3. Scattered pages (Sabre's journal)

Scattered pages (Sabre's journal)


  • Withdrawal

    I'm nursing my grog, alone by the usual table as he saunters into the Ferret, coat-tail flapping. The sight hits me like a punch to the gut, so powerful that it leaves me breathless. Every time… every single time he walks into view, as if I had my own personal ghost dwarf standing invisibly by, brutally headbutting my mid-section at the slightest glimpse of blonde hair and a ratty coat.

    He is so beautiful.

    I paste what I hope is a suitably professional look to my face, nodding as his dark blue eyes meet mine, for but an instant. Once, there was a smouldering blue fire in those eyes, roaring into all consuming flame whenever we touched. My heart contracts painfully and the easy smile he walked in with melts away, replaced by a strained expression.

    "Cap'n", he says in a smooth and heartbreakingly polite tone, dipping his head lightly as he makes a beeline for the bar.

    I bury my face in my mug, the grog burning my stomach as I take a big gulp to compose myself. Unbidden and against my own best intentions, my eyes return to their greedy inspection of the prettiest of blondes, as if starved for the sight. He is leaning casually against the bar, in idle flirtation with Claire.

    The left side of his mouth crooks up in a sly smile, blonde brow raised suggestively as he looks her over. I can’t hear their words over the din of the busy inn, but I see her throw her head back in a far too big laughter, a generously sized bosom heaving. She leans over to the bar, touching his arm and displaying so much cleavage that a poor old sod nearby starts choking on his drink, adding a wet and wheezy cough to the cacophony of sound that bears the beginning of a pounding headache.

    Death by cleavage, wouldn’t be the first one for Claire, I reflect sourly, adding a dark musing on whether that might be a hangable offence… Oops, now she dropped something on the floor too, completely by “accident”. To be fair, her arse makes for a very inviting target when she bends over like that – too big to miss even if blindfolded - though I don’t think the sort of target practice I have in mind bears much resemblance to the intended viewer.

    He leans over and looks. Of course he looks, why wouldn’t he?

    Blonde bangs fall across his face, pushed back with a motion so familiar and so futile that my heart aches all over again. The hair falls back into an unruly curtaining of his face a moment later, the tip of a gently pointed ear poking up through the dark golden tresses. How many times have I kissed the tip of that ear, ran my fingers through that hair, felt those slender fingers spread goose bumps and wildfire across my skin?

    Luke…

    He is desire incarnate, my biggest vice, my sweetest rush and the one person I could never say no to. After years of inexplicable and painful absence, he is just as inexplicably back. Johno took a stab at him in welcome, I kicked him in the shin before holding him so tightly that I’m surprised it didn’t leave him with a classic hourglass figure and a high, squeaky voice.

    He looks the same, smells the same too; the same dizzying scent of old leather, wave, wind and a whiff of sweet rum, mingled with something irresistibly just plain Luke. I buried my nose against that tattered old cloak and it all came rushing back, a thousand memories flooding my senses. For that one, blissful moment in his arms, it was as if all the ocean of time between then and now had been swept away, a curious footnote in history, an aside of little importance that was soon to be forgotten as our story continued.

    –-

    Only, I’ve begun writing a new story inbetween.

    I had to, in order to reclaim a little bit of happiness and self-worth from the burnt out wreckage, the ruins of my former life. In his presence, seen through the dark velvet blue of the eyes I love so well, those ruins didn’t look quite so ugly. In fact, they held a certain romance, a redeeming magic that kept the ghosts at bay. But without him, that warm sheen of magic was gone and everything that kept me whole began to crumble. Everything.

    Left alone, it all caught up with me. All the guilt, the pain and regret, the insidious little what if’s and the poisonous barbed doubts, ghosts haunting my every step through those crumbling ruins. I was literally falling apart, going through the motions of daily life only through some stubborn refusal to call it quits. Let it never be said that fearing your godess doesn’t have some sort of benefits, at least when it comes to your will to stay alive.

    Adding to my wealth was the single, simple goal that kept me afloat. Gold after gold after gold, small sums or large didn’t matter so long as the hoard grew, and I didn’t care that the crew dispersed, didn’t care that for days on end, I saw no one I cared about, talked to no one at all. I just didn’t care, because caring would be the end of me.

    When did the dart collecting begin? I honestly don’t know, and it gives me no pride to admit to such utter, pathetic foolishness as it was, but I couldn’t help myself. One day, I picked up a finely made dart from the bloodied remains of a kobold and felt tears burn my eyes. Luke hadn’t even used darts for ages, and still. Still. It stayed in my hand as I sold the rest, my knuckles white and refusing to let go.

    One by one by one, the darts collected in my chest, alongside all his forgotten things and the rapier I’d taken from the gnomes set on murdering us in general, and him in particular. The most savage fight of my life, near death at every turn. Three heal potions downed, limbs leaden with poison, but still we pushed on to the next gnome, and the next, with teeth-gritting desperation. The last fight with Jay as our shield, his act of redemption – to my eyes at least, before he marched on to face the music alone. One last bloody dance before the curtain fell, and I’m sure he went out kicking and screaming defiance.

    I made my peace with Jay, but Luke… in my heart of hearts, I could never let go of Luke, though in time I stopped expecting to feel those lean arms curve around me in the hazy middle state between sleep and waking, stopped hearing the echo of softly murmured elven words in my ears when the usual nightmares broke my slumber. Darts still collected in my chest, the gnomish rapier collecting nothing but dust, and I still felt like crying at both.

    The change was both gradual and sudden, a conscious effort at socializing and a miraculous, unexpected light rekindling within me. Garviel was the catalyst and the healer, yet for all that I owe him, another nestled in to take his place.

    “We do belong together”, he whispered heatedly as the rain poured down around us, but one day since my return to the city. “Like thunder and lightning.” The storm raged above, white light splitting the dark skies as if nature itself roared agreement. I should have been stronger, I should have said no, but something inside me finally gave way. I was just too damn tired to keep fighting him, too tired to resist what is obviously there between us. His arms closed around me as the thunder rolled across the hills, and I surrendered.

    But for this one time, when has he ever let me down? When has he ever given up on me, ever not been there when I needed someone, when loneliness clawed and tore at my insides? No one else has ever fought so long and so hard for my affection, and right then and there, I stopped running, with a deep and weary sigh. “How many years has this mistake set me back?”, he wondered later, holding me close in the aftermath.

    I don’t know, puppy – I just don’t know. All I know is I’m tired of the game; tired of running, tired of the to and fro, oh so tired of feeling torn, and your lap is where I choose to take my rest. I’m not sure we belong together, I’m not sure anyone really does. It’s all a jumbled combination of needs and wants, mingled at the best of times with true affection. Is it ‘right’, is it love? I really can’t say, but I’m no longer sure it matters. Let me stay here, for now. Let me stay.

