They Might Be Heroes: Series 6

Hello internet! As always, it's been awhile since my last update to this blog, but it's come to my attention that some people still read it occasionally, so I figured I'd give them some new material. This story, like so many of my stories, is a D&D backstory, though unlike the others this one was designed to be competitive. You might remember RPGCrossing from my last post. Every year, this forum hosts a competition called Outplay in which users are challenged with creating an interesting and engaging character and proving their skill as a player through various challenges. I only made it to the second round, unfortunately, but I still think that the character is worth sharing. So say hello to Orin Sepultriat, the 76-year-old deaf librarian.

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Kara coughed as she entered her grandfather's study in the back of Bauerburg's library. The thick layer of dust hanging in the air was almost too much to bear, so full was the room of ancient texts and artifacts. With a little love and care it would have been a truly magical place, but in its current state she was convinced that it was simply a hazard to the health of any who entered. She silently assured herself that the visit would be a short one, and that she would likely survive.

She hoped.

With a slight frown and a frustrated sigh, she continued onward. As she expected, Orin sat at his trademark desk, poring over what seemed like a hundred different books all at once. He jumped between them seemingly at random, occasionally muttering incoherent phrases under his breath. The uninitiated would call him mad, but Kara knew much better than that. He had lived far more years than most were fortunate enough to see, but he remained in complete control of his faculties. Those faculties were, for lack of a better word, absolutely brilliant.

Another sigh. "If only the world could see you as I do, grandfather." She stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder, putting on her best and least-worried smile. She waited for him to turn fully around before greeting him. "Hello grandpa!"

"THERE'S NO NEED TO YELL!" Kara winced as the old man screamed at the top of his lungs. As intelligent as he was, he had been born completely deaf, and so volume was a concept he had never quite gotten the hang of. You got used to it after a while, but it could still be quite jarring as he adjusted himself to each situation. Luckily, he could understand your speech so long as he could see your lips move, and often better than you understood it yourself. "THIS IS A LIBRARY!"

"Of course, grandpa. My apologies. I'll try to be quieter."

Orin blinked a few times, forcing his eyes to readapt to the darkness. Suddenly, they lit up and a wide grin found its way onto his face. "Kara! My beautiful granddaughter, how are you?" With some great effort he rose from his chair and wrapped her in a warm embrace. "What fortune has caused you to visit this old man?"

She allowed him a moment to sit back down and pulled an extra chair from behind a stack of books. "I'm worried about you, grandpa. You've been locked in this study for weeks now! Mother thought you died in here. Honestly, what have you been up to?"

"OH!" The exclamation as accompanied by a wild gesture, his excitement clear. He quickly reached behind him and pulled a hefty tome from the center of the cluttered desk. Unlike most of the others scattered about, this had barely any dust on it at all. It also only had a single page of writing that Kara couldn't even begin to interpret. "It's actually rather brilliant! You see, I've discovered an alternative method of spontaneous spellcasting using a combination of the Archivist's Lemma and the Samson variant of the Planar Conjecture from Bundrella's Second Thesis! I'll spare you the details, of course, but what I've managed to accomplish is to directly manifest knowledge as an actionable force! It consumes the written version of the spell, which has proven to be slightly problematic, but I'm still in the early stages of my research, so I'm confident that at some point I'll be able to make the process more efficient... Oh yes! Your question. I've been studying, mostly. You see my standard array of spells can circumvent the need for this new method, so I needed a control group of some kind, and have delved into the arcane as a mechanism of attaining an unsullied sample. I can't quite cast get this one to trigger yet, but it's a wonderful tool. I picked up a scroll to test the effects, and as a result I can now see magical auras eternally! Concentrate a little bit and this whole room lights up in a sea of colour. It's spectacular. Someday I hope I can share it with you. But I digress. The process takes time, which is why I've been here researching."

He took in a deep breath, clearly intending to continue, but the look of confusion on Kara's face caused the words to catch in his throat, which he promptly cleared. "I'm quite alright, I can assure you, but I do appreciate your visit."

The scholar's cheeks burned red at her warm smile, causing the slightest chuckle to emerge from her throat. She looked over his shoulder to the desk behind him and noticed that there were two other books identical to the one he held. "What are those?"

He glanced back. "Oh, well since this process consumes the spell I cast it's more efficient to have a duplicate at the ready." He waited for a moment, but the look of expectation on her face didn't fade. She clearly thought he intended to elaborate. He did not. "It's a magic thing, trust me."

"So why are there two?"

"Hmm?" He looked back again, his brow crinkled in confusion. As soon as he did so, he let out a knowing laugh. "Oh, the other is my personal spellbook."

"I thought you didn't need a spellbook."

"Oh, I don't." He pulled the book from the desk. It had the words Orin's Spells hastily scribbled on the cover. "It's more of an accounting thing. It's literally just a book of my spells." Sure enough, the pages of the book were filled with endless lists of spells and brief descriptions, all written in common. Her look of incredulity was met with a simple shrug. "I'm getting old," he offered. "Couldn't hurt to have a backup."

She laughed as she handed it back. "But look around you! There are so many books here! Why keep another? And look at these…" She picked one at random from the top of a pile. The cover read: Cat Characteristics: Wild Cat Supplemental.

She was silent then, her mouth hanging open and prepared to voice words that never came. After a moment she allowed it to close and opened the book instead. As she did so, one of the pages tore slightly.

Orin immediately sprang into action. "Oh no!" It was a whisper, but his panic was clear on his face as he rushed forward and gingerly lifted the book. He silently waved his fingers above the book, and the page slowly but surely stitched itself back together. The old mage let out a sigh as he placed the book back on one of the room's many shelves. "Please be careful, my dear. These are precious."

Kara raised an eyebrow. "Grandpa, that's a picture book for children. They printed thousands of copies and sell them for a handful of gold each."

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "All knowledge is precious, my child. It is a thing to be protected. One day you will understand."

For those interested, his character sheet can be found here.

They Might Be Heroes: Series 5

Hey guys, long time no post. I thought I would share some writing of mine which was recently recognized on a play-by-post forum that I'm a part of (RPGCrossing) as post of the month! It doesn't really mean anything, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm immensely proud.

The premise here is that our party is en route to the mysterious northern region of the world, known as the Expanse, to put a stop to the giant menace causing havoc in the Northern Pelagos. Before we reach our destination, the ship is attacked by a great beast known as Retribution, which is a flying Kraken. The fight isn't going particularly well, until one of our number slays the beast form the inside.

My character, Albrecht Sunderhurst, is trying his hardest to make a contribution, but isn't having much luck. As this story begins, he is about to be consumed by the beastie.

So, without further adieu...

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Stories tell of the horror that is the fetid breath of the kraken. The mythical creature said to have feasted on a thousand souls, the corpses still rotting in its teeth. A wave of this rotten breath across your nostrils was said to be a fate worse than death.

As Albrecht was lowered toward the beast's maw, he couldn't help but think that the severity of the stench was undersold. A wall of fetid air hit him like a greatclub wielded by the gods, seeming to permeate every fibre of his being and sicken him to his very core. He was glad that he held a bar of soap in his offhand -- though he was paralyzed by the completeness of the stench its very presence helped him feel the slightest bit more sanitary. He tightened his grip on the bar, fearing that without its presence he may simply be consumed by the filth.

The beast's teeth were another matter entirely. They loomed above him with malicious intent, opening wide about the maw that prepared to consume him whole. They were stalagmites of agony and despair, promising only death and a world of bottomless pain.

They drew closer and closer, dripping with ooze and the blood of countless sailors. The strix could do nothing. Even if the tentacle around him lessened its grasp, the sheer magnitude of the beast's frightful presence prevented his muscles from moving even an inch.

And then there was darkness.

He was vaguely aware that the tentacle around his waist was gone. His senses were numb and his mind a blur while his life flashed before his eyes. Every so often he would crash roughly against the beast's innards, but he barely noticed. The strikes barely registered, unable to pierce the veil of hopelessness surrounding him mind.

Surely this was the end. What did any of it matter?

Suddenly, an image of his mother flashed through his mind. He saw her gentle smile; her confident demeanor and subtle grace. His father joined her, his soft features belying the sharp mind and lightning reflexes beneath. He saw Duskwing, his faithful companion, soaring on the breeze high above the land. The sky wove through the bird's feathers with the promise of a gentler world. All throughout, a single word rang through his mind:

Freedom.

No, this is not how it ends.

