deadforshit

[deadforshit]

Something about Lestat's “If disrespect was done to you, I would've killed him myself,” and something about Louis almost killing Daniel in first interview because he was being “Disrespectful” as coke fried Danny said he could be Louis' Lestat, his Claudia and even better...

[deadforshit]

Dead Reckoning: Chapter 1

The tavern door slams open against the brick wall. In from the dull streets steps a tall woman. Her dark boots pad softly across the wooden floor while the hem of her coat tickles their leather. Her black hair is braided and scraped back into a bun, exposing the slight point of her ears, save for a few choice strands of densely curled hair around her face, which she smothered with black makeup like warpaint. The strange woman swaggers into a tavern with one hand on the hilt of her sword and the other clutching a folded piece of paper. As she walks past the rows of tables, patrons lost in a drunken stupor, the room grows silent. They all recognise her: Tyaris, ‘Meracircix’, The Ocean Tamer. The feared captain of the Maelstrom’s Fury, the only ship on the ocean stained with blood, who takes no prisoners and only asks questions when her sword can’t speak for her.

Tyaris sidles up to the bar and slides the paper to the landlord.

“Job’s been paid for already,” the landlord gruffs, polishing a cup as is characteristic of all bartenders. The rag is grey and crusty, and it is immediately evident why when he wipes the mucus from his nose with the back of it. He only has one eye; depth perception seems to be giving him trouble with the shallow cup.

“By who?” Tyaris’ hand curls around the paper, scrunching it tight into a bow.

The landlord, indignant in her treatment of him, indicates towards a man sitting in the far corner of the tavern, nursing a large flagon of beer beneath a carved fish sconce. The hood of his cape is pulled up as if trying to obscure his face, but he has failed at even covering his hair which curls around the backs of his ears. From one side of the cape, a large longsword sticks out, strapped to his back, exposing more of the man’s attire than he would seem to intend. He is lightly armoured, dressed in a doublet and tough brown trousers, a metal-studded chest plate across his upper torso. One shoulder is ensconced in fur, a pale brown pelt from some young wolf or another, the tufts of fur starting to rat together with the speckles of blood between them. His face resembles the lupine, tough and bucolic, painted with long unshaven hair and brought together by his two auric eyes.

Tyaris swears under her breath and walks over to the man, slamming the contract on the table and securing it through the middle with the thrust of a dagger. The man, who appears to be an elf, or a descendant of, from the size and shape of his ears, looks up with a wry smile, his face betraying his drunkenness. Tyaris does not return the smile.

“My love!” The man slurs.

“Do you still have the money, or have you drunk it all?”

“Ah.” the man holds up one finger while he unclips a small pouch from his belt and drops it on the table, the coins inside spilling out as it slumps over.  “There you go! What are you doing here? I thought you were on your boat?”

“I was working, until you poached my contract, which I’ll remind you, Creed, you promised not to do? My ship is in the docks,” Tyaris says through a tight-lipped smile. Her nostrils flare slightly as she attempts to maintain her composure.

“Relax. You got your money anyway - minus… this,” he gestured to the flagon, “If anything, I did all the hard work for you. You’re welcome, by the way,” Creed shrugs, standing with a dramatic bow.

As soon as he begins to bend, Creed pitches forward uncontrollably, his face only saved from a sudden meeting with the table by Tyaris’ arms under his chest.

“How much have you drunk?” She hisses, lifting him back to his full height as she wraps his arm over her shoulder.

“Just a little,” he pinches his fingers together, a goofy smile plastered across his face. “A sip, really.”

The warm-skinned woman rolls her eyes in exasperation, almost used to this sort of behaviour but not enough to expect it. She walks him around the table and out of the tavern the way she came in, feeling the eyes on their backs and the attention they are drawing. Unwanted attention. The patrons had not resumed conversation as she had hoped, instead maintaining near perfect silence as they waited for a fight to break out. Unfortunately, they would be without a show this time. Alcohol is not worth the blood she could spill.

The atmosphere outside is tranquil, the peace punctuated only by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft calls of seabirds soaring overhead, silhouetted against the warm reddish hues of the setting sun. The streets are entirely deserted at this hour. The only people still out are the drunk and the poor, neither of whom could care less for their antics. The village looks like all the others in Grethich: brown, wet and filled with near identical sham houses. The roads are unpaved, instead formed from pebbles pressed into the loose mud, a prime environment for the puddles like lakes than collect between the houses. Almost boglike, the only semblance of dry land are the thin wooden planks that line either side of the road, giving some reprieve from the mud intended to prevent the tracking it inside.

