March Vignette

[Amber Eyes]

Your character is given one hour to visit any point in their own timeline. Where do they go and what do they do?

This Vignette will remain open until March 31st. Good luck!

[Lucius]

In a crowd of many stood alone figure. Watching himself become entombed in crystal and snow, Lucius Brandybuck tried not to cry. It would not feel right. It would seem self-indulgent. He cried.

“This is fucking weird,” he mumbled through soft exhalations of emotion. The flickering lights of the cybernetic systems on his wrist and hip glimmered. They chimed every now and then, telling their host they were still alive…waiting…watching.

Market Square in Scara Brae was playing host to a jubilant, but remorseful event. People gathered about the central fountain crying, laughing, praising, or cursing. In a box, a simple affair, on the fountain’s base was a bard. At least, that is what they were lead to believe. All that lay within was a black cane, tipped silver, and a few copies of the man’s favourite plays.

“Pay your respects peasant,” a nobleman goaded. He pushed past, indignant and chest puffed, wreathed in a veil of lavender and Shiraz.

Had Lucius his gun, a shot would have put an end to the service. He snarled instead, shooting daggers metaphorical and not blades all-too physical. He folded his arms cross his chest, dusted leather creaking in the midday sun. Beneath the visor of his cap, he brooded. This sounded like a good idea when he had woken up. Now? Suicidal.

“We are gathered here today,” a voice bellowed. It was feminine. It was reposed. It was undoubtable Ruby Winchester.

Lucius widened his eyes and looked up. Above the fountain, shimmering in the folds of time and space therein, an image. A red haired woman’s face looked down gracefully at the crowd. Wherever you were standing, a vision in crimson adorned the sky. She continued to speak. The city, in turn, stopped to listen.

“To remember, and to celebrate, the life of a fine man.” The image turned downward to the coffin, a tomb of creativity bound in iron framework and unseen, unbidden, unspoken magic. Lucius recognised it with cold realisation.

“This is really fucking weird,” he repeated.

He moved through the crowd as the epitaph continued through nuance noisy and laughter loud. The crowd were hooked on her every word, and when Lucius grew nearer the centre of the square where cobbles became mountains, he realised why. The image turned to other people once in his life. Sei Orlouge. Kyla Orlouge. Jensen Ambrose. Arden Janelle. Lillith Kazumi. Leoric…Otto Bastum…the list endless as it resembled a long line of heroes carved into ancient, indomitable stone.

Hubbub bristled down his spine. Excitement turned his stomach. Now he realised what had brought him back in time. The wormhole golden. The opportunity thought lost. It was not for the benefit of time, but for his own lost identity. Though he died during this timeframe…his death was but temporary.

“Pssst,” he whispered into his blood brother’s ear.

The brawler, crying, as he did all too often of late, turned fist raised.

“Shut the…,” he trailed off, eyes wide, recognition dancing across his browbeaten form.

“What. You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Lucius chuckled. He pressed a finger against Jensen’s lips. For once, Jensen listened. “I do not have long here. I am not in that coffin. I said I would never come back, and I meant it.”

The device on his shoulder sprouted legs and scuttled down Lucius’ chest. It tingled over his hand, stopping to draw blood with a stabbing of its limb. It moved to Jensen. It repeated its action and swapped samples. Once more, Lucius was blood blended with the enigmatic immortal. Pulling back his finger, trust thick like steel in the air swinging through deception, Lucius prayed he had said little but enough.

“What’s going on?” Jensen whispered.

“I’m from the future. Remember that time we jumped three hundred years into a world where Sei Orlouge was a martyr, and fedoras were fashionable?”

Sadly Jensen did. That episode of their brief history consigned to drunken nights and until-now oblivion.

“Yes…”

“Well I’m Duffy from the future…,” Sei’s descendent appeared in Lucius’ eye screen, shaking his head, and that put an end to Lucius’ revelations. “Rest assured, I am dead…but only for now. We’re immortal; after all…we’ll see each other again.”

Before Jensen could object, question, or shout…Lucius disappeared in a flicker of green light and the faint trail of alcoholism that oft accompanied Administrate agents. The brawler looked around hopelessly, sighed in disbelief, and turned back to the fountain. Ruby continued to speak her vows to her friend, and every syllable gave rise to the tomb of Duffy Bracken.

A white tree. An oak of wisdom bound rime with the eternity of diamonds and snow. Fruit danced on its leafless branches, each inspiring a poem, sonnet, or song in those fortunate and brave enough to reach for the impossibility of tomorrow.

[BlackGhostofSeaside]

I meant to make all those spelling errors with the Neanderthal speaking. And “Hanuh” is pronounced “Hannah” but is simply spelled different.

“Yow toice on whare ta go, sonny. Not meen.”

Julius gulped in front of the old Neanderthal, a hag who was currently concurring red magic from a large pot. “Wut du ya wanna see, child?”

Julius blinked once, the sweat beads dripping down his forhead further implying his nerviousness. “…” He sighed, “I- …”

“Yuuus?? I ‘on’t have all day ova hewe!” The old lady bugged him.

“I want to see my future.” Julius waved his hand in a signal to calm down.

The old lady’s crooked, yellow teeth curved into a smile, “I knewed ya find ouwt!”

Thus, the procedure had started…



Julius blinked open his eyes. He noted that he was not inside the Neanderthal cave anymore, but in a wooden bed inside a small, homey cabin bedroom. He was wearing white clothes, a regular nightgown. Beams of sunlight glowed through the glass window to the far left of him. He followed the beams to see an unfamiliar, but heartwarming site.

He saw his older self. A man who was about twenty years old. Julius had grown, his hair was straighter than it was right now, it was a tad bit longer too. He had a very small beard, barely visible, growing on him. He held his hands out, beaming, at a blonde young girl who was dancing before him.

How old was she? She seemed to be two or three. She giggled as she twirled around, “Look at me, daddy!”

The older Julius watched her with interest as she fell over onto her bum. She blankly looked up at him stating, “… I have a booboo, daddy.”

Future Julius chuckled and wrapped his arms around her, picking her up and setting her on his lap. “You did great, sweetie.”

The toddler clapped excitedly. Curly hair bounced even when she was still. She had Julius’ eyes, they were bright green. Her smooth, fair skin was very similar to Ashla’s. She wore a simple, pink dress of which made her twice as beautiful as she already was. For a toddler, this young child already looked very pretty.

The teenage Julius chuckled at the two. They did not notice him at all, Am I inanimate? Then the door to the room swung open and in stepped Ashla. She had grown taller and certainly had matured into an adult, but she still somehow looked as young as she presently was. She beamed as she watched the two play together. Did we have a child together? Julius questioned, Is this our family?

Ashla smirked, “Aw, look at daddy!”

Future Julius bashfully lifted his hand and waved it down again, “Ashla…”

She chuckled, “That’s my Julius…” She walked into the room and crouched down to her husband and daughter, “Having fun, Hanuh?” She asked.

The girl chuckled, her legs and arms going crazy in the toddler way, “Oh yes!”

Ashla smiled, “Good.” She blinked, briefly glancing at Julius then back to the girl. She suddenly looked sat down next to them, holding her arms out to the girl Hanuh.

However, the girl instantly clenched to her father’s messy, black shirt. Ashla simply let her hands fall to the floor and spoke, “Hanuh, soon me and your father are going on an adventure.”