The world came rushing back into his consciousness. He became keenly aware of the of the deep rumble the creature; of the screams from the few dwarves still unfortunate enough to have their lives; of the rushing of cold air from within the beast; of the pain wracking his body as he flew. Blood dripped down his face, obscuring his vision and stinging his eyes. He assumed most of it was his.

He didn't have long to dwell on that thought before hitting the sloshing mess of fluid within the creature. The sordid mix of acid and bile sought out his wounds with a voracious intensity, stinging his tender flesh. He struggled against the sloshing tide but the turbulence was too much for him. He silently cursed his ability to fly, and all of the time he spent ignoring the need to practice swimming. Eventually in his flailing he collided with something solid, and grabbed hold for dear life. As he was about to pull himself onto whatever he'd latched on to, he was suddenly weightless.

The fluid rose around him. He caught glimpses of bones and bloated corpses rising above the waves. Retribution was going down, and quickly. The contents of its stomach, constrained by simple gravity, could not keep pace. He had but a precious moment, and he used it to beat his wings and position himself above his prize -- a boat, apparently. It was worse for wear, but sufficiently in tact to provide shelter from the beasts innards for a short time.

The kraken hit the ocean with a resounding crash, and the sudden change in speed set its stomach's contents to roiling. The ship rolled on the churning waves but stayed afloat, and Albrecht kept his grip with all of his remaining might. When the liquid calmed, he realized that he was not the only creature on board the vessel. The orc he had spotted earlier lay sprawled opposite him on the deck. He did not appear to be moving, but the ranger spotted signs of shallow breath and let free a small sigh. The intake that followed elicited a sharp cough, sending pain racing through his side. The air was thick here, and it burned his lungs. He suspected that before too long it would suffocate whatever creatures were still capable of drawing breath. For now, though, he was still alive, and that was all that mattered.

It wasn't long before another black hand rose above the acid, grasping desperately for the ship's edge. Xyclath pulled himself over the railing as Albrecht struggled to his knees, coughing dark blood onto the planks before him. He tried to will himself toward his companions, that he may help them, but it was all he could do to move at all. Any attempts to stand were foiled by the weakness in his legs and the occassional torrent of ocean water streaming into their prison as the warden consumed another limp dwarf.

Suddenly there was a crash. His mind didn't have the time to register the sound before several more followed. Explosions rocked the inside of the chamber and flaming chunks of flesh plummeted to the fetid bog below. Xyclath, the first among them to orient himself, has loosed a deadly volley upon their assailant, and the beast roared in both anger and pain. A vortex appeared at one end of the creature's innards, now expelling the contents of its stomach out into the open air.

Albrecht spun helplessly with the current, his grip on the ship long since lost due to his violent acceleration. Darkness crept along the corners of his vision as he became disoriented. The sky, so blue and crisp in the cold air, was the last thing he saw before darkness overcame him.

And through his mind ran a single word which, despite everything, brought a smile to his face.

Freedom.

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 BONUS: The above post was the one that won, but I think the follow-up post has a lot of merit. We had just closed out the chapter, which is why so much was going on, and so that post served as a summary of sorts. This one is the first of the new chapter, and now that our party is split up things are going to have to change. For the record, my character uses a ranger archetype called Falconer, and so I have a falcon as an animal companion named Duskwing. It was difficult to fly due to the storm aura that Retribution gave off, so I commanded him to stay inside the ship, and so was inside when the Kraken came crashing down.

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Albrecht awoke slowly, as if the hand of some unseen force had taken hold of his fitful dreams and refused to relinquish it. In the end it was the pain that roused him. The impact of a phantom squid's mighty tentacle against his side brought to the fore the very real ache of his bruised ribs, which slithered itself between the clutching fingers of his captor and forced the dreamworld's tenous grip to be lost.

The result was a dreary and unpleasant consciousness. Despite the rest he got, he could not remember a time when he had been more exhausted. Pain -- dull aches, tender wounds, and discomfort all around -- served as a welcome reminder that he was still alive, and that all of his battered limbs were still intact. He gingerly tested each of them, straining to move his head so that he could see them move and assure his tired mind of the reality of the thing.

All here, he thought. Well, except my dignity...

Eventually he worked up the courage to open his eyes, and what he saw surprised him. Above the group the sun peeked shyly through the clouds, sending a light sprinkling of rain from the heavens. The sky, though obscured, was vibrant, and the wind was cold, but not bitter. As he reached out beside him, grains of sand graced his fingertips. Simply put, it was nothing like the frozen wasteland he expected to find here. His homeland of Cambria, far to the south, was far colder than this as a general rule. In comparison, this place was a paradise.

At least, it would be, if not for the smell. Its source was obvious enough, with Retribution's bloated corpse lying a stone's throw away from where they lay. After having tasted the Kraken's breath he was almost desensitized to the overwhelming stench it gave off. He unconsciously squeezed the bar of soap still clutched in his hand, hoping on some level that it would protect him from the rot, but in the end he knew it was hopeless. He cast a forlorn look to the ocean and made a mental note to wash himself as soon as he was able to move.

The other surprise awaiting him was the fire beside him. He and his companions were covered with thick fur blankets that staved off the cold, and the fire, crackling strong despite the rain, radiated a welcoming warmth that seemed to make his injuries seem less severe. He also took note of the bandage wrapped around his skull, soaked red from the deep gash on his forehead. Someone had cared for them. He saw that Xyclath wasn't with them, so perhaps the other strix had prepared the camp, but remembering the wounds that all three had sustained it seemed highly unlikely. His doubts were further solidified by the red stains covering the empty blanket beside him. They were all hurting from the battle. Frankly it was a miracle they survived.

He sighed. Some mysteries were best left unsolved -- at least for now. In the meantime he was simply happy to be alive, though a rumbling in his stomach reminded him that if he lay there forever he might not be for long.

Hunger... It's been a long time since I've suffered that particular burden. Now I know how Duskwing feels. Duskwing...

His eyes widened.

Duskwing.

His falcon had been inside the ship when Retribution fell from the sky. Suddenly all of his pain and weakness seemed like a distant memory as panic flooded into his brain and overwhelmed his senses. He roughly threw his blanket aside and shot to his feet, searching desperately for his pack amongst the wreckage. Spotting it nearby, he leaped toward it, using his scaled wings to gain a burst of speed in the process. A cloud of sand rose around him as he collided roughly with the ground, not bothering to show even a modicum of grace in his scramble. His fingers seemed unable to work the clasp, shaking from the strain and the emotion. To his annoyance he realized he was still clutching the bar of soap, and angrily threw it behind him. It hit the broken ship with remarkable force, shattering to be scattered on the sand below, but he paid it no mind as he frantically dug through his belongings. Finally, a cool metal tube found its way into his waiting fingers, and he yanked it from the bag.

His signal whistle.

Letting his pack sprawl alng the beach, he kicked off the beach and shot into the sky, leaving a cloud of sand and dust beneath him. Fighting back tears he used his momentum to force air into his lungs until he was set to burst, and with a mighty bellow blew into the whistle. Its piercing tone rang out over the ocean and danced in the wind. Over and over he blew, hoping with each shrill cry the beady eyes of his companion would suddenly appear before him. He knew it was hopeless, but he also felt that he could not give up; that somewhere beyond the horizon his friend was searching for him.

He wasn't sure how long he hovered; how many times he brought the whistle to his lips. He blew until he had no more breath, but panting desperately he would keep trying. After a time it became impossible, his exhaustion and his sobs preventing him from filling his lungs. He had to hope that it had been enough, and after taking a moment to collect himself he floated back down to the beach. Muzdul stood at the edge of the beach, silently watching him as he descended, but he paid it no mind. As his feet touched the ground his wings sunk with the rest of him, dragging through the sand as he quietly collected his belongings.

The rest was all a daze. He sat staring into the fire, taking no joy in the meat he had been provided but knowing that without it he would surely die. At some point in his daze Xyclath had returned, and the trio was joined by someone he did not recognize. For now, he didn't care to. All he could do was wait.

They Might Be Heroes: Series 4

Oh, hello internet. I didn't see you there. Welcome to my cozy neck of the woods. Tonight, we have another installment of "They Might Be Heroes," a series in which I show you the backstories for characters I have created for various Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. In this installment, we have Albrecht Sunderhurst: a human-raised Strix Ranger looking to join a dangerous expedition into the harsh northern lands known only as the Expanse. So sit back, grab a cup a coacoa, and prepare to read a LOT. This one's about 10 pages (>4000 words). Sorry.

