The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part Four

This is Part Four of a story created by guest writer Beth Stoneman.  Part Three can be found here.

The journey to the monastery took months, and felt as though we'd traveled across the world to our destination—but at the end of the trip, it was not the monastery that amazed me. The monastery was nestled in a corner of a grand city the men called Onegas, the capitol city of the Vigilant Empire.

I'd never been to an Imperial city, and I remember wondering if they were all like this. It seemed to stretch on forever, in a never-ending sea of marketplaces, temples, and magnificent houses. There were stations at many corners that the brothers explained were 'teleportation stations', where you could purchase inner-city instant transportation, but we used none of them, my companions preferring to demonstrate as much of the massive city to me as possible. As a result, a third of the journey seemed to have consisted of merely navigating the city to the tucked-away corner in which the monastery sat.

The building was modest, but large enough to harbor a host of people training in unarmed combat. The men that recruited me told me about other monasteries and other ways of training, ways of life. The building before me was nothing like what they described, but it looked much more like something I could live with. They showed me to my room, where I set my belongings that I had carried with me from Alcarinore, and then gave me a tour. There were many fighting rooms, but equally many meditation rooms. Whole galleries were dedicated to leaders of the Order that had accomplished great feats, and others were dedicated to magical garb that were described as granting brilliant abilities to their wearers. I never saw a suit of armor in the whole place, and there were very few weapons. The only weapons I saw were strange weapons I'd never seen before – sharp disks that, when thrown, could pierce most anything, simple long sticks, curved blades, and other stranger weapons. The whole place was beautiful inside, though much of my awe was inspired by the novelty of it all.

After my tour, I went back to my room. It was austere, but much better than anything I'd ever lived with. The best part was the plush bed for me to sleep on – a luxury with which I'd never been endowed.

Training was rigorous, but I learned much that I would never before have had access to. I asked my teachers to help me learn to make peace with my suffering, and I had food every day. The food was the best part. It was delicious, and I had never felt more strong. The monks gave me enough to sustain me, which was more than ever. I remember marveling at the fact that, apparently, being fed this often was not odd to everyone else.

Years passed of happiness and hard work. I had little time for play, but this was the first time I'd felt like I had a family since my parents passed. I'd made friends in the slums, yes, but I never felt like I belonged there without my parents to guide me. Here was a place with comfortable accommodations and enough food that the familiar starving sensation was a thing of the past.

I did find time to myself, however, which I usually spent getting to know the other monks. There was one man I related to really well, Brother Alec, whom I spent the majority of my time with. He was kind, if a bit coarse, and a skilled fighter. He often fought upside-down, choosing to adapt some of the combat maneuvers we learned to a more risky style that looked more impressive and was harder to evade. I sparred with him and helped him with his adapted maneuvers—I still remember the week I had bruises all the way up one of my arms. He was gentle with me, however, only wishing to help condition my bones, never to actually harm me.

We spent most of our time together, wandering the grounds and enjoying the beauty of some of the gardens. I connected with him on a deeper, more profound level than I did with anyone else. Our connection was almost spiritual; therefore, when I finally admitted to myself that I'd fallen in love, I'm sure it would not have been a surprise to anyone that saw us together. Those were the best years of my life, even though we hid it from everyone. Alec made me happier than I had ever been. I'd never known such kindness except as a small child, but those days seemed long gone. He was everything to me at that time in my life, and sparring with him helped me further advance my training. He was both a lover and a best friend, when I'd never even had a friend before.

Sheaf, Part Four

Note:  This is Part Four of the story.  Part Three can be found here.

I wasn't entirely certain where I was going, but it didn't seem to matter at the time.  I merely needed to move, to seek out something...not new, but new to me.  It was more difficult than you might think, however.  I'd enter towns miles away that the human Joseff had never even thought to travel near, but only to remember only a few short moments later that I had been there, in fact, in my thirtieth incarnation, or my fifth, or any other of my iterations.  It was quite frustrating, because, especially during the beginning period of my transformation, my full memories as Sheath were not available to me, only surfacing at times that sometimes seemed incredibly random.

Sheaf paused, reading the small sign above the door, labeling the building as 'The Last Cow'.  He nodded to himself, grateful to find a tavern after days of hard marching on the road.  He gripped the hilt of Veracity, just in case, and entered the pub.

The Last Cow was kept quite dim inside, with each of the windows heavily shuttered, and the only light coming from old-fashioned torches on the walls.  Still, the room seemed cool, somehow, and was a welcome relief from the oppressive, smothering heat outside.

He took a seat at the bar.  "An ale, please," he called to the barman, reaching into his purse for some copper and throwing it on the table.  Not for the first time, he was glad that he had been able to convince the morticians to release to him all of the former Sheaf's belongings, including his considerable carrying money--had he been forced to rely fully on Joseff's personal wealth...well, it was really good that he hadn't been forced to rely fully on Joseff's personal wealth.  He nodded at the barman as the tankard of ale was slid to him, and took a large drink of the cold, refreshing bevarage.

"Interesting contrast, isn't it?" he heard a female voice say, and he turned to see a small woman slide in the seat next to him.  She was rather pretty, in a stern kind of way, with her brown hair pulled into a tight bun, and a pair of square spectacles perched on her pert nose.

"What's that?"  he asked.

"The contrast this little tavern offers.  In an age of engineering wonders, we see that The Last Cow has rebelled against the ideas of sunrods, powered lights, or any other form of technological lighting, utilizing only torches for illumination.  However, by some feat of magic or technology, they are able to keep the room completely cool and comfortable on one of the hottest days of the year."

Sheaf took another long drink.  "There's a flaw in your argument, ma'am."

"Oh?  And what would that be?"

"You seem to think that the use of torches are the equivalent of the use of a barbarian's club, completely lacking in refinement and intelligence.  On the contrary, the harnessing of fire is arguably the first technological advancement ever made by the sentient species."

She smiled, then, and Sheaf realized that he once again had the body of a very young man, and that logic and reason are oft-times no match for instinct and desire.  "The scholarly type?" she asked, "I do love an intelligent man."

"Oh, I don't know how much of a scholar I am," Sheaf said, wondering if he was able to blush, and knowing that he should know.

She laughed, and the strange holy symbol she wore around her neck sparkled in the torchlight as her head tilted back.  "All the same, it's an absolute pleasure to meet you.  My name is Karin."

"Well met," he said, returning the smile.  He glanced at the holy symbol she wore, which featured a pair of wickedly sharp -looking calipers, and felt the mental twitch that told him that he should know what that was.  "I'm unfamiliar with that symbol," he said, gesturing to it.

"Oh, this?" she picked up the symbol and fingered it reverently.  "I am a cleric of a god of science.  It's little known, but very important."

"Oh?  What's his name?"

She looked at him for a moment, as if pondering, before she shrugged.  "As far as I know, it doesn't have a name.  If it does, it's reserved for far more important beings than I to know about."

She didn't seem to be lying, but all the same, Sheaf felt like she was hiding something.  Still, her personal religious allegiances weren't any real concern of his, and it wasn't as if her symbol sported the skull and scythe of Nerull.

"Hey, why don't you take a walk?" he heard a gruff voice say behind him.  He turned to see a large, heavyset man with the muscles and callused hands of a farmer behind him, sporting a thick, wild beard and a balding head.

"I'm sorry?" Sheaf asked.

"The lady, here, is out of your league.  Take a walk.  I'd like to have a chat with her."

Sheaf glanced at Karin, who had her brows furrowed.  "Sorry, friend, but she doesn't much seem as though she wants to chat with you."

Even as the large fist smashed into the side of his face, Sheaf thought, I really should have seen that coming.  But it had happened so fast that there was no time to react, no time to prepare, just time to be thrown out of his chair and land on the peculiarly cold floor.  He stood, the edges of his vision turning red.  "Sybgib lufecrof!" he yelled, throwing his hand forward.  A giant, shining blue hand materialized before him, speeding towards the man and lifting him off his feet, before slamming him into the wall behind him.

A group of people at a table near where the assailant was now pinned all stood.  "Did you see what he did to Raph?" one of them said, and they all began approaching menacingly, each adding his own threat to a nearly indecipherable din.  A few of them looked at least apprehensive, but there were still six of them.

No matter, Sheaf thought, and he threw his hand before him again.  "Sygib lutecraft!"

Nothing happened.  Well, nothing happened that he wanted to happen.  The only real result was that the three members of the group approaching began to smile, apparently seeing no more danger, and the group as a whole picked up speed.

Thinking quickly, Sheaf drew Veracity, twirling it expertly in his hand before casually slashing the chair he stood next to.  The paper-thin blade sliced through the wood like a hot knife goes through butter, and the pieces of the chair fell to the ground.

"Do we really want to do this?" Sheaf asked.  "I don't know how fast the coffin-maker in this town is."

It turned out that no, they didn't really want to do this.

Carrion, Part Two

Note:  This is Part Two of the story.  Part One can be found here.

A wise man is good.  A wise teacher is better.  A wise student is best.  --Davin Swiftfist

Naomi grit her teeth and winced as a particularly sharp pain moved through her head, as if a shard of glass was slowly pushing it's way through her brain.  The reins fell from her hand as she reached up to grasp her forehead, a slight gasp of pain escaping from her lips.

"Whoa," she heard Quarian say to his horse, before she felt his reassuring palm on her shoulder.  "Are you all right, Naomi?" he asked, the concern evident in his voice.

