[Writings] Cogidubnus: Update (5-6-2009) - Short Story

[Cogidubnus]

Index of Poetry:

Ocean of Fire
Song of Wanderers
Musings in Moonlight
Hourglass
Snow in Autumn
Ink

Index of Stories:

Cog's Backstory (Probably to be revised)
Chatper One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

The Epic of Golcat
Chapter One
Chapter Two

Other Short Stories
Eldorado
Veneer
Sunshine


Eh. Might as well, says I. Here be some of the prose and (mostly) poetry of Cogidubnus. Ye 'ave been fairly warned.

Ocean of Fire

Dun Golden Hills of bright burnished sand
Brown Earth's small tribute to the seas
The sand an ocean dried up on land
and shifting waves, light on the breeze
with scattered rocks and silver stones
shipwrecked upon the sands and time
chalky bits of the earth's own white foam,
a spray of bricks in arid brine
The desert, it hides old places there
Beneath the ever-flowing waves
of the who and what, and the why and where,
is known only now to the desolate blaze
       One day, the seas shall give up their dead
    and tell stories of those who on sand bled

Song of Wanderers

When men were young, long ago
I found a stream that had no end
and decided that I'd follow, so,
I thought I'd walk just past the bend

The road I gave my weary heart
for my comfort was the vaulted sky
of wind and thunder, I was part,
desolate, hushed and whispered 'why?'

I walked in rain-slick mudded grass,
trod through gently waving flow,
I saw a songbird, colored brass,
and listened to it's song, liquid, slow

In mountains high I tasted north
of highland cold and snowy might
The Song of Skies, the sun drew forth,
and drifting snow the heart of sight

Musings in Moonlight

Silvered moon in lucent eye,
Star, and moonbeam scattered sky,
Frosted tree and winter's bite,
Inside, the light: Outside, the night-

An Ivory sliver lights the sky-
A crescent moon, in wondrous eye,
I drink of warm and liquid fame,
Draught of foxglove, and wolf's-bane

In the sky, a change is there
A bloody stain, a hideous tear
A bloody moon in bloody sky-
A bitter taste on my tongue lies

That seems to be enough for now.

[Cogidubnus]

Well, the forum has warned me that old topic is old. This in mind, I hope llearch won't ban me for doubleposting, and posting in an old thread.
I understand leniency is the word of the day in art threads?

In any case, this is chapter one of Cog's backstory. Pointing and mocking are, as always, encouraged.



                                                   

