derelictwritings

[derelictwritings]

If you want to help me out, please like and share this post so that anyone who might be interested in commissioning me gets a chance to see it!

Hey everybody! Hey everybody! Hey everybody won’t you listen to meeeeeeeeee!!!

Now that I’ve got your attention with a spicy SpongeBob meme and you’ve fallen into my devious trap, I’ve got writing commissions open! Five slots are open as of right now and if you want to help but can’t commission please share this around! Need poetry or song lyrics written? I’m your guy! How about fluff for an rpg campaign or a character you play? That’s what I’m all about! Erotic fiction? Don’t tell my parents! Eulogy for a loved one? I’m sorry for your loss! Patents of nobility? I’d love to help you fake your lineage so you can become a jousting champion! Feel free to email me using the information provided on my ad, direct message me, or even use your scrying skull to send me messages through the ether!

[derelictwritings]

A guide to Sarovalia Sample Chapter IV- Commission for Stephen Sweeney

The thing I remember most about passing to the Northern Wildlands of Maristos was the sound of Faen Many-Swords’ teeth chattering all the way there. He had bundled up quite well for the most part, but I suspect that his cold Kobold blood was not intended for winter weather. Whenever I attempted to ensure his well being, he insisted that he was fine, despite being wrapped in a multitude of furs and a few blankets draped over his form. You could barely see his snout poking out from beneath all of his coverings and a ring of frost around each nostril from his snot freezing up. Vera showed little concern and seemed to be more occupied with the journey than with our new found compatriot’s well being. I asked her if she had any magic that she could lend an aid to the poor bastard lest he freeze to death, she reluctantly prepared a spell to warm him with a scowl on her face. I had no inkling of what drove her to such an ill mannered approach towards an individual who had simply offered his assistance in our travels. I thought it a bit nosey for me to ask why she held him in such contempt, however.

We came upon the town of Fallenwall. It is a small village a week’s walk north east from Wyrm’s Tooth Spire in the shadow of an ancient and broken stone tower to the north. Beyond the tower, was the shattered remains of some great wall that had been built many ages ago. By what force such a grand fortification could be shattered I cannot imagine, but when time allowed me to inspect the ruin outside of the town, I found what appeared to be immense foot shaped imprints in the earth that appeared to be nearly as old as the ruins. I shudder to think of what great horrors these indentations within the land belonged to.

Fallenwall was a secluded place always governed by its eldest member. Like many of the settlements in the Northern Half of Maristos it is populated mainly by outcasts and the descendents thereof, however, the people of this village had a tradition of fashioning masks that they wear or carry with them. Most members of the town are devotees of the god Kuro, god of Love, refugees, and outcasts. The village was the easiest passage for us into the more northern reaches of Maristos and one of the more civilized places in the north we could seek respite in. We sought to gather supplies that would aid us in our journey and were told by the members of the town to seek out their elder, Yannic.

Now, Yannic was the single most ancient looking human I had ever seen at the time. He had milky white eyes and a saggy, leathery face that had lost most of its ability to function as a means of emotional expression. The old man was quite hard of hearing and needed to hold a horn up to his one ‘good’ ear in order to hear the slightest noise, and he slurred his speech through his jowls to the point where he had to repeat himself when speaking in larger than one word phrases. His speaking voice was startlingly loud, I should point out. When meeting him for the first time, I greeted him and was responded to with a bark of ‘WHAT?’ that jostled myself, Faen, and Vera. The conversation consisted mainly of me and Vera trading off repeating phrases that Yannic would repeatedly mishear for several minutes. We would bring up ‘supplies’ and he would ask why we needed ‘some dice’. The whole affair was terribly frustrating.

At one point in our conversation, Yannic ceased to respond, though he continued to hold his hearing horn to his ear. I gently waved my hand in front of his face, snapped my fingers once or twice, and gently patted him to see if he had any awareness about him. It wasn’t until Faen approached and sniffed the old man, that we realized that he was dead. I quietly muttered ‘Shit’ to myself as we stared at the old man’s corpse that seemed frozen in time.

The next day, the town gathered about to decide who the next elder would be. There were a few older men and women amongst them. The life expectancy of this region tends to be about forty or so years old given the harsh conditions and other dangerous elements of the land. It was astonishing how long lived Yannic was, and his old age was an anomaly in the years of this village’s existence. There were two people who seemed to be the most viable and likely candidates for town elder, although, there was a slight complication. It turned out that both of these individuals, named Ezekiel and Freida, were twins. By technicality, both were eligible, however, the town was split between which was the most fit to be elder. The two of them also appeared to have somewhat of a rivalry, as well. It was clear to us that the town would not be willing to provide us with supplies until they had reached a verdict.

The villagers bickered amongst themselves for hours until they conclusion that whichever of the twins was born first was the one to be elder of Fallenwall. This was difficult seeing as anyone who was old enough to have witnessed their birth had been dead for quite some time. The simplest solution only seemed to complicate things until a tall woman bearing a blue fox mask stepped forward and bade the townsfolk to be silent. She was a cleric of Kuro, and though she did not look nearly as old as Ezekiel or Freida, she had the look of an old and wise soul. She spoke to the town saying that she had known the mother of the twins when she was alive and recanted the story of their birth to the town. At the end, she mentioned that Freida was, in fact, born approximately three hours before her brother. The bickering subsided, and the three of us wondered if choosing the leadership of Fallenwall should be based upon merit rather than age given the wisdom displayed by an individual who was not as old as their candidates. Candidates whose concern at the time seemed much more about getting one over on the other sibling. Ezekiel had branded himself a pariah for his dishonest insistence on being the eldest of the two. Liars receive no welcome in Fallenwall.

We learned that the cleric’s name was named Kirali Honst. She met with us happily, and although she seemed at first to be a stern woman, she was much more warm to our presence and happily assisted us in acquiring supplies for our journey through the wilds. We stayed with her for the next night before our journey. In her spare time, Kirali would gather with some of the other clerics of Kuro to create jewelry and ornaments to give out to the townsfolk.  They would use Amber in their wares, and they would do so quite expertly, I might add. They made due with what simple things they had access to in a frozen wasteland.

We left to traverse the wilds the next day. Kirali gave us each a an amber necklace which she had blessed to keep us warm through the cold Wildlands so long as we kept it on our person. Faen thanked her quite fervently as it seemed that Vera had used up the last of her kindness with him and was unlikely to use her magic to keep him warm in our travels again.

The Wildlands are a dangerous place for a writer such as myself to traverse alone. I’m not built for fighting or harsh conditions, but luckily I had the company of two individuals who were. It was a few days of travel before we had run into any hostile life within the Wilds. We had a number of unpleasant encounters with wolf packs in the woods. Thankfully, it only ended poorly for the wolves, and my companions seemed to have sent a message to the rest of the wilds that we were not to be trifled with. I’ll claim no credit for their bravery.

We took refuge in an ancient and abandoned courtyard one night. At its center was a stone, monolithic structure with a worn sigil marking its steeple. The weathered fencing around the yard looked well enough to be a guard against any intruders that might encroach upon our place of rest. As the hours drifted on, I was startled awake by some horrid creaking noise emanating from the earth. The frosted ground seemed to crack and give way  and our fire blew out with a single howling gust. In a panic I roused Vera andFaen from their sleep just before a multitude of emaciated hands began bursting forth from the ground. We hurriedly gathered what things we could and sprinted from what we had realized was a graveyard. The groans and screeches of the dead echoed through the night air as we ran fast as we could through the woods until we found a place where we could hear the noises no more. It is my most cherished advice that any travellers moving through the northern wilds of Maristos thoroughly inspect any places that appear to be safe for resting before making camp there.

We trembled in a huddle together for the remainder of the night before we were roused once more by a rustle in the brush. I pondered whether or not we could have been followed by the restless dead as far as we had run, but my suspicions were allayed when we rose from sleep to be greeted by a number of weapons steadily raised to our faces. These weapons were held by what appeared to be large, fur covered hunters with grim, painted faces glaring menacingly at us. Quickly, we were relieved of our weapons and supplies before being tied up and marched to a large camp of similarly dressed folk who regarded us with curious glances. I immediately recognized the bright colors and sigils as those of the Anari clans. Small bells which the Anari are famous for utilizing in their culture dangled from the dress of many of the people and their accoutrements. I took in all that I could as we were marched to a large yurt in the center of the camp. We were brought before a tall and brightly dressed woman who carried a spear and held no guards with her.

The lead hunter addressed her with deep respect and expressed his belief that we were some kind of thieves or invaders. His name was Warrick, and he seemed like a humorless sort. The woman took in the sight of us and inspected our possessions before giving us an apologetic expression and admonishing Warrick for his unwarranted suspicion. She had us untied and fed promptly. The three of us were somewhat curious as to what had led her to believe we were not her enemies. Curiously enough, it was my book of notes, Vera’s gear, and faen’s many swords that had relieved her of mistrust. She introduced herself to us as Anya, and she was the chief of clan Whitepaw of the Anari clans. She was quite familiar with the identities of both Vera and Faen, although she had not heard of me before and was simply curious about my profession as a writer. I had heard that the anari clans were welcoming towards outsiders, but I had no idea that one of their leaders would be so worldly and well read.

She begged Vera to do a performance for her. Vera was taken aback by her humility in asking rather than commanding. Anya seemed as though she was enamoured by the stories she had heard of the Halfling Spellsword’s  act. Vera, being flattered by Anya’s request happily obliged. That night, Vera performed a firedance with her sword while accompanied by music from other women of the clan. They sang in a an almost eerie chorus that rang out to the night sky while keeping the rhythm of the music with their bells. Faen seemed to enjoy the performance despite Vera’s unfriendliness to him. I still hadn’t quite grasped her qualm with him until after her performance when he had attempted to praise her for her performance and was barked at by the halfling. When he pressed her for an answer for her cruelty, she finally came out with something I did not expect. Vera, after spending some amount of time holding in her thoughts on our journey with Faen, confessed the truth of her disdain for him in a lengthy and emotional tirade. It so happens that one of Faen’s many swords on his person belonged to a dear friend of Vera’s. She was too afraid to ask him whether her friend had died by his hand or if he had simply claimed the sword in combat, but Vera suspected that her friend was dead by his hand seeing as she had not heard from them for quite some time.

This revelation came as a shock to both myself and Faen. He had no words at the time to respond and she seemed far too furious with him to accept any sort of apology or explanation either. I was left there that night as she stormed off in one direction and he trudged off in another. Needless to say I didn’t sleep well that evening. I lay awake that night wondering if my journey with these two would come to a screeching halt for, what I believe, were justifiable reason. On the contrary, we gathered our things and said our goodbyes to our new found friends amongst the Anari before setting out along a marked trail to Dimlin that had been provided to us.

We followed the safe hunting paths made by the Anari through the Wildlands to the east towards Dimlin. The Anari ensured that these paths would not come into contact with the hunting grounds of Ice Drakes that frequently prowl the wildlands of the north. As we were not a fully armed, trained, and equipped hunting part capable of felling such a creature, we greatly appreciated the kindness. So, we made our way to Dimlin. It took roughly a week of consistent travel including us stopping off at a few friendly anari camps and settlements to resupply and rest. When we finally reached the small whaling town, I stopped for a moment to behold its more rustic, modern grit in comparison to the more quaint or even ancient settlements I had visited all over Maristos.

The people of Dimlin were gruff and somewhat blunt compared to most of the other peoples of Maristos aside from Kuruk and the strangeness of Kobold society. These were hard living, hard working people who reveled in the harshness of their reality. They embraced the stone heartedness of this place where the land and sea met. The frosty climate and icy winds were inviting to these people who were quiet outcasts resigned to their lot in life. I believe that you will find outcasts all over Maristos because it is a wild and untamed place where many who are thrown from their homes find themselves in. There is a stark difference between the outcasts of Agira and those of Dimlin, however. Agira is a place where outcasts wipe their slate clean. Their past is buried and their future is assured in spite of it. In Dimlin, the pasts of those who live there for being cast out is worn as scars from battle. They are proud survivors who embrace the strengths they have been afforded by their overcoming of hardship. To live in Dimlin is to be blessed with challenges which will further strengthen them.

We made our beds at a worn down, but sturdy inn. There, we began making plans to charter a boat to take us to Urist. We found it quite difficult to do so seeing as most of the captains were either far too preoccupied with their fishing and whaling, or just completely disinterested with the prospect of travelling so far. After a few hours of being denied by a multitude of experienced and highly recommended captains, we made the acquaintance of one Fargo Bonebreaker. Fargo was a one eyed, one legged, middle aged Dwarf who fancied himself a hunter of beasts of the sea more so than a whaler. He went to extreme lengths to capture the most fearsome quarry beneath the Sea of Ice and was incredibly successful at it despite losses to his crew. He didn’t even always hunts whales specifically as there were a number of strange and terrible things his crew had hauled lifeless ot the ports of Dimlin. Still, he had a reputation for high risk, high reward hunts that were lucrative beyond measure for people of Dimlin. One hunt with Fargo and you would be set for a few years if you lived through it. He told us that he would be happy to assist us in getting to Urist provided that we joined his crew for one job.

The job was simple. A few months before we met him, Fargo had encountered a great monster just north of  Dimlin’s shores that tangled itself around his boat and stolen one of the prized great whales they had worked so hard to take down. The creature had not just stolen their quarry and left them without a thing to profit from, it had personally insulted the old captain. So, he intended to take his crew and set out to slay the beast and bring its carcass back to make up for the loss they had suffered from before. I sincerely doubted the likelihood that we would even come across such a monstrous tendrilled creature in the Sea of Ice so myself, Vera, and Faen agreed to his terms. We did it partly out of curiosity and partly out of desperation.