Quarian Moonbreeze was one of those people that couldn't just leave something be.  The elf looked at all the problems in the world as personal affairs, wrongs that he had to personally set right, like an old hero from one of the songs he sang so often.  Often, his sense of pure, unadulterated goodness was endearing, and his exuberance sometimes made her feel as if maybe the five of them really were heroes, righting wrongs in a world desperately seeking saviors.  Other times, like now, after a night of little sleep and with the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing he could do to help (and he should know it), it was merely annoying.

"I'm fine," she said, opening her eyes to meet his concerned gaze.  "It's just a headache."

He nodded, a pure, honest sympathy in his eyes, and she sighed, feeling ashamed at her annoyance.  "Let's get going, Quar.  I'll be all right."  She took the reins again and clicked at her horse, urging him forward once more.

They rode on at a leisurely pace, giving their horses a break.  They'd been on the road for well over two weeks, and they hadn't seen any Imperial Wardens in a period well longer than that.  If trouble were to break out in the rocky wilderness they rode through, it would certainly be best if the mounts weren't already exhausted.

"How much longer to a town, Quar?"  Zedar, asked, urging his steed even with the party leader.

"I'm not sure," the elf replied, twisting in the saddle to pull a map case out of his pack.  He unrolled it and stared at it for a few moments.  "We're nearing Sindesta.  Elven town."

"The forest proper is at least a day's ride away," Zedar said, shading his eyes with the palm of his hand and peering at the landscape.  "Looks more like two."

"I'd say it's maybe a day's ride once we're inside.  So that leave's us two to four days until we see civilization again."

"I don't know how civilized it's going to be.  We're in the middle of nowhere."

"I, for one, have had quite enough of what you consider civilization, Zedar," Sev'tai said from behind Naomi.  She twisted around to see a sneer on his well-tanned face.  "Prostitutes.  Gambling.  Stone and smoke and not even the slightest hint of respect for the natural, real world."

"Yeah...." Zedar said, wistfully, "Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't sound good, you--"

"Okay, okay," Quarian said, raising his hands in the air, the map waving in the wind like the flag to some strange country.  "First of all, it's a proper Elven city.  Elven.  As in, I hate to disappoint, but I daresay you'll see few prostitutes, and even less stone."

"Much more sensible."

"Second of all, I haven't had a proper bathing in over a week, so at this point I'd consider a deep well and a bale of soft hay to sleep in civilization."  He rolled up the map and shoved it back in it's case before stuffing it back in his bag.  He began to twist the guitar firmly strapped on his back around, asking, "Anyone have a request?"

"Not now," Naomi hissed, her face alert.  The road they were riding on led through the lush green hills of the region, avoiding the large rocky deposits that populated the landscape.  Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the lay of the land, the small herd of cows that could barely be seen to the far East of the road, the single hawk soaring high in the air.  Then, she slowly and quietly slid her rapier free from her sheath.  "We're not alone."

Sheaf, Part Three

Note:  This is Part Three of the story.  Part Two can be found here.

I was incapacitated for a few days at that point, as my body--and more importantly, my mind--underwent it's uncontrollable transformation.  I thirsted, but no water would sate me.  I gained a terrible fever that refused to break under any treatment.  I hungered, but any food I dared consume would inevitably be ejected from me in a most uncouth manner.  Worst of all, my head ached with such an excruciating pain that, to this day, I find it impossibly to aptly describe.  Finally, after three days, I awoke from the first decent rest that I had received in days to find myself feeling...perfectly fine.

He sat himself up, throwing the thick blankets off of him.  Judging from the light peeking in through the slats of the shudders on the windows, he assumed it to be mid-afternoon.  "Dad?" he called, his voice hoarse.  A glass of water stood on the table next to his bed and he picked it up, drinking greedily, and could barely suppress a frantic giggle when he realized that, once he drained the glass, he was no longer thirsty.

The door opened abruptly, and Adem walked in.  "What can I get for you, son?" he asked, before seeing the empty glass on the table.  He quickly moved to pick it up.  "I'll get you another glass, and don't worry, there's another doctor coming.  One from Heathridge.  He'll be here today, with any luck."

"Dad, it's okay," the boy said, swinging his legs down and stepping up.  A quick rush of dizziness hit him and he blinked, swaying back and forth for a moment.  "Stood up too quick."

"Are you...are you feeling better?" Adem asked, feeling his forehead.  "Your fever's broke."

"I'm all right," he said, nodding.  "It always lasts about three days."  He realized his chest was bare and quickly remedied the situation with a simple brown shirt, before heading towards the stairs, his father not far behind him.

"What always lasts three days?" his father asked as they entered the tavern proper.

The boy looked around for his backpack, finally finding it in a corner behind the bar.  "The transferring sickness," he said, grabbing some of the trail rations his father kept behind the bar and shoving them within his pack.

"Joseff, what are you doing?"

"Don't call me that," he said, as he began filling a waterskin."

"What?  What are you talking about, son?"

"Sheaf.  My name is Sheaf."

"What? Son, are you sure you're all right?"

Sheaf sighed, and massaged his temples.  "How can I put this?  Okay.  You remember Sheaf?  Not me, the last one, the one with the fondness for wine."

Adem nodded slowly.

"He wasn't the first Sheaf.  He was," the boy paused, doing some quick counting in his head, "the forty-seventh Sheaf, actually.  Whenever one of us is near death, we can feel it.  So we find a suitable person to transfer to."

"What?!  Joseff, what are you talking about?!"

"My name is not Joseff anymore," Sheaf said, frustrated.  "I have the memories of forty-seven people that were born before me.  I possess knowledge vastly beyond what Joseff could learn in his seventeen years.  I was Joseff, yes, but you have to understand that's not who I am anymore."

"I...son, what are you talking about?"

"Except for the wife of Roland, the twenty-third, none of my other families have understood, either.  I don't expect you to, Dad."  He grabbed his backpack, now complete with three waterskins, and began walking back to his room.

Adem followed him.  Sheaf began stuffing a few sets of clothing into his bag before closing it and shrugging it on.  "My sword is...." he paused, closing his eyes for a moment.  "Three-hundred feet East of here."

"You don't have a sword, Joseff!"

Sheaf sighed.  "You really need to stop calling me that.  And yes, I do.  The sword Veracity has always belonged to Sheaf, and is the source of much of my power.  I cannot travel without it."

"Son, you're not traveling anywhere," Adem said, grabbing his shoulders and looking into his eyes.  "Now, I don't know what's gotten into your head, but--" he was interrupted by the side of Sheaf's hand crashing into the back of his neck.  Sheaf caught him as he fell, lowering him gently to the ground.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said quietly.  "But Sheaf must wander.  My goal is much too important for your emotions to stop me."  He sighed and began walking towards the door, before stopping one last time.  Then, without turning around, he said, "But I do love you.  And you will be missed."

Continue to Part Four

The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part Three

This is Part Three of a story created by guest writer Beth Stoneman.  Part Two can be found here.

In the coming days, I felt at peace. My revenge had been more satisfying than I ever dared dream, and I was praised as a hero in the slums where I grew up. However, something bothered me. I spent those days enjoying the meager hospitality my friends could offer, but I could not shake the inexplicable feeling that I was being followed. One day, as I sharpened Mother's sword in the small home where I'd spent my childhood, I heard a knock. Instantly I tensed, ready for combat, but when I walked out a host of about six humans stood there staring at me in wonder.

They were dressed strangely, although something about their dress seemed familiar. They wore no armor and carried no weapons, and nearly all had long hair tied back like my father always wore his. One of them, wearing a medallion, and apparently the leader, stepped forward and reached for my hand. Smiling, he said, “I am Brother Aric Wisehand. My brothers and I were in the crowd that watched as you defeated that man, and I must say, I have never seen such skill from someone of your age. Where do you study?”

His assumption that a half-breed would be allowed to study anywhere was nearly ridiculous, and I had to choke back a laugh. “That was all stuff I picked up from my parents,” I replied. “My mother was skilled with the sword, though I really saw my father fight the most. He was good with his hands and feet. They put up a good fight against their assailant, the man you saw me kill, and I decided that, in their honor, I should try to memorize all the things I'd seen them do. I practiced mostly the way I'd seen my father fight, because it seemed more resourceful and I'd seen so much more of it.”

I remember how nervous this mysterious traveler made me as he raised his eyebrows and stroked his chin, deep in thought over my answer. “You fought well,” he finally said. “I am astonished that you brought down an opponent of that size without formal training, and the way you used his weaknesses was quite impressive.”

“I only used my memories of the night my parents were killed and the areas I noticed him guarding.”

“That is wise,” he said, nodding. “We belong to a group of men and women who spend years practicing the many ways to fight skillfully and sensibly with the weapons we were born with, our fists, feet, elbows, knees. We are called the Order of the Flickering Flame. We are not your...conventional monks, sequestered away in some distant monastery, contemplating the meaning of life. Rather, we take an approach focused more on combat, and the perfection of your own skills. After seeing the raw prowess that you displayed, we decided we would like to help you hone your abilities. We'd like to extend an invitation for you to join us at our monastery in Onegas.”

I blinked, this earth-shattering invitation flooring me. It was something new and different, and there hadn't been anything left in Alcarinore for me in five years, since the death of my parents. Additionally, something seemed oddly familiar—almost comforting—about these men, bringing me to feel more at ease around them than I had with anyone in a long time.

Finally I found my tongue, and replied, “Your offer is gracious. I am honored that you thought so highly of the way I fought. How long will you be here? I may need to consider your offer.”

Brother Aric smiled again, and answered, “We will be here as long as you need us to be. We are traveling in order to find someone who will reinvigorate our desire as a brotherhood to achieve perfect harmony with ourselves, others, and our enemies. We've needed a new face in the monastery for a very long time, and your raw potential is something we have never seen.” He chuckled. “This city was not even a recruiting destination. It was more of a vacation spot to rejuvenate us and help us get on our way.”

