MxF Let's just get writing, already.

[TheScarletDastard]

Along Came a Rival

The glowing metal fell into a bucket of salted oil with a hiss, as the quench hardened the form. Moments of anticipation passed, and then the tongs dipped down into the bucket to fetch out the piece and drop it onto a waiting stretch of leather. The young man tossed his tongs away then, and peered closely at his work. Had he done it this time? Was it finished?

A moment's careful review, and then... damn it all!

Cyril flung the still warm ring against the wall of his private workshop. He would have yelled out, but he worried his instructors would hear him. He couldn't have Bertrand thinking he was bothered, because of course he wasn't bothered....

Images came to his mind of perfect steelwork, embossed in gold and stamped by hand. A gleaming shield, a flashing sword. There had been other pieces, he was sure, but seeing those had been enough. This new student, whoever she was, was clearly.... it hurt to admit it.... a genius.

And here Cyril was, almost a year into his training, and he still couldn't get this damn ring right! It didn't seem to matter how many times he started over, how many times he impressed his instructors, it was never good enough. He brushed his long pale hair out of his face in annoyance, and started looking around for something to tie it back with. What were the Forge Masters were always saying? 'A broad-chested elf is a rather skinny dwarf.'

That was certainly true here. Back home in Amberwood, he'd thought himself rather large and strong for his age. Here, they called him beanpole and asked if he was eating enough. Of course, their races had always had some degree of rivalry, but when Cyril had been invited to study here, he'd been hopeful that the old feud wouldn't stop him from growing in his craft. But as of late, his progress had slowed, and his teachers had begun to lose their patience with him. Bertrand was the only master who had continued to study with him, show him kindness, and now he was completely enamored by the work of this upstart, who hadn't even arrived at ForgeHouse yet!

But therein lied his advantage. Cyril walked to retrieve the ring he'd flung, eyeing the tiny flaw in its silver surface with distaste. He remembered the words of Bertrand as he'd been ogling the newcomer's submitted pieces. "Send a letter of acceptance, at once! Imagine, this level of work, from a human!"

Whoever she was, however skilled she might be, she was human, and would be a stranger in a strange land, just like Cyril had been when he'd first arrived here. And Cyril would ensure that he would not be upstaged, no matter how skilled the new student was. He'd worked too hard and long to get here.

With a smirk, Cyril set the ring down and went to pull on a shirt. Then he stopped, and tossed the cloth away. No. No need to change, or bathe. The human would arrive at ForgeHall today, and when she saw Cyril, she would see the ash and grime staining his bare form and know that he was a proud craftsman. There was too much of a stereotype around elves; prissy and clean, never getting their hands dirty. It actually made people here treat him better when he made a point of strolling around the place shirtless and filthy.

"Let's have a look at the fresh meat, then..." And he threw open the door to his workshop, and headed out into the vast, stone corridors of ForgeHouse. Whoever you are, I am going to make your life hell.

 

[TheScarletDastard]

Not All Treasure is Silver and Gold

Climb up the side of the governor's mansion. At night. By yourself. Oh yeah, every part of this plan was brilliant. It had "Theo" written all over it.

Clinging to the side of the huge manorhouse, the young pirate thought about how today had originally been a simple supply run. No thieving, killing, looting, or general lawlessness had been planned for the whole day. And then Ern had gone and run his big mouth.

Evidently, the daughter of this island's governor was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Of course, every nobleman spread rumors like that about his daughter, even if she looked like the backside of a mule. Especially if she looked like the backside of a mule, to help make marrying her off easier. But Theo had told Ern that no, he couldn't dash off to take a peek before they left, as there wasn't time, and he was certain to be caught. And then Ern had fired back that no, he wouldn't be caught, but Theo would be if he tried, because Theo was useless. And so the bickering had gone around and around until the Captain had gotten sick and tired of it.

"My First Mate and Second Mate at each other's throats again! Can't turn me back fer a moment. Tell ya what, lads: yer both goin' up to that house. You'll each swipe as much of value as you can, and whoever's haul is worth the most can keep both hauls fer hisself! NO that wasn't a suggestion! That was an order! MOVE YER WORTHLESS ASSES! The competition starts NOW!"

Truly, that man had a heart of gold.

In the interest of both escaping alive, Ern and Theo had agreed not to sabotage each other's thievery, and pick different routes in. Ern was using his favorite old move: "Cling to the underside of a carriage as it rolls up to the house, then break in through a cellar door." Theo was also using his signature tactic, which was climb fecking EVERYTHING.

