They Might Be Plushies

Hey internet.

I'd apologise for the long delay, but we both know that's not going to stop me from doing it again, so... You know, here I am! And with a treat (I think). So quick backstory: basically, my partner wanted a stuffed elephant, but she said that when I gave it to her she wanted it to have a story. Being me, I took that as a challenge, so I got her the stuffed elephant (her favourite animal) as well as a stuffed tiger (my favourite animal) and a dream journal (with a nice little message I won't post here -- in part because it's personal and in part because it's written in the book, and I don't remember exactly what it said anymore). Note that the end of the story is a bit... esoteric. I promise it makes sense.

Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

...

Just kidding. Enjoy the story!

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It was a quiet thing, this night. A soft quiet; a warm quiet; a quiet characterised by all manner of creature snuggled away in beds far from the chaos and danger of the dark wood. For many, the night was a thing to be feared, and so a kind blanket and a clever book were a welcome distraction.

Fuddlewump was one such creature. An elephant she was, with trunk, perhaps, a bit too short for her liking. Her rump was plump and round; her skin thick and dark; her ears large and floppy, as ears tend to be. It was on this soft, warm night that Fuddlewump the elephant lay in her soft, warm bed of moss covered by her large, floppy ears and tried desperately to dream. Dreams were sacred things to Fuddlewump. They were an escape from her sad and lonely reality, and they allowed her to be whatever she wanted to be. Not like she was, that is. Anything but that. No, in her dreams she was a graceful gazelle, bounding happily through endless plains. In her dreams she was a majestic eagle, her wings taking her higher and higher through the mountain skies. In her dreams she was a sly fox, darting from hole to hole faster than any hunter could catch her.

In her dreams, she was loved. In her dreams, she was special.

Not like reality at all.

And so she slept, tossing and turning as the dreams refused to find her. The moss was too lumpy. The night was too cold. The moon was too bright. Not at all a night for dreams. But she had to dream, and so she tried and tried and tried.

Above, hiding in the darkness of the leaves, was another creature, though this one was very different. Argos. A tiger he was, with sleek fur and shining claws. Like all cats, Argos was a curious thing, and so his piercing eyes cast the tumultuous slumber of Fuddlewump a discerning gaze. It would be nothing for him to put an end to the elephant: he could eat like a king for the rest of the month, and it would be over in a second. Still, Argos waited and watched, drawing ever silently closer.

When the light of day finally banished the dark, scary night and Fuddlewump woke from her fitful slumber with a resounding yawn, Argos was mere feet away, calmly and coyly regarding his potential prey. As Fuddlewump wiped the sleep from her dreary eyes and the world came to focus around her, the swatch of orange before her seemed almost too much to process. It took many more blinks that she might have thought to realise just what her predicament was, and when finally the predatory visage became clear in her sight a wave of panic instantly washed over her. Her terrified scream trumpeted through the forest.

Argos simply smiled, the mighty tiger not deterred by the elephant’s roar and after the long, resonating blast from the elephant’s trunk quiet once again returned to the forest. It seemed that all was silent save for the anxious breathing of Fuddlewump and the calm countenance of Argos (which to Fuddlewump seemed the loudest thing of them all). The tiger’s grin remained, and after they both had sufficient time to digest the tranquility of the scene he simply asked:

“Are you finished?”

Fuddlewump, shocked and befuddled, could only nod. She tried to slow her gasps to no avail. It was fear that kept her restless, though her foe made no move to strike. After living in that stress for far too long, she could only swallow and release a few soft words to the air: “Are you going to eat me?”

Argos thought for a moment, then shook his furry head. “No,” he said, as he stood with a feline stretch. “You’re far too loud to eat. It wouldn’t do at all. No, I think I’ll simply wait. When you are less loud, and when I am ready, then I’ll eat you.” He could see the elephant wanted to protest, but looking at his sharp fangs, she could only shrink back and be grateful that she hadn’t been eaten already. He broke the silence with a question of his own: “What’s your name, elephant?”