Directly across the street from the tavern, a covered wagon with a large fish crudely painted in greenish brown on the canvas waits wholly unattended, its horses jostling each other slightly in the mud; Tyaris and Creed scan the street, their eyes looking down in both directions.

There is no one there. Perfect.

Tyaris sneaks over to it, keeping low with Creed still leaning against her, and gently hoists him into the back and herself into the driving seat, still on alert for the owner. With one last cautious look around, Tyaris flicks the reins, rousing the horses from their idle state with a loud neigh and the pair disappear down the road in the commandeered wagon, just as the owner emerges from a building, shouting hopelessly behind them.

Creed crawls through the fabric curtains into the front to sit beside her, the piscine smell permeating from the cloth. Just as he sits down, the wagon jolts through a large puddle, whipping up the dirty water into his face like a muddy slap. Laughter bubbles up in Tyaris’ throat as she steals a glance at his shocked expression. She clamps her lips together to stop its escape. The cold shock jolts Creed back to reality; he wipes the surface muck from his face, flicking it from his wet hands, and waves another across his visage. In a second, the remaining water evaporates from his skin, leaving it bone dry.

Stooping forward with his forearms resting on his legs, Creed cocks his head to one side as he watches Tyaris’ face.

“So… Where are you sailing to next?” he ponders, followed by a long silence. Seemingly innocent conversation.

Tyaris’ face sombres and she replies without turning her face away from the road ahead. “The middle of the ocean, ideally. Hence why I needed that job. Can’t disappear without supplies.”

“I’m sorry about that, Ti. If it’s any help I snagged another job - I can cut you in.”

“What kind?"  she inquires, arching an eyebrow, her interest piqued, "Because you know I don’t do messenger work. If you want a letter taking, hire a letter-carrier. Or better yet, use the post office. We’re Goldhands, that’s not our job.”

Creed opens his mouth as if to speak but thinks better of it and pivots. “Hey no, don’t worry. Assassination. Three targets,” he holds up three fingers for effect, “Some ‘cult thing’ in Wildlight.”

“Sounds good. I need to grab some things from the Maelstrom first,” Tyaris says nonchalantly as the wagon comes to a stop, “And we’re getting you sobered up. You know, Van’s going to be pleased to see you.”

Creed shoots her a playful glance, smirking. “And you weren’t?”

Her face is stone cold. “No. Not when you took my job.”

“I said I was sorry! And I gave you the money. Which I earned,” Creed defends himself, his tone laced with desperation.

“And immediately got drunk on.”

“It was one drink! Granted, it was a stronger beer than I’ve had before but like I said, my money. You’re just mad I got there first.”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I was saying!” Tyaris exclaims incredulously, the same frustration from the tavern bubbling up again.

The docks, in stark contrast to the streets, are bustling. Like most towns and villages in Grethich, the coastline is comprised of fisheries bordering fisheries. Ships of different sizes and purposes are docked on all sides of the boardwalk, bobbing gently with the tide, and sailors bring crates of supplies on and offshore. At the end of the pier stands a great ship made of rosewood, with cream sails billowing in the soft breeze and a majestic brass harpy on the bowsprit. On the stern is a brass plaque with ‘Maelstrom’s Fury’ engraved in cursive, the letters filled with Tar Tree sap.

The pair alight the wagon and continue up the gangplank. A young half-mermaid girl, with skin as blue as her eyes and a pair of fins poking out from below her equally blue hair framing her face, lays on the deck throwing a small sack of rice up in the air like a ball and skilfully catching it again. Her face teeters on the precipice of beautiful and horrifying. She has no noticeable nose. It sits almost flush with her cheeks. Her eyes, though shaped like most human’s, sit just slightly too far apart and angle upwards. Her skin appears human but on closer inspection has a texture not unlike scales. When she hears them approaching, she springs up from the floor and grabs a cloth, hurriedly pretending to buff the gunwale.

“Hard at work, Avana?” Tyaris cocks an eyebrow with a smile.

“Yes, Captain. Oh, hi Creed!” The half-mermaid, Avana, gives them a two-fingered salute. “Are we setting sail?”

“Not yet, Van. Got to drown Creed first, then we’re off again. We’ll be back late - got a job to do.”

“Can I come?” Avana drops the cloth in excitement, her eyes wide and sparkling like a puppy’s.

