Lupine Bridge: A collection of poems and prose

Immortal Flesh, Mortal Bindings

2011-02-04T01:58:00.000-08:00

So very long ago, that time itself had yet to be, the ifrit dwelled within their cities of brass and fire. Their power was great and terrible; they grew wise in strange magics and entertained themselves with the suffering of smaller, weaker things. When time came to be, and humanity eventually became known to these cruel spirits of living flame, they looked with a hungry eye towards the frail, ever-so-mortal creatures, eager to find some new sport with which to occupy their endless days and nights.

Nasrin was a gentry of the ifrit and particularly cruel, even by their immortal standards. Crossing the farthest dunes and passing through vicious oases of barbs, she crossed into the human realm, seeking her pleasures in the torments of merchants caught in greed, maidens in jealousy, children in curiousity, and others still. Upon the Material, she would visit them in the small hours of the night, and make available to them her services, and her vast power, all to the end of granting the foremost desire of each wish, but twist it upon itself in such a way as to bring utter destruction and ruin to the wisher.

Nasrin came and went as she pleased from the Material to the City of Brass, sowing pain and misery with such wild abandon that their broken hopes and wishes rained down like sweet nectar upon the desert sands and that strange, wild blooms sprouded wherever the shattered dreams fell. So great was Nasrin's fame that it became known even amongst mortal chroniclers of the otherworldly, and a nameless, but wise, man conspired to ensnare the vicious spirit in a web of her own making.

For several years, the merchant-scholar pondered every possible avenue of this wish. Every dark end to which the ifrit might bend anything that he requested, and he perfected his words-smith in such ways as never had been seen outside of mages of the highest rank. When all was said and done, the scroll upon which the man's wish was written trailed from his hand to the floor, and its intention, so tightly woven that none of the spirit's malice could possibly slip through the pattern of its threads. While he could not unmake the creature's evil entirely, it was possible to confine her and so limit her power to work wickedness only upon those caught by her seductive promises.

After that followed long months of pursuit, wherein the scholar-merchant followed a trail of destroyed lives, and devastated leavings of wishes turned spiteful and sour. Here he found the funerary procession of a prince who had hanged himself for the cost of freedom from an unwanted betrothal. There, he puzzled through the barely coherent mutterings of a prostitute whose mind could not bear the weight of the price of her vengeance upon the man who had carved her face into such shapes. Still further, he broke fast with a heartbroken father who learned only too late what had come of his longing for his son to return home from a faraway war. Each of Nasrin's sins, he studied within his mind, and within his heart, taking the measure of the noble's monstrousness.

At last, among the ruins of a civilization long since fallen, the merchant-scholar found Nasrin, and, as was her way, she offered to grant unto him the foremost wish of his heart. An offer he readily accepted. When she asked whatever it was he had desired, the young man unrolled his scroll, and began to recite the command he had so painstakingly created. By the tenth word, Nasrin's eyes went wide with vicious seething and horror, for she knew the man's intention but was forbidden by her nature either to interrupt or to refuse. Even as he continued to speak, the ifrit was compelled to fashion out of her magic a crystalline bottle and stopper, and began to pour the totality of her being and magic into the vessel. She shrieked ugly words born of pain and fury, though the man listened to neither her maledictions nor her desperate pleas. Nasrin offered to make the man a king, but still he read. She promised him a mountain of coins, but he still did not desist. She told him she could make him immortal and like unto one of the ifrit in power, but he had no ear for her deceptions....

And so it was that Nasrin was captured by a mortal man.

Eventually, the man became filled with sorrow for his captive. For the first time in her life, the ifrit had been bested, and possibly permanently. She flew into rages, crying out at the man who had trapped her. He did not waver. She would sneer, taunting him from her glass chamber. He did not waver. She would tempt and promise, eventually devolving into begging and pleading. He did not waver.

However, one day, the wind blew just so, from the south; tinged with heat, dry, and carrying the scent of exotic flowers. The ifrit grew calm, and a hint of a smile curved her lips, and it became clear to the man that the things that reminded her of home brought a measure of peace to her inhuman heart. He became entranced, and allowed her to dance among the dunes of Toril's deserts, to savor the fruits plucked freshly from the trees of forgotten oases, content to watch her happiness. Nevertheless, every time her brief respite was ended, she would resume her solemnity and anger, becoming more and more spiteful, more and more hateful. The merchant-scholar's heart cracked softly, and offered her a semblance of release, and wished for the ifrit's hand in marriage.

The ifrit was furious, of course, but, powerless to resist. She then set up a series of labors for her merchant suitor, quests ridiculous in of themselves from the sheer scope of them. She had him fetching from the vines of the deepest reaches of the Cormanthor a fruit that brings certain death with a single taste. He was set to forging, in a day, the sharpest sword in the world from steel alloyed out of elements that had never touched Toril before. All tasks nigh impossible, but ultimately able to be accomplished.

And when he accomplished this, he was transported into the inmost paradise of her prison, and a celebration of nearly unfathomable scope unfolded, merging immortal flesh to mortal bindings...

Narishka slowly shut the book. I never thought you for such an embellisher, father, Narishka thought offhandedly, sweeping her hand across the thick, embossed leather of the old tome.

And the man succeeded, of course. Where would the story be if the protagonist failed? Even if he was trying to wed the antagonist, they painted Nasrin as quite the prize.

Narishka tiptoed her fingers across the spine of the book, and quietly slipped it into her bag, away from the shelf where she had found it. A blaze of pride shot through her chest, and she could feel her heart swell a bit. She was one step closer to finding her mother.

Sourange

2011-01-20T11:36:00.000-08:00

Joel La Belle-Feé did not think himself a very complex man. Certainly, there were things that separated him from the others in Marias d'Sablet, but that was basic variation in life. No, he thought himself rather practical, when he had the time to be speculative on his life, usually sitting upon the porch of his home, outside of the local mausoleum. Strange, that his lot in life would be intrinsically linked to death, although he supposed that was also one variation in life that stayed the same--the currency of the country were named by monuments of death, toothchips, fingerbones, and gravestones. Mind you, Joel always earned his gravestones well, and honestly, as he was the caretaker of the mausoleum.

In Marias d'Sablet--or Sourange, as others outside of the place itself would call it--the swamp ruled the lives of those who lived there. It would figure that the swamp would still have its hold over those who had died, as well, as the influx of swampwater prevented any sort of normal burial within the country's soil--they would just wash up again several days later. Thus, all the dead of Sourange were stored within mausoleums, which were the closest to holy places one could get in the swamp. Most were beautiful, in their own way. Joel took special pride in his own, as his fellows and he had carved out the tomb themselves, making it their own way to honor their dead, after they had finished their trek to the place. The mausoleum's stone was culled from mountains outside of Marias d'Sablet, and they brought it here.

Then they left. Joel did not know exactly where, but some of them spread out. Others left altogether, never heard from again. He chose to stay with the mausoleum, as a caretaker. A guardian--after all, that is what he was supposed to be, no?

The mausoleum itself was a large thing, extensive. His family had been thorough--there were secret entryways, exits, and almost every sort of artistic carving you could think of. The archways into the crypts were large, lustrous white, with heavy iron doors and carvings of angels with large, feathered wings. Joel often would patrol the grounds of the crypts, or inside, making sure that theives or ne'er-do-wells did not interrupt the repose of the dead inside. For his work, he was paid in gravestones (he still chuckled at the thought), and he lived simply.

And then everything changed.

Venice

2011-01-02T10:16:00.000-08:00

Her mother told her dreams want to be real, that when one starts to wake up, they hang on and try to slip out into the waking world when you do not notice. Very strong dreams, she had said, can almost do it--those that last for almost half a day, but not much longer. Venetia asked her if any ever made it. If any dreams had actually stolen out into the real world, like one of the rhyming thieves of the smoke-and-mist filled city that her father had once talked of.

She had smiled, and said, she knew at least of one. She had that longing, tired look in her eyes that made Venetia think of her father. Her mother always looked like that when she talked of him.

Venetia was small, she could have not been any more than five. In all her childish innocence and curiousity, she asked who, and did she know them?

Her mother simply smiled, and said that it was a long time ago, and Venetia wouldn't remember.

