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?

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.

Shapeshifter -Part IV-

This woman I stole had been in impeccable physical health, but she had the anxiety of someone who had been through more than a few incidents in her life. I didn't have time to reflect on it as she sucked me into this deep conversation that I was letting her trap me into. I was a willing participant, strung up in her web of anecdotes. Her words always gave me both a flutter in my stomach and a tightness in my chest, like a titan squeezed around my lungs with an enormous grip. It was both familiar and incredible, though the squeezing was a bit harder than my liking in this body.

Not showing my unease, I hoped, I forced myself to breathe the best I could, and timed it with the ticking of my designer watch, at the same time demanding my eyes to stop looking anywhere but into hers.

"Do you understand what I mean?" she looked straight at me, a sincerely concerned look on her face. She's been talking this whole time and all I've been doing is breathing. God. Damn. It.

"Yeah. Thank you." I smiled, speaking slightly better than squeaking, this time.

"So what's bothering you? What's on your mind, hun? You look lost."

I looked down awkwardly, trying to use body language to my advantage. "I don't really want to talk about it, thanks though." Damn it, why did I do that? Looking around in a small panic I said, "Honestly I'd really just like to talk with you about other things, if that's okay."

"Oh? Well how would you like to hear about my most recent breakup?" She gave a smile that read about as innocent as a demon of depravity.

"Uh, yeah, sure." Shit. SHit. SHIt. SHIT. 

"Let me tell you something, this lady was incredible. She was beautiful, rich, good at making love, and cared about me. But you know how sometimes people can get a little too into you?"

I stared blankly and just barely nodded.

"She was possessive, you know? She said that she just couldn't bear to see me with anyone else, whether it be an acquaintance or a friend. Total bullshit, if you ask me. Happens all the time, though" she sighed. "Everyone else I know has issues with guys or ladies cheating on them, and I'm over here with the stalkers." she laughed. It sounded like the Christians' version of the Devil in my ears.

I believed that I was keeping my calm well, until I realized my eyes were spread wide in amazement. My mouth was definitely also agape. "I suppose I can imagine what you mean... After all, people need their space, right?"

I frantically searched my mind for hundreds of ways I could distract myself and have time for myself while dating her, and exactly zero of them were appealing to me. Reading? I've read every book I own plus I already read two books per day from the library. Painting? Boring. Music? Already d --

"Damn straight... What was your name again, sweetie?"

We exchanged names and numbers, and that was the moment I made it my mission to let her have time for herself at all costs, for the fifth time. The first time didn't count, since I didn't truly know her until it was too late. But this time, the sixth relationship, I am making my fifth attempt at this 'space' thing count.

That evening after I went home, all I could do was sit and breathe while my mind gradually churned slower from the excitement that afternoon. I sipped my finest whiskey with my back slouched into the new marshmallow couch I had delivered a few days prior. Even though the television was on, I didn't see it. I didn't even truly hear it. My eyes looked but the rest of me was seeing micro expressions, blinks, shimmering hair, all belonging to her. Why did I have to choose a body with such bad anxiety? I agonized over how the conversation went, over and over through my chaotic brain.

Though, after a while, it turned into my past faces, my new face, my plans, my life... And
like the waves of an ocean, my mind caressed the edges of the coast of where my wonder sat. Why am I the way I am? And if the Gods made humanity, then who made ME? I jumped out of my seat as I saw Vincent's face stare back at me from the lit screen. And now I'm hallucinating again. Great. My whiskey now covering the nearby rug, I wandered to bed and laid in the darkness, truly feeling how alone I was for the first time for as long as I could remember. Those questions lurked ever closer than before, creeping about the corners and niches of my mind while I tried to focus on anything, everything else. Each and every one haunted me into my sleep.

So you Wanna Leave a Cult?

