MxF Worlds of Words

[This godless endeavor]

Worlds of Words​

Hello there! Thanks for taking the time to read my humble request page. I'm a veteran roleplayer of 10+ years looking for a small handful of talented and invested female partners to build worlds of awesome with.

(Don't end sentences with a preposition... with whom to build worlds of awesome!)

Okay, with my self-conscious writing correction out of the way...

I'm probably not compatible with many or most of the players in this forum... that said, I'm certainly not implying that I'm difficult to play with (ugh). On the contrary, I believe myself as very open and collaborative... however, my tastes and approach have been instilled upon my being by years of stubbornness and habit. When I do find the right partner, however, magic often happens, which is easily worth the pursuit. See below for a list of considerations:

1. I savor the opportunity to write my own prompts. They usually involve an embellished sci-fi or fantasy-oriented backdrop, but rest assured that my ultimate goal is developing a chemistry between our characters. I'd describe my personal style as detailed and introspective without being tedious. My aim is efficiency while at the same time allowing some indulgence towards world-building. (I get an absolute kick when a partner dives into one of my prompts and runs with it... there's no quicker way to my heart. I'll also happily do the same with a partner's idea if it speaks to me.)
   
   
2. The hanky panks. Like any red-blooded male of the species homo erectus, I like sex... a lot. I like thinking about it, talking about it, and partaking in it when the stars align. However, incorporating sexual acts into my creative pieces is a bit of a chore for me. My skill level hovers around average, and my mental library of descriptors is lacking in ways to insert object A into object B. I will invest and indulge myself when a narrative culminates towards the naked body tango, and I do quite enjoy when it feels spontaneous and natural. However, my interests lend themselves more towards sustained tension, teasing and being teased, keeping that fiery ache alive. Sometimes the journey is livelier than the destination, right? Gives me something to dwell upon at night.
   
   
3. My taste in genre is kind of wide. I generally shy away from established properties in movies or video games... I find more satisfaction through building from the ground up without any pre-determined characters or story arcs. (There is one notable exception: I've been playing the hell out of Bloodstained: Curse of the Moon lately, so if any interested parties wanted to pursue a roleplay in that arena, I'd be hella interested.) See below for a list of genres that I really enjoy.
   
   
4. I really don't have a general amount of text I adhere to for my posts. Sometimes it's a few paragraphs, sometimes it's two thousand words (or more)! I occasionally explore my character's past with time jumps, which supplies an added bit of lore and world-building that is difficult for me to achieve otherwise. I adore the feeling of writing a novel-esque work with my partner, so I try not to self-impose any limitations to how much I should write.
   
   
5. I generally do not supply a face claim for my characters, as I have too much fun trying to portray my character's physical traits through the written word (hopefully fueling your imagination to do the rest). If asked nicely, however, I will see what I can do.
   
   
6. Enlighten me! What sort of habits constitute your personal writing process? I think I'm a decent writer, but certainly not a natural one. I'm drawn to sculpted wordsmithing which has obviously infused with copious amounts of TLC (thought, liveliness, and craft). Often I find myself starting in the middle or the end of a narrative, making sure to fully utilize inspiration when it hits me. I'm not a grammar Nudnik (lord knows I occasionally make mistakes) but the fundamentals should be honored and applied.
   6.1*** I also enjoy OOC communication with my partner to determine story arcs, plot progressions and changes of setting... sometimes that's just as fun as RP itself!

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Genres that float my yacht:

• Noir
• Supernatural
• Science Fiction
• Post-Apocalyptic
• Fantasy
• Any mixture of above

...

Hoo boy, I try to be somewhat succinct and just look at this mess now! There's a slew of prompts for you to explore beyond this introduction if you so choose. I'm also working on a few new entries behind the scenes, which could be helped to the finish line with the right collaborator:

The Groundsman: An unassuming, mute gardener in a world of magic and dragons discovers the scientific formula to neutralize the essence of manna and upend the nature of existence... your character is a royal family's servant quietly developing her own spell-casting abilities... who is either fascinated or horrified by the discovery, setting in motion an ethical dilemma of sorts: To change or not change the world?

The Hellbringer: Sorta inspired by Bloodstained... Two adventurers bound by oath set out to conquer their world's demon lords. Love naturally begins to stir between them, complicated by the promise of a curse's damnation... and the revelations of parallel lives. A literal castle of horrors awaits with its labyrinth towards the Demon King... but will their affections ultimately undermine the world's bid for freedom from the ultimate evil? Your character could be a huntress, sorceress, a demoness betrayer... whatever you like!
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***I try to post at LEAST once a week per roleplay. Life does occasionally get in the way, but my habit is to keep my life's responsibilities lean in order to have plenty of time for my creative pursuits. My goal is now to be more responsive and open with my partners when things do come up. With the winter season now shifting towards the coldest and darkest days of the year, I'd like to find that warm magic once more...

***As far my ideal partner... feisty but ultimately submissive might be the best combination of traits. I like to earn my dominance with someone who won't make it easy for me.

A little about me: I'm a web designer living near the east coast waters of the US of A. I went to school for drawing and painting, and still do when I have time. My favorite musician is Devin Townsend, and my favorite author is Stephen King. Three movies I never get tired of watching are Jacob's Ladder, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Full Metal Jacket. I work out with my awesome trainer three times a week, and I don't drink or smoke. That's it for now!

If any of this resonates with you, don't hesitate to reach out with any questions or comments you might have. I try to be prompt with responses to inquiries. Again, thanks so much for reading. Let's build worlds of words!

《 The Princess and the King 》 《 How the Mighty Have Fallen 》 《 Bag and Tag 》 《 Liquid Evolution 》 《 The HellHunter & the Demoness 》 《 Antimanna 》 《 The Vagabond & the Princess 》 《 The Groundsman 》 《 The Shadow Prince 》 《 The Witch Hunter 》

• Thanks for taking the time to read! My apologies for the uninspired title; I'm not the best at naming my own works. I'm looking for a submissive but feisty female partner to share and develop this prompt with me to epic proportions. Let me know if you're interested. It's a bit long so be warned...
  
  
  The Princess and the King
  —Story Prompt—​
  _________
  
  Kingdom Xårełl, and stalwart King with power craved.
  Forbidden explorations through blackened magic's aid;
  Weapons stolen throughout the streams of place and time;
  Helpless Gods against their own ancient blessing of mind.
  _________
  
  The proud and enduring kingdom of Ŝhanthah was overrun in less than a day. King Xårełlęi's forces charged forward towards its stronghold from perilous terrain serving as beds of bones for ancient conquests that fell woefully short. Castle walls were scaled with the ease of gravitational instruments; metallic birds rained fire with hellish shrieks to neutralize turrets; impenetrable tanks rapidly dispersed soldiers towards towns and villages. The brazen colors of Xårełl's flag quickly claimed the winds once belonged to its displaced predecessor, reflecting the dominance of the invasion.
  
  Despite the frightful domination by Xårełl's military, there had been surprisingly little bloodshed. Ŝhanthah's subjugation had been so swift that its defenses had desperate little time to grasp their dire predicament, much less alert and mobilize their armies. The sole exception to this mercy was the military. Ŝhanthah generals and other high-ranking officials were promptly executed, albeit in accordance with Ŝhanthah's own humane policies.
  
  Diplomatic tactics by Xårełl's king were quickly implemented to best maintain order during the turbulent period of transition. Many of these were based around the emphasis on seamless integration of economy and culture between the two kingdoms. Amidst the shock of their kingdom's hapless surrender, merchants were allowed to resume business upon submitting an oath of consonance to their district's representative. Women and children were, for the most part, spared any maliciousness or exploitation.
  
  Ŝhanthah's stronghold, however, was handled with much more forceful discretion and tactical secrecy. There were many influential noble and political families who were quickly captured and escorted to unknown locations, meant to douse the flame of rebellion. Labour camps were presumed to be involved in their fates, or worse. The quarters of Ŝhanthah's King and Queen were claimed and cordoned, with quiet rumors grieving a pair of hooded figures hastily marched towards the gallows.
  _________
  
  Princess Ŝhanthea was one of the few nobles whose fate was privy to the kingdom's general populace. She was well looked after, though rarely seen beyond the interior walls of her fallen castle. Escorts of soldiers always accompanied the Princess when her appearance in public was required. Her prepared speeches were always stiffly recited with seething resentment. Yet she served her purpose as an incumbent figurehead meant to express Xårełlęi's intentions towards peaceful integration. Though King Xårełlęi arrived as a conqueror, his role now shifted inexorably towards peacemaker.
  
  Indeed, as the dust of conquest settled, Princess Ŝhanthea proved to be an unlikely thorn in Xårełlęi's side. Somehow, despite the strict regulation of publicized reports on the happenings within the occupied stronghold of Ŝhanthah, the Princess' defiance kindled periodic rebellions and served to fuel an undercurrent of insurgency. This lingering nuisance prompted efforts by Xårełlęi to somehow bridge the chasm between them.
  
  Mandatory evening dinners paired the Princess with Ŝhanthah's new king in dining halls. Forced conversations soured far beyond their initial awkwardness, to the point of hopelessness. In silent desperation, King Xårełlęi decided he would alter his approach as his elite guard escorted her grudging demeanor to their evening banquet.
  _________
  
  The dishes were exquisite as always, prepared by King Xårełlęi's personal chefs. As the setting sun carved yellow lines through the castle's barred windows onto the large, oblong table reserved for dining nobility, the Princess sat on the opposite end from Xårełlęi, shielding her eyes from his. She had refused to eat in stubborn protest, and now the delicate drape of skin across her neck distinguishing well-nourished royalty was gone, though her voluptuous figure remained.
  
  King Xårełlęi, on the other hand, seemed to look more robust by the hour. Perhaps it was the glow of conquest and satisfaction. His resonating voice bellowed commands from afar to his storming armies; to those near and close, now that the war was done, his discourse rolled like distant thunder.
  
  ...
  
  He was tall with a soldier's physique, though many edges were softened with the spoils of victory and indulgence. Dark wavy hair trailed down to a thin beard that framed a square, chiseled jawline. There was a curious scar visible across his left cheek, trailing up to his left eye. His skin tone was a soft olive, reddened a bit from the sun's summertime assault as lands were conquered and terrain was traversed. His indigo eyes matched the dark blue uniform adorned with buttons, cuffs and collars of maroon and gold.
  
  King Xårełlęi, in an unconventional gesture, dismissed his dignitaries so that he and the Princess could be left alone in the dining hall. He then turned his attention to the matter at hand and with a sigh, began to speak.
  
  "Alas, I believe these dinners weren't the opportunities for civil discussion I hoped they would be." His words offered concession and magnanimity.
  
  The Princess remained still, staring blankly at her empty plate. "Civil? You?" she said with a scoff.
  
  "I can be as such, yes." The twitch of a smile emerged on his face. "As can my people. As can conquest be instead a blessing, coinciding with God's plan." Ŝhanthea said nothing. Xårełlęi continued.
  
  "Your people are thriving once more. Only now, with the stability of my abundant empire backing them." He gestured towards the window with his hand, palm open. "Famines and droughts will never again befall this land. Our efforts..."
  
  "We were doing well enough without you." The Princess looked up briefly after her curt interruption, her eyes ablaze with accusation.
  
  "Were you? My agents informed me otherwise." Xårełlęi shifted as he sat up in his seat, his eagerness to pursue the topic brimming to the surface.
  
  "Agents?" The Princess hated the twinge of interest in her own voice.
  
  "Quite a few, actually. All returned similar reports." Xårełlęi leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "Hunger was becoming more and more prevalent amongst your people. Diseases came and went, only to come again."
  
  "Don't you see the dire necessity of our integration?" Xårełlęi implored with the briefest crack in his voice. "If you can somehow look past..."
  
  "Look past?" The Princess lifted from her seat with a shudder of anger. "Look past the atrocities your army inflicted upon my kingdom? Your facade as some kind of peacemaker is beyond embarrassing. Peacemakers do not impose themselves, do not displace families, do not execute Kings..." A tear welled with the last emphasis, her eyes meeting Xårełlęi with key ferocity.
  
  Xårełlęi's gaze flickered a realization, or perhaps a confirmation of suspicions. "Ah yes. Your father. I did suspect that I would never secure forgiveness for my necessary maneuvers to ensure the stability of our entwined kingdoms. But towards the latter point..."
  
  He reached into his coat and retrieved what looked to be a small, sealed envelope. Ŝhanthea's name was addressed in unmistakably fresh ink. That, and a familiar script... the unmistakable writing of her mother.
  
  "Yes, she's alive. Your mother and father both." Xårełlęi reached towards the Princess with the envelope, offering it with the hesitation of conditionality. "Though far from here for the time being. You'll see them again in time... if henceforth you cooperate with my kingdom's goals."
  _________
  
  Thanks for hanging in there! This was without a doubt my most lengthy prompt to date. Please introduce yourself with a character description and indulge yourself. Names are tentative if you'd like to change them.
• How the Mighty Have Fallen
  —Story Prompt—​
  
  Charles' knees throbbed their familiar aches as he trudged doggedly towards the end of Sa'avs Pass. His boots greedily clung to mud and clay as an animated crosshatch of rain traced the contour of his cloak. He had been traveling for days, stopping only to fetch water and relieve himself, and fatigue was finally displacing his perseverance. The weight of the cargo snugly strapped to his sides proved to be every bit the nuisance that Charles had expected. A tall glass of ale will be your reward once the transaction is complete, he reassured himself, and the promise of a warm bed at an inn fueled him for the last leg of his journey.
  
  Crossing paths with nameless travelers became a more and more common occurrence as the town of Chuthan drew nearer. His thoughts drifted aimlessly, as they often would during long journeys, until the approaching sound of clacking hooves focused his senses with a jolt. His hand gripped tightly around the hilt of his concealed rapier as the silhouette of a horse-drawn carriage appeared against the lingering fog. It slowly lumbered past until the sound of rainfall overtook its creaky wooden wheels in the distance behind him. With a breath, he relinquished his weapon and allowed himself to relax.
  
  How did things ever come to this? Charles often wondered, but never in a resentful way. It wasn't much too long ago that he was dubbed the Shining Savior. Charles the Invincible. The Chosen Champion. These were the titles which helped to forge the path of his childhood towards his final confrontation with the evil Emperor Raven Da'Routh as a scant seventeen-year-old. He was victorious in the end, as prophesized. Bloodied but victorious. He observed with introspective analysis that his journey had almost felt at times like he was going through the motions. With the world's confidence backing him, how could he fail? The celebrations were long and joyous, the erected statues grand and visionary, the women loose and insatiable. Yet his mind drifted even as his desires were thoroughly quenched, comparing the befores and afters of a world where 'good' prevailed and seeing no discernible difference.
  
  What were you truly fighting for, oh Great Defender? His father might ask if he were still alive, the same bureaucrat father who wholeheartedly rejected his son's predestination. The opportunity for people to govern themselves? Surely now you see how unruly the common masses are on their own. He shook his head with a snort, conceding a half-hearted agreement with the flesh and blood which abandoned him. The world was quick to dismiss their hero, of course, when Charles cynically exiled himself from the public eye. Now, many years later, he was smuggling drugs across arbitrary borderlines, earning his keep by ensuring the availability of a synthetic drug for wealthy socialites to douse away their sorrows. An honest dishonest living, he reconciled with quiet justification.
  
  The unmistakable rumbling of a gas-powered engine tensed the air once again. A merchant's motorcar this time, parting its way through the incessant mist. It carried a sense of looming confrontation, even as it disappeared behind Charles' peripheral vision. His eyes and ears steeled themselves for the inevitable.
  
  "Halt!" A voice commanded, disregarding the fact that Charles already stood frozen in his tracks. "Surrender yourself now. Forfeit your goods without delay and forego your death!" Charles' shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh, prompting two cloaked bandits to rapidly converge upon his position with their weapons drawn. He sidestepped them easily and made light work of them with his rapier, their bodies collapsing upon the rain-soaked earth with a soft thud. He swiftly turned to meet the motorcar and was faced with a large cannon, still mostly covered in tarp, aimed at his center mass.
  
