HWWC:Week Two

Week Two

This week's subject for the HWWC: Your character's worst nightmare. Fairly self explanatory.

Voting

Week Two voting ends Wednesday the 11th!

Voting is simple. Submit all votes via hmail to Ranok, or place onto the current week's talk page. Simply pick which story you feel deserves first place, second place, and third. At the end of voting cycle, the votes will be tallied. First place earns each voted entry 3 points, second gets 2, and third earns one. The points will then determine the winners. In the event of a tie, a new speed round of voting may be entered or judges can be called in to weigh the entries.

You may vote if you submitted an entry, but you may not vote for yourself. Voting is not mandatory, and you are not allowed to vote for only one entry.

Kuzial

Entered under the character of Bozrah.

"As the snow queen sleeps her dream begins to shift and change, from chasing down some young victims, their blood so close, to that feeling something is behind her. The shift from hunter to hunted is subtle, slight; a shimmering of perception that has the ice magus looking over her shoulder. And slowly, so slowly, all around her the frozen ranges of Frostmaw begin to change: The pristine, virgin snow grows darker, the howling wind becomes a cry of forsaken damnation, before a mass of twisting blackness dissolves into existence. From it rises the wraith Bozrah; dressed as ever in ragged clothes that twist around his body, mixing with the tendrils of ebon darkness which dance about his pallid form. When he speaks his voice resounds from everywhere and nowhere, "Satoshi... I told you I would make you scream..." He doesn't move, but all of a sudden he is right in front of her, his face mere inches from her own. "You have failed Frostmaw, queen." He snakes to the side, the landscape having changed to an image of the Frostmaw Giants being devoured in black fire and brimstone, hurled from the wicked armies of the Time Lord. The two mighty golems lay broken on the ice and beside their remains is a series of rotting gallows. On them hangs Satie's lifeless friends: Kasyr, with Requiem shattered at his feet. Kirien, his bright eye a faded husk that screams of defeat. Svilfon, his hat gone, his robes in tatters. A helpless feeling would overcome her as she realizes she cannot move, and the putrid laughter of the wraith rings out, "Watch them dance, Satoshi..." With a gesture an odious portal opens beneath the bodies, ebon flames burning into sentient life. They ravage the dead bodies as the hellacious opening draws them ever closer, forcing them to dance on the ropes like forsaken marionettes. With antagonizing slowness the corpses are consumed, until finally the tattered remnants are sucked into the twisted opening in the snow, devoured by the blasphemous magicks. As the last one body vanishes, Bozrah whispers in Satoshi's ear as his cracked and broken fingernail tracing a slow pattern on her cheek, his breath hot and rank against her flesh. "You failed, Satoshi... It is over...." Before his last word has died out, she'd find herself now upon the gallows, a tight noose around her neck. "Dance for me, Satoshi..." The wooden platform below snaps open and all she can see is the limitless depths of Hell coming to consume her flesh as the forsaken cries of her slain comrades echo in her ears, blaming her for their deaths... Only then would she wake, the lingering feeling of the burning fires fresh upon her skin, the tight feeling of the rope still around her neck, the helplessness lingering in her mind, and just in that moment of half awake and half asleep would she hear the hollow voice of Bozrah, "Scream for me... Satoshi...""

Firewing

Firewing’s eyes split open as he awoke. The Room he was in was a Large Master Bedroom in the Abandoned Palace. It was the only place still intact and not in ruins. The Walls were a Deep Tan Sandstone color, with the Sand falling off gently onto the white and black, checkered marble floor. Along the Left side of the wall was a small window that showed the Sun had just risen over the vast and sandy desert landscape, painting it a deep red. There was a medium-sized, water-stained dresser in the corner facing the middle of the room with a mirror attached to it. Aside the dresser was a Golden Staff that was recognized to be his recently acquired staff of Lasting Pyromancy: Kolasi, the infernal Staff. It rested beside the dresser with its usual 20 deep red candles in the Strange, Candle-holding end where fire was to be drawn from for his Magic. In the Middle of the room, Firewing stared at the white and black, checkered marble ceiling (an exact replica of the floor) as he rested in his large, royal purple bed with Golden frame. The lavish sheets were mostly tucked under the mattress, excluding the right side of the bed where the purple blankets had wrinkled together on top of Firewing’s body.

The Dragon in humanoid form sat up and placed his hand on his forehead, his fingers resting in the forefront of his Bright Red Hair. His eyes were closed as he breathed in and out, turning his body over the right side of the lavish bed, his feet almost making contact with the Golden, Engraved frame that Made up the Backbone of the Dragon’s “Nest.” He wore a pair of shining, black silken pants that went down to his ankles and a Black, Silk T-shirt. His frame wasn’t that large, but for a mage his skinny appearance made him the perfect person to dodge sword sings and Arrows. His form was shown off through the slightly sheer fabric, having at least some muscle on his arms and chest to show he wasn’t all that weak.

