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[Invisible Man]

as bethgael suggested, & as I agree... I figured we needed a thread to house our growing stories, so here we are.

[Invisible Man]

I guess i'll go first

A Tale of Twisted Cities (book 1) : The Rise of Becket

Ch.1

Spoiler

Chapter I

A Kingdom falls, or does it?

It’s a warm winter’s night, though it had been an unusually warm winter. But, still the chilly dim blue light cast by the moon, it simply made the landscape laid out before me, seem to be covered by a layer of ghostly frost. I found a chill running through my body, a chill not of wind or temperature, but of sight. For some reason I find this scene of nature so unnerving, as I stare at my reflection, and through my reflection to the ghostly forest, covered by ghostly frost, I feel like an ill omen is staring me in the face. The worn lines tracing my face, the dark shoulder length hair, with a few remaining traces of the dated part in the center, the tired eyes, cold blue in color, seeming to stare back into mine. My train of thought is interrupted by footsteps, not the quiet steps of a servant, nor the mocking steps of nobility, but the metal steps of a knight.

“Becket… messenger Becket!” I hear as I turn on my heel, to confront the interloper stepping on my inner dialogue.

“Knight captain Mitchell, of the king’s personal guard. Why are you delivering notes from court? Not that I mind the opportunity to… chat with such a striking young woman such as yourself.”

Knight Captain Carron Mitchell, was the first woman to be knighted into the king’s royal guard, and also the first female knight captain of the aforementioned kings guard. Either accomplishment would be more than notable, but put both together and you have an individual more than merely exceptional. and seeing how she wears heavy chainmail & plate, it should silence complaints about women in the military. She isn’t as tall and stocky as you may expect, more slender and agile than you might think, though if you misjudge her form for one that lacks muscle, you’d be sorely mistaken, and I mean sorely. She stands about 5’ 8” tall, stunning green eyes, shimmering like emeralds in the dancing candlelight, fierce red hair, tied into a simple yet elegant ponytail, tied in that fashion only because it’s practical to her. Her facial features are soft and slightly narrow, almost elfish in nature. And the faded scar running under her right ear, & along her jaw line, down to her chin somehow completes her appearance. Those who see fiery red hair, also seem to assume she is fiery by nature. She was always calm, calculating, & methodical… I would go so far as to call her cunning, if that didn’t grant an air of underhanded nefariousness.

“Becket… stop daydreaming” my mental dialogue once again interrupted, this time by cold metal fingertips tapping my cheek. “sorry” I replied quickly, “it’s been a hard week’s travel, over open country no less, I’m just tired”

“that’s fitting” she said, “as I was saying… the result of your dispatch, King Christophe has called in his advisors, if there’s to be a reply, it likely won’t be till ‘morrow morning, at the earliest.” I interject “so, you’ve arranged for quarters in the barracks, and the rest of my gear is already waiting… can I have my sword back now? I feel kind of naked without it. I’ve been a royal messenger for this king’s court for what… 10 years now? And they still don’t trust me enough to leave me armed?”

“you’re lucky, nobody’s taken the throwing daggers you keep clipped to the back of your belt, covered so neatly with that cloak of yours, I’d say you’re deadlier to the king with those, as opposed to that Elven Blade you’re so fond of. How’d you wind up with a title like royal messenger to the king’s court?”

“it sounds so much better than: hi, I’m one of King Christophe Halladin’s personal spies, doesn’t it?” I exclaimed. “And why do you keep addressing me as messenger Becket? It’s been what 20 years now?”

“Because, it’s the proper procedure, and I’m all about being proper.” She slips her hands down to her belt, her left clutching the grip of her blade, ever so lightly. “And Dane, you should get yourself out of the leather cuirass, and chainmail, and get some sleep, or respectively… ask that maid behind you to help you strip.” I pull a small silver case out of my satchel, as I snap it open… “Dane, you still smoke those? They make you smell like a church. You’re the last person that should smell like a church” I approach a lit torch, fluttering slightly as a slight breeze passes by, and I stick the rolled cigarette between my lips, as the end of the tube touches the torches corona, and ignites. I take a deep drag, and release a pillowy plume of smoke. “It’s the myrrh incense I roll into my tobacco, I like the flavor. And why shouldn’t I smell like a church, I mean me specifically? Is it because you’re still a soldier, and I’m just a killer now?”

“For starters.” She says, defensively. “Well… night, then” is my final retort.

I find myself walking down a drafty cold hallway about 30 or so yards from my assigned quarters, the floor is covered with thick red rugs, the walls are lined sporadically with torches & tapestries, it’s reminiscent of a lightshow, and it’s just for me apparently. I eventually find myself wondering how often the tapestries catch fire. My musings are abruptly cut short. Muffled sounds in the distance catch my attention, followed by several unmistakable sounds, the song of steel piercing flesh, and a few muffled whimpers, nearly silenced in a stiff breeze.

“****…” I mouth, nearly under my breath. I brush my black cape aside with a quick motion, exposing my right side as well as a string of knives strapped to my back, by a belt of all things, and I grip a throwing knife cautiously, my index finger extended outward caressing the smooth leather sheath as I draw it, I feel the friction in my hand and within my finger tips, a metal edge being pulled against worn leather, an odd nostalgic feeling. I fear being revealed by the sound alone, as it’s now dead quiet. I study the blade I’ve just drawn, the handle slightly curved, extending into the dull edge of the blade, the blade itself, about 4 inches long, it has a single cutting edge, it’s folded high-grade steel, overlaid with silver, the guardless hilt is silver as well, the entire thing is coldly glistening in the ghostly blue moonlight.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching from a distance, it’s mostly pitch black as several torches were snuffed by a breeze, just as the lives here were. A calm, steady rhythm… not leather, nor metal, but cloth… I cling to the shadows within my small nook, hugging the wall with my back, a handy crevice indeed. The newcomer passing by with no clue I’m within an arm’s reach, my instinct is to lash out, though my training & experience stays my hand. Watch & wait, know what you’re dealing with before you act, those words nearly ring hollow in my mind. He’s wearing common clothing, not a sign of embellishment, clothing that’s merely meant to cover, and keep one fairly warm. I see no armor aside from a steel cuirass, no thick leather gloves, and simple shoes. So much the better I find myself thinking, just a cuirass, easy kill. I hear a second set of footsteps, a lot closer, these steps also appear to be cloth. They inch closer, and closer, and stop, exposing another figure from the darkness. A figure dressed nearly identically to my other visitor, though his cuirass seems to be studded & boiled leather, there’s an emblem carved into the leather… a dragon, kind of rapped ‘round a kite shield.

The newcomer turns to his colleague, and asks in a smooth voice “do you smell that?” he sniffs the air… three times. “Smell what?” the rough voice replies. “it’s… it smells like a church… you know that churchy smell.” The curt reply “it’s called myrrh, someone was likely burning incense nearby.” “Then why do I only smell it here, in the hallway?” the conversation breaks abruptly as a third set of footsteps can be heard, footsteps that have that unmistakable crack of leather to them. They stop suddenly, I hear the squeak of leather boots turning on a hard surface, they continue, at a quicker pace heading in my direction, the steps stop just out of eyesight… the third newcomer is an older “gentleman”, and he speaks with a tone of authority “what are you doing just standing there? We have a timetable… so get moving”

They both nod in reply, the rougher one motions down the hall with a small head gesture, and they walk off quickly, vanishing into shadow, just out of view.

I breathe a short sigh of relief, three on one I can handle… I think to myself, though it would likely make racket, and if there’s fifty guys around, them odds I don’t like. I continue to think, what now, my room, follow the two lackeys, or the guy seemingly most likely to be putting up the bill for all this, well he’s likely well guarded most of the time, I might get the chance to revoke his breathing privileges, then again I’m not fond of my chances of getting out of here alive after that. I think… yet another mental dialogue interrupted, this time by the sound of blade upon blade, the telltale clang of combat, combat as opposed to slaughter. Block, parry & ricochet, steel on stone, block…

I’ve done enough thinking, time to start acting. I head towards the commotion, the torches, some are out, some aren’t, the flickering is grating on my nerves. I stick to the shadows, hug corners & walls. I see movement everywhere, though it’s just shadows playing tricks, however, the moment I ignore it… I’m dead, that is if my current luck holds. As that would be the one flicker I should have been watching for. I now hear heavy breathing, a woman grunting every few seconds and footwork, mostly cloth footwork, but the dominating feet are clad in metal.

As I round this final corner, I see Mitch, and three dead bodies pooling or starting to pool blood, and two more uninvited guests, still standing, all wearing common clothing, each with blade and cuirass, the hallmark of our visiting guests apparently. And it seems my two visitors from just before have found this sight too, and Mitch is a tad too distracted with her own remaining pair of interlopers to notice. I pull a second knife from my back, two blades wedged between the spaces of the fingers of my fisted right-hand; I don’t have much time…

My first strike, I let it fly, straight from my fingers, as I rotate the second blade along my fingertips, sliding it into a position where I can accurately throw it, the same position the first blade was in as a matter of fact… that first blade hits home. His head flies back sharply as my blade sinks into the back of his neck, likely nicking the spinal column. He drops pretty much instantly, spurting blood, not quite a waterfall, but still. As for the other, he’s stopped his charge, staring blankly at his comrade, he’s likely the younger one, as a vet would have moved by now, though now it’s too late… my second blade catches the left side of his chest, just barely missing the cuirass, I think I heard a metal on metal contact, as well as the hard hit with tissue. However that doesn’t matter, as my knife stuck his heart. Not as clean a hit, though I couldn’t judge if he’d react, so I went for the lethal body hit, as opposed to the neck or head. He falls to his knees, twists his head slightly toward me, he falls forward, dead.

Mitch is basically a whirling dervish, an odd sight from someone dressed in heavy armor. She wields a longsword with a two handed technique, without a shield or off-hand weapon. Her movements are flowing, and continuous, one into the next, embellished by hints of improvisation, though she doesn’t miss a beat. Her first opponent falls quickly to a flurry of slices, nearly too fast for the eye to catch. He nearly looks like a pile of cut meat on the ground. Now for contestant number two. Slice, dodge backwards, block, elbow with off-hand to the face, parry, followed finally with a lunge… that did it, her blade pierces his gut, right below his cuirass, she continues to plunge her sword deeper, to the hilt, his eyes roll back, head slumps forward, and she pushes him back off her blade with her knee, he falls flat, face up, arms outstretched, well… I guess he can make snow-angels now, to his heart’s content.

“Where’d they come from? Wait, where’d you come from?...” She asks, staring at the two bodies in front of me, each with a dagger sticking out of ‘em.

“Sorry, I figured I’d follow them a bit, I was hoping to find something interesting, though I’d settle for merely entertaining… I always liked watching you work.” I said smiling, and perhaps playing just a tad coy.

I stroll up to my first victim, he's still laying facedown, my blade sticking out of his neck looks like an icicle in the dark, I place my left hand on the back of his head, and grip the handle of my knife, a stiff yank and it comes clear, blood sprays off the knife in a small thin arc, and slightly gurgles out of the wound I just made bigger, I clean the blade off, using the end of his shirt, it’s not like it was silk or anything, I carefully place it back in its sheath. I move to my second victim, once more I use my left hand, for leverage, and once more the blade comes out, with little fan fare… “hmph, I figured as much, it made contact with the edge of the cuirass when it went in, struck metal at an odd angle. The blade is cracked; cracked deep… the core is exposed too, so it’s just scrap.” I explained.

She walks up to me quickly, placing her armored elbow against my sternum, and pins me against the wall, nearly crushing the breath out of me, she draws her blade across my throat, I feel the sting of its sharp edge against my skin…

“You show up here carrying a missive… and the very same night a hostile force infiltrates the grounds, murders my men, and the king… and you think I would be naïve enough to believe you had nothing to do with it?” She declares, eyes wide, frantic, with more than enough rage to spare.

“if this is… an interrogation… you’re crap at it…” I try to force the words out, gasping. “for a person… to talk… they need to… breathe.” She eases off a bit, but doesn’t withdraw her arm. I continue. “ok, better. Now look, I don’t know what’s going on here anymore than you.”

“Bullshit!” is her reply, she presses the blade harder into my neck, I feel the slight trickle of blood, though my head is still firmly planted on my shoulders.

I again continue. “Look, I’m too tired for this. If it makes you happy, then fine… I’m the guy, I planned this and set it in motion, now lob my head off if it pleases you, once I’m dead maybe I’ll finally get some rest.”
She pulls back her arm, and withdraws her sword from my throat. Though she takes a defensive stance, and brings her sword in low, prepared to strike if need be. I slowly rub the nick on my neck, it feels about as slight as a large paper cut. “Give me one good reason why I should trust you…” She asks.

“Think back, what was one of the first things I told you, way back when, when we first met? It was during that summer campaign. I’ll remind you. As a rule, I believe in coincidence, as sometimes things just happen, however, I still believe such coincidences should be treated with suspicion. So honestly, I can’t really think of a reason, everything I’ve done here could be a ruse to earn your trust, for some undisclosed reason or another. Though, since that’s not the case I can’t offer a reason to go through all that trouble.” i shrug my shoulder as I reply. She sheathes her sword, a simple gesture with no embellishment, it makes this soothing clink as the hilt hits the end of the scabbard.

“Oh, I was hoping I’d finally get some rest after all, I guess not though?” I tilt my head slightly and a slight smirk crosses my face.

“Shall we head to my room; I’d like to grab my sword if I can?” “Your sword should stay right where it is… Oh, you mean your actual sword, the elven one? Ok, that… we can do that.” She laughs, jokingly.


“h-i-l-a-r-i-o-u-s” is the only thing I can think to mutter, chuckling a little & shaking my head slightly as well. “Shall we go now?” I ask, making a somewhat half-handed sweeping gentlemanly gesture, in the direction of my quarters.

We start walking, there’s a kind of flimsy wooden door on the wall beside me, it’s cracked open slightly, a sliver of light is creeping out of it, it’s that chilly blue moonlight & there’s this swirling dust filled pattern lit by that sliver of light. “That’s the guard’s dining room there.” she points directly at the door we’re just passing. I cautiously push the door open, it creeks a bit, I hope there’s no one in earshot.

The scene is surreal, there’s a large glass window & drapes, and both wide open, just like most windows & doors. That damned cold blue-white or is it white-blue moonlight draping everything in sight. I guess if the winter estate was all closed off in this heat, we’d all melt. I say estate, as that’s what it’s called, but it’s a castle, not as large as some of the others, but still a castle, I guess it does make the place sound quaint or something. Well, anyway… there’s about a dozen royal guardsmen lounging about, some in chairs, a few seem to be eating & drinking at a table sitting on a bench, some have their feet stretched out on the floor, some have their feet propped on a table, a few have their arms crossed over their chest, while most have their arms hanging down at their sides. Some are in full chainmail & plate, some in the royal cloth uniforms, red & black stripes, the kings colors, though everything looks either black, white or varying shades of grey, thanks to this damned light, a few are wearing surcoats, some are clad in chainmail & leather, though all bear the kings crest, a falcon with wings outstretched. At first glance they look to be sleeping, and in a relaxed state, though after a few seconds it’s easy enough to tell they’re not breathing. I’ve seen scenes like this before, even caused a few myself.

I turn my head to Mitch, her mouth is hanging open slightly, draped in this cold blue light she somehow looks even more depressed, or perhaps merely looks depressing. I walk to the main table, there’s four soldiers sitting there, two seem to be drinking ale, or they were, the other two seem to have been in the middle of eating, sandwiches made from leftover cuts of meat and gravy, it seems. I sit at the edge of the table, between two guards placing my feet on the bench, basically sitting backwards. I examine the dead woman next to me, an archer judging by the leather & light chainmail. Though, the longbow & quiver didn’t hinder the identification either. Her skin is pale, very pale, even in this light… her eyes shut, head laying back, mouth half open, if her chest was moving, I’d say she was drunk and sleeping it off. I prod her shoulder, hard. She slides of the bench, sideways, and hits the floor with a dull thump, though she’s still in the exact same position she was sitting in, like I just toppled a statue. Mitch is looking at me like I’ve just gone crazy and I’m dancing around the room, in the nude. I walk over to the body I’ve just laid out on the floor, I nudge it slightly in the back with my boot, twice…

“Hey, show some ****** respect Dane.” She says angrily. “She… They, are far too fresh too be this stiff” I say, calmly, or perhaps coldly. “Likely a result of the poison used. I’m starting to not like this possibility, I mean more so.” I stated.

I walk back over to the table, there’s a tankard for the spot she was sitting, I grab it, and pop the top with my thumb. I sniff the contents, strong ale, and something else, something like mint, peppermint perhaps. I slosh the contents carefully in the container, and suddenly fling the contents along in a small arch against the wall. The ale splashes along the wall, and starts dripping down right away, though there is a “residue” that’s also dripping, dripping more slowly. Like maple syrup. I stare back into the bottom of the tankard, there’s a white film covering it.
“Winterglaze, it’s called Winter’s Glaze.” I say. “huh?” is her puzzled reply.

“It’s an alchemical toxin, or poison, more deadly than aconite, though slower acting. It has to move through the blood stream first, takes about an hour, the initial effects are euphoria and what resembles mild inebriation, as the subject appears to become more inebriated after a time, usually about another hour, they start to get lethargic, tired, at that point they fall unconscious, then die about 2 hours later, give or take. It’s not pungent, nor bitter unlike aconite… it’s not painful either, well, as far as one can know that is. When the compound is exposed to air, it begins to thicken so it needs to be used quickly unless you want to apply it to a weapon that is, but it will still dissolve into liquids, for a time. It will thicken and start to separate from whatever it’s suspended in, after a while. It’s called winterglaze because of the white powdery film it leaves behind, though it’s also called winterbreath ‘cause when it breaks down in the body it hardens the muscle tissue, kind of freezing the victim in place for a time.” I state

“Who uses this stuff?” she asks. “As far as I know, it takes a skilled alchemist to make, if they have the right equipment, and it’s not cheap… we use this stuff a bit… which is a fact i find troubling.”

“Is it a royal messenger special, this Winter’s Breath?” she asks. “You mean exclusive to us? Hardly, so it’s not conclusive. See those vats?” I point to a stack of wooden barrels in the corner, about seven in total, stacked in a triangle formation. “Those were being loaded into the keep when I arrived, and there were more. My guess, these thugs infiltrated the castle at that time with their cargo, as I’m fairly sure the wintersglaze was delivered in those. I suppose two or so could have been filled with a load of weapons and cuirasses, instead of tainted ale.” “How many people did you see loading vats, when you arrived?” she asks

“I saw twenty-four, though I couldn’t say how many there were in total, nor if they brought in more later, as there’s likely hidden entrances I’m unaware of. And I’d say we’re dealing with more than just twenty-four people, they could have been stacking the castle staff with their people too. And that’s really the only way I see this working, now that I’m actually thinking about it.”

I take one more look around, and see nothing of note, besides the corpses.
“How many men were stationed here?” I ask. “Around two-hundred & fifty, all royalguard, about forty knights, forty-one if you include me. I came down here to sound the alarm, though no one answered. How many would you say are left Becket?” I shake my head “if I had to guess… I’d say none at this point. We’d have seen or heard them, and I think I heard the last being put down in their sleep. Sorry, Mitch” “****… I guess this is my worst command, a total loss, and the king…” she trails off.

“We should keep moving, unless you want this to be the last thing we’re known for.” I wish I could have thought of something to say, anything at all, though all that came to mind was… nothing, just silence & crickets. We continue moving on our not so merry way, my quarters aren’t far.

Luckily, we didn’t run into anyone else up to this point, because even though Mitch can certainly move in heavy armor, it’s not quiet. We’re just outside my quarters, though, there’s someone in my room, old leather boots if I had to guess, judging by the sounds of his steps. I signal Mitch with my palm, hold... the meaning should be clear, even in this darkness. She slinks back slightly, finding a nice dark corner to slip into. Mister “authority”, he’s mumbling to himself, unaware that I can hear him, and suddenly my knife is at hand, hmph… I don’t even recall drawing it, reflex I guess. l glue myself to the wall, slithering like a snake to the entryway to my room. “Where the devil is Becket hiding… if I were a royal spy, where would I hide during this mess… wait, that’s right I am a royal spy, and that still doesn’t help me. He wouldn’t be far from this blade, so if it’s here, he should be too.” There’s that voice of authority again, and now that he’s closer I can hear him clearly, and his voice does sound familiar, though I’m having trouble placing it. I’m right by the door, taking peeks inside, when I feel I can risk it. There’s that damnable blue light still, it’s everywhere, even the lit candles in my room can’t drown it out. The room itself is fairly Spartan, though the furniture herein is of high quality, oak, lacquer, silver and gold, there’s a desk next to the window, with a silver platter, it’s well lit, there seems to be several sealed dispatches there, the type of dispatches I usually carry. The “gentleman” in my quarters is about as tall as I am, short gray hair, all I can see of his outfit is leather, leather cuirass, hood, pauldrons, greaves, and riding gloves & boots, reminds me of what I wear, except I usually wear more chainmail, though he could be wearing a suit of light-mail under it, if the leather is keeping it quiet, like my outfit does. Hard to tell for sure. In his hand, is a longsword, made of elfish steel, sometimes called skysteel, as it’s blue-ish silver in color, the blue light seems to make it glow bright white, like it’s been super heated, it has a “horseshoe” guard on the hilt, and the grip is black leather, with a sharp spike as a pummel. The blade itself is 22” in length, the fuller is 18” and the edges slope inward slightly in the midsection, and comes to a sharp point. That’s my blade, my longsword… he’s holding my sword… my sword. I think I’m going to have to replace the entire hilt as I’m not going to ever get that guy’s filth off it. “Damn-it Becket, I was simply going to kill you, now I'm going to make it hurt… where the hell are you?” He mutters once again.

I move quickly, I’m still behind him, I secure his chin/jaw by pinning it shut from underneath with my left fist, pulling his head back, and pulling him off balance, at the same time my right arms comes across his chest, pinning his right arm to his side. “I’m right here…” I mutter to myself, as he’s not going to live long enough to remember.