“I don’t know, Van. It’s a dangerous one,” Creed interjects, looking to Tyaris for confirmation. She nods in agreement. Avana scowls in frustration.

“Please? I mopped the decks, emptied the bilge, cleaned the crew quarters, did the inventory – we need more cured meats by the way – and patched the sail. I’m so bored I could scream. I won’t interfere, I promise, just let me come with you.”

Creed and Tyaris share a look. They know Avana well; she won't quit asking until they decide and if they refuse, they both know she'll hold it against them for the next tenday. Tyaris sighs.

“Okay – but you’re silent when we get there. And stay close. Now go get dressed, it’s a long walk.”

Avana releases an appreciative squeal before clearing her throat and saluting, “I mean, thank you, Captain.”

“We’ll be in here,” Tyaris points towards a large door nestled between two curved staircases. It is made of the same red wood as the rest of the ship with two leadlight windows on either side and a swooping cream waveform across the top of the doorframe. She grabs Creed by the sleeve of his shirt and drags him into the room. The inside of the cabin speaks of extreme organisation, everything meticulously arranged. To the right, a double bed sits encased by a box of cream pillars and heavy curtains surrounding it. Flanking the bed are a built-in wardrobe and a double basin with a pair of mirrors hanging above it. The headboard and footboard of the bed double as bookcases, facing out and filled with manuals and novels. To the left is a dresser with a variety of sentimental objects on its surface, a viola in pride of place in the centre, and a two-seat dining table tucked into the back corner.

Tyaris unceremoniously drops Creed into one of the chairs, her movements purposeful as she approaches the sink, and begins running the water. Even in this modern technological era, Tyaris counts herself lucky to be among the few fortunate with access to running water while on the high seas. The Maelstrom is one of but twelve ships with these facilities and every morning she counts it as one of her blessings.

 Creed unbuckles his cape, letting it slide off his shoulders and pool softly on the floor beside him as he rubs his temples in a worthless attempt to ease the fog settling in his head. Whatever mad distillation was in that beer, it is starting to get to him. A large glass of icy water is thrust into his face. Tyaris raises her eyebrows at him and her gaze hardens.

“Drink,” she orders.

Creed dutifully takes the glass and chugs the cold liquid in a matter of seconds before handing it back to her. Again, she gives him another glass and, with the same unwavering expectation, demands he drink this as well. By the third glass, the water sloshes around in his stomach like a tropical storm. Yet, Tyaris remains unyielding, producing yet another glass filled to the brim.

“I know you said you were going to drown me, but you didn’t mean that…?”

“You need to drink. If you’ve got this job, I’d rather not end up with a sword in my back because you missed the target. Now get that down you.”

Begrudgingly, Creed takes the glass from her, raises it to his lips and drinks it in one but his body protests violently and he coughs up a torrent of water, spraying it down himself and across the oak parquet. Tyaris lurches forward to clap her hand across his back.

“I didn’t mean for you to literally drown! Gods above, Creed!”

Coughing and sputtering, Creed struggles to regain his composure while the remainder of the water spills from his mouth, leaving him with a burning throat.

“I think I’ve had enough now,” he croaks, holding a hand up to tell Tyaris that he is, in fact, still alive.

“You’re going to hate me… but you should have another drink – for your throat,” she advises, bracing herself for his certain reaction. Creed shoots her daggers at the suggestion. She moves past this and examines her flooring; the water has soaked into the planks, leaving dark patches across it. “Look what you’ve done to my floor! Do you know how much this is going to cost to replace? I am not sailing around with rotten floorboards –”

“Sure, let’s focus on the floor. My near-death experience pales compared to that,” Creed comments sarcastically, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Just give me a moment.”

He places the empty glass on the floor roughly in the middle of the various wet patches and returns to his seat, training his eyes on the glass. He then begins speaking under his breath, not in the common language but a different one altogether, older, still focusing on the glass. His gaze hardens, his eyes ordering the water to obey. Then, swiftly, droplets of water rise from the wooden planks, like tiny diamonds, and neatly deposit themselves in the glass.  As the last few droplets join their companions, a small pool of water begins to swirl within the confines of the glass. Creed leans forward and picks the glass up, the corners of his mouth twitching in triumph.

“There. Dry floor.”

Tyaris takes the glass from him, her grip terse and somewhat rougher than necessary, still fuming a little under the surface that he got water everywhere in the first place.

“Alright, spill it. Who are the targets? You mentioned a cult?” Tyaris sits herself down in the opposite chair from Creed whose face is just now coming the right side of red.

