David's hand glistened with sweat after he wiped his forehead clean. His ceiling fan churned overhead, doing little to lessen the cloying heat and humidity.
"I would give anything to be out of this heat," he muttered.
He heard the sound of popping bubble wrap behind him. He swiveled his computer chair around and saw the imp hovering in midair in the center of the room. It looked fairly stereotypical: small, somewhat chubby, hairless and with bright red skin and tiny bat wings. Its canine teeth protruded outside its mouth. It held a short, tarnished pitchfork in one hand.
"I hear you got a deal you want to make?" the imp asked. It spoke with an inexplicable Texan accent.
"Er." David had never encountered one of the infernal denizens before and he wasn't entirely sure how to react. He'd read a fair bit about them and how they go about their work, though.
"I was mostly just talking to myself there," he said at last.
The imp's body slumped. "You sure?"
"Yeah, positive. Sorry."
The imp sighed and vanished. David turned back to his computer.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Friday, June 8, 2012
The Good Olde Days
"Timmy, come down for dinner!"
Timmy bounded off his bed, sending a cascade of toys across the floor. He would clean it up after dinner, hopefully before his dad would see the mess. "A made bed is a happy bed," he always said.
Tonight the family was having roast beef, expertly made by his mother. She divvied up the portions while Father stood at one end of the dining room, smoking. Timmy wasn't old enough to smoke, not yet, but once he got old enough he would for sure start. Dad smoked and Timmy's personal hero, Wixia Kahn, also smoked. Dad didn't approve of Wixia. "Don't know how the youth got around to venerating a foreigner. All my role-models were from here, not thousands of miles away."
Come to think of it, Dad disapproved of a lot of things.
Timmy wolfed down his meal and even had seconds, but there was plenty to go around. Dad hardly touched his portion, opting instead to push it around. "You seem distracted, dear," said Mom.
Dad took a deep breath and exhaled twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils. "It's the damn higher-ups. They're looking to expand, even though everybody who actually does the work knows it's risky. We don't have any kind of foothold there and it's sure to cause back-and-forth." His voice took on a bitter note. "We're losing all kinds of ground to those damn Japanese as is. No time to waste it fighting among ourselves."
"I'm sure it will work out fine," said Mom, clearing Dad's half-eaten meal away. Mom was really good at calming Dad down. Sometimes, when Dad was especially stressed, the two of them went into the den alone and told Timmy not to bother them.
After dinner the family played with the family pet for a while. They'd just gotten a new one, and Timmy still felt pangs of regret. He'd played too rough with the old one and hurt its leg, so Dad forced Timmy to watch as he put it down. "You've got to follow through on your responsibilities, Son, and be more careful" said Dad as he broke its neck. "These things don't grow on trees, you know, and it takes a lot of time for them to grow large enough to go out on their own."
But the next day Dad had a new one, this time a girl. "Surprise!" he said. Of course she was skittish at first, still was at times, but she'd gotten a little used to her new owners. It was Timmy's responsibility to feed and water her, and to make sure her cage was cleaned every day.
When they put her away for the night, Dad escorted Timmy to his room while Mom cleaned up the den. Dad's keen eyes immediately noticed the trinkets haphazardly strewn about. "Timmychirix, what have I told you about keeping your bed made!" Dad roared. "I put in a lot of effort bringing it all home and the least you could do is respect that!" Dad's eyes glowed redly and smoke trailed from his open mouth as well as his nostrils.
Timmy curled into a servile ball on the cave's floor. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'll clean it up right away."
This seemed to satisfy Dad, who nodded curtly and left. Timmy carefully pushed the displaced goblets and amulets and rings, gems, and coins back into his ovoid bed. Dad wasn't being mean, Timmy told himself as he worked, he was being stern, making sure that I grow up into a dragon that would do him proud.
Timmy bounded off his bed, sending a cascade of toys across the floor. He would clean it up after dinner, hopefully before his dad would see the mess. "A made bed is a happy bed," he always said.
Tonight the family was having roast beef, expertly made by his mother. She divvied up the portions while Father stood at one end of the dining room, smoking. Timmy wasn't old enough to smoke, not yet, but once he got old enough he would for sure start. Dad smoked and Timmy's personal hero, Wixia Kahn, also smoked. Dad didn't approve of Wixia. "Don't know how the youth got around to venerating a foreigner. All my role-models were from here, not thousands of miles away."
Come to think of it, Dad disapproved of a lot of things.
Timmy wolfed down his meal and even had seconds, but there was plenty to go around. Dad hardly touched his portion, opting instead to push it around. "You seem distracted, dear," said Mom.
Dad took a deep breath and exhaled twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils. "It's the damn higher-ups. They're looking to expand, even though everybody who actually does the work knows it's risky. We don't have any kind of foothold there and it's sure to cause back-and-forth." His voice took on a bitter note. "We're losing all kinds of ground to those damn Japanese as is. No time to waste it fighting among ourselves."
"I'm sure it will work out fine," said Mom, clearing Dad's half-eaten meal away. Mom was really good at calming Dad down. Sometimes, when Dad was especially stressed, the two of them went into the den alone and told Timmy not to bother them.
After dinner the family played with the family pet for a while. They'd just gotten a new one, and Timmy still felt pangs of regret. He'd played too rough with the old one and hurt its leg, so Dad forced Timmy to watch as he put it down. "You've got to follow through on your responsibilities, Son, and be more careful" said Dad as he broke its neck. "These things don't grow on trees, you know, and it takes a lot of time for them to grow large enough to go out on their own."
But the next day Dad had a new one, this time a girl. "Surprise!" he said. Of course she was skittish at first, still was at times, but she'd gotten a little used to her new owners. It was Timmy's responsibility to feed and water her, and to make sure her cage was cleaned every day.
When they put her away for the night, Dad escorted Timmy to his room while Mom cleaned up the den. Dad's keen eyes immediately noticed the trinkets haphazardly strewn about. "Timmychirix, what have I told you about keeping your bed made!" Dad roared. "I put in a lot of effort bringing it all home and the least you could do is respect that!" Dad's eyes glowed redly and smoke trailed from his open mouth as well as his nostrils.
Timmy curled into a servile ball on the cave's floor. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'll clean it up right away."
This seemed to satisfy Dad, who nodded curtly and left. Timmy carefully pushed the displaced goblets and amulets and rings, gems, and coins back into his ovoid bed. Dad wasn't being mean, Timmy told himself as he worked, he was being stern, making sure that I grow up into a dragon that would do him proud.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Cricket
It woke her up again that night. That damn chirping. Enough was enough. It needed to be stopped.
Her apartment was small but opulent. She spent a lot of money on what sparse furnishings there were, but she could afford it. She did not want for money. This building, like many others in the area, was owned by her father. Her father's contacts in the construction business would be able to help stop the chirping.
She called men up and they set immediately to work. They tore down her walls and put up new ones of a soundproof material over the span of a few tortuous days. They chirped even louder at her brother's house, lurking as they did in his basement. She couldn't catch a wink of sleep. It was a godsend when the men told her their work was done and that her noise problems were ended.
For over a week she lived in bliss. Sweet, sweet silence filled her nights. But one evening, just as she was about to crawl into bed, she thought she heard something, a quiet stridulation. As she focused on it, it grew clearer, louder.
Somehow it had come back. She did not know where it could be hiding. Certainly not in the walls, which were now solid, impervious blocks of material.
She looked around her bedroom. Her eyes narrowed. She ran to the phone, calling up other men she had known her whole life. Many of her calls went unanswered, and the constant buzz of a dial tone or a ringing phone was a splendid respite from the chirping that assailed the other. Finally someone picked up. She told him what she wanted to have done, and when. He was confused. It was late.
She promised him double his usual pay if he would come down and take care of things. After a brief pause, he told her to sit tight.
The next four hours were torture, the bustle of groggy, working men added to the hellish chirping. At las , as midnight drew near, her apartment was cleared of all furniture, all appliances. They were in transit to a storage locker until this problem sorted itself out. All she kept was a single spare set of clothes, a flashlight, a pillow, and a blanket.
The culprit would be found. There was nowhere for it to hide.
She spent the next two days searching every crevice for her culprit. When she heard the infernal racket start up she as she lay, awake and impatient, she flicked on the light, squinted and strained her eyes (and ears, her poor ears) to find the tiny black insect responsible for this torment.
Nothing. It was nowhere in her small apartment, but it was still everywhere. She could hear it. It had to be here.
She got hold of the first group of men, promising them triple their normal wage for another job. They came down immediately and began affixing thick padding to the walls. It must be inside the walls, somewhere, somehow. Let it choke and rot there, so long as she had peace.
The night after the workmen finished was the best night she had experienced in a long time. It was peaceful, quiet, marvelous. The day after she would see about moving back her things, then--
The vestigial muscles in her ears twitched. The chirping. It had come back. How? Where? She took up the flashlight and set to work, trying to uncover the lair of this taunting imp. She worked long and hard and would not stop, no, could not stop until she found it.
Her brother visited her the next day to make sure she was okay. There was no answer when he knocked on her door and called out to her. He turned the knob to let himself in.
He bolted out immediately afterward. He made a phone call.
A wispy halo of gray hair surrounded the man's head. His lips were pressed together in a tight line when he came out of her apartment. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses on his shirt slowly, surely.
He opened his mouth to speak. "Well, on the upside, her room is already well-padded."
Her apartment was small but opulent. She spent a lot of money on what sparse furnishings there were, but she could afford it. She did not want for money. This building, like many others in the area, was owned by her father. Her father's contacts in the construction business would be able to help stop the chirping.
She called men up and they set immediately to work. They tore down her walls and put up new ones of a soundproof material over the span of a few tortuous days. They chirped even louder at her brother's house, lurking as they did in his basement. She couldn't catch a wink of sleep. It was a godsend when the men told her their work was done and that her noise problems were ended.
For over a week she lived in bliss. Sweet, sweet silence filled her nights. But one evening, just as she was about to crawl into bed, she thought she heard something, a quiet stridulation. As she focused on it, it grew clearer, louder.
Somehow it had come back. She did not know where it could be hiding. Certainly not in the walls, which were now solid, impervious blocks of material.
She looked around her bedroom. Her eyes narrowed. She ran to the phone, calling up other men she had known her whole life. Many of her calls went unanswered, and the constant buzz of a dial tone or a ringing phone was a splendid respite from the chirping that assailed the other. Finally someone picked up. She told him what she wanted to have done, and when. He was confused. It was late.
She promised him double his usual pay if he would come down and take care of things. After a brief pause, he told her to sit tight.
The next four hours were torture, the bustle of groggy, working men added to the hellish chirping. At las , as midnight drew near, her apartment was cleared of all furniture, all appliances. They were in transit to a storage locker until this problem sorted itself out. All she kept was a single spare set of clothes, a flashlight, a pillow, and a blanket.
The culprit would be found. There was nowhere for it to hide.
She spent the next two days searching every crevice for her culprit. When she heard the infernal racket start up she as she lay, awake and impatient, she flicked on the light, squinted and strained her eyes (and ears, her poor ears) to find the tiny black insect responsible for this torment.
Nothing. It was nowhere in her small apartment, but it was still everywhere. She could hear it. It had to be here.
She got hold of the first group of men, promising them triple their normal wage for another job. They came down immediately and began affixing thick padding to the walls. It must be inside the walls, somewhere, somehow. Let it choke and rot there, so long as she had peace.
The night after the workmen finished was the best night she had experienced in a long time. It was peaceful, quiet, marvelous. The day after she would see about moving back her things, then--
The vestigial muscles in her ears twitched. The chirping. It had come back. How? Where? She took up the flashlight and set to work, trying to uncover the lair of this taunting imp. She worked long and hard and would not stop, no, could not stop until she found it.
Her brother visited her the next day to make sure she was okay. There was no answer when he knocked on her door and called out to her. He turned the knob to let himself in.
He bolted out immediately afterward. He made a phone call.
A wispy halo of gray hair surrounded the man's head. His lips were pressed together in a tight line when he came out of her apartment. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses on his shirt slowly, surely.
He opened his mouth to speak. "Well, on the upside, her room is already well-padded."
Friday, May 11, 2012
Convention
The woman behind the table peered up at him through her thick glasses. Three other people, two women and and a man, paused in their labors in the area behind the tables. They stared at the tall man.
The greeter's nametag read "Hello, my name is ELIZABETH." Her voice carried a slight hitch when she asked, "Welcome to Greycon! Could I get your name, please?"
"It would be under R. Ramaj." The man spoke so quietly that the woman had to lean forward to understand him.
