Site Write Entry #2: A Second Chance

Prompt: May 8, 2012 - Somehow by magic, your character is given one shot to redo and/or take back something that happened in their lives. What would they take back? Would your character take the offer or would they decide against playing with fate?

A Second Chance (To [verb] Your [noun] ) - or - I Swear I Didn't Intend to Write Two Flashbacks in a Row

. . . . . It was really quite a pleasant thing that Azuremyst Isle had clean, non-irradiated water again, because while the soaking tubs of the Exodar were quite nice, they had nothing on dunking oneself in the chill rapids of a flowing stream in late spring. Diyos would never call himself an ascetic, but he did indulge in the occasional austerity for austerity's sake.
. . . . . Like today, when his head was so muddled over whether he ought to go back to Stormwind or stick around and find that scary former Auchenai he'd been told to train. A bracing few minutes in the stream were supposed to help him clear his mind.
. . . . . Instead, he was just cold.
. . . . . Grumpy about it, Diyos walked back onto the bank and swiped his towel off the low-hanging tree branch. Toweling off his wildly curly hair, he still couldn't decide if this new duty was really worth the trouble. As he bent his head to see his own hands so he could wrap the towel around his hips without it falling into the mud, his eyes caught the jagged, sky-blue line dragging just beneath his ribs on the right side.

-----

. . . . . It didn't hurt. Not yet. He was still too busy staring in wide-eyed in shock at the youth - surely not more than an adolescent from his gawky frame - who stood hoof to hoof with him, a twisted sneer on his boyish face as his hands were stained a dark navy with Diyos' blood. In the rapidly narrowing frame of the priest's vision, the boy's sudden rage and violence was backlit with the bright red robe of the female crumpled on the floor, her ears and nose leaking the same dark navy which once moved life.
. . . . . Priest and boy stood in a circle drawn in charcoal and blood on the floor of the female's spare dwelling on the edge of the settlement. They hadn't even named this planet yet, and already they were finding their first settlement too confining. Fetid rot filled the air. Not the female, she was quite freshly dead. The smell came from the recently exhumed remains of her mate arranged in the center of the room-spanning magic circle.
. . . . . She'd gone mad with grief, susceptible to the twisted whispers of foul man'ari magics. But as - oh, hey, there's the pain - Diyos was beginning to realize, she wasn't the only one to have gone man'ari here at the edge of town. Vision dimming further, Diyos reached his hands out as if to embrace the youth who'd put the serrated knife into his abdomen. A mental half-step to the side, and the shadows - easy to reach in this ritual charnel house - flowed into him. It was only seasons upon seasons of strict discipline which allowed him to keep the shadow magic's glee in check, making the youth's death swift and clean. One quick shadow spike to the brainpan. The unholy red light in the youth's eyes winked out and his hands dropped away from the dagger, leaving it embedded in Diyos' side as the youth's body toppled over, leaking blood from his nose and ears.
. . . . . Come away with us, the shadows whispered. Your pain will go away. All your pain will go away. It will become someone else's problem. Come with us.
. . . . . "No." With just that word, a word borne of immeasurable time spent being trained by the Hand to refuse, Diyos pushed the shadows away. He was a male of the Light. His work was in service to his people. He did what must be done. A faint scent of spiced honey gone rancid wafted past his nose as the door to the dwelling was yanked open. There were shouts, recognizable as his fellow man'ari hunters. He smelled charcoal. Oh. It was because he was lying on his face on the necromancy circle. He really hoped they didn't bring him back from the dead...

-----

. . . . . Long, thin indigo fingers set on a hand the size of a human dinner plate traced along the scar below his ribs. He'd almost died that evening. And two people did. A female and a youth.
. . . . . Come to us. Retreat, and we will undo your sins, hide your pai-...
. . . . . "No."
. . . . . He was a male of the Light and would not undo his hard work for any magic promise.
. . . . . Realization struck and he sighed at the flowing stream. "Dammit!" he muttered, kicking the bank and getting splashed by the mud he dislodged into the water. He'd be staying to train Elysium's new priest. If nothing else, he would teach the male how to deny the whispers of his old ways.

