Number Three: Iselta(i)n(e)

My sisters' words run deep
In my patient grace
And as the corruption leaves me,
Only the good is left behind.

Do not let my appearance fool you,
For I am danger. I am a predator.
And if you're on my bad side,
I can hunt you down with a wave of my hand.

My well-manicured nails and my
Perfectly placed flower crown
Can not define who or what I am
To myself or to the world.

I might be good, I may
Have the patience that saints dream of,
And my poise and collected attitude
Might lead you astray,

But don't let it seduce you,
Your charming human ways -
So gullible, so naive.
Let me be the wisdom that saves you.

I can be your light,
Your golden rays of hope
On the worst day of your mortal lives.
Or perhaps my sisters are more your type?

Losing Grip

What do you want me to tell you?
That my arm shook as I kept myself
From grabbing and pulling all of you
Into my life?

That my skin could not bear life,
Without your electric touch again?
That the daemon who held my soul
Only amplified my want to hold your hand?

That I almost lost control of myself
From being in your magnetic presence;
Your lies and expressions telling
What I wanted to hear whispered within?

You read me like a book on a shelf
To you, the shiniest, newest, brightest novel
You'd ever seen before you.
But did you even hold the key to anything,

Or was it just to my most primal wants;
Imagining your hands up and down my waist,
My back, my hips, and your tongue
Telling me all I'd ever want to hear from you?

Are other people truly just a game,
A conquest, a vague interest to your shallow mind?
And once you had won me over,
Would you have set me on your shelf of lies?

The Anxious Wait

Tiptoeing around the fires,
A cold winter's night chills me through
And when I think of you all alone
The glass in my gut moves further.

I gag and I moan but there is no end
To the anguish until I hear your voice again
Gracefully dancing, I feel the hot stones
Burning my feet beneath my slippers

But my bones just won't warm up -
I shiver as melodic music plays
Up and down my vertebrae
As keys upon the piano in my bedroom

I must be losing my mind
Because time just doesn't make sense,
And the music won't stop,
The voices told me I cannot.

And I keep dancing,
Tiptoeing around the fires:
My bones freezing and my feet
Just an inch from the flames,

But they won't let me stop,
And the music won't stop,
And the glass in my gut keeps
Cutting and tearing me up...

If I can't hear your voice tonight,
Then I'll never be alright again.
Time swims across the melody,
And the night just will not end.

Torn Away

"Never sacrifice or compromise yourself
For someone else's happiness."
He said upon his hoard made of
Sweets, skulls, and smoke.

And never have such words resonated
So deeply as to play with the strings
And shapes of my undead soul.
"You don't need him."

And just like that, the ties we had shared
Were torn to shreds before my third eye,
The pain stinging tightly in my chest
And my heart, and my mind.

Am I better off with you, my mentor,
My muse, my everything
Up to a few weeks ago?
Are you worth losing?

Suspicious lines run deep in my love,
But he saw before me the look
You have been influenced to give,
Or is it your own? I could never tell.

And never have such words resonated
So deeply as to play with the stars
And space of my scarred mind.
"All you need is yourself."

Compulsion

Give me your hand, your wrist;
Your trusting flesh under my own
Shaking grasp for the first time,
Wondering if you'll understand
That I still want to be your friend.
"You may not remember
What has happened here today."
My hopeful, alcoholic words filling out
The gaps in your weakened mind.

My spiral eyes in your conscious,
Gently caressing and brushing away
The surface thoughts to sweeten
Them with nothing but a dream.

My friend, my savior, my hope -
Could you even forgive me for
The monster you have released
From my ever-caged hunger
You have never believed in?
When my teeth, sharpened and
Bursting forth with anticipation
Finally grazed your sickly sweet,
Savory, necessary fluids?

My sanity slowly dripping away
Before your unbelieving sight,
My tongue pressed against
Your bloody, pulsing wrist.

"It will only sting for a moment."
My honeyed, silken words lean
Against your mental shields and
Soak through as a mist moving
Through a slightly cracked window.
The relief on your face tells me,
It will all be okay, in the end.
And I bite, and you don't scream,
The sting only for a brief moment.

My face contorted slightly,
Though you can not pinpoint how;
Or how to describe the dissonance
Of loving to lose so much blood.

Could the aftermath of such a
Mesmerizing, cathartic dance
Truly ruin what we once had?
I drink, until I no longer care.
The blood fills my near empty
Passages, veins filling with
Your softly singeing, tingling
Life essence until I am awake.
I see you on the ground, half dead.

"Well, aren't you a tough one?"
My voice rings out, cold and
Emotionless, conniving, with a
Disgusting clarity of tone.

I crouch down closer to your
Beautiful, cold features.
The marks tell a story of which
I no longer remember.
The snow begins to cover you.
I lift you up, wondering;
My friend, my savior, my hope -
Could you ever forgive me
For being half alive, forever?

