God Syndrome: Or Trying too Hard to Be a Good DM

As some of you are probably aware, I’ve decided to be a participant in the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) event this year. Things have been going smoothly since I began on the first, unfortunately, I’ve run headlong into a brick wall that I’m very familiar with.

Jase On Watch – {Nakiel, Golden Age, Circa 2125 T.R.}

Chapter – The First

The rain came down cold and hard, soaking Jase to the bone. His brown cloak that all Footmen wore did little to protect him from the elements. The manta was passed down from one Footman to the next, and only replaced when they were more hole than garment. At least he had his hat, its wide sloping brim kept the rain out of his face, but poured a steady stream of cold water down the middle of his back. As far as he was into his Training, all Cloakes were allowed some leniency, and his hat that he had brought with him from back home in Mossheim was at times more practical than it was nostalgic. Soon, he thought. The Tests are coming soon, and then I’ll at least be able to have my own cloake. A hood would do nice, surely; better than this moth-eaten old scrap. Still though, he hardly thought he would give up his black leather hat so easily, just for a chance to use a true cloake. Not all Graycloakes dressed as formally as the cloakes would make them appear. Some had even foregone them all together, using only a shoufa to denote that they were of the cloth at all. Still, though, Jase thought that he wouldn’t go that far. He had worked too hard, and waited too long to not wear his cloake when it was finally awarded to him. A cloake and a hat. Not that strange. No stranger than a bald man with a beard, I guess. His thoughts had strayed to the man that had appeared at the Academy early in the morning two days ago. A Kaydonite, but having seen neither a Kaydonite, nor Angstonian from that far away, who was he to say? Different customs in different lands were what made the Sun go round, said Master Wandrac. Now I’m quoting my history teacher, a fat lot of good that does me. So wrapped in his thoughts, Jase didn’t notice the two specks of light lower in the valley until they were only a few canterns away. He used his hand to sling the water from the front brim of his hat, to try to get a better look at what he saw. He used the butt of his spear to poke Pitur in the ribs, and pointed down to the valley from which the lights were slowly approaching. The trees had been cleared for two canterns in every direction from the walls of the Academy. The tall mallorn trees rising in the distance gave too much cover, even in the fall and winter. “Pitur, wake up! Do you see them down there?” Pitur had risen from where he crouched, back leaning against the stone wall that surrounded the entire grounds of the Academy, and was rubbing his eyes. He too wore the brown manta of a Footman as well, but had no protection for his head. “What is it? Lanterns? Torches? Your eyes were always keener than mine, Jase, and with this rain, all I can make out is just lights like fireflies.” “It looks like two riders on horseback carrying torches. But you do see them? I thought I had fallen asleep myself. They’re still a ways off, go and rouse Master Nikolai. He’ll want to know what visitors the Academy would have this hour of the night.” “Leave my post?” he looked at Jase askance. You know how much trouble I got in when Master Nikolai found out that I even left just to go to the jake. You go” “My eyes are better than yours, you said so yourself. By the time you return, I should have had enough time to see more of who they are. If you’re so worried, I think Vahn is on duty at the Ingate, send him out here with me. ‘Better more eyes than two, when the enemy’s on the move.’” Pitur sighed. “Master Nikolai is rubbing off on you more and more it would seem.” But he gave his manta a quick shake and quickly went through the small guard door in the Ingate and hurried off. Jase rubbed his own eyes, and tried to get a better look at the visitors. There were definitely no more than two, and at the speed they came, they had to have been on horseback. He thought he could make out a banner trying damply to carry out in the wind, but the torches didn’t provide enough light to see more than the sodden canvas atop