I shuffled my feet meekly, something I never did, and said, “Thank you. I will come find you when I have my answer.” They gave me a slip of parchment telling me where they were staying, and departed.

Of course, I had made up my mind practically before they had even left, but I wanted to spend some time saying farewell to the friends I had in my home town. This was going to be the journey of a lifetime, and now that my parents' killer was taken care of, I decided that learning to fight like my father did would be the best way to honor them. I would never find where he had studied, but this was as close as I could get.

Great Gaming Music, Part Two

Once again, we dive into the realm of some of my personal favorite music to game by.  This time, though, before we start, I'd like to pimp out Ominous Sounds, a great blog that does a far better job of showing off wonderful gaming tracks than I could hope to do here.

With that out of the way, let's begin!

Star Wars Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords Theme
 While I really like this track, it can be a little hard to pinpoint a place for in gameplay.  Personally, I tend to use it towards the beginning of a game, usually during exposition with a major character.  It also works pretty well when the GM is describing an important place, such as a new city or a mysterious keep.  The song has a slight ominous tinge to it, but it isn't too overbearing.

Castlevania Lords of Shadow Main Theme
Quite the epic track, in my humble opinion.  I like this song for epic journeys, maybe accompanies by a 'verbal montage' explaining what the characters face on the months they've spent traveling (assuming it's a situation in which you're not actively roleplaying those months).  Players feel like they're doing something important, and are really making a difference in the world, when you play this track.

Final Fantasy XII Main Theme
Yet another main theme...perhaps I'm lacking originality?  Nevertheless, this track works very nicely at the starting of an adventure or campaign, during the short bit of time it takes to fill the players in on where their characters are and how they got there.  Players feel like they're at the beginning of something big when they hear this track.

Esper Battle Theme
Also hailing from the Final Fantasy XII soundtrack, this song is great for boss fights, especially those of the climactic end-of-dungeon variety.  It's just somber enough to let the players know that they might be in a bit of a bad situation, and, if your final bosses are anything like mine, they are.

There you go, another four tracks certain to perk up gaming sessions!  Hope you enjoyed, and I'll see ya next time :)

The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part Two

This is Part Two of the story written by guest writer Beth Stoneman.  Part One can be found here.

I lived without parents in the slums for several years, hiding during raids and staying with some of the families that survived the same raid in which my parents were killed. Through these years, the guardsmen of the city hunted the members of the cult that had raided our district, with a noticeable measure of success—despite the poor treatment of cross-racial marriages, there were still laws against what this cult did, and actions were being taken effectively and swiftly. Life was even harder than it had ever been, but hearing this news gave me hope that the man that killed my parents would pay for what he did.

With nothing better to do, I spent time emulating some of the things I had seen my father do. It was not much, but learning his fighting style helped me remember him and what he did, in addition to giving me a way to defend myself. I tried to did the same for my mother's swordfighting style, but I had seen her do substantially less fighting as a child, and I rarely seemed to make any real headway. I always kept my parents' weapons with me. Fathers' fistwraps were always wrapped around my own fists, and Mother's swords were always tied, however crudely, to my hip. I kept their most precious belongings in a sack. They may, perhaps, have fetched me a pretty coin with which to sustain myself, but that would be as awful as destroying a memory, which I simply couldn't do.

One day, as I was traveling about the city under my father's cloak, I was approached by a hulking figure, also under a cloak. He stared at my mother's magical sword,sheathed at my hip, then stared into my hood, which obscured my face. He nearly screamed at me, rage in his voice, demanding to know where I had gotten the sword. Staying silent, I turned my hip away, guarding the precious keepsake that my mother had so bravely wielded in the face of death.

In one swift motion, the massive elf threw off his cloak before tearing down my hood with such raw force that I staggered to keep my footing. He studied me, and I him. He was a monstrosity of an elf, not built like the others, with horribly butchered ears and scars marking nearly every bit of his oddly-toned skin I could see. His arms and legs were disfigured, perhaps from shattered bones that had never healed properly. He wore dark clothing that looked familiar to me, even though it was faded and worn.

While he stood there, dumbfounded, I slowly began to recognize him, and my eyes widened in shock. I had only seen him before as a whirling silhouette against the burning homes in the background, but I knew this man.

I knew him as the monster that had killed my parents.

When he reached for Mother's sword, I leapt back and screamed, “NO! No one may have this sword, least of all, you. You are a filthy monster, guilty of murder and near genocide. This is my mother's sword! I am the child whose parents you brutally murdered.”

After I said this, he snarled and lunged, knowing that he needed to finish the job he had unwittingly left incomplete. Imitating one of the attacks I'd seen my father do, I threw a kick to the side of his knee, unconsciously noting the sound of a crack as his weight shifted to his other side.

The ferocity he once had was now gone, no doubt drained by the fight that my parents put him through. He had no weapons, and was obviously weaker than last I had seen him. I dropped my belongings on the ground behind me, and gave this fight everything I had, using all the techniques I'd taught myself. As we fought in the middle of the city, a crowd formed around us, spectating as a half-breed in her teens faced off against a brute that dwarfed her. My kick had substantially weakened him, and I threw punches and kicks at his limbs where they seemed crooked. I took advantage of weak points, like the side he seemed to favor throughout the fight – no doubt another injury that my parents left for me to exploit – and after only a few attacks, he was staggering. I took out his other leg with a sweep I'd seen my father utilize many times, and he collapsed on the ground, wiping blood from his face. While he struggled to stand, I kicked him once in each shoulder, then grabbed his head and brought my knee up to his face.

My ceaseless barrage, driven by pain, anger, and a well-nursed desire for painful revenge brought so much suffering down on this pathetic excuse for an elf that he gave up on attempting to stand and curled up in a ball on the ground, mewling a feeble plea for mercy. Grimacing, I seethed, “I will say this slowly, so that your pathetic mind, so filled with hatred, can understand every word I say before I kill you. Did you have mercy on all the innocent people in the slums, torn from their homes and maimed? Did you have mercy on my mother when you sliced her head from her shoulders? Did you have mercy on my father when you cut him open like cattle at the slaughter?” I drew my mother's sword, slowly, with grim, unshakable purpose. “I know no mercy for the likes of you, monster.”

I raised my sword, intending to kill him the same way he killed both my parents, administering the same wounds that killed me inside, but he shrieked, “ WAIT! I never knew they had a child! I was...I was just following orders! I know how it feels to be a half-breed. I'm an abomination! My father was an orc, my mother an elf, I'm not even half human! I am a monster! I was hired by the Crimson Hand. Please spare me. I know your pain....”

“If all this is true, I only want to kill you more. A half-breed who works for a cult that murders half-breed and mixed families. You really are an abomination.” My free hand clenched itself into a fist as I continued, my voice issued behind teeth gritted with rage and malice, “You could never know the pain I felt that day as I WATCHED THEM DIE!” My mother's sword sliced ruthlessly across his torso, biting as deeply as possible, severing his twisted, revolting head from his crumpled body.

After his blood-curdling scream stopped reverberating, I raised my mother's sword, covered in her murderer's blood, high into the air and turned slowly to face every spectator that had seen me vanquish the monster that had haunted my dreams for six years. Authoritatively, I shouted, “This is what happens when you let bigotry and anger control your actions! I am half elf and half human and would not trade my troubled life for anything! My parents married because of a force stronger than politics or purity of blood! The married because, despite the torment they faced, they loved each other more than anything in the world! Before you murder a mixed couple, remember that your hatred will bring about your death! This abhorrent creature is an example of what will happen. All of you have been warned! I will forever be a champion of those who lose loved ones because they are a half-breed. Remember this face.” My eyes narrowed as my vision swept the crowd, staring at me in awe. “Remember this sword.”

Continue to Part Three 

The Story of Lyra Swiftfist, Part One

This story was created by Beth Stoneman, a player in the game I'm currently running, and the first of what I hope will be many guest writers on Cerebral Vomit.  'The Story of Lyra Swiftfist' is her character's backstory, and, in my humble opinion, is an excellent read.

When I was young, my life was fraught with nothing but hardship. The memories are so painful to recall, but I need to get them out there, so that they stop haunting me and swimming in my head.

Our family was treated poorly because my parents, who married out of love, were neither both human, nor both elf, and a union of such impurity was more than frowned upon in my home country of Darinus. My mother was an Elf, and formerly of high standing in Elven society. Named Ellyria Sageheart, she was one of the more wealthy Elves in Alcarinore, and the head of an Elven mercenary company, though she never did any mercenary work herself.

One day, a human man by the name of Davin Swiftfist, an adventurer who had been exploring woods near her home, came into town to stock up on supplies and get a few days' rest. He investigated her mercenary organization, looking to hire a scout to help navigate forests and support him in his travels. There, he met my mother. They always told me that the day they met, they felt a surge of magic that couldn't be learned by the most powerful magic users in all of EbonHurst. They fell in love the moment their eyes met, and my father decided not to hire a mercenary, instead taking an extended stay in town and subtly courting my mother under the radar. After a time, they decided to get married. He took her back to a human city, where people where moderately more accepting—though still wary of their union—and they married. After the wedding, they returned to the city where she had her home. When they returned together, word of their shameful union had reached the people, and she was stripped of her status and company, and forced to live in the slums reserved for mixed-race families.