Site Write Entry #1: Surprise

In a fit of absolute insanity, I have signed up to participate in a writing prompt series on Moon Guard's realm forums. I've been doing a lot of story-telling through the forums lately, and in order to preserve my "site write" entries from eventual forum creep, I'm going to queue them up for preservation here. I'll schedule one a day for the 30 days of the challenge, if I can keep that up.

Prompt: May 7, 2012 - Surprise http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/surprise?s=t

. . . . . "Take a squadron out to Blackrock tonight, Commander."
. . . . . "Yes, sir." With a stiffness born of a life-challenged state, the draenei female's plate-gloved hand snapped up in salute at her superior officer. But there were only the two of them around, and she'd learned to grow brave around this man who'd once tried to have her beheaded. "May I ask vhy, sir?" she dared.
. . . . . "You may ask." An insufferable smirk settled in the hardly-visible opening of his greying goatee. "And this time I will answer," he relented, leaning back in the wooden chair built along the lines of a body half his build. For a moment, she feared it would break under the stress, but dwarves make chairs to survive tavern brawls - one plated human was not enough to bother its small, sturdy frame. "There has been word of an expedition of scholars heading down into the old Molten Core, but not word of their return. Given the elemental instabilities in the cities of late and the area's known fire problems, the 1113th was asked to send a retrieval team." The draenei female let her hand slowly drop and return to its usual position folded with its partner at the small of her back as the Major continued, "Fire is somewhat more of a problem for us sometimes, so I am sending a healer from the Icecrown company." 
. . . . . "Ekanos?" She perked up. She rather liked the gentle druid healer and his polite manner; he was much easier to herd around than the cranky old Farseer mercenary from the Major's illicit hired company. 
. . . . . But the Major shook his head. "No. Laurenhall's indisposed. Hangover from Brewfest, I believe. I have a new hire. He will meet you ther-" 
. . . . . "As long as it is not zat cranky old Farseer!" she broke in. 
. . . . . Major Orill almost smiled. Almost. "No. As I said, you will meet the new hire there. Now get that squadron moving. They will make the forges cold if they keep standing out there."

----- 

. . . . . Valdiis rubbed her gloved hand across the back of her neck. She didn't sweat in the heat, but her bloodworms got more active as they warmed up and one of them had decided that right between vertebrae C4 and C5 was a great place to set up a salsa dance. Not, of course, that she thought of it in those terms. Consider it a literary device. A not-entirely-gentle nudge was enough to get the little parasite calmed down as she led the squadron of seven's trudge up the ashy side of Blackrock Mountain. The heavy iron door leading inside was open, but then it always was. Her adjunct healer was nowhere to be seen. She turned to address the squadron as they finished the ascent and fell into formation, and that's when one of her Corporals nudged the Private next to him and pointed behind her. The titansteel shoe nailed to the bottom of her hoof squealed on the stone beneath her as she spun.
  
. . . . . Telaar was always hungry, always low on food. Feast days such as this one were rare, but visitors from Shattrath had brought several crates of supplies. At the unavoidable insistence of her harridan mother, Valdiis was sitting stiffly in one of the round-backed chairs of Telaar's rest and social hall, glowering at the door as she waited for her...date. Even thinking the word made her angry. 
. . . . . At least she'd managed to escape with her dignity and avoid Omii shoving her into a dress.
. . . . . And there he was, all broad and tall and a little soft in the middle, like a strong man gone to seed. His armor gleamed as if it hadn't seen hard use in seasons and his short, dark hair was rumpled like he could care less that he'd come to meet a female to whom an arranged marriage might well be in the offering. With a booming laugh and an easy smile, he flopped bonelessly down across the table from her and proceeded to order for the both of them: mudfish. 
. . . . . She hated mudfish. 
. . . . . Dinner was strained, though she suspected he didn't notice it. If she'd stripped down and danced the kamil-amir on the table, the only thing he'd do is complain that she was blocking access to his food. She'd barely touched her mudfish and he was just leaning forward to ask if she was going to eat that when her brother - her nether-blasted, meddling, eldest brother - passed by the table with a smirk and a comment about how she would sleep with anything wearing pants. 
. . . . . The ensuing brawl destroyed two tables, five chairs, one rug, and eleven dinner plates. The gleaming, chubby vindicator's only contribution was to snag her mudfish off the table before she picked it up and chucked it at Zunaadrin. If she never saw the oozy Ortuuze again, it would be too soon. 