    Moon and Fire

Chapter One

   A grey sky hung over the seaside city, the chalky white stone contrasting greatly with the sky and the green-blue sea. Brittle wooden docks jutted out defiantly against the sea, sticking out from the city in all directions. Wind swept spray up from the docks and threw it as a fine mist into the faces of those who gazed out over the waters. Those who watched for pleasure seldom stayed, although there were always some who waited for ships to stop, refreshing supplies and cargo as they brought passengers from one side of the Sea of Storms to the other. The grey pall from the sky fell on the sea as well, the grey-green constantly reflecting the melancholy skies.
The Island was a rock of limestone and chalky earth, and was situated between the cliffs of two continents. The lands converged there, and though the island had always wanted by each of them, its autonomy had always been ensured by it's surroundings. The seas there were far too wild for any armada to sail; any fleet foolish enough to try and brave the narrow channel would be destroyed utterly, by both rock and wave. The cliffs were no help to any attacker either, being too far from the island to mount an attack of any significance, and the constant winds formed by the storms would render large artillery completely inaccurate, if not ineffective. The cliffs also served to protecting the island itself from the excessively bad weather, and although wind and rain were simply a fact of life there, the city had never been washed away. The eternal storm was a blessing more than a curse -  it kept even wizards at bay, for no wizard was mad enough to try levitating across the void between the rocks, either by themselves or with an army. The Island was was a place unto itself.
   It's people were a unique folk of transients. It had been founded as merely an intermediary place for ships to drydock, or wait in shelter for the storm to settle enough to move on. Eventually, someone had the foresight to leave behind a group there permanently, and the Island's true history began there. The unique geography kept it safe from large-scale interference, and like most places that evade the notice or authority of the larger nations, it became haven to those who had no place to return, and no place to go. It became a place of in-between, a place of sleep, a place of rest and peace, even unto the times of today. It was a place of transients, people always moving on, or moving back, yet going nowhere in particular, or going nowhere at all. Trade was important, but it was hardly the Island's lifeblood – those who lived permanently on the island made their living providing lodging and food for those who passed through. The people peddled sleep and rest – and this they did well.
   The place would have been Mediterranean in feel, but for the sea – no calm, warm and happy ocean lied there, but rather something cold and mournful. The houses themselves were made with varying degrees of skill. Some were roughshod, little more than rough stone lied on atop another; others had slatted pieces of rock fitted together to form buildings and stores, although the best of them had bricks and mortar of the stuff. Most, however, were made merely of cobbles and gravity.
In one such building, the smell of cooking fish was strong, and around the back a rather flimsy looking deck sat above the grey-blue sea. Sitting at a table was a single man, clothed in black and looking out silently over the sea. He wore a pair of shades lined in silver, and his hair seemed to be starting to gray, although from the ends to the scalp, going from the red-brown that hung down to his shoulders to a silver: yet for this, he was young, no more than 20 from looking. His coat was black, and leaning on the table was a drab, brown-hilted sword, tied with a rust-colored cord at the sheath. He was waiting for his fish.
   The man who watched him grinned, and his eyes faded from a purple glow to their natural gold. They were slitted eyes – cat's eyes. He walked softly on the deck, the old wood strangely silent beneath his feet. He stood still a little distance away from the man.
   "Yes?" the man in black said, unmoving. His gaze never left the roaring sea.
   The other man grinned, and strode into the open chair across from him, eyes twinkling. "My, what good ears you have! There aren't so many anymore that hear footsteps that make no sound." he said, leaning forward and placing his chin in his hand, looking straight at the man in black. "It makes one wonder."
   The man narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure what you mean." he said, carefully.
   "Oh, I think you might. Tell me, did you hear my feet? I don't think you shouldn't have.", the tiger said.
   "If I've insulted your sense of stealth, I apologize. I assure you, next time I won't ask why you're  behind me." the man said, his words somewhat sharp.
   "No, no, you misunderstand. I know my feet didn't make a sound." he said, his eyes suddenly glimmering. The tiger's hands made a subtle gesture, and his fingers twisted as if seizing something. The saltshaker shook from across the table, and did it's best to make itself available to him, flying through the air.
   The man stared at the tiger for a moment, and then turned back to watching the waves. "You didn't make a sound." he said finally, pausing a moment. He looked at him from the corner of his eye. "The wind. It blows from the east. That way." he said, pointing behind the man. "You were blocking it."
