Various samples

Step back. Parry. Step forward. Slice. Thrust. Sidestep. Stab. Again.
 Her mornings seemed always to consist of training. At about nine and a half thousand years old, she couldn’t really afford to let her body fall out of practice. It was the only way to stay young, to stay awake; alive. Even after a morning of rigorous love-making with Ramirez, she could still feel it, still feel the years tugging at her, threatening her youth. Her heart had already failed her once in the past year, as the weeks of rest from her many acquired wounds allowed the years a chance to catch up with her.
 She could feel him watching her, likely having finished his breakfast, now procrastinating his preparations for work. How could she expect them to understand how it was the Elfin body worked? They treated her like a human, unable or unwilling to understand the differences. She would lie in bed, head resting against Ramirez’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. Steady, sure, predictable; the tick of a clock that cannot be wound, doomed to one day stop and never begin again. She envied humans that much.
 But her clock could be wound. Her youth could be prolonged, and had been for nine millennia. SO long as she had a need for it, it would stay. She dared not fall asleep if she could help it, for fear that the simple act of a peaceful sleep would signal her body it was okay to age. She could not let that happen. How would she defend herself if her arms were too weak to raise a sword? How would she care for the ones she loved?
 One last thrust, a bead of sweat arching from the edge of her nose and splitting on the blade of the obsidian rapier she practiced with. Killian understood. It thrived on being held in her hand, even if air was all it sliced. It grew impatient should she set it aside for too long, knowing what it would mean for itself if Rhia grew old. No heir had presented himself as being worthy to weild the weapon. Rhia’s was the only hand that could hold it. Without her, Killian would be lost, left in some dark corner to collect dust forever more.
 There had been one heir; the boy had inherited the precise make-up of Rhia’s Drow magick. Killian had resonated with that boy’s aura, and it had grown eager at the prospect of finally being passed on, to new hands that might be a little bit more blood-thirsty than Rhia’s now were. But the king had killed that boy. Killian had desired nothing more than to pick that man apart, layer by layer, to feed on his spirit, and the weapon had kept Rhia’s anger and hurt alive for fifty years to achieve it. But, alas, the king had died by other means, and his son now sat on the throne. It frustrated Killian to now serve the heir of the man who’d stolen the life of Killian’s new master. But it had little choice. Besides, it had tasted plenty of flesh in the past year; it should not complain.
 “You’ll be late,” Rhia said as she stepped back inside Ramirez handed her a towel to wipe the sweat from her face, and simply smiled. Rhia couldn’t help but smile back. That pure heart, smiling at her; her reason for staying young; it warmed her own wounded heart, brought back a little light to a place swamped by darkness. “Go on, silly man. We both have work to do.”
 He chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Be careful tonight,” he said, then turned and left the kitchen.
 “You, as well,” she said softly, and watched after him until he disappeared around the corner.



 “How did you do that?”
 The blacksmith laughed and rested the raw steel back into the flames. “Come; I’ll show you.”
 Rhia stepped forward, the smithing apron heavy against her torso and thighs. She pulled on the gloves, and after a moment, withdrew the heated metal from the flames. Once it was clamped to the anvil, Durham stepped up behind her and positioned her hands on the tools she’d never before used, and guided her through the modern technique.
 “It seems hasty,” she said as she lifted the metal to give it a look.
 “These swords are expendable,” Durham tried to explain, but Rhia only shook her head.
 “No sword is expendable.”
 “Our lives are not so long as yours.”
 Rhia blinked and looked up at him. Few outright admitted that difference to her face. It was refreshing to know they at least were aware of it, but the statement itself still stung.
 “We cannot afford to spend years, or even weeks, forming a single blade for each infantryman. Their swords will not be used for centuries, passed on down generations. That tradition is reserved for those of a higher order.” He took the metal from her hands and returned it to the flames. “Besides, even the finest-crafted swords will someday break.”
 Rhia’s hand lifted to her chest, still able to feel the pinch of scar tissue where Ramirez’s sword had driven into her, only to be snapped in half. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, her voice trailing off. A smile touched her lips and she looked back up at him. “Show me again.”
 He smiled back, and began again.