the pole the second rider had. By the time Tork cass Gründle had joined Jase from inside the Ingate, the riders were just making the clearing around the Academy grounds. The rain had lessened slightly, and thought he could now see the banner the second rider carried. “Any idea do you have who they be, Jase?” Jase still found Tork’s speech hard to understand. Midani was not Tork’s native tongue, and he seemed to struggle still with the proper ordering of words. Jase had only the most basic of training in Marek-Dan, the language of the Bochn’da, and that only because of the rather large dwarven population in Mossheim. “Not too sure, yet, Tork. From what I’ve been able to make out of the banner, I’d wager a trien that they’re from Lummen’n, but by Herne’s Bow, I haven’t any idea what would bring them this far north.” Tork sniffed at the idea, to show his disbelief. “That’s a bet I do be taking with – ” His words died in his throat, and his mouth gaped as the wind caught the banner again. The Bochn’da’s eyes seemed to glow red in the pupil, from where Jase stood. Preferring to spend their lives under the earth, it was said that dwarves could see as well in the pitch black of a mine as a man could in a field under a full moon. “That do be the banner of House Tull,” he said stunned. “What? Are you sure?” “As sure as I know my own mother. Seven stars of silver upon a green field, it do be.” “An emissary from Lord Senneth, then? I wonder what brings them to Mercersburg? A good thing that Pitur is getting Master Nikolai, then.” “Better to be getting Dvorian Mercer himself, by the way I see.” The two riders were close enough now for Jase to make out the banner for himself. It was just as the dwarf had said; seven silver stars on a field of green, the crest of House Tull. Jase had never seen Lord Senneth Tull before, and highly doubted that either of the riders he saw would be him. The Lord of the Marches would never ride with just one escort. It can’t be him. Letting fancies take me, thinking of Lords and such. The standard bearer wore a black tabard with silver vines embroidered up both arms, and a silver falcon in flight across his chest. The black head wrap he wore marked him as a Silver Falcon as surely did the rest of his garb. The other rider’s gray cloak hung heavily off his shoulders, the thick wool soaked through with rain. As the wind gusted, it pulled the cloak to one side, revealing the silver pin he wore on the breast of his plain woolen shirt; a pin Jase expected to see, after the cloak. The Crescent Star of the Warlockes. If that weren’t plain enough to mark the rider of the Cloth, the weapon at his side certainly did. A m’sh’kln hung at his waist. Made from part of an antler from a stag, the three-pointed weapon was nearly three hands long, and was the weapon of choice for all Warlockes. With the riders no more than half a cantern from the Academy walls, Jase was relieved to hear voices from beyond the Ingate. Master Nikolai was surely chastising Pitur for rousing him at such a late hour, but Jase was confident it would be made better once he saw the visitors. It had been months since anyone had visited Mercersburg Academy from further away than Mosheim, and then only traders bringing furs and timber. Possibly years since anyone outside of March Trendale had made their way this far north. And now, three visitors from far away in as many days? It made Jase’s head spin. “What is the meaning of this? Footman Williams, I was told that –,” Master Nikolai’s voice faltered as he saw the riders, and the banner as they rode to the Ingate. Master Nikolai ran a hand through his thinning hair, and hastily stuffed his shirt into his breeches in an effort to look as if he had not been just pulled out of bed. He place three fingers to his forehead and bowed to one knee. “Attuh,” his hand moved to is right hip. “Teruh,” then to his left shoulder. “Intuh-dosh.” From there, across to his right shoulder, “Istul.” Down to his left hip, “Bezell.” And finally back to his forehead, “Katnyar-bya.” “So say we all.” Replied the lead rider, the Warlocke. “Rise Brother. While it is good to see the Ways still kept here, I have urgent need and need to see the Dvorian at once.” Master Nikolai rose quickly, and held the Ingate open even wider. “Of course, of course! Right away, Brother.”

