Bika Central

Last post

2011-02-03T13:47:00.000-08:00

I switched to Wordpress a few months ago and I dig it. I will no longer be updating this Blogger version of Bika Central, but it will stay up as an archive of all that stuff I done did. (Yeah, that's right. I really said that.)

Future updates, if you are so inclined, can be found forevermore at http://bikacentral.wordpress.com/. Adios, Blogspot! It was fun!

So You Want to Play a Shadowpriest.

2011-01-19T11:59:00.000-08:00

So you can say "all I know about shadowpriesting, I learned from Bika":

http://sevendeadlydivas.com/2011/01/19/so-you-want-to-play-a-shadowpriest/

Go, my blog monkeys! I command it!

[RP] The Tree, Part V

2011-01-18T09:37:00.001-08:00

And there's a new post at the new blog, with a guest writer (yay Hammy!) and some discussion of why you should think hard before killing off your toons:

http://bikacentral.wordpress.com/2011/01/18/rp-the-tree-part-v/

Why I Love Priests [Seven Deadly Divas]

2011-01-11T10:26:00.001-08:00

I wrote a post about melting faces! You should go read it. Not that I would melt your face off if you didn't... or would I?

http://sevendeadlydivas.com/2011/01/11/the-shadow-and-you/

Listfinity

2011-01-05T10:17:00.001-08:00

Bika-doodle post of questionable quality is up over at Seven Deadly Divas, check it out!

http://sevendeadlydivas.com/2011/01/05/listfinity/

[RP] The Tree, Part IV

2011-01-03T06:29:00.000-08:00

Heya folks, it's time for a new post again! The Tree finally concludes in this post over at my new Wordpress location. Have a peek.

http://bikacentral.wordpress.com/2011/01/03/rp-the-tree-part-iv/

Goodnight, Meat.

2010-12-31T08:05:00.000-08:00

I posted a veggie confessional over at Seven Deadly Divas yesterday, complete with doodles. You can see it here. Have a totally rad New Year, and don't forget to update your feeds!

[RP] ALL the Drinks.

2010-12-30T07:54:00.001-08:00

I'm really happy with the switch to Wordpress so far. Everything feels more neat, tidy and under my control (MUST HAVE CONTROL /twitch). Hop on over and take a peek at the new Hammar & Veldarin post if you haven't already. Let us know what you think of the RP and the new site format. I love comments!

Click HERE for fiction! ---> http://bikacentral.wordpress.com/2010/12/30/rp-all-the-drinks/

[RP] Little Boy Blue

2010-12-21T01:53:00.000-08:00

Hey folks! I've been busy with the holidays lately but I finally got a fic post up on my new blog over at Wordpress.com. You can see it here:

http://bikacentral.wordpress.com/2010/12/21/rp-little-boy-blue/

There's still a challenge sitting on the shelf waiting for me to haul it out and pretty it up. You've been warned.

New Post: Hello Cataclysm!

2010-12-10T07:20:00.001-08:00

Hey y'all, just posting a link to the latest Bika post here in case you haven't made the swap yet. You'll find some sweet screenshots to make up for the lame-ass content, and the threat of a challenge. You know you want to go look.

http://bikacentral.wordpress.com

[RP] Help

2010-12-03T07:49:00.000-08:00

Have another fluffy post before The Tree conclusion! Hammaryn has been talking to Veldarin, a character of mine, and he recommended talking to a priest he knows ‘cause, well, Hammaryn’s got more issues than National Geographic.

Now I really want to know what’s between the covers of that little blue book...

[EDIT: Look. Blogger. You've been good to me at times, and I certainly appreciate you letting me learn how to blog here (for free, even!) but after all this formatting sadness I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you for WordPress. I'd love to say it's not you, it's me... but it's you. Sorry. Readers, you'll want to check out http://bikacentral.wordpress.com/ from now on for updated content. Thanks for hanging with me!]

Authors: Me & Hammaryn

______________________________________________

Hammaryn was sure that there were worse things than asking someone for help. The only problem was at that moment, she couldn’t think of a single one. Her left hand shook on the doorknob to the priest’s study. She put her other hand over the delinquent wrist, attempting to still it, and when that didn’t work she pulled both away in disgust. She folded her arms over her chest, sucked in a sharp breath of air, and started pacing in circles.

After all, it wasn’t too late to go home. Thinking back on it, she didn’t know what had even gotten into her the other day. Of course she didn’t need re-education; aside from her numerous reprimands and suspensions, she’d always done well at work. She was often complimented on her skills in combat, and she was one of the few Argents that had fought in Icecrown. She decided that really, she was an exemplary soldier. There was nothing to worry about.

Except for the nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she hadn’t been happy in years. She stopped in the middle of her pacing, and stared at the door again. Veldarin had told her the priest would have a code of privacy, and he was sworn not to repeat the things she said. That didn’t mean she needed to see him. Lots of people were unhappy, why should she be any different?

“Excuse me miss, I wonder if you might be able to help me,” came a voice from behind her. She whirled around, startled to find a somewhat pale elf in priestly garb standing in the doorway of the study. He smiled gently. “You see, I’ve made all this tea and I can’t possibly drink it by myself. Come to think of it, I have far too many biscuits as well. Won’t you come in?”

“I...” Hammaryn stammered. “What? I mean, I was just about to go. I wasn’t waiting here, or anything.”

A fat, fluffy cat appeared in the doorway, wound itself about the priest’s legs, and stared expectantly at the visitor. “That’s quite a pity. You see, Frances here was expecting company and she’ll be quite put out if I don’t find someone. She gets very tired of having only me for company, for I am old and rather dull.” He opened the door even wider and stepped aside slightly.

The cat meowed.

Hammaryn frowned, talking to no one in particular. “I think I might be hallucinating. This feels like the mushrooms.”

“My dear, this room is a magnet for wandering souls. Would it surprise you to know that you are not the first, nor the second or third visitor I have found pacing this floor today?” His small bemused smile grew to a big merry one, as though he might laugh at any moment. He took a step toward her, but no more. The cat followed and plopped its fat behind on the tiles. Meow.

Hammaryn took a slow and deep breath, letting it out in one big sigh. “Fine. I’ll come in. But you should know before I do, that I am a trained member of the military, and if your intent is to try anything unscrupulous it’ll go badly for you.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it for an instant. I believe you could rip my arms right off without hardly trying. Now, let’s not dawdle, the tea is getting cold. Come in!” He ushered her over the threshold into a cozy, extremely tidy little room. It was circular and every wall was completely lined with shelves, all of which were filled with scrupulously dusted books and assorted knickknacks. A fire burned in the stone fireplace across from the front door, a modest table set before it flanked by two simple chairs with worn cushions on the seats.

Hammaryn sat down, sitting stiffly upright in the chair. Her eyes wandered over to the shelves of books, scanning the titles.

“Do you see something you’d like to read? Come to think of it, I believe I’ve seen you at the library. With Veldarin, is that right? He’s a good lad, if a bit on the mischievous side.” Two teacups nested near the steaming pot, beside a plate of chocolate-dipped biscuits. He set one on Hammaryn’s side of the table and filled it with tea, then filled his own before sitting down, adjusting his robes beneath him.

She took a sip of tea, blowing on it to cool it off. “How do you know Veldarin? From the library?”

“He is my cousin, though I suppose it’s so many times removed it may as well be nothing. His father and mine were dear friends, though. I’ve known the lad since he was yea high to a grasshopper.” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, then took a cookie from the plate and pushed it over to her.

She helped herself and took a large bite. “He doesn’t talk much about his family.”

“And why doesn’t that come as a surprise,” he said, chewing a fastidious bite of the chocolate half of his biscuit. “He never has gotten on with his mother. Our fathers, well. They fell to the scourge years ago. It was quite a blow. I don’t know that he’s over it yet, he certainly doesn’t discuss it with me! Not anymore, that is.”

“That’s odd.” Hammaryn frowned, still chewing on the cookie. “He never said anything about his father.”

“His father was a nobleman, quite the magister in his time. Veldarin took his love of reading from him, you could hardly find either of them anywhere without his nose stuck in a book.” Frances hopped with surprising grace into the priest’s lap and curled up there, regarding Hammaryn with her bright green eyes.

“He’s training to be a soldier now.”

“So I hear! He came to me not long ago asking about the priesthood. I was sorry to turn him away, but I do believe a priest’s life would never satisfy his nature. He is an adventurer at heart, and lacks certain qualities one desires in a priest. For example, a priest ought to be meek. Do you know what that entails, miss--?”

“Hammaryn Dawnsorrow.”

“Miss Hammaryn. Do you know Veldarin well enough to say whether he is meek?”

She snorted at this. “I don’t believe that he is, no.”

He smiled at her. “So you see how I could not in good conscience advise him to follow his aspirations to priesthood. It’s been a while since I heard any news of him stirring up trouble, so I can only assume that his new aspirations are challenging enough to keep him occupied.” The cat meowed at him, and he broke off a piece of biscuit to feed her. “Now tell me, my dear, what brings you to my humble home?”

“I think - “ she set the cookie down on the table. “Let me start that again. I’ve been a member of the military since I was old enough to swing a sword. I don’t have a problem with my job. I think I like it actually.” She swept a few crumbs off of the table onto the floor. The cat hopped down to eat them off the threadbare rug, leaving it clean. “Several members of my order claim it’s all that I do, but it’s not. I also read, and train, and get drunk every night.” She leaned back in her chair, relaxing her posture. Her hands dropped into her lap. “The problem is...I don’t know if it’s normal to be unhappy.”

“That is a weighty thought to have on one’s mind, Hammaryn. It’s the sort of thought, I think, that leads to sleepless nights and to pacing in front of odd priest’s doorways. Let me ask you a question. Do we speak of active unhappiness? Or simple contentment without particular joy?”

“I guess the latter.” She shrugged.

“In my experience, contentment is often quite enough, and readily attainable if one knows where to find it. Is there anything that makes you feel more than content?”

“I’m not saying that I dislike everything. But I am different from my peers.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what they expect of me. I don’t know what it is that I’m supposed to do aside from my work.”

“Hammaryn. Are you saying, then, that there is nothing which makes you happy?”

“Is that wrong?”

He looked somewhat taken aback. “Oh, heavens no. There is no right or wrong associated with happiness, my dear.” Filling her cup from the still-steaming pot, he continued. “I would like to pose a question to you, Hammaryn. Do you know anything of small children, babies even?”

“Yes. I lived in the orphanage after the destruction of Silvermoon.”

“Can infants be happy, Hammaryn?”

“Of course they can. They start smiling within a matter of months.”

“Do you suppose they learn how to be happy? Or does it just happen?”

She picked up the cookie again. “People smile at babies all the time.”

“What makes a baby unhappy?”

“A lot of things. Being tired, being hungry, taking a piss.”

Unperturbed by her crude language, the priest forged ahead. “So it seems that any person, at his or her basic level, must have their basic needs met first before they can be happy. Beyond that, it is a matter of something that can be as simple as receiving a smile. Do you agree?”

She frowned at this. “I guess so.”

He pushed another cookie across the table at her with a solemn half-smile. “In this world, Hammaryn, being happy can be as simple as choosing to be happy with what one is given beyond the mere necessities of life.”

She picked up the cookie. “So you’re saying that everything is fine? There’s nothing wrong with just having my work.”

“There’s nothing inherently wrong with it, my dear. But I suspect that you will find yourself in the unpleasant position of wondering whether there’s any point to living.”

She set down the cookie, nodding thoughtfully. “I...I told Veldarin I thought I’d rather be re-educated than be myself. That’s why he sent me here.”

“So it has already crossed your mind.” The priest set down his cup and folded his hands in his lap, staring thoughtfully into the fire. “I must ask--and please be assured, nothing you say in my confidence will ever leave this room, or be shared with anyone--what has happened to make you feel as though you are undeserving of life?”

“I don’t feel undeserving. I just don’t see the point to all the stupid things that everyone else does. They lose sight of what’s important.”

“What is important, my dear?”

She stared at the priest as if he’d lost his mind. “Having a goal.”

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps happiness in itself can be a goal? Perhaps you mean something very specific.”

“I’d like to see the elimination of the scourge, within my lifetime.”

