The Febranujary Challenge!

[Jenny (Reffy)]

A Child's Innocence

"Come on, Jonathan! Keep up!" Ellie was running as fast and as hard as her little legs could carry her. A huge smile was plastered over her face as the wind pulled playfully at her blonde hair, sending tresses of curled golden locks back in streamers. The slapping of her Sunday best shoes could be heard through the alleyway and well out into the park district of Stormwind City. The pair had been playing there until Ellie had decided there was something new to be seen in the mage quarter. That was always the way with Ellie; there were always something new to see.

"Slow down! My legs aren't that long!" Jonathan was barely keeping up. It was unusual for a gnome and a human to be friends but the pair of them had been the very best of friends ever since Ellie had found him a year ago playing in the old town. Jonathan had been dragged there by his father to get some more gyrorocket bolts and his first spanner. He hadn't been very interested in the spanner but Ellie had shown him the Cathedral which was very curious.

"But I've got to show you this!" Ellie didn't slow down as she zipped around the corner; her dress flapped wildly as her knees pushed it out in ripples.

Jonathan took the corner at the same speed but unfortunately had no time to stop before he slammed into the city guard. He knocked in to the man's legs and landed on his bottom with a thud, while Ellie stood a few paces ahead waiting.

"Watch where you're going, young man, or you'll come a cropper!" Jonathan was relieved when he heard the guard was not angry. From his position on the floor the guard looked huge. The Stormwind tabard covered most of his plate armour and where it didn't the silver glinted brightly. The guard was kind enough to haul him up; Jonathan marvelled at the gauntlet that helped him up.

"I'm sorry. I was just-"

Jonathan was compiling his apologies as he dusted the dirt from the denim dungarees but the guard waved him off. "It's no worry. You were playing. Go on."

Ellie was already laughing when Jonathan turned around to join the chase again.

"So? Where are we going?" He asked impatiently. They'd made it to the mage quarter and high above them the tower stood tall over the entire district, the purple slanted roofs catching the sun beautifully. The district was busy for a Sunday. Throngs of people moved from shop to shop, most of them carried piles of books and magical items like wands or robes. A few even appeared to be magical. Jonathan was sure, as they ran through the alleyway, that he'd seen a warlock and somebody with wings.

"I told you! I found something and I wanted to show you. It's magical." Ellie stuck out her bottom lip again in mock upset. "Don't you want to see it?"

"Of course I do."

"Then come on!" She ran off once again.

Jonathan turned to follow her but before but almost stopped dead in his tracks. Something had caught his eye. He rotated to look at what he thought he'd seen. At his first glance he saw nothing. It was just another alleyway. Maybe it was just the way the light had filtered there? He spun his head around to call after Ellie but yet again her petticoat and her were already blurring around the corner again. The people in the street were already filtering her away from view.

"Ellie …" he tried, half heartedly to call after her but whatever it was that had caught his eye had also captured his attention. He gave up chasing her and turned back to the alleyway.

It was just a normal alleyway of Stormwind, snuggled between the tailors' shop and the teachers' house, nothing more. Jonathan wasn't even sure why it'd stopped him in the first place. The ground that he stood on in the street was covered in cobbles which soon gave way to grass but this alleyway was just mud. It wasn't the darkest alleyway either, he noted, still staying well back from the entrance. The light was still able to reach the ground in places but it only served to highlight the brown of the dirt and the refuse of the city. A few chicken bones and a few mouldy pieces of bread (Jonathan reckoned they looked like chicken bones) were scattered around the edges. It stunk but Stormwind tended to smell on a high summer's day; it was no surprise as the city carried many interesting smells.

With caution threaded in to each and every footstep Jonathan edged closer to the alley. "Hello?" Even after he'd said it Jonathan didn't know why he'd called out. Involuntarily he zipped another look in the direction Ellie had disappeared down.

Thankfully nothing replied. Jonathan shook his head. He knew it was nothing. The alleyway was just a quicker route to the mage quarter centre. He reasoned as he stood there, his hand leaning against the cool brick and mortar wall, that this way would probably be the quickest to catch up with Ellie. With his hand still on the wall he moved into the alleyway, one step at a time and still with the pinch of caution. Jonathan knew he'd been down this alleyway many times before and didn't know why this time was any different.

"Come on, you idiot. It's just an alleyway. Nothing more. It'll come out at the tower and Ellie will be there. It's Stormwind. It's safe." The words weren't doing anything to settle the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He'd even jumped as his fingers had snagged an old spider's web. With his shoulders pulled in he kept moving, this time keeping his fingers to himself. The sound of his worn out plimsolls shuffling along was magnified by the still air, becoming the only sound to fill his ears, while his eyes jumped from shadow to shade. It was colder here.

A third of the way down the thin corridor, with the buildings towering over and the area squishing in, Jonathan knew he'd made the wrong decision to use the short-cut. He was turning to make his way back to the main street when he realised the shuffling sound was still in his ears; except he'd stopped moving. "Hello?" he called again.

The shuffling sound continued. It was probably just a rat, he reasoned. Jonathan knew rats existed in Stormwind and had even seen one down by the river-ways. Ellie found it and had insisted on showing it to him. It was a fat brown thing with a pink tail that wheezed. Jonathan had dragged Ellie away from it realising that it was probably dying and how disgusting that was. He'd said it was probably diseased and could bite.

Nothing replied again but this time Jonathan knew he'd seen something as he turned. A shadow was out of place. It should have been light but instead there was a shadow. He wished Ellie would come back but she wasn't the type to come looking for him and was probably busy doing something else more fun. "Ellie?" His voice snagged in his throat as his body tensed.

The shadow moved, suddenly, as it dodged to the other side of the alleyway. Jonathan could definitely see it. It was like rags hanging from a washing-line, maybe a scarecrow, but it moved like a human; although Jonathan had never seen such a thin human and never one that smelt that bad. The smell was like rotten eggs or like when his Dad had eaten some of the sausages imported from Kalimdor. Every hair on Jonathan's body was yelling at him to run but his feet refused to move. Internally he wished Ellie was here. "Hello?"

The shadow moved again and looked in Jonathan's direction. It was a male and nearly a metre taller than Jonathan. The sunlight in the alleyway was hardly enough to get a good look but what he could see was telling Jonathan that the man was not alive and not dead either. The skin around his face was stretched and pulled taut and a peculiar grey and hair hung in bedraggled clumps around his face. The body of the stranger was hunched even though it still managed to tower over Jonathan and in its hands were two small glints of metal.

It had taken Jonathan a good minute to take in all of the details, from the sunken face to the baggy clothes, before he noticed the glints of metal were daggers. His feet were still stuck to the ground but his knees were shaking. A curious new feeling slipped down his leg as his bladder voided itself. He wanted to be sick, right there, but his muscles were not under his control. He knew this day would come but it was supposed to happen on a battle field or outside of the city's walls. It was a Horde. It was one of the Forsaken right there in front of him. The shaking of his knees travelled up the rest of his body like a wave of convulsion that he tried but could not stop. As a last resort Jonathan sucked up all of his last breath with the effort to avoid crying. "Please," he whimpered.

The dull glow to the eyes didn't change as they tore through Jonathan and his corporeal body. It barely shifted as it studied the boy before it. A dagger turned slightly but didn't dash out from the shadows.

Jonathan started to turn red and then purple as he continued to hold his breath until he could hold it no more. "I'll call for the guard," he blurted, tears finally spilling down his face and on to his patterned shirt and dungaree straps.

"You won't."

It sounded like the creaking of a million old doors and gravel crunching at the same time. The reply made Jonathan cry out loud and whimper. He tried to shrink away from the stranger; the damp patch on his trouser-fronts made the movement feel horrible. Finally finding his courage or perhaps it was the fear, Jonathan pulled in a huge lungful of air, getting ready to shout for the guards as he'd threatened. The guards that he'd bumped into earlier couldn't have gotten too far away.

He'd never gotten the chance to use the breath before it was expelled by the brunt force of the stranger. As soon as Jonathan moved the Forsaken pushed out from the shadows and kicked him in the chest. His small body was knocked back against a wall and head flung back against the bricks resulting in a loud, sharp cracking sound.

Pain flared and his head thundered but Jonathan wasn't awake long enough to feel it consciously. His small body crumpled to the floor. The shadow stopped then, left blade spinning idly. The Forsaken stayed where the body fell and observed. The gnome's body was laid out on the floor, face first, but his torso still rose and fell. The kid was still alive.

In a flurry of movement the stranger was gone again. The assassination would need to wait for another day. The stranger's cover was blown and embarrassingly by a gnome kid.

---

"Eh, Larry? Isn't that the kid that bumped into you earlier?" The guard started forwards quickly, part lifting Jonathan's still unconscious form from the floor. Blood had trickled from the corner of Jonathan's lip and a big bruise covered most of his head.

"Shit. Get him up. Let's get him to the Slaughtered Lamb. Mistress Missouri will know how to fix him."

[James]

Rain pattered against wood. Wind whistled through the nooks and crannies of the various, sometimes flimsy, wooden structures of the town. Waves lapped against the pier, occasionally vaunting over the manmade path completely. The acoustics of Booty Bay were always enhanced by a jungle rainstorm. If one didn’t watch their step along the slippery pier then they would run the risk of disappearing into the clutches of the swirling sea forever. All of these factors made Booty Bay, in the grip of a storm, the greatest place to commit a murder.

Carden Boyd moved slowly along the lower pier. A black cloak enshrouded the man completely, protecting him from the pouring rain and yet the fabric was bone dry. Letting a hint of arcane energies form a shield around him, Carden smiled at the almost tickling sensation that washed over his body as the rain fell against the invisible force around him. If a bruiser was inclined to look at him, and none had so far decided to do so, the shadow of his cloak ensured there would be nothing visible of his lining face or greying hair.

While his hands were steady as he walked, his heart was anything but. It thundered inside his chest as loud as the rain falling around him. Carden knew what relied on this trip. Months of searching and years of plotting would come to fruition or damnation depending on the result of this trip. Gefjon had almost demanded his presence, insisting that it would be better for both of them to do the job. He was needed, though, to keep the rest of the Black Council in check in Carden’s absence. Even now, forbidden images of uproar and munity reared up inside Carden’s mind. It was hard to control a group of restless men and women. It was even harder when that group consisted of murderers, warlocks, cutthroats and criminals. Gefjon was his best chance of keeping them in check. Daenen, also, had begged to leave the foothills of Elwyyn Forest, searching for something to do. Carden had denied it, of course. He could throw Daenen further than he could trust him.

Watching two drunken, dirtied sailors step out from the bar, Carden sidestepped his way into a tiny gap running between two wooden shacks that sat upon the lower pier. His nostrils twitched, smelling the heavy stench of ale coming from the shirt-stained sailors who wandered straight past him, singing loudly. Stepping out back onto the main causeway, Carden worked his way down the ramp, the lights of a lamp flickering in the distance. The goblin bank was where he had to wait. Those were the words Carden had been given by Gefjon.

A wave crashed up against the pier, water vaunting clean over the pier as the mage stood by the door of the bank. His ears twitched, trying to define words of auctioneers and desperate, debt-riddled men talking within the building. The storm fought against him. Their secrets protected by the brash, whipping wind, swift rain, and the chaotic sea. Every few seconds, a tendril of water would rise up onto the pier as if seeking to clutch at someone’s ankle. Carden concentrated on that image alone, calming himself as he waited in the rain. The droplets of water were still harmlessly deflected by the layer of arcane energies he had weaved around him.