The woman chewed on the end of her pen, the white plastic already covered with small pockmarks, as she scanned the stapled reservation list before her. "R...R...Radden, Ralkin, ah, Ramaj." She turned to look over her shoulder and addressed the man behind her. "Joe, could you dig through the boxes and get the packet for a Ramaj, T?"
"Sure thing, Liz." It took a few seconds for Joe to retrieve the manila folder. When it was passed over, T's fingertips left red smudges on the yellow paper. "That's a pretty intricate costume, friend. This your first con?"
"First time here, yes. I have been to others, however. Thank you for your help." He doffed his wide-brimmed hat to the two of them before turning to his right and marching down the hallway, cutting through the other convention-goers.
Joe crossed his arms and shook his head. "I swear, that is the best Convention Carver getup I've ever seen."
The greeter's nametag read "Hello, my name is ELIZABETH." Her voice carried a slight hitch when she asked, "Welcome to Greycon! Could I get your name, please?"
"It would be under R. Ramaj." The man spoke so quietly that the woman had to lean forward to understand him.
The woman chewed on the end of her pen, the white plastic already covered with small pockmarks, as she scanned the stapled reservation list before her. "R...R...Radden, Ralkin, ah, Ramaj." She turned to look over her shoulder and addressed the man behind her. "Joe, could you dig through the boxes and get the packet for a Ramaj, T?"
"Sure thing, Liz." It took a few seconds for Joe to retrieve the manila folder. When it was passed over, T's fingertips left red smudges on the yellow paper. "That's a pretty intricate costume, friend. This your first con?"
"First time here, yes. I have been to others, however. Thank you for your help." He doffed his wide-brimmed hat to the two of them before turning to his right and marching down the hallway, cutting through the other convention-goers.
Joe crossed his arms and shook his head. "I swear, that is the best Convention Carver getup I've ever seen."
Friday, May 4, 2012
Lost & Found, Pt. 5
Jesson ran one of its tendrils over its hairless head, a nervous gesture it had picked up from prolonged human contact. Air whistled out of its spiracles in a frustrated sigh. "This has to be the stupidest thing you've ever done."
Trevor held his knife between his teeth and used both hands to keep the wriggling baby in place. The naked baby lay, giggling, on one of Trevor's old shirts. "I couldn't just leave her there." He hewed at the fabric, cutting excess pieces away.
"You don't know where that baby has been. You don't know who it belongs to or--"
"I know exactly where the baby was. I found her on that altar."
"In a temple, in a swamp, belonging to thrice-cursed Cs'e'erah! What if she was left there for a reason, huh? What if she was a sacrifice made to appease the Dread Sister?"
"Cs'e'erah should have been quicker to pick her up then, wouldn't you say?" Trevor tied the shirt's remnants into a rudimentary diaper. He cut away the tassels dangling from the preponderance of knots he had tied. The baby stretched out a hand to the flashing metal and cooed.
Jesson wrapped a tentacle around the child's wrist and jerked one of its eyestalks away when the baby stretched out to grab it with the other hand. Its other eye glared at Trevor, who had a satisfied look on his face. "Why did I agree to this madness, again?"
"Fame and wealth. Mostly the fame, I'd hope. I also think the compulsion may also have played a small role." The Bibliomancer stepped back lightly and dipped his head in a curt nod. "Let's name her Fortuna. That seems appropriate, given how lucky she was that we came through when we did."
"You are not serious. This child will just get in the way!" Jesson's voice had grown higher and shriller than usual, and magenta blooms were spreading over the Grinn's pale flesh.
"I'll keep her quiet, promise. The Borenan rebels will be able to take her off our hands once we meet with them. Or would you rather that Cs'e'erah receive this girl's energies?"
Jesson flailed two tentacles around, swatting at the drooping branches of a tree that had been unfortunate enough to grow in the wastes near Staxal. It could not win an argument with the human, not when he had his mind made up already. "If the child makes undue noise, I swear upon Maurcke that I will strangle the life from her myself!"
"Fair deal." Trevor lifted the baby and squinted skywards. "The day's getting on. We have some miles we can cover before it gets dark." He began walking to the northeast, feet squelching and sinking into the moist soil. He mumbled nonsense words to the baby as he went.
Jesson piped its frustrations to the uncaring wilderness and followed.
---
Sprusba squatted and rested his elbows atop his knees. His broad fingertips brushed the ground, gouging small furrows into the dirt and detritus. "Lady Lucinda, I found a thing."
Lucinda pushed past Kravin. "What is it?" she asked. She was tired of her journey, disgusted by her surroundings. Her hair, dirty and listless, twitched from the power she discharged in her ire.
The Chubs pinched a scrap of cloth between his thumb and forefinger. It hung listlessly, discolored and half-rotted by the time it had spent in the swamp. "Clothing fabric." He pointed at other pieces which lay on the ground. "More there and there."
Kravin rubbed at one dirty cheek with an equally dirty hand and asked the question before Lucinda. "Does it belong to him?"
Sprusba grunted. "Could be, could not." He tossed aside the cloth and regarded Lucinda with his deep-set eyes. "If he went that way, would be in the way of East Borena. Could be he went there. Easy to get lost in a big city."
"Easy to be found, too," Kravin said. The Mageslayer dropped his pack into the muck with a sodden plop and dug out a strip of dried fruit. "And Cs'e'erah would gain little by extending protection over a known fugitive, not with things standing as they do."
Lucinda shook her head. "He is craftier than that."
Sprusba chuckled. "He is crafty enough to know that you know he is craftier than that." The Chubs got to his feet with a quiet grunt. "It is my thought that we go along this trail."
Kravin remained unconvinced. "Why cut strips away like that? Was he wounded? They certainly were not torn loose. The edges are too straight." The Mageslayer chewed and swallowed a piece of the fruit. "I think it's a distraction. It seems to contrived and convenient."
Lucinda closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I agree. If we follow the wrong trail, we fall behind and it will be even harder to backtrack. That is something he would have done."
Sprusba nodded, though reluctantly. "Understood. We keep walking that way, then." The Chubs pointed out through the mossy canopy, at the mountain. It was not a good mountain, and Sprusba had aired his misgivings numerous times as they marched closer and closer to its base. Lucinda trusted in his judgment. After all, Chubs resided in the Rocky Succor, the long mountain range that stretched from near Nostrum, in Cahllyn's realm, through the Freelance regions, and into Greatah's domain before terminating to the west of Vijo Geme.
But she had a quarry to retrieve, and she would do this regardless of whether she had to climb to Staxal's peak or descend into the darkest bowels beneath the mountain.
Lucinda shifted her rod from one hand to the other. "Let us continue. We have a number of miles we can cover yet before night falls." She continued walking to the southeast, carefully feeling out the driest possible path with the butt of her staff. Kravin hurried to catch up, gingerly stepping around Sprusba.
Sprusba took a final look at the mysterious pieces of fabric strewn along the trail. A nervous rumble echoed through his stout chest as he followed.
Trevor held his knife between his teeth and used both hands to keep the wriggling baby in place. The naked baby lay, giggling, on one of Trevor's old shirts. "I couldn't just leave her there." He hewed at the fabric, cutting excess pieces away.
"You don't know where that baby has been. You don't know who it belongs to or--"
"I know exactly where the baby was. I found her on that altar."
"In a temple, in a swamp, belonging to thrice-cursed Cs'e'erah! What if she was left there for a reason, huh? What if she was a sacrifice made to appease the Dread Sister?"
"Cs'e'erah should have been quicker to pick her up then, wouldn't you say?" Trevor tied the shirt's remnants into a rudimentary diaper. He cut away the tassels dangling from the preponderance of knots he had tied. The baby stretched out a hand to the flashing metal and cooed.
Jesson wrapped a tentacle around the child's wrist and jerked one of its eyestalks away when the baby stretched out to grab it with the other hand. Its other eye glared at Trevor, who had a satisfied look on his face. "Why did I agree to this madness, again?"
"Fame and wealth. Mostly the fame, I'd hope. I also think the compulsion may also have played a small role." The Bibliomancer stepped back lightly and dipped his head in a curt nod. "Let's name her Fortuna. That seems appropriate, given how lucky she was that we came through when we did."
"You are not serious. This child will just get in the way!" Jesson's voice had grown higher and shriller than usual, and magenta blooms were spreading over the Grinn's pale flesh.
"I'll keep her quiet, promise. The Borenan rebels will be able to take her off our hands once we meet with them. Or would you rather that Cs'e'erah receive this girl's energies?"
Jesson flailed two tentacles around, swatting at the drooping branches of a tree that had been unfortunate enough to grow in the wastes near Staxal. It could not win an argument with the human, not when he had his mind made up already. "If the child makes undue noise, I swear upon Maurcke that I will strangle the life from her myself!"
"Fair deal." Trevor lifted the baby and squinted skywards. "The day's getting on. We have some miles we can cover before it gets dark." He began walking to the northeast, feet squelching and sinking into the moist soil. He mumbled nonsense words to the baby as he went.
Jesson piped its frustrations to the uncaring wilderness and followed.
---
Sprusba squatted and rested his elbows atop his knees. His broad fingertips brushed the ground, gouging small furrows into the dirt and detritus. "Lady Lucinda, I found a thing."
Lucinda pushed past Kravin. "What is it?" she asked. She was tired of her journey, disgusted by her surroundings. Her hair, dirty and listless, twitched from the power she discharged in her ire.
The Chubs pinched a scrap of cloth between his thumb and forefinger. It hung listlessly, discolored and half-rotted by the time it had spent in the swamp. "Clothing fabric." He pointed at other pieces which lay on the ground. "More there and there."
Kravin rubbed at one dirty cheek with an equally dirty hand and asked the question before Lucinda. "Does it belong to him?"
Sprusba grunted. "Could be, could not." He tossed aside the cloth and regarded Lucinda with his deep-set eyes. "If he went that way, would be in the way of East Borena. Could be he went there. Easy to get lost in a big city."
"Easy to be found, too," Kravin said. The Mageslayer dropped his pack into the muck with a sodden plop and dug out a strip of dried fruit. "And Cs'e'erah would gain little by extending protection over a known fugitive, not with things standing as they do."
Lucinda shook her head. "He is craftier than that."
Sprusba chuckled. "He is crafty enough to know that you know he is craftier than that." The Chubs got to his feet with a quiet grunt. "It is my thought that we go along this trail."
Kravin remained unconvinced. "Why cut strips away like that? Was he wounded? They certainly were not torn loose. The edges are too straight." The Mageslayer chewed and swallowed a piece of the fruit. "I think it's a distraction. It seems to contrived and convenient."
Lucinda closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I agree. If we follow the wrong trail, we fall behind and it will be even harder to backtrack. That is something he would have done."
Sprusba nodded, though reluctantly. "Understood. We keep walking that way, then." The Chubs pointed out through the mossy canopy, at the mountain. It was not a good mountain, and Sprusba had aired his misgivings numerous times as they marched closer and closer to its base. Lucinda trusted in his judgment. After all, Chubs resided in the Rocky Succor, the long mountain range that stretched from near Nostrum, in Cahllyn's realm, through the Freelance regions, and into Greatah's domain before terminating to the west of Vijo Geme.
But she had a quarry to retrieve, and she would do this regardless of whether she had to climb to Staxal's peak or descend into the darkest bowels beneath the mountain.
Lucinda shifted her rod from one hand to the other. "Let us continue. We have a number of miles we can cover yet before night falls." She continued walking to the southeast, carefully feeling out the driest possible path with the butt of her staff. Kravin hurried to catch up, gingerly stepping around Sprusba.
Sprusba took a final look at the mysterious pieces of fabric strewn along the trail. A nervous rumble echoed through his stout chest as he followed.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Lost & Found, Pt. 4
Lucinda cupped her hands, closed her eyes, and splashed her face with water from the basin. She blindly reached for a nearby towel to wipe herself dry when she heard the knock at the door.
Sprusba's gravelly voice carried through the wood. "Lady, there is a Mock here who wants to see you."
Lucinda calmly continued patting her face as she stared into the brass basin. Her reflection looked back at her, blue-eyed and blond-haired. She looked haggard, and she saw more worry lines etched into her features now compared to the last time she had looked, in Admae. That had been a week ago, but it felt like months. She was tired, having slept poorly the night before. The bed had been comfortable enough, she grudgingly admitted, but Marone was not friendly territory.
"Lady? You alright?" Sprusba pounded on the door again.
"I am fine," she said at last. She tossed her damp hair over one shoulder and shrugged out of the brown-itchy robe the inn's proprietor had gladly furnished while her other clothing was laundered. She left it in a crumpled heap on the floor. The man pretended he provided this service out of the goodness of his heart and that it was a courtesy afforded to all esteemed travelers, but Lucinda knew that the Freelance city of Marone remained Freelance only in name. It lay too close to Cs'e'erah's borders to not favor that Sister, and it catered to followers of the two Brothers only so that the illusion could be maintained, and that its inhabitants might play the factions against one another.
