “What? No, if you must know, I am educated in the ways of man. It took me 18 years to learn your language, culture and trades. Now finish that bread as I prepare a space for you in the wagon.” “So you are a cultured orc merchant?” I said after finishing my bread. “I am Pakgu Gash-nul from the trading village of…” “Where are you heading?” I asked as I drank almost half of the contents of the waterskin. “I am on my way to the capitol to sell some trinkets I acquired from my last stop.” He just finished rearranging his wagon and had all his stuff covered in the back. All I could see was a box of red bottles when he offered me a seat beside him. “Would you like to come with me?” “How much will it cost me?” “The seven pieces of copper coins in your right pocket is more than enough.” Again, I saw it. The faint smile of a man who has successfully tricked someone. Still, I have no intentions of staying here. “Deal.” I climbed up into his wagon and as I looked back, I could see the wind chimes tied to a pole by the end of his wagon. “I find the sound of the wind chimes comforting. And this specific set of chimes is one of a kind and very expensive. I bought it from a bootmaker in Southern Klom. I collect things you see.” “Don’t you want to know where I came from? Or who I am.” I interrupted him. I felt the need to talk about what I saw, about what I survived. “We are all running away from something. And I know who you are, it says so on your forehead.” “Aren’t you a bit curious? What if I’m dangerous.” “You are a good 2 feet shorter than me and I think I can defend myself” He snorted and laughed as he kept talking about ¬how a fight would go down if it ever did between us. How he would have so much trouble punching me since I was too small. It was a strange sight. As I looked back at the direction of the lake, I can’t help but wonder what exactly I’ve been through. And now, I am in a wagon with a very strange travelling orc on a bumpy ride to the capitol. Who knows what could happen. ****~ ****~ I woke up. Somehow, I was dressed now in a white cotton tunic and a pair of jeans. Aras was sitting on a table looking at some things. “Good morning Daemon” “What happened?” I stood up and tried walking to him and immediately lost my balance. Aras was somehow already by my side as he guided me to the table. “You remembered.” And on the table were pictures. I recognized the drawings since I made them but I don’t recall doing so. The first one was a man standing in the door of a shop pointing at a sign above him that says “Daemon Boots”. “I know him. He is my father, the bootmaker.” “Look at the door.” On the door where wind chimes, the exact same wind chimes that Pakgu has been carrying. The second drawing was of a young me sitting on my father’s shoulders watching a handsome orc showing off a yellow bottle to the entire town. “That’s Pakgu.” “Look at the color of the bottle.” Aras pulled out a red bottle. It was the bottle I’ve been hiding all this time. And it was red. The last drawing was of me lying in bed and my father arguing with Pakgu. “What’s the meaning of this? I still don’t understand.” “You will. Now get some more rest.” As I laid back down, I remembered my father’s face, the face of a happy man, always smiling and always sacrificing himself. How could I have ever forgotten his face, the face of the man who sacrificed everything for me, the face of the man who made the best boots in all of Klom, the face of the corpse closest to me holding out the red bottle for me to drink. “Quickly Daemon, drink it. It’s the only cure for the poison. Hurry up.” He shoved the medicine into my mouth and immediately, I felt numb and dizzy. I saw the rest of the village chasing after us. He was carrying me while running to the lake. In the distance, I saw Pakgu taking the wind chimes from my father’s shop down. And then suddenly, the other villagers started collapsing. We were almost by the lake when my father fell down. “Finish it all Daemon, finish the antidote. You will forget all of this. He promised. But please remember who you are.” He kept reaching for me but I could not move. I was sleepy and wide awake at the same time, paralyzed as I listened to the cries of the village and the sound of my father crawling to me. The last thing I saw was an orcish hand pouring something in my mouth and the last thing I heard was the sound of wind chimes. ****~ ****~ “I left the village the day after and began telling everyone about you. How you trick people into buying your yellow poison bottles and then telling my village that you only had one antidote left when truthfully you had lots of it. And how said antidote erases all of the taker’s memories giving you a chance to make them believe whatever you want.” I said as I faced down the once was known as the handsomest orc of them all. “They never believe me at first. Most of the time I had to convince them by force with the help of Aras and his remind you of the past trick. And even after remembering, they refused to tell me where you are.” I said as Pakgu’s eyes began turning red. “What did you do?” Asked Pakgu as he fell on his knees. “I gave you a taste of your own medicine. If I’m right, yellow is poison and red is antidote but the antidote makes you forget. How many times have you given me the red bottle?” Pakgu was now on the ground, crying as the poison overtook his entire body. Daemon leisurely walked up to him and poured the contents of a red bottle into his mouth. He then took out the dagger from Pakgu’s belt and wrote “Pakgu” on his forehead. Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 13th, 2013 at 10:36 AM. |