* * *

Chapter – The Second

Tork cass Gründle moved easily through the night shrouded thicket. The trees were sparse and their limbs hung still barren even as Spring was soon to come. Neither the trees, nor the few passing clouds did much to hide the full moon just now a hand above the horizon. Even if the moon had been covered with storm clouds, Tork would still have had no trouble navigating the hilly terrain. Being a Hill Dwarf, Ragnar had blessed all his children with the ability to maneuver in the pitch blackness of the underground they normally called home. All even the most watchful Hunter would be able to see of Tork were his eyes that seemed to shine red, as if a torch caught the eyes of a wolf hunting at night. A wolf would have more luck than I, hunting what need I tonight, a true thing that is. I do no know how Dvorian Mercer expects us to find anything worthwhile in the night as it is. Rain has now washed away all but the deepest track. A Scout is a Scout, though, and it is nice to be out from those walls. While there were quite a few dwarves at Mercersburg Academy, few of them had the skill in tracking as Tork did. Fewer still enlisted there were training to become Scouts. Granted, Tork’s particular skills would be of greater use in the underground tunnels of his home, or the mine shafts of Mossheim, at this time of night, a dwarf seemed to be the best choice the Dvorian had. No more than an hour ago, had Tork set out, looking for any sign of the assassin, or assassins that had infiltrated the Academy. No more than an hour before that, and Tork watched in horror as the last breath had left Haden Birch, a high-ranking member of the Graycloakes, dead. Taken down as easily as a carib in an open field. Tork grimaced at the memory of it, the sudden look of shock on Haden’s face as it appeared for all the world that his throat had sprouted black feathers. The dull look in Haden’s eyes as he lay on the ground marked him as dead as surely as a finger to his neck to check his pulse. Not that anyone would want to get close enough to the arrow that struck through his throat to see if his heart still beat. Black feathers. A macha shaft, if my eyes do no miss their mark. With the rain still falling, and the clouds covering the moon, it had been impossible to tell from which direction the feather had come. It had sent everyone near the Ingate into a panic, as Master Nikolai ordered the gate closed, and the guards to seal every entrance to the Academy. Shortly after, Dvorian Mercer had ordered the entire Academy searched from top to bottom for the assassin. The Dvorian had called for all Finders, whether fully trained or not to report to him in the training yard of the South Wing. There were a few Cloakes that had been called as well, and even one Kaydonese who was known for her exceptional ability to find a trail through even the roughest terrain. With the exception of himself, one other dwarf, a Netherman, and Lomonian, the rest of the group were all human. Tork wasn’t quite sure how effective the humans would be, but more eyes the better in a case like this. The rain had completely stopped a good half hour after he had left the Academy grounds. With nothing to mark the passing of anyone to be found in the grounds cleared around the Academy walls, Tork had decided to push south. All he had was a feeling, a guess, really as to the direction he should take. However, he had a lucky way with his guesses, and they held true more often than not. However, by the time the moon stood halfway to its zenith, he still had found no sign of the assassin. Nor did he have any clue as to who the assassin might be. Luck lose me, but I wish we had more knowledge than we do. Chasing a kakk’ron through the silver mines would be easier. He thought for a minute that he saw movement off to his left out of the corner of his eye. He slowed his pace, and crouched down, better to conceal himself in the brush. Standing only a hand over four feet tall, he didn’t have to crouch much, but it made him feel safer. For not the first time since he left the Academy with the others he wished that Jase was with him. Wishes and wants never stoked a furnace. He’d half be able to keep up as well. In the half year that Tork had been enlisted in the Academy, he had become good friends with Jason Stormkarl. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but Tork did enjoy his company. He didn’t have many friends at all, as was true of many dwarves when dealing with people other than their own. However, after Jase had risked punishment from Master Nikolai, standing up for Tork when he had been accused of causing an accident in the Archery Field, Tork looked to Jase as Bloodkin. Again I go thinking of the past when truly need I to be watching for signs. As Tork looked closer at where he thought he had seen something, he realized it was only a snow cat, its normally white coat mottled with gray and brown now that Winter was ending. Sighing with relief, he stood back up, and began to again head south. He could see the edge of Arlyn’s Woods about a cantern away. He would reach the edge, and if he still hadn’t found anything he would return back to the Academy. As he scanned the tree line of the woods, he turned his head to the left, and crouched again to look for any sign of passage. Pain ripped through his right ear, white hot and caused him to let out a startled scream. He put his hand to his ear, and a warm stickiness began to seep through his fingers almost instantly. There was a burning sensation that was creeping across his cheek, and down into his jaw. Poison! Luck take me, I should have been more careful! His right eye was beginning to swell shut now as well. Tork dropped from the crouch to his belly, and began to crawl toward a particularly thick cluster of allgreen bushes. His entire jaw was now numb, and his eye completely shut as the poison worked its way through his system. Just a few minutes to see again. Just a few minutes. Luck, but I should have heard something! Dead grass, a rock scrape, anything. Ragnar send that I make it through this. Normally, Tork would have been able to hold his calm much easier than this. He’d faced down a stone yahrn with only a dagger before he came to the Academy, but macha shafts were not to be taken lightly. By the time he reached the group of bushes, his ear was already turning cold, and he was able to breathe a little easier. About time, that! I don’t think even a widower spider would hurt as much, or take as long to purge. Along with the ability to see with no light, Ragnar had also blessed his children with other gifts. The Bochn’da, like all other of their brothers, were partially made from the stone of the earth they were originally formed from. Hill Dwarves had hearts that were actually made of stone. Most thought that this accounted for their seemingly cold and harsh personalities, and while possibly quite true, there was a more practical side to this strange quirk of anatomy. Poisons, once they reached the heart of a dwarf, were effectively neutralized. No one truly understood how this worked, not even the Bochn’da themselves, but since Tork could already open his eye again, and work his jaw with no effort, it was more than proof of the truth of the claims. Times there be when I wish Ragnar that I’d been born Ragn’da. More useful by far than just a stone heart that. Even if they are legend, Luck take me, but it would be nice. It was said that of the three branches of dwarves, the Ragn’da, or Mountain Dwarves, were the closest to Ragnar’s heart. The closest to the earth from which they were formed. Legends spoke of even the sharpest sword being dulled on the stone hard skin of a Ragn’da. Tork closed his eyes and forced himself to steady his breathing. Out there, somewhere to his north, the assassin waited. He strained to hear anything at all that would point out where he was. However, in the relatively open area, it was hard for Tork to really pick out the direction of any sound. Another aspect of being a dwarf raised underground with the cacophony of furnaces and smiths working around the clock.