    Garviel came and went, sadness etched deeply into those calm grey eyes. He knew, even before I told him, and gently told me our story was over. Did he want me to persuade him differently? Perhaps so – likely so, and the quiet way in which he tried to ease my guilt made me remember clearly all the reasons I had for loving him in the first place. But he was right, and deep inside I’d known it all along. I can only hope that after all he gave me, I managed to give something precious to him too. I can hope, but I don’t really believe it. I took too much and gave too little, and this too wears me down.

    I sold the rapier to Johno at long, long last, spending the gold on some fancy new weapons for myself. Cleared away the darts, folded Luke’s things up for a possible jumble sale. Though not without fresh pangs of regret, my mind was finally made up, at something like ease, and a borderline normal life could follow. Or so I thought.

    –-

    I kiss his neck, the faint salt of his skin making me tingle inside. He shivers, blue embers flaring into life in his eyes, but even as my heart goes racing and my mind rushes off towards the nearest dark alley, a sinking feeling in my gut sounds the alarm. No, no, no…

    We head to the Ferret, sit staring at each other and my tongue ties into knots. I’m evasive, half cowardice and half purposefully postponing telling him there’s another. For just a short while longer, I want to pretend the future holds possibilities, but puppy soon stalks through the door to settle at the table. No, no no… I can’t do this again, I haven’t the heart, the strength or the will to endure another drama.

    I just can’t.

    He’s angry at first, thinking I should have told him straight away, then tries to swallow it down. He’s the one who left without a word, and though he’s still evasive to the why, eventually he admits the return at least has something to do with me. But if I’ve moved on, then he won’t stand in my way, says my would-be stoic sailor with a strained smile.

    Luke trying to do the right thing is about as unlikely as me, yet here we are, somehow in agreement to not do the one thing we both do so well. The one thing we’re both dying to do.

    It just isn’t fair. I spent months, spent years missing him, and now that he’s back, I can’t be with him. Not without wrecking everything I worked so hard to rebuild. The price tag was far too high the first time, and I just can’t, I won’t pay all over again. A little voice inside me whispers that he’ll leave again, leave me broke and broken all over again. But truthfully, is puppy really the safer bet? He ended it once, what’s to say he won’t do it again?

    There are no guarantees to anything, and thinking too far ahead is only going to make me crazy. My mind's made up, and to change it now just takes too much out of me. I convince myself that the way forwards can’t be back, I’ve moved on and Luke now has to do the same. I tell myself all manners of sensible things, but nothing, NOTHING changes the fact that I still want him, I want him like air in my lungs, like water in the desert. I’m shaking with withdrawal, worn thin by the constant struggle against my own base instincts.

    Deciding is one thing, see – living with it quite another. He’s miserable at the choice I made, though I see women flocking to comfort him, practically falling all over themselves. I should wish him new happiness, I should, but I can’t still the itch in my hands, the horrid hissing itch that wants to turn every pretty face and firm set of breasts in his vicinity to bloody ribbons. It’s entirely unreasonable, wholly wrong to feel this way when I’M the one who rejected him in the first place. I’ve no right to these emotions and all I can do is stuff them deep, deep down and refuse to acknowledge them. Maybe if I leave them here, on this page, I can finally let them go. Once I close the book, they’ll be trapped between the pages, unable to touch me.

    It’s worth a try.


  • Frozen

    The cold wind whips through my hair, numbing lips and bringing unbidden tears to my eyes. Far below, the Icelace's grey water turns to froth as wave upon frenzied wave crashes against the jagged cliffs, hungry for self destruction, for that one sweet moment of weightlessless and release. The cliff face drops steeply down, less than a feet from my feet.

    I've stood here before, wondering if the end wouldn't be swifter and less painful at the base of these cliffs. Part of me wanting to jump, another fearing he would push me. I wonder at times why he didn't, and I wonder if I had let him, had he tried.

    These are not good memories, though I've had better since, in this same spot. In this very company even, but clearly not today. The cold seeps through me as I slowly realize he fumbling with the words I could never find it in me to say.

    Endings are inevitable.

    Only this time, the roles are reversed. While I'd been agonizing over all the possible outcomes of Garviel's return, she came back and the choice was made for me. The puppy's long lost love, back in his arms and in his heart. He doesn't want to hurt either of us, loves us both.. The irony of the situation is far from lost on me, and if my lips weren't so stiff, I'd smile. I'd laugh too, but it might come out bitter.

    Though he struggles to say it, I know his mind is made up. Her return is nothing short of miraculous, their love unquestioned, only ever broken by death's cold hand. Still he hesitates, tries to pull me close as if to comfort me, his face wracked with guilt and pain, searching mine for some type of response.

    "The gods know you can be as cold as the glacier", he says, "but you've got to feel something."

    "Maybe I need to be cold", I reply. "Cold is numbing." He nods, but I sense disappointment mingling with concern. Another searching look, silence as he waits for me to speak.

    What does he want from me? Tears, rage, declarations of undying love as I throw myself dramatically off the cliff? Does he want me to fight for him, to make him change his mind? I could, I know that much. But I've been here before, in this very spot, and I haven't the will or the strength to go through that again. All my tears are long since spent; I'm cold, I'm tired and empty, but I can give him one thing, at least - a clean ending, free of guilt.

    "It's better this way", I hear myself saying calmly. It's true too, what sort of future could he really expect with me? He wants what normal people want, a mate who loves him (and only him), children, home and hearth. She can give him that, she came back from the dead just to find him after all. Just as Garviel came back for me - though he has yet to find his way to my side. The delay is making me anxious and I wonder just what Havon's seen fit to tell him. Is that too a choice that's been made for me?

    I grow colder still, but somehow find the shadow of a smile to wear. I have to lift that weight off his shoulders before I go, I have to leave him smiling somehow.

    "You and I never really belonged together", I say with a gentle squeeze to his arm. "But I gotta say.. it's been great trying you on for size." I wink, giving him a little waggle of my brow and he grins, the relief on his face palpable. Our parting words are amicable and light, a deliberate balm applied to the cut. I wish him all the best, I promise to not be a stranger, and swagger off with my best casual saunter.

    Once home, I start packing.

    He'll agonize and change his mind, and I can't let him. All things end, but for once, it's a clean break. For all our sakes, it had better stay that way, but I know my resolve will fold like wet tissue once the ice melts. But by then, I'll be far away.


  • Ghosts

    He loves me.

    I know it, he knows it, and twice he’s tried to tell me. Twice I stilled his tongue, yet the third time, it was somehow me that asked. He had tricked me into a leading question, and looked so smug about this fact that I couldn’t find it in me to be angry or even scared. I had to laugh, and he joined in, so happy to have gotten the words off his chest that it didn’t seem to bother him that I didn’t return them to him. He wanted to say it, he ~needed~ to say it, and practically beamed afterwards.

    I envy that feeling.

    We had shared our most personal stories there, in the comfort of the Wolves Den. I felt vunerable, exposed and fearful of both his sympathy and his scorn. My tale isn’t a pretty one, nor very flattering, but I wanted make him understand who I really am – and why. I faltered though, tried to omit parts, but he wouldn’t have it. I’d told myself to be honest, and so I was. So I tried to be, at least. It’s hard to be clear about things you can barely put words to yourself, hard to find the right names for the things that lurk below, in the murky depths of your mind.