  "Last chance!" the voice called again from somewhere within the humid dark. A grunt escaped Charles's lips before he unsheathed his sword and swiped upward with one fluid motion—the same motion which felled the Emperor endless years ago—and the motorcar split into two with a smoldering crack. The scamper of footsteps fleeing into the woods finalized his victory, and Charles reassigned his focus while retiring his sword. The beady yellow lights from the approaching town beckoned, and his weary legs eased their demands. He sifted through the empty square towards the local saloon, passing a defaced, moss-ridden equestrian statue of himself without a second glance.
  
  As a male in Rahven Rahz, you have the choice to be perpetually aroused, or not at all. Charles was reminded of his father's narrow-eyed observation as two bubbly, scantily-clad waitresses flanked him in greeting within the saloon. Even as their breasts happily bounced against his shoulders, he maintained his blank, unrelenting stare. They asked in unison if they could tend to his cloak, prompting a slow nod of approval. His modest attire saw light for the first time in days—a faded plaid shirt, jeans with patches of discoloration, and brown boots cracking down the seams. Charles' dark hair and eyes seemed understated against the wash of color prevalent amongst the other patrons of the saloon. Even his 6'2'' frame was meager compared to other humans—and he preferred it that way.
  
  He surveyed the area and made quick mental notes of his surroundings. A piano player in the corner. Two large ogres cornering a woman with ominous intentions. A large gathering of patrons, hooting and hollering around what seemed to be a sex show. Eventually, he spotted his contact. Charles nonchalantly seated himself at the bar beside a green-skinned Jhenaf, waving off a greeting from the bartender.
  
  A moment passed, then another.
  
  "You have what I need?" Finally, a gruff voice from the Jhenaf before he methodically lifted his glass to his lips.
  
  "Yeah. You have my money?"
  
  Slowly, the Jhenaf guided his hand towards a pouch strapped to his waist. He unzipped it slowly, pulling out what looked to be a bag of coins. Of course I have it, his glance seemed to say as he placed it resolutely on the counter between them.
  
  Taking his cue, Charles loosened the straps around his chest and let the bags of pure Molly drop into his hands. He subsequently placed them beside the coins, on the side closest to the Jhenaf. "I guess that's that," Charles muttered, reaching for the coins before a firm shove interrupted his acquisition.
  
  "No payment for you today, boss." A weapon jammed against Charles' back made its intentions irrefutably clear. The voice was quickly assessed and determined to be either a cyclops or an intelligent sasquatch. "Now leave and don't look back." Charles' posture sulked, as if to prepare his meek departure from his chair and the premises. He then slammed his fist against his chest, causing a small, rippling explosion to flare out from his back, startling his assailant backwards a few steps. He swiveled hurriedly in his stool, prepared to engage his attacker before a compelling female voice commanded the attention of the entire saloon. "Stop right there," it ordered emphatically, persuading Charles to lower his sword as a woman emerged from the shadows of an adjacent room.
  
  (Here's where you take over. Develop your character's backstory as you see fit… gangster, law enforcement, saloon owner, fair maiden, anything you like. You definitely don't have to write as much intro as I did. I admit I had a little too much fun with mine. Thanks for taking the (long) time to read, and I look forward to your reply!)
• Bag and Tag
  —Story Prompt—​
  
  The ghost town of Bretham stood as a dilapidated monument of wells, wagons and dusk-lit showdowns. A convoy of jeeps—camouflaged with military patterns of beiges and ochres—approached from the west, traversing a forgotten road which carved through a sun-bleached desert that stretched for miles in every direction. Sergeant Brock sat quietly amongst a row of soldiers flanking him on either side within the canopied bed of the foremost jeep. His nose twitched as he sensed the transmission shifting down a gear—the objective in question was close at hand. He was rarely nervous during routine Bag-and-Tag operations, but his recent promotion was a game-changer, potentially setting the groundwork for a high-ranking government position in the future. An entire platoon was now under his command, and beads of sweat jostled upon his brow in accordance with the heavy bumps of the road. With a heavy exhale, he forced his mind to wander. His thoughts routinely drifted towards his small circles, and those circles almost always seemed to involve Jordan.
  
  It was just a week's time before their mandatory deployment to the Dravouth campaign, and Jordan had the bright idea of visiting the Claim Exchange as a sort of motivator to ensure their safe return. Jordan flashed his infectiously toothy grin at Charles as they casually strolled beside the gallery of Braces which were presented behind a vertical plate of one-way glass at the Claim Exchange. "Braces"—improvised vernacular for breeding sows—were prisoners volunteered for the various propagation programs that were offered to long-tenured soldiers.
  
  There was never any shortage of Braces to choose from, since that was the only recourse for female captives to avoid relentless propaganda and sixty-hour workweeks at the Reeducation Camps. One particular prospect stopped Jordan dead in his tracks, and he'd approach the glass with hungry eyes while folding his arms behind his back. "I'll be having one of those firecrotches under my thumb and in my bed every night after our dues are paid, Chaz. Just you watch." Redheads always seemed to make him giddy, prompting him to jot the Claim number for each within the small black notebook that he always kept in his back pocket.
  
  The odds of a soldier obtaining his number one choice were very low, of course, since Officers and MPs always enjoyed first selections, but it seemed any redhead would do for ol' Jordy. He was a horny bastard, in spite of the mandatory anaphrodisial injections for enlisted soldiers, and this was always a topic of jest exploited by friends and foes alike. "I'll never be doused," Jordan would boast with an exaggerated wink worthy of a Warner Brothers cartoon. "Let it be known to every man, woman and child that I like to fuck." Charles had a new set of responsibilities to uphold, since he was now an Officer in training, but he volunteered for the injections anyways. It was implied that claiming a Brace could hinder your chances at promotion, so he fulfilled his infrequent needs at the local whorehouses which were common on the outskirts of the barracks.
  
  "Let it be known to every man, woman and child that I like to fuck." Well, maybe just the women, Jordan might add as a humorous addendum, if he had it to say all over again. He was dead now, claimed by an artillery round fired from an insurgent's bunker. It wasn't until after he saw Jordan's name flash across the KIA marquee in his visor that Charles realized that Jordan was his best friend… maybe the only real friend he had. Ol' Jordy, who could make dead babies funny. Maybe there was a personal bordello of redheads waiting for him in heaven.
  
  Charles took it upon himself to inform Jordan's family of the tragedy. As gray streaks of light from nearby window blinds slid across his face, he barely mustered the news with a gravelly, dust-choked voice. Jordan's father and mother sat stunned, but Jordan's sister Andrea took it the hardest. There was yelling and screaming before she bolted out of the house, tears streaming down her cheeks. Andrea's name was mentioned during a missing person's broadcast a week later. A year after that, his parents were suspected to be rebel conspirators, tried, and hanged. It seemed that Jordy's death would magnify its own misfortune tenfold in its wake.
  
  Charles's mind snapped back just as the jeep's hatch swung open. Soldiers filed out and quickly claimed strategic advantages throughout the perimeter, reacting to Charles' hand-gestured commands without hesitation.
  
  Colonel Emmerson was already at work with his bullhorn, barking threats and ultimatums through a mechanical screech which seemed to disturb lines of dust from windowsills. "Attention, attention. This area is now under State control. Any insurgents are to surrender themselves immediately or risk being fired upon." It wasn't long until a response echoed between the rows of buildings which flanked the main street. Scattered pops from small arms were soon followed by sputterings of machine gun fire. Well, well,Charles thought to himself as he rushed for cover with the click-clack-click of ammunition belts on dust-colored fatigues. It would seem that intelligence was right about this one, after all.
  
  All in all, it was a successful, if not dull operation to claim under his belt. Eight rebels were killed and another six were apprehended…in total, ten men, three women and a child, with no internal losses or injuries. Once they were rounded up and carted away, Colonel Emmerson assigned Charles and three other soldiers clean-up duty and final inspection as the rest of the platoon pushed onwards towards the rendezvous point. It was a duty which he hated, but he'd grit his teeth and take it. He was platoon leader, after all. The trio of grunts would engage in small talk as they dragged bodies out into the open street, but Charles quickly grew bored of supervising, letting his curiosity pull him away towards the opposite end of town.
  
  The saloon offered a decent amount of shade from the relentless afternoon sun, and Charles would naturally roam around with curious eyes at the timeless relics which seemed to beg his attention. There was an upstairs floor, so he slowly climbed the creaky steps to investigate what it had to offer. One particular room caught his attention, as it offered a particularly deep recess of shadow, so he slowly approached the doorframe to enforce his position before taking a sideways lean for a look inside.
  
  The sound of a shuffle would surprise him into immediate action. "You there!" Charles barked, readying his rifle towards a pair of legs emerging from a shadow in the corner of the room. "Hands up, now! Comply at once or…" The spotlight on his weapon revealed a pair of terrified eyes which quickly locked themselves upon his own. "Andrea?" Charles asked with an incredulous whisper as he lowered his gun to the floor.
  
  Andrea is a placeholder name. Feel free to PM if you'd like me to change it. I intended your character to be feisty and strong-willed, at least in the beginning, despite her obvious disadvantage. She'd be taken as a Brace (after some red tape, of course) by Charles and the story would develop from there. I know this intro is fairly long, but I wouldn't expect our responses to be nearly as intensive from this point forward. As always, I'm open to any other ideas you might have. Have fun!
• Liquid Evolution
  —Story Prompt—​
  
  The pewter-colored dropcraft, lodged in reddish mud, shifted a bit before its door slid open like an eyelid. From the round ship emerged six soldiers, wearing thin black jumpsuits with matching boots and gloves, right arms extended forward from their chest towards any potential threats. They quickly dispersed in different directions, covering vast amounts of ground in seconds. Rain fell down as thick aqueous bulbs upon the saturated Martian soil, complementing a purplish-gray sky with a thin strip of orange towards the horizon, beyond the sharp ridges of geologic formations.
  
  Charles Brock, by contrast, emerged from the craft slowly, swiveling his head to-and-fro to note his surroundings. He wore the same jet-black uniform as the soldiers that preceded him, with one difference: the red emblem of an eagle representing the Bloodhawks could be seen on either shoulder, announcing his rank as Lieutenant Commander.
  
  The Bloodhawks were the military branch assigned to Earth's Science and Technology Institute, mobilized for reconnaissance and sample collections in potentially dangerous regions. Of course, as was the case with Earth's primary defense organizations, they were regularly utilized for discreet and crucial missions. They recited the same ethical oaths as their civilian counterparts, but sometimes their promises were bent and broken against the insurgents who scattered themselves across the terraformed planets within the solar system.
  
  It was an exciting time in Brock's life; as exciting as life could get for an enlisted grunt soldier, anyway. He earned an officer's promotion years ahead of schedule due to exemplary performance, which offered him more downtime as well as his own private quarters, small but comfy with a telescreen and other details towards ease of life. He was also eligible to claim a sexual partner (one at a time at his current rank) at the Mate Exchange during downtime. The sexual act has always intrigued Charles, since he was still "pure" (most soldiers were due to the necessary dedication and location-specific training required for enlistment), but ESATI had arranged to temper his curiosity on the subject.
  
  Earth scientists had discovered and experimented with a substance named Liquid Evolution. When applied to the human genome, many biological handicaps were erased or substantially diminished. A trained soldier could go up to eight hours or more without taking a breath to oxygenate his blood. Strength and senses were heightened, with bone density increasing by almost five hundred percent due to the manifestation of a strange fibrous membrane. The scientists realized through their observations that they were watching evolution accelerate before their very eyes.
  
  Another interesting and unanticipated effect was the impact on primal genetic impulses. The pleasure threshold of the human orgasm was magnified exponentially, calculated at around ten times the dopamine triggering capabilities of concentrated opiates. Sexually active recipients of LE recorded momentary visitations to new planes of existence, melting sensations as if they were merging into one being with their partner, and other curious phenomena upon climax...
  
  One would think this development would devolve human beings into sex-crazed beasts, but science was always one step ahead. Brain implants would dampen cravings for sexual release, activated only by an electronic pulse delivered by a specialized doctor. Essentially, they served the purpose of an on/off switch for the libido. This ensured focused and obedient soldiers in the field.
  
  These soldiers often patrolled the abundance of planets in the solar system, existing now thanks to massive technological efforts. Beyond terraforming existing celestial bodies, planets were built from space matter and positioned for perfect rotation around with sun with powerful laser-based instruments. Most were around the size of Earth's moon; some quite a bit larger, others slightly smaller. A few hundred or more were distributed in varying distances from the sun, with near-perfect atmospheric conditions for human life, in perfect harmony with the life-giving ball of fire in the sky. Colonies had begun to develop and flourish...
  
  ...until a decision was reached by the Chief Council with a majority vote. A mandate was declared that all humans originating from Earth be administered Liquid Evolution for their immediate benefit. The observed advantages were obvious; longer life spans, less susceptibility to disease, and the neutralization of mental illnesses.
  
  There were rebellions, of course. Rumors of rare but horrific side effects resulting from LE exposure spread fear quickly. Others were simply weary of any government-sponsored requirements. The blanketing efforts of propaganda to instill reassurance throughout Earth and its colonies had only so much sway. Militias and guerrilla forces organized themselves, and soon a charismatic leader named Ian Fenwick condemned the Earth's efforts towards dogmatic conquest. The war against Liquid Evolution had begun.
  _____
  
  Charles waited for his squadron to make their rounds as he recorded the terrain around him with his datascope. The crackle of audiofeed from his thin plastic helmet contrasted the plip-plop-plips of thick rain with periodic bursts of coordinate confirmations and reports. The seven soldiers were dispatched to investigate heat signatures leaving the Martian atmosphere from this particular sector. Since the culprits were likely pod ships having already made their escape, no significant findings were expected.
  
  Once the sweep was complete, the auxiliary objective was to take topographical surveillance scans since the sector was initially thought abandoned. Any unexpected human encounters were to be revolved according to the Commander's discretion... he could simply pretend they didn't exist, or apprehend them and decide their fate back at headquarters.
  
  Sweeps usually took an hour or more, so Charles took to entertaining himself with his pulse modulators as he waited for his squadron to return. Taking aim at a large nearby rock, he extended his arm and directed his palm towards it, fingers outstretched. With a vsspt sound and a bright cyan burst, the antigravity mechanism activated, lifting the rock into the air. His arm experienced a slight strain before it steadied itself, raising the rock upward until it blocked out the faint visage of sun in the rain-drenched sky.
  
  His visor scans measured the rock's weight at almost a ton. Though he was accustomed by now to his equipment, he always marveled at the modulators which graced either of his gloves. Warfare had certainly come a long way since a decade before, with more humane and conscientious advancements. There was no longer a need for bullets; modulation pulses could stop an insurgent (or group of insurgents) in their tracks with half an effort, freezing them in place until they were fully disarmed. Many insurgents lives were spared when they would have been annihilated with other weapons, but the pulse modulators still had the capacity for violence. With a squeeze of the hand, an unlucky person would be crushed into a pretzel.
  
  With a flick of his wrist, Charles tossed the rock to his left towards a large crater's edge, some fifty yards away. It came down with an almost sickening thud upon the soaked Martian soil, rolling until it disappeared over the basin's lip. He smiled at his own juvenile methods of amusement, until a stark red message abruptly appeared on his visor's readings. TOPOGRAPHIC ABNORMALITY DETECTED.
  
  Charles raised a brow and made his way towards the edge of the crater. A large pool of water had collected at its base, dancing frenetically with the rain. He panned his eyes around the crater's bowl until a discovery was made; what looked like a cave had been exposed by a dislodged rock, seemingly placed there for camouflage. Aha, Charles thought to himself. Looks like me goofing off has its benefits after all.
  
  After a careful approach with a steadied arm, he pulled the rock fully free to expose the entirety of the cave's entrance. What he saw inside amazed him; empty ration containers stacked neatly and an old pair of discarded slippers, before the tunnel bled into the dark unknown. Someone had obviously lived here, or was living here. He dug his boots into the soft mud and stabilized his position.
  
  "Surrender yourself at once," Charles barked with a thick robotic voice, "or I cannot guarantee your safety!"
• The HellHunter & the Demoness​
  
  "If you are to betray me," The HellHunter warned the demoness, "kill me quickly, or you shall suffer the same."
  ______
  
  The Forsaken Temple was eventually found in a distant marsh far from the empire's borders, even after so many shamans insisted it resided beyond the mortal plane. Upon the wide, unwalled bed of bones were statues of kneeling gargoyles, spewing sulfuric wind from their maniacally grinning mouths, seated upon columns gouged with the claw marks of the damned. A series of archways jutting out of the putrid swampland stew resembled the ribbed remains from some ancient leviathan. A slit of setting sun peeked through clusters of rotting trees in the distance, hanging in perpetual dusk. The Demono Wrathos manifested itself when the HellHunter beckoned its name, and a fierce battle commenced.
  
