Darth Krzysztof's World of the Unlikely & Bizarre

Player Character All-Star; Nicholas Sharpe

2011-11-08T20:15:00.000-08:00

NICHOLAS SHARPE (AD&D 2nd Edition, converted from 1st Edition)

Male human NG 12th-level wizard
Str 15, Dex 15, Con 15, Int 19, Wis 13, Cha 10
AC -1, hp 45, THAC0 17, Move 12, Size M
XP (+10%) 940,800 – next level at 1,125,000
Saving Throws: Immune to 1st level illusions (Int).
Weapon Proficiencies: dagger, staff, wheel-lock belt pistol.
Non-Weapon Proficiencies: Arcanlogy, Astrology, Gaming (chas), Mental Resistance, Navigation
Languages: Achean, Common, Solomarian, Sylaire.
Class Abilities: Wizard spells: 4 1st, 4 2nd, 4 3rd, 4 4th, 4 5th, 1 6th. May summon familiar, make magic items & research spells.
Possessions: staff of power, bracers of defense AC 2, ring of limited telepathy, cloak of arachnida, amulet of proof vs. detection & location, two throwing daggers, wheel-lock belt pistol, blue & silver robes & coat, gold-rimmed monocle on neck chain, small belt pouch containing spell components, backpack containing magnifying glass, spellbook, spyglass, bedroll, 68,926 gp.

APPEARANCE
Tall, plain, and scrawny, Nicholas Sharpe appears to be forty (though he is closer to fifty, thanks to potions of longevity). His long brown hair comes to a widow’s peak, and white streaks his temples. His pointed beard has no mustache; a gold-rimmed monocle covers one of his pale green eyes. His nose could be charitably described as “prominent.”

Nick typically wears a gray tunic and breeches, with a long coat of blue and silver. The brooch which fastens his dark blue cloak is emblazoned with his spider sigil. He favors a sturdy leather belt and boots; simple iron bracers encircle his forearms. A backpack contains Nick’s spellbooks; he wears a belt pouch for his ivory pipe. His gold wedding ring is nondescript.

His staff of power, Zalam (Sarafi for “the darkness”), is topped with a wicked iron skull; harmless mystic smoke continually pours from its mouth. He also wears a finely-made throwing dagger at his belt.

BACKGROUND
Nicholas Sharpe’s earliest memories are of an orphanage in the Solomarian city of Solorune, where he was abandoned in 1273 AD. With no knowledge of his parentage, he chose his own name, and spent much of his youth sneaking out to wander the city at night. Nick befriended some associates of the House of Long Knives, Solorune’s thieves’ guild. His own career as a pickpocket ended at the age of twelve, when a wizard caught him with a hand in his belt pouch. But his career as the wizard’s apprentice had begun.

Irian the Outcast was a poor teacher; Nick spent much of his apprenticeship watching his master’s back in taverns. Irian’s sharp tongue forced the two to flee Solorune in 1290, but their ship was boarded by pirates, and Irian was put to the sword. Nick’s quick thinking and shaky understanding of roguish culture enabled him to join the crew.

Nick remained on the HMS Predator for many years; Red Morgan, a dashing swashbuckler, became his best friend. But when a woman named Serpentine came between them in 1298, Nick left the pirate’s life behind and returned to Solomaria. He spent two years at the bottom of an ale tankard.

When his gold dried up, Nick joined an adventuring company, the Red Swords, at the behest of his drinking buddy, the rogue Kerwin. Hired to slay an orc tribe that had seized a mine north of Red Hill, the party was ambushed and scattered. Gravely wounded and stricken with filth fever, Nick wandered the tunnels until encountering Nightshade, a drow fighter. Nick led the dark elf to the surface; he, in turn, helped Nick back to Solorune, where the wizard convalesced under the care of Ilona Lorien. This elven cleric also gave Nightshade a place to hide; in time, the three became unlikely friends.

When Ilona’s acquaintance Eric Holder vanished, the trio learned that he had been sacrificed to a forgotten god. With the help of Fredek, an elven rogue, the adventurers found the god’s hidden temple and slew the cultists—but exposed a deeper conspiracy at work. Athelstan, a prophet of the lost god Taros, was raising a secret army, and plotted to awaken the dread Tarrasque from its enchanted slumber upon the impending astrological conjunction known as the Grand Alignment. By offering the victims of the Tarrasque’s wrath to Taros as sacrifices, Athelstan intended to restore the lost god to power. Nightshade’s mother, Erlave, had also pledged House Belvarath’s support through the illithid, Xallibossk.

Nick’s party took this news to Solorune’s Bishop, Daryn. Convinced that these adventurers had been brought together by the hand of fate, Bishop Daryn charged them with recovering Randell’s four elemental stones. In doing so, they befriended the silver dragon Vaxus near Anchorway, and Nick made his peace with Red Morgan, now captain of the Predator. Using the elemental stones with the Altar of Strength and the Enchiridion, they compelled the Tarrasque to destroy Athelstan’s army, banished the prophet to another plane, and sent the Tarrasque back to sleep.

Though hailed as Athelstan’s “Destroyers,” Nick and his friends had no time to celebrate this victory. They were drawn to Castle Amber in the demiplane of Ravenloft, an asylum for the insane, immortal Amber family. There they encountered Alexandrine d’Ambreville, a necromancer who was moved by Nick’s kindness. They escaped by breaking Étienne d’Ambreville’s curse, which reduced the castle, and everyone within it, to dust.

After two more adventures in Ravenloft, the Destroyers returned to Brynthia. They journeyed to the Achean capital of Athinai, where Nightshade won the Great Games, and commissioned King Melinore to build Castle Destroyer. Nightshade married Ilona shortly thereafter, and Nick summoned a hawk familiar, which he named Steeleye.

Teleported to the Desert of Desolation, the Destroyers resurrected the sha’ir, Martek, to stop the efreet Khalitharius. They also recovered the Cup and Talisman of al-Akbar from the city of Khaibar to avert a plague in Bralizzar, defeating a wizard called the Mad Dog of the Desert.

The Destroyers were again drawn to Ravenloft in 1302. Once back in Achea, Nick founded the Lycaeum, a school of magic built around an old lighthouse.

Their next test proved harder than any that had come before—three lairs of giants, each deadlier than the last. In the second, Nick fell in love with the witch Kira Selnic, who joined their party. Xallibossk’s defeat in the third lair thwarted another of Erlave’s plots.

Back in Achea once more, Nick married Kira. When their daughter, Madeleine, was born, Kira tried to murder her husband, in order to fulfill a mysterious prophecy. She fled when the other Destroyers intervened, leaving the Spider to raise their child himself.

Upon returning from a quest to Earth, Nick was greeted by Alexandrine d’Ambreville, who’d been resurrected (with the rest of her family) by Étienne. Nick and Alex fell in love.

Steeleye perished in Yasad’s desert lair in 1303, but Nick claimed the lich’s staff of power for his own. After the Destroyers vanquished the beholder Geshplerx, Nick summoned a new familiar, the pseudodragon Skarla.

A Sarafi army invaded Athinai that fall, seizing King Melinore, his daughter Emily, and Madeleine. Their leader demanded the return of the Cup and Talisman of al-Akbar to the people of Khaibar—the people of Bralizzar never returned them as promised. Once the Destroyers recovered the artifacts with Martek’s aid, they returned aboard Nightshade’s new spelljammer, the HMS Midnight.

By the time Fredek exposed the Mad Dog of the Desert as the force behind the jihad, it had become clear that the invaders had no intention of dismissing their army, or of freeing their hostages. Fortunately, the Destroyers’ allies had rallied Achea’s other city-states into an army of their own, and a terrible battle ensued. Melinore and Emily were slain, while Nick and Alex pursued Madeleine’s keeper though a gate to the Gloom itself. Only there did they learn that her abductor was Kira Selnic.

Nick and Alex slew the witch and rescued the child from the afterworld, narrowly escaping a confrontation with Orcus, the Daemon Lord of Undeath. Once Achea was secured, Nightshade became its king, and Nick became Nightshade’s court wizard. Nick married Alex soon after; their daughter, Amanda, was born in 1304.

In 1305, the Destroyers were recruited to rescue a dragon from a cloud fortress occupied by Ezoran the Deceiver and Draxella. In the wizards’ library, Nick learned that his parents were a tiefling and a long-dead conjurer, and that his fiendish bloodline runs back to Orcus himself. Nick recognized this as the key to Kira’s prophecy; to this day, he does not know what it spells for Madeleine’s fate.

The Element of Fire reappeared in Saint Amira in 1311. Daryn, old ally of the Destroyers and now Archbishop of Solomaria, was murdered for the stone, setting Nick’s company on its trail. They recovered it from a sinking ship, also rescuing Nick’s old friend, Kerwin. He promised to help the Destroyers find the party who had hired the drowned assassins. Instead, he led them into a trap.

With Xallibossk’s help, Athelstan had returned with a new plan to use Randell’s artifacts to revive Taros—and now, he possessed them all. Escaping an undead horde, the Destroyers followed Athelstan back to Solorune—back to the forbidden temple where it all began. There they defeated Xallibossk and Athelstan once and for all.

Now retired, Nick has spent the last decade running his school, and raising his daughters. However, he does spend an occasional summer in Sigil, and has taken the HMS Midnight to at least two other worlds. He is content to leave adventuring to a new generation, but won’t hesitate to take up the quest again, if the hand of fate so decrees.

PERSONALITY
Nick adores his wife and children above all else. His daughters stand ready to take up the adventuring life, but Nick is secure in the knowledge that they’ll honor the family name. He controls his worry for Madeleine with the resolve that her destiny will reveal itself, for good or ill.

A good friend to Nightshade, Nick still feels less comfortable with Fredek (a loud-mouthed braggart) and Ilona (whom he once thought he loved; now, Ilona doesn’t always get along with Alex).

A decade of battling evil brought Nick’s devotion to the greater good, though he’s not as pious as Ilona would like. His commitment to the Lycaeum stems from his desire to make the apprenticeship of other wizards less miserable than his own. Once pessimistic, selfish, and suspicious, Nick has become a kind and generous man. He has always kept his passions under control, and may seem emotionless at first sight. He takes pains to keep his vast intellect from alienating normal folk.

Ever hungry for knowledge, Nick has traveled to other worlds in the pursuit of lore. He is fascinated by spiders, and has collected rare specimens from all over creation. He enjoys pipeweed in moderation, but doesn’t drink anymore.

COMMON EXPRESSIONS
“Ah. Yes. Well, that is one way of looking at it.”

THEME SONG
"Wrapped Around Your Finger," by The Police

KNOWN FAMILY MEMBERS
Samael (father, deceased)
Eiluned (mother, deceased)
Kira Selnic (wife, deceased)
Alexandrine d'Ambreville (wife)
Madeleine Sharpe (daughter)
Amanda Sharpe (daughter)

COMMENTS
Nicholas Sharpe, alias Nicholas Mysticus, was my first "real" player character. I'd used backstory generation tables in an issue of Dragon to give him a history, since I created him above 1st level to replace the PC of someone who'd quit the game. I played him as pompous and intellectual, trying to channel a bit of Kelsey Grammer, and we all had fun with it. But he really took hold in my imagination when he met the witch Kira Selnic, which I've written about before.

I played Nick for a couple of years; he made it to 12th level around the time that AD&D transitioned to 2nd Edition. The campaign's story (and the Kira Selnic subplot) was never resolved in play, but I eventually wrote up a satisfying ending for it.

Player Character All-Star: Ilona Lorien

2011-11-08T18:10:00.000-08:00

ILONA LORIEN (AD&D 2nd Edition, converted from 1st Edition)

Female high elf NG 11th-level priest of Orelia
Str 11, Dex 15, Con 15, Int 15, Wis 18, Cha 17
AC -5, hp 61, THAC0 14, Move 12, Size M

XP (+10%) 682,506 – next level at 900,000

Saving Throws: PPD 6, RSW 10, PP 9, BW 12, S 11. +4 to save vs. mind-affecting magic (Wisdom), +2 to all (cloak), +4 vs larger/hotter fires (ring).

Weapon Proficiencies: horseman’s mace, quarterstaff, footman’s mace, longsword.

Non-Weapon Proficiencies: Ancient History (military)-14, Ancient History (Achea)-14, Bureaucracy-15, Ceremony-18, Dancing-15, Healing-16, Herbalism-13, Local History (Solomaria)-17, Reading/Writing-16, Religion-18, Singing-17, Spellcraft-13.

Languages: Common, Elven, Solomarian.

Racial Abilities: 60 ft. infravision. +1 to hit with long or short swords or bows. 90% resistance to sleep or charm-related spells. 1 in 6 chance of spotting secret/concealed door in passing, 2 in 6 to find secret door if searching, 3 in 6 to find concealed if searching. -4 (-2 if door must be opened) bonus to surprise foes when alone and not wearing metal armor. -2 penalty when disbelieving illusions.

Class Abilities: Cleric spells: 7 1st, 6 2nd, 5 3rd, 4 4th, 2 5th, 1 6th. Major spheres allowed: All, Combat, Healing, Necromantic, Protection, Travelers. Minor spheres allowed: Charm, Divination, Guardian, Sun, Wards. +3 points/die on all healing spells. Can detect evil 6 times/day. Can turn undead and attract followers. May use an edged weapon, but only in self-defense.

Possessions: Wyrmbiter (longsword +2, red dragon slayer), staff of curing, footman’s mace +3, elven chain +3, shield +3, ring of fire resistance, cloak of displacement, 2 candles of invocation, holy symbol, backpack, 170,514 gp.

Height: 5'10", Weight: 140 lb., Age: 156
Eyes: Green, Hair: Blond, Skin: Fair

APPEARANCE
Ilona is a strikingly beautiful elf, with her mother’s long, lustrous golden hair, and sparkling green eyes. Nearly six feet tall and 150 pounds, she is 156 years old, but only her adventuring scars betray any sign of her age.

Despite being both Queen and Archbishop of Achea, she still wears the austere blue and white robe of a traveling priest, though elven chain hides beneath it. She still uses the same basic holy symbol that she received upon her ordination. A small gold crown adorns her brow; she wears a simple silver band upon her right hand, and her wedding ring, comprised of intertwined loops of platinum, gold, and mithril, on the left. She also wears hard, high boots and a sturdy leather belt.

The longsword Wyrmbiter hangs at her hip, along with a functional mace. She carries her staff everywhere she goes.

BACKGROUND
Ilona is the only daughter of General Taran Lorien, a renowned Crusade veteran who settled in Zeno’s Gate with his wife Shaena. When Taran mustered an army, determined to carve a new elven kingdom out of wild Alfheim, Ilona went after him, finding her faith in Orelia along the way. Though too late to save her father, she became a cleric upon returning home with his body.

She traveled to Solorune for her education. Tending to the infirm in the temple there, she encountered Nicholas Sharpe, and the wizard’s rescuer, the drow fighter Nightshade. Fearful at first of Nightshade, she became an unlikely friend to both him and Nicholas.

When her friend Erik Holder went missing, Ilona, Nick, and Nightshade tracked him to a temple of the lost god Taros. Enlisting the help of Fredek the rogue, the four adventurers slew the cultists – and exposed a deeper conspiracy at work.

Defeating that conspiracy was only the beginning of Ilona’s adventuring career. Her adventuring company, the Destroyers, have traveled the length and breadth of Brynthia, and to worlds and planes beyond. (See Nick's page for a more detailed description of their adventuring career.)

But the island realm of Achea is their adopted home. Ilona married Nightshade shortly after he became a hero to the Achean people; she persuaded the Clave to make Achea an archdiocese under her jurisdiction after recovering the Chalice of the Saint, and she and Nightshade united the island under their rule when it faced foreign invasion.

Today Ilona has retired from the adventuring life – being a queen and an archbishop keeps her hands full. Still, if evil should rise, she will be there to meet it.

PERSONALITY
Ilona’s faith in her deity is matched only by her love for Nightshade, though she blames herself for their inability to conceive. She is also devoted to Nick and Fred, but has never cared for Alexandrine’s company. Though she loves and admires her late father, she no longer shares his hatred for the drow.

A fearless enemy of evil, Ilona would walk across Brynthia to smite her goddess’s foes, and never refuses a request for aid. Indeed, her tendency to jump right into things has always been her greatest flaw, though she has some control over it now. She also came across as haughty in her youth, but her years in the priesthood have brought her humility, even in her current stations.

A natural leader, Ilona is honest (sometimes harshly so) and trusting (perhaps too trusting). She strives to bring reform to the One True Faith, and is considered the most liberal element of the Clave.

She feels naked without her holy symbol, and never lets it out of her sight. Her wedding ring is the only other possession in which she places such value.

COMMON EXPRESSIONS
"The Bright Lady's miracles aren't meant to win your faith, but to reward your faith."

THEME SONG
"Fight the Good Fight," by Triumph

KNOWN FAMILY MEMBERS
Taran Lorian, father (deceased)
Shaena Lorien, mother
Nightshade, husband

COMMENTS
Ilona began as a 1st-level NPC in The Hand of Fate, but became a PC when another DM offered to run G1-3 Against the Giants for us. Since it was just my brother and I, we each played two characters; Ilona and Nick were mine.

By then, Ilona had overcome her hatred of the drow to fall in love with Nightshade, so she was essentially devoid of negative character traits. But she gained depth over the four years that I played her, and she formed the selfless, vigilant foundation that I've since based a thousand clerics upon. I still think of her as my first "real" player character.

On the Origin of PCs: Major League

2011-11-08T15:50:00.000-08:00

I've played a lot of Player Characters down through the years. Most were forgettable, and a few were downright lamentable, but some of them have stuck with me. This is my attempt to figure out what was so special about them.

I've chosen to break the PC pool down into three groups: Major League, minor league, and everyone else. Where each PC ends up depends on the answers to these questions:

How much work did I put into the PC? Did I craft an elaborate background? Did I write any fiction? Did I draw a portrait? Did I make a playlist of songs? Do I feel like that work paid off?

How long did I play the PC? What were the most memorable moments of the PC's career? Did the PC have a story, and was that story resolved to my satisfaction? Did the PC get converted when a new edition of the game came out? (Only characters that I actually got to play will be part of this process; PCs from play-by-post games are also excluded.)

How good was the campaign that the PC was part of? Was the PC fun to play? How did the character play off of the other PCs? Did I come to associate the RPG itself with the PC?

There are, at present, six PCs I would consider to be Major League:
Ilona Lorien, an elven cleric (AD&D 1st Edition)
Nicholas Sharpe, a human wizard (AD&D 1st Edition)
Sean "Trace" Kilbride, a street samurai (Shadowrun 1st Edition)
Aramis Shepherd, a human cleric of the Raven Queen (D&D 4th Edition)
Casidhe Fionnlagh, a human rogue and duelist (Dragon Age homebrew)
Quinn Mac Teague, a human paladin (Pathfinder)

Each of these PCs will get a post, then I'll do another one for the minor leaguers. My hope is that going through the stables will show me patterns that I can work with in the future.

Bex Journal Entry 4

2011-11-07T13:57:00.001-08:00

Sar 21 Barrakas, continued

Evidently, Failin owed money to the Marguul clan, and the bugbears caught up with him before he could get us out of town. We managed to defeat them, with Rocky and I soaking up most of the damage… but something strange happened at the end. When only two bugbears remained, one dropped his axe and yielded. He got caught in Rickard’s strike on the other, then Rocky pulled it back into melee and pressed the attack.

With Raharath absent, my other companions are moral creatures, dedicated to helping others with no expectation of reward. I could never believe in such a philosophy – I’ve never been in a position to look out for anyone but myself, after all, and it’s not like people go out of their way to help a changeling – but I certainly respect their beliefs. (And sometimes they need someone around to keep others from exploiting their compassion.) Arturo often tries to educate me; sadly, I use much of what he tells me to shape personas like Erigone, rather than taking his lessons to heart.

And Rocky has always held himself to an even higher standard. For him to refuse an honorable surrender is… uncharacteristic. I’m not exactly concerned by what happened, but I am curious. Even a saint might make mistakes, create reasons to betray his beliefs… if I have to be a good woman, I’d like to build in ways for her to go against her creed. Perhaps I’ll speak to him later.

Once the battle had been decided, I gave the bugbear a chance to flee, and he took it. We were wasting time, and I knew that guards, or more Marguul thugs, were bound to show up soon. I still took a moment to search the fallen bugbears; I only found a handful of coins for my effort, but I hate to make Arturo buy every round.

Failin led us to his wonderful land cart, which he’d hidden behind a wall which he opened with his hidden dragonmark. Arturo paid the man with the funds Elayden gave us, and we were on our way. The cart moves like the wind; I’m sure we’ll be in Rose Quarry in no time.

He’s not part of House Orien anymore; some disagreement got him exiled. This revelation gave me an odd feeling of kinship with Failin, and renewed my gratitude not to bear the mark of House Phiarlan.

I still have no idea what we’ll find in Cyre-That-Was. But my need to know has grown with every mile we’ve crossed since Sharn. Elaydren’s letter suggested that these schema, and the research associated with them, might have some connection to the Mourning. I must know the truth of the matter.

What happened to our beloved Cyre must never happen again.

Yours,
Bex

Zol 24 Barrakas, 998 YK

Mother,

We’ve arrived at Rose Quarry just after dusk; from here, we can see the mist that surrounds Cyre-That-Was. I’ve heard that the mist will choke you to death, will drive you mad. They say it’s made of ghosts, that everyone who enters will lose their way, that no one has ever come out of the… Mournland alive. We will learn the truth soon enough.

Someone’s made a camp in what’s left of the village. I saw armored men and their horses, with at least two animated skeletons. Their helms had a half-faceplate design that seemed familiar, somehow. Arturo recognized them as belonging to the Order of the Emerald Claw.

I can also hear a tapping sound, like a pick scraping stone. What are they looking for here? How will we find Whitehearth? Can we do it without engaging the Claw? And how will Ralharath catch up to us, assuming he didn’t beat us here, somehow?

Whatever we do, we should not tarry. It’s as you always said; the Traveler smiles on deeds done in darkness.

Yours,
Bex

Bex Journal Entry 3

2011-11-07T13:56:00.001-08:00

Sar 21 Barrakas, 998 YK

[A rough sketch of Rhukaan Draal’s widely varying styles of buildings occupies the entire right hand page. A stone tower is labeled Khaar Mbar’ost, the Red House.]

Mother,

We arrived in Rhukaan Draal. After Salter paid us for guarding his caravan, we started looking for Failin. It seems that half the people we see are slaves… it sickens me to see people in chains, and I know my companions feel the same way, but there’s nothing we can do about it, and we mustn’t draw attention to ourselves.

Arturo led us to a tavern while our warforged friends went in search of the Bloody Market. Art could find a tavern in the heart of the Demon Wastes, and drink every last demon there under the table. Rebexa always drinks with him, though I know we shouldn’t… I get careless about hiding myself when I’m drunk, but I can’t resist the camaraderie. Arturo Fritz Kelborn is as true a friend as I have in this world, even if he’s more Rebexa’s friend than mine.

[sketches of Arturo and Ralharath]

Ralharath disapproved of our carousing, as he always has. I blame myself, though; after the Mourning, I asked him for help controlling my emotions… I thought that his mental discipline could help me. I was wrong, and things were never the same between us after that. Was he more fun before our country died, or am I only imagining that?

We’ve always been very different people, no matter who I’m being. He won’t stay out of my head, he won’t keep an opinion to himself, and he never checks with any of us before making up his mind. He’s not our leader – we never chose one, and Rickard was put in charge of our original mission together – but he’s always acted like it. I put up with it, because we still make a good team, but I’ve never, ever liked it.

Anyway.

A couple of drinks later, Relic and Rocky arrived to lead us to the Bloody Market. Asking the merchants about Failin led us to another tavern called the Clenched Fist. Rocky began our dialog with Failin, an odd man with an odd way of speaking who offered to take us to Rose Quarry for sixty gold each. I made my way over – carefully, as I was well past tipsy – and talked him down to fifty. He said I was pretty… that Rebexa was pretty, I mean. She doesn’t get that very often.

[Bex has sketched Failin here]

Ral wasn’t happy with the deal, even though Lady Elaydren gave us some money to cover such expenses, and Salter had just paid us fifty gold each. Traveler gives, Traveler takes. It’s only money… Anyway, he got so upset that he left us to make his own way to Rose Quarry. I won’t say I’m sorry to see him go, but Ral’s dangerous in a fight, and I feel less safe without him. And it’s my fault that he’s gone…

But there wasn’t time to dwell on it. Failin led us out of the Clenched Fist, down an alleyway, looking all around him, clearly hoping to avoid someone. When I asked him about it, four bugbears appeared, as if to answer his question.

I really should learn to keep my mouth shut.

[continued]

Bex Journal Entry 2

2011-11-07T13:55:00.000-08:00

[A sketch of forbidding mountains is captioned “Marguul Pass.”]

Mol 9 Barrakas, 998 YK

Mother,
I don’t find the lightning rail to be relaxing. It’s more like being in a speeding cage, with only your friends to keep you from being smothered by strangers. Still, the view is lovely, and it could be worse – we could have gone by sea. I’d quite like the ocean, I think, if it weren’t for all the sailors.

This is the first time I’ve had the sleeping berth to myself since we left Sharn, so this is the first chance I’ve had to write. It’s not like I can sleep: Ralharath has us all on edge, watching out for the agents of those who attacked us at the Broken Anvil. I know he means well, but his paranoia makes me look trusting, and his constant presence in my head is not helping.

And I am worried about our mission. Elaydren is sending us into Cyre-That-Was (Rickard’s right; I hate calling it the Mournland), to a secret Cannith workshop called Whitehearth, in search of another schema. We’ll have to go to Darguun to get there, through Rhukaan Draal and Rose Quarry; she said a man called Failin will help us. I’m sure that whoever else is looking for the schema has the information that Lady E. included in her message to me, so we do need to keep our wits about us.

Which makes me wonder why Rickard bedded down with a whore. Though she didn’t strike any of us as a spy, it still left him, and our group, vulnerable. All right, I know exactly why he did it – I’ve experienced male urges, after all – but is keeping it in your breeches really so difficult when so much is at stake?

Or am I just jealous, that something so intimate comes so easily to him, yet is so unthinkable to me?

Love confuses me, Mother; it always has. From what I’ve learned, it confuses everyone, but it’s doubly vexing for our kind. I know that you crafted your Amari persona to love Father, the better to hide your secret. And I know that, as Amari, you loved him. But did those feelings bleed through the persona to find your own heart? You wept when he called for our deaths, but were those tears Amari’s or Shen’s?

I love you still, Mother. As Shen, you taught me how to survive. As Amari, you showered Saeruil with affection until Father said you were spoiling me – and then you kept going. I know the risk you took in bearing a child for House Phiarlan, not knowing if I’d be elf or changeling. Not knowing if I’d bear the mark, as Father does. And I know you took that risk because the House expected it of you… but I also feel that you had me because you were so alone.

But could I ever love anyone else, after losing you? Even surrounded by friends who know my secret, people I should be able to trust, I can never be myself. They don’t share my love of the five demesnes. And they don’t know what it means to be changeling… how could they?

I may not be lonely, but I still feel alone.

Yours, Bex

Mol 16 Barrakas, 998 YK

Mother, We signed up to protect a caravan; this morning it came under attack by the Kech Shaarat clan. My friends fought well, driving the hobgoblins and bugbears away, but I still managed to take quite a beating. Arturo was good enough to patch me back up… I didn’t see much of him on the rail, and he’s been unusually quiet since we left Sterngate. I hope he’s all right. I’m sure he’ll talk to me when he’s ready.

I’ll write more when we get to Rhukaan Draal.

Yours,
Bex

I Found the List!

2011-10-25T06:37:00.000-07:00

Here's who Riada and I saw at Comic-Con 2009.

Shane Acker
Arthur Adams
Sergio Aragones
Timur Bekmambetov
Kristen Bell
Tory Belleci
Ray Bradbury
Jeff Bridges
Josh Brolin
Mark Buckingham
Tim Burton (twice!)
James Cameron
Nestor Carbonell
Ron Clements
Jennifer Connelly
Frank Conniff
Bill Corbett
Carlton Cuse
Peter David
Johnny Depp
Cameron Diaz
Robert Downey Jr.
Warren Ellis
Michael Emerson
Mark Evanier
Anna Faris
Megan Fox
Jorge Garcia
Terry Gilliam
Jackie Earl Haley (twice!)
Freddie Highmore
Josh Holloway
The Hughes Bros
Jamie Hyneman
Grant Imahara
Geoff Johns
Richard Kelly
Mila Kunis
Steven Lang
John Lasseter
Taylor Lautner
Steve Leialoha
Rob Liefeld
Damon Lindelof
Steve Lisberger
Jeph Loeb
James Marsden
Rachel McAdams
Chi McBride
Mike Mignola
Hayao Miyazaki
Dominic Monaghan
Bill Mumy
Kevin Murphy
John Musker
Mike Nelson
Gary Oldman
Edward James Olmos
Patton Oswalt
Robert Pattinson
David Petersen
Brian Posehn
Joe Quesada
Zoe Saldana
Andy Samberg
Adam Savage
Joe Simon
Slash
Jeff Smith
Ian Somerhalder
The cast of Sorority Row
Kristen Stewart
Bryan Talbot
Bruce Timm
Mark Valley
Charles Vess
Denzel Washington
Sigourney Weaver
Len Wein
Chris Weitz
Elijah Wood
Robert Zemeckis

And people we went with saw Adam Baldwin, John Barrowman, Felicia Day, Leonard Nimoy, and Brent Spiner, among others.

Nocturne Prelude: The Prince

2011-10-21T12:42:00.001-07:00

994 YK

He looks like any other man, but he talks like a prince.

Bex closed the door behind her and crossed the vast chamber to the Prince’s desk, bootheels echoing on flagstone. He rose out of the overstuffed chair to offer her a solid handshake, then sat back down, waving her toward the other chair, which groaned and wobbled beneath her.

The desk and chairs were the chamber’s sole decorations. Some castles hung tapestries to hide the bare stone walls, or placed suits of armor on stands, but the Prince was a practical man with a war to win. No time for distractions, Bex thought. And no need. The desk was neat… tidy, even, without a scroll or map out of place.

Prince Oargev ir’Wynarn reached for a bottle of whiskey, then offered her a drink; when she politely refused, he poured one for himself, drank it, and poured another. The brown of the whiskey matched his eyes; its smoothness touched his voice. “I’m glad you’re here, Bex,” he said. Then: “Should I call you Bex?”

“Please. That is my name – my real one, I mean. ‘Rebexa Chandler’ is just the name I use with this.” She briefly waved her right hand over the face she wore. She’d come up with that name on the fly, and had never been happy with it… “This is who I am most of the time.”

The Prince nodded, taking a sip. “But you can look like anyone.”

“Yes. I mean, I’d have to get a good look at someone to fool the people she knows. The longer I watch, the better I can get her down. And I can only get so small or so big. Otherwise… yes, pretty much anyone.” My handwriting’s always the same, too, but a magician never reveals all her secrets.

“Why look like this, then? Given the chance, most women I’ve known would choose to be gorgeous. I don’t mean to insult you,” he added quickly.

Bex raised her hand in a calming gesture, smiling. “No, it’s all right. Most of the time I prefer to avoid attention. Looking ordinary is the best way to be left alone.” She’d tried to make Rebexa “cute,” at least, but the blonde’s face still wasn’t to everyone’s tastes. “I have to say, though, that I appreciate your… understanding. Not everyone’s so gracious when they find out they have a changeling working for them.”

“As it happens, I may have need of a changeling.” Was that need more pressing than the words suggested? Bex couldn’t say. The Prince was hard to read, especially for a man so young – only a year or two older than Bex, she thought. “But I don’t know much about your kind. The last conversation I had with someone I knew to be a changeling took place over the point of a knife. Needless to say, that left me with more questions than answers.”

“I have no doubt.” And you’ve got to be able to trust this changeling with whatever mission you have in mind. “If you wish me to answer those questions, I’m at your service.”

“Very good.” Prince Oargev made himself more comfortable. “Can you be forced back to your true form? Do you have such a thing as a true form?”

“I do. And I can’t be, not unless I’m killed. My mother taught me to hold my appearance, even while I sleep. She taught me everything I know about our people.”

“She is also a changeling, then?”

“She was.” Bex closed her eyes for a moment. “She’s dead. I think.”

“You don’t know?”

She took a deep breath. “My father found out what we were, and we were forced to flee our home. We got separated. I haven’t seen her since.”

“I see,” the Prince said, nodding slightly. “How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” It seemed like so much longer.

“You’ve looked for her?”

Bex nodded. “Never found anything, though. Even word of her death would give me some closure, at least. But it’s like she disappeared.” She thought that her mother might have taken what she’d learned back to the people who’d hired her to infiltrate House Phiarlan in the first place, but Mother never spoke of such things…

Oargev steepled his fingers. “You said that your father found out what you were. He isn’t a changeling, then?”

