Jareena Faye

Ahhh, I see the word play now! A very good idea. Great short story, girl! There were a few run-on sentences that you should learn to look out for, but all-in-all I think this story is so good it deserves to be longer. You should consider it!

Hi guys! Sorry I haven't been around lately. I guess running four or five sites can do that to you. I'm back now, and upon returning I thought I'd show off the art trade I did with Feralgrinn. This story is about her character, just a short thing I did on my leisure, but she actually liked it enough that we're gonna make a comic! I'm proud. (It's really not as long as it looks!) Please critique if you can. A thin strand of hair fell over her eyes, causing quite a dilemma. Should she leave it there, it would obstruct her vision. Should she hastily wipe it away, that too would be blinding and distracting, leaving her open in too many places. Already she was short of breath, sweating in the awful heat from which there was no comfort. Lunge! The girl had been thinking too much, and it almost cost her. Her spine arced and she almost bent around her opponent's sword. Blows were exchanged with swift precision. They were too quick for the mind to follow. It all depended on instinct, equilibrium, deftness. CLANG! The weight of that casual swing made her stagger. She fought back with all her strength--- it slowly seeped away in the heat ---while he reserved it, smirking at her plight. Her grip loosed for only a moment! and the sword fell away. Now the man's blade was at her neck. Still short of breath, she managed a distinct sigh of exasperation. "Finesse, kiddo. It's all about finesse," the man said. She sighed as he put his sword away. "Why do we have to do this every day?" There was only a hint of whine in her voice, smothered with teenage attitude. "I'm great at shooting up slag." "In more than one way," her father laughed. As the one who had given her that attitude, he had more right to throw it around. "But you won't always have your gun with you. Besides, swords are tradition." "More like lost art," she scoffed. "We're Neo Pirates, Dad." "You're just now figuring that out, huh?" The man grinned slyly, his tanned face wrinkling in the sun. "Go pick up your sword, and let's see about un-losing that lost art of ours." She walked past her home, built on concrete stilts covered with thorny green vine. It looked shady and cool inside the house, she thought jealously, passing under the clan's ship to pick up her fallen sword. The Nebula, read white letters on the gray metal above. The teenager was proud of that ship, even if she wasn't allowed on long "voyages" yet. It waited at the edge of their temporary village in the swamps. It waited for any need of retreat. It waited for a mission. It waited for adventure... Sarah "Jackal" O'Malley opened her eyes slowly. She was still in her worn army jacket, arms folded behind her head. Her boots were still on her feet, one folded over the other at the edge of the bed. She moved them back and forth lazily, just to watch. Those same old bangs were interfering with her vision, a strand of burgundy-pink she angrily swiped at. How long had she been asleep? Jackal glanced at the computer clock nearby. It hadn't been long. Still, it was severely annoying to still be waiting for her audience with the ship's captain, when he should have agreed to see her right away. She was eager to get her share of the loot and go. They'd had a bargain! And here she was, in this half-scrap, half-tech cabin, when all she wanted to do was go back to drifting. Jackal climbed to her feet again and paced the room. It smelled strange... musty and smoky. Not all that strong, but unfamiliar; another thing to be annoyed about. She let her feet stomp as she whirled, paced, whirled, paced. Come on! An ugly head appeared as the hatch suddenly opened. Jackal glared at the pirate, who had opened the door rather too eagerly. He glanced around the room until his one eye fell on her. "The captain'll see you now." "That's considerate of him," Jackal said wryly. Just across the narrow "corridor" (if one could call it that) was the captain's quarters, full of wall hangings and heirlooms, a canopy bed, and a big steel computer desk. He was sitting behind it, a burly man in his fifties, skin an almost grayish tone for all the stubble covering him, and scars galore. It was obvious to all how he had become captain, and at this point it was doubtful that even his mother could recognize him. If he'd ever had one. Jackal advanced a few steps over the doorway, stopping halfway to the desk. "What kept you?" "All the men are anxious for the loot, I had to calm 'em down," Captain Grent said, pausing to leer at her discontent. "They get tired of waiting sometimes." "So do I," Jackal said. Grent kept his smile. "Well, ye've paid us back, with int'rest. And a little besides. As promised, you'll get yer percentage." This "percentage" of the loot was enough to buy her own ship. Such was the amount Jackal and this clan of Neo Pirates had fought for, against the sobering odds. Even Jackal herself was surprised that she hadn't been seriously injured in the struggle, but it was just another bright side to owing this sorry excuse for a crew a favor. The percentage promised for exceptional fighting was another bonus, one she was equally surprised to be receiving. "Well?" Jackal placed one hand on her hip. Grent looked as if he might reach for something under his desk, but hesitated. I knew it! Jackal thought. "It's tradition of the crew, my dear," the captain said as he leaned back in the chair, "that the loot isn't divided until after the games." At least he wasn't giving her some half-circuit excuse. This was a new twist. "Games, eh? Something you may not have noticed, Grent." Jackal gave him her own sly smile before dropping it. "I'm not on your crew. So pay up, and I'll be going." "Ye don't have an appointment, do ye? It's almost ready now. Go up on deck to wait. You fight well! The men'll respect you." Jackal considered grabbing her gun, vaulting over the desk, and ramming the mouth just under his jawline all while demanding her pay. The tingling in the back of her neck, still indicating the presence of the one-eyed strongarm behind her, gave reason a chance to dominate. She would play his game, for now. Jackal side-stepped toward the door, making sure the captain saw her sour look, before leaving. Behind the polished steel desk, Captain Grent lowered his knife. On her way to the main deck, Jackal slowed down to smirk through a prison cell's bars. She couldn't really see anyone, but she heard a frail frightened voice. Jackal walked on, thinking about what it must be like in that cell. It was a real honor to be captured by pirates, wasn't it? She left the shade of the Nebula with sword in hand, marching back to meet her father. She would probably never best him in swordplay, but if he was determined to torture her everywhere their clan went, she would at least have to impress him. Young Jackal raised her chin with fifteen-year-old insolence. She would. "Ready?" her father asked, matching her smirk with zeal. They took battle stances. She was distracted by the sound of engines behind her. Wait, no distractions! Jackal steeled herself; but her father did not take the opportunity to humiliate her again. He was straightening, his sword sinking, his eyes trained on something in the distance. A siren went off from the watchtower. "Enemy clan!" They were both moving in an instant. Other pirates were leaving their homes just as swiftly, like a drill team, and everywhere weapons were appearing. The clan ship was already humming. Deck shields were up, preventing unauthorized board. The young and wounded were running up the entry ramp first. Those who were healthy and armed were at the bottom... The enemy clan roared into view on hovercycles, a crew of Neo Pirates wielding sabres and blasters. A shower of lasers streaked along the Nebula's side. Jackal's clan was well-versed in violence. Still blocking the unarmed from sight, they almost appeared to rush into battle with open arms, though those open arms bore weapons. In the din that followed, it was impossible to tell which side was winning. One in the midst of it could only shoot and cut and flail with the ferocity of a wild animal, and stop to think later. Uh-oh! Jackal froze in mid-run, gulped in mid-grin. A big fellow loomed over her. Big sword, too. She turned aside and stumbled to avoid the graze of the blade. Her left hand was groping, out of sight. The sharp metal came into contact with her face, and she screamed. Her eye! Jackal closed them both and fell to her knees, but not before she freed her blaster. The nameless pirate's scream drowned in the blast, and she sensed him falling. Refusing to look at the dead man, Jackal turned her head aside and opened her eyes. She could see! The blade had nicked her just under her right eye, and a trail of blood streamed down her cheek. She couldn't feel the pain just then. Jackal leapt to her feet and dove into the fray again, perhaps over-confident. "Sarah! Get into the ship!" If only she had listened... The metal cubes rolled across the deck. All pirates were silent, staring, leaning, holding their breath. "Ooohhhhh....?" Shouts and curses flew up when the pieces finally came to a stop. The markings on the upright faces of the dice glowed. "Trin!" a pirate yelled. Jackal grinned as she reached for her winnings--- really metal chips that symbolized her winnings. She hoped to trade them in soon. "Alright alright pipe down there!" Captain Grent bellowed as he approached. The crew grew quiet. "Now we're down to four contestants. Mister Grackle and Mister Biggs, you boys played the best game. You'll spar first!" Curious to learn the rest of the game, since she was so good at it, Jackal eagerly ran with the rest of the crew to the middle of the deck. Something resembling a balance beam had been constructed there, though it stood at least a foot above every man's head. Grackle and Biggs each seized one of the two poles the beam stood on, shimmied up, and balanced at the top. A holographic device was tossed to each of them, and bright blades were projected from the ends. At Captain Grent's signal, the men began to spar, keeping good balance on the narrow rail. Jackal walked a wide circle around the sparring beam, as the rest of the crew spread out to cheer for whoever was winning. As the pirate who had won fourth place, Jackal would be fighting the man in third place on the same beam, and winner would play winner. She decided she liked this game, even if it meant risk and waiting. "Ho-ho!" several voices crowed. Grackle's sword had gone into Biggs. The holographic projection had cut short, appearing to penetrate the pirate's gut. Grackle grinned at him. "You lose!" He kicked Biggs to the deck, turning to raise his arms at the fountain of laughter now surrounding him. Biggs lay where he fell. There was no visible room, but he moaned as if experiencing terrible pain in his abdomen. The captain laughed, clapping his big hands together. "Now! Jackal and Smithe. Up on the beam with ye!" Jackal smirked at Smithe as they both stepped out of the crowd, approaching the structure between them. This would be even easier than the dice, Jackal thought. She'd had plenty of practice, even on narrow walkways such as the rail. Thanks, Dad, Jackal thought. Someday, she would have to tell him about this. Jackal kicked, screamed, bit and scratched. The three aggravated men holding her, however, weren't discouraged easily. They dragged her across the cabin, hands like vices. Jackal's oversized jacket was full of sabre cuts and laser burns, and it tore in their grasp, but she was not free for long. Not even for two seconds. The enemy pirates pounced on her again, and dragged her back. They shackled her to the wall. Jackal tried to kick again. She kicked only air. A powerful boot slammed into her ribs, which quieted her. The men stomped away as she coughed and spasmed, sucking in air. The clan ship hummed beneath her, and she knew they were taking off. Jackal tried to get herself under control. She could still escape. Or her clan could still be coming! Doubtless she was not the only prisoner, as it was common for this clan to separate its prisoners lest they find comfort in one another, or plan escape. She could get out of this. She was Jackal. A boy was leaning in the doorway, looking at her curiously. Jackal spat in his direction. He smirked a little, and walked on... Parry. Parry. Swing. Dodge. Parry. Lunge. Touche. "You aren't bad, as far as fat old men go," Jackal said, only a little breathless. Smithe's facial muscles grew taut, indicating that she had indeed struck his vulnerable spot. Their holographic swords crossed and were held down a moment. Smithe was still stronger than she. Jackal frowned in thought, then decided there was just enough room for her next move: to step back suddenly, freeing both their swords, and sending Smithe off balance. "O, for a thousand tongues to sing! Tongues of fire on metal ring." Jackal laughed as their swords met again. She was having fun with this out-of-shape pirate, formidable though he was. He took things far too personally. "Watch the birdie." She nodded upward as if to distract him as her foot pounded the beam between them. Thinking he was being tricked, Smithe's attention went to the beam. It was in reality neither sky nor beam that would undo him, however. It was Jackal's sword, which struck his, directing his own weapon into his chest. Smithe looked at it in shock and rage as all others cheered. He had lost to a teenage girl. As the defeated Smithe climbed down, Jackal watched Grackle climb up. Jackal and Grackle... a fox and a crow, she thought smugly. "Rough luck, lass," Grackle said as he stood before her on the beam. "This is where you lose your winnings." She shrugged. "You say tomato, I say tomahto." Grackle ran to meet her in the middle of the beam. His large frame was remarkably nimble, his swift strokes stunning. Jackal could barely