Fuddlewump thought hard about her response. She didn’t like her name, and she was certain that if he knew he might just eat her out of spite. “My name is Ellie,” she lied.

Argos circled around her then, his discerning eyes discerning that not all was as it seemed. He looked Fuddlewump up and down, side to side, over and under, and in the end sighed. “That’s interesting,” he said. “You don’t look like a Ellie. I do, however, look like an Argos, for that is what I am. Go on then, elephant. Go about your noisy business. I’ll just follow.”

Fuddlewump frowned, but in the end all she could do was relent, for Argos was very strong, and she was very timid. “Perhaps I am too loud,” she thought, remembering her roar from just moments ago. “Maybe I’m just too noisy for friends.”

And so she went about her day as only an anxious, too-loud elephant could: she stepped carefully though the forest, trying not to rustle the trees and cringing each time she heard the low thud of her massive feet; she considered rolling in the mud to cool off but feared that the splashing would be too disruptive; she ate fruits she found along the way, but avoided the juiciest ones in case she let her excitement get the best of her. It was a long, careful day, and ever present was Argos, watching and listening with a knowing grin.

When finally Fuddlewump returned to her soft, warm bed of moss, the tiger was still with her. Worried, she asked him: “Now what?”

“Now,” said Argos, “we sleep. Perhaps I will eat you in the morning.”

As he disappeared into the trees, Fuddlewump was not at all assured, and so she struggled to fall into a fitful sleep. Was she still too loud for friends? Was she going to get eaten tomorrow? Would anyone care if she did? Plagued by her apprehensions, she once again struggled to dream. For dreams were sacred things, and easily frightened. Only darkness kept her company that night; a sheer cover pulled over her head to provide a hollow promise of safety from those things without.

Sooner than she expected, but later than she’d have liked, that same darkness overcame her as she descended finally into slumber. When the night was done and the sun once more peeked through the thick canopy above, Argos was waiting, his tiger teeth gleaming behind his tiger smile.

 Fuddlewump didn’t scream this time, though part of her wanted to. She wished that the tiger had merely been a bad dream; a nasty, stinky dream that forced its way into her special space when she wasn’t looking. But he wasn’t a dream, even if he was nasty. No, her dreams would never allow him in, and so it was that in reality she was face to face with a vicious predator, and it was in reality that she could be eaten at any moment.

“So,” she asked. “Is today the day?”

Argos chuckled as he looked his prey up and down, side to side, over and under once again. He thought long and hard, but eventually shook his furry head. “No,” he said. “You’re far too big to eat. It wouldn’t do at all. No, I think I’ll simply wait. When you are less big, and when I am ready, then I’ll eat you.”

The familiar refrain was hardly comforting to Fuddlewump, who cast a sad gaze at her sizable rump and mammoth feet. “Perhaps I am too big,” she thought. “Maybe I’m just too fat for friends.” With a sigh she looked back to Argos, patiently waiting. He didn’t say anything else, but she knew that he wasn’t going to leave. He would keep following her until he decided it was time.

And so she went about her day as only an anxious, too-big elephant could: she went to get water, and patiently waited for the other animals to have their fill just in case she stepped on one; she walked through the paths of the forest, pausing at each juncture to question whether or not she would fit through the space; she helped baby birds get back into their nests high in the trees, for if she was too big the least she could do was help something too little. It was a long, humble day, and ever present was Argos, watching and listening with a knowing grin.

When finally Fuddlewump returned to her soft, warm bed of moss, the tiger was still with her. This time, however, she didn’t talk to him for fear of what he might say. After all, he’d already revealed so much about her: too loud, too big… What was next? The tired elephant didn’t want to know. “Eat me, or don’t. Do as you wish. I’m going to sleep.”