    His story was no less sad, but free from the kind of doubt and guilt that poison my own memories. A love unquestioned, severed only by death’s cold hand. Part of me wonders if death is such a poor trade, if it leaves you free to grieve and to remember the other in that light, untainted by bitterness or disappointment. Better a clean, cutting loss with the love intact, than to recall how things fell apart by your own betrayal.

    I don’t trust my heart.

    I think that’s why I can’t say the words, or perhaps it’s simply that I won’t, not anymore. I know they were true then, I know it, the echo of that blaze, of that dizzying certainty still rings faintly within me. It WAS true, but by the end, the words felt a lie. Ever since, they’re empty, hollowed out husks of what was once the most meaningful of all the world’s combinations of letters and sound. Love. Eventually, I tried to fit the word to Luke, but what he and I shared didn’t really need names. It never quite fit, and he was right to not say it back.

    Every person we care deeply for leave their mark, scars and echoes of their presence that become part of us, even when they themselves are long gone. Whether they bring us joy or painful regret, our ghosts are always there, impossible to ever quite banish.

    I still miss Luke. He’s one of my more kindly ghosts however, evoking for the most part just that – longing. I miss him, plain and simple, and the sadness thoughts of him may bring are all just due to that. I prefer not to think too hard on what became of him when he disappeared. Rather, I like to imagine him sauntering along the waterfront, somewhere to the south, where the air is warm and the waters salt. Riskey in his hand, a buxom wench on his arm, and a dark velvet sky above, studded with stars. His shirt is undone, his blonde hair tousled and sunkissed. I hope he is happy, and if for a moment or two he should think of me when his eyes turn to that starstudded sky, then I hope he remembers me fondly.

    The puppy’s ghost is still very much alive. A strange and ironic notion, that the memory of someone can grow that much stronger if the person attached to it is dead. His mate, his true love – I can almost feel her presence at times, and know that the comparison sells me inevitably short. I can’t offer my undying love and devotion, the here and the now is all I dare ever promise with any certainty.

    He gave me a bow, a beautiful, incredibly balanced bow, adorned with wolf teeth. I loved it, giddy with glee until he told me it was originally hers. It makes me worry. I know he loves me, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder what it is he really sees in me. A reflection of her, an almost match that he tries and hopes will one day fit? If so, I’m even more bound to disappoint him.

    Angel. That's what he calls me, in our private moments. A less suited nickname was likely never spoken, but he utters it with such gentle warmth that I can’t find it in me to protest. I know I will fall, but if only for a little while, it feels good to have wings. And when his eyes light up, when his arms close around me, I can almost pretend I’m worthy of them.

    –-

    Ghosts.

    My lightbearer’s absence turned from days, to weeks, to months, until I thought myself abandoned once again. Too much left unsaid between us, too much to really move forwards. The mire of torn affections remained. I couldn’t cross, but somehow I settled right where I was, upon the puppy’s lap underneath a tree of sanctuary. Days turned to weeks and to months, and he was always there. I had resolved to myself to never rely on anyone again, but little by little, the puppy’s own sweet resolve began to wear me down.

    Until one day, underneath the slowly swaying branches of the tree. His hazel eyes are full of concern, even an alien hint of fear that I have never seen there before. Another death-defying quest to save the world, and if they fail, he wants me to set sail and leave the region far behind. He won’t give me details, and though I could probably wheedle them out of him, I decide not to. It would make him feel even worse, and I can tell from just looking at him that he intends for me to not go anywhere near this mess. His arms are tightly wound around my waist as he whispers, intently:

    ‘If I don’t return, I want you t- ..’

    Clanking, purposeful steps approach, interrupting our tense conversation. It’s Havon, and with his usual sense of empathy, he wastes no time in getting to the point of his rare visit:

    'Garviel is alive.'

    Alive implying that he was formerly dead, in other words – a notion that hadn’t even crossed my mind. Somehow, I had assumed him wandering on some lonely quest that he’d forgotten, or simply chosen not to tell me about. My mind is reeling, trying to adjust to this new reality as Havon continues to talk, his tone dry and dispassionate as ever. Garviel lives, and is coming to see me. He must have lost his possessions, as Havon requests I ensure his clothes are returned, once Garviel finds a replacement.

    What could have happened? Is he alright?

    I’ll have no answers until my lightbearer finds me, but in the meanwhile, the puppy seems to have what little wind remained knocked out of his sails for good. He sinks back against the tree, his face suddenly drained and weary. The prospect of marching towards his doom, coupled with my old lover’s return is a bitter draught, and I can’t help but think Havon looks well satisfied to have served it.

    Myself, I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know ~how~ I feel, except haunted. Until I see him again, standing real and solid before me, Garviel too is one of my ghosts.


  • Gifts

    50 000 gold.

    Fifty thousand gold.

    F i f t y t h o u s a n d g o l d.

    “Should I be jealous?”, he murmurs, glancing across the commons to the man beneath the tree. “Maybe”, I say (coward that I am), “maybe you wouldn’t have to be, if you were around more”. Cowardly, and cruel – it isn’t his fault our time together is always too brief, but his absence is problematic, creating a distance between us. And even when he is here, he isn’t fully present, always distant, as if his mind is partly somewhere else. He has given up his ambitions, his strive for power, even his search of a new path to walk. A druid no more, though the term commoner never seemed less well suited to someone such as he. My lightbearer is anything but common, no matter his modest claims of such.

    “I like him”, I said, following his gaze. Puppy shifts his lean against the tree, a curious glance back before pretending not to take note of our hushed conversation. “Ah, the costs of sin”, says my lightbearer, a wry twist to his mouth. “Are you jealous?”, I ask quietly – I can’t help but to think he has good cause to be, though hoping against hope that he’ll understand. Being alone never suited me, and this he knows full well. “I’m pragmatic”, is the calm reply given.

    He gives me a snowglobe – a tiny village within, the small houses and trees stoically enduring the storm as I shake the little world, playing godess as I create a blizzard of whirling white. It is a good gift, and I’m smiling even while he comments that it isn’t very much, it isn’t the sort of gift he’d like to give me. Silly, I want to say to him. So silly to think he needs to give me any type of gift but his time and his attention, his care. He likes to give, but I’ve found him too proud to receive gifts in turn, in the past. Instead, I’d slip little trinkets into his pack when he wasn’t looking – a scroll here, a potion there. Useful things, or just things I thought he would enjoy. It didn’t take him long to catch on, but he allowed it, even gladly so I think. Eventually, he even let me help him. My gifts helped him survive the first leg of his quest, the one he has now given up as lost. To know I helped him live is a gift in itself though, and one I treasure highly.

