Flash Fic Party, Day 6: Me? ME!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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

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

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.”