block them and keep her balance, much less return blow for blow. He bore down on her like a bear, and more than once she felt the blade of light graze her clothing, not even an inch from ending the game. He was good! "The fox and the crow," Jackal muttered to herself. "Forget it. You won't be distracting me with your idle talk," Grackle said. "I already know your techniques." "Not all of them!" Jackal planted her hand firmly on his face. He snuffed and waved his sword, but she had already jumped, leaning on that one hand, vaulting herself straight over his head. She landed behind him on the beam, and with a jump and a twist was facing him again. Grackle had just realized what had happened, and she knew this was the only moment she would ever catch him off-guard. Jackal had already kicked. Grackle waved his arms, but still fell. One hand grasped the beam, keeping him in the game. Jackal quickly stomped on his knuckles, and the big pirate fell to the deck. Shocked and bewildered cheers rose from the crew. Already the drinks had appeared. The loser looked up, his face dark, at the girl smirking over him. "Rough luck, lad," she said. Captain Grent smirked secretively as the young pirate jumped from the beam and approached him. She pulled her game chips from her belt and held them before his face, still smirking. Grent laughed and quickly took them. "Well men, it appears we've all been outmatched by a girl." "I'd take her again!" a voice pealed above similar challenges. "She's earned this crew's respect. Bring out the drinks, boys! and Jackal sleeps in the cabin of honor tonight." Another young pirate boosted Jackal onto his shoulder, and she was swept away in the direction of the party. Jackal twisted on the young man's shoulder to look back at the captain. "I want my pay, you buffoon!" she shouted. "In the morning!" Grent bellowed back. He rubbed his chin and repeated to himself, "In the morning." By that time, the old captain reasoned, they might be able to convince her to become a permament asset to this ship. Arms still shackled to the wall behind her, she rested her chin on her knees. Blood had dried on the right side of her face. Her lip was cracked. Her short, thick hair was matted. And she was hungry. The cabin had grown dark upon the ship's entering space, providing no way to keep track of time... and no way to know where she was going. It was a long time before she noticed that same boy leaning against the doorframe again. A cryptic smile was etched in his dark face. When she only glared, he walked over and sat down nearby. "Hi." She turned her face away. "Aw, don't be like that. Things aren't as bad as you think." Jackal grunted and searched her mind for any sarcastic thing she could say. It was the first time in her life that she didn't have a comeback. "My name is Petris," said the boy. She wished he would go away. "Nothing to say, huh? Well, I'm not going to do anything to you, lass." He lifted something, but she refused to look. "Actually, I only came to clean that wound." She shot him a warning look. Petris shrugged. "Captain's orders. We can do it the hard way, or you can just let me get it over with. Everybody wins." "Go away." Petris moved quickly. He literally sat on her lap, making it impossible for her to kick as he wetted his wash rag. When she spat in his face, he acted just as if she hadn't. Little by little, the warm water ebbed at the dry blood on her face. She steeled herself and closed her eyes. "All done," Petris said. He leaned back, wiped her spittle from his face, and quickly got off of her. Chaste as a priest, she thought sardonicly. Petris took his bucket and walked back to the door. As it hissed open, he looked back for a moment. "Is your name Sarah?" he asked. Jackal was determined not to speak to him, but she realized the expression in her eyes must have given the answer away. Petris looked a bit pitying as he walked out. "I heard a man calling for you before we left." The door closed. Jackal looked around at her accomodations only momentarily, and closed her weary eyes. She had been celebrating with the rest of the crew for... she didn't know how long. Like in the hours past, all she wanted was to get her money and get out. Unfortunately, Grent seemed to still have plans for her, and now she was too exhausted to do anything but wait until morning. Jackal crawled into the unfamiliar bed and sighed. She would have to cook up a way to show Grent. She didn't like other clans' ships, anyway. For that reason, she kept thinking of the prisoners held below. And Petris... Petris returned later, once the ship had grown restful and still. He crept across the deck toward her, and she stirred to give him another icy glare. Petris inserted a metal key into her shackles, and the computer quietly released her. Jackal sprang away. "Just what do you think you're doing!" "Quiet," Petris said. "You just stay there, boy!" Petris aimed a gun at her. She fumed and knotted her fists. "Listen, Sarah O'Malley. I'm trying to do you a favor." Petris drew himself to his full height. "During the battle six hours ago, your father saved my life." Jackal scowled. "Why would he do that?" "I don't know. Maybe because he's... good." "Hah!" The word "good" was a joke as far as she was concerned. "Please!" Petris motioned for quiet. "Do you want to wake the whole ship?" Jackal folded her arms. "Now, I feel I owe you something... or your father, anyway. I'm helping you escape. So will you cooperate or not?" She gave him a long look. "Jackal." "What?" "Don't call me Sarah. It's Jackal." "Alright, fine, whatever you say! Let's just please get out of here before we're caught." Petris led her through the ship's belly, explaining in hurried whispers that those guarding her were on a break and would return within the hour. They ascended to the ship's deck. A starry universe sparkled above the dome covering it. "This way." They reached the bow. A hovercycle waited there, unoccupied. "You'll be able to ride it straight through the dome, of course," Petris explained. "And an exosuit with a full tank of oxygen can be triggered by the left handlebar. The map in the console will show you where all the nearest planets are." Jackal looked at the cycle, and glanced around deck. Her eyes returned to Petris's. "Go back to bed." When he seemed about to say something, she hissed, "Some one may already be awake. Go back before you're seen." Petris patted her shoulder and quickly disappeared below deck. Jackal smirked to herself and ran to the navigation bridge. She kicked the door open. The captain had been updating his computer logue. As he bounded to his feet, Jackal took hold of the doorframe and extended both legs, choking him with her feet. She saw a gun lying on a nearby shelf and freed one hand to reach for it. The captain could not utter a cry. He fell to the deck, a hole still smoking over his heart. Jackal dropped to her feet and smirked at him, proud of herself. She ran through the empty bridge and descended a staircase to the engine room. A boom rocked the ship. Fire blew from either side as its engines whined and squealed. Company and crew awoke, panic setting in, as lights flashed in every room. People were pouring onto the deck as Jackal took a running leap at the cycle. She had just landed in the seat when a pair of arms looped around her, dragging her off. Petris was on top of her. "What did you do?!" he screamed in her face. "Why?!" "There's one cycle below that still works," Jackal said. "I suggest you take it!" She brought her legs up and wrapped them around his head. With one forceful twist, she threw him off. Again she sprang onto the cycle. Her left hand went to the exo-trigger on the handlebar. Immediately, an armored suit snapped up her arm, around her torso, down her other limbs. A helmet appeared on her head, and she was breathing pure oxygen. As the ship quailed, Petris leaped up to make another pouce at Jackal. Her cycle streaked forward, and he only hit the deck. The ship's dome rippled as she passed through. Jackal made a wide arc in space, and looked back as another engine burst. Petris stood on the bow, looking after her. He made a very grim salute. She grinned and flew on. He wants me to join the crew, Jackal realized as she lay in bed. That was why Grent had not paid her right away, and why she'd been invited to breakfast with him the next morning. He intended to continue using her services. She sprang out of bed, no longer tired. Flinging on her jacket, boots, and holster, she stomped across the dark room straight for the door. Hall light flooded her vision, but she kept walking. She passed hatch after hatch like a wind-up doll with but one mission, to walk. Jackal reached the two men guarding the prisoners, and stopped without warning. In the next few moments, she had shot them both dead. The paralyzing blasts did not even give them a chance to groan. A simple re-wiring job opened the hatch, and she peered in at the prisoners. To her surprise, there was only one. He was a very small boy, without even a tattoo to indicate his extent of education. His large blue eyes watched her with fear, and his mouth hung open dumbly. "Why would anyone take you?" Jackal hissed. When he continued to stare, she snapped her fingers impatiently. "F-for ransom. My father owns the line of ships... that you..." The moment he sounded as if he would cry, Jackal advanced. She quickly shot the shackles over his arms and yanked him to his feet. "Come on." They stepped into the light again, and Jackal didn't give the young prisoner time to gape at the dead guards. She scowled impatiently. He was so small that he could barely keep up with her. Finally, she knelt down and motioned for him to get on her back. He did so, forced to cling to her on his own as she ran toward the engine room. Jackal passed the humming machinery, looking around sharply. She finally saw the weak spot she needed, and fired at it. The engine spat electricity from its wound, and Jackal immediately turned to run. Her muscular form allowed her to move with the boy on her back, for now. The ship grumbled loudly, and then its entire being gave a jolt. "Why are you doing this?" the boy wimpered. "Because I feel like it!" Jackal snapped, while Petris's voice echoed in her mind. Because he's good. The crew was clamoring about now, all too worried about what was going on to pay much attention to Jackal. Captain Grent was holding his pants up and barking orders to them all. When Jackal slipped away to the escape hatch, she found she was alone. The boy slid from her back as she signaled. Jackal slapped an exo-trigger onto his wrist, and watched scrutinously as the armored space-suit enveloped him. He gave a surprised cry, obviously new to the sensation. Jackal put on her own, making sure it went around and not over her scabbard, and allowed him to climb onto her back again. She hopped a hovercycle. "Hang on!" It roared up the ramp and onto the deck, shooting through the dome, then into space. There, a laser to Jackal's armor sent her reeling. The hovercycle idled where it was as she flew off of it, attracted enough by the ship's gravity to bounce along the dome. The boy screamed as she rolled over him momentarily, but managed to hang on. One of Grent's female crew members approached, her magnetic boots holding her to the dome. Her gun still smoked a bit. Her voice echoed within her helmet. "You did this!" Jackal glared up at her, and climbed to her feet. "You're so deductive, Archaia." Archaia was not amused. Her dark eyes traveled to the boy peering over Jackal's shoulder. "What do you want with him?" "He's cute," Jackal snarled. Archaia raised her gun. Jackal pushed off from the ship as her sword rang free. It barely deflected Archaia's blast, and she made a slash in her armor. The enemy pirate doubled over in hopes of stopping her oxygen drain. "Finesse, kiddo. It's all about finesse." As Archaia's armor worked to repair itself, Jackal bounced away, climbing back onto the hovercycle. No sooner had she and the boy roared off than she looked back to see Archaia had recovered already. She was pursuing on rocket boots. Grent's ship gave another boom and sway. More pirates were giving chase on hovercycles. "Slag it," Jackal said. She wondered how far she could go before being caught--- what maneuvers she could pull in her outnumbered state. The boy drew close to her and wimpered. "Shut up," she snapped. The ship behind them finally exploded. As oxygen flew off into eternity, the fire danced crazily and then was snuffed out. Jackal bent low, though there was no wind-resistance anyway, and raced on. The map on her console indicated that the nearest planet was hours away. She refused to look back at the angry pirates in pursuit. Just then, Jackal noticed a new ship. It was of Neo Pirate design, but she did not recognize it or its name. It slowed and turned toward them. Laser cannons appeared. "Duck, kid!" Jackal screamed as she sent the hovercycle into a spin. Lasers roared and streaked past them. Coming to a stop directly under the ship, Jackal looked back to see the last of Grent's crew being blasted to sparks one-by-one. They didn't stand a chance against the big ship. As Jackal and the boy watched, they didn't notice the compartment sliding open behind them, nor the robotic claws. They seized the hovercycle. Jackal gasped and tried to draw her sword again, but by then they had already been pulled in. The claws set them down and retracted. Jackal looked around. A good part of the crew surrounded them with weapons drawn, but they all kept their distance. There was an apprehensive silence as Jackal surveyed them. She revved the cycle's engines, and it rose a foot or so. The crew shifted, on edge. Then a voice spoke. "I thought that was you, Sarah." She turned the bike around. Petris had stepped forward, smiling. He was older and a bit more muscled, but recognizable. Jackal pointed at him. "This is your fault, you know." Petris laughed, stepping forward to take the boy into his arms. "Welcome aboard the Jackal." Feral Utterance