Foam, Part 2

2010-05-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

Egeria wondered a moment in the darkness, which was odd for her. Sea foam does not wonder, oftentimes. She heard the rushing of the waves, and felt the sea changing, pressure increasing. After a time, perhaps an hour, perhaps a few minutes, she felt the cold start to creep in through the jaws of the large creature she seemed to be inhabiting at the moment. Only now did it occur to her that the creature was acting out of the ordinary--usually, she would have been popped and swirled about in the creature's mouth. So far, it had only popped the few bubbles it had gotten at the beginning, and it took care not to move its tongue too much. She pondered at this a moment before going back to resting, thinking of nothing.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the jaws of the beast opened, and the sea foam once known as Egeria flowed out into the cold waters of the deep sea, slowly starting to rise back to the surface.
Now that she was able to see, she took the chance to look around, vaguely curious. The creature that had carried her was a large thing, all fins and rough skin and teeth. It swished her about as it swam away, and she spun in several circles until she felt weightless. But then, she always felt weightless.
Suddenly, a voice echoed in her mind.
Hello, mermaid princess.
She paused a moment, and wondered vaguely how she would reply, as she were sea foam. It then occurred to her that sea foam also have no eyes, and couldn't see. Everything around her went black almost instantly, and she would have frowned, if she could.
It is alright. You may speak with me, here.
The voice was unlike anything she knew she'd ever experienced, as if some unspeakable rule were being broken here, that the voice belonged to something strange and terrible, that the being speaking was something that no human could comprehend.
But to a bit of sea foam, this was no matter.
Who are you?
The voice paused a moment, either surprised or thinking. Egeria couldn't guess which.
I am... a god of the sea. Little sea foam. You speak so insolently.
Well, yes, but sea foam doesn't thi--

The deity sighed, granting the sea foam sentience again.
Ah, no. Most sea foam doesn't think, I suppose, but you do.
Do I? Then.. I must not be sea foam.
No... And, quite frankly, Egeria, you are not sea foam, nor do I want you as sea foam in my sea, anymore.
Oh. Then what will you do to me?

There was no answer, but Egeria felt something happening. At her core. It was as singular thought, and it bothered the little sea foam, and she tried to figure it out, but could not, not quite yet, grasp it...

I... am.

She felt the tiniest parts of her existence fizzling, changing. The bubbles began popping, and where they disappeared, flesh grew. Instead of water and air, there was mass and muscle. Instead of nonexistent eyes, she had glorious sight, and, as she looked around, Egeria saw that she was rising, rising, quickly, out of the water, towards the surface, at a terrifying speed.

And what a thrill it was, for her first time having blood, feeling the tension that felt as if you were falling, instead of rising up.

Egeria burst out of the water, falling onto the shore of a sandy riverbed, gasping, naked. She paused to look at the sky, to look at the water, to look at her surroundings. And then, she did something she had not done in decades.

She cried.

Aftermath of a Backstabber, Partner to Flying Narwhal's Story

2010-02-20T21:24:00.000-08:00

Serci fumbled with the plant. She could barely remember the last time she was this nervous, and she knew exactly why. Him. It was always him that found the weak spot, that found the crack in her armor, her wall that she put up around herself. Anyone else, she could brush off easily, scare them away, even as a kid. She had enjoyed her self-imposed exile, too. It had made life easier. And then Joe had come along and complicated things. If it were anyone else, it would make her angry. Since it was Joe, though...
Serci! Look what I found!
Her heart hurt again, craved for the times when she could protect him, and he would protect her in return. Now look how they were. She protected him best she could (which had turned out to not be as well as she thought, and misconstrued for a blasted item, instead of what really mattered....), and he probably plotted her own death as she sat here, feeling around the greenery for Lougdol berries. She found none, and flushed under the hood, feeling embarrassed. Wasn't the forest supposed to be her specialty?
Stupid, stupid.. Why are you worried about how you look to him, when he is going to kill you eventually?
She bit her lip at her inner voice. She knew it was right, and logically, she shouldn't do this... feel these things, or even think these thoughts. She didn't deserve to, for one, and she didn't want to, for another. She didn't even dare that he would ever... No, that was a ridiculous idea.
She was completely aware of him behind her, and wondered why he'd put off killing her for so long. Maybe he was lost, and needed someone to guide him around until he got a lay of the land? Or may hap he hadn't wanted to kill her so near Alvarilja. Indeed, it would be a deserved killing, and she found herself worrying that Alvarilja would take his actions in the wrong way, instead of knowing the truth--that he was avenging himself, instead of murdering. She wondered if there was a way to get Alvarilja to understand what would happen when she died, before she died, so that Joe would not suffer the consequences.
You're crazy, you know, to think that. Your pining is making your thoughts fuzzy. She bit her lip again, knowing her inner voice was right. Again.
She picked up a small, almond-shaped seed from below the plant, however, and croaked out a sentence, her voice scratchy.
"Ah, well... Found a seed, though." She smiled to herself, despite the situation. Maybe Joe could plant this later...
She put it in a bag of other seeds that she had marked his name on, for when they got back to Alvarilja. "Let's see.. Deeper into the forest, or back?" She wondered what he would choose. If he said deeper into the forest, what would happen there..? It was already late, as it was. The sun would set soon.
"Deeper, perhaps." She trembled at his reply, somewhat happy, and started leading him deeper into the forest.
"Alright, then. Then, back?" She wondered momentarily why she was happy with his reply. All her survival instincts told her logically that he was probably leading her away from society to kill her and hide her. Deeper in the forest, no one would find the rotting limbs of a half-elven woman. Deeper in the forest, no one would disturb her again, except maybe Joe, occasionally. Something about that made her a little at-ease. If she were to die, she would want Joe to know. It might give him closure.
"Mmm."
She wondered at the thousand meanings behind that momentary grunt, for minutes on end. The majority of those were bad. They continued in relative silence, until Serci heard a rustle in the leaves. Soft, sounding like something dragged their foot through leaves. She paused a moment, and drew the bow from her back, bending it and stringing it, a practiced action, thoughtless by now. She murmured back to Joe, crouching a bit into a defensive stance, elbows out, taut. "Careful.."
"Why?" She couldn't help it--she smiled at his response, and then saw a small flash of green. Instinctively, without thinking, she loosed arrows at it. She cursed at herself in her head.
Always, always get a good look first, you idiot!
Luckily for her, this time, it was a forest goblin. She eased herself with that, but reminded herself that next time, she may not be lucky, and could have accidentally taken a life. She glanced back at Joe, and reminded herself what that felt like.
It felt like shattered, hot iron, pressed up between her ribs, forcing them open, and stabbing her through her heart. She looked down, swallowing bile, and moved to go examine some mushrooms near a tree, looking for the few that were edible, just in case.
"Ah. You're quite good at this." She paused at the praise, tensing and starting to put up a wall.
"Not... really." She cringed a bit, remembering what good she had been..
"No?" Serci paused a moment, and decided to bask in the praise, just a little. It wouldn't hurt, to pretend for a moment, that he wasn't going to kill her, that she'd never abandoned him, that they could be friends again. She was silent for a few moments, before she pointed towards the mushrooms.
"This is called Redfoot.. None I can salvage, though. ...And, no." She paused a moment, and it hit her--she could may hap find a measure of peace, as well as give Joe his own peace, as well, maybe... "I was..." She bit her lip, thinking over how to explain it to him. Strange, how such a pivotal role in her life was so hard to explain to the more important role. "...Entrusted. To protect something, is all."
She immediately started bemoaning her words in her head. The only thing she should have been protecting, she had run away from. She loathed herself. She tried to save her words, pulling out that damn spear from the bag, showing it to him. Even now, the blasted thing hummed softly with magic. The spear's head was styled like a sunburst, an intricate, almost torturously complex design carved into it, the haft engraved in Elven. She glanced along it, for the first time in a very long time. Since she had... left Joe, she hadn't wanted to look at it. Day after day, she would stand at the edge of a cliff, a different one each day, overlooking the ocean, pondering if she should throw it in. Eventually, the visits diminished less and less, until she stopped going altogether. She gulped again, remembering how much she hated this thing. The most glorious spear in the history of elven weaponry.
Joe, however, was looking around, instead. "The forest?"
She croaked out, rather anti-climatically, "Namely this." She flushed, and hoped he didn't see it, ashamed that she was doing this, already. She felt like a mere child, again, trying to use something to excuse her own actions.
"Ohh." Joe seemed to look the spear over, but other than that, she couldn't tell his expression.
She sat there for a moment, and heard her heart thumping, and started talking again, her voice cracking a bit. "I... failed, in part of its protection. Or succeeded, I guess." She shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, but she knew the truth.
You failed in protecting the thing that was the most important.
She cringed as, instead of hearing her own inner voice, she heard Joe, accusing her, from so long ago. The close proximity to him made her shiver again.
"Well, you seem to wield it well." Joe, as usual, took the neutral stance. She wished she knew what he was thinking right now, craved a kind word, and sighed inwardly at herself for her own thoughts.
"..Eh.. I do not think it was meant for my hands." She shrugged, again, speaking flatly. She didn't know what to do with this thing, anymore. The most holy relic in the area, and she couldn't decide what the hell to do with it.

Foam, Part 1

2010-02-09T14:58:00.000-08:00

She was drifting, without a care for the world. The water was cold today, rough. She really should have been afraid, maybe been scared and sought self-preservation, but she really didn't care. She hadn't, not for a long, long time.
Egeria the sea foam alighted on the ocean's water. A few bubbles popped. It didn't hurt--you had to have nerves to hurt. She looked around(for it hadn't occurred to her that sea foam did not have eyes, and if it had, she would not be able to see), and saw the sky was a sort of grey, clouds lazily passing through. She wondered if someday she would float that high, become clouds. She had lost the desire to be what she had been, but secretly, she missed being able to move as freely as she once had, to be able to move to other vantages to see the sky. It had been magical, seeing the sky from under the water. Like a silver mirror.
It came to mind that she was losing her former identity, but this brought no pain. Sea foam had no feelings. She drifted along the top of the sea, being tugged about and around.
This was better.
She needed no food(for sea foam was born of bubbles), and there was no pain, not really. There was nothing but her and the sea, the freedom of her beloved water, the open sky, and the comfort of the surf. It had been like this for.. years.
How odd. Years is a sentient description.
If sea foam had lips, brain shocks, or the inclination to smile, she would have. She wondered at what sea foam would look like, smiling, until her thoughts drifted elsewhere, to the past, before she became nothing.
Beside her, she found seaweed. She decided it was a good thing to call it--seaweed. Very much like sea foam. Egeria worried if calling something very close to her own type of name was arrogant, but the thought faded, as they all did.
Without warning, a very different sort of movement happened, one that was not in time with the ocean waves. Egeria saw the sky, huge teeth, curving like... well, teeth, but she vaguely remembered something called a trident. Its points reminded her of the teeth. The jaws clamped around her, and a few of her bubbles popped, and she saw nothing, for a time.