    Well hello there! If you have picked up this pamphlet, opened the cover and started reading this then you are in fact, in a cult! It's alright though, these things happen to people with little self esteem and who are incredibly gullible to people who speak with a degree more authority than they are used to. If you feeling offended, then congratulations! You are on your way from leaving the happy little group of suckers that surround the ego maniacal criminal you call a cult leader!
    Follow along these 7 simple steps and you just might make it out into normal society!
    Step 1: Just.Leave.
    Now  I know what your thinking- "If I could just fucking leave, then I would!" and if that is your case, this is not the step for you. For those who just got their feet wet in strange rituals and sabbaths in a spooky warehouse, you can leave! Most cults starting out will always have one or two who drop the cause and return to normal life. They may attempt to reach out to you, so if you find them getting too frequent, best skip town for a while.
    Step 2: Remember that skipping town bit?
    If just now 'a cult' seems like a bad idea after the sacrificial bloodletting binding you all together, then its time to close your accounts, stuff all your clothes and money in a bag and drive. There are two optional places you can hide if your former cult buddies decide "one of the Chosen Children of Chargathum'dall" is too important for the Grand Plan: A massive city, or a small town. Both have their pros and cons of course. a city will offer the anonymity of millions of other people, though so do they if they come for you. In a small town, you are the newbie in a town where everyone knows everyone, and there is a high chance your new friendly (and nosy) neighbors will happily greet you, while simultaneously trying to pry everything about yourself out of you. The trick is to act the right amount of normal to keep the community placated, while being interesting enough to keep them from just dismissing you as "just another townie."
    The con of a small town is that everyone is just too damn friendly. Once your cult finds you via some dark magical means or the paper trail your incompetent ass left, being friendly to the locals will make it easier for them to spill your location to them. But, I hear small town cops are really bored and with something like this, you'll have their full attention.
    However, if you are too deeply entrenched in the eldritch rituals and ceremonies to actually just up and vanish, proceed to Step 3!
    Step 3: Fake your Death!
    Well this escalated quickly didn't it? Sadly, your inability to "just say no" when you performed that rite naked and skin-soaked in a mixture of goat and pigs blood, and your witness of something inhuman peering between the shadowy gaps of the trees scribbling furiously, means it's time to take hold of your gender specific genitalia and start being drastic! This step might be a tad hard to do as they watch over each other like a bunch of paranoid hawks but it is worth trying out at the very least! Due to some legal reasons this pamphlet cannot spell out how to do that, so if you're rather unimaginative and have no skills in grave robbing, proceed to the next step!
Step 4: Time to be a Mole!
    Like any decent cult, yours is bound to be doing something so shady even shadow things raise their shadowy eyebrows. It's time to put your natural ability of ass kissing to good use! Build up evidence against your Leader and the various members of your Cult, maybe set up a camera during the Ritual of Borsha'gthha so you have that rampant animal abuse on tape (best keep yourself out of the footage though). Collecting evidence might be hard if you have to live in a room with four other dudes while your Great Leader has a girl-filled mansion to himself. But hey, if you all have an hour of "private time" then be sure to stash them where no one would look. Finally, once you have enough footage, be sure your one of the few who go into the neighboring town to get supplies, ditch your fellow cult members and sing like a canary hopped up on crack.
    With any luck, your testimony and the various evidence will be enough to have police and SWAT kicking in plywood doors and dragging cultists out. Unless of course, the police are under the Cult's control... Which leads us to:
    Step 5: Time to Hire Investigators!
    Aaah, the bane of any cult: nosy people! Yes while it seems a little terrible dragging other people into your mess, remind yourself you saw your leader summon a black glowing ooze from a ritual circle and it turned Bob into a horrible bloated monstrosity that shambles around the estate, so you're really running out of options! A normal party of investigators come in groupings of 3 to 8, and have a wide variety of skills and knowledges that could be helpful in ending your cult...Or getting them brutally killed, at the least. Fret not, for there always seems to be a unlimited number of people willing to fill in the sudden vacancies!
    As for actually hiring them, its best to hire by proxy! Find a good friend, trusted loved one, or someone the cult has alienated, and promptly beg them for help. 9/10 Times they will happily shell out money or favors in order to bring the investigators into town. If your Cult leader starts to get antsy and look suspiciously at his herd then you know they are here!
    Step 6: Lay Low!
    Again, this may seem rather hard as the gaggle of semi-competent "heroes" you managed to hire happily plow though all the carefully laid plans your leader had laid in place with a frightening mix of pure luck and incredible bouts of violence toward the heart of the eldritch and sordid affairs you and your buddies have been up to. It is here you may start to notice bouts of madness begin overtaking various cult members, including your leader as the amount of black rituals with each gleeful ruination of one of those dastardly webs that were woven.
    Human sacrifice in order to summon up a big nasty thing from the realm of H. R. Giger's nightmares and spell slinging mad men are not far behind you and your choice of wearing your "brand me with dark maddening runes" robe today. Its best for you to stay as far under the radar as possible, and weave the illusion of actually participating. Make the movements but not say those hard to sound words, stay hunched in the back as your leader asks for "volunteers", and above all else- STAY. AWAY. FROM.THE. INVESTIGATORS.
    They are more likely to get you killed than any abomination of nature your Grand Leader pulls from parts unknown. You're still a "cultist" and in 99% of the time you run into them, you will get shot, stabbed, beaten, or hit with a spell. Find yourself in that happy medium and wait for:
    Step 7: Wait Until Everyone's Dead!
    Yup! The final step is to be the biggest coward in the bunch. For you see, in the end once you introduce investigators into the mix the  "Final Plan" will be pushed months or even years ahead of schedule as time becomes a precious commodity. As the party to end all parties gets started, the investigators come storming in, guns blazing and sealing spells at the ready.
    Before that, be sure to have an exit strategy, know the entrance which they will most likely enter, hope you aren't doing this ritual inside a room with only one door, and make your move when everyone is distracted! That's right! Run like your life depended on it (because it does!) Always be sure to be wearing normal clothes and good running shoes under your robe because you best ditch that place the minute you can.
    Its best to find a place to hide and wait it out if you can, as who knows what nasty buggers are lurking around the perimeter? Just don't stay in the main building as investigators have a habit of setting fire or blowing up buildings with cult related activity in them.
    If you can't do this, I suggest stealing some car keys before hand, or learning how to hot wire for a quick and safe getaway. Just be sure to ditch the car after the sun rises! With any luck all evidence of you being in the cult would be burned up along with the corpses of monsters and your former colleagues, leaving you free as a bird (except for those nightmares and therapy!)
    And there you have it! You managed to survive the worst decision in your life, and once again are free to hopefully not join another cult! For additional aid please grab "So, an Investigator is Trying to Kill You?" Who knows, you might need it!