Player (Two)

My unsuspecting, idiot jock boy
Who believed that somehow
Feigned love would
Win me over:

You let me hug you, but did you realize
How capable I am of tightening,
Enveloping, squeezing, til I
Heard your last breath?

Just an ounce of whole truth from your
Sickening lips of your plans,
Befuddling my palace mind,
And I would have.

But what if you had won this game;
This competition for my honor,
You had so direly
Tried to win --

When reality washed into you a thought:
That perhaps I'm not the perfect waifu
Your body had wanted,
Begged me for?

What then?

Would the unsatisfying sex have been
Enough for you? Or was this
Just another of your failed
Long term plans?

Pretending your way through your
False friends, dispassionate sex,
Your power-trip career,
All with me --

Dangling alongside you like a paper
Doll, dangling in the breeze,
Just yours to play with
Once you're bored?

And since you've lost this game,
Will you hold it against me,
Your last shred of human
Holding on by a thread?

Watch me, as I rise above your
Tainted, viscous fluids and
Weep, as I will have
Never chosen you.

Narcissist

Read me like a book
Your eyes pierced my soul
As a spider faintly crawls
Under a wooden door frame

But the more words spoken
The more you grew,
Your soft skin crawling
Into human upstanding

Shifting, reading, waiting
Your never ending thoughts
But no guilt, no conscience
To brush your hunt aside

Your viscous, umber venom
Dripping on the carpet
I had laid out to marry on
With no mind to stop.

Remind me that I let you in
Remind me this was my doing
Innocence you feigned upon
Your shifting, smug smile

Tell me that I'm wrong
The way you dance,
You flirt, you charm
Is not for your amusement

Roll the dice, poke the bear
Forget that I am something more
So I may come to conscious
Once you are faced away

Player (One)

The lies you fed me on a silver spoon
Oh, how they led me astray
Like a dream, a summer
Nighttime facade...

We were friends, yet somehow more,
Blind to demons circled about
But somehow awake, in
Your filthy grasp.

Tell me, how much easier was it,
To compete with the few
Instead of the many?
Was it simple?

The thought of your arms around me;
I did not realize how close
You were to snapping
My soul in two.

The thought of you so close to me,
My sleeping body vulnerable,
I did not realize just how
Much I trusted.

And now the thought of your touch,
Magnetic, static on my skin,
Churns my stomach, and
Leaves me cold.

Dangerous Game II

Watch me gaze upon your
Tainted, viscous fluids
You had once called love,
Your blood black on my

Rose, cleanly carpet.
Watch it as it seeps
Into the fabric,
Leaving no stain.

And with your dying breaths,
Remember why you
Came here in the
First place, human.

Mister Non Committal,
Mister Minimum Effort,
Dirty as the makeup
Still staining your face.

Stealing hearts from
Married souls was quite
The fun, masturbatory
Act, wasn't it?

The thrill of the catch,
Taunting you into a
Stimulating, active,
Obsessive state.

And when the gods and
The spirits judge you
Dead, will you have ever
Truly loved another person?

Dangerous Game I

Watch me carve myself open,
Guts and ribs in open air,
Baring my soul and all
For you to play upon.

I look sick upon your familiar face
Stomach pouring onto the floor
Dark and fearless, smiling
How you were taught.

Is reality an illusion, or a game?
From your words I could not
Tell if you were laughing,
Or crying, for help.

Your hands reached for my heart,
Sliding easily through flesh
With desire and charm
And determination.

Blood from lack of breathing fell
Upon your soft, wanting skin
My eyes full of realize, but
Yours on the treasure.

Emptied of light, of conscience,
Your thickly drooling gape
Insisting this would help,
This hunt of me.

A world of crimson blurred around
Your pitch black shallow eyes
Upon my very love you'll
Never understand.

I can finally spot the light in hand,
Taken as an edge to myself
Now turned and used to
Free your blood.

The viscous venom upon my carpet
I had once laid out to marry on,
Seeping, poisoning me
Away from him.

I stick it in once more, your sickened
Nerves cut like hairs unfolded,
Yet within, there is naught
But a single spark.

I turn, the fresh breath of what I've done
Seeping into my drowning lungs,
Tingling my endings
Into feeling again.

Isaiah Solace

Your darkened gaze upon your enemies,
Your victims, your nemesis;
Eyes of night with olive flesh,
The craving hit me first-

Second, the whispering moon
Screaming at me to move;
To say anything to your
Strength, your speed, your heart,

Your determination;
So quick was your charm in third,
Ensnaring, wrapping me
In your dangerous smile-

Your gift unto no one else,
For myself alone to love,
To yearn, to question still,
If any of us was truly real?