She smiled grimly at the thought of encountering a band of Maurcke's followers. The bloody debacle which occurred at Erron still haunted her dreams. Once she finished this mission, she would resume balancing the scales by slaying the members of Maurcke's hordes, one creature at a time.
Lucinda quickly dressed in her Elementalist's attire and draped her amulet around her neck. The weight of the blunt crescent that marked her as a Chosen of Cahllyn reassured her, and she felt the conduits linking her to her patron open. She flicked her fingers one at a time and tiny sparkles of energy flitted from their tips.
She crossed the room and opened the stout door. The Chubs stood before her, hands curled into great bony fists. Sprusba peered up at her with deep-set eyes and a rumbling growl echoed out of his broad chest.
"There is a Mock here," Sprusba repeated. "Will I remove it?" He sounded unsure of himself, and Lucinda could hear him grinding his teeth.
Lucinda pressed her lips together. "What does it want?"
"It says it has information you would find interesting. It would not tell me what."
"I have no time for a Mock's foolishness. Are we ready to move onward?"
Sprusba jerked his head downward in a quick nod. "Kravin got supplies like you said. He waits outside with our things."
"Then let us go. Our quarry's trail grows colder with every moment we dawdle." Lucinda strode past the Chubs, down the short hallway that led to the inn's taproom. She heard Sprusba's heavy footfalls on the plank floor behind her as he followed.
The inn had been functional. Not good by any stretch of the imagination, but far preferable to a night spent eating a meal of trail rations and sleeping on cold dirt. She saw the table the three of them used the night before, off in a corner away from the ebb and flow of the place's usual customers. They had received some strange looks--Cahllesque travelers did not normally come out this way--but no one had bothered them. That suited Lucinda perfectly. The fewer who knew about their reason for being here, the better.
She saw the innkeep, a human, behind the counter, counting money. He shoved the coins aside when Lucinda entered the room and his face assumed a fawning expression. "Ah, Judicator, you have awakened. I have taken the liberty of seeing the objects we had laundered delivered to your Soulweaver, for your convenience. He awaits you outside."
Lucinda nodded at the innkeep. The sooner she was finished with Marone's facile kindness, the better. The traitor could not be much farther off, and when he was captured, in spirit or in flesh, she could return to Imfera, to civilization, to a place where she need not worry about a Freelance Stalker who craved the prestige of killing one or more of Cahllyn's Chosen, or where Maurckian assassins could wait around every corner.
Lucinda stepped outdoors and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the bright morning sun. Kravin stood next to their packs, the palm of his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Marone's townsfolk passed by on the street, ordinary men and women going about their daily labors. They slowed to ogle the group of three only so long as it took for Kravin's or Sprusba's gaze to fall upon them.
The slender man inclined his head at Lucinda. He said, "We are ready to depart, soon as you give the word, Judicator," his voice a low murmur.
Lucinda raised a hand. "A moment, Kravin. Sprusba tells me a Mock was just here?"
The Mageslayer nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I saw the beast skulk away in that direction. It looked as though it was up to no good."
"Mocks never are," Sprusba grated. The Chubs Corsair snorted and picked up his heavy warhammer from where it leaned against his pack. "They receive their name for good reason. It is good it was not here when you came here, or we would not be rid of it, unless it was in a way that would upset the people here."
Lucinda gathered her own gear. She felt a familiar tingle of crackling energies as her hand closed around her staff, a five-foot length of blue-tinged metal topped with a square-cut piece of amber. She felt the power pulse in her chest, amplified by the magical rod. She did not fear the physical presence of one of the cat-beasts, but she did fear the attention their incessant yammering could bring.
Lucinda pointed at the black smudge which peeked over the horizon. Staxal, the cursed mountain, an unmistakable marker of the boundary where the ostensible neutrality of the Freeland gave way to the tainted realm of Cs'e'erah.
Anxiety filled her, and she resisted the urge to release it. Imfera was far, too far, away. "We continue to the southeast."
Kravin rubbed at his freshly shaved chin. "If he has crossed over into Cs'e'erahn land, what then?"
Lucinda's eyes were hard. "Then we follow. We shall catch him and deliver him, dead or alive."
Lucinda did not look back once they were on their way.
Sprusba's gravelly voice carried through the wood. "Lady, there is a Mock here who wants to see you."
Lucinda calmly continued patting her face as she stared into the brass basin. Her reflection looked back at her, blue-eyed and blond-haired. She looked haggard, and she saw more worry lines etched into her features now compared to the last time she had looked, in Admae. That had been a week ago, but it felt like months. She was tired, having slept poorly the night before. The bed had been comfortable enough, she grudgingly admitted, but Marone was not friendly territory.
"Lady? You alright?" Sprusba pounded on the door again.
"I am fine," she said at last. She tossed her damp hair over one shoulder and shrugged out of the brown-itchy robe the inn's proprietor had gladly furnished while her other clothing was laundered. She left it in a crumpled heap on the floor. The man pretended he provided this service out of the goodness of his heart and that it was a courtesy afforded to all esteemed travelers, but Lucinda knew that the Freelance city of Marone remained Freelance only in name. It lay too close to Cs'e'erah's borders to not favor that Sister, and it catered to followers of the two Brothers only so that the illusion could be maintained, and that its inhabitants might play the factions against one another.
She smiled grimly at the thought of encountering a band of Maurcke's followers. The bloody debacle which occurred at Erron still haunted her dreams. Once she finished this mission, she would resume balancing the scales by slaying the members of Maurcke's hordes, one creature at a time.
Lucinda quickly dressed in her Elementalist's attire and draped her amulet around her neck. The weight of the blunt crescent that marked her as a Chosen of Cahllyn reassured her, and she felt the conduits linking her to her patron open. She flicked her fingers one at a time and tiny sparkles of energy flitted from their tips.
She crossed the room and opened the stout door. The Chubs stood before her, hands curled into great bony fists. Sprusba peered up at her with deep-set eyes and a rumbling growl echoed out of his broad chest.
"There is a Mock here," Sprusba repeated. "Will I remove it?" He sounded unsure of himself, and Lucinda could hear him grinding his teeth.
Lucinda pressed her lips together. "What does it want?"
"It says it has information you would find interesting. It would not tell me what."
"I have no time for a Mock's foolishness. Are we ready to move onward?"
Sprusba jerked his head downward in a quick nod. "Kravin got supplies like you said. He waits outside with our things."
"Then let us go. Our quarry's trail grows colder with every moment we dawdle." Lucinda strode past the Chubs, down the short hallway that led to the inn's taproom. She heard Sprusba's heavy footfalls on the plank floor behind her as he followed.
The inn had been functional. Not good by any stretch of the imagination, but far preferable to a night spent eating a meal of trail rations and sleeping on cold dirt. She saw the table the three of them used the night before, off in a corner away from the ebb and flow of the place's usual customers. They had received some strange looks--Cahllesque travelers did not normally come out this way--but no one had bothered them. That suited Lucinda perfectly. The fewer who knew about their reason for being here, the better.
She saw the innkeep, a human, behind the counter, counting money. He shoved the coins aside when Lucinda entered the room and his face assumed a fawning expression. "Ah, Judicator, you have awakened. I have taken the liberty of seeing the objects we had laundered delivered to your Soulweaver, for your convenience. He awaits you outside."
Lucinda nodded at the innkeep. The sooner she was finished with Marone's facile kindness, the better. The traitor could not be much farther off, and when he was captured, in spirit or in flesh, she could return to Imfera, to civilization, to a place where she need not worry about a Freelance Stalker who craved the prestige of killing one or more of Cahllyn's Chosen, or where Maurckian assassins could wait around every corner.
Lucinda stepped outdoors and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the bright morning sun. Kravin stood next to their packs, the palm of his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Marone's townsfolk passed by on the street, ordinary men and women going about their daily labors. They slowed to ogle the group of three only so long as it took for Kravin's or Sprusba's gaze to fall upon them.
The slender man inclined his head at Lucinda. He said, "We are ready to depart, soon as you give the word, Judicator," his voice a low murmur.
Lucinda raised a hand. "A moment, Kravin. Sprusba tells me a Mock was just here?"
The Mageslayer nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I saw the beast skulk away in that direction. It looked as though it was up to no good."
"Mocks never are," Sprusba grated. The Chubs Corsair snorted and picked up his heavy warhammer from where it leaned against his pack. "They receive their name for good reason. It is good it was not here when you came here, or we would not be rid of it, unless it was in a way that would upset the people here."
Lucinda gathered her own gear. She felt a familiar tingle of crackling energies as her hand closed around her staff, a five-foot length of blue-tinged metal topped with a square-cut piece of amber. She felt the power pulse in her chest, amplified by the magical rod. She did not fear the physical presence of one of the cat-beasts, but she did fear the attention their incessant yammering could bring.
Lucinda pointed at the black smudge which peeked over the horizon. Staxal, the cursed mountain, an unmistakable marker of the boundary where the ostensible neutrality of the Freeland gave way to the tainted realm of Cs'e'erah.
Anxiety filled her, and she resisted the urge to release it. Imfera was far, too far, away. "We continue to the southeast."
Kravin rubbed at his freshly shaved chin. "If he has crossed over into Cs'e'erahn land, what then?"
Lucinda's eyes were hard. "Then we follow. We shall catch him and deliver him, dead or alive."
Lucinda did not look back once they were on their way.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Lost and Found, Pt. 3
Kathan stood before Im-Slatner when the Minion opened his front door. The feline creature, who was covered in short blue-gray fur except for the brilliant white-blond ruff about his shoulders, glanced askance at Im-Slatner. Before the Minion could ask what the Mock was doing here, it had writhed between Im-Slatner's legs and the door frame and into Im-Slatner's home.
"It's abuzz, all of it!" Kathan purred in delight. "Oh, things will happen soon!"
"What things? What is happening?" Im-Slatner shut his door and glared at the Mock with his slender hands curled into fists.
"The Cahllesque group! Ke-he-he, not just a group passing through, no, but one here, led by the Lady Lucinda!"
Im-Slatner stiffened. "What could she want here?" he asked, keeping his tone as conversational as possible. He prayed the Mock could not detect the apprehension that tugged at his body, the chilling tingle centered at the base of his spine.
"She's chasing an outcast of some sort. I guess an ex-Corsair, one that swore off Cahllyn. Usually they can't be bothered with that, right, but this one has apparently done something that met with great disapproval." Kathan chortled and swished his tail back and forth.
Im-Slatner could not keep fear from creeping into his voice. "Was his name mentioned? Did you manage to get a name?"
The Mock's eyelids lowered and his mouth curved into a sly smirk. "Worried, are we? Does the Cs'e'erahn fear that he unconsciously brought the ire of one of Cahllyn's finest Judicators upon his head in the regular course of business?"
Im-Slatner had no time for Kathan's games. The Minion snapped out a long-fingered hand and released his breath in a low hiss. A green haze spread from his lips and twisted around the Mock, who had fallen back in a servile cringe.
Kathan mewled pitifully for a moment before breaking into a fit of hacking and coughing. His forelimbs pawed at his head in desperation, trying to push away the foul miasma Im-Slatner had invoked. "M-ahl-Morris! Maurice! Ghak! Some-hek-thing!"
Im-Slatner cut the invisible bonds of power linking him to the Dread Sister and his incantation faded moments later. Not the Corsair Lars, then. Well, likely not. The Mock would not have lied. The craven species blustered and reveled when they held positions of power or possessed some sort of leverage, but quickly turned to fawning when exposed to any real threat. Though Kathan was an infamous purveyor of rumors around Marone, even he could be wrong.
"How would you like to earn some coin?"
Kathan's ears perked up. Mocks were greedy, too. "Will I have to something dangerous?"
"Perhaps. You are to deliver a message on my behalf."
"To the Cahllesque woman." Kathan sat up, straightening his back and puffing out his mane.
Im-Slatner pressed his lips together. Mocks were selfish cowards, but they were not stupid. "Yes."
"This message will be a deceit."
Im-Slatner goggled at Kathan, who gave a high-pitched giggle. "Your skill lies in Cs'e'rahn magics, Bonedaddy. Mine is in this thing which you ask me to do."
"It will not be a complete lie."
"No?"
"Inform Judicator Lucinda that Sister Ophelia was just sighted in Marone."
Kathan's lips drew back from his pointed teeth in a feral grin. "The devastation holds the potential to be phenomenal."