My right hand drives the blade of my knife just under his left armpit, there isn’t much resistance, though I drive that blade quite violently into his heart, there’s a sharp clanking sound as the elven blade hits the floor, my knife comes out easily enough, and I drive it back in for a second strike. He’s wiggling, and thrashing about, or trying to thrash about, and whimpering slightly as his life drifts by the fingers of my right hand. Once he stops moving, I remove my blade from his side, & I release my grip, he falls unceremoniously to the floor. All in all, it only lasts a few seconds, though it seems a bit longer. So, I was right… He wasn’t wearing chainmail, I think to myself. I stare at my knife, the blood appears black, thanks to that ghostly moonlight, the blackness very nearly covers the whole thing, my right hand is drenched in it as well, I wipe my blade off on the back of his cuirass, and sheath it, I proceed to wipe my glove off as well. I carefully grab my longsword, still glistening in the moonlight, not a scratch I think to myself. I slowly sheath my blade, as the hilt clicks against the edge of the scabbard I feel a touch of relief.

I hear metal footsteps behind me, approaching slowly & carefully, one by one.

Mitch drops her head out from behind the door, the rest of her leaning against the front of the doorframe. “Dane, is this what you do these days?” she whispers.

“Only when things go this wrong, usually I’m not sent out to simply kill some poor bastard. Not unless there’s no time for finesse. I’m no angel, nor have I ever been, nor do have any sitting on my shoulders either… sometimes the best I can do is shake the demons off me.” is my reply. I nudge the body of my latest victim with my boot halfheartedly, and flip him over, his face is one of shock or surprise, and it’s a face I know well, too well. “Damn… you stupid… bastard… you ****** stupid bastard!” I can’t resist the urge, I kick him, his body, once, and hard. It’s a sickening sound, like punching raw meat, though I wouldn’t normally think it was all that sickening to puck a hunk of meat. The tip of my boot is covered in his blood, I see it clearly as I look down.

“You knew this ******?” she asks, stepping closer.

I nod “We called him Bishop… he was my first spymaster, he is to me as I am to you. A few years ago… when I went my way, and you stayed but traveled yours, he showed me the ropes, and made me who… No, what I am… today. When I stopped being Lieutenant Dane Hooper of the Northwood Rangers, he showed me how to be Becket. He was demoted though, and I was taken from my post in the eastern coast, and placed to the south under a new spymaster.” I move over towards the desk, lit with candlelight, thankfully the moonlight doesn’t shine here, I’m not sure I could handle it if it did. Once more I reach into my satchel, and again I pull out my silver case. “Dane… for **** sake, again?” Mitch asks as I pop the case open. I remove a cigarette, and lower my head to the desk, I slowly place the end near the candle’s dancing flame, once more the corona of the flame ignites it, I pull a long drag as I pull my head back, and release a massive plume of smoke, that oddly enough makes me smell like a church. “If I don’t get a chance to smoke soon, I’m going to drown myself in the moat before we go.” I state firmly, my free hand hanging onto my hip.

There are four dispatches sitting neatly on the engraved, oval shaped, silver platter on my desk, each sealed in red wax, bearing the personal seal for the king of FaeyFolken. I place the cigarette firmly between my lips, and I slowly & deliberately pick up each missive, one at a time, studying them as I do. I look towards captain Mitchell “These dispatches… could the king have written them?” I ask, already fearing the answer.

“No, he didn’t have time. He was too busy discussing the situation with his staff of advisors. And no one had a clear answer, so there wasn’t even a reason to write these.” She says.

I take a long drag, pondering for a moment, and I release the smoke from deep within my lungs. And it finally hits me “Wait, what situation… specifically, what was being discussed?” I ask.

“Don’t you know?” she replies, puzzled. “No, when I get these, they’re already sealed, I only know where to take them, and who to give them to.” I answer.

“These missives you bring here, they contain updates, collections of factual information & rumors, along with field reports. The stuff the southern operatives dig up, the stuff you dig up.” She states, even more puzzled. “You have to know some of this Becket, your name is listed several times within the reports themselves. I know ‘cause I was in the king’s presence when most of this was being discussed”

Now I’m puzzled, and physically scratching my head. “The only issues I know of are the occasional raids, from those nomadic trolls foraging in the southern wilderness, and the banditry going on around the city of Stoneanvil, in the far southeast. Neither of those issues requires that much thought.” I say.

“What about the unrest, the enraged nobles, the citizenry nearly at a state of rioting, the individuals fanning the flames on both sides, the list of names, the influx of arms…” I interrupt. “This is all news to me, I haven’t seen any signs of this, anywhere in the south…” Now Mitch interrupts me. “This is insane…” she mutters. I nod my head in agreement while taking and releasing a drag of my cigarette.

I place the messages back on the desk, one at a time, and they’re seated neatly one next to the other. I point to some odd markings on the envelopes, just above the seals. And I take another deep drag and release it. “Those markings, there, there, there, and there.” I say, pointing to each note one after the other. “The first group of markings tell me where to go, the second tells me which contact to hand these notes to. This first one here, it’s going to General Strauss’s aide, at the garrison in Loeden, I’ve delivered several missive there to him. This second one, give me a second…” I pull a small hand written leather-bound booklet out of my satchel. “Let’s see here… hmm…” I flip through several pages, and I run my finger down a small list of locations. “Bennen…” I flip through more pages, and once again my finger slips through a list. “ah, here… the quarry near the town of Bennen, an operative named Fisher. Note number three, oh, easy… that’s the capital Khitaan, the chancellor’s office, in the castle fortress. And this last one… um.” I flip through my tiny book, then again more slowly. “uh, this last letter… I don’t have a location for this marking, nor an identity on the recipient. Damn.”

“Dane, what does that mean? The fact this note is written on in your code, but you don’t know the location, or contact?” she asks.

“There are a few possibilities that come to mind. First, is that my directory is currently outdated, and I simply haven’t been updated yet. Second, this is a misprint, a lot less likely. Or third, this is meant for a location outside, way outside of my operating area, that I’ve had no cause to visit, nor would I be likely to.” I state.

“So, he has a directory like yours? Can’t we just use his?” she ponders out loud.

“I’m certain he does, I’m equally certain that he doesn’t have it on him. Operating procedures… When engaged in activities, remove all important artifacts, papers, etc… use previously arranged safe drop locations, to be cleaned up in the event of you’re death, capture, being overdue – by secondary operatives. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t search him, but quickly though, we’re running out of time here” I reply. I cut the strap on his satchel with a quick motion with my quickly drawn knife, Mitch takes it, and quickly flips it upside-down, spilling the contents all over the stone floor. I reach for a second dagger from my back, I hand it to Mitch, handle first. “Cut the bag into strips… carefully. We need to make sure he hasn’t hidden anything in the fabric… And we may need bandages.” I ask. She diligently slices the satchel into rough, yet oddly neat strips. As I comb over his person “Nothing.” She says. And I’ve stumbled upon a sealed missive, one that’s been opened. “These markings… This is the missive I was carrying when I arrived here. Why would Bishop be carrying that? Especially if it was fake?” I ponder, to myself as much as to Mitch. “Because it was fake perhaps?” she also starts pondering now. “Still doesn’t make much sense, though, perhaps we just don’t know enough, for this to start making sense just yet.” I say, mostly thinking out loud.

“What’s it say?” she asks. “I don’t know, not yet. This message isn’t decrypted yet. As it’s the original. In the field we use a different cipher, other than the missives sent by couriers like me. I know the cipher, though not well, as I never use it, I certainly can’t tackle this with a quick glance, it will take time.” I say.

I take a slow hardy drag off my cigarette this time, hold it for a sec, and let it out just as slowly. “Now I know why he had to kill me at least.” I say. “What? How’d you figure that? As I’m still a tad lost here.” She mutters.

I place the cigarette held in my left hand firmly in my mouth, it’s sticking slightly to my upper lip. I raise my right hand, the four missives arrayed like a hand of cards, I smack them into the palm of my left hand. “Someone’s painting a story here… and has been for some time… for it to be bought, I can’t be alive to contest the narrative.” I state firmly.

“Hold on a second… there were other operatives on that list. Are they…” she starts to ask, though I interrupt. “Dead, yep… or, they will be before we can do anything about it; that is unless they’re a part of this. This is a part of the job; hell this is the job, I knew the risks going in, they did too. And I’m still here… and alive… for the time being. Who knows, perhaps the rest of us get out of this too. I doubt it, though it would still be nice.”

“And you chose this? Willingly?” she asks, strangely confused, or perhaps sarcastically. I nod my head anyway “Uh-huh, yes, that’s about it. I do know I’m kind of crazy, always have been. But it’s the good kind of crazy. Unless you wish I wasn’t here. In which case you’d likely be dead by now… no?” “Good point.” She says in reply.

My cigarette is down to a stump, I squash it out on that platter, quite convincingly, and I find myself staring at the embers and smoke, it reminds me of something, only for a fleeting second, but I can’t quite recall it. I turn to Mitch.

“So, which move do we make now? Try to kill these pricks one at a time, and likely get overrun at some point, before we’re done? Or, do we slip out quietly, and try to do something about this mess? You’re the captain here… hell I don’t even have a rank anymore.” I say.

“I’m actually for the run around, and kill as any of them as we can plan myself… however, I’d rather not die as the worst captain in the royal guard’s history… so that kind of spoils my fun.” Mitch replies.

“So, save our necks today, so we can cut theirs tomorrow. I can work with that.” I reply. I walk back to the corpse now pooling blood on the floor, Mitch follows suit. I start gathering the items from his satchel, the various items Mitch dumped on the floor haphazardly. Just in case we missed something in our haste, Mitch does the same. “They likely have the overt entry and exit points guarded by now, as well as whatever covert access points they may have discovered, if they’ve been here the whole time, they likely know a lot of ‘em.” I note kind of depressingly.

“There’s one I’m fairly sure they don’t know about, there were always too many guardsmen around there, at least for someone to go poking around aimlessly. Captain of the royal guard, remember… it’s near the King’s council chambers.” she states. “That’s where this attack would have been most focused… though their targets there are dead already…” Now Mitch interrupts me. “And they’ve likely dispersed to go looking for whoever killed eight of their guys. And they might think it’s just you alone too.”

“Well, I’m sold… let’s go” I say.

We warily work our way around the castle, clinging to any nook & dark corner we can find, Mitch is being especially careful, what with her wearing a tin can & everything. Eventually we find our way to our destination. We’re perched along a flight of stairs, near the top. We’re camped in front of a large enclosed space. I get a whiff of smoke as I let my eyes adjust. I can see a small intricately carved dinner table… I think, or what’s left of it, a few smaller tables, one is still fairly intact, a few toppled chairs, also mostly intact, it seems that there are paintings or were paintings lining the walls, and now I see… nine bodies, mostly royal guard, and a fellow with what looks like a black silk robe, lined with gold or silver, lots of gold or silver jewelry, and one of those silly hats that rich people seem to like, though it’s no longer sitting on his head, he’s likely an advisor of some sort, or more likely a diplomat. The victims carry varying wounds, a few slit throats & a few deep gashes. There seems to be blood smeared sporadically along the walls, ruined a few portraits, as well as spilled all over the floor, I think I can make out the outline of a pair of heavy oak doors too. Though it’s still too dark to be sure what’s what. The room is nearly pitch black, no windows. What candles or torches were placed here, well, they aren’t here any longer. Mitch and I exchange glances.

“There…” Mitch whispers, pointing to a section of wall, wall adorned with a portrait, there seems to be two metal objects one on either side of it… candlestick holders? “Really, Mitch, really? Isn’t that practically a cliché?” I mumble quietly

“Well, it’s not my first choice, but I didn’t design the ****** place.” she whispers back.
I don’t see any hostiles, though I can’t see much of anything. The walls along the staircase limit my view, as does the darkness. “It looks clear…” I’m interrupted by footsteps. Now I hear a large mass of metal shifting, and a knight clad in heavy plate crosses my vision, not right in front us, but close enough for a half decent view of him, even in this darkness. A full suit of metal plate, box like helm and all, and a surcoat, and I can’t quite make out the markings, some floral pattern, & the final touch… some kind of heavy blade, a claymore perhaps, can’t tell much more, not in this darkness. Mitch turns to me and hits me with this look, I’ve seen this look before, it roughly means… you don’t really want to know what it means, honestly, you don’t. I turn to Mitch again, I place a single finger on my mouth, that meaning should also be clear. I watch and wait, there’s a lot of waiting in espionage apparently. I make the hand gesture of “wait right here”, she doesn’t like it, but she’d make too much noise, and she knows it. I get up as quickly and quietly as I can manage, and make a mad dash for the broken overturned dinner table, I go prone and slide under the tabletop, which isn’t actually on top anymore, I crawl to the other side of the tabletop, and I stop, cold. I don’t make a single motion, not even moving my chest to breathe, his quaking footsteps pass me by, he nearly steps on my head as a matter of fact. I quietly slip out from underneath the table, or the ruins of the table rather… I quietly stand, I’m directly behind him, inching ever so slightly towards him, he must sense something, as he’s stopped walking, and is slowly scanning the room with his eyes, luckily he must see far less than I because of that damned helm. I’m in reach now, seems like an eternity… finally I grab the front of his helm, as well as the back of his neck, I twist my hands in opposing directions quickly, rapidly twisting his head around to our left, there… I think, as the solid snap I’ve been waiting for sounds, it seems to echo throughout the room. I severed his spinal column at the neck. He goes limp, I manage to grab him before he drops, I give a small prayer for my quick reflexes. And I slowly drape him over the ground, face up, like a blanket or something. I take a quick sigh of relief, and wipe the sweat from my brow.

Mitch is walking towards me, she slugs me in the shoulder, hard. “It looks clear…” she states, sarcastically, that’s definitely sarcasm.

“It did look clear though, you can’t blame me for that.” I say, nursing my bruised shoulder.

We study my armored opponent lying on the ground; I guess they’re a lot less intimidating when they can’t move. The odd crest, it’s the same one the rest of these thugs are wearing, the surcoat is covered by a floral pattern, alternating light & dark petals, like one of those odd paintings that trick the eyes, and he seems to be wielding an Elven claymore, can’t see much more than the flowing guard and the metal grip, though the honor markings on his coat I can see clearly, and those I do know quite well, as does Mitch, he’s bearing the title of a Knight Crusader, whoever this guy is, he was good, apparently. As I draw my elven blade it rings slightly as it lightly vibrates in my hand, just for a second or two, as it clears my scabbard. I grab the front of his surcoat tugging at its bottom, I shear off a large section, a section that includes his crest and title.

“Why’d you do that Becket, with his surcoat? That’s a tad bit disrespectful, more than a tad actually.” she asks.

“More so than sneaking up behind him and breaking his neck, supposedly denying him an honorable death and a final combat?” I reply curtly, perhaps a tad too curtly. “Sorry, Mitch... That was… a tad bit sharper than I had intended. Though, if he was all that concerned about honor, in the first place, I doubt he’d be here now.” I state.

I sheath my blade quickly, and it makes that pleasing ring again just for a moment, as it comes to rest in the scabbard. I fold up the marked cloth neatly, and shove it into my satchel, there’s hardly any room left in there I notice.

“You’re not going to hang that somewhere, as some kind of sick trophy, or something… are you? She asks.

“Since when have I ever been sooo… Morbid? Or hell, I don’t even know what to call that. But, to answer your question… no, I’m not hanging it somewhere… to boast about how big my massively big ego is, or what-have-you. I need this to find out who these people are, who they may be connected to, who this guys here was, and above all, proof they were here.” I ramble on

“Let’s get going already. I had enough of rude guests for tonight. How ‘bout you Mitch?”

She walks up to the painting; it’s a portrait of King Christophe no less, in what appears to be gold plated armor. I’d think something sarcastic at this moment, though it’s not the right time for it, him being dead and all, I’m not so depraved as to make insulting thoughts about a king who just died here tonight, though I guess I kind of just did...

She turns to the first candlestick holder, the one on the left, she twists clockwise till it’s upside-down, then she turns to the candlestick located to the right, she twists that counterclockwise till it too, is upside-down. Now to the first one, she continues turning it clockwise until it’s right side up, now back to the right, and now she’s turning that one around the other way, clockwise, till it to is back to its proper upright position. There are some clicking noises, something that sounds like gears churning, suddenly the section of wall containing the painting is pushed back, and slides to the right behind or perhaps into the remaining wall section.

“Who designed this? What happens if someone needed a quicker getaway?” I ask, jokingly.

She simply shakes her head, and gestures towards the hole in the wall. I stick my head in there just to see… nothing, just a small space encased in stone, I look down, oh… a ladder. Hmm, didn’t see that coming.

“There’s a river that flows under the castle, it continues to travel aboveground, for a quite a few miles at least, when it clears the outer limits of the keep that is. There’s a small boat too.” She says.
We carefully clime down the ladder, it’s still pretty much pitch black, not much to see, unless you study green and brown mold, growing on stone brickwork. We come to a small wooden dock, with a small wooden boat moored to it, it seems someone carved a cove out and flooded it with water, unless the water was always here, I study the blackness of the water as Mitch flips a switch, I hear metal in the distance and clanking from the crawlspace we just came from, likely the passageway being resealed & perhaps a gate being opened up ahead, I see darkness fading off slightly, and the further my eyesight travels the brighter it seems to get, though everything that’s lit has that stupid blue hue from the damn blue moonlight. I help her climb carefully into the boat, if she goes overboard she’s never going to make it back into the boat, all that armor. Now she helps me as well. We sever the ropes tying the small boat to the docks, and i pull the paddles out from under some white fabric covering the aft section of this thing.

“So what do we do now… Now that we’ve escaped that deathtrap?” Mitch asks. “If this were part of some story being told, this is the scene where we start kissing passionately, though I’d rather go take a nap, myself… though, I’m not saying I’d mind, or anything, if that… other thing happened either. I say joking

Mitch simply smiles and nods, nooo.

And we’re on our merry way.

After a few minutes, ok, about one minute, I can’t seem to keep rowing, the fatigue is catching up with me I guess. I slink a little lower into the boat, kind of sprawled out over the floor. Mitch picks up the other oar as well as my slack, she either seems fine with it, or I’m going delusional, hard to say which. I close my eyes and start to drift off for a while.

*there’s nothing to see or hear for a little while, besides the swaying & creaking of the boat, the water kicking up against the hull, quite soothing and everythi…*

“What the…!” The words I manage to stumble out of my mouth, as I feel a slight explosion of wood flecks, seeming to wake me from my near slumber. I look towards the odd sensation in my arm, hmm, there’s an arrow sticking out of my shoulder, sitting out at a strange angle. There are a few other arrows scattered around the small wooden boat, a few more now floating next to it, about five or so are actually in it, those five have nearly identical odd angles, meaning they were arched to travel as far as possible, a firing technique used to extend the range of a bow, they must be firing at near maximum range judging by the angle. I must be in shock, or it’s the adrenalin, as I don’t feel any pain, even though an arrow has pierced my chainmail sleeve, and part of my arm. I break off the end of the arrow, and throw it overboard halfheartedly; i reach into my satchel & I pull the scraps of fabric Mitch made out of Bishop’s bag, I then draw one of my knives, using it to pry the chainmail apart with my good arm… after a few moments I’ve “cut” a simple slit through the arm of my sleeve, and i begin to dress the wound, leaving the arrowhead in. and only a single thought occurs to me now, winter’s breath.

Mitch is rowing hard, though she can let up as we’ve reached the apex of the currents within river, and the arrows are now falling far short. We are now more or less adrift along the currents of the river. And everything is encased in that damn light, that ghostly blue moonlight. It’s reflecting off the water, it’s in the boat, it’s cast over the green rolling hills, well if the grass was still there… Mitch finally drops the oars back into the boat and relaxes a bit

I’m thinking to myself now, this winter is in full swing, though it’s not punching at all, no snow, it’s not even all that cold, it’s actually kind of pleasant, or it would be if not for that arrow, the adrenalin must be wearing off a bit now, as I’m starting to feel trickles of pain rolling back. There’s about 3 years left in this winter, and that only means the nights are going to last for four days, and the days themselves only last for sixteen hours or so.

“You hit Mitch?” I ask. “I’m fine, though you don’t seem to be doing too good.” She says, mildly worried.

“Winter’s Breath!” I yell, or think I yell. Mitch apparently forgot it can be applied to weapons, such as arrowheads. Now… now, she seems worried, really worried.

“Well, I guess I might be getting that sleep I was dying for either way.” I say, only half joking. Mitch doesn’t seem amused, and she crosses her arms, and begins leaning backwards a tad more, against the corner of the boat. “Careful, you don’t want to fall off the end of the boat, and drown… do you?” I ask. “I might prefer that, as opposed to what’s coming.” She states sarcastically, everyone loves sarcasm apparently.

Ch.2

Spoiler

Chapter II

A Missive Never Sent.

I find myself slightly confused, ok… more than slightly. It’s daylight, I’m seeing daylight, the sun’s rays seeping through the tree-canopy, it’s daytime apparently. But… that’s impossible, as there’s at least two “days” worth of night left. I notice I’m still in a forest, though the trees aren’t right, this isn’t the grounds of the king’s estate anymore, this is somewhere else, though, it’s somewhere familiar. The ground is covered in snow, not frost but snow, and there’s this fog, or mist… it bobs around the plants, the plants that still poke up above the white sheet of snow, and the fallen logs peaking up out of it. That mist… it’s almost a slithering rug slowly moving to cover the blanket of snow, and my boots. I’m almost wearing my usual attire, I’m not wearing my cloak, though I do seem to have my old leather pauldrons, the one on my right, still bearing the emblem of a Lieutenant, the metal insignia I personally defaced, as out here the orcs target officers first, I figured that would help keep me alive, though I was wrong… as the orcs aren’t as dumb as I’d hoped, and the defaced emblem only told the orcs I was a more intelligent officer than usual, and a bigger threat, so eventually I stopped wearing them all together. I stare at my cuirass, the crest covering my heart fully visible, now that it’s no longer covered by a cloak. The two black steeds, or their busts in profile rather, crossing one another, the coat of arms sitting in the valley the two images create, a red and white checker pattern covering it, the words “Northwood Rangers” draped under the image in a ribbon. I hear voices in the distance, muffled, and drifting away from me, I start walking forward; carefully brushing branches out of my way… out here the trees still keep a lot of their leaves, even during winter. The voices get closer, and closer, though they remain just as muffled. I step into a clearing… and the voices clear as well, I step into a hastily assembled campsite. To the very scene I observed twenty some odd years ago, at the start of the so called “Summer Campaign”. There’s around thirty or so men and women collected around a campfire, wearing leather, chainmail, and cloth. Humans & elves, varying ages, some wearing hoods some not. There’s another officer strolling back and forth at the other end of the fire-pit, a colonel, seems to be addressing the men. He’s a bit short for an elf, I find myself thinking, blond hair in a crew-cut, slender facial features, green eyes, and a thin, well trimmed beard. Hmm, it took me a little time, though I’ve realized I must be asleep.