Despite her ostracization, Mother told Father that living in the city that had treated them so poorly was important to her. She had deep emotional ties to the trees and animals that lived in Alcarinore, and couldn't bring herself to leave. He obliged, wishing only to make her happy, and they had me. I was born into destitution and bigotry, an unfit life for a small child, but my parents' love for each other and me made it more bearable. Sometimes there would be raids, but my father's combat prowess always kept us safe. For food, Father had to travel to the market under a cloak and keep his face hidden, because many stores would either increase their demands or sometimes deny service completely. The other families in this part of town were kind, and I played with the children there. We lived there for most of my childhood, until one night, tragedy struck.

During our slumber, we heard a great racket outside. An extremist cult, wishing to go against the council's laws, had grown to the point where they could wipe out the entire mixed-race slums, and they did. That night, the worst raid ever seen destroyed our way of life, and killed nearly every resident. One of the most ferocious members of the cult entered our house. Mother, having been trained with the sword, and father, being deft with his fists and feet, battled valiantly against this monster, while I watched from a secret room that Father built into our small house in case of raids like this one. They weakened him to near incapacitation before he felled both of them with his dual axes. My parents were mighty and skilled, but could not stand up to the attacker's ferocity, and I watched them both die right there in my own home. After weathering many smaller raids, I learned not to cry when my parents were injured, and only sat there, dumbfounded in my perfect hiding place. However, when their dark champion left, and the raid ended, I saw fit to cry, and did not stop crying for perhaps hours.

Pain still fills my entire being when I think of that day. I saw my parents, both bloodied and beaten on the floor. Mother's beautiful glowing elven swords that had once slain the greatest of foes still lay in her hands. Father's intricate, ornate, hand-sewn fistwraps that had always guided his attacks so seamlessly fell from his clenched fingers. All the weapons and furniture were soaked in blood, both from my parents and from their assailant. I had never seen what carnage was until that day, when it had been dropped without mercy upon my house. I cried ceaselessly and without abandon for days, eating little, and sleeping poorly.

Sheaf, Part Two

Note:  this is Part Two of the story.  Part One can be found here.

The arrival of Sheaf was a breath of fresh air.  He brought with him a worldliness, the likes of which I had never seen before in my young age.  The knowledge he possessed was astounding, but he never expected me to take his word on anything, instead urging me to research what interested me and to find my own truths in the world.

He stayed in the inn for nearly a week.  Each day, at around lunchtime, he would come downstairs for a glass of wine and a bit of food, and pay a platinum Imperium.  Each night, as business dwindled, he would find the time to converse with me, on all manner of ranging subjects, from the histories of various gods to the politics of countries and provinces near and far.

I was a young man, then, and perhaps easy to impress, but impress me he did.  And, daily, he continued to impress me with his knowledge and wisdom, until the day came that I was no longer a young man.  Time, you see, is a fickle lord, and does not always see the need to age us according to our years.


"Oh, the current Emperor's line stretches back a few thousand years," Sheaf said, taking a sip of his wine as Joseff polished the various bottles of spirits behind.  "But no, he is not of the original family.  That line died out long ago."

"I...didn't know that," Joseff admitted.  "So what happens if the Emperor dies without an heir?"

"A series of elections.  The Senate and Council of Governors each appoint a candidate from within their ranks, who must meet a stringent set of criteria.  Then, both parties vote, and the winner of the election is appointed Emperor."

Joseff nodded, thoughtful, and opened his mouth to ask another question when the front door burst open.  "Raiders!"  Patrick, the blond-headed farmer from the West end of town shouted, his chest heaving.  "They attacked the Millbrooke's farm first, and they're--" he abruptly stopped and toppled forward, showcasing the handle, as well as half of the head, of the throwing axe that had found itself planted in his head.

Joseff stared for a moment, certain that it was a joke.  Certain that Patrick and his friends had gotten together, and decided, hey, let's play a trick on Joseff.  He's always got his head in a book, why not give him a dose of reality?  We'll make him think someone died right in front of him.  Hells, maybe his father was in on it, too, and that's why he was being so quiet, not saying anything, not doing anything, maybe it was all just a fantasy, some stupid joke and he needed to laugh, to show that haha, he got it, and wasn't it just so funny, because they had really pulled the wool over his eyes!

He bent over, suddenly, the mutton and bread he had eaten for lunch ejecting itself from his stomach with the speed of a ballista bolt.  Then came the subtle clinking of chains, and Joseff looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before freezing.

The creature that walked through the door stood maybe four and a half feet tall, with mottled green skin.  His face was unusually flat, his eyes wider and shorter than those of a human.  His ears were pointed, and the teeth that Joseff could see were yellowed and sharp.

The goblin wore a simple chain shirt over his outfit, and a metal cap protected his head.  In his left hand he held a short sword, and his right hand grasped the handle of the throwing axe in Patrick's head, his foot bracing against the farmer's neck as he wrenched free the weapon.

"Gonna diiiiiiiie," the goblin said, singing the word in his guttural voice.  He slowly began to approach the three men, a cruel smile alighting on his face.

Sheaf was the first to react, quickly striding towards the goblin.  There was a soft noise, almost the sound of a page within a book turning, as the traveler drew his sword, and Joseff saw for the first time how impossibly thin the blade of the weapon was.  The goblin slashed at Sheaf, who parried the blow easily, and continued to twist his body, making a 360 degree turn with his sword, bringing the business edge of the weapon back around to sever the goblin's head at the neck, neatly and effortlessly, as if he had practiced the act since he was three.

"You are armed, Adem?"  Sheaf asked, not turning.

"Aye," the barkeep said.  He drew the simple cudgel he kept behind the bar and, after a moments thought, opened a drawer.  "Joseff," he said, and his son turned to him to see the revolver in his hand.  "Take this, son.  You're not as strong as I, you'll do less damage with the stick."

Joseff nodded, swallowing heavily, and took the firearm.  His father passed him a pouch filled with rounds, which he buckled around his waist, before checking to see that the gun was loaded.  Six rounds were in their respective chambers.  Six rounds of death.

"I'm going out there," Sheaf said.  "The two of you would probably do best to protect your establishment.  I daresay, when the day is done, this will be quite the popular building."


"Wait!" Joseff said, careful to avoid the puddle of vomit as he walked around the bar.  "I'll go with you."

Sheaf opened his mouth, and for a moment, Joseff was sure he would refuse, but then a shadow of understanding, and...sorrow?...appeared on the mans face.  "Yes," he said, finally.  "You may join."

The events that occurred after they walked out the door of the tavern passed in a haze for Joseff, a well-intentioned man who had never seen evil, had never known violence other than the occasional drunken brawl.  It seemed that blood was everywhere, painting the walls of the buildings, staining the glass of the windows, forming miniature rivers in the worn ruts of the roads.

There were hundreds of them, and for a town that boasted maybe 400 people on a good day, it was a challenge the likes of which no one was prepared for.

Still, the townsmen fought on, and fought well.  They weren't warriors, true, but many of them had held a hoe since they could walk, and strong muscles count for a lot, even if they are untrained.  And the raiders were fighting for profit.  The townsmen were fighting for home.  Never underestimate a man who fights for his home and family, for they are prone to perform feats greater than you can imagine.

Joseff wasn't sure if he actually hit anything.  He fired his weapon automatically, whenever he saw a clear shot.  Now that he was outside, he could see that there were more than just goblins--humans, orcs, and even a few elves were counted amongst the attackers.

He pulled the trigger again, and didn't feel the comforting shock as the weapon fired, didn't hear the accompanying miniature crack of thunder.  Again, he thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger, and heard only a faint click, barely audible over the sounds of battle.  Again, he tried to fire, and with the same result, before remembering that he must need to reload.

He fumbled the cylinder open, spilling the useless casings on the ground.  Awkwardly, as if each finger on his hand was new and untested, he began to push new rounds into the weapon, before raising it, thumbing back the hammer, and pulling the trigger, the face of an orc raider rushing towards him disintegrating in a cloud of light red mist.

He turned to see Sheaf engaged against three combatants at once.  Blood so dark it almost appeared black dripped from numerous wounds he had already endured, but he fought on with a ferocity and skill that was incredible to watch, singlehandedly turning the tide of the battle against the attacking forces.

In a daze, Joseff followed his lead, absently firing at raiders, reloading whenever he realized his weapon was empty, his brain unable or unwilling to fully comprehend the chaos of the situation it found itself in.

After a period of time that seemed simultaneously an eternity and an instant, the attackers knew that they had lost.  They began to flee, in greater and greater numbers, until only the stragglers that were unable to escape from combat were left.  Sheaf himself had three of them, trapped at the end of a shallow alleyway.  Joseff tried to fire, but his gun had run dry once more.  He clumsily opened and emptied it, his free hand diving into the pouch for more bullets.

The pouch was empty.

But that was impossible!  His father had at least fifty rounds in that pouch, they couldn't all be gone!  His hand searched the pouch, frantically, until it finally alighted on the smooth metallic surface of a single bullet.  He pushed it into place, closing the cylinder back into position, and looked up just to see the sheen of wet metal push through Sheaf's back.

It seemed impossible, but there it was.  The other two combatants lay dead on the ground, but one, a goblin, had somehow gotten the upper hand, and his long sword had been forced through Sheaf's midsection.

Joseff pulled the trigger.  The goblin's head vanished, as if there were a wizard showcasing his abilities.  Slowly, Joseff walked to Sheaf, who turned to see him.  "Thank...you," the man said in a strained voice, pain evident on his face.

It was at this point that Joseff noticed that the blood oozing from Sheaf's copious wounds didn't merely appear black, but was black, as dark as ink.