“-An adventure?!” The girl beamed, “Like the ones you told me about?? Like the ones with fighting against bad guys and slaying dragons??”

Ashla bit her lip, “Eh, something like that…”

“Can I come?”

Ashla ‘woah’ed her, “Uh, no.”

The girl was obviously disappointed, “Why-y-yyyyy??” She complained, her body slouching.

Ashla raised her finger and shook it, “Because it’s too dangerous for you.” Ashla warmly smiled though, “But don’t worry, you’ll have adventures of your own yet. You’ll see!”

She smiled and got up again. “Now!” She clapped her hands, “Who wants breakfast??”

Future Julius – and the younger Julius, both raised their hands at the same time. “Me!”


~~~

Julius had followed the tracks of his family for close to an hour. As he found out, Ashla still never dropped her virgin name ‘Icebreaker’, being quite proud of it. She also had become an excellent warrior, and she had even started her own justice fighting group. She still sustained her personality from who she was now. She was kind, generous, but also stubborn and feisty. Even more than Ashla though, Julius was downright static! He was very happy with his family though, and Julius loved his wife and daughter like heck! Thus, when he and Ashla turned to leave for their ‘adventure’, Julius had been the last one to say goodbye to the blond haired deva. He kissed her cheek and then was off. From their glances and the conversations he had eavesdropped on, “adventure” was a big, fat color coating. It was a serious matter which was happening a short whiles away from them. Worried for their child, the future couple had left Hanuh behind while going off with their weapons and armor.

Thus, the teenaged Julius was left alone with a three-year-old toddler. She stared blankly at the door, silently whimpering, “Mommy… Daddy…” And she began to cry.

Julius’ heart raced out to the young girl, standing at the doorway with tears in her eyes. However, what surprised him was how quickly she wiped her tears away and ran into the kitchen instead. The kitchen was all wooden with a large table in the center, Cabinets dotted the walls and several chairs were also in the room. Hanuh grabbed a stool from beneath the oak table and set it right in front of a freshly polished cabinet. She stepped on the stool with her fat, little legs and cracked the doorknob open. She then jumped down, landing with ease, and then shoved the stool out of the way. Julius watched with interest at her actions, she was up to something…

Next, the girl swung the cabinet open and stepped in for a moment. A second later a large sword fell out. Julius opened his eyes in shock as his future daughter jumped out, grabbed the steel weapon’s hilt, and attempted to pull the war sword out of its sheath. Julius shook his head and raced over, “Hanuh, stop!”

He was still invisible he thought, he thought she still wouldn’t hear her. However, he was extremely surprised when she lifted her babyish head and looked around, frozen stiff. “H-Hello? Is someone there?”

Julius raised his hands in a sign that he would not hurt her, relieved but paranoid at the same time. “Over here.”

The girl had quite the confused face; it cracked Julius up. He pointed it him, “Y-You look like da-a-addy…”

Julius smiled warmly, trying not to frighten the girl, “Maybe I do…”

The girl suddenly glanced at him coldly, placing another hand on the weapon, “Who are you?”

Julius was even more surprised now, she had already quested that maybe he was a threat? Julius raised his hands up further, “Loo, Hanuh, I do not want to hurt you…”

“The- Hey! How do you know my name??”

“I’m a…” Julius ‘uh’ed for a moment in deeo thought then stated, “I-I… I’m a messanger from your parents.”

“Messanger?” The girl inquired.

Julius nodded. “Yes. Their message is that if you do want to come, don’t.”

“Why?!” The girl sounded offended, “Why not?!!”

Julius rubbed the back of his neck with one of his hands nervously, “Well, because you might get hurt.”

“Hurt?”

“Yes. If you go out there, you could get hurt. We- your parents know how to take care of ou-themselves, but you don’t.” Julius had to correct himself several times to maintain the third person. “You could get injured and get booboos if you’re not careful. You simply are too young.”

“But- b-but!” The girl protested, “They might want my help!”

Julius sighed, “If you want to help your parents, don’t make them worried. Stay here, be a nice girl. Welcome your parents with open arms when they return. Alright?”

Hanuh simply stood there, thinking deeply about what her teenaged father had just told her. Julius himself was confused on how he suddenly became animate. However, his daughter blinked then nodded as if she knew everything, “I understand.” Next, the toddler ran over to another cabinet (one that was low enough) and opened it up. She pulled out some food, chicken and an apple, and trudged on over to the table. “I might as well be queen here if I’m home alone…” And she began to chow down.

Julius chuckled, she reminded him of Ashla already. He closed his eyes, assured that when that night came Hanuh would be perfectly fine, running up to her parents with open arms. Julius gulped as he wondered, how good of a parent would he turn out to be? Who would this precious little girl grow up to become? Would Julius be able to save her from the same path of darkness that he himself had trend on? His panic rose again, he took a step forwards to ask his daughter more, but when he opened his eyes…

... He was back inside the Neanderthal's cave.

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

Footsteps sounded out in the cold alley-way. The night had fallen quickly and now the only light was what shone out from the windows of whores. The wizard, clearly, was not in a good part of town. The tail he had picked up ten minutes ago was evidence of that or evidence that he was getting closer to their squat. Honestly Ulrich preferred the latter, he had ran out of leads a good few hours ago, and now all he knew was that come sunrise and the window of opportunity would be gone. A cold trail that runs to a dead end and destroyed by the rising sun.

Well the sun's still down, still have time. There should be enough time to check the whole dammed city at this rate.

The dark mixed well with the damp. Water on the ground from heavy rain mixed with the shit thrown from windows. And every wrong turn, wasted moment and back-step added weight on top of his shoulders. And steadily it got harder to go onwards. Now he was powered by determination and chipped willpower, something the Professional wizard had in abundance. But not in infinite supply and he doubted it would last till the morning.

Another hour passed. Most of the lights had gone out and Ulrich lit his way with a small cantrip of light. A tiny ball of it which hovered just above his hat. Lighting up his short grey jacket, tunic, and pants in an ethereal glow. One he was using to again study the only clue he had. One which only led to him combing the city. A piece of cloth, no larger than his palm and brazened with the groups mark in dark red thread: A circle, crossed through with three parallel lines of the same colour. This is what Ulrich was looking for. Around the corner into yet another dark alley, with a bit of luck and a lot of determination he had found it. It was hard to miss now he was here. Being five foot high and across the wall in thick, wet paint. Still dripping from the rough-cast to the ground, a slowly growing puddle of red. A stark contrast to the shit of the streets.

A shout from behind and Ulrich turned to face the newcomer, his tail. A thug with a heavy single handed sword, torn clothing, and the slaver's mark branded into the side of his neck in a harsh white scar. Arm raised, charging the wizard. Protecting the entrance now the it had been found. Just as much a villain as the rest of them. Deal with him quickly.

Ulrich's hands slapped together, tearing a slice of his will as he did and forcing it down his arms. The slap started to solidify in mid air, became rigid, glass like. flying towards the tail like a rapidly moving cloud of dust. But unlike a cloud, when it collided with the armed thug it sliced through cloth and skin. Dropping him to the ground through the sheer agony of a thousand bleeding cuts. If he was smart, he would cover his eyes since it was that or loose them. However he protected himself, the thug was done with. And the entrance was nearby, the only entrance. Ulrich steeled himself and examined the rough-cast wall one more time, closely. Trained eye drinking in every detail. For one thing this wasn't paint. But it was fresh. And covering a fake wall. The entrance was covered by a mirage, a trick on the mind that easily hid small details from anyone passing by. This wasn't a gang sign, it was the welcome mat.

