On the Bank of the River Northwest of Tel’Ruid

When Morion arrived home the first thing he noticed was Myra Sunveil, standing on the bank of the river. She was staring at the water. He approached her slowly and carefully, taking note of any reaction. Given the state of affairs with Myra lately, he wasn't at all sure about what to expect, and as he looked closer, his concern grew steadily into worry.

"Myra? Are you okay?" He asked.

Her dress was torn in several places as if it had been snagged on briars. She had scratches all over her arms and face. Her hands were badly bruised as if she had been pounding on something with her fists. She was smudged here and there with dirt as if she had fallen several times. Her hair was a tousled mess, and her hat was askew and only held in place by the ribbon that was tied under her chin.

“He was here,” she said absently as she continued to stare at the water.

Morion studied her appearance carefully. “Who was here?”

She tried to moisten her lips. “Trenton.”

“Oh Myra, what has done to you?”

Morion moved closer to her, he reached out and turned her so that she would look at him. He examined the bruises and cuts, finding most of them to be superficial. She had one deep cut on her knee, and her hands had taken the worst of the damage. He shook his head. She finally looked down at herself for the first time. She opened her hands and looked at them.

“He didn't,” she said.

“He didn't what? Myra, he has hurt you. Look at yourself.”

She stared at her hands. “No,” she said shaking her head.

“Myra, you must tell me what is going on. What happened between you and Sythe?”

“He was here—in the Ostar tower.”

So Sythe had been here and at the Ostar Tower. Why did this not surprise Morion. His mind raced over the possibilities, but he turned his attention back to Myra and her immediate well-being.

“Do you need attention from a healer?” He asked.

“ No, no healer,” she said emphatically.

She slowly breathed in very deeply and let out a deep sigh. She began to take account of her torn dress. She looked around slowly as if trying to put the pieces together.

“He had considered me,” she said cryptically. She turned toward Morion with her hands held out helplessly. Morion thought that she was on the verge of breaking down. “He said that the darkness suited me.”

“What are you saying, Myra? What darkness do you speak of?”

“Not what I said. What he said.”

“Myra, you don't look well. We need to get you to a healer.”

Morion was relieved to see Tyl come out of the house behind him. She stopped on the porch and hesitated. She was obviously worried about what her presence would add to the situation. Myra was on the verge of something—either she was going to break down completely or she was going to run. Morion stood prepared to react either way, but gradually she began to settle down somewhat. Her breathing came more evenly, and then she spoke again.

“He said I imagined weaknesses. He said he had considered me—that the darkness suited me.”

Morion nodded to her that he understood. “This is almost a relief to me, Myra. At least it isn't your choice—to follow him into the darkness. That has been my greatest fear all along, that you would give up and follow him. He wants you. He has always wanted you.”

“He toys with me,” she said on the verge of tears this time. “I chased, and he was gone.”

“I can’t imagine what kind of a thing he has become to treat you like this—to leave you like this.” Morion held out his hands in exasperation. He felt Tyl come up behind him, touching him on the shoulder.

“He is beautiful,” Myra said wistfully.

Morion couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Beautiful? How can you say that after what he has put you through? You clothes are torn. You have cuts and scratches.”

“Yes, the briars,” she countered.

“And look at your hands!”

“The stones and the door,” she said as if she were finally beginning to put the pieces of the experience together for herself. She held out her hands, fingers splayed, looking at them.
“What stones and what door?” Morion asked. Did you fall on the stones?

She touched one of her knees, the one with the deep cut and nodded.

“Tyl, see if you can you help her, mela. She is hurt and a bit confused too.”

Tylleina smiled tentatively to Myra, and Myra returned the smile, and she seemed somewhat more comfortable in the presence of another woman.

“Do you mind if I try to heal you?” Tylleina asked.

Myra looked at the cut on her knee. “I do not mind,” she said.

“Good, Tyl said to herself. “So much better when the patient wants the help.” She smiled at Myra and began applying some bandages to her knee.

“Have you seen his eyes?” Myra looked at Tyl and asked.

Tyl ignored the question and examined Myra’s hands and the cuts on her face. She looked back a Morion and then at Myra again. “Are you feeling better now?”

Myra flexed her hands. “They don't hurt.”

“I’m glad that I could help.” Tyl smiled softly at her.

“He is beautiful,” she said again.

“Myra, you are not well.” Morion said finally. “Perhaps you could come inside. I can see your mouth is dry, perhaps something cool to drink.”

Tyl nodded, leading her to the house. “You might to be too close to know,” said Tyl, giving her a kind smile.

“His eyes are the green of the leaves on the trees after a storm.” She said as she moved as along.

Tyl, lead her inside and to a chair near the fireplace. Myra looked around slowly and then her eyes settled on the fire, and she seemed to drift off again, staring at the flames as if lost in deep thought.

Morion returned with some water and offered it to her. She sipped at it delicately.

“His hair—is like fire. Bright flames.” She said still looking into the fire. “When he left, I could not follow. I tried.” Her eyes move around as if looking for the answer. “I remember the dream.” She stared at the fireplace. “I could smell him. Feel the air as he walked by. He said the darkness suited me.” She toyed with a strand of her hair. “The Crypts are so quiet, deep, deep inside. Shhh. Quiet.” She looked at the fire, pouting like a child.

“Well you could stay for a while and enjoy the fire. Stay as long as you like.”

“I like the sound of the river outside.” She said.

“And it really is a pretty fire.” Tyl said.

“And it is closer.” Myra said. “He was here, you know, not a dream.” She looked down at her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. “I thought he'd go there. I was not done with him.”

“Did he not say that he was done with you?” Morion asked.

“All ties are sundered.” She whispered. “He still lives, and he did not tell me what he had considered me for.” She stared at her hands in her lap. “I don't understand it.” She looked up as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find any words. “I don't want any more dreams.” She sighed deeply.

“He knows about the skin stealers.” She went on finally. “He was looking for the one the Ostar had. He wants Khellenduras to appear to have surpassed him.” She looked at the fire. “More powerful enemies.” She studied her hands again. “He has a new home. The tower of Sin is empty—hollow of his presence now.” She looked at Morion, then Tyl. “It is something that drew me to him in the beginning. An allure—the pull of his eyes.” She blushed.

“Myra do you love Sythe?” Morion asked.

“No!” She looked back and forth between them. She frowned deeply and stared all the harder at her feet.

“Myra?” Tyl spoke softly. “You need to be very sure of that. As one woman to another, I sense that you might be.”

“Are you sure of your feelings?” Morion asked her.

She took a steadying breath and shook her head. “No,” she said finally.

“Be sure that we will never mock you or your feelings. We just want to help you.” Tyl explained.

Myra looked up at her. “Have you watched a lightning storm while standing in the middle of an open field? It's beautiful isn’t it? It is dangerous, but so beautiful. And you've seen how the wind teases the autumn leaves and how they seem to welcome it? It is like that. Like I am a leaf, and he is the wind. And though I know one day he will tear me away, and I will end up dead and dried on the forest floor, I welcome it.” She frowned at her own words.

Tyl leaned over and hugged Myra close to her. “I understand your feelings.”

“I do not understand them. I know them.” She said. “I feel them.” She smiled thankfully at Tyl.

“I do not think that this is love.” Said Morion. “Because it is not returned in kind. All Sythe does is take.”

Myra looked relieved. “And if it was returned? Would it be different?” She asked.

Morion looked at Tylleina. “Yes it would be different.” Their eyes met for a brief moment and Tyl blushed slightly.

Myra smiled, though almost fearfully at the thought, “And if he returned it,” She paused for a long moment, as if thinking about something very distant. “It would be like Gl…” She didn’t finish voicing her thought. She lowered her eyes back to the floor in thought.

Morion walked to the fireplace and warmed his hands. “Sythe gave in to an illusion. Now he wants to pull you in after him.”

Tyl crossed the room and embraced Morion closely. She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I don't know what to do, mela.” He said. “I feel helpless.”

“I should not trouble the two of you with the ghosts I carry.”

“We want to help.” Tyl said and went to sit by Myra again. “The problem is we aren't sure how to help.”

