Train Job, Part 1

It was a train job, which he hated because it complicates things. Anytime you take an intricate, delicate task and put it in a rickety box hurtling across the countryside at fifty clicks an hour, something goes wrong. Something you wouldn't expect. Something that would have been no issue, if you'd just kept your feet planted on the dirt like any decent son of the Goddess. But alas no, this was no normal job.

It was a train job.

Ser Gilbert of Neviche sighed, and shuffled his newspaper. He moved to the next page, eyes scanning the compartment for something, anything. Any sign of trouble, any uncomfortable passengers, an errant bead of sweat on a traveller's brow.

He could see Harcourt animatedly chatting up a neighbouring passenger at the other end of the car. Technically in position, but as usual his attention had wandered from the task at hand. Typical.

Page three of the paper had a story about some trouble at one of the universities, some kind of extraplanar being put down by a group of overzealous youths. He frowned. That is a job for the Diony, after all. Lazy and incompetent as they are.

It was subtle when it happened. Almost too subtle for Ser Gilbert, he noted. Two passengers, opposite sides of the car, separated by four rows casually meet eyes and nod to each other slightly. Got you.

One rises from his seat, folding his paper under his arm and retrieving a small bag from under his seat. Calmly he starts to make his way to the door at the end of the car. Gilbert presses the gem on his cuff link to alert Nora and the Warlock to be prepared, while trying to get Harcourt's attention. The target is almost to the exit by the time Harcourt turns casually from his conversation and points at the seated cohort while winking at Gilbert.

Curse his effortless skill, thinks the Mage Hunter. He throws his paper into the seat across from him and moves to calmly pursue the primary target. The far door of the car opens and shuts behind the man. Gilbert's cuff link chirps quietly to confirm Nora and the Warlock received his alert. He ups his pace to a noticeable amount, counting on Harcourt to handle the secondary target.

The door is a standard sliding train door, with a frosted glass pane on the top. Ser Gilbert takes a moment to breathe, centres himself, and throws the door open.

To come face to face with Nora, priestess of the Great Provider and his second-in-command. The instant ready position both took eases into a comfortable stand, as the confusion sets in. They both step onto the small platform separating the two cars, and Gilbert closes the door behind them. The sound of the rushing air is loud and unsettling.

"Did he pass you?" Gilbert asks, already knowing the answer.

Nora shakes her head with a glare. The two check opposite sides of the car, looking into the disappearing distance in case their target had jumped from the train. But the man dressed in black was nowhere to be seen on the horizon. The two turn to face each other once more. Gilbert frowns. Nora looks up, to the roof of the train.

Ser Gilbert of Neviche sighs, and begins resignedly climbing the ladder to the roof of the train. It was a train job.

Which complicates things.

Dearest Elisabeth 1

Dearest Elisabeth,

Lo, it has been too many nights since I have had the chance to sit and collect my thoughts for you. My days are filled with adventure and intrigue, but my nights are the intervals of true excitement, for they are when visions of you dance across my mind. Alas that between the two I haven't the time to write you as I once did.

Two days ago our taciturn priest was able to cure us of our poisoning, at last. I will always espouse that I appreciate the work of his divine patron, but I will admit to a small complaint about the efficiency of his ministrations. Two days of prayer for a simple curing of disease? Any city priest worth his salt would be appalled.

Now, I know what you are thinking. 'Perhaps this is recompense for your wicked ways, Nathaniel'. But I should remind you that I haven't picked our good friend the Priest's pocket since we met, and even then I did return what I took when I discovered his noble profession. Eventually. What more piety could one ask from a thief, hmm? The gods are forgiving, I'm told.

I must go for now, my sweet Elisabeth. The mage is beginning to stretch and breathe deeply, which tells me that shortly there will be flames and bolts cast across the sky in what the penny-worth wizard calls 'practice'. I have learned of late that it is wise to take cover while the young man stretches his arcane muscles.

Much love, and all the care,

Nathaniel

White Like Bone

There is a way of thinking that states you are not who you think you are. The you that has been built up over the course of your life is impossible, because your consciousness has been interrupted. Interrupted every night in fact, while you slept. So every day you begin again, fresh faced, well rested, and an entirely new person.

Gods, how I want that to be true. How I long for that to free me from the sins of my past. To know that I was even a little unrelated to the man that shared this skin twenty four hours ago would be a sweetness I do not deserve. I apologize, as I am no philosopher. I have nothing to assert my claim to the invalidity of this theory but my own heart. My heart tells me, every morning, that the blood is still on my hands. Mine. It was my mistakes, my decisions, and my conviction that led me here, to this small room, before this mirror in which I see a stranger's face and a history of violence.

If anything I have lived not ten thousand lives but two. I would have been better off having died at the end of my first, but I am not a lucky man.

Like most I remember little of the day of my birth. Flashes of memory haunt my nightmares. Darkness, and screaming. A terrible pressure, and pain. A light. Arms pulling me through jagged stone and dust. Chalky faces of my family. My new family. And the finality. The loss. The truth.

It makes sense. Everything dies. But being confronted with the truth is often... painful. And there is nothing wrong with that truth.

It's what I did with it that I will suffer for.

The man in the mirror has been there too long already now. He finishes applying his chalky white makeup and stands. The knife dangles loosely at his hip. There is work to be done, and so he turns and leaves.

And my heart is heavy with the weight of the truth I must share with the people. It will be a long night, before I can return, sleep, and dream of a new life, and a new me. Someone else to bear this skin. Someone better.