Creed smirks, laughing a little to himself at the definitely unintended pun, shaking off the remnants of his earlier drunken stupor and kicking his feet up on the table.

"Get your feet off my table," Tyaris immediately snaps, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. Creed, taken aback, hastily lowers his feet as if he were a child caught misbehaving. She grins and kicks her own feet up on the table. That was payback.

“Right, so here’s the deal. Wildlight. Some cult is operating out of one of the Lord’s properties, lowering the property value or some such, and he’s convinced the only way to get them to leave is to remove their leadership.” He drags a finger across his neck at the word 'remove', making it abundantly clear what he means.

“This cult,” Tyaris scoops up the braids that had escaped her bun and loops them into the securing. “It’s not that Destroyer cult, is it?” Her tone reveals that she is praying the answer to that is a firm ‘no’.

“Don’t know, didn’t ask,” Creed shrugs.

“You don't think you should have?" Tyaris presses, her tone incredulous.

Creed shrugs again, doubling down on the innocent act. Tyaris shakes her head at him with a weary sigh.

“Honestly, I have no idea. But the pay is good.” He pauses for effect.

Tyaris raises an eyebrow. “You are going to get us both in trouble if you keep thinking like that."

Feigning shock, Creed places a hand over his heart. “Me? I've never done anything to get us in trouble."

“Oh, forgive me, my mistake,” Tyaris chuckles, shaking her head. "I seem to remember having to lie for you at least… once a week?"

Creed makes a noise that could be interpreted as shock and hurt.

“Hey! I saved you from all that trouble last time—if you recall, I brought you that lovely sack of coin.” He grins, and she can’t help but roll her eyes.

“A sack of coin you spent on getting utterly hammered before I could even speak to you,” she shot back.

“I prefer to think of it as less ‘getting hammered’ and more ‘celebrating my victory.’”

“Oh, you think you're funny."

“You have to admit, it's more fun when I'm around. You’d be brooding otherwise.”

“Brooding? Oh, I'm brooding now? At least I can stand up unaided."

To prove it, she stands from the chair and makes her way over to the wardrobe, opening the doors so as to obscure herself from his view.

She returns with a short sword strapped to her side and a pair of gloves pulled over the sleeves of her coat. She has a felt capelet draped around her shoulders and the hood pulled up over her hair, obscuring most of her face. When she turns around, Avana reappears in the doorway dressed in a similar capelet and boots ensemble. She has a pair of daggers stored in tiny hilts on a thin belt around her waist. Tyaris' whole body jumps at her sudden appearance like a ghost in the night.

“Are we ready to go?” she asks innocently.

Tyaris glances back over her shoulder at Creed, who still sits in the chair she had left him in, for reassurance. Creed scoops his cape up from the floor and rebuttons it around his shoulders with a flourish. “I’m good.”

“Yep, we can go now.”

✯🗡✯🗡✯🗡✯

The three step off the Maelstrom and climb back onto the wagon.

“You know we could have walked, right?” Creed asks.

“This is faster. And I need to abandon it somewhere that isn’t directly next to my ship. You know, what with it being stolen,” Tyaris quips back dryly. The wagon rumbles down the road back through the town and into the open hills surrounding it. Grethich’s hills extend for miles, an open countryside the closest you can get to pure, natural beauty. As they come to a spot far enough away from the docks and close enough to Wildlight, Tyaris slows the wagon to a stop, and they continue on foot.

“I really hope its not those Destroyer cult nutters…” Tyaris mumbles to herself a little too loudly. Creed smirks.

“You’re really hung up on that.”

“I know, it’s just— they’re so annoying! There is not one god that condones, let alone encourages, property damage and murder in their name. Phyauris, the least of all.”

Creed shimmies a neckerchief over his nose and mouth and pulls his chestnut brown hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He carefully checks the sword in his scabbard is uncaught before resheathing it. “We’re here. Wait here, I’ll just be a moment.”

The trio halts before an impressive building with imposing heavy metal doors, their surfaces slightly tarnished with age. Creed pushes one door open with a creak that echoes through the air, sliding through the small opening with a smooth stride.

The building is well-lit, all the rooms illuminated despite the setting sun. In the centre of the first room, an older man sits hunched over a cluttered desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pores over a chaotic array of papers scattered across its surface.  He looks up when Creed enters, pushing the glasses on his face up the bridge of his nose.

“Ah, my friend. Is it done? How much did we agree?”

Creed approaches the desk with a sheepish expression. “Actually, I just arrived. I’ve brought a friend to assist me, what with the number of targets.”