“We must somehow find a way to put an end to these ghosts. You must stay here with us for the night at least. Tyl would you show her to the bedroom?”

Myra blushed and smiled sadly. “Thank you, both of you.” She sighed heavily and offered a haunted yet thankful smile as she ascended the stairs.

Meravyel wasn't certain that Galen would get the turnout his endeavor would require. He wanted to activate and attempt to defeat whatever powers were bound by the altar within the Bedlam cemetery's central mausoleum. A part of her thrilled at the idea. A part of her dreaded the discovery. As time passed and her experiences mounted, she found that she did believe some things are best left unknown or undiscovered. Still, the dangerous curiosity that fueled her, continued to drive her in these pursuits. She could not refuse to at least try.

The mausoleum contained a set of stairs leading downward into what was once a simple and small Crypt. Three sarcophagi lined the western wall of the hall that stretched out from the stair landing. But to the east... excavation younger than that of the original crypt opened up into what could only be a lecture hall. Stools, in surprising repair, lined the north and south sides of the central, depressed area. Flagstones were laid to form a floor and stairs. At its center, instead of a podium, stood the altar. Along the eastern wall were larger, stone chairs. Meravyel presumed these would serve as seats for professors, or whoever might've headed whatever surely secret society created this place.

To the north and south were areas that contained bookshelves. They were largely bare. Again, flagstones had been laid to form an even floor. To the south was what Meravyel determined to be a 'laboratory' area of the hall. Blood, older than perhaps even she, stained the tables and the floor. Nearly all remnants of any equipment that may have been here were long ago removed or looted. Or possibly broken and dissolved by the acid of the interred grizzles that were likely created here.

Rumors paired with research helped to prepare her for what was to come. Perhaps not to face the creature that waited for a worthy challenger, but for those things that made the challenger worthy. She sought the finest smiths and tailors to be certain her armor was in good repair. She met with a reclusive alchemist in Cove and had her kimono treated with a chemical the woman claimed would resist disease and decay. Meravyel did not intend to bring any 'surprises' with her from the journey. If she returned. If any of them did. She also bought the strongest bowstring she could find. She filled her quiver impossibly full. It would mean death to run out of ammunition down there.

All in all, the assault went as hoped. The first waves of attacks were easily handled by the energy vortices summoned by the mages on hand.

When discussing the monsters they were likely to face, Meravyel posed the question of whether or not paralysis still functioned against Plague Beast Lords, as it once did in the Yewish Swamps. Someone in the crowd claimed it would not hold them, in that place. Meravyel frowned, but nodded. She was no mage, and therefore couldn't test the theory herself.

Yet, when the third wave hit and the plague beast lords began to grow more and more powerful by dissolving and absorbing the corpses of the fallen around them... One mage dared to try. And it worked! Meravyel hurried over, dismissing her shadowy unicorn steed and drawing her dagger from her belt. It couldn't move or lash out, but it's life functions continued. The plague beast lord's body gurgled and writhed within the effects of the paralysis. She hesitated for only a moment, her stomach threatening to tumble out the contents of her dinner...

Her dagger met surprising resistance against the rubbery flesh of the plague beast lord. The blade pierced through the thing's "skin" with a sickening pop, and the sigh of escaping gas. She held her breath and wrenched her dagger across the beast's form. It took all of her strength and a little leverage. She nearly slipped in the slimy blood that spilled from the beast. The foot-long gash she cut into it split further open of its own accord, and the indistinguishable stew that comprised the monster's internal workings gushed forth and across the already slick stones.

This was repeated whenever she saw a nearby mage paralyze one of the lords.

"Paralysis works! Use it on the Beast Lords!" She shouted to those that could hear her over the din of grizzle bones scraping on the flagstones, acid hissing through metal, leather, and flesh, and the screams of those burning.

Things seemed to move more quickly after that. The third wave died, and from the thick layer of decaying body fluids rose clouds of disease and decay. They seemed sentient, but scattered in their focus. Meravyel fired an arrow into the mist, aiming carefully should her arrow pass through the other side... The mist closed around the shaft, but quickly pulled away. The enchantments on her arrows seemed to harm it. As she watched the others battle the clouds, their results seemed similar.

She fired faster and with more confidence. Pausing once or twice, she concentrated and created her own animates from the remains of the plague beast lords. They mindlessly fought the clouds, immune to the sprays of diseased mist they ejected. There were also mummies... but Meravyel caught details that didn't fit with what she knew of traditional mummies. The bandages, and even the flesh of these creatures seemed more... decayed. The essence of a mummy was that of a preserved corpse. These more closely resembled bandaged rotting corpses. She wasn't going to let one get close enough to touch her.

Nor would many others, from the looks of things.

As three clouds closed in around her, a hunger seeming to pulse through them, there was a howl from the center of the lecture hall. Her attention snapped to the altar. Standing on the altar, it's misshapen legs easily straddling the Idol... was a very large grizzle. It looked less like a construct and more like... something else. The sound that issued from it made her skin crawl and her hair stand on end. Despite the sticky, disgusting heat of the enclosed cavern, Meravyel shivered as an unnatural chill passed through her.

The clouds took advantage of her momentary distraction. All three of them darted forward, enveloping her. Fire erupted around her in the dampness of the clouds. Flamestrikes from mages turned the clouds into steam that rose to the ceiling. As the clouds evaporated away, two other mages cast cleansing spells over Meravyel. She looked again to the center of the fray.

The creature swung one of its massive limbs. A darkly clothed figure flew back, landing heavily on the upper flagstones. It was Galen. Of course the peredhil would be the first to charge down something like this. Again, she shivered. The sight of the beast unsettled the elfmaid like few other things could.

By the time she slogged through the fallen remains of the waves of beasts that kept this creature's secrets, it had fallen. The group that had gathered for this journey had worked surprisingly well, and effectively considering the enclosed space and the strength of the waves...

Galen regained his feet just before the creature perished, and Meravyel's worry faded.

The group cleared fairly quickly, once the meager treasures had been picked over. Meravyel summoned her steed, so that she wouldn't have to walk through the sludge... Her feet were bare, and now burnt by the acid of the grizzles.

Spoz, Galen's former guildmaster and leader of the Warriors of Redemption, lingered for a moment. Meravyel was always secretly pleased when she saw WoR participate in these ventures. Some of their numbers had come to assist her with Serrado the Awakened. Without them, paired with the others that came, she was certain the task would have been doomed to failure.

The two men exchanged words and saluted one another, and Spoz rode out of the Crypt.

Meravyel could hear the voices of a few lingerers nearer to the stairs, but only she and Galen remained in the lecture hall.

"I now understand why no mention was ever made of this place," Galen half-mumbled, with a cigarette between his lips. He took one long drag, looked at it, and then extinguished it. "There is naught here but death."

Meravyel looked around. His observation was certainly not incorrect, even if incomplete. "There's a lot more than death here. There's-"

Galen held up a hand, something having caught his eye. Meravyel allowed the interruption and fell silent; she wasn’t ready to share her thoughts on the subject anyway. Her eyes followed his gaze. He pointed, as he dismounted, to the altar. "What's that?"

"An altar?" Meravyel smirked, likewise dismissing her mount and wincing as her feet touched the stones. The chemical burns would need treated, but were not any more disabling than a brush-burned knee.

He knelt on one of the stone steps, and gestured more specifically to some markings. "These."

He moved to give Meravyel space when she knelt and leaned in to study what had caught his eye. She pulled off her gloves and ran her fingertips over the markings. "Chemical burns." She nodded to a nearby broken and bleeding grizzle. Its blood still hissed where it touched the blood of other fallen creatures.

"No, it looks too much like writing." Galen frowned. Either at the idea, or at her reluctance to grant his finding more credence.

Meravyel pursed her lips. Her curiosity and good sense warred with one another. She thought the same thing, but did she really want to know what it said? She sighed and looked again. Her eyes narrowed. "It is shorthand."

"Shorthand for what?" He had surprising patience with her.

"Necromantic shorthand." It was as if she didn't hear him, or wasn't listening. As if she were speaking out loud, to herself. "Normally only used by advanced level students. It isn't all that current either." Her fingers caressed the grooves. Most of them she couldn't make out. Only three symbols were clearly legible.