* * *

Originally written, March 7th, 12th, and 21st 2008.

Approximate Word Count: 3,085

Myleane and Bandell Hide from Fetches – {Nakiel, Golden Age, Circa 2125 T.R.

The wind outside the shack blew incessantly. Constantly howling through the loose boards, and shaking the very walls to the point that Bandell feared they would fall in on him.

Better that than facing what’s out there. Carried in by the wind. Blacker than the night herself. Faugh! Now I’m letting fancies take my mind. Surely there’s nothing out there but the wind.

“I’m scared, Bandell.” It rankled Myleane to even mention it, but it was the truth, and it was getting the better of her. “I don’t see why we didn’t just press on to Camden. Surely another hour and we would have been there. A better roof over our heads, and walls that would at least keep out this accursed wind –”

“Shh… There’s something moving out there.”

“Of course there is, you mule-headed oaf. Every tree for nearly a league is trying to touch the ground because of this wind. I still don’t under–”

“I said, quiet, girl!” Bandell was peering out the gap between the shutters now. Even holding them closed with his hand as he was, there was enough room between them and the sill to plainly see outside.

The dusk was growing thicker, but he still thought he could make out shapes just on the edge of the tree line. No more than 50 paces away from their shelter, figures moved under the last bit of cover offered by the broad leafs. This time of year, they clung stingily to a few of their dead leaves left over from the summer. The rustling sound they made in the wind made it all but impossible to hear if their stalkers were moving closer or not.

“Why are they just waiting there? They know they have us trapped. Why hold back?”

Myleane let loose a muted groan. She was just as afraid as her brother was of their pursuers. Being driven all night the previous as well as all day today, fatigue clawed at her bones and begged for sleep. There was no time for sleep now, however, and she knew it. One lapse and they would be on them in a minute.

It had been all she could do to keep the fetches at bay. The necklace around her neck practically hummed with energy and pulsed with a pale blue light that seemed to emanate from inside the sunburst pattern it bore.

“They know we can’t last much longer, Bandell. The fetches will wait until full night before making their move, when they’re at their strongest.” The moon has already set, and with the clouds from the storm still coming this way… Darker than Lagarian’s own eyes. That’s what we have to look forward to.

“What would you have me do then, Myleane?” his voice raised to be heard over the shuttering and clacking of the shack made it seem as if he were upset with her. “Camden is still at least five leagues off, and without our horses…”

He made an uneasy sound as he was reminded of the fate they had forced on their mounts. All their supplies gone, their main mode of transportation left behind in the hopes of stalling the fetches, there was nothing to be done for it.