“No. He’s an elf, of House Phiarlan.” I might as well put everything on the table. She quickly added, “But I have no loyalty to them, or to any House. And no other family. I serve Cyre, Your Grace.”

He winced. “Please, don’t. Even I can’t count how many people would have to die before the throne would be mine. Just call me Oargev.”

“As you wish.” Not sure I can do that, but I’ll try.

Bex braced for more questions about her loyalty, but the Prince asked, “So changelings can mate with other races.”

“Yes.” How she dreaded this topic… “Amongst ourselves, we breed true, but take a lover of a different race, and the offspring’s of that race about half the time.”

“I see.” Oargev scratched his stubbly chin; either he was bad at growing beards, or simply had no time to shave. He took another sip of his drink. “So there are male and female changelings.”

“Well, sure. We come into that in our adolescence, same as you.” From what Mother had said, changelings were more ambiguous before their teenage years, but the effect was the same.

“But you can appear as male?”

“Oh, I can be male. Or hermaphroditic, or even sexless.” He finds that weird, Bex thought. They usually do. ”But male urges are weird and overpowering to me. It’s not something I enjoy.”

“But if that’s what I need you to do…”

“Then I’ll do it, of course. Who did you need me to be?” Traveler, please don’t let this be about mating.

“Me.”

“You, Your – Sir?” It was all too much for Bex; sensing that, the Prince offered her the whiskey again. This time, she accepted. It burned like sweet fire going down. “You want me to be you?” she asked, the very words ringing like sour notes in her ears.

“I’ve been called to Sharn,” Oargev said. I guess ‘Sir’ isn’t too formal for him. “A Brelish dignitary wants an armistice with Cyre, and they want me to bring the offer to the Queen. But our agents believe that there’ll be an attempt on my life while I’m there.”

“You want to use me as bait,” she said, trying not to sound concerned.

“Yes. I’ve hand-picked a team to watch your back, though. They’ll protect you from any assassins… and, with any luck, you’ll find out who is behind this plot.”

“Are you sure there is a plot? Sir?”

“No,” he said. “But I can’t afford to ignore the possibility. And if the armistice offer is legitimate, I have to pursue it. Have you been to Sharn before?”

“Once or twice. With the Carnival of Shadows, in my youth.” She barely remembered anything of the city’s towering spires, but it was better than nothing, she supposed. “When are you leaving?”

“First thing tomorrow morning. I have business to finish here first – too much business. You can follow me today, try to ‘get me down,’ as you say.” He almost smiled. “If you’re up to it.”

“Sir?”

“It’s dangerous.” He topped off her drink, then his own. “And if you don’t think you can handle it, I still have time to pursue the other ideas my advisors gave me.”

There’s a lot riding on this, Bex. “No. That won’t be necessary. You can count on me, Sir.”

“That’s what I like to hear. All right, let’s get started.”

“I think that went well,” the Prince said as he offered Bex a drink.

The changeling accepted it gratefully, knocking it back in one gulp. “She was on to me, Sir.”

“Of course she was. But you kept her guessing for two, maybe three minutes. And if you can convince the Queen that you might be me, then you can certainly fool them in Sharn.”

The Queen. Oargev had me lying to Queen Dannel! She had never felt so far out of her depth. The Prince was right, though; if Her Majesty didn’t recognize an impostor on the spot, this plan had a chance. “Thank you, Sir.”

Oargev nodded. “You should get some sleep. You’ll meet your team first thing in the morning.”

“Three of them I’ve actually met before.” Bex ran her fingers down the scroll nearest her on the desk. The two warforged, Relic and Rocky, had been there when she’d killed Throliel; Rocky had even forgiven her for her part in sabotaging House Cannith’s negotiations in Thrane. And Arturo was the closest thing she had to a friend in this world. “I don’t know the kalashtar or the dragonmarked man, though.”

“They both come highly recommended.”

Bex shook her head apologetically. “I know. I’m just…”

“You’ll do fine, Bex. Go home.” As the changeling got up, Oargev added, “You might want to put on a different face, though.”

Bex was still masquerading as the Prince. She made an awkward farewell, then made her way back to the linen closet where she’d stowed her bag of holding. No lock on the door, she thought as she closed it behind her. Move fast.

She shifted back into Rebexa’s form; this smaller frame made sliding out of the Prince’s clothes that much easier. She crammed the royal outfit into her bag, knowing there’d be time to press it later. I’ll have to get my own smallclothes, though… Wouldn’t do for the Prince to get caught in a woman’s underthings. Bex pulled her tight black clothes on, slipped into her boots, and placed the little iron rings through her earlobes and lower lip.

She called her leather armor from its extradimensional space. The wizard who invented this deserves a sainthood, Bex thought as the armor reappeared around her body. It takes all day to put this stuff on the old-fashioned way.

She drew her knife from the bag, a carver’s claw which Arturo had fashioned into a magic dagger for her. The familiar weight reminded her, as it always did, of her years pursuing Throliel Phiarlan. Though she still lived with the scars and the humiliation of their first encounter, Bex found their final battle far more haunting. Don’t get caught up in the past, Bex, she told herself as she fastened the knife to her belt. You’re needed in the present.

She slung the bag over her shoulder; even packed full of clothes, it never weighed more than a pound. Reaching into it, she drew out a bundle of red velvet cloth, which she unwrapped to reveal a simple mirror of black iron. The face had cracked into three pieces, but the frame still held them in place. Bex held the mirror up to examine her face – Rebexa’s face.

You’re Rebexa Chandler, Bex told herself, a Cyran sellsword, born in Metrol in 976. Your mother, Tessana, makes candles; your father Jorlan did, too, until he went off to war, then to jail for desertion. He still swears he’s innocent, but you’ve never found any proof. And your little sister Bexana has the talent to be a wizard, if your family can ever afford to find her a master…

But that’s why you turned to a life of crime, isn’t it? There was never enough gold to go around, then the Long Knives started shaking Mother down for protection… throwing in with them seemed like the only way to get them off her back. How old were you when you started setting up the marks for the cutpurses? Eight? So long ago, it’s all a blur. It was a good ride, while it lasted… maybe someday you can catch up to Kensleigh, pay him back for when he ditched you during the emerald heist. Those stones were the most beautiful thing you ever saw, and you didn’t end up with a single one.

But the war never left time for such concerns. You signed up at sixteen before they could conscript you, saw some action with Cyre’s scouts in Thrane. You were promoted after your best friend Yanis (as brave a ranger as ever walked the earth) died in your arms in the Burnt Wood, decorated when your unit was ambushed on the banks of the Thrane River, leaving you as the sole survivor… You even fended off that rabble of dinosaur-riding halfling mercenaries on the road to Aruldusk.

In spite of everything you saw, you were dead-set on reenlisting, until you met Egrin. He was beautiful, an eladrin worker of magic… you became a sellsword to be with him, and he taught you his language, among so many, many things… In the end, Phyxis gave up her claim to him – Egrin belonged with you, and all three of you knew it. He even asked you to marry him, just before he disappeared. Someone kidnapped him, you’re sure of it, but whom?

Bex put on the face, and the life that went with it, as easily as she put on the clothes, and much more quickly. Her life as Saeruil Phiarlan had been a lie made real; this, at least, was a lie she’d written for herself. Every day she added more to the tapestry, finding new ways to build on her previous work, never unraveling what had come before.

It was like this for all of her personas, but Rebexa was easily Bex’s favorite – the one she wore the most often, the one whose heart was closest to her own. And the lies were true for Rebexa; Bex’s mother had demanded this conviction from her, and it gave her the foundation she needed to hide in plain sight.

You’re Rebexa Chandler. You have a husky voice and an informal manner of speech. You drink, but never to excess; you flirt, but nothing ever comes of it. You don’t like bullies. All you ever wanted was a little action, and enough money to get by… and now your Prince and your country are counting on you.

She wrapped the velvet around the mirror and stowed it in her bag of holding before stepping out of the linen closet.

Better get some sleep, then. Big day tomorrow.

Bex Journal Entry 1

2011-10-21T12:40:00.000-07:00

[Found wrapped in a red velvet cloth deep in Bex’s bag of holding, this small, leather-bound book has been treated to resist water and has yellowed pages full of cramped, spidery handwriting in the Elven language. This is the first entry, translated.]

Far 6 Barrakas, 998 YK

Mother,

I’m starting another journal, in the hopes that someday I’ll be able to share my stories with you. It’s been seven years since we left House Phiarlan, since we last saw each other, and I still don’t know if you’re alive or dead, or where you might have fled to. Until I know for sure, though, I refuse to abandon hope altogether. And since a changeling’s life – or, at least, this changeling’s life – is such a stew of truths and falsehoods, recording the facts of my travels is sure to help both of us someday.

I’m still working with the Cyrans whom I accompanied to Sharn with Prince Oargev, back in 994. We’ve stuck pretty close to the City of Towers since the Mourning, taking work where we find it, trying to make ends meet. Some of that work has come from Lady Elayden d’Vown of House Cannith, for whom we acquired a schema only a couple of weeks ago. [Bex has drawn a crude sketch of the schema in the margin, an adamantine plate in the shape of a seven-pointed star, covered in strange engraved patterns. It’s described as about six inches long.]

That all started when we found the dead scholar, Bonal Geldem, on the skybridge, and the warforged called Cutter attacked us. Elaydren had hired Geldem to find a lost schema; when Cutter took him out, on behalf of the Lord of Blades, she hired us instead. We went deep under the city, through the Rat’s Market in the lower levels, through the sewers to the hidden House Cannith foundry. We faced some iron cobras in the vault, got the schema from a trapped safe, and beat another warforged agent of the Lord of Blades who called himself Saber. He tried to flee when he realized he was outmatched, but Ralharath burned him down. I saw a final messenger take off from his chest when he fell, presumably to take the news back to his master.

Elaydren was pleased with us, told us to keep the journal, and said to check in at the House Sivis Message Station in Barmin Tower if we ever wanted more jobs. We paid such a visit on a stormy evening to find the tower ransacked. The gnome clerk, Pelkin, had been attacked by a human-sized cloaked figure, leading at least four hobgoblins. They stole a message – a message meant for me – and didn’t take anything else. She didn’t know what the message said, but she confirmed that Lady Elaydren had sent it. We decided to look for her, starting at the place where she’d hired us in the first place. Arturo seemed pleased with this plan, probably because she hired us at the Broken Anvil tavern. That tiefling does love to drink.

I really didn’t care for the way Ralharath handled the situation, talking to Pelkin’s mind, and not stopping when we all saw how much it bothered her…when we all asked him to stop. I’ve never cared for having him (or anyone else) in my head, but at least I’ve had a couple of years to get used to it. And I may not be human, but at least I know how to act like one. Ral could really use lessons. I wonder if all kalashtar are like that.

Rocky was good enough to get the watch to keep an eye on Pelkin. As we made for the Broken Anvil, a clockwork owl swooped in to deliver a message from Lady Elaydren, asking us to meet her there. We quickened our pace, knowing that danger couldn’t be far behind her. Relic suggested I adopt a different persona, but changing in front of strangers is never a good idea. I think he just likes all my different faces. Can you blame him, Mother?

The Broken Anvil was much as I remembered it; Lady Elaydren, not so much – dressed to travel, and not to impress. [Bex has sketched Elaydren here, with some mostly illegible notes about her face.] She gave us a backpack full of gold, supplies, and instructions, and told us to get out of town – fast. A warforged bruiser calling himself Glaive showed up with four hobgoblins in tow before we could get out the door, though, demanding the schema. A fight broke out.

I put Lady Elayden’s face on, hoping to confuse the hobgoblins and give her a chance to escape. Changing form right in front of the Lady was risky, to be sure, but I don’t think she’s inclined to sell me out, especially given the beating I took saving her life. The tavern didn’t fare as well, though. One little fire and Rebexa Chandler and Company are banned for life. At least the matron didn’t turn us over to the watch. And at least I have other personas that may still be welcome there…

It’s all immaterial, really, as we’re leaving Sharn right now. I don’t know when, or even if, we’ll be back, or where we’re going. Nor can I be sure when I’ll have time to write again. I can only promise that, when I can, I will.

Yours,
Bex

Rollicking Interlude: The Souk

2011-10-21T12:39:00.000-07:00

10 September 1380 C.E.

The group seemed strangely quiet as they left the colosseum for the Souk al-Madinat. Quinn had grown accustomed to Moria’s silence, had even learned to share it, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing Nyleth go this long without saying anything. The slavery they’d just witnessed – and it was slavery, no matter what the Hammaddi called it – disturbed her, more than she’d let on. “Suren a shame that sorta thing is tolerated here,” he hazarded. “They git tae watch ‘em fight, but don’t have tae see how they’re treated down below. Outta sight, outta mind, I guess.”

“Perhaps,” Nyleth said, as if she’d been waiting for someone else to break the silence. “Though I think they may have just been accustomed to it. Which is, well, a shame. Everyone has different ideas about what is normal and what is not.” She deftly avoided an oncoming cart then regained her position near Quinn. As crowded as the souk was, he still caught the scent that always followed her… jasmine, he thought, with the tiniest smudge of vanilla…? He shook his head; trying to figure it out always distracted him.

“So, are they condemned criminals, or jist slaves? Or d’ye ken?”

“Mmm. Usually a combination of both. I mean, the criminals usually are the Hammaddi, the others are slaves. It… turns my stomach, to be honest. One of the few things about this culture that bothers me.”

“Law is Law, an’ I’m sworn tae respect it.” His head swiveled at something that smelled wonderful on a nearby food cart, then back to Nyleth. “But I dinnae have tae like it.”

“Nor do I! And … were those chestnuts?” Nyleth’s face suddenly regained its glow.

“Smells like it. Let’s git some.”

Nyleth approached the merchant, chattering quickly in Hammaddi before prodding Quinn into completing the transaction. The Spellknight’s vocabulary was improving, but she corrected his inflection more than once. Moria, who’d been lost in thought, rejoined them as Nyleth claimed three paper cones packed with roasted nuts. “Ecoriel, would you like some chestnuts? They smell delicious!” She held a cone out to the wizard, smiling brightly.

“Thank you,” Moria said, accepting the cone and crunching on the tasty treat. Quinn grew increasingly sure of two things: that Nyleth was going out of her way to find nice things to say to and do for Moria, and that Moria was finally catching on to it, and starting to show his appreciation. Maybe it had been Quinn’s words as they entered al-Jebail that had done the trick. The thought brought a smile to his face. He’d have to ask Nyleth about it when the opportunity arose.

“But of course!” Nyleth replied. “What fun are new cities if you don’t try all the food?”

They snacked on the chestnuts as they moved through the souk, keeping their eyes open for interesting booths. “I haven’t had these in so long,” Nyleth sighed. “I forgot how yummy they are.”

“Oh, aye?” Quinn glanced at Nyleth. “How long ago was that, then?” He still had only the vaguest understanding of Nyleth’s history.

“Hmm,” she said, idly brushing bits of shell from her gown. “Twenty years or so? I think? It’s difficult to keep track.”

Quinn saw that Moria was now glancing at Nyleth, too. “Truly? I didnae think ye were older’n me… ‘less ye were jist a wee lass then.” His mother had given him enough sense to keep from just asking Nyleth’s age…

She laughed gaily and ate another chestnut before speaking. “That is kind of you, Quinn. But I’m a little older than you, I think.”

Moria leaned around Nyleth. “You’ve seen what? Twenty-three summers, Quinn?”

“Twenty-five.” The Spellknight slowed to peer into the windows of a closed perfume shop. Suren they’d have somethin’ fer Pastanti, he thought. Not that anyone’d smell it in th’ Koritsi Kai Kalukas… Course, ye might have her tae yerself someday. The very thought made him blush, and he gratefully allowed the elves to pull him away from it.

Moria nodded sagely. “Ah. Even I am five years your senior, though I look teenaged to human eyes.”

“It’s different for Faerie, though,” Nyleth added, smiling at Quinn. “When we are home, things don’t change. When we leave, they change imperceptibly…” She glanced at the vials in the perfume shop window, pressing her face to the glass.

Quinn scowled. He could barely speak Hammaddi, let alone read it, but there was no sign or other explanation for the shop’s closure. “Seems busy enough in the souk. Why’s it closed, d’ye…” Quinn trailed off as Nyleth pulled away from the window, a tiny smudge of sand on the tip of her nose. Pointing at his own nose, Quinn said, “Ye, um… ye got a bit o’…” Nyleth crossed her eyes, trying to see her own nose. Wiping his own nose, the Spellknight added, “Jist go like this.”

“Like this?” Nyleth rubbed her nose on the wrong side. Quinn saw Moria staring, momentarily transfixed by the dust-nosed bard. The mage blinked after a second, turning to look down the street. It was the sort of sight that could set a man’s heart aflame if he looked too long…

“Other side,” Quinn said, readying his own hand to move in if she missed it again. Nyleth finally wiped the dust away, then sneezed – a sudden, high-pitched squeak. “Saints preserve ye,” Quinn said automatically.

“Curious expression,” Moria said, turning back to face them as Nyleth gave thanks. “I have often wondered about its origin.”

“I think they used tae think that a sneeze was yer soul tryin’ tae leave yer body. Th’ blessin’ keeps that from happenin.’ Mostly I jist say it tae be polite.”

Nyleth giggled suddenly. “Why would your soul want to do that?”

“To go on walkabout.” Moria affected a strange accent for this observation.

Quinn shrugged his shoulders, clinking every scale in his mail. “I think I’ve mentioned that Dalesfolk are superstitious.”

Nyleth popped the last of her chestnuts in her mouth, the first of them to finish. “So superstitious that they worry their souls will fly right out?”

“Welp, if they git loose, th’ Devil might grab ‘em.” It sounded even stupider when Quinn said it aloud.

Nyleth gave Moria a slightly amused look. “Methinks that the folk of the Dales need to find more hobbies to entertain themselves. No offense intended, Quinn.”

The Spellknight raised a hand. “None taken a’tall. Ye’ll also notice I left there soon’s I could.”

As they walked away from the perfume shop, Moria said, “I wonder if this Master of Games is working for, or with, Amirandi.”

Nyleth nodded, the bells on her turban jingling. She tapped her lip thoughtfully. “I have a feeling, though it might just be my instinct, that they’re all working together.”

“And whom do ‘they’ include?” Moria replied, inclining his head.

“Welp, we got Amirandi, an’ the Settites, fer starters,” said Quinn, eating the last of his chestnuts.

“Local and foreign Settites, it seems,” Moria sighed. “And I worry that exposing Mhutaa ibn Abud al-Fi will not endear us to the Beyah. We will need to approach this delicately, I think.”

“I’ve been very, very worried about the same thing, Ecoriel.” He let Nyleth call him by his Faerie name; that was not lost on Quinn. The bard continued: “The Hammaddi are very… polite… and interested in keeping relations smooth between houses. I’m afraid that, if we pick a fight, that we’ll not only be out on our bottoms, but also in serious danger. And brought danger on our hosts, as well.”

“Finding the stolen goods first would be best.” Moria was always smart enough to see the whole picture. “If we can link the man to their theft, all the better.”

“Moria’s right. Suren the law kin set things t’ right, if’n we jist shine a light where it needs tae be shone. We cannae accuse anyone without proof, though.”

Moria nodded in agreement. “And what of these murders, that have the nobility as frightened as rabbits with a wolf about?”

“Also confusing,” Nyleth said. “Ecoriel, do you think they could all be perpetrated by the same person?”

“Hard to say. As much as I would like to lay all these woes at Amirandi’s feet, it seems unlikely. Still, he is a powerful transmuter, and might be able to disguise himself. That’s a magic-user who can change his form,” he added for Nyleth’s benefit.

“Hells, he kin walk through walls. That ain’t first year magic.”

“Indeed not.”

Nyleth’s eyes widened just a little bit, and she paused in the middle of the street. “If he can change shape, how will we know when we find him? Or if he’ll see us coming?”

“We might not,” Moria admitted, looking like he’d bitten into a bitter chestnut. “I should be able to keep us unseen should the need arise, but…”

“Th’ other problem is that we cannae jist kill ‘im.”

Nyleth looked slowly between the two men. “This… may be a silly question, but why not?”

Quinn didn’t think it was silly; if Moria did, he gave no sign. “Because he is the only one who knows where Alyssa is.”

“An’ he may be th’ only one with a notion of how tae remove ‘er curse, too.”

Nyleth nodded. “I know you’ll do whatever you can to keep us safe, Ecoriel. I never worry.” The look she gave the wizard seemed fraught with hidden meaning.

“Indeed,” Moria said slowly, making Quinn wonder how effective elven mystery was when employed against other elves.

They started walking again. Quinn and Moria talked Nyleth out of buying a camel, diverting her attention to a textile merchant. “So,” she asked as she examined different bolts of cloth, “what are we going to do? I don’t know where to start.” A tiny frown played at the corners of her mouth.

Moria watched the bard shop, still as a cat. “First things first. We find out if Arad was telling the truth about al-Fi, and try to recover the goods. Then we will have something to leverage for the Beyah’s resources. Perhaps she can tell us something of Amirandi that will allow us to find the man.”

“An’ if she’s truly so afeared of ‘im, suren she’ll want our help dealin’ with ‘im. An’ we kin always go lookin’ fer Yorba if’n this trail goes cold. Thass a good color fer ye,” Quinn told Nyleth, who’d been fiddling with a voluminous gown at the tent’s edge.

“Do you think?” She pulled the shimmering green-blue fabric across her torso.

“Suren I do. Brings out ‘er eyes, dunnit?” he prompted Moria. C’mon, man, tell ‘er she looks bonnie.

Moria wasn’t ready for the change of topic; Quinn knew him well enough to see it at once. The mage focused on the question, critically eyeing the fabric for several moments before raising his gaze to the green of Nyleth’s eyes and holding it for a moment. “It does, yes,” he said softly.

Nyleth smiled, and Quinn was sure that he saw her blush. She held the dress’s sleeve up. “It changes color in the sun, Quinn! I wonder if they have some in crimson? Think of Pastanti’s hair with that…”

“D’ye think?” The very idea was almost more than Quinn could bear. Even in the garb of an oiketes, little better than rags, Pastanti was as beautiful as anything he’d ever seen. To clad her in something so elegant would slay him, as surely as a knife. His mind began to slide the dress from the flawless skin of Pastanti’s shoulders before coming back to reality. “Ahh, who’m I kiddin’. When would she e’er git tae wear somethin’ so bonnie.”

“After you buck social mores and find a way to free her from her ridiculous near-slavery.” Moria popped another chestnut into his mouth. How is it he still has chestnuts?

Quinn gave it some thought. If anyone could come up with a way to put Pastanti in such a dress, it was these two elves. “How d’ye say ‘crimson’ in Hammaddi?”

“Quimsee,” Nyleth and Moria said together. Quinn said it to himself a few times, then zipped off to find the merchant, leaving the Faerie still holding the garment. He paused when he heard them talking, and looked for a spot to observe them without being detected.

“Hopefully he’ll be able to describe her size,” Nyleth said, as if filling the silence.

“She’s about your size, is she not? A bit taller, perhaps?” He sounded uncertain.

“Thereabouts? A lot taller, though. I’m not exactly human-sized. More to her bosom, as well.” She looked intently at her hands. “Do you really like the color?”

“I do,” Moria said simply.

“Then I think I’ll get it. We may yet find an excuse to wear something so lovely.” She carefully took the dress down and started inside the tent. “Would you care to help me haggle?”

“I fear I would do more harm than good, unless blinding the merchant is somehow productive.”

Quinn scrambled away from the entrance as they came in. “Do you think I should try it on?” she asked Moria.

“Seems prudent,” the wizard said pragmatically.

Quinn described Pastanti to the seamstresses, largely relying on hand gestures, until Nyleth paused to clarify the Spellknight’s statements before vanishing behind a screen. Quinn thanked Nyleth, then shot a wink in Moria’s direction. The mage quirked an eyebrow at him in response; he started crossing the room to explain, but the shopkeep held the dress up in front of him.

“Did you find what you wanted, Quinn?” Nyleth called from behind the screen.

“Ay, I believe I have.”

“That’s good! All right, here I come.” Nyleth poked her head around the screen, then stepped out into view. “What do you think?”

As lovely as Nyleth and the dress were apart, together they made for something far lovelier. “A fairer vision than I had in the Temple of the Legacy.” He aimed an encouraging look at the wizard.

Moria blinked. Aye, so he’s gobsmacked too. C’mon, Moria, she’s doin’ this fer ye! Put it inta some bonnie words. “Lovely,” he said. “You look… lovely.” He smiled, as rare and welcomed a sight as any Quinn had ever seen.

Nyleth’s blushing was plainer to see this time. She tried to catch Moria’s eye for a moment. “Thank you! I think, then, that I’ll get it. And Pastanti’s as well!” A sudden shyness came over her, and she ducked back behind the screen. “I’ll hurry, I promise!”

“Thass too kind,” Quinn demurred, not in the mood to argue with Nyleth about who was buying what. “Ye should let me git ye some shoes tae go with it, or somethin,’” Moria cleared his throat and mouthed Shoes? but the Spellknight could only shrug, not sure what prompted him to say such a thing.

“No need!” Nyleth announced. “I have lots!” She idly flipped a sandal Quinn had never seen before around the corner of the screen. “Or this,” she said, holding up a pair of slippers.

“You mentioned your vision,” Moria said to Quinn once it became clear that Nyleth needed a bit longer. “But you haven’t said much about what you saw yet.”

Oh, that. “Oh, that,” Quinn sighed. “I didnae see nothin’. I jist sat by a reflectin’ pool. The ceilin’ was open tae the night sky. Th’ stars was all a’twinkle, like I could reach doon intae th’ pool and jist scoop ‘em all oot. But I dinnae have a vision, no epiphany. Jist serenity, watchin’ the heavens wheelin’ above me all night intae the dawn. ”

“Ah,” was Moria’s whole reply.

“Cleared mah head ‘til we got back tae work, anyway.” Why was I so suren I’d have an illumination, anyway? I ain’t what ye’d call disciplined, an’ it seems like everythin’s jist distractin’ me from bein’ all spiritual…

Nyleth reappeared, carrying a bundle of clothing toward the shopkeeper. “Did you feel any calmer, at least?” she asked him.

“Oh, aye, Nyleth. More at peace then I been since leavin’ Mystral. An’ at least when things git hairy fer us, I can cast mah mind back there an’ try an’ catch some o’ that calm.” It might not have been the experience Quinn had hoped for, but the time had definitely not been wasted.

Money changed hands, and Nyleth stuffed both dresses into her bag. “Shall we? I’m sure we can find other things to purchase for Pastanti.”

“Aye, I think we’re done ‘ere. Suren Moria’s had enough pretty things fer now.”

The wizard cleared his throat, but said nothing. Nyleth gave Quinn an odd look. “You can never have too many pretty things, Quinn,” she said earnestly.

Quinn’s mind drifted back to the only pretty thing he wanted as the group returned to the streets. As they discussed their plan for speaking to the arena master, Nyleth mentioned that she knew a spell for locating objects, in case the dialog proved fruitless. When Moria expressed interest in the spell, the bard smiled broadly at him. “I’ll show you next time we’re somewhere quiet, then. I would assume you’ll be a faster study than I? Either way, perhaps if we figured out one of the missing cargo items we could try it out, and avoid the difficult conversation altogether!”

Th’ Faerie sharin’ a quiet moment together? Quinn thought. I gotta help make that happen. But Nyleth was already rummaging around her bag, coming up with a tattered journal. She flipped toward the end of the book and showed it to Moria, every inch of the pages covered in flowing, needlessly loopy Faerie writing. “Here is what I have been working off of. Am I reading it incorrectly? It seems that I need a very clear mental image.”

Moria scanned the page, swiftly absorbing its contents. “If I’m reading this correctly, then there may be some… wiggle room. It’s all a matter of how you think about the item you seek.”

As the bard considered this, Quinn slowed to look at a display of hairpins in front of a jewelry shop. He’d seen several Hammaddi women, including Hada ar-Ri, use them to keep their hair up; Nyleth has also mentioned that a woman could defend herself with the stouter pins. Now thass the kind o’ thing Pastanti kin really use. Moria and Nyleth were still talking about the spell as he wandered into the shop.

“He seems rather driven, don’t you think?” Nyleth asked, as the elves watched Quinn peruse the different styles.

Moria paused, considering. “I suppose that’s true. I hadn’t thought about it much.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Mm.”

Quinn started waving his hands around his head, presumably illustrating Pastanti’s hair to the shopkeeper. “Oh, dear,” Nyleth sighed. “Should we go help?”

“You go,” Moria said with a nod.

Nyleth started for the entrance, then paused. “Will you be close by?”

“I’ll be right here.”

She smiled at Moria. “I’m glad,” she said quietly before disappearing inside.

Quinn was examining an iron hairpin with a little garnet set into the end when Nyleth appeared beside him. “Oh, that one’s lovely!”

“Thanks. I think it’s this one or nothin’.” He told the shopkeeper the same thing in his wobbly Hammaddi, and she went to wrap it up.

“Your Hammaddi’s improving, Quinn. And you’ve made a fine choice, I think. Would you like me to show you how you fix your hair up with it?”

He smiled. “Well, no’ my hair, but aye, that’d be mos’ helpful. I dinnae ken if a Lavinian lass’d know how.” When Nyleth pulled out a single long silver pin, Quinn felt himself wince. “That thing looks dangerous.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad.” Nyleth pulled her turban off and undid the braid in her shining blond hair. “I’ve only hurt myself a few times with it. All right, it’s fairly simple.”

“A few times?” He shifted from foot to foot.

“Yes, well, I’m clumsy, though, Quinn.” When Nyleth shook her hair loose of the braid, it fell nearly to her waist.

“You ‘n me both,” the Spellknight muttered. As Nyleth gathered her hair in a loose bun at the back of her head, Quinn decided this was as good a chance as he was going to get. “Listen,” he said. “I, uh, I dinnae mean tae pry. But is there anythin’ there, wi’ ye an’ Moria?”

Nyleth froze and looked at Quinn, her eyes a little wide.

Oh, dammit it, ya daft bastard, did ye go an’ put yer foot in it agin? Trying to ease the tension, Quinn said, “I was jist wonderin’. Those little moments ye share. I seen how ye been tryin’ to tell ‘im. Suren if it’s none o’ my business ye kin jist say so.” When she said nothing (and Nyleth saying nothing was significant all by itself), he added: “He’s mah friend, d’ye ken. And ye are too, now. I’d like tae see ye both happy is all.”

Quinn had never seen her at such a loss for words. “I, um… I would, maybe, like that?” She busied herself with her hair anew, twisting it all up into a compact bun.

“Nothin’ wrong wi’ that,” he said, smiling until she returned the gesture. “An’ I think Moria feels th’ same way; he jist ain’t figured it oot yet. Ye ken how he’s hurtin,’ and suren ye ken why.”

“I do. And I haven’t… said… anything… just hints, because I dare not hurt him more.”

Quinn glanced at the window, where Moria stood with his back to the shop, watching the passersby, then back to Nyleth. “An’ suren I unnerstand that. But ye might also be able tae help ‘im with it.” As she considered this, he said, “Just dinnae wait on ‘im tae say anythin,’ cos he ain’t the type. Well, no’ the now he ain’t.”

“I… won’t. I did. Well, I made something for him. I hope he likes it.” Nyleth expertly pushed the pin through the base of her bun, twisting it and the bulk of her hair upside-down and driving the hairpin back through. “Ta-dah!” she said lightly, framing her hair with her hands.

“Wow. Gods, I hope I kin remember all that when I give it tae her. When I give ‘er the pin. The hairpin.” He could feel blood rushing to his face. “I’m, uh, gon’ stop talkin’ for awhile now.” He settled up with the shopkeeper and headed for the entrance.

Nyleth laughed lightly, paying for the ornament still stuck in her own hair. “Tell her I’d be happy to help her with it. Women can get away with things like that.”

Quinn clapped Moria on the back, not too hard, as they emerged, earning a frown from the wizard as he fell in behind them.

Women kin git away with damn well whatever they please, Quinn thought. “S’gonna be a good day,” he announced.

Black Mirror Part II: This Is What Happened Next

2011-10-19T10:16:00.000-07:00

BLACK MIRROR, PART II: THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

Name of Run: Through the Looking-Glass (original fiction)

Dates: 4 April - 22 April 2052

Author: me

Summary:

After months of no contact, Baron called Trace to ask for a favor: accompany her to the reading of a will. Hoping to get back in his fixer’s good graces, and land some real work, he agreed. When he arrived at the law firm, he wished he’d asked for more information up front: the dead man was Franz Kircher, better known as the Watchmaker. Also attending were Pandora (with a trio of her cats) and Ms. Tessa Halliwell (with Mr. Todd).