The guardsmen patrolling below hadn't so much as glanced up once as Theo spidered around the side of the house, peeking cautiously through window after window. It was lucky there was no moon tonight, as it made spotting him halfway up the house fairly impossible without a big torch right under him.

Lifting himself with some effort, Theo perched his feet at the top of one stone window frame to stand and peer through the window above him. 3rd floor, now. So far he'd seen things like a kitchen and storerooms and guestrooms. None of these would do, he needed somewhere that there was sure to be loot. The governor's office would be perfect, or perhaps his-

Ah. Bedroom. This was not a guestroom he was spying into. Far too fancy for that. Jackpot. Lifting the window latch with his little knife, he crept in like a mouse and closed the window behind him. Perfect, the room was empty. Now to find where the Governor kept his…. wait a second.

Was this the Governor's room? It seemed a bit too…. cozy for a politician. Maybe Theo ought to get out of the house, back on the wall, and look around some more.

Ack! No time! Someone coming in, footsteps outside! Crouching, the pirate shot under the bed and held very still, waiting to see if anyone came in. Maybe they were just passing by. Maybe it wasn't whoever lived here.

Or maybe Theo was in very big trouble.

 

[TheScarletDastard]

Welcome to Raynesford

The motorcycle rumbled up to the low brick building, and idled for a moment before going silent in the parking lot. Its rider dismounted with a cautious look about him. Then he glanced once up at the stars before heading inside, past an old wooden sign that read 'RAYNESFORD COMMUNITY CENTER'.

Down the hall that smelled like a library, past a front desk that no one ever sat at anymore, to the only room inside with the lights on. Empty and unadorned, except for 20 or so metal folding chairs set up in a circle. The people sitting in them were about as normal as they came; the oldest looked to be in his mid-sixties, the youngest 18. They wore old jackets and dirty boots, faded ballcaps or wide-brimmed ranch hats. Their hands were calloused, their faces weathered by the elements and crinkly from smiling too much.

Over half the seats were full: looked like 15 folks in all. That was good. There was some light chatter when Don walked in, but it died quickly as he took his seat. Every eye watched him, but no eye would meet his gaze.

He cleared his throat once, and they all relaxed a bit.

"Alright people. Let's talk."

They all looked at each other for a moment, wondering who would go first. Then...

"I think patrol groups should be doubled up." There was general groaning at this. Folks usually groaned when Barbara talked, but she pressed on. "I get the feeling this will be a bad autumn and a worse winter. I don't feel safe in pairs anymore, not up in those woods."

The others yapped their displeasure at this. "Four to a group?!" "Let's just run the whole pack, in that case." "Don, set her straight, would ya?"

Donovan let them get it out of their system, before the young man raised a hand. The griping died down. "Seems to me like she's just saying the quiet part out loud. We all know something's off. These are not the nights to be careless."

"You rode here on a motorbike with no helmet."

Don shot Clyde a nasty look, but his friend just made a goofy face back. Clearing his throat, he tried to get back to it. "I won't make you double up, but how does threes sound? Can y'all handle that?"

They didn't sound overly enthusiastic, but no one met his eyes. "Alright then. We patrol in threes. Clyde, you mentioned on the phone you had an issue with the school?"

Twirling his mustache and lifting one foot to rest on his knee, Clyde nodded importantly. "I do, actually! My nephew came home the other day saying the most outrageous thing! He told me Alpha Wolves and pack hierarchy were all just made up nonsense!"

There was wild laughter at this from the townsfolk (Aside from Barbara, who was head of the PTA,) with Clyde calling out over the mirth, "Sorry Don! Apparently there's no such thing as an Alpha Wolf!"

Rolling his eyes at his friend, Donovan allowed himself a wry smile at this. When the fun had died down, he chuckled. "Well, that's a little embarrassing to hear Raynesford Elementary is teaching as much, but y'know something? They're not wrong." He looked around at his friends and neighbors before adding, "Only wolf packs in captivity have an Alpha."

They all sobered up at this. You could have heard a pin drop. One of the electric lights overhead buzzed so faintly only a dog could've heard it. Don let the silence drag out before adding, "This ain't our world by half anymore. In many ways, we're all captives. But this is our town. And it always will be. So I know it's hard to talk about, but we've all smelt it on the wind, so let's just come out with it."

Looking around at each other fearfully, the pack waited to see who'd say it first. Finally Nancy said the word. "Magic."

And now they were all talking. "Big city magic, I'll reckon." "Wild magyks! The kind you spell with a 'y'!" "I never let Mikey out of my sight anymore, magic always takes the young first..."

Donovan sighed wearily. He felt a headache coming on. Whatever this magic-on-the-wind was, it couldn't get here soon enough. He wanted to deal with it and get it out of his town as fast as possible.

