3. Yana at the Docks

Yana at the Docks


  • They’re going to be trouble when they grow up.

    Two dirt covered boys, twelve years old. Lost in the twilight in between child and adult. I’ve been there, kind of. It’s a hard age to be. For me, it lasted a long time.

    I watch one of the Hartness twins begin to haggle over some fruit. He draws the attention of the proprietor, then his wife when he points to the boxes in the corner. In the mean time, his brother quietly and with great practice filches a box of strawberries, and quietly walks away.

    The proprietors should know better, but they’re new here. The Hartness twins are inseparable. Every merchant on the docks knows it, and they still lose merchandise to their shenanigans.

    Both kids were very careful to be out of sight of the “Blue and Green”, the guards that patrol the docks. The irony is that I’m off duty, and dressed in flamboyant reds, orange and yellows. I blend in by looking ostentatious.

    The boy passes by me, and I grab his ear.

    “Ow! What the f….oh, Hi lady Yana!”

    The feigned innocence is well practiced. They know me pretty well, and don’t try any foolishness. I know they both carry knives under their shirts, but drawing one now would be cause for a broken arm and the inside of a cell, even at their age.

    …and they know it.

    “Put the strawberries back Dana”, I say tiredly, but with a smile.

    “I’m Drake…that’s Dana”, he points to his brother, who walks up to us, hands in his pockets.

    I could never tell the difference, and simply shrug. “Well whoever you are, put the strawberries back before I arrest you, off duty or not”

    Drake…or Dana, sighs and puts the strawberries back. The proprietor watches in alarm and starts to raise a fuss once he realizes he’s been robbed, but I assure him that the boys have returned everything, and that I will take care of it.

    Both look at me and give me a “whatever” shrug, and walk away, inseparable as ever. I start after them, but know in my heart there is no point. They’ll never change until something truly bad happens, and scares responsibility into their lives, or kills one or both.

    That’s just the way it is sometimes.

    I reach the pier, and sit on the edge, feet dangling over the water. The sparkles of the sun on the water remind me of stars, set on a moving field of gray. If I half close my eyes, I can see them twinkle.

    If I close them completely, I think of Jay.


  • I’m walking through the streets, and I’m assaulted by a cacophony of sounds. Vendors shouting. Sailors and dock workers cursing. Children run through the street, screaming and carrying on. The gulls protest the throngs below them, and squawk their complaints. Someone starts up a stringed instrument, and it’s quickly accompanied by a flute and drums.

    It’s chaos, baked and ripened by the harsh sun.

    I love it. I could walk through the docks a thousand times, and each time would be different.

    I stop for a moment and take it all in, before I sit down on a bench for awhile and let the world pass by. Absently, I rub my arm.

    It was again, a hollow victory at the Norwick games. I win in a sport, and everyone seems impressed. A few comments, people telling me how good I am. I few grins. A couple of pats on the shoulder. But it doesn’t really count. I won at boxing. How many times do the hobgoblins or gnolls come charging in force, unarmored and bare handed?

    I can see the progress. I beat Jay. I beat Lyte. I beat Maythor. Hope swells in my heart, but is dashed to pieces in the first real fight with weapons. I stood quietly on the sidelines, frustrated.

    Now I’m sore from last night’s practice. Two days after the games in Norwick, I met Jay in the basement of the Lucky Ferret. We sparred for an hour before I turned in for the night, he with a wooden practice sword, me unarmed. I might as well learn from the best.

    I still can’t face a good swordsman, not and have a prayer of winning. It frustrates the hell out of me. I try to be patient. The elf blood tells me it will all come in time, of which I have a lot of, but the human in me snarls and gnashes its teeth, telling me to hurry up and get better before I fucking die.

    It tells me other things too.

    Jay and I have this long standing rivalry. He’s bigger and stronger than I, and uses his size and natural skills to counteract my training. We are nearly equal. He wins some. I win some. I use him as a benchmark for my progress.

    When I beat him two nights ago, a high round house kick that caught him off guard, I hugged him in relief. He returned my hug, simply happy for a friend that succeeded. Quietly, he told me to finish it, and win the whole damn thing.

    He can be such an ass, but awkwardly sweet on occasion.

    Me and Jay?

    I squeeze my eyes shut and shake out the thought. The elven part of me tells me to be patient, bide my time, and find the right person. The human part of me?

    It tells me something else.

    I open my eyes, stand, stretch, and resume my rounds. The chaos swirls around me, a little piece of it lodging in my heart.


  • It’s sunny and quiet. Most workers are off today. It’s some Valkurian holiday, and many of the sailors and dock workers are taking advantage of it. Most of the foremen just gave up trying to get anything done. The merchants of food and drink are however, making a killing.

    It’s only eleven in the morning, and already the taverns are full and overloaded. People are gathered outside. Traveling vendors are going up and down the street selling their wares.

    The west side of the docks are mobbed. I however, am on the east side. The loudest sound I have are a dozen angry gulls fighting over the piece of bread I just threw in the water. I watch one of them fly off with the prize. The rest hover around me indignantly, as if I’m the only source of food for miles.

    Peace. Harmony. Balance.

    I had someone ask me about them two days ago. He wanted me to teach him how to live life in balance, how to be at peace, and in harmony with life.

    How do I answer that? I have no fucking clue.

    I stood there listening to him without a inkling of what to say. We each have our own goals, our own sense of peace, and what balances one individual will not balance another.

    In the end, that’s what I told him.