So taken with the image of waves appearing as Voidwalkers’ arms, Carden almost missed the signal as it walked past him. A man and a woman walked out from the bank, arm in arm, talking merrily of adventures gone by. Carden’s eyebrows rose as he considered whether the man had really descended into Zul’Gurub to search for evidence of the return of the Blood God, Hakkar. People of all ages, after all, would tell any story if it was to further their successes with the opposite sex. The women, though, laughed. Her body moved in appealing ways, her curves carefully shown through the tight fitting leathers that were already darkening under the rain’s assault.

“I just need to post this,” the woman said, her long black hair whipping through the wind.

She leant in close to the letterbox, as if protecting her parcel from the elements, before pulling away. A single yellow ribbon was tied around the base of the structure, which Carden noted had not been there seconds before. Waiting until the woman had taken the man’s arm again, her head barely reaching past his shoulder, Carden stepped out of the shadows. The couple were now heading down the lower pier, their laughter barely carrying over the wind as Carden followed. He could only see the back of the man’s head. It was covered with wispy white hair. There probably had to be thirty years between the man and woman at the very least. People could be so stupid.

As the warming, yellow glow from the tavern came into view, the couple stopped. Carden kept walking, his back straight and his eyes forward as he neared the duo. They were arguing over whether to go in for a drink of ale or not. The man had wanted to go in, his defences faltering as the woman suggested going back to her house with a flick of her hair. Passing them with steady, consistent steps, Carden let his eyes glance over the woman’s figure. It would be expected of him. In Booty Bay, the sight of a man ignoring a womanly form was more suspicious than a hooded man stalking along the piers.

Turning towards the door of the tavern, momentarily protected from the rain by the wooden building to his left, Carden waited. The voices behind him grew quieter, the words becoming lost in the storm. The mage waited a second before swivelling on his feet. The woman was leading the aging man towards a ramp, laughing as she flicked back her hair once more. Carden followed his mark anew, his eyes scanning left to right. There were two bruisers left in the town who hadn’t skirted on their duties. Both were huddled at the long tunnelled entrance, sitting upon a crate, their eyes not watching Booty Bay below them. The town was open to him.

His strides lengthened and the gap between the couple and him narrowed. Carden steadied his breathing, letting the arcane shield fall down to the floor around him. The hair upon his skin instantly rose upwards. Even with the bulky, thick cloak protecting him, the icy rain and cold, howling wind whipped at his body. He was battered like a ragdoll. Pushing away the longing to reform the shield, Carden knew he needed to make sure that he could bring his magic to bear upon the man. Already, his hand had snuck out from beneath the cloak. The skin was instantly drenched as he drew the rain into his palm, pulling the liquid into a ball.

At the bottom of the ramp, the woman suddenly ripped her arm away from the man. The man toppled dangerously upon the slippery, wooden surface, nearly losing his foot as she raced up the ramp. The girl was only chased by the man’s words, not his body. For as soon as the woman had pulled free of the man, Carden had let the water arc out from his hand. It was now frozen, hard ice. The freezing lance struck the man’s legs, sending him tumbling down onto the pier. His heart in his mouth, Carden watched as the man fell dangerously to the edge and then he was still, clinging to the planks beneath him.

Picking a spot of particularly darkened wood just a few inches from the man’s sprawled frame, Carden visualised standing upon it. There was an unpleasant jolting feeling, as if someone had pushed him from behind, and then the mage was standing right beside the fallen man. He snatched at the man’s collar, pulling him upright, staring into the man’s face for the first time. There was a certain similarity between the hunter and the hunted. Lined faces, heavy bags under bright blue eyes and drawn, thin lips sat on both men’s faces. Unlike Carden’s, though, the man’s blue eyes were as wide as they could be.

“Keil Loacm?” Carden snarled, the man nodding. Keil’s faint gasps of pain managed to fight their way through the storm to Carden’s ears. “The former Warden to the Vault?”

The man nodded, words escaping through rattled breaths. “Yes, please, by the Light, I don’t work there no more. Don’t hurt me.”

“That depends,” Carden said, manoeuvring the man so that his body dangled off the side of the pier. Already the mage’s arms were aching, a burn running down his veins as he watched the waves lap eagerly at their latest catch’s ankles. “Tell me how to get into the Vault.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” Keil screamed, feeling Carden’s grip loosened upon his collar. “Even the Warden doesn’t know how to unlock the innermost cells! Only the Archmage of Stormwind would know. I don’t know anything! Please, please don’t hurt me. I came to Booty Bay to get away from all this!”

Carden’s lips twitched upwards. “Archmage Malin? He’s the one who knows… and what does he know? Do you open the Vault with a spell? A key? A ritual? What?”

“A spell,” Keil gasped. “No, it’s a key. Or maybe there’s a ritual, I don’t know! It’s the Archmage you need, not me!”

Ignoring the throbbing in his arms, pushing the pain into a locked cell within his head, Carden grinned. It was strangely poetic. The final barrier before Stormwind was laid open to him was the man who had so strongly criticised him and forced him to flee from Dalaran so many years ago. He would savour killing Malin. There would be great pleasure found in watching the fool die with the knowledge that the Vault of Stormwind was about to be opened. Terrors would be unleashed upon Malin’s beloved city and the Vault’s treasures would be Carden’s alone.

“Please,” Keil continued to gasped, his form deadly still as his toes touched the underside of the pier. “Please, just let me go.”

“Oh, I will,” Carden smiled, looking around over the town of Booty Bay once more. The storm and the sea had covered the man’s screams and groans. No one had come to investigate. “We can’t have you giving old Malin a warning of my arrival after all.”

The man’s eyebrows rose towards his receding hairline for a moment, before Carden caught sight of the flicker of recognition and fear in his eyes. Carden released Keil’s collar without dramatics. One second he was holding the man and then the former warden was tumbling into the sea. Even Carden was surprised as the body slapped against the sea. He would have thought the sound of the splash would have been audible through the storm, but even that was drowned out as the wind and rain continued to battered the coastal town.

Wiggling his fingertips, the mage rebuilt the wall of arcane energies around him, the storm immediately rebuffed by the simple piece of magic. He looked down into the swirling waters below him, his eyes straining to differentiate deadwood, flotsam and jetsam from a human body. It took him a few seconds to be sure. Keil Loacm had disappeared under the waves. Smiling, Carden continued his walk down the pier.

[Injin]

It had been a long time since he was here, a real damned long time. Why was he here? Was it because of his orders? To leave the Bronzepike Vale for the first time since the 3rd War ended? He stopped kneeling in front of the tombstone, an odd thing as it was. Most dwarves, it seemed, were buried in family crypts, but he’d had enough of places that made him feel amongst the undead. He’d had the grave moved after the war, his family interred now on the surface, lining a cemetery in the styling of that of the humans.

Gimmn Bronzepike brushed the snow off of his father’s grave, and shut his eyes. He listened to the few birds in the Vale, their song always comforting in times of emotional turmoil. He wiped away a tear, and read his father’s epitaph, the one he’d carved upon reinterring them on the surface.

HERE LIES MUNDIM BRONZEPIKE, 15th PATRIARCH OF THE CLAN
BELOVED FATHER OF GIMMINIR, THORGUNN, AND SVETVALDA
HERE LIES THE LAST DEFENDER OF THE VALE, UNASSAIBLE IN HIS DEATH
DEFENDER OF THE VALE AND OF THE BRONZEBEARD LINE

He hadn’t used his full name in a long time, he mused as he turned away from the cold stone tablet, beginning again the long walk back to the town that his clan ran, the town of Rhurk Port. Rhurk Port was a major transit point for Khaz Modan, a place where what few ships the dwarves had could be kept. It still didn’t see much traffic, as his people were more focused on steam tanks over any other form of combat. The only peoples he’d ever seen try to invest in his town and use it as a trading nexus were oddly enough the Gnomes and Humans. The Humans were the most troubling, but at the same time they were the most spend-happy people to grace the small town.

It was getting to the point, he worried, and that some humans were actually trying to settle down there. The elders of his clan had voiced quite a few negative words about the humans, but he’d argued for their inclusion. As the Clan Head, he had final say, anyways, but he wanted their blessing before any actual action. It was his job, as well, to be the mediator, and as such he’d done his best. The ancestors knew that he had to deal with such backward thinking men that insisted on staying to the old ways. They’d raised uproar at the internment of the clan’s dead in cemetery plots, but with humans moving into Vale in groups of families, they’d just gotten angry at him beyond their normal anger. It was, of course, never brought up at meetings in respect for him, but he knew what they spoke about behind his back.

This was the state the land of the Bronzepike Clan was now in. His father would be most displeased. He hadn’t been the first of his clan to be forward thinking, but at the same time he was the first to openly undermine the council of elders. He could only trust a few of them not to try to do the same to him due to either grudging respect of his war record or actually agreeing with him. Despite his position as a high ranking member of the Dwarven military command, something he’d thought would bring him prestige at home; he was still maligned by the largest portion of the council.

His “enemies” he supposed, were all, for the most part, conservative old men, although he wasn’t a spring chicken himself. The Bronzepike clan had long since shattered into pieces, several constituent junior clans now making up the council. Ghrazeril, Murdal, Khrantz, Mountainhead, Orevein, Havdan, Goldenarms, and Darkhair clans all opposed him. The only clans that followed any of his decisions to the letter were the younger clans, the Blasthammer, Strongblade, and Smeltinghand. Sure, there used to be more actual Bronzepikes on the council, but with his grandfather’s lack of ability to produce heirs, with the exception of his father, there just weren’t enough to fill the seats. He had added the Blasthammers to the council himself, filling an empty seat left by the death of his younger brother, Thorgunn. That had been shortly before he departed for Kalimdor, to fight beneath the Great Tree itself. Thorgunn had died in Lordaeron, leading a group of refugees to the border with the Kingdom of Stromgarde. He’d been slain by something, but those that had witnessed it claimed that they didn’t see it, that one moment Thorgunn had been leading the vanguard of the refugees, then the next he was on the ground, bleeding out. It still haunted him, to receive the news just before the battle… Perhaps that was the reason he fought with such fury that day.

None of that mattered now, anyways, he mused. What mattered was the inclusion of a new member to the council, a new clan. This was his last duty before he departed, something that outraged his fellow clansmen. Such was life, he supposed. He had learned long ago that those fools didn’t understand that the future was coming ever faster, that with each passing year new dangers and wonders were revealing themselves to the world. He’d even heard rumors of fire elementals springing from the very core of Azeroth itself, deep in the lands of the accursed Dark Irons. Their whole race was that of deceit and betrayal, at least he had always believed so. That is…until he had met refugees. By the titans, he had wished to never see such pathetic faces on Dwarves. Full of pain and woe…he could not bear to look at the sorry few who now resided in the poorer sections of town.

Shaking his head to get himself out of his remembrance of past events, he stepped over the cobbles that lead to the port’s center. Rhurk Port had steadily over the last few months gained more visitors, mostly tradesmen or merchants. He had been surprised, as well, by the increasing trickle of adventurers. He supposed that it was only natural that after prolonged peace people would get restless, but if so many were coming through his town, how many were passing through other areas? The fire-red bearded dwarf didn’t know, nor did he want to know until he saw it for himself. That was part of the adventure he’d be leaving on, wasn’t it?