“Is that the only worthy goal in life? For that matter, what happens when the scourge is gone, and your goal attained?”

Hammaryn’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll just...go fight for someone else.”

“And assume someone else’s goals? Can it be acceptable to set a goal of your very own, to aim for something you want for yourself?”

“I do have a goal for myself.” She cleared her throat.

“After the scourge is gone, what will you do?”

She scowled at the kindly priest. “I just told you, I’ll enlist with someone else.”

“Your goal is to serve? Or to gain military rank and prowess?”

She shook her head. “I just want to fight.”

“Does fighting make you happy?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a feeling of happy, it’s more like...” Her forehead wrinkled in thought. “Forgetting.”

“And getting drunk every night; would you say it’s for the same reason?” He broke the chocolate part off of a cookie and dropped the rest on the floor for Frances.

She nodded. “Probably.”

The priest set down his half of the cookie and stared into the fire for several minutes, thinking. “And Veldarin, do you enjoy his company?”

She shrugged. “He’s not too bad.”

“I’m quite glad to hear it. Tell me, do you have any plans next week at this time? I have a lot of tea and never enough visitors to help me drink it.”

“I’m not working right now.”

“Wonderful! You should be sure to drop by, then. Would you care to borrow a book? You can bring it back next week when you come.” He got to his feet, stepping around the fat white cat, and went to one of the many bookshelves as though he knew precisely what to choose. The book he showed her was worn and bound in faded blue leather, not very thick but with a very fine print on the yellowed pages inside.

“This one is called Through the Portal. It’s a very old, but very fine story about an adventurous young elf in the time of Azshara,” he said, putting it firmly into her hands and settling back into his chair. Frances leaped onto his knee. He patted the scruff of her neck.

She turned the book over in her hands. “When should I have it finished by?”

“That depends entirely on how easily it reads to you, my dear. If you are finished in a day, or a month, it matters not to me. Only read it, and bring it to me once a week to tell me what you think of what you’ve read.”

She stood up, tucking the book under her arm. “Fine. I’ll see you next week.”

“Do take another biscuit with you. And tell Veldarin he ought to come visit soon.” He followed her to the door and waved as she went. “It was lovely meeting you, Hammaryn.”

She nodded. “You as well.”

Frances yowled loudly after her as she walked away.

[RP] A Crisis of Insulin

2010-12-02T12:49:00.000-08:00

I’m surprised at how much blogging got done last month, all things considered. Special thanks goes out to all my flash fic subbers, who were so kind as to provide me with guest post material in the name of fun writing challenges. It makes me want to open up another challenge soon! Feel free to post comments with ideas or oh-god-please-no-mores.

My first day post-NaNo saw me back to no good on 750words.com. It’s nice to do a little stream-of consciousness writing as a change of pace. I also have some ongoing projects that need work. Like what, you might ask? Let’s see: Odd blood elf priest counsels a troubled paladin; Ambika completes her penance with Zana’zua’s help; Veldarin the mage eats his Wheaties and becomes The Predicament, a might warrior. Yonah completes Brooms, primer one, and her jelly jar sees Frederick #2391. Thiyenn elopes with a turnip farmer only to return to Stormwind after the Sundering with the horrible certainty that she is Bad Luck to any man she touches.

There are more, I’m sure--let’s not even talk about Ysani, because that whole situation is a can of worms I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with yet--but you get the idea. I have a lot of writing to do.

I have an awesome surprise for the culminating post of The Tree, but it will take a wee bit longer to finish. Please enjoy this little fluffy filler-post in the meantime.

Authors: Me & Hammy(Fenn)

_____________________________________________________

With the huge linen sack slung over her shoulder and her cheeks red as roses, Ysani looked like the world’s most giddy Greatfather Winter. She smelled like it, too; the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted off of her like a bakery in full holiday swing.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” she said when he opened the door, not wasting her breath on silly things like ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’. Plop went the sack onto the floor.

“He was going to throw them out! I don’t even.” Her pale fingers rapidly untied the cord that held the bag shut as she talked a mile a minute. “I’ve been hoarding them all rather than chuck them out and he’s still baking but they’re so good Fenn you just don’t know.”

She yanked open the bag. A heap of golden muffins dotted with the red marks of crushed hot cinnamon candy and covered in veritable drifts of cinnamon-sugar threatened to tumble out onto the rug. She rescued one from toppling over the edge and practically shoved it in Fenniel’s face. “Eat!”

Fenn sniffed the muffin for a moment before tenderly taking it from Ysani’s hand, shoving about half of it into his mouth. A blissful expression spread over his face as he chewed. “Thff if amayhin.”

“I KNOW.” She crammed one in her mouth and chewed, savoring the crunch of undissolved and buttery sugar. “Let’sh go get shider,” she said around a mouthful of crumbs, and closed the bag up once more, hoisting it up over her shoulder.

Fenn shoved the other half of the muffin into his mouth, a few crumbs spilling out as his cheeks filled up like a chipmunk. “Mmhmm.”

In the Legerdemain, they ate one delicious baked good after another, washing down every other bite with spicy mulled cider that was just making its seasonal debut. Waitstaff and barkeep alike watched with growing amusement, then alarm as the bag of muffins deflated and the pair just kept on shoveling it in.

At some point, Ysani’s enthusiasm for crumbly, cinnamon-candied sweets began to wane.

“Urmph,” she said to no one in particular, as she waved away the server who’d come to refill their cider mugs for the umpteenth time. “I think imma be... imma be sick.”

Fenn stopped mid-bite to look at Ysani. “Are you okay?”

An enormous belch was her only answer, and it appeared to make her feel slightly better. If nothing else, she was less green.

“Uh. I’ll be fine.”

She pushed away the unconquerable half-eaten muffin and Fenniel eyed it. “Are you gonna eat that..?”

“Go for it.”

She ordered a glass of cold water and sipped at it while he worked his way through the last half-dozen candy-studded confections. He didn’t even appear to be slowing down, and that was pretty fascinating to the redheaded girl. Such fortitude! Surely she should strive for such staggering stamina. When the last crumb was gone and he licked his fingers for the last glittering bits of crystalline sweetness, she smiled.

“Let’s go outside, I could use some fresh air.”

Fenniel nodded in agreement. “I’m kind of full.”

They sprawled out on the grass under the enormous statue of Antonidas and watched the stars slowly appear in the evening sky, eyes glazed, groaning periodically as their distended bellies gurgled various complaints against the evils of excess.

“Fenn,” slurred Ysani.

“Hm?”

“I just realized I’m gonna have to taste-test more muffins when I get home.”

They both stared up at the sky. It was impossible for a casual observer to tell whether they lay there in companionable silence or in a state of metabolic shock. Regardless, no one fetched a medic and they were allowed to rest undisturbed.

Back at the chapter house, Keilos baked.

[RP] The Tree, Part III [PG-13, Scary]

2010-11-30T05:37:00.001-08:00

Today I finish NaNo. Life will go back to normal. Sort of. Hammy will spend some time buffing out the marks left by the friendship tug o’ war and there will no doubt be some sort of post-event letdown as I flail at my to-do list: jumping back into The Game, slowly tying up the loose ends left in The (as yet unnamed) Book, finding a realtor (again) and preparing for the holidays.

Did I mention more RP writings?

Speaking of which, this is the one where it starts getting kinda freaky. You might wanna skip it if you’re really squicked out by disturbing imagery.

_________________________________________________

Rarely are our minds so vulnerable as when we sleep; we become unqualified to distinguish desire from reality and the task of untangling the two is rarely possible until one wakes.

Libby began to see the fox in her sleep. It invariably darted into the bushes as before, and Libby invariably took off after it, assuming a sleek feline form as she chased it over the hills of Feralas into the misty northern forests. Every dream was identical to the last and realistic down to the feeling of cold, damp grit under her paws as she ran.

Wait for me, she called out in the chilly air, and always the response came singing back to her flattened ears.

Come, there is much to be done. Come, the Mother is calling.

Morning would find the druid scrubbing frantically at the pots, the floors, what meager rugs they’d brought out to their home in the wilds. The beat of her heart mimicked the rhythm of her frantic plea.

Mother, hear me.
Are you there?

More than once she caught herself staring blankly north. Always north; this began to feel of supreme significance to her, that if only she could find a proper northern path she would emerge in some hallowed ring of earth, to be greeted by the Mother Herself. Her daily forages took her on paths that drifted inexorably toward the great cliffs that divided Feralas from her northern sister, Desolace.

In a breathtakingly brief span of time she’d convinced herself that it was only right that Desolace held the key to her restoration. It was, after all, her homeland. Where better to connect to the spirits than to the very soil which saw her greeted into this world?

So, when one day the fox appeared on her path, looking expectantly at her with those gold-rimmed yellow eyes, she twitched and fell into the well-worn course of her daily dream.

Over the hills, cross the road, under the canopy of enormous trees they ran, sleek black cat tailing bushy red fox, neither winded even at the point they reached the forbidding pillars of the desolate gate.

The lush greenery of Feralas quickly gave way to ruined, ash-like soil as they crossed the border into demon’s territory. They kicked up tiny plumes of gray dust, they bounded over stones and dodged roving guards, they skirted pools of viscous purple fluid that were once ponds teeming with life.

Libby began to slow. The fox took note of this and paused to watch her trot along until she got close, then bounded ahead. They continued in that fashion for an hour before they came upon a deep ravine lined with stunted trees and the corpses of lesser vegetation. Another pool of burbling demonic fluid lurked below. It was there on the shore of that sluggish puddle that the fox came to a final stop and waited patiently for the druid to catch up.

When at last the sleek, panting black cat reached the creature, she had to fight the urge to lie down and rest. Instead she circled the yellow-eyed beast and sniffed tentatively at its fur. She could smell nothing but the overwhelming odor of fel taint from the scummy pond and the sour ashy dust that seemed to lie over everything here.

You have come.

At the sound of that voice, a new and powerful hope sprang up within Libby’s heart. She lay down on the filthy earth and whined with her tail lowered.

You are needed, my daughter.

An unseen hand shoved her forcibly out of shifted form; the cat was now a groveling black tauren with her waist-length braids trailing in the dirt. Her hair and short black fur, matted and wet with sweat, were painted with powdery gray streaks of dust and dirt. It filled her nose and left gritty poison on her tongue.

“Please, Earthmother, tell me how to serve you. I humble myself before you, instruct me!”

You will serve me here, little one. The dead foliage began to groan and rustle, whipping about as though caught in some tumultuous wind.

This place was once a beautiful grove, my daughter. You will purify and restore it.

“Every day of my life, Oh Earthmother, I swear it! Only grant me the means to do so and I will be your humble servant for the rest of my days!”

So be it, said the magnificent voice, and there came a crackling sound from the earth. The sky dumped a torrent of rain on her head and soaked her to the bone in an instant; the little fox fled to a boulder nearby and observed as the terrifying scene unfolded with its watchful yellow eyes.

Clumps of blackened, twisted briers uprooted themselves and limped along on their stumps; a hollow sapling dripping with violet ooze creaked and groaned as it lifted itself from the earth and set its witchy dead branches toward the prone druid, inching forward one root at a time.

Libby felt fear welling up inside her and cried out for the spirits of the earth to keep her safe. If any heard or answered, she could not tell. Her hooves began to itch. Rising up to her knees, she tried to stand and was unable; a frantic glance revealed gnarled roots growing out of her feet, her legs gone hard and dry up past the ankle. It spread. All at once her entire body itched with searing intensity. She scratched at her skin only to find that it cracked under her fingers, splintering as it slowly petrified from the ground up.

She began to scream.

The foul rain streaming down in buckets filled her screaming mouth and threatened to drown her. It turned the powdered earth into a sinking, stinking cesspool of sticky mud. Her calves and knees began to sink into it. Roots burst out of her legs with painful force and buried themselves in the quickening mud, planting her solidly into the earth from the knees down.

Leaning forward to brace her hands on the earth, she used her last ration of coherence to try pulling her legs out of the sucking mud. She could get no purchase. The ground was too soft and her hands sunk in to the wrists. Meanwhile the brambles had finishing their lurching trek across the stormy ravine; they coiled themselves around her thighs and arms, yanked her hands up out of the mud and twined between her fingers. In spite of her vigorous struggle, they pulled her arms up over her head, curling about her face and throat as they did so. When her spine finally snapped erect she was solid from the neck down and could no longer move anything but her eyes.