We set sail the next day, the icy winds bit down upon our bones even through the blessing of the amulets we were given. We could see the needle thin shoreline of the Fyorndiris Glaciers to the far north. Fargo had the boat settle and the crew unpacked a fairly large amount of bait to tempt their quarry with. We waited for hours as the boat rocked gently in the sea. Faen and myself played a few card games with the crewmen below deck as Vera stayed up above. It was far more boring than I had suspected until it began to approach the evening.

As the sun just began to set and twilight loomed over us, the boast jerked violently, knocking me out of a hammock where I napped. I heard the scream of one of the crewmen outside followed by a splash. Faen ran immediately up to the top deck to see what was the matter. I followed up to find the crew running about. Dazed by the situation, I was startled by the growling commands of Fargo as he manned the helm and one of his crewmen readied a harpoon for him. There I saw it, a mass of icy blue tendrils creeping up the sides of the boat and inching towards the sacks of bait dangling freely for it to take. I was handed a rope by one of the crewmen and I saw Faen rush to the port side and reach down. I immediately noticed that he was attempting to pull Vera up from the sides. I could see the two of them struggling with one of the beasts tendrils as it attempted to take her. It was all a blur at the ship jerked once more. Fargo had impaled one of the tendrils as it coiled around one of the masts. He let out a roaring order for his other crewmen to do the same with their harpoons.

A cascade of harpoons and hooks fell upon the beasts appendages as the crew began to heave the ropes attached to them. The head of the creature came into view as it seemed powerless against the might and ingenuity of the fully functioning organism that was this very ship and its crew. Fargo laughed as he took an untied harpoon to hand and marched to the eye of the tentacled monster whose eyes bore like fire, though its flesh glinted like ice. He roared once more as he buried the spear into his prey and the crew let out a cheer before hauling the rest of the beast aboard to be transported back home.

We lived through the ordeal, Fargo made good on his arrangement with us to ferry us to Urist, and we were even afforded a cut of the generous sum for the beast his crew had hunted down.

[derelictwritings]

A Guide to Sarovalia sample Chapter V- Commission for Stephen Sweeney

Fargo Bonebreaker had made good on his promise to deliver us to Urist and had even allowed us a stipend for our help with the great beast he had slain. It took us several weeks of sailing before we made birth at Tial, a small port town within The Runewoods region of Urist. The Runewoods are a sprawling forest eternally drenched in the bright, crisp colors of autumn. It is one of a number of provinces within The Kherois Empire, which stretches across the whole of Urist. The Runewoods are known for having a bustling, constantly busy society that is always producing, always creating things to be exported to the other regions of Urist. Tial is a moderately sized settlement that greets many who enter into Urist. Beyond the many offices, warehouses, and houses that make up this busy town, one can see the tree tops stretch infinitely into the distance. A river runs through the center of the town, The River Ris, and connects it to the capital of the province, Fenaris. Upon disembarking from the boat, a pair of armored guards stopped us in our tracks and asked that we pay a visitors fee required of all outsiders to the Empire. We paid them the small fee and were directed to the town hall in the center of Tial in order to acquire travelling papers so that we may be allowed to traverse the empire unimpeded. We soon realized that this trip would be an expensive endeavor.  I for one was incredibly grateful that Fargo had paid us at all. I doubt we would find much work suited for outsiders on Urist. Not that they gave the impression of a particularly prejudiced or xenophobic people, but a very insular and busy people that did not have time to give jobs to those outside of their society.

We made our way through the streets of Tial to the large hall in the center. The streets were abound with carts and people moving to and fro, transporting various goods and paperwork during the day. Much to do in a place like this so as to keep the town in good health and order. The people of Urist are predominantly shifters. They bear wolf, fox, cat, bear, and all manner of beast like features, but are a civilized and intelligent people. Most of the people of The Runewoods are people with small but busy lives. They often hold down multiple professions and often dabble in botany and alchemy. The crops the farm tend to themselves so as to afford them more time to be more industrious. Families in The runewoods tend to be fewer in number due to the amount of time they all spend working and growing everything around them.

When we found ourselves in the center of the town, we were confronted with a crowd of people all cramming in to the building. Each one had a number of concerns and items of business that the officials who governed this city had to attend to. We realized we would be waiting to wade through this show of imperial bureaucracy for some time. Not that I was going to complain. There were so many interesting people abound in this place, that I could scarcely count myself amongst the bored. There was a candlestick maker who was in need of a permit to expand his shop so that he could create a lab that would allow him to make fragrances. There was a smithy who sought to export his finely crafted swords to foreign lands and needed to have his wares inspected before being allowed out of the empire. He had a number of samples of his work, and though I am no swordsman or swordsmith, his craftsmanship was some of the most extravagant I have ever seen. Vera and Faen seemed just as impressed as myself. Additionally, I cannot forget the mage whose sole purpose for being there was because of an audience he had requested with the mayor of the city, which was still subject to approval, in order to make an audience with the governor’s head advisor which would allow him to meet with the governor himself in order to make a special request with his security council in order to provide fireworks for the upcoming winter solstice festival which was scheduled for eight months from next tuesday. Perhaps that was the most egregious display of inefficiency within the Kherois Empire I had witnessed at the time. Nonetheless, we persisted through the lines of people to acquire our paperwork.

The paperwork cost us nearly half of our remaining funds. Myself, Faen, and Vera all required different forms and scrolls to be signed by the magistrates in order to expedite the process as we were not merchants, foreign officials, celebrities of Urist, or otherwise important enough to have our further traversing through the country worth cheapening the price thereof. The drole and expensive affair somewhat dampened my mood from seeing and listening to so many interesting people within the town hall itself. So, with our hearts and minds now freed from the burden of convoluted paperwork, we decided to walk the streets and take in some of the sights and sounds of Tial. Needless to say, we spent our fair share within the taverns and amongst the merry folk who had been freed from their professions to cavort joyously.

Drink by drink we celebrated life amongst the Uristian peoples surrounding us, not concerned with our troubles. Faen and Vera seemed somewhat more cordial with each other. I remember drunkenly pulling Faen to the side and asking him what had occurred to make her forgive him for what she believed he had done to her dear friend. He explained that he did no harm to her friend. He fought him to first blood in a duel and lost. Her friend, for reasons unbeknownst to the Red Kobold, tossed him his sword and told him to tell the story of his glorious defeat. Vera’s friend said he was retired now and he never saw him again. Though Vera was heartbroken at her friend’s disappearance, she knew that Faen was far too prideful to tell such a self deprecating lie. I was inclined to agree.

I took in the warm earthy smells of spiced ales and whiskey’s, various pumpkin imbued breads and foods, and the sound of songs in the night. Everyone dressed in warm oranges and browns, purples and golds, cloaks and furs bouncing as people danced in the night. It all blended together as we partook in the merriment of The Runewoods. The three of us sank into a drunken blur. We awoke within in the last tavern we had stopped to visit the previous night. Our heads were sore, and I rummaged through our pure, still a little drunk mind you, to happily find that we still had enough funds to travel down The River Ris to Fenaris. I did not, in my absent mindedness, realize how little we would have left over for our journey. We took a ferry down the river once all three of us had become conscious enough to walk to the docks.

As we travelled up river to Fenaris, we could see how truly vast the oceans of forest were on either side of us. The incalculable number of orange, red, and gold leaves that cascaded down to the earth as the wind blew through the canopies flooded our senses. There was a serene luminescence about this place unlike any other place I have visited in my lifetime. To see nature encapsulated in an ever autumn shape was something I had never dreamed of. It allowed me to savor a season that, in most places of the world, is so finite or nonexistent that it fades into nothing. Urist is a place of everlasting images.

We arrived in Fenaris. The walls of the city encircled it like a coiled snake. Most cities of The Runewoods are build of concentric circles much like ancient trees whose rings encircle the oldest point. On the outside were docks, farmlands, and various gardens where the people of the city would collect materials for herbalistic and alchemical practices. Within the walls of the city, several districts of houses, markets, embassies, offices, magistrates, and barracks coalesced into a labyrinthine holding. The size of this city was intimidating to me at the time, to say the least. It rivalled nearly all of the settlements that I had encountered in Sarovalia at the time save for the city within the bones of Narokanzar near Wyrm’s Tooth Spire. Though, this city, upon our entry, seemed far less cluttered and densely packed.

All around us were Pumpkin lanterns lit with luminescent crystals. Crystals make up much of the decorations used by the Kherois Empire. They use them to light their way, heat furnaces, carve them into decorations, and make their jewelry. Crystals are mined frequently and have many properties to them which are useful to the people of Urist.

We wandered Fenaris after we had disembarked from our ferry for some time, looking for a suitable inn to make our stay at. When we had finally come to one that met our requirements as far as spaciousness and affordability, I opened our coin purse to find that we had not even half of what it would cost us to spend a single night. We were immediately in a quandary we had very little idea to solve. We took to the streets, thinking we could find jobs for ourselves. Faen and Vera could have easily made it as sellswords if the city were not so well protected by armed guards on the governor’s commission. I would have gladly found a press to write or perhaps edit for if all of them had not been family owned businesses rife with nepotism. We were destitute, broke, without a penny to our name in a city that was far removed from where any of us could comfortable call home.

We spent several days wandering the streets, attempting to not look like beggars as the guards would surely have put us away for that. Panhandling was difficult as Vera was the only one capable of doing so and not by any means inconspicuously. Such a profession no doubt required a permit of some sort in an imperial city such as Fenaris. Finally, we had some semblance of a stroke of luck working as dishwashers for a run down old bar on the southern side of the city. The southern side of Fenaris is not a particularly friendly place to find oneself. It is a place of economic disparity and criminal strife. Southern Fenaris is where good people fall through the cracks and endure the less savory parts of a civilized society governed by law and money.

While at this tavern, which mind you received its patronage from many a disreputable fellow and lass, we came across one of its regular customers. He was a well dressed Tabaxi who simply went by the name of Sleth. We had just gotten off of our shift when Sleth had decided to buy a round of drinks for everyone at the bar. Now, when I say he was a well dressed individual, I should point out that he wore fine materials but in a sort of shabby fashion unbecoming of a more lordly individual. Sleth wore his clothes as a poor man seeking to look rich would wore their finery. When he smirked, one sharpened gold tooth could be seen shining beneath his whiskers.

Sleth beckoned us to sit with him at the bar of the tavern where he ordered us all drinks and confessed that he had seen us working what he professed must have been slave wages at this establishment. He was not wrong. The Tabaxi spoke to us with a friendly tone and a whiskey smooth voice, and claimed that he had an easy albeit lucrative position for the three of us outsiders to fill. His employer, a personage who called himself The Wolf, was an art connoisseur that was in need of some extra helping hands willing to aid in his procurement of a specialty item which he had been desperately searching for to add to his collection for some several years. Sleth named a considerable sum of money which his employer was willing to offer us in exchange for our services in this matter.

Presented with the prospect of a well paying job that would likely set us up for the remainder of our time within The Runewoods, we quickly jumped at the opportunity. Faen seemed to be the only one with reservations claiming that something about Sleth and his employer itched his snout. Vera and I both told him not to worry as it was uncouth to be so suspicious of a working man’s generosity. I do not believe that you, dear reader, need be informed of the irony of our naive acceptance of this opportunity which we so blindly accepted.

We arranged to meet the other individuals tasked with acquiring the piece of art across the street from what appeared to be an old library towards the center of town. When we came upon the individuals with whom we were to be working, I grew wary about what kind of ‘help’ we were to be providing them with. The two Shifters, one bearing the features of a wolf while the other seemed to have more coyote features, wore dark cloaks that clearly were intended to hide a number of weapons on their person that became more obvious when closer to them. The one walf-like shifter bore a few facial scars. The pair of them looked exceedingly aggressive, and they told us that they would be entering the library to go about their work. They acted as though we knew precisely what we were supposed to do and had us wait outside of the library. There was a series of not so subtle implications about our employers that began to come together. There was clattering and clamouring to be heard from behind the windows and walls of the library, and the three of us became terribly worried that we may have enabled criminal activity that we could not walk away from without a guilty conscious.

So, we did the opposite of what our employer likely intended for us to do and called the guard to the aid of whomever was being accosted by our wouldbe coworkers. The armored guards charged into the library as we stood by and watched, not wanting to get involved due to a fear of further aggravating the situation. The two ruffians were hauled out of the library in chains by the guards. They spat and cursed and did all manner of struggling, but to no avail. Vera went in and found an elderly Longtooth Shifter sitting and tending to some minor injuries he had received from the two mercenaries. Faen and I followed. We inquired as to the old gentleman’s wellbeing and apologized profusely for the violence we had not realized was being wrought upon him. He seemed terribly mistrustful of us at first. He came around to understanding that our involvement in this particular scenario was clearly a misunderstanding brought on by a lack of knowledge as to who or what we were dealing with. He introduced himself as Savith Istafan. This library was where he did much of his scholarly pursuits. Savith, I realized at the time, was also a travelling storyteller who had a reputation for his works. I myself was, and still am, a bit of an admirer of his.

It took some time for us all to settle after such a jarring affair, but the old man seemed to be quite forgiving of our blunders. He too was young and naive when he had his first adventures as a traveller. He could not rebuke us for making similar mistakes that he had made all those years ago. Savith took some level of pity on us and our situation and offered to let us stay within his library so long as we did not take advantage of his hospitality. In the morning he did wish for all of us to make our way to the nearest guard precinct in order to make a statement and hopefully deal with the aftermath of what had occured. We stayed up late that night telling stories about the misadventures myself, Vera, and Faen had gone through. I told him of the places I had visited in Maristors, and he told us of his own tales.