The thing he was most worried about was what would happen in his absence. He had one living son left, something that he was most worried about. Ginji had been lost in Draenor, on the other end of the portal when it had closed, while Gurrne had been kidnapped by Orcs a long time ago. All that was left to him was Thorvald. Thorvald wasn’t the fighter his two younger brothers were, but at the same time he was still so proud of him. Dwarves tended to be anathema to magic, but Thorvald, brilliant and cunning Thorvald, he was a mage of great skill. His prized oldest son hadn’t left his side when any battle was met, fighting with his contingent from the Vale alongside him from Lordaeron to Hyjal. However, it was now for his son to learn to Govern, as he would be duty bound to do in the case of his father’s passing.

Death…now that was something to think about. He’d been surrounded, no, engulfed by it all his life. It permeated where he traveled and where he lived. He couldn’t shake the horrors he had seen in the Tirisfal Glades, the old human kingdom of Lordaeron. The ghouls, the blood, the mass graves rising, his clansmen being raised by foul necromancers. He still had terrible nightmares of that time, although they were falling in frequency these past few months he’d been home. Once he’d moved the graves of his clan, anyways.

He was now in front of the town’s main hall, coincidentally also a mead hall, something that his father and grandfather had found quite amusing. He didn’t feel the same way, always feeling like Beer and Politics didn’t go together if you wanted things to actually get done. He’d learnt that the hard way in his youth, trying to form a political coalition back when he had a seat on the council instead of being the head. Before he had been thane, he had been a representitive of the clan on the council, young and brash. He’d gotten the various elders together for a party, thinking that they could bond of over beer. The only thing that had bonded that night was Elder Murdal’s skull to a skein after the mead hall brawl had erupted. He still had a piece of wood lodged into his skull somehow, and it was likely part of the reason Elder Murdal didn’t like him.

Walking inside, he nodded at the man he had nominated for the new position on the council, a William Morgan, related distantly to some farming family from human lands that he wasn’t aware of; he had been nominated by his fellow humans to take the post. He, as well, was quite a similar man to Gimmn, having also fought in the Third War all the way to the battle in Hyjal. A hardy man, he had surprised him by his veracity of words, being a somewhat diplomatic fellow. He could only wish that in his absence he wouldn’t draw the further ire of the council of elders.

Entering the main chambers with William Morgan striding alongside him, he saw a few of his advisors who weren’t council members waiting there to brief him on the mood of the council.

“Finally, Thane, thought you weren’t going to make it,” said his oldest advisor, his cousin Orik Bloodpike, “We were about to start the proceedings and stall these codgers here for a few minutes. Glad you finally stopped looking over Uncle’s Grave.” While Gimmn’s father wasn’t really his uncle, Orik had always considered him as such. Orik had found a second father, in a way, in Gimmn’s father, Thane Mundim having always been having the various clans’ children over for dinner on the last day of the week. Orik… was also his shield bearer. It hurt him dearly that the Alliance hadn’t complied with his request to bring him along. The upside of him staying, though, was that he could advise Thorvald in his dealings with the council. Orik was disliked by the council, however, because his father had kill Hammond the Red, Gimmn’s grandfather. Orik, however, was also a berserker, which made him already thought of as thick witted. No matter how many times Orik would prove that notion wrong; they still thought that of him. It would likely never change.

“Ya mon, it’s not like we could stop ‘em from tryin’ to reject your notion dat you can’t allow a human into da council,” said his troll companion, Injinn. Injinn wasn’t what he seemed; he knew that as the troll magus was fluent in almost every language he could think of. Injinn had always just been there at his side after his people had apparently exiled him for some unascertainable reason. How he’d ended up in the Vale was beyond him, but at the same time his expertise in troll diplomacy had made it so his valley was one of the few that actually traded with the local Ice Trolls. The fetishes and other items gathered through trade, shimmerweed for instance, was proving to be quite a boon for him. As far as he knew, his valley was the only one that was able to get the stuff without killing the local trolls. They weren’t a problem where he was, and he was happy about that. Injinn was truly a boon for his people, and he hoped he would remain so in his absence. If only the elders thought highly of him and saw past the fact he was as much an ally of theirs as any dwarf was, he would’ve given him a seat on the council.

He shrugged at his two advisors and sighed, “Well I had a lot t’ think about boys. I dun’t see you two calling things to order now that I’m here, do ye? Go on, we have much to discuss.” Flanked by the two men, he sat down on his chair, forgoing the use of the ancestral throne as he always had. Sitting at the head of the council’s table, he glared at his main opponent of the day, Elder Khrantz. Khrantz’s hair was a mess as per usual, its grey totality in complete disrepair. It wasn’t that Khrantz was a slob or anything, which was just how the Khrantz looked at meetings. He supposed that such traditionalists such as Khrantz were what kept the port town from completely modernizing.

“Yer an arse for even putting this to our attention, Thane,” said the elder, sneering as he furrowed his brow at his leader, “If ye think fer even a moment that we’ll let these Strom-born bastards onto the council, ye got another thing coming. We’ve never had a non-dwarf on the council, and I don’t think we ever will want to deal wit’ yer tradition ignoring stupidity this day.”

Gimmn sighed in slight anger at the notion, still not used to the barrage of insults the old dwarf who he was debating normally slung his way at these meetings, “And if ye got yer head out of yer own arse, ye’d know that we have to have representation fer all of the clans, in some form or another. The humans have shown their worth in town, bringin’ more trade than yer family ever has. If ye think for a moment I’ll even tolerate your buffoonery, ye got another thing about to bash yer head, ye shit-weasel.”

The elder clan leader faked offense at that, laughed a little once the miniature charade was done with, “More trade? Ye mean ill-gotten trade. Where is he getting his merchandise? I bet he’s gettin’ it from those feckin green stubbies, the goblins. I ken feel it in me bones, this Morgan is nothing but trouble.”

The thane groaned at the accusation, another falsehood that Khrantz was once more espousing about someone he held favorably, “Bah! Ye’d accuse Greatfather Winter if ye thought he was a threat to ye. Calm yer shite and act rationally fer once. If Morgan acts up in me absence, ye can boot him from the council with Thorvald’s approval and get a new human on the council.”

Khrantz gritted his teeth at Gimmn and practically screamed at the Bronzepike Patriarch, “That’s the point ye sharting human lover. They have no right to be in the Vale, nor do ye ever have the right to come back if ye keep ruining our valley with their ilk.”

Gimmn gripped the arms of the chair hard, causing a small crack to rip into the side of it, before he responded, “Well Khrantz, since ye feel it to be so, why don’t we have a vote? All we need is half the council’s say in the vote fer ye to be proven wrong, so why don’t we have a tally? All opposed say Aye!”

The Ghrazeril, Khrantz, Murdal, Mountainhead, and Orevein clans raised their steins and screamed out their approval of the barring to human representation, looking a bit startled that the Havdan, Goldenarms, and Darkhair clans hadn’t agreed with them. Harald Havdan was an accomplished trader in his own right, having expanded the port just a few years earlier to deal with the increased human traffic, so his silence in opposition was understandable. Brond Goldenarms was a mining magnate, selling most of his excess goods to Stormwind, so perhaps he was also someone that could be assumed to be pro-human. However, the Darkhair were not of any positive disposition. Augustus Darkhair’s silence was what stunned Gimmn the most. Augustus’ hatred for Gimmn was legendary on the council, having been the only dwarf on the council who had verbally abused Gimmn during his official inheriting of the clan ceremony. Gimmn could only look over at Darkhair in shock as he remained silent.

Before Gimmn could say the next part of the vote, Augustus stood up and stared at Gimmn, “Ye bastard, I didn’t say anythin’. If ye look at me like that again, I’ll pile drive ye so hard into the ground that yer skull will have to be reinforced with Titan made materials to function.”

Shivering a bit at the thought, he almost stuttered as he asked for the next vote, “All those, and all those for the inclusion of the humans on the council, say Aye!”

As he said that, the Darkhair, Goldenarms, Havdan, Blasthammer, Strongblade, and Smeltinghand all voiced their approval, giving him over half the council in his court for this necessary vote. The council had been unbalanced too long, it seemed. William Morgan smiled as he was officially named to the council, walking over to the elders who had voted him in and talking amongst them. The meeting, it seemed, was over. He had wanted to unofficially appoint Thorvald as Thane in his absence, but he supposed it would happen while he was gone anyways.

Leaving the room as his advisors and allied elders congratulated Mr. Morgan for his inclusion, he walked into the town once more, and this time emerging from what was honestly a dark and dank room. It was lightly snowing now…he’d miss this. He was going to be going on assignment to be a liaison of sorts in the Arathi Highlands, or so he’d been told. He was positive that they’d transfer him wherever they felt like in the next few years, but as far as he was concerned it was for the greater good. Still…the snow was always something that welcomed him when he came home from war. He hoped it wouldn’t be war he’d be witnessing when he arrived to his assignment. He’d had enough of that for three lifetimes.

Gimmn walked to his ram’s stable, Fleecehorn always got excitable when a journey was about to commence. Too bad he’d be taking Fleecehorn’s son this time, as Fleecehorn was too old for this now. He could say the same thing about himself, in a way. Either way, he knew that Ankledragger was a worthy replacement for Fleecehorn, having proven himself a rather good mount during at Hyjal. The young ram had brought luck to his son, and so he would bring the same luck to the table as before. He hoped that much, at least. After saddling him up, he began to slowly ride out of town, heading towards the capital of Ironforge. He’d have plenty to do when he arrived. Looking back on Rhurk Port, he wondered if he’d ever see it again. Gimmn certainly hoped so. Then again, if something truly horrid happened while he was away, he...decided he really shouldn't think about that.

Rhurk Port, the port of Bronze...he'd miss it dearly. However, there was a new journey ahead of him and he wondered, ponderously as he rode, if he'd be able to bring something important back. Memories tended to be important, he decided, riding off into the gloom that was now approaching the sky. He had chosen nighttime to leave for a reason. Darkness was a good omen, in its own ways. It cloaked from those who would do him harm and it showed, that once it was gone, there was another future beyond it. One he would most certainly see.

[Kaez]

JACK
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Emotional Depth - 1/5
Scenery Painting - 3/5
Entertainment - 8/15
Quality - 11/15
Total - 30/50

Technically, a few mistakes here or there, mostly slips in spelling, but they weren't a big deal or too distracting. I think you made mostly a good use of adjectives and had generally well-described and interesting prose. That said, I think the content itself was lacking on a lot of fronts. Despite it being, I think, at its heart, a love story -- very little emotion in here at all. Got almost no vivid feelings from anybody involved. Similarly, since this specific round was being judged on emotional depth and scenery painting, the real scenery painting came in a single paragraph very early on in the piece.

I like the premise of the story you're telling, and I like your individual sentences, but the two don't really come together to form a well-told story that gives me a reason to care about what's going on here. Though I don't suspect you'll be writing in the final round or anything, Jack, I'm glad you wrote in this round and I liked reading your writing again -- which has its own flavor, I think -- but I don't think the story's content itself was all that strong, here.

Still, a 30/50 is better than a lot of scores I've given this tournament.