    While I keep shaking the snowglobe, my druid no more leans down, unpacking a heavy bag to plant at my feet. He presents it without a word, grey eyes observing my face as I take a look at the contents. First my jaw sinks, then my heart – gold. A lot of gold. A fortune in fact, close to his entire fortune. Is he leaving, is he –dying- to part with such a thing, I can’t help but think, and my fear is easy to read. “I’m not leaving, if I was I would give you something far grander”, he assures me quietly, explaining the staggering gift by claiming he no longer needs it, since his adventuring days are over. But he still has enemies, still there are threats, I protest, insisting he must take it back if or when he needs it. “Only if I really need it”, he says gently but firmly. I still hesitate; it is too much, too big a gift, and surely there are strings attached. It’s not enough for a starship, but it’s enough to buy a regular ship, he notes, adding with a wistful, inwards smile: our ship. Is that what this is about; buying us a future together? Buying –me-? Should I be offended that he may think I could be bought, or flattered to be this highly valued? Or is a gift simply a gift, regardless of its magnitude?

    The gold shimmers, rich with opportunity, ripe with choice and possibility. The bag is heavy, I can barely keep upright as I try to take it in my arms. Fifty thousand gold. How can I possibly say no? I physically can’t, despite the questions whirling in my head about what it is I'm really accepting. Besides, why should I fear strings attached to someone I am in fact already attached to, albeit without any real promises between us? He breathes out as I take the gold at long last, a soft sigh of relief.

    He takes my hand, pressing it gently. It still feels good, it still feels right. His calm is a two-edged sword – at times soothing, a much needed, much welcomed shelter in my stormy life. At other times infuriating, a shield I can neither penetrate nor read. I may rage and roar, cry and laugh while he simply watches, impassive. There is a passion within him, displayed on rare occasions. Our first frenzied kisses, in the quiet storage room of Druibos. The surprise on his face as our lips parted, as if startled at his own emotion.

    I remember a star-studded night, the soft crashing of waves against the old shipwreck. The intimacy between us, miraculous and inexplicably simple. The greatest gift he ever gave me was simply to see me, on that day we met. He saw me, and for the first time in far too long, I felt neither lonely nor deserving to be. An end to loneliness, we whispered, to each other, to the stars above as the night wind caressed our naked skin.

    A beautiful tale to have ended there, but life has a tendency of being less than poetic. Fate, circumstance and in part his own actions forced a different story to unfold – our time together has grown increasingly sparse, and hidden by necessity, by his desire to protect me. Weeks go by without us meeting, sometimes months, and when we do meet, he seems distant, growing silent around my friends to the point of John asking if he was still breathing. I try to cling to the simple feeling of rightness we shared, but all that time apart makes me doubt, makes me question if it was ever really there.

    Still:

    I wove him a tale once, the most beautiful story I’ve ever dreamed up, of a solitary tree within a sprawling city settlement. A druid walks by, a lonesome traveller seeking supplies before his path leads him back to the wild. He takes notice of the tree, glad to find a vestige of nature’s beauty remaining in this place, and takes his rest beneath its swaying branches.

    Little does our sleeping druid know that within the tree lives a dryad, stranded in the city that has taken shape around her tree, the once vast forest replaced by brick and mortar. She is isolated and miserable, growing more and more reclusive over the years. Right in the heart of the bustling city, she is alone – but her heart leaps in her chest at this new traveller, looking as lost and out of place as she feels. She speaks to him, pleading that he take her with him as he leaves, to show her the world. There is an instant kinship between them, a sense of belonging. She cannot leave her tree however, and she is too afraid to show herself after all this time spent in hiding. But she is a crafty one, and places her essence within a golden acorn, dropped into the druid’s lap. “Plant me in the most beautiful place you can find”, she whispers, her voice as sweet as sap and honey.

    The druid hangs the acorn around his neck, keeping her always close to his heart. By day they travel, through forest and mountain, past creeks and meadows, festering swamps and wuthering heights. He tells her of the sights, and each evening, falls asleep with his hand cradled over the acorn. At night, it is the druid’s turn to slumber, and the dryad shows him her world, her magic weaving wonderous dreams for them to share. By night or by day, the dryad and the druid are never alone, and happy but for one thing – never have the two met in the flesh.

    Until one day, after many a passing year. The druid, now wisened and grey, comes at last to a forest of tall, golden-leaved beech trees. Soft leaves rustle beneath his feet, the autumn air is crisp and still. A blissful calm reigns in these ancient woods, bathed in amber twilight. The druid’s eyes fill with tears as he knows, deep in his heart, that this is the place. With a whispered prayer, he plants the acorn, falling asleep curled around it. A tall tree rises from the ground, unfurling by the dryad’s magic. A soft green light falls across the sleeping form of the druid, who blinks awake to find a doorway opening in the tree before him. The dryad stands there smiling, her hand outstretched, more beautiful than he could ever have imagined. Hand in hand, they disappear into the tree, never to be seen again.

    That is my story, though captured on paper, it is never quite as alive as when told, the magic somehow lost in transition – the art of the bard was never mine, after all. The essence of this story remains true though, the dream to never be alone.

    Would that I could be the acorn around your neck, my lightbearer. Would that I could be content to slumber there, weaving you stories each night, resting peacefully by day, lulled by the slow, steady rhythm of your heartbeats. But I am no dryad. You know too well my restless nature, my fickle heart.

    Still, I can’t help but let myself dream a little longer. If we had a ship, the means of escape that we spun our dreams around, could our future be equally golden? Could I find a lasting peace and happiness with you, away from the turmoil and strife of these cold lands? Or is happily ever after for fairy tales alone?


  • A rum-stained page, haphazardly added to the scattered collection. It is written in apparant haste and with such force as to pierce the paper in places.

    @96606fe3ef:

    I’m angry. So angry I wanted to slap him, right across his pleading, guilt-ridden face. How dare you? How DARE you make me feel this way!? I don’t want to care this much, don’t want this wrench in my gut, this sickening twist of fear, this unreasonable importance placed on just one person. YOU AREN’T ALLOWED TO BE THIS IMPORTANT!

    This is your fault! Your fault! BAD PUPPY!

    I gave away the remainder of my rainy-day emergency potions; he accepted readily, thankfully. They won’t be enough, but they’ll have to be. “We’re going in blind”, he said. A small party, into unknown enemy territory. No trapper, no mage amongst them. I added Benji’s arrows of dispel to the bundle, the anger a tight knot inside my gut.

    He pulled me close, arms wrapped around me in a tight embrace. I wanted to punch him in the face, but he kept holding me close. I hugged back, hard, swallowing my angry words to offer what advice I could muster, my voice sounding calm and alien to my ears.

    He’s capable, he’s strong, perceptive and clever. But a single false move, a single water elemental is all it takes for none of that to matter; for life to be snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Tommy’s death is still too fresh in my mind, and though I relented in the end, though I tried to leave him smiling, that image is all I can see.


  • These pages are buckled with moisture, the ink blurry in places. The poem, written in elven and with noticably more care than the rest, is framed by an intricate pattern of intertwining waves.

    @f3681a19f2:

    Once By the Ocean

    The shattered water made a misty din.
    Great waves looked over others coming in,
    And thought of doing something to the shore
    That water never did to land before.
    The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
    Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
    You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
    The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
    The cliff in being backed by continent;
    It looked as if a night of dark intent
    Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
    Someone had better be prepared for rage.
    There would be more than ocean-water broken
    Before the Gods last Put out the light was spoken.