The Dragon’s eyes slowly opened and instead of their usual seriousness and utter coldness, there was friendliness. The kindness in his Crimson burning eyes was amplified even more as a small smile broke on his face. “Another day at the Palace…” he said calmly as he moved his hand and looked around at the room, slowly waking up. It was quite odd to see the dragon acting with care but one must not look a gift horse in the mouth. He headed over to the dresser, walking in his Bare, Slightly sunburned feet as he raised a hand to the Golden handle of the top drawer. He hesitated before letting his hand fall in place by his side. “I think…I’ll spend the day in my night clothes…there’s no reason to get dressed…After all, no-one usually comes all the way out here…” he says as he grabs his staff and heads to the wooden door leading outside. The Golden staff in his hand might have been slightly weighted to the top, if it didn’t have such a decorative floral spike on the bottom that balanced it out. As soon as the Dragon grabbed said staff, all twenty candles lit up in flame as he reached the door and pushed it open. The sight that lay beyond the door would have stopped a normal man cold. In front of him was nothing but blackness. Instead of the hallway that led to the Hall of Statues, there was pure darkness and nothing else. Firewing’s eyes froze with terror. “What…the Blazes…” He stared at it for a few seconds more, that seemed like a few hours more, before turning behind him to try and head back to the room in which he came from. The room was gone. In place was more of the darkness he’d seen as if it were stained in his eyes. He turned around fully as he faced where his bedroom had once been. There was nothing. No Floor, no Ceiling, no dresser, no Bed, no walls, just him, his clothes and his staff amidst the unnatural darkness. He stood still for a minute before Gravity finally kicked in and he began to fall. The Falling sensation felt as if he were plunging straight down before he felt gravity begin to pull on the back of his head as well as the rest of him. He had no object to reference with as proof that he was actually moving. All was Dark as he fell backwards into even more of it. His face hadn’t changed expression at all as he fell, almost as if he was shocked frozen. All was still and the Falling sensation continued.

He fell for what seemed like a full ten minutes before his body finally reached something. It slowed down as a splashing sound was made. The sound wasn’t much but Firewing’s ears soon reached something as warm as his skin was. It might have been water, if it wasn’t so warm. Then, as if his mind had just caught up with the fall, he could move again. He quickly moved his arms and dug his staff into the ground as he stood up to look at his new surroundings.

All was still dark. There was no sun or moon in the sky, just the color of pure Tar. Firewing slowly looked down as he saw what he was standing in, and to hopefully determine the source of the splashing sound. What he saw might have even scared the bravest of Arena Champions. He stood in a pool of blood. It was illuminated by the 20 candles that were still lit. Apparently they hadn’t been fazed by the fall or the splash in the blood. The dragon’s only source of light showed that the blood reached a few inches above his ankles. He looked up and onward to see and try and determine where the pool of blood ended. From all he could tell, it didn’t. There was absolutely no end in sight to this Horror.

He looked down at the pool of blood and stared at it before looking at his staff. “What…Where…am I?” he said as he looked around, turning in place. “I…Is this…have I died?...” he said curiously before shaking his head and looking at his hands. “No…if I’m dead…then I wouldn’t feel anything…” he responded before he looked around and started to walk forward. “This…This is an Illusion…it has to be…I mean…I can’t be stuck here…” he said as he walked, holding up his candle as he hoped for some more light, yet nothing else happened. “Nothing?...Something’s not right…” he said as he continued walking forward, his expression turning serious and hardened as he tried to figure his way out of this strange place.

“Geitt!...” called the Dragon, expecting his Draconian servant to come to his aid almost immediately after he called him, as the Purple and Black Slave did so many times before. This time; However, not a sound was heard. There was nothing in the blood-filled darkness. “Geitt, where are you, Draconian!?” he said angrily as he called, yet not hearing anything still. He looked around and paused as he stopped walking and just placed the end of his staff in the blood at his feet. Strangely, enough the Blood had no effect on him. As A Dragon, he’d seen enough bloodshed in his near-thousand-year life span, which might explain his unresponsiveness to the sight. “…Geitt!...Xilvas!...Broll!” he said as he called out the names of his three slaves one after the other, yet still there was silence. No response at all. It was as if he was the only person here. He looked around as he slowly turned in a circle, trying to see if anything was coming.

“Xilvas, you lazy Naga, Come here right now!”

“Broll, quit taking your time and come to my side!”

“Geitt, rush your tail over here immediately!”

The Shouts continued for what felt like Hours, maybe days as no response was heard. Firewing’s hardened expression was replaced with that of almost sheer terror and fear. Firewing had finally stopped turning as he stood completely still and looked ahead. He raised his staff once more as he expected a large stream of Fire to blast forth and light up the darkness like so many times before, yet there was still nothing but the candles on the staff. “Geitt…Broll…Xilvas…” said Firewing as he stood still and didn’t move an inch as he looked down at the pool of blood.

“…Sasha…”

Nothing. Firewing gripped the staff tightly as he struggled to support himself. His legs slowly beginning to go weak from standing too long. ‘I’m going to drown…I’m going to drown in this pool of blood…’ he thought.