“And cover that blasted necklace of yours! It’s sure to draw their attention!”

“You know there’s nothing I can do about that. Anytime any form of dæmad are near it will glow.”

“Well, tuck it in your blouse, then. Or better yet in one of your pouches.”

“I will not remove it, Bandell! You know better than to even think of such. The same as if to ask you to put your sword in the saddle bags.”

Bandell turned to look at her, and made a sniffing noise, sounding more contemptuous than he actually felt.

“Fine then, but at least try to cover up its light. At least a little.”

Myleane glared at him, but slowly moved the golden sunburst under the cover of her blouse. It’s not like they don’t already know exactly where we are.

Originally Written: Saturday, February 16, 2008
Approximate Word Count: 676

Aranel Attacked – {Nakiel, Current Age, Circa 2008}

A street at night...

The ringing in his ears was getting louder; almost to the point where he couldn’t hear the cars lumbering along in the slush covered streets beside him. He still hadn’t figured out why it would get this loud, or if anything was causing it at all.

The streets were pretty much devoid of life at this hour of night. Throw in the fact that the area hadn’t seen snow this early in the season for years, and it had for the makings of a very good night. Aranel was alone with his thoughts.

He had just come from the diner where Meg had helped him through his normal three cups of coffee. It was Monday, so he had treated himself to an apple pastry thingy. “Apple goo wrapped in biscuit dough” is how Meg described them. However you saw it, he had become addicted to the things over the past five years. Come to think of it, he had probably become addicted to Meg over the same time as well.

Suddenly, the pain hit. Lancing from between his eyes to the back of his head, while simultaneously trying to exit his head by busting open his ear drums from the inside, he was barely able to keep to his feet as he doubled over holding his ears. He bit back a scream, and forced himself to look around.

He had to be here. Somewhere close; nearby. Through half-closed eyes, squinted with pain, he caught movement to his left. And then a light went out. A muffled “pop” and a street light went dark, the light slowly fading to nothing as the power left it.

At the base of the lamp a figure stood, seemingly not to notice the change in his immediate surroundings. Its eyes were focused directly on Aranel.

Aranel forced himself to stand fully upright. The pain had subsided a little, and the ringing had become a rushing. It reminded him of the wind ripping through the trees during storm season that would always frighten him as a child.

*Pop*

Another light went out. This one closer to Aranel, but still on the other side of the street with the stranger.

Calmly taking in its surroundings both up and down the street, the figure casually began to walk away from the light post. Its long, dark wool pea coat moving as if by the wind that only Aranel could hear.

Aranel still couldn’t make out any distinguishing features about the figure. The collar of the coat pulled high around its neck, the navy blue scarf wrapped around its neck, and dark baseball cap pulled low all served to hide the figure’s features. Judging by the smoothness of its motions, Aranel took it to be a she, or if not that, then a small-framed male with a history of fighting. One of those Eastern types that he didn’t fully understand, yet.

As he straightened up fully, the rushing in his ears lessened. It was still there. Distracting him. Keeping him from concentrating, almost like static from a radio turned up too loud.

*Pop*

This time it was the light that Aranel had clutched to for support that went dark. He thought he had noticed it before, but this time, with it so close, Aranel definitely thought he smelled rotting eggs. There was no breeze that could have been carrying the odor from a nearby alley. For that matter, there was no breeze to be moving the figure’s coat the way it was.

It was almost to Aranel now. Moving with cat-like grace across the empty street. Still disoriented, Aranel shook his head to try to clear it. Closer still it came, and it had raised its head so that Aranel could see its eyes now. Eyes that seemed to catch the light from the remaining working lamps further down the street. Pulling the light to them, making them seem to almost glow.

Aranel recognized those eyes, with their flecks of golden brown surrounded by green. Eyes that would have glowed if only it had been a little darker. He struggled to move from the support of the lamp.

Move one foot. Then move the other. He needed to get away. He turned back toward the diner with its warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, taking a risk by putting his back to the thing.