Shadrak

He was below decks in his quarters when the shout came up. A flicker of hope filled his mind, but was quickly contained in a cage of rationality. They had been wrong before.  Carefully he put away his inks and instruments, rolled up his parchments, and placed them in their proper containers. Just as he was finishing, the knock on his door came.

"Come," he barked at the door. It swung open quickly but carefully, and in the frame was the bosun.

"Land, sir," the bosun smiled widely, betraying his joy at the prospect of being free from their journey.

"Hmm," replied the captain. He finished calmly putting away his parchments and turned towards the door. Absentmindedly he fingered the large ring he bore on his pinky finger. He nodded, but could not return the smile.

The two of them emerged from the belly of the ship into the bright sunlight of the day. The crew was quietly jubilant, not wanting to disturb their captain but unable to contain their joy. At last his eyes adjusted, and on the horizon he saw it.

The glittering Golden City. At last.

A smile cracked his lips. There was naught it could be but their goal. Freedom at last.

"Start the ritual." He ordered the crew, who immediately erupted into thrilled shouts. They cleared the spell circle in the centre of the ship and rushed to gather the components.

The captain toyed once more with his overlarge ring, and turned to the bosun.

"Would you do the honours?" He asked, pulling out his knife and handing it handle-first to the bosun. His eyes lit up with surprise and respect.

"I would consider it a privilige, sir." He took the intricate knife, and bowed deeply to his captain. The two moved to the centre of the circle.

The two men looked into each other's eyes with the pride of a job well done, and the bosun slit his captain's throat with the blade in a single, vicious, practised strike. As he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his neck, the captain made no action to stem the red tide. Instead, he pulled the ring from his finger, and placed it in the bosun's hand.

The two shared a last look of profound respect, and the captain's blood ignited the arcane circle etched in the ship's deck. Out of the mystic circle came the dessicated face of the Emperor-Dead, gazing down upon the crew with polite disinterest.

The bosun slid the ring on his pinky, and felt it clamp down with an almost living strength. He stood up straight, and spoke to the image of his ruler.

"This is captain Shadrak of the Dereth Pride, and I am pleased to report that we have found the Golden City for you, my Lord." He bowed to the image, which flickered in reds and blues before him, an ancient face that ever so slightly betrayed a sense of excitement at the news.

Mishak

I have loved you for a thousand years, oh Queen mine.

I let my desiccated hand delicately trace the fine lines of your face in the painting once more. The exquisite agony of the memory of your flesh on mine ripples down my arm into my heart, and I am strengthened by it. As I have always been. As I will always be. My eyes take in the burns on your painting, my greatest shame. I could not even protect your image.

But your face remains, and it is enough. A thousand years, I have forgotten not one freckle, not one line. A smile threatens to crack the dry skin of my face, but it is tempered by my patience.

There can be no joy without you. The last ten centuries have proven this.

I fold my arms into my sleeves, and stare into your eyes. Soon.

I do not know how long I spend with you on this day. Or those days? Time has become such a nuisance. An impediment to progress. But I am nothing if not patient. I am patient, for you.

At last, my mind is sufficiently filled with your divine beauty for me to continue my work, and I can turn away from you. For now. The ache settles instantly in my heart, but I can bear this burden for now. As my ancient eyes adjust to the light, I see an assistant scuttling towards me, his boots clicking on the stone floor.

"Sir?" He asks quietly, not sure if I have been roused from my reverie. I nod slowly, to show my attention is on him. He gulps, and holds out a scroll. With a flick of my wrist, it levitates from him to hover before my face. I cannot read it.

Sigh. The glasses.

I reach in to my robes, and pull out a pair of golden rimmed spectacles. A quick polish on my flowing robes, and I place them on my dried face. The words congeal from blurry lines into a flowing, precise script.

The fourth cask has been unearthed. I nod my approval. Soon I will allow myself a smile, I think.

I hand the nervous assistant back his note. He bows respectfully, and begins to back away.

"Mishak," I call his name out, and he freezes. His eyes rise to meet mine, wide and anxious. "It is nearly time. Have the altar prepared."

"Aye sir." He replies swiftly, once again bowing.

"And when you have finished," I continue calmly, replacing my glasses in the cloak. "Bring me your daughter."

Mishak's face brightens visibly, and he stands a little straighter. "Thank you, sir!"

Your painting tugs at me from behind, but I do not turn. I cannot be lost in memories now, not when things are so close. Mishak's daughter has already suffered overlong due to my childish reveries.

"Your service has been impeccable. It is past time she was cured, I can only apologize for my tardiness." I bow my head slightly.

"No apologies necessary, your Worship," he bows deeply, thrilled, before turning to run off and complete his task.

I watch him scuttle out, his zeal renewed by the love of his family and the knowledge that his work will bring them the relief they deserve. My bones ache. You call to me, in the painting.

But I cannot be with you now, my Queen. Soon.

I have loved you for a thousand years, and soon I will tell you so in person.

On the Path

"Aren't you hot in that big bear coat?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the thin ledge the three of them were traversing. A pebble, carelessly kicked, tumbled away and fell the hundreds of feet down the side of the living mountain they were working their way across.

The squire clutched at the fur of his great coat absent-mindedly. "A little. But it reminds me of a time I was colder than cold, and that keeps me content." He replied, stepping with surety across the cracking path they were taking. He reached back, to help his compatriots across.

The first was a tiny young thief-girl. She deftly hopped the crevice, without even acknowledging the offer of assistance.