. . . . . There he was, all broad and tall and a lot soft in the middle, like a strong man gone to pasture. His armor gleamed as if it hadn't seen hard use in seasons and his short, dark hair was rumpled like he could care less that he'd come to meet a Commander of a military unit paying him handsomely for healing. He grinned broadly and lifted a hand in greeting as she sneered at him. 
. . . . . "You."

A New Dawn

 Written while listening to Sunset by Kate Bush.

. . . . . With a jaw-cracking yawn, Kresmira stretched out in the bunk provided for her at Mardenholde Keep in Hearthglen. Or tried to. If she laid on her back, her hooves hung off the bottom of the bunk all the way to her knees, rather feeling a lot like she'd sat on the end of the bunk and fallen backwards. It was tremendously uncomfortable. A soft growl came from the bunk above her, and she started - realizing seconds later that it was only a dwarven snoring noise. The tiny woman who'd climbed up there not fifteen minutes ago could wake a clefthoof with that sound. Kresmira tried to roll onto her side, the way she usually slept, but discovered quickly that the position put an awkward strain on her knees, since her hooves still hung out. Even if she curled her knees up - which made them stick off the side of the bunk instead - she couldn't get comfortable. As with many things she was learning about on Azeroth, Hearthglen just wasn't built to her scale.
. . . . . She didn't want to wake the tiny woman above her, so pulling the mattress off the bunk was out. Instead, she took just the pillow and blanket, trying to be as quiet as possible on adamantite-shod hooves, and snuck out of the Keep. Outside, it was still early spring and her thin linen shorts and sleeveless linen shirt were not adequate for the damp chill of somewhere past midnight in the northern part of Eastern Kingdoms. That was what the blanket was for, however, and she draped it around her shoulders - to fall somewhere just past her knees - and carried the pillow as she walked around to the back of the Keep and sought out a suitable tree.
. . . . . There. Some several yards from the back left corner of the Keep was a tall tree with a thick trunk. It would do. She set her pillow down in the grass - which had just begun to gather a coating of dew - and stretched out parallel to the tree, pressing her shoulders against the trunk as she curled up on her side under the blanket. The grass tickled her arm and she wished she still had a small herd for warmth, but the ground was tolerable enough until she could cobble together larger arrangements inside. Surprisingly exhausted after a whirlwind day of introductions and meetings and explanations, she dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

No Such Thing as a Smooth Course

((Hey, I'm not dead.))

Written while listening to Times Like These (Acoustic) by Foo Fighters.


. . . . . Schwip... schwip... schwip...
. . . . . Waves lapped gently against the sturdy wooden hull of the schooner before Diyos's eyes. He tried to focus on the solidity of the boat instead of the constant motion of the waves, but it was no good. His stomach heaved again and he hung over the railing like a limp rag. They were only about six hours out from Menethil Harbor, but he hadn't exactly started the day on the best hoof. Still plagued by a vicious hangover ever since they'd pushed off in the early morning, it was all he could do to keep from toppling into the Great Sea.
. . . . . “Ooo, look!” came the far-too-cheery-for-the-hour voice of his baby brother by his ear. “I'm pretty sure that's a dragon up there!” After several rapid pats at his shoulder, Athos gave up and elbowed him in the ribs. “Degenerate,” he muttered with good humor.
. . . . . “Shut it, will you? I'm trying to find my sobriety.”
. . . . . “And whose overindulgence was that?” Athos peered down into the sea with Diyos, watching as the lapping waves seemed to slow their pace against the hull. “It was a small bronze dragon,” he explained.
. . . . . “Probably one of the dragons who started befriending adventurers last year, then.” Diyos clung to the railing for another few moments, then started to straighten. As he did so, the entire ship rolled and bucked under his hooves - a long, slow yaw port, then a gentle pitch starboard. “Urrrp!” was Diyos's only reaction.
. . . . . “Woah!” was Athos's response, followed by a sharp gasp. “What was that? Did we just pass over a huge fish? Maybe a shark? Or a whale? Do sharks get that big? Maybe it was a whaleshark!”
. . . . . “Athos, quit being such a nerd. There's no such thing as whalesharks. It was just a big wave.”