Before he could do anything, the figure brushed by him, jostling Aranel’s shoulder as it passed by. “Evening, Officer,” it said in a low, sultry voice. A voice that surprised Aranel, almost as much as being called Officer, a title he’d not worn for years upon years now.

He turned his head to look at it, but it had continued walking past Aranel, moving further down the street. It was heading toward the diner. Aranel’s solace. His safe place. And fear spurred him to move faster to catch the stranger.

*Pop*

Again, another light ceased to illuminate the night. This time, however, the casing exploded, and showered shards of broken glass down on Aranel. Cursing, he ducked his head and shielded his eyes. As he did so, the rushing in his ears stopped. Silence for a minute, deafening in its fullness, then the soft swoosh of what sounded to be wings.

He looked up toward the diner. It was gone. Quickly scanning the street for it, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, up above him.

Questioning everything he thought he knew, Aranel swore he saw the figure high above the street lamps, the dark wool pea coat stretched out longer than it should have been. Spread wider than it should have been, moving again, but this time against whatever breeze may have moved it earlier. Aranel swore he saw wings.

Originally Written: Monday, January 28th, 2008
Approximate Word Count: 967

Memories Of Aranl {Nakiel, Golden Age, circa 2022 T.R.}

The gravel crunched under his feet hoarsely, despite his best efforts to move softly. His master would be ashamed of him, but he didn’t care. It had been many years since his days at the Academy, and some things are harder to keep as polished over the years.

He made his way up the hill at a steady pace. With the pines on either side of the road, he had ample cover from prying eyes. With any luck he would make his way unhindered.

Off to his left, a cock crowed, breaking the sound of his footsteps. The sun was yet to be seen, but the graying sky was growing brighter now. He glanced in the direction of the call, and noticed smoke softly making its way to the sky.

He cursed himself for not noticing it before. If anything, he should have smelled the fire from the farm’s hearth long before seeing it. Ah, what would Aranl think of him now?

He found himself surprised to be missing the old man. It made sense, he supposed. That was the way of life. Comings and goings. Beginnings and endings. It was always the middle parts that he had a problem with. Even with Aranl gone five years come this Spring, it still seemed just like yesterday that they were sharing a pipe and enjoying the company that only long years of hard times can bring.

Originally Written – Sunday, January 27th, 2008
Approximate Word Count: 235

Constina

Originally written, Monday, January 19^th, 2009. Publishing it to WordPress to get a better feel of the tools.

---

Constina crept quietly down the stairs, the bat she held behind her trembled in her grasp. Did I imagine it? Was it in the garage? This is three nights in a row now…

THWACK!

It was coming from the garage. She had the feeling that the burglar or whoever it was hadn’t heard her coming down the stairs, yet. Not for the first time did she give thanks for the carpeted stairs.

THWACK!

Again the same sound. What is that sound? The sound had been the same the past three nights as it was tonight. Almost like the sound of someone busting a watermelon with a sledgehammer, or maybe like someone using a large meat cleaver to chop a particularly large piece of meat.

For three nights now, Constina had been awakened around four in the morning from her sleep by … something. She could never remember what exactly had awakened her; almost like someone stepping into her room. Being a light sleeper, and having only been in the house for a week now, she had originally chalked it up to just becoming accustomed to the new surroundings.

She had never called the cops. Never mentioned it to Stephen, her boyfriend. Only Inky, her Norwegian elkhound knew. That was what was bothering her, she now realized. Where’s Inky, and why isn’t she throwing a fit?

THWACK!

She could see from the stairwell that the light in the kitchen was on. Not just the little lamp beside the desk, but the overhead light. That part was different. As she crept closer to the kitchen, she thought she smelled toast. What the hell? Breaking and entering, but stealing a girl’s food on top of that!

With her back against the wall, she cautiously peered around the door jam. Sure enough, toast in the toaster waiting to be used. As were the mayonnaise, the cracked pepper deli turkey, the lettuce, even a tomato. Everything lain out to make someone a nice midnight snack.

The casualness of it got to Constina more than anything else. The thought of an uninvited person in her home, treating her thing like they were their own, infuriated her to no end. The invasion of her home was only secondary now.

THWACK!

As her eyes scanned over the rest of the kitchen, she saw that nothing else was out of place. The door to the garage, however, was halfway open.

