Ziegwelder: Number One

Unbreakable, my shoulders carry on
And the battlefield plays out
Exactly as I'd hoped
Playing my strengths
Against your weaknesses

My sword always larger
And always swifter
Than the biggest blade of them all

I wonder if my liege, my sole friend
Carries on my wisdom still;
And when I've faded once and for all
Will I still be the strongest?

His gold still plays my fingertips
As our brotherhood lives on inside my head
But the purpose I long for eludes me;

Why am I still here?
I ask The Fates but they won't tell.
The amnesia made me wander for days,
And here I am now, before the lost others,
Wondering why we were born so soon?

Shapeshifter -Part IX-

Noon was sleepy and relaxed as I stretched my shoulders, still in my pajamas. I had fed Necro when he alerted me it was time, and drank from some of the best steaming hot apple cider. The autumn, fruity scent filled my heart with homely warmth and joy of the coming season. Narcissa's keys were gone from her tiny bowl, and I felt the sun from the window cascade over my back.

I cozied up in my knit, auburn sweater on my couch in my furry pajama pants, keeping the cool chill out, and resumed my favorite book from yesterday. Hungover-brain fogged my mind a bit but I was just getting to the good part. 

Hours slipped by quickly, and before I knew it I was pulling on my favorite jeans, trying not to fall on my face, scrambling out the door to go see Annabelle again at the bookshop.

I half-ran over to the bookstore, late by only a few minutes, the cool breeze chilling my warm face from rushing so hard. I could see my breath as the sun began to go down while I straightened myself up and pulled the door open.

My golden-haired, six foot friend stood in front of the counter, checking out some books. "Zeph?" I asked, my mouth wide. "When did you get back from Paris?" I smiled, walking up and hugging his soft frame tightly. 

"Just earlier today! It's so nice to be back." he smiled a gentle smile and straightened up his polo shirt. "And how are you doing?" 

"Good! I-" 

"Here to see me?" a melodic voice asked, as Belle strode up to us, silent as the calm before an impending storm.

"Belle! It's great to see you!" I squealed, hugging her a bit awkwardly. 

"This is Zeph, he's one of my best friends, he just got back from Paris!" 

"Oh, hello, I'm Annabelle. Have we met somewhere before?" she asked genuinely, shaking his hand firmly.

"Maybe in passing?" he scratched his head, giving an odd, questioning smirk.

"Eh, I don't know." Belle shrugged and turned to me, her olive skin looking so... soft… "I actually was wondering if you would take me to the local graveyard? I heard it's quite lovely at sun down."

"Well, don't let me spoil your fun." Zeph laughed and sat down at a nearby table with one of his tattered, ancient looking books. "Text me when you're done so we can catch up! And maybe the three of us can grab dinner, sometime." And he was lost to the rest of the universe into the deepest of fictional caverns.

"You know, we can absolutely catch up later. I won't be too long!" There was no response, just a silence left behind by my words going in one of his ears and out the other. I swore I could hear the wind rustling the bushes outside as the air became empty for a few moments.

I turned back to Belle. "Well, let's go then!" Without thinking I grabbed her by the wrist and away we went, back through the creaky, metal door and into the chilly autumn air. 

After the rush of chilled breeze I felt the warmth of her flannel jacket over her wrist and without skipping a beat, let go and felt my face heat up. We casually walked the old roads of Marblehead, the sidewalks crumbling and vines crawling up the sides of aged, crooked houses. I pulled her along by her arm occasionally, as she stopped to gape at our historic architecture.

"You are very new here, aren't you?" I asked with a smirk. "Are you impressed?"

She looked me up and down suggestively. "Absolutely." She reached out to take my waist. 

"Just wait until you see the gazebo." I turned before she could reach me and kept walking, knowingly up the winding roads, smirking along the way. What, am I seventeen again?

Finally we came to the steep, grassy hill with a set of stone stairs built into the side. The cemetery smelled of freshly cut grass, combined with dying leaves and an air of humidity. I could see why, as the sky filled with ashen, heavy clouds on our walk over. A single, cold rain drop touched my nose.

"Wow, this place looks ancient." Belle remarked, eyes wide at the steep mount of dirt, dotted with different ages of tombstones.

"It goes back to the seventeen-hundreds. There's a lot of history here." I said with pride. 