    • Robert Frost (with a minor adjustment for a polytheistic world)

    It’s very late or very early, a grey, misty morning just beginning to dawn. The fog lies thick around the harbour, a wet, heavy blanket wrapped around buildings and ships, lending a strangely muted quality to the world around me. It is a world inbetween, past the heady abandon of night’s dark embrace, but not yet exposed to the unforgiving light of day, the harsh realities of life held at bay a moment longer. The fog is a cushion, a held breath as the world braces for the impact, a moment of grace before the tugs and tears of duty and musts, of burdens, struggle and strife. Alone in the stillness of this inbetween, I make my way to the water’s edge, my footsteps echoing against the wet cobblestones.

    Breathe in.

    A seagull cries somewhere, the sound distant and haunting. Small waves clucking, the creak of rope and sail. Quiet, reassuringly familiar sounds.

    Breathe out.

    Steam rises from my lips, from my skin, mingling with the mist around me. The air is cool and damp, buckling the paper with its moisture, but I'm smouldering inside, flames still licking the embers of the night's fire. My skin feels too thin, near transparant, every imprint glowing dull red, lit up from within. I'm throbbing with the lingering heat, aching with the bruises and burns of the night slowly evaporating around me.

    I need to calm down, I need to cool off and think.

    an irregular blot of ink flows out here, as if the quill has rested in one spot for quite some time

    Colder now, my thoughts no longer swirling wildly like moths around a flame. Instead, they’ve grown feet of clay, lumbering about, doloriously predicting doom. I shiver, pulling my cloak closer.

    Breathe in.

    My eyes stray to the horizon as the morning sunshine begins to peek through the fog, dissolving my cover, but opening up the view to the Icelace before me, the water tinted with pale pastel hues and dancing sparks of silver. A light breeze stirs the waves, rustles through crumpled clothes and tangled hair. I breathe the morning in; the smell of open water, the fresh potential of a brand new day.

    New.

    There’s something to be said about new. Something to explore and enjoy for what it is, without the anchors of what was dragging you down. Don’t compare, don’t predict and don’t stare yourself blind at the pitfalls, convinced of history repeating itself. This is ~new~, and how it unfolds is yet to be seen.

    Breathe out.

    The sun warms my face as the harbour stirs to life around me. Tiredness sets in at last as the fishmongerers begin to cry out their wares, as the hustle and bustle of the docks build to a blur of sound. I move slowly against the stream, a lonely daysleeper. This is the calm after the storm and for now, whatever the future holds, it can hold a while longer.


  • A dried and carefully pressed cherry blossom rests between these pages.

    Puppy

    My first real encounter with him is mingled with bitter-sweet memories of Jaelle – of that last, strangely light-hearted day at the market, with the pair of us sizing him up like a prize bull, making lewd and speculative remarks as to his stud potential. Contrary to my expectations of the lone ranger, he was neither put off nor embarrassed, grinning instead. Entertaining the idea? Certainly entertaining us, the pleasant and witty banter adding to the mood of that one, blessedly carefree afternoon. The calm before the storm… before the end of too many things.

    Her image is vivid in my mind’s eye – the afternoon sun lending warmth to her eyes, bathing her in an amber glow. Blonde hair dancing as she tips her head back in a laugh, the flash of her teeth as she grins at him – ferally, suggestively. Still that sassy devil-may-care defiance, still a flicker of hope remaining.

    I didn’t know the half of it, then. But this is how I choose to remember her.

    –-

    Later, far later. I’m lonely once more, though a light of sorts has rekindled within me after so many months of walking in the dark, of feeling abandoned, apart from the world and everyone in it. My lightbearer has gone into hiding though, hoping to escape his own cloud of darkness. He is missed, but I’m still shining, alone beneath my tree.

    A man in brown walks up, hazel eyes flicking across the commons.

    Did it start with the stories, the mud, or did I just pick up the threads of that golden afternoon banter of so long ago? He looked sadder than before, weary and worn. Like someone who’s been hurt, someone still nursing their wounds. Another stray, another fellow shipwreck.

    I wanted to make him smile again, to spread a little of that newfound light and hope inside me. Shameless flirtation. Silly games; the water wrestling, the mud war. Fairy tales and stories of adventure, beneath the tree. He smiled. He smiled, laughed and talked; we talked for hours on end. He looked, furtive, appreciative glances, but he didn’t touch. Not like that, not even at my blatant invitation. Still hurt, still bruised I thought, not prodding or pushing further.

    I never really asked, he didn’t either – in retrospect, it seems we both made our assumptions, more or less far from the mark.

    The shadows of war draw closer, the heroes of the land mobilizing. Everywhere, the rattling of arms and armor, the clamour of voices. Steely-eyed warriors sharpening swords, priests giving rallying speeches, others making fearful predictions of doom. My lover returns, not to join the cause and not to fight it. He observes, more wary than ever, determined not to take me down with him, should he fall. Best we are not seen as close, he says.

    I’m alone under my tree again.

    Puppy heeds the drums of war – not for glory, not for spoils, but because he must do the right thing. The final push is just hours away. Yet there’s no rush in his step, no steel in his eyes as he approaches, sitting down next to me. A heavy, meaningful silence hangs in the air. Lately, something’s changed with him. Why or how, I don’t know – a decision, a realization, an obstacle overcome? From holding back his eyes, his hands, they’ve now begun to roam.

    There is a spark between us, something electric. Hairs standing on end. The pull of gravity, drawing us close.

    He begins to speak, and I lift my finger to his lips, to stop the words from spilling out into the open. His eyes are soft and hungry. ‘You know what I have to say already, don’t you?’ I nod, letting my hand sink back into my lap. ‘I needed to tell you, in case something happens’, he continues, but I shake my head, replying. ‘Dying is against the rule.’

    The look in his eyes says it all:

    Hunger (I want you).

    Longing (Be mine).

    But I can’t be his, I can’t be. I can’t ever really be anyone’s, isn’t that what experience has taught me? I’m selfish and flighty, and will only ever end up disappointing those who ask for more. I don’t want to hurt him; don’t want to hurt either of them. ‘I can't give you what you want’, I say, fumbling for the right words. A roundabout explanation, a no wrapped in possibilities. I want him to return.

    He is disappointed, but not discouraged. A smile over his shoulder as he stalks off to war, a wolf amongst the shiny sheep.

    He sticks to the rule, returns unharmed. The war is over, but shadows still linger. Vladimir was not enough to sate hunger of the angry mob, the witch-hunters. I see it in peoples eyes, hear it in the edges of voices, in comments laced with suspicion and threat. I know very little about the story, on either side – it was not my business, and I very deliberately made it stay that way. But the aftermath is not yet played out in full. Another traitor is brought in, this one perhaps on another charge. The mood of the city is dark, when it should be joyous in victory.