"Indeed it does." Im-Slatner reached into the pocket of his robe and and retrieved a pouch. He tied a long leather thong around its neck and held it out for the Mock. Kathan crept forward, eyes wary, and snatched the bag to inspect its contents. They apparently met his satisfaction, as he purred in contentment. Im-Slatner pulled open his front door so the Mock could leave.
"I was under the impression that Cs'e'erah stood neutral in the war between Cahllyn and Maurcke," Kathan said as he stepped outside.
I'm-Slatner said, "The Dread Sister loves her two Brothers equally. She simply loves herself far more."
"It's abuzz, all of it!" Kathan purred in delight. "Oh, things will happen soon!"
"What things? What is happening?" Im-Slatner shut his door and glared at the Mock with his slender hands curled into fists.
"The Cahllesque group! Ke-he-he, not just a group passing through, no, but one here, led by the Lady Lucinda!"
Im-Slatner stiffened. "What could she want here?" he asked, keeping his tone as conversational as possible. He prayed the Mock could not detect the apprehension that tugged at his body, the chilling tingle centered at the base of his spine.
"She's chasing an outcast of some sort. I guess an ex-Corsair, one that swore off Cahllyn. Usually they can't be bothered with that, right, but this one has apparently done something that met with great disapproval." Kathan chortled and swished his tail back and forth.
Im-Slatner could not keep fear from creeping into his voice. "Was his name mentioned? Did you manage to get a name?"
The Mock's eyelids lowered and his mouth curved into a sly smirk. "Worried, are we? Does the Cs'e'erahn fear that he unconsciously brought the ire of one of Cahllyn's finest Judicators upon his head in the regular course of business?"
Im-Slatner had no time for Kathan's games. The Minion snapped out a long-fingered hand and released his breath in a low hiss. A green haze spread from his lips and twisted around the Mock, who had fallen back in a servile cringe.
Kathan mewled pitifully for a moment before breaking into a fit of hacking and coughing. His forelimbs pawed at his head in desperation, trying to push away the foul miasma Im-Slatner had invoked. "M-ahl-Morris! Maurice! Ghak! Some-hek-thing!"
Im-Slatner cut the invisible bonds of power linking him to the Dread Sister and his incantation faded moments later. Not the Corsair Lars, then. Well, likely not. The Mock would not have lied. The craven species blustered and reveled when they held positions of power or possessed some sort of leverage, but quickly turned to fawning when exposed to any real threat. Though Kathan was an infamous purveyor of rumors around Marone, even he could be wrong.
"How would you like to earn some coin?"
Kathan's ears perked up. Mocks were greedy, too. "Will I have to something dangerous?"
"Perhaps. You are to deliver a message on my behalf."
"To the Cahllesque woman." Kathan sat up, straightening his back and puffing out his mane.
Im-Slatner pressed his lips together. Mocks were selfish cowards, but they were not stupid. "Yes."
"This message will be a deceit."
Im-Slatner goggled at Kathan, who gave a high-pitched giggle. "Your skill lies in Cs'e'rahn magics, Bonedaddy. Mine is in this thing which you ask me to do."
"It will not be a complete lie."
"No?"
"Inform Judicator Lucinda that Sister Ophelia was just sighted in Marone."
Kathan's lips drew back from his pointed teeth in a feral grin. "The devastation holds the potential to be phenomenal."
"Indeed it does." Im-Slatner reached into the pocket of his robe and and retrieved a pouch. He tied a long leather thong around its neck and held it out for the Mock. Kathan crept forward, eyes wary, and snatched the bag to inspect its contents. They apparently met his satisfaction, as he purred in contentment. Im-Slatner pulled open his front door so the Mock could leave.
"I was under the impression that Cs'e'erah stood neutral in the war between Cahllyn and Maurcke," Kathan said as he stepped outside.
I'm-Slatner said, "The Dread Sister loves her two Brothers equally. She simply loves herself far more."
Friday, March 30, 2012
Lost and Found Pt. 2
Im-Slatner reached among the strings of pouches hanging from the ceiling above his sleep-space, grabbing the cloth or leather bags and twisting them around to read their contents. Some contained gemstones, metal filings, or rare sands; others had the dessicated body parts of various creatures; still more were filled with pungent herbs. He wrapped the sack of fellweed he'd received from the Corsair in among the herbs, then snatched two bags of powdered iron on impulse.
"Slatner, I know you're in here!" The voice coming from the other room was vibrant and haughty. The Minion heard clopping footsteps on the stone floor as his visitor paced.
Im-Slatner shoved the pouches of iron into his pockets and straightened out his robes. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, swept aside the thick curtain dividing his workspace from his living space, and strode out to meet his guest.
"It's about time." Ophelia looked much as Im-Slatner remembered: tall and slender, beautiful in a distant, chiseled way. No hint of compassion touched her eyes. Her lips were curled up in a small smile, but the Minion knew this was caused by pride and gleeful superiority rather than joy. The woman extended a pale hand in his direction, fingers extended and palm down. A golden charm resembling a pair of inverted, nestled Vs glimmered on her wrist. "You may greet me."
"Welcome, Sister Ophelia," Im-Slatner said in his precise monotone. He did not react to her gesture. "To what do I owe this visit?"
The woman turned on her heel and the green hem of her dress flared out around her ankles. "I was passing through and noticed one of Cahllyn's ilk exiting your...quaint hovel," she said, inflecting contempt into her words. "Since when have you begun consorting with the enemy, Minion?"
Im-Slatner shook his head. "The Dread Sister remains neutral in the affairs between the Dark and Lucid Brothers. As I am bound to her, so am I bound to her decisions."
Ophelia snorted and strode towards the middle of the room, where the candles from Im-Slatner's earlier ritual still burned. She extended a hand and the bobbing flames licked upward eagerly, winding around one another. The fiery thread's tip followed her hand as she moved it slowly from side to side. "You are already once a traitor to Maurcke's vision of Etossa, so why not again? Cahllyn deigns to allow treasonous Minions to serve his will. Rhys," she spat, snatching the candle flames out of the air in her fist. The fires struggled in her grasp like tortured serpents for a moment before winking out of existence.
Im-Slatner exhaled slowly and laced his fingers together before him, close to the pockets in his robe. "If you have no business here, Elementalist, then I must ask that you depart. Marone remains a Freelance city."
"Of course it does." Ophelia's face curled into a sneer. "You realize that I will hunt down that Corsair and his slut as soon as they leave the city. They will burn for me. Living flesh does nicely, but that of the Realive...ah, that is a pyre of beauty beyond words."
Ophelia turned towards the door but stopped when her hand touched the handle. "Ah, yes. I ought to remind you that your precious neutrality will be violated if you should find it in your craven heart to warn the Cahllesque. Perhaps they shall escape me, for a time." She turned and looked at Im-Slatner over her shoulder, her green eyes flaring with excitement. "But you, you are right here and so immediately accessible. Whistle up whatever abominations you like in the name of Cs'e'erah, but they will only serve as additional fuel at your own cremation. The fires will burn all the hotter." Sister Ophelia chortled and stepped outside, leaving Im-Slatner in the cool darkness of his abode.
Once she had gone, the Minion hustled into his bedroom and loaded his belongings into the worn gunny-sack crammed under the small pallet which served as his bed. Tomes detailing Cs'e'erahn rituals and magic went into the bottom, carefully wrapped in a woolen blanket. What spare clothing he had went atop that, then the strings of reagents hanging over his bed. He retained some of the more valuable of his possessions, such as the small pouch of fellweed, on his person.
It was time to relocate to another Freelance city, perhaps Navat or Rebesway, something closer to East Borena and the Cs'e'erahn sphere of influence. He had grown complacent at the living he had chiseled out in Marone and it had led to trouble. He feared Ophelia. She was not only a skilled Flame Elementalist, but she stood high in the Maurckian heirarchy. She had more important things to do than check up on a single Minion who had turned his back on the Dark Brother. The sooner he could call upon his patroness's protection, the better.
He had just finished cinching the top of his gunny sack shut when he heard scrabbling at his front door. "Im-Slatner, it's Kathan. Let me in!"
The Minion snorted his ire. Just as he thought his day could not grow worse. What could the Mock Stalker want now?
"Slatner, I know you're in here!" The voice coming from the other room was vibrant and haughty. The Minion heard clopping footsteps on the stone floor as his visitor paced.
Im-Slatner shoved the pouches of iron into his pockets and straightened out his robes. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, swept aside the thick curtain dividing his workspace from his living space, and strode out to meet his guest.
"It's about time." Ophelia looked much as Im-Slatner remembered: tall and slender, beautiful in a distant, chiseled way. No hint of compassion touched her eyes. Her lips were curled up in a small smile, but the Minion knew this was caused by pride and gleeful superiority rather than joy. The woman extended a pale hand in his direction, fingers extended and palm down. A golden charm resembling a pair of inverted, nestled Vs glimmered on her wrist. "You may greet me."
"Welcome, Sister Ophelia," Im-Slatner said in his precise monotone. He did not react to her gesture. "To what do I owe this visit?"
The woman turned on her heel and the green hem of her dress flared out around her ankles. "I was passing through and noticed one of Cahllyn's ilk exiting your...quaint hovel," she said, inflecting contempt into her words. "Since when have you begun consorting with the enemy, Minion?"
Im-Slatner shook his head. "The Dread Sister remains neutral in the affairs between the Dark and Lucid Brothers. As I am bound to her, so am I bound to her decisions."
Ophelia snorted and strode towards the middle of the room, where the candles from Im-Slatner's earlier ritual still burned. She extended a hand and the bobbing flames licked upward eagerly, winding around one another. The fiery thread's tip followed her hand as she moved it slowly from side to side. "You are already once a traitor to Maurcke's vision of Etossa, so why not again? Cahllyn deigns to allow treasonous Minions to serve his will. Rhys," she spat, snatching the candle flames out of the air in her fist. The fires struggled in her grasp like tortured serpents for a moment before winking out of existence.
Im-Slatner exhaled slowly and laced his fingers together before him, close to the pockets in his robe. "If you have no business here, Elementalist, then I must ask that you depart. Marone remains a Freelance city."
"Of course it does." Ophelia's face curled into a sneer. "You realize that I will hunt down that Corsair and his slut as soon as they leave the city. They will burn for me. Living flesh does nicely, but that of the Realive...ah, that is a pyre of beauty beyond words."
Ophelia turned towards the door but stopped when her hand touched the handle. "Ah, yes. I ought to remind you that your precious neutrality will be violated if you should find it in your craven heart to warn the Cahllesque. Perhaps they shall escape me, for a time." She turned and looked at Im-Slatner over her shoulder, her green eyes flaring with excitement. "But you, you are right here and so immediately accessible. Whistle up whatever abominations you like in the name of Cs'e'erah, but they will only serve as additional fuel at your own cremation. The fires will burn all the hotter." Sister Ophelia chortled and stepped outside, leaving Im-Slatner in the cool darkness of his abode.
Once she had gone, the Minion hustled into his bedroom and loaded his belongings into the worn gunny-sack crammed under the small pallet which served as his bed. Tomes detailing Cs'e'erahn rituals and magic went into the bottom, carefully wrapped in a woolen blanket. What spare clothing he had went atop that, then the strings of reagents hanging over his bed. He retained some of the more valuable of his possessions, such as the small pouch of fellweed, on his person.
It was time to relocate to another Freelance city, perhaps Navat or Rebesway, something closer to East Borena and the Cs'e'erahn sphere of influence. He had grown complacent at the living he had chiseled out in Marone and it had led to trouble. He feared Ophelia. She was not only a skilled Flame Elementalist, but she stood high in the Maurckian heirarchy. She had more important things to do than check up on a single Minion who had turned his back on the Dark Brother. The sooner he could call upon his patroness's protection, the better.
He had just finished cinching the top of his gunny sack shut when he heard scrabbling at his front door. "Im-Slatner, it's Kathan. Let me in!"
The Minion snorted his ire. Just as he thought his day could not grow worse. What could the Mock Stalker want now?
Friday, March 23, 2012
Lost and Found
She grasped his hand in the dark. "Do you love me?" she whispered.
"Of course I do."
"More than anything?"
"Yes." They kissed.
"Do you promise to always stay with me?"
"I swear it."
Im-Slatner squinted at Lars as the incense-traced image and echoes out of time faded. The Minion's face, goggle-eyed, shimmered with moisture in the seance chamber's cloying heat. He knelt between two candles, the only sources of illumination in the room now that the incense sticks had burned away to ash. "You realize what it is that you ask," he said, enunciating the sentence with care.
"I swore to her, by her. I will not taint what we shared by breaking that vow." Lars loomed over the froglike Minion and tightened one hand into a fist. "I will do it."