Zelda wandered the castle halls. She was well dressed, having been outfitted with a new wardrobe as a token of gratitude by the crown. She’d even been gifted with a finely carved and inlaid walking staff. She continued to refuse medical attention, but the king had insisted on the staff. She continued to wear the blindfold, as it seemed to put people more at ease rather than watching her empty eyes stare past them.
 She was being escorted, a soldier following a few paces behind, but she paid him little mind. There was only one soldier in this castle she had any interest in, only one who might understand her, and what she’d gone through in service for the kingdom. But she never saw him anymore.
 The city was nice, but the crowds made her nervous. She could sense people’s injuries, and she longed to help them. But she knew word of a healer would spread, and they’d find her again. So, she spent much of her days in the castle familiarizing herself with the layout. She was currently exploring a different wing, expanding the mental map.
 She paused mid-step, head canted to one side, picking up a familiar sound. She turned and stepped out into a large common room. Each footstep echoed back that same sound, proving her assumption correct. Before long, her fingertips came to rest on the smooth, ebony wood of a piano. She walked slowly around it, her fingers tracing the edges, until she came to the bench. She eased down onto it, special care paid to her broken ribs, and laid her staff on the floor beside her.
 “Soldier,” she called softly to the man who’d been following her. His steps had ceased when she reached the piano, but she knew well that he was there. The steps resumed at her call, and he came to stand beside her.
 “Yes, ma’am?” he asked with a voice that mimicked her own softness, as though it would simply be wrong to speak any louder.
“I find myself terribly thirsty, but I am very much in need of a rest. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to fetch us some tea?”
 He hesitated. The man was sharp, good at his job. He wasn’t there primarily to keep her well and safe, but to ensure she wasn’t, in fact, a spy, or anything of that sort. But she acted well, and even Roran couldn’t discern if she spoke truth or was trying to get rid of him. She was a guest, however, and it would be better to assume she was being honest. He dipped his head and smiled, even if she couldn’t see it. “Of course, ma’am.”
 She listened to him depart, and when he was a good distance down the hall, she turned her attention to the piano. IT had been a few years since last she’d sat at one. She gently lifted the cover from the keys, felt the cool ivory beneath her fingertips. She’d been able to see the last time she’d played; she wondered if she still had enough joy to play the songs she once knew.
 She timidly played through a couple of warm-up exercises, stumbling every so often on the keys as she tried to remember how it felt. She nearly gave up, her hands on the lid, when she felt his presence. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she last was with him, but feeling him there now stirred something in her heart. Her fingers found the keys again, and she played. The comfort his gaze brought to her flowed out into the music, and for the first time since coming to Damascus, she felt at ease.
 Minutes passed as she played, though it felt to her like hours, and his presence remained all the while. When she heard the far-off echo of footsteps, she finally halted the song. She slowly lowered the lid, then reached up to her blindfold. She pushed it up, revealing one, clear blue eye, and looked up into the shadows.
 “Thank-you,” she said, voice filled with genuine gratitude, “for checking on me. For whatever reason…thank-you.”
 She felt his presence linger, then vanish. The blindfold tucked back down over her eye just as Roran returned with a tray of tea.



“Just sit still,” Rhia demanded, as she straightened Jocelyn’s head for the dozenth time.
 “But that hurts,” she retorted with a pout.
 “It does not. You’re just being stubborn.” She used the ivory comb to part out another lock of Jocelyn’s hair, continuing the pattern of plaits and braids. “You promised to humor me in this.”
 “I’ll tell you any joke you want, just stop the torture!”
 Rhia laughed and shook her head. “You know what I mean.”
 “Okay, okay.” She finally sat still, doing her best not to wince as Rhia tugged the braid tight. “How long has it been?”
 “Since when?” Rhia asked.
 “Now you’re being stubborn,” Jocelyn said gently.
 She smiled faintly, looking off into space as she filled out the braid. “Close to three centuries, I suppose. And my last daughter didn’t have hair near as pliant as yours,” she added with a chuckle.
 “I’m sorry.”
 “For what?” Rhia asked, this time genuinely curious. When Jocelyn didn’t respond, likely unable to find a gentle way to explain, Rhia sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s cruel of me, to bring them into this world. There are times when I will do everything I can not to love, just in case that love becomes fruitful. But, as they say, it’s better to have loved late than never.”
 Jocelyn blinked, and glanced back at Rhia. “I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.”
 Rhia scowled and tugged on her hair to straighten out her head again. “Stop moving.”