Argos simply watched and waited, slowly blending into the forest as the cover of darkness once again enveloped them both. She didn’t hope for dreams this night, for she felt she didn’t deserve them. The dreams were special things, and she felt very unspecial. No, the dreams would find someone more deserving. Fuddlewump wanted only to forget.

And forget she did, if only briefly, for the next thing she knew morning was upon her, and as he had been the day before Argos was simply upon his haunches, poised for whatever tigery thing he wished to do today. The elephant sighed, wondering if perhaps he’d eat her now. Was she quiet enough? Small enough? Did it even really matter?

She turned and nestled back into her moss, leaving the tiger to contemplate.

“Have you tired of our game already, elephant?”

Fuddlewump merely shook her head. “I’m simply tired, perhaps of the game, perhaps of everything else. You won’t even use my name. I gave it to you and you just tossed it aside.”

Argos laughed then, a deep, rumbly thing. “You gave me nothing, elephant, though I asked. It made you a much quieter thing. Not loud at all.”

Fuddlewump, confused now, rolled over and stared incredulously at her foe. Seeing her bewilderment, he continued:

“Two days ago I said you were far too loud to eat, and you were. But the truth is the loudest voice of all, and you chose to silence it. Actions, too, speak loudly, and as I watched you yours told me much. Perhaps it was all I needed, but our journey had only just begun.

“Yesterday I said that you were far too big to eat, and you were. But even though you are an elephant, and elephants take up so much space, it’s your heart that was the biggest. You never tried to push me away, even though you tried so hard to push away yourself. You put yourself at the service of others, even though they asked nothing of you.

“On both days I said that I would eat you when I’m ready, and so I shall. But I may never be ready, and for now I don’t want to be. As a tiger I could fill my belly many times over if I ate your flesh, but in the end the cost would be too great. You are too loud, too big, too special.

“So no, Fuddlewump. Today is not the day. It may never be. This is the way of things. All that’s left is for you to see it too.”

Fuddlewump could only stare, shock overwhelming her elephant brain as she tried to come to terms with what Argos had said. Her truth? Her actions? Her heart? Why was this happening?

She watched him closer and closer, and soon the tiger began to glow, seeming to become one with the air around him. She wanted to call out, to beg  for him to stay and give her the answer she so desperately sought, but the words would not come. She knew, deep within herself, that they would not make a difference. And it was then she remembered:

Dreams were sacred things. They were an escape from her sad and lonely reality, and they allowed her to be whatever she wanted to be. They let her break free from the fear and anxiety that ruled her life. They gave her hope for the future, and reconciliation for the past. Dreams were quiet and warm, soft and bright. Dreams were wishes unwished and truths unspoken.

As she watched Argos fade away, she understood. She saw him for what he was for the first time.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I will never stop dreaming.”

Thing 46: Describe Exultation

"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self."
~Ernest Hemingway

So yes, I came across that quote while watching Kingsman: The Secret Service, but somehow I feel as if that doesn't make it less pertinent. Self improvement is something I've pursued for many years now, and I think it's incredibly important. I further believe that mister Hemingway phrased the importance is this pursuit in more eloquent a manner than I might ever have been able to manage. Hearing in again has inspired me to actively work on trying to be more accountable. As such, I'm going to attempt to author a new post here at least once every other day. Primarily this is to practice my craft, for whatever that's worth, but I also think that having some concrete and consistent responsibility helps to build character. If you read this and happen to know me outside of this blog, keep me accountable.

We both know I need it.

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Thing 46: Describe Exultation

I had to look up that word. I think my vocabulary's rather good, but nobody's perfect. Personal development!

In any case, I decided that this time around I wasn't going to make a proper story of things, but rather I'd simply try my hand at meeting the requirements of the passage using a more normal sort of approach. After all, not everything's a story, and sometimes information should be dispensed in other ways. This harkens back to the discussion about different learning styles... But I digress.