“These Orcs have put aside their tribal squabbles, and unified under a single banner… their warlords rally their troops with dreams of conquest, a conquest of the FaeyFolken kingdom… Glad you decided to finally join us Lieutenant” the colonel states in a calm tone as he turns to the newcomer, namely me.

I nod, and bow slightly to acknowledge my tardiness. The groups eyes briefly turn to me, then back to colonel Tanner, or is it Bannard, or whatever… And he continues.

“As I was saying, the royal army is forming at Crystal Lake, absorbing the garrison stationed at Silverlake Fortress. This army will be 20,000 strong, though it will take roughly one week to assemble, and at least 3 days to move into position, likely longer on both counts. The bulk of the Northwood contingent of rangers will join that group serving as a vanguard force; however, a small selection of rangers will assemble separately, this force here actually. Your group will arrive ahead of the main force, your role will be to gather intelligence, disrupt enemy communications, instigate hit and run attacks, and covertly eliminate enemy officers. Just prior to the main offensive, your unit will regroup for a final action, target their major encampments with slashing strikes, engaging the hostile main force until they are able to react, at which point your units will withdraw westward, pulling the enemy into the wrong direction, so the royal army can cut into their flank with their opening strike. Care to take it from here lieutenant, um…” the colonel gestures towards me with a quick wave of his hand, or two.

“Hooper, sir… boys, the colonel is telling us to basically annoy the Orcs to death for about two-to-three weeks. Fast hard strikes, make it hurt, then vanish like smoke in a stiff wind…” I turn away from my men for a moment or two, and face the officer. “With all due respect sir, if the force we’re up against is anything like the numbers I have in my head, we need at least 3 times our current number… Unless you don’t mind sending most of our families letters of condolence.” Is my response.

“Hooper… in a perfect, fair world you’d have those numbers, in fact there wouldn’t be fighting at all, though this world we live in isn’t perfect nor is it fair, if we deprive the royal army of anymore rangers, that would slow the deployment of the entire main force, this unit was assembled with the best troops the Northwood rangers have to offer. If the men here can’t accomplish this task, no one can.” Is his retort.

“Sir, I never said we wouldn’t get it done, I was implying most won’t live to see the conclusion… but… we’ll get it done, that I promise.” Is my final reply… as I’m suddenly awakened, by the sensation of our boat running aground I wonder?

I slowly open my eyes, it’s a tad blurry… and my vision begins to clear. I see Mitch staring at me with those picturesque green eyes.

“You’re finally up…” she asks “Huh, uh… yes…” is my groaning reply. I blink repeatedly, and rub my eyes.

“How are you feeling? You should be feeling it now… if you’re correct about the effects of the poison.”

“It’s hardly an exact estimate, the factors can vary from person to person. Though I feel like crap, so… no inebriation, nor feelings of ecstasy… so far so good, or perhaps so far not so feeling good. I’d say that’s better in our current… or, perhaps my current situation, I should say.” I state. I slowly rise, the fatigue fighting me.

“You were slumbering quite heavily back there, care to share? Don’t spare any naughty details…” she asks, chuckling slightly.

“twas little more than a month before we first met, maybe two. The start of the so called summer war… with the orcs” I stated. Not smiling at all, quite the opposite in fact. “We should get moving” I say, gesturing towards the shadowy tree-line, with my eyes.

As we climb out of the boat there’s a sobering splash as my feet windup in ankle deep water, great I think to myself, sarcastically. I pull the large white fabric out of the aft end of this tiny boat, hmm… there’s a lot of it here, and it’s thick too. Cotton maybe. The light in the distance shifts slightly as we pull whatever we can salvage from the boat, I look into the clear sky, the shimmering light, it’s dimming as clouds start to roll in, a flanking movement spreading out from behind the fortress we just left apparently, the castle slowly slips away while the clouds advance, thus holding back the ghostly moonlight, like a curtain being pulled back after a performance has ended.

“The beginning of the orcish campaign? Just before we met… you lost most of your men, I was among the replacements sent. ****, sorry Dane…” she says.

“As am i, and also not… at the same time. I was hailed as a hero because I carried a few of my men out of that mess, less than half… made some lifelong friends out of that. And there’s you… you’re pretty much my best friend, or the best friend I have left, we’ve been that way for the better part of twenty years now. The only way that mission wouldn’t have been a disaster is if it never took place, had I not been there… they say it’s likely no one would have made it back. Ten out of thirty is bad, but it’s far better than zero out of thirty.” I answer.

Mitch pulls an arrow from the hull of the boat, smoother than pulling a cork from a wine bottle, and a second arrow, she removes the arrow heads, the aforementioned action sounding of a twig snapping, and again. Next she strips the flags off the arrows, and carefully takes hold of my arm, and cautiously raps a few scraps of fabric around them and my arm, forming a splint. She ties the remaining scraps together, and places a sling round my neck and slowly puts my arm through it. “Your main arm is fine; though, your left arm is fairly fucked. So keep it where it is, unless you’re not that fond of it.” she states. “We might have needed those for more bandages… or I might” I say. “We have this nice cotton thing here for that, they’d make better bandages.” She replies.

I pickup my traveling kit, which is basically a backpack with a lot of junk in it, and sling it over my good shoulder. We make for the trees. There’s a slight breeze, it fades in and out, bearing a handful of tiny droplets as it passes.

“Dane…. There’s been something on my mind, I’ve never had the guts to ask… but, why’d you leave the army, for… this? I get why they wanted to scoop you up, but I never figured you for the sort to go for the spy graft?” she asks.

“They’d been after me for some time, even before the war, they were a bit more persistent after… but, in the end it was Bishop. He said basically that: If I did my job right, there wouldn’t be another winter war, or overland rebellion. Information is a weapon, a weapon that can silence dissent, conflict, and bloodshed… if one utilized cunning and fineness you needn’t even spend lives to make it so. An event like the one we just witnessed, it shouldn’t have happened. And besides, if there’s something I really don’t want to do, I have to do it, if only to spite myself, for as you well know, I’m an idiot.” I answer.

“That you are my old friend, that you are. You were always a sucker when duty comes into play” She mutters.

“We should keep heading north, the main road east, or should I say the only road out, well, it’s is likely a deathtrap. We might find a path through the mountains, though they’re thought to be impassable. We both know that things which people believe aren’t necessarily true.” I state.

We’ve been hiking north, winding our way through the dark & now damp forest. My boots seem to have started sinking into the muck with each step, the rain must have picked up a bit too, but it’s hard to tell under the circumstances. The fatigue, blood-loss & trauma are making it difficult to maintain a steady rhythm, or even walk a straight line. I’m also starting to have difficulties keeping up with Mitchell. It seems like we’ve been walking for days, though I’m well aware it’s only been two or three hours at most. Mitch turns around towards me, and is now walking backwards, at a bit slower of a pace.

“Becket… we really need to get you out of the rain. You need to keep that field-dressing dry, and we should deal with that wound properly, and do it quickly.” Mitch states.

“I’d like that… I really would. However, to treat this wound in my arm, we need a fire, and the time it would take to pitch a camp, and the likelihood someone sees the tents or the campfire… well, it would get us both killed, or rather it would get us killed that much more quickly. I’d say leave me, I’m slowing you down too much, but you need me as a witness, and also to help put the pieces together… for both you and the chancellor.” I reply.

As we’re walking… ok, Mitch is walking, I’m more like stumbling, we pass an odd hill, the south side, facing the castle, has a mound that climbs lazily upwards, until it drops steeply as it comes around to the north end, it’s covered in grass, dead leaves, moss & mud. Though the north-face shows exposed rock, with a nook carved out of it, the effect is an inviting crevice. “Hey, hold up a sec…” I say. Mitch turns about sharply. “What?” she asks.

“This rock here… what’s it look like to you?” I ask. “It looks like someone’s carved a nook out of this rock face. Ancient hunters building shelter from the elements perhaps?” She answers. “Or poachers more likely, as the forest hasn’t covered the exposed rock, and it’s set up so the opening is facing away from the keep, in the opposite direction.” I state. “Do you think our visitors made it, a hidey-hole to set camp and wait for orders?” she asks.

“No, I don’t think so. The tools that carved this would leave fresher marks if that were the case, unless they constructed this several years ago in preparation. And I see no signs of camping, or at least resent ones. This might make a nice little tiny hidden campsite if we fix it up a tad. We need to camouflage it too.” I reply.

We sit down in the rock crevice, and we begin to unpack the gear from my “camping” kit, I hand Mitch a selection of long, thin square metal bars, some with a sharpened end. “Here, fit these together like so…” i state, as I snap a few sections of square pipe together. It’s a bit more difficult as I’m using one hand, I’m pinning a shaft piece between my knees, to hold in place, as I take a single metal bar at a time, and locking the metal into place. They form a spear like object when placed together properly, but with a shorter shaft. It forms the metal frame of my tent, though we’re going to make a slightly different construct. “Take a piece of cloth and cover the dull end, and use the hilt of your blade to drive it into the ground, try to keep the height in line with the height of the rock, the cloth will help muffle the noise.” I continue to state. “Next take the remaining tent pegs and drive those into the ground as well, the two on the far end, drive them deeper into the ground, you’re trying to recreate the natural form of this rock with the pegs and the canvas from my tent, using it to cover the hole in the rock, thus making a tent like structure camouflaged as a bit of rock. And finally cover the canvas of our tent with mud, grass and leaves; it won’t be perfect, though it doesn’t have to be at night.” I grab my satchel and place it behind me, using it as a pillow as I slide backwards, carefully, I’m now lying on my back staring at the sky, or trying to, as it’s overcast and still raining.

“Dane, why are we heading to the capital? You mentioned the Chancellor… so we’re going to Khitaan? ” Mitch asks. As she is carefully hammering the metal spikes into the ground, like I asked her to.

“Yes. The king is dead, though he set things in motion, a course of action taken based on bad information, and we’re the only ones who know he’s dead, well the only ones not involved in his assassination. The conspirators can also still send messages posing as the king, to continue whatever they set in motion. The chancellor is the only one who can overrule the orders of a dead king, or the supposed orders of a dead king, at least until a new king or queen is officially proclaimed… I know, I know… it’s your call, though this is a good one, and I figured you’d go with it, but it’s your decision.” I reply.

“I get, I get it… we need to get the chancellor to announce the kings death publicly, so they can’t continue to use his fake orders, for whatever their purpose is. And to put a stop on what the king might have put into motion to begin with.” She says.

Mitchell continues to plant the spikes into the ground, she is very diligent, or careful I suppose. As she begins taping the final pole into place, she stops suddenly, and shoots me this look, an angry look if I had to guess. “You bastard… you don’t put anything to chance, when you take a dump, you have five exit-routes planned out in advance. This wasn’t merely dumb luck, You knew this was here, and you knew there was an exit this way…” I interrupt. “Yes, I knew. I carefully scout out any place i spend any length of time, I found this place years ago. And the alternate...” now Mitch interjects, as she continues tapping the final spike into place. “Then why didn’t you say that?”

“I’m a spy, I spend most of my time around people I literally can’t trust. When you get that used to lying, or simply never telling the whole truth, it becomes reflex. And I didn’t intend to lie; it just came out that way.” I reply.

She grabs the canvas from my travel bag, and starts to drape it over the metal spikes, “You’re an ass.” She states, dropping the end of canvas over the front of the opening, cloaking me in total darkness. I sit up slightly and reach for my satchel, I pull out my cigarette case… it’s somewhere around… there! I also search for my flint spark kit, I light yet another cigarette, as I take a draw the space lights up in an orange hue briefly & as I blow a small plume of smoke I state “I’ve always been an ass. Are you saying this is the first time you’ve noticed? And don’t forget to secure the canvas to the top of this rock with… more rocks, well smaller rocks.”
“Are you sure the chancellor isn’t involved, as of right now he’s the most powerful person in the entire kingdom?” Mitch asked through the wall of canvas. I take another long draw on my cigarette, and let the smoke fill my lungs, and once more my surroundings turn orange for a few spare seconds, then the blackness slinks back in along with my cold calculating thoughts, and I let go of the warm smoke, and it drifts before me in a puffy cloud, a slow moving puffy cloud. “I suppose it’s possible, though his newfound authority won’t last all that long, and if he tries to delay, or block the appointment… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t like to be him in that case. Unless he’s planning a military coup, though that wouldn’t fare all that much better in my opinion. It’s a hell of risk to take, and if this plays out exactly the right way, he only buys himself a small amount of time to be in charge. There are a lot of pegs to place, or hammer over the head, and a very short amount of time for him to do so, that is if he wants to retain power. Besides, Edward isn’t a gambler, in strategy, tactics, or coin… I just don’t see him being that reckless.”

“Edward??? You know the chancellor well enough to be on a first name basis?” she asks, rather stunned I guess. “Royal Messenger, remember… to help keep my cover intact, I do have to carry dispatches between courtiers, well… from time to time that is. I guess I do spend a lot of time among the king’s court, now that I’m actually thinking about it.” I reply.

“Just how much time do you spend actually spying, as it seems you spend most of your days socializing with nobles?” she chuckles a bit. “I’m always spying; as long as my eyes and ears are working so am I. Just what are you doing out there anyway?” I say.

“I’m trying to find some wood, tinder, and kindling... you know, for the fire. I can’t seem to find anything that’s dry.” She says.

“I doubt there’s a single dry log in this whole forest. At best you might find a few that are merely damp, not soaked through & through. Just bring what you have into the tent, the smaller bits might be easily dried out, as for the logs, that takes time. Regarding the smaller logs, you can use your knife to remove the damp parts you know.” I state.

“You’re just lucky that arrow’s gotten you out of doing the manual labor. Assuming it doesn’t eventually kill you.” She replies, carefully sliding along the edge of the rock, into the opening along the side of the tent. “Yeah, lucky… well, I wasn’t poisoned, that counts as lucky I suppose.” I state shrugging my shoulder, I’d shrug both, but with my bad arm and all, not a good idea.

I take a nice long draw on my cigarette, and once more our little tent glows orange for a moment, the glow briefly showering the space also seems to give Mitch a bit of a tan for a moment or two. I leave the cigarette hanging between my lips, as I remove the bedroll from my pack, it’s a thin little thing, designed to fit snugly in to my travel-bag, though I might as well be sitting on the bear ground, as my bedroll hardly lives up to its name. I begin to hand it to Mitch “Here, it’ll do you more good than me.” I say. She shakes her head “No, you hold on to it, you need to rest more than I do. And besides why would I want that flimsy thing when I have this…” she holds up the white cotton looking fabric from the boat, smiling contently. “Ah, never mind then… that does look far more comfortable then this sad looking thing.”

“We should change that dressing, it’s been a few hours, and it’s damp.” She states. “It’s only been two to three hours, though… I’ll admit it is damp. Ok, ok, fine… go for it” i say, shaking my head slightly, as she is staring at me in a rather unpleasant, disapproving manner. I carefully unsnap the chain holding my cloak, and slowly place it beside me, folding it with my only working hand. I begin to unstrap my belt of blades, and cuirass, though I’m shy one hand, so I’m having a bit of trouble. “Here, let me help you. Or you’ll be dead and buried by the time you finally manage to get it off. Sorry, bad joke… given the circumstances.” She insists. First she removes the sling holding my crippled arm. She carefully finishes the job with the straps and buckles, and removes my belt, the knife handles glimmer slightly, from the orange hue my cigarette is giving off, and Mitch carefully rolls it before setting it down. She then pulls the studded leather cuirass away. “You still wear that old thing? You must have been wearing it since the summer war?” She kind of mumbles out loud. “I may be a simple spy now, though in my mind… I’m still a Northwood Ranger, always have been… Huh, the summer campaign, called so by those who were there, everyone else knows it as the Winter War, or the Orcish Campaign. That always seemed a little strange to me.” now I seem to be mumbling out loud too. I take one final drag, and haphazardly squash it cold on the stone floor, once the embers finally die-out I release the smoke, I guess it was a pillowy plume, though it’s now total darkness were sitting in. “Um, Dane… now I can’t see what I’m doing.” She states casually.

There’s a metallic click as I open my silver case once more, and again a tube sits at the end of my lips, then the sparks fly off the flint, like fireworks in the dark. Finally the cigarette ignites, and the tent is dimly lit by orange once again. “I guess I shouldn’t put it out this time…” I state haphazardly. Taking and releasing a shallow drag. “Give me that.” She demands, taking my tube of flaming paper, and sticking it between her lips, smirking. Now, she starts to take a drag, though I guess the mix of tobacco & myrrh is a bit much, she starts coughing it back up for several seconds. “You… actually smoke… this stuff? How do you manage to stay conscious?” she asks, wheezing at first. “I’d go easy with that for your first few puffs, it’s not just the myrrh, the tobacco is harder than usual and imported…” I state. “Imported from where, the bottom of someone’s boots?” She replies, slowly pulling the chainmail over my head, and my red & brown shirt follows suit. Mitch is now beginning to unwrap the bandage on my left arm. “This isn’t going to feel pleasant.” She states. I grab one of my riding gloves, rolling it up into a gag with my good hand, and shove it between my teeth, as she finishes unrapping my arm. Mitch tosses the bloody rags haphazardly to the side, and begins folding a section of white cloth, it’s about the size of my hand, and she presses in onto the rupturing gash in my arm. If I had less self control I’d jump out of my skin, though I’m surprised I can muffle the sound of my painful grunt so effectively. “The arrowhead chipped bone Dane, that’s likely going to require an amputation, sooner rather than later…” Mitch says, rapping my arm back up. Now, she continues “The arrow entered the upper side of your shoulder, close to your arm… The arrowhead broke off and travelled down imbedding into the muscle, and hitting the bone in your upper arm. We really need to cauterize that wound, though we bought some time, because the smaller bits and pieces I’ve gathered outside are still too wet to catch fire.”

“Just what are those arrowheads made of? That shot came from just about the maximum range a bow can deliver, pierced the leather from my cuirass, then the chainmail, to windup that deep into my arm… that’s not normal.” I say, shaking my head. “Coal-Dust-Lacquer coating Elvish steel, you don’t see elven arrows like that anymore. The elves used to treat the steel that goes into their armor the same way. Makes for higher quality stock, also knocks up the price quite a bit.” She says, taking and releasing small puffs of smoke as she does so. “Pricey weapons, pricey equipment, pricey poisons, pricey people… whoever’s behind this has expensive tastes it appears.” I state, gesturing for my cigarette. She hands it back to me, and begins sorting the tinder for the fire. I begin to sort the twigs, and small branches. She starts to lay the tinder into the fire-pit, and I grab my flint kit, after placing the cigarette back between my lips. I hand Mitch the metal case, and she begins to let the sparks fly, as I’d have trouble with only using one hand… sparking a cigarette and a campfire are hardly the same thing. The sparks slowly ignite the tinder as Mitch is slowly blowing on the embers, and we begin placing the kinder strategically, at first. I look up at Mitch “Who uses arrowheads like that these days? They’re far too pricey for the king’s army, the royal guard, even the king’s personal bodyguard detachment… I can’t recall a force that stocks them, at least during times of peace.” I ask. “Don’t look at me, I wouldn’t know where to find a fletcher that would stock ‘em either.” She states, as we carefully nurse the flames, slowly placing a few of the larger logs to fuel the fire. The shadows around the tent seem to dance about a bit as the flames twitch, and the logs & twigs start to snap, and I’m beginning to remember a simpler, happier time… if only for a moment or two. I have a few images of my father taking me hunting along the coast, minus the crashing of the waves, though the rain outside the tent does seem to mimic the water droplets, from said crashing waves. He wasn’t a tall fellow, nor was he stocky; he did have a wide face, with soft features. He preferred a well trimmed & maintained beard & mustache, though his hairstyle could only be called short, unkept, and redish-brown. Simple hides fastened into clothing, and for not being big & stocky, he had a wallop of a laugh, meaning he could laugh so hard it felt like a punch in the gut to all who listened. I found I preferred using knives over a bow on such trips, it just felt more natural to me. My father never really got my preference, and I suppose neither did I in retrospect. I’ve never really been sentimental, at least about my past… I guess lonely campfires make me a bit nostalgic.

I'd also like to note, I first started writing this story when I was 9 or so, I left it to gather dust when I was around 13, there abouts. at the time, I had a few English teachers buzzing around in my head, all saying things like, don't recycle words, throw different words in there, mix it up. this book was kind of an act of rebellion, i'll recycle all the words I want, etc. I decided to keep it as close to the original text as I can recall, though unlike last time I have a light outline so I hope I won't be as easily stuck.

---edit
incase you were wondering, after 4 years of writing it was 6 chapters, and over 300 pages when I left it to gather dust.

[TUHD]

Note: I made this just now - anything I write 'for real' (eg setting I mentioned in my intro post) I use more time and care on

 

Spoiler

When Time Catches Up

 

Darkness. She knew instantly something bad was about to happen. When she got the invite, she should have foreseen this. Her friend since high school had been very vague in her description of what was going to happen on this evening. Was she out there - watching, waiting? She didn't know. She didn't care. Most important thing was that she got out of here first.

 

The light was shimmering. She was sitting in the room, accompanied by others. Others who made very clear her brother was in danger if she didn't cooperate. She asked again: 'What do you want of her?'. Silence again. Deadly silence. It really made her nervous. Whoever those people are, they aren't playing around.

Unlike she and her friend had done in the past. They had done so much things to others, together with their boyfriends at that time. Puberal things, but also nasty things. She didn't know who, after all those years, sought revenge - she only knew those men were hired by someone who did. Should she try to pry loose some information from her captors about whom held her? She could try - but she wasn't sure whether she wanted to. They had her brother. And now, thanks to her, they also had her friend locked up.

 

Light suddenly came through the wooden panels. Voices. Who? Why? Where? She heard people talking. No names mentioned. No reason. Only two phrases: 'He wants a report' and 'We have both'.

'Both'. Her friend. She was apparently not acting out of free will - or so it seemed.

If only she could get out of here. She tried. But the wooden panels were barricaded by something on the other end. And she couldn't get a grip on the panels to pull them back either.

 

They were talking on the phone in the other room. She heard them. She wanted to hear all of the phone call, but she couldn't from her position. She couldn't follow either - she was sure to be manhandled or worse by the grunts who were still in the room with her. The leader of the group seemed to be talking with someone else. Someone who clearly wasn't the employer of this group either. Someone who was on another mission like this?