Note: Baijiu is a strong alcoholic drink in the Pathfinder universe

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Albrecht Sunderhurst
Strix Ranger (Falconer, Skirmisher)

Chapter 1: Beginnings

He remembered the cold.

More than anything it was the cold. The rocks upon which he lay seemed to steal whatever warmth that remained in his heart, chilling him to his very core. The wind, though blocked partially by the cliffs above him, bit into his dark flesh with malicious zeal. Even the sky worked against him, shutting out any hope of heat from the dim northern sun. It threatened to consume him.

But for some reason, he knew he could not die. This child, barely free of the womb and abandoned to fate, clung desperately to the fragile thread of life. It was as if somewhere deep down he had known that there was so much more life had to offer; so much he had yet to experience.

He allowed his body to go numb, but he would not break. He let his heavy lids fall and let the darkness wash over him, but he would not yield. Life would find a way.

And then there was warmth.

He couldn't feel it at first. His body was shutting down and lacked the strength to communicate this new sensation. Slowly, however, he noticed a change. The darkness was not so complete; his shivering began to wane. He became vaguely aware of the soft blanket wrapped around his tiny form, of the fire roaring beyond his eyelids which refused to open.

It was the voice that brought him back: a soft, tender thing which carried more warmth than any fire could provide.

"Don't worry, little one. Everything will be okay."

Chapter 2: Seasoned with Hatred

Albrecht smiled as he bent down to inspect his snare. Unlike all of the others he’d checked, a sizable rabbit had been unfortunate enough to get caught, which meant that the Strix and his adoptive parents would be eating well tonight. The rest of the creature could also be put to use in mending or crafting small items around their home. On their remote island resources were scarce, and he had been taught to let nothing go to waste. With a small hunting knife pulled from his boot, he released the rabbit and fastened it to his belt before resetting the snare.

He straightened and patted his quarry. “Sorry, little one. We appreciate your sacrifice.”

“Did we get any?”

Albrecht started as seemingly from nowhere his father Darius appeared behind him. He was no slouch, but his parents were lighter of foot on their worst days than he was perceptive on his best. He always found it amazing how they could move without making a sound – the result of years of training in the wild. Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst were legends in their own right, but their adventuring days were long behind them. These days they lived a quiet life and seemed content to pass on their knowledge to their son, that he may have his own adventures. He had considered asking them about it on numerous occasions, but as they never brought it up he figured that he should leave it well enough alone. They were happy, after all, and that’s what really mattered.

“Just one, father. Enough for a good stew tonight, and possibly breakfast. In any case, I’ve reset the traps, so we can check again tomorrow.”

His father’s kind smile was accompanied with a firm pat on the shoulder.  “Your mother will be thrilled. Let’s head back.” With a smirk, he added, “Oh, and you’re cooking tonight.”

o-o-o-o

The duo made quick work of the trek back to Cambria, one of the few human settlements remaining in the Pelagos. For lesser creatures, the undergrowth of the thick northern forests on their remote island would be all but impassable, but to Darius and Albrecht, born and bred in the wilds, it was hardly a hindrance. They emerged from the treeline outside their small settlement a mere two hours after setting out.

Amastasia Sunderhurst was just emerging from the town’s apothecary with a small pouch of spell components as they did so. She of course noticed them immediately, and gave a quick wave. She seemed to float down the few stairs in front of the shop, barely disturbing a single snowflake as she touched the ground.

Her grace was not shared by the group passing by that same shop, the strong smell of Baijiu wafting from their unwashed bodies. A cloud of soft powder rose around them as they stumbled down the street. Upon seeing the ranger, their sour moods took a turn for the worst.

Cambria, as you might imagine, did not take kindly to the new addition to their remote town 16 years earlier. When the two legendary hunters walked into town with a baby Strix, mere inches from death, the superstitious inhabitants of the remote town regarded it as a demon, and have been suffering from the prejudice ever since. Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst had faced down dragons (and worse) – a few disgruntled villagers were barely worth recognition.

The biggest of the bunch (and by virtue of poor alcohol tolerance, the bravest), took a step forward and puffed out his chest. With a grimace, “Spawnwhore” hissed through his clenched teeth, and after a sharp intake he followed the expletive with thick gob of saliva.

Quick as lightning and without missing a beat, Amastasia’s trained hands gracefully snatched the hilt and of the dagger on her belt. It spun once through the crisp air before returning to its sheath, and in that split second the projectile was cut in two, passing harmlessly to either side of its target.

The ranger, content with herself, ducked past the self-satisfied thugs as if nothing had happened. As soon as she did so, however, her eyes widened. “Wait, don’t!”

Albrecht, watching from the treeline, had seen the whole exchange, and his jade eyes were bright with fury as he flew through the air and collided violently with the thug.

“Stop it Al!”

His mother’s cries fell on deaf ears. The man he hit collapsed in a heap, and the two men beside him screamed in fear as Albrecht’s scaly wings spread to their full extent. His clenched fists shook from the strain as he bent over the writhing ruffian, but before he could put his intentions into action he was ripped from his feet. In a fluid display of might, Amastasia pulled her son back and threw him to the ground. Shock extinguished the fury within him, and the cold earth forced the air from his lungs.

By this time others from the village were starting to emerge from their homes, hoping to discover the source of the commotion. What they found was one of their own, coughing up his own blood, and two others cowering in abject fear. Above them stood Amastasia, a vision of poise, and behind her the demon, jumping deftly to his feet and gasping for air.

“Mark my words, spawnwhore! Reign in your beast, or put him to the torch! He’ll bring only death to this place!”

“Well if you keep that up, he might,” she quipped. “He’s a better man than the lot of you. Now run home. I’m sure you have more important things to do than insult me.”

The sight of the ranger, standing stoic and unfazed in the midst of such chaos, took much of the spark from the indignant crowd, and with much grumbling they dispersed. Amastasia shot an unamused glance to her son. “We’ll discuss this at home.”

He acknowledged her with a solemn nod, but before he left he regarded the man on the floor, whose associates were now fleeing the scene.

“Today, I took your dignity. Next time it will be your life. You will never disrespect my mother again.”

Chapter 3: The Harder They Fall

“I think it knows we’re following it.”

Albrecht, Darius, and Amastasia crowded around the mangled soldier. Her slender frame and golden armour suggested she was elven, but her head had been crushed completely. The rest of her, oddly, appeared to be completely untouched. Surrounding the body was an odd assortment of weaponry, ranging from longbows to greatswords, and even one particularly vicious-looking battle scythe. The weapons were all well-worn, but clean and reasonably undamaged.

To the Strix, the display seemed nonsensical, but deliberate. “What makes you say that, father?”

It was his mother who answered instead. “This is a message. Notice how carefully-laid everything is. This elf was murdered delicately, but with great strength, indicating that our quarry has both power and precision. The fact that the body was left so openly, and so close to the tracks we’re following, tells of its confidence. These weapons are all clean, which means they did not taste its flesh, but they are also worn, which indicates they were wielded by experienced warriors. He’s letting us know that that he’s not afraid of us.”

They had been chasing a giant for several days now. While the family was out on an extended hunting trip it had attacked Cambria and run off with several of the townsfolk’s children. A detachment of soldiers from a neighbouring island had already been investigating odd activity in the region and had passed through the small village shortly after. They were about four days ahead, but from the gruesome scene in the clearing it seemed likely that none had survived.

This adversary was proving to be more cunning than they had anticipated. Even with three master trackers in pursuit they had almost been misled by false trails on several occasions. The constant snowfall didn’t help, of course, but the fact that a creature that large could hide its tracks and still make such good progress through the forest was a testament to its skill.

Darius nodded solemnly. “I’d venture to guess that we’ll catch up in a few hours if we’re quick, but he’ll likely be ready for us. Al, it might be time for you to head back to town.”

Albrecht shook his head. “You know that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to abandon you: especially not when we’re this close.”

“Sweetie, I know how you feel, and we appreciate the thought, but this is more dangerous than—“

His mother’s words were cut short as a tremendous crash sounded from the trees behind them. A huge boulder, taller than even the hulking strix, flew through the air with tremendous speed toward the trio. Albrecht and Darius managed to desperately dive out of the way, but Amastasia had nowhere to go, and despite her godly reflexes took the full brunt of the blow. It sent her careening backward into trees, and a red streak of blood stained the snow along her trajectory.

The others immediately sprang into action.

Darius bolted after the boulder, drawing his bow as he went. “Albrecht! Run!” In an instant he was next to his wife, and a white light radiated from his outstretched hand that washed her wounds away. As she wiped the blood from her eyes, only steadfast determination remained.