My purpose for this entry is to describe a word, and I'm going to do that by telling youa bit about my last few months. I'll spare you the details here; not because I don't think they're interesting or because I wish to hide anything, but because there are others parties involved and it would be unfair to them if they were so publicly ousted. It's their tale as much as it is mine, and I haven't the right to tell it on their behalf.

What I will say is that some time not so long ago I because aware of some news which was, at the time, incredibly upsetting for me. In essence, a lot of things that I thought were real turned out to be false, and I had no way of coming to terms with that reality at the time. When I tried to open discussion on the matter and obtain some measure of closure, things became markedly worse. It looked as if one of my best friends would be gone from my life forever.

Needless to say, I did not take this situation very well, and sank into a fairly dark state of mind.

I had two fairly important solaces at this time which stopped things from escalating further. The first was my writing. When things become truly awful, I find that simply transcribing my thoughts can be incredibly cathartic, and it serves as a huge help. At the end of that week, I had no less than six pages of some of the darkest and most depressing work to ever find its way to paper through my hands. It was actually fairly well-written, and I considered publishing it here for that reason alone, but in the end I decided against it in small part because I didn't want people to be concerned, but in larger part to protect the interests of the other parties.

The second solace was my job. I'm very lucky to have found employment with a wonderful company here (Local Line! Check us out (after we launch the new version of our app next week)!). It's web development, which I swore I would one day put behind me, but the work is interesting and the team is both incredibly talented and incredibly supportive. I happened to formally start with the company a mere week after that fateful revelation of mine, and so I retreated into my labour with gusto. For the next month it became the absolute best part of my life, and I shudder to think what might have become of me if the job was a soul-crushing one. I'm grateful every day for the opportunity.

But again I digress. The point I'm meandering toward here is that I was at a very dark point in my life. Despite the job and my writing I could lose entire days merely by thinking about the friend I thought I'd lost. It's amazing how heartbreak can utterly consume you, like a viscid shadow oozing over your soul and blocking out any hope of one day seeing the light again. It was awful.

But, this brings us back to the purpose of the piece itself: exultation.

Very, very recently I found out that all was not lost. I reconnected with that friend, and they expressed interest in once again becoming part of my life. This, my dear friends, is exultation. A quick Google search defines is as "a feeling of triumphant elation or jubilation; rejoicing." And let me tell you, those words made my heart soar. To them it was likely nothing, but to me it was if my world suddenly stopped falling apart. That maybe -- just maybe -- there was something to look forward to.

Exultation is knowing that friendship did not die. Exultation is learning that many of the horrible things you thought about yourself might be wrong. Exultation is waking up and thinking that things will get better.

Here's to being optimistic for the first time in years, in thinking I might not be wrong.

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.”

Thing 40: Describe each member of your family with just one word

Hey all. It's currently 3:05 AM, EST. I guess it's time for a new blog post. Why not, right? Hopefully I'll fix up my sleep patterns when school starts up again, but for now I get some of my best work done at odd hours in the morning.

As a reminder, this is Thing 40, so my next entry will be a STORY CHALLENGE! I don't have many suggestions at the moment, so please send me your ideas! It's not much of a story if nobody participates.

Anyway, on with the literary exercise...

Thing 40: Describe each member of your family with just one word

Darn it, I hate these kind of restrictions. One word is woefully insufficient to sum up any type of person, and I think it is an insult to their complexity. I'm going to fudge this just a touch and select my word, but I will follow up with a justification for that word.

I'm also going to stick with just my immediate family, who I grew up with, as truth be told I don't know my half brothers and sisters very well. I'm not enough of a people person to have reached out to them enough to become particularly close. That's not to say I don't love or respect them as family, because truly I do. It's just that I don't have enough information for my analysis to be valid.

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

Who: My father, Alfred Aquilina
Word: Rich
Why: I should clarify that this is not rich in the monetary sense, but rather in the context of a rich history. My father likes things that are old; especially boats, military heirlooms, and Maltese historical sites. Things and places with a noteworthy past draw him in and pique his fascination.