    I still sit beneath my tree, the puppy turning up out of the grass, from behind the wall, or soundlessly padding up when my eyes are closed. He likes to startle me, even at the risk of a slap or two. It’s a welcome distraction, these lazy days at the commons, in sunshine and in rain. He’s laid-back, gentle and patient; not afraid to tease or touch, though never quite pushing his luck. There's no awkwardness between us, but a quiet acknowledgement and a constant charge of electricity that sends sparks and jolts flying. We’re both drawn to a good storm.

    More stories. He wants to get to know me, the real me. I’m probably being evasive, but he’s attentive to my every move, my every word. Those soft hazel eyes, soaking me up when he thinks I’m not looking. Nostrils twitching, ears flicking, such keen awareness that it feels as if he’s trying to consume me with his senses, to devour me whole. Though if part of him is beast, the other is both kind and thoughtful. Unsurprisingly, it’s the second part that scares me.

    A cherry blossom. A frail and delicate flower, small, but fragrant. The petals are soft, gossamer silk against my calloused sailor’s fingertips. Puppy’s bleeding, bruises and cuts along his arms, a trail of blood seeping down between his knuckles. A broad grin as he looks at me, teasingly snatching the flower from my hand to stick it into my hair. I’d made a comment, maybe a week earlier, about the beauty of cherry trees in bloom. While the gnolls fail to see that beauty, they nevertheless made sure to give the flower-picking ranger a hard time about it.

    A flower.. nobody ever gives me flowers, I’m not that kind of girl. If he’d offered a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses, I would have laughed and told him so too, but the cherry blossom moves me more than I’d care to admit. It’s beautiful, lovely without being cloying, cliché or sentimental.

    I’m starting to suspect I’m being courted. I ought to protest, but he’s being sly about it, sneaking in these sweet, these romantic gestures when I’m not expecting it. I bought a ruby ring, in Norwick of all places. I’m childishly pleased, since it lets me speak and understand elven for a few hours time. As I show off my prize, he asks me why I’m so keen on that particular tongue. Evasive manoeuvre again as I tell the truth, but only part of it: it’s a beautiful language, melodic, poetic.

    He gives me one of those side-way glances of his, smiles a bit, then whispers a poem in elven. His voice lacks the smooth and pleasant timbre of my prettiest blonde, and he stumbles here and there, but it is still music to my ears. I’m warm inside, and have to look away.

    Oh puppy.. do I call you puppy to make you appear more harmless, I wonder? You’re not harmless, far from it, and I shouldn’t let you come so close. But I like your company too much, I like ~you~. I like you.

    A rainy day at the commons, the mood goes from light to suddenly serious. I drape my arm around his, huddling up as a gaggle of lawfuls strut about nearby, throwing thou’s and thee’s about. He smiles, casually and comfortably lacing his fingers through mine in the midst of conversation. I feel myself stiffen, the sensation spreading from shoulder, arm, elbow, forearm and hand, out to my very fingertips. I look down at our joint hands, the talking turned to an indistinct blur of sound around us. He doesn’t hold tightly, I can see that; but I still feel trapped. My hand is first numb, then starting to itch with the desire to get away, to flee this sudden intimacy – yet I make no move to withdraw. I’m not sure why.

    Meanwhile, puppy’s upset at someone, snarling as a light spell illuminates his form. I try to overcome my shock, giving his hand a small squeeze, but my discomfort is obvious, and only reinforcing his crusty mood. ‘I didn’t realize it would make you so uncomfortable, I’ll keep that in mind next time’, he says quietly, his hand loosening its already light hold. My fingers tingle and burn, but I leave my hand in his, a visitor to a strange new land, a clueless tourist, lost and confused. ‘I don’t know where the lines are, with you’, he whispers. I blurt out some manner of explanation, trying to explain how intimate I find this sort of gesture. But he wants intimate, and his shoulders slump in resignation, despite attempted jokes of needing a manual and a translator.

    I can’t stand to see him like this. We talk, quietly, for a long time. Others come and go around us, I don’t notice, don’t care. He tries to tell me it’s better this way, that he’s cursed, has hurt others he cares about, including his own mate. Better he should be alone to suffer. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be this way’, he whispers, face contorting with pain. The nature of his curse is still hazy, not something I fully understand, but I know that look, that pain, that guilt. He’s being very hard on himself, and that too is familiar.

    I inch my hand free of his, slide over onto his lap to put my arms around him. I want to make everything ok, make him smile again, but I can’t offer him what he wants, or fix what’s wrong with him. He can’t have all of me, but is it really ever all or nothing? I want to give him something, something precious and rare, to show him how much I care. ‘Here’s what we’ll do’, I whisper, trying to sound confident. ‘Next time we get all gloomy, we’ll share our sob stories with each other. The real stuff, no fiction.’ My heart gives a nervous wrench at the offer, but my voice shows no hesitation. He has one condition – it has to be in a certain location, and I don’t mind his choice. I’d better bring alcohol though.. I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it.

    My hand is still tingling.


  • Absence makes the heart grow colder

    I need to be touched.

    I haven’t seen him for days, for weeks on end, and now he sits there, five steps away, calm, relaxed and distant. Quiet, as is his usual preference.

    There’s reason for the distance, good reason, and if I didn’t know the why well enough, I am soon reminded as others fill the commons with their noisy self-importance, their half-veiled threats.

    He wants to protect me. I’m not helping matters by shooting my mouth off, but since when have I been able to stay silent? I’m only ever silent when I'm truly upset, when the choke-hold of emotion leaves me crippled and gasping, not for air but for words.

    There’s reason for his distance, reason for his silence, but a part of me, a loathsome, pitiful part of me reads it’s own meaning into it. Doubts creeps in, on cold spidery feet, scuttling across my heart and making me shiver inside. The story I told pleased him little, and honestly, I ought to have known it wouldn’t – but I wanted to fill the silence, wanted to share something new and exciting from my life. Perhaps I’d have been better off with fiction, but I won’t lie about who I am, not to him. Either he accepts me for who I am, or he doesn’t.

    But what if he doesn’t?

    I’m cold, something gnawing silently inside me as I sit there talking to everyone but the one I want the most. The one I’ve missed for days, for weeks on end. Why don’t I leave, go somewhere private where we can be alone? Am I afraid he won’t follow?

    I need to be touched. Need his gentle arms around me, banishing these doubts. I’m aching for the warmth of his hand, cradling my own, or even just the fleeting touch of fingertips, hidden behind a cloak’s folds. Just a small touch, a secret smile to tell me everything’s ok.

    “I’m sorry for all this”, he whispers. His words are simple and earnest, filled with a quiet weariness. Shame fills me. He’s lonely, so lonely and struggling to find both a new balance and a path beyond the treacherous waters he’s still lost in. I can’t help him, he won’t ~let~ me help him, but I’ll be there when and if he needs me.

    He’ll close the distance when he’s ready. I’m not a patient woman, nor one of much faith. I’m bound to stumble, to falter and stray, but I’ll try to set my own demons aside for once and not burden him with them too. Not everything is about what I want or need, I can at least try and put that aside for someone I care about, can’t I?