Albrecht took a different approach. Rather than going to his mother’s side, he made a dash for the hole left by the rock with a great beat of his powerful wings. He made a swift decision to ignore the longsword on his back and stead snatched the first weapon in reach: the scythe. His grip tightened on the weapon’s haft as their attacker came into view. The giant, a scarred behemoth wearing crimson furs, had readied a gargantuan and cruel-looking battleaxe. The beast’s face showed neither fear nor amusement. Strix and giant alike wore expressions solely of focus on the task at hand, cold and calculating.

Despite his speed, Albrecht felt an eternity pass as he grew ever closer to the giant. The creature stood in a wide, low stance, with its weapon poised for a quick and precise strike. Its steady breathing and calm composure betrayed years of experience in combat, and its eyes betrayed an intelligence beyond that of its kin. This was a seasoned, deadly warrior, and it radiated murderous intent.

20 feet. It adjusted its feet to account for his angle of approach.

15 feet. It tightened its grip on its weapon.

10 feet. Its muscles tensed to strike.

5 feet.

The giant released the energy stored in its muscles and set his axe on a collision course with his opponent. At the same time, a single arrow shot past the strix and embedded itself directly into the giant’s eye. Taking advantage of the falter in the giant’s swing, Albrecht tucked in his wings and entered a spiral to alter his trajectory, narrowing avoiding the edge of the axe. In a blink he was past it, and his scythe connected squarely with the beast’s throat.

The sound of metal on flesh rang sickly through the air, and in a flash of crimson his blade separated the giant’s head from its body. The strix was the first to touch the ground, skidding through the snow as he decelerated. The giant’s head was next, followed shortly by its body.

He looked back through the trees to see his father lowering his bow and his mother sheathing both of her swords. With a sigh of relief, he smiled at them and nodded his thanks.

The deed was done.

o-o-o-o

Cambria was quiet when he returned.

After defeating the giant they had found the four children, cold and afraid, in a stand of trees nearby. Albrecht had flown ahead to share the good news, and had taken the beast’s skull as proof of their conquest.

At least, that’s what his parents thought. In truth he had ulterior motives.

The few townsfolk who were outside couldn’t help but stare as the strix landed in the center of the town square. Gasps and frightened whispers radiated throughout those assembled.

Perfect, thought Albrecht.

“Perople of Cambria!” His shout echoed throughout the town. “Stand and be counted!”

The whispers turned into panic as more and more of the villagers poured into the square. It wasn’t long before all of the town’s inhabitants had been gathered, and the unwavering demon in their midst – carrying a severed head, no less – was filling them all with unease.

He took a moment for the worry to percolate. It was time to make a statement that none of them would ever forget.

In one fluid motion, Albrecht began to spin.

First came his left hand, holding the head. It came around quickly and threw the skull above him.

Next came his right hand, holding the scythe. The blade whistled through the air and embedded itself in the giant’s remains.

Finally came his eyes. As he planted the scythe, decorated with his macabre prize, into the very center of the town square, he swept his gaze across all those assembled.

“This,” he addressed the crowd, “is the creature we were chasing. This is the creature that stole your children and slew two score warriors from Throgain. This is the last creature to harm my family. I felled it with my own hands, wielding this very blade. You always feared that I was a demon: a bringer of misfortune and death. Now you know that your fears were justified. I am the deathbringer, and I shall rain justice and retribution down upon those who harm the ones I love. If ever you would dream of disrespecting my family, then you will know fear greater even than that felt by this once-proud warrior as my blade caused its blood to run cold. You will discover that I am no longer Albrecht Sunderhurst, proud son of Darius and Amastasia Sunderhurst. You will know what I truly am. I am the Reaper.”

Chapter 4: Into the Unknown

Damn this cold, thought Garrigan. If not for that accursed barrier I’d be a thousand miles away, sipping  chilled tea in a remote paradise. But now? Now I’m stuck heading to almost certain doom trying to skirt the damn thing through the expanse. How did I get here?

It was rhetorical, of course. One does not attempt to rob the archmage of the Crystal Laureate without some sort of repercussion, but greed had gotten the best of him. The allure of untold magical power and a single misstep into a well-hidden divination was all it took to take the proud battlemage out of his command and into the wilderness, stuck cooking stale rations over a tiny campfire.

He blew another precious breath into the base of his gloves to try and get a little feeling back into his fingers, and for the millionth time contorted his body to its full range of motion. He was one of very few mages who could cast comfortably in a suit of full plate, but if the thing froze it was more of a prison than a boon.

Damn this cold.

Suddenly he felt a magical tug to the East and alarm bells sounded in his mind. One of the wards he had placed around his camp had been tripped. That meant someone was approaching, and this far North that could only mean that they were doing so pointedly. He had set the wards a good distance away, with full coverage of the surrounding area, so he should have a bit of time, but having no knowledge of the nature of the threat he knew he couldn’t risk sticking around. Immediately he reached into his spell pouch and began casting. When the intruder arrived, he had no intention of still being around.

His arcane mumbling was cut short when an auburn bolt, accompanied by the piercing shriek of a bird of prey, shot down from high above him and collided squarely with his back. The blow nearly took him from his feet, and caused a painful gash at the shoulder joint of his armour. More importantly, it had interrupted his spell.

His eyes barely had the chance to widen in panic as he looked through the trees to see a wave of negative energy surrounding with darkness approaching him with tremendous speed. He brought his mailed arms in front of his face in desperation, hoping to somehow cushion whatever was to come.

The scythe passed through his thick armour as if it were putty, digging into his tender flesh and filling his heart with utter despair.

Damn this cold, he thought.

And then he was no more.

o-o-o-o

Albrecht was digging through his belt pouch as he entered Mercuria’s bounty office. This small building in the middle of the Pelagos’ most bustling and diverse metropolis was where he acquired most of his contracts. A high-profile bounty, usually easy fare for a hunter of his skill, could keep him comfortable for months.

It helped that he didn’t have to worry about food or drink, and he had the silver ring on his finger to thank for that. It also allowed him to fully recover after only two hours of sleep, so he could gain ground on his quarry with ease. He gave the ring an idle, appreciative spin as he dug. It was a good investment.

“Ah, Reaper!” A thick and cheerful dwarf greeted the new arrival from his customary place behind the office counter. The wall over his stout shoulders was layered from floor to ceiling with bounties depicting all manner of creatures. “And Duskwing, of course. Looking fine as always.”

“Hello, Husk,” Albrecht replied with a smile. His falcon let out a self-satisfied squawk from his place on the Strix’s shoulder.

Husk reached into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small piece of jerky. He tossed it into the air, and without missing a beat Duskwing darted from his perch and snatched it with his razor-sharp beak, alighting onto the counter. The dwarf rubbed the falcon’s head with his finger, who pushed against it and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the experience. “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

“Garrigan was a bit of a tough cookie, but since he couldn’t teleport through the barrier there was only so far he could go. I’ve got his ring here somewhere… Ah, there it is.”

From his pouch he produced a small signet ring: gold and engraved with a crimson stag wreathed in mist. It seemed to hum with a faint energy, but since its bearer was dead it stayed dormant. He also pulled a heavy tome from his pack and placed it on the desk with a thud.

“As promised, the quarry’s signet ring and spellbook. I returned the orb to the Crystal Laureate before coming here, so the archmage is satisfied and has gone back to his research. You’ll find his letter of release for the bounty in the book there. I’ll probably end up selling everything else he had with him.”

Husk took a moment to look over the haul and cross reference it with a logbook he kept under his desk. After reading the letter he disappeared through a door that led deeper into the building. He returned a short time later with a hefty pouch, its contents making a familiar and satisfying clink. He passed it over the table to Albrecht, who nodded his thanks before placing it into his pack.

“The bounty is yours, my friend. 300 platinum, to the coin. Counted it myself, just to be sure. Though I daresay that orb you returned is probably worth a hell of a lot more.”

“It’s only worth more if you know how to use it, and frankly I couldn’t care less,” Albrecht shrugged. “The coin alone is more than enough for my tastes.”

Husk smiled. “Fair enough. I should have known that you’d never give in to temptation.” He plopped heavily back down into his chair. “Oh, speaking of which, see anything you like? Not much for a hunter of your calibre these days. You’ve already caught most of the serious criminals, and with your reputation new ones are few and far between.”

He shook his head as he scanned the bounty board. Nothing jumped out as particularly interesting prey. “That’s alright. I’ll let some of the others have a go at it for a change.”