Your succor, sweet kiss
'Neath the moonlight timed just right
For your soon departure
Left me without question.

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.

Radiant Cosmos [Love]

I take your hand into mine
Cosmos skin with vibrant lines
Mixture swirls beneath the bones
Phosphor clouds melodic notes

Sunshine stars gracing your wake
Dotting night within your stake
Deals were made up yesterday
Among your dark, here to stay

Ember arms with methane sight
Sparks and flint, tinder alight
Nighttime clouds smear the skies
Eyes of ember swarm like flies

Dancing softly, warm to warm
Gold filling your blackened eyes
Static plays my finger tips
Brushing your skin, beating skips

Waves bubble up my hair
Refreshing, cleans to repair
Shuffled memories, made to fear
Lonely thoughts I'd always hear

Golden liquid scorches veins
Tickles, sears anguish away
Planets line among the stars
Within your eyes, no more scars

Itching, molten gold fills in
Cracks and damage from their sin
Power pulses, aura brings
"Pull me deeper with these rings"

Tied among the stars on fire
Can you ever love a vampire
Ebony hair, skin of snow
Monster hidden under glow

Love and Cold Winds: Part 4: Obligatory Backstory

    Garn was one of those people who made pros and cons list in their head as they assess their life and long term goals. He was doing so now aboard the traveling caravan, which was as hospitable as a long wood and metal reinforced box that could comfortably fit a party of five human sized occupants. (8 if they were of the smaller races) The dragonborn was the tallest and widest of them all so it was rather cramped. The upside was that the storm flavored mage's own space was right next to his meaning the pair had plenty of time to talk and get to know each other.
    Downside? Flirting is incredibly awkward around a nosy halfling bard who made flagrant eyebrow gestures that flew over Vort's head, but the tall lizard caught all of them. Norra was fairly pleasant as she seemed too oblivious to all of this and was definitely more concerned about the rather fat horse's food intake. Though it did not need a diet, should you mention it the horse would hit every bump on the road until they stopped. Garn could only assume this through the grumpy whinnies in response to Norras' words.
    After the slog of a quest within Gardlid, what followed was an attempt to short change them due to the outdated paper work. It ended when Garn, Norra, and Vort loomed over the head secretary of the Gardlid guild management like a trio of angry deities while Lym spoke calmly and clearly to keep them from smiting the whole place. Thus the original reward was doubled, they stocked their wagon, and then they headed further north toward the larger city of Nomands to register their new party and head to the nearby dungeon.
    To pass the time, well-thumbed decks of tarot cards were pulled out and games from basic poker to a strategy game called Black Tower were played. Garn managed to sneak in a few wins against the seasoned players, though he guessed they were going easy on him. The days wore on as such, swampland slowly receding to allow firmer earth to support hearty trees. They stopped every now and again to cook and share stories of past adventures or of their personal lives when the alcohol was brought out.
    They learned of Garn's life within his tribe, raised by a pair of fiercely protective widows who taught him everything they knew. His friends laughed as he described the farewell meal that nearly made him comatose. He learned of Norra's life being adopted into a small band of rangers tasked with protecting a distant king's sacred forest, and how they stayed behind to fend off the usurper's men while she fled with what lay in the heart of that place.
    Lym sung his tale in the tavern of a small passing town, of how his family wished for him a life not of song and revels but of trade, merchantry, and arranged marriage. The switch from the somber song to a upbeat tempo of how he ran away with his favored lute, the dowry, and the clothes on his back sent the the spectators into an uproar of laughter and cheers.
    Vort was the last to really speak up, and the other two shared knowing glances when the young man held a melancholy smile and simply said he would share when the time was right. The time, as it seemed would be when Lym insisted they stop at a magically formed hot spring a 2 miles from the city proper before their backs all seized up from the mountain of paperwork they would have to work on. Norra vanished into the woman's section of the spring while Lym vanished into the massage parlour with a pair of elves in tow.
    Garn had settled into the hot spring, the slow season leaving the steaming body of water to himself, for at least a few minutes before someone stumbled and landed face first into the water. Steam rose and obscured the figure floating face first in the water, once it cleared enough he caught sight of storm grey hair. He jumped and quickly waded over to Vort and helped him up.
    "You alright?" he asked, keeping the very obviously drunk mage steady.
    Vort looked up unfocused at him and leaned up against him. "I'm drunk!"
    The dragonborn snorted, guiding him to the sunken benches and sitting him down. Vort apparently was a cuddly drunk as he found out, wrapping himself around a free arm. He noticed the scars fairly quickly, given the sheer quantity of them over his body. Old blade wounds and the strange twisting scars of magical attacks spotted his skin, but the most old and prominent were the branching pale lines that resembled lightning covering most of his body.
    "They're pretty ugly huh?" Vort slurred somberly, locking eyes with our narrative vehicle.
    "I wouldn't say that." he replied, the questions stuck to his tongue.
    As if reading his mind, Vort settled against him, hair sliding down to obscure his eyes.
    "Most magical orders find my sect, the Storm Callers, 'barbaric'. The nicer ones call it a relic of an old age, when the lines between druidism and magic were still blurred. They would both be kinda right and wrong in a way." He sluggishly kicked his leg up, sending rough ripples though the springs water. "We do not tame lightning or the air, instead we temper our bodies with intense training to make it our own, like forging. The storm we call on is inside us, made by the deep hate and respect forged from our cruel teachers."
    Silence followed as Vort said nothing else, as he didn't really need to. Garn could already get a far too vivid picture of the little human's early life washed in pain and fury. It made him wonder briefly if Vort's smile was ever genuine. His morbid thought was halted when he heard the mage giggle, and looked down to see him smiling up.
    "You know your tail twitches when your contemplating." he giggled again.
    At least this smile is genuine, Garn thought as returned the smile. "And you become a clumsy poet when you're drunk."
    They both laughed at that, after which a comfortable silence followed as the two enjoyed each other's company lounging in the springs. Garn did have to carry Vort back to his bed as he solidly passed out against the dragonborn, but it was rather obvious that he did not mind at all.