THWACK!

It was definitely coming from the garage. The sound of whatever it was still tickled at the back of her mind. Like catching the faintest whiff of someone else’s perfume, and not being able to remember who she knew that wore the same fragrance.

She turned the corner, and placed the bat in front of her now. It was only twelve feet from where she stood to the garage door, but that twelve feet seemed skewed in her perception now, stretching out much further than it was. On the balls of her feet she crept closer to the open door.

Maybe I should call 911 again. Nah, with the way they treated me last time, they probably wouldn’t even show up. Closer to the garage. Just getting used to the new house, my ass! I know what I heard. I know what I’m hearing. What the hell is going on here?

THUNK!

That made her pause. Almost as if whatever was being crushed, hit, or whatever, had finally given in to the abuse, and offered no further resistance.

From where she stood, she could barely make out the side of a person standing with its back to her. Standing in front of the freezer. A metallic smell made her look around a bit, as she gingerly pushed open the door further with the bat.

The female was dressed in a long Jets night shirt, her dark hair matted to her head. Instantly Constina didn’t like where this was going. That was her shirt. Those were her legs sticking out from under her shirt. Those were her feet standing in dark, almost black, blood pooling at her feet. That was her hand clutching her hatchet that was dripping with blood, adding to the pool on the floor.

“Who are you?!?” she screamed, fearing the answer she already knew.

“Who are you?!?”

As the figure turned to face her, Constina finally realized what had been confusing her this entire time. The hatchet was held in her left hand. Mortified, she was able to see what she had been cutting through. There, on top of the freezer, lay Constina’s right arm; cut off just below the elbow.

A rushing sound filled her ears suddenly. All the light in the garage seemed to be sucked into this figure in front of her, the periphery of her vision going black. She felt herself grasp blindly for the handrail. It wasn’t there.

*     *     *

Before she fell to the floor, she swore that the figure picked up the arm and said, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay now. We took care of the biggest problem first.” Blackness engulfed all.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me?”

Blindingly bright lights flashed across her vision. There were so many faces around her. She wanted to scream, but her throat felt so sore, and she didn’t think she could open her mouth.

“Ma’am, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Squeeze my hand, okay?”

“Connie!” a panicked voice from behind her. She thought it sounded familiar. The bright lights were turning into a blur now.

“Connie, you’re going to be okay, sweetie.” The voice sounded like it was underwater now. Just like everything else. The lights seemed to wrinkly in an odd way. She started to fall, but she didn’t mind. It felt right. Just let the water take you down to where you should be.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!”

Once again, blackness engulfed all.

(Word Count Roughly 1,000)

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I Used to Be Good at This…

There was a point in time, in the not-so-distant past that I was actually good at this sort of thing. Simply sit down, pull out my pen (.03mm point, please) along with a composition book, or even just a regular ol’ spiral notebook and write.

Sounds pretty easy, doesn’t it? I mean, there’s always the fear of the ‘great white’, but I thought I had conquered that years ago. So, instead of staring at a blank page in front of me, I’m now greeted by a blank screen. Sure there are some doo-dads and widgets along the way, but it’s still mostly a white screen. A place to fill up with thoughts, dreams, and ramblings. Anything really.

As soon as I had the keys under my fingers I would be assured that words would begin to flow. Voices, familiar and new would speak to me (in the sane way, not the other way) and all I had to do was simply listen. Figure out what they were telling me, and let that flow onto the page.

So here I sit. Wondering how WordPress will work. Wondering how well it will mesh with Microsoft Word for creating a new entry. Here I sit listening for my muse.

And she… She is quiet.

No running to catch up to Nathanial Walker to see who he’s looking for now; or is looking for him. Not a word from the chameleon name changer, Aranel. Even unlikely crowd favorites Constina and Cass are nowhere to be found.

So, for now, while waiting in the deafening silence, I will type. I will write. But for now, as well, I will wait.

Simply for practical purposes, I need to have an approximation of how this will look. How it will feel. How well it will integrate with what is already there.

And with that, I will look and see what I have done. Then I will come back and listen. Harder. Hoping to hear more than nothing.

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