The other was a ranger, clearly out of place on the burning mountainside. With every roaring eruption she cast her glance upwards to the fiery explosions at the top. Her footing was sure and silent, as it always was, but her eyes moved constantly, betraying her discomfort with the stone and the fire that threatened to end them at any moment. The squire knew she must be truly worried when she took his hand without question or complaint. The Ranger was fiercely independent, and uniquely capable. She had refused every offer of assistance he had ever offered her.

But here, on the edge of the smoking mountain, she placed her hand in his without thinking. He helped her across, and when her surprisingly soft hand left his, the thought of it remained in his head.

He shook himself, and adjusted the sword and shield he bore under his coat, hustling to catch up to the Thief.

"Do you think it's really a Demon?" the Thief called back as she nimbly picked her way over the rocks. The path was becoming increasingly treacherous as the mountain shifted and cracked. A thunderous roar erupted from the top, and a new collection of magma was thrust into the air, carried to the other side of the mountain by the winds. The Squire quietly praised Bahamut for his protection and grace.

"Hopefully it's nothing, Fa'ar." the Squire replied. But he gripped the handle of his sword, remembering the testimony of the townsfolk. They had spoken of a demon that had wandered into the town, crackling with arcane energy. It wailed and wandered, destroying everything it touched, until the faithful of the town were able to drive it out towards the mountain. They had thought themselves finished, until the mountain woke.

Could be a coincidence.

Could be a demon.

The Squire set his jaw, and carried on.

"But what if it IS a Demon?" Fa'ar continued inquisitively.

"Then we do our duty." the Ranger answered, with a finality that Fa'ar understood.

Silence fell, and the three of them worked their way up the increasingly unstable pass, to the mouth of the mountain.

Good Soup

"I forgive you, child." The old man was pouring soup into a bowl in his little cave home. He didn't look at the boy as he spoke, simply poured with care.

The boy stood worriedly at the mouth of the cave, unsure of what was happening and afraid of this strange new person.

The old man poured a second bowl of soup, and set it on the ground between himself and the boy before retreating to a bedroll on the other side of the fire to eat his own soup.

The boy fidgeted at the entrance.

"Those were not your parents that left you here, were they?"  the man called out over the fire.

Silence answered his question, and the boy continued to fidget. Wondering if he should flee. Would he be able to find his way back? Did he... did he want to go back. After what he'd done.

"No. Not parents. But family, I think." The old man slurped loudly. "Mmm. Good soup."

The boy's eyes slid to the soup. He was hungry, after all. It took a lot out of him when he... when that happened. But he still didn't trust the old man.

There was quiet in the cave, save for the crackling of the fire. The old man finished his soup, and set the bowl beside him but he did not rise.

"When did it begin, if I may ask at least that?" His voice was kind.

The boy, still standing at the entrance, shuffled back and forth for a moment before deciding to answer.

"Not long ago." He spoke with shame.

"Hm." Came the ambivalent reply.

The two looked at each other.

The boy decided he wanted soup after all.

"Your family thinks I can fix you. Make you normal again." Came the voice from across the fire.

The boy slurped his soup slowly, and stared across the fire. Could he?

"But I can't."

Oh.

"You are not broken, child. I cannot fix what is not broken. Tame, perhaps. But that is up to you really."

The boy stopped eating.

"The Magic has chosen you as a conduit. It will fill you until you burst, or until you learn to control it."

He put down the bowl.

"But you are a boy, so control will not come easy. And so I say, I forgive you."

The child looked through the flickering flames at the wrinkled face of the sage.

"What for?"

"For what you cannot forgive yourself. For what you will do to me."

The boy was confused, and cocked his head.

"Know that when you lash out someday, in anger, and your magic unmakes me... I forgive you."

The old man's face was soft, and full of honesty. The boy was shocked.

"And so do your parents."

Kella and the Catacombs

A candle burned low on the end of Kella's staff. Her robes were filthy with dust and grime from the catacombs.

"Are you sure it's here?" Shasson inquired, for the fourth time.

"As sure as the last time you asked." Was her curt reply. She ran her hands across a few skulls, wondering to whom they had belonged. What lives they had lived. Who they had loved.

"Well, I'm less sure." He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. He startled off of it as soon as he realized it was thick with spider's webs, much like every surface in the subterranean vault.

"Hm. Let me see..." She put her hand to her temple, closed her eyes in a mockery of concentration. "Wait... wait... Hold on...." She opened them again and looked at Shasson irritably. "Yep. Seems I still don't care. Now help me look."

Shasson grumbled and tore at the webs covering his robe, before returning to the search.

The two of them pored over shelf after shelf of remains, Kella gingerly moving and replacing the bodies with as much reverence as possible. Shasson was less subtle.

After another hour the candle was almost to its end. A sigh escaped Kella. She turned to admit defeat to Shasson, and found him still absent-mindedly searching alcove after alcove with a glittering golden canister in his hand.

"Shasson..." she spoke.

"Hm?" He turned and looked up at her curiously.

"Is that..." She indicated the canister in his hand.

"Oh, yes. I found it about an hour ago." He held it up, and it twinkled in the flickering candlelight.

She snatched it from his hand. At last. At last! After all the years of looking... She clutched it to her chest. She could finally proceed.  It was not all in vain.

She basked in the victory for a moment more, before Shasson's words sunk in. She cocked her head and looked at him.

"And you didn't think to tell me you'd found it?" She asked.

"Oh, I just thought you liked looking at bodies." He shrugged.

She wasn't even mad. This time.

The Ranger's Path

"Why do you seek to walk the Ranger's path?" Boomed the dark cloak in the shadows of the trees.