The animated sapling reached her and sank into the dead mire before her. As the brambles lashed the pair together, the druid’s frozen face and body fused to the dead bark of the tree with thousands of mind-breaking crackling sounds. She was still screaming silently when her braids turned into vines that lashed about in the storm.

She woke screaming, flailing wildly on a patch of dry, dusty earth many miles from her bed.

Thank the Mother, it was only a dream, thank you thank you--

Cersei stepped on her throat. “Welcome to hell.”

[RP] The Tree, Part II

2010-11-29T14:16:00.000-08:00

Woof, has it been a long week. NaNo is drawing to a close and I’ve got about 2600 words to go (Verdus beat me after all, fistshake!). That means I’ve got enough time between breaks to post more of the fuckery that is The Tree.

Poor Libby.
________________________________________________

The first time she saw the little red fox, Libby was gathering herbs in the Feralas lowlands. Her basket was full of flatleaf parsley and wild thyme for their weekend roast, a tradition not unlike the countless other traditions that stemmed from the exhaustive workings of her compulsive mind. Today’s roast was venison, which was one of the few variations permitted on this particular day of the week.

A flash of color at the corner of her eye got her attention, and she turned her head to get a better look, prepared to defend herself and her little basket of woven grasses.

Instead of the odd winged serpent she expected to find was a small bushy fox with sleepy yellow eyes. It barked at her, then hopped into the row of sedge lining the slope above. Libby smiled to herself and made a note to avoid that particular tangle of undergrowth, lest she disturb the fox or the kits she imagined the creature might be guarding.

As the weeks went on, however, the fox began to appear more frequently, often watching her from a distance as she went about her daily chores on the inland. She began to think of the beast as a sign of good luck; she often found (or thought she found) the most succulent greens and potent herbs near the places her fox appeared.

One evening in the late fall, when most of the leaves had gone yellow and shaken themselves loose from a good portion of the forest foliage, she addressed the little fox directly.

“Soon it will be winter, and we will see each other very little. Will I see you in the spring?”

The fox looked at her with its sleepy yellow eyes and blinked slowly.

An idea had begun to form in Libby’s head over the last several days, and since it appeared the creature would not be spooked by the sound of her voice, she gathered up a little nervous, self-conscious courage from somewhere deep down inside herself and said, “Little fox, have you brought me a message from the Earthmother?”

Once the suspicion was no longer rattling inside her head but spelled out on the air in a puff of iced breath, she winced at her own stupidity. Of course the Earthmother hadn’t come to her in the shape of a fox, that was only wishful thinking and would get her nowhere.

Unbelievably, the sleepy-eyed fox grinned at her.

As it turned tail and darted into the brush, Libby felt an almost frantic impulse to follow. Only the thought of being late to start dinner kept her--barely--from dropping her basket and launching herself into the brush, taking the fluid form of a plains cat.

It is said in some draenic sects, in stories of the Creation, that all possible worlds revolve in tandem on an infinite plane. Such tales suggest that in these infinite worlds, all possible outcomes can and do occur, making subtle changes to the future events of those worlds. Perhaps on one of those separate, but parallel worlds, Libby did not close her eyes and wait until she could no longer hear the sound of the fox as it barreled through the bush.

Or perhaps, on yet another plane, one of infinite Libbies chose to keep her eyes open and saw the little fox shimmer and morph as it hit an unexpected pocket of warm air trapped under the fallen leaves. That Libby might have discovered the guise of an errant felhound and returned home in a hurry, determined to safeguard her home and family. That Libby might have remained safe.

Alas, the trap of ‘what-if’ is broad and empty. Even if such worlds exist, it is beyond our ability to return to the past and undo what has been done. And so Libby opened her eyes as the sounds of the fox’s retreat faded away, wonder and fervent hope wild in her heart, and made her way home to the cliffs of Feralas.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T12:39:00.000-08:00

I’m going to pause the tale in progress to wish you all a lovely holiday. No matter how big or small your gathering, no matter what you’re eating, or with whom you break your bread, I hope you have something wonderful to be thankful for this season.

For me, it’s the sheer awesomeness of the friends I’ve made over the years, my awesome family, and my perfectly brilliant husband and son (hubby brought me breakfast in bed at least three times in the last week and seems determined to spoil me).

If you were in my neck of the woods, I’d gladly share a slice of the pie (yep, that pie right up there, I made that!), feed you with all the goodies we’re having, and keep the mulled cider--or wine--a-comin’. But since that’s highly unlikely (sadness), I’ll content myself with raising my mug in the direction of my computer screen and wishing you a very happy Thanksgiving.

-Bika

[RP] The Tree, Part I

2010-11-24T07:17:00.000-08:00

Okay, guys. I want you to remember the last few posts, how nice and hopeful they were. I want you to remember how sweet Fenniel is to his Libby, and how Libby would do anything for her dear Fenn. In spite of everything, they have made a lovely home together where almost all is sweetness and love. Isn’t that something we all want?

I want you to picture a welcoming hearth, in a warm, lamp-lit house perched over the sea. Smell the herbs and roasting game of the evening meal, the pie cooling on the immaculate table. Hear the muffled sounds of hot pitch popping inside the wood-burning stove, the shuffle of coals and the wind outside. Libby, sleek in her feline form, sprawls out across her husband’s lap in a moment of tranquility; he is content to scratch her ear and listen to the howl of the anguished wind that cannot, no matter how it tries, find a way into their sturdy, tidy little home.

I want you to take a good, long look at this cozy scene. It’s the last one you’ll see.

Now let’s get this show on the road.

___________________________________________________

The simple prayer had become the cadence of her life. When she scrubbed the floors, each motion forward and back was punctuated in her head with the same four syllables.

Hear me, Mother.

When she prepared the meals, mixed her draughts, or basted with methodical stitches the holes in her husband’s shirts, every cut, stitch, stir and slash was a song in her mind.

Mother, hear me.
Hear me, Mother.

It soothed her in some small way, just as her repetitive washings did; there was a calming effect in the re-ordering and counting of her herb stock, over and over, every day, with the flat intonation of her plea to the Earthmother resonating within her.

Hear me, Mother.

Awake, Libby only vaguely recalled the sequence of events that led to this hellish severance of communication with the spirits of the earth, but in her dreams she still felt the blast of static electricity lift her fur and make her hair stand on end, the flood of arcane energy engulfing her at a fierce, final battle in the Netherstorm.

Fenniel may, with such information, have been able to explain to his wife the concept of an electrical short, ending or redirecting her meditative mental whispers, but he had no way of knowing. So she continued on a course amplified by her inherent compulsive tendencies, and while her decline was stealthy beneath her happy, honeymooned exterior, it was devastation in the making.

[RP] Moving, Part IV

2010-11-22T14:54:00.000-08:00

So the saga continues, with a post written by Fenniel aka Hammy. This will, I’m afraid, be the last idyllic post for a long while.

Enjoy! D:

(PS, Doodle-arts by me. But maybe you knew that already.)

_________________________________________________

This cave had been the perfect choice for a workshop, Fenniel decided. Engineering parts were already strewn over the floor, a prototype sidecar rested against one wall, and a near-overflowing bucket of bolts was placed in one corner. A mechanical squirrel was hopping around the cave in a semi-circle, chirping noisily to itself. Cuddles was lying on her back in the sun outside the cave mouth, emitting the occasional grunt as she slept and dreamed.

Fenniel was building a gun.

And not just any gun; this would be a special gun for Libby. He had decided it wouldn’t do to make her the kind of gun that he used for work, with a scope that required careful aim. Libby’s gun would have multiple chambers, a rapid fire trigger, and an obscenely large ammo clip. Libby had never used a gun and in the event that she would need one, he decided it should be lightweight, and have the capability to shower anyone that came after her with bullets. He’d chosen star wood for the stock and forestock, sanded and stained with a violet lacquer, her favorite color. For the trigger, best quality Truesilver, spring loaded. If Libby simply held the trigger down, the gun would spray ammunition. He’d crafted four barrels out of adamantite, stacked two on top of two. The gun would hold up to ten rounds of four bullets each. Last, but not least, he’d set a huge emerald into the stock. Just so it would be nice to look at.

It had taken Fenniel the better part of two days to build. Libby had of course wanted to know what he was spending all that time on in his “workshop”. He explained to her that he was getting things set up the way that he liked it (and she would probably clean it up anyways).

He popped a bullet into each chamber, and walked out of the cave opening. The sun barely filtered down through the trees of Feralas. Even though it was late summer, Fenn couldn’t feel the heat. He smiled, humming contentedly to himself. He cocked the gun back, and Cuddles opened one sleepy eye up at him. She grunted and rolled onto her right side.

BOOM.

Cuddles’ head jerked up, and she crankily roared at Fenn. Smoke rose up in wisps from the gun. A tree ten feet away was sporting a brand new and rather large hole through its middle. The wood around it was black, and splinters were sprayed out around the roots of the tree.

Fenn grinned from ear to ear.

“Cool.”

[RP] Moving, Part III

2010-11-18T06:41:00.002-08:00

CAN'T TALK, NANO-ING.

Of course I still heart you, now read the story and hush. Mommy has a lot of writing to do.

_________________________________________

Somewhere in Feralas, perched above the relatively calm waters of the western sea, a slender tauren swept the threshold of her new home. It had taken quite a bit of elbow grease and ingenuity to bring all the materials they needed from various lumberyards and machine shops all the way out to the sheer coastal cliffs where they’d decided to build; not to mention the stressful moments leading up to (and during) the lifting of said materials up the side. More than once Libby was sure she’d be flung right out over the ocean, landing miles from shore moments after the broken lift crushed her husband down below.

Fortunately, none of the horrible visions cooked up in the druid’s adrenaline-addled mind during the hoisting process actually came to pass, and they were soon hammering away at lengths of board, creating a frame for their honeymoon house.

They went to bed sore every night for weeks as the frame went up, snuggled into a corner where a niche in the rock would protect the western wall from being buffeted by the constant winds. They slept on a low makeshift mattress in a cave nearby until the walls went up and Libby was able to start housekeeping. Fenniel couldn’t have stopped her if he tried; she was a machine, and it began to look very homely (if a bit sterile) in a remarkably short period of time.

Soon the need for an oven became apparent, and they repeated the hauling process (with much less difficulty, it should be noted). On the day it was installed properly in the place Libby dictated, she baked for the first time in the new house, and it became home. Fenniel tripped into the house from his cave workshop as though he were wafting along on the scent of butter and spices and they sat for some time in the mostly-barren main room, watching the fire burn and eating muffins.

Life in exile was starting to seem pretty good.

[RP] Moving, Part II

2010-11-17T12:42:00.000-08:00

I feel really busy this month. I think it’s a combination of NaNo (I’m sitting at 23,541 words, still stuck short of the halfway mark but not behind enough to lose hope that I will finish), impending holidays, ridiculously hard 3rd grade homework, and a new blog project with some ladies I know.

Regardless of the reasons, that’s why this is short and sweet. I have to get my happy ass back on the NaNo train, like, now.

Enjoy!
____________________________________________________

Tucked safely into her husband’s sidecar, Libby pulled her furs more tightly around herself. Feralas was known for its beauty and temperate climate, but along the coast a chill breeze swept in from the sea as they made their quiet way north.

The morning started with the newlyweds in fine spirits, cruising merrily along ancient pathways made by elves of another age. The sun was bright in the clearings and warmed them in spite of the brisk air.

As the hours crept on without the discovery of a suitable haven, however, Libby felt waves of panic set in that tightened her chest and throat, stilling their lighthearted banter.

She felt the day slip away more rapidly with every moment they spent in fruitless searches and forays into the woodline. By the time they had crossed much of the great forest and deemed it unsuitable, time was hurtling along, as audible to Libby as the rush of blood in her own ears.

Follow the sea.

Fenniel, unnerved by her silence, was relieved to hear her voice and responded admirably, taking them along the packed dun-colored sand of the beach. They left a wake of foam and tracks, eaten slowly by the encroaching tide.