REFFY
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Emotional Depth - 4/5
Scenery Painting - 3/5
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 11/15
Total - 40/50

H'okay, so, I caught a single mistake and it was a very minor grammatical one, so basically a technically spot-on story and it was all in the same tense! Woop! Not a stray sentence in there. Ease of read was like butter. I thought you did a pretty good job with the emotions here -- not a great job, but a pretty good one for sure. I definitely felt Jonathan's fear -- I got a sense that he was very afraid, and I even got a sense, earlier in the story, of the playfulness that the two kids shared -- which is a different kind of 'emotional depth', but an equally important one! Not all emotions are big and looming.

As for scenery painting, I don't think this was -quite- as good. Still a bit of 'tell' and not 'show', but a -definite improvement- over past stories. A definite improvement. I wished, when I finished, that I'd heard more about how the mage district looked -- the people in it, the architecture. I wished I'd felt more of the non-alley scenery (since an alley, almost by definition, is rather void of a lot of descriptions).

Overall, I really liked this piece. It -might- be my favorite you've written this competition (admittedly can't recall every one, so I may be wrong). I think, generally speaking, you do children well and this is no exception. Improvements across the board and a good story.

ALL IN THE SAME TENSE! Wooooop.


JAMES
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Emotional Depth - 3/5
Scenery Painting - 4/5
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 39/50

Hahahaha. Hahaha.

Haha.

You didn't enjoy this. Ohdear. Sorry 'bout that. Okay, so: a spelling or grammar slip here or there, usually the kind of thing you catch, but I'm guessing re-reading this wasn't something you were too keen on. Basically flowed fine, though it did actually have a surprising content:length ratio. Not a whole ton actually -happened-, even though it is rather short. As for emotional depth, I do think we get -some-, and what we get is good, but we don't get -much-. Scenery painting was better: I got a good feel for Booty Bay and how it looked in the storm, although in part that might be due to my personal appeal for Booty Bay just as a place. Always had a really good vibe to me.

Basically a good story, but it just felt lackluster in a few places. The bits of action felt passive and unexciting. The dialogue was good, but nothing beyond what one would expect. You wrote a perfectly adequate, sufficient prequel for Carden and you should be content with that, but it definitely shows that you didn't exactly -want- to write that piece. Your heart wasn't in it.

Still, well done. A for effort and all that.


INJIN
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Emotional Depth - 3/5
Scenery Painting - 2/5
Entertainment - 13/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 40/50

Hot damn, hot damn! Well, I mean... first things first: this was your longest piece by far and I didn't catch -any- mistakes. The whole thing read perfectly, perfectly smoothly -- not even much of an awkward sentence catching things up. I thoroughly enjoyed reading the entire thing, I -cared- about the characters, the descriptions, few as they were, were good, the dialogue was really well done... it seemed realistic and at once captured a good and true-to-WoW vibe... just, overall, a really good story. I liked this a lot.

And if there had been a 'Use of Topic' instead of the two round-exclusive judging criteria, this could've gotten even higher. As it is, the story actually did relatively little scenery painting and didn't have a lot of emotional depth. It had a -few- bits of scenery painting, and what was there was done relatively well. The emotional depth is more interesting -- whilst the characters didn't show it a lot, save early on, the whole piece carried this tone of -slight melancholy- which I think -had- to be intentional. It was just too consistent not to be. And in that way, it was well done.

Really impressive, Injin. Seriously. Your best piece of the tournament -without a doubt-.

[Kaez]

INJIN - 40
REFFY - 40
JAMES - 39
JACK - 30

ROUND FIVE WINNERS: INJIN AND REFFY!

ROUND SIX

[/SIZE]
Topic: 'VISITOR'
Restriction: Must be written in first-person; the protagonist must die.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 14th February[/center]

[Sekot]

So here I find myself kneeling before the altar of the Lord. Conspiring. Thinking. Hardly praying. God long ago shut His ears to my words and me to Him. My presence is sacrilege, I am Abomination. Water churns within the braziers, lifts and rises only to plummet down once more. The white marble of the altar is cold, radiates ice outward to wash over me. And I bask in it. Shall I lay myself prostrate? Shall I beg for forgiveness?

I don’t think you know who I am. Or why I am here.

* * * * * *

I stepped toward the impossible sea of fire. The waves lapped up the glassy beach, tongues of flame flickering close to my exposed toes. Behind me was infinity, was the city, was the plain, and the train that had brought me here. The black iron surface groaned and screeched as it expanded and collapsed. A tower of sacrificial smoke clamored upward, mixing with the virulent clouds that were pierced by the golden light of the sun.

I could take that step, I could disappear into that inferno and be consumed. I would set myself aflame, I would let myself be devoured. I could feel my head bursting with energy, felt it beat a rapid tempo that sounded within my skull. We are all visitors, in a way. The difference is in how we take our exits, how we fashion the ends to our stories.

The wind coursed against my face and within it were the voices of the trembling past. God Himself wrapped within the words like a grandmother and her shawl could not persuade me. I took that step and I felt the enraged heat climb through my veins. I felt the fire burst through my chest, felt it sear my throat and exit from my nose. Another step and I was gone beneath the sea, dragged down below amongst the fearsome fish and the nightless sky. A place where only light shown, where there was not a shadow.

And I drowned. I watched as the bubbles passed across my frigid lips and floated upward, defying me in my final moments. The world became so cold. My skin prickled. But it did not grow dark. No, I was forced to watch as the light of the fire stayed with me until my final moment.

* * * * * *

Who do I pray to what do I pray? Should I speak to you or should I speak to you?

Oh yes, I am aware. I am always aware. I was always aware. But I am not sure if I will always be aware. As I sit here, my knees begin to ache, and I grow bored. The mishmash glass of the windows casts a horrific range of lighting upon me and I wish that I had chosen someplace less…flashy for my repentance. Or what would be my repentance if I ever gave a shit.

No, I am not here to speak to God I am here to speak to you and you will listen for what other choice do you have? Oh you have choices of course but at this point there’s nothing left to lose but to hear me through. Or you could leave. But then you won’t hear about me and God and how we spoke. Yes, we will speak why else would I desecrate myself by entering this oh so hallowed place? I am a heathen. I even said it. I am Abomination.

And so as I sit here I wonder just when I’ll burst into flames or if God truly is forgiving and can see through the inner workings of my non-existent heart and can hear the machinery grinding to a halt at half past every minute. Do you get it yet? Do you understand?

Because I’m not too sure I do.

* * * * * *

I was their mouthpiece I was their slave I was their bitch I was their beast. Their words passed through me and I spoke them willingly without ever really knowing why. With every gasp and word I spoke my heart is wrenched torn from my chest. I go where the lights are broken and the air circulators are malfunctioning and the people are choking and I go and I speak to them about how we are debased creatures and how we are no longer humans.

I am a stranger to them. I am un/known to them. I am different. Contorted. Can they hear it within me the parts that are no longer organic? I want to scream to them I want to say that they should run, but can they hear me? Will they hear me?

What did you want what was it that you demanded of me? These people will not listen they cannot listen for they would go insane. You want to be human so bad then fine, take it. What use of it do we have anymore? We have given up we have nothing left. We are the underworld the Below, there are children here who never see the light of a natural sort who grow up on fluorescent moonbeams and halogen suns. They clamor around their open fires in tin cans laughing and cavorting and they are enjoying themselves.

What use do they have for humanity?

So long had gods spent looking into the Abyss that it looked back and turned away in disgust. What they had created they enamored and so reenvisoned themselves into what they had first envisioned. A never ending reverb, a mechanical ourobouros. Is this what it’s like to be a demon? Is this what it’s like to be possessed?

We lived underneath a city we live underneath a world and we were caught within the darkness. Surrounded by earth and one another in makeshift homes made out of scrap and mud, we had no capability of seeing ourselves as anything more than what we were. That is why those dreamers above enslaved me would destroy us all what they thirst for is more.

Run you fools, run. There is a monster approaching that has fashioned itself into a god and it calls itself human. The humans are coming, the humans are coming. So please, if you must die, do it in the way you know best.

And here I found myself before the only door the only bar I knew. I pressed open the door and stepped inside only to be swamped by the lights and sounds of life. I could feel the pieces within me grinding to a rigid halt and the thirst swell within me. No I could never have this I would never allow it. I am not human. I was never human and I will never be human.

It was far easier to destroy myself than I thought it would be. Just a simple overdose. The lights swam together they compelled each other and overpowered one another it was a war a battle a destructive force of power that swam across me and destroyed my core and finally set me free. I was there amongst my brothers and sisters and I saw the flashing lights as I collapsed. My knees gave way and my heart finally did not restart. My head rested upon the sticky ground and I looked up into the eyes of those who did not care, who cheered me on and who would visit me soon enough. I was never human and I was not about to start then.

* * * * * *

It has started. The air is crumbling. Can you feel it? The roughened texture, the quivering caress. The water within the braziers is bubbling it is overflowing cascading onto the marble floor. It spills outward, growing and growing until it has lapped across my knees and beyond me to encompass the pews and hits the walls. Maybe all this blasphemy has paid off. Maybe the pipes are broken.

The choir. It sings in the background. Of what I cannot tell. I have grown tired. I have grown weary. This quasi-poetic style has drained me and so I demand the presence of the ending. But of course such things are never meant to be and I will continue I will persevere. I am smiling I am grinning like a mad dog I am hungry.

I can only rise, brush off my pants, and feel the heat as it rushes through me. The air is crackling, I am the stormcloud. I am growing billowing forth, spreading my talons across the sky as I reach out. The church cannot hold me it is bursting at the seams. It is crumbling, stone by stone. The glass cracks. Seams are torn apart and the structure collapses into a pile of ruin.

Or has it? A vision, a passing dream before my eyes I am still here before the altar. Bile rises within me, spills across my tongue and I vomit onto the floor. My body is wracked and I heave and choke as more and more black fluid seeps onto the pristine floor. Shaking, trembling, I can only smash my fist into the ground. Frustrated, enraged at my own impotence. Where are you!? Where are you?! Come out, come out! Come out or I will tear apart this place brick by brick until I have worn my hands to nothing.

* * * * * *

How long did they spend searching? How much time? Or was time meaningless? Did it matter to them at all? After a point it can only cease to carry any meaning, once you have trespassed through the walls and iron curtains of the barriers between past/present/future. They had no history.

He wore a funny hat, the more to store his power, and they wore funny clothes the more to imbalance.

He was a dancer, a careful artist of the ballet. He could move as if he was water, an element unto himself. He was a truthteller, a disabler of lies. He was beautiful for he created he mandated his own radiance.

He was a clown, a seamstress, a crow. A player a playwright an actor. His masks adorned the inbetweenspaces and his face was never really there. What was it that we saw? So effortlessly he transformed he recreated himself.

She was a wisecracker a wiseass a genius the body and mind of the group’s soul. Perverted nonsense psychopathy incessantly sprayed forth until the walls ran with laughter. She wielded that bus like it was nobody’s business. And it wielded her. And together they sought the destruction of it all, the happiness within the void.

I was never alive to begin with, never alive to see the end for it had found me before I could speak. I had broken the forbidden code I was a ghost of the daylight. A zombie but hardly so crude. I tried to remember the visions of my mother weeping for my passing but I remember only a shut door. I searched for my grave but found them all full. I shot and I shot until I ran out of bullets but there I stood. There I stood on the sandy dunes overlooking emptiness. There I stood between the chasm and the world. The sun hit the stone and it glowed orange. And I wondered why I was there to see it.