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October 2013 Competition Entries Topic: epic fail by Aethera, no topic TeufelHeunden was good enough to share an October-themed story with us... In the Company of Wolves - Noir Tale of Little Red Riding Hood (3,486 words) Percival de Reue sat on the ledge running his fingers through the course mane of the large wolf that lay on the ground at his side, his waist coat reflecting the moonlight as it cut through the trees slicing up the shadows of the forest floor into broken fragments, like shards of broken glass littering the floor below. Looking up at the moon it took on a reddish hue, as it did every night following nights when the pack fed on a new victim. Last night it had been a young girl from the village across the forest who strayed foolishly into their midst alone. Her family mourned while the Grandmother consoled her sister, taking her in so the father and mother could weep. The Grandmother was no stranger to the girl, having spent much time together while growing up, and this granddaughter, unlike her little sister, had listened to the stories Granny wove about the dangers of the forest. After sunset, with her sister’s funeral set for the next day curiosity got the better of this young beauty and she left Granny still sleeping. She had to go find out what happened to her sister the night before. Percival sat and listened to the sounds of the night, nothing escaping his senses. He saw the rat some fifty yards away on the far ledge as it scampered down and tripped on a small root tumbling into the oak tree before scurrying under the leaves to hide, fearful of the woods this night. The pack was still on the prowl and nothing was safe while it searched to feed its hunger. This is when he saw the young girl as she approached on the trail, long after he heard her and smelled her scent carried on the wind before her. A stunning brunette, about five feet four inches tall. Her hair hung down in big curls under the red hood of her cape, stopping at her chest. She was fair-skinned, with a lithe body but just the right curves to set the men folk of the village scurrying for her hand. Her eyes a hazel hue and her lips were full. The pack lay in ambush for her, but when he recognized her scent he gave the order for them to stand down, they would not feast on her like her sister, he had other plans for her, plans to grow the pack. He held firm control of them and other than some muted growls they obeyed. So he sat on the ledge running his fingers through the course fur waiting for her to get closer as she haphazardly made her way down the trail. A twig snapped. Claire spun about, her eyes wide, heart pounding loudly in her chest. She clutched at the hood, curling the edges of it with her fingers, twisting the fabric between her index and thumb. Taking deep breaths, she gathered herself, pulling the red hood further down on her forehead, letting the shadows hide her features so that only her lips and chin were visible. Claire could still remember it, waking up to see the empty bed across from her. The early dawn light fell upon the blanket strewn in disarray. Gone was the red cloak that had hung at the foot of the bed, as were the shoes that normally rested there as well. She sat up, clutching the heavy quilt, looking about her wearily. Cecelia was always up to some sort of mischief, and the older girl was quite well-acquainted with what her younger sister usually had planned. That morning however had been different. Cecelia had never been an early riser and the absence of the candle by her bed sent Claire scrambling for her slippers. The wooden plank creaked as Claire made her way past her parents' room and down the narrow stairway. The door to the garden had been left unlocked, the lantern that hung by it, gone. In its place was the candle, the cooled wax in a hardened, white pool about it. And for that moment, her entire world was narrowed down to the way that specks of dust, illuminated by the morning light, danced over it. The crowing of a rooster brought her out of her state. The door slammed as she flung it open and dashed through the small garden in the back of the small cottage. The chilled air kissed her cheeks and her hair, unpinned and loose, flew wild behind her. The gate was open, small footsteps were