“…Jextar…”

Nothing still. He continued to slowly call out names one by one as his knee gave out, Firewing finally falling to one knee in the blood, his black pants already soaked with the blood and just absorbing the liquid even more.

“…Nowfaleena…”

Nothing still. His other knee got weaker and weaker until he finally removed it and fell to sit down on his feet. He was suddenly exhausted and didn’t care anymore that he was falling, although his mind was screaming with pure terror. ‘This is it…I’m going to die…’

“…Gwethana…”

Nothing. Not even the Druid he’d met a few days ago had come to his aid now, his body falling to the side as, strangely, his arms went numb, the staff falling into the pool of blood and leaving his grip. The candles remained lit a tiny bit longer before finally beginning to dim, half of them already burning out.

“…Satoshi…”

Firewing called the last hope he had left, the name of his Rival as his body finally let the exhaustion take it, Firewing falling to his back as the blood went up to just past his ears, his eyes slowly closing as he rested, perhaps for the final time. The candles finally gave up their fight and let the darkness swallow the last light they had left in the abyss.

“…Anybody…”

…

“…Please…”

Firewing sat up in his bed, his body breaking out in a cold sweat as his eyes widened with fear. He panted heavily as he slowly looked around. He was in his room again. His breathing slowed down as he calmed himself back to normal, his eyes wide with absolute terror and fear. He quickly looked at the window and saw that outside was still night, the crescent moon still no-where near the horizon of the desert. The Dragon breathed in and out one last time before smiling slightly as he looked outside. “It…It was just a nightmare…” he said quietly and calmly as he looked at his staff still in the corner by his dresser where he always put it. “…What a Relief…”

“Lord Firewing, are you alright!?”

The Two voices were heard at once as, suddenly, bursting into the room were two people, presumably the voices. The First was a Large, Gray-skinned Orc with two, lower protruding teeth, Green eyes , and Neck-length, slicked back brown hair. He wore a brown cloth shirt that did nothing to cover up the immense amount of muscle on his body and Pants that went to his ankles and failed just as much as his shirt. The Orc looked at the Humanoid Dragon curiously as beside him slithered a Naga. She had Normal, human skin from her waist up, and a long, Snake-like tail from the waist down that was a deep viridian. She wore a shirt that had the colors of the Sea, painted across like the ocean as she looked at Firewing. Her nails were a Sky blue as her eyes nearly matched, save for their deeper relation to the color. Her hair was Long and Incredibly curly as it travelled to the middle of her back. It was a Bright, Almost Pasty green that seemed quite strange for a Naga to have. It flowed like the waves of the ocean slowly travelling across the sand bar.

The Orc spoke first. “We heard you crying out names and came rushing to see if you were ok!” he said in a gruff voice that fit his kind of position in the palace as Protector of the Pyromancer. The Naga looked at Firewing worriedly as she spoke afterwards. “Are you alright, My Lord?” she asked with worry to the man. Firewing, in return had his expression harden as he looked at them. “I’m fine…you two, however, are still required to be up and early for the work I’ve assigned you tomorrow…” he said with his usual seriousness to the two, who both blushed and seemed slightly flustered. Firewing’s eyes gazed deep into theirs, almost peering into their soul as he spoke to them. “We…I…Yes, My Lord!” they both said before quickly hurrying out of the room and leaving the Dragon alone.

Firewing looked at the door a little more before he sighed and fell backwards into bed, a small smile appearing on his face as he looked at the checkered ceiling. It felt good to know it was a Nightmare. He slowly closed his eyes with a smile on his face. “Well...it’s good to know you two still haven’t left me…” he says, referring to the two of his servants. “…I don’t wish to be alone…” he said, frowning as he thought about it, turning in his bed to gaze out the window and slowly return to the land of dreams. Hopefully he’d be taking a different path that didn’t lead him to such a horrid nightmare again.

Madigan

The scenery moves past her as she walks, but as she notes the trees going by, she realizes everything moving slower... and slower still... Her legs become hard to lift and her arms difficult to swing. Everything around her begins to twist and blend into itself. Her head starts spinning as she collapses to the floor. She lands on her knees, a shot of pain striking up through her legs as she falls forward, hands getting crushed beneath her body. She can't move.

Her movements labored, she manages to look at her feet... wait, where are her feet? They seem to have been chewed off, the only thing left from each foot being her exposed tarsal bone. Her mind floods with shock and terror as she sluggishly sits up to verify her feet are really gone, hands outstretched and trembling, twitching with fright.

Her upper body flops and crumples as her spine is ripped from her, the nerves all severed. She tries to breathe but it's not easy with the weight of her upper body crushing down on her diaphragm. Her ribs' ends jut out from where her spinal cord had been extracted. Blood flows freely from the back of her neck in a cascade down the length of her back. She tries to cry out in agony as tears roll down her cheeks, but not a single sound comes out as she strains her vocal cords. A desire to clasp her throat with her hand twitches through her paralyzed body, though she's unable to, her mind completely separated from the rest of her.