The next morning, the four of us left to visit the city guard and tell them the whole story of what had occurred and how we had come to meet the broker working for The Wolf. The guards were familiar with the misdeeds of Sleth and his mercenaries, and they admitted that The Wolf was oft times both a problem as well as a benefactor for the city for many years. Many claimed to represent him though no one had ever really seen him. The governor had many failed attempts to both punish The Wolf for breaking the law and reward him for great acts of charity performed for the city. This mysterious figure was quite tough to deal with let alone apprehend, however, those that represented him were often caught. We struck a bargain with the guards. They did not threaten to jail us for our involvement in the attempted robbery of Savith’s library, however, they wished for our aid in Sleth’s capture.

We agreed to help locate him and set up a meeting that would allow for the guard to arrest him. Once more we went to the tavern of ill repute where we had previously met him and left a message with the bar keep in order to make contact with the slimy Tabaxi. The message gave a time and place down the block where we would meet and discuss the job which we had failed to complete. We made the statement that we offered the most sincere of apologies and wished to make up for our failure in any way possible. He took the note and the last of our coin as a bribe to pass it along. At that point we had but to inform the city guard and wait in position for the broker to arrive and meet with us.

Arrive he did and he brought two very large, very mean looking, and very armed mercenaries along with him. It as late at night and all that lit the way were the pumpkin lamp lights lining the city streets above us. Normally they were beautiful and festive, but in this particular circumstance we found the lights to be an uncomfortable addition to the already sinister visage of Sleth and his thugs. Sleth demanded we explain and gave us a very short amount of time to do so. Unbeknownst to him, a dozen guards were hiding about the perimeter waiting for the appropriate moment to ambush him and his men. I grew nervous as I stammered through excuses. Vera and faen both began reaching for weapons. Sleth’s eyes narrowed with scrutiny and frustration. One of his goons picked his nose absentmindedly.

The guard sprung their trap just as Sleth was about to give the order to have his men overtake us. It was not a moment too soon, but I sincerely wish that they had done so sooner, as my lungs felt as though they were trying to scamper out of my mouth and run down the street. Sleth nearly escaped as his two henchmen were easily overwhelmed and subdued as the point of twelve well sharpened swords. He made it around the block before his cloak was caught on the end of a cart which gave way and knocked him flat on his rear. Served the bastard right. The guards took him and his men in and we waved goodbye to our former employer, but did not feel relieved at his ominous warnings of what became of those who crossed The Wolf and those who served him.

We returned to Savith’s library and informed him that justice had been duly served to the individual responsible for his assault. He was happy to hear the news, but seemed somewhat agitated by Sleth’s warnings of recompense being sought out by The Wolf. Savith, seeming to take yet more pity on us for our current predicament offered us a generous sum of money as reward for aiding him. Normally, I would have refused such a large reward, but in this situation we had found ourselves, I find that the old adage ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ rang deafeningly true. Savith told us it was unlikely that he would find much trouble with The Wolf. It was unlikely that he would attempt to prey upon a mark twice. He cautioned us that it was unlikely that we had heard the last from the mastermind.

We stayed one more night with Savith as we plotted out our journey east to the Greenlands. Vera and Faen seemed to sleep soundly enough, while I myself felt to nervous at the prospect of dealing with whatever wrath a well established rogue such as The Wolf would have in store for us.

[derelictwritings]

A Guide to Sarovalia Sample chapter VII- Commission for Stephen Sweeney

I am not a hateful man. It is not common for me to look at another creature and say with seriousness that I hold them in contempt. With that said, I hate Gnolls with a deep and unfettered passion like no other. You could say that I hate Gnolls almost as much as I love storytelling. To truly grasp what brings about this sentiment of loathing to an entire caste of people on this good earth, if one could call such creatures people, I will regale you with the misadventures of our small company in the Skazashi desert.

It started on our travel route from the Greenlands into the heart of the Skazashi desert where most of the civilization there lay. While in Rikivo, we encountered and befriended a young catlike shifter by the name of Misko. He was a small, chatty fellow only a few inches taller than Vera who travelled as a merchant for the Vittani Caravan. The Vittani are a wildly successful group of merchants known throughout the Kherios Empire and based out of Skazashi. Misko, despite his age and size was one of the most capable of the merchants within their company. We spoke with Misko and he agreed to let us travel with the caravan through Skazashi. He cited that Skazashi is vast and dangerous to traverse alone. We would be better off sticking together. Vera and Faen offered to help keep the caravan guarded and I offered to entertain them with my stories while on our journey. It was only fair that we pitch in to make the journey go more smoothly given that Misko did not require us to pay for our traveling with them.

We travelled out of The Greenlands and were met with the vastness of Skazashi. We looked out upon the horizon before us and saw nothing but sand for miles and miles on end. In the distance we could barely make out the shapes of mountain ranges reaching out from the dunes to meet the heavens. It was beautiful, golden saturated earth that seemed to dance softly in the winds. Many like to think that deserts are dead, horrid places where nothing grows and nothing thrives, but I love the desert. A desert is a place of mystery and serenity. It blazes during the day and freezes at night. To me a desert is the earth’s very embodiment of passion. It has no in between. We travelled the roads for days, trying to keep cool when the sun was high, and holding close to bonfires at night when the moon rose. The sandstone roads were hard to pick out at times due to the dunes shifting and changing shape almost constantly. Thankfully, our caravan was being led by expert navigators who knew the area like the backs of their paws. We didn’t have much trouble making our way, at first.

A few days into our journey, our navigators began to lose track of where we were going. The vastness of the desert began catching up to us as we became more and more removed from any signs of civilization. There was a hushed agitation amongst all of the caravaners for a time, but the panic began to grow louder as it seemed less and less like we knew where we were going. It took a few days wandering the sands before our navigators admitted they were lost. They had taken a wrong turn, and while there may not be many obstructions in the dunes of skazashi, the shear uniformity of the desert can cause one to lose themself in it all. Unfortunately, the slightest mistake can leave even the most expert navigators stranded.

Three days we were lost in the desert, trying to chase any sign of direction we could day and night. The panic made us thirsty and hungry beyond measure. We were beginning to fear the worst had befallen us. Unfortunately, we couldn’t have been more wrong. We had made camp one night and had begun to rest. Our food reserves were running low, so most of us were exhausted from using so much of our energy travelling during the day. It was at this point we began to hear strange noises in the night. Most within the caravans dismissed them as whistling in the wind. The guards of the caravan were not alert enough to realize that it was not whistling but call outs being made in the night air. The noises grew louder and louder until it was clear that the shrill chattering was the crying out of Gnolls making ready for an attack.

We were all roused from our sleep when the chattering grew loudest. The Gnolls didn’t seek to attack us unaware. They wanted us to feel fear. They wanted us to panic and be disorganized for when they finally struck. Partly for strategy, partly for their own amusement. The chattering wasn’t the most horrifying part of that night, it was when the chattering stopped. The long silence that fell over our camp as the sand being swept up from the dunes and shallow breathing were all that one could hear. We waited several moments, hoping that we had imagined the violent cries of the night. We were wrong, and the Gnolls descended upon us from the dunes like the Hyenas they were.

Arrows flew, clubs and swords were swung, and people were dragged away kicking and screaming. A few of the Gnolls fell, but for every one that fell, ten men were hauled away. We were outplayed, outnumbered and too steeped in our own fear to think rationally. I remember being tied and dragged across the sand after taking a blunt strike to the head. I faded in and out of consciousness for hours. When I finally came to, it was because the earth I was being dragged along became more firm and rigid. The sun was high and it must have been hours after the attack. I looked around. My body was sore. I tasted blood in my mouth. I could make out the feint shapes of Faen and Vera alongside me as we were being taken through what appeared to be a desert canyon. The Gnoll clutching the rope I was being carried with looked back and smiled devilishly as he noticed that I was awake.

It wasn’t long after that we found ourselves tied to posts within a Gnoll encampment. The creatures inspected us and gave us food and water. It was not an act of compassion. They clearly saw us as being underfed from wandering and were eager to fatten us up over time so that we were fit for eating. The food we gave us was thick grool that they must have made from plant scraps and whatever bland materials they could muster without digging into their own food supplies. The water they gave us had an odd taste to it. After drinking it, I felt myself grow tired and dazed rather than replenished. It was laced with some kind of poison compound that would not kill us, but would keep us from trying anything to fight back. This sickening game went on for several days. They needed to be sure we were ready for whatever feast they had planned. There was one large Gnoll who appeared to be some sort of chieftain to this hunting party. He wore pelts, scalps, and trophies all over his scrappy leather armor and looked far more battle hardened than any of the other Gnolls in the tribe.

It is fortunate that I am not writing this book to you, dear reader, from within the belly of a Gnoll. Our escape from the ghastly fate that awaited us was luck of the highest caliber. One night I noticed a figure watching us from the ridges above where we were being kept. I strained my eyes to see who or what it was, but I was unable to discern any details. It wasn’t until a guard came into our penn to check on us and was struck down with an arrow that I knew we had likely just been visited by an ally of some sort. The figure descended to our posts and I could see in the light of the torch dropped by the guard that it was a tall, lithe Tabaxi. Her fur was black and shined in the moonlight. Her sharp eyes were a shimmering green. She pulled a knife from her cloak and began cutting us free from our posts without saying a word. Before I could thank her, she raised a finger to my lips and gave me a serious look. I knew to say nothing.

We started to make our way out of the penn and commandeered a few weapons our captors had carelessly left lying around, likely not expecting a break out. I was so full of adrenaline and the desire to escape that I eagerly joined Vera and Faen in combat. We were tired and delirious. By all rights we should’ve lost that fight, but we showed them a fervent desire to live with our viciousness that their arrogance caused them to overlook. Hunger and cruelty drove them. Freedom and life drove us. In the midst of the fight, the Tabaxi was firing arrows at Gnolls left and right. A handful of Tabaxi leapt down into the fray to our aid along with the woman. They brought more refined weapons to the fight and slew our enemy with righteous fury.

At the far end of the encampment, Faen had ran to meet the chieftain of the Gnoll tribe. The chieftain drew a Khopesh sharp as night. Faen brandished the rudimentary bone sword he had picked up with expert dexterity. He showed no fear in the face of his opponent who was significantly larger than him and seemed far more brutal and cruel. The two figures clashed in the light of the camp’s bonfire. Faen’s sword was far less impressive looking but it was all that he needed. He disarmed the chieftain. The chieftain bore his claws and snarled, seeking to charge the Kobold, but his attempt was foolish and left him wide open for the more experienced fighter. Faen smote the chieftain’s head clean from his body before he could lay a scratch on him. With the chief dead and his tribe driven out or dead, the fight was won. Faen claimed the Chief’s Khopesh for his collection, we gathered our things that had been stripped from us upon capture, and we met with the Tabaxi and her hunting party.

Sidda of Clan Sina was the identity of the Tabaxi who was responsible for our liberation. Her hunting party had been tracking the activities of the Gnoll tribe which we had been captured by and waited for an opportune moment for them to rescue us from being eaten by them. Sidda was a somewhat boastful and arrogant sort, but in a playful way. Her demeanor did not detract from how grateful we were to her and her hunting party for their help. It was incredibly fortuitous that we had been rescued by them when we were as it was likely that we were on the way to being eaten. We salvaged what supplies we could from the encampment of the Gnoll tribe and began making our way out of the canyon back into the desert. Unfortunately, all of the goods which Misko had intended to make profit off of had been ransacked by the Gnolls. Sidda offered to help us find our way to Naravir, the largest settlement of Skazashi, and by sheer happenstance, the nearest one to where we were at the time.

After gathering up what we could, we began our journey North West to Naravir. It took a few more days of trekking across the sands before we glimpsed the city in the distance. It was a veritable palette of color contrasting the golden hues of the Skazashi desert. The buildings themselves were large wood and clay huts that were accented with multicolored awnings woven from thick fabrics. Large tents sewn out of bright patterns speckled the city. The sides of the buildings were painted with elaborate, almost abstract paintings. In the center of the city was a large oasis. At the front gates of Naravir were two large statues of Tabaxi. One held a crystal sun in their hands while the other held a crystal moon. The sun shined down through the crystals and illuminated the desert with prismatic colors that bounced and bounded about the sands.

There was a grand trade festival happening in Naravir when we arrived. We parted ways with Sidda and thanked her once again for saving our lives, but we stayed with Misko and attempted to console him. He was terribly distraught about the state of his reputation amongst the other merchants now that he had effectively been robbed by Gnolls, something that happens to everyone, but still bore a level of shame in the merchant community. We sought out drinks and merriment and offered to pay for Misko so that he might forget his troubles. He was somewhat embarrassed, but thankful for our generosity and kindness. In the end he knew that eventually things would work themselves out and he would be back on his feet and in the good graces of the Vittani Caravan. They would be more reasonable than his fears would allow him to believe. We made sure that he came to that conclusion.

While wandering the streets of Naravir, we witnessed how alive with music, color, sweet smells, boisterous performances, and fine wares they were. Blacksmiths held competitions for who could craft the sharpest swords and strongest armor. Cooks prepared outrageous feasts that stretched across lengths of multiple long tables which people could sample from. Exotic crops from Sinatir, the second largest settlement in the province hung in windows for people to browse. The smell of spices from that city flooded the air. The Tabaxi make up the vast majority of the people in Skazashi. They’re an interesting people to observe as much of their communication is through non verbal tics and expressions. Their tails flick and ears swivel in accordance with mood, tone, and context of their speech. Often times, one who is not familiar with their forms of communication will be confused by the behavior they exhibit. A tabaxi saying hello might say it with the way their ears move or the speed at which they blink their eyes. It makes watching them in their own homeland fascinating as they are a people who are deeply intimate in ways one might not fully grasp.