    It’s what my instructor did. He pointed me at the signs, and I decided which road was right for me.

    The best I could do was teach him how balance his body. I gave him a few routine exercises to do, to teach him the basics. It’s one of the fundamental flaws even good warriors make. They build their strength, their flashy routines with a swords, and slick moves to defeat their opponent, but they forget about balance. A properly balanced body makes all the moves easier.

    A properly balanced life does the same.

    Mom was a master at both. I think if there’s any one thing I would like to live up to, it’s that


  • Written for DM_Stuiped, wrapped in a bow, with a bottle of Riskey

    –----

    I am running along the wall. Crenellations pass by in a blur. The wind is in my face. My heart beats slowly. Up ahead, a gap of 10 paces…then some.

    Limitations

    Wisdom is knowing what they are. With training, they can be removed.

    The other day however, I faced a potential opponent, and I have no idea how the hell I would fight it, or even train for, had I the need too.

    I was approached by the number killer

    The shadows overcame me, my mind reeling in madness. I could not move. I could not fight. I felt a malevolent presence of such power, it rooted me to the spot. I sensed and felt it touching me, then leaving, perhaps realizing its mistake.

    I had truly lured it to me, but it was not the evil priest, or evil wizard I had thought. It was no human being who desired to ascend to great power through ritual and sacrifice. Whatever it was already had great power, and I was powerless to fight it.

    How do I fight such things? What magic must I possess, or discipline of body must I accomplish to even stand a chance?

    Hell, I can’t even fight a good swordsman. I can, just not and win. First, I must learn to get out of the way. At least this goal is within my sight.

    It takes a certain skill to drive your fist past wood, brick and stone. I have been taught to focus my body’s energy, my Ki, and do what the untrained would consider magical. Is it possible to fight the demons and magical creatures of this realm with just this power?

    _The gap approaches

    I jump.

    The wind is in my face. My heart beats slowly. I am flying.

    …

    I land. Legs collapse. Body crumples, tucks, and rolls.

    I am running again._

    Is it possible?

    Yes

    But I already knew the answer.


  • The Zephyr had pulled into port, its crew beginning the arduous task of unloading the crates. Several burly men, a few half orcs, and an ingenious looking crane pulled cargo from the hold onto the dock.

    Mark usually handled dock 4, but he had been relieved of duty and jailed. Payoffs, gold under the table, falsifying records. Fortescue was very unforgiving.

    “Cargo manifest please”, I said

    The captain looks at me like I’m from the underdark. A twisted mask of loathing and disrespect.

    “Who the fuck are you?”

    I show my badge. “Sergeant Yana of the Peltarch Guards”. I hold out my hand. “Cargo manifest, if you please”

    He looks at me with contempt. “I don’t please. Where the fuck is Mark?”

    “Mark”, I say, “No longer works the docks. Now you deal with me”

    His face changes suddenly to one with an eel pasted slime of a smile. He walks up to me, and pulled out some papers….along with a hefty sack.

    “Mark and I had…an arrangement. An agreement of mutual profit. A young w…lady like yourself could find that some extra coin very useful, don’t you agree?”

    I sighed, feigning interest. “Possibly”, I say, “How much are we talking about?”

    “One percent”, he says quietly, looking at the crew and nodding to continue unloading. “Sometimes two, for particular cargo.

    We walk along discussing details, until I arrive at my mark. It’s a large set of crates, and we are briefly out of line of sight of the crew. Without warning, I hit him in the groin. He doubles over, and I hook his foot, taking him down.

    “You’re under arrest for suspected murder, and theft of Peltarch property”

    A recruit comes out from the alley hidden by the crates, and hauls him away. A dozen and a half more guards and defenders wait in the alley, snickering. Chen gives a thumbs up.

    Seizing the ship at that point was easy. Leaderless, the crew capitulated quickly at the presence of an organized force. The crates contained numerous food stuffs, but hidden in each were numerous goods that had been shipped by Hoarsgate and “lost at sea”. Since they had been previously purchased by various merchants here in the city, they were technically Peltarch property.

    I’m sure song and praise will be heaped on Fortescue by the merchants. It’s the captains and generals who always win or lose the battle. It’s the people like me and Chen though, that live or die on the field of it.


  • I humbly dedicate this entry to DM Stuiped and DM Silverfang, who led my characters down the path to the described events.

    Harmony and balance.

    I sat in the audience and watched a display of both. Two people dancing in perfect union. Motion harmonized. Their bodies balanced and poised.

    It was then, right then, that it all came together.

    I was so excited, I left in the middle of the play and sought out Chen. A quick look at the sky told me he would be leaving his shift soon, and I sprinted to the barracks. I caught him on the street, walking home.

    It took awhile to convince him. I needed to work with him after shift. A month I asked. One month. He laughed and chuckled shaking his head, declining. Asked if I was nuts.

    I remembered he was sweet on Jenny at the Pissing Goat. It was one of those odd, casual relationships that had hung on for years. They were both comfortably in love, but were never getting married.

    He had seen this dress in the market. 362 gold and change. He had fawned over it, telling me how wonderful she would look in it, but couldn’t bring himself to spend his entire savings and then some.

    I offered to buy it, so he could give it to her.

    He agreed.

    We spent the next month practicing. Unarmed, wooden practice knives, clubs and swords. It was all so easy, and I wondered why I hadn’t seen it before. Rather then block or resist the blow, I moved with it. Like being drunk, but completely in control.