One Disaster Less

Written while listening to The Last Thing On Your Mind by Lights.


. . . . . To whom it may conce-... “No, too formal.”
. . . . . Regretfully, the ti-... “Too emotional!”
. . . . . After a year, it has co-...
. . . . . “Diyos!”
. . . . . Papers rustled as Diyos swiftly covered the letter he was writing with a blank sheet and looked up expectantly to see his baby brother closing the door to their apartment in the Park District of Stormwind behind him. Athos had a distinctly frazzled air to go with his usual excitability; he practically bounded into the room, a cardboard box wrapped in twine tucked under one arm. “DiyosDiyosDi-”
. . . . . “Stop.” The priest held out one platter-sized hand in a staying gesture, careful not to sweep his sleeve through the pile of crumpled balls of paper on the table in front of him. “Breathe.”
. . . . . The younger – by a few minutes – draenei clattered to a halt in front of the table and set down his package. He took a deep breath and regarded Diyos in his chair, managing to stay quiet for all of about six seconds. “Diyos! Naaru’s sake, did you forget? Why are you just sitting here? Get up. Get up! It’s time to go!”
. . . . . “I didn’t forget – I’m just trying to get other business done, brother.” The chair made an obnoxious scraping sound as it moved back across the wooden floor and Diyos stood. “Is Kreli coming up or are we mee-”
. . . . . “We’re meeting him there!” Athos interrupted.
. . . . . Diyos shook his head and gave his baby brother a bemused smile as he picked up a book titled Compassion in Battle: War-time Counseling to read while they waited at the courthouse and tucked it under his arm. “Alright, let’s get under way then.”
. . . . . “You’re going to wear that?”
. . . . . Diyos glanced down at his robes; they were black with purple embroidery on the cuffs. “What’s wrong with this?”
. . . . . “You practically look like a magistrate yourself,” his baby brother said with a scowl. “You could at least attempt to look like a man who still serves the Light.”
. . . . . “They do! I mean, magistrates. I mean, I do!” Diyos practically gasped at the audacity of the accusation.

Fishing Stories

((What follows are a series of conversations - mostly conceived and written by Ekanos’s player - that occurred between the two while they were in hiding. It’s not everything they spoke about - for example, the deep conversations about what was really going on tended to be in the evening, staring up at the stars - but it was a writing challenge to try to convey a sense of what they were up to almost entirely through text. There is exactly one line of non-dialogue in this story, and only because we could figure out no better way to present it. Imagine these as snapshot moments which break up hours of silently staring at the water.))


. . . . . “Hey, Ekanos.”
. . . . . “Yeff, Diyof?”
. . . . . “Do... Do you have to do that?”
. . . . . “Do what?”
. . . . . “Eat...like that.”
. . . . . “Like what?”
. . . . . “The fish is still alive, Ekanos.”
. . . . . “What?” The elf cracked the fish against the trunk of the tree he was leaning on. “No, it isn’t.”
. . . . . “Well not now. Couldn’t you at least cook it?”
. . . . . “But...then it loses all the flavor!”

. . . . . “Hey, Ekanos?”
. . . . . “Yes, Diyos?”
. . . . . “What’cha readin’?”
. . . . . “A scroll about abnormal tumors in the human body.”
. . . . . “What’s a ‘normal’ tumor?”
. . . . . “I...don’t know, Diyos. That’s a really good question.”

Frostbite

Written while listening to Six Gun Quota by Seether.