"I love the forest." The little voice responded, from somewhere in the underbrush.

"Then you should go find a druid." The booming cloak laughed. "You will find no love for the forest in the heart of a true Ranger. Only hate tempered by respect, little one."

"But you spend so much time in her trees, Ranger. How can you not love her bounty and her beauty?" The little voice echoed lightly through the trees, making it hard to pin down.

"Love is blind, little mouse. Love is a beautiful thing in the comfort of a home, and a terrible weakness in the dark of the trees." An arm sneaked out of the dark cloak, and rested on a tree branch. "Give in to love in the forest, and she will consume you."

"I think you have grown bitter, old Ranger.  You need an apprentice, to regrow your heart." The little voice was not far now.

She was skilled, thought the Ranger. A smile cracked his lips, an expression he had not worn truly in a long time. Perhaps she was not so wrong. About needing an apprentice, at least.

He turned slowly, still holding the branch. It was covered in beautiful yellow blooms, and as he slowly moved it with him, they shook and a fine powder fell to the forest floor.

"Perhaps you need a master to harden yours, little mouse." He called out to the voice.

As he finished turning, he saw her. Standing stock still, short bow drawn aiming at his skull, a face flush with victory. He slowly brought the branch protectively between her bow and his face.

"A friend to the trees needs no master like you, Old Ranger." She smirked at him.

"The trees are no more your ally than mine, little mouse." And he blew hard on the beautiful flower, and the dust that came out was as stars that filled the young one's mind as she passed out.

Belethemnon, Prince of Knives

The sigils were traced with care, the invocations spoken with reverence, and the last pinch of the arcane powders was in her hand. She thought a quick prayer, and cast it into the circle.

With a flash and a pounding roar, it appeared.

"I AM BELETHEMNON, PRINCE OF KNIVES AND HAND OF THE GREAT DARKNESS." It bellowed, and crashed against the wards she had prepared. The air crackled and burst with infernal rage as the beast tested its cage. She waited patiently.

"I AM PAIN, I AM DEATH, I AM THE NIGHTMARE THAT CONSUMES ALL LIFE. RELEASE ME, OR FACE MY FURY, MORTAL!" the devil raged, snorting with anger at being flung across The Planes and trapped in a small spell circle.

"No." She said, folding her arms.

"I WILL... what?" The devil exploded with fire and anger, before sputtering out into a soft smoke as confusion took hold. It cocked its head.

"No."

"I... what do you mean, 'no'." The thing scrunched up its horrible red face, shaking its head.

"It means no."

"I know what it means, mortal." The devil sneered.

"Then why did you ask?" She raised an eyebrow.

The devil was silent for a moment. Anger churned in its horned brow.

"You've never summoned a devil before, have you?" He asked, still nonplussed.

"You're the first."

"Ok, well, look... since you're new, I'll break it down for you." He sighed, and sat in the circle. It was a little too small, so his back rested against the infinite circular magical wall that made up his prison, showering magical sparks everywhere. If it bothered him, he didn't show it. "You summon me, I explode with infernal rage, you placate me with an offering, we talk," He began gesticulating with his hands, back and forth. "You ask for something, I barter, you agree, you release me and I grant your weird wish. Usually money, or something. Sometimes power, those are more fun. But I digress. You get your wish, I get released from this freezing plane. Go back about my business, and depending on how much of a pain your task is plot my inevitable vengeance. Sound good?"  He folded his hands into each other, and smiled a horrible, crooked, wicked smile filled with too many pointy teeth and more than a touch of malice.

"No." She replied, matter-of-factly.

The devil sighed.

Silence reigned as they stared at each other for a while. The devil in the circle shifted uncomfortably.

"Well then what do you want?" He asked at last.

"Oh I'm here to help you." She replied swiftly.

"You... what?" He stammered, bewildered.

"Look, since you're new here, I'll break it down for you..." She started, and smiled a horrible, crooked, wicked smile filled with too many teeth and more than a touch of malice.

The Bakery of Jian Wei

A man walked into the bakery of Jian Wei and asked to purchase the most expensive pastry.  Jian Wei refused to sell him anything, and the man became flustered.

Jian collected one of each pastry and gave them to the man as a gift, much to his confusion. Jian Wei said “No one of my crafts is most expensive, for each is priceless while being eaten and worthless once et.”

And the man left and was enlightened.

Hello Darkness

The circle on the floor roars to light, the arcane sigils burning a bright green before simmering into a glowing purple. But not extinguishing. Not yet.

I touch the holy symbol I'm wearing more out of fear and respect than true belief, and hope that I made no errors on the inscription. The barrier seems to be holding. Good, good. Now the true test.

The purple fire continues to crackle, and a thick black smoke appears, trapped by the circle. It swirls, and coalesces into a shadowy form, underlit by the purple light of the magic words at its feet. It's skull-like face reflecting the light brightly, as thought it was pulling the light from the rest of its body even. To look at the thing's chest was painful to the eyes, almost like it was taking away light from the viewer.

"Many moons have waxed and waned since last I saw you, magician." The darkness spoke, a surprisingly human tone to its voice. It tapped at the invisible prison it was trapped in, walls of mystical force projected by the burning runes on the ground. "And you have learned much since then, I see. Perhaps you are more useful than I gave you credit for."

I did it. I got it right.

Hello old friend. Let us see if you can suffer, as I did at your hand. Let us see how human you still are.

Cursed of Light

"Because I am cursed by Pelor, the god of Light and Good." The cleric replied, matter-of-factly.

"But... you're a cleric of Pelor." The thief retorted, pulling himself off the floor and dusting himself off.