    He steps forward. My rear foot steps in. Pivot. Motion harmonized. A dance of balance, and he goes over my shoulder.

    He lunges. Rear foot goes forward and past him. Pivot. He over extends and falls.

    He steps away. Forward leg behind his. Step forward. Push forward firmly, and down he goes.

    Harmony and balance.

    There was a hidden lesson in this. One that was revealed to me in a moment of reflection, brought on by the teachings of my new instructor. There is a need for harmony and balance in not just combat and dancing, but personal needs, the drive for perfection, and relationships.

    Particularly between mother and daughter.

    At the end of the following week, I took the river boat to Norwick, and arrived on a cool, clear evening, the sky full of stars.

    I entered the inn. It was late, and mom and the other girls were cleaning up. She looked up at me and smiled, but continued her cleaning. She was tired. Her eyes revealing the despair she was feeling.

    “Mom”, I said, “Can I talk to you upstairs for a moment?”

    The seriousness of my tone must have caught her attention. She paused, put the rag down, and we went upstairs to her room. She looked down at me with concern.

    “What is problem?”, she asked, her voice tired and strained.

    I knelt before her, and looked up. “Mom, will you bless me, in Tempus’ name?”

    I bowed my head and waited.

    I wasn’t sure what to expect. I waited for a long time, until her heard her crying. I looked up. Tears were running down her face, but her eyes sparkled, and she was smiling. Still crying, she reached down and pulled me to my feet.

    “Come then with me, and we will do proper”, she said between sobs, and hugged me.

    Later that evening, I knelt before the monument to the fallen soldiers. The Eastlanders respectfully kept their distance as they often do, when proper homage is given. There, I cut my hand and offered my blood to Tempus. Mom prayed in Uthgardt, and asked Tempus to bless me, mixing her blood with mine.

    The cut will leave a scar, a small reminder of promises made between us long ago, and to Tempus.

    Three days later, I am doing my rounds. It’s late morning. The docks are crowded and full of life. A messenger comes up to me. The wax seal has Norwick’s crest, and the symbol of Tempus.

    Inside, in mom’s rough hand, I read about the vision she had the following night. As I read it, my eyes blur with tears. It seems that originally, Tempus had given her sign that she could not fight again until the blessing of Tempus was given. That night, in front of the monument, it had been, through her to me.

    Now she was released to seek battle again.

    Inside the note, was a large black feather. She is given one with every vision, and ceremoniously puts it in her hair.

    This time, she gave it to me.

    With trembling hands, I put it in hair. I will wear it proudly.


  • The post reverberates with each strike. It rotates on its axis, and small arms of wood move to thwart each move and bruise my arms.

    I strike hard, exhaling forcefully for each blow. Pain courses through my left arm, but I have learned to ignore it.

    Twist, strike, each time faster. A flurry of rapid strikes too fast for conscious thought.

    I am drenched in sweat.

    Damn I feel good.

    I step away. Time for a swim and change of clothes. The Icelace is almost tolerable this time of year. I turn to exit the barracks.

    My victory in the Oscuran tournament was hollow. Jay wasn’t there. Neither was Maythor, or Pavel. It was a good test of my unarmed skills but in order to survive this world, I’m going to need to be better than people who use swords.

    …and there, I lost to my first opponent.

    I’ve seen people do it. Master swordsmen put to shame by the magic of personal discipline and unarmed technique. But it’s a long hard road to take.

    I can beat the average mercenary. A dockworker with a knife is hardly a threat. I –am- getting better…

    …but not good enough.

    I walk out from the barracks into the sunshine, and pad barefoot over to the “Lazy Day”, a small private fishing boat. I know the captain, and he lets me dive from the stern and catch the sun. A few times, he even took me out onto the lake. It was glorious.

    I catch sight of Fortescue moving effortlessly through the crowd. He appears to have an aura about him, as no one moves within ten feet of him. He watches me, but from this distance I can’t tell whether he’s gawking or glaring with disapproval. Knowing him, it’s the latter.

    Well fuck him. It’s my day off.

    I spring from the stern and arch through the air.

    Damn, the water is cold.


  • I’m taking a hot bath now, for the first time in months. I feel I could lay in this water forever. The dye has been removed, and my hair is back to white-blonde luster.

    A part of me liked it black.

    I’m also not drunk. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to go running through the docks again, and purge myself of the poisons within me. A week’s regimen of hard exercise, water, vegetables and fish ought to do the trick.

    I am both disappointed and relieved the Number Killer didn’t show. I somehow expected this grand heroic destiny to follow me around like it does mom. The killer would show up, surprise would be on my side and I would vanquish him.

    Things only work like that for certain people though – The heroes, knights, and paladins of this land. Not for me.

    But after living in the docks amongst the poor and destitute, I have come to realize that “heroic” has a different meaning for me now. It’s the people like Bonnie Tailor who lives in a tent, and still raises her three children without husband or relative to help. It’s Arun the guard who does his job every single day, often unappreciated, and goes home to his family at night, rather than going out with his buddies and spending the coin on gambling and beer. It’s the people that are honored by the monument in the pass. The soldiers with no name who fought and died so that many of us know what it’s like to live.

    In two days I will go back to my duty. I will be Yana the guard again.

    Only a little better.


  • I’ve learned a lot about myself in the last week and a half. I got used to the smell too.

    It is often rather fascinating to see the true nature of people, when they don’t know you’re watching. People who have gruff exteriors, but show great kindness to strangers. People sweet and kind, but cruel when they think no one is watching.