“Another Goldhand, I presume?” the other man inquires, arching an eyebrow in mild curiosity.

“Yes, sir,” Creed affirms.

“And I assume your associate will want payment for the job as well.”

“If you would be so obliged-”

“That wasn’t a question, boy, it was a statement. You get the full pre-agreed amount, and your associate will be paid half that. I want their heads as proof. Now get out.”

Creed bows his head out of respect and promptly exits the building before the Lord can change his mind.

“Well...?” Tyaris prompts as he closes the door behind him.

“We’re good to go. He’ll pay.”

✯🗡✯🗡✯🗡✯

The sun has entirely disappeared, bathing the streets of Wildlight in an oppressive darkness, punctuated only by the everburning candle in the middle of the square. An autumn wind blows between the houses, chilling the three to the bone. The candle wavers but burns just as bright, casting a warm yet uncertain light upon the crumbling cobblestones. A dim light shines from the windows of a stately house. The surroundings are a stark contradiction of the grand beauty of the building: overgrown bushes block the pathway and thorny brambles creep from the hedges. Planks of wood have been crudely fixed over the front door, sealing the entrance way. Creed, Avana and Tyaris watch from across the street, hiding in the shadow of a nearby alley, as people in robes and masks mill around the building.

“How are we going to get in?” The half-mermaid whispers.

“No. You’re staying here. We’ll be in and out,” the low voice of her captain comes.

“Come on, I’ve been practising. You said to stay close – surely, I’m safer with you than alone on the streets of a town I don’t know,” she reasons.

“We’re wasting time arguing. Don’t take anyone on yourself and do exactly as you’re told. Come on,” Creed hisses.

 He rushes towards the house, keeping low so as to evade notice, the two girls following closely behind. Tyaris keeps one hand ready to pull at the hilt of her short sword, while Avana readies her twin daggers. Just then, a group of robed figures emerges from a hidden hatch in the side of the building, their muted voices blending into a dark melody of secrecy. Creed makes a signal indicating that that was their way in. They all scurry like foxes in the night towards the hatch, ducking behind the foliage a few times to avoid being spotted. Tyaris' fingers curl around the handle as she pulls at the hatch. She stumbles back a step as the door swings back with ease. Unlocked. A rush of adrenaline surges as they slip inside, unseen and unheard.

Inside, a congregation of the robed people stand in a circle around an altar. Upon the altar is a bowl full of red petals, a staff bound with black feathers and an hourglass containing particles of gold. The robed people chant in a language unknown to any of the trio. The air is thick with the incomprehensible chant, a blend of guttural sounds and familiar words, but one name stands out amid the cacophony: ‘Phyauris.’

“I knew it!" Tyaris mutters, dismay evident in her voice as she shakes her head. "They’re Servants of the Destroyer.”

INSIGHT: [The Servants of the Destroyer are a death cult, a profane representation of the peaceful rites of Phyauris, the God of Gods, the Original Creator and Immortal Protector. Her doctrine focuses on personal choice, hard work and balance. Their worship centres the destructive power of Phyauris and pays tribute to her in blood and destruction.]

“Let’s keep this quick,” Creed signals for them to follow into a far corner covered in shadow. Two men in markedly different robes to the rest enter the room, their presence commanding attention as they make their way toward the altar. A steady stream of additional followers joins behind them, forming a tightly knit circle that gradually fills the spacious room. Their vestments are significantly longer and better quality, both clasps shining slightly in the moonlight that streams in through the skylight.

Among the throng of devotees gathered around the altar stands a man whose demeanour is peculiar, as if he is making a frantic effort to meld into the crowd, his eyes darting back and forth uncertainly.

Avana points at the two men. The men both lift their hands in the air, palms upward, and the chanting stops. The two leaders begin speaking, each phrase a part of a call and response. Creed, Tyaris and Avana remain silent observers. Two of the three targets are there, right there, within throwing distance.

Avana rubs her scaled fingers over the blade of one of her daggers, fidgeting with the knife, turning it over and over. The blade catches a slender beam of moonlight, sending a glint of light up the wall.

“Over there!” someone cries, signalling towards the hidden assassins.

The whole room converges on the trio, drawing blades stashed inside their robes intended for their throats, while the two leaders turn to run to safety. Tyaris draws her shortsword and with a quick turn of her wrist, parries the first blade. 