Aftermath of a Deceiver, Partner to Flying Narwhal's Story

2010-02-02T08:25:00.000-08:00

"I'm not quite a /medical/ doctor, but I do know some techniques."
"Oh. You are a doctor?" Serci knew this already, but his comment took her aback. Techniques?
"Mhm. In Golemancy and the application thereof." Aah, yes.. That was what it was called. She remembered now. He had worked so hard to master that craft.. She smiled, remembering him spouting off theories and equations she didn't have any idea even existed, stunning even the local teachers.
I'll probably have to leave for the city college, soon..
Yeah..
Serci.. Would you care to join me?
"I see." She flushed under the hood. Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid.. She wanted to seem neural, not seem dimwitted. She bit her lip, and asked, just out of curiosity. "So... Can you use spears?" Maybe she could give it to him.. It would defend him better than she could, at any rate.
"Not particularly."
"No?" She was surprised. She'd have thought he could do anything.. But then, she supposed, if she truly thought that, she wouldn't have run away.
"The suit has its own weaponry, in any case." That it did... Her chest ached again, remembering all the times he'd stood up for her, and the one time he needed her most..
"I see.. I thought everyone could." She winced a bit at her tactless comment.
"And well, I've spent more time building than.. fighting." She looked over the nicks and scratches in the armor, and thought otherwise. She closed her eyes, strengthening her resolve to be his bodyguard, even more.
"Well, it is good that you are here, then." Serci nodded a bit, looking towards him, once more. She couldn't stop it, even if his appearance sometimes made her tremor in fear as much as wonder. He was back. She wondered where his scarf was, if he'd destroyed it, cast it over some cliff, wishing it were her, instead.
"How is that?" She couldn't help it. She smiled again, remembering how Joe would usually advocate for a no-fighting approach, but if a threat reared its head, he would throw himself headfirst into battle.
She figured that if he could see her face again, he'd have thought her mad. Maybe she was. But she was thankful for the hood, nonetheless.
"There is.. much fighting, that needs to be done, I suppose is the best way to put it." She rubbed the back of her head, looking ahead flatly. She couldn't believe herself, making inside jokes about her death like that.
"I've learned that most anything can be adapted to that purpose. This suit was originally for helping miners, people doing work in harsh climates.. It was not... hard to weaponize, when the need came." He aimed at a passing deer, raising his arm. A projectile shot from Joe's glove. It whizzed past the deer. Joe's helmet regarded this. "The targeting system needs work, though. In that, I need one that isn't just squinting one eye."
Serci wanted to chime in. Well, that's why you need me, then, I guess! It struck her that saying that would not only be incredibly rude, but also arrogant, and undeserving for her to say it. Her, of all people. She smiled at him weakly, instead, and motioned to the deer they had killed, in the meantime, knowing he wanted to practice skinning, her other hand placed on his shoulder lightly. "This one, first, and then we'll decide whether or not to kill the other one." She paused for a moment, his scent reaching her a moment. He smelled of metal, his cologne, and cloth, as well as a faint trace of sweat, from the exertion. She smiled a moment, but instead of pressing herself against him to inhale it, she took her hands back quickly, remembering that she wasn't fit to touch him. She backed away a few steps for good measure.
"Are you quite alright?" Joe looked back at her. She hoped he hadn't noticed, but then she quickly changed the subject, peering over his shoulder at the skin.
"..Ah, good job." And it was. A little ragged around the edges, but good.
"It's not a /very/ good job. But I will at least call it a job." Serci arched her eyebrows at his statement--it was better than she was likely to do, right now. However, she conceded to his point silently, deciding that she'd rather train him and then compliment him, rather than give herself away.
"Well, when we go back, I'll show you how to make it into this." She moved to hold out some leather she had treated, the day before. Her nose burned in memory, and the hide was low-quality, but it was hide, nonetheless.
"Ohhh... So, where to now?"
Serci pointed. "A foraging spot, over here... " As well as, she hoped, a camping spot, for where they might rest for the night.

Aftermath of a Deserter, Partner to Flying Narwhal's Story

2010-02-02T07:39:00.000-08:00

This was enjoyably familiar. Serci even managed a smile throughout the whole thing. It was a manic smile, but a smile, nonetheless. For a short time, before she was killed, all would be right with the world. She wondered if he would feel fulfilled, after her corpse lay in his arms. She hoped he did. And she hoped he didn't touch that blasted spear. Strange, how she hadn't thought of it 'til now. She closed her eyes for a moment and just listened. Trained instincts and senses dulled slightly, and all of her common sense screamed at her for doing it. But she just listened, to her heartbeat, and his footsteps, and the rhythm they made together. She smiled a bit wider, and felt at ease.
When she opened them, Joe was staring at her. Or so she thought, anyway, there wasn't really a way she could tell that it was her he was staring at. In fact, she was so distracted, with that, that she actually let a bandit close to him.
Senses started screaming at her again, chiding her for letting her guard down for a moment, and she moved to grab her swords from her belt, moving forward, and-
Joe's gloves crackled and snapped, and what looked like a small jolt of lightning jumped towards the man, the shock stopping him in his tracks. The man shuddered a moment from it, and fell over, twitching. Joe, however, looked completely calm, as if that happened all the time.
Her heart ached again, even as a compulsive smile started creeping back. "Do those... do that, often?" She hadn't seen him add that to the suit before, and it was extraordinary. She thought back, again.
What sort of features should it have, other than enhanced senses, do you think?
Hmm... That's a tough one. Maybe some sort of... projectile shooter, like a miniature crossbow.
That is brilliant. See why I need you around?
She shook her head a moment, in time to hear his reply.
"I would hope so, else I've made an error in their creation." The off-hand comment almost made it feel like everything was normal again. Her ears would purr if they could, from satisfaction of being able to hear his articulation, once more. His voice was like the best cure for her heart, and it swelled and hung on every word he said.
She leaned over, cutting another bandit's head off, nearly forgetting to. "Their creation?"
"The gloves! I build things, you see." His voice again. Muffled by the helm, but still low, strong, and steady. He had always been the rock she clung to while everything else around her was falling apart. Except, she remembered, her spirits becoming low again, that they had fallen apart, too. She bit her lip, an anguished cry rocketing back and forth between the walls of her mind.
Even you, Serci!?
"Ah.." Serci walked behind him, staring at his back, her very marrow sick with sorrow.
They went through the bandit house, killing four of them. She wasn't very good at sneaking past them in indoor areas--she always seemed to make the wrong moves indoors, stepping on all the creaks. Joe, however, gathered the heads that he needed, and she smiled happily.
Going back outside, she asked him, as they came to the pass. To her left, the pathway to the rivertowns, in front of her, an opening to the forest. "Hm... Forest, or pathway?"
"Your choice."
She wished he would speak more. She wished she could take off his helmet to hear him speak, but that would just end up in her kissing him, or stroking his hair..
She shook her head, deciding on the forest.
Not even five feet in, those blasted gremlins attacked them. Joe flung a bolt from the suit, hitting one and making its forehead burst like a ripe melon. She couldn't tell if that was a new addition to the suit, or a spell of his. Either one, she was incredibly proud of him. She turned, killing another. She paused a moment, peering, and saw something she had missed the first time. A slice, across his bicep.
A chill went through her and she dropped her bow, moving to take his arm, examining it carefully. It slowly knit back together, a few sparks hitting skin. She wanted to cry, and kiss him, and make sure he was alright. It occurred to her that she was overreacting, and she didn't deserve to touch him, and she whipped her hands back.
"You only have to learn the lesson of self contained healing once!" She winced at his words, and bit her lip, resolving to protect him. From here until the day she died, she would be there, no matter what. To hell with that blasted spear. She would defend him.
Even if it meant taking her murderer under her wing.