 

[TheScarletDastard]

Rise of the Half-King

Talweer entered the command tent with purpose, his eyes moving in an arc about the room. Finding who he was looking for, he snarled. "What do you think you're doing, Vannlysse?"

The question was addressed to the young man who sat at the head of the table. It was a huge thing of ugly wood, covered in maps, whetstones, half-eaten lunches, and a few hands of playing cards. Some of the surrounding chairs were lying on their side, but only one other was occupied; beside the young man sat a little bald creature with gray skin. It's head was down, and it was scraping at something.

The young man's expression was weary as he gestured for Talweer to step forward. "You'll have to be more specific, old friend."

With a snort, Talweer strode to the end of the table and slammed his fist on it angrily. "My warriors' armor needs mending, but the Dwemur aren't at their forges. Apparently they're off looking at books, on your orders!" He spat out 'books' as if it was the vilest curse, and tossed his head, his horns waving angrily.

The beautiful sunset outside shone flaming light through walls of drab green cloth. The little gray one seemed to be minding his own business, though someone might have muttered under their breath, "...moron."

The table under Talweer's fist had borne many a beating at his hairy hand since the start of this campaign. Once, the sound had sent a chill through all assembled. Now, not so much. In fact, so familiar was the gesture that Halvar Vannlysse had to fight a small grin that was sneaking onto his face. And Gammel's commentary was not helping.

Giving his bald companion a pointed stare, the young man looked back to Talweer and shrugged. "They're not doing anything on anyone's orders. I gave the smiths the day off. I'm sure they're rifling through the capital's magic library. Would you deny them the chance to recover the lost sorcery of their people?"

Talweer's gaze became less ferocious, but he didn't relent. "Two days ago they were preparing for the feast and had no time, and yesterday they were busy cleaning up the feast's aftermath!"

Gammel murmured without looking up from his scratching. "Well if you remember, Talweer, we made quite a mess..."

Now Talweer let the table have it with both fists. "The point is that unless it was made of steel, I've never known a Dwem to clean anything! They are shirking their duty, and you are helping them, Vannlysse!"

Halvar raised his hands in mock surrender. "Your point is made, I hear you. I'll speak with Andvari tonight: their work in the library is their priority right now, but we'll see to it that a handful of smiths take work orders again, starting tomorrow."

Talweer studied his warchief's expression for a moment, then nodded a curt thanks.

"Glad that's sorted. Oh, before you go," he added, as Talweer had turned to leave, "I've something to ask of you. I was just discussing the matter of the first settlers with Gammel, and I'd like to prepare a detachment to go to the rear guard's aide within a fortnight; I was hoping you could recommend a few of your warriors personally? I thought perhaps Typrus might-"

Talweer's bellow of rage cut off all conversation, a single pawing hoof tearing up the soft turf the tent had been pitched on. Clumps of dark, rich soil flew to smack the tent's wall as Gammel griped, "He's taking this well."

"You dare, Vannlysse? You dare suggest my warriors turn from the front lines? The rear guard? I should gore you for even thinking it!"

Halvar's expression was as void as ever. The only way to calm a Tauren's rage was to show that it wasn't scaring anyone. "Typrus has a wife and child coming, and he's not the only one with family on their way. The rear guard have their own work to attend to; I worry the influx of people might be too much for them to handle."

Gammel stood on his chair, raising the gnarled wooden staff he'd been whittling with his pointed fingers. "And I worry that you go too far, Talweer. Your threats are treacherous, and you have yet to address our king with any of the decorum owed him."

"He is not king yet! And you..." the Tauren growled, pointing a furry finger at Gammel, "you will stay out of this, goblin."

All at once Gammel's dark eyes crackled with an amber light, his tiny robes ruffled by a sudden wind that came from nowhere. "Call me goblin one more time, Talweer. See what happens."

Halvar stretched, leaning his chair back and propping both feet up on the table. "That's enough, I'm getting a headache."

The two ire parties turned to look at him, embarrassed. The light and wind disappeared as fast as they'd come. Gammel bowed. "Apologies, lord."

Talweer scoffed, but, not to be outdone, he bowed stiffly a few degrees. Halvar pulled a gemstone from his pocket and began turning it over in his hands. It was a recent acquisition; cut triangularly with sides as long as his thumb, it was a bright electric blue. As he spoke, he rolled the stone over the knuckles of one hand.

