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

New Design

How do you like it?  I felt the need today to just kind of pimp it out :D  It's still got a tad left that needs to be done, but I think it'll make for a more pleasant reading experience, and, to top it off, it just looks cool :D

Anyways, said design was done by the extremely talented Jay Davis, over at Billion Dollar Design Club.  You should definitely check him out there, or mayhap pay a visit to his facebook or follow him on twitter, a place where I've heard tweets are made, but not necessarily of a Hitchcockian variety.  Bonus points to anyone that actually got that reference...


Regardless, let me know what you think of the new design, and be sure and visit Jay's stuff!

Forbidden Lines

A short list of lines I'm no longer allowed to use whilst playing an RPG.

1.  "Yeah, yeah, we get it, you're evil, you have a plan, yadda yadda.  Can we skip the monologue part and get to the 'poking you with pointy things' part?"

2.  "You're a tenth level fighter, and a pacifist?  Literally the only thing that you can do is hit people with pieces of metal particularly well, and somehow you even managed to screw that up."

3.  "Oh, I'm aware that, as a wizard, full-plate armor gives me massive penalties.  I'm also aware that most wizards don't survive past fifth level, so you can take your list of ideal equipment and shove it up your rectum."

4.  "Yes, I'm a bard.  No, I don't play the lute, I play the electric guitar.  What?  They don't?  Well, fine, I play the artificer's guitar."

5.  "I don't have to outrun the dire bear.  I just have to outrun you."

6.  "Weren't you paying attention?  I don't care if we can 'probably' take the bear down, all I have to do is outrun you."

7.  "Okay, now that we've killed the bad guy, I start eating him.  What?  I'm a catfolk, and he's covered in flesh.  It makes perfect sense."

8.  "Listen, Your Highness, I'm not saying that burning down the orphanage was just.  I'm not saying it was right.  I'm not even saying that we have a good excuse.  All I am saying is that we're level twelve, and you're packing guards who are maybe level seven."

9.  "So the villain's in there?  That building right there?  The one made of wood?  Someone pass me a tinderbox."

10.  "You're just being prejudiced against my catfolk paladin because you don't want me to eat people.  WHY WON'T YOU RESPECT MY CULTURE?!"

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.

The Quest, Part Three

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

"So you were raised in the temple?"  Nadia asked, the eyebrow over her visible eye raised.  Her other eye was covered by a leather eye patch, as it always was when she wasn't belowdecks.  On many women, the patch might appear unseemly, but it seemed to further add to the charm of the lively woman, an accomplished warrior that was in charge of the ships' defenses.

Garek nodded.  "Since I was young, yes.  When I turned sixteen, I applied for squireship, and was apprenticed under High Paladin Alteris, and when I was twenty I was named a full paladin."

"So...have you ever lived outside of the temple?"

"When I was young.  But not in many, many years."

"That sounds incredibly boring."

Garek chuckled.  "Not at all. The library at the Temple of the Silver Wing is very large.  Besides, I keep myself busy."

"Oh?" the woman asked.  "A great many female companions for the mighty paladin, no doubt."

Garek frowned.  "No.  I've had precious little time to waste on such frivolities."

Nadia laughed, letting loose a musical, pleasing sound that Garek had found he quite enjoyed over the last few weeks.  "One of these days, Garek, you're going to have to stop taking life quite so seriously.  When's the last time you enjoyed yourself?"

"I've had more important things to deal with than having a good time.  There are grave evils in the world, and for others to have their good times, I must sacrifice mine.  Trust me, nothing of value is lost."

She rolled her eyes.  "And you have to be the one to vanquish all of the evil in the world?  It seems quite the feat."

Garek sighed and moved past her to the edge of the deck.  "If I don't," he said, after a moment, "who will?"  He turned his gaze to her once more, and she felt her blood chill by a few degrees as she saw his eyes.

When Nadia was seven, her father had taken her on a trip to the country of Echorigon, and, during her time there, she had discovered that slavery was, although restricted, perfectly legal.  It was her first trip outside of the Vigilant Empire, and it shocked her to her core.

Luckily, though, she hadn't had the misfortune of meeting anyone during her short stay that owned any slaves.  As long as she ignored the various signs of slavery about the port town they had stayed in, she could pretend that nothing was different there than from back home.

Until the day they left, at any rate.

As they waited on the docks for the chance to board their vessel, a slave ship began unloading.  A large orc, with lean muscles and an impossibly thin frame, was imprisoned in a small steel cage, being pulled by two sailors.  His bony hands were wrapped around the bars of the cage, and spittle flew from his mouth as he roared in anger and hopelessness.  But that didn't compare to his eyes.

His eyes projected pure, unadulterated rage, malice, enmity, and absolute hatred.  The mere sight of his eyes caused Nadia's breath to stop, her heart to skip a beat, and her bladder to loosen.  Now, almost twenty years later, she had completely forgotten about those eyes, until she saw the same raw emotions exploding from Garek's.