RAANAN ANDERSON I moved my chair back into a reclining position. I had been resting and working on and off during my flight. The Force only had a few aircrafts, and for all I knew this could be not only my first, but also my last time riding in one. It was a five-hour flight from my New Cuban testing facility to this place... Das... Das Verlone? Still reclining, I checked my wrist-comm/comp. Verlorene. I pondered what language that could be. Not my area of expertise. "Miss Anderson." I opened my eyes when I heard the voice of the co-pilot. After noticing the familiar look in his eyes, I wondered how many women there really were on the Force. Not many, was my guess. "We'll be landing soon." "The five hours are up already?" I asked, disguising my sarcasm. "Yes, you might want to un-recline and fasten your seatbelt." He looked as if he might do it himself, and when I hesitated for only a moment, I found my estimation was correct. I did my own seatbelt, though. I do have some dignity. Besides, I'd probably never see this co-pilot again. The man returned to the cabin, and I adjusted my short, black hair. Soon I felt the aircraft slow and slant forward. It was an uncomfortable moment, much like take-off. The center of gravity in my chest was being pulled. It wasn't long, however, before we had touched down on the runway; only a few seconds. In two or three more, we had come to a stop, and the doors were unsealing with barely a hiss. "Can I help you with your bags?" the co-pilot asked. He and the pilot were unboarding, as well. I already had my personal bag suspended one shoulder, and I preferred to carry the weapon case myself. "Thank you, but I'm fine," I replied, feeling almost repelled by his over-dotage. Didn't he realize that he should just stick to female pilots he might actually see again? But I suppose I shouldn't judge. I have the same problem with tech designers. The pilot, when all three of us were descending from the craft, pointed. "You want that warehouse over there. Take the elevator to the underground level. An old hero named Guiness should be at his computer immediately ahead, and he'll tell you where to go from there." "Thank you." I shook his hand. "It was a pleasure flying with you." He nodded. "Likewise." I felt the co-pilot looking at me, but I just turned and followed the pilot's directions. Neither of us had the time for flirting. There were two big steel buildings on the compound, one serving as a hangar and one for everything else. I entered the latter, and found the elevator standing apart from the wall, quite close. My clearance card was valid, and the doors were kind enough to open for me. I was the only passenger. "Elevator. Underground." There was an acknowledging warble. I barely felt the floor moving beneath me. Soon it had stopped again, and the doors opened to a clammy basement room. "Underground," an artificial voice purred, and I stepped out of the car. There was certainly a computer before me, a dais for the operator, and gloves for controlling the holographic keyboard. "Guiness," however, was nowhere in sight. I listened for a sound, but the only noise was that of my briefcase as I set it down on the cement floor. I felt a presence nearby and flinched. A pale little boy sat on a medical table against the wall. His arm was in a bandage, and he stared at me with wide, blank eyes. Kids. I hate kids. "Is Guiness here?" I asked with a smile. The boy shook his head. Biting back annoyance, Ii asked, "Where is he?" The boy pointed. A long tunnel, fluorescent lights dotting the way, lay before me. I hesitated. After some thought, I picked up the weapon case again and marched into the hollow corridor. Noises could be heard in the distance, wooden or metallic, but I couldn't recall ever hearing the like before. Suddenly, I was at the end of the tunnel. A vast cavern lay beyond it, obviously carved out by an underground river at some point. I was no longer at Operations. This had been here long before headquarters, and was now perhaps some extension if ever extra space was needed. Light was scarce and scattered. Some shot-up targets were lined up to my left, old mannequins that had found new uses. A serious of beams and poles stretched before me like an obstacle course. Some one was swinging on it ten feet above the ground, flipping, landing on the floor with a hesitant grunt. The man finished the course and moved away from it. I could make him out now. He was in his fifties. Hair that was once black was becoming ever more gray. He wore an eye patch, the side facing me. I watched the man wipe sweat from his face with a towel. When he spoke, it startled me. "I can't see you, but I know you're there." He tossed the towel away and strode toward me. Suddenly I knew what the pilot had meant by old hero. "What do you want?" "I'm Dr. Raanan Anderson, weapons designer," I said, my hand extended. "Are you Guiness?" "Yeah," he said, his handshake firm but neutral. "I was told to report to you. Apparently you know where I'm testing the new weapon, and with whom." A smirk appeared on the good side of Guinness's face. "You're sure you want to go out there?" "I'm not entirely helpless," I said irritably. I raised the case briefly. "Especially not with this." "It's your funeral. This way." The man stepped around me, and I followed him back into Operations. While I stopped near the quiet boy, Guiness went on to don his gloves and work the holographic computer. "Ah. I see you're with Terrance Black. Actually, he should be reporting here soon." "Terrance Black? The name sounds familiar." "One of the best on the Force," Guiness smirked. "Not to mention he's a co-founder." "Talking about yourself again, Guiness?" asked a male voice. I saw the man himself step out of the elevator and approach us. He looked my age, with short brown hair. Already dressed in full gear, the black material conveying something of his soul. His presence made me uncomfortable, as if he were a container for bitter, acidic chemicals. The old man gestured. "Raanan Anderson, meet Terrance Black."