We marched up the smooth stone stairs, each gigantic step more tiring than the previous. As we came upon the halfway mark, we could see the wooden, cesious gazebo, the pointed roof towering above the old tombstones scattered in every direction. As we came upon the peak I shivered as the skies opened up above us, the cold rain drenching us completely. We ran up the grey stone path and onto the cement floor of the old structure.

"It wasn't supposed to rain today!" I nervously laughed, feeling the weight of my water-soaked braids coolly dripping all over me. A freezing chill rolled down my spine. I took off my icy sweater and laid it on the bench next to me, where I sat on the dry, old wood. I looked out at the misty, showering rain, which coated the tombstones darker and the ground with a richness I had seen so many times before. But this time was so… different. In my gut was a sense of profound, universal, almost magical timing. 

"Well, I suppose we're stuck here now, aren't we?" Belle remarked, sitting right next to me.

I looked from her over to the carvings myriads of people had made into the layers of paint upon the wooden support beams of the gazebo. Wow... Last time I was here... The memories left a dull wrench in my gut, reminding me of the last time I saw them, their perfectly picked outfit for our anniversary, and their eternally dark eyes filled with regret and anguish while I broke off our engagement. 

"I know you like me, a lot... But I'm not sure I can do this." I stood up, taking away my arm from touching Belle's, and breathed in deeply. I couldn't stop looking at the carvings I had made with my first love so many years ago on the beam standing right over me. Jagged hearts scarred the paint, and gave me an itch within my chest that I couldn't quite scratch away with my untrimmed nails; A reminder of all the time I had given up to the pursuit of love.

Annabelle intensely gazed at me, but I couldn't quite meet her face with my own eyes. I paused a few moments, but there was no reply.

"After all of the relationships I've been through, that have brought me up to this... This just feels a little too familiar. I didn't mean to lead you on." I finally looked at her face, and she gave up no emotion or expression in stark contrast with the flowery, pointed look she had just a few minutes prior. She stood up, still staring, hands in her pockets of her black, flannel coat. I couldn't quite be sure, but I did a double take as I thought I saw her standing there without water having even touched any part of her hair or clothes. I quickly shook my head as if to try to clear it, and I saw her standing there, drenched but not shivering a bit. 

"I see. So you need time?" She asked, the lack of inflection in her voice still unnerving and hollow. 

"I think so. I won't mind hearing from you now and then, but it's just too soon for me to be having any sort of crushes."

"So you do have a crush on me?" She asked, hesitantly.

"That's not really the point, dear." I felt a short rush of annoyance. Typical. "I think it would be best if I go home."

"As you wish." She said blankly, sitting back down the bench, just watching.

The rain, as if the thunderous skies had heard my request, settled down so I could walk away from this girl in peace. 

The walk home was cold, and lonely, but I couldn't escape the feeling of my heart beating through my chest and satisfaction every time my boots stomped the ground, one step after another. Oh, what did you do? I asked myself over and over, taking out my irritation on the soaked sidewalks underfoot. I can't feel bad for needing space.

But what if to move on, I need to give in?