"That's how I have to live my life," Garek said, his voice the sound of a blade of ice slicing through the air.  "Because if I don't, no one will.  It's been proven before, and once I'm gone, will undoubtedly be proven again."  He turned and began to walk towards his small quarters.  "If you'll excuse me, I've praying to do."

Sorry, Guys

No new chapter today.  I've been dealing with court stuff since Friday, and, now that it's all over and done with, I think I'd like to take the day to just veg out on the X-Box 360 before I have to go to work tonight.  New chapter tomorrow!

Oh, in case you're wondering about the whole court thing--we won :D

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.

Carrion, Part One

The sun was setting, and Naomi Caldress wept. She cried hard, taking great breaths before succumbing once again to her tears.

Finally, after what seemed like hours (but in all truthfulness was less than thirty minutes), she calmed, her tears slowing. Then she looked at her hands, stained red with blood, and she again began sobbing.

“You seem rather distraught,” a strange, gravelly voice said. Naomi gasped and whirled around to see a man she had never seen before, wearing immaculately tailored dark clothing, a crimson cloak the color of dark blood, and a sword with a well-worn hilt in a simple scabbard at his hip. “One would think the average murderer less capable of tears.”

Naomi fumbled for the dagger she had dropped, finally finding the blade with her finger, slicing it open and mixing her blood with that which was already coated on the weapon. The pain was distant, and it didn't deter her from grabbing the weapon , standing, and bringing it to bear at the man. She grasped the handle with both hands, but was unable to keep the blade from quivering violently.

The strange man rolled his eyes. “Indeed,” he said dryly, before calmly walking past her to kneel next to the body on the slick floor. “Sloppy work.”

“What...what do you mean?” she asked, the blade quivering more fiercely before her.

“Superficial,” he said, pointing at the shallow cut along the shoulder. He pointed at another wound. “You removed half of the ear, which was pointless. There's no real reason to aim for that section of the skull at all with a weapon as light as the one you used. You're not apt to do any real damage.”

He continued, pointing at the various damages she had inflicted upon the corpse, and explaining the inadequacies of each. Finally, he came to the gaping hole in the middle of the throat. “That was what did it,” he said. “If you would have gone for at once, the whole ordeal would have gone much smoother. And been much...cleaner.”

“Who are you?” Naomi asked.

“I am...a friend. Perhaps the only friend you have, now, wouldn't you say?”

“I've never seen you before in my life,” she replied, trying to sound confident. “Now you had best get out of my house, stranger, before you enter a world of hurt.”

She didn't see him draw, or turn to face her. All she knew was that one moment he was kneeling on the ground, pointing the opposite direction, and the next moment he was standing in front of her, sword drawn, and her hand stung viciously from the dagger being wrenched out of it by the force of his slash, an attack made in too short of a time for her eyes to even begin to process. It occurred to her then that this was a very dangerous man, and that if he had so much as fancied the thought of moving forward another few inches during his attack, she would have lost fingers, or her hand, or perhaps half of her arm.

He could very easily kill her before she even realized the thought to do so had crossed her mind, and then there would be two Caldress bodies lying on the floor of the simple wooden abode.

“I don't very much appreciate being threatened, Naomi,” her 'friend' remarked casually. “No, not at all. You may very well consider me old-fashioned in such a manner. And speaking of manners, where are yours? You've a guest in your home, and you don't even put on the tea?”

She swallowed, wondering if perhaps she was the one who died in the earlier struggle, and this was but the beginning of her torture on one of the endless levels of Hell.

“We...I don't have any tea, sir,” she said, her voice quivering.”

“It was a jest, ma'am. And as for my name—I am called Crow. At your service.”

“What do you want?”

“Well now,” he said, sheathing his sword and walking to the other side of the room before easing into the rickety rocking chair that once belonged to Naomi's grandmother. “That is the question, isn't it? I suppose, in the short term, I want to ensure that you don't end up in an Imperial prison, rotting for twenty years.”

It was almost funny, but she just now realized that very distinct and likely probability. She had grabbed the dagger in a moment of fury and passion, had fought with the same presence of mind, and had cried thinking of the loss in her life, of how impossible it would be for her to afford to give him a decent burial, of what her family would think, of what her friends would think, but she was just now thinking of what the town guard would think.

She'd be tried, and found guilty. There was no escaping that. Of course, she could run from town, but as soon as someone found the body, there would be a bounty on her head, and she'd have more to fear from bounty hunters than from the guards. At least the guards wouldn't take advantage of her when she was being brought in. She thought, briefly, that perhaps she could hide, the body, but she knew it would be impossible. Her home was in the middle of town, and she wasn't a strong girl. Dragging the heavy corpse outside of town would take her hours, and what would she do with it then, anyways? Bury it? Digging a hole sizable and deep enough would take as much time as dragging the body through town, and filling it back in would take half that. The thought of doing all that without a single person noticing was the bad punchline to a cruel joke.