The Watchmaker left various possessions to all three women, but the only one they seemed interested in was a “black mirror,” which went to Baron. Halliwell reminded Baron that the mirror was useless without Frederik Bolger’s journal. Tempers flared on all sides, but Trace’s quick thinking and carefully-chosen words kept the scene civil.

Trace also shadowed Baron at Kircher’s funeral, where he took a moment to feed some sound bites to Megan Tzu. Trace considered what he knew about Baron as he drove her back to Skull & Bones: she rarely appeared anywhere other than the club. She never touched the drink in front of her. She never aged. Though interested in magic, she never displayed any talent of her own. And there was that time that she refused to share the same space as Julia Tokasu…

Baron told Trace that, once she’d taken steps to secure the black mirror, she would hire him to steal Bolger’s journal back from Ms. Halliwell. Trace thought that the estate was an impenetrable fortress, but Baron reminded Trace that he had an edge: he’d been inside it before. She offered him an exorbitant fee – enough to retire on, and quite comfortably. When he balked at the risk, Baron told him not to wait too long before making up his mind.

Julia Tokasu was waiting for Trace at his apt. Claiming to be done with the Disciples of the Schism, and still on the run from her father's Fuchi thugs, she had nowhere else to go. Trace almost turned her away, but remembered that she’d been inside Halliwell’s estate, too. He let her stay, making it clear that there would be no trust, no reconciliation, and no sex.

Trace received a message from Halliwell the next day, offering him a million nuyen in exchange for the black mirror. She also claimed to have a message for him from the elven girl whom he’d tried to save on the Night of Rage – the girl he’d spent thirteen years looking for, the reason he’d become a private investigator in the first place. He considered this offer as he and Julia drove out to the Barrens that night. Once Trace recruited Nightshade, the three of them concocted a plan.

While Trace met with Halliwell and Mr. Todd for lunch at a country club to discuss the situation, Nightshade hacked into the estate’s security system, allowing Julia to slip inside and recover the journal. Once he knew that the heist had succeeded, Trace politely refused Halliwell’s offer, suggesting that she find someone else to do her dirty work. “Oh, but I already have,” Ms. Tessa replied. Trace feared for his life, but the very public venue allowed him to walk away from the meeting, ready to rendezvous with Julia and Nightshade at the Skull & Bones.

But Skull & Bones was burned to the ground by combat mages in Pandora’s employ, and Mr. Todd led an assault on Nightshade’s cathedral that left nothing but the foundation. Unwilling to put the Sacred Heart Mission in danger by hiding out there, Trace contacted someone who owed him her life: Eve Donovan. The Ares fixer agreed to share her safehouse, where they waited to hear from Baron (whose remains were not found at the Skull & Bones).

During this down time, Julia revealed that she’d also stolen the elf girl’s message from Halliwell’s estate. Her name was Sylvia Knorr; her family had moved to Portland after the Night of Rage, where she was a happily married teacher of magic. She thanked him for saving her life, and for showing her that humanity still had the capacity to be humane. Julia asked for nothing in exchange for this, or for her part in the run… she just wanted to help Trace. In spite of her betrayal, Trace’s feelings for Julia stirred again – and, unlike Sister Annette Francesca, she was available. Still, even if she had turned over a new leaf, he felt certain that she was hiding something…

Trace also asked Eve exactly what Silver Angel was. “No idea,” she replied. “Something my bosses wanted. Something they put me in charge of getting.” She seemed to have no idea that Trace and Nightshade had been behind stealing it back from Ares, and Trace was fairly sure that the file no longer existed on any system.

Baron finally contacted Trace to set a meeting at the Sacred Heart Mission; he agreed, planning to spend no more time there than was absolutely necessary. Moments after Trace and Julia left for Bangerland, Mr. Todd arrived at the safehouse, killing Eve and Nightshade.

Pandora was waiting at the Mission. With Sister Annette and Father Kahler held by vast shadows in the shapes of cats, she demanded the journal, promising that she’d pry the black mirror from Baron’s dead hands when the fixer arrived. Deborah arrived first, though, eager to take fiery vengeance for Pandora’s witch hunt. Trace and Julia blasted their way to safety as Deborah burned the Mission to the ground before being destroyed by Pandora. Father Kahler perished in the blaze, and Pandora’s shadowcat spirited Sister Annette away, too fast for Trace to pursue.

Baron found Trace and Julia a few blocks from the blaze. Still leery of the former cultist, Baron gratefully claimed the journal. Trace wanted to go after Sister Annette, but Baron had one more job for him, “and if you do it, they’ll bring her to you.” Short on options, Trace agreed, driving to a crowded monorail station while Baron pored over the journal.

Once inside, Baron opened a locker to reveal a small mirror in a frame of wrought iron. “There are other worlds than these,” she told Trace, but with her eyes on Julia. “I’ve been trying to get back to mine since time out of mind… and now I finally can. You could come with me, Sean.”

Trace had his share of enemies, and no end of troubles, but he chose to stay, to find Sister Annette. Everything that had happened to her was his fault, after all. Nonplussed, Baron told him to hold onto the mirror, since Halliwell and Pandora would stop at nothing to claim it. She had no way to know how much Halliwell (who’d held the journal for months) or Pandora (who’d once been the Watchmaker’s apprentice) knew of the mirror’s secrets, but if Baron took the journal through the mirror, it might be worthless to them. She also mentioned that the Disciples of the Schism would have used the mirror to contact the Horrors they worshiped in the Netherworlds; fortunately, the cult no longer existed, and Baron no longer sensed their influence on Julia.

Trace decided to keep the mirror just long enough to deal with his enemies, then destroy it. Baron paid the promised price for his services, made a few phone calls on his behalf, then pressed her palm to the mirror’s pane and chanted some alien words, fading from sight forever. Trace grabbed the mirror, already sure where he wanted to make his final stand. He made a call to Pandora: “The girl for the mirror. KSI, one hour.”

Trace and Julia rode in silence. “You love her,” Julia suddenly said. “Don’t you?” When he said yes, she replied, “Tell her. Before it’s too late.” Julia had lost her claim to Trace, and made her peace with that fact. Trace felt fresh regret for the way things had turned out between them. Perhaps, in some other world on the other side of the mirror, they were together and happy…

Pandora and her team showed up at the well-defended offices of Kage Security International with Sister Annette. Trace, Julia, Fister, Sandman, and Whisper took them by surprise; Trace put a bullet through Pandora’s brainpan just before the witch could burn Annette down. As Trace had predicted, Tessa Halliwell and her crew arrived next. The defenders couldn’t withstand Mr. Todd’s Vindicator, and Trace was shot to pieces. Julia sacrificed herself to save Trace, giving him the chance he needed to cut Mt. Todd’s head clean off with his spurs. He then charged Tessa Halliwell, stabbing her through the heart as she tried to fry him with lightning. Trace was left holding the key to death’s door, but his foes were the ones who’d been shown through it.

Trace dragged himself and the black mirror out of sight and cracked the glass with the butt of his Ruger Super Warhawk. There was no haunted sigh, no gouts of green flame, but he knew its magic was gone. Closer to death than he’d ever been, he saw Sister Annette hovering over him, as he had before. “I love you, darlin,” he managed to say as darkness rushed up to meet him. “Shoulda said so before…”

He regained consciousness at a streetdoc’s clinic, Annette Francesca by his side in street clothes, firmly clasping his hand. She’d brought him here to keep the cops and everyone else off his back until he was well. When he asked about her outfit, she said that she’d never taken her solemn vows. “I wasn’t exactly an angel before I took up the habit, you know. Hell, it was a man that drove me into the convent in the first place. I think you’re as good a reason to leave as any.”

As a lapsed Catholic, Trace didn’t wish to ruin Annette’s spiritual growth, but she insisted that she still believed. “I want to be with you, Sean,” she said.

“Wherever I go?” Trace replied. “There’s nothin’ for me in Seattle but bad blood now, darlin.”

She leaned over him to place a gentle kiss on his lips. “Wherever we go.”

They caught the next monorail out of Seattle. No one knows where they went, or whatever became of them…

PC Guest Stars: Fister (Deirdre), Sandman (Rob), Whisper (Sarah)

NPCs (Active): Annette Francesca, Ryan Kilbride, Megan Tzu, Kircher estate lawyer, streetdoc

NPCs (Deceased): Eve Donovan, Tessa Halliwell, Franz Kircher, Nightshade, Pandora, Mr. Todd, Julia Tokasu

NPCs (Whereabouts Unknown): Baron

***

APPENDIX: THIS IS WHAT WAS STRICKEN FROM THE RECORD

In the original version of Hall of Mirrors, Malachi killed Julia with a bullet to the head. When Trace delivered the fake journal to Baron, he learned that Ryan Kilbride had been murdered, possibly as a result of BTL dealing. Neither of those things is true in the Black Mirror continuity. Dr. Nuke and Whisper were also “un-killed,” but I don't have any further use for them, so that play stands on the field.

Spider’s Web:

Ares came after Silver Angel, killing Nightshade and forcing Eve to run.

The mission burned, and Kahler died.

Trace and Eve moved BTL for the Spiders while they held Francesca.

The buy was a sting. They went to jail.

Oyabun Hanzo Shotuzumi bailed them out and delivered them to RYUMYO.

Trace wept. Ryumyo ordered them killed. Baron helped. Where’s she been?

Trace agreed to get the real journal in exchange for some paradise BTL for the Spiders.

Spider cuts the group loose. Baron goes off in search of her destiny.

Malachi wants to talk. The incomplete ritual has affected them both. Spider must be stopped.

Bangers and runners wipe out the Spiders, find Spider at the DotS chantry.

The Spider enters our world through Spider’s body. Malachi sacrifices himself. It’s not enough.

Trace sacrifices an arm, flees with Eve.

Needs arm and leg, goes broke with DocWagon

Sacred Heart = Trace’s only friends

Still Ares & Silver Angel to deal with, plus Ryumyo and cops

Note: Cherry originally took place after Spider’s Web, so the circumstances surrounding the run were slightly different. Trace was living with Eve, and destitute, so he really wanted that store credit. He was also arrested after the firefight, as he was wanted as an accessory to the murder of his brother (among other reasons). The positive effect on his reputation as the hero of the “1 Stop Standoff” remains the same. This was reclassified as a Trace solo run in the revised continuity, but it seems like a shame to cut Salome out of the story entirely.

***

The Ticking Man / The Resurrection Game:

The Disciple ritual completes, and Trace’s soul ends up in another man’s body.

Salome almost gets raped, but she’s saved by Sister Annette Francesca.

Annette tells Salome that she loves Trace; now he’s missing, and she never got to tell him. She would have broken her vows for him.

Salome has sex with Sister Annette Francesca.

Tessa Halliwell acquires the black mirror. Did we get it for her?

Whenever Trace dies, his soul jumps to the body of someone else who’s just died.

Trace’s soul ends up in a little boy’s body.

Trace ends up in a woman’s body.

Note: After we started over with Trace in his own body, he began another adventure in which he was trapped in a skyscraper with Amerindian terrorists, but that was never completed, so it’s not part of Black Mirror either.

Black Mirror Part I: This Is What Happened

2011-10-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

The history of Black Mirror, alias “the old Shadowrun game,” which was mostly run by Allan circa 1990 to 1992, is complicated

My PC, Trace (Sean Kilbride), was originally involved in five runs: Stalker, Coyote Call, I Judas, Silver Angel, and Hall of Mirrors (a solo adventure). My memories of the first three runs are spotty, at best, but I have detailed summaries of the latter two, which are the “important” ones.

The events that followed Hall of Mirrors (for reference: Spider’s Web, Cherry, The Ticking Man, and The Resurrection Game) got increasingly bizarre – culminating in Trace’s soul separating from his mortal frame, leaping around from body to body like Scott Bakula – and were eventually retconned out of existence. Trace was allowed to keep the Karma he'd earned, Cherry remained part of the continuity, and something called Information took the place of the two adventures our friend Rob had run: Coyote Call and I, Judas. Trace had a couple of adventures after Hall of Mirrors, and he was added to a few that he hadn’t taken part in: Evidence, Lock Up, Bite, Witch Hunt, and Missing Persons. As my records of these adventures consist solely of dates and NPC lists, the plan is to largely ignore those events, except for Witch Hunt, and concentrate on the plot threads left unresolved from Hall of Mirrors. (I started a short story called Full Circle to do this, but didn’t get far with it.)

So my intention is to write fresh summaries of Silver Angel and Hall of Mirrors to serve as Acts I and II of Trace's story. Using this, and what I can recall of what came before, and what used to come after, I will write an Act III, tentatively called Through the Looking-Glass, to end Trace's story and begin his son's. This “master continuity” is called Black Mirror.

BLACK MIRROR, PART I: THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED

Name of Run: Stalker

Dates: 18 Nov – 20 Nov 2050

GM: Allan

PCs: Ice (Deirdre), Trace (me)

This one involved werewolves, iirc; Trace pushed one off a rooftop. An NPC samurai named Calli helped us out on this one, and she ended up owing Trace money for medical expenses. The PCs also crossed a gang called the Bangers, and we were forced to fight in their Arena. This was our introduction to our fixer Baron, and her favorite hangout, the Skull and Bones. Beauty Is the Beast, Megan Tzu, Ryan Kilbride, and Dr. Nuke also made their first appearances.

***

Name of Run: Information

Dates: 6 Feb – 18 Feb 2051

GM: Allan or Rob (?)

PCs: Ice (Deirdre), Trace (me)

I believe this was “the Arnold Zeck investigation.” Run by our friend Rob, we faced off with Judas and Peter, a couple of cyborg assassin children created by the Cybox company. We were aided by a decker named Scratch. We also had our first encounter with yakuza oyabun Hanzo Shotuzumi around this time.

***

Name of Run: Silver Angel (FASA 7102)

Dates: 17 March – 20 Mar 2051

GM: Allan

PCs: Ice (Deirdre), Trace (me)

Summary:

Ice and Trace were enjoying the Friday nightlife at Skull & Bones when they were approached by emissaries of the King's Crimson thriller gang, who delivered a contact message: “Matchstick's, ask for Steward.”

Once Ice and Trace had reached Matchstick's, a 1930's-style jazz club, they were escorted to a rear office where they met Eve Donovan, a corporate fixer. Her job seemed simple enough: enter the Cavilard Research Center (a computer/biotech research facility owned by a subsidiary of Mitsuhama Computer Technologies) and extract the “Silver Angel” datafile from their computer system.

Ordinarily, this could have been a simple datasteal requiring only a decker (or a team of deckers), but the datafile in question was stored in the Executive System, an SPU isolated from the rest of the research center's system. The SPU could only be brought online from inside the facility; for this reason, infiltration was required.

The specifics were left to Ice and Trace, but the run had to go off at 2 AM in three days to coincide with another operation against MCT interests. Any plan the team came up with had to adhere to that schedule.

With terms of payment hammered out, Ice and Trace met with their usual fixer, Baron, to get the name of a good decker: Nightshade. An elf never seen by day, due to his severe sunlight allergy, Nightshade lived in an abandoned Gothic cathedral in the Redmond Barrens. Ice and Trace met with him there, persuading him to join the team.

Physical reconnaissance was made difficult by the Cavilard Research Center's location, in a heavily-wooded part of downtown Seattle. Ice and Trace also had trouble investigating Cavilard's major shipping affiliate, Russel Overland – a virtual fortress, impossible to penetrate. Legwork uncovered a shipment due to arrive at Cavilard on the target night, conveniently at 2 AM.

During this legwork, Trace was nearly robbed at a local Stuffer Shack by a gang calling themselves the Chiller Thrillers. Unprepared for a professional shadowrunner, the thriller gang was cut down in seconds.

Ice and Trace scored a name that might lead to a map of Cavilard's computer system: Karen Whisper. Whisper was the one-time lover of small-time decker Neon Fever, who fried his brain and got his apt blown up running the Aztechnology pyramid. She might still have the map in her possession; though her remains were not found in the apt, no one in the building had seen her since the explosion.

They also heard a little about a man named Haruhiko Blake, known on the streets as Blood. Once the security director for Cavilard Research Center, he was fired over a computer time theft scandal and went into business for himself, dealing in chop shop body parts. Everyone said that Blood was bad news; the runners decided not to contact him as the stories of his viciousness began to multiply.

Trace’s brother, Sergeant Ryan Kilbride of Lone Star, told him that Karen Whisper used to work at a sleazy stripper bar called the Cutting Edge; she might still be there. Before they set out to investigate, a mysterious person contacted them on the vidphone. Without showing his face, he set a meeting at the Cerebus warehouse for midnight on the 20^th – just two hours before the run.

Ice and Trace hit the club and found it to their liking. Cutting Edge provided exotically-cybered dancers, well-versed in their physical arts. Karen Whisper, dancing as Queen Conchita, was particularly impressive. Gaining access to her dressing room after the show, they made a deal to buy the system map for 6,000¥. The money had just changed hands when three corp-types started showing pictures around out front.

They attempted to escaped via the back door, but an elf hitter opened up with his slivergun as soon as the first face showed in the alley. Another corp soldier joined him, while two others entered the back hallway, trapping the runners and Karen. She was cut down by autofire during the vicious firefight that followed; barely alive, she fared only slightly worse than Ice and Trace, who ended the conflict victorious, but cut, bruised, and bloody.

Once they stowed Karen away with Dr. Nuke, the streetdoc who owned Ice’s place, Ice and Trace proceeded to her apt to recover the optical chip containing the system map. They found the apt ransacked, as if someone else had the same idea they did. Fortunately, they also found the optical chip undisturbed in its hiding place, easily recovered. But they could not shake the feeling that they were being watched…

After delivering the system map to Nightshade, Ice and Trace only had a few hours left before their Cerebus meeting, and the run. Eve Donovan asked them to hold their position, showing up at Nightshade’s cathedral armed for bear. It seemed she had a personal stake in the operation’s success.

The three of them arrived at Cerebus Warehouse, where they met Blood himself. Word had gotten back to him that people were asking around about him. He offered exchange for information about Cavilard, in exchange for a future favor. The runners acceded, receiving detailed maps of the center and some vital information about Cavilard’s security operations before Blood disappeared.

Using a remote device from Ares Macrotechnology, the runners stopped a Russel Overland vehicle and killed the attendants. Driving the rest of the way was simple. Impersonating attendants transporting biohazard material, they gained access to Cavilard’s lower level. Nightshade helped them through the building, unobserved by the security cams.

The Executive System was located past the security center and the security chief’s office. In an attempt to take the chief out quietly, unsilenced shots were fired and the center went on alert. Ice rushed to the Executive System under heavy fire; Eve took a bullet to the back of the head and went down. Trace took bloody revenge, then used the PA to bluff the other guards into thinking the incident was a false alarm. With the alert canceled, Trace was surprised to find Eve still alive; he managed to stop her bleeding, but she wouldn’t last long without proper medical attention.

Seconds later, however, another alert came over the computer system. Someone knew about the runners’ presence, and this alarm could not be stopped. With every second precious, Ice burst into the Executive System room and gunned down the people inside – another group of shadowrunners hidden by a spell of invisibility. They were quick on the trigger, but not quick enough.

Trace held off the center’s guards while Ice opened the Executive System to outside attack, no mean feat given his poor computer skills. Nightshade slipped into the system and began his work.

With the guards depleted, Ice and Trace thought they might have a smooth road ahead… until the helo carrying corporate merc reinforcements arrived. There was no longer enough time to make sure that Nightshade had been successful – if the runners didn’t get out now, they wouldn’t get out at all.

They fled to the loading area, but found themselves backed against the closed door of the airlock/cargo elevator. After pressing the button, they’d have to wait five full minutes for the car to arrive.

The firefight that followed was furious, heavily armed and armored mercs gunning it out with the exposed runners. Sorely wounded and running out of ammo, they were barely able to fend off the first wave of the attack. The second wave sent Ice to the deck in a hail of gunfire, shot through the brain. Bleeding from countless injuries, Trace fought with the desperation of the damned until the elevator finally made it down. Only Nightshade’s intervention, slamming the airlock shut behind Trace, saved his life.

Dragging the bodies of his teammates, Trace boarded the stolen Russel Overland truck and set it on autopilot. He pressed himself to the floorboards, avoiding the rain of gunfire the mercs poured into the vehicle. Minutes later, alerted by Ice’s bracelet, a DocWagon panzer forced them off the road and evac’d the runners to the nearest clinic, moments ahead of the pursuing MCT security men. The run was complete.

Ice was pronounced dead on arrival at DocWagon Clinic #34. Eve was transferred to an Ares medical facility. Trace, remarkably resilient, was out in only five days, at which time Ares representatives paid him the remained of his contract. Unemployed once again, Trace hit the streets.

NPCs (Active): Baron (top fixer), Haruhiko Blake/Blood (body parts dealer), Eve Donovan (Ares fixer), Dr. Nuke (streetdoc), Sgt. Ryan Kilbride (Lone Star cop), Nightshade (elf decker), Slicer Dicer (Chiller Thriller), Megan Tzu (reporter, Channel 23), Karen Whisper (exotic dancer)

NPCs (Deceased): Jack Drury (head of security, Cavilard), Willis “Wiley” Fabrizzi (Chiller Thriller), Callie Firebird (mage), Lucas Katcherman/Catcher (Chiller Thriller), Bill Pruitt/Static (Chiller Thriller), Louis Rodrigo (company man), Silverthorn (elf hitman), Shen Vanchak (company man), Spike (Chiller Thriller), Vicki Ventura (street samurai), Wendy (Chiller Thriller), White Tiger (decker), Winslow (troll bouncer, Cutting Edge)

***

Name of Run: Hall of Mirrors (written by Allan)

Dates: 25 Mar – 2 Apr 2051

GM: Allan

PCs: Trace (me)

Summary:

Still reeling from the aftershocks of his last run and minus one partner, Trace used his windfall of cash to pay the pile of bills still accumulating at Dr. Nuke’s for the ongoing care of Karen Whisper. He was attacked by the last surviving Chiller Thriller, whom Trace sent to Hell.

He spent his spare time hunting down Calli to collect the hefty sum she owed him. He found her in a run-down part of town with her new lover, an ice-cold fellow calling himself Wolf. Every penny was repaid, but Trace couldn’t shake the feeling that their dealing weren’t over.

Drinking at Skull & Bones, Trace got a job offer from Baron: follow a man named Frederik Bolger for 12 hours, make sure he didn’t get into trouble, then collect 10,000¥. Trace took the job, more as a favor to his fixer than anything else.

All went well until Bolger took an unscheduled detour to a trashy hotel controlled by some big-money corporate types hanging around the lobby. Waiting outside in his car, Trace encountered young Julia, a fragile girl who claimed she’d been forced to work the streets for the gang she’d fallen in with. Trace took pity on her, and decided to help Julia – just as the sixth floor of the hotel blew up in a ball of green flame.

Trace raced into the hotel to find his investment and found a heavily-armed force, led by a Herculean black human with a Vindicator minigun, dispatching all resistance. Trace was lucky to get out of the hotel alive.

Returning home with Julia in tow, Trace found his apt ransacked. A message on his vidphone showed Dr. Nuke’s gruesome murder. He and Julia raced to the streetdoc’s clinic to find everyone massacred, including the doctor and Karen Whisper. “Silver Angel” had been written on the wall in blood, signed with a child’s handprint.

They were jumped by two Cybox assassins, which seemed immune to Trace’s gunshots. He and Julia drove away with the hellions giving chase; the cyborgs were finally killed (in no small part thanks to Julia’s previously unseen magical talents), leaving Trace and his car in tatters. Bewildered by these events, and unable to get a hold of Eve Donovan, Trace went to Baron.

Baron was not pleased by news of Bolger’s ambush – and furious with Julia, banning the girl from her sight with no explanation. When Trace told her about the man with the minigun, Baron knew that Tessa Halliwell was behind the attack. The man could only be Mr. Todd, Halliwell’s manservant and bodyguard. She also explained that Bolger, an antiquities dealer, had been carrying a journal of great value to Baron; she offered to double Trace’s price if he’d steal the book back from Halliwell. He took the job and ran.

He found a cheap hotel room where he could get his mind back together and get some sleep, but Julia had other plans for Trace. He’d fallen for her, and hard, in spite of his mistrust of magic and its practitioners. A night of passion gave way to vivid, portentous dreams – and he was awakened in the middle of the night by someone calling for Julia on his wristphone.

In the morning, Trace was arrested for kidnapping Julia. The police were quite interested in the deaths of Dr. Nuke, Karen Whisper - and Scratch, the decker from the Arnold Zeck investigation. Lt. Voorhees of Lone Star was not convinced of the charges, but Trace’s case was turned over to Fuchi corpcops.

The Fuchi representative turned out to be the man who’d called Trace’s wristphone. Accompanied by the cyborg assassins Judas and Peter, Mr. Oma was pleased to inform Trace that he would soon be dead.

But the police station was attacked by a Banger raiding party; Malachi Barre had seen Trace on the trid and ordered his capture. Once back in Bangerland, Trace was sentenced to the Arena once more. Set to fight the massive Terminator, Trace was saved by the sudden reappearance of Hideo Oma, who had Julia substituted for Trace. Stuck on the sidelines, Trace could only watch as a pair of strange mages suddenly appeared. As all Hell broke loose, Trace reached out to save Julia, but she vanished along with the strangers, leaving only her necklace in his hand. Malachi lost his right hand when he tried to keep Trace from escaping, and the runner slipped out of the Arena.

Clad only in leather briefs, Trace nearly froze to death in the snow; he regained consciousness at the Sacred Heart Mission in the heart of Bangerland. Though the mission’s staff was wary of Julia’s necklace – claiming that the pendant was a demonic symbol used by the Disciples of the Schism, a group of mages infringing on Banger territory – Trace pleaded ignorance, and spent his convalescence assisting at the mission.

As Trace recovered, his dreams grew more specific. He saw Daniel Howling Coyote in one, who told him that the enemies of the Amerindian people moved once again, and that “the Angel must die.” He also found his confused feelings for his savior, Sister Annette Francesca, deepening. But he still worried about Julia; once healed, Trace showed the necklace around until he got a lead on the mages’ chantry. He secured the aid of Calli and Wolf before going in, finding a strange and twisted world of sounds and shadows within.

Once the runners found Julia, the very reality of the building shifted, forming a maze of death around them. A booby trap in the chantry’s lobby impaled Calli, and Mr. Todd awaited them outside. His minigun made short work of Wolf’s legs, and the samurai was left to die as Mr. Todd ordered Trace and Julia into his car.

Back at the Halliwell estate, Tessa bribed Trace to give Baron a fake copy of Bolger’s journal. She also told him about Hideo Oma, who’d been tasked by Fuchi Senior Executive VP Ijo Tokasu with erasing Julia – the embarrassing daughter from his embarrassing first marriage. But Fuchi also had interest in Silver Angel. In fact, the shadowrunners that Ice had gunned down in the Cavilard Research Center had been on Fuchi’s payroll. Halliwell had promised Julia to Oma, but he was willing to trade the girl for Silver Angel.

Trace had no choice. He sold the fake journal to Baron, and hired Nightshade (at great expense) to steal Silver Angel back from Ares. From his dreams, Trace felt sure that turning the file over would be an epically bad idea; he asked Nightshade to find a way to destroy the data without upsetting the deal. Unfortunately, Judas and Peter had followed Trace into the Barrens, and he found himself defending the cathedral against the entire brood of Cybox assassins. He managed to destroy them all, but looked like a chopped tomato when it was over.

He returned to Halliwell’s estate and turned the Silver Angel chip over to Oma. When the company man slotted it, Nightshade’s booby-trap virus exploded his brain and destroyed the file. As she’d only been in business with Fuchi for influence, Halliwell didn’t mind; unfortunately, Julia had already fled. Unwilling to endanger Trace any further, she had returned to the mages’ chantry.

Trace pursued her, fighting his way through the hall of mirrors to the building’s roof. Surrounded by her fellow Disciples, Julia greeted him there with a kiss. “I’m sorry,” she told him, “but the sacrifice had to come willingly.”

At that moment, the Banger assault on the chantry began – an assault helicopter bearing Malachi Barre swept down on the roof, while a ground team poured in from below. Trace pushed through his injuries and leaped to an adjacent rooftop as Lt Voorhees and Lone Star arrived, turning the firefight into a bloodbath.

Trace made it to street level before succumbing to his injuries; as his consciousness faded, he saw Sister Francesca coming into view, holding out her hand. “Let me help you,” she said.

NPCs (Active): Baron (top fixer), Malachi Barre (Banger leader), Enzo (Arena announcer), Sister Annette Francesca (Sacred Heart caretaker), Tessa Halliwell (zillionaire), Father Jim Kahler (Sacred Heart priest), Sgt. Ryan Kilbride (Lone Star cop), Nightshade (elf decker), Terminator (big bad dude), Mr. Todd (Halliwell’s bodyguard), Ijo Tokasu (Fuchi Executive VP), Julia Tokasu (runaway mage), Megan Tzu (reporter, Channel 23), Lt. J.P. Voorhees (Lone Star detective), Wolf (street samurai)

NPCs (Deceased): Frederik Bolger (antiquities dealer), Calli (street samurai), Judas (Cybox assassin), Luke (Cybox assassin), Matthew (Cybox assassin), Dr. Nuke (streetdoc), Hideo Oma (Fuchi executive), Peter (Cybox assassin), Slicer Dicer (Chiller Thriller), Karen Whisper (exotic dancer)

Note: Our aborted attempt to play DNA / DOA took place around now. Trace wasn't part of that, but it still bears mentioning.

***

Name of Run: Cherry (from seeds in Sprawl Sites, FASA 7103)

Dates: 23 June - 24 June 2051

GM: Allan

PCs: Salome (Deirdre), Trace (me)

Summary:

Trace mended from his clash with the Disciples of the Schism at the Sacred Heart Mission. Handsomely compensated for his time by Baron (albeit for providing her with a fake journal), he spent a couple of months lying low, helping Father Kahler and Sister Francesca. Lt. Voorhees and Sgt. Ryan Kilbride had cleared Trace’s name with Lone Star, but he still had many enemies.

On a trip to a local 1 Stop, Trace overheard manager Rosario Perez asking a rat shaman named Salome for help with a problem – someone had been stealing Hyper Krunch Cherry Crazie Sweeteez from the store every night after closing. Trace agreed to help stake out the store overnight, but only to try a new partner on for size, not for the princely sum of 100¥ in store credit.

Despite unusual noises coming from the ventilation system, things were quiet until a young thriller named Cherry crashed her Scoot outside the store. Wearing Ronin colors in Barons territory, she pleaded for sanctuary; Trace and Salome let Cherry in just as a group of Barons arrived. Unable to shoot through the armored glass, the Barons left, returning with greater numbers and a rocket launcher. They breached the storefront, and a firefight erupted.

Vastly outnumbered and outgunned, the runners fell back to the rear of the store, where they were locked in the freezer. Lone Star arrived, pinning the Barons down inside the devastated stop ‘n’ rob… then the media arrived, then a Ronin rescue team arrived, forcing Lone Star to fight gangers on two fronts. A cruiser, hit by a Baron grenade, flipped over, pinning a patrolman beneath the flaming wreck.

Already bleeding from half a dozen wounds, Trace faced the blistering crossfire and rescued the trapped cop, which nearly cost him his own life. When the battle was over, the media declared him a hero. After Cherry left the scene with her beau, the Ronin leader Duke, Trace and Salome tried to explain to Mr. Perez how their simple job had left him with nothing but a smoking ruin for a business.

They did not get their 100¥ in store credit.

NPCs (Active): Cherry (Ronin), Duke (Ronin leader), Rosario Perez (1 Stop owner & manager), Mrs. Perez (Rosario’s wife)

Note: Cherry went on to dump Duke and quit the Ronins, becoming the #1 fan, then girlfriend, of one of my other PCs, the elf rocker Pink. (She also became a vampire, but that’s another show.)

***

Name of Run: Evidence (from seeds in Sprawl Sites, FASA 7103)

Dates: 18 Aug – 25 Aug 2051

GM: Allan

PCs: Trace (me), Fister (Deirdre), Sandman (Rob), Whisper (Sarah).

With Salome afraid to work with him again, Trace gets a new team, rejoining some old friends in Kage Security International. We get involved in some Mafia infighting and encounter a ninja.

NPCs: Don Colletti, Harper Collins, Drayman, Kat, Sgt. John O’Donnell, Masamune Shirow

***

Name of Run: Lock Up (from seeds in Sprawl Sites, FASA 7103)

Dates: 29 Sep – 1 Oct 2051

GM: Allan

PCs: Trace (me), Fister (Deirdre), Sandman (Rob), Whisper (Sarah).

Sandman gets an anonymous tip about a locker at the monorail station full of “good stuff.” He gets arrested when he goes to claim it. We finagle his release.

NPCs: Timothy Combs, Big Guy, Noshira Kenor, Ichiko Lozaki, Ishiro Miyato

***

Name of Run: Bite (from seeds in Sprawl Sites, FASA 7103)

Dates: 3 Nov – 11 Nov 2051

GM: Allan

PCs: Trace (me), Fister (Deirdre), Sandman (Rob), Whisper (Sarah).