    Arun, a fellow sergeant, has been downright vicious to me since I joined the guard. He’s an old timer with five near grown children, and struggles to make ends meet. Yet the other day he gave half of his lunch to me, knowing he had so little to give. I had to turn my head away, lest he recognize who I was.

    Kayla, one of my recruits, has been nothing but helpful. Though she comes from an impoverished background, she has been trying as a guard to make something of herself. Just yesterday though, she rousted me on the law that I must have 10 coins. She kicked and knocked me to the ground for no reason, and I let her. It was almost as if she were trying to punish her own past.

    I will forever see them both in a different light after this.

    I spend my extra coins on liquor. I am drunk, or partially so most of the time, but I’ve gotten used to it. However, I have learned that while I can get used to it, I still hate it.

    It’s not me.

    I want to run again. I want to swim. I want to keep myself in the best condition I can possibly be.

    Now, I just stagger.

    I begin to wonder if this exercise in inebriation by my new instructor was not to learn to be drunk, but to learn about myself.

    I have not been approached by anyone offering me a better life. No rescuers, Number Killer or not. The complacency of the people around me to the poor and destitute is disturbing…

    …but what makes me truly sad is that I have to count myself as one of them.


  • I’m drunk.

    …or I was two hours ago. I’m not sure any more. I have my back against the wall of some warehouse I can’t remember. I stink of fish, alcohol, urine and sweat. I get rousted by the guards now and then, but managed to keep some gold on me as the law requires.

    I am one of the nameless homeless on the docks. I am a wharf waif who answers to Holly.

    I am bait.

    It’s the only way I can think of apprehending the number killer. From what I have gathered, he…or she prays on the desperate. People who are looking for a way to better their situation, and will do ANYTHING to change it. Perhaps I am wrong. At least I will learn something about the docks, the way of life here, and perhaps myself.

    I have stripped myself of all belongings, save a few knick-knacks and planted personal possessions. I am unarmed, except for a rather sharp scaling knife. I am uniquely qualified to do this for my ability to kill someone without even using it. Only a few people know about my situation.

    I didn’t lie. I told everyone that I was getting on a caravan to Damara. I did, but got off some two hours outside of town. There, I met up with Chen and Kane on the shore. My hair was cut and dyed. I was given old clothes. Face dirtied. I was rowed out to a merchant sloop, and stowed away for a week a more, living on scraps. Later, I was dumped ignominiously as a stow away off in Peltarch.

    I am tired. I am hungry.

    …and I am scared.

    Can I kill the number killer if he comes for me?

    Probably not. But at close range, with surprise, I have a chance, and he needs to be stopped.

    I said my good byes. I told mom I was going away for awhile. I told Luke I had feelings for him. Things I wish I had never said, but always wanted to say, were said.

    If he comes for me, and I end up with an VIII on my forehead, I hope I made a difference to those around me, and made mom proud.


  • “CHEN! GRAB HIM!”, I yelled.

    The man in front of me faked right, then slipped left. Chen’s dive for his legs turned into an ignominious dive into a deep mud puddle as the man continued to run through the docks. As I vaulted over Chen in pursuit, he banged his hand angrily into the mud puddle, spraying me with black goop.

    Thanks Chen.

    The man I was pursuing was carrying a snug fitting backpack. He was six feet if an inch, and maybe 160 pounds. He could run like the wind, and gained quick yards on straight pursuit. I had little idea what his face looked like, because all I had seen for the last two blocks was his back side. I watched in amazement as he leapt over a fruit stand and cleared it, while I had to make due going around it.

    This guy missed his calling. He could have been the messenger boy from Hell.

    Suddenly, an opportunity appeared. As we both vaulted down an alley by the warehouses, a crowed of dockworkers appeared in front of us. Most of them were the big and burly type, with three half orcs in their midst. No way he was getting through them. He’d have to turn and face me.

    No. I watched in fascination as he vaulted onto a rain barrel, hit the stand of boxes, and landed on the roof.

    Holy shit…who is this guy?

    I jumped on the rain barrel, but had to be content with pulling myself up with sheer strength. There was a brief and silent moment where I thanked mom for making me do pull-ups in the pantry door jam, before I got up and pounded after him.

    He vaulted the space between the two warehouses, clearing the ten feet with ease but crashing in to heap on the other roof. I vaulted the distance after him, leg collapsing on touch down. Motion redirected. Rolling through the shoulder up to a quick standing position, I continued my pursuit.

    Damn this training was becoming useful.

    Two more rooftops, and I was actually gaining ground for a change. He looked back over his shoulder at me. He was grinning.

    Well fuck you.

    Suddenly, he skidded low, and grabbed a downspout. Hanging for a moment he dropped the two stories to the ground.

    I didn’t slow down. I simply hit the edge of the roof and jumped.

    For a terrifying moment, I felt free. I was flying. The ground 20 feet below me, and then some. The second and a half it took me to fall stretched into an eternity, until suddenly I hit the ground. Legs collapsing. Body tucked in. Motion redirected. Roll to standing.

    The man in front of me turned to run. For the first time I saw his face, and I was rewarded with a genuine look of surprise. I was standing in front him.

    “You’re und…..”

    I never finished my sentence. A harsh scream came from the alley beside me, and this black figure tackled the man in front of me. Both went down in a heap. The man struggled to get up, but was rewarded by the pommel of a short sword to the head by the black figure on top of him.