  A steel sword was driven upwards into the demon's throat by relentless hands, shredding through the larynx with the sound of a slow, snapping tree branch. It staggered back, yanking the hilt from the HellHunter's grasp as shock overwhelmed its ferocity, and oily fluid began to pool along the lids of its eyes and dribble from its nostrils. The monster's mouth opened wide in a gesture that seemed reflexive, gurgling a blood-choked roar before its wobbling knees collapsed. Heavy stone armor cracked against the skeletal floor beneath it, clattering with the spasms of quietus, until it became as lifeless as the beast it failed to protect. A large silver medallion with strange markings was the trophy he sought, and the battered warrior snatched it from the demon's bulging neck with an exhale of triumph.
  
  The medallion was pocketed before the HellHunter gazed upon the slain Demono Wrathos with a wave of consummate relief, his breaths still heavy with exhaustion. Its massive frame had to be twenty lengths or taller, with an ox-like face and searing red eyes that glowed inexorably, even in death. The audience of taunting demon soldiers had disappeared, apparently swept away by the winds of defeat. Were they truly there? he thought as he unsheathed his sword and shouted his battle cry. The Forsaken Temple was fraught with lies for the eyes and ears of intruders, but its guardian was now slain, apparently taking its powers of deceit along with it.
  
  His fatal strike was admittedly lucky, but expected all the same; seven other demon lords were felled in necessary triumphs to set the current stage of battle. Ultimate victory was proving itself a natural consequence of the HellHunter's momentum, it seemed. He had carved through hordes of hellions and rejected the temptations of euphoric delights offered from a plane of pleasure too incomprehensible for mortal minds, if he would only forfeit his quest. And now, the final Hellgate beckoned, promised by ancient prophesy to surrender its cursed seal before the gathering of the eight pendants, somewhere on the edge of the Great Earth.
  
  Silence had settled like dust around the HellHunter until it was abruptly broken. "Mine kill was stolen," came the snarl of a voice through the thickening black of the temple's shadows. The warrior tensed and turned his head towards the growl, eyes widened with a peculiar blend of concern and relief. Despite the familiarity, the warrior was never truly comfortable with the demoness...
  
  The black seemed to peel away from a woman as she stepped forward, glowing a fluorescent violet from her face and striking, amethyst eyes. Two small horns jutted from top of her brow, curtained by raven-feathered hair that blended like mist into the darkness around it. An elegant drape of skin just below her chin suggested a well-nourished regality, punctuated by a crown of thorns above her head, floating like a halo. Her leather armor was the color of dried blood and hugged tightly against her skin, with prominent straps around her gloves, boots, neckline, and midsection. A metallic plate on her chest flaunted the symbol of the Cross'ed; both holy and unholy with its pair of crosspieces. Her left wrist revealed the tattooed insignia of a demon huntress to those few in the world who recognized it.
  
  Shiva'ra eyes glared their blame towards the HellHunter, who carried the mortal name of Charles Morschew. He was tall, somewhere between six and seven lengths, his olive skin rugged and calloused from countless battles and wounds. The look in his charcoal eyes wavered between fierce determination and thoughtful observance, as if his enduring battle against evil had split his demeanor into two distinct halves. He was the chosen paladin of a warrior tribe long thought extinct, trained by the Golden Knight's Order and tutored in alchemy. His armor was the color of scuffed silver, with flaking green and red stripes boasting the empire's royal colors. His face was almost handsome, with a number of scars traveling along his squared jawline, and one across his right eye pulling into his dark, wavy hair.
  
  "I beg your pardon, Shiva'ra the Betrayer," Charles lifted from his lips, his forehead dipping almost reverently. "My convictions gave way to impatience, and I've robbed you of what was rightfully yours."
  
  Shiva'ra the Betrayer. The demoness didn't mind the title, and in fact insisted upon it. She made no secret of the contempt she held towards her brethren, declaring it to the HellHunter who felt the tip of her blade against his neck before their uneasy allegiance. Demons had relinquished their might amidst mortal indulgences, she observed wearily… making them weak, conquerable, and subject to the whims of fate. Looking upon it now, her concern might as well have been prophesy, as only the Christ of Demons remained of the demon lords that once reigned upon the Great Earth.
  
  "Indeed you did," Shiva'ra stoutly accused, but her voice had softened. Charles presented the medallion as consolation, dangling it from his forefinger before clenching it into his palm. He tried a smile towards his companion, earning none in return, before noticing something strange upon his fingertips… the sight of charred flesh, crawling and consuming his skin. He violently shook his hand to no avail and the look of panic began to seep into his eyes.
  
  Shiva'ra approached Charles to address the creeping plague, taking his hand into hers to study it. After a moment her voice became motherly, almost a coo. "Charles," she explained with concern. "You've been cursed. Let me see if I can—"
  
  The sudden swipe of an enormous arm sent Charles careening towards a grinning gargoyle, gouging his arm with a stone claw before he tumbled into a heap. The Demono Wrathos had somehow risen from its resting place, wrenching the instrument of death from its neck before a thunderous roar shook the temple's foundation with horrifying resonance. Shiva'ra had already engaged the risen demon lord with her dagger, and the medallion was just out of reach from Charles' trembling hand before his mind was swallowed by blackness.
  ____
  
  There were dreams, of course, full of wonder and meaning. Visions of what has been and could be, glimpses of lives lived and yet to come…
  
  Charlemagne's pulse rifle was slung over his left shoulder as he stood resolutely on a slanted concrete slab. Sheila's head was buried into his chest, and he felt the wetness of tears through his black siphon battlesuit. His right hand wore the glove that was generating the energy field around them, criss-crossing lines of bright cyan much like an electric net, ballooned into a protective sphere. Charlemagne's vivid green eyes observed the bursts of orange and black through the vivid blue mesh, and warm reflections flashed against his placid face.
  
  "Easy, easy," he whispered in an effort to console the frightened young woman leaning against him. "We're protected here, we're fine."
  
  He had found Shiela in a building long abandoned within Zone 27, and had little time to explain that the evols were coming,… coming fast, those damned souls that had been subjected to the Liquid Evolution. Floating naked through the air like flesh-colored silhouettes, no discernable features on their hellish blank faces, their digits fused together into large, useless nubs… Their attacks came from their minds, as frightening as the prospect was. Spontaneous explosions spurred on with a thought that leveled cities from above with horrifying efficiency… traveling like massive fiery centipedes across streets and corridors… burning fiercely for hours or even days.
  
  Sheila and Charlemagne were caught in one of those attacks, and Charlemagne had activated his pulse shield just in time… for what? The evols would most certainly conduct a grid search after their initial attack, and there were not many places to hide in the rubble that stretched for miles around them. He could maybe take one head on, if he was lucky and his aim was true… but there were at least five roaming around, as detected by his perimeter scanner. He wasn't sure what to do, and his platoon wasn't responding to his beacon… perhaps they were conducting their own defensive maneuvers, or perhaps they were simply wiped out.
  
  The situation seemed bleak, but Charlemagne wouldn't tell Sheila that, at least not yet…
  ____
  
  Charles awoke, but his eyes did not open, a warrior's habit trained into him as a young boy. Crickets and frogs sang a night's chorus around him with chattery chirps and swollen hiccups, and he felt the warmth of flame from a campfire nearby. As his senses collected further from the depths of sleep, he took notice of his left arm in a sling and the feeling of hay on his back, his armor absent while he lay upon the musty dampness of earth. His good hand fidgeted with the remnants of his dream, and for the briefest moment a trail of cyan energy pulsed from its fingertips.
  
  Through the floating, glowing embers a pair of watchful eyes could be seen, the color of sparkling amethyst. Charles couldn't help but stir at the stare he somehow felt through his still-groggy mind.
  
  "You're finally awake," Shiva'ra stated flatly.
  
  "Yes indeed," Charles acknowledged with a dusty throat. "What a wonder that I'm still alive."
  
  "I killed it, once and for all," Shiva'ra declared to quell the question yet to be asked. And don't you ever steal another kill from me again, came the unspoken words alongside her tone. The sound of a jangle settled Charles' mind about the medallion as well.
  
  "Very good, very good. We have what we need for the final battle ahead. Thank you for your help, Shiva'ra, and for the lovely campfire."
  
  A wordless welcome filled the embered air between them before Shiva'ra spoke again. "A cleric came and went while you were asleep to rid you of your curse. I managed to set your arm as well… hopefully the cleric's blessing speeds it along." Her mention of it seemed to activate Charles' mind to the pain and swelling, and his shoulder twitched with a deep, dull ache.
  
  "A cleric and demoness with peace between them?" Charles mused aloud. "What a sight that would have been. A pity I missed it."
  
  Shiva'ra snorted with a sort of shallow contempt. Her lips readied a retort before being interrupted by another thought from the wounded warrior.
  
  "Our crusade is almost complete, dear huntress. We've earned together a lifetime's worth of rest, have we not?"
  
  The remark evidently stirred something within Shiva'ra, prompting her to stand from her seat and move towards the HellHunter, his body wounded and vulnerable, wearing a peasant's plaincloth. She moved to straddle him with knees and palms in hay and dirt, rocking a bit on his loins in an effort to rouse him, but only earned a grimace.
  
  "Easy, easy…" Charles winced beside a jagged smile, winking one eye open upon the demoness pressing her claim upon his lap. "Your warmth is always appreciated, but my body still aches, so it does."
  
  Shiva'ra curled her own soft, curious smile. Easy, easy. Charles seemed to always pull odd new expressions from his dreams, a phenomenon of which she had long grown accustomed.
  
  "What say will happen after our task is done?" Shiva'ra posed with a sing-songiness to her voice, equally innocent and sultry. "How shall we live?"
  
  Charles seemed to muse on the on the hopeful eventuality for a long moment. "I suppose our duties would shift towards rekindling the Great Earth with children," he offered with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
  
  "Children!" Shiva'ra sounded genuinely excited and flattered at the proposition, almost squealing. Her rocking thighs were less provocative now and more mindful of Charles' ailing soreness.
  
  The heart in Charles' chest thumped its own cautious longing at the prospect. Shiva'ra really was quite beautiful, horns and all, a fact he often blotted from his own eyes out of necessity. Perhaps his seed wouldn't or couldn't take within her womb; he was a mere mortal courting an otherworldly demoness, after all. But Shiva'ra's enthusiasm to try was enough to add another fiery incentive to the drive already branded onto his soul by oath and fate.
  
  "First thing's first," Charles declared, pulling another one of those peculiar phrases from his lips. "The Christ of Demons."
  
  Shira'na's amethyst eyes flared at the name said aloud, her body stiffening. "The Christ of Demons," she whispered back.
• Antimanna​
  
  The alchemist sat himself upon the throne once belonging to King Xarele, now forcibly removed from power and imprisoned. The side of his face rested meditatively against his palm as he stared out upon the grand hallway before him, flanked by marble statues of what he assumed to be former majesties and equestrian champions. There were towering archways adorned with gold embellishments and colorful frescoes, exquisite paintings of queens and princesses whose alluring features had traveled generations... delusions of ostentatious grandeur, as far as the alchemist was concerned. His new world would do away with such archaic traditions and usher in a new societal construct, the natural consequence of his life's ambitions.
  
  Charles the Alchemist, the enlightened ruler to end all rulers. A sententious smirk played along the corner of his mouth.
  
  In actuality, Charles didn't like thrones. They were cold to the touch and often sent unpleasant ripples of gooseflesh across the length of his limbs. He also didn't view himself as any sort of monarch, meant to bear the weight and wonders of a crown. In his own eyes he was instead a messiah, the chosen Godhand delivering to the world its deepest unspoken desire: a riddance of magic in all its manifestations. By the grace of the Maker he had discovered the means to achieve this goal, and its implementation had been remarkably swift... driven by the relentless antimanna, the substance that reversed, rejected and nullified magic's influence upon all of Great Earth's creations, far and wide.
  
  Those beyond his soldiers and dignitaries, however, saw Charles the Alchemist as a monster. Healers were robbed of their ability to heal, their white magics nullified after ages of sacred practice, subjecting them to illnesses once thought abolished. Dark mages lost their mastery of the elements and could no longer mount a resistance, their sputtering spellcasts fizzling like a boot upon a fallen match's flame. Dragons and other masters of the skies could no longer soar... more often than not, they simply withered and died. A world full of magic and wonder was now being tamed, for better or worse, by a tidal force the likes of which the world had never seen... or could ever prepare for.
  
  All things considered, there had been remarkably little bloodshed, at least from the cold objectivity of the great Alchemist. Those who were willingly subjugated were cleansed and rehabilitated. Maidens were given opportunities to marry soldiers of the Great Army... soon afterward, they were promptly reinstated in their villages. There were, of course, the stubborn lots who would never, could never see the need for magic's abolishment.... and they were dealt with appropriately. This great cleansing needn't be a struggle, the Great Alchemist thought, if only the world would understand magic's futility.
  
  Even then, despite the momentum of his crusade that seemed sanctioned by the Fates themselves, there still existed those who somehow bubbled magic to the surface of the river that was drowning it...
  
  "Commander Charles," came a voice from the throne's hallway, startling him from his heavy contemplations.
  
  "Hmm... yes?" The Great Alcehmist's eyes squinted through a nearby window's beam of morning light, speckled with bright dots of dancing dust. His chief advisor, lieutenant Aldridge, revealed himself with a salute and a clap of his boots.
  
  "My apologies in disturbing you, sir, but I wanted to share news of the captured sorceress..." The advisor paused to swallow before continuing. "She's had another one of her... outbursts."
  
  "Truly?" Charles' voice was colored with a faint fascination. "Was it... dealt with, like the others?"
  
  "Our elite sentries managed to contain her, yes. But it was quite the struggle."
  
  "I see..." Charles' voice trailed, as if swallowed by thought. "Very well, then," he proclaimed loudly, as if settling upon some grand revelation. "Bring her to me."
  
  The lieutenant's eyes widened slightly. "Commander, I don't believe that to be..."
  
  Charles held up a finger to close the matter. "I shall speak with her myself and subsequently determine what course will be taken to ensure that her stubbornness is... appropriately harnessed."
  
  "Of course, Commander. Right away, sir." Lieutenant Aldridge noded and bowed, still with an uncertain gaze, before he excused himself from the Great Alchemist's presence.
  
  ___
  
  She came escorted by a contingent of troops, her wrists and ankles shackled, nudged along from the small of her back by the butt of a rifle. The 'sorceress' was guided through a massive, egressed doorway carved from sacred oak and onto the lengthy scarlet rug that led to Xarele's former throne, which was seated upon a small, circular staircase. Charles kept his keen, calculating glare upon her until she was presented before him, standing tall as if ready to be sentenced by a judge.
  
  The woman would see a tall man with a sturdy build, his legs casually crossed as he sat. Eyes of greenish amber complemented waves of mahogany hair that swept across his forehead and just above his eyebrows. His soft olive skin presented its imperfections shamelessly, with moles and freckles likely obtained from the sun's persistent touch across many years of outdoor work. His attire was almost shockingly simple, especially when contrasted with the royal throne upon which he was seated... a plain, white button shirt with beige slacks and suspenders attempted no extravagance whatsoever.
  
  "Well met, my dear," Charles offered as greeting to the woman standing before him. "I suppose you've already deduced the reason you were brought to me." The pursed smile across his lips exhibited an aloof, almost patronizing quality.
  
  "It seems as though your tantrums have been... problematic." There was an arrogance in his eyes, however, that relayed their own words. But we managed to reign you in, just the same.
  
  The pause in the air hung for a few moments before Charles audibly drew in a breath. "I place no hope in my attempts to have you understand the necessity of my conquest," he declared through a reconciliatory sigh. "However, I can make arrangements for your transition to be as... painless as possible. For example, I can free your friends and family from my dungeons... if you would only ensure your cooperation henceforth."
  
  The smile that followed appeared more genuine on the Great Alchemist's face. "Before you answer, my dear, may I know your name?" he asked affably.
• The Vagabond and the Princess​
  
  It happened so quickly...
  