A lot of media-related encounters. Stacy Simpson hires us to convince Tad Cross not to release Bite of the Barghest. Sandman poses as Urban Brawl star Sean Benton. We help Sally Hallock, star of “Baking with Aunt Sara.” There’s cops, a lunatic elf, a militant ork, the Mob, BTL dealers, a sasquatch – and a dangerous vampire.

NPCs: Abby, Don Vincenzo Altobello, Sean Benton, Morgan Bramshire, Bytehead Barry, Sgt. Harry Callahan, Tad Cross, Gallagher, Sally Hallock, Misty, Wilfred Jerome Royce, Sasquatch, Ethayne Silvervane, Stacy Simpson, Squint, Staci Starbuck, Alex K. Stuart, Tamara, Urtan the Bold, Warchild, Weird Paul

Note: I think Warchild is the same vampire who turned Cherry in Pink’s solo adventure, Bloodsucking Freaks.

***

Name of Run: Witch Hunt (written by Chris)

Dates: 24 Nov – 27 Nov 2051

GM: Allan

PCs: Trace (me), Fister (Deirdre), Sandman (Rob), Whisper (Sarah).

When Blood calls in the favor that Trace owes him, he and the other PCs agree to deliver Deborah to the mage Pandora, but someone posing as their contact makes off with her. In tracking Deborah down, they realize that she’s more than she appears to be – a fire spirit bound to a mortal body. When Deborah’s creator, the Watchmaker, asks our heroes to destroy Deborah, the PCs must decide whether to turn her over to Pandora, kill her, or set her free. They choose the latter, wining no points with Pandora and the Watchmaker.

NPCs: Deborah, Pandora, Watchmaker (Herman), Raven, Mr. Porter

Note: Julia Tokasu gave birth to Thomas Kilbride in January of 2052.

***

Name of Run: Missing Persons (written by Allan?)

Dates: 5 Jan – 21 Jan 2052

GM: Allan

PCs: Trace (me)

This was a solo run for Trace, of which I have no memory. I think he was hired to find somebody, and I think he did…?

To Be Continued

Rollicking Interlude: Oiketes

2011-09-15T09:14:00.000-07:00

Quinn walked down the great hill and left the Arena District via the Drake Gate, leaving the walled part of Balearaeos for the slums. He reached the main well at Albatross Row just after dawn, where many maidens and children were already fetching water. Not spying Pastanti among them, Quinn stood on a bench. Better tae see an’ be seen, he thought. Suren I stick out like… well, like a knight in the slums. But I dinnae want her tae miss me.

A few passersby stopped to look at him – a little boy dressed in rags even pointed before his mother hustled him away – but Quinn scarcely noticed. He’d been up for half the night, worried to the point of sickness. The dream he’d had at Niesa Sidierou had convinced him to come; convincing himself that he had a chance with Pastanti had been harder. But at least I believe it now. Assumin’ she shows up…

Quinn’s stomach had begun to knot by the time he finally saw her coming down the hill from the Merchant’s District, but the sweet smile she gave the Spellknight eased his mind. She carried a large, heavy bucket in each hand, and the rising sunlight highlighted her coal-black hair in ways Quinn had not yet seen. Black as the devil’s waistcoat, that hair, but the sun finds its fire. What I wouldnae give tae see ‘er in the moonlight, though… a lass is always most bonnie by moonlight.

“You came,” Pastanti said in calm Lavinian as she drew close enough to hear without shouting. Though the full heat of the day was hours away, sweat already stained her simple clothes. How long’s she been at this already?

“Aye,” Quinn replied. She knew that word, at least. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to recall all the Lavinian that Moria and Nyleth had taught him, until the words came to him “Yer apsifoppotis is at yer service.” Saints, mah accent makes it sound like a goat tryin’ tae sing an opera, nae matter what language I speak. Let ‘er hear past the way I say it, an’ hear what I’m tryin’ tae say.

“Good.” She pressed the handle of one bucket into his hand. For a second, Quinn felt the strength in her callused fingers. Stronger than she looks, as I thought. Suren she’s been doin’ this all her life. “Help me take water up to Koritsi Kai Kalukas.”

“Suren I will,” Quinn said with a smile, reaching out with his other hand. “I’ll take ‘em both, Pastanti.”

But she only shook her head and walked to the well to fill her bucket. Quinn did the same, watching how Pastanti studiously ignored him. Coy an’ aloof, the Spellknight thought, but I think yer haverin’. Suren I ken why ye asked me here. Welp, if I gotta convince ye tae talk, then that’s what I gotta do. “Tell me aboot yerself, Pastanti.”

She aimed a puzzled look at him. “What should I tell you?”

“Anythin’. Everythin’. How old are ye?”

When her first answer went over his head, she said, “Six and ten.”

Younger’n I thought. “Were ye born in Balearaeos?”

Pastanti nodded, hoisting her full bucket onto her shoulder. “Not far from here, in the slums.” She made ready to start up the hill.

Quinn shouldered his own water in a similar fashion, completely unsure how someone as slight as Pastanti could manage such a burden. As he followed her up the hill, Quinn asked, “And do ye have any family here?”

“Grandparents. We live not far from here. My mother died last year. Fever.” Pastanti spoke clearly and slowly for Quinn’s benefit, but much of what she said still eluded Quinn, both in words and in nuance.

“Suren I’m sorry tae hear that. An’ yer father?”

“No.” Still walking behind Pastanti, Quinn couldn’t see her face. When the silence went on a bit too long, she added, “I never knew him. Mother never married him. Common with oiketes.”

“I dinnae ken that word. Whass an oiketes?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her explanation made little sense, given his limited vocabulary; by the time they reached Koritsi Kai Kalukas, Quinn only understood that they were a sort of servant class, to which Pastanti and her family belonged.

They emptied their buckets into a vast cistern, water splashing at the bottom. “This is gon’ take a few trips,” Quinn muttered.

“Always.”

“Have ye worked there long?” Quinn asked after Koritsi Kai Kalukas was out of sight behind them, now walking at Pastanti’s side.

“Long as I can remember.”

He considered his next words carefully: “Have ye e’er wanted anythin’ more?”

“I do not understand,” Pastanti said.

Stone th’ crows, she means that. “Would ye… I dinnae ken, work somewhere else?”

She shook her head, swirling black hair in all directions. “That is not oiketes. We belong there.”

Belong like slaves. “Aye, but if’n ye could…”

She stopped in her tracks. “No, Sir Quinn.” Her accent made his name sound a bit like ‘Queen,’ but Quinn found it too charming to be annoyed. “Oiketes is to serve.”

“Tae serve who?”

“Not who. Where. Koritsi Kai Kalukas.”

“All right,” Quinn said apologetically. “So who owns it?”

She started walking again. “Hands have changed since I was little. Enchrais noble house owns Koritsi Kai Kalukas now.”

“Has an oiketes e’er been… freed from service?”

“No!” Pastanti replied with a short, mirthless laugh. “Only in stories for children. I know of no one who has been freed.”

That cannae be true, Quinn told himself. Mebbe Nyleth kin tell me how this works. Suren I need to ken more afore gittin’ ‘er hopes up.

Seeing Quinn lost in thought, Pastanti nudged his upper arm and gave him a little smile. “Who wants to hear of oiketes, when my apsifoppotis is here? Tell me your story.”

He did, for three arduous trips up and down the hill. Pastanti’s curiosity emerged as he told her of the places he’d been and the things he’d seen. Though his tales of wizards and fey folk interested her (and, to his relief, she no longer felt threatened by Nyleth), Pastanti found his stories of knighthood the most fascinating. As they went down the hill one last time, weaving through the thickening crowds, she explained that Lavinia had no knightly orders.

“A knightly order should be devoted to a god,” Quinn said. “We serve St. Immotion, a goddess o’ cleansin’ an’ purity.”

Pastanti nodded. “I pray to the stars, watchtowers of the angels. And we honor the holy rites as the Tyrian Legates ask.”

“An’ what d’ye pray fer?” Quinn asked before he could stop himself. Damn it, Quinn, that’s none o’ yer business!

“For the continued health of my grandparents,” she replied, showing no offense. “And for your safety, now.”

“Yer prayer honors me,” Quinn said with as much seriousness as he dared. “I hope tae be worthy of it someday.”

Pastanti filled her bucket for one last trip. “The Corsairs never stop talking about your Duello, Sir Quinn. You are more worthy than you think.”

“Ye’re most kind tae say so.” Saints, but humble words are hard tae say when a lass this bonnie thinks so much o’ me. “So, when ye get back to th’ top, ye get right tae work?”

“Aye,” she said like him, hiding a little smile.

“Then I’ll make the time we have left count. Pastanti, I didnae have time tae learn much aboot customs o’ courtship in Lavinia…”

“Courtship?” The word nearly burst forth from her lips. “Why would you learn such things?”

Suren ye ken why, but I’ll say it all the same. “Tae court ye, Pastanti. If’n ye’ll have me.”

Pastanti had to stop walking to keep from spilling her bucket. Color flushed her cheeks, and she looked down at her worn-out shoes. He barely heard what she said, but it sounded like a curse. “If I’ve given offense,” Quinn said, “then I cry yer pardon. I promise mah intentions are honorable.”

“No.” Pastanti waved a hand in front of her face, as if swatting at a fly. “I trust your intentions, Sir Quinn. And your sentiment… honors me. But you must know that it is not possible.” She started up the hill again, nearly leaving the Spellknight in the dust.

“How d’ye ken that?” he called as he caught up to her. Why is she so embarrassed? Why call me here if she’s just gonna spurn me? “I’m not highborn, Pastanti. I’m jist a man who swore some vows.”

“That does not matter. I am oiketes. I must serve. I have never left Balearaeos. I never will.”

He started to say “When I was yer age,” but avoided it. “When I was… younger, I felt the same way. Suren I couldnae leave Invershire… suren I ne’er would. Suren I’d be nothin’ more’n a shepherd, or a soldier if I ever got my shite together.” Watch yer mouth, numpty; thass a lady yer talkin’ tae. “But I’m a Spellknight now. I’m clear on th’ other side of th’ world from th’ Dalelands, talkin’ to mah great beauty’s shadow.”

She slowed down, turning the darkness of her eyes on him. “But you are not oiketes. It is not the same for me. Have you heard nothing I’ve said?”

“Nay, I ain’t oiketes. But anythin’s possible.” Hells, everythin’s possible. Mebbe ye think I’m naïve, but I won’ give up hope.

They finally reached the great cistern and poured in the last of their water. As Pastanti took Quinn’s bucket, he said, “Mind ye, all the tales o’ courtly love say a knight’s best true love is one he kin ne’er have.”

“That’s stupid,” Pastanti said.

“Mebbe.” Truthfully, Quinn had always agreed. “But I’m willin’ tae find oot fer mahself.”

Pastanti glanced at the inn, then back at the Spellknight. “Despite everything I’ve said, you still wish to… court me?”

“Aye.”

“You are leaving Balearaeos again, though.”

He nodded. “Either fer Port Crorbak, or fer Al-Jebail. Not suren which yet.” Her features seemed to darken. She’s only e’er heard o’ those places, an’ I’ll be bound fer one soon. “Nae suren when I’ll be back, either. Only suren that I will be. An’ that, mebbe someday, I’ll be able tae take ye wi’ me.”

Pastanti shook her head until she realized how serious Quinn was. “You are… I hold you in esteem, Sir Quinn. I thank you for helping me. And I would like to see you again, as often as you may visit me.” She bowed her head, dipped her knees in a curtsy which made her buckets rattle, and wandered into Koritsi Kai Kalukas without a backward glance.

Quinn stood, dumbfounded, until a whip-thin man brushed past him on his way to the inn door. The Spellknight reached for his pouch of coins, relieved to find it till there.

Wha’ jist happened? She dinnae rebuff me – no’ out loud, anyway – but that weren’t what I’d call encouragin’, neither. No kiss, no token of ‘er favor… I dinnae ken if I’m better or worse off than I was afore.

Worse, he thought with a sigh. Now I know we got the law between us. Suren I’d sooner die than break the law, or ask her tae… I got no time fer worryin’ on it now, though.a Moria and Nyleth have gotta be up by now. Methos’ll be waitin’ on us.

But, by the time the three of them reached Lord Shane’s estate, Quinn was unable to worry about anything else.

Rollicking Interlude: Blue and Silver

2011-09-12T22:59:00.000-07:00

(Been awhile since there's been any fiction to post, and even longer since anything Rollicking related. Pls to enjoy.)

4 September 1380 C.E.

Quinn cracked an eye open to find that the sun had yet to rise. He sat up slowly, not sure how much of Nyleth’s wine he’d had to drink, nor how much his head would hate him for it – but he felt no pain. All weariness from the previous day had left his body; truth be told, Quinn had never felt better.

Moria must ha’ woke me up tae take a watch, he thought. He turned toward his friend, but Moria was nowhere to be seen. Quinn glanced up and down the beach, but saw no sign of Moria, or of Nyleth. Kash and his boat had also vanished, yet the little campfire still burned…

“Hells,” Quinn muttered. “What’d they do, ditch me here?” Kash had said that he was waiting for daylight before setting sail… at least, that’s what Nyleth had said that he’d said. Quinn’s skull was already crammed with too many words in too many languages, and he was in no rush to add Fomoraig to his vocabulary. Quinn had no cause to doubt Nyleth or Kash… but where were they?

He got to his feet, brushing sand off his lamellar armor. Cannae believe I’ve gotten used tae sleepin’ in mah fish scales. Lady Shardea’s right, though; if there’s trouble, there’s nae time tae git all dressed up again. He adjusted the angles of the blades hanging at his hips before reaching for his shield – but his hand froze, inches away. Someone had repainted its plain wooden face a deep, royal blue, the center marked by a white, nine-pointed star. Silver, he thought at once. In heraldry, white’s called silver.

He looked up and down the beach again, finding himself utterly alone. Who painted his shield? And why? Quinn was entitled to a coat of arms, now that he was a true Spellknight… “It’s fer Saint Immotion,” he muttered as the realization hit him. Nine illuminations, nine points to the star. Silver for purity, blue for fidelity. It was… perfect. And the shield’s weight as he ran his arm through the straps was as familiar, as comforting, as ever. He couldn’t help but smile.

Not sure what else to do, Quinn trudged toward the water, right hand on his falcata’s hilt. I dinnae ken what ye think ye’ll see, he told himself. It ain’t like boats leave tracks.

He drew breath to answer himself, but held it when he heard a faint sound coming from the treeline behind him. After a moment of straining, he said, “That sounds like… pipes.” Great Daleland bagpipes, to be more precise. Had Nyleth slipped off into the woods so her piping wouldn’t wake anyone up? Quinn couldn’t come up with a better explanation; there certainly seemed to be enough room in the elf’s bag for a set of bagpipes. He started toward the woods, trying to place the unfamiliar melody.

He emerged into a large torchlit clearing, occupied by half a dozen dry-stone buildings with thatched roofs. Blackhouses, Quinn thought. They’re called blackhouses. At least twenty people had gathered around a bagpiper, who played from atop a great boulder near the center of the clearing. Everything about these people – their clothes, their dirty faces, the way they danced to the tune – told Quinn that something impossible had just happened.

“Invershire,” he muttered. “Stone me, I’m back in Invershire.”

“Suren it’s about time, too,” Callum said, suddenly appearing by the Spellknight’s side to give him a fierce hug. Finally releasing him, Callum demanded, “Look at ye! Dressed like a knight, ye are.”

“That’s ‘cos a knight I am, Callum.”

“Oh, aye? Do I need tae call ye Ser Quinn Mac Teague, as ye please?”

“Nay,” Quinn lied, for Lady Shardea had dubbed him as such. Asking people to address him that way just seemed arrogant. “I dinnae have any land, or a title. I just made some vows, is all.”

Callum smiled, unwilling to let Quinn play his station down. He hadn’t aged a day in the eight years since Quinn had last seen him. “So where ha’ ye been?”

“Here an’ there,” Quinn said with a wave of his hand. “It might be easier tae tell ye where I havenae been.”

“Might be, a’that. Anyway, welcome home.” Callum’s expression sobered a bit. “Yer Da’s lookin’ fer ye.”

“Suren he is.” So much fer a pleasant homecoming, Quinn thought.

“There’s a lady knight with ‘im. They been talking aboot ye all night.”

What?! “Lady Shardea? She’s here?”

“Thass her,” Callum said with a nod. ‘Is she yer boss?”

“Ye could say that. Where are they?”

“Armory. Where else?”

Quinn nodded his gratitude and headed that way. “Good tae see ye,” Callum called after him, but the Spellknight didn’t hear.

***

Teague Mac Teague was showing Lady Shardea Brightdelve one of the armory’s masterwork claymores when Quinn entered. Typical in height and build, with blond hair and light brown eyes, Teague had given Quinn his temperament, but not his looks. Quinn tried to approach quietly, but clinking scale mail and bootheels clopping on flagstone betrayed his arrival. Shardea watched his approach, her expression unreadable; Invershire’s quartermaster returned the claymore to its wall mount before turning to face his son. “Been waitin’ on ya,” Teague said.

“Sorry. I dinnae ken that I’d been sent fer.”

Teague shook his head. “Not as if ye’d ha’come if’n ye had. Ye dinnae ken what yer beholden tae nae more.”

“I’m no Walkinshaw nae more, Da. I left this place an’ became a Spellknight.” Quinn gestured to Shardea. “Suren she’s told ye that.”

“An’ it was as a Spellknight that ye vowed to find the wee bairn, Alyssa. Tell me, have ye found her yet?”

“No’ yet,” Quinn replied, already well aware of where this was going.

“Why, then, were ye drinkin, an’ singin’. An’ dancin’. On a beach. When there’s a child who needs ye.”

Quinn took a deep breath and tried not to shout. “Now see here. Keepin’ the two of us alive’s been hard work, Da. An’ now there’s three of us. I ain’t holy enough tae do that kinda work wi’out food, or sleep. An’ I willnae push mah friends tae do the same.” He shrugged. “An’ if they wanna sing an’ dance, me bein’ all dour an’ sour wouldnae help wi’ nothin.”

“Carryin’ on dinnae show any respect fer the vows ye took.”

“It’s who I am, Da. All them songs an’ dances I learned right here, in Invershire. Swearin’ mahself to the Spellknights adds tae who I am. It doesnae erase who I was. Saints preserve, Da, listen tae me! I’m always gonna sound like a bloody Dalesman!”

“No matter how many languages ye learn, it seems.” A strange little smile crossed Teague’s face.

“It’s good tae learn foreign tongues,” Quinn said. “I’m on th’ other side of th’ world. At least, I was. An’ it’s bad enough stickin’ oot like I do wi’out takin’ th’ trouble tae try an’ show some bloody respect.”

“She teach ye that?” Teague pointed at Shardea, who still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Suren she did.”

Teague’s smile grew a bit more cruel. “An’ is that why ye’re learnin’ Lavinian, is it? Tae show some respect tae that wench?”

Quinn felt his cheeks burning already. “Dinnae call ‘er that, Da. Pastanti’s no wench.”

“She’s a servin’ girl in a tavern, lad. Thass what a wench IS.”

“Then call ‘er a servin’ girl. Cos that word… people use it tae mean a… promiscuous woman, too.” He hated to say such things in front of Lady Shardea, but he knew that his father would say much worse before this was done.

“Oh, aye? An’ how d’ye ken she’s nae whore!” Well, thought Quinn, that didnae take long. “Far as ye ken, there ain’t a soul in Balearaeos who hasnae had ‘is way with ‘er.”

“I know it in ‘ere.” Quinn tapped his heart with two fingers. “An’ I give ye fair warnin, Da. I willnae let ye speak o’her that way.”

“Fine.” Teague spat on the floor of his precious armory. “It’s ye I should be callin’ names, anyway. Worryin’ on yer precious servin’ girl when there’s a child tae find. Not tae mention them missing fey… Good riddance, I says, but I thought that was the kind o’thing a Mystralyte hero’s supposed tae do.”

“I’m nae Mystralyte, Da. An’ I ain’t no hero. I’m jist tryin’ tae help.”

“Then DO that, Quinn. Stop thinkin’ with yer plonker an’ focus on helpin’ somebody, afore yer too late.”

Quinn looked down at his freshly painted shield: blue for fidelity, silver for purity. I’m true, he thought. Suren I’m true tae mah vows. An’ that’s important tae me… mebbe the most important thing tae me… but it ain’t the only important thing aboot me. I’m true tae mah friends. True tae mah roots, even when I wish I wasn’t. An’ I only speak truths.

Are ye pure, though? Suren I strive tae be. A man who serves a goddess of purity an’ cleansin’ needs tae be. Still, this feelin’ ye have fer Pastanti… it’s real, I ken that now, an’ I thought it was somethin’ pure. But what if it’s… vulgar? Quinn had seen what men would do in the name of lust, after all, and he knew what beauty like Pastanti’s would do to such men. Could she be affecting Quinn more than he realized?

“Nae,” he said, and quite loudly. “You listen tae me, Da. Yer love for Ma ne’er got in th’ way of doin’ yer duty. If Pastanti’ll have me, it won’t get in th’ way o’mine.”

Teague crossed the short distance between them, drawing mere inches from his only child’s face. “I never claimed tae love yer Ma, Quinn,” he growled. Then: “Or ye.”

With that, Teague Mac Teague stalked out of the armory. Quinn watched him go, unable to move or speak until he felt a light touch on his shoulder. The Spellknight turned to see the lovely face of Lady Shardea Brightdelve. “You love her,” Shardea said. “Do you not, Syr Qwynn?”

“Aye,” Quinn said, feeling unworthy of the title, especially coming from her mouth. But his own words felt so right… “I think I do.”

She popped the side of his head, hard, then placed his hand over his heart. “Love’s not thynkyng, fool! It’s feelyng. What do you feel?”

“Love,” Quinn blurted at once. Stone me, it’s true.

“That’s bettyr.” Lady Shardea’s fingers rose to brush along his cheek, then they were gone. “Tell her whyn you see her nyxt.”

“I dinnae ken if I can do that.”

He blocked her attempt to smack him again, but failed to keep her other hand from finding the back of his head. “Why do you hesytate to love, but not to fyght?”

“Cos ye trained me tae fight,” Quinn said at once. “Better’n I ever could ha’ learned here in Invershire. But, every time there’s been a girl…”

She turned reproachful eyes on him. “Thys is no dyffyrynt than anythyng else I taught you. You try untyl you wyn.”

“Suren yer right,” Quinn admitted. “I jist… I dinnae ken what I’ll do.”

“She lykes you, doesn’t she?”

He shrugged. “I guess. Moria seems tae think so, leastways.”

“Syr Qwynn…”

“All right, fine. She likes me. She called me ‘Apsifoppotis.’ Means ‘brave knight.’”

Shardea’s eyes sparkled in the torchlight. “Dyd she. Thyn do anythyng. Yf she feels the same, yt’ll be enough.”

“All right. I will.”

“Good man,” Shardea sighed, clapping him on the back before turning to leave.

“My lady?” he said, causing the Arcane Order’s Sword Arm to stop. Ye’ll nev’er get this chance again. “There’s talk in Mathghamhna aboot ye and Chancellor Japheth… I hate tae ask, but: is there anything to it?”

The smile she turned on him was the most enigmatic thing Quinn had ever seen; it made Moria seem positively easy to read by comparison. “Syr Qwynn Mac Teague. Yt’s none of your bysynyss when you’re awake, and yt’s none of your bysnyss here.”

Quinn felt his heart sink. “Damn. This is a dream, innit.”

“Yes. And now you must awaken.” She suddenly leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on Quinn’s lips. “But maybe thys wyll help you rymymbyr what I told you…

Primordium Session 1

2011-05-19T05:09:00.000-07:00

(This begins the adventure logs for the D&D 4E game I'm currently running.)

21st of Vermus, 1301 AD

The sturdy fortress called Kendal Keep sat atop a flat-topped hill. Four travelers reached the end of the steep path which climbed up to the Keep, where the raised drawbridge forced them to stop at the wide yawn of the moat.

Hugh Caedmion aimed a nervous glance at the forbidding towers that flanked the entrance. The crenellated battlements would provide excellent cover for any archers, and there was nowhere to hide down here on the road…

“So,” Adara asked, “This is Kendal Keep?”

“I guess,” Hugh replied with a grunt, looking to Petrus, who nodded once.

Detrius crouched a bit, testing the strength of the knee that had pained him all the way here. Pointing down the road, he said, “They rang the gong when we were back there. They definitely saw us coming…”

As if on cue, a man’s face appeared atop the tower to their right, thirty feet above. “Halt!” he called, though everyone had already stopped moving. “Who goes there? Friend or foe?”

Hugh blinked. “Friends?” he offered, uncertainly.

“Yes,” Adara said, “friends, good sir. We wish no trouble.”

As a second man appeared in the left-hand tower, the first guard squinted down at the four travelers. “Names?”

Hugh and Detrius offered theirs without elaboration. “Adara,” said the deva, “High Priestess and Artificer of the Grand Cathedral.” Petrus introduced himself as a man sworn to St. Relonor, earning another sideways glance from Adara.

The guards stood in silence for a long moment. The man to their left said “Right!” and began climbing down.

“I do hope he’s lowering the drawbridge,” Adara said, mostly to Hugh.

Hugh nodded, mumbling, “Does anyone ever answer ‘foe’?”

“I would certainly hope not!” Adara exclaimed, smiling. Massive chains clanked to life as the drawbridge began to lower. “You see, friends? Relonor’s luck is with us.”

Hugh backed up a bit, almost backing into Petrus. “Relax,” the paladin said, earning a grim half-smile from the warlock.

The drawbridge thumped into place, revealing a lowered portcullis beyond, and a sturdy pair of double doors beyond that. One guard appeared behind the portcullis and waved the group forward. When they were close enough for him to be heard without shouting, the guard said, “What is your business in Kendal Keep? Laurl reminded me that I forgot to ask…”

“I’m meeting someone,” Petrus said. “My cousin, Sir Reynold Tolison. These are my traveling companions.”

“And I am here on church business,” Adara added.

The guard tilted his head, looking over the group, eyes stopping on the warforged soldier. “All right, sirs… madam… One moment, please.” The man stepped out of sight, and the portcullis rose up with a painful squeal.

“Thank you, good sir,” Adara told the guard when he reappeared. “Relonor’s blessing upon you, Mister…?”

“Charl,” the man replied, watching the group as they passed his station.

The shutter of a barred window set in the door ahead slid open, and a young woman’s face appeared, scrutinizing the group with calm deliberation. “Welcome to Kendal Keep,” she said. “I am Sabine, the Gatekeeper.”

The deva smiled warmly. “Pleased to meet you, Sabine. I am Adara.”

Sabine delayed her reply briefly as Hugh spared a brief glance at her before averting his eyes. “This is a peaceable place, travelers,” the elf announced. “We don’t like brawling in the streets, folks stabbed in the One-Eyed Cat, or anything like that.”

“Oh, dear!” Adara exclaimed. “Of course not!”

Sabine seemed pleased with that reaction, but continued: “Keep your weapons sheathed within the walls, and stay out of trouble, and you’ll find the Keep a home away from home. Stir up trouble and you’ll wish you’d never come here, I guarantee it.” Once satisfied, Sabine closed the shutter. The group heard a massive bolt drawn back, then a key turning in a lock. The great doors swung open on Kendal Keep’s outer bailey.

Sabine relaxed, but only slightly, as the four travelers entered the Keep. “If you need a place to rest,” she said, “The Green Man is around the way. And the One-Eyed Cat tavern is adjacent.”

Adara thanked the elf, who had already turned her attention to securing the doors, and the group headed for the inn. “I’ll meet you there,” Petrus announced before taking off to look for Sir Reynold.

Hugh, Adara, and Detrius walked past the stable, a group of wooden residences, a smithy, a general store, and a locksmith (which brought the hint of a smile to Hugh’s face). The few people they passed made little effort to mask their curiosity about the strangers, but Hugh felt fairly inconspicuous compared to the blue-skinned woman and the mechanical man…

The Green Man and the One-Eyed Cat turned out to be two sides of the same building. The three travelers went through the door to their right, which led to the inn; the proprietor, an older human whose face seemed lined with character, smiled at the sight of new business. “Welcome, welcome!” he said, waving the group forward. “I am Beasley, at your service. Are you in need of lodging?”

Adara approached the counter, smiling, while Hugh and Detrius hung back. “Yes, we are. My name is Adara, High Priestess and Artificer of the Grand Cathedral. And these are my companions.”

“Are you a scholar, then?” Something merry twinkled in the man’s eye.

“You could say that, yes. Have you two rooms available?”

“Of course, of course.” Beasley busied himself with keys and coins. “This would be your first visit to Kendal Keep, then? Surely I’d remember if you stayed here before.”

“No, not before; we are new here.” Adara doubted that Beasley had ever seen a deva before. “I am on church business and accompanying friends.”

The deva smiled at Hugh, who nodded in Beasley’s direction. The warlock asked, “Are you serving lunch, or…?”

“Round the corner, in the Cat. You’re just in time, sir.”

“What types of rooms do you offer, sir?” asked Adara.

“Two beds to a room. I’ve got two that are bigger’n the others, but one’s occupied.”

“Regular is fine with me,” Hugh said, his eyes repeatedly flicking to the front door.

Adara arranged to rent the larger room, and one other. Beasley provided the group with keys; Hugh pocketed his, nodded once, and turned for the One-Eyed Cat. As he reached the doorframe, though, it was suddenly occupied by a curvaceous, dark-haired woman in a clingy golden dress. “Oh!” she said. “Excuse me, monsieur.”

Hugh blinked in surprise, his mouth slightly agape. “Ah… of course, madam.” He stepped aside, dazzled.

“Merci.” She slipped easily around Hugh, his eyes tracking her passage. He ran his fingers through his mop of hair in a vain attempt to look slightly more presentable. “Will you be staying here?”

Not sure if the question was meant for the group, Hugh fumbled the key out of his pocket, then held it up with a nervous chuckle. “I… yeah.” The tilt of Adara’s eyebrow told him that the deva was watching…

“Then perhaps I’ll see you around.” She smiled and offered her hand. “I’m Opaline.”

Hugh took her hand and bowed over it, a caricature of someone more genteel. “Hugh. Pleasure.” Genuine warmth snuck into his tone. A smile found the corner of Opaline’s mouth; as she excused herself and headed up the stairs, Hugh caught himself smiling foolishly, put an end to it, and headed for the tavern. When Adara and Detrius followed, Beasley shook his head and went back to his work.

The tavern part of the building had a high ceiling, with several windows propped open with poles. The lunchtime crowd left no seats unoccupied; at Adara’s request, Detrius went to inform the barkeep of their arrival. The deva then turned to Hugh, saying: “She is lovely, yes?”

“I…” Hugh’s blush didn’t mesh with his scowl very well.

Adara took a step back. “I’m sorry, Hugh. I was only… I was merely taking note of your exchange. And it was good to see your spirits something other than dour, if only for a brief moment.”

“Just… leave it. Please.”

“Very well,” Adara said. A group of merchants got up to leave, and the serving-girl waved them over as she cleared the table. They soon faced a small hill of food and drink, including a plate that was accidentally brought for Detrius. Hugh put his feet up on an empty chair, and Adara gave a blessing, “Should we wait for Petrus?” she asked.

“No,” Hugh said at once, and they ate like kings.

- – - – -

The tower guards had also started to reset the portcullis and drawbridge, but stopped when they spied the fur-clad man approaching. “Halt!” Laurl called again. “Who goes there? Friend or foe?”

“Friend,” said the traveler, pulling back his cloak’s hood with a sigh. “My name is Faolan.”

“And what is your purpose in Kendal Keep?”

The druid mulled over what to say, but only for a moment. “I have business for the Druidic Order of the Nine Circles,” Faolan declared.

The guard muttered something that Faolan didn’t hear, then said, “We’ve not had a druid ‘round here in some time, sir.”

“And? My business is urgent; please, let me pass.”

“All right, sir. All right. Charl?” He waved the other guard to lower the drawbridge, but his eyes were locked on something past Faolan.

The druid turned to see an armored man coming up the road toward the Keep’s entrance. “Greetings!” The newcomer, almost certainly a knight, raised a hand to acknowledge Faolan.

“Good day to you, as well,” Faolan said with a nod.

“Hail!” called Laurl. “I mean, halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?”

“Friend, always,” the knight said.

“Your name, sir?”

“Sir Imed Brosch, Knight of the Fellowship of Chrysomer.”

“Poor man,” Faolan said, indicating the guard. “Having to yell down at travelers all day.”

“It must be done. Though, if you were a foe, would you use the front gate?” Imed chortled amicably.

“And your purpose, Sir Imed?”