    “…and stay down!”, Chen said wheezing.

    Chen looked up at me. He was completely covered in black mud, which highlighted the lopsided smile he was giving me.

    “Nice moves Sarge. Fucking nice moves. Easier knowin’ the shortcuts though”

    We both looked at the ground. The contents of the backpack has spilled, scattering thick glass bottles across the road. Each one said, “Hobleys potion of Greater Cat’s Grace”

    Chen laughed, “Ya think he drank one or two of them Sarge?”

    I laughed with him, and collapsed on the road to catch my breath.


  • My shift is over, and I’m sitting on a bench east of the City Hall. Someone from the Saint Claire has dropped a bucket of chum over the side, and the gulls squawk loudly behind me. People pass me by, their voices added to the gulls. The temple bell rings on the hour.

    It all seems so distant and far away. I’m immersed in my thoughts, and the contents of the letter I have in hand.

    Letting go. It’s hard.

    My life has turned an unusual corner. It screams to be free of convention and the disciplines I have wrapped around it. Yet my body refuses to rise, and deliver the message to the courier.

    My resignation to The Order.

    No instructor’s sash. No acknowledgment of my peers. No accolades. All given up for what?

    For the chance to be better.

    I spent the evening last night tumbling from step ladders and tables. Descent redirected, body collapsed, tumbling to standing. Over, and over ad nauseum. I even bribed one of the guards who was set on having ales with his buddies to push me around.

    My body moves in harmony with each blow. Force redirected, dissipated. Backwards, tumbling through the shoulder, rising to stand again, all in one motion. The beauty of it enthralls me.

    I stare at the letter again. Its presence mocks me, daring me to take a leap of faith and embrace the opportunity before me.

    I am startled to the present. The voices and the gulls surround me again.

    “Ey miss? You ‘ad a letter for da carahvan ta Damara?”, the courier says meeting me at the bench.

    I hand it to him. I watch as he walks away to the gathering horses and mules. I could run after him. I could take it back.

    I get up and go to the Lucky Ferret. My new teacher waits.


  • Written for DM Stuiped, who did something totally and amazingly cool.

    I’ve heard tales about how your life flashes before your eyes at the moment of your death. I’ve heard tales about how time slows down at certain moments of inevitable crisis. The brief glimmer of realization that life is over, and that you are going to die right fucking now.

    Two heavy crossbows staring me in the face. Too close to stop. Too far to engage. I am dead, or will be in seconds.

    How did this happen?

    It started as a tip off from Louis the Finch, who told Harry the Younger, who told Marty, who passed it on to me via a courier, who in this case was a sooty-faced ten year old named Ben.

    It’s how the docks work, you see.

    They were smuggling all sorts of goods from somewhere else. Someone pointed to Oscura. Someone else said Hoarsgate. It didn’t really matter, because it was all illegal. Someone wasn’t paying someone else. No paperwork filed. No guilds involved.

    Oh, did I mention the slaves?

    That was the clincher. Certain things can be overlooked in certain circles. Slaves aren’t. Rumored were two 14 year old girls were to be sold under the guise of household servants, all under the table of course. To which rich household? No one knew that of course. Too much hush money there.

    It was a small private house on the edge of the docks. Fortescue decides we’re better off going in the morning, because they’ll probably be asleep. Sound advice. Lisa thinks early evening is probably better, when they’ll likely be away. Sound advice too. Lisa is a lieutenant. Fortescue is a captain.

    We go in the morning.

    It started off easy enough. Chen smartly comes in with a short sword and crossbow. Lisa has her ubiquitous spear, and a short sword too. I have what the gods gave me, and a little faith. We sneak in quietly through a window into a pantry. Chen is damned quiet, and I begin to wonder just what he was before becoming a guard. I go in next, and Lisa last.

    Voices. They’re awake. Wonderful.

    I hope they’re drunk, or at least tired. Chen eases open the door. He’s good, and the door doesn’t even make a sound. We creep down the hall, Chen ahead. He stops. He hold’s up four fingers.

    We can do this. Three against four, but surprise is on our side. He holds the crossbow up and counts down. Three…two…one…and fires.

    This is when Tymora snickers. Chen’s crossbow misfires. The quarrel snaps left, and nearly takes off his index finger. The voices turn the shouts. Chen is swearing. I push forward into the small room and go left. Chen goes right. Lisa stays in the hall with her spear.

    Smart move. No one is getting past a spear in a narrow hallway. That’s why she’s a lieutenant.

    I quickly survey the room. It’s small and crowded. Two mean seated at the far end. The one next to me standing. The one next to Chen is leaning against the wall with a look of surprise.

    Time to earn my pay.

    The man in front of me has a two handed sword. He tries to draw it. Stupid. This is close quarters. He’ll never swing it effectively. Close quarters is my turf.

    Her reaches over his shoulder to draw the weapon, leaving his right side unguarded. Left punch to the ribs under his arm. High kick to his face is blocked by his left hand. Punch to the stomach doubles him over. Knee to the face staggers him back.

    I can’t pay attention. I hear Chen cry out. Today is not his day. Then Lisa gives a large Kai yell and I hear the sickening sound of spear parting steel, flesh, and bone…twice. Must’ve gone out the back too.

    Rule number one in the guards – Don’t fuck with Lisa.