  In one moment, the king ordered the execution of the defiant vagabond standing in his presence as nearby guards rushed to seize him.
  
  The next moment found the king on all fours, bowing before the condemned as his royal robes sprawled comically around his body. The guards had also backed themselves some distance away before kneeling their own grudging reverence.
  
  In fact, everyone within earshot of the kingdom's grand hall seemed entranced by the shocking powers of the cloaked vilifier... everyone except the Princess, who sat beside the imperial throne in abject horror. Her father had entertained an audience with a self-proclaimed soothsayer, who had quite the captious appraisal to share about the king's steady reign over the land of Bresau. Insulting would have been putting it mildly.
  
  Now, the guest with an apparent death wish had turned the tables with simple, irresistible, irrefutable orders. The golden voice of a wandering Midas, it seemed.
  
  The vagabond took a few moments to shift his eyes about, studying his work with a satisfied smile before picking up where he left off.
  
  "Very good, very good. Now kiss the floor upon which I stand, my king."
  
  His wish was the monarch's command, and a furious gaze followed soon after. The hushed silence that accompanied it felt heavy in the air, and the soothsayer savored every moment.
  
  "Well then. I suppose there are trained assassins and opportunistic soldiers to consider," the vagabond declared through a musing sigh. "So hear me well: should I be harmed or killed, the king's fate shall accompany mine. My pain is his pain. My death is his death. Doubt me not, as you have witnessed my powers firsthand. Try me not, or suffer the lasting consequences of your folly."
  
  The covenant was undeniable. The soothsayer's words were magic... they spoke truths into existence. His destiny was now inexorably tied with the king.
  
  "One final word..." His arms folded in a gesture of impatience. "If you must know, my name is Charles. Curse the name with all your seething hatred, should that befit your tendencies." With an exaggerated, almost ridiculous bow, the soothsayer excused himself from the humbled heap of the king, leaving those he touched with his voice beyond words, beyond comprehension.
  ___
  
  After his royal rebuke, the vagabond made himself quite at home within the grand castle. He moved from wing to wing with a carefree smile, one that also carried with it a frightful air of invincibility. Business carried on as best it could despite the persistence of his presence. Normalcy had returned with a large asterisk, or so it appeared.
  
  The curious thing was the vagabond seemed uninterested with making himself a nuisance beyond his own whims and fancies. He also seemed to have a personal code of honor, never having used his godly voice beyond the initial point made in the king's throne room. Despite this, however, there were heavy, hateful stares, sneers, and spiteful whispers from the castle's inhabitants.
  
  "How do we kill you?" came one brazen question from a frustrated soldier.
  
  "With kindness," Charles returned with his usual cool, collected air.
  
  From afar, the Princess occasionally caught the corner of Charles' eye as he made his daily rounds, hiding in distant shadows or peering from distant windows. Perhaps she hoped her glares would somehow erase him from existence, or perhaps she was building the courage to confront him. In the end, despite her captivating beauty, he gave her stalkings little thought.
  
  Finally, inevitably, the Princess made her approach.
  
  "Charles," she called aloud, walking uneasily towards the man she named.
  
  "Hmm... yes?" A genuine look of surprise appeared on the vagabond's face as he washed alone in the public bathing square, his arrival having caused a grumbling exodus moments before.
  
  The Princess would see a man with a rugged build... a peasant's build, with broad shoulders and calloused hands. Vigilant brown eyes complemented dark wavy hair that framed a surprisingly handsome face, save for a faded scar that traveled from his left ear to the middle of his forehead. His skin held a soft ochre glow from years of the sun's tenacious touch, and stubble gave his chin and cheeks a faint shadow.
  
  "Charles," she calmly said again, collecting herself and her thoughts. "Let us speak to one another."
  
  The vagabond turned to the Princess with brief, narrow slits of eyes before comically furrowing his brow, as if entertaining a heavy thought. "Very well," he relented with a smile. "What have ye to say?"
  
  "It's about my father," she mustered out, her gaze almost pleading. "You had him kiss the floor of the royal hall. You've since forbade him to sit upon his own throne."
  
  "Yes, I did," Charles reflected solemnly. "A punishment, I admit, for rushing to violence against me." A pause coincided with another consideration. "He should consider himself lucky for enduring such a... light penalty."
  
  The Princess visibly prepared herself again. "Word travels... somehow, someway. The neighboring kingdoms have made it into a joke, but our enemies..." A stifled sob seemed to catch in her throat before she continued.
  
  "Our enemies are emboldened by the prospect of a king being controlled by some outside influence. They've initiated a number of attacks in recent days, bold and fierce, claiming victory in several."
  
  The desperation was evident in her voice now, and the Princess's eyes flared with anger.
  
  "Your powers have made our kingdom weaker... have insulted and degraded us... degraded me..."
  
  "My powers have no effect upon you, specifically," Charles explained with a tinge of impatience. "Perhaps you didn't recognize your own exemption in the throne room, but even my abilities carry their own handicaps."
  
  A look of wide-eyed realization lifted to the surface of the Princess' face, and the obvious question followed. "Why only me?" she asked with a hint of exasperation.
  
  "A lengthy story for another day," Charles said dismissively. "Should it ever fancy me to tell you, I suppose."
  
  The Princess kept still near the bathhouse steps, dumbfounded. The vagabond's watchful eyes studied her, then pulled away with slight embarrassment.
  
  "Funny how something so simple can have such a resounding impact," Charles stated meditatively. "I suppose my impulses have the occasional... unintended consequence." The silence that settled after his admission felt strangely uncomfortable.
  
  "I'm late for something," Charles declared with a bit of awkwardness as he started his climb up the slippery bathhouse steps. What the lazy vagabond could be possibly late for seemed to escape her understanding, but the Princess nonetheless nodded her acknowledgment.
  
  "Join me tonight in the courtyard," Charles finally proposed. "And we can negotiate."
  
  A heavy swallow accompanied another hesitant nod. The Princess then rushed a curtsy before excusing herself from the vagabond.
  
  ___
  
  A crisp, starry night fell over the kingdom of Bresau. Charles, tending to one of his curious whims, had set a tent and campfire in the grassy yard of the castle square. A vagabond's habits died hard, it seemed.
  
  The Princess would meet at the rendezvous and find Charles laying on the cool grass with his elbows bent and hands tucked behind his head, looking up to the stars. Upon noticing the arrival of the Princess, he patted the ground beside him as an invitation. "Before we begin, join me for a minute."
  
  The Princess sighed impatiently. "I'm wearing a dress..." she began, but would nevertheless comply, despite her own misgivings.
  
  The both of them lay for a moment looking up to the pitch black sky speckled with glowing white dots. The vagabond then broke the night's chorus of chirps and croaks with a question. "Are you arranged to be wed?"
  
  The Princess turned her head to Charles with a searing glare. "Why would ye care to..." The derision in her voice soon abandoned her, however.
  
  "Not as of yet. There are nobles who push to court me, but--"
  
  "Very well then," Charles interrupted, his voice full of cheer. "I'll make you an offer. Allow me to henceforth sleep beside you in your bed, and I will tell you everything... and perhaps reinstate your father to his throned glory." His gaze locked upon the eyes of the Princess. "For the price of a night's snore, knowledge shall be yours."
• The Groundsman
  —Story Prompt—​
  
  The sun held high at its apex as noon tucked away the blue shadows of morning. Slivers of daylight traced the contours of Aria's outstretched arms as they reached with bequeathing palms, the ancient Goddess Aria, bringer of Spring and Life. Her warm visage exuded a feeling of welcome beyond words as her fluttering robe flowed like rapids around her bent knees. Her stillness had endured for centuries or more, an ethereal statue much too elegant for a sculptor's chisel.
  
  Without prejudice, the appearance of the goddess reflected the broad spectrum of races that her worshipers represented. The orcosas, a benign faction of the orcs, insisted upon her leathered skin, broad shoulders and toothy smile. The various elven tribes marveled at the elegance of her teardrop ears. The tall, snake-skinned albinos known as the pontocks witnessed their own red-eyed miracle. Her physical appearance was truly in the eye of the beholder, but the essence of what she represented remained the same across all the beings of the great Gaia.
  
  The timeless magic of the Western Temple floated the large statue of Aria above a wide, round dais encircled by a flight of three shallow steps. Her stone-quiet gaze peered across the grassy hills as they stretched outward towards the distant woodland, with beaten roads occasionally weaving between and around patches of trees. Stone medians flanked the temple's manicured fields and rounded towards a series of ribbed columns serving as the only barricade within a temple otherwise free of walls, accessible to all who found themselves moved to pay their respects.
  
  ***
  Pilgrims from distant lands prayed, danced and left offerings as the goddess cast airy shadows like blots of watercolor upon her worshipers. The noble families of all races brought attendants with them, often with roaming, curious eyes. What appeared to be a young servant woman happened to pass a glance towards the silent figure near the rear of the temple, standing as still as the rising columns around him. Their eyes tangled, and the caretaker was quick to rip his gaze away before the exchange escalated further.
  ___
  
  Charles' auburn gaze glowed with satisfaction upon the marble goddess, now scrubbed clean of moss and stains, with one hand on his hip and the other leaning against his upright rake. He had been up before dawn in anticipation of the approaching holy holiday, tending to his day's tasks before the visitors arrived en masse. Absent from the stone skin of the Goddess were the colorful, wispy weeds that grew like vines and resembled small peacock feathers. Vibrant little treasures, they were, with a pulse of magic's essence, perhaps bestowed upon them by Aria herself. Charles tucked one of the feathers away into his pant pocket, a trivial gesture to unwitting eyes...
  
  He had lived upon the temple's premises for years, tasked and trusted with maintaining the holy site but mostly invisible to those who would visit it. Powerful sorcerers came to offer their tributes and subsequently departed without so much a word to the quiet observer with short jet black hair and beige-colored overalls. He was, after all, a mute without the blessing of magic in any of its countless forms. Arrogant eyes might have viewed his life as a waste, but menial labor was plentiful and often reserved for mutes in search of their life's purpose. All in all, he was dismissed by most pairs of eyes that settled upon him, and he liked it that way.
  
  The children from various races frequently played together as their parents payed their devout respects. They practiced basic elemental spells with sporadic shrieks of delight, and occasionally interacted with Charles as they scuttled throughout the holy ground. Some stared silently, others asked silly questions. He mostly entertained their interactions with polite solemnity at the cost of distracting him from the inevitable troublemakers.
  
  Indeed, with his attention diverted, he yelped in pain as his rake's handle scorched his palm while distant pranksters pointed, laughed and fled. Charles allowed himself a moment to narrow his eyes and shake his head... it wasn't the first incident, and it wouldn't be the last. With a sigh, the groundsman shook the sharp sting of heat from his hand and claimed his rake once more from the grass where it was dropped.
  ___
  
  Charles retired to his modest cabin shortly after dusk, which resided about a half-mile from the temple he maintained, near the woodland's edge. He had access to a short list of luxuries, including a bed, stove and washtub, and a few dips into his well prepared his bath and supplied water for cooking. A traveling ice mage has blessed his freezer for a substantial price, but now he could keep stores of meat through the long summer months. After a meal of baked venison strips and rice, he lit the evening candles before donning his robe, and from afar his cabin windows would glow like a firedrake's eyes.
  
  He knelt upon his haunches and began to lift the thatched rug in the small living area of his cabin, leaning it against a wall once it had been rolled tight. A basement door could now be seen, no longer hidden away from prying eyes. Once opened, a short staircase was discernible through a blanket of shadow, and Charles descended into what might have originally been intended to serve as a small wine cellar... though its purpose now certainly did not involve anything recreational.
  
  A wall torch was lit, revealing a dummy mannequin in a nearby corner not unlike a scarecrow's torso. Shelves of jars and other containers were also seen jutting from each wall, offering a selection of translucent liquids, dried herbs and granulated powders. Situated in the middle of the cellar was a wooden table with vials and beakers, a small burner plate, and instruments for grinding and mixing. A copy of the forbidden text The Obsolescence of Magic was opened to an anatomical illustration of a robed sorceress and her various magical chakras.
  
  On the far end of the table could have been the most damning article. A pamphlet with the insignia of the eastern mute resistance was peeking from its rectangular envelope, handed to him by a blind mute on a street corner begging for money. His rare business excursion to the city of Balthas had supplied him with sobering insight, and new heights of determination.
  
  After a sweeping glance of his handiwork, Charles seemed to immediately pick up where he left off in his laboratory. He pulled the feathery weed plucked earlier in the day from his pocket and placed it upon his table. A powdery concoction from his prior night's experimentations had proved itself a promising lead.
  
  Placing the weed upon a thin bed of the powder, its vibrant hues immediately dulled alongside withering tendrils, before pulsing back to its original state. Charles could sense as well as see the magic being neutralized, if only temporarily, but its essence remained resolute and overcame its aggressor.
  
  There's something here... Charles thought with conviction. Something potent.
  
  Several hours passed with mixing and stirring, testing and observing. It seemed his progress had plateaued, frustrating him to the point of a punch upon his watchful mannequin, until he was reminded of a rare find he purchased from an herbal shop in Balthas, the secreted oil of the eschew plant. He added a few drops to his original formula, spread it thin with a knife and settled the weed upon it once more.
  
  This time the weed's reaction was alarmingly conclusive. It actually shriveled to a crisp, graying to the point of visual finality. Charles locked his eyes upon it, expecting an eventual rebound, but none would come.
  
  Gods... Charles swallowed hard upon the sight after several minutes has passed, his thoughts heavy and swirling.
  
  A large batch was made with his remaining ingredients and hidden away in a glass container. He would set aside a small amount to place within a leather pouch, which he pocketed for later use.
  
  "Tomorrow," Charles said aloud to himself before climbing the wooden planks back to his cabin to retire for the evening.
  ___
  
  The sun eventually rose, as it always did. Charles was already awake and finishing his rounds across the temple as visitors assembled themselves once more. Eventually and discreetly, he lost himself from the pack of eyes behind the trunk of a large yarka tree, seemingly forgotten by Aria's flock.
  
  The children from the prior day eventually began to roam and play, eyed carefully by Charles with brief glimpses from his hiding place. He waited until a nearby elven child experimented with a flame spell between the cup of her hands, looking upon her success with awe and satisfaction. The small leather bag was fetched from his pocket, and a small mound of his concoction was placed onto the palm of his hand. A measured breath then preceded a deep exhale of the spore-like powder towards the unsuspecting girl. The substance seemed to dissolve into a barely discernible cloud, carried by faint winds towards its target.
  
  The child's flame began to flicker and wane with an obvious struggle until it finally extinguished, with only a thin trail of smoke honoring its prior existence. A look of horror lifted to the child's face before her spell was once again attempted, chanting the sacred words carefully, but only earned a small puff of combustion upon her palms. A panicked roam of the child's eyes yanked the caretaker back into hiding, and he would only hear the child screaming and running to find her parents.
  
  Charles witnessed his experiment with fascination that bordered on outright horror. After the elven girl fled, there was a heavy moment of realization before his breaths began to quicken, and his sense of balance began to tilt...
  
  A panic attack... this must be a panic attack, he repeated in his mind, and tempered his breaths with deep exhales to curb the tide of spasms that shuddered across his limbs. He then found his way back to his cabin, taking care not to be noticed, though in the corner of his eye the noble family with the curious servant woman lingered...
  
  Charles would not be seen outside for the remainder of the day. He sat silently for hours on his bed with the pamphlet in his hand, dwelling on the ramifications of his discovery, until a knock on his cabin door accompanied the arrival of dusk.
  
  A frenzied look rose to Charles' face as he hurriedly tucked away the pamphlet into the pocket of his overalls. He then reached for a small dagger hidden underneath his mattress before tending to his late visitor.
• The Shadow Prince
  —Story Prompt—
  ​
  The clouds above Cirrane village coalesced into a floating blanket that rejected the sun's light above, casting shadows like massive ink blots onto the pebbled road beneath it. A young girl in a flower dress pulled the gaze of her father towards the strange rain cloud with a point of her finger...
  
  ...but what Cirrane would receive was far beyond rain.
  
  Before long, the shadow soldiers surged towards the bustling outdoor market like gray mists with vaguely humanoid shapes. They were as nondescript as shadows upon the corner of one's eye, but appeared as transparent soldiers when still enough to take prisoners or direct orders... soldiers with molten eyes and uniforms of leathered skin.
  