We continued to wander the streets and see the sights the city had to offer. I noticed Vera seemed aloof. She seemed to notice something that caught her attention and would not let go. Though, her expression suggested that she was unsure of what had captivated her so. Before I could ask her what was amiss, she ran off into the crowd. Faen and I searched for her and called out to her as best we could, but could not find her in the ocean of Tabaxi which were at least double her stature. It wasn’t until we had pushed through the crowd that we found her talking to what appeared to be a human blacksmith dressed in very utilitarian clothes. He had a silk scarf wrapped about his head and a few scars on his face. He was young looking, but his demeanor was like that of a veteran who had seen much of the world and experienced enough good and bad things to have a wise and impartial outlook on life.

We approached the two of them and I caught a glimpse of a somewhat flustered look on Faen’s face. The man looked in our direction and seemed to recognize Faen as well. It took me some time to grasp what exactly was happening, but it became clear when Vera rushed to introduce me to her friend and not Faen. His name was Corvic Vantinos, and he was the very friend who had disappeared after defeating Faen in single combat some several months back. Faen and Corvic had a very tense reunion. Corvic was not unfriendly, but Faen seemed incredibly flustered when confronted with the one and only man who had ever defeated him in one on one combat. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that in our travels I witness him be bested by a multitude of foes including the Gnolls we had encountered several nights ago.

Corvic offered to take us all to dinner that night. He and Vera wished to catch up, and in the few minutes we had lost her she had already revealed that I was a storyteller. Although, I admit that she may have embellished the importance and skill of my works. I regaled Corvic with stories of how we had reached Skazashi and the many trials and tribulations which we had endured in our travels. Corvis seemed somewhat flabbergasted by what I had to say to him, and where it not for the fact that I claimed only to be a coward throughout it all, he may not have believed me. We dined on fine Skazashi wine and ate various spiced meats and vegetables as we talked. Corvic seemed almost wistful about adventuring. Retired life seemed to suit him well, though. He had been living amongst the Tabaxi in Skazashi for well over two years now. He had learned much of their customs and made a name for himself as a capable blacksmith. For him, it was time to make swords and shields for other adventurers to forge their own paths with. It was the end of his days slaying beasts and fighting wars. He never fancied himself a teacher, so he did what he could to pass on something for a new generation. I could see that Vera did not feel overjoyed by his outlook. It was hard for me to blame her. He was someone she idolized and respected that had given up the path she sought after at a much younger age than most do. Vera said a sorrowful goodbye to Corvic and we turned in for the last night of our stay within Naravir. The next day we were to travel to Jaz’kir for a much more quiet and relaxed conclusion to our stay within Skazashi. Our journey there was luckily more pleasant and uneventful than our journey to Naravir. We saw the sun rise over Skazashi without fear of Gnolls or bandits as we travelled with a much larger, better guarded caravan this time. The plateaus and mountains in the distance glittered in the scorching sun as it shined through the crystals that sprouted from them.

We arrived in Jaz’kir after another week’s worth of travel. The oasis town was much smaller, much quieter. Vera seemed dejected the entire journey there, but I did not seek to pry into why she had been so dour during our travels. Part of me knew exactly why. Part of me wondered why she had not simply been happy for an old friend who had made his peace with what and who he wanted to be in the world. We partook in the many activities Jaz’kir had to offer. It was much calmer in terms of recreation than Naravir. We spent much of the time looking out into the mirror sea with hookah pipes sitting with us. In it we had Blue Nepeta Lethe, a commonly smoked herb amongst the people of Skazashi that induced a mild state of euphoria. As we watched the sea, I could tell that all the laughing and jokes that we were telling weren’t really getting through to Vera. Although she put on the facade that she was amused, she could not hide the deep sadness that she was feeling at the time. I finally drammeled up the courage to ask what was wrong, and her answer was different than I had expected, but no less saddening to hear.

She said that all stories come to an end. It was something that she as well as I knew as storytellers. One cannot escape an ending to the narrative no matter what they do. It can be happy or it can be sad, It can be heroic or it can be tragic, but at the end of the day it is an end. As much as she wanted to believe in new beginnings, seeing Corvic for that time in Naravir did not do anything but bring her sorrow. I told her that endings are a beautiful thing. I told her that she should know as well as I that endings are what give the journey meaning. She shook her head with a tear rolling down her cheek as she told me the truth. She told me that the real reason why Corvic had retired was because he was dying. There was no healer or Cleric alive who could help him and that he had chosen to live out the remainder of his days without adventure is what broke her heart the most.

[derelictwritings]

Verdisola Noir- Commission for Matt Austin

At the precipice of the great city of Verdisola, an opulent party takes place. Lanterns burn bright and gold against the silver light of the moon which dances upon the sea. The canals of the great city are packed tightly with gondolas carrying eager party goers. Already they are wiping elven wine and exotic drinks from their chins as they prepare for the festivities before them. These wealthy and carefree individuals of varying walks of life adorn themselves with brightly colored silks and linens in the latest fashions. They make coy remarks to competitors from behind extravagant masks they hold up to their faces, and flirt with would be lovers. They marvel at the sights and sounds of this party as they enter the crowded courtyard of the lavish estate hosting them. Entertainers of various talents, some flashy and loud while others sensuous and distracting, stand atop platforms amidst the crowds of onlookers. They dance, spit fire from their mouths, and make bright and colorful displays of magical splendor. Gamblers laugh drunkenly as their admirers hang over them. Musicians try frantically to keep up with all of the noise by producing jaunty melodies to which those sober enough to dance sway happily. Debauchery and revelry abound fills the air on this most auspicious of nights.

A darkly clad man stands above the scene in a balcony. Salvino Gemina is his name. He fiddles with expertly crafted rings outfitted with star bright jewels upon his fingers. Well groomed and adorned with jewelry befitting his station, he watches his little kingdom within the city very intently. Most specifically, he eyes the subject of this jovial gathering with serious intensity. His son, Argenio Gemina, has come of age. This is the son’s great and grandiose jubilee to mark his ascension within his family. The man hopes fervently that his son will not make too much of a fool of himself. He knows the boy’s weaknesses better than anyone else. Though he agreed to this marvelous celebration, he did not do so without reservations. This is a dignified gathering wherein his son could very well allow his arrogance to overtake his conscience. The wine would not help. Still, the man believed this to be an excellent opportunity to breed comfort within the hearts and minds of his veritable cadre of business associates. The family had made it this far on business bothe illicit and otherwise which allowed them to afford such gatherings at menial cost to their wealth. Maintaining ties with the city’s elite through social gatherings was essential, but bears far more risks than most would suspect. It’s not hard for drunken associates to find ways to insult and demean each other at an event like this. It is a delicate balance to maintain.

At the edge of the courtyard, an unforeseen problem was brewing for the lord of the household. A young, prolific merchant timidly stands amongst a group of attendees. He adjusts the spectacles on his face and brushes his dark hair from his face nervously. One of the guests stumbles and spills wine upon his silken robe, which he feebly brushes at with exasperation. They make patronizing remarks at him as his attire, though regal and appropriate to his station, as he is a foreigner. Despite his powerful position and wealth, his apparent lack of conforming fashion sense makes him a target for the egregiously self assured. The merchant has had his fill of this charade and he steps away from the gaggle of gibbering pedants to find a more refreshing spot within the grounds of the estate. He circumvents the dense crowd of dancing and hollering folk. He finds himself within the bosom of a small corner off to the side of the courtyard where the noisy clamour of the party is but a muffle against the trickling of a finely crafted fountain. Where he is, there is little light save for the candlelight emanating from the windows of the estate around him and the beams of silver light showering down from the full moon high in the night sky.

The foreign merchant dips his fingers into the cool waters of the fountain to rinse away the sticky residue of the wine that had been spilled on him. His ears perked up at the faint sound of crunching gravel behind him that interrupted the near silence of the small garden. He glanced around nervously for a moment before sighing with relief and grasping the stone of the fountain to make himself comfortable. Just as he sits down, another crunch alerting him to the presence of another individual echoes softly through the little garden. He looks up again, this time he is sure someone is there and he timidly regards the silence.

“H-hello?”  he says, stammering as he half starts to stand from his seat. “Is someone there?” Silence. The moments drag on as he tries to adjust his eyes to the dim light of the unpopulated place within the estate. The merchant jumps and lets out a feeble shriek as he hears a tiny, but shrill noise next to him. His eyes dart to the spot on the ground next to his seat on the fountain where a purring cat cocks its head. He notices the small bell affixed to the cat’s collar and grimaces at his apparent cowardice. He reaches down to pet the small creature and it accepts his tribute of attention gleefully.

“You scared me little friend.” He says quietly. The cat enjoys the affection for a few moments before scrunching into itself in distress and darting off into a far corner. The merchant, confused at the sudden change in the creature’s demeanor stands and watches after it. He frowns at the lack of company and begins to notice the chill that starts to fill the air. He feels his skin contract against the cold and his hairs begin to rise in response. His breath condenses and he watches it puff out of his mouth in small plumes. His brow furrows as he thinks to himself how odd this is considering that it was a warm spring night only a few moments ago. He hears another noise from the walkway which he had entered the garden from. This time it is the the sound of cracking glass creeping along the walls. He squints in the dim light to see a shadow rising against the wall from around the corner.

“Who’s there?!” He shouts aloud. He sees a shadowy figure come into view and stumbles backward, almost falling into the fountain before catching his balance briefly. Before he can fully react to the figure approaching, he is flung back into the heart of the fountain. A torrent of frostbitten air surges forward and strikes him. He is unable to move, though his body makes every effort to struggle. He wants to scream, but his cries are muffled by shivering muscles unable to act upon the instincts thrashing about within his mind. Icicles painfully begin to jut out from his flash as the water freezes around him, entombing him in place within the center of the fountain. His eyes grow dark as he watches the figure slowly walk forward. Tendrils of icy wind extend out from the figure’s hands as they inspect their work. One last gasp of cold, dry air heaved out of the merchant as he desperately stretches forth his hand to plead for mercy from his assailant. His arm freezes in place, his sight goes black, and he is silent. An icicle spackled statue laying as proof of a ghastly job well done.

The party resumes throughout the night. Not a soul traverses through the small garden wherein one of its guests has just left from this mortal coil. They laugh, they sing, they dance, and they make merry in celebration of the young man for whom they came here for. All the while, they do not suspect a thing has gone amiss. For who would possibly notice the absence of a foreign merchant during such a grand affair?

The sun rises over the canals or Verdiscola. Party goers who long overstayed their welcome at the lord’s estate trudge out into the streets in search of their homes in the hopes that those whom they have left, be it lovers, spouses, or children did not miss them too terribly. The groundskeeper of the estate looks out at the wasteland of refuse left behind from the gathering with a grimace upon his aged face. He is not pleased by the workload set before him, but he will do his work diligently and without complaint, at least not to his lord’s face. He grabs his tools and begins scraping up the debris from the large courtyard of the estate. His feet crunch down on broken bottles and glasses. He hurls buckets of water out upon the stone floor of the courtyard to wash away the wine and the vomit. He scrubs away at the statues that have been marred by the party goers. The groundskeeper’s limbs and joints ache as he performs the work that he has been performing for decades.

After some few hours pass, the courtyard is spotless. A true credit to the old man’s efficiency and reputation within the household as a great cleaner of many things. His pride in his work is what allows him to arise early in the morning and make ready the most filthy places for a shining new day. However, he is a thorough man in all things, and he knows his work is not yet done until he has combed every inch of the estate in search of rubbish in need of disposing. Much to the ancient and wizened caretaker’s chagrin, he finds himself within a small garden tucked away from the main courtyard. The space was far too small for the party guests to make proper use of it in their quest for debauchery. However, this allows for it to be the perfect spot for a murder to be committed.

The old man grumbles to himself as he approaches the fountain at the center of the garden, noticing only that there was a mess to be cleaned up and not that there is a corpse frozen in the center of it. The mass of jagged ice clustered together drips slightly as the warm spring air slowly but surely eats away at it. The old man believes this to be an elaborate prank casted by some recklessly drunk studier of mysticism. He props up a small stepping ladder and reaches for a chisel to begin chipping away at the chunks of ice attached to the fountain’s cherub statue. As he begins hacking at the ice, he gasps and nearly falls off of his perch. He spies the face of a man contorted with fear barely protruding from the ice. Pale, frosted over, and crystalline, the image of the face and his outstretched hand is now clearly visible to the old caretaker. He screams aloud, startling the birds perched all around him.

The old caretaker bolts out of the garden in search of the estate’s master. He calls for him frantically and finds him in the tea room of the main hall of the estate. Lord Gemina is clearly not amused by the sudden outburst of noise this early in the morning. He rises with a stern expression upon his face to scold the caretaker for his impertinence.

“What is the meaning of this clamor!” He barks.

“My lord! There is a corpse frozen to the fountain in the garden!”

The old caretaker hurries with his master over to the garden where he found the corpse of the merchant. The lord snaps his fingers and two armed and armored guards follow him without hesitancy. They round the corner and find the garden. Salvino approaches the scene slowly with guards in tow. As the lord of the household more closely inspects the remains, his eyes go wide. He instantly recognizes the face of the foreigner whom he had personally invited to his son’s party. Salvino looks to one of his guards to give command.

“Fetch me the Malleus Maleficarum at once! I want to speak with Ardito Tovoli immediately!”

Simon Allegro, a cleric of humble appearance, kneels before a statue within a tiny chapel in one of the poorer districts of Verdisola. The chapel might be confused by some for a tomb. It is dimly lit and clearly in some kind of underground structure. More reminiscent of a cellar or a mausoleum than a shrine to a god. Simon’s clothing is plain with dull colors and the brightest object he has on his person is the medallion of a star and hammer hanging off of his belt. The statue is of a gaunt, robed woman with her hands stretched out on either side of her sits before him. It is set alight by a halo of red candles hanging above her. The woman is Pharasma, the goddess of death, birth, and the judgement of souls. She is the goddess to whom Simon has dedicated himself. He clutches his holy symbol to his head as he meditates upon his past actions. The holy symbol he grasps within his hand is a whippoorwill. It’s cast from iron and has ruby red eyes. A grey ribbon hangs from a branch clutched between the bird’s talons. As he sits there, muttering prayer to himself in an ancient tongue deemed holy by his patron goddess.