    The guy in front of me won’t go down. He’s built like Jay, but just not as skilled. I hit him three more times, and he still draws that damned sword. He doesn’t seem to care that he can’t use it in a small room without hitting other people…which he does. Only he hits me and Chen.

    Chen gurgles and goes down. The sword whistles, but the tip clips my side as I try to duck. Silk and flesh part. Shock and no pain. His sword buries itself in the wall leaving him defenseless for a brief and valuable moment. I high round house kicks snaps his neck and down he goes. I turn to face the others.

    Chen is down. Lisa has the guy in front of her impaled, but he’s not dead yet. He is much bigger, and has her grappled.

    This is where the crossbows come in. Both men on the far side of the room stood up. Two heavy crossbows staring me in the face.

    I am a dead woman.

    It was knowing that, that allowed me to reach the epiphany that I did. Yesterday in the Lucky Ferret, a little wizened Dwarven Master of unparalleled agility showed me something magical. It was a pattern of unpredictability that produced a sense of wonder as I sparred with him. A new style to integrate into my own.

    I was dead. What else did I have to lose?

    I dropped my left knee as if I was about to slip…only I didn’t. They fired, only one had adjusted his aim…and missed. The other quarrel I snatched miraculously out of the air a hands breadth from my chest.

    In that brief moment, I looked at the quarrel in my hand. The fletching had cut it, but there it was. The two looked at me dumbfounded. It was an odd moment, a second stretched out to encompass feelings of both elation and resignation.

    I closed the distance and dropped them in moments. Lisa had yanked out an ugly serrated short sword and slit her opponent’s throat so deeply he was nearly beheaded.

    Again, don’t fuck with Lisa.

    That night after delivering the two girls and finishing my report, I visited Chen in the Temple. He had managed to hang onto life long enough for a healing kit to stop the bleeding. Lisa resumed her usual post in front of the City Hall. Me? I went to the Lucky Ferret. On the edge of the cage is a note penned to the Dwarven Master. It has only four words.

    Teach me more – Yana


  • It’s an hour before my shift. The docks are cool and quiet. Only a few ambitious souls are up at this hour. False dawn has barely started, promising Lathander’s fair grace.

    I am running.

    Dressed in the thin silks of my order, my pony tail bounces rhythmically behind me. My steps take me past the City Hall in quick, measured paces. The few that are up pause and look at me quizzically, wondering where I’m running to, or who I’m running from.

    I am just running.

    Mom got me into this. I would run beside her in vain hopes of keeping up, her long legs eating leagues. But she would slow her pace down so that my struggles would allow me to keep up. But I had to struggle, each and every step. She told me that often, when two great warriors fought, it was not the one who was better, but the one who endured.

    So I am running.

    I was made Inquisitor to Lady Borodin the other day. I feel unworthy of the tasks ahead of me, yet so proud that I was chosen. Shannon recommended me, and said that if she hadn’t asked first, that he would have. I am filled with trepidation at the responsibilities that are unfolding with each step in life I take. I must be better than I am now. My strive for perfection must not abate.

    I am running, so that I might be better.

    I pass Tent City, measured strides of strong legs counting the beats of my heart. I turn and pass the sewer entrance, and turn right alongside the piers. The wind is in my face now, blowing the sheen of sweat off and behind me.

    My mind wanders at times like this. What if’s, wants, and scenarios played out in my thoughts. I start thinking about Luke. He is creeping into my heart, like a thief in the night. I don’t know if he’s a voyeur in the window, or a man searching for the key. He took me to the Sails hideout in Oscura…a simple search for a good quality belt. I sat on the bed and chatted with him. The room was empty. I could smell him. I think about what would have happened had I taken his coat off.

    A crush. A stupid teenage fantasy. He belongs to someone else.

    I better keep running.


  • I was promoted to Sergeant in a small ceremony. Fortescue comes up to me, and tells me to put my dress clothes on at the last minute without telling me why, just saying it’s nothing important and a waste of time. He tells me to be at the City Hall.

    The captains offer congratulations. The guard commander makes a small speech. Then the captains take their sergeants out to congratulate them, and offer them a drink…except Fortescue. He goes off to have a drink with his buddies, leaving me standing there.

    What an asshole. At least some of my friends were there.

    Things seem different now that I’m back on duty. It’s not the promotion. At least I don’t think so. As I walk through the docks, snaking my way through the throngs of workers, merchants, and children, people look at me different somehow.

    Perhaps it’s the heat. It’s oppressively hot for this time of year. The air is warm and muggy. The mist rises from the fresh rain on the cobblestones. The docks are hazy, and I can’t see one end of the district from the other.

    I watch the other guards and soldiers in their chain and plate armor. Hair plastered about their faces, constantly adjusting their armor as it chaffs. One of the new guards named Dirk dunks his head under the fountain. I walk by in my silks trying not to be smug, but I can’t help it. A small smile gathers at the corner of my lips. Dirk sees me and shakes his head. I wave and pass him by.

    Most of the laborers at the docks have their shirts off. I pay special attention to the Misty Witch, who comes into port from Hoarsgate every month. One of the dock workers, a large man named Haydon is first mate. He’s built like Jay, but with the face and eyes of a performer. I watch him for a few minutes, staring openly. I want to bury my head in his chest and lose myself in his eyes.

    I leave before I catch his attention.

    The afternoon goes on without incident. I settle a dispute between a merchant and a customer, both claiming robbery. I inspect the goods from of the Saint Claire after it pulls into port, and enlist the help of two guard recruits with inventory. I interview the two women who roomed with the slain bath worker.