“Wait!”

He braked a bit too quickly and winced as Libby pitched forward in her seat. She was unperturbed, her dark face upturned to the cliffs that bordered the sea. To their right, the roots of a single massive tree clung defiantly to the wall of ancient stone jutting up from a narrow and crumbling shore.

“What is it, Libby?”

“Look.” The druid pointed up. Fenniel’s eyes widened as he followed her gaze and discovered a ledge fifty feet above the beach. Tenacious windswept branches hovered protectively over the scrub-covered shelf, a gift from the ancient mother tree.

A black sparrow launched itself from the sidecar in a burst of feathers and fought the steady winds to the half-hidden nook. The elf sat alone on his motorbike and waited for his wife to return.

[RP] Moving, Part I

2010-11-16T13:20:00.000-08:00

In spite of a hiatus from most things WoW over the last few months, I’ve still found a little time for RP here and there. Planning storylines for the upcoming Cataclysm has proven to be a pretty daunting task and implementing them can be even more difficult. Ambika is midway through a plot that will, for better or worse, attempt via indirect therapy to repair character flaws and put her on the path to becoming a more pleasant person to be around; Ysani is caught in an unenviable position between what she wants and what her conscience tells her she should do.

Other characters, because I am capable of visiting great evil upon the characters I create in the name of a good story, will have to endure great tragedy, or even pain.

Libby and Fenniel are a sweet, adorable couple, but a great part of the reason they are together is fear for the alternatives, the fear of being alone, of never finding anything else worth having or able to cope with their various neuroses. Because of this, they’ve made a choice to live together in a world that doesn’t accept what they are to each other, and it’s put them in a tough spot.

As cute as they are together, they are finding the world is a hard and unforgiving place, and there are very few happily-ever-afters to be had.

I expect this arc, a sad, sometimes funny, sometimes depressing collaboration between myself and Fenniel’s player, will play out most weekdays over the rest of the month. This segment follows their decision to move after they feel threatened by people who disapprove of their union.

Authors: Me & Hammy
_______________________________________________

Libby tugged at one of her long braids. It was starting to come undone at the bottom and had frayed all the way up to her waist, but she was oblivious. They had a Problem.

There was entirely too much stuff in their apartment.

She had appropriated a half-dozen crates from various Dalaran businesses, scrounging behind storefronts in the early morning while the pot simmered. (Libby was a firm believer in soup, even for breakfast. This one was flavored with bacon, full of potatoes, swimming in cream, and she was pretty sure it would substantially boost Fenniel’s mood. Like, into the stratosphere, at least temporarily.)

The apartment was a large, open-ceiling room at the top of the Legerdemain, with an alcove to one side that held the kitchen, and a small bedroom opposite. Inside the bedroom, four crates were neatly lined up at the foot of the bed, each filled to the very top with color-coordinated, neatly-folded clothing, towels and linens, alphabetized books, toiletries (mostly homemade) in bottles, boxes and bags of every color, arranged carefully in precise rows by purpose and main ingredient.

She hadn’t even touched the alchemy supplies or the kitchen, and she was deliberately Not Thinking about Fenniel’s shop tools. Libby frowned and tugged on her braid some more, now clutching at it feverishly with both hands. A stack of folded fabric and clothing sat on the bed, mocking her.

So deep in anxious thought was she that when Fenniel burst loudly into the room she nearly fainted. Everything went gray, then Fenniel was chattering in her ear a mile a minute, nearly dancing with excitement. “It smells really good out there, Libby! What are you cooking? It smells like bacon. Is it time for breakfast? I finished my packing! Come see!”

Fenniel had supplemented the two remaining crates with four more of dubious quality and cleanliness. They sat on her pristine floors among smears of motor oil and drifts of dirt and sand. The contents were jammed in haphazardly, once-clean clothing next to bundles of shop rags and greasy half-repaired gyrochromatons.

“What’s that?” Libby heard her own voice speaking from a great distance and felt her arm extend, finger pointing at the object in question: a bright chrome tube, dotted with smeary fingerprints, that jutted out of a crate heaped with what was, for all appearances, garbage.

“That’s a muffler,” Fenniel said matter-of-factly.

“I see. Go get some soup, dear.”

“Woohoo!”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Earthmother, give me strength.

Rolling up her sleeves, Libby began the arduous task of re-packing the crates.

Flash Fic Party, Day 14: Verdus!

2010-11-12T08:04:00.000-08:00

It's Friday (yaaaay!) and you know what that means (boooo). Or maybe you don't. But I'll tell you.

Today marks the last day for flash fics and my lovely guest authors. I know, it's the saddest news ever, please don't cry--wasn't it was fun while it lasted? I've saved one of my favorites for last, written by Verdus the emo-tree (still shocked at how prolific he was for this challenge. It really blew me out of the water).

Thanks to all my guest writers who contributed fics, and to everyone who stopped by to read their stories over the last couple weeks. You are awesome!

Happy reading!

Author: Verdus
Word count: 418
____________________________________

Even from hundreds of meters away, the blast sent me sprawling onto my face. One second I'd been walking away from the latest settlement to run us out of town. The next I was flat on the asphalt with half my face scraped off by road rash.

Struggling to recover my wits and the wind knocked out of me by the shockwave, I pushed myself over onto my back. Surprisingly, this didn't help much as I thought it would. Sure, I could desperately heave my lungs without being constricted by the pavement, but the shockwave had kicked up so much debris that I was gasping down more dirt than air.

Nina was already standing by the time I came to my senses. Whether she'd simply recovered faster than I had or just hadn't been flung down in the first place I'd never know, and she wasn't likely to tell me. Shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun, Nina gaped in astonishment back in the direction we came, seemingly oblivious to the wind whipping her chocolate curls into a frenzy.

Following her gaze, I just barely saw the smoke trail before it finished dissipating. Stabbing down from the heavens like the finger of God, it led straight to the ruin where Graywall used to be. Even looking at it right in front of me, I could barely believe my eyes. Where just minutes ago there had been homes and shops, broken and crumbling though they may have been, now there was only a choking cloud of dust expanding from an impact crater. The settlement's eponymous concrete barrier had been strewn across the landscape like a sand painting, completely shattered by the impact blast of... what, a meteorite? A satellite whose orbit had decayed since all the radios had gone silent? It didn't much matter at that point. Fifty people had lived in Graywall, maybe sixty. Now they didn't, and though no science of man could ever prove it, I knew that it was because of me.

Tearing her eyes away from the vista of devastation behind us, she looked down at me, still flat on my back. She continued to stare for a moment, her dust-streaked face a shifting mix of incredulity, black humor, and just the barest hint of fear as I looked back up at her, dumbfounded. When she spoke, her voice was one of gentle, almost teasing reproach.

"Jesus, Peter... Now look what you did."

Flash Fic Party, Day 13: Me!

2010-11-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

Bika's Flash Fic Party is winding to a close. Tomorrow's post by Verdus will be the last in this challenge, and I was so happy to host it for you all. I love seeing how you all wrestle your ideas onto paper (actually, it's probably more like cramming into a word processor, screaming--though it's possible it can be a gentle process? I've just never seen it happen that way).

Today's fic is another one of mine. I wrote about some of my NaNo characters; spoiler, Caleb dies even before the novel begins.

Author: Bika
Word count: 579
_____________________________________

I didn’t want to be the one missing out, but some things can’t be helped. All the neighbor kids were older than me. They spent most of the summer nights out in Caleb’s tent with the glow-lamps Papa loaned them, shining them in each other’s faces or at their own. They looked like ghouls in the dark, my brother told me, and I wanted to see for myself.

But Papa wouldn’t hear of the wee one going out to fill her head with tales an’ nonsense, so instead I’d sit on my bed in the dark all through the warm seasons and listen to their giggles and shouts, the silences when Caleb or one of the others would tell a ghost story, the gleeful screams when the horrors came. They loved to be scared.

It was hard being the little one at night. The days, though, Caleb saved them just for me; when there weren’t chores to be done he would call me outside and I’d come runnin’, burst through the tent flap and flop down on the sleeping rolls left from the night before. We lay on our backs and looked up at the moving patterns of leaf shadows on the canvas, and it was too warm but we stayed in anyway, sweating while he talked about the other side, things he wouldn’t tell the others.

He told me the things Nana said to him out behind the field where the old barn burned down. “Be good, mind your Da', watch your sister,” he’d say in a gravelly old pipe-smoker’s voice. I could hear her in my head clear as day whenever he talked about her, though she died long before either of us were born. He said it was the real thing. I’d got the gift, he said, just as he did and Nana before us.

Later on I’d have my doubts, but back in those days nothing he did or said was ever wrong to my worshipful eyes. Caleb was my sun and moon and I would’ve given him the very last breath in my body if only he’d never leave me, never leave me.

When I was in my seventh year he packed his things and went to apprentice at the Llewellyn Museum Fellowship, leaving me alone with Papa and the cows. “Wisht I could take ya with me, Bobby,” he said in his deep, gruff tryin’-to-sound-grownup sort of way, and then he was gone. I cried, but not till he was well on his way and I’d gone out to Nana’s place, a place marked with a stake in the ground, to to be alone and drop my tears where it was safe. I dirtied my face with snot and cried into a hollow in the earth that held the charred stubs of her old butter churn, the relics of a generation lost he’d dug up himself when I was in still in clouts.

I cried because I loved him; I cried because I missed him even before he left; I cried because there’d be no more stories and no more Bobby, c’meres. Without Caleb, I was just Roberta, and even at seven I knew it all too well.

Out at Caleb's secret spot I begged Nana to comfort me, to protect my brother and promise me he’d be back. She never answered, and though Caleb wrote, he never came home again.

I guess there’s only so much the spirits can do.

Flash Fic Party, Day 12: Izzy!

2010-11-10T10:41:00.000-08:00

I'm 2000+ words behind for today (not to mention late as hell posting this), so I've got to keep it short and sweet. Israia's player has been a friend of mine for over a year now; somehow his gregarious elf Callie managed to bellyflop right into the middle of Thiyenn's RP without scaring her off (don't get me wrong, she was terrified, but she didn't flee, and that's the main thing). When Cata comes and Thiyenn's baby starts growing up and mobile, they're probably going to have to take turns checking into an asylum. It should be fun!

Izzy had a hell of a time keeping his fic under 1000 words, but in the end he was successful and shared this piece about Rodel, a resident of Gilneas during some... turbulent times. (That's vague-speak for "they's werewolves up in this bizzatch".)

It's definitely got a high violence rating, consider yourself warned!

Author: Israia
Word count: 999
______________________________________________________

“There I was, in Stormwind’s Old Town District,” said Rodel, a tall, black-haired, green-eyed, tough-looking, drunk man. “I knew where the bastard was. He’d beaten ‘ell outta that kid, Ashley.”

“What kid? ‘Dja ‘aven’t told me ‘bout any kid,” his companion for the night said, a burly young man dressed in all black. Rodel didn’t even remember his name.

“Had blonde hair ‘n blue eyes. Hell of a smile- Nether, hell of a kid. He was m’ best one to keep watch when I ‘ad to be out of the city for a time, ‘n the kid was a good enough pickpocket ‘e could take your scabbard clean off of you without you noticing. Quick hands with a feather’s touch- ‘e was barely reachin’ his teens, but I told ‘im he’d make a girl happier than any gold could, even then.

"But that bloke, this mook for the Sevens. He’d followed the kid. He’d seen how much gold the kid was carryin’, gold I gave him, ‘n was curious. Maybe I paid ‘im too much, maybe he’d never had to hide that much before. Either way, this Seven thought he didn’t deserve it, ‘n beat the ever-livin’ hell outta the kid for it.”

Rodel took another big, long drink of Gilneas’ best beer, which in any other city wouldn’t be fit to drink. But it was harder than any other beer. “Now, I thought the kid was tough, but ‘pparently I was wrong. He din’t even fight back. He just let the bastard break him into a new face. Then a new chest. A broken arm, a few broken ribs. By the time I found the kid, I thought he’d have to spend a few days at ‘is Mum’s, restin’ up covered in bandages, me giving her more than she made that year to keep both their mouths shut. But he wasn’t so lucky.