Shapeshifter -Part I-

She kissed me, telling me goodbye for the last time. My soul felt less worn this time; perhaps I could finally be free from this pain I kept injecting myself with. But I loved her, and this game that we played. I loved it because she had no idea... Or I loved it because of how much I loved her. Perhaps I just loved the chase? Or the world was just cruel enough to relieve me of being a masochist while also making me love to self-afflict. What I do know is this: I both loved and hated the stab of the knife of rejection under my skin, over and over again; It was that she left me again, but also gave me a chance for a new beginning. I knew this wouldn't be the last time. It couldn't be, because we were meant to be together.

I was put here to love her, this goddess among mortals, and I would stop fucking up long enough to grow old with her. Or at least, to watch her grow old, her hooded eyes growing matured crow's feet and her glistening hair streaking silver... Something about my interest in her both terrified and excited me. The idea of her aging, well... It made my heart beat out of my chest and my skin tingle up from my feet to my head. And she would love me for what I am... I hoped that one day, this mysterious force within me that made me different from others would be what put me ahead in the race to her heart.

I looked up at the sky and realized... In seven days she would be 40 years old. Forty, and still looking like she could kick my ass at the drop of a stone. Most people would never catch my eye for a moment past the age of 24, but her... Somehow the more she aged, the more alluring her scent; the more wise she became, the more I yearned to listen to her clear, dominating thoughts. In my ever-expanding life I have never once laid eyes upon a human of her caliber. I grinned wide with a tantalizing shiver up my spine as I thought of how spectacular she was.

And yet there we were, saying goodbye for the sixth time. I was standing all alone in my house, the empty air weighing heavily on my mind after she left, and with a start, my determination kicked in. My heart beating faster, I looked to my left at the entryway wall.

I stared at myself in the mirror, wiping unfamiliar tears from my chiseled cheekbones. My long, thick, strawberry blonde hair framed my pointed chin and smokey eyes flawlessly. A look of determination crossed my eyebrows and I resolved to never let this happen again, for the sixth time. I marched over to the bathroom wall, knocked on it once, then twice, then three times and slid the falsity to the side with conviction. The loud crack of the false wall splitting was registered but didn't startle me, as I was too busy hearing my raging thoughts echoing in my ears and heart. With a slap, I firmly hit my palm upon the wood, sliding along the blisters and leaving a trail of perfectly crafted wood underneath. And there it was in its handcrafted glory, my black, wooden, mysterious box. Picking it up carefully, I breathed in its heavenly aroma of old polish mixed with an unidentifiable odor. This was what hope smelled of, and I carried it to the kitchen table.