He stands and moves over to a table in the chapel wherein sacred texts have been neatly stacked and rowed. He pulls out one of the texts and begins pouring through them. Soaking in the words as he contemplates to himself what they mean and how he can best use their wisdom. He asks himself what he can do to better serve his goddess. He asks himself how he can prevent himself from committing more sins or making more mistakes. He asks himself if he can be forgiven for this most recent sin, or if it is forever burned into his soul. A mark of shame which he will carry with him from this life to the next.

As he turns the pages, his mind wanders to his last case, the very subject of his remorse. He thinks of the perpetrator whom he and his partner had chased across rooftops to apprehend. He remembers the poor halfling bastard sprinting away and panting. He was guilty of the crime, there was no doubt in Simon or his partner’s mind. Still, there was an animal desperation to the killer they chased which made him that much more pitiful. Simon and his partner knew his motive for doing it. A last ditch effort to prevent a blackmailer from ruining his sister’s life for good. A man taking the law into his own hands, is a man who is breaking that same law. As such, he had to be caught, and the magical nature of his crime dictated that it was the Malleus Maleficarum who would be the ones to do it. However, Simon did not doubt the justness of their pursuit. What disconcerted Simon, was the results of their investigation. The halfling led them on a chase across the rooftops of Verdisola. They ran for what seemed like hours before catching up to him at a dead end. When confronted finally, the criminal decided to take his chances and fight back.He was tricky, no match for Simon and his partner, but tricky. He managed to evade Simon’s partner and injure Simon, but Simon caught on quickly and delivered a punishing slash with one of his daggers. Unfortunately, Simon miscalculated the attack and killed the perpetrator instantly.

To the precinct, it was an act of self defense. There was nothing simon could have done, and they did not reprimand him. To Simon, he had just ended a life. Perhaps it was not the most noble or honorable life, but it was a life nonetheless. Normally, he was efficient in wounding to subdue a criminal without killing outright. Even if the wound was serious, he always gave himself enough time to stabilize his targets. Not this time. This time he had ended the life of someone who likely did not deserve it. The law will not recognize that as a crime, but he will and it will take him a great deal of penance before he would forgive himself for what he had done.

The priest of the temple approaches Simon. He is an elf of some maturity and carries himself with dignity to match his experience and station. His long, grey and red robes bare the same humble stitching that Simon’s does, though he is not a grave cleric. Simon turns to meet him and gives a nod with a slight bow as a show of respect.

“Father Arturo,” he says with reverence.

“Simon, this is the eighth time this week that you have visited. Surely, by now, you must be tired of conversing with Lady Pharasma instead of fulfilling her will out in the world,” the priest says.

“My penance cannot come over night, Father.” Simon closes the book from which he is reading and directs his full attention to Father Arturo.

“No penance is easily found, my child, but true penance lies in service, not prayer. The Lady Pharasma has much that she requires of her servants. The least of which is sitting in a chapel begging for her good graces. Her approval is earned, not asked for.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, I cannot see myself as a worthy servant. A man’s blood is on my hands. He was not an innocent man, but he was not evil, either. He deserved a fair trial and to serve out a sentence.”

“Ah, so it is forgiveness of the self that you require, not The Lady’s forgiveness.” The priest gives a knowing nod to the Cleric.

“Your assessment is more accurate than I could have hoped for, father,” Simon says with a grimace upon his face.

“I have been in this business for some time, Simon. Give an old elf some credit,” the priest says. Simon is tempted to show a chuckle or at least a slight smile in response, but still feels himself undeserving of the comfort. He nods once more to the priest.

“Thank you, Father.” Simon gathers himself and walks to the entrance of the small chapel.

“Simon, my child!” The priest grabs Simon’s attention once more before he exits. “Do not let guilt stop you from doing what good you can in this world. The city needs what good it can get.” To that, Simon nods again and pushes through the heavy wooden door of the chapel.

Sunlight hits the cleric’s eyes as he begins ascending steps out of the small temple dug into the center of one of Verdisola’s few graveyards. He briefly greets the gravekeeper and the two of them exchange tobacco to set ablaze in their respective pipes before Simon moves on. Walking through Verdisola to his small abode, Simon watches faces pass him by. The elderly, the poor, the nefarious, the innocent. He sees them all walking along the dingier canals of the city. He averts his gaze from most of them, but they notice him full well. He carries himself like a man of the law, though he believes in his mind that they see the guilt staining him like the blood of the man he had sought to bring to justice. His mind screamed at him that he was no more a protector to these people than the very darkest elements of the city which he swore an oath to dismantle.

Simon finally reaches the small flat within the city which he calls his own. It is a simple home befitting a man of the cloth. A few plants line the windows looking out onto the bustling docks. The floorboards and walls are clean but plain save for a few holy symbols. Simon sets the kettle on and begins stewing up his lunch while he watches life pass by outside. He attempts to take his mind off of the myriad of unpleasant thoughts by reading through one of his few more luxurious possessions, a collection of classical works by a favorite poet of his. After a time he sits down to tea and a simple lunch. He basks in the quiet for some time before a knock at his door interrupts it.

Simon approaches his door and opens to find no one there until he looks down to find a small, blue feathered finch clutching a rolled message within its beak. He crouches and stretches out a finger for the bird to hop on to. The creature happily perches itself upon his finger and he relieves it of the message. With one hand, he unfurls the little note.

Simon Allegro, Cleric of the Malleus Maleficarum,

Your leave of absence is now ended and you are to report to Malleus Maleficarum Headquarters immediately.

With regards,

Ardito Tovoli

Simon sighs and places the note in his pocket. He turns his attention to the bird resting upon his finger and the creature cocks its head to the side curiously.

“Is that all?” Simon says to the Finch messenger. The bird cocks its head to the opposite side. It appears to be waiting for something. “Right,” Simon says to himself. He walks over to the cooking space within his flat and reaches into a small vase. He pulls from it a handful of feed for the bird which it happily nips at until satisfaction is reached and flies away. Simon then begins gathering his things and makes his way to the Malleus Maleficarum Headquarters.

“And then he says to me ‘Oi! Yer not a detective are ye?’ To which I reply ‘Depends on whether or not those are your smuggled drake’s eggs, my friend!’” A tall elf stands upon the center table of a tavern as he addresses a small gaggle of admirers who heartily laugh at the punchline to one of his many stories he has been telling all morning. The elf holds a goblet of wine in his left hand while tipping his cornered hat to the crowd with his other. He is dressed in yellow finery of the latest fashions lined with cream colored fur and has the patrons of the tavern enthralled with his performance of simple anecdotes that most would struggle to make remotely intriguing.

His name is Sylverain Furivel and he commands attention with ease. They are so thoroughly entertained by his ability to weave a tale, they forget the small silver medallion strapped to his hip. A medallion baring the shape of a hammer afixed over a star. His talents as a bard extend far beyond that of a simple storyteller as he knows many of the intricacies of spellcasting and is well versed in how magic might be used in more creative and criminally lucrative ways. He spends much of his time outside of his work with the Malleus Maleficarum attending to bar patrons and regaling them with the many adventures he has been on. He finds some level of comfort in the more harrowing experiences of his line of work by spinning them into fantastic tales. They don’t thrill him, but they thrill the people. It’s all he needs to sleep well at night. That and a number of stiff drinks.

After Sylverain steps lively off of the longtable in the tavern, he makes his way to the bar and slams down a few coins for the barkeep. The barkeep, having known him long enough to accurately guess what the elf would be craving in that particular moment, immediately grabs a bottle to begin filling his goblet. A couple regulars of the tavern step to either side of Sylverain at the bar. They’re shady, but not the murderous kind of shady that would make one quiver in their boots and sweat profusely. No, these are the kind of shady that will sell you a useful word or two for a fair price because they have their noses stuck in nearly bit of business that Verdisola has to offer. One man is a tall and lanky human with pale skin and frizzy, short, and dark hair who appears to be quite keen on picking his teeth. The other is a slightly taller than average dwarf whose head has been thoroughly shaven and tattooed. His beard is one long braid jutting out from his chin.

“So! It’s a bit early for you to be taking the drink, eh, Sylverain?” The human says.

“It’s afternoon, and I’ve got very little else better to do at the moment, my friends. The city’s quiet for once in a damned blue moon,” Sylverain responds as he takes a swig of wine.

“Not for long, as I hear it,” The human smirks at his dwarf compatriot. Sylverain gives the two a quizzical look and produces a coin from his pouch, shining it on the man who replies with a satisfied expression. “Well, word is that a prominent figure in the merchant community was killed last night at a birthday party for old man Gemina’s son. It was a foreigner.”

“What does that have to do with the Malleus Maleficarum?” Sylverain sipped his wine with an unamused look.

“Groundskeeper found ‘em frozen in a chunk o’ ice on the estate grounds,” the dwarf speaks up before gulping down some hardy mead.

“Ah! Now that’s the pertinent part, isn’t it?” Sylverain says.

“We’ve got some details on your partner, too. That is if you’ve got the coin.” The human says.

“What does he have to do with the case, gents?” Sylverain says stepping away from the bar while fiddling with a pair of coins.

“Well, they say he’s been taken off leave for this case by special request,” The human says. His dwarf compatriot swats him on the arm with an angry look for his indiscretion.

“Ha! That’s alright, some secrets you can’t keep your mouth shut on, can you?” Sylverain says. “Here. Have two on me for that.” The elf flips the two coins at the two of them and expertly lands them with a sharp plop into their tankards. Sylverain strides confidently out of the bar as the two informants look within their tankards and then at each other. He rounds the corner and finds himself before two darkly dressed individuals. Two elves, one man and one woman clad in the dark uniforms of the Malleus Maleficarum.

“Furivel, Tovoli commands your presence at headquarters,” the woman speaks up.

“Let me guess! A certain murder case requires my attention!” Sylverain replies. The two agents of the Malleus Maleficarum give each other annoyed looks. This would be suspicious to them if Sylverain were not already infamous throughout the Malleus Maleficarum for acquiring what would normally be secret information not released to the general public. Thankfully, he has only used his ability to acquire such information for the good of the public. Additionally, there were those who fully admitted that it allowed them to keep up with the more corrupt and insidious elements which worked against the law from within.

A doe eyed young woman of rich dark hair curling down to her back sits at her desk within the upper echelons of the Malleus Maleficarum Headquarters. She is no older than twenty five, and yet she holds a great and prestigious honor within the city of Verdisola. As the secretary to Ardito Tovoli, she greets many peculiar characters on a daily basis. Not the least of which is the long list of agents who work for the organization and use their magical talents to enforce the law. As she sits in her gatekeeper’s position standing between her employer and those who would have an audience with him, she contemplates the many facets of her life. Her mind slips deeper and deeper into a daydreaming haze, so much so that she does not notice Simon Allegro approaching her. He clears his throat loudly as she seems intently inspecting the end of a feathered quill, mostly out of curiosity as to what the particles that make up the little device really looked like up close. Simon clears his throat once more to grab the secretary’s attention. She jumps to attention within her seat and looks wide eyed at the Grave Cleric.

“Mr. Allegro! My Apologies! Commander Tovoli is awaiting you inside of his office,” She stands hastily and opens the glass paned double doors for Simon who gives her a curt nod as he walks in. She breathes easy after closing the door behind Simon. He has never made her feel comfortable. He walks and talks as though he always has something weighing him down. His presence is not so much disturbing as it is exceedingly solemn to her. She sits back down at her seat and begins flipping through an old leather bound romance novel she hid away in her desk. The painted cover on the front depicts a pale elven couple scantily clad, though tastefully so. They embrace each other amidst a plethora of vibrant spring colors. Once again, she is too distracted to notice that Sylverain Furivel is sitting on the edge of her desk looking at her with an amused look.

“Hello Ariana,” he says smoothly.

“Oh! Mr. Furivel!” She attempts to mimic an elven accent as she enunciates his surname. She’s clearly enamored with him. She leans in closer to him and tries to hide the elven romance novel beneath her arms. Sylverain tries desperately not to roll his eyes, but he is sure that his microexpressions betray every ounce of annoyance he experiences.

“Is the boss in?” He asks trying to divert attention from her awkward fawning over him.

“Yes! Mr. Allegro just went in to see him,” she says excitedly.

“Oh good,” he says. “What’s that you’re reading there?”

“Oh it’s nothing! Just an old book I’ve been keeping myself occupied with. They say it’s a classic. I’m really enjoying the prose!” Sylverain shoots her a look as he gently slides the book out from under her grasp and reads the title. He stifles a laugh very visibly and Ariana’s smile fades to a look of heartbreak.

“To Take From Her a Crown of Pink Petals? This is a trashy erotica novel, Ariana,” he says with a tone of condescension.

“But the shopkeep said that it was a real elven classic!” She’s shaking with embarrassment.

“Ariana, darling, please. Do you have any idea what the title means?” he pokes at the cover with his finger as he looks at her like an adult trying to admonish a child.

“I just thought it was a romantic gesture.” Sylverain smiles and leans in to whisper the vulgar truth of the novel’s title. After leaving Ariana to sit an blush on her ignorance, Sylverain is striding confidently into Tovoli’s office wiping a few tears of laughter from his face.