    In my head, I hear a voice laced with venom, hateful, mocking.

    • Can you, really?

    I’m sick of me, I’m sick of me.


  • The Simple Truth

    Why is it so hard to be completely honest? Or rather, the true difficulty perhaps lies in being completely plain, to put things simply, lain bare, without embellishment or ambiguous grey-zones. I’m not a black and white person, full of certainty and straight lines, however. There’s rarely any absolutes in my life, no steadfast yes or no, no never or forever. Mine is a life of maybes, of possibly, let’s see.

    Yet for all that, there are some things I’m more certain of than others, about myself. I try to be open about it, yet all too often my words will slip and slide, evasive, leaving gaps and question marks, double meanings. I want to be blunt and direct, to put it out there in the open, without doubt:

    • I’ll never truly be anyone’s but my own
    • I’ll never bear children, nor wish for them
    • I’ll always want things my way – even when it’s unfair or unreasonable

    Perhaps all boils down to one simple truth about myself – I can’t stand to feel controlled or tied down. My own personal freedom is what I value most of all, even when it conflicts with my second-most desire, which is simply to be loved. Though simple is hardly the right word when it comes to love – particularly not with the sort of conditions set above.

    I know I'm selfish. I've tried to change, and failed. Don't think I've the strength to try again. I'd rather admit it, openly, plainly. Is that honest, or simply shifting responsibility to the other?

    –

    ‘You’re not getting rid of me that easily’, he said with a wry smile, pulling me close. Is that what I was trying to do? I wrapped my arms around his neck, buried my face against his bare skin. He smells of jagged mountains and deep, dark caverns – something cool and crisp, like stone, moss and heather, a glacial spring, a hidden pond. ‘Blood matters’, he had said, admitting the desire to some day have a family, at my direct and foolhardy questioning. Looking carefully at my face, he added: ‘We can always adopt.’ I said nothing. I was cold fear and frozen reluctance until sputtering a suggestion of him having another woman for such things. I was serious, but he waved it off. ‘It doesn’t matter, at least not right now’, he said. Perhaps he thinks I’ll come around to the idea – perhaps he means to change my mind. I didn’t say never. I didn’t close the door completely. But in my heart of hearts I am quite sure.

    Why did I even ask? Am I looking for reasons why this won’t work, or am I trying to bend my mind around the possibility that it might? Pavel was and remains the only man I could ever see myself having a future together with, the only one I could imagine myself growing old with, share my life with, share my everything. The only one I felt could accept me for all that I am.

    ‘I’m sick of you’, he cried. ‘I’m sick of you!’ I’m sick of me too, and have been for a very long time. Part of me feels diseased, ugly and dirty from the guilt, from the pain I caused him, from what I did to us both. But I’m trying to heal – I’m trying.

    Afterwards, I began keeping secrets again, as I did in my youth. I loved Luke, I confided in Luke, but I never truly relied on him or told him everything on my mind. Looking back, I can see that I always held something back, knowing he’d one day leave me. I was prepared to let him go, without a fight, without the drama we’d both had too much of already. We brought each other much joy while it lasted, and who can ask for more than that? A goodbye would have been nice, though.

    No one will ever come as close as Pavel – no one will ever be allowed to. He is my ghost limb, a part of me missing, an incurable ache, ever present. The memories are a knot of barbed wire, curled up tightly in my gut, contained within layers of scar tissue. A jolt of pain when you move just so, when a sudden rememberance surfaces, digging sharply into flesh. I can’t untangle the knot without tearing everything up again, without tearing myself to ribbons. I can’t remove it, and honestly I don’t want to – because the good times were the best of my life. And so I bury the memories. I never speak of them, I try not to think of them. But I will never forget.

    --

    ‘You’re worse than a Maskarran’, he said, gently chiding. ‘How can I ever get to know you, if you can’t even tell a simple story truthfully?’ Oh, puppy – don’t you see what it was I was really telling you? It doesn’t matter if I bought my ring at a market, or if I snatched the half-melted gold tooth of a lightning-struck deck mate – the point of the story was to share my fascination with the storm. Ironic though it might be, fiction tells such a truth far better than facts ever will. Facts are cold, dull and bleak, they lack the reason and rhyme of a good story. Is it fact you want? The fact of the matter is, I prefer fiction. But I try not to lie. Oh, I try.


  • A small piece of paper, crumpled and hastily written:

    @817603092c:

    Note to self:

    Don’t go drinking with Havon. In fact, avoid him altogether unless you can bring your best game, and even then, you’re liable to lose since you’re just such a loose-lipped lack-wit. The man’s already displayed an uncanny knack for prodding all your sore spots, even without you pointing them out in helpful masochistic manner. And if there isn’t a bruise already, he’ll create it for you. The BOOT is preferable to the barb, however.

    You’ll make a good mother, he said.
    You’re soft, he said.
    He spoke of consequences, guilt – you up and left for the baths, too abruptly. A sly, unbearably smug grin. He’ll dissect you just because he can, so stop being so damn transparent!

    If he wants to screw you over, he’s going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.


  • Is it different this time?

    Ever since we met, I've wished to be close, and tried to warn him off. Both, as ever my nature dictates. No promises, no expectations, I said. Let's take things slow, I said. I’m not ready for this, I said. But right from the start, something resonated between us, an echo of the same loneliness and hurt, a recognition of sorts? I was always good at picking up strays, at spotting a fellow shipwrecked soul. Our pasts offer certain similarities, yet in many ways, he and I could scarcely be more different. And yet.. somehow, we belong. I can find no better word for it than that.

    It isn’t like before; no storm or tidal wave, sweeping us irresistibly along. No raging forest fire, no earthquake to shake our world, swallow us whole. But a warm, a gentle flame instead. A quiet passion. A balm to my bruised heart, a haven for his soul, adrift in darkness.

    There’s much he doesn’t know about me, much I haven’t put into words. Yet I wonder, and wonder at how much he really sees. The quiet ones are the best observers, they say. He gave me a cat’s eye gem, snuck it into my hand unexpectedly. I’ve been collecting them, idly, for no reason other than liking the look and feel of them, never making mention of it that I can recall. But he noticed nonetheless. I’m still smiling about that.

    So close, so fast. I should be worried, and I am at times. But not when he’s near. He makes me feel calm, content and cared for. So calm in fact, that we often seem to cross over into pure laziness, days spent doing nothing but slouching under a tree, exchanging soft whispers and stealthy, tender touches.

    –-

    When he’s near, everything feels right, but when he’s gone, I doubt. I don’t trust myself, don’t trust my instincts or my own judgement, knowing full well my capacity for self-sabotage. I stray, restless, seeking distraction.

    Still the same old me, still the same old games.

    A low hum of pleasure, sounding suddenly, startlingly much like Luke. A cut of pain inside me, and I wanted to pull my hand back, walk out that door - but I didn't. It was a game of dare, and I wouldn't be the first to fold, nor show any sign of weakness.