"How do you...?" Galen stopped. Perhaps he didn't want to know. Perhaps he already did.

"It's an older dialect. Most of it is too worn to make out reliably. It was probably carved with a horn." Her eyes searched the ground near them and she found a grizzle horn that had been broken off in the battle. "Dipped in the acid. The lines are too precise to be anything else." She pulled a flask from her pocket. She had taken the time to fill three of these with grizzle blood. In a demonstration, she dipped the horn into the acid. It didn't burn away like most other things. Using the tip of the horn, she added her own symbol to the end of the still legible ones.

"What does that say?"

"Defeated."

"The first part."

She offered him a wry smile. She put the flask away, and wrapped the horn up and put it in her satchel. She had collected a few others for later study as well. "As near as I can tell, it appears to be a warning." She pointed to a faded symbol. "That should be 'beware'. And here..." she pointed to the three symbols.

Galen waited, looking at her.

"Ilhenir the Stained."

Anyone who thinks they wake up looking like the crown prince of Handsome Land is kidding themselves.

I mean, really? Have you seen the guy? That hair, those teeth. Oh my goodness, those teeth! Perfect! Straight, white. Hell's bells, they sparkle when he yawns. He could blind a man at 60 feet with his pearly whites on a sunny day.

Don't get me started on his eyes either. Blue as a summer sky. Or maybe the deep gray of a thunderstorm. Or the green of the Woody Forest in the summer, during a thunderstorm. Seem's they change to match his outfit. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

I hear he went through 65 tailors before they found one that could make clothes that wouldn't simply unravel under the strain of containing all that Handsome. Rumor-mongers could be exaggerating, but at least 4 of those tailors were my cousins.

There's worse rumors though, about the Crown Prince. You know, and his mom. Everyone knows the Crown Prince isn't really her son. And everyone who's got eyes knows he is more suited to be the King of Handsome Land than his father. The boy got his looks from his mother, rest her soul. Tales at the tavern say she was whisked off to heaven, just as soon as she had the prince. There wasn't a more beautiful lady anywhere in the world. How the king ended up with her, I don't know. Though, might have something to do with him being the King of Handsome Land.

Anyhows, son. Don't wake up thinking you can use those sparkly blues on me like your as charming as the Crown Prince of Handsome Land. You're kidding yourself.

(hm. got 5 minutes out of it. i suck.)

"I didn't do it, of course; who could save the world when it means the spontaneous combustion of one's own cellular structure?" Jared Hess lowered the stack of papers. "Jimmy, what the hell is this?"

Jame Clarnel looked up from his own copy of the script. "It's the line Hess. Do you have a problem with it?" He peered up at the actor over the tops of his reading glasses. Damn, he hated working with the blockbuster guys.

"Yeah, I sorta do, Jimmy." Jared tapped his finger on James' paper. "This? This isn't what any anti-hero worth his weight in sauce is gonna say. You know that, I know that. What the hell is "spontaneous combustion" anyway, Jimmy? I mean really! Who is gonna believe that the bad-ass of the film is going to say something like "own cellular structure" over a drink in a bar?"

James pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh, "Spontaneous combustion. -Spontaneous-, meaning sudden and without reason and -combustion- meaning explosion. It's when a person bursts into flames and dies, generally without burning anything around them. I know this isn't your usual style, Jared -"

"Hess to you," Jared interupted.

"...Hess. But your character isn't exactly macho. Did you even read the script or the backstory for the character?" Jared's almost baffled expression gave him all the answer he needed, so he continued, "He's a biomolecular scientist, Hess!"

"Sounds like a pussy to me."

"For the love of God, Hess! Just read the script and -act-! That is what you do, isn't it? This isn't one of your macho, bullshit save-the-world stories, alright? Get over it and just read what's on the paper." James never had much patience for stupidity, or lack of talent. In his line of work, he encountered far too much.

"Jared, baby!" The voice made James' hair stand on end. It was Jared's agent. James wondered who he had to lube up for in the mens' room to get Hess the part in this one.

"Kosmo! How ya doing?" The two men embraced. "Hey, what's up with getting me this pussy scientist part, huh?" Jared proferred the script to Kosmo (few people know Kosmo had a last name at all).

"Jared. Baby-doll. It's the biz. Time to expand your horizons, show the world whatta star you are, yeah? 'Sides, the studio owed me one," Kosmo straightened Jared's tie. "So you do good in it, a'right? Let me know if anyone gives you any trouble."

"To tell you the truth, Kosmo, I'm thinking the script needs a little rewriting."

"Oh hell no!" James exploded out of his chair between the two men. Kosmo was a pretty average guy, a little round in the middle. Jared was built, for a man in his mid-40's, and stood about 6 foot tall. James Clarnel, however, was a stick-thin man with a small frame. His 'exploding' looked more like a stick figure flailing in the wind. "Hell. No. You slimey little meatpuppet. This is my script, my project, my -story-. You!" He turned to Kosmo. "I don't care whose dick you sucked to get this half-assed piece of shit into the cast but I hope you liked it. And you!" He turned to Jared Hess. "You are a meat puppet. I say dance, you say 'The tango or the twist?' I say jump, you say 'how high'. Get it? You are not a writer, you are not smarter than I am, so do your fucking job and -act-."

prompt: Hello, my dear stranger.

If someone had asked me six months ago if I had ever imagined I'd be sitting in a cold camp on the edge of a mountain range I couldn't name, somewhere in far eastern Europe, I'd have asked them if they were crazy. Now I wondered if I was the crazy one.

It was cold here. Louis sat across from me, both of us staring at the dead firepit.

"No fire," he'd said when I started to gather kindling.

"Why the fuck not?" I was a little more shrill than I'd meant to be, but like I said, damned cold.

"They'll find us. Cold camp tonight, kid."

Fucking cold camps. It'd been cold camps for the last four days. I could see the edge of the invitation peeking from his jacket pocket. I remembered the gold gilt edges and the fancy script. It had been an invitation to a royal masquerade.

"You seriously know the Princess there?" I didn't believe him. This was like his story about Russia, and the Chinese Navy, and that one about the girl whose eyes exploded, I just knew it. All those alley-side stories he'd told me to amuse me.

A weird smile had appeared on his face then, reminding me of that time with him in the church. "I know her very well."

He didn't talk about it after that. Not until a month ago.

"Kid, pack a bag."

"Taking me on a trip," I thought he was joking.

"Yeah. Want to go to a masquerade?" He was seroius.

"What?"

In answer, he'd pulled the invitation out of his pocket. I had almost forgotten about it in all the time that had passed.

(5 min)

The next week and a half had been a whirl of preparations. My mom didn't offer any argument after speaking to Louis in private. That was the freakiest thing I had ever seen - or so I thought at the time. Mom was a nun. I know it sounds funny since she's my mom, but she had run away to the convent after being raped or something, and had me in the church. I never asked her questions about it anymore. She used to tell me that it didn't matter because there was nothing before me, and before Christ. Fine lady, whatever. I love my mom though.

Louis talked to her in some hushed whispers and while she looked worried, she eventually agreed.

I was more surprised when she brought out one of my old dolls and removed the head. Inside was a wad of cash like I'd never seen before. Shit! We'd been living like paupers my entire life, provided for by donations from the congregation, and she had over thirty grand stuffed into my old Betsy Wetsy doll's head! The real kicker? She handed it all to Louis, and then blessed him.

That should have been enough of a clue that I didn't want any part of this party, right? What did I know then?

Louis and I went up to New York. New York fucking City. For clothes, he said. There wasn't anywhere else to find a designer that could get what we'd need. He set up an appointment with me with some woman. Vera something? Who knows. I didn't much like dresses, but you shoulda seen this monster!

Red velvets with white lace and chiffon and this weird cage skirt underneath. I looked like some strange medieval princess from one of those shitty Barbie fantasy cartoons they feed to kids these days. Or one of those two-hundred dollar Barbies themselves. Fifteenth century, she said. Something about Shakespeare and shit. I wasn't paying much attention, since there was some girl behind me pulling on strings that made the top so tight I could hardly breathe. Felt like my insides were being cut in half, or at least squeezed up toward my mouth. Now I know how a tube of toothpaste feels.