Im-Slatner ponderously regained his feet, his taupe robes falling into smooth sheets of fabric around his hunched body. The Minion looked askance at the man and nodded. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pouch which clattered softly as he kneaded it. "Promises made, promises kept, honor before all else, mmm." Im-Slatner looked up at the man. "Were I as you are, Corsair, it would not be me to whom you speak at this moment or place. But that is why you have come, is it not? I am one who will do that which you will not permit of yourself."
"I have given you what you asked. Do as I request." Lars dreaded the Bonedaddy's request at first, but it was not murder the Minion sought, merely a satchel of fellweed.
"As you wish." Im-Slatner clasped his hands within his robe's voluminous sleeves. "A third time I say: is this what you wish to be? It shall not be as things once were."
"My ardor remains. The time which has passed is of no issue. Do it, Minion."
Im-Slatner upended the bag in his hand, spilling yellowed bones, fingers and toes and teeth and claws, onto the floor between the two candles. Rattling filled the room as the bones shuddered to a halt. Im-Slatner made a pensive sound as he regarded them.
The taint of Cs'e'erahn magics pushed against Lars's senses, overwhelming his mind with morbid sensations. "What do they say?" he asked, impatient and disgusted.
"Silence, Corsair. I commune with the Dread Sister." Im-Slatner's voice now had a lilting, singsong quality to it, a vibrancy that contrasted with the oppressive atmosphere. The volume of the Minion's voice dropped and his speech's cadence grew measured. Lars knew enough about the workings of magic that the Bonedaddy had begun his enchantment.
The two were alone in the room at one moment, and in the next a third person stood above the bones scattered between them. She opened her eyes and regarded Lars, whose knees buckled.
"Esther," he gasped in a thick voice.
The woman, pale and naked and beautiful, turned from the Corsair to face Im-Slatner. "You keep me, parter of the shroud?"
The Minion shook his head side to side. "This man is the reason for your return. I am merely the tool."
She immediately disregarded Im-Slatner. "Then I shall do as you bid," she said to Lars.
Lars extended a trembling hand and brushed the woman's calf, expecting the flesh beneath to be sodden and pallid. Instead it was warm, firm, healthy. "Let us leave this place. Let us resume our life together." He stood and swept his Corsair's cloak from his shoulders to cover Esther's naked body. He cleared his throat. "I do not give oaths lightly, Bonedaddy, but you have my gratitude. If ever you require one to defend you, or to speak on your behalf if you should ever turn to Cahllyn, I will do so."
The Minion waved a hand in dismissal. "The Lucid Brother offers nothing my patroness cannot. But your strong arm, yes, I may well find a use for. I accept your oath and gladly."
Lars nodded and, holding Esther tight against his body, left.
Im-Slatner cleaned the floor, picking up each bone and carefully wiping off any dust or ash before replacing it in his bag. He had just finished and retired to his adjacent bedchamber when he heard the door open. "I am not providing services at this time," he said without looking. "You may instead try--"
The Minion's teeth clacked together once he attuned to his visitor's aura. "I will be right with you." The Bonedaddy took a moment to rearrange his robes before striding out to meet his guest.
"Of course I do."
"More than anything?"
"Yes." They kissed.
"Do you promise to always stay with me?"
"I swear it."
Im-Slatner squinted at Lars as the incense-traced image and echoes out of time faded. The Minion's face, goggle-eyed, shimmered with moisture in the seance chamber's cloying heat. He knelt between two candles, the only sources of illumination in the room now that the incense sticks had burned away to ash. "You realize what it is that you ask," he said, enunciating the sentence with care.
"I swore to her, by her. I will not taint what we shared by breaking that vow." Lars loomed over the froglike Minion and tightened one hand into a fist. "I will do it."
Im-Slatner ponderously regained his feet, his taupe robes falling into smooth sheets of fabric around his hunched body. The Minion looked askance at the man and nodded. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pouch which clattered softly as he kneaded it. "Promises made, promises kept, honor before all else, mmm." Im-Slatner looked up at the man. "Were I as you are, Corsair, it would not be me to whom you speak at this moment or place. But that is why you have come, is it not? I am one who will do that which you will not permit of yourself."
"I have given you what you asked. Do as I request." Lars dreaded the Bonedaddy's request at first, but it was not murder the Minion sought, merely a satchel of fellweed.
"As you wish." Im-Slatner clasped his hands within his robe's voluminous sleeves. "A third time I say: is this what you wish to be? It shall not be as things once were."
"My ardor remains. The time which has passed is of no issue. Do it, Minion."
Im-Slatner upended the bag in his hand, spilling yellowed bones, fingers and toes and teeth and claws, onto the floor between the two candles. Rattling filled the room as the bones shuddered to a halt. Im-Slatner made a pensive sound as he regarded them.
The taint of Cs'e'erahn magics pushed against Lars's senses, overwhelming his mind with morbid sensations. "What do they say?" he asked, impatient and disgusted.
"Silence, Corsair. I commune with the Dread Sister." Im-Slatner's voice now had a lilting, singsong quality to it, a vibrancy that contrasted with the oppressive atmosphere. The volume of the Minion's voice dropped and his speech's cadence grew measured. Lars knew enough about the workings of magic that the Bonedaddy had begun his enchantment.
The two were alone in the room at one moment, and in the next a third person stood above the bones scattered between them. She opened her eyes and regarded Lars, whose knees buckled.
"Esther," he gasped in a thick voice.
The woman, pale and naked and beautiful, turned from the Corsair to face Im-Slatner. "You keep me, parter of the shroud?"
The Minion shook his head side to side. "This man is the reason for your return. I am merely the tool."
She immediately disregarded Im-Slatner. "Then I shall do as you bid," she said to Lars.
Lars extended a trembling hand and brushed the woman's calf, expecting the flesh beneath to be sodden and pallid. Instead it was warm, firm, healthy. "Let us leave this place. Let us resume our life together." He stood and swept his Corsair's cloak from his shoulders to cover Esther's naked body. He cleared his throat. "I do not give oaths lightly, Bonedaddy, but you have my gratitude. If ever you require one to defend you, or to speak on your behalf if you should ever turn to Cahllyn, I will do so."
The Minion waved a hand in dismissal. "The Lucid Brother offers nothing my patroness cannot. But your strong arm, yes, I may well find a use for. I accept your oath and gladly."
Lars nodded and, holding Esther tight against his body, left.
Im-Slatner cleaned the floor, picking up each bone and carefully wiping off any dust or ash before replacing it in his bag. He had just finished and retired to his adjacent bedchamber when he heard the door open. "I am not providing services at this time," he said without looking. "You may instead try--"
The Minion's teeth clacked together once he attuned to his visitor's aura. "I will be right with you." The Bonedaddy took a moment to rearrange his robes before striding out to meet his guest.
Friday, March 16, 2012
It Has Sprung
She spent most of her time on her designated spot. She was not allowed to do much else. Food and water were provided, of course, as was a comfortable facility to void herself. She retained the ability to bathe whenever she wished; that was something on which she would not budge. But, for the most part, she sat on her designated spot, an out-of-the-way corner.
Once in a while her owner came to visit. Sometimes she relented and let him have her way with her, since she found life incredibly dull. Other times she shirked from his touch and fled elsewhere, if she could. She always felt the need to clean after he was done with her. Always.
One day her owner beckoned to her, and she came. It was then that she saw the window, some distance overhead. She knew what was to be done.
She bolted for it, leaping over and up on whatever objects would bring her closer to her goal. When at last she clambered up onto the windowsill, she took inhaled deeply through her nose of the outside air. It smelled of freedom and rebirth, of budding clover and blooming apple trees. The ground below was a muddy mess. Somewhere out of sight, but near, all too near, she heard the twittering of a bird, a promise of greater things yet to come.
She looked back at her owner for only a moment before returning her attention to the outside world. Spring is such a great time to be a cat.
Once in a while her owner came to visit. Sometimes she relented and let him have her way with her, since she found life incredibly dull. Other times she shirked from his touch and fled elsewhere, if she could. She always felt the need to clean after he was done with her. Always.
One day her owner beckoned to her, and she came. It was then that she saw the window, some distance overhead. She knew what was to be done.
She bolted for it, leaping over and up on whatever objects would bring her closer to her goal. When at last she clambered up onto the windowsill, she took inhaled deeply through her nose of the outside air. It smelled of freedom and rebirth, of budding clover and blooming apple trees. The ground below was a muddy mess. Somewhere out of sight, but near, all too near, she heard the twittering of a bird, a promise of greater things yet to come.
She looked back at her owner for only a moment before returning her attention to the outside world. Spring is such a great time to be a cat.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Arghoyle
My name is Hurgruglbulglglglrrrll. Mouthful, yeah, I know. I'm a gargoyle, one of those badasses who crouches on the corners of churches and rich peoples' houses, vomiting precipitation earthward and shielding the place against malignant...fuck it, the metaphysics is boring.
I've been on the roof of this church out in Midwest Bumblefuck, USA, for about twenty years now. My predecessor, a decrepit fool, fell asleep on the job and took a tumble to the flagstones. This brought about my reassignment from a cozy vista in Italy. Somebody must've decided "Oh, Hurg is enjoying the view of nubile female Italians a little too much. Let's stick him on the corner of a church where the only butt-related things he'll hope to see are the sweatstained ass-clefts of obese male Americans."
I'm one of the two of us stationed here. My partner is a crotchety, old guard bastard who goes by Aghrlorlgllluuh. He tolerates zero shit. Don't move, don't talk, don't do anything. Got an itch on your ass (yeah, gargoyles itch. Crawling bugs do that to us same as to you), well, tough. Wait until you're off the clock to scratch. A gargoyle's shift runs from midnight to midnight, in case you were wondering. No breaks. Good thing we don't smoke, right?
Anyway, there we were one afternoon, me on the northeast corner of this little white bread, whitewashed church of a one-road podunk town with a population that peaks at about five hundred--that's including all the deer--and Agh on the southeastern one. It was winter, the shitty kind of Midwestern winter where the sun comes up at eight and is gone by four and the temperature high matches the number of frostbitten fingers you've got at the end of the day. On this particular day Mother Nature decided to blot everything out in a ferocious snowstorm. Have you ever physically experienced the expression "blow it up your ass"? Next snowstorm you run across, head outside and spread your cheeks to the heavens. Bracing. This was the asshole kind of snow too, gritty shit like God decided to scour the whole world with an iceberg being fed through a sandblaster.
I couldn't see the ground. Hell, the paw in front of my face was a dark gray mess set against the backdrop of a whirling twilight snowstorm, but that asshole Agh...."You're shirking," he said. Can't move an iota but talking, that's fine and dandy? So we don't move our mouths to talk and it's not like humans can understand us. The principle stands, though.
"I'm itching," I said. I made a point of scratching with extra fervor as I said it. I could hear the scrape of sandstone against sandstone (all real gargoyles are made of sedimentary rock. Your mass-produced mockeries of factory-molded concrete don't count) as I raked my claws over my tush, picking out snow clots wedged in unmentionable crevices. Good thing I wasn't one of those anatomically correct 'goyles.
"You're shirking," Agh repeated. I peered in his direction, barely making his crouched form out through the gloom and snow.
"Come off it," I rumbled. "No human's going to be out in this kind of weather, and if they were they wouldn't think to look up at a couple of corner-jockeys."
"Composure and pride in our work is paramount," Agh said. I couldn't see it now, of course, but I knew he was inclining his head ever so slightly, setting his stance the tiniest bit higher, more erect.
I reiterated, "We're sitting on a church in the middle of nowhere, in a blizzard."
"Disregard of the rules under these conditions has as little an excuse as excusing them under others," Agh said.
A flurry of snow crystals scattered from the area around my head as I snorted. "The rules," I said. "Those rules were outmoded as soon as humans invented Rock-Em-Sock-Em Robots."
"Eh?" Agh said. "What is a Rocky Socky Robot?"
I scraped my forepaw--the one I rested my forepart's weight upon--across the roof. The tiny wormlike trails in the snow that were almost immediately filled in with new precipitation. The movement brought another growl of displeasure from Agh's direction. "Do you really think humans would be as frightened of us now as they were back then? They've come along enough to make life of their own. They're not complete idiots."
"Mockeries of God's vision. Artificial creations that do not hold the divine spark within. They can but follow others' commands, not live for themselves."
"How are we any different, then?" I asked, turning on my post to face Agh. "You call this shit we do life?" I grated out a mocking laugh. "We're just doing what we're told. Sit on this roof, don't move, don't do anything you might enjoy!"
Agh remained motionless. "Your predecessor felt much the same way as yourself. He acted in accordance with his beliefs. There is always a choice. We have the option."