stamped into the mud leading up to it. Claire ran back upstairs. She did not doubt what had happened. Cecelia had always been the wild child that lived in fantasies, oblivious of the dangers that lurked about her. Within a few minutes, her father was out of the bed, pulling on his coat and running out to the garden. Claire had watched from the window as her father gathered a group of men from the village and disappeared into the forest. A neighbor returned a few hours later, Claire's grandmother in tow. The old woman had exchanged a wordless greeting with Claire; embracing her as only a grandmother could. The day passed in a restless pace that was both sedate and on edge. Claire was gazing into the fire when she heard the sound of the gates swinging open. Granny had tried shielding her from the sight, but she saw over the hunched woman's shoulder, the shredded, red cloak, lying limply in her father's hand. His bowed head and red-rimmed eyes told her everything when he finally came into the house. Her mother had hurried down the stairs. She took one look at her husband before she fainted. When she woke again... The sound of her mother's scream echoed in Claire's ears even as she picked her way through the path, the scent of earth, leaves, and something else that was not entirely of this world wafting up to her nose with each step. The flickering light of the lantern cast a dim glow before her, illuminating the forest path, littered with fallen leaves and protruding roots. The night had transformed the forest. When Claire had returned with her grandmother earlier to her cottage, the forest was awash with a golden hue, the birds had sung from their perches and the wood was warm. It was alive. Now, the trees stood in shadows, their limbs stretching as though to catch her within their splintery grasp. The birds were silent. The only noise in the forest was the occasional rustling and the odd snapping that sent Claire jumping. All the noises, however, were almost drowned out by the sound of her breath and the steadily increasing drum of her heartbeat. She gasped as she slipped on the decaying leaves beneath her feet. Holding out a hand to steady herself, she took a few steps forward. A scream fell from her lips as her foot caught a stray root and she tipped forward. Claire spent a few minutes, sprawled on the forest floor. She took in slow breaths and accessed the situation. Pushing herself up, she righted the lantern and inspected the scrapes on her hands. "Ouch..." She blew lightly on the cuts and brushed the derbies from her hands. She winced at the slight sting from it. The hood had fallen back in her tumble. Her hair shone in moonlit curls, the highlights in them brought out by the warm glow from the lantern. She cupped her hands before her, blowing at her fingers and warming them. "Cecelia...what on earth were you thinking?" “And for that matter, what on earth am I thinking?” She cast a look about her, shifting her weight a little. Her fingers clutched at the cloak again, pulling it closer about her shoulders. The once crisp hem of her cerulean dress was damp with bits of the forest. The white shoes were muddied; no amount of scrubbing was going to be able to save them. Squaring her shoulders, Claire climbed back to her feet again. The lantern in hand, she set off again. Percival leaned back and with what to many would look like a twist of his head and a few flicks of his eyes gave a command to several of the wolves standing behind him before they slipped away silently into the mist of the night. He gave them orders to make sure that anyone who may be following the young girl up the path to be turned away, he did not want any unwanted interruptions while he dealt with her himself. A field mouse foolishly poked its head out from under a pile of leaves just to his side, and with the speed of a snake bite his hand snatched the woodland creature from whence it gazed. He held it in his hands as it struggled to free itself, fear encompassed it for it knew the mistake it made to lose patience and peak at this beast was deadly, and would be its last. Watching the girl as she stumbled and caught herself on a fallen log he took the mouse and bit into it, his sharp teeth slicing it in half effortlessly, small droplets of blood escaped the feeding dribbling on his chin as he pushed the remainder into his mouth and swallowed. The girl stopped and caught her breath as he sniffed the air taking in her now familiar scent and a long pink tongue swept out across his chin lapping up the crimson fluid satiating just a small bit of his hunger. Just what he needed to maintain control in the farce he was about to present to her. He knew if he was to lure her back to his cabin he would need to be in human form, lest she run screaming through the forest to escape him. He could catch her that way and still accomplish his end, but the thrill of deceit was far more fun to him and broke up the boredom one found in such a long