(10min)

Louis gave up the blacks, got him a gray suit with a strange top hat and ruffles. Think Gary Oldman from Bram Stoker's Dracula, okay? Except he got sunglasses that sat up where I couldn't see his eyes. I wasn't surprised in the least by that. Mostly I was surprised at how nicely he cleaned up.

Dressed up like a princess, standing there in front of him dressed like a courtly gentleman, I'm ashamed to admit that I felt my heart pounding in my chest. Maybe a little lightheaded, but I blamed the corset when I fainted.

(15)

None of that was keeping me warm though. All that money on clothes, and I couldn't figure out why we had to hike up the mountains to GET to the party.

"Don't worry. You'll get a hot bath and treated like royalty when you get there." That's what Louis kept telling me every time I wanted to stop. The lure wasn't all that alluring anymore. I didn't care if I got a bath, or spit on. I just wanted to be clean. I didn't care if it was a feather bed, or a pile of leaves. I just wanted to lay down. My feet ached, my hair was in knots, and I am pretty sure I smelled terrible. I had long ago stopped being able to smell my own sweat. Is it possible that eventually you just get so encased it's like some kind of protective shield?

Kind of gross if you ask me.

I keep wandering off on tangents.

Two more days would bring us to the castle. Yup, castle. This was all turning out kind of creepy. Howling wolves, cold camps, and the two of us hauling bulky luggage through the wilds, like plane crash victims. I loved the dress and everything, but it was too damn heavy to carry. I'd actually be glad to wear it again, if only to relieve having all the weight centered in the pack on my back.

* * *

I've seen a lot of movies, even though my mom wouldn't let me watch them at home. Scary shit, like Hellraiser and that one with the guy in dreams with claws. I never watched the Exorcist because, well my mom was a nun and I grew up in the Catholic church. I didn't want to know. This place? This place looked like it belonged in one of the old horror films, like Nosferatu or something. Big oak doors and metal straps and bolts on it. Gargoyles, and dragons, and other weird monster things on the edges and their heads as door knockers. There were torches everywhere, though I was kind of relieved to see there were electric lights embedded along the walkways too.

(20)

The woman who opened the door was not dressed for door opening. I'm not given to poetics or nothing, but the best way to describe the slinky number she was wearing? It was a midnight field of stars. It wasn't black, but it wasn't just dark blue either. And it had little things on it that sparkled. Later when I asked, Louis told me that they were really diamonds. Shit. I didn't want to imagine how much just a sleeve of that thing would be worth.

"Ah -" she began, but Louis cut her off.

"Just Louis, Madame Scazri." I couldn't be sure but I think they both gave me a little sideways glance.

"Of course, Louis." If she were a cat, I think she was purring. He took her gloved hand and kissed it. Then he turned to me. Uh oh.

"Madame Scazri, may I introduce my companion for the evening, Miss Kyli Lamb." Ugh he used my whole name. Why couldn't I just be Li, or Ky, or hell, I'd have settled for Kid this time around.

"Hello, my dear stranger," she purred at me. On second thought, it was more like a rattlesnake's tail disguised as a purr. I couldn't shake this creepy feeling as she took my hand and kissed the back of my gloved hand. "Dear Miss Lamb..." Her eyes lingered on me a little longer that should've been polite, I think. "Please! Come in, both of you!"

(25)

prompt: this is stranger than love and loss
---

"That's very sad." I felt like a dork, but what else could I say to Louis' story? I mean, losing your betrothed to a vampire. Nevermind that I didn't believe in vampires, and who used the worth "betrothed" anymore?

"Yeah, well this is stranger than love and loss," he took a pull from his cigarette. The smoke curled upward and I had to grin at the faint halo it seemed to make around his head. "I see you find it funny?"

His voice was as deadpan as ever, but there was something there I hadn't heard before. Did I offend him? "No, no, Louis. Just the smoke. Made you look like an angel there for a second," I couldn't help grinning, "Except for all the black you wear."

"You think angels would dress in white all the time? Maybe favor nice flowing chiffon and the like?" He leaned his head back against the brick wall, no longer facing me. I couldn't tell if he was looking at me anyway, when he did that. His sunglasses were far too dark.

"Sure, why wouldn't they?" I reached over and fished the crumpled pack of smokes from his pocket. "Shit, Louis, I'm getting you a case for Christmas or something." They were all half bent. Poor things. I took one anyway - a smoke was a smoke when you couldn't get your own.

I saw his lips curl into a grin as I put them back. "Aw, wouldn't that be sweet?" the sarcasm was obvious. "You know when the last time I got a present was?"

"What, that ham sandwich I gave you yesterday didn't count?" My lighter sparked, didn't catch. Sparked again, nothing. Louis flipped out his zippo. Flick of the wrist and poof, flame at the ready. I really need one of those.

"I guess it can, but I meant something on a special occassion, twerp."

"Last Christmas?"

"Try forty Christmas' ago."

"Bullshit."

"So you say," he shrugged, taking a long drag and lazily expelling the smoke into a cloud above us.

"Louis, you're like... what? Twenty-five, maybe thirty at most?" I mimicked him, relaxing against the wall.

"Sure, twerp, sure." He half smiled, gazing up at the night sky. Hell if I knew how he could see anything through those sunglasses at night, but Louis was a strange one. For all I knew, he could be blind - but if that was the case, he had some creepy sixth sense because he knew I was looking at him. "Sure, last Christmas. I got a puppy."

He chuckled.

( Work in progress )

Date:	2006-07-13 09:44
Subject:	7 min prompt from lightning_fic
Security:	Public

Surf the Brainwaves

The billboard featured a picture of a frail and acne-ridden boy, with the latest iCapsule™ set into the docking port on his temple, with a glazed look in his eyes. Or maybe it was because they rendered the image while he was wearing a pair of fake spectacles. Relics of times gone by, but still tied to the image of the geeky adolescent.

Visual defects had ceased to be a problem, since anyone coud go to the local pharmacy and lean into the eyeScan™ and have their vision problems not only diagnosed but corrected with a spray-on lense coating. It was easier than contact lenses, less invasive than laser surgeries, cheaper (since it was free) than nanobots and would slowly deteriorate over the course of a month. It was obviously 'biodegradable' and made up of a complex of proteins and enzymes that the body could safely absorb and process away.

Still, that billboard, Surf the Brainwaves, stared down at the highway everyday.

The iCapsule™ was compatible with anyone's docking stations, as long as they were somewhere on the user's head. It would tap into the electrical currents in the brain and connect the brain directly to the iWaves™ (basically an upgrade to the Internet). Trouble only arose when hackers found ways to cross the electrical pulses. In the early days, this had resulted in some very interesting instances of swapped personalities. Total rewrites of the brain, with the exception of quirks caused by the physical makeup of a person's brainmatter, of course.

Later scientists did what scientists do; they discovered a way to do this on purpose. It was something of a breakthrough for the transgender community. Of course the iCorporation™ released the first official procedure - the iTrans™.

As the sun sank into the west and night descended gently on the capital city of Britannia, a figure emerged upon the balcony of Castle Blackthorn. There was no sound from the feminine silohuette as she passed through the barely open doorway. Gone were her accustomed layers of silks and lace, and with them the rustles they would make when she moved. Instead she wore a simple cotton dress of the peasantry. A single bag hung suspended from one shoulder, just large enough to accomodate what she counted as indispensable for her journey, and in her opposite hand was an unlit lantern.

Many cycles of Sosaria's two moons had passed since she and Mihail had first found themselves free of the Dread Realm, and inhabitants of this world. They had learned some of the ways, and made their 'home' in the abandoned halls of a keep nestled on an island. It was isolated, yet close enough to a bustling population. A perfect place for two such as they. Many memories were forged in their time, and many heartaches, if such creatures could feel that particular color of pain.