Ardito Tovoli stands watching the window of his office within the Malleus Maleficarum. He clasps his hands behind his back as he awaits two of his brightest to enter and receive their next assignment. The marble floors and pillars, the statue decorated walls, and the brightly burning braziers speak to the grandeur of his station. However, Ardito is a man of purpose and of the law. He cares little for the decorations of his workplace. What matters to him is that he holds his position with the utmost incorruptibility. Behind him sits Simon Allegro and Sylverain Furivel takes a seat at the front of the large mahogany desk next to his partner.

“You’re a bit late, Furivel, but I supposed that just gave me time to catch up with Allegro,” Tovoli says as he turns to face the two of them. He wears a tailored blue uniform with the hammer and star pinned to the collar of his jacket.

“Apologies, sir. I had to take a moment to re-educate your secretary on elven culture.”

“Of course you did,” Ardito sighs before changing the subject as he sits down. “You may recognize that Allegro here is back from his leave of absence and I hope that you two will get acquainted quickly as we have a very important case to work.”

“The merchant?” Sylverain says. Simon glances over at him with a look of incredulity but says nothing.

“Yes, the merchant. I have a gondola prepared for us to leave for the estate where the crime scene is and I need the two of you at your best.” He turns to Simon. “Simon, I need you to be at your very best for this you are a brilliant detective, especially when paired with is one here. I recognize what you are going through, but you’ve had enough of a leave of absence to step up to the task at hand.”

“Yes, Commander Tovoli. I will put my best foot forward.” Simon said coldly.

“And you I expect to be on your best behavior,” Ardito turns back to Sylverain.

“I wouldn’t dream of causing any trouble, sir,” Sylverain said putting his hands up defensively.

The three of them make their way down to the docks below the Malleus Maleficarum headquarters and board a gondola headed for the Gemina estate. As they make it to the estate, they come upon a heavily guarded scene with a mixture of Verdisola’s city guard and Malleus Maleficarum officials securing the perimeter. At the front gate, Lord Gemina stands at the ready as a city guardsman takes notes from him. Ardito, along with Sylverain and Simon approaches with an outstretched hand.

“Lord Gemina, these are two of my best detectives. Simon Allegro and Sylverain Furivel,” Ardito says.

“Charmed. I should hope that the two of you are capable of getting to the bottom of this murder. I have a vested interest in the victim’s business and associates, and this occurred on my property.” He speaks bluntly with command in his tone.

“We will see to it that justice is served as thoroughly as possible,” Simon says.

“With as much efficiency as we can manage, of course,” Sylverain adds.

To that, Gemina merely responds with a grunt. He clearly has no time for pleasantries. Sylverain and Simon excuse themselves from the meeting between Ardito and Gemina and begin passing through the perimeter of the crime scene and into the estate.

“So, how are you holding up, Allegro?” Sylverain says with an awkward albeit genuine tinge of concern. The two of them squeeze past several passing officers and officials as they make their way into the scene.

“Well enough,” Simon replies.

“Your leave of absence help you clear your conscience?”

“Not exactly.”

“That’s a shame. You’re always so much more pleasant when you’re not racked with guilt.” Simon turns to shoot Sylverain a glare.

“See! There’s a response!” Sylverain points at Simon with a smile. Simon turns to continue walking. Simon’s smile disappears to exasperation.

“You won’t get through this case if you keep this up. What’s done is done, Simon. Keep focussed on the now.”

“I am focussed on the now.” “Ah ah ah! No you’re not! I can see it on your face! It’s just slightly more of a frown than it usually is.” Simon sighs at that as they round the corner to the small garden off of the main courtyard. “Look, if you need to talk about it with someone who is standing right next to you instead of an effigy, I’m here. It’s what I’m for.” Simon turns and stops looking Sylverain dead in the eyes with piercing anger.

“You will not speak of my faith as though it is just another subject for your stories. I will not entertain such blasphemies. Not now. Not ever.” His voice is low, but biting.

“You seemed a lot more tolerant of my crass sense of humor before you went on leave, Allegro,” Sylverain says sounding almost offended.

“You were a lot less annoying before I left,” Simon retorts. Sylverain cocks an eyebrow as the corner of his mouth twitches. He wants to smile, but he also wants to be offended and he tilts his head slightly. Simon bites the insides of his cheeks. He wants to remain angry, but can’t help the desire to laugh.

The two of them walk over to the victim. Investigators chip away chunks of the enchanted ice which entombs the corpse. Arcanists use their power to scan the area for further evidence of magical foul play.

“What do we have here?” Simon approaches one of the Arcanists.

“A concentrated blast of ice. Likely a ray of frost produced by a particularly powerful mage. The ice has barely melted at all, even in today’s warm weather.” The arcanist replies.

“Who was he?” Sylverain asks.

“By all accounts, the victim’s name was Havnir Yorricson. Foreign merchant from the north. You may have to ask around the merchant’s quarter and with Lord Gemina to see what his business is.” Simon and Sylverain moved closer to the victim’s tomb of ice.

“You wanted to laugh, I could see it on your face,” Sylverain says. Simon turns  from the frozen corpse for a moment.

“I will laugh when Hell freezes over, Furivel,” Simon says bitterly.

“Well, for him it already did,” Sylverain says as he gestures to the dead merchant.

[derelictwritings]

Valos’ Wit- Poem Commission for Stephen Sweeney

Valos’ Wit waxes and wanes as the lake

beneath the half blue face which looms in the night sky

Trees gather before the drink and encircle it

For it is within the heart of these untroubled waters where his Wit lies

There is but one weapon beyond these woods

None is sharper than Valos’ Wit or need be as such

No scrolls of fire burn or armor shine bright beneath moon’s gaze

The garb of a guest is just enough

Be not distracted by some vain words scribed

The youthful musings of a god in adolescence

There is much wit to be found in abundance

Trickery is his most valued essence

You will find the sacred wood down the long path

Marked by great and terrible impressions left by they

They who would leave earth scorched and frosted barren

Ones who would leave dead empires in their wake

But to be a guest in this house of light and wood and water

One must pass through stone in its most imposing form

Treacherous veins spread within but you must choose

Choose the path of wit or the path of fools scorned

Oh wicked things which dwell in the dark nests

Deep and below where you be vanguards of Wit

You must keep your wits about you

For perils in the walls are abound for those unfit

Blessed are they that take up Valos’ Wit

Damned are they that tarry as fools

For it is his wit and the arrow which shall carry thee

Forsaken are those who do not wield these tools

Beware oh children who dwell under the moon

Doom shall soak the land with ice and flame

Towers shall quake and temples crack with each step

Hark unto the return of the old world’s bane

[derelictwritings]

Aerin’s Journals- commission for Stephen Sweeny

Aerin, Sun’s Pinnacle 18

Father, now that I have turned seventeen, has given me his blessing to take up the family trade on my own and begin selling our wares abroad. I must confess my dizziness as my heart is racing. I have only travelled with him to some of the surrounding villages in the time that I have been learning. To think that I will be a man of the road like father. I should hope that my estate will be as great and respectable as his own one day.

This morning I was walking the grounds just beyond the garden and to the north I could see these great clouds brewing from the top of the hill. Funny, they almost looked like the blizzard clouds of winter, but they were so far away that could just as easily have been a trick of the morning sun. The grass just washes over the earth for miles like some great ocean of green. What a great day it will be to see the real ocean. Graer left for the north against father’s wishes. “Our family's place is selling finery and bringing joy, not donning armor and waiting to die on the battlefield,” is what I remember him saying. I should hope that I see him again sometime soon.

I’ve been packing and plotting my route all morning. I’m being sure that I am thoroughly prepared for the morrow when I make my way. I even made sure to take some of the longer routes around the battlefields to the East. I wouldn’t want to get caught up between the nation’s army and the Gethrani. The stories of battle I have heard are quite fantastic, but I know not to stick my nose in the middle of that which will surely burn it from my skull. On a partially unrelated note, Nerie told me that my nose is my most admirable feature. “Befitting of a Veratovian king,” she said. I don’t know about a king, but I think I might make an agreeable lord one day should Pelor’s mercy allow it. Nerie is a beloved friend and I should confess that although I am ready and willing to make this journey, my heart tears a little at each thought of being so far from her. I shall have to make due with receiving her kindness in letters only. I couldn’t hope to ask for more as I feel I already take too much, even if it is only her company and thoughtful conversation.

Ah well, I should ‘Think to the horizon’ as grandfather used to say. Dwelling upon home before even leaving it will make the road bitter and journey’s end even more so, and I want home to taste sweet when I return. I believe the place I’m looking most forward to visiting is Telfin. It’s the city on the edge of the sea. I hear the tapestries that hang over the city streets match the seasons. I’m sad to say that I will be missing the city dressed in gold like the summer sun, but I’m sure that blue will be a lovely color to behold when I finally make it to winter. By then I hope to have made enough coin to participate in one of their winter social gatherings. I hear the music in Telfin is by far its most exquisite feature. I must be the judge of that, as I am one to think that a city’s food is its most important quality. The only issue I see with that is that telfin has so many different kinds of foods, being a port town. I should be careful, I may find it too revolting. Even worse, too delicious.

With that I can feel myself easing more into my travels. I should make many stories to share with my family, and Nerie ofcourse. Ah, yes, that’s the rub. I’ll return as a bounteous giver of gifts and stories. Perhaps I should take up an instrument while on the road to greater deepen my stories! It has been some time since I’ve sung, though. Aerin, the Merchant Musician. That is what will help me drift off to sleep tonight.

Aerin, Sun’s Pinnacle 37

I have been on the road for eighteen days and already I have made some very interesting new friends. A fellow merchant by the name of Garvin has been my travel companion since I left from Flotsam, one of the larger towns east of my homestead. Garvin is a Dwarf and every bit as hardy as I have heard. To think that I would’ve met a dwarf in my travels is astounding. Father said he met a family of them in his youth, but I’ve only heard stories. Garvin said to me that he travelled from the south and that his family is comprised mostly of craftsmen. He lacked their talents in making things but had all the makings of a good merchant. I’ve learned many tips of the trade from him, and I look forward to strengthening our friendship through our travels.

Things have been difficult in the trade, I must say. The war with the Gethrani has made people reluctant to purchase finery and whatever wares I have. I haven’t been completely without success, as a number of wealthier personages have purchased a significant amount of my goods. A few trinkets, jewelry, and fine pottery were sold off to allow me to make it through my next several weeks of travel. Damn this war. I’m tired of walking into villages and towns to see worried faces and hearing grim mutterings. My excitement for travel has been somewhat sullied as of late. Garvin says this will pass as the war winds down. With any luck, the Gethrani will be pushed out soon. All will be as it should be.

I received my first letter from Nerie today. A runner caught up with me on horseback and I will freely say that seeing that the letter was addressed from her lifted my spirits somewhat. Garvin kept trying to read over my shoulder, and I was getting agitated when he started prying into my relation to Nerie. He means well, but he can be a bit excitable. He was disappointed when I told him that she was just a dear friend and that all the letter spoke of was her dealings with the burdens of farm life. Her brother, Fenlin, was off fighting the Gethrani much like my own. He was on the North Eastern front, miles away from Graer, but they supposedly exchanged letters while not engaged in combat. According to Nerie’s brother, a series of strange blizzards have been blowing down from the far, far north. Certainly an odd occurrence during the middle of summer. I would speculate that this may be some kind of Gethrani magic, but I am no expert on such things. I only hope that Graer and Fenlin return home safely.

Aerin, Sun’s Pinnacle 55

Garvin and I had to reroute through a northern pass to a small town on the edge of the warfront called Verta due to a series of rockslides that made our originally plotted route untraversable. What we did not anticipate was that Verta had been under Gethrani occupation for some several months. Admittedly I had never met a Gethrani before, nor did I imagine that I would cross paths with one whilst on my travels. I thought as much about Dwarves before I met Garvin, however. They had a regality about them that I cannot quite place my finger upon. Their armor was light and etched with runes. They were draped with cloth embroidered with deep, vibrant blues. Their dress was somewhat lavish if disciplined compared to the more utilitarian military garb of the Veratovi. Once I shook myself of my awe at their appearance, I became aware of how much worse the somber spirits of the people in this village were.

Garvin and I made no sales at Verta. No one had coin to spare due to their need of supplies to keep both the town and their unwanted visitors fed, blanketed, and satisfied. Although, as one would suspect with most occupancies, the soldiers had first pick and were the more comfortable lot within Verta. Garvin likely lost the most between the two of us seeing as anything that even remotely could act as a weapon within his inventory was confiscated under the stipulation that he would only receive them back once we have left. This meant that over half of his wares, which were predominantly forged weapons and armor, were unavailable for him to sell. Not that anyone would be able to buy from him regardless.

The stay in Verta has been somewhat frustrating, but at least the food and the company we have kept has been pleasant. Garvin and I offered to help around one of the estates within the town in exchange for room and board in order to save coin. The Tothlin family, as they’re called, took us in happily. It took some convincing for Garvin to go along with it, but I think he has begun to warm up to the Tothlins. He often spends his time watching their children while I prepare food and clean, two things I am most familiar with given that those were what I took care of around my family’s household. Garvin likely misses his family back home. His own four children are young still as he’s told me, so it’s not difficult for him to handle the two Tothlin girls. Although, it is quite humorous that they are both taller than he.

The Tothlin’s have been helping keep the peace between the Gethrani occupancy and the townsfolk of Verta. Garvin and I have been able to use this to our advantage. Fenrig Tothlin, the household patriarch, has been able to secure important information to help us in our travels. What towns and villages are under occupancy, which ones are going to be under siege, and which ones are far enough from the warfront to be safe from any direct involvement in the war. Luckily most of our route we have scheduled to travel through is far from the warfront.