Taking a deep breath, I gently but firmly pressed in the symbols on each face in the correct order, making a click sound with each impress. The cover flew across the room and hit the wall with a bang and crashed to the floor. I flipped the box over and passports, licenses, birth certificates, credit cards, and social security cards clattered against the polished cherry. Six of each sat on the table, and I could practically hear the personalities murmuring in my head, a little too clearly. I shuffled through the documents and the voices became louder, and clearer. 

"How could you do this to her?" asked Vincent, who had been dead for 15 years. 

"You monster. What is wrong with you?!" yelled Brielle, who had been dead for 5. 

"I WILL KILL YOU." said a familiar but unidentified demonic growl, as my mind felt like it was stabbed through with an ice pick. 

They each hounded me, one by one, beginning to overlap each other until I couldn't understand what any of them were saying and they were so loud that I collapsed with my hands covering my ears. I had heard them all before, but that demonic growl hit me even harder than last time.

"YOU FIEND!!"

"MONSTER!!!"

"ABOMINATION!!!"

I crumpled like tissue paper as they tortured me, scraping at my eyes, my chest, my brain... I yelled at them to stop, let me be in peace, that it was all my fault and I was sorry... I could feel them tearing at my memories, biting and scratching at my emotions and the rational parts of my brain... I sobbed loudly as I felt dreams and nightmares once remembered, slipping away as if they were smoke escaping a leaking chamber. 

After what seemed like an eternity, I came into consciousness again around 3:00 A.M. I found myself on the plush carpet of my bedroom closet, in the pitch black, feeling as though I had drunk nothing but rum for a week straight. My mouth feeling like sand but tasting like bile, I apparently had vomited. I made the mistake of feeling my chest, which was covered in a green and brown substance liquid, and tried to stand. Holding on to the hanging rod, I clumsily pulled myself up and felt the sharp pain of dehydration mixed with a healthy dose of malnutrition within my body. However, it did not matter... It was all for her. It would all be worth it in the end.

I grabbed for myself some water from the fridge and sipped the cool, icy poison slowly. To my surprise once again, it did in fact make me feel a little better. I then stuffed a slice of whole wheat bread into my mouth and ate it with ferocity before staring at the table again. I had a couple of options available, but which one would give me the best chance?

Slowly picking up a white drivers' license from the table, I thoughtfully scratched my chin with my other hand.

"Annabelle Chevalier. Sounds like a good enough name to me. And it'll have to be. If it's not, only the Gods know that you're dead anyway." I snatched up the driver's license, the birth certificate, and the social security card. I even took the passport, just in case. 

Stakeout

    Rich winced at the sloppy enchantment the goth band wannabe tried (and failed) to direct over the girl he had been stalking since 11:45PM while she was bar hopping with her friends. This had been his fourth attempt to use magic to lure her away, and every time, the girl's unbending willpower had torn the magic to shreds. Since Rich had been stalking the stalker since 11:00PM, he was getting tired of evidence gathering and the rookie who had been sticking to him like melted chocolate on shag rug all night.

     "So, is he like, a real vampire?" Asked Mitch, the aforementioned tag along. "Are real vampires even, like, real?"

     Rich sighed, tempering his irritation with the bonus this particular job granted on his paycheck, and gave Mitch a side glance. He was nothing to really look at; dangerously thin and short with strait black hair and smart square glasses, the skinny jeans, messenger bag, and black tee (giant white letters screaming NERD across his chest) gave the impression he had googled his fashion sense into being after being a gigantic DnD nerd had been popularized.

     There were a lot of people like him in the Special Circumstances Division, people who though sheer accident or blundering intent gained enough magical power to garner the Magi Groups attention. Very few with the ability to push their gifts passed "It's just this weird thing I can do." Mitch was one of the very few who seemed like he could truly become a mage, hence why the Magi had 'requested' Rich to take him on a low level task, to find a fake vampire that has put three women in the hospital.