Or the sign that warned trespassers of the high likelihood of being shot. Twice. In the back.

The wall faded from existence for the brief moment Ulrich passed through it. Running his hand through his hair, cold night air sticking to each strand. He was here. So very close. Weariness slowly being replaced with a quiet rage. Emerging from the doorway into a dark squalor of a common two room squat made of ill fitting wood and warped floor. After he was done, Ulrich was likely to burn the thing to the ground as a public service. The five other men in the room with him probably had other ideas. Three drew swords. One ran. The last one stared at him, weapon-less. Ulrich's wand was out in an instant, with three quick flicks creating three bolts of energy. Three swordsmen were now, three thugs on their backs. The final obstacle. His long, worn black coat, done up the front in tarnished brass buttons was telling of a leader.

Leader raised a hand, the slaver's mark torn into his open palm and with all the calm serenity of spring morning, spoke the devil's tongue and forced hellfire onto his plane of existence. Hot sticking flames from his out-stretched limbs in a gout of wailing pain. The wizard's shield was up instantly, but with his will already used it wasn't going to last. the two forces collided, exhausting Ulrich. The flames ended first and then his shield dropped. The difference between them, only the warlock had strength left. Striding forward while Ulrich fell to one knee. His laugh, a sticking rumble forcing it's own way from his throat.

Another palm, another chant.

Another coat.

What?

Ulrich's mind was barely able to register the newcomer, appearing from nowhere without fan fare. without flash. Nothing exotic. Just there in a blink of an eye. Only nobody blinked. The Hellfire blasted again, but the stranger; his ankle length, tan, coat all Ulrich could see; built a shield. Exactly like Ulrich's. Only the power was orders of magnitude higher. It shone in splender, absorbing the hellfire rather than deflecting it. Growing stronger from it. The warlock's blast ended.

The newcomer clapped his hands together and the sound shook the room. Ulrich knew this spell. He had made this spell. Like the shield, but it was so much more. It solidified, into a dozen massive shards of razor sharp material, the warlock was done, just a mess of mulch in the corner of the room. Foot long shards embedded in the wall slowly starting to evaporate.

"My god, was I really this young once?"

The voice came from somewhere outside of Ulrich's field of vision but the stranger had turned to face him, coat swishing at his feet like some great statement. Across his tunic was a bandoleer of five separate wands. Ulrich's exhaustion was becoming a problem, he still had a job to do and who knows if more were coming. He wasn't even sure who this was. Hell he didn't know why anyone else would be here. Anyone who wasn't going to kill him anyway.

"Yeh, I know the feeling. Hold on."

That was weird. He definitely hadn't been speaking. The stranger's hand clasped Ulrich's shoulder and it filled him with energy. Energy enough to get his game face back on and move back up onto his two feet anyway. For the first time he looked the stranger up and down and realisation finally sparked in his head. Like looking into a really warped mirror. But seeing he was going to grow into... well, there's an upside in everything, he reasoned. He looked his older self up and down, his hair was thinner and an amount of stubble was growing on his chin and jaw. Ulrich approved.

"Nice coat."

The two words sparked a level of recognition in the older man. Who laughed, warmly, before shrugging himself out of the old trench coat before folding and handing it to the young wizard.

"Take it, it's yours anyway."

Ulrich smiled at the joke. Not wasting time in slipping perfectly into the tailored, ankle length garment before a level of confusion settled over his head. If he gave it to himself then-

"Don't think too much about it. " The older man interrupted, breaking his line of thought. "Anyway, I still have fifty seven minutes. Think I'll go hit up that whore we both know. She doesn't age well."

And he stepped out into the night.

A groan emanated from one of the swordsmen but Ulrich was already on his feet, sweeping past the chewed up mess of the warlock feeling all of the confidence that comes with a fine fitting piece of attire. Crossing the room his hand rubbed his bare chin, thoughts of grizzled good looks filling his head. He had to admit, it looked good on him.

Ulrich swept through the next door, knowing that there were no threats left. The girl was in the corner. Eight years old, her small face a mess of tears and phlem but unhurt, just scared. He knelt down and looked her in the eye. Flashed imaginings of a life of slavery for the small, blonde, elf. Sharp ears peering out from behind dirty bangs. The wizard held out his hand and the girl recoiled in uncertain fear. He tried his best, friend face but it didn't help. He sighed and spoke softly.

"Time to go Kiara. Your mom's waiting for you."

Big eyes filled again with hope. Carried home. Tears soaking into a brand new old coat.

[Alkor]

Warning: Mature Content.

Two ales too many spewed from his lips. Kiljak knelt in the Falleni sands clutching at them in his darkest hour, but they slipped away uncaring. His plight was not the concern of the world, nor did the world weep for him. Alkor struggled with words, but his tongue twisted in a turgid froth of bile and booze. Tears streaked his cheeks, his brow wrinkled in agitation. How many times had he fallen prey to his escapist desires?

The memories never faded, though they did blur. A hand on his back reminded him of the elder man who had elected to watch over him. "A-away," he managed, a swallow of the wretched waste sent him into throes of vomit once more. His almost fair features were stained by regurgitation. Wobbly fingers fought to wipe away the mess in vain. He hacked a cough and then another, and he glanced up. "You're enjoying this," he rasped.

"And you're not," the graying man chuckled. "Tell me, did the alcohol help?"

"Does it look like it's helped?" Alkor snapped, then he flicked away a handful of waste. Agitation had stretched over his paled face, but he kept his rage reigned in. "Sorry," he muttered, "I'm sorry."

The youth looked positively haggard; starlight seemed dim over Fallien, though the sand sparkled at its touch. Dignity was far beyond him now, though Kiljak made a valiant effort. He dusted the sand that had clung to his clothing free and smeared the grainy swamp from his face, and Alkor took a deep breath.

"Do you ever wonder why you do this to yourself?" The question smacked Alkor across the face, and his stunned expression reflected as much. There was an audacity to such a forward query that Alkor both liked and hated, though he knew the answer regardless. He avoided the old man's eyes, searched the ground for a way out.

"Do you?" The man pressed.

"No," the word was a mangled whisper, quieted by the tears brought on by a flood of memories. The dam had burst. "No, I know exactly why I do it. And I mean to keep on," Alkor sought his jug, but it was nowhere to be found. Anguish threatened to creep past his frantic battle to regain composure. "Where is my ale?" He demanded, "give me my ale!"

"What if I told you," the wrinkled figure leaned forward, punctuated each word with every inch he encroached, "I could let you see any point in your life. For just one hour."

Alkor looked up, defeated. "Any point?" He choked the words, disbelief mangled his voice. Both hands clawed toward the jug in the ancient man's hand, but could not seem to reach. "Past or future?"

"Any point," the elder intoned, "regardless of when or where."

The drunkard collapsed in a head, sobs breaking his voice. "Then take me to her," he pleaded, "give me my Elissa." The affection in his voice belied a deeper connection, but the man remained stoic. The smile on his face never faded, though the world and he both had.

When Alkor opened his eyes, he stood in a lavish, porcelain room decorated with golden tapestries woven of silk and linen. The overpowering scent of lilac and lily tore through his senses and left him dumb, a hot bath that had been drawn in the next room reminded him of where he was. He had been here before, many times, but this specific time stood above all others.

Azure eyes moved over the bed of pillows that lay to his left, and he stared in mute awe.

Screams and moans of lust tore free of the two bodies tangled together. Atop the beautiful brunette angel, a young man pumped vigorously with his hips, hands that groped at the sheets twisted them beneath his conquest. Lithe legs wrapped about his waist parted further with each stroke, and she sought to engulf him further. His lips pressed to her neck, then her cheek, then the small lips that parted in gasps.