"I hadn’t even knocked ‘n he stopped breathing. I hadn’t noticed, but I did when I noticed he din’t have bad breath anymore. I could smell the smoke again. Old Town never smelled like smoke, but everywhere--during that first cold of the season, everywhere smells like smoke. Maybe ‘tis memory. I just remember that smell comin’ back.”

Another drink. “Stuffed two hundred in his pack and left him at her door. Didn’t do her any good. She’d already lost ‘er husband at the end of the First War, ‘n this... I read they found ‘er body in the canals a few days later.”

He went to take another drink, but nothing was left but a few drops. He tossed the tankard across the room.

“I hunted down that rat bastard. I’d spent a few days watchin’ ‘im, ‘n while I did I got just the right things. Couple batteries from some goblin’s piece of junk, some clamps, ‘n lots of alcohol. Rigged up this machine, basically was a stove tha’ ran off of electrical power- couldja believe it? Regardless, I wanted to give th’ man a good shock ‘n make sure he didn’t bleed.”

Rodel’s voice fell a few octaves. He couldn't hear the pitter-patter on the steps down his stairs over the rain, that seemed to be picking up outside. He could hear people rushing, shouting, but he didn’t bother to pay attention.

“I’d done it before. Hell, the entire job I’d done before- Genn- err, King Genn Greymane- he sent me. Wanted it to be easy, a last job, before the little one. It’s funny, I couldn’t remember anything from the kid but his eyes. Those bright green eyes. Reminded me of Martha. ‘n that’s all I saw. I ignored the screams of Shaw’s grunt. I think I electrocuted ‘im more times than anything-- well, ‘side the cauterizing. That’s what the stove was for. But... took m’ time with the blade, prongs, ‘n brand all. I never was satisfied. He ended up giving a lot of information- nothin’ I needed, ‘course, we weren’t at war, just keeping tabs for peace’s sake. He just wanted it to end.”

His silent companion had stopped drinking by now, with a tankard still half-full. Rodel snatched it up and dumped the contents down his throat with an exasperated gasp. “After that, another blackjack to his head, and that was it. The Sevens probably thought some piss-ant thieves did it, might’ve even killed ‘em for it, but I didn’t care. Not a lot of smart thieves in Stormwind in those days who weren’t an older Costa. I just wish the bastard wouldn’t have screamed so loud when I --”

The front door came open with a crash, a bang, and the scream of a little girl nearly falling down the steps. Before another breath was taken, Rodel was out of his chair and nearly at the throat of the man who’d nearly busted down his door. He didn’t look scared of Rodel, but immediately said: “Rodel, you’ve gotta come quick, it’s Martha, she’s-”

The little girl began to cry. He sheathed his knife at his side immediately, and brought his little girl up in the same motion. “Shhh, Ashley, it’s okay. Daddy’s here. C’mon, we gotta getcha back up to bed--” he whispered to her, as the messenger came out of the noisy, cold rain and shut the door. Carrying his little girl upstairs, Rodel brought her to her room, and tucked her in. “Back to sleep, pumpkin. It’s night-time. Sorry for the loud noises, just sleep now, okay?” She didn’t nod to him. She had barely spoken her first word a couple weeks beforehand. “Mommy and Daddy love you.” he whispered one last time to her, before creeping to the door, and closing it softly behind him. Lightning echoed the shutting of the latch.

Once downstairs, Rodel relaxed. “This better be good, Harper.”

“Somethin’ happened to Martha. It’s a bloody mess, her shirt, ‘twas ripped to shreds, it--”

“What in the hell happened to her, Harper?” Rodel took both of the man’s shoulders.

“Somethin’ bit her.”

Flash Fic Party, Day 11: Oh, Dir

2010-11-09T07:05:00.000-08:00

Today's guest writer is Dissonant, writing a short 'n sweet story for Dir. That boy has a lot of unresolved issues to be messing with someone as capricious as Ysani. I feel bad for him.

There are only a few guest posts left. I hope you’re enjoying them; it’s been fun for me to see everyone flex their writing muscles. Be sure to let the guest writers know what you think in the comments!

I’m keeping this intro short, to save my brains. Why? They’re f-r-i-e-d, FRIED. But the good news is, my NaNo novel’s now well over 13,000 words long. That’s about 50 standard book pages! Now... I just have to do that ~4 more times. Huuuuurk.

Author: Dissonant/Dir
Word count: 212
_________________________________________

He had nothing to offer her but a sordid past and ugly truths. Still, he whispered it in her ear.

“Stay.”

She turned her lips to his and he could taste the sweetness of the candy she’d eaten just a short time before. The golden light of afternoon shone like fire in her hair.

He knew why she was here, why she kept coming back. He was the forbidden and the dark, wrapped in a glamorous package. He was blissful retreat and erotic delight. She could stretch out and be her in some endless now, unburdened with future expectation. Hard lesson had taught him that only a fool could ever expect more. It didn’t stop him.

When their sweat mingled and their eyes glazed, when she would agree to anything he said as long as he spun out this wild pleasure just a moment more, he could not help but ask again.

“Stay.”

His answer came in the silent, empty dusk. She had dressed in a hurry, a regretful kiss lingering on their lips. She had returned to the man who had her heart and the life she had built, leaving only candy wrappers on the nightstand and her scent on the sheets to show she had ever been in his room.

Flash Fic Party, Day 9: Verdus!

2010-11-08T05:30:00.000-08:00

Verdus is really racing along with NaNo so far. It's awesome to watch his word count climb; those rare times I catch up and get ahead of him while he's doing silly unnecessary things, like sleeping or going to work? Also awesome.

(Sorry, Verdus, you already got the long intro last week. Plus, my brains are fried. Would you like ketchup with that?)

Author: Verdus
Word count: 901
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I screamed as I woke up, sitting straight up in bed. My heart was beating so fast and I couldn't catch my breath no matter how hard I tried. For a second I thought I was gonna have a heart attack like Grandpa had, and that just scared me even more. After a minute or so, though, my heart started to calm down a little, even though I was still scared.

But what of? I couldn't remember! I knew I must have had a dream or something, seeing as how I was still in bed and all, but I couldn't remember anything about it. Running from something, maybe? Whatever I'd been doing in the dream, it must've been pretty tough, otherwise why would I be so drenched in sweat like I was? It was all soaked into my sleeping bag too, yuck. Probably all the way through to the mattress padding underneath, even.

That's when I noticed my mom standing in the doorway, staring at me. It was dark, but I could still see a little bit thanks to the starlight coming in through the cracks in the wall patches. I couldn't understand why she was just staring at me like that, with her mouth hanging open, looking so scared.
"Mom? What's wrong?" I asked her.

She stared at me for another second or two, then stuttered out, "N-Nothing, dear, it's fine. Go back to sleep, Brian." She still looked like she'd seen a ghost or something, though. Why was she lying to me? I tried to ask her again what was going on, but she just motioned for me to stay put, then swung the broken door closed. I was so confused, confused and scared. Was it my dream, was that what scared her? How could she know what it was about? I didn't even know!

I started hearing my mom and dad talk from their room down the hall, but I couldn't make out the words yet. Our house was one of the less-damaged ones in the village, but even it had plenty of cracks and holes in the walls to hear through. At least our roof was mostly intact, not like Jimmy and his parents next door.

They started talking louder then, I guess now that my dad was starting to wake up more. I still couldn't hear most of what they were saying, but he was definitely scared too. My dad wasn't scared of anything, though. What did I do?! I wanted so badly to run over there and ask them, but I was scared that I'd start to cry.

"...saw it, Gerald! It was... dream, I'm... right there!" I only got bits and pieces of what my mom was saying. I'd never heard her this scared before, and it sent shivers up my spine.

"This can't... only twelve for God's..." my dad answered sadly. The only time I'd ever heard him sound like that was when Uncle Ron had died.

After a few moments of quiet, my mom said, "What are... to do? ...remember what... to the Rylands..." If they said anything else after that, I didn't hear it. I knew then what they were talking about. Oh God, no, I'm sorry, no, please.

A long time ago, everyone in the village had gotten angry with Mrs. Ryland about some dream she'd had. Some of them wanted to run the Rylands out of town, but the rest of them were scared what would happen without Mr. Ryland around as a doctor.

Two nights later, everyone could hear screaming coming from their house. I wanted to go out and help them, but mom and dad wouldn't let me. They got me and my sister in their room, and we sat up and prayed all night. I don't even remember whether we were praying for them or us, I was so scared. The next morning, we all found their house melted. Not burned or smashed or blown up, but melted like a chocolate bar left out in the sun. Nobody would tell me where Mr and Mrs Ryland were. I was too young to know at the time, but they must've died in there, melted with the house maybe.

"Is that going to happen to me too?!" I thought. Was I going to melt my family and my house? All because I'd had a stupid dream, like Mrs. Ryland had? I didn't even know what I'd been dreaming about! No, I couldn't do that to them, I wouldn't!

Mom and dad were still in their room, and had changed from talking to arguing. They didn't hear me filling my backpack with my clothes and other stuff. No, I wouldn't hurt my family, not like that!

With my backpack stuffed full, I dashed out of my room, running headlong towards the front door. I thought I heard my dad call out and start to come after me, but I didn't listen. I'd take my chances with the wasteland and the monsters, I thought. Better that than turn my family to goo. Better this way. I kept telling myself that as I sprinted off into the night beyond the village, tears streaming down my face.

Flash Fic Party, Day 8: Ebonthunder!

2010-11-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

Ebon Thundermoon, a tough-ass tauren lady, is something of a Horde champion. Her player, Sean, runs an RP/PvP guild comprised of battle-ready Thundermoon tribe adoptees of all races who defend Horde resources and holdings from the evil, evil Alliance (moo-hahahaha).

Sean's been raiding with me for quite some time and I can tell you two things for certain: the man makes the most awful groan-inducing puns I've ever... herd (!), and he is dirrrty. He loves his cow ladies, but he ain't exclusive. He likes ALL the ladies, and some of the men. Hot?

A side effect of Sean's lady-love? Ebonthunder has big ol' boobies and wouldn't you know it, they feature prominently (hee) in this udderly awesome holiday fic. (His fault! I never made puns before I met Ebon! You can't prove anything!)

Author: Ebonthunder

Word count: 593

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Pawe Mistrunner loved the Midsummer Fire Festival. A fortnight out of the year where something interesting actually occurred on the otherwise tedious Spirit Rise, where visitors of all the various races of Azeroth, whether invited or uninvited, would arrive and bring her momentary amusement. The greatest joy she could have however, was explaining the festival customs of the various Tauren tribes to the “haloyakee”. Tourists.

A young orc, obviously attending the festival for his first time, stood speechless and gawking at something that Pawe couldn’t help but grin. “You are a part of the Warsong Offensive, are you not?” Pawe remarked, drawing his attention. The orc glanced her way and then down at himself, the emblazoned sigil of the Warsong stitched into his tabard giving him away. He gave a faint nod, obviously wanting to return his attention to the festivities.

“You must know miss Thundermoon from the battlefield, I imagine.”

Another nod. This time, however, he found his voice. “I’ve never seen her out of her armor, but … dancing?” He seemed to have difficulty wrapping his tongue around that last word, let alone his mind. “And in … that?”

Pawe drifted her gaze towards the maypole, the center of the festivities. There, weaving about and around the wooden pillar with a long and streamer-entwined baton in each hand, was Ebon Thundermoon. A Champion of the Horde, veteran of countless battles, leader of dozens of brutal and bloody assaults against the Alliance, and there she was, garbed in nothing but an earthen colored kilt whilst prancing about a festival maypole. Pawe wagered it was certainly a shock to the orc’s system, even considering the initial hormonal jumpstart from staring at Ebon’s fully exposed chest as it bobbed and bounced before him in fluid harmony to the music in the air.

Suppressing her laughter for a moment, Pawe stepped to the orc’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder, hopefully keeping his attention. “You’ve seen her on the battlefield plenty of times,” she noted, eliciting another silent nod from him. “I want you to imagine her as you see her now, but instead of those colorful batons she holds,” Pawe paused a moment, letting the orc prepare his imagination, “I want you to imagine her wielding her weapons.”