Breaking Some Strings, A Short Story

    'Tis not everyday adventurers seek out assassins outside of the adventuring racket; Those who do the dark deed without a moral shield or deadly friends to watch their back. But in a dank bar so far removed from the main roads of Vindelhiem that its only real purpose is to sell alcohol during the shady and illegal proceedings happening within is where Boe found two of the most stereotypical adventures sitting at his table. An ork wearing mostly war paint and animal skins was keeping hold of a gnarly looking axe next to a cleric girl. The girl was pulled right from a quaint mountain village and was well wrapped in a robe that obscured her body type. She had the look of a girl tempted away from a simple life by the 'thrill of adventure.'
    Boe was the exact opposite of what an assassin would look like. Dressed in loose merchant clothes and a wide brimmed hat hiding most of his face as he sat in the chair in a practiced foe relaxed posture that would allow him quick access to throwing knives and pushing the table over. The pair sat silent as they studied one another before the cleric girl spoke.
    "We require your help," she started timidly, looking to her companion before continuing. "We have... A delicate problem."
    "We want you to murder our bard." The orc said in traditional orcish straightforwardness.
    Boe outwardly raised a eyebrow with professional practice, but inwardly he sighed deep enough to make you wonder about his character traits. It seemed the business of bardic killing was in season within his profession, but it was a specific kind of bard.
    "Let me guess: loves the spotlight, big on the sparkles in his magic, becomes hysterical and whiny when he's not the one involved in social interactions?"
    "Are you also a psychic?" the cleric asked, eyes wide with all the confirmation he needed.
    "Just a good guess," Boe said, making a motion for the girl to start the explanation all new contractors give.
    "It started out fine enough," She began. " He was always melodramatic, but in a quirky charming way, for a while at least. But as our party continued adventuring he began getting... a little obnoxious.
    "Annoying," the barbarian butted in, "The more attention we received the more he wanted to be the 'face' of our party, wanting to soak up more and more of the acclaim."
    "Yes, the more charming and unique he tried to be the less we really liked him." the girl said solemnly.
    "So why not just kick him out of the party?" Boe asked.
    "We can't, he handled all the official paperwork, hirelings, and our money its all under his name." the holy woman toyed with the symbol of her patron around her neck. "Our Wizard has tried to get him to split the burden but he refused."
    And there it was, Boe thought as he mulled things over. Simply kicking him out would mean all the wealth and whatever home base they managed to attain would go with him, but they can't kill him themselves because the motives are plain as as a dark elf in daylight.
    "I see, well if I am to kill this bard I'll need to know a few things about him." Boe switched his casual sitting to a more professional upright pose, what better way to show that they were in business.
    His name was Joruush. He was handy with a lire, not very proficient with that fancy short sword strapped to his belt, and his brilliant and flashy clothes blinded everyone within eyesight of him. He had stroke into the largest and flashiest bar within the city of Vindelhiem and threw enough money at the bartender to make instant friends of the half drunken patrons and put on a show for them.
    Easy enough for Boe to find, he had found a nice secluded spot within the bar and played up the drunken merchant he was disguised as, and watched his query. His contractors had told him he used a sizable chunk of party funds to perform this stunt, a habit that followed from their lesser known years and only grew more extraneous as the groups popularity rose.
    Poisoning would have been the easiest thing to do, a two-part poison which would make the patrons of the spiked barrel queasy after their hangovers, but that final drink bought by 'that pretty thing over there' and he'd have been dead within minutes. But Joruush didn't drink, merely pretended to and passed it along to another.
    Another would simply acquire a long bow, a few dexterity and steady aim potions with a eagle eye drought chaser and send a arrow though his brain matter, but the orc had insisted it being a 'horrifying accident.'
    Getting up and stabbing him was out as well, as magic armor and the contractors request made the easy route a murderer's dream. On the subject of magic, that was also off the table thanks to the unspoken code of adventures: 'Investigate how our party member died, and enact brutal vengeance if possible."
    "Sadly my friends!" Joruush's boisterously high pitched voice cut though the crowd, "I must take my leave!" with that he made a plodding and ostentatious walk out the door.
    The assassin followed after into the torch lit streets of the city, the bard being incredibly easy to spot and follow, already attracting pickpockets and street thugs hiding in the shadows. It was then Boe noticed a pair of yellow eyes glinting near an open sewer grate.
    A fun fact about the beings known as ratlings, is that they love gold, they will do anything for gold, and when motivated they can come together in great numbers for great effect.  But they can be quite messy, which makes them terrible assassins in most cases. But when the mangled and brutalized body of the bard was found, Boe got his bonus and the local population of ratlings was culled down ahead of schedule.
    A win-win situation for all, save for Joruush. All his effects and land were seized by his party, followed by a quick burial in the Vindilhiem Cemetary. The tombstone was so bombastic and garish it would be tradition to throw a cloth over it during the somber ritual of putting the dead to rest.
    Boe would often muse over his luck of the ratlings being out that very night and simplifying his job, musing that the very gods themselves disliked the bard so much he gave him an easy pass. Given he wasn't a religious man, he never bothered to ask.