“Fair enough,” chuckled the dwarf. “I’ll see you around.”

Albrecht shook his hand before turning to leave, hoisting his pack back onto his shoulder.

“Oh, by the way.” Husk’s voice caused Albrecht to pause and look back, his ebony hand hovering over the doorknob. Duskwing took the opportunity to fly back onto his shoulder. “Your pal Ugrog is hanging around the harbour. Some special mission into the Expanse. Seems like something you might be interested in.”

He let his hand finish its journey and turn the knob. “I just might. Thanks for the information.”

o-o-o-o

“Next please.”

Ugrog sighed. It had been a long day. For reasons that he could not comprehend there were numerous creatures of all sort lining up to risk their lives by venturing into the unknown of the Expanse. He figured most really didn’t comprehend the difficulty of what was being asked of them. The Halfling girl who was leaving his small office had simply never seen a giant before, and was curious.

She’d be dead within a day, he thought. He dipped his quill into the inkwell and drew a thick, deliberate line through her name in his logbook. Not on my watch.

When he looked up he almost fell back out of his chair. The wall of black before him had such a forceful aura he could feel himself inadvertently quivering, and he had not been ready for that. He shook his head to compose himself. “Reaper! You nearly scared me to death. What brings you here?”

Albrecht took a seat in the sizable chair across the desk. It was a bit big, even for him, but he figured that all kinds would come through, and they had to be accommodating for pretty much anyone. “Hello Ugrog. And curiosity, mostly. I hear you’re recruiting people for a trip to the expanse.”

“Ah yes. Well recruiting doesn’t seem like the right word. Screening, more like. The giants are becoming a problem too serious to ignore, so we’re sending a group up north to deal with the situation permanently. I’d go myself, but…”

Albrecht held up a hand to stop him. “You’ve got a family, my friend. There’s no need to justify that to me of all people.”

The orc provided an appreciative nod before continuing. “In any case, we’ve had all kinds walk through this office. Most are either delusional or insane, but we’ve had a few hopeful candidates. There’ve been a number of your kind as well, though none with scaled wings.” He gestured to Albrecht’s wings with his quill.

That’s a bit ironic, he thought.

“I do believe that you are a very special strix.”

Albrecht laughed. “Well thank you. Actually I’m starting to think that these things,” he spread his wings a bit in showcase, “are largely why I was abandoned as a baby. But they allowed me to find my parents, and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

“I’m glad. Not many people can find a silver lining to that sort of thing. In any case, since you’re here, I might as well go through the standard questions. Sound good?”

He furled his wings once again. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you need me, and because there’s nothing left for me to hunt in the Pelagos.”

“What can you offer to defeat the giants?”

“I’m a tireless and highly skilled tracker, and a have a penchant for striking fear into the heart of even the surliest of creatures. And if fear doesn’t work, I can always strike their heart with my scythe instead.”

“What is your greatest regret?”

“That Duskwing can’t find a proper woman.” The bird screeched in protest. Albrecht merely smiled. “As for myself, I tend to live without regrets. Through careful planning and exceptional skill I can accomplish pretty much anything I need to. Besides, my parents taught me to respect the nature of the world and to keep moving forward. I figure it’s time to take that in stride, and start moving North.”

They Might Be Heroes: Series 3

Hello, internet. It has been... Well it's been a very long time since I have last put finger to keyboard in this most sacred of places. I really have no excuse, and if you were an avid reader of my work when I still posted regularly, you have my sincerest apologies (and curiosity. Comment?). I cannot make any sort of promise that I will resume posting, what with my fourth year of computer engineering in full swing and responsibilities with various companies taking precendence, but I will try to post sporadicaly throughout the term as I expect some of my peers will be pressuring me to do so. In the meantime, I have produced a piece of writing which I believe deserves to be posted, and I thought I would share it. Harkening back to my earliest posts, I am continuing my series of D&D backstories: They Might Be Heroes. In this installment, we meet Whisperling, a jovial and snarky Centaur about to be sent to hell itself to rescue the seven sages of Drigonia. Special thanks to my friend Steven for his creation of the concept for what is likely going to be an excellent campaign.

--------------
Whisperling
Centaur Soulknife

ACT I - Amidst the Calm

There was something in the silence that night.

Fellkeep was a tired old town, hewn from the stones of history in a time before civilization. For thousands of years it had stood as a bastion in the center of the continent and had kept at bay the wild places by which it was surrounded. The harsh winds of the plains tore fruitlessly at the tired bones of towers and abodes, and though these bones would creak in protest they refused to back down. The humans and elves that had chosen to make this town their home were equally hardy. Though they may grumble, they possessed a spirit that would not yield in the face of adversity.

But tonight was a different matter. The ghostly breath of the plains, normally so pervasive and insistent, had stilled, granting the stone and timber of the stronghold a rare reprieve.

To most this was an unexpected and entirely pleasant development; an opportunity to warm the chill permeating the very core of the town’s residents. Whisperling was not “most.”

In fact, there likely wasn’t a soul alive who would consider him to be normal. By his very nature he stood apart from his peers. Half man and half beast, the centaur was out of place in most settings.

Even his name was unique, as he chose it himself and there was nobody around who knew him as anything else. Tonight, his abnormality manifested in a nagging feeling that something was amiss. He stood in the darkness of the city streets and peered at the stars as he pondered the uneasy quiet. To him it seemed a harbinger of something dire, and he feared what the coming storm would bring.

He was so engrossed in thought he hadn’t even noticed the two men who had drunkenly stumbled onto the street from a nearby tavern. When they spoke to him he was taken entirely by surprise.

“Hey pretty horsey, you want some hay?”

Their inebriated giggling was initially met with shock, but Whisperling couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “Actually,” he said, “I’d prefer some oats if you’ve got them.”

The two men had expected a much more emotional reaction. Having not received one they were left utterly speechless, unable to process a meaningful response through the alcohol clouding their minds. With a chuckle he reached down and ruffled their hair as he walked past them into the night.

“Don’t strain yourselves, lads.” He paused and smiled over his shoulder before he continued. “Best be getting home. It’s late, and your husbands must be worried.”

“Wha—“

The drunkards’ protests were cut short as a plume of flame rose into the southern sky. Several others rose to meet it even before the thunderous roar from the explosions washed over the alley. Already unsteady, the two humans were blown clean off their feet to collapse in a drunken heap against the far wall.

Whisperling frowned at the pair before directing his attention back south.

“Sometimes I hate being right.”

ACT II - Fire and Blood

The screams of goblins, humans, and elves rang shrill in Whisperling’s ears as he galloped toward the southern wall. In alleys he passed he glimpsed healers feverishly chanting over writhing wounded from the Drigonian Honour Guard, and still others closing the eyes of those who were beyond saving. The destruction was unthinkable.

He clutched his fists in rage, pressing on with all his might. How could the goblins have made it to the city without the Red Sage detecting their presence? How did they become so organized that they could launch an assault on a bastion that has stood strong for thousands of years?

One thing was certain: much more blood would be spilled this night, and he was not about to sit on the sidelines while it happened. He was already shaking in anticipation of the violence to come, unable to quench the bloodlust and savagery of his heritage.

Suddenly he was there. Flames and steel swirled about the scene. The mighty walls of Fellkeep, once tall and proud, were now reduced puddles of molten rock by goblin magic, allowing scores of goblins to pour into the city. Across the court, more of the city’s inhabitants continued to rush into the fray.

Arrows rained down amongst the foot soldiers and explosions of magical energy rang out above them as the mages of the Drigonian Honour Guard faced off against the goblin witchdoctors and siege weapons beyond the wall.

It took only a moment to analyse the scene before him, and without missing a stride the mighty centaur sprang into action, grasping a longsword protruding from the chest of a slain goblin as he went. It was barely a knife to him, but it was sharp, and it would have to do. Excitement welled within him as the swarm grew ever closer, his hands shaking so vigorously he could barely keep his grasp on the blade.

It was nearly time.

The ride across the courtyard was only a few seconds, but to him it felt like an eternity. He had chosen to make his home in this city, and these beasts from the wilds were now threatening to burn it to the ground. This discourtesy could only be repaid in blood, and he would make sure that many a goblin would take part in the transaction.

One of the goblins, a scraggly beast wielding a crude spear, pulled his weapon from the back of an elven warrior who had been facing off against four others. Content with his kill, he turned toward the city once more with a savage fire burning in his eyes. That fire was instantly replaced with fear as his view settled on the towering centaur bearing down on him.