A warm liquid rolls out from her sockets, thicker than tears and warmer with a metallic scent. She blinks suddenly and realizes she can't see. Her eyes! Where are her eyes? She panics again, opening her mouth to scream and cry out but no sound comes out. Her eyes have been removed from their sockets, leaving gaping, empty holes of darkness as blood flows from them.

She continues forcing her throat to utter a sound, making it raw with her misery and pain. What's happening to her? Her mind burns with panic as claustrophobia sets in. She's trapped within herself, trapped within darkness. She can't move; she can't speak; she can't see! The metallic scent of blood rises into her nose as it mixes with her quiet tears.

She finally gives up and lies there, motionless, comforted to know that at least she can still feel the cold dirt beneath her body and the cold stains on her cheeks. She can at least still feel the pain.

After what felt like an eternity, Madigan attempts to lift herself and realizes she can't tell if she's moving or not. Before, she could at least tell that she couldn't move, but this was entirely something else. The world around her continues to chirp and rustle in the wind, but where the cold ground had once been beneath her, there was now nothing at all. She focuses on the skin covering her entire body in the hopes of sensing space around her, space she could hear by the wind - but nothing. She tries wriggling her fingers beneath her, unable to sense their existence. Opening her mouth to cry out soundlessly again, she notes the absence of cold air touching her tongue and throat. An internal shudder and a sickening feeling settles within her, a black misery crawling from her very core and spreading out to consume her entire existence.

The chirps and rustling leaves are suddenly replaced by a high-pitched ring, incessant and painful to the ears. She wants to escape it, cover her ears, run away - something - but she can't. She thinks she's clenching her teeth as her mind gives out a loud, agonized shriek. The painful ring slowly fades and with it, the rest of the world. No bird songs, no leaves hushing in the wind, no twigs cracking under the weight of moving bodies, no rushing water... nothing.

She's trapped within her mind, unable to move, speak, feel, or hear. Unable to experience anything outside of herself, there's no way for her to expand and thrive as a sentient being. She no longer exists. Even the non-living and the dead change with the world around them and Madigan is trapped - trapped at this point in her existence. She will evolve no more.

Forever stagnant.

Creechy

Chapter One

To the sound of excited shouts and numerous auctioneer's familiar manner of speed-talking, and a large bouncing shake, Creechy is roused from sleep. "Guess it's toime to take moy leave then." With a shiny red apple and a sack he emerges from the back of a caravan, which continues down the road into a bustling city; a great center of commerce by the looks. On either side of the road are sturdily constructed stands crowded by all manner of shopper, selling all manner of clothes, jewelry, trinkets... Everyone was dressed as if for masquerade, colorful clothes and masks very sharply contrasting his dingy brown cloths and leathers. It could've been an occasion or it could've been a regular day in the unfamiliar city. Trivia to Creechy. For now he disregarded the scene, searching instead for the inn.

And to an inn did he his way make. A dainty little place called "something or other". More trivia. Upon pushing through the swinging doors, he's greeted by a boisterously joyous bartender who leads him to the bar. "Good day, Traveler! Cup of tea after a long journey?"

"Thanks...though Oi'd much mo prefer a pint if ye don't moind."

"Certainly, Certainly!" he turns around to get it and losing no momentum turns back around with a mug of a very fine looking ale.

"'Ow's the charge in a litol plice loike this? Bluddy espensive ay?"

"No, no sir! First one's free! On the house."

"Moighty gen'riss."

The exuberant bartender tended to another patron, and a separate patron nearby spun on his stool to face Creechy. "Say...where did you say you was from?"

Creecy sat quiet for a moment, overwhelmed by the seemingly collective personality of the people in this city. "Cenril, in Hollow."

"Ah yes, I've heard that place 'as fallen on hard times as of late." Still smiling tortuously, "What's your name?"

Creechy didn't have to fake his urgency, "Oi apologoize, It's been a bit of a trek to get 'eah and Oi's exhausted. Inn upstairs izzit?"

The innkeeper upstairs was a man well progressed into antiquity, but despite this was as spry and joyous as the rest. "First night's free." he informed Creechy. It seemed he was as charitable too. Creechy lugged his bag into the room, locking the door instantly behind him. From the bag he emptied a host of colorful outfits and masks to go with them. He changed quickly into them and vaulted out the bedroom window, careful to leave it open.

Chapter Two

In the crowd of the great city, the masquerade ball of shoppers and merchants, he was anonymous. After a brisk walk he shouldered his way into the bank and beheld that there was less than 10 people, much to the contrast of every square foot outside of it. Guess it wasn't exciting enough. In the next moment he lobs a sack towards the teller, withdraws a knife and jerks a motherly woman over to him by her arm. Knife against her throat he addresses the teller, "Alroight mista tella, fill the sack wiff gol' an this 'omely wench don't lose 'er 'ead. Cleah?"

The woman struggles fruitlessly and cries and the teller hesitates, stuttering. "Oi said NOW!" he bellows to inspire fear and quick action. "And as fa the rest o you, nothin funny aw she boites it faster n you can take ya nex breff!"