OOC: One more thing, fellas! Contacing us first is just about the only rule in this RP. There's no "I get to say what you sense," or "you can't control this character." Haha, it still has to be FUN, right? LUKAS NAUMAN What can I say? I was pretty young... pretty confused. Maybe I was seven, maybe eleven. I can't remember. Actually, I'm still not sure how old I was. I was just a little boy, miles from home, sitting on a table in what appeared to be a dank basement with a lot of computer equipment that didn't quite look right in that environment. I had only a foggy idea of how I had gotten there, and had no idea who the old man was who wrapped my arm in thick cloth. I gazed at the blotches of blood soaking through with disoriented eyes. The old man fixed me with his good eye all the while, a lone piercing blue that I think used to frighten me. Neither of us ever spoke. I studied the cloth he had tied over his head as an eye patch, the silver beginning to show in his dark hair, and the still-broad shoulders that hinted at how powerful he had once been. I was both afraid of him and in awe of him. I don't think that first impression ever left me, although now I think on him with affection. Faint noises squealed in the distance, causing my shocked body to tense at the sound. They drew nearer and finally roared into the basement. Three motorcycles. Three figures in black. I gazed at them with the same look I had gazed at old Guiness. With detached apprehension and wonder. "Who's this, Guiness?" asked one of the men, climbing from his cycle and removing his helmet. It was the first time I ever saw his face, appearing young, yet at the same time seeming so old and weary. "Found him in the woods," the old man said, with a hint of Brooklyn accent in his voice. "It looks like his family was camping. Linchens attacked. I really don't know how this kid made it." He looked hard at me. "Three of them were lying on the floor, all dead as a doornail but without a trace of silver in sight. The kid just had a bloody arm, that's all." "Does he talk?" asked the young woman. I cradled my arm as Guiness finished binding it. I avoided eye contact for the rest of the evening, too confused myself to explain anything.