Blinking in momentary surprise, the orc glanced sideways at Pawe, who gave an encouraging smile and nod in Ebon’s direction. As he focused on the Thundermoon warrior, he recalled the massive weapons she would haul into battle, wielding them with nonchalant ease as she cut through opponent after opponent. As he remembered, he could picture her movements – she did not so much cut and slice through her enemies, but rather twirl and sweep those monstrous blades about her with every step, as if she was …

As if she was dancing. Eyes wide and jaw hung slightly agape, the orc could picture it clearly as the Thundermoon twirled about the maypole for another pass. Instead of those festive batons in her hands, a monstrous sword or battle axe; instead of the colorful streamers fluttering about the ends of those batons, sprays of blood, freshly hewn from the unfortunate souls caught in the path of her carnage; instead of a harmless, joyous dance of festivity and reverence, a whirling Taureness of indescribable violence.

Pawe smiled again, figuring that the orc come to the proper conclusion in his imagination. Giving his shoulder a light pat, she chuckled softly, “Be careful, if you ever ask a Tauren to dance.”

Oh, how Pawe loved the Midsummer Festival.

Flash Fic Party, Day 7: Dissonant!

2010-11-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, Diss. I don't know how she came up with the time to write one fic for my party, let alone two. Between her college courses, a full-time job, and being a full-time mom, she's busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. (Is that even kosher? I guess it's not. My upbringing betrays me. Sorry, one-legged people who kick asses.)

Like I said, I don't know how, but I'm glad she did. This is a rare look into the comings and goings of Dissonant and the creepy death goddess she serves. Maybe I'm biased towards priests (okay, very definitely biased towards priests) but this is just awesome. And kinda grossly violent, in a righteous sorta way.

Which is also how I like my priests.

Author: Dissonant
Word count: 703

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The tattered hem of her cloak dragged in the dry dust of the road, kicking it up in swirls. The woman was hunched over, the old cloth draped across her head and a painfully thin frame. Her gait was slow and uneven, as if arthritis plagued her joints.

She was being followed. A slow glance back and she saw them. Two human men, drunk and with the hard edge of those who made a living by less than honest means. One squinted at her with little piggy eyes, his hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his hip. Nervous, the woman clutched at the neck of her cloak before attempting to limp along even faster. The second, taller man let out a nasty chuckle. The heavy sound of their boots picked up, coming closer.

She could hear their harsh breath as they came near. There was no escape for her. A whispered prayer slipped her lips.

“What’s that, grandma?” said the shorter man, his tone nasal with a nasty edge. His hand reached out, curving around the cowering woman’s bone thin upper arm and jerking her back. She stumbled and bowed her head, another whisper coming from her cowl.

“Answer him!” the tall man growled, grabbing at the hood of her cloak. The threadbare fabric pulled away easily, leaving bare short, black hair. The woman raised her face and straightened her spine, standing nearly as tall as the ruffian. Her skin was sallow and deathly pale. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes glowed with an unholy yellow light.

“I said, you prey upon the weak. The Goddess will show no mercy upon your souls.”

The Forsaken’s eyes flared and she spoke. Just a few syllables and the tall man felt as if a cold rush of air blew over his body. And then the pain came. As it crawled through him in unstoppable waves, he fell to his knees, screaming. His fingers became bloody as he tore through his own flesh; unbroken skin becoming scratches, scratches becoming gashes.

Fury replaced shock as the shorter man reached for his dagger, unsheathing it, but the priestess had already broken his grip and stepped to the side. No sound came from her throat but he could hear the scream inside his head. Layers and tones of fear and horror filled his mind and, suddenly, the terror was his. He screamed and lunged for the woman blindly but his aim was off and the dagger passed through air. Overcompensating, the man fell to the hard-packed road and the dagger fell from his hand.

The exposed bone of her knuckles gleamed like ivory as the woman picked up the blade. With deceptive strength, the frail looking woman pushed the blade smoothly through the man’s exposed neck. Blood and air pushed from his mouth in a burgundy foam as the dying man gurgled and bled. His eyes took on the far away look of one who no longer sees. Dispassionate, the priestess prayed.

“May you find your true purpose in service to the Goddess.”

The woman straightened to her full height as she turned her intense focus on the first man. His whimpers were ragged and rough as he continued to tear at his own body. His eyes full of terror at the clean manner in which she had dispatched his friend. Blood mixed with the dust of the road as it flowed from his wounds and soaked into his rough, homespun clothing.

The woman sighed. Vengeance, it was a strong emotion and she had left such things behind long ago. Still, she was not one to leave a mess behind. Another word, another prayer, and holy fire seemed to come from the sky. It scoured the man as fresh screams tore from his damaged throat until they were silenced. His still body slumped to the ground.

She bent down and dipped her fingers in a puddle of congealing blood. On each dead man’s forehead, she painted a circle with a symbol inside.

“In death you will find your rebirth.”

Standing, she pulled the tattered cloak around her once more and walked briskly away, a voice echoing in her head.

“Well done, Dissonant. I am pleased.”

[NaNo] Day 3

2010-11-03T18:31:00.000-07:00

Now that the fun's started and I'm writing every day on this tiny hatchling of an idea, I think I'm qualified to say OMFG what hell Bika why didn't you start earlier on your plot WHY? My book's run though so many phases by now that I'm tempted just to throw up my hands and label it paranormal post-apocalyptic action-adventure dystopian zombieland mystery thriller fiction and consider all my bases covered.

I'm at just under 4000 words at this moment (why yes, I'm writing a blog post instead of working on my novel, why do you ask?) and while it's going to be hard to hit the 50k mark by the end of the month, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to do it as long as I keep pushing myself to write something every day. The best thing to come out of this so far is the absolute certainty that I can and will write books, even after NaNo is done. Maybe they won't be pretty, but they'll be mine.

I hope y'all are having fun with the flash fics. I enjoy seeing other people's work and all the supportive comments that go along with them! Once they run out, Hammy and I have a story arc about Libby and Fenniel that's just full of wtf-ery, and after that, perhaps there will be excerpts of NaNo writings (mine, certainly, and from others who want to share).

Now I'm going to go write what I'm supposed to write. 1000 words before bed, GO!

Flash Fic Party, Day 6: Me? ME!

2010-11-03T05:35:00.000-07:00

Here's the story that started this whole thing. It's not much to look at (and, like many others, is on the violent side, with vulgar language to boot), but it's the first thing that came out of my head when I decided to try writing a random flash fic out of the blue.

There are no familiar characters, no familiar setting. It's Just Something Different, a short teaser of a scene to give my brain something to focus on for a half hour.

More people have responded than I expected, and it's really exciting to see what they came up with--there are enough fics to post every weekday for another week or so, so drop in and check them out when you get a chance. The comments section is great for letting the guest authors know what you think!

Author: Bika

Word Count: 564

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Breathe.

Droplets of sweat mingled with coin-sized spatters of blood on the cracked pavement. More of both ran into her mouth. She tasted something vaguely electric in the flavors of salt and copper, sparking odd memories of summer days spent counting and collecting pennies for candy, of forgetting to wash her hands before peeling the wrappers.

Breathe, goddammit!

Her lungs refused to work.

The gritty asphalt kissed bare skin; her knee stung and her jeans were ruined. She didn’t care. There were other pants.

“Gonna stay down there all night, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you, Carl.” Finally able to draw in a wheezing breath, she spat, hoping to get rid of the lingering rancid-metal taste. Wobbly, winded, Bonnie rose to her feet.

The evening air was fresh and sweet to her starved lungs. There was no hint of the baked-garbage smell that late summer usually brought to the borough, just cool, wonderful air.

“Such language. Are you ready to cooperate or do you need more encouragement?”

Carl’s tone was warm, companionable and friendly. Concerned, even. But she know better, that wasn’t what Carl meant, and while it might not do her any good to know it, that was his you’re on my shitlist, fuckface voice.

“I don’t need any encouragement from the likes of you.”

“Is that a no, then, darlin’?”

“Save the pet names for your sister, fatass.” She flashed him the brightest smile she could manage. It hurt like hell. Her split lip reopened and a fresh trickle of blood ran down her chin. At least three of her teeth felt loose in their sockets.

Saints be fucked, he actually looked hurt.

“Now now, love, swagger doesn’t suit you. Mayhap it looks good on the boys down Lorimer, but comin’ from you it’s just tacky.”

“Tacky. Tacky like lawn flamingos, or tacky like grown men hittin’ girls half their size?”

He shoved her shoulder-first against the alley bricks, hard enough to peel skin from her upper arm, and used his considerable weight to hold her there. She laughed, and he pushed. Her impudent laughter rose into a shrill cry of pain, and he looked into her madwoman’s face with his cheeks burning a dull crimson.

All the tough talk and posturing in the world couldn’t cover the blood-smeared tear-tracks and streaming eyes that met his own, refusing to break.

“You need help, Bonnie.”

She spat in his face with a simultaneous cackle and sob. “You’re a bully, just like Ted. Fuck you, and your mother, too.”

“I’m taking you home,” he said, twisting her arms behind her back and holding them there, tightly, with both of his hot, meaty hands. The shining gob of spit under his left eye, that was real. She knew for sure that was real. “To your mother.”

“NO.” Her stomach flopped. She was horizontal, the ground cold and slick beneath her, mint-green tile reflecting florescent light. She howled.

The tile was real. The tile was always real.

“NO!”

Carl’s face was a wreck. His lower lip was split and bleeding and his jaw was swelling rapidly. Bonnie raised her broken hand to strike out in protest but was pinned under Carl and both of the pink-suit orderlies; the needle went in, the fight went out of her like piss down her legs, her pants ruined again, real, not-real.

“Teddy, please don’t tell mama.”

She closed her eyes and slept.

Flash Fic Party, Day 5: Verdus!

2010-11-02T05:56:00.000-07:00

Ah, Verdus. The emo tree. He's been running with my Anvil peeps for a few years now and he's a pretty awesome guy, even though he's self-deprecating to a fault and his trademark phrase is a mopey, Eeyore-like "Not that it matters anyway."

I'd never seen him write anything before (though he roleplays ingame, I'm pretty sure that written RP isn't really his thing) so imagine my surprise when he wrote not one, but TWO flash fics for the party.
Not only that, they're pretty good stories. A bit violent, but that's kinda par for the course with the submissions I've seen so far.

It should be mentioned that I have punched Verdus IRL before. It was fun, though most of the time it wasn't deserved, and he was a good sport.

Enjoy the read!

Author: Verdus

Word count: 999 words

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I had to fight to stay conscious.  For centuries I sat there, sprawled against the clear, cold cylinder behind me, conspicuously ignoring the enraged and incoherent screams of the dead man I'd trapped inside.  

There wasn't a single part of me that didn't hurt.  Simply breathing felt like someone was prying open my ribcage with a crowbar.  That meant at least one cracked rib, probably more.  Crimson blood oozed from the lacerations on my chest, arms, and legs, dripping down through the metal grille comprising the floor; I stopped counting after two dozen gashes.  The bruises were already starting to form.  I figured that if I managed not to bleed out I'd probably be a solid mass of purple within three hours.

Taking stock of my injuries helped.  One of the things that Nathan had taught me all those years ago was the simple mind-over-body power of a calm, detached analysis.  "Keep the mind working when you're injured, Peter," he'd told me once during training.  "Quantify, analyze, extrapolate.  Focus on facts, assess the situation and risks dispassionately.  Let the fear and the pain and all the rest of the emotional baggage fade to the background, then get back up and get back on mission."  He'd punctuated the lesson by breaking my arm, which seemed a little extreme at the time, but he'd been right.  Of course, Nathan was always right, just like he was always so damned focused.  Stay on mission, always stay on mission.  

Judging from the battering on the containment cylinder wall at my back, though, Nathan seemed to be having a little trouble taking his own advice.  A mirthless grin spread across my rapidly-swelling face of its own accord and I let out a chuckle before I could stop myself.  The skewers of burning agony that simple act shot through my torso nearly put me out, and I couldn't afford that.  The job wasn't done, not yet.  