As their eyes met, the tremor in Whisperling’s fists immediately ceased. All of his rage, all of his bloodlust filed down to a single point within his consciousness; an absolute focus accented by a wave of perfect calmness.

The dance with death had begun.

That goblin was but the first of many to fall to the centaur’s precise and powerful strikes, followed by the four creatures the unfortunate elf had been facing before meeting his demise. Whisperling’s blade swung ceaselessly, cleaving goblins in two with each powerful blow, and goblin heads were crushed to dust beneath his hooves. As he advanced into the goblin horde he left behind him only a crimson mist.

For hours he fought, his sleek black fur enveloped in goblin blood. They were outside the wall now, and exhausted soldiers pressed forward with all of their remaining might to repel the invaders.

Blackness licked at the corners of Whisperling’s vision, but he refused to give even an inch of ground. His thick hide was covered in a thousand cuts from goblin blades, and pain wracked his every step, but he would not back down.

This was his city, and he was determined to keep it that way.

A goblin charged him from his left flank as he moved to dispatch a similar brute on his right. As he swung his sword he was sure it would end his foe, and so he directed his attention to the new arrival and prepared to strike.

But then he heard a piercing clang, and he felt his blade shatter in his grasp. In a panic he leapt backward and looked back to the goblin he thought should be dead. It stood there still, though it was three times its original size and had a wicked grin on its face. Its weapon, a roughly-hewn mace, had grown as well. Whisperling’s blade, weakened and chipped throughout the night, had snapped in two when it collided with the fortified arm, leaving him without the means to defend against the new threat to either side.

As panic welled up inside of him, so too did a force that he could not explain. Without thinking, he threw away the hilt of his ruined sword and focused all of his lethal intent into his fist. As he stabbed toward the smaller goblin he shaped his rage; let his will take form. As he did so, the air began to part, as if cut by an invisible force. In the rift an ethereal blade formed, and the startled goblin, so confident mere moments before, collapsed in a heap at the centaur’s feet.

Whisperling turned back to the fortified goblin who had destroyed his physical sword, a new wave of energy surging to match his resolve.

“I guess I should pick on someone my own size.”

ACT III - The Resolve of Home

“Let him through.”

General Solomon set down the map he had been examining and rose to meet the warrior who had called upon him. He was no small man, but the centaur entering his command tent towered above him in both physique and countenance. The high commander of the Drigonian Honour Guard was not easily unsettled, but there was something in the air that made him feel uneasy.

“My men tell me that you were instrumental in sealing the breach to the southern wall. I would like to extend my gratitude.”

Whisperling looked down at the general’s outstretched hand, but couldn’t bring himself to grasp it. If not for his anger he likely would not have even been able to stand. All he could manage was a nod.

“I’m sorry general, but it’s been a very long night. I’m not usually one to skip the pleasantries, but I would ask that we get right down to business.”

The general acknowledged him with a tired nod and allowed his hand to fall back to his side. “As you wish. What brings you to my tent?” He considered offering his guest a seat, but a quick glance at

Whisperling’s four equestrian legs caused him to reconsider.

“How did this happen? There’s no way a force of that size could have made it all the way to Fellkeep without the Red Sage warning us.”

Solomon’s face sank at the question – a queue which Whisperling did not miss. It took him some time to find his words, but the centaur was patient.

“There’s been… an incident.” He paused, still finding the thought difficult to swallow. With a sigh, he looked Whisperling straight in the eye. “The Seven Sages have gone missing. We have reason to believe they may have been kidnapped and brought to Hell. We’re seeking adventurers to go after them and bring them back. In fact, we could use someo—“

“I’m in,” Whisperling interrupted.

Solomon was taken aback, and unsure of how to respond. “I’m sorry?”

“I said I’m in. Form your party, and include me in its number. I’ll not stand idly by while Drigonia is ravaged by beasts.”

He worked his mouth wordlessly for some time, unable to put his thoughts to speech. Eventually his managed a single word: “Why?”

“This is a desolate place, and its residents harbour no love for my kind, but I have made it my home. I do not take kindly to my home being attacked, and I’d rather it not happen again. Besides…” The centaur raised his hand and focused intently on it, mustering whatever willpower he had remaining after his night’s long battle. After a moment a long, ethereal blade formed in his fist. He turned it before him, examining the blade for defects or hidden mysteries that had yet to be revealed. “I seem to have a new talent that I wish to learn to control. It still takes some time to form the blade, but I feel like with practice I can make it a true extension of my will.” He looked away from the blade and deep into the general’s eyes. “I will have my practice.”

They Might Be Heroes: Series 2

Another backstory for another of my wonderful characters. This one was a Pathfinder (D&D 3.75) character that I developed for a recent campaign, and though the campaign hasn't really gotten any momentum, I'm very pleased with how my creation turned out.

This was originally posted to Facebook on May 20th, 2013, and it was written not long before that.

Another side note, the Kitsune are a race of fox-like creatures that can take the form of a specific human at will. This passage also contains a small amount of strong language, so reader discretion is advised.

----------------

Ayaki, the Shade of Cunning
Kitsune Ninja

                Gregor took another swig of his ale as he watched the stage from his dark corner of the tavern. The Hound’s Respite was the sort of cheery and hospitable establishment which attracted all manner of tourists from around the realm, and so each night they would charm their guests with entertainers of all sorts. Tonight, the owner had found a particularly talented human dancer to delight his patrons.
                She was small, even for a girl, but she moved with a grace and poise that he rarely saw in these parts. Her steps brought to life the simple melody of the bard’s lute as she twirled about the stage. Each pirouette brought with it a flowing river of auburn hair which framed her pale complexion and golden eyes with a sea dancing lights as it reflected the various lamps set about the room. Her loose garb ebbed and flowed as she spun and seemed to carefully bend to her every whim. The bells hanging from the golden cloth would softly jingle with each pivot, always in perfect sync with her accompaniment. As she spun, so too spun golden ribbons, floating delicately yet deliberately through the air. Each ribbon was tipped with a magical golden light, making the performance both mesmerizing and surreal. It was undeniably beautiful.
                And yet Gregor took no pleasure in the performance. He took no pleasure in most things, in fact. The rage constantly burning in his belly left little room for contentment, and so he often found himself brooding for no reason beyond that of familiarity. Annoyed, he brought the flagon once again to his lips and continued to watch in grumpy silence.
                It took a moment to realize that the performance had ended. So transfixed was he on the flow of the dance and his own crotchety disposition that he had completely lost track of time. He leaned back in his chair with a groan as his muscles complained at their stiffness. He warily eyed the dancer leave the stage with a smile of childlike innocence on her face. His chair slowly slid back as he stood.
                Then and there it was decided. He would destroy that innocence.

...

                Rats scurried through the city’s dark streets at the sound of footsteps. Gregor’s heavy tread thumped ominously as he moved, his eyes never leaving the small girl in the road ahead. Every so often she would nervously glance behind her, the look of worry in her eyes growing ever deeper as they passed over his grim visage. Each time she would quicken her pace ever so slightly, and Gregor would match.
                He was not going to let his prize escape.
                After several minutes of this dance, the girl came to a side street and paused briefly, as if confused, before taking the path to her right. As she left his sight, he heard her quiet footsteps become fevered as she burst into a sprint.
                “So she’s tryin’ to run, is she? She ain’t gettin’ away that easy…”
                With a grimace, he gave chase, his feet sliding in the mud as he barrelled around the corner at full tilt. Gregor wasn’t exactly a graceful man, but years as the Jackal’s enforcer and a lifetime of poverty made him particularly good at navigating the arteries of the sprawling metropolis. He charged recklessly after his target, greedily smashing through whatever improvised obstacles she would frantically lay in her wake. Soon, though, the chase came to abrupt halt as the alley ended in a solid stone wall. The girl whimpered as she slid through the mud as refuse, hitting the wall with a muffled thunk.
                Gregor dug his boots into the dirt as he came to a stop, sending a shower of muck before him. He took heavy, measured steps as he lumbered toward the girl, his hulking form hunched like a beast and a grim sneer upon his twisted face.
                “Nowhere to run now, bitch,” he hissed.
                With a giggle, the girl’s posture suddenly straightened as she turned.
                “Good.”
                As a flash of magenta light stole his vision, he saw the girl smile.

...