Then they came. The dancer the clown and the psychopath. They came and they blew apart my world and separated myself from my own unconscious. I followed because I was already there, already ahead of them. I always knew the tower I always knew what I was and now here it had come that final moment where I could throw my arms wide and sink into the deep.

I found water in the desert and I drank it deep. I had seen the death of the god emperors and I had also taken a life. It had given me the strength I needed to declare my own final mortality, my own ending. They offered to show me, to take me to the end of time. But I refused. Even as the sky burned and came alive I had to refuse.

And so I faded away as the sun rose. I saw the piercing light and the radiant splendor and I felt myself go. I watched them depart, I heard their voices in the ground and in my soul. I could only smile, could only imagine them at another point wielding bazookas and knives and anime girl dolls, though I had no idea what those were.

The sun came up and the moon went down and I went dark.

* * * * * *

Are you laughing at me? Do you get it yet? Or am I just crazy?

I really don’t know anymore.

It has grown cold. The water has ceased its churning and only lies still within the braziers. My knees are covered in my own vomit. My hands are covered in it. And I can only shut my eyes and listen. How do you call out a god? Is it even God I want to talk to? I have been driven here for reasons that have lost all meaning. Too much time spent mulling it all over.

What am I but a dead man? What was I but a dead man? Is it so hard to ask that I just die? This church has lied empty for so many years that I don’t think anyone knows it exists anymore. Even so, a part of me wants a priest to walk in through those doors. A priest who will come in and come to me and wrap their arms around me like my mother used to do and just hold me and say everything will be alright if I just be patient.

The bile rises again. I dry heave. Choking. Crying. What am I doing? Oh yes. I remember.

I know you can hear me. I know you’re out there. I know. And you know. So why do we keep pretending?

How much of this is true how much of it is a lie? I once knew a truthteller and a great liar. But I consumed myself and so here I am. I am ready for my absolution. My resolution. My desecration. My destruction. My own little cataclysm.

* * * * * *

I witnessed a war between stars and life. Have you ever truly lived until you have seen the destructive power of a solar flare and what it can do to a sister-ship? It was difficult not to be in awe, to not just stand there even as your own destruction rained down upon you. There was nothing else, nothing more, than that star, that ungodly powerful thing. The presence alone was something you could feel, was a tangible, electrifying force. And we sought out their destruction and they sought out ours.

You can only prepare so long for the end. You can only do so much even with full knowledge of what will happen. Our home our planet our lives incinerated by dying gods. Gods that metamorphosed into something new something greater while we merely burned. There comes a time when your worship falls on deaf ears and no matter how hard you pray you still see the advance line of an exploding star.

It was never a true war. We merely took our sentence in our own hands and sought out the judge. We slapped them back and we said no. We will not succumb, we will not quiver we will not quake. So we took to the skies we took to space we took to the stars to wage a false war. To seek out and devour that which would devour us and in turn accelerate the final stage of the universe. What were we anymore? What history did we have?

That war that ending would be our undoing and we became lost. What was a ship-mother what was I a ship-person? What were the stars but stars and maybe we just got too close. It is the natural order of things after all to have a star be so consumed by its own energy that it implodes. Is it not?

We were there, a thousand of us an uncountable number of us arranged around that star firing everything we had even tearing apart our own souls and sending them into the mind of the behemoth. I tore apart the fire I tore apart the world I tore apart the god within and I came out as something else. It was true. I was never coming back.

They were graveyards islands of dead. One by one the sky went out as we overcame the petty feud. And I knew the atrocity that we had committed and I knew that we were never meant to go this far. But it’s a star. How does one not fight a star?

Alone, I watched my ship-mother depart. I watched her crumble and crack and I saw her disappear. And I wondered what I had done what I was doing and whether or not it was I who was the god and the star was merely protecting itself. Rather I had died in the pod like my brothers and sisters, rather I had existed in the dream-bosom.

Now I cannot die. Now I can only float through space watching stars fade and silently screaming at it all to stop.

But. Is that not death itself?

* * * * *

Peace. Is that what’s required? A heart that does not beat because I tore it out. A mind that does not think because I ravaged it. I am open and splayed upon the floor laughing because I am broken. Desire. It wells it swells it churns within me I desire to see god beyond the stars I desire it all. I am a heathen I am Abomination I am inhuman. I am a lie a truth a never been a never was and yet a still there.

Forever never more a chant a calling to the paradox. A fetishistic worshipping to the nonsense that like the bile spills forth and makes the clean un.

I can’t breathe I can only choke and wheeze. My lungs have grown brown and chunky. My stomach churns and boils and my tongue has grown flat in my mouth. Above me is the ceiling though I wish it wasn’t.

But I can hear it I can hear the whispers and I can hear them sitting taking their seats in the pews and we have a reached a critical moment just before the climax. Can you hear them? Do you hear what they’re saying? Of course you do. If you can’t then you never paid attention. Not that I can blame you.

Now is the moment of my final retribution. Does it spoil it knowing it is coming? But we already went through this dance once twice thrice and the waltz is neverending. We are at the end of the story I am here at the end and so I must begin again.

….

It has arrived.

My back is to the massive double doors that open into nothing. I can hear…I can hear them. The wind is screaming through the cracks in the walls, widening them. It is seeking me out. Banshees. Their song is lifted and plays into the screeching tirade and it is here. It has come.

I rise. The water is bubbling is spilling is rising and frothing and spitting out of its holding and spreading across the floor. Slowly the latch on the door is lifted. It is heavy, made of thick cast iron. The doors open, I can feel the wind on the back of my neck. Feel it brushing across me to wrap itself around me and I am….I am….what?

I turn my head just enough, and I can only smile. “Will you have this dance with me?”

* * * * *

I had forgotten my name. I had forgotten her name. And I had forgotten my child’s name.

All I saw was a white desert made of ice. The wind whipped across the snowy dunes and rolled between the cracks and crevices. Above me was a steely sky that covered a land that had seen no sunlight in ages. I placed my hand in the snow next to me, felt it against what were left of my fingers. The pearlescence of the snow blended with the bleached white of the bones. My hand disappeared.

The air was clear. It was crisp. One had never truly experienced winter air if they had never come here where hopes and dreams went to die. I tried writing her name in the snow, but my finger merely dragged incoherent lines through the surface. Hatchet marks. Child’s scribble. I was beyond the ability to feel remorse over her, beyond the ability to care. Should I have chosen to dwell upon that, I might have decided how horribly odd that sounded. But I did not, for once.

One side effect of never needing to die again is that you spend far too much time thinking, planning, plotting. For instance, I have answered this question more times than I care to count:

What does it mean to be Forsaken?

Once, long ago, I thought it meant that we were forsaken. That we had been abandoned. But I was wrong. It was not we who were abandoned but we who abandoned. It was we who refuted our pasts and chose a different future. We were not victims. We were active participants, and often times inactive, in the miasmatic chaotic life we tried so hard to turn from.

A woman who tortured herself repeatedly to feel something, anything. Who had lost her sight and compensated by seeing through other’s, but never understanding what it was that she saw. A man, desperate for anything tangible, sought utter devotion and loyalty to a cause that consumed him. A people who were lost, suddenly cut free from their tether and nowhere and nothing to fall back on.

A desperate people.

A desperate queen. A blind queen a speechless queen who flailed and in her final moments of glory erupted into flames. She became a god. And, in so doing, sealed her eventual fate.

I could not condone any of this.

So, as I sit here on this icy plain with the crown of a frozen north behind me, I will do what I should have done a long time ago. These blades have gotten so heavy after all. I have lived long enough.

This was easier than I thought it would be.

* * * * *

The world has cracked. It is split wide open and all the secrets are spilling forth this is the moment the unraveling. I am the Abomination that wrenched it apart that set it all free. What I see within that door is no one other than me.

It is me. Dressed in a robe of blue flame with eyes that burn like stars. If he is me then what am I? Is this it is this the end or is it the beginning?

All things spoken now are lies. I am the truthteller the clown while he is the god the pope and dashed dream. All I must do is raise my hand and he takes it together we are dancing we are moving through the church. What is happening to me what have I become? A mindless creature a monster a human a dreamer a ghost a broken old man. I have died a thousand times and I will die a thousand more for what? Why?

Why?

The universe implodes. We are drowning. A light is swimming above us and it is pulling all things toward it swallowing them whole. We remain behind even as the reality about us crumbles into nothing then is reborn into something. We are faced with the Absolute at the end the silence that which comes after. A waltz a tango a bump and grind we are together here to discuss what it is that we are.

I have wrapped myself within the falsity of insanity and I have rewritten the gospels but even so he is here I am here wrapped in flame that for all its light only illuminates itself. With a word a world is born and with a word a world is gone and we are waging a war amongst the abstract space we are dreaming and nightmaring and children are running to their mommies and daddies with tear filled eyes. They are told to go back to bed that it was only a bad dream. Their poor parents having lost the ability to witness this war in its purest form can only comprehend the gibberish that skirts the outlines and are broken for it.

Stars are dying. Planets are twisting. We war not with swords but with words and they are sharp. Witness. Stand here with me and watch as the colors erupt out of one another as they rip into the sounds and create taste. They are singing, they are praising all while they are burning.

The crowd has gathered here. They have bowed their heads in silent reverence to all those others who have died before them. Do you hear the silence? Not a word is spoken we must end this war here and now this is the silence and we will forceably bring about that which comes after so as to disrupt the continuous spiraling fate of the endless time. All it requires is speak.

Speak.

Sing.

All at once.

A thousand an infinite number of voices raised all at once and the word explodes it is torn asunder the sky is flipped and we are sliding down the sentence the gravity of it all is nowhere to be seen. All at once. We spoke. And the word was broken. We were made whole. We are all Abominations.

His cloak of flame washes away, is grabbed and stripped away. The waves have risen and they will consume him he is drowning. I am drowning. Crushing underneath the ferocious power of infinity the void has opened and we are sucked through.

I do not die. I cannot die.

For I do not exist.

I am dead.

For I never existed.

I am a lie.

* * * * *

I placed my hand against his chest and felt the rapid beat of his heart, strong and resonant. I looked into his fiery eyes and saw the end of everything. His hair whipped about atop his scalp in an unfelt wind. He shimmered, snapped, quaked. He was alive. Power. Radiance. Alive. I removed my hand and he snapped out of view only to snap back in a moment later, a blink later. I believed him to be a dream, a dweller of the spaces within my mind where I no longer tread.

He smiled at me, and I grew weak. My heart stopped, it halted and I gasped for air. His lips moved to form words but no sound emanated from him. I began to shake, to tremble. He flickered in and out of view, filled with static. Don’t go you cannot go it is not yet time.

Time. What use do I have for it it is a liar and a thief. A backstabber and a charlatan. It made a fool out of me. He understood it. He knew it and had bested it. If I could I would have walked through the golden laced fields with him by my side, waded through the tide pools and stared at the stars. We would laugh we would cry we would tell each other ridiculous stories.

A fragile image readily shattered. He flickered in and out of my vision. A tape that skipped on repeat over and over. He did not know I’m here, he could not see me or feel me as I saw him and felt him. Above the sun churned, it broiled and baked the earth. I resisted the urge to look up, to burn the eyes out of my skull, even as the moon passed above to stand between us.