Love and Cold Winds, Part 7: Finale

    Darkness as thick as a curtain surrounded them as the dim light behind them was shut out and the doors ground back into place. It was not long before lights from high above turned on with a loud click and revealed the shape of the room.
    A grand arena of sandstone blocks formed a high wall to rows of empty stone benches, with sandy floor space broken up by massive pillars and several foot high walls of wood.
    "Reminds me of somewhere, only bigger." Vort said, the dragonborn close to his side snorted.
    "Not very nostalgic considering there's a vicious monster in the room somewhere." Garn replied.
    "I found the monster." Norra said, pointing at the other end of the arena where the shadows shifted.
    From the dark stepped a figure no smaller than a child. He was dressed in dark purple robes with ruby red thorn patterns spreading across the shoulders. The hood was pulled up but they all could see the glowing yellow eyes peering at them. Although said robe seemed to be far too big for the thing it was quite disarmingly cute.
    "This isn't what I expected." Lym broke the silence of the collective staring match.
    As if to prove a point the wee being waved his hand in a conjuring sort of way, and the shadows among the edges of the room pulled themselves toward the boss wizard, sharp edges cutting their way into three dimensional space and weaving a body.
    The amalgam of shadow shaped itself into a towering 8 foot tall humanoid with glowing red eyes and a battle axe equal to the malice in the monster's glowing red eyes. Topping this visage literally born from shadow was the magic user, somehow emanating an aura of smugness from atop his new seat.
    "Well that's a little more of what I expected."
    "Scatter!" Shouted Norra as the beast charged toward Lym.
    The party broke their formation, Lym sprinting in a semi circle as far away from the approaching monster as possible while Norra took cover behind the closest pillar. Garn strode forward to face the monsters back with a trigger happy mage shadowing him.
    "Think I can harm something made of shadow?" the dragonborn asked, almost stumbling over his feet when he felt Vort's hand brush his.
    "Well, now I think you can," the mage said, as the edge of the warrior's blade began to shine with magical current. "I'm right behind you."
    With no time left for a reply Garn rushed forward, a huge grin on his face as he prepared to strike. His smile was turned rather quickly as a bolt shadowy flame grazed his side and calve.
    With a grace far beyond its size, the shadow giant's axe whirled towards the warrior's body in an attempt to vertically slice him in two. Once again despite his stout frame his reflexes put the flat of his blade between  him and bloody death. Instead he found himself sailing though the air with a pair of numb arms and a bruised spine as he landed ungracefully in the sand.
    Norra covered their prone dragon born with a hail of flaming arrows, taking cover as the return fire came from its personal magic turret of a hat. The bard had found a place to hide with decent acoustics as his magical songs kept morale (and hit points) up. 
    "You alright?" Vort called out, slashing runes into the air as energy crackled around him.
    "Fine," he pushed himself to his feet, catching sight of the three bolts of electricity that striking the chest and arms of the giant, knocking it off balance. Norra took her chance and fired a flaming bolt into the little wizard, and following suit Garn found the strength to charge.
    With a battle roar he charged, gouging ephemeral chunks from the thighs and shins of the giant, and the collective effort toppled it to a knee. The wizard, now a foot closer to the ground, summoned up a geyser of black fire that shot into the air, raining little spheres of death across the whole arena. Garn swore as he felt the flame graze his scales, sword raised to block the larger fireballs that were making most of the terrain around him difficult to get through.
    The axe blade coming to vertically bisect him from behind was conveniently out of sight as the weapon made of shadow was rather quiet while tearing through the air. He did see and feel the lightning wreathed mage push him out of the way. He once again felt his feet lose touch with the sand, flung backward as  he saw Vort deflect enough of the blow to keep himself in one whole. But it wasn't enough to stop the blade and the splash of blood as momentum sent the smaller body the same direction.
    Many things ran though Garn's head as he hit the ground and rolled himself to his feet. Vort crumpled nearby, robe torn and increasingly blood soaked. Blood and battle wounds were not unfamiliar companions to the dragonborn in this and his old career, nor were others getting injured around him.
    But the feeling of shock, heartache, and unbearable torrent of violence welled up in his chest at the sight of the fallen mage. Such passion for one known only for a short time was not uncommon in the adventuring world, as their kind made fast friends and bedfellows due to the work. But Garn had gained something not even he presently comprehended, the natural evolution of a crush to full blown infatuation.
    And to quote a overused saying on the emotion in question: it makes one do crazy things. And so as the giant haltingly rose to its feet, the warrior charged in once more, battle rage allowing a brief window of clarity to spot Lym running toward his fallen friend with potion and bardic magic in hand. And while his enchanted blade cut another ghostly chunk from the monster's shins his true attack was rapidly building within him.
    As an aside for a brief biology lesson of the Great Swamp Dragonborn, all dragonborn have a breath weapon based on their scale color. Being of green scales, Garn's breath was quite poisonous to those who inhaled it, but due to a unique strain of passive algae that their main staple food consumed, their breath weapon gained the rather unique mutation of being quite flammable. 
    And whether or not Norra knew this rather obscure tidbit, she fired another volley of flame tipped projectiles into the thick Green cloud Garn had spewed into the monsters face and chest. The gas erupted into flame and set alight the mini mage. The blaze made Garn step back as the high pitched screaming rang though the arena, and it was a good five minutes before it fell silent along with the shadow giant evaporating to leave behind a treasure chest.
    It was ignored in favor of cauterizing Vort's wound.