Love and Cold Winds: Part Two

    Lym'rothlin Badgerheart (Also know as Lym to his friends and lovers) had heard and sung songs of heroes of happenstance using their wit or dumb luck to accomplish their goal. The handsome halfling had no idea he would ever find a living soul that would have both aspects wrapped in a uniquely eye-catching package such as Vort. 
    Norra was a hunter down to her core, born and raised in the dense Novera Forest. She knew how to track, hunt, and even cast a little magic to give her arrows and knives enough of an impact on monstrous beasts. Caution and distance had been her only companions 'till a boy with storm colored hair saved her from the club of a berserk minotaur, and so the wood elf swore a life debt to him.
    Their reasons aside, over the year of travelling and performing feats to gain a decent reputation, the three found themselves becoming fast friends. And while they decided things by diplomacy, Vort's cheerfully chaotic disposition often led them down very interesting roads. In this particular instance it had led them to the human settlement of Parnattha on the edge of Garr'thd's Swamp.
    Within this particular town was a Tavern (non) ironically called The Slippery Fish. Garn found himself sitting in a back booth with Vort and aforementioned company. His prospects of ale-powered flirting was dashed as he looked between the chipper bard and the ranger oozing stoicism out of her green cloak. Vort had sat himself right next to Garn while the height-apposed duo sat opposite of them. Lym had just finished regaling everyone within ear shot of the perilous tale of how the party got its name, The Happy Accidents.
    "Well...An excellent song." Garn finally said. The halfling stood on his seat and bowed, eliciting a smattering of applause from nearby patrons. To think this all stemmed from the harmless question of, "So, who are you?"
    "Anyway," Norra said, "Lets just cut to the chaise. We need a fourth member to get into the higher levels and you're the best option for miles."
    This was not the first time the dragonborn had heard this line. Once he left his little village and started making a splash in his newfound profession, a representative of the nearest local guild (The Hardy Serpent) came to fill him in on the way of the world while attempting to recruit him.
    In times long past past the five great heroes of old formed the first guilds to combat the evil sweeping across the land. The High Guilds are those guilds which follow the highest orders of the High King and the Collective Kingdoms. From each region they oversee the Lesser Guilds, those formed by seasoned adventures to tackle greater challenges and tasks with all the benefits involved. Further segmenting this are Parties, smaller bands of adventures who are either in a guild or trying to get into one. There are also Mercenaries, those who prefer the independence away from the political  and cutthroat practices guilds tend to accumulate in their ranks.
    Any adventurer also had a Level, which was a short hand for their experience and prowess, and depending on the guild the process of leveling up could have been stupidly easy or easily frustrating. Garn happily skipped all this nonsense and marked himself as 'Mercenary, not taking requests'.
    So, why would he even hear them out now? One could blame the small man with storm colored hair that bitch slapped him into a wall. He of course would not admit that to himself or anyone else.
    "I don't know, what's in it for me?" Garn finally said.
    "A chance to actually be challenged again." Vort spoke up, "Plus, the money isn't half bad!"
    Garn blinked and looked down at the smiling human. Given he was the one who bitch slapped him an hour ago this sentence out of context would have been condescending. However the sheer sincerity it was spoken with, combined with a very honest assessment, Garn had begun to feel ever so slightly bored with his lot in life. He had left his home village to experience the world, and only took the job to hone his sword skills and get some gold for himself.
    Given the mediocre challengers he was put up against, he was made into the child with the biggest stick in the age old game of 'don't hit me with that'. He was tempted to say no to them much like the other parties and guilds that had attempted to recruit him, but he was more tempted to say yes (definitely not from the silly flight of having a crush, how dare you imply that?).
    "Alright," he said finally after the correct amount of tension built. "I'm in."
    "Yes!" Vort shouted joyfully. "Drinks are on me!"
    The whole party cheered, and proceeded to partake in the age old adventuring bonding experience; Becoming amazingly drunk and rowdy for the rest of the night.