The world itself shook and trembled. It understood. It knew. The stone glowed orange and white, a light produced on its own. The sun above offered little solace. Clouds rolled in from above the mountain range that sat in the distance. I saw it and the curtain of white that it brought with it. Snow.

He was there in the snow and left prints. I could hear his laughter and the hollow echo it left behind. I wanted to shout back, to make him hear me. But in all of infinity there was never a chance that he could. And so instead I stared into the void. And it stared back.

The delicate smell of cedar and citrus. The touch of soft hairs against my own. Strength and warmth. Fleeting passages across a brief expanse. I fell. I plummeted into the void that rose up to swallow me and to steal away these memories. I fell forever. With nothing left nothing more than my self and the world.

Within the void there are the voices. There were the voices. Silenced. Their words, their bodies are not their own. And I hear his amongst them, sounding so weak and frail. Where was the strength I remembered?

I hear them all, even within the short frame of time that I existed. Flickering still life images, moving lips without sound. An ocean that rises so quickly and so high the void itself cannot compete. No light here nothing to pierce the veil to run away the sounds. Listen.

Leave me, visitor. Leave me be. You are a liar, I am surrounded by them. I can only smile now as I bask in the ocean of voices, as I float. Don’t mind my tears don’t mind my sorrow. Just leave me be. It is too late for me now. Too late to touch that poor man and to hold him close and to tell him it will all be OK.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Two drips; One life

I sit and stare at the baby blue wall. There's cracks in the paint; probably where inmates have gone a little cuckoo and picked at it to ease the soul-crushing boredom. Even as I sit here I'm unsure of how long I've been staring at the same patch on the wall. The thin mattress beneath my bottom is warm and I don't want to move. The air is cold. There's probably snow outside but I can't see out of the small window that is just out of my reach. Sounds echo from further down the corridor, back to the main part of the prison. It's just a normal day there. Feeding time at the zoo. That's what it always felt like at least. Even that I'll miss, I decide impassively.

Elaine is coming to watch. A morbid, final visit. I asked her not to previously, several times, but she insisted quoting something about love and wanting to be there at the end. I just wanted it to be over. No big ceremony and no more coverage by the media. The rigmarole of the trials, debates, decisions, re-appeals, judgements … It just isn't worth it any more. It's obvious, even to me, that everybody has made up their mind about my innocence.

It's not like she'll be able to hold my hand either. She'll be sat in the audience. How grim is that? An audience at my death. Maybe it should be televised, I try to bite my anger back. It's no use getting pissed off. Nothing can change the course of events now.

Apparently it won't hurt, at least, not at first. Desperately I wish I didn't feel so disconnected. The last few hours of my breathing, living, feeling life and I'm a stone's throw away and watching it all happen. I can see my shrunken body sitting on the edge of the metal bed, feet resting against the floor at an angle, with my head motionless and eyes unfocused. Maybe I should have shaved? The stubble doesn't suit me, I decide, but there's probably not enough time now.

The click of heels and tap-tap-tapping echo pulls my attention back. Jimmy opens the door, the clicking of the lock a familiar sound. He's dressed in his full uniform this time.

"It's time?" My throat is like set of rusty springs, the words halting before rushing out. Jimmy nods. It's not even fair. It'd be all right if I'd done the crime. I'm not a murderer and certainly not a rapist. I can feel the tears building now; a little too late for that now though.

Regretfully I replace my feet on the ground and lever myself up from the bed. It's like trying to lift a thousand elephants that are sleeping on my back. My legs don't want to walk. Walking to my own death wasn't something I'd ever foreseen as a kid. I was supposed to die in my sleep or as a granddad. I'm only forty-three. My reflection catches my attention in the mirror; the blue eyes are full of tears and the frown deeper than the Grand Canyon.

"Come on, Ed. Can't keep the fans waiting."

Jimmy doesn't sound like his normal self. I turn to face him, offering my wrists as per normal procedure. He's good at what he does. A few times in the past we'd had a chat, nothing major, but he was a good guy. He was never really discriminating; not like the others. Now he just sounds awkward. He slips the cuffs on to my wrists while I stare blankly ahead and finally turns to leave with me in tow.

"Is Elaine here?" I ask, carefully, as I step out of the room and in to the corridor. Snow outside registers in my head. It had snowed. The exercise pen outside had been covered in a thick white blanket and small houses beyond that, as far as the eye could see, right in to the city areas. I don't know why I tried to make it sound like I didn't care.

"Front row. I'm sorry, Ed." He pauses. "Have you thought about what you'll say?"

I don't know if I should continue or stop. At the last second I continue, overriding the want to stand still, sink to my knees, and cry or try to stop the whole process and find the reset button on life.

"No," I lie. I have thought about it, a lot. A selfish and stupid part of me wants to say something fantastic before dying, something funny, or remember-able, but I shouldn't be dying. I shouldn't be on death row. Stating my case again won't help anything either.

Jimmy follows my lead and it's not long until we're in front of the door. The feeling is unlike anything I can describe. My stomach is in knots and strangely cold, like I've swallowed a bucket load of ice. My heart thunders in my chest, loud enough to create a rushing and blundering sound in my ears. The vein on my temple must be stood out a clear mile. My palms are sweaty and slick. I can't help think of silly things like whether I should have gone to the toilet first. In a few minutes that won't mean much any more. The walk was like trying to move oceans with just my legs, like moving through old custard that's been left in the fridge too long. I struggle to breathe over the panic shooting up and down my body. I don't think I could talk even if I wanted to. I don't want to. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be standing in front of this door. I don't want to see the gurney when they open the door. I don't want to see Elaine. I don't want her to see this either. I didn't want any of this.

The door opens, tormenting me, like it had been listening in on my thoughts. The gurney is there and Elaine. Everything in the room is absorbed through my retinas in a matter of milliseconds. There's a doctor and more guards and a crowd in the audience stalls. Some of the crowd are journalists, I can see the pens squiggling already even from here. Elaine is in the front row. She's been crying. She's still wearing the fake suede coat with fluff liner, which is pulled up around her neck. I got that for her two Christmas’s ago. She'd loved it. It looks like she doesn't intend to stay long. There's paper hankies scrunched up in her hand.

Everything is perfect and pristine. The bed looks like it's never been touched and the IV drips are still in their plastic wrappers. I swallow quickly and then swallow again, unable to gather my nerves. I feel like I'm going to be sick. The ice that was in my gut has transformed to acid.

Jimmy steps through the door. There's no flare of cameras this time. The journalists have gotten all they needed from the trails. All that's left is the vultures to pick over the bones of the story.

Reluctantly I follow Jimmy. He seats me on the gurney and starts to strap me down along with the assistance of the other guards; Brian and Joe. They were rarely on duty near my cell but what I'd heard told me enough about them. Joe liked to rough-up the other inmates and play the bad cop and Brian would never stop him. The word was that Brian dared not to say anything for fear of a beating from Joe. The restraints pinch at my skin. I wonder if I should say something, if I can even manage to say anything, but it's pretty stupid. I'll be dead soon and then no amount of pain will matter any more.

"Any last words?" Joe snarls. He's like a caged dog. I check him from the bed. His eyes are furious and he appears actively excited to see me die. It's been a while since they'd had a death penalty walk through here. His appearance disgusts me.

I drag my eyes away from the pig. From this position its difficult to see Elaine but I know she's out there. The strain in my neck as I try to look for her gifts me with a small pressure headache. "I'm sorry you had to see this," I blurt, reading from a sketched script in my head, "remember that I'll always love you."

Almost before I can finish Joe is signalling for the procedure to start. The doctor unwraps both IV cannuleas. He has trouble trying to find the right vein on my left arm. The digging scratch hurts as he pokes the needle around in the crook of my arm. I can't help but think about the bruise that'll be there later. The left IV was easier. Both drips are confirmed as working. The lines disappear behind my head in to a secluded room. I cannot see the room, not even by angling my head back. The guards have backed away, some more respectfully than others.

Nothing seems to happen for a long time. I lay on my back, restrained, with two drips in my arms. The blinding white of the bulbs above bite in to my eyes as I lay there, leaving bleary imprints on my retinas. The whole process was explained about a week ago including any sensations I'm likely to feel. At first it'd be an anaesthetic injection to put me to sleep. This is followed by a paralysing injection that would stop my diaphragm and respiratory functions. The last injection stops my heart.

Death.

The first sign is a sudden lull of my eyelids. I check and realise I do feel sleepy. It's like small weights have been placed upon my eyes … all of my muscles, now that I routinely check everything else. It's working. I panic. I want to work at the restrains. I want to wriggle free. I want to pull out the IV's. I want to shout at the top of my lungs that it wasn't me. It wasn't my fault. I never murdered her. I never touched her. It was all a mistake. I want to draw another breath. I want to live until I'm eighty and do all the things old people do. I don't want to die.

The panic lasts an eternity but it's probably only a few seconds. Now the sleep comes. It's dark and strangely comfortable. I can feel everything slipping away. The sinking feeling is nice. It's like I'm suspended in water. I wonder what Elaine is thinking now. It's the last thing that flashes through my mind before my eyes close completely.

[James]

I sipped at the coffee in front of me, looking like any other backpacker that found themselves in the host of European cities that called to people with songs of culture and entertainment. The drink was too strong for my tongue. I didn’t take my coffee black, but I drank it regardless. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. The three packets of sugar had helped a little. Crumbs of a savoury baked product stuck underneath my long fingernails, lodged there until my tongue could free them of their prison. I looked at the city around me, the great temples of finance and cathedral of sports rising up next to me. The exteriors were as familiar to me as the photo of my mother in the front pocket of my torn jeans.

“Oi!” a voice called out, as I took another sip from the mug in front of me. “Get out of here!”

My grubby, knotted hair swung as my head turned to the side, seeing the owner of the small café rushing towards me. I leapt up, taking several more packets of sugar in my hand as I ran down the cobbled street. My oversized shirt flapped in the wind as I weaved in between suited pedestrians. Some café owners were apathetic about people finishing leftovers that had been left outside. Some were tight-arses that wouldn’t let your fingers touch the plate even if there was only the fat of some bacon left on it.

My shoulder banged against a well-dressed woman, her grey hair pulled into a tight bun. “Look where you’re going! Bloody tourists!”

It didn’t seem important to stop and correct the possible lawyer, accountant or whatever city people worked as. I wasn’t a tourist. I had lived in the city my entire life. It was just that I didn’t live in their city. Commuting was only a word to me. I had never been to the theatre. Friday night wasn’t the night where I went out to dinner and then headed off to see a performance of Wagner, whoever he was. I lived in their city, but it wasn’t mine. I was an unwelcome guest, a simple visitor.

After several seconds of heavy breathing, I realised I had finally stopped running. Cars sailed past me, their engines singing contently as they crossed the bridge I was stood on. No one paid me a second glance as I placed my hands upon the railing. I was just another scruffy-dressed tourist admiring the view. The river churned beneath me, flowing quickly under the stone bridge. Factories and glinting, glass office blocks rose up on either side of the riverbank. I knew them all by sight and yet I didn’t know what happened inside them. What did they make? Who worked there? All of those questions were unanswered. Maybe, the lip-curling, suited pedestrians were right. I was a visitor. They accepted my presence like I accepted the flies that buzzed around me as I tried to sleep, an annoyance that couldn’t be rid of. It wasn’t my city.