"Please," Sheaf said, struggling with the effort of speaking.  His breath came out in ragged bursts, a cruel mockery of true breathing.  Not without struggle, he held his sword up, red blood flowing off of it, and Joseff saw the oddness of the blade up close.  It almost appeared to be...paper.  Dark words were scribbled on the blade, here and there, and Joseff saw that they were names.  "Take it," Sheaf said, holding the sword by it's paper-thin blade.  Joseff's hand moved, and then stopped.  "Take it!"  Sheaf said once more, pain and desperation in his voice.  And then, "Let me die in peace!"

Joseff grabbed the handle of the sword, and pain erupted through his body.  He saw the names on the blade begin to disappear, as if they were evaporating, and out of the corner of his vision, he saw the blood from one of the cuts he had sustained begin to darken.  My blood is turning to ink, he thought, like his.

The man he had begun to consider a friend fell to the ground in death, and the boy began to feel his head flood with information and memories.  The last thing he could remember before darkness stole his world from him was one word, burning in importance above all others:  SHEAF. 

Part Three 

Great Gaming Music, Part One

I'm a sucker for a good RPG.  In fact, if you haven't noticed the tags in any of my stories up to this point, they're all tagged with 'Dungeons and Dragons', and take place in my campaign setting for the game.

Anyways, you can find all SORTS of great stuff to help your tabletop games work better, but I think one of the things that is skimped out on is background music.  You rarely see a fantastic RPG video game without hearing pretty great music relevant to whatever you're doing--it helps set the tone, and keeps any silences in the room from being overbearing and taking you out of the game.  That said, here's a list of some of my favorite gaming music.

Requiem for a Dream
Originally composed as the score for the climactic fight between Anakin Skywaler and Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, this song makes for a great boss fight.  Not just any boss, mind you--save this score for a big one.  I'm talking the mastermind pulling all the strings.  The guy who your PC's aren't quite sure if they're ready for yet.  The guy whose death signifies a big change.  Players get leery, but resolved, when they hear a song like this, and they know that someone is going to die--hopefully, not them.

Oblivion Battle and Morrowind Theme Remix
A fantastic mix of two songs, I love this song for boss fights.  I find it just a little too epic to use on your run-of-the-mill skeleton fight, but that first miniboss in the dungeon?  Perfect.   Players get pumped with a song like this, and they know that it's time to kick some ass.

Chapel of Skorm
From the soundtrack of Fable, on the X-box, comes this great track.  Personally, I like it for dangerous areas that haven't quite gotten to the point where swords have been drawn, such as the party sneaking through an enemy camp, or walking through a city they know they aren't too welcome in.  When players hear this music in the background, they get the feeling that everything could go South any moment.

Dusk at the Market
This hails from the fantastic Elder Scrolls IV:  Oblivion.  As it's name suggests, it works great for a market/town track, but it also works great for traveling music as the characters walk through plains, forests, and the like.  Players hear this track and are reminded that the world isn't always about killing dragons, goblins, or whatever else they may face in your game.

There you have it!  Four great tracks, sure to liven up a game session.  See you next time!

The Quest, Part Two

Note:  This is Part Two of the story.  Part One can be found here.

Garek slowly walked towards the ship he had purchased passage on, framed on each side by guards--one from the Temple of Pelor, one from the Temple of Saint Cuthbert.

The trial had not gone well.

He had presented his case well, and honestly, but it seemed the Council had, by and large, made up their minds before the trial had begun.  The questions he had asked were simple, with no real look at his character or his justifications for each choice he had made.

Did you kill an Imperial Ambassador?  'Yes, I killed a slaver, an evil man, who also had the great fortune of being an ambassador.'

Were you paid to kill him?  'No.'

Did you accept money for his death?  'I accepted a gift from the father of one of the girls who died in slavery due to his crimes.'

So his death directly profited you?  'That was not the reason I killed him.'

And yet, his death still directly profited you?

The questions continued, each as thinly-veiled as the last, trapping him with the truth.  The sentencing was quick, at the end of the trial, with the Council members convening for less than two minutes.  Permanent exile.  An attempt at appeal in ten years, but it would have to be done out-of-country, and with all twenty-one heads present--making it impossible.

"You're gonna need to wait a bit," the shipmate at the walkway leading from the dock said, eying his armor and the guards appreciatively.  It almost appeared the guards were there to protect Garek--their armor was ornate, though not quite so much as his, and all three had a weapon in reach.  Still, the paladin had no illusions--had he drawn his weapon for virtually any reason, they would draw, as well, and he would be thier first and only target."Captain doesn't allow any passengers on board until all cargo is stowed and secure."

Garek nodded, and walked to the end of the dock, staring out at the ocean.  "To Weatheroot," he said softly.  Leaving the country wasn't new to him--he'd done it dozens of times in his career.  But the thought of leaving the land that he was born, raised, and trained in forever...as much as he didn't want to admit it, that did shake him, just a little bit.

But there were more important things to be done, anyways, weren't they?  He still had a goal.  Still had an endgame.  Still had something that he had to do.

Hurried footsteps on the wood of the dock sounded behind him.  The exiled paladin paid them no mind, assuming them to be another shipmate, until he heard his name called out.

He turned to see Cadeus approaching him quickly, and then embracing him.  "I'm sorry, child.  I'm so sorry."

Garek returned the embrace.  "It's of no matter," he finally said as Cadeus stepped back.  "There is work to be completed elsewhere.  Good work."

"It breaks my heart," Cadeus finally said, softly.  "Seeing you leave.  I love you as if you were my own, boy."

Garek nodded.  "If you hadn't been there, after they died...I don't know how I would have turned out."

"All right, paladin, come on board!" the shipmate at the walkway yelled to him.  "All the cargo is secure, we're casting off!"

"On my way!"  Garek closed his eyes briefly, then called upon the Light.  He opened them to see slight auras surrounding Cadeus, the sailors, the two guards, but none of them signified evil.  He reached into one of the pouches on his belt and withdrew a sealed parcel.  "Don't open this until you can no longer see the ship on the horizon, Cadeus." He said, before he leaned close to his surrogate father and whispered, "and burn it before you let anyone else think of reading it."

With cleverly-hidden heavy footsteps, Garek, exiled paladin of the Order of the Silver Wing, walked down the dock and up the walkway to the The Losgud, the decently-sized cargo ship leading to Weatheroot, one of the largest cities in the Vigilant Empire.  He nodded at Cadeus, who had a hand raised in well-bidding, and went to find the captain, knowing his entire life had changed.

Continue to Part Three.

Censorless, Part Three

This is Part Three of the story.  Part Two can be found here.

"It's a bit small, ain't it?"

"Well it's supposed to be small," Harris explained.  "It's a holdout pistol.  You can hide it under a belt, or in a boot."

The shopkeep frowned, turning the small firearm in his hands.  "And it only holds a single round?"

"Umm, that's correct.  It's not meant to be used as a primary weapon, though, it's a backup.  Something a lady might use, for example, for personal protection."

The shopkeep grunted as he pulled out the chamber to make sure the weapon wasn't loaded before peering down the barrel.  "It's not even rifled."

Harris winced inwardly--it was sloppy to not rifle the barrel of the gun, but he didn't have the proper tools to do so, and if he botched it by using poor tools ill-suited to the task, he'd likely ruin the weapon completely.  "It's a weapon for safety," he said again, almost defensively.  If he wasn't able to sell the weapon, then he'd be stuck in the most expensive city on the planet, as close to penniless as mattered.

His hand, hidden below the counter, twitched, as if he was searching for something in the air.  Very slowly, very carefully, as if too quick a movement would send whatever elusive dust mote he sought scurrying into hiding.  "I assure you, it will sell," he said, almost as a distraction.

There.  His forefinger traced a line in the air, as if it was gliding atop an invisible surface.  Then, his finger twitched sharply.

The shopkeep nodded, slowly.  "Yeah, I think I could move it.  I'll give you fifteen gold for it."

Another twitch.  "I was hoping for something a bit...higher," Harris said.

The shopkeep furrowed his brows.  "I...suppose I could go for...thirty gold?"

Harris considered pressing his luck further, but knew it wouldn't be a good idea.  "Deal," he said.

The shopkeeper reluctantly counted thirty gold Imperiums into a small leather sack, a frown on his face the entire time, as if he had an idea that this should have gone quite differently.  Harris took the money from him and turned to walk out when the door to the shop exploded inwards, with the force of a mighty shove, one of the hinges snapping.

"Harris!" Kote said, his voice excited.  "Come on!  I have to cut this kid's hands off!"  With that, Kote tore off once again, running down the street with reckless abandon.

The shopkeep gaped, and it was impossible to tell if he was more shocked by the damaged door or the words of the young man who did it.  "Is he joking?" he asked.

Harris grit his teeth, shoving his freshly acquired bag of gold into a pocket in his cloak.  "He doesn't know how!"  He yelled, sprinting out the door and taking a hard right, the direction that Kote ran.  He could see his friend in the distance, absently barreling through people, jumping over small obstacles and dodging bigger ones.

"Hells," Harris said, running after him.  People saw him coming and moved out of the way, making his passage slightly easier than Kote's, but it was still almost impossible to keep up.  Back home, Kote was out in the fields and the forests near their home almost every day, gathering various herbs and minerals for his alchemic experiments.  Over time, he had developed a number of large circuits that he would take, doing a different route every day, running at a breakneck pace through the wild so as to devote as little time as possible to what he considered the 'boring' practice of gathering, and to save more time for his experiments.

Harris, on the other hand, rarely had a reason to run.  He had never really considered Kote to be his physical superior before, but it had become plainly obvious that he decidedly was.  After nearly ten minutes of their wild rush through town, Kote was nearly twice as far ahead as he was when Harris first exited the shop, and gaining.  In addition, Harris' breaths were more like gasps, bursting from his mouth like a battering ram through a parchment door, and Kote barely seemed fazed.