“My purpose here is the business of St. Amira – I seek a holy place.” The druid scowled at the Saint’s name, but Imed only smiled in return. Turning back to the guard, he asked, “Does anyone ever answer ‘foe’?”

“You’d be surprised. Enter, both of you.” Laurl waved Charl to lower the drawbridge, again. Enough room remained under the portcullis for Imed and Faolan to pass under it. Imed gave St. Amira’s blessing to Charl, who gave thanks to be so blessed twice in one day.

Sabine gave the two men the same warning through the door, then allowed them into the Keep. “Can I direct you anywhere, good sirs?” she asked.

“Yes,” Faolan said. “I’d like to hire a translator.”

Sabine tilted her head. “Not Elvish, I’m guessing?”

“No, sorry. Draconic.”

Sabine nodded. “You might ask the Arçais woman, Opaline. She’s staying at the Green Man.” She pointed. “She’s some sort of wizard, I think. I hear that arcane types often speak Draconic.” When Faolan nodded his thanks, Sabine turned her attention to Imed.

Imed looked her over. “Milady… ma’am… I would like to know who here knows the land around the Keep best? I seek a particular holy place.”

Sabine thought for a moment. “Jadale knows the Keep’s environs better than anyone I know, but if it’s a holy site you seek, I’d ask Chaplain Aleena. She’s usually found in the chapel, that-a-way.”

“Many thanks,” Imed replied. “May this day bring you fortune, madam.”

As the two men entered the Keep, Faolan all but squirmed under the curiosity of the passersby. “It’s been awhile since I’ve done this,” he said.

“Done what?” Imed asked, his tone inviting.

“Entered a town. And because druids aren’t seen often, we are suspect.”

Imed shook his head. “Ah. I doubt that is the case here, or any place with the Saints’ servants near. The guards have been friendly, have they not?”

“To you. I had more trouble before you came.”

“Truly? That’s unfortunate.” The knight’s expression became sympathetic. “Should anyone give you undue trouble, surely the keepers of this Keep would gladly aid you.”

“Sure,” Faolan sighed. “Think I’d sooner call on you for help.”

“You’d have it,” Imed said with conviction. Faolan drew breath to reply, but they’d reached the place where their paths had to split.

Faolan sighed. “It’s been… a pleasure chatting with you. But my business is urgent.”

“I understand. May you find your… translator, my good man. It has been a pleasure.”

Faolan offered a lazy salute as he headed toward the tavern; Imed adjusted his armor and started off for the chapel. As he tacked around the guild house, Imed saw a plain-faced man in plate mail standing before the chapel’s doors, scowling. “Well med, good sir,” Imed called. “Do you guard this chapel, here?”

“Nay,” Petrus said with a sigh. “I’m seeking my cousin, but he isn’t here, either. And the doors are locked. Very strange.”

“Your cousin? Where did you see him last?”

“Here, in the Keep.” Petrus turned his back to the doors and sat on the chapel’s steps.

Concern laced Imed’s words: “And how long ago was that?”

“Many weeks ago. We agreed to meet here… he should have arrived before me, but I don’t believe he has, yet.”

“From where was he coming? Could he have been delayed by weather?”

“I doubt it. Spring came to Silverland early this year. He was coming north, from Andover.”

Imed cast a worried glance at the door. “Where is the Chaplain, then? Chaplain Aleena?”

“Not in her chapel. I knocked ‘til my fist got sore.”

“Good of you to pray for your cousin’s safety, but if that’s not immediately available, perhaps you should ask to send a search party out?"

Petrus nodded. “I have someone in mind, yes. And I suspect that the two disappearances may be connected.”

“Connected?” Imed seemed more engaged with every word. “How so?”

“Were you seeking the Chaplain, sir?” Imed nodded, which brought an odd smile to Petrus’s face. “It’s only a suspicion. But perhaps we can help each other. Walk with me, if you’re free to.”

“At once! Lead on, good sir!”

- – - – -

“Look,” Hugh said as he divided Detrius’s food between himself and Adara, “I’m sorry about… you know… earlier.”

“It’s quite all right, Hugh,” the deva said. “I’m sorry for any offense I may have caused you.”

Hugh shook his head. “You asked me if I thought Opaline was lovely, that’s all. It’s just that the whole thing with Magdalena got me into this… mess. I just realized I was being an idiot again. I got embarrassed. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Adara said again. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of finding yourself attracted to another; it’s a natural thing. So we are both sorry for our parts in this. We should not tarry long on hurt feelings when both parties are apologetic.”

“Is she lovely?” Detrius asked suddenly. When Hugh and Adara turned to look at the warforged, he added, “Such distinctions are largely lost on me.”

- – - – -

Faolan entered the Green Man Inn, still a bit taken aback by the Keep’s hustle and bustle.

“Saints preserve me!” Beasley said, upon seeing the druid. “A busy day! Well met, sir. Might I interest you in lodgings? Or… a bath, perhaps?”

Faolan stared. “I am looking for a woman by the name of Opaline. I heard she was staying here. Is she around?”

“Aye. She’s up in her room. Might not do to disturb her, though. Meddle not, and all that.” The innkeeper waved his hands in a pantomime of arcane gestures.

“I hear she can translate Draconic. If you know of someone else who can, please point me in the right direction. I might even take up your offer on a bath if I can finish my business here.”

“Hmm.” Beasley peered at his ledger through spectacles. “You might try Adara, next door in the Cat. She claims to be a scholar… lovely woman with blue skin, travels with a walking statue and an unshaven, dark-haired fellow. Hard to miss.”

“I thank you for your time.” Faolan excused himself, then crossed over to the One-Eyed Cat, where he made his way to Adara’s group. “Are you Adara?” he asked. “I’m looking for someone who can translate Draconic. I hear you might be able to help me.”

The deva looked up at him. “No,” she said. “Sorry, I don’t.”

“I do,” Hugh said. “Who’s asking?”

“Faolan, druid of the Order of Nine Circles.”

“Saints above,” Hugh grumbled, “does everyone have a grand title except me?”

“If I did,” Detrius said, “I don’t remember it now.”

“That’s very helpful,” Hugh told the warforged.

“You are welcome.”

“If it helps,” Faolan offered, “I’m new.”

Adara cocked her head, arching an eyebrow. “Please, Faolan; take a seat.” A glance from her convinced Hugh to relinquish the chair he’d propped his feet up with, and the druid joined them at the table. “I am sorry; I have yet to introduce myself. I am Adara, High Priestess and Artificer of The Grand Cathedral. This is Hugh, and Detrius. Pleasure to make your accquaintance.”

“And yours. I am simply looking for a translator, and was told not to bother the other hopeful candidate.”

“Why would you need a translator for Draconic?” Adara’s question came from curiosity, rather than suspicion.

“To negotiate with a local lizardfolk tribe – the Dusk Thunder.”

Hugh looked at the druid askance. “Er… why?”

“A few tried to kill me a while back,” Faolan said with a snort. “I need to find out why. And some other reasons.”

His dubious expression still firmly in place, Hugh opined, “Huh.” Spotting Petrus at the bar, talking to an armored man who reeked of the law, he added, “That sounds like a problem, all right. I’d love to help you, but right now, my time is not my own.”

He missed Adara’s reaction as Petrus approached the group. “Sir Reynold hasn’t arrived at the Keep. What’s worse, Chaplain Aleena has gone out looking for him.”

Original Sin Interlogue: Bright Echo / Monster

2011-03-08T09:30:00.000-08:00

Bright Echo

Posted by Jozh

Rayne walked close to Lesallai as the group made its way out of the desert and to a rise overlooking the Free City-State of Tyr. The massive stone walls shined brightly as the red sun dipped toward the horizon, and overshadowing the smaller buildings visible within the confines of King Tithian's demesne were the relics of Kalak's rule. The Golden Palace seemed aflame in the light of the waning day, glimmering in the richest and warmest colors the assassin had ever seen. It was such a sight, that it almost distracted her from the ziggurat standing silently beside the glorious structure. When her eyes fell upon the tiered edifice, however, Rayne's mouth went dry. Each of the seven layers had been painted one of the colors of the color spectrum, with red at the top and violet at the bottom. The garishness of the decorated ziggurat was not the disturbing part for her, however. It appeared to be an exact scale recreation of the pyramid in Kalidnay. The ancient structure in the ruined city had been split open by a massive crack by forces no one living remembered or understood. Finding an apparently brand new and intact version of the ziggurat alarmed the assassin.

And then a familiar voice spoke in her mind.

Your Shadow calls upon you.

Startled, having always been the one to initiate contact with the darker aspect of herself, she answered hesitantly:

And I...answer?

You have reached your first destination. It is time to go to work...

Monster

Posted by Darth Krzysztof and Gnomesplosion

Rayne’s focus on her new assignment had allowed her to get over the shock of seeing the ziggurat by the time the group had talked their way past the Tyrian Guards at the Caravan Gate. Their story would have sounded better coming from Lesallai, but the eladrin still hadn’t returned to herself since facing the Wastewalker. After the others went their separate ways, Rayne practically led Les by the hand to a modest inn at the edge of the Caravan District, saying that a nice meal and a soft bed would do them both a world of good. She also explained that they could afford better accommodations by sharing a room, but the eladrin heard little, staring into the distance the whole way.

Rayne made arrangements with the innkeeper, then sat down to eat. Les seemed to have little stomach for the surprisingly good food, only picking at it until Rayne forced her to have a little more. The eladrin didn’t touch her broy, either. Rayne had never cared for the drink, but the fermented kank nectar soothed her nerves after her long, hot, stressful day, so she drained Les’s cup, as well as her own.

Rayne made a few attempts to engage Les in conversation, but to no avail. She could only get the eladrin’s attention by touching her, and even that was fleeting. As the sky grew dark, Rayne led Les to their room, sending her through the doorway before coming in behind her.

The room was small - not much bigger than Rayne's quarters beneath the shattered pyramid at Kalidnay - but clean, with a low-framed bed with actual sheets, a wooden bench, a chest of drawers, an empty basin, a clay chamber pot, a stand with three lit candles, and one covered window. The bed called to her aching muscles… but only Rayne’s concern for her friend mattered. “I’m going to get out of this armor,” she told Les. “You should do the same.” When the eladrin didn’t reply right away, Rayne touched her shoulder and said, “Les? Can you do that for me?”

Les nodded without looking at Rayne, and moved beside the bed, where she started to remove her leather armor. She hummed a soft, sad tune to herself, slipping in an Elven word now and again, carefully laying each piece of armor on the bench. Les’s lovely voice brought no life to the song; Rayne felt sure that she only sang since it was part of the ritual. Still, it was more life than she’d shown since the Wastewalker…

Rayne shook her head, as if to clear it, and turned to lock the door. She slipped out of her sandals and padded to the chest of drawers, where she began to strip off her own armor. It isn’t fair, she thought. I’ve been waiting for days for time alone with Les. To tell her how I feel, to find out if she feels the same way… and now that the time’s finally here, she’s in shock!

Life isn’t fair. You can’t push this. Give Les as much time as she needs. You’ve waited this long…

Rayne sighed as she laid the last pieces of her armor on the chest of drawers, leaving her in the same rough, smelly shift and breeches she'd been wearing since time out of mind. She turned to look at Les, who was just removing the last bits of her own armor. Even without it, most of Les's skin remained hidden under sheer cloth, some fabric that seemed to defy dirt and filth. The eladrin started peeling off layers, folding each article and placing it on the bench, starting with her socks. Rayne watched as Les exposed her petite, pale feet, then slender long legs, removing cuffs and collars and thick padding. As she shed her androgynous disguise, the hidden curves of her hips and breasts came into view, until she stood before Rayne in full femininity, something Rayne almost couldn’t imagine until now. The eladrin's underclothes were similar to Rayne's, a sheer tunic and shorts, though the shirt was much longer, and both were made of a silken material. Her flesh looked pale as a desert flower, almost luminescent, flawless and inviting. The urge to race across the room and touch Les washed over Rayne, to feel the supple skin beneath her fingertips; she only willed it away by balling her hands into fists.

Lesallai sat on the bed, folded her hands in her lap, and stared at the floor. Rayne started toward the window, but stopped when Les let out a long, quiet sniff. She crossed the room and sat next to the eladrin, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Les…” she began.

As Les shrugged and turned away, Rayne gently pivoted Les to face her, gazing into those lovely eyes, eyes whose hue could only be described as “cerulean.” She’s looking at me, Rayne thought. I’ve finally got her attention.

Her next thought vanished as Les kissed her.

The suddenness nearly made Rayne jump out of her skin, but the warm softness of the eladrin’s mouth held her in place. She could feel Les’s need, her desperation, awakening her own hunger, banishing her own weariness. But Les suddenly broke it off, hanging her head again. “I’m sorry. I should never… you wouldn’t… you heard him!” She seemed on the brink of tears. “I’m something much worse. Worse than the thing he was willing to destroy me for being.”

Rayne clasped one of Les’s hands between her own and tried to squeeze assurance into pale, slender fingers. “He’s insane, Les. There’s no room for preservation in... in the way he sees things.” When Les shook her head, Rayne continued: “Do you remember when he called you a monster? When you called upon your Shadow. I have a Shadow; does that make me a monster, too?”

Les looked back at her now, not quite smiling, but frowning a little less. “Of course not.”

“And what about your sister? Was she a monster?”

“No.” The frown returned.

Might have taken it too far there, but at least she’s talking to me. “He was wrong about you, Les. Just because you’re… something that a small mind can’t comprehend doesn’t make you the doom of the world.”

Les gazed at her for several long seconds, then asked, “Why are you doing this, Rayne?”

“Because I – I mean, because you – well…” As her words failed, Rayne leaned forward to kiss Les again. The eladrin resisted, possibly from fear or confusion, but that passed as Les sighed and arched her back into the kiss. Les gently ended it, her forehead pressed to Rayne’s, eyes locked with hers.

Les held one arm across the flatness of her stomach, nicely accentuating her breasts as the material tightened against them. “I want to show you something,” Les said, barely above a whisper. "I have something I haven't worn in... a very long time... I would like you to tell me what you think of it."

Rayne vaguely recognized the feel of her own head, nodding. As Les got up, placed her backpack on the bed and opened it, Rayne pictured a great stone phallus with an elaborate leather harness before shaking the thought; nothing about Les could be so… blunt. Les gently pulled a simple bundle of cloth from the pack. She looked back to Rayne, her cheeks flushed with color: "Turn around, please. And no peeking."

Rayne swallowed hard at the knot in her throat and shifted on the bed until she faced the wall. She heard the backpack return to the floor, barely heard the length of fabric unfurl. What was happening? That sounded like the shift, or maybe the breeches, coming off, being folded, laid on the bench. Was Les nude at this moment? Air alone between the two of them? Was a single move all she needed to feel the hot, bare skin of the eladrin pressed against her own? Was Les really so shy that she didn't want Rayne to peek? Or was the eladrin excited that Rayne might? So many questions… so many desires… all swirling around inside her, making her stomach tighten, and her body flush with heat - and the heavy blush of excitement.

She heard one bare foot lift and fall, then the other, then a rustling of fabric. That'd be the breeches coming off. Right? Folded. Laid down. Les was surely nude now, or close to it. Rayne heard the slightest whisper as Les took the parcel of cloth... unable to bear the temptation any longer, Rayne glanced over her shoulder.

The perfect slopes of Les's bare bottom disappeared gently beneath the shimmering wave of blue-green fabric that poured down her sides. Les smoothed out the creases with long, slow motions, fingers passing over her shoulders, hands moving over her breasts, sliding around the contours of her hips, then down to her calves as she bent over. Oh, the things that fabric did to that upturned backside... Rayne felt another urge to touch, to run her own fingers over Les’s entire body and feel her flesh shiver underneath, and looked back at the wall just as the eladrin turned to face her.

“I said no peeking.” Les’s tone was a little playful, but carried enough stone to make Rayne’s face burn bright with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” Rayne said automatically, biting down on the urge to ask how she should be punished. Once a slave, always a slave…

“How does it look on me?”

Rayne turned again to find that all sense of ambiguity had left Lesallai Lollanthas. The shimmering blue-green material, whose hem brushed the floor, clung to every curve of her lithe figure. The swell of her breasts, larger and softer than Rayne would have guessed, now stood close together in a breathtaking show of pale, flawless cleavage. She couldn't be sure if she could see Les's nipples through the sheer material, or was merely imagining them... but she certainly made out their outlines, and it wasn’t cold air that had caused that. Les folded her bare arms over her stomach, head slightly tilted to one side, patiently awaiting an answer to her question.

One day, when Rayne had barely been fourteen, the Profit had sacked a merchant ship bound for Balic. She'd been the fattest prize they'd ever taken - with no blood spilled - and Rayne had dared to steal a kiss from the merchant ship's handsome cabin boy before abandoning their quarry to their fate. That night, while the adults drank and carried on below, she'd lain on the Profit's deck, cradling her share of the loot upon her belly, gazing up at the night sky. She saw every star in creation, like an endless ocean of priceless gems, the moons brilliant discs of green and gold, the cold desert wind singing just for her. That had always been the most perfect moment of her life, the most beautiful thing Rayne had ever seen.

"I think," Rayne stammered in spite of her conviction, "that you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Les's blush grew even deeper; for a moment, words failed her. The flush of skin spread down Les’s neck, and her breasts glowed a soft rose color. She doesn’t believe me, Rayne thought, as the temperature of her own body rose once more. Finally, she said, "You... you're very kind to say that, Rayne."

"It's true." Lesallai probably last wore this gown for Allalantha, and that was not lost on Rayne.

Without taking her cerulean eyes off of Rayne, Les backed up to the bed and eased down next to her. She sat with her legs properly pulled beneath her, her arms holding her up as she leaned forward, showing Rayne the soft curves swelling beneath the fabric. Her free hand went to her lips, and she started to bite a nail on one of her smaller fingers thoughtfully. “Rayne… I… would you… do you want to go to bed with me?”

It seemed like a very euphemistic turn of phrase for such a direct question, but… “Yes! Of course I do.” Had she ever wanted anything more?

“I just… you shouldn’t do it just because I want to.”

And you shouldn’t do it just to drown your sorrows, Les, Rayne thought. I won’t be used like that. Ever again. But she knew that wasn’t the reason… or, at least, not the only reason.”No, I want to. Believe me. There’s just one thing. I, um… I don’t have anything to wear to bed.”

Les smiled for the first time in a long time - a sad smile, but a smile all the same. “I don’t see that as a problem.”

Rayne nodded as her hands traced over her bare belly to the hem of her shift, and she slowly tugged up on it. Les shifted her shoulders as though trying not to fall forward, and Rayne slowed her pace even more, pausing when only the underside of her bust came into view. She turned away from Les once more, missing the sight of Les’s eyes as they widened a touch. Rayne stood up and walked toward the chest of drawers, slid the shift up over her head, left it atop her armor, and covered each stiff nipple with a hand as she spun to face Les again. She felt sure that the eladrin enjoyed the show, and decided to keep going, making a few lazy spins around the room, casting shy glances over her shoulder, always careful to cover her bosom when Les could see it. The eladrin’s expression mixed fascination with unmistakable longing.

Rayne recalled belly dances she’d seen native girls perform in the Silt Archipelago - all swaying hips, knowing glances, ringing cymbals, scarlet ribbons and veils - and tried to create something of her own which evoked that. Swaying as if Les were still singing, Rayne felt less inhibited at every turn; with every glance she stole, she saw Les’s excited breathing in the heavy rise and fall of her chest. Finally, with her back to the eladrin, Rayne untied the drawstring of her breeches and gradually slid them down, hips swinging, exposing her buttocks to Les an inch at a time, until she could hold on no longer and her pants pooled around her feet.

She ran her hands down over her own rear, swiveling from side to side, then held her arms out wide in a balancing gesture, stepped out of her breeches, and turned to face Les one last time, exposed and unashamed. Les held a hand over her smile, eyes lingering for the briefest moment on Rayne’s neatly trimmed pubic mound, as Rayne sat back down on the bed. “Oh,” Rayne said, feeling her confidence ebb. “There’s something else. I’ve never… with another woman…”

Les's fingers touched Rayne's stomach, slid across her hip, and trailed down her thigh, then they were gone. Rayne noticed the subtle scent that clung to her… no, she would have noticed that before. It clung to Les’s gown. The smell reminded her of the Forest of Ringing Mountains; moreover, it reminded her of happier times, of days of youth, far from the decadence and wickedness of civilization. “It's all right. I'll show you." Les glanced at the candles. “Or would you prefer darkness?”

“No,” Rayne said at once. “I want to see everything.”

Les smiled, finally looking like herself again. “Good. So do I.”

Les came forward with enough speed to make Rayne lean back beneath her. As the eladrin’s face came closer, Rayne ached for those lips to find hers, to kiss her forever… but Les froze mere inches away, those cerulean eyes locked on hers, one finger raised, still smiling. She brought that fingertip down to Rayne’s waist, drawing a slow, sensuous line up her body, skirting the outer edge of her breast, along her neck to her lips. Rayne tried to take that finger into her mouth, but Les pulled it away, tapping her on the nose with a good-natured “No.”

Rayne pouted until Les returned the fingertip to her mouth, lightly tracing one lip, then the other, still looking deeply into her eyes. She almost felt dizzy, like she might fall into Les’s gaze, and her heart thudded until it threatened to burst from her chest. How long did Les intend to keep this up? It may have been sweet agony, but it was agony, still and all. When Rayne was sure she could take no more, Les moved the finger beneath Rayne’s chin, holding her in place as the eladrin leaned forward to kiss her mouth.

Nothing else in creation could have been so warm, so soft and gentle, tentative and confident all at once. It made every bit of her throb with need; it cast light on her Shadow until it all but vanished. Rayne closed her eyes and leaned into it, but opened them again as Les pulled her mouth away, pausing only for one brief lick at Rayne’s lips.

Les kissed her on the ear; when her lips lingered for a moment, Rayne hoped for something whispered – a wicked secret, a hidden desire, a shy demand. But Les’s lips moved down her neck, kissing around the same breast her fingertip had circled, and further down, planting a kiss every few inches until Rayne could feel Les’s breath within her navel. She fought off the urge to shudder as the eladrin rained light kisses upon her stomach… and when Les used the tip of her tongue to blaze a trail from her belly button down her thigh, she realized how wet she’d become. As Les gave her a small bite on the inner knee, Rayne opened her mouth to beg her for more – but all she could do was pant.

Looking up into Rayne’s eyes again, Les leaned to one side and laid another finger on Rayne’s chest. The fingertip glowed where it found her skin, leaving a warm, shining trail of light as it slowly moved between Rayne’s breasts and down her stomach. When it stopped at the ridge of her pubic bone, Rayne moaned and shuddered in sheer ecstasy, unable – and unwilling – to fight it this time.

Les held still for a minor eternity as the glowing line faded, her finger still pressed against Rayne’s pelvis. She yearned to thrust up at Les, to show what all this touching had done to her, but she knew better. But this waiting…! “Les,” she began, her voice sounding impossibly husky to her own ears.

“Shhh,” Les said. She crawled over Rayne until they came face to face again, maneuvering her left leg, half-exposed by the rising gown, in between Rayne’s. The eladrin came down, as if for another kiss, but gently bit the human’s lower lip instead. Rayne’s breath burst from her in a sudden cry, but she refused to pull away.

Les released Rayne’s lip and began to gently grind her thigh against Rayne’s sex, causing her to gasp. Rayne squeezed Les’s leg between hers, locking her ankles on the far side, and looked the eladrin in the eyes once more. She allowed Les to drive the pace of the grinding, but occasionally added her own pressure until Les persuaded her to ease up, the eladrin’s smile more sly than shy.

As Les ground against Rayne, stoking the human’s passion with every thrust, she reached behind her back to untie the top of her gown. Les loosened it to fit over her shoulders, then lifted it from the bottom, up over her head, giving Rayne her first full look at her naked body. She was lithe and lean, as Rayne had glimpsed, and glorious to behold. And, aside from her head, she was perfectly hairless. Rayne’s joy must have shown in her face, because Les’s grin broadened, and the pace of her thrusting quickened for a moment.

Les folded the gown and, with some effort, laid it on the bench, never ceasing the grind. She then caught Rayne’s hands in her own and guided them to her own belly, then up to her breasts. Rayne gleefully played with them, surprised to find them about the same size as her own, tweaking the tips of each as Les’s leg continued to press against her. Les lowered her face to Rayne’s to kiss her again; the human went to lick the eladrin’s lips, as Les had done to her, and their tongues met for a split second.

Les arched her back, breaking the kiss, but bringing her chest even closer to Rayne. With her hands already there, the human guided one breast up to her face. Rayne swirled her tongue around the nipple; when the eladrin whispered breathily, “Please…” she took it into her mouth and sucked greedily, fingers still working the other breast, until Les laughed in sheer pleasure.

Les’s hands left Rayne’s, then seemed to be everywhere at once, brushing across Rayne’s cheek, the peaks of her breasts, her hips, her waist. One hand stole between Les’s thigh and Rayne’s groin, rubbing against her for a split second before stealing away, back to Les’s face to be smelled, to be licked - making sure that Rayne didn’t miss a moment of it. Her thighs clenched together, squeezing Les’s leg, slippery with her own passion, against herself, and she released Les’s nipple to blow cool air on it, causing the eladrin to shiver before taking it back into her mouth.

Rayne had never been so aroused - had never dared to dream that she could be so aroused - slick with sweat, heart hammering in her ears. Each breath seemed to bring in less air than the one before. Every part of her body ached for Les to caress her, kiss her, taste her, satisfy her… and every part of her soul ached to do the same, and more, to Les.

Still pressing her thigh against Rayne, Les moved down to where she’d straddled Rayne’s hip, and started to grind herself against it, coating Rayne’s skin in a slick honey. The eladrin’s breathing sped up, but she barely made a sound, a sharp contrast to Rayne’s own moaning. She leaned forward for another kiss - more passionate than before, as they rocked together - and pulled away, a shining strand of saliva strung between their mouths. Les moved a hand under Rayne’s right calf, lifting that leg to slide her own beneath it, coming forward until the heat of her hairless sex crashed into Rayne’s. Both women gasped as their juices mingled, coating their pubic mounds as they ground together, moving in tandem with one another.

Rayne leaned back for leverage, pressing against Les for all she was worth until the eladrin sucked in a sudden breath and let it out in a high-pitched squeak of barely-suppressed pleasure. Les locked eyes with Rayne and pulled her leg at the knee to renew the grinding of their folds. Rayne felt her lover’s need, throbbing between her legs, as Les arched her back and bit her lip to keep from crying out, shuddering with quiet whimpers instead.

She’s climaxing! Rayne realized. I’ve never seen a woman climax before. I’ve never climaxed before… Then, as Les gazed into her eyes once more, Rayne thought: Oh, Great Shadow, I’m going to!

“Come on,” Les sighed, never taking her eyes away. “Come for me, Rayne.”

A column of dark fire erupted inside Rayne, roaring through her blood, and she surrendered all control, trembling, clenching, crying out, dead and reborn with every rapturous wave, Les’s pressure against her finally faltering as Rayne returned to herself. Les slipped out of the scissor and kissed Rayne’s mouth, trailing her lips down once more, stopping at one breast to lick a circle around the areola until it ached. As before, she kissed her way down Rayne’s stomach to her navel, kissing, kissing, flicking her tongue inside… then below her belly button, to the soft flesh between her stomach and her pelvic bone.

Rayne felt fire and shadow stirring within her anew as Les gently bit her, then continued downward with soft, quick licks, diligently cleaning their mixed, still-warm juices, savoring every drop of their lust. Rayne moaned as the eladrin nibbled at the line where her thigh met her groin; tongue flicked along skin, raising goosebumps. Now that her fever had finally broken, Rayne was perfectly willing to let her lover take her sweet, sweet time down there.

Except… oral sex was slave’s work; Rayne had performed enough of it to know. It was beneath someone like... “Les,” she whispered, “please. You don’t have to…”

Les locked eyes with her again, desire burning there. “I want to,” she said, lowering her mouth to Rayne’s sex, baring her teeth against the button there until Rayne sharply inhaled. She drew her tongue gently up between Rayne’s lips to flick at the tiny pleasure center, to swirl around it, slowly gliding her tongue back down to lap deeper and deeper into Rayne, as her very center convulsed with naked pleasure, and Rayne began to come again.

She wanted Les’s fingers inside her, yearned to be filled with her, but shuddered and screamed every bit as fiercely as before. Les still kept eye contact as best she could; when she knew that the eladrin was looking, she cupped her own breast and raised it to her mouth, sucking on her own nipple, teasing it with her tongue. The sight made Les lick with greater ardor, made Rayne peak until her juices covered her lover’s face. She fought the urge to press her thighs against Les’s head, choosing instead to lightly fondle the tips of her pointed ears with one hand, while the other flicked between her own nipples.

Les crawled slowly up, her smiling mouth glistening with Rayne’s nectar. She kissed Rayne, harder and deeper than before, letting her taste herself in her mouth. Les’s tongue flicked into hers, met hers, and did not shy away. The eladrin’s hands went to the small of Rayne’s back, easing her into an embrace, and their breasts came together, causing both women to groan.

Rayne spent a moment concentrating on the kiss, exploring Les’s mouth with her tongue, allowing her lover to explore her own, shifting her lips, turning her head. She freed her left arm from the embrace and brought her hand to Les’s buttocks, relishing the feel of the smooth, tight flesh. She brought her other hand to the front, cupping Les’s groin in it, causing the eladrin to moan into her mouth when she gently squeezed.

Les didn’t put anything but her tongue in me, Rayne thought. She must have her reasons. Breaking the kiss, she brought her mouth to Les’s ear, cooing: “Do you want me inside you?”

“No,” Les gasped.”Please… gently…”

Could she still be a virgin? Rayne tried to push away, to kneel before Les, to give her what she’d given, but Les held her fast, kissed her mouth, and ground her sex against Rayne’s hand.

The button’s the trick, she thought, giving Les’s the slightest pinch, flicking at it with one finger, then two, until Les’s breathing came only in short, sharp pants. She ran one finger between the lips of her lover’s cleft, and Les climaxed again, moaning, squeaking into their kiss, and biting Rayne’s lip with a gasp.

The shock made Rayne raise her left hand and bring it down on Les’s backside with a great slap, and Les let go of Rayne’s lip and came again, this cry much less restrained. Rayne readied another blow, but brought the hand back between the two women. While her right hand worked the soft wetness of Les’s slit, she brought the left to her own sex.

“You belong to me, now,” Kavros had said on her first day in his house. “No one else will ever touch you… not even you.”

That slave girl never could have imagined something like this - certainly couldn’t have imagined it happening to her. She rubbed herself while she rubbed Les, while her lover held her tightly, kissed her, pressed her nipples against hers. She pushed a finger inside herself and almost swooned, pulled it partway out, then pushed it back in, joined by a second, then a third. If Les’s depths are taboo, then I’ll just have to break an older taboo. She plumbed her own depths and stroked Les’s slit until they came together with unmistakable finality, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

Les released Rayne, brought the human’s hands to her own face, and began to slowly lick each finger clean. Rayne leaned forward to join her, and their tongues met in the middle, melding into one sweet, lasting kiss.

***

Rayne reclined on her back, drenched in sweat, muscles singing with exhaustion, still on top of the sheets. Les lay at her side, propped up on one elbow, stroking her lover’s stomach, gazing at the gray of her eyes. “Your eyes are so lovely,” Les said. “Like storm clouds before the rain comes.”

“I’ve never seen rain.” Few had; for Athas to see rainfall more than once in a decade was unheard of. The Profit’s captain had told Rayne that she’d been so named for being born during a rainstorm, but she’d never really believed it. It felt oddly thrilling, though, for someone so beautiful to call her lovely… A wistful look crossed Les’s face, and Rayne reached up to caress her cheek. “What’s wrong, Les?” Please, she thought, don’t start feeling like a monster again…

“Just tired. I’d give anything for a bath.” That might have been true – Rayne certainly needed to clean up – but it couldn’t be the whole story.

Rayne glanced at the empty wash basin. “I could bring you some sand.”

Les favored her with a sad little smile. “Thank you, but no. I mean a real bath… in the Lands Within the Wind, we’d always bathe in the stream.”

"Bathing in water? I can't imagine such a thing..." Well, picturing a stream of water large enough to bathe in was difficult. Imagining Lesallai and Allalantha within that stream - frolicking, stealing kisses, shining droplets clinging to their naked skin - was all too easy. Rayne shook her head, now unable to think about anything else. That meant that Les, too, was thinking of her lost twin sister. "Um..." Rayne began. “Anything else I can do for you?"

“No. Well, I’m terribly warm, but I don’t want you to get up.”

Rayne smiled and flicked a wrist at the window, which quietly clicked open. Cool night air and moonlight spilled into the room, causing Les’s skin to glow anew.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Les said.