                   OXO

    "Honestly its the biggest scar I've ever received, but not the worst." Vort cheerily spoke from the confines of the towns medical building, which was conveniently located a block from the dungeon's entrance.
    Garn smiled and refrained from asking a follow up question to the mage's statement. The burly lizard had insisted on carrying the unconscious Vort out of the dungeon along with the treasure chest, and had not left his side since. He had even used a portion of his own earnings to get a private recovery room, and even now he sat at his bedside watching the scarred man gingerly pick at the bandages encircling his bare chest.
    "I'm glad your feeling better," Garn said, "The doctor said another day of bed rest and you're free to go."
    "Good, I owe my avenger a drink."
    Garn smiled and shifted awkwardly, words dying before they could get past his teeth. After a few breaths, his self confidence came back, and the thought that this shouldn't feel like a boss fight pushed him to look into Vort's eyes.
    "Actually, if you don't mind could we... Get dinner together?"
    Vort's mouth slowly morphed into a sly grin, "Why. mister Garn, are you asking me out on a date?"
    The big man sputtered and stumbled over his response, which in turn made Vort chuckle and pat his scaly knee. After a breath of his own he beamed at him.
    "Of course I would like dinner, but if we end up at a pub I expect at least one show of strength in my name."
    "It's a date then," Garn returned Vort's grin. "Don't be surprised if there's more just one show of strength." 

Part 6.2: The Writer Stalls due to Holiday Shenanigans

     The great doors loomed massive before any who dared approached. Great basins of violet flame flanked these doors, casting the reliefs of horrible monsters and screaming humans in grizzly shadows. Such a door could only really be moved by the monstrously strong or the magic opening mechanism the two mini bosses protected.
    Said bosses required Garn and the others to take a well needed break.
    "We have two healing potions, a roll of bandages, and those greater healing potions if we really need them." Lym said as he packed said items away.
    Most of the inventory had gone to the front line fighters, the lion share of which held Garn together as the potions accelerated the process. The dragonborn was laying on his back, closely looking at the door. Next to him was the storm mage sharpening his blade, wincing as arks of energy twisted free briefly when metal hit whetstone. They knew it was the precipice, the calm before the storm that could very well take their lives with a single misstep against the beast past those horriffic gates.
    And like a pair of teenagers, both were too awkward or self conscious to ask the other about plans after the fight. Norra was glad such things had not come up during the mission, it would only cause stalling and poor tactical decisions. Lym on the other hand was a minuscule beacon of unfulfilled voyeuristic romantic fantasia. The bard had seen the writing on the glowing orange neon wall and by the gods, he was invested.
    And not just because the song writ from this experience would be racy and no doubt a instant hit, but for his dear friend Vort's sake, Lym was obsessed. Vort had a smile and an attitude like a sunny day but past that false cheer was a storm of calamitous emotional backstory. Even if they were only acquainted the handful of weeks they spent traveling, he could tell Garn was becoming a part in that aforementioned storm, as someone who had fallen for the boy enough to allow himself to be a scaly meat shield.
    Before Lym's pedantic inner monologue could be turned into an actual plan, the pair stood up together, the smaller ensuring the larger was alright.
    "Let's get this show on the road!" The mage said cheerily, "The sooner we get this done, the faster we can get a drink."
    "I can agree to that!" Replied Garn, "Maybe I'll challenge you to a drinking competition, something I can actually win."
    "Most likely not, Vort has a strangely high constitution." Norra butted in, the group forming up before the gate.
    "Don't kill his hopes just yet Norra." Vort said merrily.
    Garn huffed in response to the jabs, before pulling the orbs from his back and pushing them into the vacant  holes in each door. The strange color coded keys clicked into place, and the doors began to rumble as hidden mechanisms began to turn with arduous groans of gears. The shadows played across the slowly opening portal, almost giving life to the grotesque carvings before a sound like metal beams being crushed by a dragon filled the room.
    The door had opened just enough to let the adventures through before the gears seized up.
    " How very anticlimactic." Said Norra.