"Indeed, for his grace is as boundless as his mercy, and the light of his knowledge should shine in all the dark places of this world." The cleric nodded as he spoke. He let his warhammer's head hit the floor with a resounding thump, but kept a hand on the haft. The thief understood implicitly that this meant the conversation would not be over until the cleric decided so.

"So... you're a devout cleric of Pelor... so why did he curse you?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically at the holy man.

"Ahh, that would be a sweet thing to know, yes." The cleric scratched at his beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps I made some grievous error in my prayers, perhaps my actions led to some dark happening that I've not yet come to know. Perhaps he is simply testing me. Alas, I was not granted this knowledge." The priest shrugged, his breastplate heaving heavily as he did so.  "At this time, it is not for me to know. It is for me to punish the wicked," he bowed his head wryly to the cleric, "to enlighten the ignorant, and to heal the sick. And so I shall." He smiled.

"Rrrrrright..." The thief felt his chest gingerly. Definitely a few cracked ribs. "Well since we've already finished with the whole 'punishing the wicked' thing, I hope..." He looked up to the cleric hopefully. The cleric waggled his hand, maybe. "Let's maybe skip ahead to healing the sick." And he indicated to his injured chest.

"Ah ah ah... to everything an order, and in its order all things. Now..." The cleric pushed a chair towards the thief and indicated he sit while he pulled out a book. "About the word of Pelor..."

The thief groaned and sat, painfully. He listened to the clerics words off and on, but was mostly distracted by the man's two shadows, who were constantly fighting each other across the floor and walls. What a weird priest.

A Natural Gift

"The boy is very impressive. How long have you been teaching him?" The Prince asked his companion in the stands.

"Only a month. Just enough to know which end of the sword to hold. Everything you are seeing here is his... natural gift, I suppose you could call it." The companion folded her hands into her sleeves.

"A month? That's all?" The Prince raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed."

"I suppose his heritage is to thank for his nimbleness, but still... he moves like water. I've never seen an elf that fast, or that sure footed... and I've seen the dangerous ones up close." He scratched idly at the scar on his shoulder, buried deep beneath layers of royal clothing.

"Of course, your eminence. Like I said, he is naturally gifted in the art of combat. But, I'm afraid he might not be what you are looking for." The teacher shifted nervously on her feet. "His gift comes at an unusual price, it seems."

The Prince looked sideways at the trainer, a woman who was usually very straightforward. It was odd to see her so evasive. He returned his gaze to the boy on the field. The child was simultaneously fighting three of the Prince's royal guard, each more than twice his age and likely thrice his weight. And he was winning. They could make not an inch of ground on the boy. His blade flashed like lightning, punishing every misstep, capitalizing on every shift of weight, slipping inside every dropped guard. It was like a beautiful dance. With a twist and a snap, he sliced off one of the guard's breastplates, leaving his midsection fully exposed. The look of shock on the guard's face was worth the expense of the entire trip here, thought the Prince.

"Aturar!" the trainer called out, stopping the fight. When the word reached his ears, he changed in an instant. His stance shifted from a low combat crouch to the straight backed posture of a court noble. His face shifted from a perceptive grimace into a relaxed, unfixed gaze. He almost dropped the sword. But the most fascinating thing the Prince noticed, was that the boy began breathing again. Calm, deep breaths. Had he not been breathing for the entire match?

"Good work, Elumene. Come here." She waved the boy over. He nodded, and began to stride over before remembering at the last moment to bow to his opponents. They were all breathing in ragged gasps, and nodded back. One of them handed the fallen breastplate to his compatriot, and they looked on with awe at the boy as he strode off. The Prince waved them away.

"Report, Elumene." She questioned him.

"Skilled opponents, Teacher. Poor footwork on the largest one. Very experienced to make up for it. Strong, but lack speed. All excellent swordsmen." He answered, expressionless. He continued to breathe deeply and quickly.

"How did you survive the match?"

"Using their bulk to my advantage. Not allowing them to get full swings of their sword by keeping them together. Fighting from inside reach. Most importantly, they were hesitant about striking a child. A weakness easy to exploit." His eyes remained cold and emotionless during his entire response. The Prince felt a chill run up his spine.

"How do you feel?" The teacher asked, surprisingly softly.

The boy looked at her. His face contorted into a mask of mild confusion.

"I don't understand."

"How do you feel? You've just successfully defended yourself against three of the King's Guard. How does that make you feel." She pressed.

His face maintained the mask for another few seconds. He shifted his gaze to the Prince, and then back to his instructor. The mask fell away, and all that remained was the cold stare of the elf child.

He shrugged.

"Very well. Go, clean up. You have a meal soon, I believe. Good work." She waved him off. He bowed to both of them, and hurried away.

"So you can see... his skills are impressive but he would do ill in a court setting my liege." She offered, starting to turn away. The Prince's gaze was fixed on the child leaving.

"No. I will take him."

"But..."

"I have not, in my life, seen skill like that. I will take him, and make him into a gentleman myself if I must. If nothing else, I will not allow power such as that into the hands of anyone else. Have him packed and ready to depart for the city tomorrow morning."

"Yes, your eminence." She bowed lightly to her Prince.

"And... thank you, Meleen. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention."

"My pleasure of course." She smiled to him. He smiled back, an action which she knew was well practiced but no less beaming.

"Now, did I hear you mention something about a meal? I'm famished." He offered her his elbow, and they left the training pits together.

Not So Hard A Thing

"What, what in the nine hells do you think you are doing?" Saiyo hustled over, shouting at the girl with the knife.