Elizaveta looked down at the old cushioned throne, recalling briefly the act that had caused Mihail to abandon her in this world, to leave her alone. And the Feyborn Deleaduindill had taken her gift, returned to the Dread Realm, and sometime while he was gone, he changed. He'd taken pause to explain to her the nature of what happened to him, but in truth she could not hear, could not understand. The gift she'd given was undone, but Mihail was still gone. She was still alone.

She decided she would find him. Mihail was her other half, in this half life that they lived. Without him she was a shell, a walking husk, living only in shadows and whispers. She had repaired every tapestry within Castle Blackthorn and had even woven a few new ones in the time she'd spent there. Now it was time to act, to step out into the world.

Elizaveta had never gone anywhere without Mihail, beholden as she was to the curse her Grandmother had laid on her upon her death, but now what choice did she have?

The light of the twin moons shone down on her upturned face. The dark pools of her eyes reflected back their light and she exhaled his name into the night, calling to him, hoping he would hear her;

Date:	2006-05-19 16:07
Subject:	lightning_fic, 17 mins - Louis!
Security:	Public

"I dreamed of flesh-eating butterflies."

"Sure, kid."

"I'm serious, Louis! It was a masquerade, and everyone was in costume. I couldn't recognize anyone. These butterflies were people, and they flapped their arms, but were really flying. They were floating around, in shades of reds, blues, yellow, and black. Then they would land -"

"I thought I was the story teller between us?"

He looked at me over his darkened sunglasses. I was momentarily amused by the gesture. It was already dark outside, and I had no hope of seeing the eyes he'd kept hidden from me for the last six months.

That's how long ago I'd met Louis. He saved my life, I'm pretty sure. Don't get me wrong, I haven't deluded myself into thinking I'm in love with him or anything. He's anything but the whole knight-in-shining-armor, going around and rescuing damsels in distress. Sometimes that rescuing is just a side effect of doling out asskickings, you know?

I think that's how he ended up saving me anyhow.

He refuses to talk about it. Hell, the night he saved me, he only said two things to me. He asked, "Can you run?" I'm not too ashamed to admit that I probably whimpered in answer. Whimper or not, I must've said something that was interpreted in the affirmative, because he followed up with, "Do it." And boy, did I. I ran until I couldn't run anymore, literally. I ran down Central street and right up the steps of St. Cessanius' where my mother worked. (5:00)

The effigy of the little boy was carved into the great oaken doors, and if I had weighed more than a buck and a quarter, I might've been able to push it open with momentum alone. Instead, I hit with a dull thud, and the little brat's scepter broke my skull wide open. Whatever happened next was more than blurry. I woke up lying on a pew, and Louis was holding an icepack against the knot on my head, sitting next to me.

"A nearly empty church is a funny place to run from attackers." He was wearing those sunglasses, even in the darkened sanctuary, and he wasn't looking at me. How the hell did he even know I'd woken up?

"My mom is here." I guess it was all I could manage.

The corner of his mouth kind of twitched. Might've been a grin, now that I think about it. "Yeah, mine too."

There's another story I never could get out of him. He keeps telling me he was being funny. There was something in his tone back then, and even now, that says he's bullshitting. But there's something else in his tone that lets me know not to press the issue too far.

So that's how I met Louis. I've had the same dream almost every night since our meeting in that alleyway, but this is the first time I'd ever told him, and even though he wanted to pretend that I was trying to steal his thunder, the fact that he was looking at me meant I'd gotten his attention in a way anything rarely did.

"Flesh eating butterflies, huh?"

"Sometimes they land and eat people."

"Eat them?"

"I guess not exactly. Just kind of latch onto them? There's bleeding and the butterflies' mouths are covered in blood, and of course there's screaming, until the people being eaten fall down and then the butterflies flit off to another person."

"What did you eat before bed?"

"Nothing!"

"Sleeping on an empty stomach -" He was finally sliding his sunglasses back up and leaning his head back against the brickwall. I felt like I was losing some kind of prized-fish catch.

"I've had this same dream every night since I met you, stupid!" What possessed me to call him stupid, I don't know. I guess I'm just glad he didn't take it to heart (if he heard it at all).

His head snapped in my direction and I swear, even though I shouldn't, that I thought he was going to hit me, or worse. I'm still not sure what "worse" could possibly have been, but I felt it.

"What did you say?" There was an edge to his voice I hadn't heard since "Do it."

"Uh, I uh, called you stupid?" I was close to tears.

He paused, and if I could see his eyes, I'm pretty sure he blinked. His posture relaxed. He laughed. The bastard laughed! "No, not that." He ruffled my hair. "About the dream."

"Every night since I met you. It's the same dream. Sometimes, the people who fall down, I see them in the papers days or weeks later."

Louis leaned back against the church's wall and took a long drag from his cigarette, looking contemplative. "Interesting."

Note: narrative lapse. from 'not recognizing' figures IN the dream in the first part, to later being able to recognize figures FROM the dream in pictures. needs better clarification.
thebigfatman explains it more adequately than I could to myself:
No, not a lapse; they are people she doesn't know to recognize a face, but she nonetheless sees the faces in-dream, and when she sees them awake, looking at the paper, she recognizes them as the dream faces, but nothing more connected than that.

( work in progress for Mer )

Date:	2006-04-18 23:19
Subject:	lightning_fic prompt; 20 mins
Security:	Public

"Please, let us jump back and change the timeline, your majesty," he begged, remaining standing on the space dock. "No one ever need know but us three!"

Her face grew thoughtfully cold as she looked at them. "No one now knows of it but us three... and to let you go would be admitting a mistake in Our actions."

"Damn it!" He pushed his hair back from his forehead, a nervous gesture he'd acquired during their mission. Too much time around them. "So what if we do make mistakes, Ryssa? It is not impossible that we could misjudge the actions of these people. We do not make mistakes, but we are no omniscent."

Ryssa turned her back on Hralth. "We do not make mistakes. Now come."

M-- was the most silent of the three. In all their time togther - and it had been eons - Ryss and Hralth had only ever heard her speak on two occassions. This was the second. "We have made a mistake. It will be rectified."

Ryssa turned, but faster than she could react, a blue light split the air and blinded her. When her vision returned, no trace of M-- or Hralth was found.

Date:	2006-04-07 12:24
Subject:	lightning_fic 33 min prompt [Alesia]
Security:	Public

I only used 15 of the 33 allotted minutes. May do the next 18 min installment later.

Date:	2006-04-07 10:05
Subject:	lightning_fic prompt, 6 minutes
Security:	Public

Geoffrey had no time to look for smelling salts.

Or the bandages, or the antibiotics, or the syringes, or the... the list went on and on, and replayed again and again in his mind.

No time, no time. His forehead pressed against the cold stone of sewer wall. No time. His fist slammed into the wall beside his head. If he had just been prepared, if he had just thought ahead.

Julianne was huddled in the corner behind him, silent and still as the old gargoyle statues that stood as sentries in the old sewer system. In centuries past, these sewers hadn't been sewers, but something else.

That didn't help them, however. This something else didn't have a place where they could get medical supplies of any kind. With the riots and plagues going on in the cities everywhere, there was no way they could survive without some kind of supplies, even those as basic as a first aid kit.

Food was easy enough to get. There were plenty of rats and other small animals hiding in the underground. Plus, if you were desperate enough, there were people. Rick had told them You can eat anything if you cook it long enough. He was right.

"Geoff?" Julianne's voice carried too well in these tunnels.

He turned to look at her. Her foot peeked from beneath her long, tattered skirt. She'd stepped on a nail four days ago and it was infected. Without those supplies that he'd neglected to prepare when they fled their home... she would die.

No time, no time. He'd had no time. (5:45)

Date:	2006-03-23 13:47
Subject:	lightning_fic, 12 min prompt
Security:	Public

Prompt: "With my big black boots and an old suitcase, I do believe I've found myself a new place."

The suitcase was heavier than expected, but the butler did his best to maintain his cool mannerisms. The man's black boots fell heavily on the hardwood floors, his footsteps echoing ahead and announcing his arrival before the hired help could.

Bramley stood from the lush chair in front of the fireplace, brandy glass in his left hand, a rather expensive cigar in his right. "Ah, Tyler! How wonderful to see you. Come, come have a seat." The brandy glass was abandoned on the small table between his chair and the one he offered his guest. He walked to the small oaken bar in the corner.