Tyrael watched his masters from the hearth rug. He was curled up, his furry back and wings to the flames, muzzle propped up on a spare log. They were having an argument again. His mistress was standing on one side of the room, shouting at his master in a language the poor man couldn’t understand. He glowered at her for it.
 “If you’re going to speak to me in that tone, at least have the decency to use the Common tongue,” he said coolly. His years as a soldier were likely all that kept him calm and collected in the face of such a storm.
 Mistress’ hands clenched, and Tyrael’s golden eyes made out the traces of magick flickering around her fists, and could hear Killian beginning to hum with the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, it would get to do this guy in and get back to its usual on-the-run life with its Mistress. But she had more control than that, at least. Tyrael’s tail flicked lazily as his Mistress relaxed.
 “You just wouldn’t understand,” she said.
 “Not when you speak Elf,” he replied.
 That anger flared up again as she scowled. “You don’t even care,” she spat at him, and turned for the stairs to head up to their room.
 “Now that’s just not true,” Master said, his patience growing thin as he stood to follow after her.
 Tyrael sighed. Their arguments tended to always wind up in the same place, the two always waging war one way or another. As their voices rose, Tyrael pushed himself up to his feet. He stretched, tucked his wings against his sides, and followed. He should at least make sure they don’t hurt each other before taking it to their bed.
 He trotted up the stairs and came to sit in their bedroom doorway. Mistress was standing before the window, arms folded over her chest in a defensive posture, while Master stood a few paces away by a reading chair, arms at his sides.
 “-ordered you to be there,” Master was saying, still trying to keep calm.
 “I don’t take orders from him!” Mistress said hotly.
 He stiffened, hands flexing. “You swore your allegiance-“
 “To the kingdom. I swore to protect it, to serve it, but I will not be a dog to be ordered to heel whenever that man wishes!”
 “You still think of me that way? As a dog?”
 Mistress scowled again. Tyrael had to hand it to his Master for not flinching in the face of that anger; even a black dragon would pause when presented with it. “That isn’t the point, Ramirez.”
 “Then what is, Rhia? Are you defying orders just to prove a point?”
 She turned away, but Master quickly stepped forward and caught her arm, turning her back around to face him just in time to see the tear trickle down her cheek. “Please help me to understand.”
 “I won’t go down there,” she said softly, unable to meet his gaze as more tears fell.
 “You’ve said that. Why?”
 She shook her head, but Master gave her a stern shake and tilted his head to meet her gaze. “Tell. Me.”
 “Why isn’t it enough to know I don’t want to do it?” she demanded, pain filling her eyes.
 “Because I have to report a reason back to the king for your refusal of orders.”
 Anger flared in those eyes again, and she tried to push herself away from him. “Then make something up!”
 He held on tight to her, not letting her run away this time. “I want to know why you’re so frightened.”
 Tyrael saw the anger fade again from his Mistress. Master had said what she’d been waiting for. He watched her sink into Master’s arms, and knew there would be no fear of the two attacking each other for the rest of the evening. There was no telling about tomorrow, but for now, his job was done. He turned and trotted back down to the hearth. Strong jaws dragged a log over and onto the embers, a quick burst of fiery breath bringing the fire back to life. He curled up, and promptly dozed off.


Seth wandered along the outside edge of the city wall. Most of the people had long forgotten the line of defense Rhia had set up along the walls, but they were still there. He traced the lines of those runes, his eyes examining each crossing, each point of contact. It was a good spell. Even his master had been impressed. That was precisely why he was there now, studying and memorizing the spell, to take it back to his master.
 The runes were well kept, though Seth didn’t detect any trace of a spell to protect them. He could see the marks of sticks, swords, and other implements that had been used to maintain them. Not all had forgotten their presence, then. He withdrew a small book from his bag, and copied the shape and orientation of one of the circles he came upon. The Northern seal, he supposed.
 An amulet around his neck pulsated with an emerald glow, and he paused in his reckoning. He took a breath, and let it out with a long sigh, then reached up for the amulet. Before his fingers could touch it, the pulsating stopped.
 “I heard that sigh,” came a stern voice in Seth’s mind. Few things in the world could rattle him, but his master’s voice was one of them, and he flinched. Memories of having to scrape out and wash the insides of the cauldrons Merlin used to experiment in whenever he misbehaved came rushing back at the sound of that stern voice.
 “Sorry, master.”
 “Yes, yes, what have you got for me? Anything?”
 “This protection field is quite interesting. I’m not so sure you’ll be able to replica-“
 “Rune magick mumbo-jumbo; what about the crumpets?”
 Seth blinked, snapping the journal shut. “I thought you were being metaphorical,” he said dully.
 “Damascus makes the best crumpets! The magick can wait, but those bakeries won’t always be-“ His voice cut out, the soft hum of the amulet ceasing, just as Seth felt the presence of someone else.
 “They’re very interesting, aren’t they?” came a familiar voice over his shoulder.
 Seth turned to face the old wizard, casually tucking the journal back into his back. “Good morning, Matoya.”
 “Morning, my boy. Care for a crumpet?” he asked, holding up a bag of sweet-smelling pastries.
 Seth’s eye twitched, just slightly. “No, thank-you.”
 “No, I don’t suppose you’d be into sweets. Your mother does fine work,” he said. The swift changes of topic caught Seth off guard. It was something he should be used to, the way a wizard’s mind works, but his own single-mindedness made it difficult to adapt.
 “She knows a thing or two,” he admitted.
 “You wish she didn’t?”
 “We’d all be better off.”
 “You mean she’d be better off,” Matoya stated.
 “Everyone.”
 “Are you sure?”
 “Quite.”
 Matoya smiled a knowing smile. Why was it wizards always knew things everyone else didn’t? Age wasn’t the only reason; if that were the case, he’d know things like that as well. “What about this city?” Matoya asked. “How would they be now without her magick?”
 “She intervenes, yes. Who is to say she’s intervening for the better side? Or perhaps someone else would have risen to glory in her place had she never been here.”
 “There is no doubt history would be greatly changed should she not have been around. But that is not to say it would have been for the best.”
 “Then what about you? Why do you not intervene?”
 Matoya smiled again. “Why do you?”
 “Not for the sake of humans.”
 “For your own sake?”
 “For hers.”
 The old wizard nodded faintly, then turned away to walk back the way he’d come. “The shop on Porter Street has the best crumpets,” he called back.
 Once the old man had vanished around a bend, the amulet hummed again. “I don’t like that man.”
 Seth smiled, just a little. “I do.”