"I'm practicing, Doyen." She replied, indicating the target dummy. It had been hacked to pieces, with straw poking out everywhere. Her face was a beaming beacon of pride.

"Practicing what, exactly, child? How to ruin a perfectly good training tool?" he ran his hands over the ruined dummy, pulling straw out of one of the slashes in the burlap. "Not to mention a knife.." he snatched the blade from her hands, and held it up to his eyes. It was full of notches and scratches. To be fair, most of them had been there when she got her hands on it. But he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.

"No, I was practicing my fighting." She stubbornly replied. Her face was no longer beaming but instead scowling. Everyone else had been practicing knifework, and she'd been stuck doing pickpocketing all day. Again.

The Doyen looked at her, and sighed.  He shouldn't be surprised. She was young still, too young he had thought to teach about the blade. But, alas, it seems that too is beyond his control. Children.

"Okay child. Pretend this is a man." He indicated to the dummy. "How is he now that you have hacked at him like a mad cook?"

The girl squinted at the Doyen, expecting a trap.

"He's dead."

"Yes, precisely." The Doyen clapped. "Now... why have you made him dead?"

The girl was thoroughly perplexed.

"Becuase he was... evil?" She ventured.

"What is evil?" The Doyen immediately asked.

"It's... very bad. People who are terrible and do terrible things."

"Like killers?"

"Yes!" She agreed.

"But you have just killed this man."

The girl opened her mouth, and her mind caught up.

She closed her mouth.

"So you see this is a problem, little one. But, you are fortunate! You are learning from the Doyen. Take this." He offered her the blade, handle first. She took it gingerly, still thinking about the verbal trap she'd been caught in. "What have you in your hand child?"

Now she was really wary. But, alas, she could not see where he was headed, so on she moved.

"A knife?"

"Yes, good, top marks child! And lucky again you are, that you have a knife. For a knife is not some clumsy weapon like an axe, or heavens forbid a sword. No!" He moved around behind the dummy while he spoke, letting an arm drape across what would be its shoulders genially.

"No, no, this is a knife! A subtle blade, a tool not a weapon. With this you can be careful, you can be sure of your work. You can be quick, you can be precise!" And he produced a knife seemingly from nowhere, and with a strike like a snake he pierced the side of the dummy. He pulled his hand away slowly, leaving the knife buried in its side.

She looked back and forth, from him to the blade.

"This is a place that will not kill a man. Right away." The Doyen indicated. He took her hand, and put it on the handle of the knife sticking out. "Feel it's place. Memorize it. A knife that enters here, will bring a man great pain and much suffering, but he will live. And often, that is enough."

She nodded, and focused on the blade. She felt its place in relation to her arm, and her arm in relation to her legs. Every part of her she commited to memory. She would know how to strike here again.

"If you steal something child, you can always give it back. We are thieves, not gods. We make mistakes. It is known. So be careful, always, with what you take. If it is a life, which to take is not so hard a thing, you cannot give it back." He smiled at the little girl, and she nodded. Good.

Perhaps she will not be a killer like me, thought the Doyen.

Blink

When Quel awoke everything in the world was exactly the same as when he had fallen asleep, save for three things.

First and foremost, he hurt everywhere. His spine was a nest of needles, and his legs were agony from the core of his bones to his skin.

Second, the sun was high in the sky. It must, he measured, be nearly noon. Before noon. After? Maybe after. Meh, it doesn't really matter.

Finally, and perhaps most pressingly, was the animal skull perched no more than a foot from his face, attached to a towering black shape with stick-like antlers protruding from behind the skull.

No good, no good.

Quel tried not to move. Maybe it doesn't know I'm still alive. Maybe it only eats living things. Yes.

I am not that lucky, thought Quel.

The creature's hide was jet black, a slick skin covered in light-grey sigils and symbols. It walked on its hind limbs, dragging a thin tail and lumbering with heavy, long forelimbs. Each set of appendages was a long, thin, tapering... flipper? Almost? Quel had never seen anything with a body like this, but... that was not unusual for Quel. He saw a lot of things for the first time.

The thing still had not moved. Quel's eyes settled on the animal skull where the thing's face would be. The skull... a dog's skull, he thought, seemed to be bound on to the creature. It was as though the skull belonged to the creature, it was the right size and in the right spot, but all the flesh was... gone. And the skull was strapped on with ropes made out of the thing's flesh.

And the antlers... were definitely sticks. Not antlers. Sticks. Strapped on. Hmm.

"Are you rested, thing?" The creature asked. Quel jumped, startled by the voice. It was low, a rumbling but kind tone. It was very nearly human. But not quite.

Well, the jig is up anyway. Quel nodded.

"That is good, thing." The creature nodded slowly, and turned its head. At that moment, Quel noticed there were more of them. A half dozen, spread out across the plain. "The thing is rested, brother." it called out to another.

"That is good, brother." Came the reply, with the same low, rumbling humanish voice. That creature turned, and repeated the message to another, and so on until they were all nodding.

The creature turned its head back to look at Quel. There were no eyes in its socket, but you could feel its gaze.

"Tell me, thing..." Quel tensed in his little cobbled together tower. The pain was gone from his body, replaced by fear. "Where did you get your antlers?" It indicated with a fore-flipper his tower.

Quel looked down at his lashed-together tower, a post and two tusks he'd found yesterday. He looked up at the creature, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction he'd come from.

"Yes, good." It nodded slowly. "And are there more antlers, thing?"

He shook his head. It turned to the other creatures.