   "Of course!" the tiger said, grinning and setting the saltshaker down. "I should have known. Still, disappointing. If you had heard me, it would have indicated an precognitive gift of some sort." The man's teeth glinted in the light. "Of course, precognition isn't really a known attribute of werewolves, is it?"
   The man stared silently at the tiger. He seemed to squint for a moment, and as he reached to take the shades off his face to rub his eyes, he moved his other hand to the sword that leaned by his side. The tiger opened his mouth to speak, when he noticed. It clapped shut, and he raised a hand in defense. Cog stopped moving the hand, and simply set his shades down on the table. Yellow eyes stared back at the tiger's golden ones.
   The mage relaxed, and leaned forward again. "Come now! I didn't think you'd kind who would kill so easily." he said, suddenly standing and grinning. "Although, in a way, I was somewhat hoping you were...Oh, worry not, I'm not here to 'burn the cursed one'." he said, muttering in distaste. The man in black narrowed a single eye.
   "Very simply, I need someone of your particular...skill." the tiger said, walking back and forth. The man in black raised an eyebrow, but the tiger waved a hand. "No, not like that. I need someone who is proficient in the more...physical aspects of combat." he said, pointing to his sword. "But of course, as a man of dedicated aesthetic, I have little gold." he said, obviously lying. The rings on his fingers, and the ornate, silken robe on his body told spoke of a great deal of gold indeed.
   The man in black decided not to object. The tiger continued.
   "So, I need someone who would appreciate the kind of help an accomplished wizard can provide." he said, his voice inflecting somewhat with a touch of pride, a smirk plastered on his face. He leaned in close to the lychanthrope and whispered in his ear.
   "I'm sure there's something I might provide for you, Mmm? A night of the full moon means something entirely different for you, eh?" he said, laughing softly. He whispered in the man's ear. "Surely, an exchange could be in order? I can make the wolf silent, and the moon nothing more than a pretty silver ball..."
   The man in black suddenly frowned and grabbed the tiger's neck, pulling his face down into the table and then right in front his his own. Black shades slid down the ridge of his nose to reveal burning  yellow orbs that stared right through the man.
   "Are you stupid?", he said. His mouth contorted, and one feeble human canine suddenly lengthened, an inhuman growl escaped his throat. "A cure? Just how stupid do you think I am? Do you think I don't know how the wolf works? Do you think I NEED a cure? That I WANT one?" he said, tightening his grip. "That I would even believe that you can cure a race?! It's one thing to offer, but it's another thing to think I'd be so stupid as to believe you." he said, throwing the man back into the railing. The tiger smacked into it with a dull thud, and coughed as he regained his balance. When he had caught his breath, he stood straight again. His former mocking demeanor had left, and was replaced by something ugly.
   The tiger bared his teeth as he spoke."You misunderstand me, sir. I don't mean 'cure' you. We both know that's impossible." he said, again obviously lying. The man in black kept silent. "I can give you something that might help on those long moonlight walks, doggy." he said, taking a seat again. The man looked down, and pushed his shades back up his nose. He turned to stare out at the sea, and the white limestone cliffs. The tiger kept quiet for a moment, then continued.
   "A book." he said, grinning ear to ear. "The last writings of a certain Weretiger, of the Chiba clan."
   The man in black flinched involuntarily at the name, and reluctantly turned to look at the wizard. "...Chiba." He said. "Reizeskshan Chiba. The Twin Daggers of the Tiger's Eye." he said, recalling that his title. "Legendary for his speed." he said, his eyebrow raised. "And his willpower. He was able to stand in moonlight as easily as he stood in sunlight, they say."
   He looked at the wizard quietly for a moment, than laughed. "You expect me to believe that you have his last writings?" He shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair, and leaned back. "So what if you do? How could it possibly help me?"
   The Wizard grinned at the man, and scooted close to him.
   "The writings are titled 'Musings in Moonlight', little doggy."
   The man bristled at the wizard's words, but he kept silent, musing. He finally spoke, whispering softly.
"Even if you do have it. What is this service you want?", he murred. The wizard merely grinned all the wider.
"What's your name, doggy?" he asked. The man's mouth twisted in distaste. "Cogidubnus. Cogidubnus Mithlome."
The wizard extended a hand, and the grin on his face faded just slightly.
   "Arcturus Lein, Archmage Emeritus of the township of Parch." He said, and made a minor flourish with his hands, standing and bowing. "Supposing I did have those writings, I'd need no great service from you at all, little doggy. You see, I have a problem with a certain individual who trespasses on my lands..." he said, inwardly laughing at the fool.
   Lying did come so easily to him.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