“Quick! Before they escape!” Creed yells over the clamour, pushing himself through the attacking cultists towards the fleeing leaders. Tyaris follows suit, pulling Avana behind her as she defends them from the following cultist army. Ahead, Creed catches up with the leaders. He conjures a swirling bolt of fire and sends it rushing at the lagging leader, who promptly falls to his knees.

“I’ve got this one!” Tyaris shouts, drawing on her elf ancestry to race after the remaining leader.

“I’ll cover you,” Creed drops back and deflects wave after wave of attacks. He begins moving his hands in an organised motion like he is channelling something. A semi-translucent barrier begins to form, expanding from his hands. He raises them above his head and creates a circle in front of him, the barrier filling in the space between them. Just as it begins to close, a cultist jabs his knife through the gap in the centre towards his chest but is brought to a stop by a pair of daggers that return it to sender as the magical shield fully forms. Avana smiles.

“You’ve been practising,” Creed states, stunned at the save.

“She’s been practising,” Tyaris affirms with a proud smile.

She catches up to the running cult leader and makes a jab at him. He dodges and returns the strike. Tyaris and the leader enter a swordfight, neither one able to get the advantage.

“Where the hell is the third target?” Tyaris grunts, dodging a knife to the face.

Creed grits his teeth as the shield begins to falter. “I don’t know!”

“There!” Avana points, spotting a third person in a similar robe making an escape. “He’s too far away, we won’t catch up to him.”

“There’s too many of them, I can’t hold this much longer. Just kill him already.”

“I’m trying!”

“Well try harder!”

Tyaris growls and sweeps the leg out from under him, skewering him like a shish kebab on her blade. As the blood begins to pool in his mouth, the leader pulls off his hood and looks her dead in the eye, choking out his dying words. “This is not over. You cannot prevent what is to come. She will have what she is owed, the Darkness will consume all.” He coughs a mouthful of blood as his body hangs limp and Tyaris pulls her sword from his abdomen.

“What about the other guy?”

“The job’s a bust. We need to leave.” Creed’s shield begins to crack; the cultists continue to punch and stab at it until finally, it shatters. “Come on!” He turns and runs, dragging Avana with him and flinging her in front to shield her.

The three of them sprint out of the house, pursued closely by the cult. With a skilful blend of stealth and agility, they deftly navigate the labyrinth of shadows, evading their relentless pursuers at every turn. After a pulse-pounding chase, weaving through narrow alleys and hidden alcoves, they finally made their escape, slipping aboard the Maelstrom’s Fury, their hearts racing with the thrill of survival.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Avana begins crying, running behind some crates and hiding her face in her lap. Tyaris runs after her and crouches beside her.

“You screwed up, Van, but you also saved Creed’s life. Come on out of there. Let's talk.”

Avana crawls out from behind the boxes and wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket.

“Look, I promise you, kid, I’m not angry. Truth is, we wouldn’t have completed the contract anyway, not with the third target hiding like that. They had the upper hand before we even stepped foot inside. Somehow they knew we were coming. All you did was push us into the fray a bit sooner than we anticipated,” Tyaris offers a soft smile.

“Besides, it wasn't a complete failure,” Creed says. He is sitting on the gunwales, both feet crossed in front of him, turning an object over in his hands.

“What's that?” Avana asks.

“It's an hourglass. Saw it on the altar. Figured we weren't getting paid so I grabbed it on the way out. No clue what's in it but it's shiny and gold -- could be worth something. I think it's broken though.”

“Let me see that,” Tyaris says, snatching it out of his hands and holding it up to her face. The hourglass is made of glass and gold and gilded with red stones around the base. Where there should be sand, gold dust fills the top with some sat in the bottom compartment. She shakes it gently but no dust moves through the neck. Confused, Tyaris shakes it a little harder and still nothing. Inverting it, she watches in awe as the gold dust defies gravity, shifting perfectly into the top chamber until the proportions are restored. She inverts it again and, again, it fixes the gold dust inside to the same proportions.

“I’m not sure what this is but it's not broken." she concludes, "I think it's enchanted.”

At the mention of magic, Creed's ears prick up and he takes the hourglass back to examine it closely. “Obviously we can't sell it then. We should take it to a druid or something, let them look at it.”

“Great. So not only are we not getting paid, we also have a magical egg timer. Still not blaming you, kid,” Tyaris corrects herself before Avana can take offence. She glances at Creed who is already tucking the trinket into his pocket, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. “You'd better put that somewhere safe. I feel like I should know what that is, you know..?”

Creed hops off the gunwale as he remembers the true reality of the situation. “You know we still have to go to the contractor.”