Love and Cold Winds: Part One: When Losing a Tournament is a Good Thing

   In a world as fantastical and filled with adventure as Tellardrin, one could not contest that huge shows of spectacular violence makes everyone happy. The small Colosseum, built by some hopeful entrepreneurs, literally banked their hopes and dreams on it. And by the grace of the Gods of luck and gambling it was paying off.
    This was mostly in part to Garn, of whom to the proprietors had crawled out of the western swamps just to claim the title of champion. It helped the alligator-like Dragonborn was 6'7" and built like a barrel with several logs wrapped in dark green hide topped with another log filled with teeth. He had even gained enough money to gather enough leather and metal to create an intimidating metal sleeve and threatening belt. Of course, arrogance and a swelled head followed, as who could beat a literal giant lizard with a sword that could double as an ironing board?
    Garn certainly didn't think it would be the tiny human who cheerfully entered the ring, his friends equal parts wishing him luck and asking why he believed this was a good idea. He toward over the little human, watching the cloud of storm colored hair and dark grey robes flow as the wind kicked up.
    He had with him a long and thin sword covered in strange marks, and a overly friendly smile. Garn raised an eye ridge at this newcomer. The proprietors had informed him he would be fighting a formidable adventurer, but the little thing before him looked out of place within the rough sand and high walls of the arena.
    "And who are you?" Garn bellowed over the crowd, as it wasn't hard with all the bass in his voice.
    "Vort of The Grand Peninsula." He returned, only loud enough for his opponent to hear.
    "Let us hope you fight as grand as your title." the dragonborn moved into a fighting stance.
    Vort simply smiled and took up his own stance. And when the call to begin came, he flew. Garn watched as the little human dashed forward and hopped into the air, sword poised in a thrust which led towards his opponents un-armored shoulder. He managed to just barely avoid the blow, staggering back as Vort skidded to a halt and retook his stance. 
    The objective of this battle was simple, hit one another until one was incapacitated. The local Mages had enchanted the stones of the arena to dull any attack so one could not be killed, only bloodied. Garn steadied himself and grinned as he raised his blade.
    "I didn't know I would be fighting a Mage." he said.
    "What gave it away?" Vort called back.
    "No normal swordsman would use such attacks."
    Vort laughed, and came at Garn with a fast horizontal slash. Despite his size, the Dragonborn could move with surprising bursts of speed, and stopped the attack with the flat of his own blade, bringing his free fist down toward Vort's head. He rolled out of the way before the scaly mace could make contact,and jumped further back as Garn's massive blade cut the air where he had just been. He let loose a stone-shaking roar as he went on the offensive.
    His massive blade whistled though the air and sent clouds of dust as it hit the earth were his nimble opponent had barely managed to get away. Vort managed to move in close enough to land a blow, but was sent flying by a punch to the stomach. And so they went, partners in a deadly dance.
    Both had equal reach with their weapons, and what Vort lacked in Garn's impressive strength he made up for in his astounding speed and precision. They continued to trade blows, stepping back and coming at each other with ferocity given to those who quickly grew to respect the other's prowess while all the while the crowd cheered, screamed and bet on the outcome of a fight no one would ever guess would be so intense.
    It was when the pair pulled away, Garn knew he had to finish this soon. While the injuries he had sustained were not fatal they were steadily compiling against his stamina. It seemed a much similar case for Vort, blade bobbing with each breath he took. He would have to buy an ale for this one after he won, he thought, prepairing his final strike against the human.
    He had just enough time to realize the long and thin blade coming toward his face like an arrow, and quickly raised the flat of his blade to deflect it. He didn't register the impact of it though, as Vort had seemingly materialized in front of him, hovering in the air as the back of his hand made contact with Garns face.
    This humble narrator would like to pause on this moment to quickly explain something to you dear reader. Many of you are aware of the phrase "love at first sight" but within Tellardrin's western Dragonborn culture (and a few Dwarven ones as well) is the concept of "love at first blow." Sparing the long winded cultural history as to how it came to be, it boils down to similar concepts: a connection with another which brings about strong feelings, outside of the physical feeling of being struck.
    This was the feeling that struck Garn, along with a slap empowered by a storms gale that sent him flying into the nearby wall and into abrupt unconsciousness. It is fairly obvious to admit that it was something absolutely no one had expected, at all.