I craned my neck forward and peered over the edge of the roof. The darkness and snow occluded the ground some twenty-five feet below. Yeah, why shouldn't I bail? Maybe enough snow had piled up to cushion the fall. Then I could go on my way as a free gargoyle. Maybe go back to Italy!
But as I leaned over, a mighty blast of wind roared along the church's roof, as if Satan himself was copping the squat right after a three-course Tex-Mex dinner. It pressed against my hindquarters, breaking out around me in a mad gale that threatened to topple me from my roost. I scrambled back to the comparative safety of my worn pedestal. The fervent movement dislodged a few shingles, ash-black bats which the wind picked up and whisked away, never to be seen again. My claws dug into the stone and I clung for dear life as the wind and the snow surrounded me in an opaque cocoon of noise and motion.
The storm subsided in due course, the snows melted, and winter became spring. Some of the daughters of the oldsters here paid visits home for spring break. They always dressed in their Sunday finest, but they were better than the alternatives. I was interested in them, sure, but not that interested. Not interested enough to risk a gander of any finer details.
See, I haven't moved since the night of that storm.
I've been on the roof of this church out in Midwest Bumblefuck, USA, for about twenty years now. My predecessor, a decrepit fool, fell asleep on the job and took a tumble to the flagstones. This brought about my reassignment from a cozy vista in Italy. Somebody must've decided "Oh, Hurg is enjoying the view of nubile female Italians a little too much. Let's stick him on the corner of a church where the only butt-related things he'll hope to see are the sweatstained ass-clefts of obese male Americans."
I'm one of the two of us stationed here. My partner is a crotchety, old guard bastard who goes by Aghrlorlgllluuh. He tolerates zero shit. Don't move, don't talk, don't do anything. Got an itch on your ass (yeah, gargoyles itch. Crawling bugs do that to us same as to you), well, tough. Wait until you're off the clock to scratch. A gargoyle's shift runs from midnight to midnight, in case you were wondering. No breaks. Good thing we don't smoke, right?
Anyway, there we were one afternoon, me on the northeast corner of this little white bread, whitewashed church of a one-road podunk town with a population that peaks at about five hundred--that's including all the deer--and Agh on the southeastern one. It was winter, the shitty kind of Midwestern winter where the sun comes up at eight and is gone by four and the temperature high matches the number of frostbitten fingers you've got at the end of the day. On this particular day Mother Nature decided to blot everything out in a ferocious snowstorm. Have you ever physically experienced the expression "blow it up your ass"? Next snowstorm you run across, head outside and spread your cheeks to the heavens. Bracing. This was the asshole kind of snow too, gritty shit like God decided to scour the whole world with an iceberg being fed through a sandblaster.
I couldn't see the ground. Hell, the paw in front of my face was a dark gray mess set against the backdrop of a whirling twilight snowstorm, but that asshole Agh...."You're shirking," he said. Can't move an iota but talking, that's fine and dandy? So we don't move our mouths to talk and it's not like humans can understand us. The principle stands, though.
"I'm itching," I said. I made a point of scratching with extra fervor as I said it. I could hear the scrape of sandstone against sandstone (all real gargoyles are made of sedimentary rock. Your mass-produced mockeries of factory-molded concrete don't count) as I raked my claws over my tush, picking out snow clots wedged in unmentionable crevices. Good thing I wasn't one of those anatomically correct 'goyles.
"You're shirking," Agh repeated. I peered in his direction, barely making his crouched form out through the gloom and snow.
"Come off it," I rumbled. "No human's going to be out in this kind of weather, and if they were they wouldn't think to look up at a couple of corner-jockeys."
"Composure and pride in our work is paramount," Agh said. I couldn't see it now, of course, but I knew he was inclining his head ever so slightly, setting his stance the tiniest bit higher, more erect.
I reiterated, "We're sitting on a church in the middle of nowhere, in a blizzard."
"Disregard of the rules under these conditions has as little an excuse as excusing them under others," Agh said.
A flurry of snow crystals scattered from the area around my head as I snorted. "The rules," I said. "Those rules were outmoded as soon as humans invented Rock-Em-Sock-Em Robots."
"Eh?" Agh said. "What is a Rocky Socky Robot?"
I scraped my forepaw--the one I rested my forepart's weight upon--across the roof. The tiny wormlike trails in the snow that were almost immediately filled in with new precipitation. The movement brought another growl of displeasure from Agh's direction. "Do you really think humans would be as frightened of us now as they were back then? They've come along enough to make life of their own. They're not complete idiots."
"Mockeries of God's vision. Artificial creations that do not hold the divine spark within. They can but follow others' commands, not live for themselves."
"How are we any different, then?" I asked, turning on my post to face Agh. "You call this shit we do life?" I grated out a mocking laugh. "We're just doing what we're told. Sit on this roof, don't move, don't do anything you might enjoy!"
Agh remained motionless. "Your predecessor felt much the same way as yourself. He acted in accordance with his beliefs. There is always a choice. We have the option."
I craned my neck forward and peered over the edge of the roof. The darkness and snow occluded the ground some twenty-five feet below. Yeah, why shouldn't I bail? Maybe enough snow had piled up to cushion the fall. Then I could go on my way as a free gargoyle. Maybe go back to Italy!
But as I leaned over, a mighty blast of wind roared along the church's roof, as if Satan himself was copping the squat right after a three-course Tex-Mex dinner. It pressed against my hindquarters, breaking out around me in a mad gale that threatened to topple me from my roost. I scrambled back to the comparative safety of my worn pedestal. The fervent movement dislodged a few shingles, ash-black bats which the wind picked up and whisked away, never to be seen again. My claws dug into the stone and I clung for dear life as the wind and the snow surrounded me in an opaque cocoon of noise and motion.
The storm subsided in due course, the snows melted, and winter became spring. Some of the daughters of the oldsters here paid visits home for spring break. They always dressed in their Sunday finest, but they were better than the alternatives. I was interested in them, sure, but not that interested. Not interested enough to risk a gander of any finer details.
See, I haven't moved since the night of that storm.
Friday, March 2, 2012
What Could Have Been
The teacher, the astronaut, and the writer sat around a small table in a dingy room. The only source of light was a flickering incandescent bulb set in a naked fixture which hung from twisted wires above the table's center.
The astronaut, a handsome man and the oldest of the three, took a sip from his drink. "I was just selected as part of an exploratory force on Mars," he said in the uninterested tone of voice usually reserved for objective statements of fact.
The writer scratched at the bridge of his nose. "That's laudable. My works have been atop the best-seller lists for six months now, and the movie deal is coming through on one of them."
The astronaut sniffed. "If not one, then the other." He turned to the third man. "What about you?"
The teacher cradled his drink in both hands. His youthful appearance was marred with wrinkles and bags and other signs of weariness and defeat. "I don't go for glory, not like you two. I'm happy to just foster intellectual spirit and curiosity in the next generation."
"That's what they say, but surely you've accomplished something of note recently?" the writer asked.
The teacher opened his mouth to respond when the light bulb swung from side to side, as if something had jerked the snaking wires. A door appeared on one wall, its edges outlined brightly. The door opened and a figure stood silhouetted against the light spilling in from outside. The three men in the room squinted. The fourth man did not enter the room, but spoke from the portal. "Please be quiet. I'm trying to concentrate on work."
The writer, eyes still clenched against the extraordinary brilliance, studied his drink and sneered out of the corner of his mouth to the astronaut, "The garbageman talks down to us. Us!"
The teacher ignored his companion's resentful words. "I'm sorry. We will try to keep it down in here."
The silhouette nodded. "Thank you." He pulled the door shut and the light vanished, leaving the three men in the room, alone but for each other and their drinks.
The astronaut, a handsome man and the oldest of the three, took a sip from his drink. "I was just selected as part of an exploratory force on Mars," he said in the uninterested tone of voice usually reserved for objective statements of fact.
The writer scratched at the bridge of his nose. "That's laudable. My works have been atop the best-seller lists for six months now, and the movie deal is coming through on one of them."
The astronaut sniffed. "If not one, then the other." He turned to the third man. "What about you?"
The teacher cradled his drink in both hands. His youthful appearance was marred with wrinkles and bags and other signs of weariness and defeat. "I don't go for glory, not like you two. I'm happy to just foster intellectual spirit and curiosity in the next generation."
"That's what they say, but surely you've accomplished something of note recently?" the writer asked.
The teacher opened his mouth to respond when the light bulb swung from side to side, as if something had jerked the snaking wires. A door appeared on one wall, its edges outlined brightly. The door opened and a figure stood silhouetted against the light spilling in from outside. The three men in the room squinted. The fourth man did not enter the room, but spoke from the portal. "Please be quiet. I'm trying to concentrate on work."
The writer, eyes still clenched against the extraordinary brilliance, studied his drink and sneered out of the corner of his mouth to the astronaut, "The garbageman talks down to us. Us!"
The teacher ignored his companion's resentful words. "I'm sorry. We will try to keep it down in here."
The silhouette nodded. "Thank you." He pulled the door shut and the light vanished, leaving the three men in the room, alone but for each other and their drinks.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Bitter Herb
Morris scrabbled for purchase as he climbed up the mountainside, smooth with age and lichen. The fingers of his left hand slipped off of a minute crevice and he dangled from the other, gazing down over the distant mist-shrouded lands he had traversed, the foul and unnatural swamp that bubbled at Staxal's base, the safer, easier parts of the earthen monstrosity that rested hundreds of yards below. He saw the brown canvas of his tent and the majority of his possessions on a rock shelf. Morris only carried on his person the things which the soothsayer desired as payment.
He wrenched with his right arm, hauling his body up by that lone extremity, desperate to regain a handhold. His fingers felt icy cold and then flushed with warmth as the blood flowed, but he managed to regain purchase and, using his fear-fueled sudden burst of strength, hauled his entire body over the last rise to flop on the cold stone.
He lay there for some time, breathing the thin air, recovering his strength and composure. The cuts in his hand, perfect moon-shaped incisions, a valiant final attempt by the mountain to thwart him, throbbed as blood trickled out in thin rivulets. He staggered to his feet and looked at the cave mouth up ahead. It yawned open like the mouth of a giant infant beast, smooth and clear of any clutter.
Morris stepped inside, out of the sunlight. The cave's interior was cold, far colder than it should have been, and a cloying aroma filled it, something pungent and sweet, a scent that brushed at the very edges of Morris's memory, teasing and taunting him with its almost-familiarity.
"Issif! Wise oracle, speaker of the truth! I, Morris Tage, seek your guidance in matters dear to my heart!" He spoke the words loudly, enunciating precisely, as he has been told to do by the Homeopath in Telmana...or had it been Keelage? He practiced the words every night of the journey to Staxal.
For a moment, he feared that he had made a mistake, that the resident of this cave would ignore him and that everything had been for nothing. Then a dry, rasping voice echoed from out of the deeper parts of the cavern, "This is Issif, who once was. Morris Tage, you seek knowledge of things outside your mortal ken?"
The Homeopath had prepared him for this question as well. "I do, and I come with the payment you require." Morris reached down and untied the small bag from its place at the left side of his hip. Its contents bulged out grotesquely. He undid the thong which held it shut and flipped it open. The severed heads of three children, two boys and a girl, rolled out and deep into the cave.
Issif made a strangled gasping sound, equal parts delight and agony. "Ask, Morris Tage, what you would have Issif answer."
Morris lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders, every inch of the soldier he had been. "How can I have back the things which I have lost?"
Issif chuckled. The sound was like dried snakeskins being crushed into dust. "You must take them."
This, too, was part of the game the Homeopath warned Morris about. The oracle's answers would be vague no matter how specific the question that was asked. No, what Issif wanted of visitors was evidence that they truly desired what was being offered. "I ask a different question, then." Morris reached down for the bag hanging from his right hip. This one bulged, too, but was not nearly as full. He upended it and the head of Ludah, the guide he had hired to take him to this place, spilled out at his feet. He kicked it inward. This head, unlike those of the children, was fresh, having been harvested just this morning. "What can be done to reclaim the things which one cannot grasp in one's hands nor load onto a cart or ship?"
Issif hissed. "You speak of love, Morris Tage? Many who come here want knowledge of such...carnal things." The soothsayer crooned the word, something akin to emotion entering its voice for the first time.
Morris shook his head. "I ask of all intangibles. Do not attempt to shortchange me by answering only with regard to one emotion."
"I would never imagine such a thing. Look, you, into the deep of the cave."
Morris squinted and saw the first hint of the oracle, a pair of faint green eyes that smoldered in the darkness. The eyes grew and blurred, as though they drew close to Morris's face, but faded away as two forms emerged from the shadows, somehow darker than the sunless depths. A man and a woman. They seemed to be arguing, though about what Morris could not say...or could he? The shadow-people lacked color and definition, but the man-shape seemed to resemble him to some degree. Or was he only imagining the similarities, letting his mind fill in the details which the soothsayer's magics could not?