Tyaris sighs and turns to Avana with a suddenly serious tone. “Sailor, that will be all.”

The girl complies, understanding the meaning of that tone, and withdraws into the crew quarters.

“We can go in the morning. I need to talk to you.”

Creed offers a concerned look.

“When I killed that guy, he said something… strange,” she pauses, racking her brain for the exact words, “He said ‘you cannot prevent what is to come. She will have what she is owed and the Darkness will consume all.’ That's not Destroyer doctrine. ‘The Darkness will consume all?’ That's not a good omen. And now you've stolen one of their possessions. I'm worried, Creed. What have we been pulled into?”

He pulls her closer and wraps his arms around her shoulders.

“I promise, if I've involved you in anything, I'll be the one to fix it.”

[deadforshit]

Dead Reckoning: Prologue

Upon a backdrop of mistrust and treachery, Astemea served as a board upon which the game of war was played. No two species could maintain peace for longer than it took for a new war to begin as the curtain fell on the one previous.

Over hundreds of years, millions gave their lives in service of the protection of their people in pointless wars and ill-reasoned sieges, waged over nary a threat. Fear and hatred drive men to paranoia that whispers in their ears like scheming advisors convincing them to walk themselves to the block. The fields were watered with the blood of all men, and as the red soaked the earth, wells ran dry. Food became scarce, and the streets filled with mouldering corpses of children too young to remember their fathers’ faces. Church bells rang across Astemea, an endless graveyard of red and grey.

Some races felt the touch of death more frequently than others, the targets of more violence than others. The Aungid faced near extinction following the Scaled War as they were relentlessly pursued for their serpentine appearance in the name of holy purity, while the elves and humans maintained relative superiority.

When the dead outnumbered the living, the leaders of all eight races gathered in Springminster to settle their grievances once and for all. On that day, the Concord of the Innocents was signed, bound by blood, ushering in the Demarcation of Astemea.

To the west lie the red rocks of Norrud, a dry, arid desert speckled with the crumbling remains of the Aungid culture and vastly uninhabited.

Surrounding it on all but its westerly coast, sit Creguvell, Grethich and Donora, forming the Human Strip and most of the Astemean countryside.

In the north, bordering Creguvell, Galisle, the ancestral home of the elves, boasts sleek white architecture and streets paved in turquoise and marble.

Besides it, Xilarel. A land built on ever-rising steps, the Strixtir, a species of horned and winged individuals, replicated their birthplace in the Strix, a dimension only their species has access to, nestled between the mortal realm and Eivemion, with rising domes and spires.

In the far east, Zuraan rests cloaked in impenetrable mist. The furtive Quelith people, black-haired and dressed in blue, live among the stalactites and snow. Below the ground in great caverns, the Dwarves hammer out weapons and tools. A great culture of ingenuity and creation, the dwarves pride themselves on their mastery of all crafts.

Sandwiched between Zuraan’s mountains and Xilarel’s spires are the mines of Bakar. Within them scurry the lizardfolk. Lacertiles of varying stages of evolution spend every moment recovering the precious stones that grow below the earth, single-handedly supplying the realm with diamonds and all that shine.

To the south is Arnwich, a country of outcasts and fortune-makers. All are welcome so long as they bow to the King. Here, the Concord is housed on public display in the Palace of Springminster, a reminder of the alliance struck and forged in blood.

Sitting alone in the ocean to the southeast, Akosaea flourished with a culture of elves, set apart by their warm, dark skin and flowing black tresses. Alongside the greater landmass of the Rosboneer Isles surrounding it, the island provided a paradise of colour and fragrance.

The only race that declined to settle were the Druids, preferring to maintain the nomadic ways their people had practised for generations. For this they earned some ire, though the names committed to paper prevented any from showing it.

For a time, peace reigned as each nation's people flourished within the sanctuary of their borders, until the ambitions of their leaders ignited a lusting flame, as all leaders have, for more land and power. Instead of taking up arms again, however, the nations fight to achieve intellectual superiority. At the heart of this struggle lies a profound secret: the origin of magic, a fact remaining solely in the possession of the Druids and the Quelith people. A strong sense of injustice resonates deeply among many of the settled public at this imbalance. Whether an inherited skill or a simple hoarding of knowledge, there is not a soul that doesn’t harbour a desire for magic. Now, with steam-powered engines heralding the dawn of industry, the Mechanical Era blossoms — a time of innovation and expansion, yet a renewed hunger for land stirs within the hearts of its players.