Shapeshifter -Part III-

Between shopping and moving, all I could remember was falling: falling into a dark living room, with a bear skin rug and a dim fireplace. A red velvet couch sat next to me as the music of life quickly muted to eerie silence. I floated still, feet touching the floor with no feeling. The lack of voices in my head was both a relief and horrifying. I was alone... Actually alone. No one would find me here. All that surrounded this room was pitch. Where there should have been walls there was shadow. Even with the irregularities, I held a feeling of calm underneath the dread. My stomach sank with realization. Is this mine? I shuddered with a cold chill, and when I blinked a gold and black crown appeared upon the velvet couch, about the size for a king. About my size, I silently thought to myself. I could hold myself back no longer, and temptation pulled me to the crown. With a leap, I was in my blankets, my bed, the beaming sunlight from my window on my face and reality sinking in. I could scarcely breathe with my lungs burning for air.

The weird, foreboding dream haunted me every night without fail.

I woke up in my bedroom, standing near the edge of my bed,  watching the floor come closer and closer to my face faster than you could say the word ‘ouch’. My life flashed before my eyes, reminding me again of her aura and presence, but luckily, my arms reached the floor before the rest of me did. Sweat poured from my head down to my chin, then dripped onto the fluffy, purple rug I picked up yesterday.

“Uuuuuuuuuggggggggghh,” I vocalized to myself and the ceiling, rolling onto my back. At least the softness of the rug was a little comforting, cushioning my back from the wooden floor. My beating head went away once I thought of her, and her velvet soft skin, her silver streaked, black silky hair in the wind like it was straight out of a shampoo commercial. I wondered how she was, if she smelled the same, if she cut her hair, if she got that promotion…

I snapped out of my mind as my phone buzzed in my pocket. A reminder read "PART I START" lit up across the screen. A grin grew across my face with a demure and maniacal feel. Let us begin.

I read my list one last time, rehearsing everything in my head based on how it went the last 6 times. I slipped on skinny jeans and a striped shirt with a new bracelet. It will work this time, I know it will. I just have to have a little faith. I brushed eye shadow and blush, and drew the sharpest cat eyeliner possible. My name is Annabelle Chevalier. I went to college for Literature and that I have an avid interest in reading and writing. I am 35, and I take vitamins. Exercise and health is important to me. I grabbed my new favorite bag, a classic brown messenger bag made of faux leather and careful planning. I was adopted and have no idea of my biological parents, and my adoptive parents passed away at least 3 years ago. I smiled a couple of times in the mirror to make sure I looked perfect, and then checked the clock. I was right on time.

I marched over to the corner, sirens blaring in my head, ignoring a couple of idiots on the street. I peered into the window of the bookstore. The angelic, silver haired wonder of my interest was indeed sitting at one of the three cafe tables, sipping her favorite tea and reading the first book of the Dreamlands Journals series for the 28th time. I felt my hair to make sure it was still pristine and walked in, shoulders straight and head high. I couldn't feel my limbs, as they disintegrated into nothing from just one look at her. My head nearly beat out of my skull while I badly feigned perusing the aisles for the next fiction novel to read. The temptation to look at her was pulling me ever deeper into this hole I was digging for myself.

Her long black hair becoming lustrous and metallic, sparkling under the ceiling lights appeared to glow with an otherworldly sheen. My hands ached to feel it swim in between my fingers. I caught myself shortening in breath, and I closed my eyes to force my lungs to take in as much air as possible, slowly. My breath was slightly audible as I inhaled with all of my might.

Needles shot up my arm as my nails dug deep into my palm. My other hand just trembled, fingers outstretched. Breathing helped a little with both cases.

I opened my eyes in time to see her smiling at me. From her table, probably 20 feet away, she clearly could have seen me attempting to squash an anxiety attack from possessing my body. Why me? I looked up at the ceiling as if to look at the sky, at the heavens, at the gods in embarrassment. I felt the flush of blood go to my ears and cheeks, as I had each and every time I attempted to seduce her again. Why do I even try to be subtle?

"Are you okay?" she asked, giggling a bit at my social failure. Gliding up to me with the poise of a beauty queen, she spoke, "I don't mean to pry, but... Well, I am a psychologist, and it appeared you were having a bit of a rough time there. Would you like to talk about it?"

I felt disbelief, which of course I probably showed on my stupid face, and while I paused she waiting only a few moments before, "Sorry, maybe I shouldn't have offered. I'll go sit down again." She walked back to her table looking down at her feet, fidgeting with her fingers together.

The awkwardness consumed us both, while I stood there speechless in front of the Miscellaneous Fiction aisle, and she tried but failed to concentrate on her book.