Rayne put on her best smirk. “A wild talent of mine. You may not believe it, but there’s a lot you don’t know about me, Lesallai Lollanthas.” Les looked impressed, and Rayne’s smile grew wider. “That’s right. I’ve been practicing saying it.”

“Aren’t you full of secrets.”

“For me to know,” Rayne said, “and you to find out.”

“Don’t think I won’t.” Les looked up at the still-burning candles. “Can you snuff those with your wild talent?”

“No,” she lied. “Would you mind?”

As Rayne had hoped, the eladrin rose to her knees and pivoted around to face the candle stand, giving Rayne the view of her derriere she’d wanted. As the eladrin’s feet swung around, Rayne reached for Les’s upturned soles, causing the eladrin to pause.“Your feet are so pretty,” Rayne said, “and so small for someone your size.” Indeed, they weren’t much larger than Rayne’s... “That can’t make it easy when you… when you’re being a man.”

Les shrugged, stretching her toes out in appreciation of Rayne’s touch. “They don’t see my feet,” she said, blowing out the candles one by one.

No, they don’t see the real you, Rayne thought, stroking the bottom of each toe. Nobody sees the real you. Nobody but me… What it must have cost you to share that with me… with me, of all people. The Wastewalker couldn’t have been more wrong about you.

Rayne thought about the strange confluence of events that had led her here, to Tyr’s… copy of Kaliday’s pyramid. She thought about her mission, certain that her presence here was no coincidence. And she shuddered to think of what the Grandfather of Assassins would say, or do, if he knew that Rayne’s lover was an assassin not of the Hidden… Les’s life might be in danger. Rayne’s, too.

Had Rayne just made the biggest mistake of her life?

She thought all of this in the time it took Les to blow out three candles. The eladrin eased down beside her in the soft, cooling darkness, placing one gentle kiss on Rayne’s ear.

“The Hidden gave me an assignment,” Rayne whispered. “I could… I could use your help, if you’re willing.” Once she explained the details, the eladrin was silent for five full minutes before agreeing. It was much to ask of Les, and the ziggurat had affected her... not in the same way it had affected Rayne, but just as profoundly. Perhaps it had called to her Shadow, as the gemstone trinket in the Devourer’s image had.

These are dark roads we walk, she thought, but we’re dark women, and at least we don’t have to walk them alone. The thought cheered Rayne, who’d come to associate intimacy with abandonment or betrayal. Now Lesallai’s nearness filled her with hope.

“Les,” Rayne heard herself say, “I think I love you.”

No, she thought. That’s the biggest mistake of my life. She felt Les stiffen, then shudder, That’s it, you’ve frightened her away! We’ve had such a good time tonight, and now you’ve ruined it by making it serious… look at how much pain the truth always brings her. Truth never helps anything…

“Hold me, Rayne,” Les whispered.

“Les, I…”

“Please.”

She put her arms around Les as the eladrin settled her head on Rayne’s chest, shifting her body to lay one long leg over Rayne’s. She kissed the top of Les’s head, ran her fingers once through pale blond hair, and closed her eyes to find sleep lurking there, awaiting her.

Rayne Journal Entry 9

2011-03-08T09:20:00.001-08:00

I call upon my Shadow.

And your Shadow answers.

It’s over. We won… we defeated the Wastewalker.

Congratulations, Rayne. Our journey to Tyr is sure to be easier with him dead.

Umm… we didn’t kill him.

You didn’t?

No.

Maybe you’d better begin at the beginning.

Of course. We routed some gith, just before you… before I took control of the Emerald Flame. We spared one in exchange for some gems, and it ran off.

Interesting. You’ve accumulated quite a bit of treasure already.

I know.

And you knew that the gith might have returned with reinforcements.

I knew. I know… It didn’t speak much Common, which we all found frustrating. Vrack just wanted to kill it, but Hawk insisted that “it would be wrong to end his life while he pleads for it.” Les and I wanted to see what it was offering before we made up our minds…

Then you decided it was no longer a threat.

Yes. Hawk had conviction, and the gems are very pretty, but in the end, it wasn’t a danger to us on its own. We caught our breath, then pressed on, until another group of ssurrans attacked us, trying to bring Les back to their master… it was bloody, but we won. We had no time to rest, though, as the obsidian storm found us again.

The Wastewalker’s black rain pushed you right to him.

Too right. Kikrik and Les agreed to try diplomacy first, but the Wastewalker was too blinded by his faith to believe that Les could work preserving magic… that she would work it. He ordered his zealots to attack us… I spent most of the fray distributing healing fruits, trying to keep everyone on their feet. I was sure that Vrack had died…

But you prevailed.

We did, yes. Lesallai refused to use her arcane gifts… but…

Rayne? What is it?

When Les defeated him with her Shadow, the Wastewalker called her “more than a defiler… something much worse. A greater threat to existence than you know.” And, darkness help me, she believes it.

She is more than a defiler.

She’s not a monster, Shadow! And she isn’t the doom of Athas. I don’t believe that. I won’t! And I won’t let her believe it, either!

You care for her.

Of course I do!

You cared for a monster, once. And you failed to see him for what he was until it almost cost you your life.

I…

Yes, Rayne?

It’s not like that. Not this time.

How can you be certain?

Two reasons. One, it’s my decision to make this time. And I choose to believe in her.

I see. And your second reason?

Because she cares for me. She’s shared so much… more than she’s told anyone since she lost her sister. If I can be there for her… be her friend… I can remind her that there’s more to her than whatever the Wastewalker saw.

But you want to be more than her friend.

I can’t worry about that now. Tyr should be just over this ridge. If Les wants to… be with me, then I’ll worry about it. Until then, I need to focus on… Black Shadow!

Rayne? What is it?

The ziggurat! The great ziggurat in Tyr… it looks just like the pyramid in Kalidnay!

Are you sure?

The colors are different, but… yes. I’m sure.

What does it mean?

I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.

Rayne Journal Entry 8

2011-03-08T09:17:00.000-08:00

I call upon the Emerald Flame.

yes

Things are looking up. We emerged from the crypt in the Forest of Ringing Mountains – a forest of pine trees. I read about it in the Praetorium, ages ago... but I never dreamed I’d see anything so beautiful. Lesallai warned us to beware, for the Veil between our world and the Lands Within the Wind was thin in the forest. Of course, she kept calling her home something different every time she mentioned it…

fear

That’s what I thought as well. She wasn’t ready to face it again. She wanted to get away from that place… we all did… but lizards ambushed us. And there was a fey panther, a creature from the Lands Within the Wind – but we managed to drive it off. And I found some metal in a hollow tree – some actual metal! And magical, besides – which Vrack fashioned into a flail.

keep

What? Are you saying I should have kept the metal?

yes

Why?

priceless

I don’t know about that. Besides, it’s worth more to me in Vrack’s hands. I want our group to enjoy every advantage we can… it’s the only way we’ll survive out here. And I can live very comfortably, for a good long time, on my share of the gemstone trinkets and trade bars we’ve found. We all can. I’m not sure what will happen when we get to Tyr… but, assuming we make it, I hope we stick together.

weak

What? Who, us? I guess you haven’t been paying attention. After the lizards, we got the drop on some gith, and we routed them. Hardly broke a sweat, even. The Profiteers never could have handled them as easily…

need. nobody

I think I’ve explained this already. I can’t survive out here alone.

use. everybody

It’s not like that, and you know it. These people are my friends, Emerald Flame. I care about them. And I trust them. I think we’ve all saved each other’s lives now – more than once, in some cases. And a pirate doesn’t “use” her crew. A Profiteer sure as the Gray doesn’t.

you. fool

My only foolishness was to listen to you. I think there’s enough treachery and greed in the world without you talking me into adding to it. You’ve helped me to focus my power, certainly, but everything you’ve told me has been a lie.

lesallai. lussst

… all right, almost everything. I do want to be with her. Even if the group breaks up in Tyr, I want to stay with her. But you didn’t… you didn’t plant that in me. Those feelings were already there. All you did was show me.

yes

But I don’t need your help with that. And, truth be told, I don’t need your help with anything.

too. late

We’ll see about that. I call upon my Shadow.

won’t. answer

Shadow, come to me!

no. shadow. only. flame

You’re wrong. I am an assassin. I am Hidden. I am Shadow. And in the darkness I serve, no flame as tiny and weak as yourself can thrive.

I bend your power to my own. I shatter your will upon the stones of the pyramid of Kalidnay herself. I make you mine!

nooo*

I thought he’d never shut up.

Shadow! Praise the Grandfather! Where have you been?

Close to your heart, of course. But the Flame refused to let you hear. Tell me, what’s happened?

Original Sin Prelude: Master of the House

2011-01-18T10:40:00.000-08:00

seven years ago

The sharp-faced woman cut Rayne's ragged clothes free with an obsidian knife, tossing them into the fire, until the girl stood naked in the cold, dark room. She might be able to trick the woman, to wrest the gleaming blade from her, to make a break for it... but there was nowhere to go. She'd be found. She'd be executed. The dark man had bought Rayne from the praetors... had made her his slave. Beats being dead, she kept telling herself, but it sounded no more true now than it had in the Praetorium the previous day. Pirates and cages simply didn't mix. Maybe the other Profiteers had been the lucky ones.

The sharp-faced woman scrubbed Rayne's body with gritty, lightly scented sand until her skin seemed to glow pink. She had never been this clean... and now she smelled vaguely of mint. The feeling bothered her, pleasant though it may have been.

The sharp-faced woman examined Rayne's eyes, her ears, her mouth. She clucked her tongue when she found the bugs in the girl's hair, then rubbed a cold slime that smelled like death over her scalp and armpits. She knelt, pulled one ankle away from the other to spread the girl's legs, and moved her hand between them. Rayne shivered as the woman inspected what she found there, raised an eyebrow, then applied another coat of slime to it.

Without a word, the sharp-faced woman stood and walked away from Rayne, returning with a folded parcel of brown fabric. She shook it out, revealing a simple dress, and said, "Put this on."

Having never worn a dress before, Rayne eased her way into the garment; it proved to be far too long for her, just as she'd feared. The sharp-faced woman shook her head, and her hands went to her hips, hitching up the sides of her own dress. "You'll have to go around like this for now," she said. "It'd take years for you to grow into this old thing. I'll have to hem it later... Master wishes to see you now."

The dark man wants to see me. Rayne swallowed. The sharp-faced woman raised Rayne's chin until their gazes met. She was younger than Rayne thought... older than she, certainly, but not old enough to be her mother...

"Don't look at him," the sharp-faced woman said. "Don't speak unless he tells you to. Don't lie to him, or he'll know. Always call him 'master' or 'my lord.' Don't move, or do anything, unless he tells you to. And do anything he tells you to."

"Oh... okay." If that's what I have to do, then that's what I do... this is your life now, Rayne. This is all you are. Hot, bitter tears rolled down Rayne's cheeks as she tried not to break down.

"What's your name, girl?" the sharp-faced woman asked, her voice abruptly softening.

"Rayne." She sniffed once, hard.

The corner of her mouth tugged up in a smile, instantly rendering her visage less severe. "Rayne. Lovely name. I'm Kelira. It's not as bad as you think. Master treats us fairly, as long as we please him. You'll see."

"I... thank you. Kelira."

"Sure. Follow me." She glanced back over her shoulder. "And don't ever let Master see you crying."

Rayne hiked her skirts up and followed Kelira through the manor, the stone floor stealing warmth from her bare feet. She paid little attention to the manor's vastness, to its quiet, for fear of losing Kelira, fear of angering her new master...

They arrived in a small courtyard, a carefully arranged scene of sand and stones, cool in the night air, almost enchanting in the light of the moons. A dark-haired man in red robes stood at the courtyard's center, turned away from the slaves, hands clasped behind his back.

"Master," Kelira said. "Your new slave is here."

"She may approach," the dark man said, his voice flat and deep.

Rayne glanced to Kelira, who was already backing away. "Don't worry," the sharp-faced woman whispered. "I'll be watching. You'll do fine."

Rayne nodded and slowly walked into the courtyard, eyes cast down, sorry to mar the sandscape with her footprints. She lost track of the distance to her master, but froze when he said: "That's close enough. Kneel." She did so at once, pressing her forehead to the sand and closing her eyes.

She heard him turn, heard him coming closer. "I can't see you," he said. "Sit up, girl." She did so without opening her eyes. "Mmm. Yes. You've cleaned up better than I thought. Tell me, do you know why you're here?"

Rayne tried to remember how to speak; when she did, her voice came out thready. "Because you bought me. My lord." Damn it, she'd almost forgotten to say it! She tensed up, waiting to be struck, her blood thundering in her ears.

But the blow didn't come. "This is true," her master said. "But what I mean is: do you know why I bought you?"

"No, my lord." It didn't make much sense. Someone born into slavery would be more obedient. And he could surely find a more suitable concubine...

"Because of this. Open your eyes." She saw a bit of vellum in her master's hand, could barely see the lines written upon it:

Shun green if you can, but night's good color
is for those of great valor.
If shades of red stand for blood the wise
Will not need sacrifice aught but a loop -

"I showed this to you in the Praetorium," her master said, flourishing the vellum back into his sleeve. "You pretended that you couldn't read it... but I knew better. You can read, pirate. Tell me, can you also write?"

"Some, my lord." Her father, Tharik, had taught her to read, so he could entrust her with all his songs and stories. Tharik also told her to keep this talent secret, that she could be executed for knowing such things. Since piracy was also punishable by death, Rayne had never given it much thought... and now, somehow, one capital crime had saved her from the other.

"I see. How is your memory?"

Rayne relaxed, if only a little. "Very keen, my lord. I remember nearly everything I see and hear."

"Truly." His tone brightened. "What did the parchment I just showed you say?"

Rayne recited the four lines, word for word. "That's as much of it as I saw, my lord."

"Impressive. I believe I have use for you, girl. Do you wish to be useful to me?"

"Yes, my lord." The alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

"Good. Serve me well, do as you're told, and you shall be treated fairly." His voice flattened again. "Displease me... break my rules... give me any reason to question your loyalty, and I'll return you to the praetors. And you will be executed. I trust you understand me."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good. These, then, are the rules of House Marenath. You will not leave the house unless I order you to. You will only visit the places and perform the tasks I order you to. You will return here as soon as those tasks are done. I trust you understand me."

"Yes, my lord."

"You will not wear shoes in the house. No one will give you shoes to wear in the house. I trust you understand me."

Not really, no. "Yes, my lord."

She felt his fingers brush her cheek, an intimate gesture somehow devoid of all intimacy. "I may come to desire you, sexually. If I do, you will give yourself to me. You belong to me, now. No one else will ever touch you... not even you. I trust you understand me."

"Yes, my lord." Her pulse had quickened again. This was the meaning of Kelira's inspection. Rayne had never made love... had certainly never thought that her first time would come under such circumstances... and the master seemed so dispassionate. What manner of desire could ever come over such a man?

"Look at me."

Rayne opened her eyes to see his face. He was handsome, in his way, with dark, serious eyes. She tried not to stare at the mark on his upper lip, but found meeting his gaze even harder. She refused to turn away, though.

"Kelira," the master called, not taking his eyes from Rayne's. "What is her name?"

"Rayne, Master," came Kelira's reply.

"Show Rayne to her quarters. Make sure she sleeps. I will have work for her in the morning."

"Yes, Master." The master of the house turned and walked away, vanishing from view as Kelira reached Rayne and helped the girl to her feet. She allowed Kelira to lead her to a small room, where she lay upon a low-framed bed of straw and fell asleep in minutes.

She dreamed of the Profit sinking into green sand, twin moons of scarlet glaring down from the blackest of skies.

Rayne Journal Entry 7

2011-01-09T16:12:00.000-08:00

I call upon… I call upon the Emerald Flame.

yes

We’re free of the tomb at last… we found a tunnel that leads back to the surface. Well, we will be free. We’re going to rest here before striking back out… I just wish it felt like better news. And there’s… wait, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

yes

I’ll back up. We finished off the golems, and Kikrik helped me to bring Les back around. I figured out how to join the disc halves together, then use them to open the gate that led out… I also found some gemstone trinkets. They should be worth something, if we ever get back to Tyr.

What do you mean? Do you… do you mean, when we get back to Tyr?

yes

Oh. Good. Anyway, it’ll be nice to have something to show for all this.

yes

Don’t I deserve that?

yes

They asked me to carry the trinkets. But you know, I found them on my own. And some old trade stones, too. I could have kept them all for myself. No one else had to know…

No, you’re right. Come to think of it… by sharing them with the others, when they know I could have kept them for myself, should make them trust me more. And I need their help, their trust, if I’m ever going to survive out here. And they did trust me to hold on to the treasures…

yesss

Umm… We encountered creatures called hejkin in the next room, which we defeated at some cost. Rayne tended my wounds, singing the sweetest song… then she went to help Kikrik. The kreen refused her aid, but I’m pretty sure he appreciated the offer all the same. I think they might finally be coming to an understanding… While they talked, I went to have a look at the sarcophagus at one end of the room, and a spirit of wind appeared before me. I felt afraid when we faced undead before, but this one… it looked at me, spoke to me… and that positively terrified me.

yes

“You should not have come here,” he said. “The time is not yet right.” And spirits swarmed around us to attack… it was a desperate battle, Flame. Les had to revive Kikrik… then I had to save Les… again… when we finally destroyed the spirit of wind, two more spirits appeared before us. They asked us to redeem the Wastewalker… to work preserving magic, and not to defile…

Oh, I agree. I don’t know if we can redeem him, but we have to try. I want to know about the “elemental prophecies” they mentioned… and I think they calmed Kikrik’s spirits, somehow… I certainly hope they did. Anyway, we’re free of the tomb. Free to find the Wastewalker… if he doesn’t find us first. And I guess we’ll see what happens, then. But that’s not what worries me.

tell

Have you ever heard of an entity called… called the Devourer?

I have. My former master, Kavros, was obsessed with the Devourer… he tried to sacrifice me to it. One of the gemstone trinkets was carved in the Devourer’s likeness: a leering devil’s face, horned and bearded, with a black, gaping maw. I saw it once, sketched in one of Kavros’s notebooks. I didn’t know what it was, but I still see it in nightmares to this day.

yes

And when I showed it to Les, she told me that the Devourer’s legend was tied to a horrid tomb, a thing not of this world… yet even that isn’t what worries me.

tell

It caused her unease to see its face. Great Shadow, it stirred at the darkness inside her… pulled at her twin… I can’t add to her pain, Emerald Flame. I’ve come to care for her, in our brief time together… I care very much. And…

lust

…Yes. When she told me what she knew of the Devourer, Les came close, whispered it gently to me… I felt the heat of her breath on my ear… I felt weak in the knees, wanted to turn my head, find her lips with mine… I wanted to give myself to her.

lust

But I’ve only been with Kavros. I’ve never been with another woman. And I don’t know if she knows what she’s doing to me. If she feels the same way… or is she only seducing me? Should I let her? Flame, do I want to be with Les?

yeeesssss

Silent Winter Note

2011-01-04T22:01:00.000-08:00

Dragon Age creator David Gaider saw our DA campaign, Silent Winter, on Obsidian Portal.

http://social.bioware.com/forum/1/topic/141/index/5623134/6#5627554

(read this like Casey Kasem) And he writes:

"Very nice! I shouldn't have looked at that page, however, because now I want to steal those awesome character names. "

As Alec Baldwin as Tony Bennett sings, "I love things that are great!"

Inappropriate Christmas Lyrics, Part 2

2010-12-21T07:26:00.000-08:00

I haven't forgotten. I've just been busy. :D

You don't need my help with "Rudolph" or "Jingle Bells," right? Okay, good.

My brother and his friends have a version of "O Come All Ye Faithful" they like to sing, about an apparent pedophile who used to hang around at the movie theater, asking kids about their Nintendo 64s. They say he looked like Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor, so they called him "Nutty." Enjoy:

***

O, come all you childrens
Come and play wif Nutty
Come and play wif Nutty
When yo' parents ain't home

Do's you got Nintendos?
What kind of games you got?

Let me in through the front door
I'll exit through the back door
O come and play wif Nutty
When yo parents ain't home

***

Pretty much everything else I have is just bits and pieces:

***

"The Christmas Song"
Tiny tots with their eyelids torn off
Will find it hard to sleep tonight...
Although it's been said many times, the exact same way,
I hate Christmas. Screw you.

***

"Frosty the Snowman"
Down to the village with a shotgun in his hands

***

"It's the Holiday Season (Happy Holidays)" (I hate this song so, so much)
It's the holiday season
And Santa Claus has got sex toys
For every good girl and good little boy
He's a fat-ass bundle of joy...

So leave a big black dick for old St. Nick
Hanging on the Christmas tree

It's the holiday season
With the whoop-de-do, and dickory-dock
And don't forget to whip out your cock
Because exactly at eleven o'clock
He'll be goin' down on ya down!

***

"Sleigh Ride" (this one too)
Giddy-up! Giddy-up! Giddy-up! Let's go!
Just give me a blow!
Maybe we can see the donkey show!
Giddy-up! Giddy-up! Giddy-up! It's grand!
Wank me with your hand!
We'll felch and toss the salad 'til this song gets banned!

***

"Winter Wonderland"
In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is James Brown (you should make a JB "heh" noise here)...
Later on we'll perspire
Throwin' bodies on the fire
To wear unafraid the skins that we've flayed
Walkin' in a winter wasteland

***

Also, regarding "Most Wonderful Time of the Year": apart from A Christmas Carol, who tells "scary ghost stories" at Christmas? Is that a New England thing or something?

I recommend access to Mr. Hankey's Christmas Classics, or Shirley Q. Liquor's Christmas album, to supplement this regimen. You may not survive the season otherwise.

Rayne Journal Entry 6

2010-12-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

I call upon my Shadow.

...

Shadow, where are you? I need your counsel... I've convinced Les to try the preserving magic, and she's told me her whole story... and I don't think she's ever told it to anyone. I need to know what that means.

...

Then we faced a crystalline spider, in a room full of skeletons and crawling claws... afterward, I thought Kikrik's spirit of Athas was going to attack Les. His masters are pressuring him even harder to do something about the defiler now. I told him about Les's preserving magic, and he said it might help, but I don't think he believes it. What should my next move be?

...

Shadow, hear me! I have so much to tell you... I found some hide armor, which Vrack claimed, and there was a pit beneath the spider's crystal web, which led us to an ancient tomb. A pair of crystal statues attacked us down here... Les went down, and I was sure she was going to die... then Kikrik bandaged her up when it was done. Could he be changing his mind about her? And what would it cost him to do so? Damn it, Shadow, talk to me!

...

I need you, my Shadow. I don't know if I can keep it together down here on my own... I don't know that talking to Vrack would help. He's a survivor, and he's smarter than he sounds, but... I don't know about Hawk, either...he seems to speak with wisdom, but what was he doing by himself in the middle of nowhere? Kikrik has enough voices to deal with, I think... and I've already burdened Les with so much. I don't want to visit my doubt on her - or anyone else - but what else can I do? There isn't anyone else for me to talk to, after all...

no

I heard that. Who said that? Show yourself.

no

Who are you? Are you my Shadow?

no

No, I guess you wouldn't be. Wait, I think I know... you're the emerald flame. The magic in the gem I found.

yes

Are "yes" and "no" all you can say?

yes. no. yes

I... I see. Should I call you "Emerald Flame," then?

yes

You can help me to focus my attacks, right?

yes

Excellent. Can I ask you other questions, too?

yes

Intriguing. You heard what I said about Les and Kikrik?

yes

I feel like I've done all I can to make peace between them. I've tried to make Kikrik see that I haven't taken sides against him... that there aren't any sides. It's just us, and whatever's down here. And even if I convince him that Les's preserving magic will make a difference, I doubt I can convince his spirit masters. And trying to do that himself could destroy Kikrik, I'm sure of it.

yes

But on the other hand, Les... what is there for me to say? I'm sure she's shared more with me than she's dared to share with anyone since... since she lost her sister, Allalantha. I remind Les of her. And they were intimate, Emerald Flame, in every sense of the word. I've never had that. I... I thought I had, once, but I was deceived.

yes

I mean, I've seen Les's pain. I know what losing Allalantha... what losing everything has cost her. But I can't help but feel jealous of what she once had. Is that... is that wrong?

no

She puts on a charming face and dances her way through life, yet she suffers so greatly. I would ease her pain, if I only knew how. If she'd let me... wait, I think we're moving again. We'll continue this later.

Zara Journal Entry 6

2010-12-14T17:34:00.000-08:00

[The following letters, also written in Elven, arrived in Argent while Zara was gone.]

Dearest Zara,
Ozmar and I were so glad to hear from you! We both understand why you've left for Argent... it sounds very important, and it definitely sounds like a better use of your talents.

Don't get me wrong, we miss your talents - and your company - but we've found new allies. We've encountered a community of mind flayers who disagree with what the aboleths are doing in Shaboath... I'm sure you can imagine, even with a common enemy, we hated to ally with such creatures. But we don't want any more enemies down here, and their knowledge of the aboleths, their scheme, and their city is too valuable to simply walk away from them.

At the insistence of the illithid leader, Ipshizeen, we've drafted a written document outlining the terms of our agreement. We've consented to take Ipshizeen's brainwashed bodyguard, the half-elven rogue Shasurita, with us. Though she's surely spying on us, she's deadly in a scrape, and Ozmar remains hopeful that he can break the illithids' control of her. Naturally, I have my doubts...

And we found Jenneleth! She's been hiding in an ancient, looted tomb, after escaping from her captors. Once we convinced her that we opposed the aboleths and their slavers, she insisted on joining us - she has a score to settle with them.

We returned to the surface to send word of Jenneleth's safety to Thurmaster, which was when your letter found us. I knew that I had to write you now... the road back down to the Sunless Sea is a long one, and it may be some time before I can write again.

I feel like I went through every song and tale I knew going down there the first time, trying to keep Ozmar entertained... I get so jealous of him, as I'm sure you remember (and for which I can never apologize enough), and now I have two lovely ladies following him around. He's very lucky to be so convincing when he claims to love me.

Anyway, I must be closing, as the time has come to go back. May your arrows fly true, Zara, and may we meet again in happier times.

Love,
Naisi

***

Zarari,
It isn't the drow. No one in Erelhei-Cinlu knew anything about a giant incursion.

It was nice to come back to to Silverlake to find your letters waiting. And it's good to be home, even with the knowledge that, if the giants come here, it'll be up to me alone to defend it. But I'm not asking you to hurry back - your new friends surely need you more than Silverlake does, and I've felled more than one giant in my day, believe you me.

Don't worry about Darafayen, child. You clearly care for her; though her interest in you may be mere curiosity, it sounds to me like something stronger. Love is... unpredictable, to say the least, but worrying about it gains you nothing. Fate wills what it will, as the disciples of the Raven Queen say. You'll be together if you're meant to be. And if you aren't, someone will come along. Sehanine always finds a way to honor those who honor her.

Trust your heart, your feet, and your bow. Dumilirr served me well for many years - I have no doubt that she'll serve you just as well.

Yours,
Mother

Silent Winter: Casidhe's Epilogue: The Duelist's Son

2010-12-12T18:43:00.000-08:00

Three weeks after the fall of the Silent Lord

"Hello, Sim."

Casidhe's words found Sim's ears, even in the noontime din of Denerim's Market District. By the time Sim had spotted him, Casidhe stood within three feet of him. Sim looked worse than Casidhe remembered, all taped-down fat and blotchy skin - but his complexion definitely grew paler when he saw the duelist.

Sim's winning smile was just the same, if a bit too late. "Casidhe Fionnlagh!" he announced, casting a look around before fixing his gaze on the duelist. Sim's new bodyguard was nowhere in sight, and the town watchmen had their hands full with other business. "Where have you been? I've been worried to pieces!"

"I was off saving the world," Casidhe replied.

Sim stared for a long moment before bursting into nervous laughter. "Of course you were."

"Well, my friends saved the world. I helped, though. Or did you not notice that the early winter's over?" When Sim didn't answer, Casidhe went on: "I know what you did, Sim."

"Did what, now?" Sim asked with practiced innocence.

"I know that you murdered our fathers. And your brother."

"Now hold on a moment." Sim's smile evaporated. "I never -"

"You had them murdered. To me, that's no different than a knife in your own hand." He kept his voice low, his tone even.

"Casidhe... you hated your father! You told me all the time! All I did was free you from him." He clapped a hand on Casidhe's shoulder.

"Don't touch me," Casidhe said, and Sim withdrew his hand at once. "And don't you dare try to pin your crimes on me."

"Casidhe, I -"

"Shut up. Stop talking. Stop trying to weasel your way out of this. Because I also know that you would have murdered me, as well, had I been with my father that night."

"Shite," Sim whimpered. "Oh, shite..." He looked around again, and seemed to regain some of his composure. "So, what? You're going to kill me in front of the whole city? I'm a respected member of this community, you know."

"You're also treacherous, murderous scum who loves pirate gold more than his own kin. But no, I'm not here to kill you."

"Oh! Thank the Maker." Sim almost fell to his knees in relief, but stopped himself. "Wait. Why did you come back, then?"

"To sell my house. I don't have any interest in hurting you. You aren't worth my contempt, Sim. You're not worth thinking about at all."

"Too right, Casidhe," Sim said with a gale of forced laughter. "Too bloody right."

"Unfortunately, Teresa doesn't agree with me."

"Who?"

"Teresa. My beloved." Casidhe looked skyward for a moment. "I told her about what you did on our way here, and I have to tell you: she was not pleased."

Sim clapped his hands together. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear that love has found you. Perhaps if I met your lady, I could help to change her mind..."

"Alas, Sim, she's a spirited lass, even among redheads. I told her that I didn't wish to visit any justice upon you, but I just couldn't persuade her to let it go... and she has a very special set of skills for such things."

"Just let me talk to her." Sim held his hands out, palms up. "I'm sure I can persuade her not to do anything rash."

"That's just it, Sim. It's already done." Casidhe allowed himself to smile. "After you left your office this morning, she broke in. She found some very incriminating documents... ledgers, manifests, falsified records... and a nautical chart showing the location of Black Torin's secret pirate stronghold."

Sim grew visibly pale now. "Name your price, Casidhe. Do you want your own ship? Land? Anything you want. I can't allow those items to fall into the wrong hands."

"I told you, it's already done. She's taken the proof of your... deeds to the authorities. You're finished, Sim."

"No."

"I've only come to tell you because I used to think we were friends... that, and we wondered if you'll kill yourself or try to run."

Sim turned wild eyes on Casidhe. "What?"

"Well, once the navy's dealt with Black Torin, it'll only be a matter of time before the pirates learn who revealed the stronghold's location. And you won't be safe from them, even in prison."

"Casidhe..."

"And if you run, how far will you get? Not very, I wager."

Sim fell to his knees before Casidhe, causing a few passersby to pause, but not to stop. "Casidhe, please. We've been friends almost all our lives... please, don't do this to me."

"You did this to you, Sim. Goodbye."

He turned and left Sim kneeling in the market without looking back.

***

Teresa was waiting for him in the dusty kitchen. "You owe me a silver piece," Casidhe said as he closed the door behind him. "He didn't fall on his knife on the spot."

"Damn." Teresa crossed the room to place a tender kiss on his cheek. "I should have known better than to bet against you; you know him better than I do."

"He did fall to pieces."

"Good. Did you see the man?" Casidhe held up a small sack, bulging with coin; Teresa whistled. "Unbelievable."

"I probably could have gotten more. Property in Denerim is almost beyond worth."

She looked from the coins back to Casidhe. "Why didn't you hold out for more? Are you in some kind of hurry?"

"It's only money," Casidhe said with a shrug. "And this is more than enough to buy us a nice place in Lothering. Besides, the sooner my life with you begins, the better."

"That's... sweet." Teresa smiled, but tried not to roll her eyes. "So, when did you want to start back?"

"Tomorrow morning." He looked around the room. "I'd like to spend one last night, here... knowing it's the last."

She touched his shoulder. "You're sure you want this? I could... I could move to Denerim with you, you know."

"No. I'm done with Denerim. You have a life in Lothering, and I want to be part of that life."

"All right." Teresa winked. "Just remember, twenty years from now, when Lothering finally bores you to death, that I offered."

***

Early the next morning, Casidhe eased out of his old bed, trying not to wake Teresa. He went into the bedroom that had once been Brandeouf's - a room that still carried his scent, more than fifteen years after he'd moved out. Everything was just as he'd remembered... and there was no sign that anyone had been in the house... but he still worried. This was the other reason he'd wanted to come back to Denerim... Please, Maker, he thought, let it still be here.

He sat beside the bed, lifted up one corner, and unscrewed the bottom of that corner's bedpost. A small, hollowed-out compartment hid inside, containing a simple gold ring.

Thank you, Maker.

It felt cool in the palm of his hand. He'd found his father here on the floor one night, holding the ring, all but dead to the world. Brandeouf never spoke of it, but Casidhe knew: this was the ring that Islene had refused to take. This ring would have made Brandeouf the happiest man in Ferelden; instead, it served only as a reminder of what he'd lost.