     "No, goth-head just thinks he is... Some dick taught him enough Enchantment, Biothurgy, and Transmutation to make him believe that he is. A real vampire doesn't use magic like us living folk." Rich replied, his sentence elongated as his scholarly half took over. " And yes, vampires are real. But their queen has a hard core screening process so there aren't that many running about."

     "Cool," the lore nerd beside him said, soaking up the information like a sponge. It was one of the few things about this mission that made it slightly more tolerable for Rich. "So, whats the plan? Do we have enough evidence to take him down?"

     The seasoned mage snorted. "I suppose so, Mitch. I hope you're ready to play hero because I have a plan."

=OvO=

    Malciour, (real name Malcolm) had finally found someone to feed upon. She had appeared almost magically after he had reached the boiling point with this one woman who stubbornly ignored everything he threw at her. But this one fell into his hold quickly, his power finding purchase in her mind like the ergonomic handle of a knife. He had planned on bringing her back to his place, taking his time before burying his fangs in and draining her of enough life essence to feed himself and his Master. It was getting late, and prey would begin to dwindle the closer it came to sunrise. He thought of the rumor among the ranks of 'Vampire Hunters' attacking those of his brood.

     He knew he would be fine, as he was of the 'first' generation, having grown into a true vampire where others of his generation had failed and sunk into mortal obscurity. He had more power than the underlings of the newer generation; No talent with glamours, and having to use what mundane tricks they had in their previous life to get them by. They were unlike him, dragging his prey down the alleyway, stress from the previous prey melting away as he cornered the giggling fool...

=OvO=

    Mitch was worried, but then again Mitch had always rode the line between just being worried and full blown panic attacks for most of his life. It started with him being worried about how he would be mocked about his messenger bag, seemingly cheap leather etched with odd symbols his aunt has gifted him. But when he found out one pocket was seemingly endless and the other could conjure three items per day (simple things, like food and figurines) he stopped giving a shit about the nonexistent bag jokes made in his expense.

     He was now worried about Rich's plan, as it involved him taking out a crossbow and shooting a man in the heart with it. His attention was caught between listening to the explanation of this plan and Rich summoning a being made of clear melted plastic that quickly morphed into a beautiful stereotypical horror movie-victim woman(A mimic, Rich would later explain to him).

     "Why do I have to do this?" Mitch watched the mimic go bouncing off, getting ready to run into the 'vampire'.

     "Because, it will notice me gathering enough power to hit him, while you can just pull a crossbow out." the mage said, watching as the 'vampire's' simple charm stuck to the equivalent of an animated doll. "Plus his body has been altered, his 'Master' made sure his minions can regenerate and have a cluster of nerves right above their hearts in case he needs to assert his dominance."

     "How the fuck do you know all that?" the young nerd asked.

     "Because we are but one pair of grunts working toward cleaning the dregs of a larger problem." Rich motioned him closer. "Now get ready he's on the move."

     The vampire eagerly led his 'prey away from the busy club and down the streets, traffic and security cameras growing scarce until he turned into a darkened ally. With a nod from his supervisor, Mitch reached into his bag and focused. His hand grabbed hold of something and he pulled it free, a modern carbon crossbow, a bolt already loaded. It was a lot heavier than he imagined, and he began to worry as he had never actually fired one of these outside of the realm of pen and paper.

     He didn't have that much time to really think it over as a shout echoed off the grimy walls. "What the fuck?!" Malciour screeched as his prey melted like cheap ice cream the moment tooth touched skin.

     " Now!" Rich shouted loudly, making the pale, sharp-toothed human to turn about with higher than average speed.

     Mitch steeled himself and aimed as best he could, praying video games had at least helped him get this stance half right, and pulled the trigger. The bolt flew threw the air with a hiss, before lodging itself directly into the artificial vampires knee. He howled in pain and dropped like a sack of bricks, clutching the wound as his still human brain was clouded by shock. Mitch was kept from being shocked himself by Rich's burst of laughter. "Oh my god, you just knocked over fake-ula with a Skyrim meme!"

"I don't know how to fucking aim a crossbow dude!" He shouted back indigently, watching as the still laughing mage produced a wooden dagger and a cellphone from his pocket.

     "YOU SHOT ME!" Screamed Malciour, still not registering what was going down as Rich approached. " WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO?!"