Aerin, Sun’s Descent 10

Our stay in Verta was extended due to our lack of proper paperwork and adequate coin to pay the tolls set up on the edge of town. Unfortunately, Garvin and I had to take to working for some of the local businesses in order to save enough to make it out. This truly has been an affair of mixed blessings. The Tothlins have extended the invitation to stay whenever we pass through to the both of us. If there is one thing I am truly grateful for it has been their kindness and hospitality. Though the company and the food has been good, we must be on our way again.

Something struck me as odd, however, as we were taking our leave from the town. The Gethrani soldiers seemed ill at ease. They were quiet, disturbed by something even. Fenrig confessed that he had heard little of the goings on of the war, which in and of itself was somewhat disquieting as the Gethrani were rather open with him about their victories and even their defeats to some extent. He said he had overhead one of the Gethrani captains speaking to a colleague of some disaster that had struck the northern front. Fenrig was unable to acquire details as to what had happened or the extent of the disaster itself, but one thing is certain, the Gethrani are terrified.

The leaves are beginning to change color now. I love the autumn months. So short lived, but so colorful and vibrant. I look forward to traversing the roads with this minagere all around me. I thank Pelor for such beauty.

Aerin, Sun’s Descent 23

Garvin and I stopped at a small village about halfway from where I had begun my journey to Telfin. I likely would have been significantly closer by now if it were not for our delay at Verta. This village has been much more lucrative for myself, however, as many of the farmers in the area are more well off than in our previous stops. Garvin, on the other hand, has been forced to keep moving. I shall miss his company, but he said he would await my arrival at Yonshire once my business had been conducted here.

I must say that my heart is heavy. I received another letter from Nerie today, but the news was of only heartbreak. Her brother, Fenlin was killed on the Northern front. Her writing seemed rushed and she told me that her and her family were making a journey south soon. She wished me well and gave me her love, but nothing more was said. I should hope that she is well. With any luck she will write me again soon. I have heard nothing of my own family. It is my deepest hope that they are well in this troubling time.

I can see blizzard clouds to the far north. Winter must be arriving exceedingly early this year. I should hope that Garvin has the means to keep warm through the storm.

Aerin, Sun’s Descent 28

I began making my way to Yonshire, but my path was blocked by a Veratovian barricade at the bridge that would have lead me there. The guards told me to pursue this path no further and refused to answer why. One of them took me to the side and encouraged me to seek no shelter at Yonshire and to take a more direct route west to Telfin. The guards here seemed just as uneasy as the Gethrani back in Verta. I was wise enough to not pry further, but I am quite concerned for the well being of Garvin. I do not know what is happening, but the whole countryside seems eerily quiet. Could it be the war? Are the Gethrani really so close to victory?

The clouds to the north seem much closer and more enormous than I had previously seen. This cold is unbearable, and I do not look forward to travelling through this weather so early in the year.

Aerin, Sun’s Descent 45

I’ve only received a few letters in the past several days. Travel has become a lonely, and to my shame, a harrowing affair. The letters only worsen my disposition. The first letter was from my family. Graer has been slipping in and out of consciousness since returning from the warfront. He mutters in his sleep of horrors and his sweat is cold. He screams late at night before falling back to restless sleep. He and a silent platoon, far too terrified to speak of what they had witnessed returned to our home village from the warfront. They will not speak or describe what they saw, only murmur of great beasts of an incomprehensible nature. What have the Gethrani unleashed in their desperation? Is is their doing? Or is this something we cannot comprehend?

What’s more, Garvin finally made contact with me, although I am uneasy at the contents of his letter. It simply read ‘Run. Go south and do not look back. I beg of you. Run.’ His handwriting was shaky and I could see tear stains upon the rough parchment. I’m certain all of this will be over with once I return home after making it to Telfin.

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 3

I can see Telfin on the horizon. I have pushed through the journey so far in spite of all that I have dealt with and I will not let fear dissuade me from journey’s end. I will imbibe song and drink and all manner of wonders in this great city. It's bell towers touch the sunset and its ships from far off lands vary in size and shape. I can see it all upon this ridge where I have made camp. A pity that I may not be able to see it for much longer as there appears to be a storm coming in from the north. I can hear the thunder rolling like a marching army in the distance. Luckily I can take shelter in a cave nearby.

I stopped receiving letters from home and I will have to wait until I reach Telfin before I make any to have sent back. I will send good news. Father will be proud and I’ll be sure to send home money to help aid in Graer’s recovery.

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 10

This storm has not weakened. It seems to only press on harder by the day. I can hear trees topple over in the distance. This is madness. I will be in Teflin soon. I only hope that my rations hold out long enough for me to weather this blizzard. It’s like nothing I have ever seen.

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 25

I am terrified. I do not know how much longer I can last in this cave. I can only venture so far for firewood before the great winds overtake me. I fear that I might die here before I reach Telfin. Dearest Nerie, I hope your life is much longer lived than my own. I hope you find yourself healthy and happy, free of care.

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 39

I believe myself to be sinking into madness. I could hear echoing through this endless storm, the sound of screams and ringing bell towers. Crashing stone and thunderous clamour. Like ghosts that would echo for hours into this eternal whitened night. I tried so very hard to cover my ears, but the wind only carried the noise to me as though it were upon the wings of torturous cherubim. I cannot sleep.

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 41

The storm seems to be finally dying, or moving further south at the very least. I saw something as I emerged from my desperately claimed hovel. It must have been a trick of my solitude addled mind, but I feel in my very aching bones that it was real. In the distance, miles beyond my shelter I saw what appeared to be the silhouette of an immense figure plodding through the receding mirk of the blizzard. I could hear that thunderous march from before being carried south with the storm. Pelor protect me.

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 48

I made it to Telfin. I finally came to my journey’s end and I do not have the words to describe what I have seen. When I approached the walls of the city, they were broken, the gates stood, but hung on their hinges like rags. The mid morning sun shined through smoke. As I walked slowly through a ruin. Telfin, it’s people, the music, the food. All of it. Dead. bodies strewn throughout the street without the surviving cry of a child or a call for help. What have I come upon? What hellish nightmare have I awakened to?

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 65

I have travelled for miles on my way home from the ruin of Telfin. Not a soul have I seen. Villages lay in abandonment or ruin. The dead lie scorched and frozen across the land. I fear I am the last of the people of the world. Thunder and clouds, and ice move south. Merciless. I am alone.

Aerin, Sun’s Rest 88

I have returned home. The house is toppled to the ground. Not even smoke remains. I must travel further. I will find shelter or die. What terrible dream I am to live now. Nothing remains but ice and fire. Will they come for me? Those great gods of death whose only song is thunder and screams? Has Pelor forsaken me? I cannot lay down and die. I must move on and hope. Can I hope? What is there to hope for when for a hundred leagues there is nothing but death. I can only mourn for the nothing that my people have become. Pelor grant me peace.

The Light of the Dawn will protect us, the Light of the Dawn will save us, The Night will fade away.

[derelictwritings]

Jingle Punks

Dashing through the streets,

with a molotov in my hand,

for the cause we’ll go,

to stick it to the man!

OI! OI! OI!

Bells and sirens ring,

Cars are burning bright,

what a lovely night for rioting,

the revolution’s on tonight!

Oh!

Anarchy! Anarchy!

C’mon punks unite!

Pigs and fascists outta our way,

or you’re headed for a fight!

[derelictwritings]

Poem- Atlas Shrugged

Atlas shrugged, he was just so simply sick of it all, he didn’t care to cope, All the myspace queens and facebook farce friends, and their petty needs and humanitarian trends, dangling in his face, like mouse from tail between the cats claws, today they care, cries of and for justice so insincere, plastered on pixelated walls, alongside the memories of your party from last night, your complaints about yesterdays exam, the pretentious photographer’s lackluster, representation of their kitchen windows, I’d hope that atlas would shrug, hope that he leaves behind our folly, our tendencies towards a curtain so snug

[derelictwritings]

Song- For The Kiddies

Hey dad, can I be happy, can I have plenty, can I have self esteem? No kid, You’re a parasite, you’re a freak, you take all my booze money for art! parenting is such a funny thing, when left to drunks and scummy dads! Why take it out on her, why take it out on him, what makes you think you’re a god?! Hey dad, will I be pretty, will I live to be free, will you ever show love to me? No kid, I’m your lord and creator, your benevolent slaver, why don’t you live I like I want you to?! Parenting is such a stupid thing, when left up to baby with a god complex Why criticize her life, why criticize his life, What makes you think you’re a parent?!

[derelictwritings]

Night Walk: A Poem

Beneath the weary moon that hung, o’er a small and dreary town, I took a stroll down the avenue, of cobblestone riddled with echos, of the clammer clatter of skittering feet, that scuttled to their homes, for fear of what they may meet I could not help but sigh at the lonliness, the town now filled with emptiness, my impish but well meaning mind, could not abide, No pubs or pickpockets to dart around, no beautiful lady did I hear sound, for me to come and walk along her side Twas me and I alone, The strange and whitened moonlight shown, upon my night eyes, alas, I had no family here, no place that I would be welcomed dearly, but I of gentlemanly manners and mannor, would scarcely reside where I was not, invited As down the dreary road I walked, A pale beauty she stood there, terrified pulse as bright as day, to which I was unaccustomed, and yellow was her hair, fear not, fair maiden, I spake aloud, as she bundled tighter and tighter, within her silken shroud, May I have your arm to walk kind sir, she uttered with a stutter Well of course my dear, you’re safe with me here, beneath this full moon so bright, now come hither fair lady, I don’t bite We walked and spoke, spoke and walked, till three hours into the morn, Her trust was mine, her heart so divine, as it had been beating, since she’d been born Dear lady, I had begun to ask, what is it this lovely town, doth fear so much, that it locks itself away, away from the time to play, I am but a new face, a do not understand Good sir it is that wretched thing, which does snatch away the babes, and does feast upon crimson tide, she spoke with ill favor, oh dear sir it is wonderful, to have you by my side Fear not dear lady, I drew her in close with a smile, for as famous as nightmares are, they but linger for a while, For I have come to save you, from the terrors of this mortal coil, no monsters shall by this moment, be spoiled She smiled a smile, that mirrored mine, and I brought close, her heart so divine, as I knew her trust was mine, Her pearl white neck so fine, in the perfect moonlight, She went for the kiss, but my friends, this is the thrill, I sunk my teeth into her neck, and gladly I did steal the kill So in empty streets, please do remember, that shadows come as friends, who’s seduction burns like an ember, but in the hearts of men will forever lie, the toothy killers who’ll never die

[derelictwritings]

More to come soon!

[derelictwritings]

Kabaret

This is the start of another story that I'm hoping to flesh out and make into a full fledged book or graphic novel.