While she was thinking about this, the leader of the group started a phone call with someone else. Someone important. From what she heard, it became clear to her this torment would end soon - one way or another.

 

Ending. An ending was coming. Someone important was coming. They were coming to end all this. Could she face this, in her dark cell? She didn't know.

 

Then he finally spoke to the both of them, in a loud voice: 'Ladies, my boss is coming. They'll explain it - and then you can leave. At least, that's what my boss said.'

 

She couldn't believe it. Leave? After an explanation? Why did they capture her and made her walk her friend into a trap?

She doubted it. Leaving? While they had entrapped her in the dark? She got the shivers. Whatever it was, she doubted this was going to end well for the both of them...

 

Edit: Spoilered

Modifié par TUHD, 26 janvier 2015 - 12:01 .

[Bethgael]

Okay, first bit of a first chapter draft of a current project, unrelated to DA. (it's a histfic with a touch of magic realism; needs edit, editorial notes removed). I almost posted the DA stuff, but my ego wouldn't let me. I'm an okay person but a shockingly insecure writer.

 

Working title: The Shining One.

 

It's a bit long, so I've tagged it so the tread doesn't get too cluttered.

 

Spoiler

Rome, 133BC

 

Ana watched them throw the dead in, and the River Tiber filled with corpses.

 

Senate-paid street criers were active and loud across the city. The "people's Tribune", Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, was dead along with his traitorous supporters! Gracchus had attacked Senators at the forum! Gracchus had intended to make himself king! The Senate had protected the people with a justified political riot!

 

No, cried others, Gracchus knew the Senate always intended to kill him and he'd been right! The greedy land owners had finally struck! The Senate showed their contempt for the people of Rome and the gods! All afternoon, the stories flew, but now the Senate fed their disdain--and Rome's anger--by disposing of their enemies in a way the gods could never fathom. As each battered corpse was denied proper rites like executed criminals, the true enormity of the Senate's actions was apparent.

 

Justified political riot? Ana wondered. No. It was murder, plain and simple, and no matter what the Senate said, she knew there would be a reckoning. And she did not plan to stay in Rome to see it. Ana cared nothing for Rome's gods or their rites. She just needed to know if one man was dead.

 

She couldn't see him. Maybe his family were able to collect him, after all. Ana doubted it. They were alone, now, a group of women and children bereft of their familial head, with the next in line away from Rome on military service in Numantia, against Ana's own people. His sister could have used her influence, but probably didn't have the courage to try. His mother, though, dignified and hypocritical, could have asked the Senate for an exemption. No, Ana, thought, they were too busy keeping themselves distant from the events of that day, and no one, let alone his family, would consider that their slave would act on her own initiative, or that she would have help from a countrywoman. Ana glanced at her companion, and frowned. The girl, dark of hair and eye, just like Ana, was quietly watching her rather than the water. Ana motioned her head towards the river.

 

Em shrugged, adjusting her load on ample hips. "This is madness, Ana. He's dead. Leave well enough alone. Finding him will not change the outcome."

 

Ana ignored her, and returned to her vigil.

 

Their blood and refuse stained the water in tiny rivulets, so much of both that the tang of iron and $hit filled the air, and the flies gathered, hovering in clouds until they could find a face to land on, before it sank and they were forced to crawl onto the next corpse. Most of the men would stay there, unclaimed; unwanted by those who no longer cared what became of them, or mourned by those who feared to look. They would bloat in the summer heat, their stench growing unbearably sweet, until the fish and the crows took them. The crows were already gathering, and Ana shuddered as their cries filled the air in a coarse mimicry of the yelling on the streets, and tried to ignore their diving and pecking and--she rubbed her arms and forced herself to keep watching. The birds would take the dead to The Beyond, she knew, but her few years in Rome had softened her, and she couldn't bear the sound of those clicking beaks.

 

The birds, though, took only who the gods willed, and the Tiber was wide, and deep, and its shoulders were broad. It carried some of the faceless mass past the crowded lane ways, emptying now due to the falling night and the fear of retribution, towards the farms past the inner walls; towards Ostia and the sea. Some of the dead were deposited on the bank, while others continued on their path, their silenced voices drowning with their flesh, but louder in her mind than the crows.

 

Go, they said, and she did.

 

And there he was. Ana watched the Tiber choose him, and drag him from the pile of bodies. She followed as best she could as he floated, face-up, until he reached a spot close to the bank. She had a natural strength enhanced by years of riding horses, but Ana was too short to grab him, so Em helped drag him from the water's grip onto the warm, muddy grass. Ana waved away the insects, expecting to see only death. But despite the stark bruises that cluttered his body, and the ashen pallor that diluted his olive skin, something stirred... There!--a breath... and yes, a heartbeat. And another. And... another.

 

How--? No. It didn't matter how he lived. It just mattered that he had. "Em, quickly."

 

Em opened the bag she carried. "Are you sure it's him?"

 

Ana understood. He was broken, patrician features no longer like his own, and in a final reproach, they had all been stripped, up to Gracchus himself, if the stories were true. It seemed they were. But, his face and his toga were only masks, and Ana didn't need those. She nodded. "Cover him."

 

Em hesitated, her eyes concerned. "Leave him. We can go. You have the chance to be free."

 

"Not yet." Ana motioned again for the linens. She dried him as best as she could, mindful of his twisted right arm--broken, probably, as he raised it to protect his face--and bruised sides, then covered him in a futile attempt to warm him. She would not return to that family, to his family. Ever. "Have you wished for freedom from me, too, Em? All these years?"

 

"No. I would rather be a fed slave than a starving freedwoman." Em handed Ana more linens. "And you always did me well enough. I can be a slave's slave, for a time, but you have other options. I never have."

 

Perhaps, Ana thought. But... "Not here. Not now."

 

"We could go home." Em pointed at the young man. "But to do that, he needs to be dead."

 

Home. The idea, one often considered but never voiced, made Ana pause, but she could not afford to think about what she'd abandoned. She fisted her hands in an attempt to stop them from shaking. "We could, at that." She didn't mean it. "I have other considerations. Besides, we would return to another siege." Scipio was outside Numantia by now, surely.

 

"But--"

 

"Enough."

 

"You owe him nothing."

 

"I am well aware."

 

"Then why not just push him back into the--"

 

"I said, 'enough'."

 

"Yes, mistress." Em's voice was wry. "Good to see you still have it in you, mistress." She paused. "Why?"

 

"I always said that when he died, it would be by my hand. I do not need the help of a mob and a river."

 

"I see." Em clearly disapproved.

 

"No, you don't. Now, help me drag him up off this bank. Carefully." The fearful had retreated to their homes and there was no one left to see except cart drivers, cutpurses and whores, now, but Ana needed to be sure. You could never underestimate Rome's night-dwellers.

 

Between the two of them, they managed to get him into a side alley, one too narrow to allow carts. Ana was gratified to hear him grunt, at least once, but it also meant they were doing him further damage. "We're going to need help," she said, once they'd laid him in the shadow of one stone-clad apartment block, away from any windows so that they would not be hit by anyone emptying their chamber-pots onto the streets below.

 

"I'll get Miccio."

 

Yes. That would do. Miccio was safe. "Do you need my knife?" Ana said.

 

"I'm fine. I have mine. I'll be quick."

 

"Keep to the back alleys, as much as you can."

 

"I'm not an idiot." Em's voice faded into the dark as she left.

 

Ana turned her attention back to him, unable to resist another touch to his forehead, gently twisting black silken strands of hair through her fingers. It needed cutting again. She frowned. His military training had served his body well, but it was his head injuries that bothered her. He would probably not last the night. Even if he did survive, no one could know who he was. She could not even bring herself to think his name, just in case the gods took it from her thoughts and carried it along the wind to another. They couldn't stay in Rome, either, although he would insist they did. Ana shook her head. Perhaps she should have let the Tiber take him. Perhaps she still should.

 

Yet, the river had clearly decided that he was her problem. "Gods," she said as if he could hear her, "you stupid, arrogant man. What have you gone and done?"

 

Of course, he did not answer. Neither did the gods--hers or his.

 

Ana sat back on her heels, considering. It simply remained to wait for Em to return, to pretend she knew what was to come next. Of all of the deaths she imagined, this was not one she could have predicted. How could she admit, even to Em, that for the first time since she'd arrived in Rome, she could not see her path?

 

Did they know? She listened, closely, but all that was left were the cries of the carrion birds; the rise and fall of people conversing, and yelling, and fuking, in their homes; and the clamour of wooden cart wheels on uneven cobblestones echoing off the walls. The birds did not speak for her, the people didn't care, and the voices of the dead were gone. She was on her own.

 

#

 

Numantia, 136BC

 

Ana gathered her robes and climbed the wooden stairs to the top of the stone and earthen walls, nodding her head to the soldiers' polite greetings as she passed. The summer wind brought with it the dust, and the flies, and the earthy scent of horses from the Roman military encampment to the north, as well as Numantia's own stables. She paused at the northernmost point. The camp, squatting on a small hill in the valley before her, mocked her with its permanence. Twenty thousand fighting men, her father said, and she hated everything they stood for. She hated those buildings, and their walled-in lines of wooden barracks, sturdier than the thatch-topped stone houses behind her. The Numantine Assembly, which included the head of Ana's order, received all the information they needed from their scouts and spies, and did not need her visions. So, why did she feel so compelled to watch that camp, every day?

 

Who was she looking for?

 

A voice cut through her reverie. "Priestess."

 

She turned. "Father. I take it you want to talk to me in an official capacity, then."

 

"Not at all, my heart. I wanted to see you."

 

"Why so formal, then, General Andobales?"

 

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that doesn't sound right coming from you, either, Ana." He smiled, then. "I would say that it is because I would like to keep Potia's good graces, but I am not sure she will need to do much work."

 

Ana's goddess was known by many names. Her father, like most of the Arevaci tribe's fighters, called the goddess Potia. Ana preferred, though, to know Her as Atanta, for it was Her simplest, and oldest, name, and it always made Ana think of what they had in common: a love of horses and the power of the wilds.

"What do you mean?" she asked her father. "It seems to me we need all the help we can get."

 

"I received word a short time ago that our allies are sending a thousand mercenaries to help our cause."

 

Ana didn't see how a thousand extra men would assist; Numantia would still be fielding half Rome's force. But, she held her tongue, and nodded.

 

"I must go now and speak to the Assembly on the matter." Andobales glanced at the Roman camp briefly. "You are old enough to remember when we crushed Pompeius. We have always held our own, and we will this time, as well. One Arevaci will always equal two Romans. You would do well to remember that."

 

"I have not forgotten," Ana said dryly as he left. She knew better than to remind him that, this time, Rome had taken her new husband from her just three months earlier. He would only tell her that Nereildun must have been facing a dozen Romans in order to die. She fingered the bronze and silver bracelet Nery had given her as a wedding gift, tracing the horse-heads with her thumb. It was probably true. He was a consummate warrior. That did not stop her from missing him, though. Even the memory of him spawned a yearning ache that made her wonder if the young warrior watching her was interested in a quick tumble behind one of the buildings at the base of the tower.

 

She didn't get to ask. Instead, her eye turned to an eagle that hovered over her head as if it was seeking her. It seemed to watch her for a time, then it soared down the steep mountainside west of Numantia, following the length of the river heading towards the camp. Ana's bones ached as the vision hit her: before her she saw Numantia, burning, flattened, Roman legionaries overwhelming the town. She could smell the smoke, and hear the cries of the starving as some were cut down by ruthless swords. She saw a single sword in front of her eyes, stood, motionless as it was raised--and the vision broke as the eagle cried, shrill, its call echoing across the hills like a bell. As if in reply, flocks of ravens and sparrows flew up from the river, hundreds of them, cutting and darting across the sky until they, too, headed north. And then, all was silent. And she knew.

 

This time, Numantia was going to die.

 

edited to fix paragraphing and to put my swear words back into the text. Yes, I know the eff word has a c in it.

[Peregrinus]

Night of the Rabbit

Spoiler

Night of the Rabbit

Bella Harpell really enjoyed being fluffy. Her rabbit form afforded her freedoms her human body could not give her. Her white and greyish coat was luxurious and she loved cleaning herself just so she could feel the soft fur on her body. The big advantage of it of course was that she could be very stealthy and eavesdrop on conversations without being noticed.
She had perfected the polymorph spell to a degree where the spell no longer started affecting her ability to remember her true form or the sensations of being in either self. Bella chuckled to herself at the discomfort of the Lords in their fuzzy selves. She grinned childishly to herself at the usual complaints especially from the wizard Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun. He was so serious all the time, so she couldn’t help but chuckle at his discomfort as he scratched himself. He was not quite used to having fur. The wizard definitely felt out of place in his rabbit form. Maybe he felt vulnerable due to him not being able to cast spells while changed or perhaps he felt that the form obscured his masculinity. Bella was simply the host, a timekeeper so she managed to amuse herself in the complaints while the Lords discussed various issues and edicts that involved various factions in Faerun.

Bella remembered back to when she had managed to trap one of Manshoon’s clones into a rabbit form while Elminster threw him into the gnome’s magical wooden sphere. Now, she felt the presence of the magic sphere once again. Unknown thieves had stolen the sphere hoping to free Manshoon’s clone from it without any avail. It had powerful magicks imbued upon it and only Elminster and a few others knew how to unravel that dimensional space within the orb. (Author’s note: Manshoon, a powerful archmagi formerly of the Zhentarim)

The black rabbit was not pleased at all. He did not know how long he had been trapped inside the orb. Manshoon the cute fluffy black rabbit was itchy.. He rubbed behind his ear with his back foot and thought about a another lost opportunity to escape his now prison. He had to admit Elminster was a clever old man. The puzzle lock outside the orb could only be opened by a bard. Being a warlord, he didn't know of any willing bards that would allow him to go free. Manshoon wasn't a weakling.. but there was only so much a strong evil rabbit could do.. He squinted in frustration and squeaked out a cry of rage. The other rabbits stayed away from him but they seem to giggle a bit at his despair. Nothing seemed to make sense in this place.. He could speak still but spells simply did not work or did not work like it should.. He was trapped and couldn't cause harm to anything within the orb. He had managed to catch one of the rabbits to question it and had accidentally strangled it to death. Ever since then, the rabbits gave him a wide berth.. Manshoon was unsure if they were truly rabbits or transformed like him. There was just no way to tell.. Was the orb bordering on a faerie realm? The meadow spread out for miles, and then beyond it, green hills and bountiful fruit trees.. Fields of wheat beyond that, and then more of what seemed like a cheery always summer like forests. All of the damn creatures could also speak but he could never get them to say anything that would be useful to him. He could hear the voices outside the orb as the meadows shook. This place was affected by outside forces. Someone was shaking the damn orb again. Manshoon shook his head in frustration and sat down on his hind legs. His ears pointed downwards, his big red eyes glazed over by boredom..

Where in the world is Mr. Muttons? 

Spoiler

Where in the world is Mr. Muttons?

The year 1385, Alban Arthan, the winter solstice. The tall pines were decorated with red and green ribbons this day as it was every winter solstice. bayberry candles were lit amongst the villages and could be seen dotting the roads. It was a holy day and the harvest had been especially generous this year. All was well in Shadowdale, Home to a one Jayne Laslo. The laslo family owned one of the larger farms in this community. 100 acres of maize and plentiful fields of grapes, and berries. The laslos very likely supplied majority of the inns along the main road in the Dalelands. Jayne’s father, Robert was proud of his son. Jayne worked diligently in the fields, and took pride in his handiwork, meanwhile training with various men at arms and adventurers who stayed in the Lofty Dragon Inn to find adventure in the many ancient ruins that surrounded the countryside in Shadowdale. Robert had raised his son with his second wife Angelica, as Mildred his first wife had died shortly after giving birth to Jayne. Jayne’s father had given up his adventuring days over a decade ago, and worked the fields with his now 17 year old son. Angelica was a kind and beautiful woman who treated her two men with care and much love. Jayne enjoyed the many sword duels with those he trained with, as he imagined in his mind what his father Robert’s adventuring days were like. He was confident the sage had picked him, not only because he was a childhood friend of Vatalonie but because he had gotten quite skilled with the blade. He remembered the days when his father had carved a wooden sword for him on a birthday and the two would spend the day together half playing and half practicing well into the evenings. “Yar, young seadog, Dread pirate Robert comes for ye! “ his father would shout in a deep throaty voice. Good memories..
Vatalonie was so serious, so emotional sometimes but always his presence kept her calm.. It was obvious to him there was something.. a spark within her..something different. There was an undeniable connection between them.. There were not of the same blood but still they were close even though they were complete opposites.

The day finally came when it was time for Jayne and Talon were to travel to the Academia in Arabel. There were fond farewells that day. Prior to them mounting their horses and heading towards the port, Robert opened an old wooden chest with a crest of two crossed curved swords. Jayne watched as his father removed what looked like sailor’s clothes, an old tattered black cape, a red and black scarf, and then finally a slightly curved sword, it’s hilt a polished steel bound with a bit of leather all the way down to the pommel. “You remind me of when I started adventuring , my son. Take my old sword and this scarf, may Tymora bring you much luck in your journeys and mostly importantly, much LOOT!” His father smiled and chuckled. Jayne laughed and hugged him. He would miss his family...

Jayne woke before the sun rose and watched the illumination hit the surface of the ivory tower. He sighed and then started preparation for the morning meal.. a bit of bacon, carefully sliced chunks of venison, added to the meaty broth heated with a pinch of garlic, salt, and chives..

This new form it had taken felt out of place and uncomfortable but surprisingly bland. Being Absolutely anonymous was a necessity so it would have to do for now. The buildings were tall to this new form but his vision, and sense of smell was vastly heightened. The people in the marketplace didn’t notice it at all. It grinned but it was sure no one actually saw it. It’s brown and black fur was warm in the sunlight. It’s new master was powerful beyond imagining. One moment, torment in the deepest abyss of the hells and next moment , freed from the clutches of a demon lord who stood over 8 feet tall and had the largest flail in it’s hand. Three vicious looking spiked obsidian colored pieces .

A deep black satin hood covered the being’s face and it’s hands wore gloves red as blood. Were those claws at the tips? Far as Iskkari could tell, it was a man but even with it’s sight, it could not see beyond the hood.. One thing did stand out with this new master.. The sword sheathed at it’s side. Thin, almost like a rapier but it’s hilt flailed out into what formed a jagged crown of sorts.. The metal of it was dull and dark as coal.. Iskkari shrank away from the blade more so then it’s owner.. It felt a hollow shrill voice inside it’s mind.. Instructions, concise and lengthy.. Then a flash of darkness, and it stood in what looked to be an alleyway. The evening air was warm, and flooding with the scent of sustenance.. Delicious aroma of flesh. It knew it would have to accomplish the tasks given to it, as this new master had placed a geas on it.. To fail would be to die.. But it hungered.. It would need to nourish first. No One saw it as it tore into the small creature’s flesh. It was a nimble thing but not quick as it. It didn’t satisfy Iskkari’s hunger completely but it would have to do for now.. It did not want to be detected.. It’s form twisted slowly into it’s victim’s shape.. It smiled wickedly. This body would do well.. It heard a small child’s voice in the distance... “Mr. Muttons!? Where are you, kitty? “ “Where in the world are you Mr. Muttons?” Iskkari meowed and smiled broadly. He would satiated his hunger soon..

Tale of Two Kittens

Spoiler

Tale of Two Kittens

Iskkari carefully dragged the small body into the shadowy corner of the alleyway. There were many alleyways like this one in the intertwined streets of the dock ward. It’s night vision saw the sails of many ships off it’s docks. The summer brought merchant and trade ships from all over the realms. All had trade agreements with the massive city. It was as if it existed as a crossroads for all nations. I suppose you could call it a place of amnesty. The City of Waterdeep was split into six distinct sectors, each with it’s own regent.
It licked the blood off it’s mouth slowly savoring the sweet blood of the small child. The sounds of hundreds of customers at the dock marketplace drowned out the shrill cry and whimpering of the child now laying dead in the shadowy corner. Iskkari decided to stay in it’s lithe form for at least a while longer. Who would notice a small black kitten in a city of millions?

A tall man with a perfectly trimmed mustache, and equally eloquent goatee stood basking in the remaining sunlight at the tower balcony. He quietly sipped a rather ancient calimshite wine in a crystalline flask. A silver ring with a green jewel reflected off the sunlight on his left hand, a similar silver ring but with a black gem adorned his right hand. The black silken robes he wore flowed almost unnaturally on it’s own; his grey cloak barely covering a bandolier of nine magical wands on his belt. Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun never left anything to chance, and he felt the presence of the otherworldly being enter into the city almost immediately as it arrived. He pulled a ivory figurine of a slim cat off one of his many bookshelves filled with spellbooks, lore, and other magical things. He whispered “Kathazul”, and the ivory figurine took a smoky form and then a grey lynx half the height of a man stood in front of Khelben. “Bring the doppelganger to me alive, I need to inquire it about a few things.” Kathazul gave Khelben a soft growl, and leapt out of the tower. It would hunt again, and it was happy.

Remnants of the Past

Spoiler

Remnants of the Past

The godblade slinked deeply into the goddess. Her scream echoed through the nations of Toril. The land trembled and shuddered as the weave started to unravel into nothingness. The weave was the backbone of the world. The magical threads of fate and destiny that tie all within its fold. The attack on the goddess was not by chance; it was planned, but the consequences were unforeseen . As the weave started to self destruct, the spiritual essence of Mystra fled to it’s mortal vessels. Lady Alustriel was the first to feel her goddess fall out of existence. She felt faint and almost lost her footing when the essence flowed into her. She knew someone had permanently severed the weave. Waves of energy and feeling of sorrow overwhelmed her. She cried out for her sisters..

Far from the high gates of Silverymoon in the Silver Marches, Elminster the Sage of Shadowdale, Dove Falconhand, and Storm Silverhand all felt their goddess falter and fade away. All of them felt her essence flow through them. The unthinkable had occurred. Mystra’s last resort had been utilized. Sylune’ , already a specter.. disappeared into the void. Laeral Silverhand Arunsun fell into a deep slumber as the weave untangled permanently. Green glowing points of lights reflecting off the massive obsidian flying fortress stared back at Lady Alustriel and then...

Alustriel woke from the nightmare. Her sleeping gown soaked in sweat. She walked out onto the balcony high above the Eveningstar farmstead in her newly formed ivory tower.
The cool air flowed through her hair and skin. The night air calmed her. The horned owl landed near her without a sound and whispered into her ear. Her ward had found her way back to her with possible allies and friends. Alustriel smiled.