I understand leniency is the word of the day in art threads?

No, the word of the day is "mockery" - "leniency" was three weeks ago... :-]

In any case, this is chapter one of Cog's backstory. Pointing and mocking are, as always, encouraged.

Rather less humourously, you interchange "tiger" and "man" - or, indeed, "werewolf" and "man". This is not general usage, and tends to confuse those who aren't expecting that everyone is a fur anyway... That may or may not be your intent, but I thought I'd mention it. I'd suggest using "fur" instead of "man", or something of that bent. Anthro, perhaps.

Secondly, you use "the man" all the way through - sometimes, this is less than completely clear as to who you meant...

Thirdly, you might want to try breaking the story up, by placing breaks between the paragraphs, or grouping the paragraphs - not normally used in books, but on the forum, it stops it looking like a huge wad of text, since in books, the lines are much shorter, generally speaking - about 80 or so characters, whereas web tends more towards 120+ or so

   The place would have been Mediterranean in feel, but for the sea – no calm, warm and happy ocean lied there,

... I think you mean "lay there"


Glad to help...

[bill]

In any case, this is chapter one of Cog's backstory. Pointing and mocking are, as always, encouraged.

Rather less humourously, you interchange "tiger" and "man" - or, indeed, "werewolf" and "man". This is not general usage, and tends to confuse those who aren't expecting that everyone is a fur anyway... That may or may not be your intent, but I thought I'd mention it. I'd suggest using "fur" instead of "man", or something of that bent. Anthro, perhaps.

Please ignore llearch. This happens to be one of my pet peeves. 

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

Please ignore llearch. This happens to be one of my pet peeves. 

Well, does he mean "man" as in the specific "great ape descended apparently sapient hairless homo sapiens sapiens"? Or is he using it in a more general form of "anything reasonably intelligent that might have crawled out of a jar" ?

The latter, whilst accurate, isn't in general usage, and is likely to confuse people. If that is his design, then that's all to the good, but, as a writer, he should be -aware- of the effects he is creating. I'm not saying he -should- change, I'm merely noting where -I- would do it differently, and -why-. Given that, he may decide to exacerbate the effect, and I wouldn't argue at all. After all, it's his story. :-P

[Tapewolf]

Nice work so far.  I would agree with Llearch with respects to 'man'.  I avoid using it to describe someone in my stories, although I have used it in dialogue here and there.

e.g. "This man has been murdered by a sniper on the roof of the central bank and you must find the perpetrator at once.  I will not have people taking pot shots at my citizens."

I'd say that it's too early to use it.  Once you've established whether there are humans in your universe (and I don't know whether it's set in DMFA or your own world) it becomes more obvious, but using it in the first chapter is perhaps a little premature.
If it's in Furrae, consider using the word 'Being'.

[bill]

Please ignore llearch. This happens to be one of my pet peeves. 

Well, does he mean "man" as in the specific "great ape descended apparently sapient hairless homo sapiens sapiens"? Or is he using it in a more general form of "anything reasonably intelligent that might have crawled out of a jar" ?

The latter, whilst accurate, isn't in general usage, and is likely to confuse people. If that is his design, then that's all to the good, but, as a writer, he should be -aware- of the effects he is creating. I'm not saying he -should- change, I'm merely noting where -I- would do it differently, and -why-. Given that, he may decide to exacerbate the effect, and I wouldn't argue at all. After all, it's his story. :-P

It flows better.   

[Cogidubnus]

 Llearch would be correct, in that it's probably confusing. I don't mean it to be, but neither do I want to outright say 'Anthro' or 'fur'. I somewhat feel that English, though lacking in a gender-unspecific pronoun, provides very good gender-specific ones, and that 'the man' works well enough.
As Bill said, it flows better.

As far as it being a wad of text, yeah, I noticed that when I was posting. There seems to be a strange absence of a double-space button on the post screen. And, formatting doesn't translate too terribly well. I probably will comb through it and put spaces in at some point.

It's set in my own universe. Although, to be honest, I did catch myself writing being once, but, it's not set in furrae. Notwithstanding the pretense of humans or not, I still think I'll use the term man.

Thanks for all the comments, guys! I'll try and make what I'm talking about in the future more clear.

[Cogidubnus]

Ch. 2 – In the City, out the Storm

   Arcturus's offer was simplicity itself. In exchange for a book written by  Reizeskshan Chiba, Cogidubnus would would kill this man haunting Arcturus's lands. Assassination was certainly not beneath Cog – and certainly not for what the Mage promised. He would have done far more to gain such a prize – not for ink or leaves, of course. The book was worthless to him, but for its author, and its subject.
   
        The mage knew this, of course, and was rather pleased with himself. The werewolf had completed his plan nicely – his only missing element had been someone desperate and ignorant enough to do what he asked without investigating further. When he parted with the werewolf, it had been with a grin on his face.
   
        He had left with Cog two items of import, however. A parchment containing a map to his lands on one side, and a list of directions on the other. The second item was a letter of introduction to one of the captains currently docked in the Harbor, one Horatio Aiile. Arcturus had urged the wolf to make all haste, and left himself after that.
   