Alkor watched wordlessly as the boy slowed to a cruel pace, and the woman cried out. Her hands darted to his waist, pried at him, begged him to remain inside her. He arched his back and his eyes screwed shut, and his spasm shuddered through the both of them.

It was then that she pushed him off. "You spent yourself inside me?" She stared at him in disbelief, then shook her head. "Are you mad?"

"Elissa, I-" The younger, brash Alkor was clearly not the alcoholic he had grown into. His bright eyes watched the taut form of his beloved as she ran her fingers between her legs and pulled them away slick. "I thought..."

"Understand, I love you, Alkor," she told him, "and I would bear a child by you happily. But it is forbidden. If Father knew of this-"

"Father does not know!" He cried out, both hands found her shoulders. Elissa stared into his eyes in the way that wounded him most. The boy forced himself not to look away. "He will never know," he assured her.

"And if I grow fat with child," she asked, "what then?"

"W-well," he stammered. Elissa began to wrap herself in silks and made for the bath. "Please do not be upset," he begged her. When she looked back with a smile, he sighed his relief. "Forgive me," he asked.

"Go on, go back to your sword," she bade him, shooed away with a single sweep of the hand. When she disappeared behind the curtains, Alkor watched his younger self stand in futility. "I will see you at dinner," Elissa called. "You can tell me all about your day of training."

He wished he could have hit the boy. His hands moved incorporeal through his younger self, and Alkor growled in frustration. "I was was a fool," he sighed, "I could have been free of this family." He rubbed at the tattoo on his right shoulder, and he stared hard at at the curtain. "If I had walked away from all of this long ago, I would never have been left with his burden," he gritted his teeth, a single tear flowed unbidden from his eye. "You knew I hated it," he said, "but you knew I loved you."

He drew his Tulwar, his hand fumbled at the curtain. When he stepped into the bath, Elissa stared up. "Is someone there?" She called out, and and she covered her breasts. "Alkor?"

No words could have described the brokenness in him. Kiljak wanted to desperately to fall on her once more, the way he had so many times. He thought to spill his seed in her again, the way he had that time and so many times after. He saw her lips and wanted them, but the look in her eyes was not one of fondness or familiarity. "Who are you?" Her words cut him; was he so different from the boy she had fucked not minutes before? "Where are my guards? Where is my brother?"

He took a step closer, and he stared down. "Do you not know me?" He asked as his voice creaked. "Am I so easily forgotten?"

Elissa was terrified; her eyes flickered with a hint of recognition, but she did not believe it. "Alkor," she spoke softly, "what is this?"

"Did you love me?" He asked her, and his voice became very quiet. "Did you ever truly love me?"

She nodded weakly.

"Why did you not let me go?" He asked, his voice shook with carefully checked rage. It was all he could do not to plunge the tip of his blade through the woman who he had loved for so long. "Why did you shackle me to this place? What right did you have to seduce me into this life of servitude?"

"Alkor," she softly called his name, and he shook off his desire to kiss her. "Alkor, it is our duty. Yours to protect the swords, mine to keep you focused." Her eyes matched his, but she saw none of the love they had once held. Only animosity and grief remained in those hollow orbs. "Where is the boy who I love?"

"You loved me out of duty?" He asked; the words burned his tongue as they fell away. He looked down at her now with contempt in his gaze, and he waited for her to respond. Every breath he took felt like acid, and each second was a dagger in his back. "Answer me!"

"You loved me," she repeated, "and I did my duty. All out of love," she promised. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek. "I will never stop loving you," she told him.

Her eyes went wide and she trembled, a look of confusion and terror came over her. "A... Alkor...?"

Kiljak watched the frail form of his elder sister crumble into the bath water, a cloud of crimson billowing up from beneath her. Face down and bereft of the grace she once commanded as life ebbed from her, Alkor wiped the viscera from his weapon with one of her fresh towels. "All the same," he said softly as a ragged breath left him, "you always were were a lousy fuck."

His eyes shot open and the night sky greeted him. The stench of vomit and booze welcomed him back to a better place, and Alkor blinked. The old man as nowhere to be seen, and his jug sat next to him in the sand. "I need to stop having weird dreams," he told himself, and he uncorked the container and cascaded ale into his mouth.

In his lap, his Tulwar gleamed with a coat of crimson.

[Philomel]

"You sure this will work?" Her voice was quiet, speculative.

The wavering reflection of the black-eyed stranger nodded in the endless surface of the small glass orb she clutched in her hands. He smiled, gently.

"Indeed. It is of a standard model. All you have to do is visualise the place you want to see."

Philomel paused, mesmerised for a moment in the transparent depths of the orb, before looking up at him. The merchant tilted his head, arms folded over his chestnut skin. "Yes?"

"I just have to ... visualise?"

"Yes, visualise the time and place, hold it in your mind's eye and the magic will transport you there."

The faun-whore was still uncertain, but this might be her only chance. She sighed a little, then nodded.

"Right. Well its better to try than to not take the opportunity."

The black-eyed man shrugged, "Well as I said, love, I have not the money to pay you for my idiot brother's lust. All I have is this. He's a fool, and I trade in magical artefacts."

"Hmm and this may be of use to me," she murmured. "May."

The man shrugged, leaned back against the wooden pillar he was based near. "Might."

"Might," she confirmed, then breathed in.

Then lowering her hands she threw the glass orb to the floor, where it shattered into a million pieces.

-----

With it the world broke. A break of the sky, a crack of reality and it was all in parts. It felt like her soul was ripped out from her body, as some astral hand swept down and dug its nails into her essence. With it her body followed, like connected to her body by an invisible lead, and the pain was excruciating. It was terrible, and was similar to the emotions of death.

Such death, such horror, such hatred - like the time period she was slammed into.

The first experience was a scream.

"DADDY!" it called out. A ghastly attention-grabber, it caught Philomel's ears and swung her around in its direction. The noise was odd, so young and high, something she was was not used to. It was like a ghost from the past had come back to haunt her; she then realised that this was precisely what had happened. Quickly, desperately, she ducked behind the bamboo screen she knew was in the corner of the room and hunkered down there as the small hooves clopped with haste into the room.

"Daddy!" the little voice shrieked, "Daddy don't go!"

The room was square, almost perfectly. Apart from the screen; a large sofa leaned against one wall, a rush rug on the floor and beams held up the ceiling. It was not dramatically decorated, obviously belonging to someone not rich, but it struck in the memory of Philomel as the place she had had her only feelings of "family".

Whatever "family" was.

"DADDY!" the little hoofsteps stopped. They stilled beside the place where the faun-whore knew a doorway was. The cries fell silent. The breathing grew faint, slower ... and then the tears began to run.

Philomel rolled her eyes, in a rather unorthodox manner, and threw herself out of her hiding place. There was a sharp intake of breath, a jumping yelp and wide grey eyes met hers, though a fair couple of feet shorter. Staring down at the small child-faun, who was gazing back with immense surprise, Phi took a moment, before starting.

"Where did the bastard go?" she asked, stoutly. Drys above, she cursed, inwardly, The hair is really... clean.

The little faun, her hairy knees knocking slightly together in fear, bit her lip as she raised a single finger in the air, then pointed directly at the doorway.

"Ou-Ou-Ouuu...."

"That's enough, kid," Philomel muttered, darkly and strode straight forwards, her hand swinging over her shoulder and latching around the hilt of her sword. The child's eyes were endless - streams of infinite infantile wonder, watching the elder faun appear out of nowhere and walk out of her apartment. For reasons obvious Phi, the elder, did not want to stay long here. Anything that might occur would occur, and maybe her memories of childhood would change, but that was not to be worried about now.