The teller meanwhile is loading handful after handful into the sack diligently. "Someone get help!" A once merry business man was shouting. In response a small boy, perhaps almost 10 years old darted for the door. Creechy instantly threw a knife he seemed not to have before into the boy's back and he fell into the floor just as fast. A glimmer of remorse shown on his face. The once frightened patrons now fixed him with cold dead stares. "That's enough mista tella, bring it ove 'eah pleeze."

The banker did so slowly, handing Creechy a big sack heavy with gold coins. He inched towards the door with the lady still in tow, releasing her at the threshold and disappearing into the crowd with its money. It was fortunate that everyone was in the streets, he went behind the inn to his window (still open) and slung a grappling hook through it, climbing through it with the sack tied securely to his waist. Once in he hid his mask and colorful clothes under the mattress and wore once more his battered "traveler's" clothes the people had become familiar with. The ones his friends in the tavern knew him by.

Chapter Three

Though he escaped clean, he couldn't but brood over the scene at the bank. The boy face down with a knife in his back. His knife. "There ah no innocents," he says bitterly to himself. "Everyone doies a villain, if only 'e'd 'ad the toime." Despite his rationalization he was weighted now.

It was inconcealable, his burden was. When he arrived down stairs troubles were painted on his face and he took no notice of anyone in the room. In the familiar stool he sat and the bartender approached him slowly, staring at him unblinking.

"Whiskey."

A glass was stamped harshly before him and was filled, and thusly emptied. "Wot's a matta chum? You seem an entirely different person?" But Creechy was too introverted at the moment to hear any answers, or even see out of his own eyes. Awaiting a refill he noticed a man beside him, in the same seat as the man from earlier in the day. His countenance resembled a scowl, though it wasn't as apparent as that. "An wot a you lookin at?" He demanded of the man, who turned again to his own problems.

Creechy looked about the room to find that everyone laying into him with scowls. "Wot's the matta wiff you oll? Woi a you lookin at me!?" He finished one more shot and left into the street, hands hidden in pockets on his pants. He's well down the street when the bartender leads a crowd out of the pub. Day seems to have progressed into night without his awareness.

"There he goes! Don't let him get away, he's gotta pay!"

Creechy looks over his shoulder and looks on with horror, people look out their windows and their open doors. "Him?" says one. "Him!" affirms another. "Get him! He's gotta pay!"

"Oi aint done nothin!" says the murderer and he vanishes into a branching side street, hiding behind a two story house.

"Hey you!" calls a deep man's voice from above.

"Leave me alone!" cries Creechy before picking his feet back up further down the street and into another tributary, and another, until in fact, he's lost.

He's feverish in trying to determine what went wrong. How could they have known? His disguise was perfect and no one followed him! His getaway was clean until now.

"There he is!" says a man down a street.

"Make him pay!" says someone else.

"It wosn't me!" Creechy screams desperately, running down street after street circling his path back and forth absently until by chance he arrives at the exit of the city where he arrived only hours before. Behind him there's no sign of the mob or anyone else. A sigh of relief and he turns back to the exit, freedom alone lies before him...

Suddenly two arms grab hold of each of his shoulders and out pipes words from a raspy old man, "You can't leave!" he says to Creechy. "Not without--" but he's unable to finish his sentence. In its midst Creechy whipped a knife across the old innkeeper's neck. In the same instant Creechy was vanishing into the horizon ignorant to the sound of metal banging against itself as the sack the old one dropped hit dirt. Ignorant of the gold pieces glinting in the silver moonlight.

The End

Tevah

When I was young I watched my mother tend to the dead; she would sing a song of praise, of forgiveness, and most of all, of sadness. I asked her if the dead could hear and she said yes. I believed her, as children are wont to do, with all of my heart. When I asked her what the dead think, she went back to her song. Through all of the years that question has nagged at my mind. It was only in the instance I am about to tell that I found the answer: The Dead only want to be left alone.

As I grew older, the question drove me from my mother’s home, her teachings, and most importantly the protection beneath her skirts. She prepared the dead, but did not know them. From the most royal of kings, to the kings loyal servants, to Righteous warriors, and even the lowliest of beggars; she would attend to all of them She cleaned them; she sang to them; she eased the minds of their loved ones, but did not know. Childhood ends when you realize your mother is not infallible. The answer I searched for could only be found by other means…

I returned from my travels an adept at necromancy and still no closer to my goal. When I returned to my mother’s hut, I found it was not her’s anymore. Another Tender of the Dead had taken it and after a few asked questions and a night of torture, he told me what I had feared; my mother had died after I had left, ten years ago. Some say from a broken heart, and others say from old age. She had been buried in the Beggar’s cave. For that the Tender met his end: it is under the discretion of the Tender were bodies without immediate families were placed. The Beggar’s cave was for the homeless, the destitute, those that had served no purpose to the village other than leaching goods and services. She had served as the Tender of the Dead for this village for decades…and that was what her service earned her.