Aftermath of a Betrayer, Part Two of the Partner to Flying Narwhal's Story

2010-01-31T10:16:00.000-08:00

It's amazing, how he'd rebuilt the suit. She couldn't stop staring at it. She couldn't help but see the last time she'd seen it, metal crumpled and shattered, everywhere.
She'd watched her hero destroyed, but she hadn't done a thing. And when he'd died, her heart had shattered, pieces crumpling together. But he'd found her, somehow. Either from the grave, for vengeance... Or he had survived. And wanted to track down and kill her. She carefully made sure her hood was still on, hoping to the gods he hadn't recognized her. Thralvila's sister, the irritating wretch, had not finished the letter yet. So they stood there a moment. She thought she felt her eye twitch in annoyance.
Joe, however, merely coughed politely. He had always been softer with people, even when they were being absolutely aggravating. Then again, she had always been a wild child... And he'd always been the perfect student.
She snapped out of it, leading them away, and up towards the top, once again. "Sorry I couldn't... help more.." Her voice wavered a hair, and she hoped he hadn't noticed. She was always sorry. She had been sorry until she was blue in the face, knees and elbows in mud while she prayed that he'd been okay.
And he was. She wondered if it were some sort of divine miracle he were alive... And if it were not poetic justice that he'd found her. She wondered if he would kill her fast, or slow. She wondered if she would be able to see him, behind his helmet. Her heart ached as she thought of this.
She glanced over her shoulder at him as he replied. "Nothing to be done for it!" That blasted politeness. It reminded her of his mouth. She wondered if he would kiss her, ever again.
She started explaining Thralvila's job for them, thinking of bandit eyes. Which led her to think of his eyes. They had shone, with tears and rage, the last time she had seen them. And she'd recoiled in fear, and.. she had run. She felt her heart clinking about in her chest.
"Could you show me, miss?"
She pondered a moment. She wouldn't mind his presence, not really... A peace settled over her shoulders, like a mantle. He would kill her, she knew. And she'd deserve it. She breathed a sigh of relief inside of her. She wouldn't have to prolong her life, anymore.
"I could. I'm actually helping out, too.." She paused a moment, thinking of things she'd like to do, before she died. Maybe she could finally get those gardening seeds planted. "May I have a moment, though?"
"Of course." He was amiable as ever. Something clicked a moment, and she heard herself speak.
"Actually, no, come on, I want to show you something."
She showed him how to garden. He seemed to enjoy it, and that eased part of her. She enjoyed watching him happy. She thought back to the time he had been excitedly building the suit, for the first time.
What colors should it be?
Try red? It's a strong color. Blue would also work, but don't make it as bright as that red, there. It'll just end up looking purple. Make it blackish.
You're really opinionated on colors...
She watched his gloved fingers dig into the ground, patting down a Lougdol seed successfully. She leaned on Little J, smiling slightly as Joe started smoking a pipe. She wondered if he noticed the scarecrow, and when he'd started smoking?
When they finished, and were ready to leave the garden, she took her bow out. It even still had the charm he'd tied to it. She moved to slip it off of the string, putting it back into her bag.
"So, ah... What is your name?" She cringed a bit, as she knew his name, very well, having written it over and over on parchment. Over and over.
"Joeseph Prudomin, a pleasure." And he seemed it. He was quite blank, about all of this. She found herself wondering, again, what he was thinking. She bit her lip, and forced a weak smile.
"Ah, I see... Good to meet you, Sir Prudomin. Come, I'll show you where the bandits are..." She started off.
"And yours, miss?"
Dammit. Her mind raced quickly, and she spit out the first thing that came to mind. "Sabine." Her surname. Agh, stupid, stupid. How many people had that name, really? She hoped he didn't notice.

Aftermath of a Traitor; Partner to Flying Narwhal's Upcoming Story

2010-01-30T19:55:00.000-08:00

Gods, when would it end? Serci dragged a lumpy bag behind her, following the ragged, inborn map she had, feet finding niche after niche between roots, weeds, and mud. Her joints creaked. Her head hurt. Everything was fuzzy.
She supposed life was not that bad. She had her health, at least. As well as a loyal bow, tough boots, and a full stomach. She had durable clothes to last the winter, even if she smelled a bit. But then, she always smelled a bit, and she was never around anyone else, that they might complain about the stink. No one, except for heads, anyway. She peeked over her shoulder at the bag, dully. Deadened eyes, slowly drying up in their sockets, stared back. Several, in fact. Five bandits would earn her about fourty coins and a kit, full of supplies that would keep her life going.
Why was she prolonging it, again?
Well, if it wasn't her, it would have been someone else. The thugs had it coming, chopping trees on elven lands. They should have known that the elves would have been red from the tips of their ears to the tips of their toes with rage. Trees were really the only thing they seemed akin to, anyway, what with the lifespans, and all. Serci didn't have much opinion on trees. She rather liked metals, and animals. ..But that time had passed, long ago.
Finally, she saw the edge of the town, hidden in a crevice that one had to walk spryly between, or fall deep into the pit where the waterfall sprayed into. Knowing there was water at the bottom did not make her more comfortable, so she hurried across, the pads of her feet practically creaking with the effort. She pulled her hood over her eyes to avoid the stares of the elves, as she entered. She felt awkward and clumsy around them, like her feet were too big, her hands too large, limbs not near long enough, badly proportioned. Being around them was like having all of her faults pressed onto her and stabbed into her brain in their obviousness. She made her way to Thralvila, handing the bloodied bag over.
Thralvila, always the gentleman to those who would do the dirty work for him, looked inside the bag, nodding. "Fifteen of them, eh? Busy day, it seems."
Thirty eyes. Serci shed the image from her mind, inwardly, and outwardly, nodded at Thralvila. She would say more, but her voice croaked from not being used, anymore, and she was just as awkward with speech as movement around her half-kin. Even if she were, she would still feel it.
Alvarilja was used to her being silent, anyway. It suited her. She would creep among its moss and plants, avoiding its leaves like the plague, as they crinkled loudly upon being stepped on. It fed her, and sheltered her, and she gave back, as much as she could, occasionally planting things here and there. She even had a scarecrow, for when she did settle down for a month or two, to set up a small garden, and be off again. She had named him Little J. She had even given him a small metal bit over his false, stick hand. She was quite sure that last one was slightly insane, so she cried, when she thought about it.
Serci pushed her thoughts out of her mind, taking her gold, and placing it in a pouch, not even bothering to check to see if Thralvila was cheating her. She didn't think he would, and besides, she didn't really need anything to buy. It was the healing supplies she needed, three kits she got. She sighed inwardly as they entered her hands, and she tucked them away into her ragged bag.
She then turned to look at her other pouch, in the bag, where fresh hide lay, from two deer. She decided to take up the craft, as her clothing was pierced too easily, by both thorns and claws. She didn't particularly like it.
So she turned towards the local tannery, her nose practically screaming in terror already.
Until a flash of red caught her eye. Red, blue, and black. She didn't really pay much attention to it, until the words reached her ears.
"If they de-"
She didn't really have to hear more. The voice was already familiar, having heard each syllable said, at least once. She turned, blinking, willing her hood to stay on. Even the halting of the word was familiar, the way that he abruptly silenced.
The man she looked upon wore a metal suit, the alloy encompassing the lower half of his arms. They crackled a bit, and the colors matched his helmet--red, and blue. She only knew one person who dressed like that. And she'd thought he was dead. Suddenly, every feeling of animate being jolted into action. She thought she could hear the heartbeats of at least thirty people around her. For the first time, she started thinking she could maybe be more graceful, aspire to something more. She thought she started hearing her heart beat again.
The man just looked her way. She couldn't tell if he was looking at her, or the giant treant behind her. And, just as soon as the moment had come, it passed, the man turning. "Thralvila! You had wanted my help?"
Serci almost avoided automatically responding, giving it a few seconds. "He wants a letter, from his sister." She motioned towards the nearby inn, tugging her hood down.
"Ah. Thank you!" The man started towards the inn, disappearing through the door.
Serci just stared after him. Memories flowed through her mind like a miasma of pleasantries and pain, sitting under trees, studying, tortures. Her baggy eyes were wide, yet she felt more awake than she had for years.
"..Joeseph.."

Webcomic Mania!

2009-11-25T08:29:00.000-08:00

Having become a bit irritated with some other comics(which will remain nameless... but hey, maybe you like that sort of stuff.), I set myself on a quest to find new comics.

...I soon became disgusted with that. But then, at the last moment, I saw a most interesting banner on Girls With Slingshots, by Danielle Corsetto(neat last name, huh? I wish 'corset' were somewhere in my name..). I clicked it and lo and behold..

Amazing. This is definitely something I would recommend, and I love the art. I love the art so much..

A Very Special Post

2009-11-20T16:40:00.001-08:00

Today is November 20th. That day, two years ago, something very important happened. This is not it.

However, it's very important indeed. To me. Happy anniversary, honey-honey. <3

And now with a colored version!

The Red Widow(But Married!): Marilene Dubhgall

2009-11-04T07:27:00.000-08:00

Marilene started with the surname Nanasi. She was originally made on Arelith to be an evil monster. I believe she was a wizard, Neutral Evil, and would cut off people's limbs and use them in her food. Sort of like Sweeney Todd, in a way, I guess. Otherwise, I didn't like her on Arelith, and later, we tried out Amia.
Can you say charactergasm? She eventually became a high-leveled mage that exists to this day. Whenever I feel down, or weakened, I go on Amia and play to make myself feel better. Because I can summon an erineyes. And that makes me happy.