"I-- you know what? Sure. I'd love to ta--" I coughed as my voice cracked from nearly asphyxiating myself with anxiety. My lungs were squeezing themselves shut faster than I could breathe in. I forced another deep breath, and she smiled. "Talk. I'd love to talk."

Shapeshifter -Part II-

Marching over to my night table in my mundane bedroom, I slid the mahogany drawer open with a cold, calculated plan where my soul should be and a string of laser-focused thoughts in my head. The overwhelming urge to collapse almost overcame my stiff, cold body but I only barely gave a damn. I shuffled through the drawer in a panic, until I saw the black, velvet box that held my affection for the woman within its pillowed insides. I dared not open it, for if anything happened to this item, this ring... I sweated even more at the thought.

I held the box to my face, breathing in its scent as if it were a fresh bed of flowers. The warm drops flowing down my forehead onto the floor narrowly missed its edges. It didn't smell like much of anything, but I felt myself absorbing a piece of her into my lungs, my veins; Filling up the emptiness that everything else in life brought to me. After a few minutes I placed it carefully back behind the mess of miscellaneous clutter that filled the hardly-used table, and placed my face in my hands, the rest of me slowly sliding down the side of the bed. Before reaching the floor I tried to organize my thoughts but it was no use - focus was nowhere to be found within the reaches of such insanity as this. Her voice, her smile, her theories, her passions echoed through my head. I felt my chilled, soaked face and knew that I was past the point of no return. I gently landed on the ground, knowing that I only had a few more chances with her, meaning maybe two or three. I can not explain how I knew that day, but in my heart of hearts, I was certain.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I nearly threw it across the room in terror, as I forgot it even existed. It was a call from Catherine. Catherine to me, was a wonderful woman to play with, but never anything more. Last time I saw her was 6 months prior, about a week before I tried once more with the love of my life.

I rejected the call so I could think, and possibly die, in peace and alone: the only way I'd like things to go without being in her warming embrace.

'Like, you have no ambitions out of life except to be with me', echoed through my head hundreds of times in a second. 'I'm more into people who are, you know... Passionate about things. This isn't normal. I think you need help.' her voice scraped a new headache through my already pained skull, and kept repeating until another sound made me jump out of my skin.

The phone chirped loudly and my heart stalled. It was a text from Angela.

"Hey handsome, u free? I saw that u guys broke up online. So much for love huh? Hmu if u wanna start having fun again ;)"

Crushing the plastic and glass with my hand, I sent the pieces of pointless booty call all over the plush carpet. I forced myself to stand, legs still wobbling under my slight figure, and forced myself back to the kitchen with the conviction of a saint to drink some more water. Munching on crackers also helped to calm the physical distress of heart break, but only because I hadn't eaten in what felt like years and drank an ocean's amount of rum.

It was quiet. Too quiet. My thoughts wouldn't let this night be a peaceful one. Doing magic was the only way out for me to make it through this, or else I was ready to die trying. The thought of doing the spell again made my stomach twist, but hell, I already had my will written up, so why not? Lumbering over to the clean full length mirror of my bedroom, legs still wobbly, I took more deep breaths and downed one more glass of water. I squeezed with my hand and embraced the pain that shot up my arm from the splintered glass. The crackling and high-pitched shatter was somehow comforting ; The caress of the blood warmed my clammy flesh. It was just another sign that I was alive, and that this was the prime reality realm.

I smeared my palm across the drivers' license photo, leaving a streak of crimson plasma over the unsuspecting woman's face. The searing pain from the cuts made it all the more easy to focus on the ritual. I blindfolded myself with a plain black cloth and grinned wide. The cuts burned with an energy that fed me past the point of being satiated. I stopped feeling the wobble in my legs, proudly standing tall with inhuman power. I only said what came to mind as I wiped my screaming palm along the mirror, drawing unknown symbols to myself.

"This body is mine. You are mine. Annabelle Chevalier, you shall be mine forever forward. I take all of you inside me and absorb you fully. Your face and body belong to me. Your mask, bound of human flesh and spirit shall be imprisoned within my very souls. Come to me now, as you lack the freedom of choice forever more."

I repeated "This body is mine now, Annabelle Chevalier." over and over until the agonizing burning of my veins and body stopped. I nearly blacked out until I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. It was sooner than it was the other times at least... Perhaps I was growing in power?

I heavily forced my breath to settle while I felt my back sink into the carpet a little deeper. It probably hurt, but I could barely feel a thing past the throbbing pains of muscles all over my body. My lungs and heart finally began to slow and the next thing I remembered was waking up in my hardly used, king-sized bed.

The vigor was almost overwhelming - clearly this woman had a penchant for physical activity and healthy eating. I woke up not only energized for the day, but even the unfamiliar emotion of joy overcame me as I hopped out of my bed refreshed and ready for the day ahead. The craving for kale was a strong side effect, but one that was well worth its cost for this fabulous machine.