The dispute between the two shadow-people intensified. They gesticulated wildly, mouths opening and closing rapidly, simultaneously, arguing over each other. Then the woman lashed out and struck the shadow-man on the right cheek. Morris flinched as though he had been the victim and raised his hand to his own cheek. Something warm and sticky clung to it. Blood from the wounds on his fingers? Or more?
Morris blinked rapidly and turned his head away. "That does not answer anything, oracle."
Issif purred, "Oh, but it does, Morris Tage. You see what it is that you want to see, what answers you already have."
Morris snapped an arm outward and yelled, "That is not why I came here! Tell me, how can I regain meaning and happiness in my life!"
Issif's hellish green eyes flared in the darkness. "You must find it for yourself."
Morris took a deep, frustrated breath through his mouth, though it did little to lessen the charnal atmosphere of this foul place. He recited the words which the Homeopath had told him to say when he had finished with Issif. "I take my leave of you, soothsayer, to put your words into practice. May I never come to this place again."
Morris turned to leave and had just taken his first step in the direction of the bright, clean outside when Issif's voice, powerful and vibrant, came out of the darkness. "Are now you content in your life, Morris Tage?"
Morris considered for a moment. "I...I am content in the answers you have given to me."
"It should bring you comfort, then, that you are content in your life at this moment, Morris Tage. I yet require payment for the last answer I have given."
Morris stopped in his tracks. A cold sweat broke out under his shoulders, over his back, everywhere but on the patches of scalding flesh on his cheek and hand.
Morris's unwilling body turned and marched into the depths of the cave.
He wrenched with his right arm, hauling his body up by that lone extremity, desperate to regain a handhold. His fingers felt icy cold and then flushed with warmth as the blood flowed, but he managed to regain purchase and, using his fear-fueled sudden burst of strength, hauled his entire body over the last rise to flop on the cold stone.
He lay there for some time, breathing the thin air, recovering his strength and composure. The cuts in his hand, perfect moon-shaped incisions, a valiant final attempt by the mountain to thwart him, throbbed as blood trickled out in thin rivulets. He staggered to his feet and looked at the cave mouth up ahead. It yawned open like the mouth of a giant infant beast, smooth and clear of any clutter.
Morris stepped inside, out of the sunlight. The cave's interior was cold, far colder than it should have been, and a cloying aroma filled it, something pungent and sweet, a scent that brushed at the very edges of Morris's memory, teasing and taunting him with its almost-familiarity.
"Issif! Wise oracle, speaker of the truth! I, Morris Tage, seek your guidance in matters dear to my heart!" He spoke the words loudly, enunciating precisely, as he has been told to do by the Homeopath in Telmana...or had it been Keelage? He practiced the words every night of the journey to Staxal.
For a moment, he feared that he had made a mistake, that the resident of this cave would ignore him and that everything had been for nothing. Then a dry, rasping voice echoed from out of the deeper parts of the cavern, "This is Issif, who once was. Morris Tage, you seek knowledge of things outside your mortal ken?"
The Homeopath had prepared him for this question as well. "I do, and I come with the payment you require." Morris reached down and untied the small bag from its place at the left side of his hip. Its contents bulged out grotesquely. He undid the thong which held it shut and flipped it open. The severed heads of three children, two boys and a girl, rolled out and deep into the cave.
Issif made a strangled gasping sound, equal parts delight and agony. "Ask, Morris Tage, what you would have Issif answer."
Morris lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders, every inch of the soldier he had been. "How can I have back the things which I have lost?"
Issif chuckled. The sound was like dried snakeskins being crushed into dust. "You must take them."
This, too, was part of the game the Homeopath warned Morris about. The oracle's answers would be vague no matter how specific the question that was asked. No, what Issif wanted of visitors was evidence that they truly desired what was being offered. "I ask a different question, then." Morris reached down for the bag hanging from his right hip. This one bulged, too, but was not nearly as full. He upended it and the head of Ludah, the guide he had hired to take him to this place, spilled out at his feet. He kicked it inward. This head, unlike those of the children, was fresh, having been harvested just this morning. "What can be done to reclaim the things which one cannot grasp in one's hands nor load onto a cart or ship?"
Issif hissed. "You speak of love, Morris Tage? Many who come here want knowledge of such...carnal things." The soothsayer crooned the word, something akin to emotion entering its voice for the first time.
Morris shook his head. "I ask of all intangibles. Do not attempt to shortchange me by answering only with regard to one emotion."
"I would never imagine such a thing. Look, you, into the deep of the cave."
Morris squinted and saw the first hint of the oracle, a pair of faint green eyes that smoldered in the darkness. The eyes grew and blurred, as though they drew close to Morris's face, but faded away as two forms emerged from the shadows, somehow darker than the sunless depths. A man and a woman. They seemed to be arguing, though about what Morris could not say...or could he? The shadow-people lacked color and definition, but the man-shape seemed to resemble him to some degree. Or was he only imagining the similarities, letting his mind fill in the details which the soothsayer's magics could not?
The dispute between the two shadow-people intensified. They gesticulated wildly, mouths opening and closing rapidly, simultaneously, arguing over each other. Then the woman lashed out and struck the shadow-man on the right cheek. Morris flinched as though he had been the victim and raised his hand to his own cheek. Something warm and sticky clung to it. Blood from the wounds on his fingers? Or more?
Morris blinked rapidly and turned his head away. "That does not answer anything, oracle."
Issif purred, "Oh, but it does, Morris Tage. You see what it is that you want to see, what answers you already have."
Morris snapped an arm outward and yelled, "That is not why I came here! Tell me, how can I regain meaning and happiness in my life!"
Issif's hellish green eyes flared in the darkness. "You must find it for yourself."
Morris took a deep, frustrated breath through his mouth, though it did little to lessen the charnal atmosphere of this foul place. He recited the words which the Homeopath had told him to say when he had finished with Issif. "I take my leave of you, soothsayer, to put your words into practice. May I never come to this place again."
Morris turned to leave and had just taken his first step in the direction of the bright, clean outside when Issif's voice, powerful and vibrant, came out of the darkness. "Are now you content in your life, Morris Tage?"
Morris considered for a moment. "I...I am content in the answers you have given to me."
"It should bring you comfort, then, that you are content in your life at this moment, Morris Tage. I yet require payment for the last answer I have given."
Morris stopped in his tracks. A cold sweat broke out under his shoulders, over his back, everywhere but on the patches of scalding flesh on his cheek and hand.
Morris's unwilling body turned and marched into the depths of the cave.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Pretend
"I don't want to play this farce anymore."
The assistant sighed. The prince's petulance grated on his nerves. "You must, Highness. It is the role expected of you."
The dashing young man, seated on a bed, crossed his arms and pouted. "I'm the prince. You can't make me."
The prince did not appear at the ceremony later that evening. The adviser explained that the prince was not feeling well this evening but that he should be back in the public eye the following day. He was, but no one saw fit to comment on his new appearance.
By the following month the people didn't care anymore.
The assistant sighed. The prince's petulance grated on his nerves. "You must, Highness. It is the role expected of you."
The dashing young man, seated on a bed, crossed his arms and pouted. "I'm the prince. You can't make me."
The prince did not appear at the ceremony later that evening. The adviser explained that the prince was not feeling well this evening but that he should be back in the public eye the following day. He was, but no one saw fit to comment on his new appearance.
By the following month the people didn't care anymore.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Floorspaces
Larry settled back into the recliner, balancing the deep styrofoam plate in one hand and keeping firm hold of a bottle of beer in the other. He set the plate of chili and nachos on his lap and fished around for the remote, which had of course fallen into one of the easy chair's nooks. Now that he was back from the kitchen, he turned down the volume from ear-shattering to merely loud.
The announcers were doing a slo-mo replay of the touchdown pass he'd just missed. Larry took a sip from his beer and heaped thick, red chili onto one of the chips before shoving it into his mouth. Pete's recipe was the greatest, just the right amount of heat to it.
"Hey Pete!" Larry yelled over the television. "You're missing some awesome shit!" Pissing didn't normally take this long. Where was he?
As if on cue, Pete said, "Larry, I think I fell through the floor."
Larry twisted around in the chair to look over his shoulder. The chili sloshed against one side of the plate and only the barrier of tortilla chips kept it from spilling all over Larry's pants. "What now?"
"I think I fell through the floor," Pete said again. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere behind Larry, but he couldn't see Pete anywhere.
"What do you mean you fell through the floor?" Larry asked, shifting back into his seat and turning down the game's volume by two notches.
"I was going to the bathroom and I took a step and then I ended up falling through."
Larry bit down on a chili-covered tortilla chip. It crunched. "So you're in the basement? Fuck, Pete, you know we gotta pay for repairs like that."
"No, I'm not in the basement. I'm not sure where I am."
"But you're sure you're under the floor?"
"That's where I went, but not where I am. I think."
Larry tapped the side of his beer bottle with a finger. "Not making any sense, bro."
"Call Steve, see if he knows what's going on."
Larry took a swig of beer and snorted."I'm not calling that nerd."
"He knows about black holes and Star Wars and shit, don't he? Maybe I went through a black hole."
Larry didn't pay much attention in the astronomy course he'd been forced to take sophomore year (he passed it with a C, only after Coach Hamilton and the provost had a friendly sit-down with the prof), but something about what Pete said sounded wrong. "They're bigger than that, dipshit."
"Dude, if I'm not in a black hole then why's it so dark?"
Larry didn't have a good answer to that, so he ate another chip and changed the subject to something he knew better. "Rumblers got another TD. Kickass play, put it on replay. You want me to just tell you all the highlights while you figure out how to get out of there?"
"Dude, I can't see anything. Fuck the game!"
"Chill, bro. We'll solve this."
"Whoa hang on," Pete said. "I think I see something."
"See? You're not in a black hole."
"Naw, man, there's somebody else up ahead. He's facing away from me. It's weird, he wasn't there a second ago. He keeps getting closer."
"Well, go talk to him," Larry said around another mouthful of chili. He didn't want to put up with any more of Pete's bitching. This game was a big deal. The Rumblers' season depended on it.
"I am! He's getting pretty close. Hey! Hey guy!" Pete yelled. He was louder than the game when he did that. Larry punched the volume button on the remote to drown Pete out.
"He's ignoring me," Pete said. Despite the volume being near max, to the point that the empty beer bottles on shelves lining the living room rattled, Larry could still hear him fine. "Christ, he needs to do something with his hair. When was the last time he showered? And those highlights look like shit. Hey wait a second I'm--HOLY SHIT LARRY SOMETHING'S PUSHING ME FROM BE--"
Pete cut off in a banshee's scream that drowned out everything else. Larry pitched forward, clasping his ears even though it did nothing to stop the icy spikes of pain boring into his head. Chili splattered all over the chair, the carpet, Larry's crotch. His bottle of beer lay on its side next to the overturned plate, its contents leaking from the neck at a slow trickle.
Larry lay like that for a few minutes, his head reverberating as the din slowly subsided. He felt something warm and sticky oozing down the left side of his face. He didn't think it was chili. "P-Pete?" he ventured once the jangling in his brain was reduced to a buzzing white noise and he could hear the game again. He was dimly aware that the Rumblers had just scored a field goal.
Pete didn't answer.
Larry stood up on shaky legs, wobbling from side to side. He was dimly aware this is how he reeled when he got really drunk, but this was much less fun than any party he'd ever attended. The carpet was a mess, and he was pissed that he wasted a good half-bottle of beer, and those stains would be hell to get out. Hopefully he could clean it enough that the landlord wouldn't find a reason to withhold the deposit when the lease was up.
As Larry stumbled into the kitchen to fetch a roll of paper towels, he decided that he would call up Steve after all. It could wait until after the game, though.
The announcers were doing a slo-mo replay of the touchdown pass he'd just missed. Larry took a sip from his beer and heaped thick, red chili onto one of the chips before shoving it into his mouth. Pete's recipe was the greatest, just the right amount of heat to it.
"Hey Pete!" Larry yelled over the television. "You're missing some awesome shit!" Pissing didn't normally take this long. Where was he?
As if on cue, Pete said, "Larry, I think I fell through the floor."
Larry twisted around in the chair to look over his shoulder. The chili sloshed against one side of the plate and only the barrier of tortilla chips kept it from spilling all over Larry's pants. "What now?"
"I think I fell through the floor," Pete said again. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere behind Larry, but he couldn't see Pete anywhere.
"What do you mean you fell through the floor?" Larry asked, shifting back into his seat and turning down the game's volume by two notches.