     "A lot," Was Rich's reply as he stood over the man made monster, and shoved the dagger into the cluster of nerves just above his heart.

     It was rather instant, one moment he was screaming and in the next his whole body was paralyzed, seized up in his current position and unable to move. Rich took a few photos before texting them and their location to their handler. Mitch sat down on the curb, crossbow carelessly tossed to his side.

     "That was...anticlimactic." he said after Rich joined him in sitting.

     "Yup." Was the reply.

     "Is it always like that?" Rich scratched his chin thoughtfully, " When it comes to magic," he began, "mages new to the game think that there is some unwritten code of honor among them, that magic will be the only weapon used to fight one another. Hell even some seasoned mages believe this. But there are those who are wise enough to exploit this. Your opponent is prepared for you to throw magic and monsters at them, not tear gas and stun batons."

     "Yeah, but we used magic to capture him." Said Mitch.

     "We used a little bit of magic yes, but in the end an arrow to the knee and a sharpened wooden prop knife is what got him in the end." Rich replied, chuckling. "If he wasn't a woefully under educated grunt then things would of been more interesting."

Mitch pulled open his bag and produced two cans of soda from a 12 pack he had put in, the inter-dimensional pocket kept things at just the right temperature. he handed one off before opening his.        

    "So, I dunno if I want to work for the Magi's..." he finally said.

     " Understandable," replied Rich, rolling the can in his hands.

     " I would suggest taking up some of their magic courses. Those bags only work if you've got a little bit of magic in you."

     "Why? I have my magic bag what more could I need?" he looked over to the grinning mage.

     "Well, I know an Illusion major who runs some seriously kick ass DnD Games."

The Peculiar Story of Darla Deen

  Darla Deen was always keen that she was not like other infants. She hardly ever cried, and her parents never saw why, since the Fey and a long passed cat kept her company. And At night some Folk would say the Moon Doe would lay, by her sill and sing sweet lullaby.
  Darla Deen was always keen that she was not like other six year olds. When most her age were content to play with inanimate clay, she made it move and dance. To add to the oddities, ravens kept her company, seeking favor by scaring bullies away. And then one day, when all the strangeness got in the way, a man from a odd school came. He gave Darla one look, even talked to the rooks and decided Darla needed a school change. So within a few days Darla had a uniform change, and off to Academy she went.
  Darla Deen, at the age of 16 still knew she was not like her peers. The Academy she adored with its magics and more, made her feel like just another girl. But as time marched on, her powers grew strong, and even made a few teachers rather twitchy. For not even the best could contest Darlas' incredible prowess of Directing the Etheric Flow. And very few would know, because it never really showed, that miss Deen never studied not once. For she already knew it all, but were it was learned she did not recall, so they claimed her a genius.
  Darla Deen, age 18 graduated with top degrees. She declined a position of teaching new acquisitions and set off on her own. Darla Deen could been seen almost anywhere across this world. Her fame spread wide but she could always hide from those who sought her out. the reason for her travels is a mystery still unraveled but I would hazard a guess, that Darla Deens' Quest was to find something within herself.
  Darla Deen at 20 would meet the peculiar man that was I. It was out by a lake (it was quite great) where I was caught by Darla's' eyes. It was easy I admit since the fox head didn't quite fit with the orange suit and tie. We chatted for a bit until Darla felt fit to ask me her question of "Why?"
  To which I said: "Darla Deen you are always quite keen, but I understand why this eludes you. Through your whole life you've felt it, how you didn't quite fit in, that some great self truth escaped you. But I am here now to give you just that, since the person playing with you is cheating."
  And I told her a story, of self possessed romance and woe, of a man filled with wretched desire, and so this man cast a spell so simple or complex none could tell, one held in places by falsities and lies. That spell soon lay broken as the real Darla had awoken, and boy was she mad as hell. As her form grew and swelled, she asked why it all took so long. I simply replied "Humans are easy to hide, especially so when you don't quite know which magician your friend might be inside."
  Darla Deen, A dragon and maybe one day a queen, simply rolled her eyes. But she thanked me for this day before she was off and away to char a vain and foolish man. And well I could sit idly by, such a thing an entertainment gold mine! So like any good friend, I made sure their path's crossed again and boy oh boy did he ever fry.