                “Move, bitch.” Gregor prodded his prisoner with his claymore as he approached the Jackal’s lair.
                Before him was a small figure, her arms viciously tied behind her back with a thick rope. The parts of her body not covered with black leather armour were covered with equally black silken fur, her slender snout cushioned in a soft grey that adorned her neck and her palms. Her ears, now flaccid in defeat, both ended in an ebony tuft as sharp as the claws on each of her delicate fingers. Not one, but two dark tails followed her through the street, both tipped in the same murky grey.
                She stumbled a bit as her bulky captor kicked her into the tall building.
“Oy, Gregor, what’s this then?” A stocky dwarf sat perched on a rickety chair in the small entry hall. He was leaning back in his seat, with his feet perched on a small table and his hand perched on a broad axe nearly as tall as he was.
               “You remember how boss man said summit ‘bout someone out to get ‘im? Well I caught th’ bitch. I figure he’ll want a word or two with her.” The kitsune snarled back at him at that. He poked her with his sword in response.
               The Dwarf took his feet off the table and let his chair thunk forward as he let out a quick burst of amused laughter. “Oh hell! Good on ya! Yeah head on in. Things are quiet so you shouldn’t have to wait.”
               “You ‘eard ‘im. Get movin’.” With another prod the dishevelled fox moved toward the stairwell. As they ascended the various thugs and delinquents in the halls began to holler and hiss at her passing. Her eyes filled with tears as her ears filled with their lewd and vulgar exclamations. They fell down her face as she tightly shut her eyes to escape their leering, and she flinched as she was hit by the hard rolls they threw her, unable to dodge because of the confined space and the leash held tightly in the barbarian’s grasp.
               The shrieks from below muffled as Gregor shut the door to the building’s fourth and final floor. He roughly pushed his prisoner against the wooden wall as he rapped on the door of the elaborate office before him.
               A gruff voiced replied. “Come on in, Gregor.”
               The door creaked open as he forced the kitsune through the portal. With one final shove he forced her to her knees, giving just enough slack in the rope for her shoulders to emit an audible crack from the strain.
               For a moment that seemed an eternity the only sound in the room was the panting of the fox and the pointed scribbling of a quill on parchment from behind the office’s large, ironwood desk. When he had finished his thought, the jackal carefully placed his quill on the desk and slowly, deliberately stood. His chair groaned as is grated across the wooden floor.
               “Well then, what have we here?” The Jackal let a hint of a smile adorn his face as he carefully walked around his desk. His measured steps brought him to a halt right in front of the piteous hostage.
               The kitsune slowly raised her eyes to meet his, taking in the enormous presence before her. The Jackal was a large man, even for an orc, and he towered over the tiny creature before him. His rippling muscles were barely contained by the radiant half plate he wore, though both showed scars from years of furious battle. The amused smirk resting upon his face seemed like something out of a nightmare when set aside the garish scar that cut across his face and under the eye patch on his right eye. The room’s flickering candlelight danced upon his pearly tusks and smooth head.
               She began to tremble in his shadow.
               “So I hear that you were hired to take care of me.” His smile widened as he leaned closer. “I regret to inform you that you’ve failed in your mission.”
               After letting his statement sink in, he straightened again, unclasping his hands from behind his back and stepping back slightly. Suddenly, his whole body tensed as his right foot dug into the floor and like lightning his fist flew into the girl’s face. The tremendous blow sent her flying backward, tearing the rope out of Gregor’s hand as she collided with the room’s door with a sickening thud. She whimpered as she collapsed in a heap.
               The smile grew wider.
               As he started walking, the Jackal held out his hand, and without hesitation Gregor handed his master his sword. “I don’t look kindly on assassins.”
               When he reached the shivering pile of fur he stopped and raised his sword. “You’ll be an example to all the others.” With a wild look in his eyes and a howl of rage, he thrust his sword down toward the piteous creature.
               But suddenly she was no longer there. As the claymore stabbed into the floor he felt a small prick on the back of his ankle, in the small space where his greaves met his boots.
               The world became a blur as he turned to see the kitsune crouched in the middle of the office, a small bladed fan clenched in her unbound grip. “Wha…”
               The word trailed off as his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the hard floor. The room filled with a thunderous crash as orc and steel collapsed before her.
               The fox smiled before she straightened. “Good night.”
               Ayaki grimaced slightly as she nursed her face. The orc certainly knew how to throw a punch. She was able to absorb some of the impact with her training, but dodging it completely would have been too obvious, and it hurt something fierce.
               She looked over at her thrall for a moment, then with a pointed nod toward the orcish heap before her she issued a mental command to wrap up the body. Gregor immediately pulled a tapestry from the wall and began to roll up the body. The once-proud jackal was now just a helpless mound of flesh.
               That poison was worth every copper, she thought.
               As Gregor hoisted his old master’s body onto his shoulder she idly splashed some of the Jackal’s own wine on the tapestry and mentally commanded him to proceed. He left through the door to the office as Ayaki moved toward the window. She carefully peered at the muddy road four storeys below as the door closed behind her. Through the panels she heard muffled exclamations the incredulous thugs inquire about the commotion.
               Gregor was as blunt as ever. “She didn’t make it. You might wanna leave the boss man alone for a bit. You know ‘ow ‘e gets.”
               Ayaki giggled as she hopped up onto the window’s sill. She was lucky that the city’s underbelly was so undereducated. In any case, her job wasn’t done just yet.
               After a moment of collecting her thoughts, she leaped off of the ledge. With a delicate twist she began to twirl as she accelerated toward the ground. For a brief time the stagnant air of the slums sang through her fur. She revelled in that instant; took it in with a deep breath and a characteristic grin.
               As the ground approached, she released her breath and looked deep within herself. She focused on the energy at her core and directed it outward. The air around her began to thicken, and her descent slowed. Like a feather she alighted into the muck with a graceful curtsy.
               Now then, she thought as she straightened. Let’s get this jackal behind bars.

...

                “Hello gentlemen!”
                Ayaki entered the barracks with a flourish and a bow. The few imperial guards going about their busywork took only a moment to regard the intrusion before going on their way. She heard a few fatigued soldiers muttering their discontent. Only the guard captain acknowledged her entry with a curt nod.
                Ayaki sighed as she straightened and began shuffling across the room to the captain’s desk. She flopped down in the chair he motioned to with a huff. “That wasn’t quite the welcome I was expecting, Captain Fairmont.”
                The captain allowed a tired smile to show through his unkempt beard as he shrugged. “I’m sorry, milady. The Magistrate has been rather demanding of late.” His smile faded as he scanned his men. “It’s taking a toll on all of us.”
                He took a deep breath before he continued. “So, what news do you bring?”
                Ayaki scrunched her nose as she arched into a deep stretch in the chair. “At the moment I don’t bring any news at all, but I can assure you my news will be arriving shortly.”
                This was met with a look of confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand…” His voice trailed off as a commotion erupted at the entryway. He looked past the now-smiling kitsune to the sight of a large man forcing his way through a number of frantic guards with a stained tapestry slung over his shoulder. “Stop! You can’t go in there! Somebody do something!”
                “It’s alright, stand down.” Fairmont shared a pointed look with his guest before rising to his feet and walking around his small desk. Several of the guards had drawn steel and were beginning to surround the intruder. Gregor stopped in the middle of the room, a few short steps in front of the befuddled Fairmont. “Um, hello there.”
                Ayaki leaned back in her chair and placed her feet upon the captain’s desk. She crossed her hands behind her head and addressed the barbarian without looking back. “Oh Gregor, be a dear and bring your friend down to the dungeon, would you? The good captain will show you the way.”
                Stone-faced, Gregor cracked his burly neck with a twitch of his head. “Well, go on then.”
                There was an awkward moment of silent incredulity before Fairmont, never blinking, motioned to a thick iron door on his right. Gregor readjusted the weight on his shoulder before heading in that direction. He roughly heaved the door open and proceeded to duck through the portal. There was a loud clang as one end of the tapestry banged against the door frame. One of the older guards fumbled with a set of rusty iron keys as he hastily followed.
                “Oh, and find yourself a nice comfy cell while you’re down there. You’ll be here for a while.” Ayaki giggled as he grunted his acknowledgement. She began rocking the chair slightly as Fairmont returned to his desk. He sat down and slowly tucked his chair in, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.
                He opened his mouth as if to speak a number of times, but no sound came forth. After each attempt he seemed to reconsider, his face contorted with disbelief. Eventually, he was able to collect his thoughts.
                “How did you do that?”
                Ayaki let slip another contented giggle before letting the front legs of her chair meet the floor once again. She leaned forward and winked. “I have my ways.”
                She hopped out her seat and causally placed her clawed hands upon the desk in front of her. “In any case, my good captain, you now have in your holding not one, but two of this city’s most dangerous criminals! I hope my service was to your satisfaction.”
                As if hit by a sudden realization, Fairmont jumped in his chair and frantically opened a drawer on his desk. “Oh yes! Certainly. I apologize, milady.” He pulled up a hefty leather bag and placed it between them. The satisfying jingle of coin make Ayaki’s smile widen. “As promised, 40 platinum for the Jackal, and an additional 20 for his enforcer.”
                With a satisfied nod the kitsune deftly snatched the bag and after giving it a quick to test the weight slipped it into her waist pouch. “Excellent! Pleasure working with you, sir.” She turned and began to walk away, but paused to look over her shoulder. “Oh, and my sword if you please.”
                “Of course, I had forgotten. My apologies, milady.” He reached under the desk and produced a scabbard, throwing it to the girl as she continued to walk away.
                She reached behind her and caught it without breaking stride, and in one smooth motion she spun the scabbard beneath her, the sword inside sliding loose from its momentum. As the sword passed in front of her it broke free of its home, spinning as it sang through the air. She gracefully snatched it by the hilt and slowly lowered it in front of her, looking deep into the polished blade. She paused for a moment, as if lost in her own reflection, before dextrously sliding it back into its scabbard, now firmly attached to her hip.
                “Fare well, Fairmont.”