"Sadness. There are no more antlers, brother." It boomed.

"Sadness, brother." Came the reply, and the chain began again until all the creatures were nodding.

It turned its head back to face Quel, no more than a forearm's length away.

And paused.

Quel breathed slowly.

The creature didn't appear to breathe at all.

Quel blinked.

The creatures remained still as statues.

Quel scratched his nose.

"Thing." The voice echoed out, startling Quel again. "Can we have... your antlers?"

Quel thought about it for a moment.  This was his only means of sleeping here on the plains. Without it he would either die of exhuastion, or worse.  He looked over the shoulder of the creature. He was still many days from the end of the plains. However, they didn't seem to be affected by the plains.

He looked at their legs. For some reason, they were safe. He shrugged, and looked into the eye sockets of the creature.

"Trade, for a lift out of the plains?"

The creature stared at him for a moment, and then craned its neck to its brother again.

"Thing wants to trade for travel out of the plains, yes brother?"

"Very nice antlers, brother. Yes." The first replied, and turned to repeat the question to the next creature. Again, they slowly all wound up nodding at the first creature.

"Yes thing. We trade." And Quel could almost feel the skull-face smiling.

It picked him up with its flipper-hands, and placed him on its back. He reached out, and grabbed its antlers for stability. He looked down, and saw the thing carefully collect his temporary structure, cradling it gently in its arms. Almost reverently.

"Prepared, thing?" It asked

"Yeh." Quel spoke, and as soon as the word was out of his mouth the entire pack began to run.

They were so fast, Quel almost went flying off the back of his ride. Clutching to the antlers, he swiveled his head to see all of the creatures. Some were running on their hind limbs, some had descended to a four-limbed stride. But all of them were travelling with tremendous speed.

And then some of them dissapeared.

And then they re-appeared, the distance of a field ahead. Startled, Quel bent down to ask his ride what had happened when he suddenly felt himself go hollow and pop back to normal. The place that he was was far behind, and still he was moving.  He looked back at where he was, and shook his head.

This was how you travel, Quel thought.

The Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon

"What is important, Initiate?" The voice of Knigh-Exalted Kras boomed through the gale. Wind whipped at the words, and snow weighed them down.

"The Word of Bahamut, Sir!" Came my reply through the cutting cold. I was ankle deep in snow, wearing only my trousers, my shoes, and my faith.  Clutched to my chest was The Divine Book Of The Platinum Dragon.  A tome I was given at the onset of my training in the order of the Champions Transcendent.

"Correct!" Kras' voice boomed back. He was dressed in his full battle-armour, wrapped in a cloak made of a bear. Around his neck dangled a medallion that kept the cold from affecting him. I envied that medallion. Oh, very much so.

"How much farther do we have to march, Sir?" I requested through chattering teeth. I could no longer feel my chest, which worried me.  When I lost feeling in my hands, I knew I was on the right path. Struggle breeds greatness. When I lost feeling in my arms, I knew I was on the right path. A paladin is forged in suffering. When I lost the feeling in my legs, I knew I was on the right path. To protect the innocent from harm, one must know harm. When I lost feeling in my chest, I became convinced I would die here in the cold.

"That depends, Initiate." Kras smiled. I think he smiled. It's getting hard to see.

"On... on what Sir?" I asked, exhausted.

"Tell me... what is most important?"

I sighed. I had said the same thing, every time he had asked. Was he testing my faith? Still? Would he wait until I passed out from exhaustion to be sure of my reverence for the Book? If he did... would I survive the night? Or would he trust my fate to Bahamut... A shiver went through me that was not from the freezing.

"Thththe Word of Bbbbbbahamt, Sir!" I shouted, as best I could.

Kras shook his head, and smiled. I think. It might have been a sneer.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yyyyess, yessir." I nodded forcefully.

"More important than your life, these words are?"

I was confused. I cocked my head, and furrowed my brow. Of course they were... these words are divine. They have sheltered the faithful since before I was born and will long after I am dead. They are the truth, the light, and the shield of the righteous.

"Off cccccourse Sir."

"I see." he put his hand to his face. "Cold out tonight. You're a tough one, Initiate, I'll give you that. But..." He shook his head again, "Not the brightest, hmm?"

In place of words, I shivered angrily.

"Why are the words important, Initiate?"

"Thththey are the shshshshield of the righteous, and thththe banner of the jujujujust... Thththe words that thththe willing can fffffind strength and unitttttty in..."

"Right, yes, good," he waved his hand impatiently in the air. "And who exactly is going to bring those words to those who need them, if you're dead from the cold Initiate?"

I stared at him blankly. I shivered.

He reached into a pouch on his belt, and held out to me a box of matches.

I stared at them, and back to him.

Huh.

As I sat by the fire of the burning book, I warmed myself in Knigh-Exalted Kras' bear coat and realized that a life is worth more than a book.

Even if it's a really, really good book.

And A Wizard Besides

Shasson was a liar, and a wizard besides. As the sandstorm raged on around him, he began to wonder if that was really such a distinction.

Standing over a half-closed haversack, the wizard fought to maintain his wards and keep the stinging sand at bay. He had pushed his defensive spells harder and further than he’d ever thought possible, a feat that (if he survived) no one would believe.

Well, some people would believe. Not the important ones. Not anymore.

A speck of dust streaked through the glowing bubbles of protection Shasson was keeping up, moving with such force that it cut his face before shooting out the other side. He shook his head and refocused on his spells. For a moment.