"I promised you, Talweer, that I could win the support of the Jotun Elders, and I did. I promised you we would not freeze to death on our way to House Wulven's council, and we didn't. I promised you an army, ships to carry them across the sea, and victory once they'd landed. Now we sit in the heart of Phitearia, in its capital city, all its wealth and beauty belongs to us and I wonder.... what more must I do, what miracle must I perform, what mountain must I move before you trust me?"

Silence. To this, it seemed Talweer had no answer. His eyes were distant, as if remembering the frigid wastes of Elendhiget, the suffering of his people, and the day he met Halvar Vannlysse.

Halvar let the moment stretch on before saying softly, "The Greylings have been invaluable on this journey, and have sacrificed as much as the rest of us. Please do not let me hear you call any of their number 'goblin' again."

Silence once more, as Gammel sat again in his seat, a smug smile on his face. Talweer finally turned and stalked from the tent with one last snort.

The wall of cold indifference fell from the young warchief's face, replaced by naked relief and exhaustion. "That could have gone a lot worse." He plunked all four of his chair's legs into the grass and stood, walking around to a basin of water.

"I wish you would have let me put the bull-man in his place," Gammel remarked, inspecting the head of his staff before resuming his scratching. "You give him too much free reign."

"Gammel, if you don't like 'goblin,' then don't call him bull-man!" the chief laughed, washing his hands slowly. "And gods, no. If I let him pit his axe against your sorcery, we'd never find all the pieces of him. How would we give him a warrior's burial then?" Halvar pulled his soft red shirt from his body and tossed it aside, before splashing his face with water. "That's what I promised you, wasn't it? That you'd die as warriors, with names and dignity. Not as animals left exposed for ridicule and scavengers."

"And you've kept that promise." Gammel blew a few wood shavings off his workpiece. "I've officiated at many a mourning since we began this war. I know that those who've made it through the fighting are grateful to you. Talweer is too, in his own idiot way. Yet you still carry yourself as if you'd led us to defeat. Even now, you sit here in a tent while your soldiers are sleeping in the beds of nobles, eating the king's food, carousing in a palace!"

Halvar stared into a bronze mirror hung above his basin, as if the man he saw inside had offended him. "Innocent people have died, Gammel. Elven children, killed. Captured women were used and then thrown away like trash. I led you all here, full well knowing the reality of war. And I don't regret my decision. I wouldn't change the past. But I don't want to throw the continent headlong into that nightmare. That's not what I came here to do."

"Then don't. Don't let Talweer have his way." The little Greyling spoke flippantly, as if he were mocking Halvar's grim tone. "Tell him and his warmongers off. It's that simple."

Halvar straightened from the mirror and turned to face his sorcerer. "It's not simple at all! It's not just the Taurens who feel that way. How can I ask them to simply ignore their desires, to be content? Talweer wants more blood, more conquest, and who am I to deny him? He's pushing me out of selfish interest. And it is for my selfish desire I brought you this far. I told you years ago, I was using you all for revenge, and I begged you to use me. Now, simply because I'm satisfied, they should be too? What grand ideal is Talweer betraying, what oath or bond is he breaking, by burning for more battle?"

Gammel shook his head impatiently. "You forget, the Jotuns marked you. You are Kritravn. You are the white wing that flies home through blood to the tree. You are destined to be king of Phitearia. And that means king of Talweer, and all his foolish dreams of war." Gammel finally looked up at the young man, a well-meaning mocking in his eyes. "Hal, you came across the sea with nothing. You raised an army and gave us back our homes. Your troops look at you and see a king. But when you look in that mirror, you still only see dark purple hair and rounded ears."

Halvar turned away, embarrassed. He ran his hands through his deep indigo locks, and shrugged. "I'm a half-breed. A mongrel. My face screams it."

Gammel's laugh had a tinge of hopelessness to it. "So after facing down the Jotun Rūnd, after the Battle of Lailorial, after leading the charge at Farrenfall and surviving a spear through the chest, you still wish your hair was a little more human?! Your ears a little more elven? What will it take for you to look in that mirror and see a king?"

The young chief didn't have an answer in time.

A Wight scout burst into the tent, out of breath. His shortbow was drawn and there was a cut across his cheek. "There was a skirmish with three knights from Jera just half a league from the city. All were captured. They claim to be messengers, but they attacked our patrol unprovoked."

Hal bent down to pull on his shirt. "Any casualties?"

"None. They weren't very good."

The reluctant King of Phitearia moved to a low table with his armor strewn about it, and seized a shirt of mail. "Call the Hinterūnd. And bring the prisoners into camp. It's been a long time since I spoke with a human."

 

[bubbles]

Are you still looking for a partner? I'm interested in the Not All Treasure is Silver and Gold plot if it is still available! Sounds fun