Until now.

"Cas?" Teresa called, her bare feet padding toward the room.

Casidhe cursed his timing and closed his fingers around the ring. "In here."

She wore a simple nightshirt, one of his, but the sunlight streaming in from the window limned her hair in a perfect corona of scarlet. She tilted her head. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"Looking for something. I've got it, now."

She looked to his left and frowned. "That bed's crooked."

"Forget the bed. You look beautiful."

She laughed. "I just woke up, Casidhe. There's no way I could look beautiful."

"Except to me."

She sighed with frustration - and a hint of amusement. "Is it always going to be like this with you?"

He raised to one knee, held out his hand, and revealed the ring, saying: "You tell me."

Silent Winter: Oriane's Epilogue: Armagnac

2010-12-11T20:47:00.000-08:00

Three months after the fall of the Silent Lord

"Madame Oriane Mirobelle de Rocfort," the servant announced, then stepped aside, allowing Oriane into the great hall. She shrugged out of her fur, thrusting it into the servant's arms without looking at him, striding toward the horse-faced woman on the ostentatious throne. She stopped just short of the raised platform and sketched a perfect curtsy.

"Lady Adèle," Oriane said in Orlesian. "I thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Lady Oriane," the horse-faced woman replied. She was bonier even than Oriane, with coal-black hair and a dazzling, false smile. "It's been too long. I cannot help but wonder what business a traitor's wife might have with the court of Armagnac that could be so urgent."

"Indeed, my business is most urgent. I would have come sooner, but your late husband dragged me into Ferelden, then I visited Val Royeaux before coming here..."

Adèle's smile disappeared. "Late husband?"

"Indeed I do. Gervais Fèvre Lorrain d'Armagnac is dead, struck down by my husband's sword."

Adèle worked her mouth like a fish's. "What... how... Lothaire will pay for this treachery!"

"My husband is also dead." Oriane closed her eyes, but only for a moment. "And believe me, whatever treachery he may have committed pales in comparison to Gervais's. He became a reaver, milady."

"Ha!" Adèle made a dismissive wave of her hand. "You cannot be serious! What proof can you possibly offer?"

"The fell blade and black leathers his patron granted him are marked by the symbols of the Speaker of Oracles." Oriane flipped her fan open, clacked it shut. "I delivered those items to the Chantry. They will verify their origin, and their wielder."

Adèle started to stand up, but couldn't quite manage it. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Always."

"Gervais..."

Oriane shook her head. "Terrible, I know. I expect you held out some hope that he still might come to care for you." Like so many arranged marriages, the one between Gervais and Adèle was strictly political - and widely known to be so. Oriane blessed the Maker again for her time with Lothaire; brief though it may have been, many of their days had been bright.

"How dare you!" Adèle left the throne this time. "Is this why you've barged into my home like this? To cast doubt on my husband's love for me? To feel better than me?"

"No, Lady Adèle. I've barged into your home to tell you that it's now mine." When Adèle could find nothing to say, Oriane added, "Or it soon will be, anyway."

"Your treacherous husband has filled your mouth with lies and nonsense," Adèle spat.

Oriane turned to one side so that Adèle could see her rounded belly. "And your husband filled me with a son."

Adèle gasped. She went to sit on the throne, missed, and her bottom struck the floor. "No," she half-whispered. "How... how can this be?"

"Probably during one of the many times he raped me," Oriane replied. "It's definitely his. And it's definitely a son." She didn't bother to explain to Adèle that Dalish medicine had told her so. "You never bore Gervais any heirs, did you?"

"No."

"And his brother's dead. By the by, I've convinced the Chamberlain that it was Gervais's fell influence that doomed Alphonse. Lothaire's blade was only the instrument of that doom."

Adèle spluttered before saying, "The Empress - "

"Has no love for you, milady. And her cousin's slayer, my husband, is dead, now. And the Chamberlain won't deign to bother her with this matter, I assure you."

"You can't do this."

"It's already done." Oriane knelt at the edge of the raised platform to look Adèle in the eye. "When Luc comes of age, Armagnac will be his. And I'll serve as its regent until then. I could use your help running the place in the meantime. I'll make sure you're well taken care of. If you'd rather be thrown out on your bony arse, we can arrange that... but why should we?"

The horse-faced woman sniffled. "You've changed, Lady Oriane."

She nodded. "I suppose I have. But I'm not your enemy, Adèle."

"This is... this is your way of getting back at him. For what he did to you."

Oriane nodded. "And to Lothaire. If I were you, I'd get back at him for what he did to you by helping me."

Adèle's dazzling smile returned; this time, it looked genuine.

Silent Winter: Lethallan

2010-12-11T17:02:00.000-08:00

Gheris went to check on Falenath one more time before turning in. She leaned over her sleeping uncle, found his breathing shallow but steady. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Casidhe in the doorway, watching her. "I'm glad you got him back," the duelist said.

She shrugged with one shoulder. "Yes. He can go back to the clan now... he doesn't have to worry about me or Geoffrey any more."

"Because you aren't going back." It wasn't a question.

"No." Gheris crossed her arms and went to the window, a darkened street under a blanket of snow visible outside.

"Good."

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. "Good?"

"It's like I told you before. They're done with you. You should be done with them."

She shrugged again. "Things could be different with Naessa as Keeper... I don't know. I may never go back. We'll see."

"Where will you go, then?"

"Do you have a map?"

Casidhe nodded, then tiptoed out into the main room and returned with a folded parchment. He unfolded it and held it up to the candlelight; Gheris moved for a closer look. "Teresa uses this map in her... work."

Gheris peered at the map. "I recognize some of the landmarks, but... where are we? I, uh..." She ground her teeth. "I cannot read."

"Oh." Casidhe seemed thrown, but only for a moment. "Well, here's Lothering. The Iar camp was here..." He pointed out most of the major sites, trying not to go too fast.

Gheris ran her fingers over the map. "I've had enough cold. I'd rather not stay near the Templars, and passing too close to the mages is a bad idea." She looked at Casidhe. "Have you ever seen Amaranthine?"

"No. I hear it's pretty, though."

"How many days has it been since I - since we first met you?"

Casidhe began counting on his fingers. "It was the fourth of Kingsway when the winter started."

"How do you remember that?"

"It's my birthday." Casidhe sighed. "Not the first birthday I've spent in a tavern, either... Anyway, today was the twenty-second, so... eighteen days."

Gheris nodded, looking a bit surprised by the amount of thought she'd put into this. "Wherever I go, I'm not sure what I'd do. Denerim's a good place for me to start, though. I know it well enough, and surely it's forgotten me by now."

Casidhe smiled. "As it happens, Teresa and I are headed for Denerim tomorrow. I have a little house there... You're welcome to stay there... at least, until I sell it. That's why I'm going."

"That'd be intruding on your time with Teresa." Gheris shook her head. "I know some people... and if not, I can find a place myself. Why not keep the house?"

Now Casidhe looked out the window. "It isn't who I am any more. And it's worth enough that I can sell it and buy something nicer here in Lothering."

"With Teresa," Gheris said.

"Yes. She, um... she doesn't know about us."

Gheris raised an eyebrow. "She doesn't? Or do you underestimate her?"

"Probably the latter," Casidhe said with a sigh that almost became a yawn.

"She hasn't eaten you alive. I'd say that is a good sign. She is... far too good to you." Gheris smiled very slightly.

"It's true. I still have to tell her. I just... I don't want my relationship with Teresa to cost me your friendship."

Gheris's customary aloof expression vanished as her eyes widened slightly. "Friendship?"

"Sure. I consider you a friend, Gheris. A true friend. I don't know about you, but I don't have very many of those."

She tilted her head, considering Casidhe. "Lethallin," she said quietly. "And I am lethallan."

Casidhe's head tilted as well. "I'm sorry?"

"It - it refers to a cousin or a clansman. Someone with whom you are familiar with. It was never used towards me. But I think we have nearly died together enough times that it counts."

He grinned. "Then we'll form our own clan, leeth allan." His accent was terrible.

She grimaced. "Leth-ah-LAHN."

"Leth-ah-LAHN." Much better, this time. He pointed at her arm; Naessa had healed the wound, but the damage to the armor remained. "So tell me, lethallan: what happened to you?"

"Attacked by the Silent Lord. He said he learned fencing from 'the Fionnlagh.'"

"He made a... reflection of my father. I had to fight it. I had to kill it."

"Abelas."

"It was... I never thought I'd see him again. And I never thought he'd try to kill me."

She slowly, briefly, touched his elbow. "It wasn't him. There may be comfort you can take in that."

Casidhe stifled a weary yawn. "I'm just glad to be alive."

"Living's a good thing, or so I hear. How long has it been since you lost your father?"

He looked at the ceiling. "Two years ago."

"...I see. When you bury them, it is... hard to dig them back out again, even if only for a moment."

Casidhe's eyes came back down to Gheris. He asked, softly, "Was there a reflection of Gialinn, too?"

"It wasn't a reflection." She frowned at the map.

"You saw your mother?" Casidhe crossed back to her.

She inspected the ring on her hand. "She... I don't know what was wrong with her. She wanted to help him destroy Ferelden... She thought I would want to help her!" She had a hard time keeping her voice down, but managed it, barely.

"Maker's breath, Gheris. Did you have to fight her?"

"No. We... Naessa and I reminded her of where she came from. And he destroyed her."

Casidhe needed more than one moment before saying, "I can't imagine what you must have felt. What you must be feeling now."

She shrugged. "I don't know. I had buried her already... I thought I had. I guess.... she cared. In the most ridiculous, absurd way possible, but it's something?" She paused. "She is still not my mother, though. She is my mother, but not my mother." She didn't look sure as to what she meant." Pointing at Falenath's sleeping form, she leaned against the table and said, "That... that's my mother."

Casidhe glanced from Gheris to Falenath, then back. "Not as pretty as I remember," he said. When she furrowed her brow, he raised a hand and said, "Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood."

"I'm just not sure what I'd tell Geoffrey, if I see him again. 'You know our mother? I saw her again, then she died again.'"

"He was too young to remember her... maybe he doesn't need to know."

Gheris sighed. "I don't know. There is very much I don't know... and I am tired of lingering on it. If I get the chance to know, so be it. If not..." She shrugged.

"Seems as sound a plan as any." Casidhe yawned again. "Listen, if you're coming with us to Denerim, we should both get some sleep. There'll be plenty of time to catch up on the road, lethallan."

She smiled lightly. "Now you've got it. Ma nuvenin, lethallin."

Casidhe nodded and laid down near the couch. Gheris found a spot at the foot of the bed, pausing to turn her mother's ring so the stone didn't show. Lying on her right side pained her hip; she reached into that pocket to find a gold necklace, whose pendant held a light brown-green stone. She sighed, shoved the necklace back down, and turned to her left side.

When she dreamed, it was of pleasant things.

Silent Winter Session 17: The Rest Is Silence

2010-12-10T17:41:00.000-08:00

Naessa shuffled awkwardly behind Gheris. "Are you... will you be... um..."

Gheris looked down to see Kent nudging her hand with his huge muzzle. She also saw Aidan wincing. She petted the dog, eyes returning to the pile of ashes that had once been Gialinn Clíodhna. "I buried her a long time ago."

"All right, then," Naessa said with an uncomfortable shrug. She didn't think that Gheris sounded convinced, or convincing, but this wasn't the time to linger. "Ready to try following the heart again, then? Or does anyone have another idea?"

"No," Aidan said. "We have a job to finish."

Simon nodded. "Onward, then."

The ice heart's glow led them down another long, mirrored corridor which suddenly ended in a solid obsidian wall, its polished surface gleaming in the ice heart's cold brilliance. The stone set in Gialinn's ring had also begun to shine with the same pale light.

Aidan looked around at the others. "So. Do we knock?"

Gheris smirked, then tapped the ring against the obsidian wall. The tiny clicks seemed almost hollow. "Magery, yet again. When will it end?" She glanced back at Naessa and Simon. "How does this work, Keeper? Mage?"

Glaring at the wall and glowing artifacts, Naessa said, "Well, it's a ring, Gheris. Generally, you put them on your finger?"

Gheris sighed. "I am always the test subject in these situations..." She slipped the ring on as the group tensed up in anticipation. It fit her finger perfectly, but she didn't feel any different... still, the obsidian wall seemed less imposing, now. "I think I can open it," she said. "And I think the Silent Lord is on the other side."

"Then this is almost done," Aidan said, looking down at Kent with a faint smile.

Naessa shifted from foot to foot. "Well, um, before we go, just in case, you know... if anyone needs a place to stay, I made Jatris agree to take any or all of you in. If you want. Or need. Ever."

"I do not quite intend to go back," Gheris said. "But... I appreciate it, Keeper."

Aidan's smile spread. "So. For adventure, and all that, right?"

"Right," Naessa replied with a sigh. "Adventure. Justice. Springtime."

"It's not what I thought it'd be." Aidan shook his head and took a knee to grab Kent by the ears. "Adventure, I mean. People need to get the stories straight."

"No," said Simon. "If they got the stories straight, no one would ever do things like this."

Naessa grinned at the mage. "Then where would the world be?"

"Exactly." Simon readied his staff. "Stories of adventure need to be legendary."

Aidan stood back up, stretching out his arms. "Then let's write some legends. Gheris?"

Gheris nodded and touched her hand to the obsidian wall, which simply vanished, revealing a darkened chamber beyond. The group found this new chamber to be much smaller than those before - almost cozy in comparison - with a shining throne against the far wall as its only concession to comfort.

The man standing with his back to them was neither human nor elven, tall and lean to the edge of impossibility, with long white hair. He wore a long white robe, and carried both staff and sword. They saw his expressionless face reflected in the wall, but couldn't be sure if his mirrored eyes watched them, himself, or both. His mouth never moved, but his voice rang in their skulls once more: You carry that which the Megdalena took from me.

"Oh, stop it with the voice in my head," Aidan said. "You have a mouth, use it."

The mouth is nothing without the heart, the Tiarnan. And mine has been Lost these many years.

Naessa suppressed a laugh, trying not to dwell on this creature's knowledge of Aidan's last name. "And didn't Grandmother take it from you because you tried to take over the world?"

The Thedas is a threat, the Arielle, said the Silent Lord. The races of the Thedas could end me.

"Everyone can be ended," Naessa said. "That's no reason to preemptively take everyone else out first."

Aidan nodded. "Most Thedans don't even know you exist. They're just trying to live their lives. We wouldn't even be here if your winter wasn't killing them!"

"Aidan's right," Simon said." "By trying to destroy Thedas, you only destroy yourself. And Grandmother is gone. There's nothing holding you to Thedas anymore."

The Silent Lord pointed at the ice heart. The Lost holds me to Thedas, the Damont. I cannot be free of the Thedas.

"Death would free you," Gheris said, more fact than threat.

I will not be ended, the Clíodhna.

"Then cease your attack on Thedas," Simon said, cutting off Gheris's intended retort. "You can't stand the prospect of death, so you decide to go dancing with it?"

The mortals do not understand. They cannot. Will not. Understand. The Silent Lord released his staff, which faded from view. The ice heart protects the mortals from my magic. He drew his shining sword. So I call upon the teachings of the duelist.

"What duelist?" Aidan asked, dreading the answer. Kent began to growl at his side.

The Fionnlagh.

"Where is he?" Gheris asked. "What have you done with him?"

He is ended.

"Bastard," Gheris spat. Aidan could find no words.

Simon raised a hand to call for reason. "Do you really want to fight? You can't be absolutely certain of victory."

What alternative is there, the Simon? Would you return the Lost to me?

"I don't know. I don't have an answer to the problem of an uncertain future either. But I do know that if neither of us is dying any time soon, there'll be time to think about it."

The Thedas will end soon enough. And ended mortals cannot stop it. The Silent Lord struck a familiar en garde position.

"Oh well," Aidan sighed, drawing his sword as Kent rushed forward. Gheris pocketed the ice heart and went for her daggers. Simon and Naessa began casting spells. The Silent Lord evaded Aidan's attacks, getting inside his defenses to open a long, bloody cut along the noble's torso.

Every mirror in the room flashed with electric light as Simon blasted the Silent Lord with lightning; though clearly wounded, the alien creature showed no sign of pain. Simon followed with a channeling of arcane energy, but the Silent Lord raised one silvery palm, causing the current of magic to flow harmlessly around him.

Kent failed to do much more than annoy the Silent Lord, but Gheris came up behind him with both daggers, sinking them into his back. The power of the ice heart allowed her to cleave right through his defenses, and a liquid like mercury oozed from the wounds.

The Silent Lord broke with Aidan, which allowed Naessa to heal the noble while the alien turned his attention on Gheris. Simon blasted him with another channeling strike, but the Lord's shining blade scored a deep, chilling cut on Gheris's arm.

Biting down on the pain, Gheris drove a dagger into the Silent Lord's guts. When he doubled over in pain, Gheris jabbed the other blade into his eye, and the Silent Lord fell to the floor, unmoving. The adventurers gathered around the body as Gheris pulled his robe open, revealing an ancient white scar over the Silent Lord's heart - or, to be more precise, where his heart used to be.

Aidan sheathed his sword and made sure that Kent was fine. "So, there you go. He can die. So much for him being immortal."

"He's not dead yet," Naessa said. "Not all the way. Remember what Stennar said? We have to return the ice heart to him."

"Oh, yeah." Aidan felt a bit of color in his cheeks, and he hoped that Stennar hadn't perished when the Templars came for her, back at the Silver Tree.

"So how do we do that?" Naessa asked.

In reply, Gheris used a dagger to slice the Silent Lord open, using the old scar as a guide. Ignoring Naessa's squeamish noises, Gheris pulled the ice heart from her pocket and jammed it back inside the Lord's chest. "Halam," she said. She pulled her hand free, now coated in the silvery liquid that must have served the Lord as blood.

The Silent Lord sucked in one sharp, ragged breath, and let it out peacefully - finally - before shattering into shards of sharp, gray glass, just as Benoit had. Gheris spat on the pieces, and the light of her mother's ring faded away.

"Now he's dead," Naessa told Aidan.

"Good. Um, this is the part where we get the Fade out of here, right?"

As if in response, with one low rumble, the entire place began to shudder.

"Seems," said Simon. "Let's see if we can wake anyone up on the way out."

By the time they'd made it back to the Illuminarium, the mirrorquakes had become so violent that there was clearly no time for rescues. Indeed, the terrible crashes that sounded from the hall told them that the throne room was caving in.

"Uncle!" Gheris called to Falenath, who'd emerged from his hiding place. "We're leaving!"

"Thank the gods," Falenath said.

"So how do we get out of here?" Gheris asked, looking at Naessa.

"How should I know?" Naessa saw a kaleidoscope of light and color down the corridor that led back to the room where they'd first arrived in the Silent Realm. "I vote that way."

"Follow the light," Aidan said with a listless chuckle. "Just when you think all the stories are false..."

They ran down the shuddering hall, Kent's nails leaving great gouges in the mirrored floor. When they reached the entrance, every surface along every wall showed a different scene, changing to another scene before anyone could see anything familiar.

"Magery!" Gheris cried. "Always magery!"

"Spread out," Simon said. "Find something familiar."

The group fanned out, gazing into mirror after mirror as the Illuminarium collapsed in the distance. They had minutes, if they were lucky, before this room followed it into oblivion.

"There!" Gheris pointed. "It's Casidhe! Come on!" They saw the duelist in one mirror, looking right at them, but couldn't hear what he was saying.

"Hey!" Aidan said. "He's alive!"

Gheris moved toward the mirror and poked her hand through, only to be pulled in all at once. The sensation was dreadful, like being pushed through a narrow drain pipe, but Gheris soon found herself on the floor of a small, candlelit bedroom. Naessa, Aidan, Kent, Simon, and Falenath appeared in the room moments later.

"Uncle?" Gheris asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Falenath replied, with a weak smile. "Better now. Sleepy, though. Strange, to be sleepy after being..."

"Let's put him on the bed," Casidhe said, and Gheris helped him to ease the old elf down onto it. He fell asleep in seconds.

Aidan got to his feet and regarded Casidhe, whose left arm, chest and back had been bandaged. "Hey," Aidan said. "Long time no see." The duelist shook his hand vigorously, then clutched him in a fierce hug. Aidan decided not to resist, a bit too late.

Casidhe released him. "Good to see you." Turning to face the others, he said, "Good to see all of you."

"Thanks." Naessa sat up, a bit queasy from the travel, and went to heal Gheris.

Casidhe held up a small mirror in a black metal frame. "I've been looking for you for hours... I guess it's lucky I found you when I did."

"Look at that tiny thing," Gheris said. "No wonder I feel squeezed. Are you sure you weren't just looking at yourself for hours, Casidhe?"

"Can you blame me?"

"Where did you get it?" Naessa came for a closer look. "And how did you figure out how to use it?"

"From the false Templar-Commander," Casidhe said, turning it over to the Keeper. "I also found the frame from the one we smashed, when we pilfered those documents from his desk."

"Don't remind me," Gheris said, rubbing her arm, as if to reassure herself that it was still there.

Casidhe nodded. "Anyway, once I realized that it didn't show me what I should be seeing, I tried to make it show me what I wanted to see. Namely, you lot."

Naessa smiled. "Ma serannas, Casidhe." Noticing his bandages, she asked, "What happened to you? Are you all right?"

"Sure," Casidhe said dismissively. "Got banged up exposing the false Templar-Commander. Nothing Teresa and I couldn't handle." Looking from face to face, Casidhe's cheer abandoned him. "Where's Lothaire?"

"He killed Gervais," Naessa said, looking down and away from him. "But his wounds were..."

"I... I see. I'm sorry to hear that," Casidhe said. "Truly I am."

"Thank you," Naessa said with a sniffle.

Aidan raised his hand. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Forgive me," Casidhe said with a theatrical bow. "Where are my manners? Welcome to Lothering."

Aidan nodded. "'I've always wanted to see Lothering."

"Is Teresa here?" Gheris ventured.

Casidhe shook his head. "She and Jaedar are watching a friend's baby. In the meantime, make yourselves at home."

"Thanks," Aidan said, watching as Naessa sat on the floor, back to the wall, to study the mirror. "Anything to eat?"

"Bit of bread in a bowl on the table, out in the main room." Casidhe waved, and Aidan went to see for himself. "So you did it, then? Stopped whatever was causing the winter?"

"Yes," Simon said.

Aidan froze in the doorway, looking down at the piece of bread in his hand. "This is it, isn't it? Our 'quest' is done."

Gheris scuffled her feet. "I suppose it is."

"Maker, I hope so," Casidhe said heavily. "I don't think my body could stand up to any more heroism. It's still cold as the Fade outside, but we'll see what the morning brings."

"I'd rather not impose on your hospitality," Aidan said. "And I'm a little excited about a bed for the night. Any inns open? I really should get home as soon as possible... it's past my bedtime."

"The Blue Bottle's just up the street," Casidhe said, pointing again. "Bakrum's a good fellow; I worked for him when I first got here. Tell him I sent you, and he'll take care of you. All of you. Or stay here, if you prefer."

"All right, then." Aidan shouldered his pack.

"You're leaving?" Naessa said, looking up from the mirror.

Aidan nodded. "I'm heir apparent to the Bann of Frimere. I might not like it, but I've got to get back. As soon as possible." He turned to face everyone. "It's been... an adventure. Thank you. And as much as I'd like to stay, I have the bad feeling we'd get to talking, and Casidhe might try to get me drunk again, and I need to be up early in the morning."

"The healer forbade me to drink," Casidhe said with a wink, "but I understand your fear."

Aidan smiled. "And I need to get out before Gheris teases me."

"I don't tease," Gheris insisted with a pout. Kent accepted her petting with barely-disciplined joy. "I observe."

"Any of you are always welcome in my corner of Nowhere - Frimere. Just don't ever tell Dad that you were with me. He'd probably interrogate you for hours."

"Goodbye, Aidan," Naessa said. Turning to Kent, the Keeper cast a spell and told the Mabari, "Farewell, Kent. Watch after your human." Kent wagged his tail furiously at her, then followed Aidan out of the house, into the cold night air.

"What about you, Simon?" Gheris asked. "Back to the Circle?"

The mage considered it. "Since I no longer seem to be in the business of running all over the backside of Ferelden, I suppose so. Assuming that I'm not still wanted by every Templar that knows my face."

"I think the Templars are sorted now," Casidhe said. "You shouldn't have any trouble with them."

Simon breathed a sigh of relief, saying, "I suppose now that I don't have to be obsequious to every potential patron, I might enjoy traveling."

"Is there any particular place you wish to go?" Gheris asked.

"Did you have one in mind?" Simon replied.

"I do not know where doddering old mages go to enjoy themselves, so no. Unless you admit to enjoying stables in Denerim."

Simon made a face. "Well, if I don't travel, I'm sure the Circle will be happy to see me running circles around them at magical politics. I'll make up my mind soon enough. But not tonight."

"And you, Gheris?" Casidhe poured himself some water, and soon found himself pouring for everyone. "Will you return to the Iar?"

"I..." Gheris glanced at Naessa. "I think not, actually."

"I figured you wouldn't want to come back," Naessa said, setting the mirror down for a moment. "I understand. But if you ever want to, you'll be welcome. If I have to smack Syndelir a few times myself."

"Ma serannas, Keeper."

Naessa nodded, then held the mirror up. "Casidhe, do you mind if I keep this? Grandmother might have left some information behind on the mirrors."

"I don't mind. Teresa convinced the Templars that it's worthless, and I don't think she needs it for anything."

"Thank you."

"Sure. What are friends for?"

Naessa smiled shyly and found herself a blanket; after a moment, Simon did the same, making himself comfortable on the couch.

"Get some rest, you two," Casidhe said with a grin. "You'll be telling me the whole story in the morning, you know." Before they could drift off, he added, "Wait a minute. Does anyone remember if Inbolc offered us a reward?"

***

The sun finally pierced the clouds the next morning, and the snow began to melt. Within a week, the weather had returned to normal... and when a more mild and timely winter arrived, the people of Ferelden were better prepared for it. Most of them would never know the names or deeds of the heroes who stopped that early winter... and a handful of sages often wondered why Ferelden never suffered another one, ever again.

THE END

Silent Winter Interlude: The Duel

2010-12-04T11:17:00.000-08:00

"This can't be," Casidhe said, hoping to force some measure of sanity onto the impossibility before him. "Brandeouf Fionnlagh is dead."

"I see you haven't lost your love of talking nonsense." Brandeouf came closer to the cell, arms held at forty-five degree angles, drawing closer to Teresa, who struggled to unlock her cell from the inside.

"Casidhe," Teresa gasped, "is this man your father?"

"Get back!" Casidhe hissed, and Teresa pressed against the cell's far wall. "I buried my father two years ago. I don't know who this is."

"I'm just who I appear to be," Brandeouf replied. "You couldn't beat me on your best days, and those are so far behind you that you can't even see them anymore."

Brandeouf stopped a little more than ten feet away from Casidhe, whose hands still rested on his blades - the blades that had once belonged to the man before him. This can't be, Casidhe reminded himself. My father is dead. This is a trick... something done with smoke and mirrors.

Mirrors! That was it. The man before Casidhe was much to0 young to be his father... only a few years older than Casidhe himself... and he also lacked the mustache that Brandeouf had first grown after leaving Segonal's service. "You're just a copy," Casidhe said. "The men on the other side of the mirror copied my father, like they did to Benoit, and the Templar-Commander. You're not him."

Brandeouf spread his hands wider. "I may not be flesh and blood, but believe me, I am Brandeouf Fionnlagh." As he glanced at Teresa, his left hand went to his main-gauche's hilt. "Or I might as well be. And I have my orders, same as you. Only mine aren't forgeries."

Think, Casidhe. Think, Maker damn you! If they made this Brandeouf fifteen... no, sixteen years ago, it might not know anything that Father learned after that. And it certainly doesn't know what I can do. Maybe I can take it on, after all...

Fear filled his heart with ice. Why was he lying to himself like this? He'd never once been able to best his father. Attacking with surprise, dueling while Brandeouf was drunk... Fade, the old man had beaten him blindfolded on more than one occasion. He was going to die down here, and Teresa was next. Maybe he could trick his father... or call for help... or run. Running sounded good.

Something came back to his memory, something he'd heard nearly a decade before: Someday, Maker willing, you’ll be a man. And you’ll face decisions that are harder than anything you’ve ever faced before. What’s important to me is that you do the right thing. Not what I’d tell you to do, not what Sim thinks you should do, or what you think will impress some girl… not what’s easy. You’ll have to listen to your head, and your heart, and decide what’s right.

Brandeouf had told Casidhe that when he'd quit his lessons, and he'd carried those words with him ever since. He'd even tried to live by them, sometimes... He looked at Teresa, her eyes wide with fear, as the man with Brandeouf's face reached for the cell door's key.

I love her, Casidhe thought. And I'm the only hope she's got. And if I die saving her, well, there are worse ways to go.

Steel rang out as Casidhe drew both blades in one smooth motion, striking a defiant en garde. AS Brandeouf turned to look at him, saying, "So that's where my blades have been."

"I won't let you kill the woman I love," Casidhe said.

Teresa turned a startled look on him. His father's reflection smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that, son." He stepped away from the cell and drew his own weapons in a motion that Casidhe found haunting, a display he thought he'd never see again.

"Cas," Teresa said, tears and torchlight masking the green of her eyes. "Please, be careful."

"I'll be fine," he replied. Strange, he thought, that it had to come to this for her to see how serious I am about her... but, at least, now she knows.

The duelists saluted, and the duel was joined.

Casidhe pressed the attack at once. Brandeouf parried each blow with ease, as Casidhe expected, but the older man backed away from Teresa's cell, which had been Casidhe's real goal. As he drew closer to the end of the hall, Brandeouf stopped, devoting all his effort to defense. "Not bad," the older man mused. "I suppose you've been practicing after all."

"And you haven't," Casidhe replied with recognition. "You duel just like you did sixteen years ago."

"Doesn't matter," Brandeouf said, with the hint of a snarl. "I know all I need to know to defeat you."

Brandeouf took to the offensive with blinding speed. Only Casidhe's intimacy with the technique gave him the prescience to counter the attacks, and every parry and evasion cost him stamina he couldn't afford to lose. He couldn't even risk a glance to see if Teresa was all right. Any other man would be dead by now, he told himself, but found little comfort in it. And the only reason he was still alive was... "You're holding back," Casidhe said.

"I've grown so weary of telling you not to be stupid."

"No, I'm sure of it. You fight like this is just another spar."

"I was created to teach my Lord Most Silent how to fence," Brandeouf said with a bit of growl, still focused on his attack. "It's not very stimulating. If you have a problem with me wanting to make something more interesting last, I suggest you take it up with him."

Lord Most Silent...? Casidhe shoved that aside. This isn't your father, he told himself again. You need to kill him, grab Teresa, and get out of here. But how?

He fights like your father, but he also thinks and feels like him. There must be a way to use that against him.

"Segonal told me about how Mother left you," he said. "He told me that you fell to your knees in the middle of the street and begged Islene to stay."

A shadow passed over Brandeouf's face, and he lunged with an angry howl. Casidhe got his main-gauche past Brandeouf's guard and brought it up to his foe's chest, but the dagger scraped harmlessly along chainmail.

Brandeouf backhanded Casidhe's face with his sword's basket hilt, slashing his cheek and jerking his head back. Casidhe felt another cut open along his left arm, sensed the dagger slipping from his numbing fingers. Brandeouf's foot came up to Casidhe's chest, sending him flying. His head smacked the stone floor as he fell, and he almost blacked out.

He forced his eyes open to see Brandeouf stalking toward him, his sword pointed directly at Casidhe. "Never. Ever. Speak her name."

"Islene," Casidhe said, trying to pull himself together. He'd managed to hold onto his sword, but the ability to stand up still seemed a few weeks away. "Islene Pentaghast. She was a Grey Warden, Father. That's why she left us. She was a Grey Warden. She felt the Calling."

"Lies. Why would she keep that from me."

"She wanted to tell you." Casidhe found his left arm completely unwilling to support his weight, so he pushed himself up on his right. "Segonal forbade it."

Brandeouf froze, and his sword's point dipped, still a few feet away from Casidhe. "He was a Grey Warden, too?"

"Aye. They hated not to tell you, but they didn't want to compromise their mission."

"Mission." Brandeouf swallowed. "Is that all I was to them? To her? Some... some asset? To further their objectives?"

"No," Casidhe said at once, finally back on his feet. He turned to present the most narrow target he could. "They loved you, Father. And... so do I." Something sick passed through his heart. What a strange way to realized that he had loved his father... that he still did. And how odd, that he had to use whatever love might be reflected in this false Brandeouf against it.

Casidhe raised his sword to salute again. Brandeouf whipped his own weapon through a counter-salute and attacked. Brandeouf's attacks came softer, now; Casidhe was sure of it. "Taking it easy on me, Father?"