    None of them give me trouble, which is unusual. There’s a certain deference to the people I deal with now. Some keep their distance, others become overly friendly. People pay attention, rather than arguing around me, or through me.

    That night, I stop in the Pissing Goat at the end of my rounds. The bartender has my apple juice ready. I don’t even have to ask.

    A man stands up behind me, two tables down. I haven’t seen him before. He sneers drunkenly, and makes a crude yet laughable proposition. I sigh inwardly, knowing I’m going to have to defend myself, when two of his buddies force him back in his chair, telling him to shut the fuck up before the lady guardsmen does it for him.

    It was then I realized why people were treating me differently…

    …It was respect


  • A week. That’s how many days Captain Fortescue told me to take off after the incident.

    I feel aimless. Almost bored. I recall being younger, living at the inn, when “work” was a four letter word. I couldn’t wait to get my chores done so I could go swimming, play with the other kids, or practice my magic.

    Now it seems, it’s become my life. How stupid is that?

    I prayed to Tempus for the first time in years, thanking him for putting the ring in my path. Without it, I am convinced I would have suffered at their hands. With it, I found the fury in me to overcome my fear, and strength to defeat my enemies. I have the odd feeling Tempus was paying particular attention to the battle, though I have no proof by vision or sign indicating such.

    In my prayers I also thanked mom, and asked Tempus to show her some kindness, and give her back the opportunity and strength she needs to be happy. I used to think all those trips up with hill with the buckets of rocks were foolish, but it’s helped me in so many ways.

    I haven’t told mom about the incident though. She has enough to worry about.

    Luke has become a good friend. He listens. He really listens. Of all my friends, he’s the one I feel most comfortable with. I find myself being jealous of Sabre for garnering the attention of such a nice person, but I’m not going to allow myself those feelings. They’re petty and selfish.

    I took the vows to allow myself some focus, and avoid the distractions of certain relationships. I don’t know why, but I have the driving need to perfect myself, and it won’t happen when I’m intimately involved with someone. I find myself wondering though if I have the discipline to keep someone from entering my heart.

    Perhaps it’s time for a good swim.


  • Back on nights again. Captain Fortescue has a warped sense of humor, and thinks it’s funny to tell me right after I get off of day shift.

    He must hate me.

    The night air is cool and keeps me awake. The tavern windows glow, and the shadows from the occupants dance over the street. I’m exhausted after pulling a double shift, and defer visiting the tavern for another evening. All I want to do is head south and climb into a bunk.

    As I walk to the Mermaid my pace picks up. I hope there’s some seafood chowder left from this afternoon, and the thought of the warmth settling into my stomach makes my mouth water….

    …right before a hand is clamped over my mouth, and my right leg screams with pain.

    As I collapse onto the street, I am grabbed roughly from behind and hoisted off my feet. I am dragged into a dark alley, dimly aware of the knife pulled from my leg, the blood trailing across the cobblestones.

    Men…three, maybe four are around me. One of them is laughing. One says to watch my feet. Another shushes the rest. One fills me vision. I dimly remember him from the bar fight when I first became a guard. The one with the knife. Balin I think.

    They’re speaking in a dialect I find hard to follow. The one behind me is very strong, and pins my arms behind me while Balin leans close. His breath stinks of rotten teeth and liquor.

    “Hello lass”, he says, a smile on his lips. “We’re going to have some fun tonight before ye bleed out, eh?”

    His hand runs along the inside of my thigh. I shiver violently with dread. I am scared, and his words wash over me, unintelligible, my mind turning off what I know is going to happen. His hands reach my crotch and I scream out, the sound muffled by the meaty hand over my mouth. My hands behind me touch, pinned there by the brute behind me.

    I turn the ring.

    Suddenly, my vision turns white. Fear is replaced with unbridled fury. The shaking continues, but fueling strength I never knew I had. I recall in the moment the wonder of why my leg no longer hurt.

    My teeth clamp down hard on fingers. Drive them right into tendon and bone. I hear screaming behind me. When he lets go, I use his grip on my arms to brace him against my back, and snap my head with as much force as I can back against his face.

    His nose bursts. I feel warm blood splash against the back of my neck. Again, and he lets go. I lash out a kick to Balin in front of me, and he staggers back, off balance.

    I should run. At four to one the odds are not good….

    …for them.

    I want to kill them all with my bare hands. I can, and I am going to.

    I step quickly between two of them, changing the position to reduce the odds. One of them is smaller. A bloody knife rests easily in his hands. I kick hard down on his knee, snapping it cleanly. I punch to the stomach and a knife hand to the throat, and he goes down before he even has a chance to move.

    Three to one.

    The other beside me takes a swing. The blow is easily blocked. I lash out with my injured leg in a high straight kick, absently wondering why it still works. It hits under his chin snapping his head into the brick wall behind him. He’s stunned, unable to move.

    In Damara, I could break a 4 inch board with my fist. His skull offers less resistance. Teeth spray the brick wall, and my hand comes back cut and bloodied.

    Two to one.

    The big guy, a half orc, is still holding is nose, wondering what this little blonde waif just did to him. He sneers and tries to grab me. Balin goes for my hair.

    I let the big guy grab me, and secure his arm with my other in an overhand lock. I twist, and my foot comes up under his elbow. A shrill cry as it breaks. I kick him again in the arm, and the pain drives him to the ground. I know he won’t be getting up, but I drop my heel on his larynx. He thrashes around, choking to death.