What was to be worried about was the certainty of whether or not she would get revenge on her father for cheating his whole life. And this time, this day, was the only time she knew that could give her this answer.

With a strong heart and strong will she left the weeping younger version of herself, not letting any emotions of pity or familiarity or loss come in anyway, and left via the doorway the child pointed at. From there she went to the hallway, the front door, the street, and that was all that was needed. Unsheathing The Bastard from his feeble place on her back she shook any regrets from her shoulders and kept onwards.

For, this was the day her father had left her life, and her mother's life, forever. And now she would make sure he couldn't return, even if he wanted to.

Time passed by.

Hated, screaming, yelling. Horror.

So much horror. So much pain. It lanced through her system like no tomorrow. And tomorrow was not relatively a thing any more.

The faun whore had to be fast on her feet - like a gazelle, like a phantom. Tracking a male-faun was easy through a city, but keeping up was harder. Where he went he gathered interested, but he always left before she could arrive. Her own presence caused another stir - people rarely saw two fauns in one day, that was fact. Especially as she came with carved blade in tow, a look of ire within her eyes.

Some were smart enough to remain out of her way. Others were idiots who longed for a single touch of her flesh. "Oi, over here, luv," they garbled in drunken voices, "Over here and I'll pay ya well."

"I am not working today," she muttered, under her breath, sauntering past the kirk-yard. "Not today."

And she left them with deep disappointment.

------

She found him, finally, in a corner of a stableyard. Far enough away from the apartment, far enough away from the brothel Lacey and her younger self would soon return to.

He was just as she remembered him. Strong, bare-chested, with a mane-like hairdo running down his back. His eyes were deep grey, aged versions of her own, and he was tall like an elf. As he spoke she heard the dull tones of the bass from a choral orchestra, one she remembered well, so well. What she felt when she heard them flickered through her memory - and she identified the emotions with calm disregard; fear, anger, love, want, sorrow. The words, "why, Daddy, why[I]," whispered around her mind over and over again, to such an extent Philomel barely recognised them as a real phrase at all.

Her mouth opened. Slowly she took in a breath.

And her jugular made words.

"Why," she asked, "Why, Enna, why?"

His ears caught the sounds of her words. Her voice. The sound of that particular word, his name.

His wicked eyes narrowed, "What? How do you know my name?" The name of his that had been wrapped around a package-laden horse dropped, and the horse itself whinnied.

Philomel did not answer, she only strode forwards, fury running her body now, causing her heartbeat to accelerate.

[I]Why, daddy, why?

"WHY?" she screamed, knocking a hoof on the ground. The scream became a howl of despair, of fury and she threw herself into the air. Her sword - The Bastard - rose with her arm, becoming part of her. He roared in his own silent way, swearing vengeance on the crying girl left in the apartment, swearing justice on the people he had failed, swearing anger to his everlasting soul, swearing he would pay, pay, pay.

Swearing he would pay.

Pay.

The Bastard slashed across his throat, left to right. Smooth and easy it ripped open his neck. Blood poured, limbs shook - he barely had time to suffocate. Instead he just slumped, right down as justice was served.

[Otto]

One hour.

Better not waste it, then.

"I'm still not satisfied you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart," Otto muttered into the darkness. Then he added in an even lower tone: "If you even have a heart."

"Perhaps I offer you this because I know what you will choose," Anvil replied. "And so it is no kindness."

They were in the forge, and it was well into the night. The coals were smouldering away, the door was locked, and oil lamps painted the interior in various shades of orange and umber. Otto took one and carried it with him to the rear of the room, where dull grey ingots had been stacked beneath a canvas cover. He picked one out of the pile and returned to the workbench, where he selected a set of long tongs with which to pincer it.

One of the shadows behind him stirred, and Anvil's voice chimed out again. "Do you have the other thing?"

Otto nodded. His hand went to one of the apron's pockets and withdrew a single length of old, thin cane, like that used in the construction of wicker goods.

"Then let us start," Anvil concluded.

The orc crossed to the hearth and held the ingot over its coals, until the iron glowed a rich orange. He left it to stand for a little while, better to allow the heat to penetrate to its core, then crossed over to the anvil and quickly drew the metal out. When it was a sufficient length, he re-heated it, laid the cane through the middle, and folded the metal over on itself.

"Good," said Anvil. "Now for the rest."

After several minute's work, Otto at last held up a rounded U-shape to the light. He turned it about, so that he might inspect it properly, his yellow eyes poring over the simple item's every dent and imperfection as though such details were of the utmost importance.

"Is it acceptable?" Anvil asked.

"It's just like the one over Marten's door," Otto replied. "Same number of holes, size... even the chipping from when Emric tried to practice on it."

"Close your eyes."

Otto did as he was told.

"Open your eyes."

When Otto next looked at it, the horseshoe was covered in rust. It seemed as though the thing had aged by about twenty years in, quite literally, the blink of an eye.

"Put it above the door."

Otto crossed to forge's entrance. There was already a horseshoe there, of course, and Otto had to ply the thing out before he could hammer in his own workpiece. He stood back when he was done and looked over it critically, uncertainty suddenly scrawled across his features.

"I will have one hour?" he asked.

"Yes. Beyond that, and you will not be able to come back."

Otto nodded. Perhaps he wouldn't want to. Right now, though, he had no idea what to expect.

Then he turned around, found a seat, pulled out a large hourglass, sat down, turned the timer over, and waited.

The timer ran empty. He turned it back over, and waited some more.

It was a procedure he repeated several times, interrupting it every now and then by making a cup of tea. The night drew on, though you wouldn't know it from inside the forge; the only measure of time was that discerned from how dim the coals grew, the slow slip of sand through the hourglass' bottleneck, and the growing pile of used tea-leaves.

The sand emptied for the umpteenth time. But this time Otto stood, bleary-eyed and with drooping shoulders, and stared at the door.

"I think it happened about now," he said. "It wouldn't have been too long before dawn. Risky to leave it out for more than an hour. But not too late, either, else they might have been seen..."

"Then go."

Otto hesitated. Was this such a good idea?

"Time is wasting..." Anvil wheedled.

The orc swore softly under his breath, and crossed to the door. Then he paused, and went back to collect the hourglass.

"Clever," Anvil said, though the creature sounded more disappointed than anything else.

Otto pulled out a key, twisted the lock open with a click, and put his palm on the handle. His anxiety climaxed and he remained there for a few seconds - until he heard, from behind, the metallic tinkle of Anvil's laughter. The handle seemed to twist of its own accord under his grip, and he was pushed through, into the gloom beyond.

There was a single moment of incalculable disorientation, as his body tried to register the shock incurred by the better part of three decades and one mile's travel. When he emerged from the other side of the door, he stumbled to the ground and crouched there for several seconds, dry-heaving over some moonlit paving stones. Still, he retained enough presence of mind through the nausea to twist the timer in his hand and let the sand begin to flow through.

The wheezing gradually shallowed out, and Otto felt well enough to raise his head and take in his surroundings. There, to his left, was the squat grey building of Marten's forge, smaller than the one he had just left behind at the garrison. He rose groggily to his feet, and looked behind him at the rising edifice of the two-storey house he appeared to have just stepped through.