  The strolling father in his miner's cap and overalls was pushed to the ground with blades pressed against his neck, while his screaming daughter fled until she was swept up by a horseback soldier's arm and restrained against a mane of ebbing tendrils.
  
  A cacophony of chaos rose along with the screams of those woefully unprepared. Doors of buildings were slammed shut only to be torn off with a hurricane's fury and ransacked by blurred, bestial beings. Women were taken and occasionally swallowed into the air, their screams abruptly cut from existence. Men fought with whatever they could manage as weapons, be it a broom handle or loose brick, only to be struck down or lassoed and dragged away by galloping horses.
  
  Amidst the horror and pandemonium, a hazy presence slowly materialized itself into a corporeal form, like a swimmer surfacing from the depths. The sight of a tall, slender man with leather armor the color of dried blood unveiled itself near the community building to stunned onlookers. His skin was as pale as snow, while his dark wavy hair flowed to a wind not of this earthly plane. Stark red markings and embellishments scattered themselves across the his armor, mostly strange glyphs that kept their truths away from unknowing eyes. He stood with arms that were calmly folded behind his back.
  
  Though the name escaped comprehension, the onlookers ultimately understood. This is the Shadow Prince.
  
  Yet another village claimed, was the look on his eyes while he reveled in quiet triumph. And many more still to fall.
  
  "Enough!" The cry was enough to shake the Prince from his reflections, and his focus settled upon a young, armored knight before him, emboldened by the weapon in his hands.
  
  The young warrior held forth his blade to the Prince's chest. "Stop this!" he insisted with a seething defiance that masked his dread. A merchant's cart with caged chickens had toppled nearby, and their screeches perfectly captured the terror coursing through the air.
  
  The Shadow Prince smiled at the boy's request. "No," he whispered back.
  
  The warrior gritted his teeth in anger before his blade was swung. The Shadow Prince stepped calmly to the side and neatly dodged the attack. For a minute or so there was a ballet of desperation as the young warrior's frantic swings failed to land a blow upon his graceful opponent, who hopelessly seemed one step ahead.
  
  Finally though, with what seemed like a stroke of luck from the God's themselves, the tip of the blade haphazardly pierced the chest of the Shadow Prince, and his snarl of pain accompanied a backwards tumble onto the ground.
  
  He was but a moment away from lifting to his feet and ending the pathetic charade when a healer girl inexplicably rushed to his side. A brief nudge of agitated dismissal would give way to the sight of eyes as they laid upon the woman... and the particles of air swirling around him seemed to freeze into place. There was some sort of subconscious, wordless realization... until a string of them finally sifted to the lips of the entranced Prince.
  
  "You are... who are you?"
  
  The one? his mind questioned with the awe of a fledgling stargazer. She was attractive beyond the incommodious pulses of lust that the Shadow Prince grudgingly indulged upon to satisfy his meager ties to mortality. Her beauty spoke to something eternal, something that lifted above time itself and entwined with his essence... in this life, or the one that followed.
  
  A few moments passed as the young woman dutifully tended to his wound. The Shadow Prince wouldn't resist and remained still. Once it seemed the woman was finished, the Prince seized her forearm with one hand and drew a glyph upon it with the other... slowly and precisely, spreading a wave of gooseflesh. The mark's imprint resembled a pair of entwined snakes upon a bed of waves, ghosting away after a few moments.
  
  He then climbed to his feet, his gaze ever locked upon the healer girl.
  
  "Dear maiden, my name is Charôţh. I am honored and humbled by your presence." A polite bow of greeting preceded his next words. "I have decided that your village shall be spared from my onslaught. In exchange, our lives are now bound together by the mark of Ætranos." He could see the confusion in her eyes, but left it alone.
  
  A snap of the Prince's fingers instantly evaporated the pillaging forces, and the sudden silence that followed swallowed the village with finality.
  
  "Until we meet again," he said with a smile to the woman, still on her knees. Another snap of his fingers, and he disappeared before her very eyes.
  ___
  
  Years passed. Kingdoms fell, as well as villages. The conquest of the Shadow Prince had neared its ultimate goal of dominance, and yet he sat wearily upon his throne as his trusted second approached with a climb up the circular staircase.
  
  "My liege," came the report of General Onyx. "More news to report. Rebellions gathering momentum and spreading outward." He took a moment to reflect on the magnitude of the matter. "Their... alchemies have improved, it seems."
  
  "Yet I remain on the cusp," Charôţh sighed through his breath. "If only the world accepted the inevitable, this would already be done with."
  
  "My scouts have returned with more details," Onyx continued. "The village of Cirrane appears to have fortified into a stronghold."
  
  Charôţh's eyes widened before narrowing into snake-like slits. "Cirrane," the Shadow Prince hissed as he shifted on his seat.
  
  "You're familiar, my liege?"
  
  The Shadow Prince shut his eyes and nodded. "I am familiar, and I seek to be unfamiliar," he sneered while lifting to his feet. "We shall go to complete what I had left unfinished."
  ___
  
  The villagers of Cirrane were much better prepared when the ominous clouds gathered once more over their heads, but the fear on their faces was unmistakable. A large troop of knights assembled to await the looming threat, assembled in rows with blades drawn, while women and children fled or hid as best they could.
  
  Eventually, a swirling portal as black as the void pooled before the knights, rousing a chorus of gasps and shouts. The Shadow Prince emerged through the dark doorway, flanked by hordes of his hellborn soldiers.
  
  Before he could lift a deadly finger towards the row of armored rebels before him, he was interrupted by someone pushing to the front and ahead of the knight's positions. The Shadow Prince was visibly taken aback when he realized it was the healer girl, but rigidly stood his ground.
  
  "And what have you say before the heat of battle, dear maiden?" Charôţh asked after a fleeting pause, unable to guise his curiosity.
• The Witch Hunter
  —Story Prompt—
  ​
  The ceremonial dagger was clenched tightly in Azrath's hand as her black robe sprawled upon the cold, pebbled floor below her knees. Sacred glyphs on the nightsilk glittered like mica against the bustling plate of fire before her. The ceremonial sanctum resembled a castle's turret in the center of an asphalt clearing within the confines of sprawling woodland; it stood resolutely with brick, mortar, and calcified mud. The foundation had stood for generations, with countless services performed amidst its horsehoe enclosure.
  
  She was kneeling in accordance with the Witch Hunter's Rite, which by now was second nature to her; four bounties had thus far been sanctioned, and now a fifth beckoned. The demand for her services seemed a testament to her achievements, though accolades were rarely dispersed to hunters... humility was a precursor to efficiency, according to edicts spoken from holy tongues. The sacred pages of the Tome ej Huntae offered the testimonies and transcendent wisdom of slayers and scholars long passed.
  
  Elder Jane wore a plain cloak that perfectly matched the hue in her shifty indigo eyes. He was once again designated the ceremonial priest assigned to bless the Hunter's imminent departure. He had accompanied the young woman throughout her childhood, a privileged existence until she was plucked from her luxuries for training on the Hunter's Mount. Azrath's mettle were then thoroughly tested; her senses molded and sculpted to serve a hunter's profession. She rarely saw her mother and father during her teen years; the Hunter's regimen required absolute focus to ensure the divergence of attachment and duty.
  ...
  
  The Hunter's tenets were invoked from the very first day of instruction:
  
  Killing quickly, joylessly, without satisfaction, for suffering echoes itself throughout the world of spirits.
  Be sharp, be swift; all the while be aware. Surprise is always an enemy.
  The waste of words is a sin. Brevity exudes certainty.
  A shrewd creature with a dagger is more dangerous than a lazy man with a gun.
  ...
  
  "Jah Rajo Nihn Maja Rann Ejalae." The elder's mouth annunciated the words with meticulous care from the holy Tome as he stood beside the fluttering flames. It was a sacred language lost to time but not to purposed lips. Azrath reached with her mind and absorbed each syllable... the words held a power she couldn't describe.
  
  "Magic is an art unsuited for common hands," the Elder continued, pulling his eyes towards Azrath from the ancient text in her hands. "As the great mages declared long ago. Those who would defy such sacraments should not suffer their existence but instead their abilities, or themselves, be removed from earthly coils."
  
  The hunter's eyes closed tightly as her mouth recited the last of the rite with a heavy, deliberate voice. "Dead or alive." The emphasis on the former was evident.
  
  "Nay." The elder's response was quite surprising, though Azrath's body held in place, allowing only a fidget across her hood-covered face. "This one is to be brought back with her breath intact. She has potential."
  
  Though the curiosity only swelled in the hunter's mind, she knew better than to inquire further. Instead, the discourse continued with due diligence. "When shall I depart?"
  
  "Tonight," the elder stated with a slight air of urgency. "Our spies have reason to believe a certain family of jaevins would know of her whereabouts. Conduct your business quickly and find her. Calm her with assurances if you're able. But in the end, do as thou must to ensure her cooperation."
  
  "Of course, Mine Elder. May my task be completed in accordance with the Creator's plan." Azrath then took to her knees and stood on her feet, allowing the robe to fall and gather around her ankles before exiting the hut, leaving Jane and the still-flickering flame behind, turning towards the purple of an early-evening horizon.
  ____
  
  A gray, ghostly robe fluttered against the wind as it traversed the contour of a rolling hill. The journey to Pinehart had taken three days of mountainous ascent, and now Azrath had measured her approach. She employed the cover of trees and bushes, keeping herself hidden from townsfolk whenever she was able, and open paths were only treaded in the absence of suspicious eyes. All the while the methods of surreptitious discipline held true...
  
  The air of mystery carries itself along hooded travelers. Uncovered faces are less likely to be remembered.
  
  A survey from a forgotten cliffside proved useful to the Hunter's end. Binoculars helped to parse Pinehart's clustered buildings and pinpoint the location of what she hoped would soon be informants...
  ...
  
  Jaevins... orange-skinned, bird-like beings that in certain ways resembled the description of ancient Furies. They lived and gathered in large stables, with large wings, deadly talons and pinpoint eyesight which aided their stalking of game from the skies above. Though they were fierce hunters, their creed enforced the notion that subdued prey die as painlessly as possible. Sharp fangs injected numbing agents into the pulsing veins of desperate, flailing limbs, and the calmness of death preceded the first bite into fallen flesh.
  ...
  
  She waited until evening and approached the stable's main gate, manuevering through trees as a darting shadow. Her arrival was announced with a forceful plant of her dagger into a woodbrace that stretched from the floor towards the rafters above.
  
  "Good evening, creatures of the skies," Azrath called as a family of jaevins sat in a semicircle, feasting on the shredded husk of a horned shanta. They all turned their snakelike eyes to the disturbance as their leathery wings spread instictively in an animalistic gesture, meant to frighten off predators or rivals. The hunter stood unwaveringly, clearly not intimidated, and waited until her presence was fully known.
  
  "The Hunter's Council seeks to apprehend a witch," Azrath explained steadily. "She shall not die, and you needn't either, should her whereabouts be provided without difficulty." Azrath claimed the dagger once again into her hand, primed to slit as many throats as needed to leave the stable alive. Her attempt at negotiations were quite the abnormal tactic, but in this circumstance, the use of calculated words might spare unnecessary bloodshed, and more importantly... time.
  
  The growls and heavy breaths of the jaevins filled the air, but the hesitation was clearly evident. A creature half their size had infiltrated their abode with catlike precision, masking her scent and hollowing her footsteps to ensure her ambush. The voice belonged to a Hunter, through and through.
  
  "She means much to us." The voice of one jaevin continued the peaceful path of discussion, at least for the moment.
  
  "You're a liar," another snarled through clenched teeth. "Aren't all hunters liars?" came the heavy snort of a female.
  
  "I profess that I am not," Azrath proclaimed through a heavy breath. A casual motion pressed the dagger's point against her palm, along the mystic's holy line of longevity.
  
  The winged jaevins turned their widened eyes towards one another before collecting their stare back towards Azrath. The significance of the gesture, it seemed, was grasped almost immediately.
  
  "The witch shall live, this I pledge to you, in accordance with the Hunter's code." Azrath then waited for her cue.
  
  "Recite the psalm of truth," the eldest jaevin declared, "and seal your oath with crimson."
  
  With one motion, Azrath nodded as she slowly sliced her palm, and a trickle of blood fell to the earth across the Hunter's boots. There was the simultaneous, melodious chant of a passage drawn from the sacred Tome. Another long moment of scornful observation pressed upon the Hunter with narrowed eyes.
  
  "Very well," the eldest creature said after a time. "Should you break the promise set before us, may your existence turn to aguish for the rest of your days, and your afterlife be set aflame."
  
  Azrath passed a slow nod, rich with sincerity. "My intentions are now eternally bound, for the great Creator eyes me closely." Reaching into her robe, a roll of gauze was employed to wrap her wound. "Now, then. Where is the witch?"
  
  The hesitation amongst the jaevins persisted. The eldest spoke for the group once more.
  
  "Three miles down Raevich path. The Apothecary."
  
  The Hunter bent slowly to acknowdlege her understanding before excusing herself from the stable with nary another word. Her sacred duty would now arrive much more quickly than she presumed.
  ___
  
  Once again the Hunter found herself relying on the strategy of concealment. She approached the witch's cottage after waiting out a visit from a winged creature seeking help from her quarry. Her keen ears and occasional peeks from a thick patch of brush near the treeline kept her informed of the goings-on.
  
  Eventually her quarry had left her cottage distraught, but her senses held her in place; the witch's return was correctly assumed. She eventually settled for the night as the orange glow from the fireplace faded through the open windows. The Hunter pressed forward towards her mark with practiced stealth. A swift lunge through a window eliminated the unpredictability of a creaking door.
  
  Once inside, she found the witch laying on her couch... surprisingly naked, as the blanket upon her lacked the crinkles of clothing. There was salt caked around her eyes; she could smell it. The witch had been crying... the Hunter sented that her aura had been dampened with failure. She watched her intently as heavy breaths accompanied the rise and fall of her chest.
  
  The sun eventually rose and streamed its light through the cottage window. The witch shifted considerably in her couch when she awoke, and she waited for the stillness of realization before speaking.
  ...
  
  The witch would see an oval face with elegant features peering from her cloak's hood, pretty perhaps with a smile, but otherwise frightening with intent. Thin tendrils of auburn hair flowed and cupped the sides of her cheeks. The Hunter's cloak was mostly gray with blue glyphs sewn along the seams; their fabric seemed to glow slightly against the now-receding dark. There was no reading the visitor's eyes, as they were still swallowed in pools of shadow. She was fairly tall, with the top of her head almost grazing the doorframe she leaned against. She was surely waiting and watching for quite some time...
  
  "Hello there," Azrath announced with a lack of friendliness, her airy shadow bleeding across the floor towards her mark. "Get up and dressed, my dear. Quickly, please. You'll be coming with me."

​

 

[This godless endeavor]

The HellHunter & the Demoness​

"If you are to betray me," The HellHunter warned the demoness, "kill me quickly, or you shall suffer the same."
______

The Forsaken Temple was eventually found in a distant marsh far from the empire's borders, even after so many shamans insisted it resided beyond the mortal plane. Upon the wide, unwalled bed of bones were statues of kneeling gargoyles, spewing sulfuric wind from their maniacally grinning mouths, seated upon columns gouged with the claw marks of the damned. A series of archways jutting out of the putrid swampland stew resembled the ribbed remains from some ancient leviathan. A slit of setting sun peeked through clusters of rotting trees in the distance, hanging in perpetual dusk. The Demono Wrathos manifested itself when the HellHunter beckoned its name, and a fierce battle commenced.

A steel sword was driven upwards into the demon's throat by relentless hands, shredding through the larynx with the sound of a slow, snapping tree branch. It staggered back, yanking the hilt from the HellHunter's grasp as shock overwhelmed its ferocity, and oily fluid began to pool along the lids of its eyes and dribble from its nostrils. The monster's mouth opened wide in a gesture that seemed reflexive, gurgling a blood-choked roar before its wobbling knees collapsed. Heavy stone armor cracked against the skeletal floor beneath it, clattering with the spasms of quietus, until it became as lifeless as the beast it failed to protect. A large silver medallion with strange markings was the trophy he sought, and the battered warrior snatched it from the demon's bulging neck with an exhale of triumph.