Worlds away, Elminster, Dove and Storm Silverhand traveled through a sanctuary within the crossroads. Here, they might find the answers they were after. Much had changed since the Time of Troubles and it would take some time to find the knowledge they were looking for. They would meet with one of the plane-touched folk. They knew much of what occurred in the various corners of the multiverses.. If not, then the Gith.. but only as a last resort...

Sweat beaded off the forehead of Atrius. He wiped it off gently with his purple silk
handkerchief. A haze cast over his mind, he couldn't think properly. “what year is it?”
The red robed woman sat across from him in what looked to be a small library. There were books covered in spider web and layers of ancient dust.. She spoke with a soft tantalizing voice. “ It is the year 1388, Flamerule, teacher.” a smirk slowly appeared on her comely face. Her hand gently rubbing a few stray hairs on her smooth tattooed head. “You have been busy , Master Atrius.” The crystal throbbed quietly around his neck.. “Yes, I recall now. We still have much to do. Set course for Velen in Amn. There is one we need to awaken there. We have the necessary ingredients now. Atrius held up the light filled vial to the chandelier. “essence of irda.” His eyes glowed an eerie pale green.
(Author’s footnote on the Moonshae Isles and it’s local populace as of the year 1388)
The majority of the elves who had made the Moonshae Isles their home put their faith in Sehanine Moonbow, and Corellon Larethian. High queen Alicia Kendrick embraced the elves with open arms even though majority of her subjects were human. She ruled from the capital city of Caer Callidyrr on the Isle Alaron. The Isle south of Alaron, Snowdown is shared in part with Amn as per peace treaty signed by the Isles, Amn and Cormyr. This was due in part to the loss of the magical illusions which once guarded the Moonshaes completely. The Lady Erliza Daressin heads the rule of Snowdown in compliance with Queen Alicia’s wishes.
Not much is known of the Lady besides her upbringing in Amn and her obvious influences in her homeland. Only Alicia has ever met her personally as Lady Erliza is a very private individual. Much of the Isle of Moray and parts of Gwynneth are wild and there have been known sightings of formorians and other various creatures roaming it’s rugged lands. The elves reside in most isles exception being Moray. Many odd rumours persist of this isle.. Many claim the fog in it’s forests lead into otherworldly places and it’s small settlements of fishermen, and hunters keep little company. They seem to keep company with druids and it is unknown what beliefs they seem to have.

The rainbow gently touched the meadow where Gabriella and Runae practiced their swordplay. “look at that, Priestess , it’s wondrous, isn't it?” Runae watched her guardian smile ever so slightly. Her eyes gleaming almost silver in the sunlight. It was always good to see that she was not always brooding. It had been months before she had spoken to Runae at all. Gabriella had always trained her, but kept her distance emotionally. Gabriella seemed to be finally satisfied at the progress she had made with her family heirloom. To Runae, Gabriella was a mystery. She was tall but elven like in her movements. Her boots did not seem to make any sound at all. She blended easily into the forests as if the trees spread apart for her as she
walked through them.. almost like an invisible hand pushed the brush and branches aside. Her eyes were gray bluish hue, and her hair almost white but with a hint of gold. Runae didn’t want to pry and it didn’t seem to matter especially if her parents trusted her. But then there was that conversation she had overheard.. The oath.. The iron wrought unicorn necklace.. the wolf.. what did it all mean?
Runae stirred awake from the daydream. All that was left of Gabriella to Runae was the necklace.. Could someone tell her more of what it all meant? She looked towards the gleaming ivory tower towards Eveningstar and thought she saw a rainbow..

The desert winds howled and made it virtually impossible to see. Sirfu shouted at the half elf. “Do not breathe in the dust, elf! It will be the end of you. Follow close.” The sandstorm had come suddenly and engulfed the two who travelled on the very edges of the vast desert. The half elf nodded and motioned forward. Acastus kept his hand on his makeshift shiv. He would have died if it wasn’t for this desert dwelling orc but it was hard to trust an orc, especially an orc that spoke the tongue of Thay but then again he had fresh water. After a few moments, the winds slowed enough for them to converse. “elf, once we get to that ridge ..” Sirfu pointed towards sand dunes ahead of them. “ we’ll make for the forests in Narfell!” “make sure you ditch those rags you call clothes. Not many are friends with those from Thay.” The two prodded themselves to the dunes.. memory fading.. Last thing I hear.. “ RUN elf! I’ll hold them back. It was a trap.”
Acastus opened his eyes to the morning dew seeping slightly into his grave. He saw the others stirring awake.. It was time to move again. Some more disjointed memories had returned.. Maybe the ivory tower would provide some answers...

The blue flames licked at the sage’s beard. “You have to be more careful, lass. Ye emotions has much to do with what’s in you.” The fiery red haired woman next to the sage spoke softly. “I’m thinking her childhood friend Jayne does much to contribute to her calmness.”
The woman grinned at Talon. “Uncle, I am trying the best I can urggg..” Talon was a waif of a girl.. Not quite yet 15 but she had the gift, be it for naught or for good. Talon stuck her tongue out at Dove. “He’s my O friend and he does whatever I tells him to do . hmmm.. “ She smiled. Elminster and Dove both smiled back. So much like her mother and yet even more fiery in emotion. El hugged the girl he saw as his own niece. “now, now lass , we simply tease ye, because we wish you to do well.” The lessons continued well into the evening, and she eventually controlled a small flame by the sunset but it drained her.. The three walked back
into the heart of Shadowdale for a well deserved feast and to meet Jayne who was very likely already at the inn drinking some sweet mead. As they arrived at the gates, the aroma of spiced venison with a slight odor of vinegar, and garlic..

The training continued with both El and Dove. Talon learned how to shoot a bow, and learned the subtlety of languages.. The history of Toril under Elminster’s tutelage. And then one day.. Dove Falconhand and Elminster the Sage went to look for something..
The lessons ended, the world seemed to stop.. “Talon, wake up.. It’s time for breakfast.. We head towards Eveningstar today.”

Desolation of the Earthroot

Spoiler

Desolation of the Earthroot

In the dark recesses of Deepimaskar, Andarius stepped quietly along the fringes of what the dark elves refer to as the Sea of Buried Ice. Vast sharp ridges of death ringed the path of this underwater grotto. The subtle green glow of the fungal growths was the only light source for miles but then the denizens of the Underdark didn’t require light to navigate it’s various depths. (author’s footnote: Deepimaskar is the northeastern territories in the labyrinth that is the Underdark.).
Not many drow ventured so far into it’s wild wilderness, as it’s inhabitants would kill anything it sensed as prey or sustenance. Life below the surface embodied survival of the fittest and this is something Andarius understood well, and respected. He brushed back his pale grey hair from his face, and looked onwards towards the peak above the Sea. A way to the world above lay ahead. Even from this distance, He could see a funnel of dim illumination that peeked out from an opening above. He tightened his grip on his backpack carrying his child. She mumbled unintelligible words and rubbed his ear. He smiled back at her , She was a miracle. A sign of change.
Andarius had managed to find a different path for his child. He imagined the face of her mother. A moon elf priestess. He vividly remember the raid on the elven village. Something changed in him that day as he saw her kneeling, praying to her goddess. He was not a devout follower of Lolth, and her ways was not one of honor. He remembered as he slew his comrades who wished to harm her. The surprise on her face followed by acceptance to whatever may come. Andarius knew from that moment that he would love her forever. (Readers: There will be more details of events prior to the child being born and of the mother as time allows.)
He stepped carefully past the dead bodies of the Myconids ( strange race of mushroom men.) and climbed the tattered wooden ladder leading to the surface.
A cool breeze flowed from the opening of the cave. The stars shone so brightly in the nightsky, and the three moons highlighting the dense forest into a spectacle of shadow.
The child sighed softly, her twinkling eyes reflecting off the moonlight. She was delighted by the gentle wind blowing through the trees. Andarius knew that he had made the right decision. Even if it meant he would never see his beautiful child again, She would have a chance to live a happy life.
The elf startled Andarius as he blended out of the trees without a whisper. His pale white long bow reflecting slightly off his back.
“I can see the concern on your face , Andarius. I will not betray your trust or Lady Shiiara. I will give you my vow as a harper and an agent of Mielikki that I will find the lil one a home where she will be happy.”
“You have been a true friend to me for a year now, Phaarkas of Silverymoon. You looked beyond the hatred and my heritage. You’ve given me a chance to redeem and give my daughter a chance. Just promise me that you will give her this when she is of age. Phaarkas took the pendant from Andarius and carefully placed it into a secret pouch of his cloak. He carefully placed the child on his back and started to walk.. He glanced for a moment back at Andarius. “Just remember that the magic works only once, and once it’s activated ; the surface will be closed off forever and you will be trapped with those who are still loyal to Lolth..”
“I know, friend.. Let them find me. They will all pay for what they did to Shiiara. They will know the wrath of the true swordmaster of Fraaszumdin”

Looking into the looking glass

Spoiler

Looking into the looking glass

Have you ever seen a rabbit smile? It’s one eye was bright green, the other a dull moss color. It blinked a bit in the hole to adjust to the darkness. Bella rather enjoyed this fuzzy form. She bent her ears towards the sound above her, while tucking the round gold object back into her pouch woven into her current form. Regweld and Bidderdoo, her brothers had stayed in Mithril Hall to defend it’s halls with it’s dwarven inhabitants. That was over a decade ago and all communications had halted soon after. She knew what that meant. The halls were sealed by the Dwarven Clergy to stop all access to the surface. Couriers were sent throughout the realms to the ones deemed allies to the lands north of Cormyr. She listened while thinking of events past. Bella heard the whistling of two arrows impact a body, and then slight thump as the body fell to the ground. A groan and a slight shuffling of feet as she heard steel being drawn and then silence. She leaned her long ear towards the earth above her and heard a thick elven accent speaking the common tongue. “a another one.. where are you from, hunter?” “urgghh, I’ll tell you nothing, bastard elf!” Bella heard a gurgling and then complete silence. Sound of parchment being unrolled , then silence again and then she felt a magical presence.. The elf muttered to himself. “signed by the Pasha.. but why?” Bella heard a popping sound and the presence and the scent of the elf was gone. She was distracted easily in this form. She was going to be late again to the meeting. She hopped quickly downwards towards the meeting place.

Harkle tapped his long furry white foot impatiently. He adjusted the spectacles on his face and looked at a contraption mounted to the small hall. The fireplace danced it’s light upon it’s metallic surface as the gears on it shifted and one of the two think metal rods moved forward making a clicking sound. There were three others in the diminutive room with Harkle. A deep black rabbit with a scar over it’s left eye, a very long haired grey rabbit adjusting it’s right leg as if cramped, and a white/brown rabbit with a small crown upon it’s head, looking regal as a rabbit could. Bella hopped into the chamber , bowing her little head to the others. “sorry, I’m late again.” A meek smile appeared on her face. The black rabbit sighed and commented “ Harkle, why must we meet as rabbits?” Harkle replied” Well, oh great lord magician.. if I made the door any bigger , someone would notice and we wouldn’t want that.” A look of disdain appeared just for a moment on Harkle’s face. The white/brown rabbit chuckled and then spoke. “Let us get our discussions finished; I do have my nieces to entertain and I do wish to appear to them as a furry creature of the forest.. I would have much to explain.” The rabbits all chuckled and smiled and the meeting of the lords commenced..

Unseen

Spoiler

UNSEEN

The dark skinned man stepped lightly and surefooted in the dense forests of the Hullack. The road had taken west through the barren rocks of the Thunder Horns. His eyes focused downwards towards the tracks he had followed through the Anaurach and beyond to Cormyr. His orders were simple. Locate, identify, and track the Agents with the silvery dove and harp symbols. And then report back using the magical orb given to him by the tattooed one.

Nargoth was a talented killer and tracker. He was trained by the elite of the Calimshites, and contract killers of Amn. He had gotten weary of the whimsical musings of the petty nobles of his surroundings. Nargoth found himself in Thay after many years and landed this ludicrous set of contracts. He gently rubbed the ears of his victims weaved in to his bolt quiver. His prey was skilled but fell easily to his dagger and crossbow. In comparison to unarmed merchants and nobles, this particular prey satisfied his blood-lust. It had taken him much patience and skill to track the six so far into the summer months of flamerule. These Cormyrian fools had no idea they had a traitor in their midst. He smiled to himself. It had been almost too easy to get through the borders with the supplied false documents.

Nargoth focused and narrowed his eyes at the trail. His well worn dark green leathers hid him well in the forest. It was easier to see in the Hullack with it's vast sea of trees obscuring the sunlight. This elf he was tracking was going to be too easy. The trail was easy enough to follow like the others. This particular one had taken him longer then the others. His elven prey had traveled from Tilverton and moved south off the road into hills and now finally into the forests. The only thing of note on this one was the ivory elm bow the elf carried. The elf moved with grace and precision yet his boots betrayed him , leaving prints that Nargoth had easily retraced. He had almost lost the trail thanks to a traveling circus obscuring the elf's footprints after they had both departed Tilverton. “Stupid clowns”. Cormyrians and their idiotic summer festivals...

His brow furrowed at the trail. The elf's trail had become those of an elk.. His hand moved to his crossbow but it was already too late. He felt blood in his mouth as four arrows plunged into his chest pinning him to the tree behind him. His vision blurred but he saw a lithe figure approach him. An elf with long dark hair pinned into a pony tail, and that ivory elm bow in his hand . Nargoth saw the elf's silvery blue eyes and then the scarf around the elf's neck. Wasn't those the colors the Carnival was flying as it's flag? His vision dimmed and the last thing he heard was .. “ Stupid clowns, eh? “

Trials and Tribulations

Spoiler

Trials and Tribulations

The Year 1365, Nightal.

The sky was fluttering with shimmering white crystals of wet snow. The winds carried through the night swiftly and fiercely. The sounds of the wilderness was drowned out by the songs of the banshees. A shawl of chain and leather covered the man’s face, and his metallic ashen helm covered the rest of his head. His body was covered in a combination of dark steel and was completed by black chainmail sleeves. His tunic was torn and ancient but bore the ancient symbols that once represented the lord of Justice. His gauntlets clenched the stone casket as his thoughts wandered through the past. The creatures of the Lurkwood felt a chill in the air and it was unnatural. They ran to find shelter away from the wailing. Something dark had awakened.

“sir knight? are you alright?” A man with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail spoke to the esteemed Knight Captain of Myth Drannor. “I was lost in thought, Nevir.. I will be fine.” The Knight Captain Beltram spoke softly to the other knights, and pointed towards where the undead horde had appeared from. The dozen spread into defensive ranks and cautiously rode past the bodies of the skeletons and zombies that had assaulted them. The warhorses snorted their dislike of this place to the knights but followed their orders. “Captain, something doesn’t feel right about this manor. The horses seem to be losing discipline here. Something has them spooked.” “I know, Nevir. I felt a presence when the undead ambushed us. I don’t understand how they got so close without our priests knowing.” Beltram observed his fellow knights circle towards the large manor. He was told to bring the treaty to this place to the Amn ambassador. It was suppose to be a simple errand, not this unusual ambush. Loleth Manor was what the map indicated. He pulled his white furred cloak tighter to his body. It was unnaturally cold here. Too cold even with the snow coming up to their knees and the winds howling like a rabid wolf. Beltram beckoned to Nevir and the two slowly approached the dark manor, their weapons drawn.

Tears streamed from starry green eyes of the elven maiden. Her hands were bound behind her with a crudely shaped rope. Beside her was her daughter. A lass of mere 10 years of age also bound and gagged. Both sat on antique dwarven made dining chairs. A steel chandelier shaped like an owl was lit with many candles , casting the darkness away from the room, casting the two in silhouette. The room was squarish in shape, twenty five by twenty five and cathedral like ceilings. The owner of the manor, the ambassador laid behind them in a pool of her own blood with a dagger through her neck. It was no longer the Loleth Manor. A shapely figure knelt besides the blood. Her pointed tail curled slightly upwards. Her sultry voice echoed quietly through the room. “ Why did we have to kill her, Atrius? She was so pretty and polite. I wouldn’t have minded bedding her and of course you could always have.. “ A wide grin came across her face, her small horns slightly pointed forward. “Don’t be so distracted, tiefling. We have a task at hand and I can sense the knights from Myth Drannor are coming. Remember our agreement, tiefling. Kill Lady Amberyn in front of the lead knight and take the girl to the location I showed you and your debt to the Lich is done.” Atrius stared at the tiefling girl, his eyes glimmering green in the darkness. The tiefling shrugged and nodded her head and drew her slim blade from it’s sheath. “What did this knight do to your employer that you want his family taken care of.. ?” A strange smile appeared on the face of the one called Atrius. “It is in need of a champion and Beltram fits the role perfectly. Between you, myself, Beltram, and the pirate, we’ll be able to find what it requires. Get ready, tiefling. He approaches..”

“Those in thrall of the crystal will be corrupted absolutely.”

The jagged crystal cut deeply into Beltram’s chest. He screamed in agony as it bore into his chest like a dagger with sawteeth. He felt the blade draining him mentally. It was as if the crystal was taking his memories from him. Beltram couldn’t remember what happened after he confronted the tiefling and the sorcerer at Loleth manor. Everything was blurred and his mind was in chaos. He felt a slight wiggling sensation from his spine. All he could hear in his mind was “ shhhhh, just let it all fade into darkness. No need to remember. Now, if you would kindly hold your head back……. “

The shadows crept all around Beltram but there was a quiet , unemotional voice in his mind telling him to stay calm. “ I’m sorry, templar that I had to turn you into this but I do not have much of a choice myself in what I do. But listen carefully.. I’ve made plans and with your newfound abilities, you’ll be able to gather what we need to break from this entity that controls us both now….”

Sometime later in the outskirts of the all encompassing desert of Faerun, three shadowy figures walked their way through the sandstorm. The three wore leathery masks to keep the wind and deadly dust away from their faces. One was thin , obviously female but wore a hood over her head, a another towered over the other two as if an Oak amongst a sea of saplings, and the last wore dark clothes underneath his cloak, his eyes peering further away than the other two could see.

The woman turned to the one in dark clothes. “see? I told you it would be here.” A slight grin appeared on her face, her fangs glistening slightly even in the storm. The man nodded while looking at the glass tower they were close to now. The giant spoke finally. “ I wonder why this piece of glass is so important to the Pasha. It just doesn’t make any sense and my gut is telling me we shouldn’t be here.” “ And where is that damned dark one? He should have caught up to us by now.. At that point, the smaller man frowned at the giant. He gestured at the secret entrance in the smooth glass substance. He thought quietly about Artium and only could agree with Lanius, giant of a orc. He didn’t trust the shade, and probably never would. His reliance on power and manipulation troubled Acastus. Their organization was ruthless but only when absolutely necessary to achieve a goal or task at hand. Their last quarry together was what he could consider a civilian assassination yet Artium derived so much joy from torturing the woman as if a cat toying with a mouse. Artium claimed he didn’t care for politicians hence the long torture but Acastus knew it was simply his nature. His senses tingled entering the tower. There was something wrong.

“What are these stipulations on the contract?”

If shadows could scream, it definitely was doing so. This place the three had entered was unnaturally cold, and damp. Droplets of liquid fell with a loudness of a boot stomping on a stone floor. Their darkvision afforded them very little sight in this dark corridor. There were no visible light sources yet one could peer into it and make sense of the depth at least. The tiefling mouthed her concern to Acastus. “It’s too quiet here, you can hear my hooves.” Acastus nodded silently. He knew Loleth was dead on. It was an unnatural silence here. The winds outside seem so far away, and their footsteps seem amplified in this strange place. And he knew Loleth never made a sound with her hooves unless she wished it so. He strained to listen and tried to ascertain what was beyond the corridor. It was obvious that nothing had stepped into this tower in ages. The cobwebbed ceilings extended far and there was a odd shimmer above all around them.
Silence broke when Lanius spoke with his deep guttural voice. “Where is that damned shade?” He was to meet us here after the contract…” Loleth kept close by his side , watching the hall that they were now leaving. The hallway led into a massive crystalline stairway. One path led skywards while the other led downwards into a pit of darkness. The metal of it glimmered almost maliciously in the near darkness of the hall. No shadows were cast here. It didn’t bode well for the three. Their powers relied much on it.

Acastus was fairly certain that this place was magical in nature. Something was blocking his vision. His senses should have gotten used to the darkness by now, but it was still difficult to see and Loleth who usually saw darkness like daylight also was struggling to gaze into the darkness. It was Lanius and his keen sense of smell that noticed the strange metallic scent coming from below. “Acastus.. There is that scent the courier told us to look for. We should be getting near the target now. All they had to find this place was an ancient map, and a description of the target. It had taken them over a month to find this place. They were fortunate to find a sorcerer in Gwynneth, the main isle of the Moonshaes who knew of this place. An old wormwood tree box with mithril joints long as a man’s back. The Pasha was quite the collector and it didn’t seem out of place that he would want some old artifact to add to all of the other artifacts in his collection but where had he sent Artium? He had never sent the four on a task separately. Loleth took point and headed downwards, Acastus followed close behind her, with Lanius at their backs. The scent grew stronger as they descended down the glass tower. They moved downwards at a steady pace. The stairway seem to last forever. How deep had they gone? Acastus felt a twinge from the back of his neck, and he reacted instantly. “click, click, cliccck.” He leaned as black bolts with a vinegar odor whizzed by his face, barely missing their mark. Lanius, with agility odd for an orc of his size pulled Acastus by his cloak behind him while drawing his massive two handed mace. Loleth somersaulted forward and five flashes of metal sped away from her in a blink of an eye. They heard a deep gurgle and a language foreign to them. Lanius snorted and muttered “ damn duergar!”