Now, Maril had a bit of a love-hate relationship with the companion made for her--Dunstan Dubhgall(who, if you haven't guessed by now, is the man she married). It was a strange little relationship, made up of insults and sexual tension; they would take turns making low blows at each other, and then trying to make the other want them. It ended up, strangely, with some of the best conversations that have ever been had, by far, as well as some of the most acid-filled comments on the other's libido, sexuality, stamina, etc., etc.
Maril's background came later--I already decided she would be based on a spider(Hence, the peopleeating). So, what I decided was this:
She used to be a bebelith, but, by magic and the absorption of those she preyed on, gained a human shape(you are what you eat, after all). She doesn't know that she was a bebelith, of course, but she did know that she was a sort of monster that had no thought whatsoever, and when she gained intelligence, she started plotting on how to absorb and eat her prey even more.

I think she'd be a kickass monster/boss, myself.
But, eventually, she admitted to Dunstan that she loved him, and that made her hate him, as well. He said that he loved her, too, and that he hated her immensely, for if he loved something, how could he continue to do Shar's work of destroying everything in existence?
And so, in this twisted relationship, they were married in a dungeon, surrounded by darkness, and undead(after killing a dragon they did not like), and they were married by Dunstan's goddess.

Mm, evillove. Ain't it just great?

Fiona Bryony, Poison Ivy Ripoff

2009-11-04T07:21:00.000-08:00

Fiona was a Poison Ivy ripoff. Fun, though. She was a sorceror that was associated with plants. She was also a companion to a vampire, who she would regularly tease and flirt with and bother.
All in all, she wasn't a bad character. It was Jin who made her memorable, though.. Otherwise, she'd just be a bored little ecoterrorist.

Sensible Sluagh: Philomel

2009-11-04T07:12:00.000-08:00

Philomel was made for one of my friend's(though, he's more of my boyfriend's friend, I guess) Changeling: The Dreaming campaign. We never actually finished it, but I liked the characters we made so much that I held onto them as an idea.
Philomel was a sluagh. She worked at a coffeeshop called 'The Toy Box', and she made drinks. My boyfriend's character was a Nocker named Matthew with a Scottish accent that yelled a lot of nonsensical curse words.
They were totally in love, even if the closest they got to expressing affection was Philomel choking Matthew during a very dangerous car ride.
Did I mention she can contort herself? It was pretty amusing to watch the dreadful Sluagh terrified of being in a car. She'll always wear her seatbelt. Always.

As for what Sluagh are: In Changeling: The Dreaming(of the old World of Darkness), they're the 'creepy' fey. They're associated with darkness, never speak above a whisper, enjoy living in dilapidated places, and eating putrid wine and rotten tea cakes. Along with tepid, weak tea. Maybe with a spiderweb floating in the top of it. You'll probably never find one that isn't loving of the gothic victorian culture, and most are very, very polite, and live on the outskirts of society. And if you bother a Sluagh without warning, you'd best be ready to pay the consequences, considering they're the keeper of lore and secrets.
So everyone will know what you did, last summer.

Kinky Religion?

2009-10-30T15:16:00.000-07:00

Ah~, am I glad when a character comes together. (Right now. Over me. <3'chu,love.) While participating in a DM quest on World Serpent Inn, we all went to join a guarding mission from levels 1-30(WSI has a 30 level cap). So, of course everyone that could join, did. So we had about... maybe seven, ten people?
It was pretty nice, until the person we were guarding got assassinated. Not clear on what exactly happened, so I'll leave that bit out.
So, Adair, being ready to hold up her religion of 'eye for an eye, so I can sew your eye back in your eye socket', handed her companion, Asher, a bag of broken glass, and told him what to do.
So Asher tortured the man(or at least attempted t0), and both were branded 'evil' from what I can understand, by the good characters.
Well, alright. That's fine with me. After a bit of talking with the others, things started going sour. And it hit me.
No one here really wanted to work together.
I am not kidding here. Several times, I proposed that we split into groups, or made a plan, and other such things...
And what happened then was not what I liked at all. No one got along, people kept insulting each other, and it was all-around... a bit annoying. But it started getting better around the end, I guess, so it all turned out fine.

Also, today, I found out that if a normal person tortures someone, they're evil.
If a Hoaran tortures someone, it's just business, and easily explained away.

Adair Kincaid; Kinky, Kinky Voodoo Gal

2009-10-29T19:24:00.000-07:00

Adair is my current character. When she started in my mind, she was originally a concept from a Changeling: The Dreaming game my friend was planning out, but never actually got to. In the original version, she was a very pale, very charismatic Sidhe that hated the royalty she heralded from. Somehow, Adair spawned from that idea, while I made the Sidhe character another one altogether, in my mind.
Adair started forming with a questionnaire that I went through with my boyfriend to help give me an idea of what I'd like for her. Through it, I got the idea that she was lively, disliked nobility, occasionally killed, could feel bad for it, if she thought it worthy of guilt, or be completely heartless when she murdered. Of course, at this point, I was thinking she'd be some sort of renegade noble-killer that just... went around, killing nobles. Probably had some sort of... half-elf blood in her. So I decided she'd be a half-drow.
So I thought.
And I thought.
And the idea came to me... I'd never actually played a true black person before. I'd played the Forgotten Realms versions of Indian, Asian, Caucasian.. But not African. So, I figured, why not? It's a very neat culture. And I went with what I knew about Africa--voodoo. And so, I figured, why not make her a necromancer? And then I thought, well, would she be grey, like the drow, or have brown skin, like her Chultan parent? I figured, eh, and made the Chultan blood override the drow blood, with the only indications of her heritage in her eyes and ears.
So at this point, you have a voodoo-based character that is black, has red eyes, and pointed ears. I'd never seen anything like this before as a character for me, so I continued in glee. I decided that she would be (yet another) bard, but focuses in fortune telling. Not divination, but fortune telling in the means of, say, tarot cards, runes, and skeleton knuckles. I decided she'd lean more towards the macabre, and she started off with an affinity to all things strange, dark, and weird. And then I decided to give her a quirk.
So I gave her an accent.
I decided that her voice would be low, like a purr, because she seemed like the sort of character that would enjoy teasing others. And I thought to myself, what would suit that? So I ended up giving Adair a New Orleans/Little-Mermaid's-Sebastian accent. All her 'The', 'They', and 'There's are pronounced ''De', ''Dey', and ''Dere'. Her 'I' turned to 'Ah'. Her speech slowly started drawling until I almost started talking like her, after I'd played her for a while.
And I loved it. I loved this new character of mine, who stood out from all the scary necromancers, the 'good' necromancers... She was my first, very good, truly 'person-relateable' necromancer. So I think, anyway. I'm planning for her to start taking Pale Master levels.
Anyway, it seems that's all I'll be posting for now. I'll put some more up later, when I meet more of Adair's personality, since a certain someone is urging me to go and play her.

Public Service Announcement/Rant

2009-10-29T18:41:00.000-07:00

Having found this... thing in my screenshots(and I did the honor of smudging out the name for you so none of you know who this poor soul is), I feel I must say it.
CHARISMA.
DOES.
NOT.
EQUAL.
BEAUTY.

Now... For those of you that know what I'm talking about, there are some people in games(like, say, Dungeons and Dragons), that believe that Charisma is the same as having Appearance(●●●●●) (And for that matter, anyone who has 5 dots in Appearance on character creation? Fey can do it better.). You. People. Need. To read. The manual.

Charisma (CHA) Charisma measures a character’s force of personality, persuasiveness, personal magnetism, ability to lead, and physical attractiveness. This ability represents actual strength of personality, not merely how one is perceived by others in a social setting. Charisma is most important for paladins, sorcerers, and bards. It is also important for clerics, since it affects their ability to turn undead. Every creature has a Charisma score.

You will notice that physical attractiveness is one-fifth of that argument. 30 Charisma does not mean that you are superhawt, and have an excuse to bum out on descriptions by, say... Putting your character's bust-waist-hip measurement. I don't. Care.
And sorcs? Let's face it. You don't get your magic naturally because you look pretty. You get it because you have a backbone--or one would hope.
If someone actually met someone with appearance but no personality? They'd either:
-Take advantage of them.
-Drop them like a HOT POTATO, and go in search for someone who can actually DO THINGS other than just stand around looking pretty. Galatea, much?

Secondly: Why do people look over personal magnetism, personality, and persuasiveness? I'm sure most everyone knows someone who is witty, funny, and all that without being amazingly handsome/pretty(Luckily, I have a boyfriend that's all of those... Save the pretty, though he's 'pretty awesome', if you ask me. *lame grin*). You don't usually fall head-over-heels for a character just because they're pretty and perfect. Pretty and perfect people are scary. Like they'll eat your soul.

For that matter, why do you think men sleep with Brachinas?

I mean, they aren't even just beautiful. They're devils that have been promoted, if you can attribute such a thing to planar species. If they were only to tempt people, it would just be an erineyes. But it's a Brachina--a devil that was promoted to tempt priests and paladins, the holiest of the holy. Sooo, clearly, they can't just look good. Most devils and demons look abhorrent, even! It's not that often you find a good looking devil/demon. Come on.
So, clearly, Brachinas have to have a bit more than just looking good, to tempt a paladin/priest into straying from their path. Which means that the devil that epitomizes Charisma has more than just beauty.

And so, to end my rant:
Please, do not make your Charisma characters based on beauty. Make characters with character.