The medallion was pocketed before the HellHunter gazed upon the slain Demono Wrathos with a wave of consummate relief, his breaths still heavy with exhaustion. Its massive frame had to be twenty lengths or taller, with an ox-like face and searing red eyes that glowed inexorably, even in death. The audience of taunting demon soldiers had disappeared, apparently swept away by the winds of defeat. Were they truly there? he thought as he unsheathed his sword and shouted his battle cry. The Forsaken Temple was fraught with lies for the eyes and ears of intruders, but its guardian was now slain, apparently taking its powers of deceit along with it.

His fatal strike was admittedly lucky, but expected all the same; seven other demon lords were felled in necessary triumphs to set the current stage of battle. Ultimate victory was proving itself a natural consequence of the HellHunter's momentum, it seemed. He had carved through hordes of hellions and rejected the temptations of euphoric delights offered from a plane of pleasure too incomprehensible for mortal minds, if he would only forfeit his quest. And now, the final Hellgate beckoned, promised by ancient prophesy to surrender its cursed seal before the gathering of the eight pendants, somewhere on the edge of the Great Earth.

Silence had settled like dust around the HellHunter until it was abruptly broken. "Mine kill was stolen," came the snarl of a voice through the thickening black of the temple's shadows. The warrior tensed and turned his head towards the growl, eyes widened with a peculiar blend of concern and relief. Despite the familiarity, the warrior was never truly comfortable with the demoness...

The black seemed to peel away from a woman as she stepped forward, glowing a fluorescent violet from her face and striking, amethyst eyes. Two small horns jutted from top of her brow, curtained by raven-feathered hair that blended like mist into the darkness around it. An elegant drape of skin just below her chin suggested a well-nourished regality, punctuated by a crown of thorns above her head, floating like a halo. Her leather armor was the color of dried blood and hugged tightly against her skin, with prominent straps around her gloves, boots, neckline, and midsection. A metallic plate on her chest flaunted the symbol of the Cross'ed; both holy and unholy with its pair of crosspieces. Her left wrist revealed the tattooed insignia of a demon huntress to those few in the world who recognized it.

Shiva'ra eyes glared their blame towards the HellHunter, who carried the mortal name of Charles Morschew. He was tall, somewhere between six and seven lengths, his olive skin rugged and calloused from countless battles and wounds. The look in his charcoal eyes wavered between fierce determination and thoughtful observance, as if his enduring battle against evil had split his demeanor into two distinct halves. He was the chosen paladin of a warrior tribe long thought extinct, trained by the Golden Knight's Order and tutored in alchemy. His armor was the color of scuffed silver, with flaking green and red stripes boasting the empire's royal colors. His face was almost handsome, with a number of scars traveling along his squared jawline, and one across his right eye pulling into his dark, wavy hair.

"I beg your pardon, Shiva'ra the Betrayer," Charles lifted from his lips, his forehead dipping almost reverently. "My convictions gave way to impatience, and I've robbed you of what was rightfully yours."

Shiva'ra the Betrayer. The demoness didn't mind the title, and in fact insisted upon it. She made no secret of the contempt she held towards her brethren, declaring it to the HellHunter who felt the tip of her blade against his neck before their uneasy allegiance. Demons had relinquished their might amidst mortal indulgences, she observed wearily… making them weak, conquerable, and subject to the whims of fate. Looking upon it now, her concern might as well have been prophesy, as only the Christ of Demons remained of the demon lords that once reigned upon the Great Earth.

"Indeed you did," Shiva'ra stoutly accused, but her voice had softened. Charles presented the medallion as consolation, dangling it from his forefinger before clenching it into his palm. He tried a smile towards his companion, earning none in return, before noticing something strange upon his fingertips… the sight of charred flesh, crawling and consuming his skin. He violently shook his hand to no avail and the look of panic began to seep into his eyes.

Shiva'ra approached Charles to address the creeping plague, taking his hand into hers to study it. After a moment her voice became motherly, almost a coo. "Charles," she explained with concern. "You've been cursed. Let me see if I can—"

The sudden swipe of an enormous arm sent Charles careening towards a grinning gargoyle, gouging his arm with a stone claw before he tumbled into a heap. The Demono Wrathos had somehow risen from its resting place, wrenching the instrument of death from its neck before a thunderous roar shook the temple's foundation with horrifying resonance. Shiva'ra had already engaged the risen demon lord with her dagger, and the medallion was just out of reach from Charles' trembling hand before his mind was swallowed by blackness.
____

There were dreams, of course, full of wonder and meaning. Visions of what has been and could be, glimpses of lives lived and yet to come…

Charlemagne's pulse rifle was slung over his left shoulder as he stood resolutely on a slanted concrete slab. Sheila's head was buried into his chest, and he felt the wetness of tears through his black siphon battlesuit. His right hand wore the glove that was generating the energy field around them, criss-crossing lines of bright cyan much like an electric net, ballooned into a protective sphere. Charlemagne's vivid green eyes observed the bursts of orange and black through the vivid blue mesh, and warm reflections flashed against his placid face.

"Easy, easy," he whispered in an effort to console the frightened young woman leaning against him. "We're protected here, we're fine."

He had found Shiela in a building long abandoned within Zone 27, and had little time to explain that the evols were coming,… coming fast, those damned souls that had been subjected to the Liquid Evolution. Floating naked through the air like flesh-colored silhouettes, no discernable features on their hellish blank faces, their digits fused together into large, useless nubs… Their attacks came from their minds, as frightening as the prospect was. Spontaneous explosions spurred on with a thought that leveled cities from above with horrifying efficiency… traveling like massive fiery centipedes across streets and corridors… burning fiercely for hours or even days.

Sheila and Charlemagne were caught in one of those attacks, and Charlemagne had activated his pulse shield just in time… for what? The evols would most certainly conduct a grid search after their initial attack, and there were not many places to hide in the rubble that stretched for miles around them. He could maybe take one head on, if he was lucky and his aim was true… but there were at least five roaming around, as detected by his perimeter scanner. He wasn't sure what to do, and his platoon wasn't responding to his beacon… perhaps they were conducting their own defensive maneuvers, or perhaps they were simply wiped out.

The situation seemed bleak, but Charlemagne wouldn't tell Sheila that, at least not yet…
____

Charles awoke, but his eyes did not open, a warrior's habit trained into him as a young boy. Crickets and frogs sang a night's chorus around him with chattery chirps and swollen hiccups, and he felt the warmth of flame from a campfire nearby. As his senses collected further from the depths of sleep, he took notice of his left arm in a sling and the feeling of hay on his back, his armor absent while he lay upon the musty dampness of earth. His good hand fidgeted with the remnants of his dream, and for the briefest moment a trail of cyan energy pulsed from its fingertips.

Through the floating, glowing embers a pair of watchful eyes could be seen, the color of sparkling amethyst. Charles couldn't help but stir at the stare he somehow felt through his still-groggy mind.

"You're finally awake," Shiva'ra stated flatly.

"Yes indeed," Charles acknowledged with a dusty throat. "What a wonder that I'm still alive."

"I killed it, once and for all," Shiva'ra declared to quell the question yet to be asked. And don't you ever steal another kill from me again, came the unspoken words alongside her tone. The sound of a jangle settled Charles' mind about the medallion as well.

"Very good, very good. We have what we need for the final battle ahead. Thank you for your help, Shiva'ra, and for the lovely campfire."

A wordless welcome filled the embered air between them before Shiva'ra spoke again. "A cleric came and went while you were asleep to rid you of your curse. I managed to set your arm as well… hopefully the cleric's blessing speeds it along." Her mention of it seemed to activate Charles' mind to the pain and swelling, and his shoulder twitched with a deep, dull ache.

"A cleric and demoness with peace between them?" Charles mused aloud. "What a sight that would have been. A pity I missed it."

Shiva'ra snorted with a sort of shallow contempt. Her lips readied a retort before being interrupted by another thought from the wounded warrior.

"Our crusade is almost complete, dear huntress. We've earned together a lifetime's worth of rest, have we not?"

The remark evidently stirred something within Shiva'ra, prompting her to stand from her seat and move towards the HellHunter, his body exposed and vulnerable, wearing a peasant's plaincloth. She kneeled to straddle him with knees and palms in hay and dirt, rocking a bit on his loins in an effort to rouse him, but only earned a grimace.

"Easy, easy…" Charles winced alongside a jagged smile, winking one eye open upon the demoness pressing her claim upon his lap. "Your warmth is always appreciated, but my body still aches, so it does."

Shiva'ra curled her own soft, curious smile. Easy, easy. Charles seemed to always pull odd new expressions from his dreams, a phenomenon of which she had long grown accustomed.

"What say will happen after our task is done?" Shiva'ra posed with a sing-songiness to her voice, equally innocent and sultry. "How shall we live?"

Charles seemed to muse on the on the hopeful eventuality for a long moment. "I suppose our duties would shift towards rekindling the Great Earth with children," he offered with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"Children!" Shiva'ra sounded genuinely excited and flattered at the proposition, almost squealing. Her rocking thighs were less provocative now and more mindful of Charles' ailing soreness.

The heart in Charles' chest thumped its own cautious longing at the prospect. Shiva'ra really was quite beautiful, horns and all, a fact he often blotted from his own eyes out of necessity. Perhaps his seed wouldn't or couldn't take within her womb; he was a mere mortal courting an otherworldly demoness, after all. But Shiva'ra's enthusiasm to try was enough to add another fiery incentive to the drive already branded onto his soul by oath and fate.

"First thing's first," Charles proclaimed, pulling another of those peculiar phrases from some forgotten time. "The Christ of Demons."

Shira'na's amethyst eyes flared at the name said aloud, her body stiffening. "The Christ of Demons," she whispered back.

 

[This godless endeavor]

How the Mighty Have Fallen​

Charles' knees throbbed their familiar aches as he trudged doggedly towards the end of Sa'avs Pass. His boots greedily clung to mud and clay as an animated crosshatch of rain traced the contour of his cloak. He had been traveling for days, stopping only to fetch water and relieve himself, and fatigue was finally displacing his perseverance. The weight of the cargo snugly strapped to his sides proved to be every bit the nuisance that Charles had expected. A tall glass of ale will be your reward once the transaction is complete, he reassured himself, and the promise of a warm bed at an inn fueled him for the last leg of his journey.

Crossing paths with nameless travelers became a more and more common occurrence as the town of Chuthan drew nearer. His thoughts drifted aimlessly, as they often would during long journeys, until the approaching sound of clacking hooves focused his senses with a jolt. His hand gripped tightly around the hilt of his concealed rapier as the silhouette of a horse-drawn carriage appeared against the lingering fog. It slowly lumbered past until the sound of rainfall overtook its creaky wooden wheels in the distance behind him. With a breath, he relinquished his weapon and allowed himself to relax.

How did things ever come to this? Charles often wondered, but never in a resentful way. It wasn't much too long ago that he was dubbed the Shining Savior. Charles the Invincible. The Chosen Champion. These were the titles which helped to forge the path of his childhood towards his final confrontation with the evil Emperor Raven Da'Routh as a scant seventeen-year-old. He was victorious in the end, as prophesized. Bloodied but victorious. He observed with introspective analysis that his journey had almost felt at times like he was going through the motions. With the world's confidence backing him, how could he fail? The celebrations were long and joyous, the erected statues grand and visionary, the women loose and insatiable. Yet his mind drifted even as his desires were thoroughly quenched, comparing the befores and afters of a world where 'good' prevailed and seeing no discernible difference.

What were you truly fighting for, oh Great Defender? His father might ask if he were still alive, the same bureaucrat father who wholeheartedly rejected his son's predestination. The opportunity for people to govern themselves? Surely now you see how unruly the common masses are on their own. He shook his head with a snort, conceding a half-hearted agreement with the flesh and blood which abandoned him. The world was quick to dismiss their hero, of course, when Charles cynically exiled himself from the public eye. Now, many years later, he was smuggling drugs across arbitrary borderlines, earning his keep by ensuring the availability of a synthetic drug for wealthy socialites to douse away their sorrows. An honest dishonest living, he reconciled with quiet justification.

The unmistakable rumbling of a gas-powered engine tensed the air once again. A merchant's motorcar this time, parting its way through the incessant mist. It carried a sense of looming confrontation, even as it disappeared behind Charles' peripheral vision. His eyes and ears steeled themselves for the inevitable.

"Halt!" A voice commanded, disregarding the fact that Charles already stood frozen in his tracks. "Surrender yourself now. Forfeit your goods without delay and forego your death!" Charles' shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh, prompting two cloaked bandits to rapidly converge upon his position with their weapons drawn. He sidestepped them easily and made light work of them with his rapier, their bodies collapsing upon the rain-soaked earth with a soft thud. He swiftly turned to meet the motorcar and was faced with a large cannon, still mostly covered in tarp, aimed at his center mass.

"Last chance!" the voice called again from somewhere within the humid dark. A grunt escaped Charles's lips before he unsheathed his sword and swiped upward with one fluid motion—the same motion which felled the Emperor endless years ago—and the motorcar split into two with a smoldering crack. The scamper of footsteps fleeing into the woods finalized his victory, and Charles reassigned his focus while retiring his sword. The beady yellow lights from the approaching town beckoned, and his weary legs eased their demands. He sifted through the empty square towards the local saloon, passing a defaced, moss-ridden equestrian statue of himself without a second glance.

As a male in Rahven Rahz, you have the choice to be perpetually aroused, or not at all. Charles was reminded of his father's narrow-eyed observation as two bubbly, scantily-clad waitresses flanked him in greeting within the saloon. Even as their breasts happily bounced against his shoulders, he maintained his blank, unrelenting stare. They asked in unison if they could tend to his cloak, prompting a slow nod of approval. His modest attire saw light for the first time in days—a faded plaid shirt, jeans with patches of discoloration, and brown boots cracking down the seams. Charles' dark hair and eyes seemed understated against the wash of color prevalent amongst the other patrons of the saloon. Even his 6'2'' frame was meager compared to other humans—and he preferred it that way.

He surveyed the area and made quick mental notes of his surroundings. A piano player in the corner. Two large ogres cornering a woman with ominous intentions. A large gathering of patrons, hooting and hollering around what seemed to be a sex show. Eventually, he spotted his contact. Charles nonchalantly seated himself at the bar beside a green-skinned Jhenaf, waving off a greeting from the bartender.

A moment passed, then another.

"You have what I need?" Finally, a gruff voice from the Jhenaf before he methodically lifted his glass to his lips.

"Yeah. You have my money?"

Slowly, the Jhenaf guided his hand towards a pouch strapped to his waist. He unzipped it slowly, pulling out what looked to be a bag of coins. Of course I have it, his glance seemed to say as he placed it resolutely on the counter between them.

Taking his cue, Charles loosened the straps around his chest and let the bags of pure Molly drop into his hands. He subsequently placed them beside the coins, on the side closest to the Jhenaf. "I guess that's that," Charles muttered, reaching for the coins before a firm shove interrupted his acquisition.

"No payment for you today, boss." A weapon jammed against Charles' back made its intentions irrefutably clear. The voice was quickly assessed and determined to be either a cyclops or an intelligent sasquatch. "Now leave and don't look back." Charles' posture sulked, as if to prepare his meek departure from his chair and the premises. He then slammed his fist against his chest, causing a small, rippling explosion to flare out from his back, startling his assailant backwards a few steps. He swiveled hurriedly in his stool, prepared to engage his attacker before a compelling female voice commanded the attention of the entire saloon. "Stop right there," it ordered emphatically, persuading Charles to lower his sword as a woman emerged from the shadows of an adjacent room.

 

[This godless endeavor]

The Vagabond and the Princess​

It happened so quickly...

In one moment, the king ordered the execution of the defiant vagabond standing in his presence as nearby guards rushed to seize him.

The next moment found the king on all fours, bowing before the condemned as his royal robes sprawled comically around his body. The guards had also backed themselves some distance away before kneeling their own grudging reverence.

In fact, everyone within earshot of the kingdom's grand hall seemed entranced by the shocking powers of the cloaked vilifier... everyone except the Princess, who sat beside the imperial throne in abject horror. Her father had entertained an audience with a self-proclaimed soothsayer, who had quite the captious appraisal to share about the king's steady reign over the land of Bresau. Insulting would have been putting it mildly.

Now, the guest with an apparent death wish had turned the tables with simple, irresistible, irrefutable orders. The golden voice of a wandering Midas, it seemed.