    Back in Peltarch, our first real chance to talk after months apart. A wrench of unease in my gut; too much time to think again, to place question marks and consider consequences. He has bigger problems to deal with, yet suddenly stopped, his face warming at my tiptoeing worry. Simply leaning over to kiss me, he wryly called himself a bad lover, and soon proceeded to make sweet amends.

    Gods help me, I’m happy.


  • //Halloween reading, curtesy of Clandra's evil DM'ing.. it's a bit gory, so sensitive readers be warned! (although horror isn't my forte, luckily)

    These pages are badly buckled, and the handwriting jagged, veering wildly across the paper as if the writer was either drunk, beside herself, or both.

    The Phantom Menace

    A lazy day at the commons. I slouch, leaning back against my favourite tree, watching the slow, rhythmic motion of the canopy as the afternoon breeze caress it. All is quiet, golden twilight. I close my eyes. A soft rustle of leaves, the distant swish-swish of passing strangers, beyond the confines of the walls. I feel myself drifting irresistibly to sleep..

    I feel it more than hear it, a flutter of wings, muted by sleep’s siren song. Silence again, sleep tugging me deeper when..

    “Cark, cark”

    A sudden, icy chill runs down my spine. I jolt upright, staring at the bird sitting motionless in the branches overhead. Hungry copper eyes stare back. A raven, mangy, starved. Feud raven.. oh no, no no! I dodged those troubles, slithered free of the strings meant to make me jump, didn’t I? It’s just a bird, down on it’s luck..

    “Stop staring at me!”

    I yell, hoping to startle the bird into leaving. Those dead eyes don’t even blink, not a feather ruffled. Cold sweat trickles down my back.

    “Go AWAY!!”

    My voice breaks, and I aim my bow at the damned thing, can’t stand its eyes on me, the hunger, the insistence. Finally, a reaction – a sudden and swift move as it dives straight for me, snatching one of my ear-rings in its beak, tearing it free.

    “Bastard!”

    Mine! Anger stirs to life, hot like the blood trickling down my neck. The chase leads out beyond the gates, to the foothills and the ever deserted camp-fire site. The raven caws, sitting now at the little raised platform, gold glinting in its claws. I stalk closer, still irate, but cautious now – ill luck follows these birds as surely as Norwick is cursed, especially if you kill them. I’d rather not have to deal with undead on my own..

    Closer, closer.. it seems strangely still, though with no cover, surely it knows I’m there? The ring is near; only an ear-ring in the sense that it is a ring and it usually hangs in my ear. I took it from the hand of another, long, long ago. Stole it, fair and square. It’s ~mine~

    I pounce, dive for the bird. It’s swatted down, the ring falls to the ground, clattering against the stone base of the platform. I reach for it in triumph, when suddenly I hear it:

    “Cark, cark, cark”

    The flutter of raven wings, all around me. A dozen, two? They circle me, staring expectantly, demandingly, and dread fills me, chills me to the bone.

    “GO AWAY!” I scream, trying to cling to anger, then the thought hits me – it isn’t real! I must still be dreaming, in actual fact resting underneath my tree. I cling to that thought, like a drowning woman to a raft, shout it out loud to make it real, by sheer will.

    “You’re just a dream!”

    The ravens are uncaring of any show of bravado. They circle, cawing, staring, waiting. Waiting for what? The air shimmers, my vision blurs and suddenly.. there it is, right in front of me.

    “Chitter, chitter..”

    A huge, bloated spider, fangs dripping with venom. Coarse hairs glint on its long, far too many legs as it moves closer. I’m frozen with fear, I stand there helpless. My throat’s constricted, can’t scream, shout or even curse. My arms are lead and ice, the swords at my hips an eternity away. Closer still – spidery hairs brushing against my face. I want to look away, to squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t, I can’t move a single muscle.

    “Chitter, chitter”

    It pauses, as if considering its prey. Overhead, the ravens caw. Then it strikes – fangs biting deeply into my gut, through leather and skin. The pain is white-hot, blinding, and I fall to the ground, curling up. White dots dance wildly before my eyes, and when my vision clears, the spider is gone. The ravens remain. They seem to gloat now, enjoying my misery.

    “Cark, cark!”

    I stumble to my feet, my stomach aching and throbbing. I have to get out of here… One step, two.. a painful twist in my gut. I begin to swell, stomach expending, though my hands press desperately against the wound, pushing down. I feel bloated, nauseaus – my stomach keeps growing, big, round and heavy. Pregnant...

    “NO! This isn’t REAL!”

    My voice breaks, shrill and pathetic as I begin a lurching, awkward run. Have to get away, have to get away, have to.. I run and run, but it’s such slow going, like moving through syrup. The harder I try, the slower I move, until I’m actually moving backwards, back where I started, stuck at that damnable little platform. The ravens circle and watch, their hoarse, mocking caws fill the air.

    I snap.

    My bow sings out, again and again, ravens fluttering, falling to the ground as the arrows hit home. Black feathers fill the air, twirling like dark snowflakes in a children’s snowglobe. All noise is muted, all colour drained from the world... but from my painfully extended belly, suddenly a vivid splash of red falls to the ground with a deafening splat.

    Something moves inside me.

    I drop my bow, staring in horror as thin, spidery legs poke out through the wound. Tentative at first, an almost tickling sensation – then straining harder, ripping and tearing through flesh and skin. Legs splay out across my abdomen, then the head pushes out, blonde hair wet and slick with blood.

    Splat.

    The creature plops out with a sickening, wet sound, landing at my feet. Half child, half spider.. it reaches four legs up towards me, mewling pitifully. I recoil in horror, then suddenly, my swords are in my hands. Metal flashes, blood spurts. It dies easily, but my gut wrenches again. Panic, disgust – I fight the urge to stab the swords into myself, to stop what I know is coming, but something stops me.

    Another..

    This one’s got Luke’s dark blue eyes, puppy-pleading in a thin baby voice as it tries to climb my leg:

    “Mama.. mama, no!”

    I kill it quickly, before I can think, before I can –feel-. This isn’t real, it ISN’T! I hear myself screaming, and I know on some level that I’m losing it completely. Something moves inside me, and I can’t take it again, I can’t, I have to end it! My swords are real, they’re solid and true – fire and ice, pushing into my own flesh now.

    Suddenly I reel, and my vision clears. The feathers are gone, the little bodies.. and instead, a pale-nosed gnome stands before me, clapping his hands slowly.

    “Bravo! You were very amusing to watch, very amusing indeed! But now, it is time to die..”

    My vision turns red. I don’t remember running, I don’t remember launching myself at the gnome, but suddenly I sit on top of him, stabbing, stabbing and stabbing. The blood is everywhere, and I’m sobbing uncontrollably, wet, hot tears mingling with the red that soaks the ground, soaks my leathers, taints everything. The gnome is long dead, but I can’t stop. I spit, I kick, I pound his face in with my bare fists, screaming until I’m utterly spent.

    The rain begins to fall as I walk back to the city, leaving behind nothing but a patch of darkest red in the grass, and my own bloodied footsteps.