Clutching the cold stainless steel of the guardrail with both hands, I slowly, carefully forced myself to my feet.  Somewhere in the dim, pain-addled haze of my mind, I registered a voice yelling at me from behind.  Words, even.  Whether I consciously ignored him or was simply incapable of comprehending anything more at the time, I can't honestly say.  As I shuffled my way towards the control platform a foot at a time, clinging to the rail to keep myself standing, those words gradually started to assemble themselves into coherent thought.  

"...don't know what you're doing, Peter!" I half-heard Nathan yell from a lifetime away.  I idly wondered, as I inched closer to the gantry stairs ahead of me, how he managed to project his voice through three inches of whatever the hell that cylinder wall was made of.  By the time I'd reached the base of the steps, I'd decided that I didn't want to know just how loud he was making things on the inside, or what kind of... alterations he'd made to himself to make such a thing possible.  

Five steps or five miles, it was all the same climbing up to the control platform.  Crawling up those metal grille steps on my hands and knees ravaged my open palms, one of the few parts of my body which had, until then, been relatively intact.  Might as well be thorough, right?  By the time I reached the top, the traitor's words were getting difficult to tune out completely.  I think he was trying to explain why he'd done it.  Yes, that was definitely it.  One last desperate rationalization to save his own skin.

"Dammit, Peter, it was necessary!  Even you have to see that, now that you know what's at stake!"  Having crowned the stairs, I pulled myself back to my unsteady feet and resumed stumbling to my goal, mere meters away now, amazed and bewildered at what I was hearing.  After all the lies he'd told, all the damage he'd done, all the lives he'd stolen...  After Nina...  He was actually trying to reason with me.  With me!  The rage began to build anew in my chest, a raw, vicious, and infinitely cold hatred, driving me towards my destination with a renewal of something bearing a passing resemblance to vigor.

By the time I finished shambling my way to the control console, Nathan had fallen silent.  I didn't turn to look at him, but I could still feel his stare pressing down on me.  Back in the beginning I would have quailed under the intensity of that laser-bore gaze, just as so many others had broken under it since I first met him.  Part of me still wonders what would have gone differently if I'd actually tried to meet his eye then.  I guess we'll never know.

As he drilled holes in me with his eyes, I worked the controls by rote memory, albeit much more slowly than before in other, near-identical labs.  No steps of the checklist were skipped as I executed the power-up sequence.  I wasn't taking the chance of botching this by rushing things.  Pressure levels, capacitor charge, safeties on the exotic elements...  I overlooked nothing and the pain seemed to recede as I gave my mind over to familiar routine.  Systems throughout the vast chamber came to life, a symphony of hums, whirrs, and whines.

As I neared the end of the sequence, he spoke one last time.  "I'll give it to you straight, Pete.  If you do this, if you kill me like this, here in this place, you'll be damning the human race to extinction.  Billions of people will die, Peter.  Billions, with a B.  Is it worth that, Peter?  Is she worth that?"

I knew he was lying, of course, just like all the other lies.  It was obvious he was lying, he had to be.  And yet my hand hovered over the final button which would unmake the monster, atom by atom.  At the time, I felt ashamed for hesitating.  

Now, I'd give anything to have listened.

Flash Fic Party, Day 4: omgitsafox!

2010-11-01T06:05:00.000-07:00

Day 4, Take 2!

I wrote up this nice thing about omgitsafox (aka Steph) but Blogger ate it, so all I have left are my tears and the tattered remains of what was once a perfectly good brain.

Who am I kidding, it wasn't really all that great in the first place.

Anyway, Miz Steph always seems to be busy with something. (I totally do not giggle when she is sewing corsets for the drama club and tweets about boning. I am way too mature for that.) She writes, draws, paints, and sews, among other things, and she's pretty good at all of 'em.

She also likes trolls. I have to like people who like trolls, if for no other reason than that; trolls are savage and xenophobic, but they are also blue and have face tusks with which to shank bitches, automatically making them better than kittens or chocolate cake.

Author: omgitsafox

Word count: 522

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Nusuth rolled the stone around in his hands. He was bored. At his age it was the only thing he could be. He could fix that, but he simply had not the initiative.

He spent most of his days walking: across the desert, through the jungle, around the mountains. Never over - he liked to keep his feet on the ground.

He rolled the stone around in his hands once more. A voice within was awoken and cried out, "Ey, mon, some of us be tryin' to sleep!"

Nusuth stopped rolling it and held it still. The swirling colors of the topaz stone stopped moving and returned to a dark, dormant color.

A shout was heard from below his perch on the roof of a building along the port of Booty Bay, and he looked between his knees to get a better view. The charm wrapped round one tusk jingled with the movement.

A goblin merchant was squaring off against another, perhaps regarding money, as they often squared off about. One was pushed backwards by the other, and his small, booted foot landed neatly on the tail of a red lynx behind him. She had been napping in the sunlight on the edge of the dock, a paw or two dangling above the water, a bucket of fish next to her head but not enticing enough to warrant a snack. With her space invaded and her tail stepped on, she quickly whipped her head toward the offender and snarled loudly. The goblin jumped back with a squeak while the other nervously scurried inside one of the buildings, seeing a chance to escape with his bank account intact. His luck was short-lived, his absence was noticed and he was chased after. The lynx narrowed her eyes and flicked her tail in annoyance, then returned her head to the top of her paws.

Nusuth tapped a finger against his cheek as he watched the scene below, short in its duration, and when all was said and done he noticed that he had been smiling. He pocketed the topaz stone, hopped down from his perch, and walked across the boardwalk to the end of the dock. A fuzzy red ear twitched an the lynx turned her head and regarded with curious eyes the troll that was standing behind her.

"Daughter of Halazzi," Nusuth greeted in Orcish, "I approach you wit reverence and sadness in me heart. Dem goblins be insultin' you. I can bring you dere hearts if fish aren't appeasin' you." He gestured to the bucket of fish next to the lynx with a grin.

The lynx made short hissing sounds--was she laughing?--and pushed herself up into a sitting position. Nusuth crouched fown next to the cat. She seemed to speak with her eyes, and he listened.

It was like this that Kestil--Sentinel, Daughter of Nighthaven--found her companion Myrra with a strange troll. She gave the two an incredulous look, eyebrow raised, arms crossed. Nusuth looked up at the night elf and into her glaring eyes.

He wasn't bored anymore. He laughed to himself and said, "Now dis be interestin'."

Flash Fic Party, Day 3: Hammy!

2010-10-29T05:30:00.000-07:00

Day 3 of Bika's Flash Fic Par-tay brings us a swashbucklin' tale from none other than the super-cool, super-wee Hammy.

One day when I live on the west coast again, I will have a guest room and call it the Hamtons, or Hamsterdam. And Hammy will stay there when she visits me, which will happen a lot because she promised to teach me how to knit and I an very slow and dumb and forget numbers all the time.

Basically what I am trying to say is that it will take a long time for me to learn how to knit.

Then I will make her teach me the ukulele and the world will implode in on itself.

Author: Hammy

Word count: 329

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The sails were blowing out of control.

I stepped out of my cabin, watching the men scurry around like ants as they fought frantically against the wind. Water splashed onto the deck in waves, soaking through those the rain had missed. The ship rocked back and forth. A storm is nothing, but chaos on a ship is cause for concern. They were panicking. I needed to do something.

I cupped my hands to my mouth, and I screamed.

“I want everyone in front of me. NOW.”

The men were startled. Some of them dropped what they were doing in a mad dash towards me, while others took no heed, still fighting against the storm.

“I said NOW.”

“Right.” I lowered the volume of my voice as they lined up in front of me, adjusting my glasses over my good eye. “Shifty, I want you manning the rigging. Johnathan and Fats, get below and start bailing water. Nate, Franklin, and Squirrels, you’ll bail water off the deck. The rest of you, help Shifty with the sails. I’ll be manning the wheel. Now GO.”

Three rough days of sailing to get to this coastal town, and I wasn’t about to let them screw it up now. I watched them run off to their various jobs, then strolled up to the wheel. It was only a matter of a few hours until we reached the town now. We were going to take it, hard and fast.

I’d never cared for the wealth. The men would argue over it, hoard it, scheme for it. Some of them dreamed of building up enough until they could go back to their old lives, returning as new men. Some of them had given up years ago, resigned to their fate. It didn’t matter. None of them were going back anyways.

Once a pirate, always a pirate, and I’d learned that a long time ago.

After all, you don’t get to be the infamous Tabitha Three-Eyes overnight.

Flash Fic Party, Day 2: Reggie!

2010-10-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

Today's guest author is Regatta.

I love Reggie. She's a snarky but sweet lady made of equal parts awesome and win. She loves zombies, pinups, zombie pinups, and preparing for the inevitable Zombipocalypse. Right now she's going through multiple house moves and stress from hell, but she found time to write some fic for us. Ain't she swell?

Not to mention that what she wrote, especially for us, is her very first fic about her character's former fiancé, John. Total exclusive!

Author: Regatta

Word count: 651 words

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“Did she rise?”

“John...”

“Did she rise Charles, that’s all I want to know. It’s what I need to know.”

It had been a year since Regina had fallen to the Plague, and the possibility of her rising had never left his mind. He clung to it like a drowning man to a raft. Some days the hope that Regina was out there somewhere, and that he could find her, was all he had.

“John, it won’t matter any. You can’t go running off after her. She’s one of them now.”

Sometimes, Charles knew him better than his own father did. Sometimes, he was too similar for comfort.

“So you left her with them? How could you do that to your own daughter?”

“What choice did we have, boy? It was either take her to her own kind or..”

“We’re her own kind Charles.”

Charles looked at him with pity, “Not anymore John. You need to realize that. It’s the only way you’ll move on.”

“Was she in her right mind? Was she still Regina?”

A pause. “Aye. She remembered her family. She knew what had happened to her. Knew what she was.”

“And you still sent her away. I never thought you could be so empty inside, Charles. She’s your only daughter.”

“She knew what had to be done John. For her safety, for our safety. What if they’d have found out we were harbouring her? That she’d turned, and we hadn’t done anything to stop her rise? Do you think being burned alive is preferable to life among them? Do you think the elders would’ve taken kindly to our harbouring? Think they’d have understood? Carmichael burnt his own mother. Do you really think he’d have spared my girl?”

John was quiet for a long time.

“Do you know where is she now?”

“I won’t be telling you. It’s madness to go where she’s gone, do the things she’s done. How she gets up each day and fights alongside those monsters I’ll never know. But she does. Because she’s not our girl anymore. She’s theirs now.”

“How do you know what she’s doing?”

“She writes. Sends trinkets, gold. Tells us about her strange adventures, her new life.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“John, we didn’t want you to hurt any more than you already did. We all talked it over and decided it was best for you to mourn and then, move on.”

He looked down at his hands and said, almost inaudibly, “Has she moved on?”

Charles passed a hand over his face. If he lied, maybe then John could finally get on with his life.
“Aye boy. She has. And so should you.”

His face was grim as he slowly walked out of the room, shutting the door silently behind him. Charles had braced for a slam, and when one didn’t come he knew that John hadn’t believed him. He also knew, that very soon John would do something stupid.

***

He lies awake in the dark listening to her breathing. She breathes out of habit more then necessity. He himself never breathes. It’s just a waste of effort. He doesn’t even really need to sleep, but she does. So he lays next to her and enjoys the feeling of her weight leaning against his side, while he listens to her sleep. She’s so loathe to give up the little pieces of her life. She still writes her letters to her family, despite the fact that return letters are few and far between. Especially now that her Grandmother was growing frail. Soon her Grandmother would pass, and then her family would finally just let go. Then she would have no choice but to let go as well, and look to the future. The very thing he refused to do so long ago.
She rolled over and he kissed her forehead gently.

There is something to be said for tenacity.

Flash Fic Party, Day 1: FUSABAAA

2010-10-27T09:02:00.000-07:00

Hello, cats and kittens. Do you know what time it is? That's right. It's time to kick off the first-ever Flash Fic Party at Bika Central!

Our first writer is known by many names and possesses an amazing variety of awesomeness. Fusaba can no longer enjoy peace and quiet, for everyone insists on shouting her name at the top of their lungs whenever she shows up; she's also the very same SkyBison who drew the totally bitchin' portrait of Ambika found near the upper right-hand corner of all my blog pages.