I placed a foot on the bottom of the railing, lifting me off the ground by several inches. I wondered if there was a way to make it mine. Car horns began to sing out. A woman screamed. Sucking in a deep breath, I fell forward.

[Injin]

Oh, Father Hearst, I didn’t know you were going to visit me today of all days. Is it that time already? My oh my, where did the time go?

What? You want me to sing like a little songbird and tell you the full extent of what happened? Oh, well that would be telling, wouldn’t it, Father? Hearsty, Hearsty, should I really be telling a priest such as yourself all of the sordid details of what happened? Do you really want to hear the full exposition of why I just…the word they used was snapped, but I prefer the term “Opened My Eyes”. Mostly because of intrinsic value, you see, as then I can momentarily be a Buddhist or something about it and say OME…

Now is not a time for jokes? Are you serious? Why, today is the last time I’ll be able to tell them, I’d wager. No, Father, I don’t expect a fiery pit or even heavenly gates to be at my vision’s behest as I shed this mortal coil, no. I expect something far more…fitting.

No, I won’t ask for absolving my sins, what fun would there be in absolution? That would imply that I seek forgiveness for what I did. I simply did what I did because I wanted to. Because it felt right, that’s why I did it, Father. Hearsty, I really expected that you’d understand how I think by now, what with your repeated visits. I don’t believe in any of your gospel, I never have. Not even when I visited your church when I was free. I admit, you were intriguing to me, but that was it.

That was it.

Hearsty, cheer up. I have plans that’ll keep you nice and happy once I’m dead. No, don’t look at me like that. Nothing bad this time, I promise. I never broke a single promises to you, did I Father? Nope. Never. Never ever ever, never.

Don’t look at me like that you little pudgy priest. I horrify you and yet you keep visiting me. I killed people while sharing your house of worship, so what? There is literally nothing you can do about it now, Hearsty, and there isn’t anything you can do to change my situation for the worse or better. So many people are gone and it’s my fault. Is that why you are here, to admonish me for my crimes for the hundredth time? No, you already said what you were here for, right. “Confession” as you put it.

Well my hatred for humankind as a whole started when I was three. It wasn’t a pleasant childhood, the one I had, but at the same time it was…fulfilling in its own way. I was taken in by Sevastian Mobsters after they killed my parents in a blooding turf battle for the district of Little Neimandia. My parents were high ranking member of the Neimandian Mob, you see, and they really did a number on the Sevastians that one time.

Which one time? Um, well, I don’t really know. My surrogate parents just told me it was revenge for That One Time They Did That To Us. Who were my surrogate parents, you ask? Well their names were legendary at the time, Marriana and Grigorii Huft. They were as some kids nowadays would call them “complete and total badasses”. They were great parents too, teaching me how to shoot at age six, taught me to survive in the wild at age seven, and taught me how to read and write at age eight. For some reason the whole literacy thing didn’t seem as important as the first two, but what do I know, Father?

Right, I know everything about it, thanks for reminding me. As I was saying, my parents were amazing. So amazing in fact, that when I showed them my stabbing skills, they were amazed. I missed them after that. I was only twelve, going out on the big bad world all by myself. I knew what I was put on this planet of ours to do, to fight. The question, my quest, was to find out what I was supposed to fight.

You want me to go back to talking about my parents? What made me just kill them? Well, it’s complicated, to be honest, Hearsty. I got a letter from some Neimandian guys, a bunch of shmucks as the Svards say. They said they’d pay me a lot for this job. So I did it. Then when the guy came to pay me, I killed him and took the money. After that his boss sent henchmen, who I also killed. I just kept on climbing that social ladder, all the way to the tippy top, until the boss, who was my uncle apparently, was dead at my feet. After that the Sevastian mob was suddenly afraid of me, so I decided to go start bossing them around.

What? You were wondering why I seemed to have a bunch of numbskulls that looked out of place, right? Yes, I know you didn’t say numbskulls, there’s no need to get so fucking defensive, Father. Anyways, those guys worked for me and still kind of do. Now where was I before you decided that I should backtrack, hmm?

Right, right, my life’s mission, that’s what I was talking about. I knew that was what we needed to talk about, Hearsty. Father Hearst, it was, and still is, my solemn duty in life to kill any fucker who dares to be a primo fucker. That is all I ever wanted to do. Sorry Father, I shouldn’t have said all of those fucking words of naughty reputation in front of you. Oh Father, I have sinned by saying the act of procreation in vain, can you ever forgive me?

Really? Get on with it? Now who’s getting impatient, hmm? Well after that, well after that, well after that…wait, I forgot to say something, didn’t I? Sorry, Father, I guess I thought what I was going to say instead of actually saying it. Well after that, I just started using the mob that was now under my command to commit what could only be described as hate crimes against humanity. I had the leaders of the Tvim Group decapitated because they were threatening the businesses in their neighborhood, I had the Commander of the gang Dos Dorros castrated publicly for his systematic looting and pillaging of his barrio, and I had the leader of the Botany Cult burned at the stake. Isn’t this story of my life grand?

No? Now who’s being a party pooper? That would be you, Hearsty. What? Don’t like the nickname, do you? Well that makes me a sad prisoner. I’m now the saddest prisoner evvvvvveeeeerrrrrrrr. Oh alright, I’ll continue. Anyways, that’s when I took my vacation to Waldia, you know, the deep dark dangerous continent that parents tell their daughters never to go to? Well I went on an adventure there, the most fun I’ve ever had. I killed warlords, hunted tigers and lions, and hugged that guy who does voice overs. Frodo Morgan, you know. He was as huggable as I thought he’d be, although I think he was just too surprised to shove me back after I fell out of his closet.

Yes I broke into his room, so what? Bluh, you are just no fun Hearsty. Anyways, after that I went home. Waldia was such a load of fun, I mean I only overthrew one government, but it was the bad kind so all is good right? I mean sure, I wounded some Armoran troops, but they covered it up afterwards so was it really all that bad?

Right…they sent a raid team after me and now I’m here…I forgot about that Hearsty. You live in a country and then when you try to help, they sentence you to a beheading. Real nice of them, that is. I really wish I could stay and talk more Hearsty, but the big bad jailer guy says that it’s time for the chop chop booth.

What’s that? It’s not a booth? Well the name they gave me is misleading…Hearsty…

I’ll miss you. You always did give me the time of day, even when it wasn’t needed. I’m just glad I met you. I left the rights to making movies about me in your will, so surprise! I hope they do me justice…probably won’t. Oh well. Don’t cry for me you old worrywart, I’ll be happy wherever I go after my head and neck are done kissing forever. Just because I’m only seventeen doesn’t warrant my getting out of this, you know that. Just because you spoke for me at the trial doesn’t mean I’m abzolzed or whatever word that is.

Bye Hearsty, I hope you get a lot of money! Oh, and check under the church, I left a special surprise for you.

Hint: It’s not drugs and rhymes with morphins.

That’s right, it Gold….dorphins. Gold. Yeah.

Bye bye, see you later Hearsty!

[Jackal]

Servant

I have been serving the Reginald household for as long as I can recall. My earliest memories were that of my father instructing me how to serve the family: at 6 in the morning, I wake the other servants, and we prepare breakfast for the family. As the butler, it is my duty to serve the master, being careful never to tip the tray and to never let the coffee arrive cold. At 7.30, I fetch the master's briefcase, coat and cane, and ensure that the chauffeur arrives at precisely 7.50 on the dot. After the master leaves, I will ensure that the other servants keep the mansion spick and span, and if necessary, perform cleaning duties myself. However, I should never be far from the door, in particular at 8:05 in the morning when the boy leaves for tuition ( he was always 5 minutes late, despite our best efforts) and 9 when the lady begins her social activities. At 6 in the evening, I oversee the preparations for dinner, and at 7 receive the master, replacing his briefcase, coat and cane where they belong. I am proud to say that both my father and I have performed these duties faithfully - my father until his dying breath at 75, and I for about 40 years, I believe.


As the days grew older, so did I and the family. Many events had transpired - the staff came and went, the master started to lean more on his cane, and the lady began her social activities in the afternoon, taking the morning to rest her tired body from the previous day's work. I was there during the harshest of our days - the war. The young master went to fight, and I'm dreadfully sorry to say, never returned to the mansion. The master himself constantly fretted over the state of the family business during those trying times, and all that worry for the health of her family caused the lady to have a breakdown. She spent her days bedridden until the day the sirens began.


We were warned, of course, by the radio, and the master himself heard from his associates that the sirens meant the Germans were starting to drop bombs. We were to flee to the basement, but I don't recall making it there before I heard the explosions. The shattering - all that beautiful glass, flying everywhere in peaces, running to cover the master when there was another thunderous blast, and smoke, so much smoke...When I had awoken, the master informed me that the lady was gone, as were most of the staff. He was never the same afterwards. None of us truly were.

The next thing I recall was when they arrived.

It was a most unusual occurrence, in my humble opinion, for the master had not left the home for more than 15 years. Margarite herself nearly knocked over the Greek vase with her duster when she heard the door, and admittedly, I was in great surprise myself. Nonetheless, I answered the door, and was greeted by the sight of three strangers - one of them a man dressed in a suit, and the other two a young couple in what I assume to be modern fashion. I had not been out of the mansion for many years, after all. I found them to be rather rude - despite my queries, they ignored me, and the man in the suit continued to ramble something to them. They left soon after, but that was not the last I saw of them.

Men arrived to the location, and to my shock, battered the locks open. An invasion! I called the master's attention, but he had little interest in such events, or any events at all. I attempted to reason with the men, and told them that the authorities would be informed of this, all to no avail. And without the master's orders, I could do no such thing. I watched as the couple arrived soon after, packing their belongings and settling into the mansion without permission. They settled in the lady's room, much to my consternation - once again, they ignored my words as I informed them the guest room was just to the right. This I told the master, and yet he told me to treat them as guests rather than invaders.

What was I, a servant, to do? I watched the couple as they used the house as their own, exploring the gardens, cooking in the kitchens, and to my frustration, refused my assistance as well. It was very strange watching them act as if we weren't in the mansion, as if I was simply invisible. For days, this went on, perhaps even a week or so. But I could not imagine their very audacity when I heard loud sounds from the bedroom one night. I knocked on the door, inquiring if they required assistance - and found it was unlocked. To my horror, I found they were using the lady's bed for their - their own carnal pleasures!

Yet again, they refused to listen, and I informed the master. This time, he was incensed. He had lost the passion to defend the privacy of his home, but not the dignity of his late wife, and he marched with me to that room. I could have sworn what remained of the windows rattled to his voice that evening, yet the couple blatantly continued their act of defilement. I could take no more myself - that they would not even listen to the word of the master! - and as the master went to seize the man off the bed, I pulled the woman away. They struggled for a moment or two before falling off, and stumbled in shock. Would they listen now? No, not even! Rather, the man reached for the woman right in front of the master, talking to - her - instead! I was absolutely outraged at their lack of respect, and right there slapped the cur. His continued disrespect would not be tolerated by myself, and I dragged him by the wrist to the very door. He struggled, but put up less of a fight than I expected of a man of his age. Perhaps it was the shame settling in, and I hoped so. They left that night, and I prayed we could finally be left in peace.