life. He leaned down to the wolf by his side and growled into its ear, then pulled its muzzle to his mouth licking its fangs with his blood painted tongue. The wolf licked its teeth in response, and if a wolf could be said to smile, it did. He sat back and waited just a few more minutes for her to get just a little closer while he took in the rest of the shadows that moved through the forest, shadows that carefully and wisely avoided coming to near him and making a fatal mistake. Claire continued down the path, lifting the lantern higher to let the light fall further along the trail. The warm glow illuminated her face, the pinched lips and the furrowed brows. The hem of her red cloak swept against the forest floor, making the leaves rustle behind her in her wake. She paused. Her eyes wide, she spun about again, holding the lantern up above her head. The light fell on the trees about her, a weak attempt to alleviate the overwhelming darkness that she was enveloping. "No one is there. Of course." She drew in a shaky breath before turning back around again. "There is nothing but wild animals here...and they are more afraid of me than I am of them." Her voice sounded weak even to her ears. The silence was almost deafening, and her attempt did nothing to break it. She couldn't forget her Granny's stories that lingered in her mind. The tales of things that lurked in the forest. Things that are wild, inhuman, too beautiful to be human, too grotesque to lay eyes upon. They lure children away from parents; take their souls, leaving their shells for animals to feed on. She could almost imagine phantom shapes dart about her, wild fey. Each brush of the night breeze against her was like one of the creature's breath on her, making her jump, her fingers tighten on the handle of the lantern. The weight of the lantern was beginning to take its toll. She stopped, placing the lantern on the ground to shake her arm out. She looked about. What could have possibly compelled Cecelia to leave the safety of home to go venture into something that's filled with strange shapes and unfamiliar sounds... Dangerous. Her mind cried out. Percival observed her every detail as she approached, the lantern in her hand lighting up her face allowing him to discern the tightened cheekbones and grinding teeth betraying her apprehension. He didn’t know why she was so scared; he only knew that she should be. When she lifted the lantern above her face he saw the features under the hood. Her hazel eyes did not match her tense features, they held a look of curiosity and wonder that only the innocent can behold and a smile spread out across his lips. The lick of her lips told him she had come some distance and was in need of water, he made a mental note so he could use it later. She tripped while not paying attention while she was right below his ledge and he had to stifle a quiet laugh. He didn’t take humor in others errs, he took advantage, but her startled gasp struck him as amusing. As she gathered herself spinning around he sensed the fear, her looking at the shadows with her darting eyes, the raspy voice trying to comfort herself, but most of all her smell, that was the one thing humans could never cover up. Her smell drifted to his nostrils and he could taste her fear. He would play with that and stoke her anxiety before he made his move. As quiet as the night breeze, he stood and made his way back and around the cleft he was on so he would be behind her, the wolf at his side standing and following close behind. He made plans with the wolf and split ways at the bottom with the wolf climbing the small ridge opposite him on the other side of her. As she moved to pick up the lantern, a low growl made her jerk upright. It was feral. Her fingers tight about the worn iron of the lantern's handle, she swung it about, in direction of the growl. The red cloaked swirled about her and her hair swung over her shoulder. There were glints of yellow eyes from the shadows, then nothing. Claire blinked. Her heart beating furiously, she held the lantern out, but her feet were rooted to where she stood. The light shook in her trembling hands. She took a few slow steps toward where she had seen the glints, even as her mind cried for her to back away and scurry to the safety of her Granny's house. But curiosity was a siren's call that was too entrancing to be ignored. A loud snap broke the silence of the forest once more. She twisted about, holding her lantern up above her head, peering into the darkness. Holding her breath, she stepped toward it. Her footsteps light, she edged toward the source of the sound. She stopped by a tree, turning in a slow circle. The light fell about her, bathing her, a small protection against the darkness. But what the weak light illuminated did nothing to reassure her. Dead trees with limbs reaching out closed in about her. She jumped as a leaf fell from its branch. As she stood there, staring into the darkness beyond her, her grandmother's