Be prepared to get your hate on, 'cause not only is she a very talented artist (she'll deny it, but COME ON LOOK AT IT, IT IS AMAZING), she's a talented author as well.

Hope you don't mind a little PG-rating. I know I don't.

Author: Fusaba
Word count: 811
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“Farorei, what is the meaning of this?”

Despite his stern words, Sarorick Suncaller’s tone was anything but serious. He had been situated at a neatly made table by his wife (who was being very secretive today) and she had since vanished into their kitchen. Several minutes had passed with him sitting in silence and waiting for her return, and finally as he called out for her she sauntered into the dining room as if on cue.

“I’m sorry, Darling,” She cooed, sweeping around behind him and giving his jaw a delicate stroke, “I’ll be just a few more minutes.”

With a laugh to distract himself from his own blush, he watched her as she made her way into the kitchen again, humming a merry tune.

“What’s going on, then? Can’t you give me a hint?”

She called out a sing-song “no” to him from the other room and he relaxed back in his seat, another hearty chuckle escaping his lips. He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was up to, but he could only predict that it was going to make his day. So lucky he was to have such a wonderful wife.

It wasn’t long before she appeared from behind the kitchen door once more, this time carrying a large silver serving platter topped with a roasted boar, the sight and smell of which drew Sarorick forward in his seat to admire the impressive display.

“Farorei, you’ve outdone yourself.” He laughed and smiled up at her and she returned the look with a fond gaze of her own.

“I’m not done yet.”

Then back into the kitchen she went, only to reappear several moments later with a bottle of wine in hand; one of the finest from their cellar, and their cellar had quite the extensive (and expensive) selection of wine. A crystal glass was set down before Sarorick as she carefully poured the dark red liquid into it, tilting her head a bit so as to give him another warm smile followed by a gentle peck on the lips.

“You’re too good.”

She laughed quietly at the compliment, stopped short as he placed a hand on the back of her head in order to pull her in for another kiss. This one lasted longer, keeping her distracted just long enough to let a bit of the wine spill over the lip of his glass and onto the table. She squeaked in surprised and pulled back. Sarorick laughed.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up in a bit.”

“But it will stain the-”

“Please, I want to enjoy this moment with you.”

They shared a silent smile for a moment before Farorei leaned in, eyes closed, to plant a kiss on his forehead. Afterwards, she circled round behind him and began to rub his neck and shoulders, her fingertips delicately tracing patterns along his jaw every now and then.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you sit down and help me eat this incredible meal?”

“Yes, it is. I cooked it for you, not for me.”

He chuckled and shook his head, leaning forward a bit in order to pull a few chunks of the succulent meat from the boar’s flank onto his plate. Several silent moments passed; Sarorick enjoying his meal, Farorei gently massaging his shoulders. After a while he relaxed back into his seat and let out a great, content sigh, head falling back against his wife’s abdomen.

“Are you happy?” She asked quietly, smiling as she traced her nails across his jaw.

“So happy.”

“Do you love me?” Her fingertips glided down his throat and over his clavicle. He sighed contently.

“So much that I fear my heart might burst out of my chest.”

“Oh?” She cooed, her hand reaching down to play with the collar of his tunic, “That would save me a great deal of trouble.”

Sarorick barely had a chance to take in her words before the sickening sound of metal piercing flesh reached his ears, and moments afterwards the feeling of an unbearable, burning, heavy agony reached his brain. With eyes wide he looked down to his chest to find a dagger buried just to the right of his heart, the hand wrapped around the hilt the same one that had been so lovingly caressing him only moments before. She had just missed his heart, but as she began to saw a circle around it he suspected that was the idea.

But...why?

“Do you still love me?” Her voice maintained the same pleasant tone as before, her lips still curled into a sweet smile as she carved away at his chest. He was numb to the pain now, feeling only horror and confusion as his mouth gaped and he sputtered up at his wife, blood pouring liberally from his wound and dribbling from his lips.

“Of course you do.”

[RP] Dreams in Salt, Part 6

2010-10-26T06:03:00.000-07:00

When he returned with a bag of hot food containers, he saw she’d tidied up a bit. Her hair was braided into several plaits and tied at the back of her neck. It made sense that she preferred her hair up. Down, it made her look like a little girl. The seeping crate now rested on top of a damp towel and the standing water had been neatly mopped up; a pair of lamps illuminated the kitchen half of the small apartment.

She hadn’t bothered to lock the door after he went down to the lobby, and she wondered if she was getting too comfortable, too quickly for her own good. It was unsettling on some level to see him come and go as he pleased. It was also somewhat of a relief just to let it happen. She made a conscious decision to focus on the relieved aspect of things and greeted him as he set the bag of food on the table in front of her.

“I have the shovel, pickaxe, and lye by the way.” He opened the bag of food on the table and began to set out smaller containers around it.

She snatched a bowl and pried the lid off with her fingers. There was a dense, tomato-rich stew inside and she promptly dug in with her teaspoon, hardly heeding the scalding temperature as she ate. “Good. You can bring them by next time you come, if you like. They’ll need to be stored until I’m finished gathering.”

“And what are you gathering exactly, aside from a lot of clams in the trash?”

Busy with a mouthful of potatoes and squash, she jabbed her spoon in the direction of the bowl of pearls. They gleamed in the white bowl like oversized sporefish roe.

Zana’zua sat down at the table, folding his hands on the tabletop in front of him. “Ambika, may I ask you a question?”

“Mmph.” She spooned another bite of soup into her mouth and waved him on impatiently with her free hand.

“What exactly do you intend to do? All I can guess right now is that you want me to dig up a body. I can’t say I have an issue with corpses, but I would like to know why we’re doing this. Why the pearls, and why the other tools?”

Further inspection of a crinkled, folded piece of waxed brown paper revealed two fine biscuits, and she broke pieces of it off as she talked.

“I made a mistake.” She glanced up at him and wiped crumbs from her lip. “The entirety of the Echo Isles belongs to Bwonsamdi, but two of those islands are especially sacred. I chose my site... poorly.”

Half of the mangled biscuit went into the soup as she continued, eating much more slowly now, breaking up the bread and taking small bites as she took the edge off her hunger.

“I was justified in what I did. He needed to die, it was only a matter of time--but back then I was very young, and didn’t know even half of what I should have before taking on such a task.” She swallowed, then left her spoon in the bowl and leaned back in her chair.

“I sealed his spirit into a space no larger than the grave I dug for him and left him there to die. Perhaps I should have killed him before I filled in the hole, but.” Ambika shrugged.

“In any case. My first offense was sullying the holy grounds of Bwonsamdi with a vile sinner. My second was in binding a soul there, when such things are only permitted on holy grounds with the Loa’s say-so. I didn’t know. But it’s no excuse.”

“Ambika.” Zana’zua frowned and unfolded his hands, then folded them again. “You are telling me that you murdered someone.”

“Yes.” She honed in on him with her clear, golden eyes. There wasn’t a single spark of guilt, regret or any other emotion to be found in them, for good or ill; she merely stated fact. Her soup had soaked up the last of the bread and she pushed the bowl away.

“He killed my mother. I was, and still am, quite certain of that. And though I could not remember her, I felt that he had stolen something sacred from me which I could never recover. That remains true to this day. His offenses were numerous; the death of my mother was only one of the reasons I did what I did. Once I was grown enough to understand my own power and what steps I could take to ensure that such a wicked troll could never harm me and mine again, I began to wait for an opportunity.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asked, looking sharply up at him before rising to put the kettle back on the flame.

“Ambika.” The death knight shook his head. “I have seen disturbing things, more than I hope any other person ever sees. I have also committed them.” He looked back up to her. “But the problem here is that you are only owning up to one mistake, and not the other.”

“He owed me a life.” There was that look again, cold and grim, making her look markedly older than she was as the steam from the kettle rose up toward the ceiling.

“Do you think Bwonsamdi only took offense at where you buried him?”

“Where, and how,” she replied. There was a long pause as she poured and steeped another cup of tea, mulling over his words. She wasn’t stupid; she knew what he was intimating. It had been a long while since she’d considered this particular point of morality in the whole business, and she still felt justified in what she’d done. But here was this death knight, sitting at her table and attempting to plant the seeds of doubt in her mind.

She frowned.

He shook his head again. “Then we will dig up the body. What are the pearls for?”

She sighed heavily and sank onto the couch with her cup. “The pearls will help me fulfill one of Bwonsamdi’s demands. He insists that I find a way to redeem or, at the very least, defuse the spirit of my uncle before I release him.” The cup went to her lips and she sipped, staring moodily at an undefined point somewhere under the table before beginning again.

“I will hear his sins and bind them to each pearl. He will have the opportunity to show remorse and ask for absolution; whether he chooses to do so will not affect the ritual. Once imbued, the dissemination of pearls will be a grueling task--this is, of course, an oversimplified explanation. There will be many steps that I cannot complete on my own.”

Zana’zua did not look at her when he spoke next. “And who will bind your sins?”

“Perhaps the very soul that binds yours. Does it matter?” Her tone was demanding, and she stared at him, daring him to look at her as her tea steamed, undrunk, on her knee. “My own absolution lies in appeasing Bwonsamdi. I intend to do precisely what he asks of me, and nothing more.”

His shoulders sunk, almost as if under the weight of the small priestess’ words. “Ambika, I have done a lot of things that I regret. Unforgivable things...unspeakable things. But the worst thing I ever did happened before I became a death knight. It is not uncommon to hear my kind say their worst regret happened before they died.” He looked back up at her. “People don’t always die the way I did. Sometimes they die on the inside.”

She smirked grimly at him. “I will hear and bind your sins as well, if you wish.”

He stood up from the table. “That is not what I meant. Perhaps some day the death god will grant me that, but not right now and not from you. Would you like me to meet you at the same time next week?”

His words had some effect on her; what, he couldn’t say. She looked at him long and hard with her teacup warming her hands and finally nodded once, slowly and deliberately. “Yes. Bring the supplies with you if you like.”

She called to him as he turned the knob.

“Lock the door when you go.”

[CW] Preparing for NaNo: Loglines

2010-10-25T19:28:00.001-07:00

I may create a meta black hole by doing this, but I've never been one to back down in the face of potentially world-breaking devastation: I am about to blog about a blog blogging about a blog.

Twitter nets me some interesting tidbits now and again. Today it coughed up a neat little post--two posts, actually--by one Tami Moore about cheat sheets and loglines that were immensely useful for planning my NaNo project.

Even more props to Miz Moore: the posts were concise, which is ideal given my tendency to get distracted by shiny things, small invisible objects, and drafts of both the first type, and the air type.

"Loglines are teasers. They tantalize. Hint at something incredible. Take root in their target’s brains and make them ITCH to read the book they’re talking about."

I love making people's brains itch. Do go on.

"They’re also ridiculously daunting for the writer who is trying to distill their 100,000 word novel into a travel-sized package."

Daunting? Wait a minute, hold the phone. You mean this will be work?

I wasn't deterred for long (only about 2.17 seconds, if I recall correctly). My desire to see whether I had enough information about my plot to make a successful logline far outweighed my desire to continue sitting around, creating a miniature intellectual void.

The original logline formula for this exercise came from Miss Snark's First Victim.

"When [MAIN CHARACTER] [INCITING INCIDENT], he [CONFLICT]. And if he doesn't [GOAL], he will [CONSEQUENCES]."

I set to work and here's what I got out of it:

"Abandoned by the rest of her search party in the middle of the Bironian steppes, amateur psychic archaeologist Roberta Skellis must continue to hunt for her older brother and his missing excavation team alone. Just when her explorations yield what could be the most important discovery of the age, a competing archaeologist and his crew threaten to scoop her victory right out from under her feet. Roberta must choose between her brother, an unexpected admirer who is not what he seems, and the discovery of a lifetime in a grueling race to the finish."

Now you all know the basic plot and I'll look like an ass if I chicken out; I think that's how these things are supposed to work?

Tomorrow I'll be working on my cheat sheets. Roberta needs a bit of fleshing-out and my antagonist needs a name (among other things). Tami's blog is definitely going to be on my reference list for the next month or so!

What's your logline?