. . . . . Finally, the last of the Company left, but not until after the creepy young thing had left a cookie atop his ice prison and told him to keep his chin up. She was one of them and always struck Diyos as a little freakish. She’d taken up the human habit of adornment through piercing and so much metal pushing into her dead flesh only seemed to make it more obscene…like carving smiley faces onto the fallen walls of Auchindoun. On Azshariel, a single piercing was cute. Perhaps he was just a hypocrite; it wouldn’t be the first time.
. . . . . The pierced one told him to keep faith in the Light and the Naaru. He’d scoffed and told her to leave, to let this human Colonel just knock him over the head and put him out already. The Light wasn’t doing jack – more slang he’d picked up in Common classes – to help him. He didn’t know precisely what jack was, but he knew not doing it meant that his world got a little bleaker with each heartbeat. When that nasty unholy Man’ari had been in his face and the Company had gotten a dose of righteous fury on his behalf, he almost felt like he’d be alright after all.
. . . . . And then they took a vote on whether or not to help him.
. . . . . And after being told what they needed to do to spring him from this early, they debated it like they were choosing an expedition spot and ended up deciding to not do anything like what they’d been asked.
. . . . . He was so screwed.

A Little Character Art

. . . . .I was complaining to a friend of mine that I was a sometimes little sad I played a dead character, because dead characters could not be sexy - ever. (And shouldn't be!) She decided to attempt to prove me wrong and drew a picture of Valdiis for me. I got bored and colored it recently, so I decided to share.

Drawn by Kyléa of Moon Guard. Colored by Valdiis of Moon Guard.

Fireflies in a Jar

Written while listening to Hello Again by Dave Matthews Band.


. . . . . Extinction. The word crashed against the inside of Diyos’s mind like a marshlight bleeder in a giant jar. He translated the word into his native tongue and back again, listened to his memory echo Azshariel’s voice to him until he felt like it was his own psyche beating on the glass for freedom.
. . . . . In the small workspace in Ironforge he rented for his tailoring commissions, he sat at his mana loom, weaving threads soaked in arcane dust with threads soaked in nether essence. Every clack of the shuttle seemed to repeat her premise: adapt or die. Under his hands, enough imbued netherweave to form a full bolt of cloth was forming.
. . . . . A craving for the bitter burn of alcohol settled in the back of his throat. Before joining the company, a few hours of watching his thoughts batter against his mind like trapped fireflies would have him well on his way to drinking himself into oblivion. But now he had a new start, people counting on him who were not obliged to toleration by filial bonds like his baby brother. He could forget the nightmares of millennia nipping at his hooves. He had a connection to this planet outside of his family’s bonds, and for all that he was not with them as often as their core members, he felt as if the company’s employees were what held him here – as well as his brother still on probation in Stormwind.
. . . . . Unlike Athos, if he screwed this up, they would kick him to the curb.

Making the Best of It

Written while listening to The Best of What's Around by Dave Matthews Band.
((I’m not totally pleased with this, but as it’s been several months since I last wrote something, I’ll take what I can get.))

. . . . . “She’s dead, Jim.”
. . . . . The draenei anchorite who’d just voiced this statement of fact for the fifty-third time thumped his head back against the thick hide of the elekk lying behind him on the deck of the Elune’s Blessing. For his part, the elekk – named Jim – curled his trunk around to his side and appeared to give his draenei owner a comforting pat on the hip…until it became clear that he was actually tugging on the small pouch of acorns tied to the anchorite’s belt.
. . . . . A platter-sized indigo hand swatted at the elekk’s gray trunk. The elekk snorted, blowing clear snot all over the right hip of the anchorite’s brown trousers.
. . . . . “Thanks, Jim. Good to know your opinion.” The anchorite’s voice was dry as he elbowed the elekk in the side to get him to settle down.
. . . . . A shout drifted down from the crow’s nest of the ship. The glittering crystal spires of the Exodar were just visible on the horizon. He was almost there.

. . . . . The new cook at the Valiance Keep inn gritted his teeth. That damned tapping sound was back. Taptaptap. Tap. Taptap. Tap. It was coming from the other side of the wall behind the fire pit, which was impossible since there was nothing back there.