You and your girlfriend will be in my prayers.

Heh heh, I'd probably react the same way as that other guy. That might be why I'm so obsessed about my work. I wouldn't mind dying, it's the thought (while I'm here) that once that truck runs me over, somebody ELSE is going to finish my stories, and they'll do it all wrong!! What was the point of this story-changing assignment?

Shanai Billowing clouds hooded the stars. Lightening tore down the sky, illuminating for one moment the blades of long grass that rippled across the farmland. Torrents of rain splashed in a cobblestone courtyard and against the three-story cottage before it. On the highest level, cold but secure beneath the dripping thatch roof, slept the slaves. A tall young woman had taken her time in rolling out of bed, as soon as she was certain that everyone else was asleep. Thin and pale, dark black hair chopped short, Shanai took one last look at her only friend in this evil world--- Adella. When Shanai had first come to the farm as a slave, everyone had been afraid of her, even her new master. But Adella had been kind. Adella had given her a chance. Now, without a good-bye, Shanai was leaving. She had to. The caravans arrived from the Desert in the morning. With them came cloth, oil, riches, and numerous slaves, some for sale and some for the camels. The caravan left with food, water, and new slaves. Shanai was destined to be one of them. Quiet feet moved down the rickety stairs, making less sound than a spirit. Then the door opened and the air grew colder. She he was charging through the rain across the courtyard. Slippery stones failed to hinder her. Inside the stable, the sweet smell of wood chips, spring rain, and alfalfa hay drifted lazily through the air. A leak in the ceiling dripped onto a pair of gray work horses, who blinked sleepily when Shanai lit a lantern. Brickets raised his creamy head and grunted, stomping his hooves on the stall floor. "Whoa there," the girl murmured darkly, depositing a looped rope into her pouch. Brickets was a wild thing. She had made him so on purpose. Now, that little act of treachery could easily backfire. A peal of thunder crackled outside. High-strung, Brickets arced his neck and whinnied long and loud. Only the snarling sky could drown the enraged horse's scream. Hooves pawed the bed of his stall. Mane tossed indignantly. Shanai sighed and fastened the pouch to her side. When she led Brickets to the door, he braced his legs and jerked to a stop. The stallion looked out at the storm, and snorted. Shanai pulled at the reins with all her strength, but he flattened his ears and stood his ground like a mule, refusing to budge. Shanai sighed angrily and climbed into the old saddle. Bending over the horse's neck and trying to breathe evenly, she waited for the next pulse of lightening. When it came, she kicked viciously and slapped his hindquarters. Brickets screamed as if wild, bolting out into the storm. She held to his mane tightly, moving with the body beneath her. Shanai could feel fear and anger radiating from his wet coat as he galloped across the cobblestones. Ahead stood the towering boundary wall, black vines curled over steady old stone. Brickets would never take the jump. He hated jumps. One pace away, the horse stopped short, nearly kneeling in an effort to get Shanai off of his back. She didn't slip, but jerked the reins so that he stood. A dim light glimmered in the window; the farmer was lighting his lamp. Brickets trotted toward the stable. Shanai turned him, and then jolted him toward the wall again. She urged with all her might, digging her heels into his sides. Eyes wild with fear and anger, the horse gained speed, felt her weight shift suddenly, and took the cue to jump. They sailed in a rush of wind. The lantern shattered against the wall and blew out. Shanai sucked in her breath in sudden panic. The horse felt her fear and twisted, landing clumsily on the ground beyond the wall. The steed knelt in the mud. He snorted. Shanai yanked the reigns again, and he pulled himself together. They disappeared into the darkness, heading for the deep muddy bogs which stood between the road and their destination. Lightening streaked above them. The horse balked. White light made their figures appear and disappear once more. Then, they were gone. IT WAS A NEVER-ENDING STRUGGLE through the marshes, but by early morning, they were deep into the trees. Shanai tethered Brickets to a stake in the earth, and made a fire. She built some props from fallen branches, drying her outer clothing and Brickets' tack beside the flames. Curling up as near to the fire as possible, she tried to get dry. Shanai hoped she wasn't sick. It had been hard enough finding dry wood. As she rested, she whispered, I'm free a few times. I'm home. It didn't feel that way, however. The old had gone, but the new had come with mysterious speed, as if these trees had been here for decades. She thought of the fire seven years ago. It had been the biggest anyone could recall; but then, how often were there survivors to recall such things? Were there any guardians left? Or had she dreamed them all? SHANAI DIDN'T REALIZE that he saw her. He looked to his partner and back to the human encamped. She was a trespasser. Only one, but that didn't excuse her in the slightest. "What does it want?" Webki asked, a little above and to the right. "It seems to be hiding," Ash replied, turning back to watch the fire through the bushes. He examined the newcomer's scent. SHANAI STARED AT THE DIRT, listening to the forest around her. Her keen brown eyes studied the pine needles, not revealing that she heard voices in the trees. "It senses something. Stay hushed." "Perhaps it can hear us through magic," said the gruff voice, which was lowered to a whisper. "Some set up forces around themselves..." "Who's out there?" Shanai called. "It cannot see us," said the creamy voice. "Don't move." "I can hear you fools talking!" Shanai huffed. "Show yourselves!" The bushes parted. A graceful gray figure passed through the thorns without a scratch, moving into the light of the fire, green eyes shining. Long ears were pricked toward her with calm fascination. A fluttering rose above in the branches before a small tan figure gently circled down to land on the wolf's head. "You can... hear us?" asked the wolf in a smooth whisper. "Ashlang the wolf," Shanai said. Her disbelief was obvious. The last time she had seen him, he had only been a soft, round pup. She looked at the owl for a moment before continuing, "I cannot say that I ever met I you." The wolf's eyes rolled up toward the owl, which bent over his brows in agreement. The owl craned his neck to look at her, then said faintly, "She has the gift!" Apparently, they felt equal incredulity. Shanai leaned over the fire only a little, showing a rare display of earnestness. "Ash. Don't you remember me?" The creatures exchanged glances again. "Shanai?" She felt a brief smile flood her face before it wavered. "Yes! I came back." "I am glad." The owl spread his wings as a gesture of respect. "I am Webki." "It is an honor to make the acquaintance of a bird once more," Shanai said. "Where are the other guardians?" Ash spoke slowly, lying down in front of the fire. "There is much to be said."