“Begging your pardon, stranger,” she said, collapsing back to the floor, “but I don't think you have much say in the matter.”

“You'd be surprised,” Crow said, a faint smile briefly lighting his face.

“If it's all the same, I'd just as soon not talk about it.”

He nodded, and reached in his cloak. “Well enough.” He produced a finely-crafted pipe, the likes of which Naomi had never seen. It seemed to be made of ivory, and around the entirety of the bowl she could make out small figures engaged in battle. The craftsmanship was amazing, and she knew she was looking at something worth more than her house and the combined value of everything she had ever owned, or dreamed of owning. He loaded the pipe with a hefty amount of tobacco and lit it with a match, taking a few long puffs in the silence.

“I don't think you'll be able to dispose of the body yourself, if you don't mind me saying. Not without half the town noticing, at any rate. So, I've a proposition for you.”

“You...you wish...to use me?” she asked, knowing the answer. She had no delusions about being the most beautiful woman in the town, but at the same time, she knew she wasn't hideous. But wouldn't it be worth it? A few minutes, hours maybe, of enduring this mans passions would pale in comparison to years spent in prison, where she would be abused, regardless.

He let out a hearty chuckle halfway through a drag off of his pipe, and tobacco shot out of the bowl, landing on the floor, the embers smoking gently. He crushed them with the heel of his boot and once again began to load his pipe. “No, milady. If I desire carnal pleasures, I'm certain I could find a less despicable way to attain them.”

“Then...what?”

“You're destined for greater things than this, Naomi,” he said, once again lighting his pipe. “Therefore, if I remove your...problem, shall we say? You succumb to training, under my tutelage. Learn to properly wield a sword, to fight, to defend yourself. And, when we're done, you leave this town, never to return.”

“I don't think that I'd be much of a swordswoman,” she said.

“You will be. After I'm done with you.”

“And why do you want me to leave my home?”

“Is it much of a home, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her. “If you'd prefer, I can leave as swiftly as I entered. You'd be forced to leave, regardless, but instead of walking out on your own two feet, you'd be forced into the back of a locked carriage and shipped to the nearest prison.

“My reasons are my own, milady. You can either allow me to help you, and trust that it is in your best interest, or you can fend for yourself. I'll not force you into anything. Now, shall I dispose of this body, or not?”

She licked her lips, looking at the corpse on the floor. “Do it.”

He nodded, standing. “Very well, then.” He walked to the kitchen table and took a small scroll from a pouch on his belt, spreading it flat on the table. “Nommus: Gob Drazil.” He slammed his open hand on the scroll, and it began to glow before the edges caught aflame. The flame quickly expanded, and Crow stepped back as it began to take a strange shape, forming what appeared to be a large, low-slung body with four stubby legs and a long tail. The flames died out, all at once, and revealed a large alligator underneath, whose tail whipped back and forth as it turned its head to regard Crow. It seemed to ignore Naomi completely, and she was certainly glad. She backed into a corner, her face white, taking shallow, rapid breaths.

“Calm down,” Crow said. “A summoned creature obeys the person who called it explicitly. I promise you that if I had desires to end your life, I'd not need a beast such as this.” He turned his head back to the creature. “Down,” he said, pointing at the floor, and the alligator clumsily dropped to the floor, before looking back at Crow. “Eat,” Crow said, pointing at the body, and the alligator closed the distance to the corpse with a surprising swiftness.

“Come,” Crow said, taking her elbow and gently leading her into the bedroom. “There's no reason to watch it. When it's finished, there will be nothing left, I assure you, and then the beast will be unsummoned.” He pointed at the rapier mounted on the wall. “Yours?”

“It was my father's.” She picked it up reverently. “He was a master fencer.”

“Excellent. How much did he teach you?”

“Nothing. He died before I was born. There was a raid on the town, and he died defending it.”

“Ah. A shame. All the same, it means I don't have to work making you unlearn anything. I think now would be as good a time as any to start our first lesson.” He unsheathed his sword and held it before him in a defensive stance. “Now. Come at me, Naomi, and let's see how much you have to learn.”

“Wait, what? This isn't a dulled blade, sir.”

He snorted. “I think I should be able to defend myself, milady. Now, come at me.”

She sighed, and thrusted forward with the tip of the rapier. Crow easily batted the blade aside. “Again. Do better, if you please.”

She thrusted again, and this time, after batting the rapier's blade aside, he twisted around, facing away from her, and drove his elbow into her forehead. She cried and fell to the floor, her vision imprinted with dozens of tiny points of light. “What in the hells was that for?!”

“If you attempt the same thing over and over again, you'll simply become predictable and leave yourself even more open to counterattack. I promise you, in actual combat, you'd receive much worse. Now, stand, and come at me.”

She had a lot to learn.