...

               It was a cool, crisp morning. The rising sun bathed the city in golden light as it peeked above the jagged mountains on the horizon. Ayaki took it in with a deep breath from her rooftop perch, her legs swinging with childlike innocence above the streets below. She loved the sunrise. To her, the dawn had its own special kind of magic; turning this wretched, begrimed city into a pace of solemn serenity for but a few precious minutes each day. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and let the morning’s warmth wash over her as she reminisced about her home.
                She pictured the light slowly bringing the forest to life, the fiery reds and yellows of the autumn leaves erupting in a symphony of colour as the local fauna awakened. In her mind’s eye the piercing calls of bird and beast alike filled the air as a pristine breeze rolled gently through her fur. For a perfect moment she let her imagination run wild, and felt perfectly at peace.
                She sighed as she opened her eyes. She missed her woodland village dearly but she knew her curiosity about the world could never be satisfied if she went back. There was far too much to learn.
                The market square below her slowly began filling with merchants carting goods to their stalls. She stretched as she looked over the scene. A few of the traders were greeting each other with joyous exclamations, but for the most part their preparation was a quiet and drowsy affair. They yawned as all manner of goods were placed on display for all in the soon-to-be bustling square to see.
                She idly drummed her clawed fingers on her coinpurse. She had been rather prosperous of late, but her needs were simple ones, and aside from a few extravagant meals she couldn’t decide what to do with her wealth. She took another look over the emerging scene below her. Couldn’t hurt to look, she thought.
                It wasn’t long before she had made her way to the streets below. As she walked between the stalls she greeted each merchant with a casual smile as she perused their wares. She took her time admiring exotic fruits and extravagant (though obviously fake) pendants and jewellery of all sorts as the local denizens began to slowly wander into the square. The air began to fill with the calls of the shopkeepers hawking their wares in desperate search for deep pockets.
                A sudden bellow of “hush, bird!” brought her from her musings. She peered toward the source only to see a small, exasperated goblin angrily tapping his walking stick against a small cage. An exasperated bird of prey screeched its displeasure and resumed tapping its beak on the bars of its prison.
                Amused, Ayaki skipped over to the shop. A large smile accompanied her greeting. “Hello, sir!”
                “Oh, hello there young miss! Can I interest you in any of my fine fare? Beasts of sea, shore, and sky grace my humble shop.” The bird in the cage, an elegant falcon screeched at him angrily. His eyes never leaving the customer and his smile never leaving his face, he struck another blow to the cage with his walking stick, muttering “hush” under his breath.
                “Your little friend doesn’t appear to be having the best of days.”
                His smile turned to a disgruntled pout as he exhaled. “Quite.” He glared at the bird. “Truth be told it’s generally rather well behaved, but it doesn’t like to be confined.” He was met with another screech. “Unfortunately I can’t keep it out of the cage because it also hates to sit still.”
                Ayaki moved her face close to the cage. The falcon responded with a curious tilt of its head. She found it rather odd that a bird, even a bird of prey, wasn’t at least a little put off by having a fox in such close proximity. “Wouldn’t it fly off?”
                The shopkeeper shrugged. “Probably. But that’s not much of a problem.” He fished through the many pockets of his baggy coat and pulled out a small whistle which appeared to be carved out of bone. “As I said, it’s fairly well trained. Three quick blows of this whistle and she’ll come flying right to you.”
                Her eyes lit up a little. She turned to look at the goblin. “I’d like to see that.”
                “Oh well, certainly. One moment please…” The goblin spun around and began searching through a study chest on his wagon. After some rummaging he emerged with a leather gauntlet adorned with a small ring and a tassel. He placed it upon his left wrist before moving to the cage. The falcon screeched in excitement. “You, uh, might want to step back a bit.”
                Ayaki smiled and with a curt nod took two exaggerated steps backward into the road, ending her motion with a quick hop. When he determined she wouldn’t be moving back any farther, the goblin gingerly reached toward the clasp of the cage. The bird inside sat motionless in anticipation. Slowly carefully, the clasp was unfastened. As soon as it clicked, the falcon burst into action, ramming into the cage’s door; eliciting a terrified shriek from the shopmaster and a delighted shriek from his patron. She clapped excitedly as the bird shot into the sky like an arrow. It let out a triumphant screech as it began circling the square.
                It took a minute for the rattled goblin to compose himself. He shook his head a little and wiped the shoulders of his coat before taking a few small steps into the middle of the road. With a brief nervous smile to the kitsune, he cleared his throat and brought the whistle to his lips. He hesitated as it hovered awkwardly before his face. His eyes shifted to his patron, who encouraged him to proceed with raised eyebrows and the most subtle of nods. With a slight grimace and a deep breath, he blew into the whistle.
                It was a much softer sound that Ayaki had anticipated. Three clear, round notes filled the air, and the goblin immediately shot his left arm into the air, ducking and covering his head with his right. There was only a brief pause before the falcon came barrelling down. With a resounding whoosh and a beat of its mighty wings it slowed its descent and softly landing on the goblin’s glove. It let out a delighted screech as it cocked its head in a series of quick movements.
                The goblin visibly relaxed and released a drawn out sigh of relief. He turned back to his patron. “See? Very well trained.”
                Ayaki smiled and darted forward, rubbing the bird’s neck with one of her fingers. It let out a soft coo in approval. “That was wonderful! A very impressive display! And you were so very brave.”
                The goblin blushed. “Ah yes well, all in a day’s work really…”
                Suddenly, the falcon shot off of her master’s arm, who proceeded to let out another terrified shriek. It dove into the street with great speed and snatched up a rat which was scurrying between some of the neighbouring stalls. It snapped the beast’s neck in its talons before circling around and dropping its prize at the goblin’s feet and beginning to feast.
                Ayaki’s eyes widened and her smile grew. “I’ll take it!”
                It took a moment for her exclamation to break through the goblin’s surprise and disgust at the scene before him. “Oh, you will? Excellent! Yes, um, very good. Now then. Yes…” He hastily removed the gauntlet and circled around his stall to fetch a rugged book from his belongings. He opened it to reveal a list of transactions from previous customers. “So, for the falcon, the price is 40 gold pieces, and you’ll be needing the gauntlet of course, which is an additional 10.” He scribbled down a quick note in the logbook.
                “I’ll also take that delightful whistle and a day’s worth of feed, if you have it.” She excitedly fastened the falconry gauntlet to her wrist as she spoke.
                “Ah yes, of course. That will increase the price by 1 gold piece, bringing your total to 51 gold pieces.”
                She reached into her coinpurse and counted out the necessary funds, eagerly passing them to the shopkeeper before bending down to retrieve her new pet, now nearly finished with its breakfast. She held out her wrist and the bird casually hopped into place. She fastened the ring to its ankle before straightening to retrieve the rest of her order.
                The goblin smiled in relief as he closed his logbook and stowed it back in his cart. “Oh, you can have the cage as well, no charge. It comes with—“
                “That won’t be necessary, master goblin.” Ayaki looked deep into her pet’s eyes as she interrupted him. “Pariah is a free bird. Her only cage shall be her imagination.”
                “Pariah…?”
                “A pet must have a name, master goblin.” With a final smile at the shopkeeper, she began to walk away. “Now then, my dear. Let’s have an adventure.”