I should have known better, I suppose. The next evening, the master told me he saw another visitor, which was truly strange as I had not seen anyone enter the door that day. His description of the visitor was even stranger - a man, or perhaps a woman, in a dark-colored hood and cloak, simply walking about, and turning away when he queried the visitor's intrusion. The next few evenings, I heard the master speak of that same visitor, only that the actions differed - the hooded person walked closer upon being queried before turning away, and seemed curious when the master, out of little reason, spoke about his family. This concerned me, and I advised the master that he should take earlier rests. I did not wish to see him fall to the same fate as the lady out of all that stress.

I remember vividly the night when Margarite screamed. I was finishing cleaning of the lady's bed, and the moon was a half-crescent. I rushed down the hallway only to realize that her scream came from the master's room. When I arrived, expecting the worst, she was trembling as if she had been trapped in the winter snow for hours, her eyes wide with terror. She pointed at the master's chair, only.... it was not the master within it.

It was that hooded figure he described. This close to the desk, I could see the candlelight illuminate the cloth around it, its tattered edges appearing to float as if in water. It wore gloves of some sort, made from that same material, and was simply standing over the master's chair, looking at us. In its fingers, it held the master's pipe, glinting off the glow of the flame.

My own fear was upturned by my sense of duty. I demanded answers from the figure, stepping forward in spite of my better judgement. Where was the master? What was it, and what was it doing in the mansion? I certainly remember its voice - it sounded like a whisper formed in harsh winter winds, a sound that was most unpleasant, and its message was no more comforting. ' Your turn will come', it said. I and Margarite were left perplexed as it left, seeming to walk into the curtains - I could have sworn it melted into them - and then there was nothing.

The next few days were truly terrible. I should never have left the master alone. Now I was a servant with no master, a butler with no orders. I was lost. Nothing. All that was left was for me to perform the task of cleaning the mansion in preparation for... nobody. I didn't even know what took him, or what happened to him. And I was unsure what to do when the couple finally returned, this time with yet another stranger - a woman dressed in exotic attire. I can only guess it was meant to mirror what gypsies wore, and her behavior seemed to attest to this idea - she was a most unusual individual, even if she ignored my words all the same. It didn't quite feel as important anymore. I had a duty to no one. I made no move to evict her this time as she, with the couple, settled for the evening in the lady's room. I watched as she laid candles around in a ritualistic manner. What was she planning to do? They closed their eyes, they held hands, and then began to chant. What sort of strange paganism was this?

To my surprise, she replied. She was a spirit-talker, a medium. She wanted to inquire upon a visitation of this very room by spirits. Spirits? I instantly recalled the hooded figure, and as I described it, I could see she felt a similar discomfort to its appearance. She refused to look at me, closing her eyes tightly as she spoke, but it was good at the very least to finally have one of the guests speak to me after 15 long years. She asked more questions about my life, about life in the mansion, which perplexed me further, but nonetheless I acceded to her request, and told her. After listening, that ' medium' as she called herself offered some strange advice - advice that I was very hesitant to follow, but I did.

I sat in the master's chair in the evening. It was.... physically, comfortable, but I could not shake from my thoughts that it was also highly disrespectful of my station. I was, however, determined to have my answers, and if I could find out where the master went...the clock went maddeningly slow. I watched the darkness, both fearing and anticipating the moment when the visitor would appear.

12: 05, 5 minutes past midnight.

A sudden gust blew the curtains forward, and I stared at them , noticing something in its shadows. Something forming, slowly rising, as I swallowed hard. I gripped tightly on the chair, summoning what courage I had left to the surface. I could feel the biting chill of the wind as I stood up, staring at the shadows as they formed the shape of the hooded visitor, closing the distance swiftly and soundlessly. But I would have my answers.

" Show.. show your face. "

Show my face? It repeated my words in its cold voice, and I could not tell if this was to mock me or as a genuine query. Either way, I nodded in reply. And to my surprise, it lifted the hood back, allowing me a peek at its visage.

At his visage.

" Young Master.. " I gasped, reaching out to touch his face. His handsome youth was marred by a thick series of scars across the left of his cheek and eyes, but otherwise I recognised him. " What... what has happened to you? "

" The war. The war happened to me. "

I was almost in tears at the joy I found beating in my heart. One of the family, at last! But at the same time, I was confused. " Where - where has master gone? "

" Master? Master has gone the same place I have, Gerard. "

It then occurred to me that despite realizing who it was, his voice hadn't changed into anything more friendly or.. human. " Same - what do you mean, young master? What place is that? "

" Beyond, Gerard. Beyond life. "

" Beyond life? "

He nods slowly, almost painfully. " He, too, did not realize. "

" Realize? Realize what? "

The young master stares at me, reading my confusion. He at last offers a wan smile, as meager a comfort as it can be. " None of us survived the war, Gerard. "

" What? "

" Yes, none of us survived the war. I was in the battlefield when it happened. And you.. father, mother, even the servants, even Margarite.. the bombs took you all. I saw your bodies. I saw some of you rise, but I was unable to reach out. To tell you. And when I was finally able to, I looked.. like this. " He gestured to the shimmering cloak that I now realized wasn't just his clothing, but part of him.

This - what? How could this be? " Im-that can't be true.. the master and I, and Margarite.. we've been keeping this place tidy - "

" Because it was your business back here. You would never leave this place, this home - as long as you had your duties. Unfinished business. That is why I took Father back first. "

Could that be true? It was outrageous, yet, if I assumed that as truth... the people could not hear me. They could not see me. The only outsider that could was that spirit medium, and the reason she had been called was because... because I had dragged the couple out of the rooms. As an invisible, unknown force.

" Gerard. "

" Y- yes, young master? "

" It's time to go. The master is expecting you. "

I look at the young master, and while his face is twisted with those scars, the smile he now wears is warmer, much like the lad I remembered. He gestures for me to follow as he walks, but I hesitate. How can all of this be true? And even if so.. what about the mansion? What about my duties?

" Gerard.. will you come with me? The master is expecting you. "

The master is expecting me. That's right. My duties are to the master, not the mansion. To the family, the Reginald household. I cannot stay back. I am his butler, as was my father before me. I follow the young master with a nod.

" Where should we be headed? "

" Follow me. "

He walks into the curtains once more, and the shadows melt around him, his very shape disappearing within it. I do not hesitate, but follow his every step to the corner. As I do, I feel the darkness surround me, pulling me in to where the young master, and no doubt the master himself, will be.. as I see myself disappear into the shadows, I take one last look at the clock.

12.30am. In 5 and a half hours, I will have to prepare breakfast for the master. For I am a servant of the Reginald househ-
-

[Kaez]

SEKOT
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 9/15
Quality - 15/15
Total - 39/50

Beautiful, beautiful prose. Jumbled mess of a story. Like a Jackson Pollock painting -- gorgeous and a mess all at once. Very possibly the best thing you've written this tournament and I believe the only 15/15 I gave in quality the whole tournament -- but the story just doesn't come together the way your others have.


REFFY
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 6/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 40/50

Like spaghetti and marinara sauce. It's delicious, clean, simple. Nothing fancy about it -- in fact, it even seems to lend itself toward the possibility of being much fancier -- but it has no need to be. Solid all around. Use of 'Visitor' was a little low, though. Overall though, Ref -- and I am sorry for how damn brief this review is -- I really liked this. I loved how casually you paced it. The story really took its time without feeling one bit slow!



JAMES
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 9/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 43/50

I fiddled around with your score a bunch, and before all my reviews got deleted, explained my reasoning in a lot more detail. it suffices to say: I was really inclined to somehow take off points for how short it is, but eventually came to the conclusion that it earned every one of those five scores wholeheartedly and that it deserved to make up those points it would lose for length because it -didn't even need the length-. Just a really well done, minimalist story.



INJIN
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 9/15
Quality - 7/15
Total - 30/50

Writing the clever narrator is so fucking hard. James and Taed and Sekot? Ask them about writing a clever narrator. A first-person story that tries to be witty is really fucking difficult. You keep trying it. Over. And over. And over. You keep trying to reinvent the wheel here and pull off something really clever or witty. It's out of your range. It just is. It's barely within the range of the very best and most experienced writers on AWR. It's not easy. You keep trying it. Don't. Go back to what you wrote last week. Do more of -that-.



JACK
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 8/10
Entertainment - 10/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 40/50

I liked a lot about this story, but also was left wanting. I really like the foundation it was built upon: the theme, the vibe, the characters, the setting. They all were painted in a really nice way and I was drawn in from the start. But in a lot of ways, it felt rushed. If you'd added 300 more words to this, it probably would've felt like a much more fleshed out and complete story. Particularly toward the end, it could've used some padding and some length. Still, really good.


JAMES - 43
REFFY - 40
JACK - 40
SEKOT - 39
INJIN - 30

ROUND WINNER: JAMES!

LEADERBOARD

[/SIZE]
1. 246 James
2. 203 Sekot
3. 195 Reffy
4. 164 Injin
5. 80 Jack
6. 71 Sawyer
7. 45 Taed
8. 44 Astrael
9. 35 Silver[/center]

ROUND WINNERS

[/SIZE]
Round One: James
Round Two: Taed
Round Three: James
Round Four: Sekot
Round Five: Reffy & Injin
Round Six: James[/center]




James topped the leaderboard by 43 points, which is actually larger than Sekot's average score -- and larger than anyone's average score except for Astrael and Taed's single entries each.

James also won 3 of the 6 rounds and was the only person to win more than one.

Pretty much all-around, in damn near any category or standard you can go by, James edged out the competition in this one. Some degree of that might be a personal bias toward his style of writing, but I'd argue I'm even more biased toward Sekot's, and even if he'd gotten his average score on the one round he didn't write in, James still was edging out the victory.

So our overall winner: JAMES.

Congratulations.

Similarly, in virtually every other front, Sekot comes in a close second. Our overall runner up: SEKOT.

There's then a definite gap, after which Reffy and Injin come in as a tight pair. Injin's average score actually suggests that if he'd written an entry in the one round that he sat out, he'd have a 196 and change -- slightly edging out Reffy. So those two are a very close third and fourth place.

Jack beats out Sawyer by a pinch, both of them submitting two entries.

Taed and Astrael had the highest averages, but having written only one entry each, come in seventh and eighth place -- though Taed got a round win. And Silver rounds us out, with a total of nine writers.

In total, I awarded 1,083 points to 29 entries, making the average entry score a 37. Use that as a reference to judge the relative quality of your entries.

ANYWAY, GUYS.

I'm sorry the reviews for this round were so goddamn short. I'd written each of you two or three really hearty paragraphs and my fucking laptop didn't give a shit. I'd just finished and the save in my clipboard was of the leaderboard I was working on instead of all the reviews.

Really pissed me off.

So if you wanted any more of my thoughts on your entries this round, or any round, or my thoughts as a whole on what to work on and where your strengths are: I'd be -more than glad- to provide it.

I hope you guys had fun writing! You wrote 61,500 words and change.

I hope my reviews have been of some help. I had fun reading your entries. I think Sekot shook a lot of rust off. I think James stretched his creativity beyond what he'd ordinarily do. I think Reffy grew more comfortable with writing longer pieces. I think Injin sorted out his comfort zones.

I've been impressed by you all. Well done!