The Cave, for what It symbolizes, lived up to its name. Bodies were thrown in every nook and cranny, along the walls, left to lie wherever they had landed. Bones of centuries of beggars and the unfortunate were thrown together, forming men of many arms, many legs, many ribs, and tens of skulls. The strands of their souls were too entwined to draw one separately, and I was too weak to shed the clutter from one single skeleton. I was surrounded by my magic, but was unable to call upon it. It was a thicket of dark magics that had not seen disturbance by one such as I. It was an annoyance, but also a treasure: unused, unsoiled, perfect specimens for my trials. It would take many nights of work to dig through the mess, but it would be worth it.

My mother was interred at the furthest point of the catacombs; She was laid for her eternal slumber on a slab with the burial offerings still placed about her corpse, though now they were dried and desiccated. a cotton cloth, once beautiful before the ravages of age had turned it into a poor caricature of its former self, covered her body. She had tended death in her life and conquered it her demise: ten years within the cave had done little to dim her beauty, her prestige, and her dignity---she lay as though she…merely slept. I brushed an errant stand of hair from her leathery brow…

And that was when everything went wrong.

He. She. It came from the corner, dragging with the cobwebs and decades of growth the weapon that struck my wrist; bones shattered, and the hand that had somehow offended the guardian went numb. Perhaps it was the pain that robbed me of my senses, or perhaps it was not, but the guardian was glowing, a font of white brilliance that exuded from it in waves of pressing weight. I called for my magics and summoned the darkness, the foulest, the powers of undeath that I had been studying all this time. The energies coalesced and then were consumed, drawn from my one good palm into the guardian; its face was too mangled, to rotted to be sure, but I knew that it was smirking.

The hand was useless and the arm no better, so when the next strike came for my head I threw my shoulder in its path. More pain, more broken bones, but I was given the moment I needed to turn, to run from the cave and into the dark tunnel. The village had loved my mother enough to attach to her body a warrior of Light. Someone sacrificed themselves and their soul to protect my mother’s grave. Surprising, but fitting. I heard the guardian shuffle from the room and I heard it…scream. The roar hit with more force than any blow could; I knew the words within it---they were the same I was taught to raise the dead. I struggled to my feet, and without looking, I knew. The mounds of bones of the unwound, untangled, and formed the many poor souls that had been thrown within the catacomb. They wore the same light as the Guardian: it was their muscle, their tendons, their armor, and all the magic I tried to summon was drawn and consumed within their broken bodies. The tunnels were thick with them, and like an army that had sprung a trap upon the enemy, they guided me back into my mother’s tomb…to the awaiting guardian.

My life became less than memories of my mother, less than the teachings I had adhered to, less than the question that had driven me for so long: it became minutes, and then moments, and finally the split second it took for the guardian’s dried muscles to raise his hammer for the final, killing stroke. A lifetime ago I had wanted, no, lusted after what the dead knew, what they thought, what they could understand. I did not wish to die to know. I did not wish to become one of them. Tears–where had they come from?–stained my pale cheeks. Death…Please no…

The hammer fell, but the guardian’s strength was stolen, and when it struck my forehead it was barely a tap: I fell to my knees nonetheless. A hand was laid on the guardian’s shoulders, stilling it in its killing strike. The guardian turned, and with a bow of respect to the corpse that had touched it, it shambled into its corner, hidden from the world and from sight. Her parched lips were moving, but no words were spoken. Her hand rose, and in a chorus of sinew popping, a single finger was raised.

I ran from the room, down the corridor lined with revenant abominations; none lifted a hand, opened a jaw, nor moved raised their skeletal heads from their revenant bow. From that day on, the question that had driven me was pushed from my mind. It matters not what the dead think, but what they want: solitude.

Styx

Styx, out of the elf Althaia by the orc warrior Skiron, child to the orc tribe Tartarus, had entered into the assassin guild Red Scales at a fragile age of eight years old. Of course, in the tribe that she came from, mothers and fathers were not considered. Children belonged as brothers and sisters, sons and daughters of the entire clan. And it was as a clan that Styx was chosen to honor the clan in the Red Scales guild, prove her worth, and return a mighty warrior. The Red Scales were known for their brutality, but their assassins were practically unmatched in martial prowess, making them a prime teacher to Styx, the half-elf half-orc. As a child, the first lessens taught by the masters were simple, easy to understand, and centered entirely around fighting form. Building the children day by day into the warriors that they were to become.

In the introductory lessons, Styx had to choose a weapon from the armory, one that called out to her. In the armory, there were axes, swords, daggers, flails, spiked chains, and all sorts of other weapons she hadn't seen before. Instantly, though, Styx went right for the twin daggers. A couple other students followed suit, but when it came time, they returned to the teaching room. Over the next two years, each group of students were paired with a master proficient with their chosen weapons.

Styx's group was definitely one of the smallest, as dual-dagger wielders. Of course, Styx, with her elven dexterity, and orcish strength proved a most tenacious foe when compared to the other students. She could parry and knock back in the same move, and when she struck, she came close to breaking the training daggers. Of course, they were real daggers, not constructed of wood. The teachers taught with real impliments of death. This is what made the training so dangerous.

It was often that Styx would wound her fellow classmates for striking to hard. She would break bones, create slices in soft flesh, but nothing prepared her for what happened during a standard training class. At the end, when the students would pair off and spar one another, Styx felt at the top of her game that day, and she decided to combine all that she'd learned into this particular spar.