Religion is a kind of concentration camp in which everyone strives to follow the rules and pretend to be happy, whereas faith is truly living what one believes.

JAREENA FAYE I was pondering whether this fellow was spiritual, a demon subject to my authority, or physical, in which case my dwarven lance might do some damage. I finally decided on the latter and prepared to leap between the Shadow-Servant and Gabriel, when the ground lurched and split. It appeared to be spitting something up, a roiling coil of green limbs and leaves and thorns. One vine curled toward the wounded Gabriel. My lance cut it off. The remaining stub seemed to hiss and scream as it recoiled. The Shadow-Servant was also fighting it, but now that his arms were pinned to his sides by a plant-like tentacle, he had trouble forcing it back. The rest of us stumbled back as he began to disappear into the hungry greenery. "I'll be---" The Shadow-Servant was cut off as he disappeared. "Can't they say anything else?" I grumbled to myself. But we had other problems. The plant was coming after us, too... Ack, sorry I took so long! You may kill me now.

Gahh! Stupid disks that think they need formatting!!! Okay so, I'll have to check and see if I got the edited version saved on my computer. If not, I'll have to burn it from the stupid computer that doesn't even have a working floppy drive, and edit it again. I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me...

Jareena turns in her cafe stool, then stands and strolls over to Salinye. Salinye is still in grateful awe, smiling at her accepted (though slightly crumpled) application. Jareena leans against the booth and nods. "He tried to sell me stuff, too."

Oh yes! (Don't you hate it when you find out a million other people had your idea?) You and me should take over the world some time. Have your henchmen call my henchmen.

I've never showed this to anyone but my brother. I figured I could post Chapter One of Book One, and if anyone is interested I'll post another chapter, et cetera. The Prophecy Early spring. It is a dark forest, the trees still bare and the nights still cold. The sun has set. No sound is heard. Not the rustle of a rodent, or the chirping of a cricket. No such life exists here. The Black Forest is in slow decay. One sound breaks through the silence: a child's crying. Soft, uneasy, disturbed. Alone. The baby is two years old, undernourished and uneducated; a slow developer. As her second birthday had come, and she had still not spoken a word, her parents decided she wasn't worth the effort. What poor merchant can afford a daughter with no strength and no intelligence? Now the baby is moaning and clasping an old blanket tightly, being hungry and afraid as a quarter moon sheds its weak, silver light through the black branches. Claw-like twigs wave in the air above her, silent and ominous. A female wolf pads through the shadows, dark gray in color, with bright green eyes and a bandit's mask. She is looking for a meal and finding nothing. The game has been hard to find in the late week, and the guardians are scavenging individually. This one comes upon the baby, eyes instantly lighting up with interest. The wolf does not much like the smell. Superstitious and fearful, man has burned the forest many a time in hopes of wiping out the legends, monsters, and curses fabled to live here. However, their attempts seemed only to make the problems worse, and the guardians ever more protective of their home. At the sight of the wolf, the little girl stops crying. A dark, pointed nose moves in to inspect her, and the baby squeals with a faint smile. Small, stubby fingers reach for a rough ear and tug playfully. The wolf tears away, studying the human child for a moment. As the intelligent eyes survey the helpless body, anger evaporates to be replaced by hopeful awe. She can remember stories about a quiet one, preparing the way. Pausing, the wolf and baby look at one another curiously. Then, the guardian moves in to clamp her jaws over the ragged little blanket and gently pull. The baby teeters to her feet, holding onto the other end of the rag. She follows her new friend deeper and deeper into the forest. One is slow and clumsy, the other swift and silent. Patiently, the wolf stops to allow the child to regain balance. It can barely walk. They come to a rocky hill, where other wolves are lounging. The alfa raises his nose to the air, stands, and growls. His one good eye shines green in the moonlight, focusing an intense gaze upon the baby. His mate shelters the human underneath the rough, warm fur of her belly, looking to the alfa with a fiery hope. As the alpha and his niece converse, the pack watches with similar mixed feelings, and a pair of owls creep across a tree branch to listen. Their chicks stare out of the hollow, unblinking. The human baby is the only one oblivious to the controversial statements being made about her. Everyone else is aware of the risks, and disagreeing on whether the risk of believing is worth it. A bold black wolf with a white star seems skeptical, hanging at the edge of the group. He argues that it seems unlikely their prophecy would be fulfilled by a human, and in any rate, the one to go before had not yet appeared. Some agree. Some rebuke the young wolf for his arrogance. The alpha nods that the black is correct, and that is the end of the argument. Now the question is, what are they to do with her? They know there are others who know more of such things, good humans with better knowledge for care of their own kind. But they live miles away, over a mountain even. Only one, the black wolf, is willing to go so far, but he is not yet old enough to make the journey alone. Being a rough but compassionate people, the wolf guardians come to the conclusion that they have no choice but to keep the human. Ah, if only human guardians still existed. The owl neighbors point out that if they keep the child, she will become a human guardian, and may yet serve to bring the prophecy about. So it came that the baby was raised in the dark under the protection of the forest guardians. It was even harder than they had supposed. She grew tired and usually slept by night, too slow for the hunt and not particularly fond of their food. But the guardians were patient folk, especially the she-wolf who had originally found her. She only loved her more for it, and showed the girl to good berries and roots that the wolves only sometimes ate. The girl learned quickly. The girl did remember something of her life across the muddy lands, as the pack spoke with her often about it. But she didn't trust the villagers any more than they did. In years to come, when the men would return, it would be a day of fire. That day came sooner than any would have liked. Before the forest could be set ablaze, the adventuring men discovered a thin, lanky girl watching them from the brush. She could speak, yet heard voices which escaped their ears. It angered them. It frightened them. She was overpowered and carried out of the trees to the marsh. She scratched and fought the whole way like a cougar, screaming her name to them and telling them what it meant--- of the forest. Chosen. Never to be taken away. The men laughed, though afraid, and called her mad. They rowed away with her. She watched in agony as the forest burned, listening to the agonized voices of her friends.