The chaos mage took a sharp turn into an alley, and Harris prayed that the chase was finally coming to a close.  He arrived at the entrance to the alley just a few short minutes later, and was pleased to see Kote standing only a few feet deeper in.  About ten feet beyond Kote, the passageway turned into stairs leading maybe fifteen feet down before the alley became a dead end at a wooden door with dark iron bands.

"What in the hells, Kote?" Harris asked between great whooping breaths, bending at the waist to put his hands on his knees.  He felt nauseous.

"I saw him," was Kote's reply.

"What?  Saw who?"

"The kid who stole your bag.  He was wearing it."

"What?  How do you know it was mine?"

Kote rolled his eyes.  "You've had the same bag for years, Harris.  It wasn't hard to pick out.  Anyways, I followed him here."

"And?  Now what?"

"I figured I'd cut his hands off.  Come on."  He began to make his way down the stairs, and Harris reluctantly followed him, trying to talk sense to him through his heavy breaths.  "Kote, you can't cut off some poor kid's hands."

"I'm not going to."

"What?  You just said you were!"

"No, I'm going to cut the hands off of the kid who stole your bag.  He's obviously not poor, even if he was beforehand, because we had enough gold stuffed in there to pay for both of our tuition at the University for a year."

"That--that doesn't matter, Kote," he said, but his comments fell on deaf ears as Kote pushed on the heavy door and walked inside.

"Oh, damn it all," Harris said, following.

Very little light penetrated this far into the alley, and the room beyond the door was lit only by a few dim candles.  It took Harris' eyes a few moments to adjust, and when they finally did, he wasn't very happy.

"Oh.  Well.  Hello, there."

Six men stood, each with a very menacing revolver pointed at the two teenagers.  The men were each heavily muscled, and they all looked like very qualified competitors for the title of 'The Most Scarred Man in the Land.'

"Yeah?  Hello, eh?" The man who looked as if he might have placed third place said.  "And who the hell are you, then?"

Harris opened his mouth to try and find a diplomatic way out of their predicament, but Kote saved him the trouble.  "That's Harris.  I'm Kote.  We're here to cut off the hands of the boy hiding behind you."

Harris' eyes widened in shock, and he noticed for the first time the child, maybe eleven years old, hiding behind the line of armed men.  And yes, that was indeed the backpack Harris had owned for nearly seven years resting firmly against his scrawny back.

"Really, then?" the second prize winner asked.  "And what gives you the right to threaten Harold's son?"

"He's a thief," Kote said simply.  "So I'm going to cut off his hands, so he can't steal from us again.  Then, Harris is going to take his backpack back."  Leave me out of it! Harris thought, but said nothing.

Kote considered for a moment.  "Backpack back.  Backpack back.  Backpack pack.  It gets harder to say that the more often you say it."

The men exchanged wry glances with one another.  "Well, we're thieves, too," Third Place said.  "Ain't that right, Fred?"

"Sounds about right to me," Fifth Place, 'Fred', replied.

"Yep, we're thieves, too.  So you going to cut off our hands, so we can't steal anymore, either?"

Kote frowned, obviously in thought.  "No," he finally said.  "I don't really care that you're thieves.  Not as long as you haven't stolen from me."  Then, as if an afterthought, he added, "Or Harris."

"I'm tired of this crap," one of them finally said.  "Let's just kill them."

Kote narrowed his eyes.  "Let's not."  He threw his hands out in front of him, making strange gestures in the air.  "Nommus Tseab!"

A vibrant bronze light began to shine from Kote's hands.  He quickly brought them together, seemingly molding the light into a small ball that he flung at the feet of the thugs.

The thugs took a cautious step back, but the sphere shaped itself too quickly for them to gain any real distance.  It began to grow, and four legs sprouted from it.  A head formed, and the light began to fade as the rough gray fur appeared.  Finally, the creature stood.

" Baaa," the sheep bleated.

The men burst out laughing.  "A sheep!"  One cried.  "Don't threaten the boy, or he'll summon a sheep and make us all new pants!"

Kote sighed.  "That wasn't really what I was going for," he said, and he began making more arcane gestures.  "Ria Tsrub!" he yelled, throwing his hands out before him.  A semi-visible pocket of air launched itself at the crowd, and four of them, plus the sheep, were thrown into the air, flying nearly ten feet back before slamming against the far wall, crying in pain as the cruel stone cracked ribs, skulls, and arms.

Harris' arms flung out, his fingers performing elaborate dances that no one could predict.  Finally, he made grasping motions with both of his hands, and made a great yanking motion with each.  The two guns that had been dropped on the floor were the first to fly towards him, followed shortly after by the four guns that were still held, each tearing itself from the grasp of it's master to fly through the air, clattering at the feet of the two arcanists.

"We need to cut off the boy's hands," Kote said.  "And retrieve our belongings.  But the rest of you can go."

"Kote, we're not cutting off his hands."

"No?  Why not?"

"Because.  That's a solid six.  Maybe a seven."

Kote sighed.  "Fine," he said, and he walked over to pull the backpack from the cooperating child.  He put the six revolvers in the top before shoving it into Harris' arms.  "At least we're not poor, anymore," he said, as they turned and walked back outside.

Sheaf, Part One

And so it is, as I near the end of my life, that I feel the need to once again take pen to paper, but, for the first time, to tell my own story.  For many years, I have walked over Ebonhurst, hunting down the truth for our wise and benevolent Emperor.  Before that, I traveled for no reason other than a sense of estranged wanderlust, a feeling that there was always something more important, some greater truth to behold, some greater story to be written over the next hill.  But, before that, I was the simple son of a bartender.  Before I was known as Sheaf, the Emperors Historian, the man with ink for blood, I was simply Joseff, the bartender's son.


"How's that stew looking?" Adem asked, the cords in his neck bulging as he lifted a large new keg full of ale and moved it to it's proper place behind the bar.  He was a large, tanned man with a shaved head and a bushy, dark brown beard.  He looked intimidating, some would say brutish, but there was a wisdom that shone through his dark eyes, and he was the mediator of many issues.  "Counselor, ambassador, cook, historian, and guide," he was fond of saying. "If you want to open a tavern in a small town, prepare to be all of 'em.  Oh, and you'll pour drinks sometimes, too."


"Should be ready in another hour or so," Joseff said, looking up from the thick tome he was reading, An Abridged History of Weatheroot:  Three Hundred Years of Chaos and Progress.  "I put some more onions in, since Whedon and Patrick have been eating in so much lately."

Adem frowned as he took a rag and began polishing the oak bar.  "Like they really need worse breath," he said.  "Still, it'll show 'em we approve of this years crop, and it's always nice to show the neighbors a kind gesture.  Now put that book down and get to sweeping, son."

Regretfully, Joseff memorized the top two lines of the page he was on so he'd be able to pick up where he left off later, and closed the book.  "Did you know that a lot of people think that Orodox lived in Weatheroot before he became a god?"

"No, never heard that."

Joseff picked up the broom and began sweeping behind the bar.  "Yeah.  Apparently, there are people that also believe that the Seven lived in the same mansion that Orodox owned after he ascended, and before they did."

His father looked at him, a stern expression on his face.  "You want to be quiet about that, son.  I know you don't mean any harm, but folks don't like hearing about the Seven."

"I know, but some of the stuff I'm reading makes me think that maybe they weren't as bad as everyone thinks they are.  One of the things in this book talks about how a group of orcs had kidnapped a few hundred citizens of Weatheroot, back when it was really small.  They were rescued by a group of seven warriors, led by a drow who wielded a fullblade, like Blaid, and this would have happened just a decade or two before the Seven ascended.  One of the warriors was a cleric of Heironeous, and in Warriors of Faith there's a mention of a powerful human priest of Heironeous named Alwa."

Adem grunted.  "So?"

"So think about it.  First of all, the time line fits completely.  We know one of the seven--Blaid--was once a drow, and he used a fullblade.  We know another of the seven, Alwa, was some sort of a cleric, and he used a longsword, which is the same weapon that Heironeous used, so it's not really a stretch to think that he may have worshiped Heironeous, or at least that he would have appeared to worship Heironeous.  And, this was right around the time that the drow started to vanish, so there couldn't have been that many adventurers out there that were comprised of seven warriors, two of them being drow--and An Abridged History of Weatheroot clearly states that there were seven warriors, one of which was a drow engineer, another of which was a cleric of Heironeous, and that they were led by a drow who wielded a mighty fullblade.  That completely fits with the Seven, before they ascended."

Another grunt.  "What race was the cleric?"

"Well, the author doesn't specify.  But, Maxwell Arison--the author--is a human, and he seems to always take for granted that, unless otherwise stated, an individual is human.  He's described orcs, goliaths, elves, giants, minotaurs, satyrs, dwarves, halflinsgs, but he never specifically calls anyone a human.  So you could assume that anyone he doesn't specify as being a race is a human."

"Sounds like your son has a very good head on his shoulders," a strange voice said.  Adem and Joseff both looked up from their respective chores to see a man had entered the tavern so quietly neither of them had heard.  He wore a black set of clothes, well-tailored, but obviously worn in, and the filled scabbard of a sword hung from his hip.  He raised his hands and lowered the hood of his dark cloak, and Joseff noted that the man was pale as one of the moons.

"Apologies, stranger," Adem said, quick to recover his wits and play the hospitable bartender.  "I didn't hear you enter, and I usually don't expect company for another hour or two, yet.  I'm afraid the stew we have isn't ready, but if you'd like something to wet your throat, I'm sure we can help."

The stranger nodded, and approached the bar.  "Would it be foolish of me to ask if you have any wine of elven origins?"