Writer's Block

. . . . . I have not forgotten about my stories or stopped playing my characters. I've had some fairly major life upheavals in the last few months and have hit a bit of writer's block with my stories. That said, I do have a collaborative piece with Valdiis and Major Eredis Orill I'm writing with his player mostly finished and the vaguest of plots for a Diyos and Valdiis piece in the back of my head. Hadeon has an outline for another story. Xeremuriis may be a little while before she pops up again. So. Just a lull. ^.^ 

Recall

Written while listening to Beauty Never Fades by Junkie XL.


. . . . . . The small, sharp blade whistled through the air with the sweetest, softest ring, its movement so swift that its target only had enough time to perk a long ear at the warning before the dagger pinned its chest to the forest floor. The hare kicked twice and expired, its life blood pooling beneath it from the well-aimed thrown weapon.
. . . . . . Hooves no noisier than a doe’s carried the sturdy draenei female out of the bushes and to her quarry. She mumbled a perfunctory prayer to the Light for the animal’s soul, rote words with hardly more thought behind them than it took to form her mouth around the syllables. An ebon-gray hand, calloused with hard work and tipped with blunted, heavily-used claws, pulled the blade free of the corpse, and wiped it clean with a pale peach-tinted leaf plucked from the bushes. The dagger joined its twin on her leather belt, and she scooped up the hare’s corpse.
. . . . . . Whistling a tune to startle off any other predators drawn by the scent of blood, the draenei female headed back to the small lean-to in the woods she’d set up miles from the nearest settlement, and miles farther from the claustrophobic, Nether-blasted ship the draenei had landed here on. She settled her leather-covered rump on a fallen log and pulled a smaller blade from her belt, a flensing knife. With the deft movements of a practiced hand, the skin was separated from the corpse in one piece, the meat sliced free in perfectly-sized servings for two meals and set atop the bloodied skin. She got back up and laid out the sticks and larger pieces of wood for a campfire, then pulled a small pouch off her belt. Inside was a bundle of tinder and…
. . . . . . “Archimonde’s shriveled balls!” she cursed at the empty forest. “Where is my flint?” She searched beneath a rack of curing hides, inside her simple lean-to, all around the fallen log she used as seating, even took apart the campfire she’d just built. All to no avail. There was no flint to be found.
. . . . . . Continuing to curse, the draenei female known as Rosoe secured her campsite, bundled the meat up in the skin it had originally lived in, stuffed it in a pack slung over her shoulder, and started the long walk to the nearest settlement of Lailein on their latest chunk of rock in the Nether, a planet they called Spretomi.

Crucible

Written while listening to Marunae by E.S. Posthumus.
((I blame this one on Yulenia of Moon Guard. “Write a Val story,” he says; “write a war story,” he says… The discussion between Eredis and Valdiis comes from in-game RP; much thanks to Eredis and Bergmann for letting me run off with those characters a bit. The format – specifically, the timing of the three threads – of this particular story is somewhat bizarre. Hopefully, it is not too obscure to be understood.))


. . . . . . The acrid mixed scent of sulfur and flux, of melted iron and crushed rock, hung on the hot, dry air swirling lazily through the open balcony of the second floor of the building. As acclimated as any native of the city by now – or perhaps just too dead to smell it – a draenei female in light plate armor sat motionless at a desk piled high with papers. In her hands she held a report detailing the buildup of sin’dorei troops on the other side of the Dark Portal – a clear and immediate threat to Alliance trade interests that must be dealt with swiftly.
. . . . . . Plated boots clomped up the stairs and the draenei never moved, her glowing eyes fixed not on the report, but blankly at a spot on the wall opposite her chair. The clomping continued as a grizzled, older human male in heavy plate covered by a black tabard moved through the path of her blank stare and sat down across from her at the desk.
. . . . . . “Commander Valdiis. Just the person I wanted to see.”
. . . . . . The draenei Commander took several seconds to focus her attention on the man across the table from her, and several seconds more to form something between a sigh and an acknowledgment. “Hrhn. Major…”
. . . . . . The human Major raised his eyebrow inquisitively at this unusually slow response.
. . . . . . After another several seconds, she blinked and seemed to shake herself out of it. “Major Eredis, sir. Ehm. Alright, so I am just ze person you vanted to see?” The paper went down on the table and her hands – covered as always in articulated plates over leather gloves – folded atop the desk in what would have been a casual gesture if the creak of tightly-clutched leather didn’t give her away.
. . . . . . The Major nodded. “You’ve read the reports on Sunguard activity in Outland.” It wasn’t a question.
. . . . . . She glanced down at the paper under her hands and nodded mutely. One of the ebon-gray tendrils set behind her ear twitched.
. . . . . . “I need you to represent AEGIS at the Temple of Telhamat.” The Major scratched his bearded chin. “Bergmann will be your aide, as usual.”