The three saw a sea of movement from below. Loleth drew her ivory dirk, while Lanius moved forward after spitting in disgust. “bleech.. I hate the scent of dark dwarves.” Acastus moved a few steps back and drew his short bow. His senses were still tingling . It wasn’t just the duergar here. There was something giving him a migraine.. It was if something was digging into his head. Globes of darkness appeared all over them and complete darkness surrounded them. Acastus heard a crunch as Lanius hit soft flesh with his mace and a deathcry from one of the duergar. He saw Loleth blink out of existence and then heard the gasp of the few duergar nearest to them. Acastus closed his eyes and relied on his keen hearing. Two arrows fired towards the duergar and he heard a grunt as both arrows connected with an audible thunk. The familiar sound of metal against bone and sinew. Acastus put away his bow and unsheathed his short swords. He heard Loleth gasp for air and then silence. He heard a loud thump as Lanius fell unconscious to the stone floor. Acastus felt a sharp pain as something begin to dig into his thoughts.. Thoughts he had kept locked away. The darkness started to fade and he saw Artium with a slight grin on his face, the box in his hands.. Standing next to him, a trio of tentacles faced monstrosities with dim glowing yellow eyes, wearing black robes. His limbs felt limp and he felt his swords slip out of his hands. The world begin to spin as he realized the mist all around them, the scent of rusty steel imprinted in his nostrils. Then it went black.

“The seas of fate”

“thuump” “thump” “thhuump” Acastus felt his heart pounding in his chest, and felt the bright light on his face. The shimmer made his eyes strain, and it made the sharp pain in his head amplify to a fervor. A shadow crossed over him blocking out the light. His small shiv was in his hand instantly as it gently grazed the metal armor it touched in front of him. “Relax, you are safe for the moment. I mean you no harm.” The man’s light blonde hair woven into a long ponytail was what Acastus saw as his sight started to adjust to the sunlight. He could smell the morning dew upon the ground, and the scent of horses nearby. The human was well built. That much was obvious. The full plate armor he wore bore the insignia of two lions holding a shield. A cormyrian knight? Where the hell were they? “Are you well enough to stand?” the man asked.
Acastus glanced around anxious of where his companions had gone. “The others who were with me.. did you see them?” He sat up slowly as his limbs felt numb and his head continued to beat as if someone was pounding his head with a set of clubs. He still had his gear with him at least. Well, mostly everything. His secretly sewn pouch in his leathers was gone and with it , the last payment paid in diamonds by the Pasha. “You were alone, with your face in the river. I would have not seen you if it were not for Mr. Wallaby here.” He motioned to his brown and grey warhorse who also had the trappings of the twin lions holding a shield. “I am Nevir, a Knight of Suzail.” “The Sword is to the north of us and we are just west of the farsea marshes.” (The southern ridges of the Anaurach is also referred to as The Sword)
“My patrols lead me through here. You are very lucky I happened by, it looks as if you’ve swallowed quite a bit of the swamp waters.” Acastus tried to recall what happened. He remembered seeing the trio of hideous tentacle faced creatures and then a sharp pain in his head as if needles were being thrusted into his skull. Loleth confronting Artium with her daggers, and Lanius falling into a depth of darkness. And then flashes of light, a weight on top of him, sound of metallic boots, crunching of bones, gurgling choking sounds and then a voice whispering “if you would kindly hand that over.” He wasn’t sure if it was all in sequence.

There were other flashes mixed in with those images. The cold night air as he low crawled through the retinue of Thayian patrols through the sandy flats to Narfell, just west of Thay and then the dead run into the forest of Lethyr. He could hear the horns ringing in the distance. Very likely, The Red Wizards had discovered the body of Sextus and sent patrols and their scrying wizard eyes to find the culprit. It’s in the forest of Lethyr where He first encountered the odd little halfling named Silus. Without Silus’s maps and his supplies, Acastus might not have made it out of Narfell that evening. Dried bread, and sour wine made for the meal that long evening but it was the first taste of freedom and he liked how that felt. Acastus found out a few things about the outside world beyond Thay and realized that There were others like pappy who could be trusted. He figured out later that Silus was a Harper agent, and their lives tend to get very complicated very quickly. With a hand drawn map, and some dried rations, Acastus parted ways with Silus as the halfling was headed due eastwards where he did not want to be. His destination would be Uthmere, a coastal city where he could find a ship called the RavensClaw where he would find a passage southwest far from Thay.

Acastus shook his head and focused on the present situation. “I could take you far as Tilverton if you wish.” “ I do have some supplies I could part with if you wish to venture through elsewhere.” He had to locate his companions and find out what Artium had done. Acastus took the knight’s generous offer of supplies and the knight Nevir bid him farewell with a knight’s farewell. (a fist across the chest and a bow of the head) Now that he knew his whereabouts, Acastus found a shadow to jump into. The darkness enveloped him and propelled him a long distance to Memnon, city just outside the Calim desert. He wasn’t sure what to expect, as he had never failed a task assigned to him. How much time had passed between the City of Shade and the farsea marshes? The shadow door placed him on the outskirts of the city of Memnon. It was evening when it deposited him away from the general populace near a shadow cast by a torch of a guard outpost. The dark path had saved him two weeks of travel time. Acastus overheard the guards at the outpost. “ a rather high bounty by the Pasha.” The other guard spoke “indeed it is, especially for one of their own.” “Well, the Pasha has no tolerance for betrayal.” The first guard responded “ It must have been quite the treasure for them to betray the Pasha.” “Aye, hard to believe but when a reputable wizard comes bearing such a news, it’s hard to dispute.” It’s then Acastus saw the wanted poster. It was a resemblance of him, Loleth and Lanius. Wanted alive for trial and questioning on whereabouts of the 9th shard.. Acastus didn’t know what that meant but is that what was in the wormwood box?

More memories of the past distracted him as he pondered the situation at hand. A year had past since his escape from Thay. Acastus had managed to reach the RavensClaw where he met her captain. One by the name of Robert Laslo, also known to the shipmates as the Dread Pirate Robert. Acastus was never certain why he was given such a name as Robert was a polite soft spoken captain and was certainly accommodating to him. The crew obeyed his orders unquestioningly so there was an aspect to this human he could not outwardly see. Acastus was not sure why but he felt at home on the decks looking out to the sea. They had seen much in their voyages. The many coastal cities and towns circling the fallen stars, well as their many encounters with other corsairs which taught him much of close quarter battle. The lessons that Robert taught him in tactics, use of small weapons, well as the many aspects of sailing. The RavensClaw always dropped off in a port in Dalelands where Robert would return with his son Jayne. Acastus learned to trust the crew, Robert and Jayne became an adopted brother to him. And at the port, he would see a girl close to Jayne’s age, already blossoming into full womanhood waving goodbye on their journey back out to sea. Attractive for a human girl but there was something about her that bothered Acastus. It was if there was an unnatural fire in her eyes, hungering to spring forth and set things asunder.

And then the fateful day arrived with a one eyed man named Elias and a ship called the Shimmering Maiden.

“Into the darkness”

Green eyes of the man sparkled wildly in the sunlight, and his unkempt hair whipped about as if it were a wild pony roaming about. Elias looked around the dock and pointed directly in Acastus’s direction. “He’ll bring about the citadels of the fallen ones.” The ships, the “Shimmering Maiden” and the “RavensClaw” were docked side by side. Acastus caught wind of the not so subtle outcry and slowly glanced at the man. It felt as if time simply slowed down to a snail’s pace. He heard whispering in his mind. “This is your memory, it is the truth. You will remember nothing else.” The hissing brackish voices overwhelmed his other senses.. Acastus felt the damp cold stone under him. The voices were all in his mind, giving him a miserable migraine. His vision was blurred but he could make out the chains holding him in place. He listened to his surroundings carefully as his vision was blurred and he could not distinctly make out anything except simple shapes in his surroundings. Three voices, thick in accent, and one clear, cold, and calm voice amongst them is what he heard. “so this netheril device will drain his ability with time so I can transfer it to one of my others?” Acastus heard guttural indecipherable voices respond in a language he could not understand. The calm voice spoke in the guttural tongue and then paused briefly.. “I’ll need to adjust the device.. You say that the alchemist still lives? ah, yes that would make sense. His daughter would make for a good hostage.” “Well, for now we can simply implant the device, and hope the entity does not damage the ability of this one.” The loss of memory is unfortunate though. His knowledge could have been useful assuming he would be willing to part with it.” Acastus heard his own screams as he felt a sharp jagged blade gouge into his back. And then felt oozing tentacles touch the sides of his forehead and a flood of memories. He felt something slithering inside his back, and then to his neck, and an overwhelming pressure in his head. Then darkness came.

The cool breeze awoke him. The slow shifting sound of the planks on the ship relaxed his muscles. Acastus looked up and he found himself laying near the bow of the ship. A slight migraine dulled his senses and he slowly sat up to a man standing near him, holding a mug of steaming liquid. “The journey is underway, are you alright? You’ve been laying here for quite some time. The crew felt I should check on you. I’m Captain Lorkhan, and you’re on the Shimmering Maiden”. “Have a rest, we have a long journey ahead. Here, have some Cormyrian willowwood tea. It’ll calm your disorientation.” Acastus nodded and found himself sipping the tea. How much time had past and why did the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He looked around and saw that there were other passengers. Why couldn’t he remember? A young olive skinned elven girl balancing on the ropes above, a human with a well trimmed mustache and beard, dressed in seaworthy clothing and leathers, a tall stern woman with a cloak hiding her face standing near a comly elven priestess (by the looks of her) dressed in a velvet long dress, ones usually worn by the nobility, a human woman, shapely with curly red hair standing near the side. It all looked so familiar but something felt off about the entire situation.

A voice at first just a whisper caught Acastus’s attention. It became louder as the words kept repeating over and over again. “You must wake up. don’t let them dig into your thoughts. Wake up! block their thoughts with your will. Think of something, anything..” Everything faded and he imagined a face. He saw a woman, her shapely lithe form , her perfect calm smile, and her eyes sparkled softly in the sunlight.
“That’s it. break free before they return.” He felt the shackles loosen around his wrists and saw the green eyed man looking directly at him. Then he felt the cold damp stone floor of the space there were in. Elias hastily handed Acastus a crumpled up piece of parchment. On it a name was written.. “Robert Laslo”.

“light into shadow”

The green eyed man blinked out of existence. Acastus managed to read his lips before he faded. “stay alive”... He vaguely remembered a package.. It was important that he took it back to Calimshan. He wasn’t sure why but it held the answers to what was happening now. His memories took shape in blurry images. Why was the Pasha a woman? Or was it the Pasha? Who was it that he was working for? The only clear thing in his mind was the shape of the package. The grain of the wood was coarse as if it was built in a hurry. There was magic coursing through it. He distinctly remembered the odd tingling sensation on the back of his neck when he lifted it to put it in his travel pack. He carefully folded the crumpled piece of paper.. “Robert Laslo”? who was he and what was the relevance? Only seconds had passed since Elias had vanished. He heard a sound in the diminutive room he was in, and his hand instinctively grasped an object off the hay strewn floor. There was blood, and a not so subtle shriek of a giant rat dying. He held a jagged nail in his hand. The nail was through the rat’s skull and Acastus was poised to strike if there were more but there was but the one. He was famished , and stripped a bit of the rat’s flesh for sustenance. It wasn’t the absolute worst thing to eat.. He recalled it had been worse in the past. Small snippets of memories flooded his thoughts, and he could gather parts of the past when he escaped Thay. Acastus carefully glanced around his surroundings. Water dripped slowly off the damp ceiling, echoing loudly in the small chamber. He saw a small slithering creature donning what looked like a seashell slowly poked by him into a hole in the wall opposite of the metal bars that blocked his way. He saw what looked like glimmering of light from a small crack in the ceiling. His thoughts wandered wildly on his surroundings, his past memories, and the green eyed man. It was hard to distinguish what was real and what was illusion. Perhaps a bit of both? It made Acastus uneasy. His powers of observation had always discerned something. or far as he knew, they always did. The metal bars were too close together and it was impossible to see clearly what was actually beyond that barrier. A migraine interrupted his train of thought.. He heard what sounded like a quiet dull throbbing in his head and then he was no longer in the damp room. He felt cold air in his lungs but it was dark. It was as if the landscape had turned monotone. The grass appeared white, and the skies were completely dark.. Acastus heard whispers around him. It was almost a chanting. It lured him forward in the strange alien environment. Various shadowy shapes shifted all around him, moving in and out of place, as if they were out of sync. Blurry remnants of creatures and beings fluttered in and out of existence. Then, he paused as his breathing seem to slow and he saw the breath exit out of his mouth in slow motion. “How curious, a another walker enters my realm”. A darkness spoke and Acastus felt his limbs stiffen and freeze. The cold metal claws dug into his shoulder and sharp pain caused his entire body to tremble. He kept himself calm by allowing his breath to come naturally.. Why did this darkness call him a walker? “Oh, it’s you.. You look.. different. How odd. You don’t recognize me, do you? Acastus narrowed his eyes and then he saw the lightless visage. Two glimmering points of red orbs glaring back at him.. He could hear his heartbeat louder as it got closer...And then he heard a another heartbeat add to his own, and then a another.. His head erupted into pain.. It felt like he was falling forever as he watched a figure dressed in silver approach the darkness. The light was so bright. It was coming from the figure. Acastus heard a deep resonating voice speak. “He is one of us now, away with you!” He heard a shriek and vision faded..

New: Part 1: The Crusader 

Spoiler

The claymore in the general's hand slipped out of his bloodied hands. As he surveyed the battlefield covered by tattered cloaks and armor of the fallen , he took a moment to take a breath. His armor felt heavy upon his breast and the gash in his breastplate pressed uncomfortably into his chest. Three gashes had stripped two of the three leather straps on his left side. Grinus felt his hot blood slowly oozing forth upon the ground. The greyish monstrosity laid dead, still with his daggers embedded in it's neck. He knew this may be his last battle. How many battlefields had he fought in? His legion, brothers in arms were all dead or were near death nearby. They had held their ground, this sacred chapel was safe, for now. 100 crusaders had stayed strong for an entire day against the horde of thousands. Where had these fiends come from? Why was this particular chapel so vital for the inquisition? So many things wandered through his mind. Grinus groaned as he managed himself to one knee and looked above towards the hill. Flames licked the trees and the grass. The smoke hung heavily and it was difficult to see. There was distant sounds of battle in the howling winds.  With all of his strength, he used his claymore to stand and make towards the sound.

     Grinus leaned in close towards the creature's body and saw what was left of a brand. It was crude as if the strange circular insignia was burned in with a jagged piece of metal. The attack on the fort wasn't so random after all.  These things had a master or perhaps even masters. 

     The acrid smell of the smoke filled his nostrils. It mixed with the blood and dirt in the field.. The smell of death. 

@Bethgael  Your writing reminded me of a great show on HBO called Rome. You're not just okay, you are great!  

[Fundamentalist Nail]

Here's an experimental story that was actually the last major thing that I wrote.
It's meant to be a 'self-aware', postmodern, (insert wanky literary device here) type thing.
 
As per Bethgael's story, I've put it in a spoiler tag as it's pretty damn long.
 
Hope you guys like it, and don't expect to find any meaning in it, hahaha!

 

Spoiler

Here You Are

 

There you are, seated uncomfortably on one of those bar stools that you can’t pull out from the bar itself, due to the fact that it is cemented into the ground. A song with the lyrics “They Don’t Play this Song on the Radio” plays on the radio.
I don’t know whether you drink or not, but whatever the case may be, tonight you have indulged in several Schnapps shots.
The bartender—a diminutive, purple-haired, very intoxicated sixty-something-year-old woman, I believe she’s called Anika Jones, begins to pour you another shot. You place your hand over your glass in protestation, but Anika either doesn’t notice in her drunken stupor, or deliberately ignores you for the same reason. Schnapps spills all over your hand.
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re more drunk than me!’ You shake your Schnapps off your hand.
Anika fixes you with a confused, empty look. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a ten cent coin, flips it and puts it back in her pocket. ‘Not quite,’ she says, and takes a long swig straight from the bottle. She wipes her dripping old mouth with her washcloth.
‘Jeez,’ you retort ‘I hope you’re going to get another cloth to wipe those glasses with now.’
Anika gives you that same vacant stare and follows through with the same coin-flipping routine. The Schnapps-soaked cloth is plunged back into a once-almost-clean schooner glass.
Bemused by the bartender’s display of apparent luck-based decision making, you decide to question her reasoning: ‘What was all of that for?’
Anika stumbles over her tongue as she tries to speak, ‘All of what?’
‘The coin flipping!’
‘It’s really not that difficult. I flip the coin, and if it’s heads I do one thing, tails the other.’
‘Yes, I know that. But why do you flip it? Why not make the decision yourself?’
Anika Jones frowns and continues un-cleaning glasses with that dirty cloth.
It’s clear she won’t answer the question, so it’s probably best that you drop the conversation. Besides, you don’t want her to waste any more Schnapps on your hand. You leave a couple of notes on the bar counter—$30 should about cover it, right?—and leave the bar just as the song on the radio ends.

There you are, in the wet night. Reflections of streetlights shine on the recently rained-upon road, like streaks of running, iridescent mascara. The road is crying, you think. It is tired of being run over with little choice in the matter. During the sunny days, it composes itself while unforgiving tyres roll over it, but then there are just some days when it becomes too much, and the road weeps for its condition.
You curse yourself for thinking such a stupid thing and continue your walk home. The Schnapps has made it difficult to maintain equilibrium and you find yourself accidentally stepping off the side walk and onto the road. You catch yourself on the verge of apologizing to the road for being so inconsiderate when it is clearly going through a hard time.
I am unsure whether the drinks you had earlier were spiked with some mind-altering drug, but whatever the case may be, your obsession with the road and its feelings are bordering on disturbing.
A cold fire presses against your neck.
‘Don’t make a sound,’ a voice growls in your ear.
This may be the first time you have had a knife held at your throat by an unknown assailant at night, but I won’t make assumptions.
A hand reaches into your pocket and removes your wallet.
‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’
A long silence ensues.
You hear the mugger mumbling what you think is ‘Eeny meeny miney mo.’
‘What are you doing?’ you are not so much afraid as you are confused.
‘Shut up! $hit, now I have to start all over again!’ The mugger begins the rhyme again, louder this time.
The knife freezes against your skin, colder and colder. And then you feel sharp, painful, relief as your hot blood warms you from the inside out. A pulsating, warm, red spray soaks your clothing, drips on the pavement, blends with shiny puddles of rain. You can’t quite comprehend what it happening, you know for sure that the mugger will be dissatisfied with the contents of your wallet. That thirty you gave to Anika was all you had on you at the time. Somewhat satisfied with the knowledge that the mugger won’t get a cent out of you, you are able to die in a state of relative peace. The road cries for your life, nevertheless.

There you are, dead in a pool of your own blood and stripped of your wallet. The wound that let the blood escape is a good one. It’s an almost surgical cut, very neat I would say. The mugger has retreated from the scene, but it doesn’t concern you that much. You could always report the theft to the credit union and they would sort something out, but it’s not really a top priority, considering you are dead. It is hard to say how much time has passed between when your throat was slit, and now, but it is definitely day time. The road has gotten over things, for now. If you had the ability to feel, you would notice a prodding sensation administered by a rubber-gloved finger belonging to a forensics investigator. Since you can’t see her (being dead), I’ll describe her: she is quite a tall woman, accentuated by her black, high-heeled shoes. She wears very small and impractical glasses that sit on the tip of her sloping nose. She has three children, she likes Joni Mitchell and potatoes au gratin, and her name is Regina Cohen.
‘Well it’s obvious what the cause of death is,’ she says in jaded way, ‘classic murder robbery. Knife to the jugular and—’ she snaps her fingers to indicate that the next step in the process was your unfortunate death.
‘Any idea who the murderer is?’ says her partner, an unimportant person who I won’t bother to describe.
‘Not really. It’s not worth chasing up, to be honest. Whoever it was didn’t take the wallet, so I guess it’s not all bad news.’
‘Noted. So…which one of us has to do the paperwork?’
Regina produces two matchsticks and snaps one in half. Her partner draws the shorter of the two and groans at the prospect of writing up yet another murder robbery report.
If you were living at this point, it would be some small comfort to know that you still had your wallet.
Your body is removed from the scene of the crime, not far from Anika’s bar. She’s probably nursing a savage hangover by now.

There you are, eyes closed, hands over your chest, all dressed up and one place to go. Your new home, a modest coffin, blocks out all light and sound and smell. You wonder, as you are lowered into the ground, if this is going to take long. You’ve never enjoyed cramped, dark places. You wonder why you haven’t gone to heaven or hell yet. They exist, right? I mean, it’s got to be one or the other, surely?
Maybe you’ll get to flip a coin or snap a matchstick to decide which one you’ll spend eternity in, or maybe God makes that decision. I don’t know if you believe in a god, but whatever the truth may be, you haven’t met one yet. Instead the ground surrounds you in a moist, earthy embrace. The ground is very gracious to welcome so many people so often—I think we should thank it some time.
You wonder how you are able to wonder at this point in time, being dead.
Several hours pass and still nothing happens. Then you understand the permanence of your condition. There is no way out of this earthly prison. It will take time to grow accustomed to the taste of dirt.
You find it unfair that Anika, your murderer, Regina, and even her unimportant partner had the opportunity—the luck, perhaps—to play with inevitability. I don’t know if you believe in fate, and I honestly don’t think you know if it is fate or not.

Here you are, a network of choice. A matrix of decision. A tapestry woven from experience. Cause and effect. And yet with you it is either/or. Heads or tails. With you it is binary. You are not a road, but you lived like one. But it is not your fault.
I don’t blame you. I blame them.
They, the ones who decide for you. Don’t worry though, they might not play that song on the radio, but it will play regardless.

 

And here's my nautical 'erotica'. It wasn't actually intended as such when I wrote it, particularly when part of the larger story. It's actually meant to be about isolation and madness -- the narrator lives in solitude in a lighthouse and grows to hate it, so he ends up being consumed (mentally and literally) by the ocean.

 

Spoiler

 Salted Love 

There’s more to the sea than salt and water, though it may taste that way at first. When I’m here, I can taste the earth and I can taste time. Most keep their eyes closed, afraid of the salt, not letting the sea in. When you invite the sea, it treats you well. Better than any man or woman. I open my eyes and let the salt water ravage and blur my sight, but my vision is not impaired—this is just another way to see.

I descend to speak with Poseidon. The great sea god sits on the rocks beneath a lighthouse—a cold, hard, wet throne. We blow bubble rings that drift up to the cruel surface. I ask him how to be happy, and he gives me a shell. I hold it to my ear and inside it is the ocean. To be happy is to be here.

Have you ever been loved? Calypso loves me like no other has. When I breathe in her wet, suffocating presence, my skin prickles. She runs her cold hands over my chest and bites at my ears. We sink into the dark. Our clothing floats around us, suspended like jellyfish. I suck her neck and swallow a lungful of her. I erupt—a geyser in the depths. This is happiness, I whisper to Calypso.