It was difficult to make out any details in the gloom, but still, Otto felt strange at how little Marten and Kat's home had changed since then. Now. Whatever.

Just then, a sound from behind made him freeze. It had been the gentle click of a latch, followed by a geriatric creak from the street-entrance gate opening up. He remained stock still in the lee of the building, while footsteps slowly approached across the yard. He caught sight of a furtive figure shambling between the lean-tos, something pale cradled within its gangly arms. He felt his pace quicken and his stomach twist as the new arrival drew close enough for him to make out its face. Her face.

For a split second, it seemed like he was looking into a mirror, albeit at a clean-shaven reflection. Most notably, her eyes were the same as his own; they twinkled pale gold and sad when the moon struck them.

The other orc came to a halt mere feet away from Otto. Her stance changed from resigned to tense and wary, and he could hear her begin to sniff the air. Otto knew then that his presence had been betrayed. He stepped forward out of the building's shadow, his hands held palms-forward and placatingly. The woman withdrew and tightened her grip upon the shape she carried, prepared to flee at a moment's notice. It was a wicker basket, Otto could see now. But he'd known that already.

"Please," he murmured. "We don't have much time."

Something shifted amongst the swaddling within the basket, and from the blankets rose the thin cry of a child.

[Astrid Whitepeak]

The entire world seemed to slow to a crawl as Astrid staggered away from the warlock’s corpse, panting with exertion. She made it a few steps before she slumped against the rough stone-and-mortar wall of the dingy, garbage-strewn alleyway where she had finally cornered the thing. The pocked surface felt blessedly cool against her sweat soaked brow, and even the fetid smell of emptied chamber pots and refuse did not keep her from drawing deep, gasping breaths; right now, even that putrid air was sweet. She detachedly noticed how sluggishly she moved as she raised a hand to wipe her face and how even her eyes seemed to track across the alley too slowly, jerking from one point to another instead of flowing smoothly. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the dizzying sensation to subside, but the grey stars and black spots dancing behind her eyelids did little to alleviate the feeling. When she pried them open again, little had changed in the stillness of the early morning.

A dense fog flowed through the streets of Pestovo, cloaking the city in a smothering blanket of grey that the periodic lampposts could only barely cut through. The shifting, ephemeral mass had turned what should have been a simple Hunt into a deadly game of cat and mouse, and she had made the mistake of assuming that she was the cat. Now she was paying the price. Astrid could still feel the fading tightness where the man had gotten his hands around her throat, and she gingerly touched the grizzly bite mark at the junction of her neck and shoulder. A few more inches… She had been expecting the man to pull a blade, or to throw a spell, not leap out from behind a barrel while gnashing his teeth like a rabid beast. She lowered her hand and laboriously turned her head to face the warlock’s body again, frowning in thought. The maleficar hardly looked any more dead now than it had as she chased him down; open sores covered his face and hands, his teeth appeared to be rotten, his cracked nails were filthy, and his skin had a sickly, yellow-brown tinge as though his entire body were one enormous bruise. Everything about the man seemed diseased, down to his blood; her sword still stuck out from the man’s gut where she had left it, coated in a noxious black ichor. Was this the price of his magic, willingly paid, or was it a curse from the Sway? She didn’t know the answer, and wasn’t sure which was worse.

Suddenly, she heard a sonorous, resonating voice calling out to her. In the choking mist, it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once as it echoed softly in her ears.

“Astrid, Astrid, Astrid… aren’t you tired of fighting yet? Haven’t you suffered enough? Put down the burden, rest. Let me help you find peace.”

The words were kind, but something primal in Astrid screamed that she needed to remain conscious, that to fall asleep was to die. Her orders had only mentioned one witch, but she would be easy prey for whoever the speaker was if she passed out. Her eyes darted from one point to another, trying to locate the source of the voice, but the vertigo was making it impossible to focus. She shook her head vigorously, willing herself to stay awake, and immediately regretted it; spurred on by the sharp motion, her vision faded to pinpricks of light, and she felt herself slump to the ground.

“Just close your eyes and sleep… "

----------
“We estimate that there are somewhere around twenty heretics holed up in there, madam Seeker; we had been Hunting a small coven for a few days when they led us straight to this safe house. There are currently four members of the Order here now, five counting yourself, and four more are on their way with some armsmen. We don’t know what they have in terms of provisions or weapons, but haven’t had any trouble from them, not since a few of them tried to make a run for it a few nights ago.”

Astrid sat astride her horse, bow in hand, nodding absentmindedly as she listened to the acolyte give his report, but her eyes and thoughts were focused on the barricaded rough-stone cabin some twenty yards away. She already knew how many people were in the building, and, more importantly, who was among them. She felt as though she were of two minds, two souls riding the same body. On the one hand, she remembered chasing the heathen through Pestovo and fainting in the alley. On the other, Astrid remembered riding into the camp moments before. She felt the weight of years pressing heavily on her soul, years that had not yet happened, or might not ever. She was keenly aware how tired she felt, how simply worn down; twenty some odd years had passed in the blink of an eye, and she felt each and every one of them. Is this what it feels like to grow old? The leather of her armor creaked softly as she rolled her shoulder experimentally, noticing the slight twinge of a long since healed scar. The memories told her she had gotten that in a Hunt many years before, but there was a hollowness to the thought, an emptiness where Astrid would normally have felt pride at the accomplishment. She knew that the Astrid-Who-Was-Not had lost her faith a long, long time ago.

Realizing that the young man was still standing there shifting from foot to foot nervously, Astrid nodded to him. “Thank you, Acolyte. Dismissed.” The boy gave a crisp salute, and quickly headed off towards the tents. Astrid blinked in surprise. “Boy?” He’s older than I am! Still, in the here and now he was a child playing at war, and his eager grin only emphasized the point. She shook her head sadly; he would learn, or he would die. No, she amended, he will die. Her mount tossed his head and snorted, the metal of his bit jangling loudly in the still air. Perhaps he could pick up on the mood, on her tension. She reached down and stoked his neck, though she was uncertain whether she was attempting to sooth him or herself.

The additional Hunters and soldiers would not be coming; Astrid remembered making sure of that. Somehow she knew that for the past few days she had been circling the camp, emerging only to countermand the orders given to the companies of soldiers and to “meet up with” other members of her Order riding towards the camp. She tried to make it quick, both to keep them from raising an alarm and to prevent them from suffering. She owed them that much at least. Pavel, Tatyana, Alana and Sven. She recited their names in her mind like a prayer, letting the grief wash over her with each one. She knew each of them at least in passing, and had trained Alana personally. Or, rather, the Astrid-Who-Could-Be remembered them, remembered smiling at Alana with pride when she had completed her first Hunt. Pavel, Tatyana, Alana and Sven. Each name was a flogger taken to her heart, flaying the last of her humanity from her bit by bit. It would be over soon, and then she could start making her penance.

Astrid knew why she was here, why this moment. She gently ran her thumb over the bronze, wire-wrapped hilt of the dagger thrust behind her belt. This was a crossroads, a moment that would shape the rest of her life; the decision she made here today would change everything. It wasn’t too late; no one knew about the Hunters lying in shallow graves in the forest, and she and the members of her Order already here could easily clear out the cabin. She would receive accolades for one of the largest Hunts in recent years. She could finally move on with her life, free from that invisible tether that had bound her for decades.