Obviously if you’ve waltzed into my quaint little theater on the west side of Paris, walls crumbling, posters peeling, floorboards ripped up, you must want to hear my story, our story I should say. My name is Emile, and this is the story of the Kabaret, spelled with a k of course, a little homage to the German folk who had taken a liking to our little country. I admit that I must admire their willingness to conquer. However, allow me to allay a common stereotype ascribed to us Frenchmen, we are not cowards, and when you parade into my city, and you take my women, and you drink my wine, well then I’m afraid that no matter how much I may admire your tenacity, we have a little bit of a problem.     A sunny beautiful day, June 14, 1940. The birds chirped, show girls readied themselves for the evening, the wine was so very soothing against the heat. The Germans decided to ruin such a wonderful day by marching their goosestepping legs across the city limits. Now you might say to yourself “, Emile, wouldn’t you panic if an army of murderous wine stealing German imperialists knocked on your door and demanded tribute?” Well, truth be told, no. I was perfectly fine at first as they hadn’t come knocking on my door just yet.     A few weeks into the occupation a German officer by the name of Captain Ambros Brandt stormed my little club for an “inspection.” He was a man of moderate height, military cut dark brown hair, a goatee, scar running from his right brow to his left cheek. He bore the same standard issue trench coat with the SS symbol on the collar, medals and all that jazz, typical Nazi officer visage and such. His boots clacked against the finished wooden floor of my property. His hands were clasped behind his back as he sauntered over to where I stood. His slow rhythmic steps were a stark contrast to the almost frantic movements of the officers at his command. I approached him out of courtesy but I held my ground offering to take his coat and hat. He lifted the cap from his neatly trimmed head and the shadow of its visor lept from his grim face. The removal of his deathly carapace revealed the impeccably well ironed suspenders he wore over a buttoned white shirt. I placed his coat on the back of one of the house seats, resting the cap on the corner.      As his men shuffled through my theater looking for god knows what, I decided to test this mans character.I pulled a bottle of wine out of the cellar, a good vintage, not the best, but good enough. I poured him a glass, and I poured myself a glass. We sat at a table on the main floor. I remember how all was like shadow puppets silhouetted against the spotlights touching the red curtain on the stage. He and I were sitting still as the shadows of stormtroopers moved about the room. I lit a cigarette and offered one to him. As he took it in his fingers I offered a toast. The red Bordeaux made spirit swirled and reflected the spotlights as I slowly thrust the glass forward.     “To civility my good man!” my mouth was parted in a slight gracious smile stretching out the patch of hair below my lower lip and raising my well groomed moustache.     “ I much prefer beer to wine.” As he said this, my smile began to fade in disappointment. I gulped down my glass quickly as he fiddled with his glass, almost disgusted with what we in France had come to love. It was that very moment that I realised that this one man, this tiny insect amongst a hive of millions was the deciding factor in how I felt about this occupation. Rejecting such a gift as wine, and such a good year too, was the ultimate insult. It was the principle of the act. Your people take my wine, you abuse it, waste it, pour it down the gutters you cal throats, and yet you would gladly take such a lowbrow thing as beer? Far be it from me to judge men by their taste in intoxication but his tone, the way he said it was almost as if he was proud of his great and abominable savagery. That Is why I hated him, his fellow soldiers, they lacked class. “This place is... shabby,” he opened his mouth yet again. His head scanned from left to right. I couldn’t imagine why he would say such a thing. The walls were adorned with the finest, and might I add most expensive satin curtains I could find, procured the best paint schemes to garnish my walls, bought all of the most coveted pieces of artwork from some of the most renowned poster artists of the decade, and I even made sure the lighting provided just the right mysterious atmosphere for my guests.     This encounter unfortunately didn’t end with me wringing the officers neck as I would have liked. He and his men failed to find whatever they might have been looking for and left. At that very moment I began my grand scheme to force the Nazi swine out of my city. But I knew I couldn’t do it alone.     The first man to ever work in my cabaret theater was a comedian. A practical joker of sorts with a name as silly as his act. That was nearly a decade before the formation of Kabaret, but it was only fitting that the first person to join my band of rebels shared the same aptitude for physical comedy as the man whom I had hired at the start of my business. The first of Kabaret never had a name, or at least no voice with which to speak a name but through his life story and methods I came to know him as Le Mauvaise Plaisanterie, or Le Mauv for short. The words meant The Cruel Joke. It was a fitting name as it was representative of his life and times in such an ungodly era. Mauv meant purple, an oft used color in the garb of clowns and was just as appropriate, as it matched the jacket he wore and the coloring on his cowl.     The first night I met him was only a few nights after Captain Brandt stampeded into my club. Twas a riveting and somewhat terrifying experience I might say as he kicked down my door with two pistols in either hand like a mad man. He took me by surprise as he threw me to the floor from my seat as I was having my evening glass of wine. His face was covered by a white mask with the visage of a cackling demonic skull stitched onto the front. The only features of his face that I could make out was a massive slit at the right corner of his mouth that was a mould for the wrinkles of the fabric of the mask. The one thing I had noticed, however, that caught my attention the most was his pair of eyes. They seemed to gleam like white glass stained with veins of molten fire. There was an enraged insanity about them that I couldn’t help but be inspired by.This man was determined, crazy even. After discovering that I didn’t have what he had came for, he holstered the pistols under the odd deep purple jacket consisting of a suede material, custom made, that he wore over a tattered plain white shirt with buttons that were either missing or of various conflicting color schemes. His wrinkled black slacks which had an equal amount of damage done to them as the shirt, had faded patches covering the holes. It was apparent that this man had a motif about him. He pulled me off of the floor and sat me down on one of the seats he had pushed aside in our confrontation and brushed off my shoulders. All of this was done almost apologetically as it was clear that he was unable to speak. To communicate his purpose for the actions he had taken he pulled out a photograph from his sleeve and presented it to me. As I inspected it I found that the face it exhibited was that of the very captain who had visited nights before. His eyes seemed to question me patiently as I looked over the photograph. After only a second of pondering, I sat the man down and poured him a glass from the bordeaux I had offered Captain Brandt nights before. He turned to the side to lift his mask and drink, tilting his head so that the wine did not leak from the slit on his cheek. I could see now that Le Mauv was to be the first of many allies in this war I was about to rage. I told him of my encounter with the captain and how I wished to push him and his ilk out of this city and he responded with a happy grandeur in his smouldering eyes. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small piece of paper. Its edges were torn and crumpled and it’s worn surface grew neater towards the center. He unfolded it, his eyes drifting along the pages, cocking his head at different angles like a strange bird and turning the page as it unfurled. His behaviour was at a halfway point between a deranged recluse and a whimsical child. I observed him unfold the paper for what seemed like ages due to my bewildered state, until he presented it to me gingerly like a gift to a king. As I read the scribbled words upon the page, my eyes drifting every so often to the violent cartoonish depictions doodled on the sides, I realised that this tale was what justified the name I had selected for him. He wrote of a dark rainy night when thunder rolled and lightning cracked, a trite opening, but I payed no heed to my prejudices of how a tale should be told. He wrote of being thrown to the ground by brown shirted soldiers, how the mud felt between his cut fingers and against his knees. A man in a black leather trench coat that glistens with droplets of rain stood over him, the headlights of an SS Volks Wagon provided light that outlined the officers cap and the coat that billowed in the stormy winds. The officer unsheathed a large hunting knife that reflected the flashes of lightning and the light blaring from the car. He was grabbed by the hair by the officer who crouched beside him. His eyes scanned the face of Captain Brandt who barked out questions, Brandt’s spit mixed with the rain and trickled down his face. With every negative response to the interrogation, Brandt carved a canyon into the mans face and once his frustration with the victim had reached its peak he placed his hunting knife within his mouth, cutting out Le Mauv’s tongue and then slicing open his cheek. I could almost hear his screams within my mind as I read over these words. The screams only grew louder as I read onward. Brandt had taken a can of gasoline from the car and doused the lacerated face with its contents. He then struck a match casually, lighting his cigarette first and lighting the man he had broken. He left him to die, a rolling heap screeching in agony as he tried to save his immolating face. Brandt’s final insult was to burn who he had thought had no value, but this was just the opening line to a joke with a violent punchline that was to come.

I finished reading and gazed up at the man before me after reading his story in surprise and quietly poured him another glass. The only explanation for his survival was sheer hatred, enough hatred to drive a man insane and stand up to death with the utmost defiance. Will power that I needed to make this work. He had tracked Brandt to the very place where I had set my own plot in motion. He turned, lifted his cowl and downed the second glass. The wine leaked a little onto the floor. The room was still dark save for the red curtains highlighted by stage lights behind us. Silhouetted like shadow puppets against the backdrop, we shook hands.

[derelictwritings]

The Call

This is a short story that I wrote a long while ago in my spare time. I lost the original so I essentially took the old concept and redid it with quite a few changes.

The long shadow of a man dressed in rags was cast over dusty earth, it bent upward creeping up the wall of a shack of scrap wood and rusty tin that sat secluded in the Nevada sun as he drew closer. He stumbled, weary from carrying a dented bucket, heavy with water that swayed with his clumsy movements. The frayed hems of his jeans drug against the pebbles and dust leaving a gentle but uneven trail in the dirt behind him. He craned his head to and fro to watch the barren world around him for signs of trouble. A torn and faded shirt covered his already darkened skin from the heat of the desert sun and hung over a pair of goggles that shielded his sunken eyes from stray particles that floated in the dry air. across his other shoulder was an old double barreled shotgun that softly clicked with every step

It was quiet. The only sounds in the vastness of the wasteland were that of the wind accompanied with the mans shuffling footsteps that nudged against the clanking and swishing of his water bucket. Across the flattened lands he could only make out distant plateaus obscured by the heat and the occasional shuffling figure that only the most trained eye could pick out. Those were to be avoided.

The sky was completely blue, not a single wisp of cloud in sight to at least dull the sun’s merciless rays. It was apparent, however, that sunset was near and this did not comfort the travelling man. The only thing that did comfort the wanderer was that he had reached his hovel in one piece. The door creaked open as he pulled the entrance open with his shotgun in hand, struggling a little as he wrapped what fingers he could around the handle. He caught himself tripping and narrowly escaped letting the half full, half empty bucket spill into the dry dirt, a little tribute to the desert he would not easily recover.

Inside the shack he slowly set his bucket on the small folding table he had scrounged up. his movements were achy and he wearily stood his shotgun up against the wall beside a rusty old cot where he slept upon a dirty, stained mattress. Pulling the pack from his shoulders he began laying it out upon his bed, pulling out the things he had scavenged early that morning. He grasped the razor and shaving kit in his grimy hands, looking long at them, soaking in their familiar guise.

In front of a dingy mirror he pulled off the wrapping around his face and removed the goggles from his eyes. Rings dented the pale sockets that he saw through dividing the pale, un-tanned flesh surrounding his eyes from the dark skin of his face. He gazed at the greasy, stubbly creature with gaunt features from rationing staring back at him. His bony hand reached up to touch the stubble and scratched it. He scrapped the razor in his kit on the stubble now covered in sickly green gel. it was the first thing he had done in a while that made him feel normal. He had forgotten scissors. His thick dark hair always made the sun harder for him to withstand.

He lay in his bed staring up at the creaky ceiling above him wishing that there was a sky of stars for him to see. It wasn’t safe enough for that. Too dangerous to appreciate beauty, he thought to himself. His eyelids grew heavy underneath the desire for sleep and he drifted slowly off to sleep.

In the dead silence of the night, a dull scraping against the sand outside echoed. With nothing to muffle the sound, the man awoke. The man’s eyes split open. He lie there, still, his nerves tingling and keeping his muscles stiff as he could feel sweat well up in every pour like tears. His head slowly tilted from one side to the next, double-checking the windows to make sure they were covered. His body lay still beneath the scratchy ragged blanket that was keeping him warm. He suddenly noticed that the door to his shack wasn’t locked. It was a gaping wound in his defenses. Unsure whether he should quickly dart out of bed or slowly leave it he slipped onto his side. He stared over at the shotgun in the corner of the room, hoping that he could gather the strength to retrieve it. The bed creaked and he forced every nerve and muscle he could muster to allow him to leave his bed.

The shuffling of clumsy feet grew louder outside, closer. The rusty iron springs that held the cot together creaked as the man crawled onto the dirt floor and towards the corner in which his one and only weapon nested. His knees scraped against the rough dirt floor, cutting his dry flesh so that little white strips of skin dangled from them. Beads of sweat coursed down his face as he strained to reach for the gun. His fingers stretched out and he fumbled, causing the steel to slide down the wall and hit the floor with a clack. The shuffling outside suddenly stopped and the man’s eyes widened as he realized that he had made his presence known. He inched forward just so he could pull the gun towards himself. The shuffling started again but not it was more deliberate, slow, contemplating. It was drawing nearer and he could now hear several pairs of feet making their way closer to him.

He could feel his chest grow heavy with fear as he drew shaky breaths. He gripped the shotgun in both hands and bent the cold steel barrel to see a single shell lodged inside the end. He patted down his pockets to check for another shell with no success.  Next to the bucket of water, he eyed the box of shells he used to replenish his munitions. It seemed so far away from the place where he cowered. He crept slowly towards the table. His crouching position ensured that he would not be seen through what cracks in the window coverings he might have missed.

He could hear the clumsy patting of decrepit feet upon the dry earth surrounding his little shelter and it’s eerie loudness was only dampened by the roaring thump of his heart beating. The wind pressed up against the walls of his shack causing the boards to groan and little grains of sand to skitter across the tin roof. His dirty fingernails dug into the surface of the table as he pulled himself closer to the key he had left there.

He could hear them now, the strange gasps that could be misconstrued as breath, the creaking of weathered joints, the quiet sloshing of rotted flesh peeling from bone. Their gurgling squeaks and moans disturbed the night air like a shambling symphony closing in on the walls surrounding an adrenaline fueled man. He was making his way to the door now, the key in his hand stretched out as he plunged it into the steel belly of the padlock on the door and twisting the blade to seal himself in. The dirge of moans and squeals outside were deathly close and no amount of wind blowing, heart beating, or breathing could shut out the noise. The man slumped against the door. Once again he bent open the barrel of his gun, sweaty hands pressing one of the shells he had grabbed into it not without fumbling again. When the gun was loaded he propped his gun up against his face, feeling the cold steel shaft of the barrel against his cheek like cold comfort as his finger wrapped around the trigger. He cradled the shotgun in his hands, arms wrapped around it, rocking back and forth against the call of the dead who sang their call. The cacophony of guttural sounds meant nothing but “flesh, flesh.” He could hear it loud and clear within his head. Flesh, flesh.

He waited within the confines of the hut as their cries for carnage echoed throughout the desert. He reached for the blanket on his bead and pulled it around himself and his steel friend. Flesh, flesh. He heard it in his mind over and over again. They had no power of speech but they said everything with their unholy noises. Flesh, flesh. He rocked gently as they stood at the walls of his shelter now and their decayed hands thumped against them. It seemed as though their efforts were to drive him out so that they may feast but their efforts were in vain.

He could smell them. He could smell rotten flesh dried by the desert and eaten away by time and flies. He could smell their clotted blood and almost taste its coppery putressence in his mouth, in his very soul. Tomorrow, he thought to himself, tomorrow I’ll be alive. The groans and thumping of hands on the walls kept him awake all through the night. Every so often he could catch a glimpse of a silhouette through the cracks of the window covers, its hands rapping slowly on the window, its head lolling to the side. Flesh, flesh. He heard their demands in his bones. He felt their hunger. Flesh, flesh.

Slowly but surely, the poor, sleep deprived animal of a man could not help but turn the horror behind the walls of his shelter turn from a nightmare to a lullaby. Flesh, flesh. It faded in his ears as he drifted off to sleep. His eyes darkened and  his face slumped against the barrel of his gun.

Morning came. The sun rose and the sounds that had kept the man up all night were gone. All was quiet again save for the wind as it rolled along the dusty landscape. He rose from his post tossing the blanket aside as he made his way over to the table and grabbed his bucket of water.

He unlocked the padlock on the door and carried the water out into the sun where it reflected the rays that once seemed merciless to him but were now more hopeful. Setting it down, he crouched to cup some of the water in his hands to drink. The sun shone brightly upon him, proof that another night had been survived. He stood to look out upon the landscape before him and when he looked to his feet he noticed the uneven footprints in the dirt from the night before. The bucket once again in hand he turned to face the door of his hut. His hands were rife with sweat again and the bucket clattered to the ground as his eyes met pale sunken orbs belonging to the former shell of a man whose rotten skin now sagged from his bones and his wild but lifeless gaze called for one thing. Flesh, flesh.

[derelictwritings]

Welcome!

This is the official writing blog for me, Ashton Bailey! Here you will find stories, poetry, songs, and other thoughts I may have aside from the silliness of my personal blog, Writers Prism.