The vagabond took a few moments to shift his eyes about, studying his work with a satisfied smile before picking up where he left off.

"Very good, very good. Now kiss the floor upon which I stand, my king."

His wish was the monarch's command, and a furious gaze followed soon after. The hushed silence that accompanied it felt heavy in the air, and the soothsayer savored every moment.

"Well then. I suppose there are trained assassins and opportunistic soldiers to consider," the vagabond declared through a musing sigh. "So hear me well: should I be harmed or killed, the king's fate shall accompany mine. My pain is his pain. My death is his death. Doubt me not, as you have witnessed my powers firsthand. Try me not, or suffer the lasting consequences of your folly."

The covenant was undeniable. The soothsayer's words were magic... they spoke truths into existence. His destiny was now inexorably tied with the king.

"One final word..." His arms folded in a gesture of impatience. "If you must know, my name is Charles. Curse the name with all your seething hatred, should that befit your tendencies." With an exaggerated, almost ridiculous bow, the soothsayer excused himself from the humbled heap of the king, leaving those he touched with his voice beyond words, beyond comprehension.

___

After his royal rebuke, the vagabond made himself quite at home within the grand castle. He moved from wing to wing with a carefree smile, one that also carried with it a frightful air of invincibility. Business carried on as best it could despite the persistence of his presence. Normalcy had returned with a large asterisk, or so it appeared.

The curious thing was the vagabond seemed uninterested with making himself a nuisance beyond his own whims and fancies. He also seemed to have a personal code of honor, never having used his godly voice beyond the initial point made in the king's throne room. Despite this, however, there were heavy, hateful stares, sneers, and spiteful whispers from the castle's inhabitants.

"How do we kill you?" came one brazen question from a frustrated soldier.

"With kindness," Charles returned with his usual cool, collected air.

From afar, the Princess occasionally caught the corner of Charles' eye as he made his daily rounds, hiding in distant shadows or peering from distant windows. Perhaps she hoped her glares would somehow erase him from existence, or perhaps she was building the courage to confront him. In the end, despite her captivating beauty, he gave her stalkings little thought.

Finally, inevitably, the Princess made her approach.

"Charles," she called aloud, walking uneasily towards the man she named.

"Hmm... yes?" A genuine look of surprise appeared on the vagabond's face as he washed alone in the public bathing square, his arrival having caused a grumbling exodus moments before.

The Princess would see a man with a rugged build... a peasant's build, with broad shoulders and calloused hands. Vigilant brown eyes complemented dark wavy hair that framed a surprisingly handsome face, save for a faded scar that traveled from his left ear to the middle of his forehead. His skin held a soft ochre glow from years of the sun's tenacious touch, and stubble gave his chin and cheeks a faint shadow.

"Charles," she calmly said again, collecting herself and her thoughts. "Let us speak to one another."

The vagabond turned to the Princess with brief, narrow slits of eyes before comically furrowing his brow, as if entertaining a heavy thought. "Very well," he relented with a smile. "What have ye to say?"

"It's about my father," she mustered out, her gaze almost pleading. "You had him kiss the floor of the royal hall. You've since forbade him to sit upon his own throne."

"Yes, I did," Charles reflected solemnly. "A punishment, I admit, for rushing to violence against me." A pause coincided with another consideration. "He should consider himself lucky for enduring such a... light penalty."

The Princess visibly prepared herself again. "Word travels... somehow, someway. The neighboring kingdoms have made it into a joke, but our enemies..." A stifled sob seemed to catch in her throat before she continued.

"Our enemies are emboldened by the prospect of a king being controlled by some outside influence. They've initiated a number of attacks in recent days, bold and fierce, claiming victory in several."

The desperation was evident in her voice now, and the Princess's eyes flared with anger.

"Your powers have made our kingdom weaker... have insulted and degraded us... degraded me..."

"My powers have no effect upon you, specifically," Charles explained with a tinge of impatience. "Perhaps you didn't recognize your own exemption in the throne room, but even my abilities carry their own handicaps."

A look of wide-eyed realization lifted to the surface of the Princess' face, and the obvious question followed. "Why only me?" she asked with a hint of exasperation.

"A lengthy story for another day," Charles said dismissively. "Should it ever fancy me to tell you, I suppose."

The Princess kept still near the bathhouse steps, dumbfounded. The vagabond's watchful eyes studied her, then pulled away with slight embarrassment.

"Funny how something so simple can have such a resounding impact," Charles stated meditatively. "I suppose my impulses have the occasional... unintended consequence." The silence that settled after his admission felt strangely uncomfortable.

"I'm late for something," Charles declared with a bit of awkwardness as he started his climb up the slippery bathhouse steps. What the lazy vagabond could be possibly late for seemed to escape her understanding, but the Princess nonetheless nodded her acknowledgment.

"Join me tonight in the courtyard," Charles finally proposed. "And we can negotiate."

A heavy swallow accompanied another hesitant nod. The Princess then rushed a curtsy before excusing herself from the vagabond.

___

A crisp, starry night fell over the kingdom of Bresau. Charles, tending to one of his curious whims, had set a tent and campfire in the grassy yard of the castle square. A vagabond's habits died hard, it seemed.

The Princess would meet at the rendezvous and find Charles laying on the cool grass with his elbows bent and hands tucked behind his head, looking up to the stars. Upon noticing the arrival of the Princess, he patted the ground beside him as an invitation. "Before we begin, join me for a minute."

The Princess sighed impatiently. "I'm wearing a dress..." she began, but would nevertheless comply, despite her own misgivings.

The both of them lay for a moment looking up to the pitch black sky speckled with glowing white dots. The vagabond then broke the night's chorus of chirps and croaks with a question. "Are you arranged to be wed?"

The Princess turned her head to Charles with a searing glare. "Why would ye care to..." The derision in her voice soon abandoned her, however.

"Not as of yet. There are nobles who push to court me, but--"

"Very well then," Charles interrupted, his voice full of cheer. "I'll make you an offer. Allow me to henceforth sleep beside you in your bed, and I will tell you everything... and perhaps reinstate your father to his throned glory." His gaze locked upon the eyes of the Princess. "For the price of a night's snore, knowledge shall be yours."

 

[This godless endeavor]

Antimanna​

The alchemist sat himself upon the throne once belonging to King Xarele, now forcibly removed from power and imprisoned. The side of his face rested meditatively against his palm as he stared out upon the grand hallway before him, flanked by marble statues of what he assumed to be former majesties and equestrian champions. There were towering archways adorned with gold embellishments and colorful frescoes, exquisite paintings of queens and princesses whose alluring features had traveled generations... delusions of ostentatious grandeur, as far as the alchemist was concerned. His new world would do away with such archaic traditions and usher in a new societal construct, the natural consequence of his life's ambitions.

Charles the Alchemist, the enlightened ruler to end all rulers. A sententious smirk played along the corner of his mouth.

In actuality, Charles didn't like thrones. They were cold to the touch and often sent unpleasant ripples of gooseflesh across the length of his limbs. He also didn't view himself as any sort of monarch, meant to bear the weight and wonders of a crown. In his own eyes he was instead a messiah, the chosen Godhand delivering to the world its deepest unspoken desire: a riddance of magic in all its manifestations. By the grace of the Maker he had discovered the means to achieve this goal, and its implementation had been remarkably swift... driven by the relentless antimanna, the substance that reversed, rejected and nullified magic's influence upon all of Great Earth's creations, far and wide.

Those beyond his soldiers and dignitaries, however, saw Charles the Alchemist as a monster. Healers were robbed of their ability to heal, their white magics nullified after ages of sacred practice, subjecting them to illnesses once thought abolished. Dark mages lost their mastery of the elements and could no longer mount a resistance, their sputtering spellcasts fizzling like a boot upon a fallen match's flame. Dragons and other masters of the skies could no longer soar... more often than not, they simply withered and died. A world full of magic and wonder was now being tamed, for better or worse, by a tidal force the likes of which the world had never seen... or could ever prepare for.

All things considered, there had been remarkably little bloodshed, at least from the cold objectivity of the great Alchemist. Those who were willingly subjugated were cleansed and rehabilitated. Maidens were given opportunities to marry soldiers of the Great Army... soon afterward, they were promptly reinstated in their villages. There were, of course, the stubborn lots who would never, could never see the need for magic's abolishment.... and they were dealt with appropriately. This great cleansing needn't be a struggle, the Great Alchemist thought, if only the world would understand magic's futility.

Even then, despite the momentum of his crusade that seemed sanctioned by the Fates themselves, there still existed those who somehow bubbled magic to the surface of the river that was drowning it...

"Commander Charles," came a voice from the throne's hallway, startling him from his heavy contemplations.

"Hmm... yes?" The Great Alcehmist's eyes squinted through a nearby window's beam of morning light, speckled with bright dots of dancing dust. His chief advisor, lieutenant Aldridge, revealed himself with a salute and a clap of his boots.

"My apologies in disturbing you, sir, but I wanted to share news of the captured sorceress..." The advisor paused to swallow before continuing. "She's had another one of her... outbursts."

"Truly?" Charles' voice was colored with a faint fascination. "Was it... dealt with, like the others?"

"Our elite sentries managed to contain her, yes. But it was quite the struggle."

"I see..." Charles' voice trailed, as if swallowed by thought. "Very well, then," he proclaimed loudly, as if settling upon some grand revelation. "Bring her to me."

The lieutenant's eyes widened slightly. "Commander, I don't believe that to be..."

Charles held up a finger to close the matter. "I shall speak with her myself and subsequently determine what course will be taken to ensure that her stubbornness is... appropriately harnessed."

"Of course, Commander. Right away, sir." Lieutenant Aldridge noded and bowed, still with an uncertain gaze, before he excused himself from the Great Alchemist's presence.

___

She came escorted by a contingent of troops, her wrists and ankles shackled, nudged along from the small of her back by the butt of a rifle. The 'sorceress' was guided through a massive, egressed doorway carved from sacred oak and onto the lengthy scarlet rug that led to Xarele's former throne, which was seated upon a small, circular staircase. Charles kept his keen, calculating glare upon her until she was presented before him, standing tall as if ready to be sentenced by a judge.

The woman would see a tall man with a sturdy build, his legs casually crossed as he sat. Eyes of greenish amber complemented waves of mahogany hair that swept across his forehead and just above his eyebrows. His soft olive skin presented its imperfections shamelessly, with moles and freckles likely obtained from the sun's persistent touch across many years of outdoor work. His attire was almost shockingly simple, especially when contrasted with the royal throne upon which he was seated... a plain, white button shirt with beige slacks and suspenders attempted no extravagance whatsoever.

"Well met, my dear," Charles offered as greeting to the woman standing before him. "I suppose you've already deduced the reason you were brought to me." The pursed smile across his lips exhibited an aloof, almost patronizing quality.

"It seems as though your tantrums have been... problematic." There was an arrogance in his eyes, however, that relayed their own words. But we managed to reign you in, just the same.

The pause in the air hung for a few moments before Charles audibly drew in a breath. "I place no hope in my attempts to have you understand the necessity of my conquest," he declared through a reconciliatory sigh. "However, I can make arrangements for your transition to be as... painless as possible. For example, I can free your friends and family from my dungeons... if you would only ensure your cooperation henceforth."

The smile that followed appeared more genuine on the Great Alchemist's face. "Before you answer, my dear, may I know your name?" he asked affably.

 

[This godless endeavor]

The Groundsman
—Story Prompt—​

The sun held high at its apex as noon tucked away the blue shadows of morning. Slivers of daylight traced the contours of Aria's outstretched arms as they reached with bequeathing palms, the ancient Goddess Aria, bringer of Spring and Life. Her warm visage exuded a feeling of welcome beyond words as her fluttering robe flowed like rapids around her bent knees. Her stillness had endured for centuries or more, an ethereal statue much too elegant for a sculptor's chisel.

Without prejudice, the appearance of the goddess reflected the broad spectrum of races that her worshipers represented. The orcosas, a benign faction of the orcs, insisted upon her leathered skin, broad shoulders and toothy smile. The various elven tribes marveled at the elegance of her teardrop ears. The tall, snake-skinned albinos known as the pontocks witnessed their own red-eyed miracle. Her physical appearance was truly in the eye of the beholder, but the essence of what she represented remained the same across all the beings of the great Gaia.

The timeless magic of the Western Temple floated the large statue of Aria above a wide, round dais encircled by a flight of three shallow steps. Her stone-quiet gaze peered across the grassy hills as they stretched outward towards the distant woodland, with beaten roads occasionally weaving between and around patches of trees. Stone medians flanked the temple's manicured fields and rounded towards a series of ribbed columns serving as the only barricade within a temple otherwise free of walls, accessible to all who found themselves moved to pay their respects.

***
Pilgrims from distant lands prayed, danced and left offerings as the goddess cast airy shadows like blots of watercolor upon her worshipers. The noble families of all races brought attendants with them, often with roaming, curious eyes. What appeared to be a young servant woman happened to pass a glance towards the silent figure near the rear of the temple, standing as still as the rising columns around him. Their eyes tangled, and the caretaker was quick to rip his gaze away before the exchange escalated further.
___

Charles' auburn gaze glowed with satisfaction upon the marble goddess, now scrubbed clean of moss and stains, with one hand on his hip and the other leaning against his upright rake. He had been up before dawn in anticipation of the approaching holy holiday, tending to his day's tasks before the visitors arrived en masse. Absent from the stone skin of the Goddess were the colorful, wispy weeds that grew like vines and resembled small peacock feathers. Vibrant little treasures, they were, with a pulse of magic's essence, perhaps bestowed upon them by Aria herself. Charles tucked one of the feathers away into his pant pocket, a trivial gesture to unwitting eyes...

He had lived upon the temple's premises for years, tasked and trusted with maintaining the holy site but mostly invisible to those who would visit it. Powerful sorcerers came to offer their tributes and subsequently departed without so much a word to the quiet observer with short jet black hair and beige-colored overalls. He was, after all, a mute without the blessing of magic in any of its countless forms. Arrogant eyes might have viewed his life as a waste, but menial labor was plentiful and often reserved for mutes in search of their life's purpose. All in all, he was dismissed by most pairs of eyes that settled upon him, and he liked it that way.

The children from various races frequently played together as their parents payed their devout respects. They practiced basic elemental spells with sporadic shrieks of delight, and occasionally interacted with Charles as they scuttled throughout the holy ground. Some stared silently, others asked silly questions. He mostly entertained their interactions with polite solemnity at the cost of distracting him from the inevitable troublemakers.

Indeed, with his attention diverted, he yelped in pain as his rake's handle scorched his palm while distant pranksters pointed, laughed and fled. Charles allowed himself a moment to narrow his eyes and shake his head... it wasn't the first incident, and it wouldn't be the last. With a sigh, the groundsman shook the sharp sting of heat from his hand and claimed his rake once more from the grass where it was dropped.
___

Charles retired to his modest cabin shortly after dusk, which resided about a half-mile from the temple he maintained, near the woodland's edge. He had access to a short list of luxuries, including a bed, stove and washtub, and a few dips into his well prepared his bath and supplied water for cooking. A traveling ice mage has blessed his freezer for a substantial price, but now he could keep stores of meat through the long summer months. After a meal of baked venison strips and rice, he lit the evening candles before donning his robe, and from afar his cabin windows would glow like a firedrake's eyes.

He knelt upon his haunches and began to lift the thatched rug in the small living area of his cabin, leaning it against a wall once it had been rolled tight. A basement door could now be seen, no longer hidden away from prying eyes. Once opened, a short staircase was discernible through a blanket of shadow, and Charles descended into what might have originally been intended to serve as a small wine cellar... though its purpose now certainly did not involve anything recreational.

A wall torch was lit, revealing a dummy mannequin in a nearby corner not unlike a scarecrow's torso. Shelves of jars and other containers were also seen jutting from each wall, offering a selection of translucent liquids, dried herbs and granulated powders. Situated in the middle of the cellar was a wooden table with vials and beakers, a small burner plate, and instruments for grinding and mixing. A copy of the forbidden text The Obsolescence of Magic was opened to an anatomical illustration of a robed sorceress and her various magical chakras.

On the far end of the table could have been the most damning article. A pamphlet with the insignia of the eastern mute resistance was peeking from its rectangular envelope, handed to him by a blind mute on a street corner begging for money. His rare business excursion to the city of Balthas had supplied him with sobering insight, and new heights of determination.