Fake It ‘Til You Make It

Written while listening to Fake It by Seether.


. . . . . “I’d really rather you stay here.” The concerned words of his friend and fellow draenei in the Modan Company rang in his ears for a few hours after she had left. The Company doctor had reiterated it. Then the boss lady had come back and shared roasted rabbit and a bit of lovely conversation with him.
. . . . . But now he was alone in the Southgate Outpost. And supposed to stay here.
. . . . . “Booooring!” he wailed up at the stone ceiling.
. . . . . The anchorite was sitting on the edge of the cot kept in the upstairs of the Outpost for medical needs…and did the Company ever have medical needs. Lately, it seemed it had been mostly him. He looked at the empty bottle of Captain Rumsey clutched in one platter-sized indigo hand, and then at the four empty bottles set neatly next to the box he’d been pulling them from. For a moment, it all looked perfectly fine…and then his neurons went into another misfire tailspin.

Chased by Destiny

Written while listening to King of Pain by the Police.
((I tend to think of my stories as "fan service" most of the time, because they often aren't stand-alone tales that could make for universal stories. That's one of the reasons I don't go out of my way to point people to my blog. That said, this may be the most "fan service"-y story of all, because of the rapid-fire way guildmates are mentioned without introduction, and the way actual in-game events are inserted almost at random. So. Fair warning given.))


. . . . . The sickly green tendrils of fel energy dragged claws across his mind, their tainted fingers tugging and stroking and promising all manner of unimaginable power if he let them in. Just a taste. Just a touch. You’re already halfway there… What’s a little more?
. . . . . No.
. . . . . The anchorite strapped a little bit of mental steel to his backbone and concentrated on the task at hand: rifling through the thoughts of the bound sindorei prisoner in front of him. Despite being half-hidden by shadows and mist, he could see the two Hand of Argus vindicators guarding the prisoner eyeing him nervously. Wasn’t that always the price of it? Those few who knew what he did for the Hand…he always made them nervous. He shut out his own feelings, his own thoughts, and concentrated on the sindorei.
. . . . . Like a file clerk going through papers, he shuffled through a series of images, searching for anything that would reveal the source of the constant influx of fresh troops that were attacking the newly formed camp of Blood Watch. He shuffled past an image of a large portal and red crystals – the Vector Coil, stopped, went back. On the bound and unconscious prisoner’s temples, fingers of shadow and magic over indigo skin tightened slightly.
. . . . . The shadowy anchorite opened his mouth to tell the vindicators about the portal the sindorei attackers were using to get more troops. As his mouth opened, the sickly green tendrils of fel energy rising from the sindorei swarmed in and began squirming around in his brain, lashing his soul and tearing him away from the last of the Light.
. . . . . No!

. . . . . “No!” Diyos sat upright in the too-short bed in the too-small room he’d rented at the inn at Valiance Keep. He began to shiver almost immediately as the pile of woolen blankets fell down around his waist; the pre-dawn air of a winter in Borean Tundra, even inside an inn, was not a place for bare skin. A soft chiming sound and a faint purple glow came from the table next to the bed. The anchorite groaned quietly and reached over to drop a small bag of coins over top of the communication crystal and hide it from sight and sound. It was because he dearly loved his little brother that he couldn’t answer that summons. Not now. Not while the shadows still tugged at him.
. . . . . He clasped a hand around the gold and brass symbol around his neck, pulled the wool blankets back up over his head, and tried desperately to get back to sleep for a few more hours.