A spell is just a lie the universe believes, really. It’s an act of convincing the natural forces of the world that they don’t exist, that they should bow to your will and not that of nature. And being convincing was always one of Shasson’s gifts. One of Shasson’s few gifts.

Shasson’s only gift.

A look of horror settled into his face as the fact sunk in.

The exterior blue orb, his first line of defence flickered and went out before he could refocus. Damnit.

Shassan was forced to his knees, the two remaining wards serving only to slow the sand. He closed his eyes. Everything was terrible. Not even he could convince himself that was false.

At least his companions won’t die here with him, he’d seen to that. Accidentally, of course. Having told them the artifact they’d been seeking for the last year was a good thirty kilometers south, he had been able to sneak off to claim the prize for himself without too much trouble. They were probably still hoping to catch up with him.

Idiots.

Shassan couldn’t see it, but he felt the second ward drop. Sand was rapidly piling up at his feet, and sliding inside his robes. He couldn’t talk his way out of this. There were no more spells to cast. The sand was going to kill him, and that was the truth.

The thought brought him comfort for a reason he couldn’t quite understand. He knelt, curled up inside his final ward, and smiled as the sand tore at his skin. The sand was truth. The storm was truth, a truth he couldn’t obscure or deceive. An ultimate truth. The wards were gone, or going.

His lies were being stripped away by truth, and before long he himself would be blown away by it.

He stood, a smile fixed on his face. The inevitability was simultaneously terrifying and beautiful. His skin was on fire, his robes whipping and ripping in the wind. The final ward dropped. His last lie.

The only thing left was himself. A man in the sand. Not a wizard, not a liar, just a man. Flecks of sand buried themselves into his skin at a thousand miles an hour, shearing away his body an inch at a time. He could see a light approach through his closed eyes. How long had he been waiting for this? How long had he been alive?

He passed out, collapsing into the sand. The last thing he felt was the storm’s savage embrace loosen and disappear. Of course.

A heavily armoured man stood over the liar and wizard besides, who was barely recognizable. The man bent down, and uncovered the haversack. He checked inside, nodded, and slung it over his shoulder.

“It’s here!” He called back to his two companions, one holding a torch that seemed to keep the swirling sands at bay wherever its light touched.

“Great! Can we get the hell out of here now? I don’t know how long this torch will last.” One of the figures called back.

“Hm.” The armoured man nodded. He stood over the unconscious body of Shassan, scowling. He nudged Shassan with his foot and sighed. “You are such a dick.”

The armoured man hefted Shassan’s sleeping form over his shoulder, and the four of them set off into the storm.

An Agent of Her Grace

"What is it you are trying to do?" Abbott Keremor asked his pupil.

"Smite the target, Abbott." Rankin replied.

"So why isn't it smote?"

"Well..." Rankin kicked at the dirt sheepishly. "Maybe... the target isn't... evil? Enough? You know, to warrant Erathis' wrath?"

"Ugh, if only it worked like that... no. It is not yet smote, because you have yet to smite it." Abbott Keremor shook his head, but smiled warmly.  "Remember, you are not just a conduit for the power of Erathis, not some wand used to direct her righteous fury or her benevolent love. You are an agent of her grace, an operative of her might. You must earn her trust, and her power."

"Right..."

"She is not working through you. You are not some mere puppet of her Holiness. She does not reach through you to strike down her foes, she's busy boy. She needs to trust you to find her enemies, root them out and strike decisively. She needs to believe that you will give her blessing to those in need, not those who want."

"Okay... so... how do I convince a god that I'm worthy of her time?" Rankin asked, more perplexed than ever.

"You start the same way you do when you ask Brother Lawrence for seconds, child."

And Abbott Keremor lifted his hand to the target, and spoke with a booming voice a word as ancient as the gods themselves. His whole body shook with the deep timbre of his voice, and the walls echoed with the clarity of his speech. The target was engulfed within a column of flame as high as a house, a twisting torment of fire as hot as it was divine, which dissappeared as quickly as it came. All that remained of the target was a pile of embers, glittering red. Abbott Keremor smiled.

"You ask nicely"

The Argument of Magic

"So what's it like?"

"What, magic?" The mage replied, smiling at his brother.

"Yeh." The younger one prompted. He wiped the soot from his hands on the blacksmith's apron he wore before scratching at his short beard.

"Hmm." The mage stroked his chin, and pulled his hood back.  He was young, for a wizard, and his full head of black hair was a source of some jealousy among his peers. Which caused him no end of confusion, considering they were wizards and could change their hair into, I don't know, snakes or something if they wanted.  How hard could black hair be? "Well... you know when you're having an argument?"

"Shasson, I have a wife. Yes, I am familiar with arguments." He said wryly. Shasson smiled back, and continued.

"Ok, well, when you're arguing with someone about something with which you have absolute certainty, when you're filled with the conviction of the righteous... and they suddenly come to understand you're right and shift their opinion to support you? That's what magic is like."

"Huh."

"Except you're arguing with the laws of gods and nature and physics, and you might not be right after all but you've still managed to convince everything that exists that there should be fire right here, in the palm of my hand... whether it's true or not." Shasson continued, conjuring a small orb of flame in his palm.

"Huh." The blacksmith repeated. Shasson grinned proudly at his magical prowess. His brother stared at him, unimpressed.

"I was expecting something a little more... fantastic.  Oh well. That's nice Shasson. Chicken for dinner tonight." And he turned back to his work, crafting a new set of horse shoes.

Shasson fumed behind him, lifting the flame up as though to throw it... before extinguishing it and heading in to the house, muttering about conjuring chickens of doom.