After a sweeping glance of his handiwork, Charles seemed to immediately pick up where he left off in his laboratory. He pulled the feathery weed plucked earlier in the day from his pocket and placed it upon his table. A powdery concoction from his prior night's experimentations had proved itself a promising lead.

Placing the weed upon a thin bed of the powder, its vibrant hues immediately dulled alongside withering tendrils, before pulsing back to its original state. Charles could sense as well as see the magic being neutralized, if only temporarily, but its essence remained resolute and overcame its aggressor.

There's something here... Charles thought with conviction. Something potent.

Several hours passed with mixing and stirring, testing and observing. It seemed his progress had plateaued, frustrating him to the point of a punch upon his watchful mannequin, until he was reminded of a rare find he purchased from an herbal shop in Balthas, the secreted oil of the eschew plant. He added a few drops to his original formula, spread it thin with a knife and settled the weed upon it once more.

This time the weed's reaction was alarmingly conclusive. It actually shriveled to a crisp, graying to the point of visual finality. Charles locked his eyes upon it, expecting an eventual rebound, but none would come.

Gods... Charles swallowed hard upon the sight after several minutes has passed, his thoughts heavy and swirling.

A large batch was made with his remaining ingredients and hidden away in a glass container. He would set aside a small amount to place within a leather pouch, which he pocketed for later use.

"Tomorrow," Charles said aloud to himself before climbing the wooden planks back to his cabin to retire for the evening.
___

The sun eventually rose, as it always did. Charles was already awake and finishing his rounds across the temple as visitors assembled themselves once more. Eventually and discreetly, he lost himself from the pack of eyes behind the trunk of a large yarka tree, seemingly forgotten by Aria's flock.

The children from the prior day eventually began to roam and play, eyed carefully by Charles with brief glimpses from his hiding place. He waited until a nearby elven child experimented with a flame spell between the cup of her hands, looking upon her success with awe and satisfaction. The small leather bag was fetched from his pocket, and a small mound of his concoction was placed onto the palm of his hand. A measured breath then preceded a deep exhale of the spore-like powder towards the unsuspecting girl. The substance seemed to dissolve into a barely discernible cloud, carried by faint winds towards its target.

The child's flame began to flicker and wane with an obvious struggle until it finally extinguished, with only a thin trail of smoke honoring its prior existence. A look of horror lifted to the child's face before her spell was once again attempted, chanting the sacred words carefully, but only earned a small puff of combustion upon her palms. A panicked roam of the child's eyes yanked the caretaker back into hiding, and he would only hear the child screaming and running to find her parents.

Charles witnessed his experiment with fascination that bordered on outright horror. After the elven girl fled, there was a heavy moment of realization before his breaths began to quicken, and his sense of balance began to tilt...

A panic attack... this must be a panic attack, he repeated in his mind, and tempered his breaths with deep exhales to curb the tide of spasms that shuddered across his limbs. He then found his way back to his cabin, taking care not to be noticed, though in the corner of his eye the noble family with the curious servant woman lingered...

Charles would not be seen outside for the remainder of the day. He sat silently for hours on his bed with the pamphlet in his hand, dwelling on the ramifications of his discovery, until a knock on his cabin door accompanied the arrival of dusk.

A frenzied look rose to Charles' face as he hurriedly tucked away the pamphlet into the pocket of his overalls. He then reached for a small dagger hidden underneath his mattress before tending to his late visitor.

 

[This godless endeavor]

Liquid Evolution
—Story Prompt—​

The pewter-colored dropcraft, lodged in reddish mud, shifted a bit before its door slid open like an eyelid. From the round ship emerged six soldiers, wearing thin black jumpsuits with matching boots and gloves, right arms extended forward from their chest towards any potential threats. They quickly dispersed in different directions, covering vast amounts of ground in seconds. Rain fell down as thick aqueous bulbs upon the saturated Martian soil, complementing a purplish-gray sky with a thin strip of orange towards the horizon, beyond the sharp ridges of geologic formations.

Charles Brock, by contrast, emerged from the craft slowly, swiveling his head to-and-fro to note his surroundings. He wore the same jet-black uniform as the soldiers that preceded him, with one difference: the red emblem of an eagle representing the Bloodhawks could be seen on either shoulder, announcing his rank as Lieutenant Commander.

The Bloodhawks were the military branch assigned to Earth's Science and Technology Institute, mobilized for reconnaissance and sample collections in potentially dangerous regions. Of course, as was the case with Earth's primary defense organizations, they were regularly utilized for discreet and crucial missions. They recited the same ethical oaths as their civilian counterparts, but sometimes their promises were bent and broken against the insurgents who scattered themselves across the terraformed planets within the solar system.

It was an exciting time in Brock's life; as exciting as life could get for an enlisted grunt soldier, anyway. He earned an officer's promotion years ahead of schedule due to exemplary performance, which offered him more downtime as well as his own private quarters, small but comfy with a telescreen and other details towards ease of life. He was also eligible to claim a sexual partner (one at a time at his current rank) at the Mate Exchange during downtime. The sexual act has always intrigued Charles, since he was still "pure" (most soldiers were due to the necessary dedication and location-specific training required for enlistment), but ESATI had arranged to temper his curiosity on the subject.

Earth scientists had discovered and experimented with a substance named Liquid Evolution. When applied to the human genome, many biological handicaps were erased or substantially diminished. A trained soldier could go up to eight hours or more without taking a breath to oxygenate his blood. Strength and senses were heightened, with bone density increasing by almost five hundred percent due to the manifestation of a strange fibrous membrane. The scientists realized through their observations that they were watching evolution accelerate before their very eyes.

Another interesting and unanticipated effect was the impact on primal genetic impulses. The pleasure threshold of the human orgasm was magnified exponentially, calculated at around ten times the dopamine triggering capabilities of concentrated opiates. Sexually active recipients of LE recorded momentary visitations to new planes of existence, melting sensations as if they were merging into one being with their partner, and other curious phenomena upon climax...

One would think this development would devolve human beings into sex-crazed beasts, but science was always one step ahead. Brain implants would dampen cravings for sexual release, activated only by an electronic pulse delivered by a specialized doctor. Essentially, they served the purpose of an on/off switch for the libido. This ensured focused and obedient soldiers in the field.

These soldiers often patrolled the abundance of planets in the solar system, existing now thanks to massive technological efforts. Beyond terraforming existing celestial bodies, planets were built from space matter and positioned for perfect rotation around with sun with powerful laser-based instruments. Most were around the size of Earth's moon; some quite a bit larger, others slightly smaller. A few hundred or more were distributed in varying distances from the sun, with near-perfect atmospheric conditions for human life, in perfect harmony with the life-giving ball of fire in the sky. Colonies had begun to develop and flourish...

...until a decision was reached by the Chief Council with a majority vote. A mandate was declared that all humans originating from Earth be administered Liquid Evolution for their immediate benefit. The observed advantages were obvious; longer life spans, less susceptibility to disease, and the neutralization of mental illnesses.

There were rebellions, of course. Rumors of rare but horrific side effects resulting from LE exposure spread fear quickly. Others were simply weary of any government-sponsored requirements. The blanketing efforts of propaganda to instill reassurance throughout Earth and its colonies had only so much sway. Militias and guerrilla forces organized themselves, and soon a charismatic leader named Ian Fenwick condemned the Earth's efforts towards dogmatic conquest. The war against Liquid Evolution had begun.
_____

Charles waited for his squadron to make their rounds as he recorded the terrain around him with his datascope. The crackle of audiofeed from his thin plastic helmet contrasted the plip-plop-plips of thick rain with periodic bursts of coordinate confirmations and reports. The seven soldiers were dispatched to investigate heat signatures leaving the Martian atmosphere from this particular sector. Since the culprits were likely pod ships having already made their escape, no significant findings were expected.

Once the sweep was complete, the auxiliary objective was to take topographical surveillance scans since the sector was initially thought abandoned. Any unexpected human encounters were to be revolved according to the Commander's discretion... he could simply pretend they didn't exist, or apprehend them and decide their fate back at headquarters.

Sweeps usually took an hour or more, so Charles took to entertaining himself with his pulse modulators as he waited for his squadron to return. Taking aim at a large nearby rock, he extended his arm and directed his palm towards it, fingers outstretched. With a vsspt sound and a bright cyan burst, the antigravity mechanism activated, lifting the rock into the air. His arm experienced a slight strain before it steadied itself, raising the rock upward until it blocked out the faint visage of sun in the rain-drenched sky.

His visor scans measured the rock's weight at almost a ton. Though he was accustomed by now to his equipment, he always marveled at the modulators which graced either of his gloves. Warfare had certainly come a long way since a decade before, with more humane and conscientious advancements. There was no longer a need for bullets; modulation pulses could stop an insurgent (or group of insurgents) in their tracks with half an effort, freezing them in place until they were fully disarmed. Many insurgents lives were spared when they would have been annihilated with other weapons, but the pulse modulators still had the capacity for violence. With a squeeze of the hand, an unlucky person would be crushed into a pretzel.

With a flick of his wrist, Charles tossed the rock to his left towards a large crater's edge, some fifty yards away. It came down with an almost sickening thud upon the soaked Martian soil, rolling until it disappeared over the basin's lip. He smiled at his own juvenile methods of amusement, until a stark red message abruptly appeared on his visor's readings. TOPOGRAPHIC ABNORMALITY DETECTED.

Charles raised a brow and made his way towards the edge of the crater. A large pool of water had collected at its base, dancing frenetically with the rain. He panned his eyes around the crater's bowl until a discovery was made; what looked like a cave had been exposed by a dislodged rock, seemingly placed there for camouflage. Aha, Charles thought to himself. Looks like me goofing off has its benefits after all.

After a careful approach with a steadied arm, he pulled the rock fully free to expose the entirety of the cave's entrance. What he saw inside amazed him; empty ration containers stacked neatly and an old pair of discarded slippers, before the tunnel bled into the dark unknown. Someone had obviously lived here, or was living here. He dug his boots into the soft mud and stabilized his position.

"Surrender yourself at once," Charles barked with a thick robotic voice, "or I cannot guarantee your safety!"

 

[This godless endeavor]

Lightwork
—Story Prompt—​

And those empires would rise against the Light of the First, with darkened magic stained upon their lips,17 brazenly turning their holy gift against the Creator who bestowed them. Countless multitudes burdened with evil, so as to nullify the great exodus; a rapture unfulfilled.18 The Light will instead descend and swallow them. Those who reap the joy of the Good Word may yet be saved;19 but countless others will cup their ears and refuse their salvation. For them, the hell of oblivion beckons.
____

A modest camp was arranged on a flattened hilltop, chosen for its strategic vantage point over the surrounding terrain. After his tent was raised, Alexander took the time to dress a few wounds that had crusted with blood, and the priestess tended to her own recuperation. Their last skirmish had taken an unexpected toll; the resistance was thickening in both frequency and ferocity as their objective approached.

Once he was freshly bandaged, Alexander assembled his scope and surveyed the terrain to make the most of the remaining light of the day. The east presented a dense forest sloped along rippling hills, hazing with distance into a green mist. A strip of mountains pulled above the horizon, jagged and draped in swathes of violet shadow. They appeared as a weathered jawbone from some unspeakably large, long-felled behemoth. Behind them was a painted gash of orange bleeding like a wounded furnace... the freshly-spewn lava of the sun, cooling into obsidian with the approaching night.

Above them lay an indigo sheet of sky, with stray clouds floating and fading like ghostly bruises. A gray half-moon lazily spread its light in a circular smear. There had been no visits from carrier pigeons for almost a week's time… and thus no new orders from Command. A contemporary map was becoming less reliable by the day as the armies of Light pressed onward and outward across the great Gaia. The topography was somehow shifting...

***

A large hare was slain, flayed, and roasted. Between them, as the campfire crackled, crickets chirped their songs. There was always that nudging, nagging cusp of conversation dancing around the flames, but reluctant lips always prevailed. Sleep was agreed upon with a mutual glance through floating embers; gazes and glimpses and stares spoke their own capable language. The advantages of traveling at night were numerous, but strength and focus were now of higher priority. Somewhere beyond the eastbound mountains, the crystal city beckoned... the stronghold of Light.

The pair of had progressed as ants might progress with burrows underneath the dense earth. So much of the world was Touched now… farms, villages, towns… each of them reformed by wandering heralds wearing robes of stark, shadowless white. They were couriers of the Good Word; anointed priests who reclaimed the minds of strayed souls.

For they were once hopelessly lost, but the Light's grace shares infinite mercy on those who recognize and repent. Rejoice, rejoice! The rapture has withdrawn, for the Touched would now inherit the earth.

They clustered along the throughways of towns and villages as Alexander and the priestess plodded through with weapons drawn. Every step was rebuked with with fervor of a street prophet. Curses were spat. Psalms of condemnation were sung with joined voices. Just wasted energy, Alexander found himself reflecting in his mind... conviction was hardly a substitute for action. Three or four of the hecklers were bold enough to attack... each were dispatched handily. One was left to die, wallowing in his refusal to yield. Little regret was felt in Alexander's mind.

Somewhere beyond the mountains was the harbor town of Larathe, their scheduled rendezvous point with an unnamed informant. Alexander and the priestess couldn't know its state of contamination until they investigated with cloaks drawn closely against their chests. He quietly hoped for an opportunity to replenish their depleted supplies with an unsuspicious merchant… before the smell of their intentions flared the wrong noses. Confrontations were becoming much more commonplace. Efficiency henceforth would prove most beneficial.

***

A heavy blink of his eyes signaled the onset of drowsiness. Alexander set his empty bowl on the grass and took to his feet with a soft grunt. The priestess was no longer hazed by flame, and the urge to speak once again pressed against his lips. Once again, Alexander couldn't imagine what to say. His initial hate had cooled into what could only be called a seething tolerance… and even this simply proved to be wasted effort. Wasted energy, towards the priestess that held his proverbial leash, or the royal army which recruited him as a weapon, or even the invaders of Light themselves. Disdain had been replaced with purpose, and purpose had a way of stripping the fat of emotion from a man's considerations.

Relinquish your hold upon my power and return to Command. Allow me to press forward and finish this alone. Perhaps he might say that, if he felt it might spur the priestess into action.

"Good night," were the words that instead fled his lips, before retiring to his tent.
____

Alexander awoke with a start in his tent, finding himself sitting upright. Something in the world of the living had awaken him, for the receding tendrils of a nightmare were absent from his mind. He had in fact been dreamless since he was a child.

Outside the tent, auburn eyes scanned the distance, seeing nothing. Slowly, the concern lifted from Alexander's mind. The priestess herself hadn't been roused, so surely his alarm was unwarranted...

A tilt of his head upward allowed a second's worth of realization. Some sort of winged, taloned creature had made its descent, and a smile of disbelief flashed across Alexander's lips.

***
The strike was momentous and sent him flying down the westmost slope of the hill. A sickening crack was heard as it landed across his midsection. Alexander rolled and tumbled until he came to rest against the base of a tree with a thump.

Moments or minutes passed as consciousness left him. He finally awoke with a gurgling gasp, and there was pain. A dull, deep pain that became sharp when efforts were made to move. At once, the relentless trainings of a soldier took command. Eventually, in his stunned state, Alexander stumbled to his feet, setting aside his piercing agony.

You'll have your say, pain... but later, later.

Focus shifted from his eyes to his keenly-trained ears. The priestess was out of sight and on her own at the top of hill, battling the creature.

It only took a moment to formulate a plan. Alexander inhaled with an audibly wet sound before yelling at the top of his lungs. "Release me, and brace yourself!"

And then...

...

...a screech of pain that faded as the monster retreated into the sky. The attack was spherical in nature; nondirectional. Certainly not a

Alexander gathered himself before trudging up the hillside with wobbly steps, his hinged arm tenderly cradled his ribs. The priestess eventually came into view, though not the stare of her eyes... her backside would greet him instead as she kneeled and panted away from him. For the briefest moment in time, with his powers unbound, a chance openly presented itself. Eliminate the priestess. Be free to steer your own fate once more.

And he would allow the opportunity to slip from his fingers.

"Larathe," Alexander said through a heavy, blood-soaked cough. "Let's make our way. Perhaps there is a doctor, or a shaman."