Her opponent attacked first, probing with his lead hand, and each blow was deflected by Styx. When he made his attack, he probed, lunged in with the off hand to attempt to break Styx's guard. What happened instead, was Styx sidestepped the lunge, and in a move taught by the master, she sent both daggers toward the boy's back. Before she realized it, the metal blades of the daggers were hilt-deep in the boy's back, and he was dead almost instantly.

Overcome with the horror of what just happened, she let go of the daggers, and screamed as the dead body flopped onto the matted floor. Everyone froze. The training master sighed from behind his black mask as he stepped forward. The instructor inspected the boy, removed the daggers from his back and kicked him across the room. At first, all the students were confused by his callous disregard for the dead boy. The instructor turned to address the class. "You are all nothing. You are dust. From dust you are created, and to dust you shall return. Ashes of the fallen, turn to dust to give new life." He gestured to the boy. "He will become dust, fuel to begin new life." With nothing else to say, the instructor dismissed the class, but kept Styx behind for a moment.

"You know... You sent him to the right place." The instructor spoke, not really looking at the student he was addressing. Tears were already trickling from Styx's eyes. "He was obviously unfit for this class." The instructor slapped Styx across the cheek. "Shape up, and quit crying. Unless you want to wind up like him, another one of the unfortunate." With that, she was released to the barracks. That night, Styx couldn't sleep. The first sleepless night of many.

In the weeks that followed Styx's first kill, she was often given special treatment from the instructor, but the treatment wasn't necessarily good. She was chosen to demonstrate lethal techniques to the class, and he assisted with their viewpoint of the value of life. Their lives were meaningless when compared to the power of the Red Scales guild, they were literally nothing until they were forged into deadly warriors of shadow. Each lesson started with a prayer to Vakmarathas, stating just how useless and pointless life is. Indoctrinated with this philisophical belief, Styx and the other students came not to mourn their dead classmate, but to view it as his appropriate time to die.

As all mortals enter the world, they have a predetermined death set forth in the future. No one would know when that time is, but when it came, you accept it whole heartedly. This did not mean, as the instructor would emphasize, to simply give up when the odds simply weren't in your favor. Send others to their deaths, do not give into guilt or remorse. Never give up.

Pride was the basis in which they were given value. The more proud they were of their growing competence of martial skill, the better they became. Two more years passed since the incident of Styx's first kill, and now she couldn't even remember the boy's face. It had been a nightmare in the months that followed his death, but now was viewed as a passing dream. It was hazed over by new techniques, and harder training given by their instructor. The Red Scales were known for their total brutality, and the training was the absolute worst of it. Detatchment from the value of life was secondary only to the proficiency at which the students would wield their weapons of choice.

But now the students were excited, for they reached the mark of four years in training. Each of them 12 years old, and ready to face The Gauntlet. The semi-final exam was a maze of traps, monsters, and their instructors all ready to kill them. It was entirely possible to succeed, but it was a test designed to wheedle any class down to nothing but the finest. At four years in training, each of the students were strong, and capable, but they weren't all the best. It would come down to this exam.

When the students were told about it, all 48 of Styx's initial class (five of them died in training incidents), they would be separated into squads of three to four each, and each squad was tasked to make it out alive. Clear and simple. Styx's team consisted of her, a short sword wielder, a halbred wielder, and a kusarigama wielder. They were an elf named Katos, a halfling named Scourus, and a human named Gunther, respectively.

The squad formed with Styx would be sixth to enter The Gauntlet. Each squad was called, and a full two minutes was given before the next squad moved in. It wouldn't be long before sixth squad was in place at the entrance of The Gauntlet. When given the signal, they moved in quick and deftly, each checking his or her area of responsibility for traps. There were none right off the bat. Gunther visibly relaxed as nothing immediately jumped out against them, but Styx thought better.

Her instincts told her that The Gauntlet was going to be a test against their very lives. As they proceeded slowly down the first corridor, Styx spotted something odd in the torch light. Blood splattered across the wall. She pointed at it, "Look, one of the other squads..." The others were alerted to it, and approached with even more caution. Scourus took point and as he drew closer, a click cued the triggering of the trap. A split second's reaction save everyone from being cleaved in twain at the waist as a guillotine blade ran down the length of the hall, and swerved upward into the ceiling, locking in place. A few seconds later, they found the unfortunate student, who bled to death on the floor.

Moving on, they didn't know what to expect next, and suddenly the corridor split into seven paths. Carefully taking note of each path, Styx and the others checked for wind, or an outside light source. Styx knew the secret of the Gauntlet, the exit led outside.

"I found it!" Styx exclaimed as she saw the feather in her hand dance when she moved to the third hall. She pointed down the hall to her teammates. "The exit is this way... It's the only one with a wind current."