Aislinn Teofila, Deer-Woman

2009-10-29T17:35:00.000-07:00

Aislinn is a walking contradiction. She's a woman, and yet she has stag-horns. She has unnatural tiefling blood, yet she grows deer horns and ears, and becomes a ranger. She is a ranger, but stays in the city.
Of course, there's also the fact that she's gruff, annoyed easily, irritated with most things, eats things in the most disgustingly possible way ever(i.e., eating a fish head and letting its eye dangle out of her mouth and chomping it so it pops all over the watcher)... And somehow got an aasimar to love her.
Other than that, Ash was never really fleshed out much...
BUT I LOVE THIS PICTURE. I MEAN, GODS DAMN, LOOK AT IT.
I still, to this day, wonder how I got it to be so good. If only for Enzrick's hair.

Egeria Thalassa of Thrace

2009-10-29T17:00:00.000-07:00

Egeria is probably the character I remake the most on different servers. She is a lively lass. Just take a look at the description I put for her: 'This woman has a multitude of sanguine, vermilion ringlets that wreathe an oval face, framing fair, yet tan, skin and voluminous, sea-colored eyes. She looks delicately muscled, seeming sturdy, even with her short stature. She looks delighted with the world surrounding her, and she asserts this idea with how she exhibits vivacity and her engrossment with her current environs. She serenades in a strange lack of refinement, in a way that shows that she has been untrained, her songs being tempestuous and intense, or calm, and mild, reflecting her mood, disorderly or not.'
...Lots of long words, right? Anyway, the idea is, she isn't supposed to be a bard of just good looks, as all characters of 14+ Charisma will try and fool you with, she's a bard with character.
It helps that she started life as a mermaid.

The original concept behind Egeria was, I wanted to play a failed 'Little Mermaid'.
I figured that the beginning of her life would be much like the original tale by Hans Christian Anderson:
Nothing gave her so much pleasure as to hear about the world above the sea. She made her old grandmother tell her all she knew of the ships and of the towns, the people and the animals. To her it seemed most wonderful and beautiful to hear that the flowers of the land should have fragrance, and not those below the sea; that the trees of the forest should be green; and that the fishes among the trees could sing so sweetly, that it was quite a pleasure to hear them. Her grandmother called the little birds fishes, or she would not have understood her; for she had never seen birds.

“When you have reached your fifteenth year,” said the grand-mother, “you will have permission to rise up out of the sea, to sit on the rocks in the moonlight, while the great ships are sailing by; and then you will see both forests and towns.”

In the following year, one of the sisters would be fifteen: but as each was a year younger than the other, the youngest would have to wait five years before her turn came to rise up from the bottom of the ocean, and see the earth as we do. However, each promised to tell the others what she saw on her first visit, and what she thought the most beautiful; for their grandmother could not tell them enough; there were so many things on which they wanted information. None of them longed so much for her turn to come as the youngest, she who had the longest time to wait, and who was so quiet and thoughtful. Many nights she stood by the open window, looking up through the dark blue water, and watching the fish as they splashed about with their fins and tails. She could see the moon and stars shining faintly; but through the water they looked larger than they do to our eyes. When something like a black cloud passed between her and them, she knew that it was either a whale swimming over her head, or a ship full of human beings, who never imagined that a pretty little mermaid was standing beneath them, holding out her white hands towards the keel of their ship.

...And as the Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale ended:
“We have given our hair to the witch,” said they, “to obtain help for you, that you may not die to-night. She has given us a knife: here it is, see it is very sharp. Before the sun rises you must plunge it into the heart of the prince; when the warm blood falls upon your feet they will grow together again, and form into a fish’s tail, and you will be once more a mermaid, and return to us to live out your three hundred years before you die and change into the salt sea foam. Haste, then; he or you must die before sunrise. Our old grandmother moans so for you, that her white hair is falling off from sorrow, as ours fell under the witch’s scissors. Kill the prince and come back; hasten: do you not see the first red streaks in the sky? In a few minutes the sun will rise, and you must die.” And then they sighed deeply and mournfully, and sank down beneath the waves.
...
She was in his thoughts, and the knife trembled in the hand of the little mermaid: then she flung it far away from her into the waves; the water turned red where it fell, and the drops that spurted up looked like blood. She cast one more lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, and then threw herself from the ship into the sea, and thought her body was dissolving into foam.

Egeria, however, is the Little Mermaid that got lucky. Instead of ascending to heaven after 300 years of being a sylph and sea foam, Egeria attracted the attentions of a sea god that pitied her. He gave her a body, once more, for she had once sung hymns in his name. And so, for her suffering, she 'ascended' in her own way...
...Which is how she found Arcus. And, wouldn't you believe it, it looked like he was a lost soul, as well--a priest questioning his faith. And so, Egeria talked to him, for a time, and learned of what troubled him, and offered a bit of advice, which ended up in Arcus renouncing gods and priesthood...
....To become a bard.
Of course, the experience she had with her prince, and her love, and her own betrayal of her family to surrender her life left her a bit wary of men, and when she felt herself growing to like Arcus' company, she found that she tried to protect herself from a relationship with him, already knowing he was... Well(I'm sorry, love!), a bit of a rake. She told him so, and he admitted that his 'list' of women did usually end up dying, and that he cared too much to let that happen to her.
And, despite all her efforts, Egeria fell in love. They're not really sure what they are, as far as relationship terms(the rake has yet to sleep with her, even! *gasp* ), but whatever it is, they're enjoying it. They spend their days traveling about, teaching each other more things, and generally just enjoying life, and life with each other.

For those of you who are wondering as for her name... Egeria was named after a sea nymph in Byron's 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage'. Specifically:
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast; whate’er thou art
Or wert, - a young Aurora of the air,
The nympholepsy of some fond despair;
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
Who found a more than common votary there
Too much adoring; whatsoe’er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

So, as you can see, Egeria was the character that so clearly had to be a bard. What else could she be, linked to literature as she was?

Anyway, this picture was first drawn, and then edited with some computer skillz. It's not very good, in my opinion, but my boyfriend says the contrast between the color and the filter look nice. I'm preeetty sure he's just saying that to make me feel better. <3'chu for it, though, honey-honey.

Rowan Celandine, part-time Clockwork Fey

2009-10-29T16:46:00.000-07:00

Ah, Rowan. Probably one of the more long-standing characters I've had. She actually has brown hair. Oh, my!
The idea behind Rowan was to make a bard(again)/Arcane Archer for one of my boyfriends' Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. Eventually, in the campaign, the group(consisting of her brother, her lover{but not at that point!}, and... Silvia. A warlock. I guess she's Rowan's friend, but more accurately, she's her brother's girlfriend.) were played as pawns for the Unseelie court, and all were granted boons. Rowan asked for music; she got an enchanted flute-thing called a kaval. It can summon illusionary grigs, and turn into a longsword. But wait, there's more! Playing a certain tune(or was it a trigger word..), Rowan can take on the aspects of an Unseelie fey, taking on the bonuses of one. Pretty cool, right?
Anyway, this was a watercolor/colored pencil work I'd done later, as an art project. I particularly like the color scheme on this one, and the pose. It even looks natural.

Daione Rzeznik

2009-10-29T16:31:00.001-07:00

Daione was probably my favorite bard, on Arelith. She fit the classic idea of a beauty, without being a mere copy(or so I thought, anyway).
I'm glad she's not on Arelith, anymore. She really wasn't meant to be there. BUT! Without lingering on my depressing thoughts on the server:
Daione started with no history. She was purely made to compliment my boyfriend's character, Arander Ma'iingan(whom was THE FIRST SHIFTER on Arelith to get an animal totem: The white wolf. We're very proud of his accomplishment, even if we're the only ones who know). She liked dressing in dark purple and blues, and wore no sleeves. Eventually, she grew into the idea of being associated with a 'crane'(I think Ma'iingan even called her a bird, at some point..), due to my recent idea of 'Hey, the Decemberists' The Crane Wife 1+2 is my favorite song on this album', and started taking ranger levels. She was a fun character to play, as she learned all the ideas of nature folk from a nature person(all while establishing a crush on him). She usually sang 'The Goo Goo Dolls' songs(if anyone gets the surname reference), and she had a particular love for 'Acoustic #3'. She also had a few songs that I had made especially for her(but only one was found), but never actually got her to sing. Since I didn't have the chance to play them on Arelith, due to my fickle-ness between characters and servers, I shall post them here. And, yes, they are stupid.

If I told you what I'd like to say,
I would tell you about a dream.
In which you molded me like clay,
To suit my form to your theme.

We would make music and dance,
And roses spring from our tracks.
And their sweet smell would enhance
Our saccharine lover's pact.

If only I could lay open how
I thought you were so treasured,
And speak a whispering vow
Of just how my love is measured.

To me, you are a longing,
A requisite, a compulsion I must own.
To you, I am your belonging,
And gone, if your wish is to be alone.

Even should you leave, and I weep,
I would not stop you, if you wished.
I'd live to see your love slowly sweep
Away from me, to another dished.

For your smile, I would move mountains,
And wait for you, no matter how long.
If you wanted my love, you'd have fountains
Of my demure dances, of my sublime song.