"You're wounded, and you can't hold a parrying dagger."

"You never would have gone easy on me before."

"I'm not as young as I used to be," he said, almost smiling.

Casidhe's strength ebbed, but he had regained enough focus to press another attack of his own. "Or maybe you just can't bring yourself to kill your only child."

Brandeouf backed off, turning every cut and thrust aside with grace and precision. He wasn't even sweating. "Tell yourself that," he said, "if it makes you feel better."

"Think about it. I'm all that's left of you in this world. Kill that, and it's like you've never been."

"And what manner of life did I have?" Brandeouf said. "Nothing but war and strife. A woman who used me and left me, who claimed she loved me but wouldn't be my wife. A friend I failed, whose woman now serves my Silent Lord because of that failure. And you." He fairly spat the last two words, and returned to the offensive, no longer holding back. Casidhe backed off, furiously defending himself, muscles screaming with the effort.

"I watched, Casidhe. I watched you wallow with that sodomite, Sim. I saw how his betrayal almost destroyed you. And I saw you run away from love. There's nothing of me in you, son. Nothing at all."

That's not true! Well, it isn't true of the real Brandeouf Fionnlagh. Casidhe drew breath to shout defiance, but his trailing boot scraped against something, and an idea came to him. He stopped in his tracks, tossed his sword away, and raised his empty hands. "So kill me, then."

Brandeouf froze. "What?"

"If I can't beat you, and I'm such a disappointment to you, then murder me. In cold blood. That should make your Lord Most Silent happy, shouldn't it?"

"Casidhe..."

"Turn your back on the code. Be just like every other thug with a blade. Then I'll know that there's nothing left of my father."

Brandeouf' pressed Casidhe against the wall and plunged his sword through Casidhe's mail into his chest, just below the ribcage. He felt it plunge clean through him... Missed my heart, he thought through the pain, and my spine. And lungs. Sloppy. Got the liver, though. Definitely the liver...

"Should have known better," Brandeouf said, bringing his dagger toward Casidhe's neck. "Goodbye, son. Say hello to Islene for me."

"And... real... father," Casidhe managed.

Brandeouf's dagger drew a scarlet line along Casidhe's neck - and Brandeouf stood ramrod straight, saying *urk* as the tip of Casidhe's sword thrust out through his chest. He crumpled, revealing Teresa behind him as he shattered into shards of sharp, gray glass. Casidhe started to say something, but slumped along the wall until his bottom found the floor. The shock of landing kept him conscious long enough to see her cell door hanging open.

"Casidhe," Teresa said, panic just noticeable in her tone, "Let me see it." He stopped fighting, and felt her hands on his chest. "Maker," she sighed. "You need a healer."

"Yeah." One word had never hurt so much to say.

"What in the Fade were you thinking?"

He pulled his foot closer, dragging his dagger to his right hand. "Wanted... distract. Thought he'd... hesitate longer."

"Idiot."

"Worked on you."

She smiled. "Shut up, Casidhe. If you even know how."

"Saved me. Thanks."

Teresa shook her head. "Not yet I haven't. There's no way I can move you. Wait here, I'll bring - "

"What is the meaning of this?" A man's deep voice rolled through the corridor.

Casidhe and Teresa saw Templar-Commander Durwyn Slean approaching, in the company of four Templars. Two of them held Jaedar in irons between them.

"Got your... duelist," Casidhe said with a grin - which faded when he realized that the Templar-Commander had been there on the night they'd come to his house, looking for Brandeouf. Slean hadn't been the Templar that tortured Casidhe - and still years away from leading the Templars - but he'd been there all the same. How long had Slean been one of them?

"Breaking the maleficar out of prison?" Slean shook his head. "A heinous crime."

"Teresa's no maleficar," Jaedar said, "and you know it, Durwyn!"

Slean gestured, and one of Jaedar's captors drove a fist into his stomach, doubling the old man over. "Stop it!" Teresa screamed.

"Kill them," Slean commanded. "Kill them all."

"Your Grace," one Templar said. "I thought you'd called for a trial. I've known Teresa Corwin all her life."

"I have changed my mind, Ser Iven. These people pose an immediate threat to us all."

"This isn't Durwyn Slean!" Teresa said. "It's some kind of magical impostor!"

Iven and Slean turned to face each other. "Ser Iven, you have been my right-hand man for five years. Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?"

Looking at Teresa, then back to Slean, Iven said, "Not until now."

Slean nodded. "Diera! Skurr! Edric! Carry out my orders." But the Templars remained in place. "What is the meaning of this... this treason!" Slean demanded.

Iven turned back to Teresa. "Can you prove this?"

"I can," Casidhe nodded, and flung his dagger into Slean's eye. The old man shattered, just as Brandeouf had. Pain from the exertion overwhelmed Casidhe, and blackness claimed him.

***

He came to on a soft bed, under a pile of blankets, in a room that he eventually recognized as Teresa's. Daylight lined the edges of a single covered window. He felt bandages on his cheek, left arm, chest, and back. Someone had given him something strong for pain; Casidhe could tell that it was there, but it wasn't bothering him.

Teresa appeared above him, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. "Cas, can you hear me?" she asked, quietly. He nodded. "Good, good. You've opened your eyes a couple of times before, but you were still pretty out of it."

"Happened?" he croaked.

"Well," Teresa said, propping Casidhe up to give him some water, "your 'proof' convinced Iven. And Slean's office still had the orders I saw before, and a few other things besides. The Chantry will probably put Iven in charge..."

That's not the part I care about. "You all right? Jaedar?"

She rolled her eyes. "We're fine, Casidhe. You're the one who took a beating. Healer Wynne left when your fever broke. She said you'll probably be all right, as long as you stay in bed a little longer and don't do any drinking. Um... ever again."

"Fine with that," Casidhe said at once, feeling strangely okay with it. "Still cold outside? Still winter?"

Teresa nodded. "I'm sure your friends are... working on it."

Still? "How long have I been here?"

"Three days. He hurt you really badly, Casidhe. I thought..." She looked away.

He touched her face, brought it back to his. "What?"

"I thought I was going to lose you. Again."

"Not a chance. I swore."

"That's not what I meant," she said, her tone growing softer still. "You could have been killed because of me. It was my own stupidity that got me captured... and I didn't want you to get hurt doing the same stupid thing..." She smiled and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "But I'm glad you came, still and all."

"I may be a fool, Teresa. But I'm your fool."

"Thank you," she said, kissing the spot between Casidhe's eyes, her breath warm on his skin, "for saving me."

"I love you, Teresa."

"And I you," she said, kissing his lips until Casidhe passed out again.

***

"I've got to help them," Casidhe announced when he woke up again. "I know the Brecilian Forest is days from here, but I've got to do something."

Teresa nodded. "I know better than to try to stop you. I think I have something that belonged to the late Templar-Commander's that can help." She held up a small mirror in a black metal frame.

Inappropriate Christmas Lyrics: Leather King

2010-11-30T20:50:00.000-08:00

Every holiday season I say: "This is the year that I'm going to post all my inappropriate versions of Christmas song lyrics." Then, suddenly, I'm in retail at Christmas time and it never happens.

This year is going to be different. Because I have new material.

There's a place in Houston called Leather King (at 1403 Wheeler.... I think it's still there) that sells the sort of leather outfits you would expect to see on prostitutes. In the 1980s, they had a TV commercial that they could only afford to run at about 2 AM, during Mid-South Wrestling or the kung fu movie on Channel 26 (or 20, or 39).

I would often leave a tape running so we could watch kung fu, before or during a D&D game, and when I first saw that commercial, I had to rewind the tape. Many times. Not ONE person we ever showed it to, and there were many, believed it was a real commercial. But it was. Oh, my, yes it was.

Sadly, I no longer have a copy of that tape, and I've never been able to find it on Youtube or anywhere else. Fortunately, my brother and I (among others) watched it so many times that we memorized it. And it goes a little somethin' like this. Hit it:

***

Two women and two men (the "dogs") stand around in the street.

Woman #1: We got tickets from Ticket King to see Patti Labelle, Janet Jackson, and the Maze. You wanna go?

Dog #2 makes enthusiastic/epileptic hip-hop hand gestures while #1 says:

Dog #1: Yeah, we goin' all right. But you need to go to Leather King n' get you somethin' to wear, n' go to Hairlines and get somethin' done with yo' hair.

We see the exterior of the shop and a caption reminding us that Ticket King *is* Leather King.

Leather King (voice over): Come to 1403 Wheeler: Leather King.

The two women approach with excitement.

Woman #1: Ooo girl, I heard Leather King was for real!

Woman #2: Ooo, and inexpensive!

Woman #1: I can see myself jus' glowin' in a man's arms already!

Woman #2: Let's get in here!

We see a tracking shot of some of the "clothes" for sale at Leather King.

Male Leather King Employee (voice over): Welcome to Leather King: the house of beautiful things.

The female employee gestures around the shop like a flight attendant showing off emergency exits.

Female Leather King Employee: And darlin's, if you don't see anything you like, we can make whatever your heart desires. And here's the Leather King.

Leather King beckons to the women like Barry White.

Leather King: Darlin', if you let Leather King dress you, I'll have men crawlin' at your feet. Then I'll take you to Hairlines and get your hair styled beautifully. Let the games begin!

Leather King turns right to the camera to deliver the last line and claps his hands twice. A model comes out in a leather outfit with black and white stripes. The two customers look impressed.

Model #1: You can rub this zebra up against your favorite guy.

Leather King: And if that's not all right, I'll give you white!

He claps twice again, and a second model comes out in an all-white leather outfit.

We cut to Leather King with a bunch of whores dressed in leather behind him. Again, he speaks directly to the camera:

Leather King: Yes, when you come to Leather King at 1403 Wheeler, you always get your man.

The two women are back on the street in Leather King clothes, leading the two dogs around on leashes. They offer the leashes to a third woman walking by:

Woman #1: Girl, take these dogs. You look like the Leather Queen.

Woman #3: I don't want 'em!

Flaming Homosexual: I'll take 'em.

A flaming homosexual appears and leads the dogs away. They do not resist. Leather King leans out the front door of his shop:

Leather King: Come to Leather King and leave the dogs alone. We dress the good, the big, the bad, and the ugly!

***

DARTH KRZYSZTOF IS NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Here, without further exposition, is "Leather King," to the tune of "Jingle Bells:"

***

Dashing through the hood
Wit yo tickets to the show
But the dogs will only go
If you dress like a ho

You need to find a place
To git somethin to wear
Then go over to Hairlines
And git somethin done wit yo hair

Oh! Leather King, Leather King
1403 Wheeler
Might as well look like a whore
If your man's a drug dealer
Hey! Ticket King Is Leather King
Hoochies all the way
Oh what fun it is to ride
In a cop car every day

You heard it was for real
Now you know it's true
It's full of leather clothes
And inexpensive too

If you don't see what you like
They'll make anything you need
And here's the Leather King
To have men crawlin' at your feet

Oh! Leather King, Leather King
Let the games begin! *clap clap*
Rub zebras on your favorite guy
Then let the white one in *clap clap*
Hey! Ticket King Is Leather King
Slutty all the way
Oh what fun it is to model
Leather clothes today

Now you got your clothes
From the House of Beautiful Things
And your hair's done up so good
Give yo men to the Leather Queen
You always get yo man
So leave the dogs, all right?
Come to 1403 Wheeler and you'll be
Glowin in a man's arms tonight

Oh! Leather King, Leather King
Damn you lookin' good
Conveniently across the street
From Planned Parenthood
Hey! Ticket King Is Leather King
Skeezers all the way
Oh what fun it is to give
Your dogs to the flaming gay

***

You're welcome, America. Let's survive Christmas 2010 the only way I know how: by making fun of it.

Original Sin Interlude: Preservation

2010-11-29T13:42:00.000-08:00

Rayne allowed Hawk and the others past her, reaching out to Lesallai. Though her touch was gentle, it was enough to stop the eladrin. Rayne tilted her head toward the rest of the group, and Les nodded, allowing some distance to form between themselves and the others before they stepped into shadows cast from the sunrod.

“Careful..." Les said without looking at Rayne, though the tone was quiet and gentle. "Kikrik will think you’re conspiring with the enemy.”

“Let him,” Rayne replied, which drew a cautious glance from the eladrin. “Like I was trying to say back there, I’m sorry. About what happened before. I had no right to feel entitled to your secret, and I didn’t mean to hurt you with the things I said. And it wasn’t fair of me to assume that all defilers are like Kavros.” That didn’t feel like enough, so she added, “I’m sorry,” again.

Les hesitated, turned, and finally looked directly at Rayne with a shy-looking half-smile. I think she’s surprised, Rayne thought. I wonder if anyone’s ever really apologized to her before. Rayne’s years as a slave had certainly taught her how… She had the definite impression that the apology made the eladrin happier than Les was willing to show.

“I... I accept,” Les stated quietly with a slight bow that might have looked silly under other circumstances. “Um..." The eladrin looked almost at a loss for words for once. “For what it’s worth, I’m… I’m sorry, too... If you felt betrayed. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” Rayne said. Les’s words were genuine, not like the sneering lip service the eladrin had paid to Kikrik before. Les is so good at telling lies, Rayne thought, yet she stumbles over truths. It takes her real effort to share with me like this. Not that it’s easy on me, either… “It’s all right. We’ve got to stick together, after all.”

“Just so.” Les’s gaze flicked down the tunnel, where the rest of the group had wandered out of sight, before drifting back to Rayne. “If... If you like,” Les said, tentatively, “I could tell you more about my time in the Lands Within the Wind.” Les looked down at the ground for a moment, obviously struggling with the words and the thoughts, as though they were something never spoken before. "It's only fair, I guess..."

Rayne nodded. “Yes, I’d like that. Very much.” Whether this information was presented as a peace offering or not, she wanted to hear it. More than anything, Rayne thought, I’d like to know why you’d ever leave such a paradise…

Les looked up and continued a slow, measured walk. "I had a family once, a very loving one... a sister, a mother, a father... all wonderful and dear to me... when I lived in the Lands Within the Wind." The eladrin's voice came out deliberately measured, almost in beat with the footsteps, as though they helped to tell the story. "We had a house in a glade near a crystalline stream. We had a garden. There were cobbled paths, and a bridge..." A choke entered Les's voice for a second, which Rayne almost didn’t catch. "It was green. It was lovely..." Les paused to breathe.

“I wish I could see it,” Rayne said.

“As do I. Alas, no outsider ever has.” A few more steps later, Les started again. "I was born into the arcane gift; I could manipulate the world’s life. My mother was terrified at first, but that was only because she blamed herself... You see, she had the same gift. But she had forsaken it, and hidden it. Still, she needed me to understand what I had, in order for me to hide it. She taught me some control, until..." Les broke off for a second, seeming lost in the memory. The air stiffened as Les stopped talking, but kept walking slowly, taking very deliberate steps, pain evident in the stride.

Rayne finally breached the silence, very gently and quietly: "Until?"

Les stammered for a second. "My... my sister, she was like you are... like I am now... I loved her with all my heart, and she me in return. She... she was trained by our father, to control the shadows... I was always the destroyer of life... She was being trained to be a taker of it." Les paused again, glancing ahead and stepping in and out of shadow to make sure the others were still too far ahead to hear.

Forgiving the eladrin’s paranoia, Rayne said, "Your sister?" If she was like me, she thought, but isn’t anymore, then she must be dead. No one walks away from the Gray.

Lesallai appeared satisfied and stopped, but only for a moment. "Her name was Allalantha..." The name came out saturated with sorrow, and flickers of shadow cringed around Les's hands and features as it was spoken. Les choked on a sigh. "Allalantha Lollanthas... my beloved twin sister..."

Rayne mouthed the name, trying to work out its syllables to fit her mouth. Lesallai’s pain in telling this story bled through the eladrin’s every word and gesture. This means much more to her than I expected... more than I could have imagined. If we are, or were, so alike, does Les see Allalantha in me? Do I remind her of this love she’s lost?

"We were tutored in secret. I'm not sure why. Mother told me that my training was for my need to never show, and never unleash, my ability. Sadly, I was young and foolish, as we are all when so young." The words flowed more smoothly, as though Les needed to get it out. "Allalantha and I would play with our strengths at night in the garden. We found it enticing, our contrasts playing on each other. Her shadow would swallow me, and the light of the world radiated from me, lighting her up as the world around us withered." Les paused again. "It... it was beautiful... She was beautiful, her face matching mine, like watching myself highlighted that way. We were identical twins, you see. A mirror of life, light and darkness." Les's tongue was laced with more emotion than Rayne had ever heard uttered from that effeminate voice.

“But something changed,” Rayne said, finding it difficult to imagine being so intertwined with another living soul… difficult, but irresistible.

"We got careless, and it cost us everything," Les continued. "Days later, the elders of our people came. I remember the day well... we awoke alongside each other. We were but sixteen, so very young for our people..." Les glanced up to meet Rayne's eyes for the first time in this speech, tears barely glistening on the eladrin’s eyes. "You know our people live to see centuries pass...? We were but children!" Les's voice strained on the last word, causing Rayne to crinkle her brow in sympathy.

“I was fourteen,” Rayne said, “when I became a slave. And some Profiteers younger than I were simply executed. This world’s cruelty has no respect for innocence.”

Les glanced at Rayne for an instant before looking away again. “That’s why I’ll never kill a child. For any sum of money. Because the world doesn’t have that much money, and it has enough ways to murder innocence without my help.”

Rayne wondered, if the Hidden asked her to murder a child, what she would do, before her mind returned to the topic at hand. “What happened, Les? To you and your sister?”

"We awoke in each other’s arms, and dressed together in our gowns.” Rayne thought of herself at sixteen, and wondered: Just how intimate were the twins, physically? Do the eladrin frown upon such closeness between siblings? Or between eladrin of the same gender? The Profiteers never cared about such things, to be sure, but scandalous stories sometimes reached their ears from city-states less civilized than Balic…

“The colors of our robes were the only things that allowed others to tell us apart,” Les continued, recapturing Rayne’s attention. “That, and our eyes... Hers were a stormy blue when I gazed into them, mine a cerulean... near crystal blue..." Les still hadn’t looked back at Rayne; that, and the faraway light of the sunrod, kept Rayne from seeing the hue of her eyes. She’d seen it before, but wanted, very strongly, to see it now.

Les brought her arms up to hug herself, as though cold, and appeared to shake off a memory. Rayne wondered if Les needed to be held; uncertainty kept her from reaching out. "The gowns were beautiful. Mother made them. Mine in greens and blues, Allalantha's violets and gray. We decided to pull a childish prank and wore each other’s gown for the day..." A smirk lifted on Les's face for a second.

"We brushed each other’s hair and inspected the clothes. I swear, it was like I’d stepped out of myself, and was looking at me... Her long hair. Her smooth, elegant features. The only tell was the slight difference in our eyes." Les slowed in her pace. "We gave each other a once-over and then went to breakfast. Mother and Father knew what was up the second we came down; they were always rather insightful." Les let out a choked chuckle and continued. "We hadn't finished our meals before a pounding on the door startled us all... We heard the voices of our elders shouting, manic and strained, demanding ingress. Father went to let them in..."

Les stopped dead in her tracks. "They forced their way in when Father got to the door... We didn't have a chance as they shouted 'Anathema' and pointed to my sister." Les's voice grew weaker. "She was wearing my clothes..." The voice dwindled to a whisper. "They were after me. Mother and Father intervened, striking out, but the elders were powerful. Allalantha and I watched as they slew them in cold blood for raising a "defiler" in our green lands. That was the first time I heard that term."

Hardly the last, Rayne thought. She’d seen her own father die, but the Sea of Silt had swallowed Tharik. Whether viewed as an accident, or a quirk of wrathful nature, he had simply died - alive one moment, swallowed by the sea the next. No one had murdered him.

Les took a step forward and stopped. "We stared at them, their blood pooling on the ground, until we began to run. We used our natural born ability to flee outside, but they stopped us before we got outside the gates of our yard." Les took a few more staggering steps, as though the very memory kept her from moving. "They descended upon her like a force of nature... their shamanistic powers cutting and burning her. They killed her for being me."

“Black shadow,” Rayne swore. “Les…”

Les's voice turned dark, icy. "With her last breath she stared at me, my own face staring at me, urging me to do something... I did. I unleashed everything I had... I pulled every ounce of life from everything as far as I could see... I killed every one of them by simply draining them, and as I did, I pulled the last breath of my beloved twin sister Allalantha into me, and with it carried her shadow."

Rayne stood, unable to conceal her stunned expression as Les took a step past her. "I think I've said too much today," Les stated quietly. "I'm sorry."

“So am I,” Rayne said, fighting off tears of her own, shocked to see how much invisible pain Les always carried on her back. Rayne thought about moving to hold her, again, but she somehow knew that the gesture would only confuse Les, possibly drive her away. “You… you were very close.”

Les paused for a long moment, as though afraid to admit it. “Yes,” she finally said, on the brink of tears. “We were in lo- We… I… we loved each other, Rayne. As much as any living creature can…” Les made an effort to compose herself, clearly caught off guard by this discussion.

“I’ve never had that,” Rayne said, hoping it would help. “I was so young when I lost my father. I had friends among the pirates, but we were never ‘close.’ And I may have loved Kavros… and I thought he loved me… but when his time came, he didn’t hesitate to hold a knife to my heart.”

Les dabbed at her eyes and gave Rayne a sideways glance. “To hear you tell it, though, when you had your chance, you didn’t hesitate, either.”

Rayne nodded. “I couldn’t afford to. He would have professed his love for me again, and I couldn’t let him. I might have started to believe it.”

“Love is a strange thing,” Les said with a sigh.

“Is it worth it?” Les turned her full gaze on Rayne, who spent a moment trying to remember what shade ‘cerulean’ was before continuing. “Is love worth it, when that closeness leaves you open to this… inevitable pain of loss? Or betrayal?”

“Yes. No. Perhaps? Such intimacy does leave you open to the greatest of happiness, to beauty beyond compare. The world itself is made brighter…” A sad smile crossed Les’s lips. “And so, then, when it’s taken from you… when it’s snuffed out, it leaves you with the greatest loss, the deepest pain.”

Cerulean is the best word for it, Rayne decided. “You have a wonderful gift for words,” she said.

“You’re kind to say so. O, for an audience as accepting as you!” Les made a sudden gesture skyward, steering her demeanor back toward more familiar and comfortable ground. “If only everyone appreciated my gifts so.” Les flourished with a bow.

Rayne couldn’t help but smile. “Do you often find your wit falling on deaf ears, then?”

“I am utterly unappreciated in my time. Think of it: if you hadn’t saved me from the ssurran, my body of work would now be the talk of Tyr.”

“Because a dead artist is the most beloved,” Rayne said, repeating a Balian aphorism.

“Or some such. Believe me, though: The worst audience is in here.” Les pointed to her forehead and smirked.

“Is that why you write things down and burn them?” Rayne asked.

Les’s eyes dipped for a moment and she stopped in her tracks. “You’ve seen me do that?”

Rayne nodded. “Once or twice.”

“That’s me writing to my sister. I feel her inside me with her shadow. I write in hopes that wherever she is, she will read it.” The wry half-smile returned to Les’s lips. “Also, I don’t care to be caught with evidence that I can read and write. As you well understand.”

“I do. I just talk to my Shadow. That is, I talk to it in my head.”

Les arched one delicate eyebrow and nodded. “Don’t let that get out,” she said with a smile in her voice. “You might be branded as an undesirable.”

A wicked thought flashed through Rayne’s mind, quickly replaced by another, more practical one. “There was something else I wanted to ask you about.”

“Oh? What of? I don't think I can speak of my past any further right now...” Les said, mildly pained.

“No, it’s not that. The preserving magic that Ralo performs… could you do that?”

A shadow passed over Les’s face. “I’m not sure. I don't know if I even wish to. My methods have served me well for many years.”

“Could you try?”

“My capability is not in question; my desire to do so is. It doesn't matter how I do it...” Les began walking the corridor, back toward the others. “I’ll always be a defiler to Kikrik, and those like him.”

“You know we need him.”

“Maybe,” Les said, “but I have no care for his concerns.” The eladrin’s tone turned cold, emotionless. “Zealots like him never see beyond the blinders they wear. No matter how good I may be, or I may try to be, my gift is just a stain on my soul. So damn him. Damn his prejudice. And damn anyone who thinks or feels the same way.”

Rayne drew in a breath through her teeth. “I understand how you feel, but I don’t want to get caught between you.”

A small measure of warmth returned to Lesallai’s face. “I don’t want that either,” the eladrin said with sincerity. “I can’t keep you out of it." Les smiled lightly. "You've made that abundantly clear. But I won’t allow you to get hurt because of me.” Les rested her hand gently on Rayne's before pulling it away and turning.

“Then will you work the preserving magic?” Rayne asked. She found it hard to look Les in the eyes - in her cerulean eyes - and felt like the stupid little girl she’d once been, always underfoot on the Profit’s decks. “Will you try? For me?”

Les exhaled heavily. “I will try,” the eladrin said with closed eyes.

“Thank you, Lesallai.” It came out sounding like “Les-Sally,” but Rayne hoped that Les would appreciate the effort over the effect.

Les’s eyes opened. “You know,” the eladrin said with a grin, “I don't make promises like this... Ever.”

“It’s a lot to ask of you, I know.” In truth, the gravity of her request hadn’t truly dawned on Rayne until this moment. “If, um… if there’s anything I can do for you, in return, you have but to ask.”

“Don’t worry,” Les said with a fey wink. “I’ll think of something.”

Rayne Journal Entry 5

2010-11-25T17:39:00.000-08:00

I call upon my Shadow.

And your Shadow answers.

Things have changed already. I can't say yet if it's for better or worse.

You can't say? Or you don't know?

All right, fine: I don't know.

Tell me what's happened. Then we can figure out if it's better or worse.

Well, we met Hawk. He's big, and he... he looks kind of like Vrack.

You mean he's ugly.

I didn't say that. I like Vrack. His face has... it has character.

You were talking about Hawk.

Sorry. Right. He's a monk of the Heavenly Winds. He seems calm... serene, even. He's hiding from the storm down here, same as us. I don't know what he's doing out here in the middle of nowhere, though. I was too exhausted to ask him last night, and I haven't had a chance since. But Kikrik didn't trust him, and he was still mad about Lesallai's revelation.

So were you.

Yes. She told me before that lying was a nasty habit. This morning, while we were talking to Hawk, I threw that back in her face - I wasn't trying to be mean - but I hurt her, my Shadow, and she tore into me. I suppose I deserved it, too. Then she started arguing with Kikrik again, partially about Clavis, and I was sure they were about to come to blows. I managed to call everyone's attention back to the task at hand... but I know that, if things don't change, they'll try to kill each other.

You cannot allow that.

I know. I need both of them - all four of them if we're going to make it out of here alive. And I can only get between them for so long before I get hurt. I don't want to die down here, my Shadow. I really don't.

I understand. But I still don't see what's changed, other than Hawk's arrival.

I'm getting to that. So I lit a sunrod, and we kept going. We came to a chasm spanned by an old rope bridge. Hawk volunteered to test the bridge, which supported his weight - but when Hawk got to the other side, the dead rose up against him and all the Gray broke loose.

You've never faced the undead before.

No, and I was terrified. The bridge collapsed under Vrack and Les, but they kept from falling with it. Vrack and Kikrik crossed the chasm to help Hawk, while Les helped me with the ooze that had almost fallen on me from the ceiling and scorched me with acid. In spite of all my mistrust, and all my coldness, she still came to help me, my Shadow. Whether she fights with shadow, or with arcane power, she did it to help me.

I see.

We made short work of the ooze and crossed the chasm to help the others. There were two walking corpses, and a sort of... mote... I don't know what. We dispatched them. Kikrik got hurt, but refused Lesallai's aid...

He hates her that much?

Seems. Maybe he was just upset. As a servant of nature, he must have been rattled by facing the living dead. I know I was... I pretended not to be, though.

Why?

I don't know. To try and keep everyone's spirits up, I guess. I'm sick of looking weak.

You don't want to look weak in Les's eyes.

Wrong. If that were true, then I wouldn't have apologized to her.

Is that what's changed, then?

Yes. I'm trying to make peace with her. Not every defiler is Kavros, my Shadow. Ralo learned to work arcane magic while preserving the land. Maybe Les can, too.

Maybe. Still, if Kikrik perceives that you're on Les's "side," then he might try to rally the others against you.

No. Vrack doesn't mind Les, and Kikrik doesn't trust Hawk yet. It might be our best chance to keep the peace, really.

So this is a political move.

No, it's an act of... friendship. The political fallout is just beneficial side effects.

You may yet be a great assassin, Rayne.

Thank you. This is sure to come in handy.

What have you found?

It's a little green gem with a tiny flame dancing inside. I know that, if I study it, I can learn to unleash its power...

...

Shadow? Are you there?

Zara Journal Entry 5

2010-11-25T16:16:00.001-08:00

Mother,
We took some sorely-needed rest after I sent my last letter your way. In the morning, we took breakfast with Obanar at the Watcher's Tower, to plan our next move. The torrians have started repairing the old city; I forgot to ask earlier, but the traitor Thror is no longer among them, having died many years ago. Good riddance, I say. Whether he was a willing accomplice of the demon Physandos or not, we have more important things to do than to keep eyes on those who turn stag. (Do you know where that expression comes from? I heard Logan say that about someone who'd betrayed him...)

We decided that our next course of action should be to secure some star metal, which the old Champions of the Silver Cloaks used to make items of great magical power, made all the more powerful when used as a group. Obanar said he could make similar items for us, if we could bring him some of this wondrous substance. A long-dead hero, Qwor, once knew where to find star metal, so we traveled to Argent's Necropolis, hoping to find answer in his mausoleum.

But Sir Forbain (of the Emerald Watchtower of the Bael Turath Empire), the spirit guarding the entrance to the Necropolis, took umbrage with our plans. He demanded that we prove ourselves worth to be Silver Cloaks, which seemed to involve a great deal of shouting, boasting, and sneaking up behind him (on Rowan's part). What manner of heroes were these Silver Cloaks, anyway? I haven't exactly been invited to join them; after this, I'm not sure I care to. As before, Valiketh did most of the talking. He's very good at it, Mother. I'm afraid I don't know much about him, but I'd like to.

We assured Sir Forbain that we had not come to plunder Qwor's tomb. I would never rob properly hallowed ground, but I know that places me in a minority among adventurers. Part of me wanted to keep an eye on Cirrig, but I still believe that stories of dwarven avarice are greatly exaggerated.

Rowan unlocked the mausoleum door while I checked it for traps. Neither of us have a rogue's eye or hand for these things, but we're as close as this group has. We seem to have a great deal in common - so much so that I worry about threatening her role in the group. There''s probably nothing to worry about - she hasn't said a word about it, so far - but it's in my nature to worry, I guess. I seem to be getting along with her, and the others, well enough.

The mausoleum was vast on the inside. I suggested starting toward the back and working our way back toward the entrance. The others agreed, only to find that the long hallway appeared to be endless. Fortunately, Archer sensed a flow of magical energy that led us in the right direction.

I have never known a wizard before Archer, Mother. He's quiet and shy, but when he does speak, he's honest and respectful. Was Father like him? I know you have your reasons for never speaking of him, but the more I see of arcane magic in the world, the more I wonder about him.

Archer led us to a door, which opened into the grand burial chamber. Something about the room's layout told me that the floor tiles might be trapped, so I hissed out a warning at once. Rowan and I attempted to disarm the traps, while Archer's magic illuminated a safe path out of the room, to Qwor's inner sanctum.

The chamber was filled with ancient artifacts and statues. Qwor's spirit stood beside his golden tomb... We convinced him that we needed the star metal, and that no one else could, or would, stop the giants from freeing Piranoth. Qwor said that the last set of implements vanished with their wielders in the Abyss, which made me think of you and Father... and that our best hope to find star metal was to travel into the past, to the height of Bael Turath!

To do this, he bade me to remove a gem from his tomb, after I disabled its trap. The gem was blue, and large, Mother... warm to the touch, and alive with thousands of whispering voices... I hated to part with such a gift, but the gem contained the memories of Bael Turath, which Obanar could use to send us back in time. We took it to him at once.

Obanar explained the gravity of our situation: causing changes in history could cause the present to unravel. Archer, Rowan, and I went to Argent's library while the others went to talk to Urthix. There, we read about a meteor that fell into Diamond Lake, and the nearby workshop of a golemsmith and inventor named Acererak. We decided to travel back in time to his workshop to secure the star metal we need.

Valiketh seems satisfied that this plan has little danger of destroying the present. When he asked if the star metal we steal, or stole, would have been used by other heroes to save other cites, I explained that the world would then have ended before we could have the chance to go back. I wish I could explain the look that Archer gave me in words, Mother. It was... well, I'm going back in time now. Maybe I'll explain when we get back.

Yours,
Zarari