But there was no choice, no decision; she and the Astrid-Who-Could-Be were in complete accord: I would do anything for you. She drew a deep breath and set her resolve. With the mindless grace born from years of practice, Astrid’s hand left the dagger and slid over to her quiver. She nocked the broadhead arrow and drew the goose-feather fletching to her jaw – a heavier draw than I’m used to – and took aim at the nearest Hunter. Anything. She exhaled as she released, already reaching for a second arrow as the first struck home at the base of the Hunter’s neck. Astrid ignored the gurgling sounds coming from the thrashing man as he attempted to cry out, and searched for her next target. The remaining three Hunters had jumped up from their seats around the fire, reaching for weapons as they stared off intently into the surrounding forests looking for the source of the ambush. Her second arrow took a woman with a burn scar covering half of her scalp in the eye, and she collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. She was a scythe reaping the wheat. Only, the wheat wouldn’t weep and beg for mercy given the chance.

Even with two of their number down, it still took a few moments for the survivors to realize what was happening, not that she would have done better in their position; who would have ever believed that a High Seeker could – let alone would – betray the Order at a moment like this? A third arrow, a third kill, this time slicing into the gut of the acolyte she had been speaking to not five minutes earlier. He went down with a blood-curdling scream. Like a scythe in the wheat. Suddenly Astrid gasped with pain as something slammed into her shoulder and unhorsed her, driving her to the ground and knocking the wind from her lungs. A short pilum had pierced her leather pauldron, pinning it to her shoulder. Under the cover of her horse’s panicked rearing, she reached up with her good arm and snapped the weak iron neck of the weapon. The point would have to stay in to prevent her from bleeding more, but even if it she could remove it she knew she would be unable to use her bow any longer. She cast the weapon aside and drew her short sword just in time to see the javelin thrower approaching cautiously with a short spear and buckler.

A whistle cut through the air followed by a sharp crack and the Hunter flew to the side. Astrid pulled herself up from her kneeling position and stared at the last Hunter as she drew ragged breaths. She needn’t have worried; his corpse was lying where it fell, a palm-sized stone staving in his skull. She turned her attention towards the cabin where a single man was standing with a dazed expression on his face, sling in hand. She remembered being like that after her first kill, unable to comprehend exactly what had just happened. Looking away from the poleaxed man, she glanced around the camp, pausing to note that the young acolyte was still wheezing in the dewy grass, a pool of blood surrounding him. She walked over to him, short sword in hand, and knelt next to him. His eyes were unfocused, but when they alighted on her he bared his teeth and glared. Astrid leaned close and asked quietly, “Do you want me to give you your last rights?” In response, the man spit bloody sputum in her face. “Sway and saints preserve you, and guide you to your final reward.” She slid the blade under his ribs, and listened to his death rattle. She stood, took a moment to clean and sheathe her blade and to wipe the spit from her cheek, then began to walk towards the cabin, towards her destiny.

A few haggard looking peasants behind the windows stared at her blankly as she strode towards the improvised barricade. Astrid wondered if any of them were actually heretics, or if they simply had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time; to the best of her knowledge, there was only one witch in the cabin. She could see the exhaustion in their eyes, the desperation, the hopelessness; these people had fully expected to be cut down in droves today, and even now they seemed unable to believe what they had seen. The serf with the sling stood in front of the door, seemingly to have finally snapped out of his stupor. With his eyes wide and his hands trembling, Astrid doubted that he could have hit her even at this range. Still, he made a token effort as he shouted at her in a wavering voice, “S-stop! Stop or I’ll shoot.” Astrid ignored the man and kept walking; nothing was going to stop her now, not when she was so close. She had no idea how long this dream – if indeed that was what it was – would last, but she needed to know that her decision had been the right one, that she had not betrayed everything for nothing. The man stepped aside and the faces disappeared from the window for a second before she heard the rusty iron lock on the door open with a loud, grating click.

As the door swung open the other villagers, and indeed, the rest of the world, fell away. There she was, sitting with her back against the far wall of the building, eyes closed. Dark red blotches of dried blood spotted her tunic and fear welled up in Astrid before she realized that none of it was hers. Of course it isn’t; she’s always helping other people. She looked bone-tired, with sunken eyes rimmed with deep purple crescents and her red-brown hair looked greasy and unkempt. She looked beautiful. Astrid walked quickly across the room and knelt down next to her, burying her face in the woman’s shoulder. “Katya…” Astrid mumbled into Yekaterina’s shoulder as she pulled her close with her uninjured arm. “Katya, Katya…” Forget the Sway, forget the saints; she had her salvation here and now. A cool hand reached up and stoked her hair before Astrid caught it in both of hers. She brought it to her lips and softly kissed the oft-scarred palm, tracing the lines of old wounds with her thumb.

Yekaterina gently pushed her away and looked into Astrid’s eyes “Is – is it over?” She paused and her glance flitted towards the window for a second before looking back. “Are they… gone?” The uncertainty in her gaze broke Astrid’s heart; she deserved so much more than a life on the run. So much more, and Astrid would make sure she got it.

Astrid’s voice cracked as she choked back a sob. “It is; it worked. You’re free. We’re free.” She let go of Katya’s hand for a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes, and reached behind her back to grab the bronze blade. She reverently held the dagger out for Yekaterina to take back. The memories told Astrid that Katya had given it to her years ago, along with a promise that they would find a way through. She didn’t need the blade anymore; she was back where she belonged and would never, ever let go.

Suddenly, the world seemed to rock on its foundations, and the familiar sensation of vertigo came back with a vengeance. The dagger slipped from her fingers to clatter on the rough timber floor. Exhaustion, age and her injury were catching up with her, and she felt ready to collapse right then and there. Spots danced before her eyes and her vision was beginning to fade. No! No! Not now, please not now! Just a little longer? She heard Yekaterina ask her something, but she could only make out a few of the words as though her ears were stuffed with cotton. “Astri-...? …Hurt! …need water… now!” She felt someone shake her, but already she was slipping away. The last thing she saw was Katya looking down at her with concern.

As the blackness over took her, she heard the disembodied voice from Pestovo. “Was this what you were looking for, Astrid Whitepeak? Is this your dream?”

----------

Astrid’s eyes fluttered open weakly, and she found herself lying on her back in the muddy alleyway. She looked over to her side where the warlock’s corpse lay and suppressed a gag. The body was already putrefying, and flesh was sliding from its bones far too quickly for the process to be natural. Its abdominal cavity had burst like an overripe gourd, spilling rotten viscera onto the ground. Astrid was certain that there would be nothing left of the body long before the sun set. Forcing herself to look away from the horrifically captivating scene, she pulled herself up against the wall with a groan and took a moment to rest her quivering, aching muscles. She reached up to touch the bite on her neck, surprised that it did not seem to hurt as much as it should have, only to jerk her hand back as though burned; the wound was nearly gone, with what felt like only a small bruise left in its place. Astrid quashed the panic that welled up in her chest. She needed to stay focused, needed to make her report, then she could worry about what magic may have touched her. Or, as much of a report as she dared make; there were some things one never confessed to in the Order.