    One on one

    Balin grabs my hair. He’s strong, but untrained. He pulls me back, expecting resistance, but I follow his move. This throws him off balance, and the palm of my hand impacts under his nose. He lets go and staggers back against the wall.

    I hit him so my times with my fist, elbow, and knees, I know the only thing holding him up is the impact of my blows. Ribs break at each strike, until finally a high crescent kicks knocks him over sideways.

    I stand there covered in blood. Theirs and my own. Lisa and Chen, two guards just beginning their shift run up to me. Lisa looks at the carnage. Her mouth twitches slightly.

    It was then I realized, I was still screaming.


  • I’m on days now.

    Captain Fortescue thought it would be amusing to put me on days the day after I was on a nights. That meant I worked a double shift.

    “You’re an elf”, he said, “You don’t need the sleep, and we’re short handed”

    Part of me wanted to scream at him that the human part of me needed the sleep. Another part of me wanted to find out if I could beat the living crap out of him before he drew his sword.

    Instead I said, “Yes sir”, and saluted.

    It’s easier wandering the streets during the day using these potions. At night, people are tuned to the whispers in the dark, and the quiet sounds that don’t belong. During the day, people rely on their sight. Sometimes it’s hard to remember people don’t see you though, and I have to be alert, lest people wander into me.

    Yet my mind wanders

    I think of Luke and Jay. I think of Hawk. I think of Nial sometimes too. What it would be like to be embraced, to be held, comforted, made love to. It embarrasses me terribly that I don’t know.

    I think of mom, and how sad she is. How she hides it even from herself. Not to feel the taste of battle any more must hurt deeply. Tempus knows this I think, and tests her faith. I told her about Luke. She likes the rogues with rapiers, the warriors with a good heart, charm and wit. It was stupid. I can see no good coming from it. Luke is taken, but I want to see her happy, even if just for a moment.

    I think of the ring

    The ring weighs heavily in my pocket. Created to honor Tempus, it would allow me to feel what mom feels. It is against everything I believe. I should throw it in the Ice Lace. I should give it to Devlin. I should give to mom.

    I put it on.

    I can almost hear Tempus laughing.


  • Written for Caiomh and SummonerX. Others welcome to enjoy

    The night is warm, and the sky is overcast. Moisture fills the air, wrapping Peltarch’s docks in a warm, wet embrace.

    The city is my home now. The docks are my back yard. I patrol here quietly every day, doing my best to keep the peace. But I am a teenager in their eyes. Save for the few that know me, I get little respect. To most I am a child with a badge, a pretty waif with the power to arrest. Nothing more.

    I pull out one of the potions I purchased with the senator’s coin. It’s salty, with a hint of bitterness. Within moments I fade from sight and become a wraith, gliding through the darkness.

    I pass by three drunken sailors. They speak openly of their conquests. They boast of women they’ve had, of ports they’ve visited, and people they’ve gutted. Their conversation is loud and unchecked, and soon behind me.

    I pass by a couple in an alley. A woman pleads with a man to take her back. She’s crying on the ground in front him. I stop momentarily to ensure that there’s no violence, but he walks away, shaking his head sadly. She screams at him as he goes.

    I pass by another couple making out in a door way. He’s telling her he’ll be there always for her. She tells him she loves him. His hand is under her skirt. Their eyes glisten, locked together.

    Soon they are behind me too. I am a voyeur, and I feel dirty.

    I approach the tents. They are still full of refugees from the war. People displaced with nowhere else to go. Peltarch has houses, but they are too expensive, and there aren’t enough. But Peltarch has space, and Peltarch has walls. A family in a tent behind the walls is safer than a family in a house outside the walls.

    So they say, anyway.

    Martial law has been repealed. There aren’t enough guards to go around. The tents are scattered and disorganized. There’s no security. Families are easy prey for the unscrupulous and morally bereft, who are often so liquored up their inhibitions are thrown overboard along with their consciences.

    Here come two of them now.

    One is just drunk enough to be stupid. The other looks like he didn’t need the help. A half-orc with attitude. Both are large enough to be used to getting their own way. They begin to filter slowly, quietly through the tents, looking for something.

    For all I know, they live here. I have my doubts, so I watch and listen.

    One of them reaches into a tent, and pulls out a small bag. They grin at each other, and filter back quietly through the tents, and head to the sloop moored on the north end.

    I follow, and look for a good safe area to make an arrest.

    A shout behind me. A man wearing night shift comes running up the street to the two large sailors. The sailors turn, a careless look of contempt about them. The man in the night shift yells “Thief!” at them, and tries to grab the bag. He’s knocked to the ground roughly.

    My turn.

    As the sailor reaches for the man on the ground, I grab his wrist, and with the heel of my hand I hit hard, behind his elbow. His arm goes limp and suddenly, I am visible.

    The sailor screams. The half-orc pulls a Damarn pig-sticker from his belt, but he’s too slow. I slap his wrist away and kick high. The side of my foot hits under his chin, and he goes down hard, blood spraying from his mouth. The screaming sailor holds his arm and just looks at me.

    “You’re under arrest”, I say.

    The man in the night shift has his bag returned to him. Within are a few coins, some jewelry, and a small painting of his wife, killed in the war. Two larger guards drag the Sailors off to the jail. Part of me hopes they rot there.

    I grab another potion from my belt. It tastes salty with a hint of bitterness, and once again, and am a wraith in the night.