COLIN AP WARREN Despite the sword wound that had somehow penetrated my breastplate, I found great strength in my stride. A part of my mind still dwelt on the fact that I was going to die, but for now I had the assurance that the enemy would be defeated first. I was not alone as I strode through the thrashed stone halls. Anaya and the others slowly began to follow me. I smiled when young Grison skipped up to run beside me, smiling peacefully. It was strange, but I sensed an awesome power in his innocence. That power seemed to be swelling in others, as well--- and in me, I realized. It was not coming from us. It was coming to us, and filling us with a strange joy even as we stepped over shattered weapons and fallen fighters. Some one began a hymn. Voices joined in, though hardly anyone knew all the words. Deserters joined us, and we became a throng, a mightier army than before, marching. A small syrakk saw us, and shifted into a beetle before skittering away. Then we all stopped. For something blocked our path. It was terrifying. An embodiment of evil... a demon if I ever saw one. For only a brief moment, my mind travelled to a stained-glass window I had seen many times before, of Christ's temptation by Satan. That depiction now seemed a mockery, making light of the power that could so easily destroy us now. My knees wanted to buckle, as if the weakest part of me knew it must kneel to survive. Strangely enough, Grison's hand grasping mine was what kept me upright. "I am Elinthar," the great prince boomed. We had barely noticed the syrakk gathered behind him, his majesty was so seductively fearful. "You traitors. Your race has always belonged to my prince, and your province has always belonged to me. Did you think I would let you live if you betrayed me for a different master?" I knew he would not have let us live, anyway. But my mouth was too dry to speak. "There is only one master," a small voice said clearly. My eyes travelled to Grison, standing more bravely than I. "All authority in Heaven and Earth has been given to Him. He is Jesus Christ, King of Kings and Lord of Lords!" Elinthar raised his voice into a terrible, animal-like roar. It did not drown out Grison's words, however, or the mention of his enemy's Name. But where had little Grison heard that verse, those phrases? Even as Elinthar screamed and ordered the boy not to speak that Name again and to in fact be silent forever, I felt people kneeling behind me, and found myself compelled to kneel also. Not for Elinthar, but for true prayer. We were all using the Name, and it angered the dark angel, who raised his sword as if to strike. Grison was raising his own sword. "You were anointed as a guardian cherub, for so God ordained you. You were on His holy mount, you walked among the fiery stones. You were blameless in your ways from the day you were created 'til wickedness was found in you." "I said to be silent!" Elinthar shrieked, but little voices somehow rose above his. A little girl spoke next. "Through your widespread trade you were filled with violence, and you sinned. So God drove you in disgrace from his mount. He expelled you, O guardian cherub, from among the fiery stones. Your heart became proud on account of your beauty..." "You corrupted your wisdom because of your splendor!" "The Almighty threw you to the earth. He made a spectacle of you before kings!" We were all taking up swords, swords we could not see. "By your many sins and dishonest trade you have desecrated your sanctuaries. God made a fire come out from you, and it consumed you, and He reduced you to ashes on the ground in the sight of all who were watching." "All the nations who knew you are appalled at you!" I shouted, as if Some One had decided it was my turn to weild His sword. "You have come to a horrible end, and will be no more!" "We bind you, Satan," little Grison said with authority. Elinthar laughed softly, but though there was no sign of fraud, we knew he was greatly enraged and disturbed. "We cast you out!" "You will not cast me out!" Elinthar bellowed. "You are mine! I will sift you like wheat. I will torture you for the sins you cannot deny committing. Do not rejoice that you have power over me!" "Nay!" Grison almost laughed. "We rejoice that our names are written in Heaven! You have no more authority over us, for we have been bought back by the blood of Heaven. In the name of Jesus Christ, leave and do not return!" "No!" Elinthar screamed. But though we were afraid--- at least, I was ---we did not back off, or cease praying, or cease spouting Scripture I was sure I had forgotten, and some of the new followers had probably never even heard before. Yet we were saying it, with calmness and authority. "Jesus replied, 'I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and overcome the power of the enemy!' " "There is no authority except that which God has established!" "Therefore God exalted Him to the highest place and gave Him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in Heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father!" "Leave this place, Satan!" Grison commanded. The dark angel shuddered and screamed, whether in rage or pain I know not. We all closed our eyes as a mighty wind began to stir in the hallway. We felt as if something immense was fleeing from all corners of the hold. My heart pounded so hard that it must have ground up everything else inside me. It was as if the entire place was being swept clean by a giant broom. The wind ceased. We looked up. The chill of evil's presence had left us. Anaya rushed forward and clung to Grison, and I could only blink for a moment and wonder if she had really feared for him. Stick-like legs scraped on stone, and antennae waved. We knights stood and drew our earthly swords, realizing that the syrakk were still facing us in the hallway. Still... they were not half so fearful now. They were just large bugs, with nothing inside. Almost smiling, I rushed to meet them. So did the other men.

To ye all... Aw man, I'm so sorry I just dropped out like that! Damon, I was never mad at you all, my friend! You see, last Sunday right after church I learned that my dad was taking a fourteen-hour road trip to go trade the family van for one that actually might be able to hold our entire hugantic family. I just got back an hour ago (seven, Tuesday night). So you guys go ahead and continue while I catch up. Again... I'm real sorry.

I've read some Max Lucado, and I was kind of aware of the similarities when I wrote this. You're referring to the one with the puppets and the gray dots, right?

Hey Ryuu! Well, I'm actually really lazy, so forget it, I'll write more later... but in other news, I did make an avatar for you, if you want. You kinda have to watch a while before it moves. Tell me whatcha think.

Okay, since third person is so easy... :yuiwink2: Jareena stays at the back of the mill, arms folded, looking almost as incredulos as Cole and Mordekai--- Calondriel's face is expressionless. She is beginning to regret volunteering for this mission, which her employer still hadn't fully explained. The moment she accepted the job, a small and slightly annoying little sprite had overturned every table in the tavern, both she and he had fled the people of the tavern, and her employer had gotten into a fight he wouldn't talk about. Now they had dragged these young mill men into the mess, and no one seemed to care. Needless to say, this annoyed her. OOC: Please understand that the snottiness of my character does in no way reflects my own unique, admitted snottiness. (In other words, no offense.)