The man identified as Tyler did not hang his coat on the rack near the door, but instead shrugged his shoulders as if bracing himself to walk into a winter storm. "Thank you, Mister Bramley." His heavy footsteps were muffled by the plush Oriental rug that dominated the center of the intimate study. The clink of glasses drew his attention to his host.

"Brandy?"

"No." He looked to the crackling fire in the hearth.

"Port, perhaps?"

"No. Thank you."

"Cigar?" The offer was a courtesy.

"... Yes, I think I will."

Bramley's attractive, if not somewhat aged, features split into a pleased smile. "I wasn't certain you would come at all this time." He selected a cigar from a wooden box on the bar and snipped the end.

"Light it for me." Tyler's gloved fingers flexed against the armrests of his chair.

"Certainly, certainly." The scent of a fresh cigar eased around the room. "I almost didn't recognize you when you came up the drive. You seem... smaller this time?" (6 min)

"A necessity. My previous countenance was becoming far too well-known." Tyler accepted the cigar awkwardly. He studied Bramley as the man returned to his seat. He mimicked Bramley's smoking as closely as possible. "What do you want this time, Mister Bramley."

Bramley, at least, never wasted time when business was at hand. He would stall with the niceties of his 'society', but didn't beat around the bush, as they say. "There's a woman."

"State your desired outcome."

"An unfortunate illness, incurable, fatal." He paused to puff on his cigar. "Swift."

"Are you prepared for the fee." Tyler's cigar was all but neglected, resting on the ashtray beside Bramley's brandy.

"In the basement."

"Good. The servants?"

"Only the butler and the scullery maid are awake."

"When I return, I will grant your request."

The man called Tyler left the study. Bramley hung his head and waited.

It was a 15 minute prompt.

"And without further ado, her eyes exploded." Louis took another drag from his cigarrette.

"Excuse me?" I knew he was so full of bullshit, his eyes were brown.

"You heard me. Her eyes exploded." He sounded bored with his own story.

"Sure they did Lou." I took a drag from my cigarrette. "So, she was so scared her eyes exploded?"

"It's what happens when you don't scream. You've seen people afraid before, right Syl? Their eyes bulge, and the longer they hold it in, the bigger their eyes get. Until -"

"Yeah, I know." I had to cut him off. Besides, there was something really amusing about the way he phrased it that made me want to say it too. "Until without further ado, her eyes exploded." I couldn't help but laugh.

"Yuck it up fun-girl. It happened." I could hear the crackle of the ember of his cigarrette, a harmony part to my own.

"Tell me another one huh?" I spent most of my Thursday nights out here on this stupid brick landing with Louis, listening to his bullshit stories. I think my favorites were the ones about the Chinese submarine and joining the People's party or something in Russia.

"Ah, my little night-bloomer, I'm afraid I'm all out of stories tonight." He flicked the smoldering butt of his smoke onto the ground, rubbing it out with the heel of his boot. "Plus, I have some things to do." He was looking at me. I couldn't see his eyes because of those sunglasses he wore, but I knew he was looking at me.

"Oh sure, just abandon me." This was our regular song and dance.

"Just stay here. You know I'll be back." His face turned upward and he seemed to be looking up at the rooftops surrounding the alleyway just around the corner from our meeting spot. "Just stay here."

Something in his tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up; or maybe it was the air. April evenings really weren't all that warm. "Sure thing." But he was gone.

I heard his booted footsteps at a hurried pace going down the alleyway. Most nights I'd just wait here like he said. He'd be gone for maybe thirty minutes, maybe an hour. He'd come back in a much better mood, with a fresh pack of smokes and another story for me. I always thought he went off for a romp with one of the local ladies. I'd never had the nerve to ask

Something about tonight urged me to follow him. He'd been kind of distracted, so chances were good he'd never notice me following him.

Date:	2005-10-27 23:42
Subject:	Furies Project from lightning_fic 17 min prompt
Security:	Public

"The System isn't broken. It isn't even that ill-structured." He gave a flippant shrug.

"Wait, what? How can you say that? Look at them! Do those girls look underqualified? Can't you see the potential there?" She was livid, her cheeks flushed in a way he found quite attractive. Her scent filled the air. Mm, aggressive.

He turned to face her with a wave of his hand. "We aren't here to gauge potential. Potential can be untapped, it can be misleading. The proof is in the pudding, as they say. You know that. You certainly didn't get where you are on potential."

She huffed, folding her arms for a moment and then unfolding them to once again point at the line of girls shuffling down the hall, "You're going to condemn them to death because they don't seem right? What kind of system is that?"

In three short strides, he was upon her. He grabbed her by the throat, pushing her against the nearby wall. Leaning in so his mouth was by her ear, he inhaled her scent deeply before hissing, "Do not question the system or you will find yourself on the unfortunate end of it." He paused once more to breathe in deeply - she was positively delicious - before letting go and stepping back to give her space.

Her hand went to her throat, rubbing at the marks he'd left. Her eyes flashed angrily but she said nothing.

"Now, Miss Redwick," his voice was calm and cool as he straightened his jacket and observed the last of the girls passing through the doorway to the furnaces, "I trust you will have no problem scheduling my appointments here?"

"No sir." Her voice was ice. He loved it when they hated him, it made them all that more enticing. (4 min)

***

Jesslyn paced the floor of her tiny apartment. Each employee was given an apartment like this one; there was a small kitchenette with a bartop for eating upon, a den of sorts, a bathroom and a private bedroom. This was one of the better apartments a simple employee could have, really. Her last apartment had been little more than a one room shack stacked atop countless others. This one had rugs, at least.

When she'd applied for the job at Vard Corp she was just hopeful for anywhere to work. A job that would let her send money home to her mother and father - they needed it so badly. She'd gotten the job. She was excited and happy and proud to be part of the working force. Women so rarely obtained jobs, let alone in the larger corporations; after so many layoffs in past decades because women complained of sexual harrassment over things such as simple compliments, the economy on a whole had declined. It had taken a very long time to find the root of the decline but once it had been discovered, women were banned from the workplace. It wasn't until 5 years ago that any company had hired a woman, and even still Vard Corp was the first corporation to open its doors to women in nearly 55 years.

Jesslyn Redwick remembered her first exposure to Vard Corp. She was in high school and Vard Corp was responsible for issuing grants and scholarships to graduating seniors. Few girls made it to their graduating year as many were sold off by their fathers to foreign nations, so she was of particular interest to the school and Vard Corp. Rumor had it that they would consider a girl if she were smart enough, dedicated enough. They'd given her a screening much like the one she'd witnessed earlier in the day.

"The System", the screening was called. It determined what any graduating student could or would do with their adult careers. The few girls that made it to the screening either became very successful or disappeared entirely.

Jesslyn stared out the single window of her apartment toward the smokestacks of Vard Corp. She shivered.

(12 min)

"Now, ladies. You may breathe a sigh of relief. You aren't going to be fed into a furnace." He chuckled and a few of the girls giggled nervously in response. "Still, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, you are dead. Your names are names of ghosts, specters that will haunt your parents' minds. In this program, you will be given new names, you will be given new lives. You will be given purpose. You do not have talents to be entered into the general working field, but you have something more than the common housewife." He turned. The fear and anticipation hung heavy in the air.

"Welcome, ladies, to the Furies Project."

Date:	2005-10-27 23:38
Subject:	From lightning_fic
Security:	Public

He took a long drag of his cigarette and reflected in a hazy of smoke, "You know, I once convinced everyone I knew that I'd run away to Russia to join Up With People."

Of course we didn't believe him, no one ever did. His long jacket, combat boots (horribly laced), and artificially black hair labeled him one of those people that just cried out for attention. Leslie and I exchanged a glance as he handed over the cloves we'd just bummed off of him. Everyone knew the price of borrowing from Louis; you'd have to listen to one of his ridiculous stories.

"My mom thought I was dead, you know." His cigarette sparked in the shadow of the wall against which he stood. A tilt of his head, and his dark eyes were fixed on the two girls, one of whom giggled nervously as if on cue. "I'd left a note in Russian; I doubt they ever had it translated. My brother started rumors, and I missed my senior year of high school."