Mer-people kiss at my body. They stroke away the tension and pull me lower, far away from the unkind place above. The unhappy place. Poseidon holds his hand out to greet me. Calypso sheds the seaweed draped over her shoulders. The sea takes me in its arms, and I am happy. This is where happiness is. Poseidon tightens his grip, Calypso ties her seaweed around my neck. They pull me under and drown me with their salted love.

[Invisible Man]

I like the whole spoiler tag idea. & btw bethgael I loved your story. I'm not as fluent with roman history, or perhaps not as fluent as I should be with it. is that a work of fiction, or a blend of fiction & nonfiction? anyway, I like it, it's good.

[Peregrinus]

Here's an experimental story that was actually the last major thing that I wrote.
It's meant to be a 'self-aware', postmodern, (insert wanky literary device here) type thing.
 
As per Bethgael's story, I've put it in a spoiler tag as it's pretty damn long.
 
Hope you guys like it, and don't expect to find any meaning in it, hahaha!

 

Spoiler

Here You Are

 

There you are, seated uncomfortably on one of those bar stools that you can’t pull out from the bar itself, due to the fact that it is cemented into the ground. A song with the lyrics “They Don’t Play this Song on the Radio” plays on the radio.
I don’t know whether you drink or not, but whatever the case may be, tonight you have indulged in several Schnapps shots.
The bartender—a diminutive, purple-haired, very intoxicated sixty-something-year-old woman, I believe she’s called Anika Jones, begins to pour you another shot. You place your hand over your glass in protestation, but Anika either doesn’t notice in her drunken stupor, or deliberately ignores you for the same reason. Schnapps spills all over your hand.
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re more drunk than me!’ You shake your Schnapps off your hand.
Anika fixes you with a confused, empty look. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a ten cent coin, flips it and puts it back in her pocket. ‘Not quite,’ she says, and takes a long swig straight from the bottle. She wipes her dripping old mouth with her washcloth.
‘Jeez,’ you retort ‘I hope you’re going to get another cloth to wipe those glasses with now.’
Anika gives you that same vacant stare and follows through with the same coin-flipping routine. The Schnapps-soaked cloth is plunged back into a once-almost-clean schooner glass.
Bemused by the bartender’s display of apparent luck-based decision making, you decide to question her reasoning: ‘What was all of that for?’
Anika stumbles over her tongue as she tries to speak, ‘All of what?’
‘The coin flipping!’
‘It’s really not that difficult. I flip the coin, and if it’s heads I do one thing, tails the other.’
‘Yes, I know that. But why do you flip it? Why not make the decision yourself?’
Anika Jones frowns and continues un-cleaning glasses with that dirty cloth.
It’s clear she won’t answer the question, so it’s probably best that you drop the conversation. Besides, you don’t want her to waste any more Schnapps on your hand. You leave a couple of notes on the bar counter—$30 should about cover it, right?—and leave the bar just as the song on the radio ends.

There you are, in the wet night. Reflections of streetlights shine on the recently rained-upon road, like streaks of running, iridescent mascara. The road is crying, you think. It is tired of being run over with little choice in the matter. During the sunny days, it composes itself while unforgiving tyres roll over it, but then there are just some days when it becomes too much, and the road weeps for its condition.
You curse yourself for thinking such a stupid thing and continue your walk home. The Schnapps has made it difficult to maintain equilibrium and you find yourself accidentally stepping off the side walk and onto the road. You catch yourself on the verge of apologizing to the road for being so inconsiderate when it is clearly going through a hard time.
I am unsure whether the drinks you had earlier were spiked with some mind-altering drug, but whatever the case may be, your obsession with the road and its feelings are bordering on disturbing.
A cold fire presses against your neck.
‘Don’t make a sound,’ a voice growls in your ear.
This may be the first time you have had a knife held at your throat by an unknown assailant at night, but I won’t make assumptions.
A hand reaches into your pocket and removes your wallet.
‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’
A long silence ensues.
You hear the mugger mumbling what you think is ‘Eeny meeny miney mo.’
‘What are you doing?’ you are not so much afraid as you are confused.
‘Shut up! $hit, now I have to start all over again!’ The mugger begins the rhyme again, louder this time.
The knife freezes against your skin, colder and colder. And then you feel sharp, painful, relief as your hot blood warms you from the inside out. A pulsating, warm, red spray soaks your clothing, drips on the pavement, blends with shiny puddles of rain. You can’t quite comprehend what it happening, you know for sure that the mugger will be dissatisfied with the contents of your wallet. That thirty you gave to Anika was all you had on you at the time. Somewhat satisfied with the knowledge that the mugger won’t get a cent out of you, you are able to die in a state of relative peace. The road cries for your life, nevertheless.

There you are, dead in a pool of your own blood and stripped of your wallet. The wound that let the blood escape is a good one. It’s an almost surgical cut, very neat I would say. The mugger has retreated from the scene, but it doesn’t concern you that much. You could always report the theft to the credit union and they would sort something out, but it’s not really a top priority, considering you are dead. It is hard to say how much time has passed between when your throat was slit, and now, but it is definitely day time. The road has gotten over things, for now. If you had the ability to feel, you would notice a prodding sensation administered by a rubber-gloved finger belonging to a forensics investigator. Since you can’t see her (being dead), I’ll describe her: she is quite a tall woman, accentuated by her black, high-heeled shoes. She wears very small and impractical glasses that sit on the tip of her sloping nose. She has three children, she likes Joni Mitchell and potatoes au gratin, and her name is Regina Cohen.
‘Well it’s obvious what the cause of death is,’ she says in jaded way, ‘classic murder robbery. Knife to the jugular and—’ she snaps her fingers to indicate that the next step in the process was your unfortunate death.
‘Any idea who the murderer is?’ says her partner, an unimportant person who I won’t bother to describe.
‘Not really. It’s not worth chasing up, to be honest. Whoever it was didn’t take the wallet, so I guess it’s not all bad news.’
‘Noted. So…which one of us has to do the paperwork?’
Regina produces two matchsticks and snaps one in half. Her partner draws the shorter of the two and groans at the prospect of writing up yet another murder robbery report.
If you were living at this point, it would be some small comfort to know that you still had your wallet.
Your body is removed from the scene of the crime, not far from Anika’s bar. She’s probably nursing a savage hangover by now.

There you are, eyes closed, hands over your chest, all dressed up and one place to go. Your new home, a modest coffin, blocks out all light and sound and smell. You wonder, as you are lowered into the ground, if this is going to take long. You’ve never enjoyed cramped, dark places. You wonder why you haven’t gone to heaven or hell yet. They exist, right? I mean, it’s got to be one or the other, surely?
Maybe you’ll get to flip a coin or snap a matchstick to decide which one you’ll spend eternity in, or maybe God makes that decision. I don’t know if you believe in a god, but whatever the truth may be, you haven’t met one yet. Instead the ground surrounds you in a moist, earthy embrace. The ground is very gracious to welcome so many people so often—I think we should thank it some time.
You wonder how you are able to wonder at this point in time, being dead.
Several hours pass and still nothing happens. Then you understand the permanence of your condition. There is no way out of this earthly prison. It will take time to grow accustomed to the taste of dirt.
You find it unfair that Anika, your murderer, Regina, and even her unimportant partner had the opportunity—the luck, perhaps—to play with inevitability. I don’t know if you believe in fate, and I honestly don’t think you know if it is fate or not.

Here you are, a network of choice. A matrix of decision. A tapestry woven from experience. Cause and effect. And yet with you it is either/or. Heads or tails. With you it is binary. You are not a road, but you lived like one. But it is not your fault.
I don’t blame you. I blame them.
They, the ones who decide for you. Don’t worry though, they might not play that song on the radio, but it will play regardless.

add your erotica piece on here too.     heh

[Peregrinus]

I like the whole spoiler tag idea. & btw bethgael I lived your story. I'm not as fluent with roman history, or perhaps not as fluent as I should be with it. is that a work of fiction, or a blend of fiction & nonfiction? anyway, I like it, it's good.

I second the spoiler tag. It leaves it less cluttered here.   I've also added more stories if you like to read.   

[Peregrinus]

Cyan Griffonclaw's Tale  below: 

 

Spoiler

Cyan Griffonclaw’s Tale thus far.

Today was one of those days that Jorin wished he wasn’t assigned to the main gate of the Denerim. Jorin, a young man of 16, was a templar’s squire for almost six years. He was rescued by the templar a few years ago after his village was hit by apostates on the run from the Chantry. The Templar, a man in his early 40s, had come to the Chantry a decade ago when a new sense of purpose came over him. Faith changed his mind to serve the Maker, instead of being some strong arm for a noble.
The Templar, Dayved, had recently decided it was time to stop hunting mages and settle in for retirement. His squire was much too young to retire so the templar had put in a good word with the captain of the guard. He also dropped some gold coinage into the guard captain’s pocket to insure Jorin would have a steady, but reasonably safe job. Guarding a gate is never usually safe, but in this city where two dozen guards are assigned to watch the main entrance meant that Jorin would never have to deal with any issues by himself.
It was the first full day after a brilliant, orange full moon and that always means it’s the first day after the reaping. Grain merchants would arrive to the capital city of Amaranthine. However, the long line of visitors to the city weren’t grain merchants. From the gate tower, he could see a long line of people of all ages on the road stretching back to the horizon. He saw all sorts of animals (mabaris, sheep, goats, horses and cattle) walking alongside the procession of people and he could tell even from his high vantage point that the mood beneath him was sour and desperate.
Jorin told his best friend and fellow guardsman, Rollin, to look outside after he finished wiping down his leather breastplate.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” said Rollin, “Refugees, maybe?”
Jorin could only shrug his shoulders. He quickly felt for his short sword’s pommel that was placed in its scabbard. “Whoever they are… the guard captain is going to want to know about this.”
“Ah well… since you’re the new guy and all… You have the honors,” said Rollin as he quickly exited the tower’s viewing room and headed downstairs.
Jorin looked down at himself making sure everything he wore was in its proper place. Satisfied with his uniform, he took the duty roster off the wooden table by the observation window. He could hear the blacksmith’s hammer striking unworked metal in the distance and the usual sound of foot traffic beneath his vantage point. The sounds of voices this morning were much more tense than usual and the portcullis hadn’t even been raised yet.
He made a quick prayer to the Maker and headed downstairs to take the short walk to the guard captain’s quarters.
He knocked on the heavy door and waited for the gruff or terse response from the captain of the guard. He got none. He knocked again and was startled to hear the guard captain’s voice come from outside the tower.
“Jorin! I’m out here,” said Miler.
Jorin quickly ran out of the tower and handed the duty roster to the captain. Ser Miler took it without looking at it and took Jorin by a shoulder. “Go get the templar Dayved. We have refugees from all over the territory and then give this to this seneschal.” He handed Jorin a scribbled note and gently pushed him away. He then ordered the guards to keep the portcullis closed and to tell the masses outside to wait patiently until the seneschal gives his blessing. He noticed archers hurriedly getting their bows and quivers ready and standing very nervous against the wall’s ladders.
Jorin turned away and headed to the abbey near the city’s beautiful cathedral. He knew where Dayved was staying ever since the former soldier decided it was time to serve the Maker instead of nobles. It was still just moments after sunrise and Jorin knew Dayved would still be in bed. Dayved didn’t get up until he was either summoned or his stomach growled. None of the other Templars bother with Dayved unless they’re inside the training circle. There Dayved stays in somewhat of a fighting form and gets just a tiny pleasure in giving a recruit a memorable lesson in combat. Though he rarely speaks aloud, he has been known to voice his opinion whenever he sees Templars talking in hushed tones about the dark side of their responsibility. He rarely wakes up without hearing a friend lost to combat on some battlefield for some stupid reason and…
The pounding on the door was loud and insistent. “Dayved! This is Jorin. Please let me in, sir.”
The young guardsman walked up the short flight of stairs and entered the hallway. He didn’t have to go too far inside to find Dayved’s door. It was the first door by the entrance, a convenient spot for the Templar. He can come and go as he pleased and would not interfere with the clergy’s personnel or their daily affairs.
Jorin, now worried, opened the door ajar and saw the aging warrior sitting at the edge of his bed rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Dayved looked up at Jorin and smiled. “I already got an earful from Brother Canell last night. So how many are there?”
“Hundreds. Maybe thousands. The mob stretches to the horizon.”
The smile quickly faded from Dayved’s face. He exhaled deeply and asked Jorin to help him put his on armor for old time’s sake.
Morning breath and incense were overpowering Jorin’s sense of smell as he helped the older veteran put on his intricate armor that served as protection and defined the person wearing it as an appointed soldier of the faith. Once the armor was fastened, Dayved opened a cabinet where his longsword stood wrapped in purple cloth. He unwrapped the sword from its protective cloth and studied it. It was still as shiny and unused as the day it was presented to him by King Maric, father of the new king who was once a Templar in training and one of three Grey Wardens to end the fifth blight.
The sword was a gift for Dayved who had fought a darkspawn squad that was intent on killing Queen Anora. Dayved, not a Grey Warden, fought the darkspawn quartet of two Genlocks, one Hurlock and an ogre. He barely survived the assault, but Queen Anora was kept safe. It also helped that a lost Legion of the Dead squad arrived and pretty much saved Dayved and Queen Anora, but that’s up to debate. Queen Anora was safely hidden in alley behind some barrels and could only see Dayved absorbing abuse from the ogre. Okay, abuse is not good enough. The ogre was repeatedly jumping up and down on Dayved’s shield and screaming into Dayved’s face. I digress…
The sword, decorated with various jewels indigenous to the southern lands, wasn’t just used for ceremonial purposes. It was made by the kingdom’s best blacksmith, Herren. It was tailor-made for the Templar. He pulled his second Templar shield down from the wall where it has gathered dust. The shield, a mix of onyx, silverite and everite was commissioned by the church to honor those who will defend the interests of the faith during the siege of Denerim. The shield is decorated with an outline of the order using a touch of bloodstone. Dayved felt embarrassed that Jorin had seen the shield so dusty so he grabbed the purple cloth and wiped it down. “Things gather dust when you don’t put them to use,” said the Templar. He then grabbed some “holy” wine and rinsed out his mouth before heading out of his room with his ‘old’ squire in tow.
The white and purple cloth tunic underneath his plate mail was unique to the church. It symbolized that the Templar took orders only from the head of the church itself, Mother Islane. Templars give the Chantry the reach needed to bring order out of chaos. At least, that is what Dayved tells himself. How long has it been since the debacle in Kirkwall?
Jorin walked a step behind the paladin and remembered how this veteran would lead small groups of soldiers against larger numbered outlaws and brigands with overwhelming success. He knew Dayved had two sides to him.
Jorin had seen firsthand of the Templar’s own sense of justice. It would lead to brutal, public executions of those who survived the initial onslaught. Dayved would decapitate those already killed and had their heads placed on poles at the outskirts of the village or town he was sent to defend. He would then take those whose surrendered back to the village for a public beating before hanging the offended. He would also conscript the youngest of the brigands to servitude of the local church. This Templar saw what needed to be done and just did it. When the Chantry needs someone to persuade an opponent or obstacle to change their course, Dayved would visit. He never had to be sent twice to speak to someone.
Then just as terrible one side of him can be, he sees a side filled with emotions that run the gamut. Some would say he is erratic. His temper, once checked, floods the Templar’s brain and heart with remorse, regret, unhappiness and then slowly, faith. It’s that faith that he is following the Maker’s wisdom that is laid out for all to see in the Chant of Light. It’s the emotional turmoil that is wearisome and has aged the Templar much more than he already should be. He is known it far too long and has even given that silent companion that reminds him of what a monster he can be and it was the Blight. So many infected and so many wanting to be home again. Most of them were elves wanting to be in the sad alienage of Denerim. No one around there to heal. No Grey Wardens to offer advice. They all couldn’t go back to Denerim. Not with the Blight.
“You look like you’re better,” said Jorin. “Are you sleeping better?”

“Yes. And no. I hope it’s not the Blight out there.”

"What's wrong with these people then? Why am I needed?" asked Dayved.
"I don't know, sir. The Captain is very brief in speech. I am not one to ask...," Jorin said while maintaining a good, brisk walk with the Templar. he thought to himself, for an old man he still walks with purpose.
"Sometimes you need to ask," said Dayved as he stopped suddenly and Jorin almost walked into his mounted shield. "You don't question the order, you question the intent. Everything else is just someone's will needing to be accomplished. Don't ever stop trusting that heart of yours. It's going to hurt and bleed, but in the end... it's with you until the Maker calls you to his side."
And with a polished move of soldier in a parade, an about face and back to the brisk walk towards the Captain.
"I'll try not to disappoint you Uncle," said Jorin.
"Uncle... yeah, I said you can use it," said Dayved. "You don't have to worry about disappointing me Jorin. Just stay kind and the rest will fall into place."
The two finally meet up with the Captain Miler who was addressing a squad of knights who were dispatched to the main gate per order of Queen Anora.
"Dayved. I think we have a big problem," said Miler "A merchant that we know arrived to the gate last night and permitted entry. He said there is a group of mages on the run from the Chantry and they're outside with that huge mob."
"Mages? Coming here? I'm too old for this..." said the Templar as he brought up his right hand to block the rising sun.
"Possibly, but there's more," Miler motioned Dayved away from the knights. "Go to your assigned towers and be prepared when the gate is open."
"Dayved, there is more. These mages might be from Kirkwall. They are dangerous and they will kill you if they see you," said Miler in a calm whisper. "What do you think I should do?"
"Open the gate."
Incredulous, Miler says, "Just like that?"
"Just like that. Let's see what we're up against."
Miler calls to nearest guard and yells to open Denerim for business. The amount of sighs that morning took much of the tension out of the air as the portcullis opened.
Each family passed through the array of fortifications to slow an advance on the city. At each station, there were guards inspecting wagons for contraband and reporting anyone with disease. There were injured and some suffering from ailments unrelated to the blight.
Dayved stopped to see those with ailments and sent them to the rebuilt chantry with an armed escort. However, Dayved wasn't looking for Blight. Not anymore. Then he saw his first clue. A tranquil. No disguising that mark. He's not wearing his circle robe. He's got on the clothes commoners would wear working the fields. Then the sense of magic began to appear in the mind's eye. It's unseen, but a Templar can sense it, feel it and it's faint. Mages are here and they're trying to hide. How many mages are here, then? Blood magic, possession, vengeance, mistrust and fear. "Oh Maker. It's going to be one of those days."

Dayved let the Tranquil pass unquestioned. "Jorin, tell Captain Miler to put eyes on the fellow whose head is down and carrying a large leather bag strapped to his back. Do you see who I am seeing without giving us away?"

"Yes, sir," with that Jorin left the Templar there alone as the parade of humanity and animals passed. As each mage saw Dayved, they all kept calm, but the presence of the Templar unnerved a few to try and act even more inconspicuous. He had felt at least a dozen pass by and all were cleverly clothed. Twelve apostates, one tranquil and a countless number of families fleeing from bandits, apostates, and Chasind who were displaced from the Blighted Wilds (Korcari).

As the last of the refugees, merchants and animals crossed through the gate, Dayved had seen enough and decided he better inform the Captain that there at least 12 apostates among all those that entered. To alarm the guards of their presence would've only invited violence and innocents to be harmed. Instead, Dayved was going to hunt them down, one at a time and use the Tranquil to his advantage.

Just as his mind was formulating his next step, he turned around to find a man in his mid-thirties. Eyes tired from a lack of sleep and wearing a shirt likened by the pirates of the Eastern Seas. His pants were leather and covered in dust from miles of walking. He held a staff and said, "Do you understand what Justice really is?"

All the hairs on the back of Dayved's neck stood at attention. He looked at the blonde-haired figure and realized he couldn't see any trace of magic, but there was something there. Something familiar.

"I absolutely know what Justice is... what it demands. What it is for... who are you? Why are you addressing me," asked Dayved as nonchalant as he could pull off. He assessed no less than four archers above him and two knights within a few steps distance to aid him if things went sour. He didn't count any innocents because it didn't matter to Dayved. Nothing matters when an apostate is on the loose.

The blonde-haired fellow moved his staff to his left hand and extended his right for a handshake. "My name is Anders. I'm a bit of an apothecarist and it's a pleasure to meet you."

Dayved looked down at Ander's inviting hand and locked his eyes with Anders. "My name is Dayved. I'm a Templar and..."

A feeling of calmness passed through Dayved that he had never experienced before. His readiness and his defenses felt stripped from him. A feeling he hasn't experienced since his first ingestion of lyrium. A sense of freedom or a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders.

"... and we can use a good healer here. Lots of refugees here needing help. Go to the chantry and tell them Dayved sent you. Tell them you're clean."

Dayved returned his hand into his gauntlet and looked at Anders.

"Anders. Listen carefully to me. I am a hammer. A blunt tool that is very effective. I don't fix problems, I make them go away. How that goes is for me and the Maker to decide. If you become more of a problem, well... you understand. In the meantime, please do what you can and know that the Maker blesses those of generous deeds."

Anders simple response was, "I see justice coming from a Templar. Now... that's unexpected." With that said, Anders walked casually back to the chantry. The Tranquil Dayved spotted earlier was already talking to Brother Canell. Brother Canell looked distress and as Anders approached, Cannell's face clearly had calmed. A smile formed on his face and as the sun climbed over the horizon, so did one appear on Dayved's.

He actually didn't know what he was smiling about. Apostates are right here and yet the thought of drawing a sword this morning is alien to him.
"You know, I'm not going to overthink this," said the relaxed Templar out loud to himself.

Dayved saluted the four remaining templars in Denerim and asked them to accompany him to the seneschal.
"We're here to protect the Chantry and its followers. That's our role. I'm glad you four remembered that, because what I am going to reveal to the seneschal is going to complicate your lives for a while."