If I told you what I'd like to say,
I would tell you about a dream.
In which you told me everyday
That to you, my love was supreme.

The picture, by the way, is something I love to this day, and base most of my characters off of, still.

Arethusa Una Diana Nerida Odette Eglantine Livannete

2009-10-29T15:38:00.001-07:00

Arethusa("Thoosie" to her familiar, and those who are suicidal, "Wisp" to Ramet) Livannete is a sun elf of almost anorexic stature. She is very deserving of the nickname her human compatriot, Ramet of Mulhorand, gave her, seeming very much like a wisp that would be blown down from a slight breeze. She tends to wear silks and other fine clothing, mostly the kind that billow, as it 'looks good' on her form. Of course, it does make her not look as thin, but it doesn't hide the small slip that is Arethusa. She always wears a hood over her features, and the only thing that can be seen of her features are silver eyes and dark eyebrows, and the hint of a nose. Arethusa specializes in Abjuration, as she is one of the rare sun elves that is honestly terrified of magic. She literally cannot stand the idea of someone using magic against her. So, she studies, and studies, and finds ways to protect herself from it. There is no force in the world that will keep her from studying this form of magic, and she is convinced, almost manically, that this is a way that she can someday save herself and the ones she cares about.

I don't really like how I drew her leg... And her head looks bigger than it probably is because of her hood.

Orestes

2009-09-25T07:57:00.000-07:00

As I grew, my mother told me about her. Her name was Iphigenia, and she was my oldest sister. I wondered of what my eldest sister was like—I only remember one thing of her, her face and her eyebrows creased in an almost demented desperation with the overbearing, heated sun behind her, making her hair shine around the edges like a sort of holy tiara. When I was younger, I thought of her as a sort of warning tale against my father, who gave her up to die, like that. Later in my life, I pondered on what she must have felt like, pleading for her life from her own father… Our own father. I’m told I tried to help, even though I did not know what was going on. At times, I wished I could die like that, if I had the chance—free from all debts to any ties to anything, even your family; even if it is a sin to think of something like that.

My father cast my sister to death, and when he did, my mother died with her, somewhere. As I continued to grow, I watched her shut down, especially to me. And when I looked into the polished metal of armaments, I would see my father in my face. Several times, I would stand in front of a lake I had found, looking for something in my face that reflected that rare face I had seen, the one twisted in fear of death. I came to realize that I could see her—her and my mother, in my eyes. These weary eyes, just like mother’s, which seem so dead inside. She shut herself away from her children, and turned to something else, to someone else.

And in a way, my sister died once more, for she was forgotten in place of that man. Well… Mayhap not forgotten, but in her mourning, and in her pain, mother forgot everything my sister told her, which mother in turn told me, and disobeyed her wishes in favor of her hatred for my father.

That man, Aegisthus. I’d seen him about the palace of course, that he would visit every once in a while. Why would he not? He is my father’s cousin, and while family ties have been ignored before, I could not see why I would deny hospitality to him. And then he set eyes upon my mother, with eyes that betrayed more interest than for the well-being of a family member. And then something changed, one day, and the bitter taste of anger, like so much briny salt from the ocean my father left on, filled my mouth.

I would frown at my mother every time I saw the man, making sure she saw my displeasure; that she would lie with another like her sister had, the one she cursed for starting the war that killed her daughter. While she hated my father, I couldn’t see how she couldn’t simply take the better way out, to stand with one’s head high and proud, like my sister had. She dabbled with that man for a time, and then, one day, I’d had it. I left. I left for a long, long time. And the longing for my sisters’ company, even for my mother, even when she was so dead inside, it yawned in my heart like a deep wound. Even if talking to my mother was like speaking to a child’s puppet, bound by strings… Or even worse, talking to a puppet who does not wish to be on strings. Either way, that was better than my own self-imposed banishment.

I traveled through Greece. I saw the lands that my father united—I saw the lands as the men were away, fighting for their lives. And it was years, eight, long years, before I heard word from my family once again, after the Trojan war, the war of the cursed whore, Helen ended. I should have been pleased. I should have been elated, as if, for once, my appearance and my lineage didn’t matter, and I was a son who was loved by his mother, grateful to have her family back, soon.

But the feeling in my heart was quashed under the weight of the message. My mother, and her lover, had killed my father, in his bath no less. She tied him up in a net, and in her hatred, and her hypocrisy, she killed him, like he killed her daughter, and her. And in Aegisthus’ greed, he was now the king, where my father stood. The seat of power that should have been my father’s. The seat of power that should have been mine, when my father died.

But what could I say? I’d left, and I left my family. That in itself was a betrayal, in a way.

So, I go back today, to right my wrong, and right the wrongs of others. My mother killed my father, and her lover is now king. My sisters cannot be safe from her lover’s greed, he cannot be sure where their allegiances might be. My family is in danger, and there is a call that I cannot resist, as the first born son.

And as I think of that, I think of my sister’s duty. Her duty to die for Greece. My father’s duty to serve Greece. My duty to reclaim Greece. And at last, I understand. I understand what it means, to be torn apart by duty, and what you wish to happen. I did not want my father to die. I did not want my sister to die. So many things, however, have happened, and it has come to this. It seems to be unavoidable.

But I will not be the black sheep, anymore. I am my sister’s brother, and I am my living sisters’ brother. I am my father’s son. And my mother will soon know what it feels like, to have your own family cast you to death, once again. I wish I could tell her I am sorry. I wish I could tell her, ‘Mother, when you see Iphigenia, I hope you are greeted with the grace that you finally deserve, with all the pain from the years gone’. I wish… But no more of wishing must be said. I stand in front of my old home, my rightful palace, the one gifted to the cursed of the Atreus family.

My duty calls.

D

2009-08-26T15:06:00.000-07:00

I love you, too.

The Heartbroken Sword

2009-08-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

There once was a woman, named Snow. Her sister, whom was almost a twin, having red hair instead of black, was named Rose, and they both promised to be friends forever. However, one day, Snow was kidnapped. In this particular part of Aenea, duergar kept little shacks on the surface, where they would take young maidens and do unspeakable things to them. However, Snow somehow ended up married to a prince, and for her wedding present, he gave her swordsmanship lessons, but kept them secret. This was the first thing that took notice of the God of Murders and Strife, and he watched on. Several of the duergar began dying, inexplicably, and the prince suspected, but never outright said anything to his new wife, and Snow continued on her way towards corruption. The very sword she wielded had become sharpened on dark dwarves' skulls. Then, Snow found that her own beloved (almost) twin sister had lain with her husband, and she became cold, colder than she had been, even after the duergar. And so the sword in her hand became cold, along with her heart. And Sorgath took notice. And one night, after Snow had witnessed the transgression, he whispered poisonous suggestions in her ear, and then granted a tiny drop from his sea of power onto the blade, and the blade took on a visage of darkness, which Snow used to black out the room at night for cover, when her sister and her prince were in their quarters. He granted her poison, as venomous as her vengeance felt in her frozen heart, which she coated the blade with as she stood over the doomed lovers in their bed. But most of all, the Serpent God granted her revenge, and when Snow had rent their heads from their shoulders, it was Rose's soul that was her prize, the lyrically beautiful woman's essence sucked into the sword, ethereally screaming all the way. The sword still retains all of these traits, including the ability to create a twin of the user(albeit redheaded), and it gleams in the light, like the most innocent of spring skies, deceptive... Waiting to be used once more.