Ships appeal to his idea of freedom and exploration. He loves the idea drifting across the ocean on a small vessel, and seeks the stories that such vessels may have experienced.

Military heirlooms appeal to his sense of duty and his curiosity into human nature. Our family has a long history of military service (for example: http://www.militarybruce.com/unpublished-news/centralia-sam.html), and so military history holds a special place in his heart. His fascination with military artifacts pays homage to the sacrifice that soldiers make for their country.

Maltese historical sites appeal to his sense of family and his nostalgia for the land of his birth. Malta is a small country with a huge history, and for the first ten years of his life, my father called it home. It's not often he has the opportunity to return and visit the relatives that stayed behind, but he loves his country, and seeks nostalgiac escapes whenever he can.

History, to my father, the is lifeblood of a people. Where we have been moulds who we are today, and so one cannot move forward without first looking back. His passion for his career (social work) stems from his desire to understand and help people. This passion has led him to publish a book which is sometimes used as a textbook in northern communities (http://www.amazon.ca/Mackenzie-yesterday-beyond-Alfred-Aquilina/dp/0888390831) and has him working diligently to prepare another that will explore the history of our family back to its roots.

For these reasons, my father is "rich." Rich in history, and rich in character.

Who: My mother, Mercedes Aquilina
Word: Difficult
Why: Sorry mom, but we both know it's true! My mother has led a fairly difficult life, and has battled innumerable health issues over the years. Her most recent and most severe battle is against Parkinson's disease. While she is fighting bravely, her road is not an easy one, and each day provides a new set of challenges to overcome.

A host of other issues have also severely restricted her diet, making food a sore issue most of the time. I often joke that my mother has a food-free diet, which isn't too large a stretch from the truth. No wheat, no dairy, no sugar, no meat. Finding a meal that she can eat without suffering side effects makes Waldo look like he's wearing a flood light in an empty field.

So yes, my mother is difficult, but it's not really her fault. Life's dealt her a bit of a blow (from first-world standards, anyway), and she's doing her best to roll with the punches. (P.S. - I had to think pretty hard about how to say this without mixing metaphors. I don't think I did a very good job.)

Who: My Brother, Vincent Aquilina
Word: Passionate
Why: The easiest explanation for this choice would be my brother's music. His band, the Faraway Neighbours (http://farawayneighbours.com/), has been a huge part off his life for years now. Working as a cook to pay the bills, he's toiled day and night to craft his sound into something unique and wonderful, and the boys have built something they're very proud of. Their first album was recorded, produced, and mastered entirely on their own in their off hours, and they're trying desparately to get their second out to the adoring public. You can read a little more about this particular passion on their CBC feature (http://music.cbc.ca/#/artists/Faraway-Neighbours).

But music is just one facet of his life. Vince, like myself, was taught to treat every responsibility as an important one. When he sets his mind to something, he will give it his all, and he'll make sure that the job is done right. Take one look at his immaculate workstation and you'll get a good idea of what I'm talking about. He's always willing to take the time to ensure that his station is properly cleaned and organised.

Furthermore, my brother has a passion for family. He's the guy that reaches out to our relatives because he genuinely cares what's happening in their lives. Even as I write this he's over in Saint John's attending a family wedding, 3000 kilometers from where he's made his home. It doesn't matter that it's inconvenient; what does matter is family. We didn't particularly like each other as kids (to be fair, I was not likable), but he would always come to my aid when I needed it. I'd often lie through my teeth and he would be there to pick up the pieces.

For these reasons, Vince is "passionate."

Who: The late Ice, our family dog (second in my lifetime)
Word: Naiive
Why: To be honest, this would describe most dogs, but I think my cute little dog was a special kind of adorable stupid. (For reference: http://imgur.com/VB3dPJN)

Ice was not a strong learner. It's possible we were horrible teachers, but I think we'd had him for five years before he could sit on command. once he eventually learned how to shake a paw he would do it whenever anyone came close, out of what I expect was sheer enthusiasm. By the time we had to put him down he still hadn't learned to to lie down, or to stay out of the kitchen. Part of me wants to chalk this up to excessive eagerness, but in the end I just don't think he was clever enough to grasp what we were trying to tell him.