The quartet of templars and Dayved marched in single column up to the seneschal's door.
"You four remain here and stand at attention. You're now on protection duty," said Dayved.
"We're guarding the seneschal, sir? He's not of the chantry,.." said Mora, a young female templar, who looks more aged than she should for being only 22. Lyrium has been in very short supply and the remaining templars are having to space out their dosages even longer than ever.
"You're guarding me," said Dayved as he knocked on the door.
Before the hand fell down on the door for the fourth time, a slight female voice from behind the door asked, "Please wait. Is this official business?"
"Yes it is. Urgent as well. Tell the seneschal the Templars are here to report an issue."
"Aye, my lord," replied the voice. A few quiet moments later, Mora asked aloud, "From bloody who?"
"Apostates, but that may change," Dayved replied while making sure his armor was presentable.
"How do bloody apostates figure in changing?" said Mora, now clutching her sword pommel.
"We take them in as lost brothers and sisters. Besides, they're deserving of the Chantry as we do."
"How many sir?" said Edwin, an older Templar who transferred here from the lost Lothering chantry.
"About 12. Maybe more, but they're in the Chantry now," said Dayved. "Relax. Actually, I don't know who is going to kill me after this. I just bloody let in 12 apostates thinking it would saves lives at the gate, but what if... they're not the evil we think them to be. They were once our brothers and sisters and we let them down. Oh yes..."
The door opens and a slight elven lad bids the Templars inside. The seneschal was already standing in the main hallway to greet Dayved.

The seneschal was a cousin of Queen Anora. He wasn't particularly tall and a bit pale. Dayved quickly deduced that this fellow spends too much time reading by candlelight. He was one of those bookworms...
"WHAT IN THE MAKER DID YOU JUST LET HAPPEN?!?" yelled the seneschal, Ser Larus, his face now really full of color and veins popping out from an alarming number of places.
Dayved was stunned. The templar stood in rare silence. Maker's breath! A small miracle occurred. Dayved will think his next statement through.

"Ser Larus... I allowed chantry brothers and sisters to return to the fold. We have secured a victory in this mage rebellion and kept Denerim at peace. We have experienced healers and a secret weapon if something awful should occur. That is what happened and happening," said Dayved who for the first time in a long, long time... Dayved felt the Maker's blessing and in complete confidence of what he said.
With a few tears in his eyes, "Please pass that onto King Alistair. Will that be all, Ser Lanus?"
Ser Lanus' face still red, his right eye twitched... yes, it's twitching all about... "...oh, do I need a healer in here?" thought an increasingly alarmed Dayved. "Ser..."
And the Ser Lanus exhaled. He went pale again and said, "You're bloody insane." Oh yes, the twitching seem to get worse and then Ser Lanus started laughing. "You... are... Yes, you're insane or just drunk?"
Then Dayved forgot to think through his next statement. "Ser Lanus, I am dead serious. Deliver the message or someone else will. I have Chantry business to get back to..."
The Templar made an about-face, marched out of the room and ordered his men to cover him now.
The seneschal didn't deliver the message after all. He died of a stroke or heart failure soon after the encounter. It was the first unsuccessful attempt to heal someone by the new chantry brothers and sisters. Instead, Queen Anora appointed Sister Perpetua of the Denerim chantry, who happens to be the next Revered Mother of Denerim.
"Now where are we headed, sir?" said the newest and youngest of the Templars, Ser Polli.
"Maker. To the Tavern. To the Chantry. In that order," said Dayved.
"A round of drinks for us," asked Mora.
Dayved stopped, "No. I get pissed. You make sure I get to enjoy getting pissed. You're on duty."
Mora's esprit de corps suffered for a bit, but she would get even with the old bastard.

[Invisible Man]

Here's an experimental story that was actually the last major thing that I wrote.
It's meant to be a 'self-aware', postmodern, (insert wanky literary device here) type thing.
 
As per Bethgael's story, I've put it in a spoiler tag as it's pretty damn long.
 
Hope you guys like it, and don't expect to find any meaning in it, hahaha!
 

Spoiler

Here You Are

There you are, seated uncomfortably on one of those bar stools that you can’t pull out from the bar itself, due to the fact that it is cemented into the ground. A song with the lyrics “They Don’t Play this Song on the Radio” plays on the radio.
I don’t know whether you drink or not, but whatever the case may be, tonight you have indulged in several Schnapps shots.
The bartender—a diminutive, purple-haired, very intoxicated sixty-something-year-old woman, I believe she’s called Anika Jones, begins to pour you another shot. You place your hand over your glass in protestation, but Anika either doesn’t notice in her drunken stupor, or deliberately ignores you for the same reason. Schnapps spills all over your hand.
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re more drunk than me!’ You shake your Schnapps off your hand.
Anika fixes you with a confused, empty look. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a ten cent coin, flips it and puts it back in her pocket. ‘Not quite,’ she says, and takes a long swig straight from the bottle. She wipes her dripping old mouth with her washcloth.
‘Jeez,’ you retort ‘I hope you’re going to get another cloth to wipe those glasses with now.’
Anika gives you that same vacant stare and follows through with the same coin-flipping routine. The Schnapps-soaked cloth is plunged back into a once-almost-clean schooner glass.
Bemused by the bartender’s display of apparent luck-based decision making, you decide to question her reasoning: ‘What was all of that for?’
Anika stumbles over her tongue as she tries to speak, ‘All of what?’
‘The coin flipping!’
‘It’s really not that difficult. I flip the coin, and if it’s heads I do one thing, tails the other.’
‘Yes, I know that. But why do you flip it? Why not make the decision yourself?’
Anika Jones frowns and continues un-cleaning glasses with that dirty cloth.
It’s clear she won’t answer the question, so it’s probably best that you drop the conversation. Besides, you don’t want her to waste any more Schnapps on your hand. You leave a couple of notes on the bar counter—$30 should about cover it, right?—and leave the bar just as the song on the radio ends.

There you are, in the wet night. Reflections of streetlights shine on the recently rained-upon road, like streaks of running, iridescent mascara. The road is crying, you think. It is tired of being run over with little choice in the matter. During the sunny days, it composes itself while unforgiving tyres roll over it, but then there are just some days when it becomes too much, and the road weeps for its condition.
You curse yourself for thinking such a stupid thing and continue your walk home. The Schnapps has made it difficult to maintain equilibrium and you find yourself accidentally stepping off the side walk and onto the road. You catch yourself on the verge of apologizing to the road for being so inconsiderate when it is clearly going through a hard time.
I am unsure whether the drinks you had earlier were spiked with some mind-altering drug, but whatever the case may be, your obsession with the road and its feelings are bordering on disturbing.
A cold fire presses against your neck.
‘Don’t make a sound,’ a voice growls in your ear.
This may be the first time you have had a knife held at your throat by an unknown assailant at night, but I won’t make assumptions.
A hand reaches into your pocket and removes your wallet.
‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’
A long silence ensues.
You hear the mugger mumbling what you think is ‘Eeny meeny miney mo.’
‘What are you doing?’ you are not so much afraid as you are confused.
‘Shut up! $hit, now I have to start all over again!’ The mugger begins the rhyme again, louder this time.
The knife freezes against your skin, colder and colder. And then you feel sharp, painful, relief as your hot blood warms you from the inside out. A pulsating, warm, red spray soaks your clothing, drips on the pavement, blends with shiny puddles of rain. You can’t quite comprehend what it happening, you know for sure that the mugger will be dissatisfied with the contents of your wallet. That thirty you gave to Anika was all you had on you at the time. Somewhat satisfied with the knowledge that the mugger won’t get a cent out of you, you are able to die in a state of relative peace. The road cries for your life, nevertheless.

There you are, dead in a pool of your own blood and stripped of your wallet. The wound that let the blood escape is a good one. It’s an almost surgical cut, very neat I would say. The mugger has retreated from the scene, but it doesn’t concern you that much. You could always report the theft to the credit union and they would sort something out, but it’s not really a top priority, considering you are dead. It is hard to say how much time has passed between when your throat was slit, and now, but it is definitely day time. The road has gotten over things, for now. If you had the ability to feel, you would notice a prodding sensation administered by a rubber-gloved finger belonging to a forensics investigator. Since you can’t see her (being dead), I’ll describe her: she is quite a tall woman, accentuated by her black, high-heeled shoes. She wears very small and impractical glasses that sit on the tip of her sloping nose. She has three children, she likes Joni Mitchell and potatoes au gratin, and her name is Regina Cohen.
‘Well it’s obvious what the cause of death is,’ she says in jaded way, ‘classic murder robbery. Knife to the jugular and—’ she snaps her fingers to indicate that the next step in the process was your unfortunate death.
‘Any idea who the murderer is?’ says her partner, an unimportant person who I won’t bother to describe.
‘Not really. It’s not worth chasing up, to be honest. Whoever it was didn’t take the wallet, so I guess it’s not all bad news.’
‘Noted. So…which one of us has to do the paperwork?’
Regina produces two matchsticks and snaps one in half. Her partner draws the shorter of the two and groans at the prospect of writing up yet another murder robbery report.
If you were living at this point, it would be some small comfort to know that you still had your wallet.
Your body is removed from the scene of the crime, not far from Anika’s bar. She’s probably nursing a savage hangover by now.

There you are, eyes closed, hands over your chest, all dressed up and one place to go. Your new home, a modest coffin, blocks out all light and sound and smell. You wonder, as you are lowered into the ground, if this is going to take long. You’ve never enjoyed cramped, dark places. You wonder why you haven’t gone to heaven or hell yet. They exist, right? I mean, it’s got to be one or the other, surely?
Maybe you’ll get to flip a coin or snap a matchstick to decide which one you’ll spend eternity in, or maybe God makes that decision. I don’t know if you believe in a god, but whatever the truth may be, you haven’t met one yet. Instead the ground surrounds you in a moist, earthy embrace. The ground is very gracious to welcome so many people so often—I think we should thank it some time.
You wonder how you are able to wonder at this point in time, being dead.
Several hours pass and still nothing happens. Then you understand the permanence of your condition. There is no way out of this earthly prison. It will take time to grow accustomed to the taste of dirt.
You find it unfair that Anika, your murderer, Regina, and even her unimportant partner had the opportunity—the luck, perhaps—to play with inevitability. I don’t know if you believe in fate, and I honestly don’t think you know if it is fate or not.

Here you are, a network of choice. A matrix of decision. A tapestry woven from experience. Cause and effect. And yet with you it is either/or. Heads or tails. With you it is binary. You are not a road, but you lived like one. But it is not your fault.
I don’t blame you. I blame them.
They, the ones who decide for you. Don’t worry though, they might not play that song on the radio, but it will play regardless.

I have to say, I enjoyed that to no end. thanx

[Invisible Man]

figured I'd pin this thread, so we don't misplace it and everything.

[FOE]

Hello everyone.  I recognize a few nice faces/avatars.  Please allow me to settle down here and absorb what is going on as I'm not entirely sure what it is that I'm doing here.  I was recently gagged/suspended by Booware.  I'm back to see how the game has progressed.  I'm interested in the whole thing...and I hate to quit (especially after $70 spent).  I'd love to have the game that I thought that I purchased.

[Peregrinus]

Hello everyone.  I recognize a few nice faces/avatars.  Please allow me to settle down here and absorb what is going on as I'm not entirely sure what it is that I'm doing here.  I was recently gagged/suspended by Booware.  I'm back to see how the game has progressed.  I'm interested in the whole thing...and I hate to quit (especially after $70 spent).  I'd love to have the game that I thought that I purchased.

Welcome to the thread!  Enjoy all the stories posted here, as it seems it's going to be a bit of a wait til patch 4 comes out. I don't think they have even released patch 3 for consoles yet. I, too wish to play the game I thought I was purchasing too. 

[Fundamentalist Nail]

add your erotica piece on here too.     heh

Done!
It's in another spoiler tag

 

 

I have to say, I enjoyed that to no end. thanx

 

Thank you muchly, I'm glad you liked it!

[Fundamentalist Nail]

Done!
It's in another spoiler tag

 

 

I have to say, I enjoyed that to no end. thanx

 

Thank you muchly, I am really glad you liked it!

[Invisible Man]

I added a bit more to my story just now, feel free to check it out.

---edit
I tweeked it a bit more.

[Peregrinus]

I added a bit more to my story just now, feel free to check it out.

---edit
I tweeked it a bit more.

I'm loving the story so far. It's very impressive especially since you were so young when you started this.    

 

 

 

“Dane, you still smoke those? They make you smell like a church. You’re the last person that should smell like a church” I approach a lit torch, fluttering slightly as a slight breeze basses by, and I stick the rolled cigarette between my lips, as the end of the tube touches the torches corona, and ignites. I take a deep drag, and release a pillowy plume of smoke. “it’s the mer incense I roll into my tobacco, I like the flavor. And why shouldn’t I smell like a church, I mean me specifically? Is it because you’re still a soldier, and I’m just a killer now?”

I especially loved this part. 

[Invisible Man]

I'm loving the story so far. It's very impressive especially since you were so young when you started this.    
 
I especially loved this part.

thanx, I used to do a lot of reading, & not just d&d textbooks. I guess I still do, though I think I've gotten lazy over the years, as I'd rather play videogames, as opposed to watching stories in my head.

---edit
as I said, I'm trying to keep it as close to my original text as I can, so it's not a carbon copy, though it's pretty close, as I spent 4 years or so writing and rewriting it, in my youth.

---edit again
 

fluttering slightly as a slight breeze basses by

I've read and re-read that line like 20 times since I wrote this, and this is the first time I've noticed that typo. lol
well it's fixed, so thanx again

---yet another edit
a tale of twisted cities, now with better spelling... you can thank my mother, as she just read it too.

[Bethgael]

Working my way through these (will take a bit, Boy is back to school tomorrow so busy 48 hours), but Nial--I love your post-wanky story and I hope you'll edit it a bit (remove the last para; it's a bit much; and you have an almost-there snipbit) and look for a market if you haven't already (and you want to, of course!). The road being a char all on its own is terrific.

 

Will move through the rest over the next few days.

 

ETA: Also, for some reason, I accidentally cut off the last part of the chapter above (probably because of all the notes on my upcoming restructure, when the second half will have more of her meeting with Andobales, to clarify, and the first few paras of the 133BCE part will be clarified, and Ch 1 will finish there). So, essentially, the next scene is the bare bones of what will be Ch 2 after the restructure. Here it is, if you're interested.

Spoiler

This time, Numantia was going to die.

 

#

 

Weaving was one of those tasks you could do without having to give it any thought, which normally Ana liked. Now, however, she wished she could wipe from her mind what she had seen. It did not take Em, who was helping Ana with the head-high standing loom, very long to notice something was wrong. "You disappeared again this morning. I went to let you know your father was looking for you, and you were gone," she said.

 

"He found me."

 

"On the walls, yes, he told me. When he strongly requested I keep closer to you," she added pointedly. "You have no business being up there, mistress."

 

Ana paused in the act of handing Em the shuttle and gave her an equally pointed look.

 

"He asked me to tell you," Em protested.

 

"I'm teasing you, sorry." Ana handed Em the shuttle and waited for it to return to her, pressing down the threads tightly.

 

After a few more lines, Em said, "Why do you spend so much time on the walls?"

 

"It has a nice view."

 

It was Em's turn to pause. "No, really, why."

 

Ana took the shuttle from her and continued the line, frowning. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to think about it. But the words came, anyway. "There is someone."

 

"I don't understand what you mean by 'someone', Ana." Em's annoyed tone brought Ana back to herself.

 

Well, it was out now. She may as well ask for advice. Em may be a servant, but she was only a couple of years older than Ana, and had been in service to Ana since Ana and Em were still children. "In the camp. He's powerful. I can see--can feel--that he will change everything. I don't know how, yet, but he will. He knows the birds."

 

"How do you know? Have you been consorting--"

 

"Of course not. Don't be stupid, I'd never do that. I just..." Well, what did she just? "He's a twin soul."

 

Em looked doubtful. "Have you spoken to Secounin about this?"

 

"No. She's been busy with Head Priestess business for the Assembly."

 

"You should."

 

It was Ana's turn to be annoyed. "I know."

 

"You're not going to."

 

"No."

 

Em pressed her lips together as if she was trying not to say something she shouldn't.

 

"Oh, out with it then."

 

"It's just... mistress, I understand that you know what you know. I always have, even when Secounin won't see it. I would never dare to doubt you, but--"

 

"But you do."

 

"I'm sorry. I don't doubt you. I wonder if Nereildun's death is making you see things that aren't there."

 

Ana grimaced. "Don't be sorry. I had the same thought, which is why I'm talking to you. Because, if I tell Sicounin what I think needs to be done, there is no way she will understand, or agree. She'll have me beaten, and replaced."

 

"What could be so bad?"

 

"Next week brings the zenith of the moon."

 

Em nodded.

 

"Instead of going to the Moon Feast, I plan to take a horse and visit the old shrine of Candamios. I am going to invoke the old pact between him and Atanta. And I'll need help."

 

Em looked alarmed. "Oh, Ana, you wouldn't. You can't."

 

"I'm sure I can, actually. I know how."

 

"That's not what I meant."

 

Ana nodded. "I know."

 

"You can't call the Shining One down on a Roman. Forget the danger involved, what you're talking about is treason. Why would you even consider such a thing?"

 

Ana told Em what she'd seen on the walls that morning. "Wouldn't you risk it?"

 

Em was silent for a long time. "No." She sighed, then. "But then, it's not my place to decide. Except... Ana, we haven't sacrificed to Candamios for so long--only the Cantabri treat with him now. And that tribe is... what's that Roman word? Insanus. What happens if something goes wrong?"

 

"I don't imagine it will."

 

"Your very overconfidence could be the problem. If you connect your fate with a Roman, any Roman, what's to say it won't, one day, go badly?"

 

"It probably will," Ana allowed. "But the alternative is worse."

 

"If that wasn't enough," Em went on as if Ana hadn't spoken, "the shrine is way too close to the camp to be safe. If something happens to you, and your father and Secounin find out I knew what you planned, they will flay me for hiding this from them."

 

Ana nodded. "I know this is much to ask of you. My fate is yours."

 

Em looked surprised. "Don't even think of such a thing. The love I bear you will have me follow you to The Beyond, even if not for the duty I owe. That is nothing. Although," she added, "I do thank you for thinking of me. No, I worry more about what I could be made to tell. I worry about you giving up your life for the rest of us."

 

"It's my choice."

 

"Yes." Em let the shuttle drop, then, her face resigned. "What do you need me to do?"

 

Ana let out the breath she hadn't realised she was holding, and started to detail her plans.

 

There was hope.

Modifié par Bethgael, 26 janvier 2015 - 10:04 .
Add stuff

[Invisible Man]

added more to my story, however, seeing as it's late, it's likely filled with errors, errors I haven't spotted yet, and I might have left some stuff out unintentionally, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

[Bethgael]

Nial, I read your second story. Niiiiice. I also like the premise.

 

(Peregrinus, I start on yours after work).

 

I'm not as fluent with roman history, or perhaps not as fluent as I should be with it. is that a work of fiction, or a blend of fiction & nonfiction?

 

It's... an alternative history fiction based on real history.

 

Heh. That was as clear as mud. Trying again.

 

The historical events in the story happen. The characters of Ana (and Em, and Nery) are fictional. The other named characters are historical (eg, Ti. Semp. Gracchus and Andobales). The gods invoked are Numantian gods (or what little we know of them), with some extrapolation to fit my story. I'm pedantic on history, so what I'm doing is a "what if" scenario that must also fit the events of what I know about the time. "What if [someone who actually was killed during the Gracchi assassination] actually lived?" How would that work? How could that have happened and still fit what we know of what we believe actually happened? Also, there is a supernatural element to the story that, in the Real World, would not happen, but back then, they all thought could happen. If that makes sense. Gracchus was an Auger (he practiced prophesying from the flight of birds). The Numantians also practiced augery.

 

So, the hundreds of bodies being thrown into the Tiber like criminals after being beaten to death? Happened. Ti. G. was only 29 when he died after being beaten to death by a mob (the "true" reasons still being  hotly debated amongst historians). The scene at Numantia is based on what I've seen of archaeological maps and research of the region for the time, as is her culture. There were 2 sieges of Numantia at that time (one in 136BCE with Ti. Gracchus as the 2 IC, the next in 133BCE, under Scipio). Ti. G's father (also a Ti. G, confusingly) had presided under the previous rulership of the Numantines after Pompeius' campaign. The Romans spent a lot of time in Spain at that time. Numantia was broken under Scipio.

 

Anything Ana does? Did not actually happen--but it could have.

 

I studied Republican Rome at University (although my degree is actually in Medieval history and Classical Latin), and became a bit obsessed with the Gracchi. There's not a lot of information about the early Late Republic (most of what we picture as "Ancient Rome" is actually the very late Late Republic (Caesar) and Imperial Rome (everyone past Caesar/Augustus), a good 100 years after Ti and C. Gracchus were killed. Ti. Gracchus' death was so important that 133BCE has been considered the start date of the "Late Republic" era since the Imperial Roman writers, and it still is).

 

Imperial and Republican Rome are very different entities (Republican Rome was less sexist, for example--we can thank Augustus, that little prat, for most of our "traditional family/gender values" but also for the images of Rome as a city of marble rather than brick--read Vetruvius if you want an idea of what Augustus' policies did for Rome's architecture. In that respect, the man was brilliant. I think a lot less of his social policies and lawmaking, if you didn't already gather that ). The series Rome (which I love, and thank you for the compliment, btw, Peregrinius!--also did you know that the actress who played Niobe is the same actress who voices Vivienne? I love her--I wish i didn't despise Vivienne so much) is set in the very late Late Republic, but has an "Imperial Rome" feel to it. Gladiator is, of course, late Imperial Rome (which doesn't stop me from listening to Zimmer's soundtrack when I write a battle scene. Heh).

 

It's a bit of a challenge trying to set a scene that shows a Rome that is a state of decline before it is rebuilt--shoddy city, but not so shoddy it's dying, yet--while its denizens think they are living in a city of high culture. Especially since "sense of place" is my worst writing weakness.

 

There's even less recent information about the Numantians, although Spanish and German historians have started on the early Late republic over there again recently, so much of what I have studied is in Spanish and German (I have a friend who is a native German speaker, gods love him, but I don't know Spanish so that makes accurate, up-to-date research a bit sticky), but I have tried to keep the details as accurate as I can (although, of course, we can't really know what it was like to live back then; everything we do has our own slant on the information).

Heh. Sorry for the history lesson. In my defence, you did ask.

[Invisible Man]

*massive snip*
for space, efficiency, etc. don't stone me to death plz.

as for the story, that was about what I figured, just wanted to be sure.

as for the history lesson...
luckily, I happen to like history. I'm just not as well versed in ancient rome, so thanks for the lecture. I found it informative.

[Peregrinus]

@Bethgael Alternate history is interesting.    

[Bethgael]

I get passionate and, yet, really boring when I start to obsess-ramble, so thanks.

 

(I also abandoned this project last year when I started taking on clients, so double thanks. I might actually finish the edits this year, since there's some encouragement ).