Katos spoke first, "how do you know? It could be a trap for all you know, aimed to lead us all to our deaths." Typical skepticism enforced by their teachings. "Fine," said Styx, "I'll go this way, and if anyone wants to follow, that's fine. If not, pick another path." Without more hesitation, Styx proceeded down the third hall, taking her time with each light step. When she felt the floor give, she immediately looked for a trap--She saw the spears coming, holes in the wall had been made to impale the trespasser. She pushed herself forward, sommersaulting out of the range of the spears that caught her black training robes.

The spears ripped through the cloth, but bounced off Styx's scale armor as she danced out of the way. The half elf was crouched on the floor, looking for the next trap when she heard a whooshing sound. Immediately, she lept toward the ceiling and not with a second to spare. A huge spiked roller tumbled through the hallway, and just before it reached the spear trap, it vanished into the floor. Hanging from a crossbeam, Styx breathed a sigh of relief as she survived the double-trap. Of course, the crossbeams gave her an idea. Rather than using the trapped floor below, she had enough finesse to leap from beam to beam.

She reasoned that she would become too fatigued to dodge more traps far more quickly than she would tire traversing along the ceiling. Each beam was stratigically placed, and it appeared that the average student wouldn't be able to do what Styx was about to attempt. She was getting ready to jump when she heard a scream. Alerted to the new presence, she looked back, seeing Katos impaled on the spear trap--one through his midsection, another sliced his neck, and a second one impaled his knee. If that didn't kill him, the other trap surely would. When the spears retracted into the wall, they slid out of his body, leaving him a limp bloody mess on the floor.

Horrified as flashbacks took Styx back to the pain of her first kill--to watch someone bleed out on the floor. She didn't jump. She clung to the wood as her balance was temporarily compromised, and tried desperately not to fall to the floor ten feet below. She looked on in nostalgic horror as Katos' body twiched as he lie dying on the wooden floor. Blood spurted from his neck, and flowed out of the other two wounds. He stopped making his gurgling sounds a few minutes later, signifying his death.

At twelve years old, Styx was barely old enough to handle such a terrible experience that rocked her to the core. Not that she cared anything about Katos, but there were certainly better ways to die. Old beliefs stormed back that she learned before coming to this academy. Glorious deaths were earned in battle, not falling to some cowardly trap. She would actually mourn Katos for the few minutes before Gunther and Scourus appeared, each tip-toeing over the pressure plate that triggered the trap.

She signalled both of them, telling them to stop where they were before it was too late. Using the silent language they were taught, she was soon joined by the two in the crossbeams that ran across the ceiling. As they each barely made it to the next beam, they would occasionally spot the next trap--marked by a previous unfortunate soul who happened to have been killed by it. The Gauntlet was a madhouse of traps, dead-ends, and blood everywhere.

Gunther, Scourus and Styx all had their trials, but when the saw the exit--daylight filtering in through the cracks of the door, excitement seized each student. Before Styx could warn them, the two teammates were already running for the door. A deadly mistake. Needles whizzed out of their hidden locations, riddling both Gunther and Scourus with the poisoned needles, but their lapse of judgement was perfectly understandable. Styx had been overjoyed to see the exit, but they acted too rashly. Stepping over her fallen comerades, Styx danced around the traps and pressure plates out the door, where she shielded her eyes from the sun.

"Ah, another one emerges! She was from team six, if I'm right." A masked figure was upon her soon, guiding her down the steps where she saw the other seventeen students, each covered in blood, and each as silent and distant as possible. She wagered they had all had similar experiences within The Gauntlet, and it would be an experience that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Lita

The house smelled like maple syrup and pancakes. Not surprising. People were always trying to feed her these days. Lita crawled out of bed in late morning sunshine and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The counters were a mess of unhealthy breakfast foods. She picked at a bowl of strawberries but nothing looked appetizing. "You need to eat somethin', Trouble." The Cap'n mused from the other side of the counter.

"Not hungry." Lita shrugged. Hanan gave her a stern look which Lita promptly ignored. "What're you up to today?" Lita asked, trying to change the subject. She felt bad wasting all the food. But Cal and the crew would eat it- they always did.

"Finishing the fence." Hanan grinned. "Want to see it?" Lita nodded eagerly and Hanan looped an arm around her waist to help her out to the front porch. Lita reached out to grasp the porch railing for support. Everything made her tired these days. Hanan gave her a worried look and Lita smiled reassuringly. The once overgrown gardens that shaped the walkway up to the beachside villa had been trimmed back to a much more manageable state. Around the front of the property now lay a white picket fence.

"It's beautiful." Lita leaned sideways and nudged Hanan's shoulder affectionately. "Will it be finished before you ship out again?" Hanan reached out and touched Lita's swollen belly. "Told you I ain't headin' out again 'til--" Lita nodded. She knew what Hanan meant...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lita woke from her dream in a cold sweat, the night before a haze of whiskey and laughter. Hanan was on the floor, dozing off. Lita reached out and punched the Cap'n in the shoulder. Hanan grunted, muttered a curse and narrowed her eyes at Lita. "If you ever build a ruttin' fence, I'm burnin' this place to the ground!" Hanan looked confused but Lita was asleep again before Hanan could ask what the hell she'd been yellin' about.

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