"I was going to the bathroom and I took a step and then I ended up falling through."
Larry bit down on a chili-covered tortilla chip. It crunched. "So you're in the basement? Fuck, Pete, you know we gotta pay for repairs like that."
"No, I'm not in the basement. I'm not sure where I am."
"But you're sure you're under the floor?"
"That's where I went, but not where I am. I think."
Larry tapped the side of his beer bottle with a finger. "Not making any sense, bro."
"Call Steve, see if he knows what's going on."
Larry took a swig of beer and snorted."I'm not calling that nerd."
"He knows about black holes and Star Wars and shit, don't he? Maybe I went through a black hole."
Larry didn't pay much attention in the astronomy course he'd been forced to take sophomore year (he passed it with a C, only after Coach Hamilton and the provost had a friendly sit-down with the prof), but something about what Pete said sounded wrong. "They're bigger than that, dipshit."
"Dude, if I'm not in a black hole then why's it so dark?"
Larry didn't have a good answer to that, so he ate another chip and changed the subject to something he knew better. "Rumblers got another TD. Kickass play, put it on replay. You want me to just tell you all the highlights while you figure out how to get out of there?"
"Dude, I can't see anything. Fuck the game!"
"Chill, bro. We'll solve this."
"Whoa hang on," Pete said. "I think I see something."
"See? You're not in a black hole."
"Naw, man, there's somebody else up ahead. He's facing away from me. It's weird, he wasn't there a second ago. He keeps getting closer."
"Well, go talk to him," Larry said around another mouthful of chili. He didn't want to put up with any more of Pete's bitching. This game was a big deal. The Rumblers' season depended on it.
"I am! He's getting pretty close. Hey! Hey guy!" Pete yelled. He was louder than the game when he did that. Larry punched the volume button on the remote to drown Pete out.
"He's ignoring me," Pete said. Despite the volume being near max, to the point that the empty beer bottles on shelves lining the living room rattled, Larry could still hear him fine. "Christ, he needs to do something with his hair. When was the last time he showered? And those highlights look like shit. Hey wait a second I'm--HOLY SHIT LARRY SOMETHING'S PUSHING ME FROM BE--"
Pete cut off in a banshee's scream that drowned out everything else. Larry pitched forward, clasping his ears even though it did nothing to stop the icy spikes of pain boring into his head. Chili splattered all over the chair, the carpet, Larry's crotch. His bottle of beer lay on its side next to the overturned plate, its contents leaking from the neck at a slow trickle.
Larry lay like that for a few minutes, his head reverberating as the din slowly subsided. He felt something warm and sticky oozing down the left side of his face. He didn't think it was chili. "P-Pete?" he ventured once the jangling in his brain was reduced to a buzzing white noise and he could hear the game again. He was dimly aware that the Rumblers had just scored a field goal.
Pete didn't answer.
Larry stood up on shaky legs, wobbling from side to side. He was dimly aware this is how he reeled when he got really drunk, but this was much less fun than any party he'd ever attended. The carpet was a mess, and he was pissed that he wasted a good half-bottle of beer, and those stains would be hell to get out. Hopefully he could clean it enough that the landlord wouldn't find a reason to withhold the deposit when the lease was up.
As Larry stumbled into the kitchen to fetch a roll of paper towels, he decided that he would call up Steve after all. It could wait until after the game, though.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Legion of Battle
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: Legion of Battle alpha
Hey Mark
Mike, from Rampage Gaming. What's up? Just wanted to shoot you an email letting you know we've gotten the rights to Schwark's virtual gaming software. We're updating the alpha to use the VR tech...pretty seamless and quick so far. We should have something for you by the end of the month, probably could start in-house alpha testing then too. This is gonna be huge, a revolution in MOBA gaming!
Drop me a line if you need anything.
Mike Taylor
Programming Manager
Rampage Gaming
TO: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
FROM: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
SUBJECT: RE: Legion of Battle alpha
Good to hear! I've talked to the suits upstairs about publishing, they're on board! Really looking forward to how things go with integrating the tech. Keep me posted on your progress.
Mark Aimes
Community Relations Representative
Paranoid Games
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: LoB alpha playtest
Man, your mind will be blown when you try this out! Alpha testing's going great...got bugs to work out but nothing with the VR...shit's flawless. The testers love it...really hightens the competitive feel of the games, BEING your avatar, feeling like you're there in the Arena of Battle. Let me tell you, you haven't played Gai-Bo until you've ACTUALLY seen the individual grains of sand he kicks up with his Wind Sweep, it's like being there in person. Really excited to send you guys a polished alpha in a little bit so you can try it yourselves!
Mike
TO: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
FROM: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
SUBJECT: LOB PLAYTEST
Just received your alpha, put it through its paces. The execs loved it! They're focused on nothing but the green, but everybody on the floor is thinking about the places this can go...different game modes and spinoffs you guys could throw together down the road. They did want me to ask if you were planning on a game version that didn't use the VR...the suits would prefer you did, since we're not seeing any of the returns...actually I'll talk with some people about sitting down with SchwarkTech and working out some bundle deal on the game, maybe that'll convince them to go VR only. No good not using the tech you've got to the fullest and pushing for further innovation, right?
By the way, the game feels really tight, really good. The graphics are superb and you can feel the frustrations of the enemy team as you push down their base...likewise your team's joy at winning. I thought you were BSing me on the emotive aspects but there's definitely something to it...really good for marketing purposes...don't think any game using Schwark's stuff can claim this. Whatever you guys have stuck into the code to make it work is phenomenal!
Looking forward to the next version!
Mark Aimes
Community Relations Representative
Paranoid Games
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: RE: LOB PLAYTEST
Good to hear the execs liked it! Still hard at work at the .4 alpha, coming along well. Not sure what you mean with the stuff we stuck in the code though. We didn't do anything more than tweak it to use Schwark's VR. Whatever it is, it works...not gonna fix what ain't broke.
Mike
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: .6 Alpha
Progressing well. Getting closer and closer to the open beta! Rick's super excited, as is everybody else. He'll be conferencing with the publishing reps on Tuesday. It's weird, the further along we get with the project, the more realistic it becomes in the VR. Since all the testers have done it both ways, we've had to pay them a little more to play with an old-fashioned monitor...it's just not the same. People won't want to go back to the old way after they've experienced Legion of Battle with SchwarkTech Virtual Reality!
The emotions are coming across stronger, too. Like I said, more real in every way. Won't be an "e"-sport for very much longer at this rate!
Mike
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: .8 Alpha Update
Hey Mark. Writing for Rick letting you know the contracts got through. He'll have them signed and returned by the end of the week.
Alpha progressing well. Not a lot of time to talk, sorry. Gotta get back to the bugfix marathon. Beta debuts in three months!
TO: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
FROM: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
SUBJECT: RE: .8 Alpha update
Sorry, Mike. I've been really busy on this end getting things ready for the beta release. The talks with Schwark went well, they've agreed to the bundle idea! Not the best split on purchases (65/35 in their favor) but better than nothing, and it's a foot in the door. What's more important is that now Paranoid Games and Rampage Gaming are at the forefront of the VR home gaming revolution!
Congrats on everything! Next time you're in town we'll have to go out for drinks to celebrate.
Mark Aimes
Community Relations Representative
Paranoid Games
TO: Mark Aimes (aimes1mj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: OPEN BETA
Open beta debuted, mostly highly anticipated MOBA release of all time, tens of thousands of players log on all at once, all of them using Schwark VR. You'd think that's great, best thing ever. No, man. We forgot something important when we were building up the VR, happy as pigs in shit that it was as real as it was.
We forgot the griefers! We've received notice from no fewer than six different law firms that Rampage Gaming is the target of class action wrongful death lawsuits after people were TROLLED TO DEATH playing our game! Cardiac failure, brain embolism, one of them offed himself after people rode his ass for speaking Spanish in teamchat...this shit's serious!
Mark, you gotta talk to people on your end, help us out here! There was no way we could have known!
Mike
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: Legion of Battle alpha
Hey Mark
Mike, from Rampage Gaming. What's up? Just wanted to shoot you an email letting you know we've gotten the rights to Schwark's virtual gaming software. We're updating the alpha to use the VR tech...pretty seamless and quick so far. We should have something for you by the end of the month, probably could start in-house alpha testing then too. This is gonna be huge, a revolution in MOBA gaming!
Drop me a line if you need anything.
Mike Taylor
Programming Manager
Rampage Gaming
TO: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
FROM: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
SUBJECT: RE: Legion of Battle alpha
Good to hear! I've talked to the suits upstairs about publishing, they're on board! Really looking forward to how things go with integrating the tech. Keep me posted on your progress.
Mark Aimes
Community Relations Representative
Paranoid Games
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: LoB alpha playtest
Man, your mind will be blown when you try this out! Alpha testing's going great...got bugs to work out but nothing with the VR...shit's flawless. The testers love it...really hightens the competitive feel of the games, BEING your avatar, feeling like you're there in the Arena of Battle. Let me tell you, you haven't played Gai-Bo until you've ACTUALLY seen the individual grains of sand he kicks up with his Wind Sweep, it's like being there in person. Really excited to send you guys a polished alpha in a little bit so you can try it yourselves!
Mike
TO: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
FROM: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
SUBJECT: LOB PLAYTEST
Just received your alpha, put it through its paces. The execs loved it! They're focused on nothing but the green, but everybody on the floor is thinking about the places this can go...different game modes and spinoffs you guys could throw together down the road. They did want me to ask if you were planning on a game version that didn't use the VR...the suits would prefer you did, since we're not seeing any of the returns...actually I'll talk with some people about sitting down with SchwarkTech and working out some bundle deal on the game, maybe that'll convince them to go VR only. No good not using the tech you've got to the fullest and pushing for further innovation, right?
By the way, the game feels really tight, really good. The graphics are superb and you can feel the frustrations of the enemy team as you push down their base...likewise your team's joy at winning. I thought you were BSing me on the emotive aspects but there's definitely something to it...really good for marketing purposes...don't think any game using Schwark's stuff can claim this. Whatever you guys have stuck into the code to make it work is phenomenal!
Looking forward to the next version!
Mark Aimes
Community Relations Representative
Paranoid Games
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: RE: LOB PLAYTEST
Good to hear the execs liked it! Still hard at work at the .4 alpha, coming along well. Not sure what you mean with the stuff we stuck in the code though. We didn't do anything more than tweak it to use Schwark's VR. Whatever it is, it works...not gonna fix what ain't broke.
Mike
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: .6 Alpha
Progressing well. Getting closer and closer to the open beta! Rick's super excited, as is everybody else. He'll be conferencing with the publishing reps on Tuesday. It's weird, the further along we get with the project, the more realistic it becomes in the VR. Since all the testers have done it both ways, we've had to pay them a little more to play with an old-fashioned monitor...it's just not the same. People won't want to go back to the old way after they've experienced Legion of Battle with SchwarkTech Virtual Reality!
The emotions are coming across stronger, too. Like I said, more real in every way. Won't be an "e"-sport for very much longer at this rate!
Mike
TO: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: .8 Alpha Update
Hey Mark. Writing for Rick letting you know the contracts got through. He'll have them signed and returned by the end of the week.
Alpha progressing well. Not a lot of time to talk, sorry. Gotta get back to the bugfix marathon. Beta debuts in three months!
TO: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
FROM: Mark Aimes (aimesmj@paranoid.com)
SUBJECT: RE: .8 Alpha update
Sorry, Mike. I've been really busy on this end getting things ready for the beta release. The talks with Schwark went well, they've agreed to the bundle idea! Not the best split on purchases (65/35 in their favor) but better than nothing, and it's a foot in the door. What's more important is that now Paranoid Games and Rampage Gaming are at the forefront of the VR home gaming revolution!
Congrats on everything! Next time you're in town we'll have to go out for drinks to celebrate.
Mark Aimes
Community Relations Representative
Paranoid Games
TO: Mark Aimes (aimes1mj@paranoid.com)
FROM: Mike Taylor (tayl1@rampagegaming.com)
SUBJECT: OPEN BETA
Open beta debuted, mostly highly anticipated MOBA release of all time, tens of thousands of players log on all at once, all of them using Schwark VR. You'd think that's great, best thing ever. No, man. We forgot something important when we were building up the VR, happy as pigs in shit that it was as real as it was.
We forgot the griefers! We've received notice from no fewer than six different law firms that Rampage Gaming is the target of class action wrongful death lawsuits after people were TROLLED TO DEATH playing our game! Cardiac failure, brain embolism, one of them offed himself after people rode his ass for speaking Spanish in teamchat...this shit's serious!
Mark, you gotta talk to people on your end, help us out here! There was no way we could have known!
Mike
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