"So how come you're here now? Don't they, like, kick you out or something?" Leslie asked. I nudged her with my elbow. What's the sense in encouraging this guy anyway?

Another long drag from the cigarette. Such dramatics. I half rolled my eyes, as I leaned in toward his lighter to ignite my own.

"Can't do a thing in this world without some kind of piece of paper that labels you one of the elite educated." He shrugged. Even for as lazy and apathetic as he tried to make that look, I could read the measured movement. How many suckers did he pull in with this piece of work anyway? How many people bought all the apathy and theatrics? Leslie did, clearly. "Anyway. Yeah. A year. Russia."

"Bullshit." I said. His eyes met mine over the top of his sunglasses. Why was he wearing those things anyway? It was already after sunset.

"You don't believe me, МИЛАЯ?" The Russian rolled off of his tongue with the grace of a fluent speaker. I have to admit that even I was taken off guard for a moment. Leslie giggled and I saw that twinkle in her eye.

"No, I don't. Anyone who's been in school as long as the rumors say you have could have picked up Russian in a class. One fancy word and some bullshit make-believe story doesn't buy me, Louis, okay? Hey, thanks for the smoke and all, but we have to go." I wasn't sure why I was so upset, but suddenly I was pissed. Something about the way he spoke to me said more than I felt comfortable admitting.

"As you wish, ladies." He flourished a bow before turning on one heel and walking away. It wasn't until later that I realized he hadn't made a sound despite those floppy and sloppy boots he was wearing. It's always in the goddamn details.

"Shadows and Dust. And Peace." originally posted to the uols.net High Council forum, 06/25/2005


[[Being a writer, I felt the need for one last post on the part of Miss Emily Conner - a bit more of a personal view. I have treated her poorly, as a literary character. She was perhaps one of the most good and sweet characters I've ever played. Thanks to everyone who participated in finally freeing her and allowing her peace, and to everyone that made an impact during the time she was alive. It was a blast. -Emily's Player. ]]


Emily ran and ran. The balron was close behind her. Each day, for time without end or meaning, Emily ran. Some days she ran fast enough to hide for a time. Some days different spirits - of flesh or otherwise - distracted the demons of her personal hell. Only on a couple of occasions had any attempted to communicate with her, in her long stay. Of those, there was only one with whom she could communicate at all. He said he was a prince. Something fluttered in the back of Emily's mind. Once, she might have been excited to meet a prince. Here though, all the joys of her life were whispers, nothing more than shadows and dust.

"Tonight you'll be free!" a little voice spoke in her mind. Again, the familiar fluttering in Emily's mind came. She recognized the voice as surely as if it were her own. Yet, she could not name it.

Emily ran around a corner, the Collector of Souls close behind. He was, perhaps, the most vicious of all three balron lords of this place. If he captured her, she knew the horrible pains she'd be made to endure. Her heart despaired. This place seemed to inspire despair, feed off of it. Though she was a spirit, the nature of this place bound her as if she were flesh.

The despair began to overwhelm the poor girl. Her steps slowed. What was the use of running? She would be caught eventually. She should just give up...

A shimmering light moved down the hallway before her. Its shape was foreign within the halls of her eternal prison. Hope radiated from the equine form as the glow took more definite shape. Pure, cleansing light radiated from the spiral horn atop its head.

In a moment of perfect clarity, Emily recognized her soul-companion.

Ghelwyn! Her heart cried out, nearly breaking in joy. Years ago, Ghelwyn had give up his life as a lord of the sylvan realm in the forests of Ilshenar in order to cleanse Emily of a poison that was meant to take her life. Instead of his life being forfeit, something happened and his spirit had taken up residence inside of Emily. The strangeness of it all had driven her to explore other facets of the world, to seek an escape from the people who now seemed so strange to her.

Emily felt herself pulled toward the apparition of her friend. She found the will to move and moved as quickly as she could. The Collector rounded the corner not far behind her, bellowing its rage at his prey's attempt at escape. Ghelwyn's spirit flared brightly, nearly blinding Emily and forcing the balron to shy back from his target.

When next Emily was aware of her surroundings (odd, she thought, that in all of her time her she had never been unaware entirely), she was in the gargoyle's laboratory and library. When she could make it this far, this place served as a temporary sanctuary for her. Though minions of the balron lords, the gargoyles had little interest in the spirits trapped in their halls.

Emily was alternately browsing book titles on the shelves (she could not touch the books, or actually read them) and observing the various experiments the gargoyles had going. She repeated actions she would have taken in life, unaware.

Other figures rushed into the room. They were lively, but gray to her. The whole world was gray, except the pain. The pain was red and sometimes white hot. It sparkled, flared, and burned. Then she espied the prince.

After some silence, the people - yes, they were living people! - set up strange crystals and she could speak with them!

"At last!" she cried with delight, but quickly fell silent again, for fear that the balron lords would sense her differing emotion.

They had come to set the spirits free. Someone had remembered! All of those years of trying to reach the rare adventurers that found themselves in her hell, and finally someone had remembered and come to help her! She couldn't recognize any of their faces. Most of them seemed focused on the prince - as befitted his station. She was only a librarian that the Shadow had taken and ... The horror was too great for her spirit to contain, the thoughts slipped away.

The people bade the prince and her to step into a circle of bright diamonds. A woman, clearly a librarian or some lorekeeper, then opened a gate that she directed them through. Emily hesitantly followed, taking the prince's lead.

The bright light of day was a startling thing that the spirit of Emily Conner had long forgotten. Slowly, memories came back to her. Before her stood a platform raised in the center of a small pond. Light glittered, sparkled all around it and a great sense of peace washed over her. She was free. She took a few steps forward, seeing the forest as if for the first time. Her form grew faint; her memories began to flee, the further she moved from the glow of the shrine. She stopped, turned back, pulled toward its strengthening lure.

Following the prince, she floated up the stairs and felt herself pulled through the air, onto the platform. The magics worked slowly. She felt a tingly in her feet. It worked its way up her legs, over her stomach, up her back, down through her hands to her fingertips and up to the crown of her head. Suddenly air rushed into her lungs, she coughed. She could feel the cool tile beneath her feet, and for the first time, it seemed to her, she saw the colors of the rainbow. The blue water rippling in a breeze that lightly touched her cheek, the bright greens of the forest and its dancing leaves. The sparkling lights of the shrine, the beautiful marble of which it was built... All the wonders of the world flooded her mind and she stood in awe.

Her memories returned, one by one. Her life in Jhelom, apprenticing to Moira Daefaroth in the library and museum. Her dreams of great adventure, reading all day and night of heroes of the realm, wishing she could one day be that brave and bold. Her trip to Tel'Ruid to find Azeron, Moira's son. The pirates, the shipwreck, and ending up on Sinjun D'Aerno's doorstep. Her first trip away from Jhelom and she had stumbled on at least a book's worth of adventure. She'd also met one of her idols in Sinjun.

In Tel'Ruid, she'd become a member of The Arcane Order, and served there for a time. Azeron had asked her to serve as his Adjutant to the High Council and she had accepted gladly! She remembered the great monster Amaurak and the poison that had nearly killed her. She remembered Ghelwyn. Dear Ghelwyn, who'd helped her be where she might be rescued by these brave people...

And she remembered Nominus Aprobus and The Shadow. Once she had heard from Galahad of the High Council that The Shadow was responsible for the death of more than one paladin in Trinsic. She had confronted the vile man on that. He had tried to bully her, but Abbi Weyr was there to stand up for her. The Shadow said he didn't do it, but had had someone do it for him... She had suspected it was the demon that many whispered served him.

She had never thought they would kidnap her, for all of her imagination. She remembered their questions, always questions. And the torture. They had invaded her mind when she had denied that she had the knowledge they sought. She would never tell! she had declared. But that did not stop evil men such as them. Emily knew that in her heart, but she had hoped that she could hold out, and that if she could not save herself, then maybe... just maybe a hero would come for her. That's the way the stories always worked, right? Azeron, or Sinjun, or Mister D'Aerno, or Phoebe, or Mistress Daefaroth would surely notice she was gone, and at the last possible minute burst in, in a daring rescue...