Ha ha, wow I totally forgot about this post, and I didn't check for replies. Thanks for reading, friends! I'm so glad you liked it! As for the allegory... mwa ha I'm so glad you asked. :woot: See, God is both our Father and our Creator, and we the creations are wrongfully ruled and ruined by Satan, who is kind of like a bad merchant in some ways. Jesus is God's Son, who gave His life to buy us back.

"You most certainly can," I replied, glancing over my shoulder for any sign of Colondriel. "Although I hope, for my sake, that you never sing it in my home country." "Aw, why not?" Gabriel asked. "I sing pretty well! And I can pull of a pretty noble bard pose, too! ... When I'm not all wet..." I put my hand on his shoulder. "No doubt you can. I didn't mean to offend. But you see, my father... well, he didn't raise me, so he is not pleased with the way I turned out." "He didn't want you to be a knight?" Again, I smiled just a little and shook my head. The thought did not leave me with bitterness, however. It was hard to be solemn in the presence of Gabriel, which I would soon discover. "Hey, here comes our boss!" he said, pointing through the faint evening light. Sure enough, Colondriel was finally approaching. The two of us asked him, in varying words, where he'd been. "A pair of fools tried to kill me." My eyes wandered to the sheathed sword at his side. "Something tells me they reaped what they sowed."

Oh blech, stupid typos that I'm too lazy to fix! I hate my keyboard... fixed distracting typos for you. - P'

This is where one can post previously composed stories, correct? "Stolen. Every last one of them," said the Father, slumping into his favorite chair with a frown. His Son was also on the porch, and glanced up with the same pensive look of concern. "Where are your creations now, Father?" A hand merely pointed down the road, to the Merchant's shop. Everyone knew of the death the Merchant sold there. The Son bit his lip grimly and declared, "I will go and retrieve them." "No, Son. I gave that shop to my children, who gave it to the Merchant. I will not allow you to simply go and take my creations, no matter how precious they are." "I know," the Son replied, and jumped over the fence rail. "I'll pay for them." The Father watched with tears in his eyes as his son walked bravely into the Merchant's shop. The interior was full of horrors of every kind; deeptively tempting, outright gruesome, inescapably controlling. Each reached to ensnare the Son as he passed, but he stayed out of reach, and they stayed on their shelves. Then the Son's eyes fell upon his Father's creations, scattered amongst the horrors. They were already tainted. "So many," he whipered. Not only the Father's chosen, but every work was immensely precious. "May I help you?" aked the Merchant behind the counter. He grinned maliciously. "Yes," said the Son firmly, though his stomach fluttered. "I have come to buy back my Father's creations." "Now, now! They're here on their own. I never exactly stole th--- Did you say 'buy'?" "Yes." The Merchant grinned wider. Here, he had the most beloved Son of his worst enemy, coming to pay any price. And for something that was already his! "Well, you know, I can't give them to you cheap." "I know." "Given their rarity and unique formation, I think I would have to require... your life blood." The room was deathly silent. The Son did not look surprised. He nodded. It was all the Merchant could do to keep from dancing with glee. The Son would be completely drained. He would die! A deliciously painful blow to the Father! And with the Son dead, no one could take the creations from the shop, anyway. It was as if the Father had planted a gift on the Merchant's doorstep! The deed began. Quietly, trembling, the Son stood still as the Merchant set his wares on the young man. Even the Father's creations joined in, withdrawing more and more blood. The room was filled with the stench and splatter of it. Slowly, the Son's head began to nod, his eyelids heavy. Weakly, he slumped against a toy shelf. Death drew the breath from his lungs, and he lay silent. The Merchant laughed and danced on his wares for joy, trampling them underfoot. They cried in pain, yet cried for more. Grinning in triumph, the Merchant crowed, "I have finally won!" "No." Still soaked in his own blood, the Son slowly rose to his feet. The Merchant's leer froze, and he let out a shriek of anger. "But you died!" "And now i have defeated death!" The Son turned to his Father's creations, each peering up incredulously from the floor. "Come. We're going back to my Father's house." The creations did not move. They looked at one another for second opinions, unable to imagine anything outside of this shop. In the end, only two stepped forward, the smallest and shabbiest of them all. The Merchant laughed at this unexpected counterblow. "I may have lost, Son, but at leaast I will take most of your precious creations with me!" The Son did not reply. Instead, with great love and care, he bent down to lift the two puppets into his hands. They were soaked with his blood, but didn't seem to mind. Together, the three of them left the merchant's shop on the way home. "Will the Merchant always prevail?" asked one creation. "No," said the Son. "Someday, we'll come back."

Calonderiel and I were frozen at the table for a moment, watching as the new volunteer burst out the door with ten or fifteen people on his heels. We glanced at one another with mirrored expressions, then rose to follow the crowd. Outside, in the light of the red sunset, we could plainly see Gabriel dashing about the edge of the village, chased by the angry mob. "He moves very quickly," Calonderiel observed. "That he does," I replied, leaning against the doorframe. I glanced at my employer. "Do you think we should do something?" "Probably," the elf nodded. "What did you have in mind?" I whistled shrilly, and my horse Brezza cantered into view. I jumped from the stone steps and landed squarely in the saddle. "Meet me at the mill," I grinned, and nudged my steed. With a snort, he gladly charged forward again, spirited hooves flying as we caught up with the angry crowd, then overtook them. I leaned sideways as we approached Gabriel, then plucked him up to land in the saddle behind me. "Hello. My name is Jareena," I said casually as we rode away from the people. "Nice to meet you," Gabriel said, eyes shining with a smile. Wasn't out of character, was it?

OOC again!: Sure no prob! Since I don't know your character very well, I'll try my best not to make him say anything out of character, but I can't make many guarantees until it's been a few posts. But I totally know what you mean! With the offer already claimed, the others in the tavern turned their attention elsewhere. I wasn't finished, however. "Not so hasty... if I am indeed going to travel with you, you must understand that I can be a difficult partner at times." "Oh?" Calonderiel asked, arching a brow. "Yes. First you must understand that I am very steadfast in my beliefs. If you worship any gods or practice any magic, it must be on your own time at your own risk. I believe in only the one true God, and any power from an outside source is only harmful." Calonderiel's mouth tightened, and he nodded for me to go on, as if hoping there was no more. "I'm also quite stubborn." I allowed a brief smile once more. "You'll have to remind me when I'm being impertinent or unfeeling. I do my best, but when I disagree with a person, I tend to leap to conclusions. And, in closing..." I leaned back in my chair. "I wouldn't mind knowing your life story."

OOC: If there's something to say I can't join, just tell me. Truthfully speaking, I don't think much of taverns. The company isn't exactly healthy. Come to think of it, neither is the food, drink, or amount of dust. But a wandering knight can't be critical of where she finds rest. Taverns are usually the only choice, and always the cheapest one. Wandering knights aren't paid much, either. "I'll go," I said readily. "I am not, by any means, a mercenary; but I have friends who are. And knights can offer an abundance of protection." The slender elf, obviously male to my experienced eyes, looked at me curiously. Doubtless he hadn't seen many lady knights in his time. I narrowed my eyes and smiled faintly as if to say, It is up to you. After surveying the room, he approached my table and sat down...