Adem nodded seriously.  "That it would," he said, before breaking into a large smile, "because I always make it a point to have cases brought back from Onegas anytime someone in town makes a trip that way.  I've grape, apple, darkberry, and maple wine.  What could I interest you in?"

"I'll take a glass of grape, sir," the stranger replied, laying a platinum coin on the bar.

Adem uncorked the bottle and poured a generous glass before spying the coin.  "I'm afraid there's simply no way I can make change for that at the moment, traveler," he said.  "You're our first company today, and only yesterday I sent a courier to Hearthridge to deposit most of our silver in the bank."

"No fret, friend.  It's been many moons since I've had elven wine."  He took a sip appreciatively.  "Delicious.  So."  He turned to Joseff.  "Been studying the Seven?"

"Um, not...particularly," Joseff replied.  "They've just come up in some of the texts I've read."

"They're actually quite fascinating.  And I'd quite have to agree with your assessment.  I've found nothing credible that states the Seven were, in fact, anything other than very competent and heroic adventurers before their ascension into godhood.  Quite the contrary to popular belief, they seemed to have been quite popular--even loved--before the Fall."

The Fall.  When the Seven, the once mortal adventurers who each ascended into godhood at the same time, brought their full divine powers to bear in an attempt to shatter the world.  Each was destroyed, but one survived slightly longer than the others, falling to the ground a charred husk.  He was unrecognizable, and all that could be determined was that he was one of the six males of the group.  He uttered one sentence, "I...didn't know...." before his death.

Understandably, people were enraged.  Mobs descended on temples of any of the Seven, on libraries that held knowledge about them.  Books, tapestries, scrolls were lit on fire, temples were destroyed, and now, because of all that, the truth behind the lives of the Seven was nearly impossible to track.

"I don't know about all of that, now," Adem said.  "I've heard my fair share about the Seven, but not much saying they were loved.  They had temples, sure, but so does Nerull, and I don't know many people that love the god of Death."

"Oh, I'm not speaking about their temples.  I've read numerous texts of adventurers that must have been the Seven saving various towns, freeing slaves, and many other heroic acts.  Some even point to them having embarked on a quest so important it was directly handed to them from the gods, and the completion of it was how they ascended in the first place."

Adem shrugged, clearly not agreeing with the stranger, but not being one to argue with paying customers.  Joseff, however, was intrigued.  "What kind of quest?"

The stranger chuckled.  "I daresay it would require quite a bit of research and travel to track down the answer to that question, friend."

Joseff nodded, and extended his hand.  "I'm Joseff, by the by.  Well met."

"Well met, indeed," the stranger said, grasping his hand.  "You may call me Sheaf."

Part Two

The Quest, Part One

Cadeus paced back and forth, his long white robe making a gentle swoosh on the ornate marble floor.  "Do you realize what you've done, Garek?"

Garek stretched in his seat, enjoying the release of his back popping before he picked out a long, slender piece of wood from a dozen duplicates sitting in a jar on his table.  "I believe I killed a criminal," he said, working the pointed end of the wood into the intricate etchings on the front of his armor.  This was the first chance he'd had in days to take it off, and finally clean the blood and grime from the more inaccessible areas.

Cadeus snorted.  "Hardly.  You assassinated an ambassador.  An Imperial ambassador at that!"

Garek rolled his eyes and began to work the wood into another etching.  "Assassinated?  Hardly.  I strode in, in the middle of the day, announced his crimes, read his aura to be certain of his wickedness, and struck him down."  He gestured at a scroll on the opposite end of the table.  "There is proof that he was using his diplomatic vessel to smuggle slaves, if you are convinced of his goodness.  I took it from his corpse."

"Yes, no doubt you did.  It doesn't matter how convinced you were of his evil, Garek.  You accepted money to end his life!  That makes you no more then an assassin!"

"Oh, please," Garek scoffed, running a clean cloth over the part of his breastplate that he was finished with.  "He was going to die, anyways.  The money was hardly incentive.  It was just an added bonus."

Cadeus sat on the couch, and held his head in his hands.  "You are going to be tried," he said, finally.

"And?  I've been tried a dozen times, and each time my killings have been found just.  If you recall, last time I was promoted."

"Yes," Cadeus said softly.  "You were.  Which makes this doubly difficult."

"Hmm?  How so?"

"You're a High Paladin, now, Garek.  That means your actions don't just represent the Temple of the Silver Wing and the lands that we have dominion over, they represent Template as a whole.  This isn't going to be a simple trial where you explain to Master Priest Alteris that you were justified.  This will be a Council trial.  The heads of all twenty-one temples will be present."

This was new.  Garek had been called to testify for his killings before--virtually every paladin and crusader in the Order had, at least once--but a Council trial was a different thing entirely.  While all twenty-one temples that ruled Template were supposedly aligned to the powers of Goodness and Light, each had their own specific belief sets that governed how they did so.  The Order of the Silver Wing, for example, worshiped no particular deity, but instead the idea of justice, righteousness, and lawfulness as a whole.

Still, he shrugged.  "Makes no difference.  I did what needed to be done."

"You could be cast out, Garek.  Exiled.  Cut off from the Temple, and any of it's resources."

"Well, then.  I suppose I should be glad that I had the foresight to commission and pay for my own armor, weapon, and shield."

"Damnit, Garek, you'd be homeless!"

Garek finally put down the piece of wood, and met Cadeus' eyes.  "This Temple, and this Order, is a means, old friend," he said, before pulling a long dagger from his boot.  He pressed the blade to the inside of his left forearm and ran it near to his elbow before casually flicking it, scattering the blood from the blade.  He showed the gaping wound to Cadeus before pressing a hand to it and murmuring a quiet prayer.  The skin began to knit itself together, miraculously fast, and once more he met Cadeus' eyes.  "The Light clearly doesn't think I've wronged," he said, "else my powers would be stripped.  If the Council of Template decides to exile me, then I'll make my way somewhere else, and continue my quest there.  I've got more important things to worry about then twenty-one fools who would rather play politics than do what needs to be done."

Cadeus frowned, confused.  "What are you talking about?  What quest?"

Garek smiled, a thin, wry smile that was as cold as a glacier on a moonlit night.  "I'm afraid, old friend, that that's none of your damned business."

Censorless, Part Two

This is Part Two of the story.  Part One can be found here.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a pale face staring at them.  The woman was middle-aged, with green eyes dulled by two many nights spent alone but with the company of a bottle, and tattered, poorly-patched clothing.  Her hair was straggly, and she missed more than a few teeth.  "What do you be wantin'?" she asked, with a voice that was strangely sweet despite her odd accent and rough appearance.

"I, uh..." Harris was at a loss for words.  He looked at Kote helplessly, before facing the strange woman once more.

"Pardon my friend," Kote said, abruptly.  "He's an idiot with his words at times.  He requires medical assistance, as he decided it would be a wondrous idea to break his hand against a stone wall."  Harris shot Kote a venomous look at this, and Kote responded by raising an eyebrow in slight confusion.

"Oh," the woman said, apparently mollified with this response.  "Be comin' in, den."

Despite a few reservations, Harris nodded, entering the strange home.  It was lit by a decent-sized fire roaring in a grated fireplace, and he could make out strange and eerie collections on the shelves that lined the small room.  He took a seat at the table in the center of the room when she gestured, still staring at the shrunken heads, jars full of strange powders and liquids, and various other odds and ends organized throughout the room in no seemingly particular order.

"You, too, den," she said, looking at Kote and gesturing at another seat at the table.

"I'd rather study these," Kote said, and Harris was horrified to see him pick up one of the shrunken heads and stare at it, turning it in his hands.

"Kote--" Harris started, but he was interrupted by the strange woman's laughter, which sounded surprisingly clear and cheerful coming from her disfigured face.

"You be an honest one, chil'," she said, and then her voice turned as hard as steel and cold as ice, "but if you don' be puttin' dat down and sittin' down like Kalia tol' you, den you'll be joinin' my collection."

Kote blinked twice, then obediently put down the shrunken head and wordlessly took a seat at the table.

"Dat's bettah," she said, before taking a seat across from Harris.  "Now, chil', be lettin' me see dat han'."

Harris offered his hand, and she took it with a surprisingly gentle grip, clicking her tongue sympathetically.  "Dat look painful, chil'," she said, "but not terrible.  Any doctor can fix dis up, why not go to one o' dem?"

"I...thought you were a doctor."

Again she laughed, a great laugh from her stomach up, and her face seemed to grow ten years younger during the duration of it.  "Oh, chil', I be no doctor.  I can fix dis up, no problem.  But my way be much faster dan any doctor.  Who be tellin' you such tall tales, eh?  Who be tellin' you dat ol' Kalia is a doctor?"

"No one told us anything," Kote said.  "I cast a spell.  To find a doctor.  It led to you."

She looked at him curiously, studying his long black hair, his blank, emotionless face, his simple but well-kept clothing.  "You be a seer, den?" she asked, and Kote shook his head.  "Well?"

Kote said nothing, and Kalia's eyes grew frosty.  "What, den?  Don' come to Kalia's house and be playin' no games, chil'.  I asked you a question, I 'spect an answer, do you understan'?"

After years of friendship, the flicker of a frown on Kote's face was as plain to Harris as the sun was at noon on a cloudless day.  Kote disliked speaking of his abilities, but Kalia had no way of knowing that.

"I'm a chaos mage," he finally spat out, "you prying bitch."

"Kote!" Harris hissed.  "I'm sorry, ma'am, he doesn't mean AHH!" He was cut off by her hand crushing his broken hand with the strength of a vise.