Emily knew though, it was no story. If any of them had known, she believed with all of her heart that they would have tried to help her.

Emily's eyes searched the crowd standing on the platform and around the pond in which it stood. Beside her the prince was a real person. A prince! Try as she might to remember, though, she could not remember any of the people that stared back at her.

She had died, after a fashion. Her spirit had been trapped in Hythloth. She could not tell for how long. Now, the power of the shrine was giving her flesh, though the power was fading, she could feel it. Soon, this manifestation of flesh and bone would dissolve away like so much magic and her spirit would be all that remained. "But this time, you can rest, Dear One." She heard Ghelwyn's voice within her again. "Say your goodbyes to this world of suffering, Dear One, and take the rest that you have so long deserved."

Emily felt a lump in her throat. This is not how she had imagined she would finally die - though, she thought, she had really already died once. This really was something out of a storybook - her soul saved from unjust damnation, and the benevolent magic of a shrine granting her the ability to ease the worries of her loved ones, and to say goodbye.

The woman that shed tears over the Prince's imminent departure nearly broke Emily's heart. She was helping The Shadow! Emily nearly wept. "Stop him! You have to stop him!" she had cried at the woman. The woman just shook her head, "I can't. Why should I."

Her eyes searched, tears welling in them. She didn't recognize anyone and this woman was denying that there was any possibility of justice for their murders! A voice called to her over the crowd, a man. She focused on him to hear his words. She absorbed them. How long had she been trapped in that place? Her eyes searched.

Emily became frantic, feeling the power of the shrine slowly leaving her. The lorekeeper, she must give her words to the lorekeeper.

She left her goodbyes with the bespectacled woman (Emily missed her spectacles; her hands kept moving to push them up though they were not there). To Sinjun, and Phoebe, and to the Daefaroth family, and to Galen Knighthawke who had served her cause in the case when Nominus had been taken prisoner for her murder. They had let him go, unjustly, but the Field Marshal had tried, she remembered. She could sense his grief when the case was thrown out on that technicality. The frustration of so many... He deserved to know that she appreciated his efforts. For that brief day, she had found a way to escape the eternal torture she endured. It was soon after that she was bound more fully and found herself unable to leave at all...

The power of the shrine dissipated and Emily's form slowly faded away as if she had never been there at all. The prince held on longer than she, surely because he loved the woman who denied that The Shadow could be defied... No one she had known had been there to say goodbye. She hoped the lorekeeper woman would find a way to let them all know...

Emily's spirit lingered, watching the people depart. Ghelwyn's voice came, "Dear One let this world go. As the man said, this fight is not for you. Come, rest, and let someone else fight this time. You have well earned your peace."

"Just a few more minutes, Ghelwyn." Emily gazed out into the empty world. The blue faded from the sky, the green from the leaves of the trees, and if a ghost could weep, Emily Conner's did.


[[...One likes to think that there is some fantastic limbo for the children of imagination, some strange, impossible place where the beaux of Fielding may still make love to the belles of Richardson, where Scott's heroes still may strut, Dickens's delightful Cockneys still raise a laugh, and Thackeray's worlkings continue to carry on their reprehensible careers. Perhaps in some corner of such a Valhalla, Sherlock and his Watson may for a time find a place, while some more astute sleuth with some even less astute comrade may fill the stage which they have vacated... - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Preface to The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes]]

originally written/implemented in May/June 2003


Some days you awaken with a certainty. A feeling of 'knowing' so strong your very being vibrates with it. A certainty you feel to your very core. Today was such a day for Myra Sunveil. It wasn't a feeling she could place, but it was one she could not deny. This was not the first time she'd felt this way, and she judged it would not be the last - but who can tell with such things? When such certitude is known to a being, how can one count on 'tomorrow' coming? These thoughts occured to the elf maid, but she wiped them away the same as she did the sleep in her eyes.

The sun met the water of the falls and sent a curtain of scintillating color across the cave floor. These mini rainbows danced across the elf maid as well, and for a brief moment, she smiled. A glance around her living space faded that smile. She slept upon a small mound of furs and assorted softened animal hides. The rocks of the cave served as various 'tables' of sorts. Kept in a slim wooden case beside her 'bed' rest a blade. Where the elf maid seemed somewhat unkempt in appearance, the blade resting upon the velvet lining in the case was pristine. Immaculate in its very form. The gentle curve of a scimitar, seemingly made of ivory. The arcane runework that graced the blade - rendered with some unknown magic to appear wet, the color of blood... The smile disappeared completely.

How long had she lived like this? Her very existance shadowed by that blade? Directed by a need, a hunger, she could not satisfy. Barely a century old, how much longer could she live like this? Such thoughts were the meat and drink of Myra Sunveil's mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Unlike food and drink, however, they did not sustain, they devoured. She slept less, avoided the Reverie even more. Food was an afterthought, when she grew almost too weak to eat. Her only focus was finding a release, a way to stop the need to kill. So focused upon this, Arwen Sunveil had failed to notice that she no longer felt drained if she did not kill. She did not notice that her lessened sleeping habits were not causing ill effects. The simple fact of the matter was - Something had changed.

But weariness has a way of turning to madness, and madness had set its foot inside the threshold of Myra Sunveil's mind. Her focus was clear, all else was unseen.

And it was this focused, this blind, that she found herself walking an unfamiliar path, oblivious. Arcane formulae worked through her thoughts, both those borne of light and healing, and those risen from death and decay. It was the combination of these two powers - the power of the holy paladin and the power of the unholy necromancer - that would bring her salvation. So she believed, in the fevered realm that was her mind. So lost in her own world, she did not hear the approaching footfalls. A split second before the hand came to cover her mouth that feeling of certainty she'd awoken with became impossible to ignore.

The bear of a man with his hand across her mouth pulled her back, intent on snapping her neck and being done with his task. Myra, as muddled as her mind may have been, was still a warrior. Still trained by both Bladesinger and Drow, and those are paths one does not forget. Like a dance your body remembers long after the mind has forgotten the music.

Myra twisted as she ducked, in the same motion freeing her blade from its sheath. The man she faced was no common brigand. Dressed in leathers and furs, he still appeared well-off. Professional. A grin parted his bearded lips, showing perfectly white teeth. Too perfect. The sun reflected off his bald, polished pate. She took less than a moment to assess the man before charging after him with a flurry of blows. Her arm, formerly broken by a flesh golem in some forgotten wood in Malas, was newly healed, thanks to the magics she'd begun studying. The combination of the art of a healer, and the methods necromancer's used to revitalize flesh had allowed her just the turn she needed to accelerate the healing and rebuilding of bone. All of this was undone in less than a heartbeat, however, when the man took hold of her wrist and twisted.

White-hot pain flashed behind her eyes and the snap of the bone resonated in her ears. The scimitar, her lifeline, fell from her hands... skittered across the dirt path. She was brought to her knees, the man's impossibly strong hand still on her wrist, eyes blinded by tears of excrutiating pain.

"Little elf. Der is no need to struggle. T'does you no good. Shh, shh. Be still." His voice, deep and warm, was deceptively calm. He addressed her as a parent would comfort a child that had scraped its knee. He extended his other hand toward the blade, lying beyond either his or Myra's reach. The bladed lifted in the air, floated into his hand. He observed it with cold blue eyes, all the while Myra struggled, even resorting to biting the man's hand in an attempt to break free of his steel grip. He seemed oblivious to her efforts.

"Now. T'is time for you to hush, little elf. Cute 'dough you may be, Ah am paid to deliver your heart."

He held her own scimitar angled toward her chest. Fear, cold and icy, filled her. This must have been how that healer felt when she and Trenton had faced the poor woman, Trenton's scimitar held in a similar fashion. This was it, that certainty proclaimed. This was what was coming. Her end. The pain in her arm faded away. The madness that had driven her these past days melted into nothing. Clarity filled her eyes in that last moment when the tip of the blade pierced her tunic, her skin, her flesh and bone...

Long denied the feeling, in just moments, Myra Sunveil knew peace.