words came back to her, little girls should not wander off of the well-trodden path. Dangers lurk in those unmarked trails. Her eyes widening, she scrambled backwards. The lantern swung in an arch as she searched for the worn path only to find that what little light the lantern had to offer failed to illuminate the trail. She took a few tentative steps forward, in the direction where she thought the path was. Percival’s plan was working just as he had orchestrated it. He watched and could almost feel her gasp as his charge growled from the other side of the trail and when he snapped the branch he saw the panic in her eyes realizing that she was surrounded. Sometimes that which you can’t see is more dangerous than that which you can see, he used the shadows of the night to his advantage striking fear into his victims. He took in her features bathed by the lantern as she approached his tree, her curls sneaking out from under the hood as the adrenaline flooded elixir pumped through her veins. He stayed behind the tree in the shadow as she approached. He could sense her fear as it seeped out of every pore on her body filling the air like a mist. He waited until she turned and scurried back to the disappearing trail, finding herself lost without the safety of its shelter, the trees that reached out to grasp her. He made a motion and his charge moved from one tree to another in front of her, enough that she could see shadows moving in the woods, and as that caught her attention he stepped out from the tree moving towards her. There were random pools of light where the moonlight managed to slip in between the foliage. The soft rustling of leaves stopped her in her steps again. The sound this time was different. It was not the quiet whisper of the wind brushing against the vegetation, but that of deliberate movements. She scanned the shadows before her, lifting the lantern, seeing the gnarl surface of the barks, the few stray leaves that dangled in the breeze. A flash of movement caught her attention. The edge of the light cast by her lantern fell short of the shadow, but against the pale moonlight, she could see the faint outline of something that was definitely not human. She could imagine its eyes fastened on her from the dark, a snarl upon its twisted face. Granny's stories floated up through the myriad of thoughts whirling through her mind. The inhuman. The malevolent. With the darkness closing about her, Claire could imagine them, clawing at each other, piling on each other, surrounded about her. Adrenaline pumping through her veins, she moved slowly to the left, the twigs snapping loudly beneath her feet. Each crack, each rustle, sent her heart beating faster. Her mouth dry, she continued to shuffle away from the spot where she had seen the movement. One of the outstretching fingers of the low shrubs curled about the edge of the cloak, snagging it in its twigs, catching Claire in her steps. Her scream pierced the silent night. Somewhere was the hushed sound of the fluttering wings of birds startled out of their sleep by that cry. She flailed, struggling to get free, thinking it was a creature from Granny's stories. The fastenings of the cloak held tight about her neck, the twist of string catching her throat. Her hand came up, tugging the fastening loose. She stumbled away. Spinning about, she held the lantern up and spotted the movement in the dark. This time, though, it had a faint shape that was somewhat recognizable. "Who-" Her voice came out, reedy, quivering. She cleared her throat and tried again, summoning on what remained of her courage. "Who's out there? Come out." She waited for a reply. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if she would have had a swifter response if she had said "what" instead. But even now, overwhelmed by fear, the manners that had been instilled in her remained. As she probed him to come forth from the darkness, Percival knew they had done well; she would fall into the safety of his arms rather than face the shadows of the night. He stepped into the light so she could see him more clearly. His hair was mussed but no more than any other man walking in the forest, at night, alone. His russet hair fell down in light curls to cover his shoulders and his eyes caught the light of the lantern in a soothing coolness. “There now girl, it is just I Percival de Reue, I was on my way back to my cabin and I heard you scream, is everything alright,” his voice spoke of confidence in its baritone drawl as the words fell softly upon the leaves that fluttered about. As he spoke he approached and kneeling down he looked up into her eyes, his hands freed her from the troublesome branches that ensnared her. “What is a girl like you doing out in the dark tonight, especially in light of what happened the night before this?” Pay no attention to the fairy behind the curtain. Last edited by Aethera; Dec 13th, 2013 at 10:37 AM. |
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