The best example of his ignorance was probably his nosebleeds. There was a winter one year when his diet seemed to be lacking something, and as a result his nose would get incredibly dry. Every so often, this dryness would cause a bit of a nosebleed, where the tiniest of cracks would appear on the tip of his nose and a miniscule but steady stream of blood would shoot out. Despite our best efforts to contain him, he would start licking up the trail of blood, which kept expanding in front of him because it was coming out of his face. He'd follow this trail in circles all around our landing, and we' have to follow him around cleaning up the mess and trying to get him to stop moving so much until the bleeding stopped. This happened (at least) seven or eight times that winter, and every time he would react in exactly the same way, completely surprised. It was both hilarious and frustrating.

Despite all of this, we loved the poor guy. Being the terrible person that I was, I certianly didn't show it as well as I should have, but that never stpped him from coming back. I spent more time yelling at him to shut up than showing affection, but he was always happy to see me. Now that I know better I have a deep respect for that kind of innocent love. He didn't remember the bad stuff -- he just knew that we were his family, and he loved us unconditionally.

Sadly, we had to put him down a few years ago, as he had a host of illnesses and his life was becoming really difficult, but I'll always have a special place for him in my heart, naiivity and all.

Thing 39: If each decade of your life was represented by a pop song, what would they be?

And so it continues. Writing these has been a really interesting experience for me, and I'm a little upset that I don't have the motivation to continue doing so regularly. In any case, I'll do my best to make my writing interesting when I do get around to it.

speaking of which, we're on Thing 39, so the next story challenge is coming up! That means I'm looking for suggestions about what I should include. Feel free to leave a comment below with a few topics that you'd like to see included!

Thing 39: If each decade of your life was represented by a pop song, what would they be?

Well, that's a bit disappointing. I've only had 2.2 decades thus far. Furthermore, a lot can change in 10 years, so I don't think a period of that granularity is really an apt representation of the time therein. Rather than follow this verbatim, I'm going to express my life in stages of varying periods.

Note that the songs I choose will likely not be perfect. I've got a pretty decent library (a little over 9000 (nice.) songs on my computer) with a decent amount of variety, but finding a song that describes something so intricate and complex as a human life with any degree of accuracy is pretty much impossible.

In any case, I'll give it a shot.

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

So one day, I was born. It wasn't really that important an event in the grand scheme of things. Hell, I was the eighth child between my parents, and I'm told my birth was incredibly uneventful as births go. All in all, my birth means nothing.

But here I am.

So it didn't mean much, but it happened. What is important about this event is that it started my journey. Without it, I wouldn't be here today. All that I've known, felt, accomplished, would not exist. And I was not alone. I had my parents to guide me, to fill my empty head with ideas and sounds and hope.

For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with the intro track from Aquaria's official soundtrack, written by Alex Holowka.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4g_k333NWM

...

So then I began to grow. I'm told I was a cute child, which I suppose is a matter of interpretation. Regardless, I did have an incredibly vivid imagination. This is a trait I'm particular proud of, and that I retain to this day. I dreamt big -- really big. I wanted to be an inventor, and start a bar in a double-decker bus. I wanted to be a powerful wizard and fight evil in Power World.

At this time I was still pretty innocent; just a naiive child learning all he could about the world around him. Reality didn't mean a whole lot back then.

For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Ellie Goulding's Starry Eyed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBf2v4mLM8k

...

So then the evil set in. I was a terrible, terrible child.

Now at this point you're probably chalking this up to "kids being kids" or some other such nonsense. To put it bluntly, you're wrong.

I was a terrible, terrible child.

This was not my parents' fault. They taught me well enough, and I had a loving home.