2009-07-17T10:54:00.000-07:00

“Don’t look in their eyes.” Fiona murmured to herself, checking herself over before she went in. She’d had to call in the help of several plants and people (some of which who severed ties with her after that), all to find a rundown house in a dilapidated, abandoned part of the damnable city. At least here, the plants and foliage was overgrown, and she took comfort that if she was killed, she would at least serve a good purpose as mulch. She wasn’t even that close to the building at all—she had stayed at least half a mile away, and she was still having the feeling she may have set off a few red flags. She closed her eyes and recited to herself softly as she paced. “Don’t look in the eyes. Never, ever give up your holy symbol.” She reached down and touched one pocket out of many which held a small, knotted branch to represent Deeproot’s favor. “Aim for the head and the heart…” She toyed with the rapier she carried with her at the moment, and looked in another easy-to-reach pocket, nodding as she found some holy water.
Fiona took a step forward, and frowned around her, and whispered. “I know you can hear me. It’s all the same, whether or not I’m a stalker or a bard, right? Acute hearing. Not going to surprise you in the dark.” She looked pointedly at the stars, giving them an ironic, sardonic look, her pride not allowing her to do anything else. If they were going to have an audience of her death, she might as well go with every dirty trick she could.
She sighed for a moment, and waited. Nothing happened. Fiona’s eyebrows wrinkled, and she began walking towards the ramshackle, miserable excuse for a shelter. She could smell the rain as it began, and she began planning.
Fiona eventually made it to the door, and she barely stepped forward towards the porch when someone stepped in front of her. One moment, nothing, the next, there she was. She grabbed at her and threw her back in an arc, and Fiona hit the ground, the wind going out of her. She was only stunned for a moment when the bitch was on top of her, and snarling its teeth. Fiona wriggled a moment, and pressed her hip against the undead’s stomach, and a piercing shriek sounded, and she could breathe again. She got up, and broke the first rule. She threw the holy symbol at the vampire, and it scuttled out of the way unbelievably fast, like nothing she’d ever seen, and Fiona was knocked over again.
A boom sounded, and it was soon after followed by a downpour of rain onto the dusty ground. Fiona pressed herself up again, almost slipping in the mud, and stood. The woman cackled, and sauntered over, poking Fiona in the shoulder roughly, making her fall over again. The sound of breaking glass was a small sound compared to the thunder roaring about them. “And just what makes you think you can hurt me?” Her words were stark and completely discernable, even then. Fiona fumbled the rapier out, and the woman put a hand around it, and bent it up into a curl, and stared at Fiona apathetically. Fiona looked at the curled and barely useless rapier, then the woman, and dragged herself away, the broken glass from the holy water vial digging into her thigh as she did. The woman snickered, and stepped forward. “You were here for… the man, right? The one I turned.”
Fiona continued, ignoring her, and flung her arm out, trying to hit the woman with the bent rapier. She caught her wrist and squeezed, painfully, and Fiona dropped the weapon. “Answer me!”
“Yeah. I am.” Fiona stared at the woman balefully, and clenched her hand about the woman’s arm, as well, and pushed herself at her, slipping as she did. The woman chuckled lightly.
“You’re determined.”
“I’m adamant.”
“Either way, you’re lost.” The woman bent to lick at the blood staining Fiona’s pantsleg, and biting down on the skin there, and Fiona cringed, grimacing at the pain. “He’s mine, now. After he returns, he’ll be drawn to me.”
“I dunno, you’ll still die unloved.” Fiona managed to stir up a grin that contained all the jackassery that she could manage. The woman snarled, and moved her head to the side, exposing her neck. Fiona grimaced, and stabbed the rapier up in a corkscrew motion. It didn’t punch through, but rather left a small gash across the woman’s skin, like a large kitty had pawed at her roughly. It wasn’t much, but it was all Fiona needed. She twisted herself and scratched at the woman’s face with the bent rapier, and grabbed the remainder of the vial from a tear in her trousers, jutting from a wound in her thigh, and grasped it tightly, the glass biting into her skin, and drove it into the vampire’s chest area in an uppercut, pushing the glass into her skin at least a centimeter deep, but more importantly, stabbing the woman in the bottom of her heart for a good ten inches or so, coated in holy water. The woman screeched, and wound an arm up to return a blow at Fiona, clearly not intending to be quick and painless at all about it. Fiona quickly pressed something against the woman’s chest, and splashed a handful of mud onto it, and punched the shard deeper into the woman’s chest. The woman stopped for a moment, and her eyes rolled back into her head, her mouth frothing up. Fiona snarled, pushing the now-convulsing vampire off of her, and looked at the gaping wound in her hand. She leaned over the woman, wiping her hair out of her eyes, which were unfocused and fuzzy, and overly shining.
“The blood you drank was corrupted.” Fiona sat by the twitching mass, not even caring if the husk of whatever it had once been could hear her or not, and happy to be able to gloat in peace. “I’d stored a vial of holy water, there. And it soaked into my blood.” She fished into the mud she splattered onto the vampire’s wound, and fished out a spent seedpod. “And this…” She held the small plantcover over the woman’s face, waving it. “This is an especially rare seed of a plant called Acokanthera Oblongifolia. Its effects include the extraction of it being used in blowdarts to kill even large lions.” She looked down to the still-twitching vampire, which snarled at her gutturally. “But then, you’re smaller than a lion, huh? But I guess since you went and drank my blood, it reactivated your metabolism. Whatever it is in blood that you need, that went in and…” She made a big expression with her hands. “BAM. Tainted. Of course, don’t feel like you were fooled into that specific plan.” She grinned at the vampire. “I had thirty-five other plans. Most included me dying—even this backup plan did. But I guess I’m just lucky.” She stood, and took in a deep breath before going to rip a plank off of the shack nearby. She gripped it with one hand strongly, her wounded one hanging by her side, still bleeding, but quickly being washed away. She vaguely reminded herself to get it cleaned and dressed, along with her thigh. She raised the plank, and narrowed her eyes, her lips twitching a moment as she thought of something to say.
“So…” Fiona began giggling hysterically at the idea she had. “What’s… hee… Your favorite flavor, little girl?”
The woman below her twitched and gurgled indecipherably.
“Cherry Red?!”

Old Moon

2008-11-20T11:16:00.000-08:00

Slosh. He looked down at his feet in disgust, the ice and cold seeping into his shoes, soaking up in his socks a moment. Tearing his gaze away, he looked toward the rushing stragglers. In their haste to arrive at their respective classes on time, they kicked up the melting snow. He eyed one of them. If you hurry, you can escape the shortening time. You can escape the morning mist, the Friday air, the excitement of the weekend. You'll make it. As if hearing his thoughts, the girl sped up and ducked into a classroom.
He tilted his head slightly and turned into the other hall. The squeaks of his footsteps in the hall were interrupted by a demanding school bell. He frowned and continued onward, his pace speeding up.
A hand clapped on his shoulder. "Late, Lenten." The voice echoed Lenten's own inner voice, both sounding snide in a sing-song way.
Lenten turned and smiled inwardly. "Michael." He nodded.
Michael was Lenten's height, and they looked very much the same, differing only in eye color, hair color, and who was more tan. He sometimes felt that to onlookers, they might be mistaken for siblings... Or, at least, cousins.
"Sorry if I'm prying, but why are you so late? Don't you have an art class to scamper off to?" Michael nudged him slightly. "Did you finally meet her?"
"You are prying. No forgiveness for the wicked, anyway. You're enjoying this too much to be anything else." Lenten brushed Michael's hand off. "And you have Physics."
"No rest for the wicked. And I'm allowed--Mr. Caduceus said I could."
Lenten grinned and kept walking. "You take so much advantage of that."
"And? I guarantee you, no one in this school cares about the Bible."
They walked into Lenten's class, and Michael leaned against the doorframe. The class turned to look at the two, and a few girls in the front stopped talking to eye him, and then rush into a quick conversation, made up of hushed words, pauses, and giggles. Lenten frowned slightly.
Of course they would ogle us. He shrugged off his coat and settled it on the back of his chair, sitting. Michael's older, and taken, which fufills the 'not allowed' quality for their Dream Date. Lenten vaguely entertained the thought of Cassidy's appearance by Michael's side, and decided to leave the thought as it was. And wouldn't that be an amusing Physics class.
Lenten laced his fingers together, leaning foward on his desk and going back to the topic at hand. "Yes, but they will mind not having their teacher at their class, again. Go back to class, Mr. Caduceus."
Michael perked an eyebrow slightly. "Oh, that's wonderful, my liege. Would it behoove you for me to get you your tea and crumpets now?" He grinned and winked at the class. "By the way, your physics exams are today."
A collective groan echoed through the class, even as Lenten grinned at their theatrics--Michael's methods may be odd, but his class paid attention, and prospered in his physics class. The ones that payed attention to his lectures, instead of his looks, or his eccentricity, were eager to take the test, show the world that they could do well at whatever they wanted.
Michael continued, his voice sounding sickeningly innocent. "And maybe I'll just take some liberties with your grades, today--Oh, yes, today will be a lovely work day..."
The class began protesting, and soon, they became insults. Before they got too vulgar, Lenten waved a hand. "Get on with you."
"I will be back, Lenten!" Michael rushed back to his Physics class, which was, undoubtedly, in the same state as any class would be, unsupervised without their teacher. He looked over his shoulder at Lenten for a moment. "And where's the fun in being serious all the time, like you?"
He was gone before Lenten could reply.
Lenten sighed for a moment and rubbed his forehead, wondering vaguely how many times Michael had said such a thing. He looked up at the teenagers sitting in his class.
His shoes were still wet. Hunter Lenten smiled slightly. "And that is why we do not inhale Sharpies. Now, get your monochromatic paintings out, from last class. We're going to have a peer critique session... Easy, to balance out Mr. Caduceus' class."

An Ode to My Sleeping Beauty

2008-08-02T17:41:00.000-07:00

What wond'rous world is yours, in which you sleep,
A foreign realm of stories, dew, and song,
Of fragrances that drift and slowly sweep
In some broad bounding current, far along.

Until you chance upon a sight less fine,
The product of a thousand angered blows,
And in that current with its swift designs
You find your belov'd heart in first repose.

And do you dream of me, concealed behind queens,
The leagues you'd wing away so happily
By glades and glens and meadows sweetly green
To find me on an ignored anemone?

Am I the one among your multitude,
(Or just another pair of brilliant wings?) --
Take me the nuptial flight in solitude
To serve the God of all triumphant things?

Please... Sleep tonight without a troubled stir,
Long undisturbed, my lovely, loving wanderer.

Love, N.

Egeria

2008-06-14T10:06:00.000-07:00

All the cautionary tales of curious girls
could not prevent coming to this:
sea-changed, she dances in shallows
dripping winged anklets
and splashes in the tide (frothy,
opalescent) weedy hair eddying
in its inherent pull,
the fish princess who asked for legs
and bled into her footprints,
her mailed heart flaking until dawn.