Our tale unfolds 72 years after the Demarcation, during a fleeting moment of peace. But shadows shift beneath the surface, foretelling that something is brewing…

[deadforshit]

Dead Reckoning: The Phyaurean Genesis

The following is an excerpt of the Codex Egalitaria, detailing the creation of the Mortal Realm and everything in it, above and below.

Before everything there was The Darkness. It was everything and nothing and time ceased to exist. At its centre, wrapped in blackness, rested the Creature, a serpent with two heads, both guarding a golden orb. The Creature’s heads spewed fire and coughed freezing winds, daring anything in the nothingness to approach.

From The Darkness, sprung forth a woman, small and pale. She wrapped herself in her six wings and each black feather covered her white skin. In time, She warmed in the darkness and slowly she peeled back her wings, revealing her face and form to The Darkness. It whispered her name and the name was Phyauris.

The orb shone bright in the darkness, giving off its own golden sheen. Phyauris, alone with only the Creature in The Darkness, ventured closer to the light, intrigued by its presence in the nothingness. She snuck closer to the orb as The Creature lay sleeping and gently pried it free from the serpent’s coils. Noticing it gone, the Creature grew furious at Phyauris’ meddling and assailed her in flame and wind. Phyauris lifted the orb above her head in defence as the serpent’s twin heads hurtled towards her, mouths agape, biting down on the golden orb instead. From it emerged a small child, his body glowing with light. Phyauris placed the child in the largest piece of the orb. Laid in a golden cradle, he became the Sun, and she named him Aureus. The smaller shattered shards scattered through the dark and became the stars.

Deeply wounded by the shards it had swallowed, the Creature lay near lifeless in the endless black. From its body, Phyauris created the land. As its blood flowed from the gashes, She touched it and purified it and here she created the rivers and seas as it pooled, clear and cold. This she named Astemea, the Land Below the Stars.

Phyauris took heads from body and, holding them close to her heart, created a set of twins. From the blazing head, She created Anmes to warm the land and from the windy head, Anthar to cool its heat. Lastly, She pressed her hands together and from the blood on her hands sprang creatures like Herself, small and sad.

Angry at the pale creator for daring to slay Its pet and defile Its emptiness, The Darkness swept through the land, coating the creations in layers of black. Phyauris would not stand for this. She plucked several feathers from her wings and brought forth more two-legged creatures, glowing and beautiful, to protect her creation.

As Aureus grew, so too did the light He created. The Darkness could not abide by this. All that It had swallowed had been taken from It and in its place Her creations. The Darkness grew mightier and Its blackness blacker still. It whispered to the Gods, promising them greater freedom, knowledge and power. Among them it found the power-hungry, the weak-willed and the selfish. Anthar, the twin god of the cold, let his ambitions grow too large to control and allied with The Darkness, tearing away from his brother’s side. Together, the pair launched a war on the Pantheon, vowing to destroy Phyauris or swallow Astemea into The Darkness.

Thus started the Holy War.

The Gods of Phyauris’ Pantheon fought, spearheaded by Aureus now fully grown, ever working to push The Darkness back. In the moments that Aureus succeeded, His light warmed the land, but The Darkness was strong and would soon regain Its hold and drive the light over the horizon. Ever since, the pair have been locked in battle, neither prepared to concede.

The Darkness is strong, and Its hold could not be fully vanquished, only weakened. Its blackness has already soaked into her creations and could not be washed out, even by the Brightest Star. Phyauris and her God-children fought night and day, all while Astemea evolved and flourished. Her little creatures built upon the land, putting it to use and soon Astemea overflowed with life and colour. For every new invention a new God sprung forth, guiding their ambition. As their ambition grew, The Darkness preyed on their desires, fortifying Itself with mortal and immortal allies alike.

Eventually the war wore on Phyauris, and she could fight no longer. She disappeared into the Timeless Realm, Eivemion, leaving the Pantheon to continue the pushback as she rested. Ever since, Phyauris has prepared for the Final Battle, where She will defeat The Darkness and free Astemea of Its Dark Influence.

[deadforshit]

Hi! It's Raine from @glitter-covered-bodybag :D

This is where I'll be posting all the stuff I wrote while I deluded myself that I'm a halfway decent author. Right now the thing I'm focusing on is a fantasy novel in a planned series set in the land of Astemea titled 'Dead Reckoning'.

Feel free to read and comment. It'll be updated as I write and edit which knowing me will be sporadic and random.

- Raine (they/them) x