As she stumbled out into the sunlight with a fatigued expression on her face, she tried to push away a haunting thought she was sure would stay with her for a very long time: Perhaps, in the end, the warlock – or the demon if that’s what it was – had won; she still wasn’t so sure she actually wanted to wake up from that dream, and she was terrified of what that implied.

[Valentina L. Snow]

((Whew, right by the deadline))

Valentina didn't make a habit of going to inns anymore. The style of food never seemed to be up to her standards, alcohol never did do much for her, and the company of ignorant farmers and peasants, while sometimes amusing, hardly made up for the fact that most of the time they ran in terror or attacked her. Infamy had its drawbacks. That night, however, was different.

Her belly full, the warmth of a fire at her back, and an innkeeper that seemed enraptured by her various tales kept her in this establishment longer than usual. She never caught the name of the inn or of the innkeeper on the way in and it really didn’t matter to her. She relished the moment of peace. So there she was, regaling this bearded, empty-eyed peasant man behind the bar as if they were old friends.

“So, understand, I don’t make a habit of doing deeds out of the kindness of my heart,” she said, grinning, “but when I saw that little child dead on the side of the road in the mud and discarded like trash well, something… stirred in me.”

The innkeeper remained silent, staring unblinkingly. His lips curled into a strange smile.

Valentina sighed and carried on. “I asked around the local village, something you can imagine was quite difficult, as I have a bit of a reputation… and a few bounties. But they led me to believe that a band of highwaymen were attacking and kidnapping people from the nearby trade roads… killing the men, taking the kids and women, that sort of thing.”

She stopped and glanced to her left and right. The only other man at the bar was laying face down, his cup overturned and a slow, steady drip falling from the counter beneath his face. It was a classy joint, all the way.

“You know,” she said to the barman, “when I first came here, I felt like I was in some sort of paradise. Some undefiled land straight out of a book. But then you see things like the camp that I eventually managed to find. They were out in the woods not too far from that village. Close enough that were there anybody who were brave enough to stand up to them, or had the little cutthroats had the balls to flat-out attack the village, well, the situation would have probably been resolved already. It almost makes you wonder if some people weren’t complicit in the whole affair, you know?”

The barman’s head moved up and down in a slow nod. His eyes seemed unfocused.

“Anyway, I stumble into this camp, and of course it’s a total den of iniquity. Real disgusting things going on. Think of the worst things to be done to children and women and that’s what was going on. Just, appalling,” she said, shaking her head at the memory. “I didn't even use my sword. I had to use my hands on that one. Ripped them to shreds. Not the women and children, no, no. Surprising, I’m sure, but no, I let them go. I can’t imagine the type of life they’ll make for themselves now, but, well, I hope they returned to their families or something, you know?”

Valentina tapped the claws of her left hand upon the bar in a slow rhythm, she tilted her head as she glared at the man across from her. The barman was unresponsive.

“I tell you a story about a selfless act I’ve done and you’ve got nothing to say? You know who I am, right? I don’t do things like this often.”

He said nothing. He did nothing. Valentina sighed and said, “Well, I suppose I did get something out of it. You really wouldn’t understand.”

The barman gave another weird smile, then a frown, then he flashed his teeth dramatically, and the moment she took her fingers out of his mouth, his expression sagged back into a dead, empty one. She glanced up at the ceiling, the flames at her back now beginning to dance across the roof and spreading rapidly. She’d hardly noticed the roar of the flames.

“Well, I suppose I’d better get going. You were terrible company, by the way,” Valentina told the barman. She shoved his disembodied head up off the bar and watched it topple to the floor on the opposite side. It came to rest by the feet of the body it once controlled. She stood up from her stool and started toward the exit, wood creaking with strain as the roof began to give. Most of the building was engulfed in flames, and though the crackle of the fire was loud, she could hear the screams and shouts of people outside clamoring to help put it out, lest their homes be next. It was too late to save the building, and now that they were out there waiting for her, it was too late for them too.

“Next time,” she said, turning to address the corpses strewn about the room, “maybe you should all try being a little friendlier.”

[Alyssa Snow]

This thread will be judged tomorrow afternoon. Please stay tuned.

[Lye]

1st: (17341) Alkor

200 EXP
200 GP

Usage of dialogue as well as the emotional impact created a lot of substance to the story. A large number of events were crammed into the little that happened, but eluded to so much more in a very understandable way. The ending lacked a strong follow through, but was saved by the image of the bloody blade. Several spelling errors existed with some clarity issues, but the emotional draw overcame.

2nd (17028) Lucius

240 EXP
150 GP

In such a comparatively short excerpt, a lot of ground was covered in terms of content. The realness of Lucius existing within his own past funeral felt appropriate given his status as a time traveler, yet still struggling to bear the reality of the past. Only one spelling error noticed and grammar flowed well with the style chosen.

(17225) Philomel

300 EXP

Close to 2nd place. Emotions ran high in this with a strong usage of impact in your technique. The story climaxed at the meeting of her father and ended so abruptly. The beginning took off rather shakily, but smoothed out with just enough detail to cover the "why" and "how". Some spelling errors were present and some sentences needed re-reading for clarity.

(17347) Astrid Whitespeak

100 EXP

Much detail was covered and though setting and characters were well colored, the story crawled along. The two persona's in one body took a few paragraphs to settle in and get used to. While the basics of the plot seemed clear, the why and who could have been given a little more attention. Few spelling errors, but sentences were clear.

(17263) Ulrich Craggenmoor

100 EXP

The usage of setting was strong and clear. Graphic details helped to establish a nitty, gritty feel. The limited use of detail in dispatching the thugs lent a factor of awe to Ulrich's power. The moment of fatigue appealed to his humanity and the reverse usage of the topic added a pepper of intrigue. Well done, however, the why lacked as the substance the top two provided. A little more power in defining who Ulrich was and some hints toward what drives him would have made it more powerful. Some punctuation errors, but overall clean writing.

(16357) BlackGhostofSeaside

100 EXP

The scene of father and daughter was classic and cute. The young Julius reacted to it with less of an impact than realistically expected. Still, the transition from being invisible to visible to Hanah gave confusion to the scene. It wasn't explained why the future selves couldn't see him but the child could. If this was a play at how children are rumored to be more in tune with spiritual energies, it was downplayed and should have been hinted toward. Secondly, Hanah's behavior originally reflected similarly for a toddler. The later half depicted her as almost too mature for her age. This may have been attribute to Ashla's elvish heritage, but it was unclear and out of place. Aside from the neanderthal, some grammar errors were present.

(16653) Otto

400 EXP

A vague mysticism persisted throughout the thread. Usage of passing time was very clear. Much of the actions and discussion begged the question "why". It almost came to a point and answered in in that nice cliffhanger. Baby Otto was the assumption, but just a little more would have helped to bring it to full climax. Great grammar.

(2071) Valentina L. Snow

450 EXP

Interesting usage of character. It expressed how her actions and behavior were against the norm only to turn out she was still the cold blooded psychopath she always was. This could have been slightly clearer by hinting how the bartender's expressions were falsified by her puppeteering. Overall, well written, however, it drifted off the topic and held onto it more as a flashback. Stronger use of topic would have aided in this instance.

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added. Finally.