"He mean it, all right," she said.  "Don' be lyin' to old Kalia.  He be tellin' de truth, and dere's no shame in that.  You be lyin', and dere's shame in dat aplenty, do you understan'?"

"Yes, ma'am," he finally squeeked out, and she released his hand.  He gasped in release, nursing the wounded appendage.

Kalia wasn't paying attention to the recipient of her crude torture, however.  She studied Kote's face silently for a good while, before finally saying, "It not be possible.  No chil' your age can understand chaos.  No chil' your age can reign it in and use it for his own.  It be takin' years of hard work to surrender a bit of yourself to true chaos, and understandin' even a tiny piece of it.  And until you can understan' dat, you be no chaos mage at all."

Kote met her gaze, and they stared into each others eyes.  Harris looked at each of them, silently, wondering what to do.  After over a minute of silence, he finally decided to simply thank the woman and leave with Kote in tow, and as he opened his mouth to say so, Kalia said in an awestruck voice, "By da stars.  You be tellin' da whole truth, ain't you?"

Kote nodded.  "I prefer not to speak of it."

She, too, nodded.  "A small wonder, dat.  Dere be more power in actions den in words.  I apologize, den, chil', for underestimatin' you."  She studied him for another moment, before saying, "Aldough you might not be much of a chil' after all."

She turned to Harris, and, as if nothing had happened, took his hand once more, gently probing it.  "It be a bad break.  I can fix it, but it be a painful process.  Are you sure dis be da route you wanna take?"

Harris swallowed.  "I have to be able to use my hand.  If it gets crippled...well, it can't get crippled."

"I be seein' a touch of de arcane in you, too, chil'.  Not chaos, but order."

"I'm a spinner."

"Ah.  Well, den, you be right, you have to be havin' full use of your hands, eh?  Very well.  I be helpin' you, and I be doin' it for free.  Consider it a...gift.  And a way for me to be makin' up for insultin' you and your frien'."

She stood, and took a small scrap of leather from a shelf before casually tossing it on a table.  Then she opened a large chest resting underneath a different set of shelves and took out a human hand, tinted green and perfectly preserved.

"Da strap is for you to be bitin' on, chil'," she said.  "You don't know how much dis be hurtin'."  Harris swallowed, and put the piece of rough leather in-between his teeth.  It tasted foul, and for a moment he considered that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the best course of action.  But he knew that Kote's magic had led them to this woman, and his magic was trustworthy.

Usually.

Well...sometimes.

Kalia smoothed out his hand on the table, sending a sharp pain rocketing through Harris' body.  Then she took the dead hand and laid it palm-up on top of the wounded teenager's own palm.  "Now be de time to start bitin'," she said, raising her hand.

With an impressive amount of force, she brought her hand down and slammed the severed extremity on top of Harris' wounded hand.  Harris screamed behind his tightly-grasped teeth, and tried to yank his hand away, but he seemed paralyzed, unable to move.  A sickly, greenish light began to irradiate from the hand, and it reminded Harris of plagues, and famines, and countless other horrors in the world before her hand slammed down once more.  Now the green light began radiating from Harris' appendage, as well, and the pain that began shooting throughout his body was unimaginable, like something the Dark Lord Asmodeus would inflict on someone on a particularly bad day.  Again her hand slammed down, and the light stopped shining from the corpse's hand, but shone twice as brightly from his own, bringing a new level of pain.  He struggled to pass out, to die, anything to escape the torment he was in, but his body refused to heed him, and he watched her hand slam down yet again with horror through tear-blurred vision.

And it hurt.  It hurt as much as any punch to the hand would hurt.  But there was no more of the intense pain, not from the sickly-green light that was no longer shining, or from having a broken hand.

"Dere," she said.  "It be done, chil'."

Harris was relieved to see that he had regained the power to move his hand, and he quickly pulled it out from under the macabre remnant that was resting on it before gingerly feeling it with his other hand.  No pain.  No stiffness.  Nothing at all.  He hesitantly made a fist, then another, then began flexing his fingers with abandon.  "No pain," he said.  "It doesn't hurt at all."

"It shouldn'," she said, picking up the hand on the table and throwing it in the fire.  "It's gon' be weak for a few hours, den it should be right as rain.  Now go.  Old Kalia's got more to do den mend de hands of foolish boys."

Harris nodded quickly, and the two friends left the strange house hidden in the middle of the city.

***

"So what now?" Kote asked, as they passed a city guard riding a majestic horse in full steel barding.  It had taken them well over an hour to finally get back to a main street, and the sun was nearing the horizon.

"I honestly don't know," Harris replied.  "Almost all of our money was in my backpack, and...well, you know what happened to that."

"You got it stolen."

Harris glared at him.  "It wasn't my fault.  I had my back turned for less than a minute."

Kote shrugged.  "It wasn't not your fault, either.  Your bag was packed to the brim.  Nice target, ripe for the picking.  I would have stolen it too, were I in a thieving mood.  You should have kept it on your back."

"I get it!" Harris shouted.  "You don't have to keep rubbing it in.  Ass."  He sighed.  "Let's just find an inn.  You still have those parts I gave you, right?"

Kote stared at him, his face as blank as ever.  "I haven't taken off my backpack.  I thought it might get stolen if I did.  So, yes, I still have the parts that you gave me when you realized that you packed too much junk for your own bag."

"You really are a horse's ass, Kote.  And that's about a three.  An annoying three, at that."  He considered for a moment.  "Probably a two.  But a very annoying two."

"Oh.  Sorry."

Harris shrugged in resignation.  "We'll find an inn.  I'll see if I can't cobble something together with the parts I gave you, even though almost all of my tools are gone.  I think I can make a small pistol...maybe.  Then, if we can sell that, we'll be on better ground.  We won't have nearly enough to even consider applying at the University, but we won't be quite as screwed as we are now."

After a bit of searching they found a room available at The Scarlet Crusader for six imperiums.  The room only had one bed, but it did feature two small desks, and each of the teenagers went to work as soon as they entered, Harris taking the few parts and tools he had left and putting them on one desk, and Kote taking out the alchemical supplies he had brought and neatly organizing them on the other.

"Any idea what you're making?" Harris asked.  Kote had an odd habit of simply mixing together various reagents just to see what would happen.  He claimed that it was the only way to make a truly great discovery.

Kote stared at the small jars and bottles he had.  "Alchemist's Fire," he finally said.  "It sells."  He sighed.  "And I suppose we could use the money."

Harris pursed his lips for a moment.  Kote was right, of course, but....  "That...might be a bad idea," he finally said.

"Why?"

"Well, say there was an accident?  You could burn the inn down."

Kote stared at him.  "I don't have accidents."

"Sometimes you do.  Less than most people, I'll grant you, but you're hardly perfect.  And making something like Alchemist's Fire in an inn during our first day in town...well, that could lead to some rather bad impressions."

"It's not like anyone is going to know, Harris."

"Granted.  Most likely no one will.  But there's still a chance.  And since I spent over half of the coins I had on this room, I'd rather not risk getting kicked out of it."

Kote snorted.  "I'd have loved to help pay for the room, but all of my money was in your backpack.  Where you insisted it would be safest.  Fine."  He surveyed his materials once more.  "I'll make frost, instead.  It doesn't sell as well, but I suppose it'll have to do."

Alchemist's frost was a bluish liquid that held an unnatural coldness.  With proper application, it could serve a variety of purposes, such as freezing parts together for a limited time, or providing the fuel for cold-boxes.  It also could be used in combat to quite a devastating effect.

"I remember the first time you made Alchemist's fire," Harris said, as he began to use his small powersaw to cut a tube of iron to the size he needed.  Sparks began flying, and he was glad that he hadn't stored his goggles in his backpack.  "Hemmel was out at the market that day, and you were supposed to be working on...a sunrod, I think.  But sure enough, you found one of his recipe books, and couldn't resist.

"It was a sunlamp," Kote broke in.

"Ah, okay.  Anyways, you damn near set Hemmel's entire house in flames."

"It probably would have all burned if you weren't there.  That was the first time I really saw you spin."

Harris chuckled dryly.  "It wasn't very impressive.  If the fire brigade had gotten there any later, I would have lost any semblance of control I had.  Still...we got a good laugh out of it."  He paused for a moment, looking at the alchemist's profile.  "I miss your laugh.  I used to hear it a lot."

Kote turned his head to face his friend, and Harris saw a shadow of some rare emotion in his eyes.  A flicker of fear, perhaps, or maybe a deep, painful longing, something that was strange and alien and almost frightening on his normally abnormally calm face.

"Are you sure?" Kote asked.  Harris didn't know how to respond to that, and after barely more than a second, the strange emotion vanished from Kote's face, and the mage shrugged.  "I guess I don't really remember."

"Kote...are you having memory problems, now?  Maybe the damage was worse than we thought.  Maybe we should try and find a doctor.  A proper doctor, I mean, not one like...." He set down his powersaw and pointed at his hand.

Kote shook his head.  "I remember every birthday I've had, from my--" he stopped and thought for a moment-- "fourth onwards.  I remember how many stairs there are in my father's house--seventeen, by the by--how many trees are in front of the school, and how many drinks Father Caffrey usually has at the Fried Frog every night before he goes home to pass out.  No one remembers everything, Harris.  I guess I've just forgotten most of the times I've laughed."  He turned back to the jars in front of him and began carefully measuring a dark gray powder from a small glass tube into a wooden bowl before stoppering the tube again.  "As far as things go, it's hardly a loss of any real value."

Harris stared at him for another second longer, sorrow etched deeply on his face, before he reluctantly turned back to his work.  They shared no more anecdotes that night.

Part Three