I felt my soft curvy hips and up my hourglass waist, then braced myself for the mirror. The sight could have been shocking, and severely disorientating whenever I went through with a change like this. I winced a bit but then jumped in front of the mirror, only glancing and then looking head-on at this puppet that would hopefully be my newest tool of seduction.

My clothes from yesterday were a little tight, as I realized looking in the mirror. My new flawless, olive flesh was a bit squished in my tank top, but at least my polka dotted pajama pants were still too big. My hips, waist, arms,  pretty much everything were a bit bigger than I was used to, but they were fabulous, and I knew I'd draw the attention I so desperately needed. My raven black hair truly caught my eye, even as it lay in disarray, partially covering bright green eyes.

"Time to go shopping." I smiled. The awe from seeing myself this curvy made me almost giddy. For once, I truly felt like I couldn't accidentally hurt my body pushing a grocery cart or picking up too many boxes; Not that my supernatural strength wasn't enough, but that bodies which lack a lot of muscle always felt like they'd snap if I even stood up the wrong way.

I made sure to change into well-fitting clothes before heading off to find the perfect wardrobe, my platinum credit card in purse and my sunglasses shielding my eyes from the burning hell that was daytime. It would have been only a day before the next part of the plan would commence - attempting first contact. The anticipation would have killed me, if it not for the distractions of normal human activities, including moving addresses, donating and then buying furniture and clothes, and transferring bank funds. It's easy to forge your signature when you are the person you say you are, or were.

Sweetwater: Anniversary

     Gertie was a bundle of nerves wrapped in flannel and ripped jeans, and when a women stout enough to mock the originators of her favorite kind of shirts get nervous, she flees to her decidedly more willowy half sister's home. Said sister sat on a lawn chair in her little garden untangling her chocolate brown hair from a messy braid only worn out among her flowers to keep the Little Folk from knotting wild flowers into it.
    "My, its been a whole year hasn't it?" she tutted as Gertie paced about, tugging and twisting a strand of her own wild midnight and dawn tipped dyed hair.
    " Yep." She replied curtly, " Anniversary is tomorrow."
    "And you don't have any clue on what to get Shay?"
    Gertie stopped pacing and sighed helplessly.
    "I want to give them something amazing Minnie. Something that...You know."
    The woman attempted to pull the right words out of her stressed and jumbled brain and line them up to match her emotions. When nothing arose she grew more and more frustrated over her own nervousness leading to stalling, leading to panic, leading to a low-key hatred of the horribly complex structure of English and the frailty of human form until-
    Her focus slipped and the Change happened. Most Were-folks will say after the first hard change, and within a month it would be as easy and fast as a sneeze.
    In an instant where once a woman stood instead was a creature which straddled the line of the natural beauty of a midnight black wolf and the supernatural size and bipedal stance of a creature that was far bigger than any canine should be. Not to mention the clothing, now much more form fitting (as many learn to wear garments 1 to 2 sizes bigger for obvious reasons.) Gertie howled, arching her back as she threw her head toward the sky. Thoughts, feelings, and emotions merged together and boomed clear in wolf-song. A few local dogs and one of the Paige twins (Aged 11) returned with sympathy howls.
    Minnie rolled her eyes as her sister wrapped up this emotional outburst with the all too human gesture of putting her face (muzzle?) in her hands (paws?) in embarrassment.
    "Sorry," she grumbled in a growly accent only made by a werewolve's true self.
    "Oh hush," Minnie chided, getting up and patting her half sisters arm comfortingly. "I'm used to it by now, you always found it easier to communicate your stress in this side of yourself. I still remember how it took you three weeks to turn back when you two started dating."
    Minnie smirked, "And don't get me started when they asked you to move in with them."
    Gertie leveled a scowl at her sister, which set the women into a fit of impish giggles. Within moments the infectious sound caught on in a half bark-laugh that flowed back into a more human tone as Gertie returned to her human self. 
    "As cathartic as this is," She said, straightening her plaid shirt, "I still don't know what to get Shay."
    "Maybe forget about buying a something," Minnie said. "and just give them a wonderful time?"
    Gertie blinked before making the face one does when the simplest answer is presented to a complicated question.
    "I've got to go, I know what I must do!" She proclaimed with all the weight and gravitas of a theater major.
    "You going to stay for tea, or go running off to panic shop?" Minnie asked in courtesy, already knowing her sisters answer.
    "The second one, rain check?"
    Minnie waved it off, knowing she wouldn't be able to keep her sister still, as she had the look of a wolf running after a rabbit and there was no stopping her now.
    "I want details!" She called after Gertie as she sprinted to her beat up Beatle and sped off into town.