I was a terrible, terrible child.

First and foremost, I was angry at everything. Always. I portrayed this anger with yelling, and violence, and indignation. I can't remember a day when I didn't scream about something. I would throw my schoolbag around. I would yell and cry.

And there was no good reason.

I was a terrible, terrible child.

Secondly, I was entitled. I was pretty intelligent for a kid my age (or at least, I knew more than my peers at that stage), and by god did I ever milk that. I thought the world belonged to me, and I was PISSED when others disagreed. And I was selfish. Oh, was I ever selfish. I would fly into a fit of rage if somebody didn't stop whatever they were doing to cater to my whim.

I was a terrible, terrible child.

That phase lasted a long time. It's sort of like the dark age of my life thus far.

For this reason, I  would describe this  part of my life with a fairly obvious choice: Down With The Sickness, by Disturbed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzxuknbQ5VY

...

So then I realised what a horrible person I was. I started making actual friends for a change, and I legitimately wanted to become better. In grades seven and eight I thought that one day, with a little work, I might actually become a decent human being.

I'm not sure what it was that made me open my eyes, but I knew I had to make a change. I couldn't help but be ashamed by what I'd left behind, but there was hope.

There was always hope.

For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Hot Chip's I Feel Better.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GOZjlwIwfk

And because the music video's a bit weird, he's the song on its own.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-Y07r8n6W4

...

So then I got to high school, where two pretty important things happened.

First, I met a girl, and I became (unhealthily) obsessed with her for 4 years.

Second, I realised I was still the same conceited bastard I used to be, but with a bit of a better mask.

This realisation didn't really sink in until closer to my graduation, but despite my big talk I knew deep down that I wasn't doing all that I could. In fact, I wasn't doing much of anything. I did get straight A's in highschool (except for a 78 in grade 10 history), if I actually gave a damn I could have done significantly better. I wasn't involved in anything extracurricular, and when I made friends it was more of an accident than anything else. I seemed to think that because I was in IB I was better than everybody else. It hits you pretty hard when you realise just how wrong you are about something. (P.S. - I'm pretty sure grade 10 was the first time in my life that I ever said "I was wrong.")

I suppose you'll want to know more about the girl... There's not much to tell, really. I fell in lust with a girl who I found to be incredibly attractive, and I put her on an impossible pedestal. I thought she was perfect. The more I learned about her, the more I realised that she was anything but, and I began to hate myself. As terrible as I thought she was, I still saw myself as worse, and I sunk into a deep depression. I hated myself both for liking her so much (I called it love) and for not being good enough for her.

High school had some high points, but it was a very sad time for me.

For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Korn's Liar. There are a few reasons for this, but I'll let you figure those out on your own.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8H-JK5AdlXw

...

So then I started university. For a very short time, I was genuinely happy.

A very short time.

For this reason, I would describe this part of my life with Tool's Intermission.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSvtGQUqldA

Alternatively, having turned over a bit of a new leaf, Hey Ocean!'s I Am A Heart may also be fitting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oWlcImcS6A

...

So then reality hit. It wasn't long before UW began to jade me. I began to resent a lot of things, and the depression came creeping back.

The bittersweet edge of this depression was perspective. I'd lived a number of pretty powerful emotions up to now, and it left me with a very strong understanding of who I am and what needed to change. My strengths and my faults all became abundantly clear to me, and the path I needed to take was fairly well-lit.

The heart of the matter is that I am not happy with myself. I haven't been for a very long time.

But, I know I also have some redeeming qualities to counteract the not-so-redeeming ones. My goal is to cultivate those qualities, and one day became every bit of the man I know I should be; the man who lives the qualities I preach.

For this reason, I would describe this part of my life -- the most recent, heartwrenching chapter -- with Imagine Dragon's Demons. I can think of no better representation than this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSoIWEGL1YM

So there you have it. This musical interlude isn't a particularly happy one, but at least it's honest.