        Cog had no idea was going to get home, nor did he care. He simply ate his fish in silence, with only the wind for company. When he finished he left a silver coin on the table, and headed for his room. His possessions were sparse, and largely ready for travel -  he gathered his belongings and headed for the docks. The ship left today, or so the mage had said, and if he missed the boat he would have to charter another himself – something that would take more time and much more money than he had. He did have a few chores to take care of before he left, however.
   
        Paying the inn for his stay, he made his way to the docks. He had only two stops between him and the ship – one to a merchant of dried goods, and another to a lesser-known outfitter for oil and papercloth. He had no idea how long he would be gone, and rust was always a danger on the sea. Best to be prepared, after all.

      *   *   *

   The docks, in contrast with the rest of the city, was a boisterous center of activity, perhaps the only such place on the island. Constant loading and unloading of various smallgoods and a veritable horde of passengers embarking and disembarking gave the impression of utter chaos, and of frenzied, calamitous tidings. Captains' stood either mourning the eternally foul and treacherous waters, or bellowing orders to their crew, both telltale signs of their beleaguered status. Cog merely walked through calmly, sidestepping the crowds as neatly as he could, his pack swung over one shoulder and his face betraying his...nonplussed attitude. He generally avoided crowds when possible, but sometimes such things must be endured. His face relaxed, and he sighed in relief as he spotted his destination, grateful that finding the ship would be no great ordeal. In scarlet, bold letters upon the side of one of the ships was written the "Azure Rose", the ship that Arcturus had bid him sail upon, and he navigated the crowds until he reached the vessel.
   
        He could see the captain on deck, directing the flow of goods on and off his ship, and although his voice was no less loud or commanding than the other captains, it had a certain amount of cold imperiousness about it that spoke of a deep calm and confidence, and probably no little bit of arrogance mixed in. Cog observed the ship for a moment before calling out to the captain. "Captain Aiile!" he yelled out, cupping one hand to his mouth as he yelled. "I seek a charter!"
   
        The captain spared him only a passing glace, raising a single eyebrow and murmuring something to his first mate. The burly man nodded and began to direct traffic in his stead, the captain gracefully descending the gangplank and approaching the were.
   
        Up close, the fox seemed even more refined than he had seemed from afar. He wore the dress of the old sailors, a blue coat over a white shirt and black pants, and a pair of knee-high leather boots completed the ensemble. At his belt hung a polished saber and dagger, and a holster behind the smaller blade held a dully gleaming firearm. The blue of the coat was a brilliant contrast to his white fur, and his blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail. He stared at Cog with brilliant green eyes, and made a short bow.
   
       "My time is short, and you seem hardly the type to afford the services of a ship. I'll see the money before I see anything else." he said, his voice curt. Cog nodded and fished inside his jacket the envelope that Arcturus had given him, and handed it to the captain. The man sighed, and opened it quickly, ripping the letter out and scanning it quickly. He would have preferred banknotes, something he could simply view and confirm, but as he continued reading he began to slow down, and a smile spread across his face. He nodded, and placed the letter in a large pocket upon the side of his coat.
   
        He nodded to the wolf, and began walking back to the gangplank, motioning for him to follow. "Yes. That will do nicely. Your passage has been arranged. You can expect landfall in a few weeks." he said, walking up the gangplank. "Mr. Weston! Make up a cabin for our guest! We have new passenger."
   
        He looked down at Cog, and grinned. Money was certainly to be made with this one. A lot of money...

   *   *   *

   The voyage over the sea went much as sea voyages  do. Slow to the point of plodding, implacably monotonous, and harshly grueling for those who crewed the ship. Though it was not one of Cog's favorite memories, the beginning of the journey had not been so bad – the storm that eternally sulked and raged about the island made for very choppy seas, and the time at first passed quickly with the aid of sheer terror and excitement. The rest of the voyage, however, was one grand vista of the ocean after another, a green sea that sparkled out in seemingly infinite direction. The boredom was magnificent.
   
       Cog had not thought to bring even a book with him, and as passengers were not allowed on-deck, he didn't have the space to practice his swordsmanship. The cabins on the ship were efficiently made, small and compact. Lacking any sort of stimulation besides wave-watching, he found himself at a loss for something to pass the time. He found himself repeatedly polishing and oiling his blade to pass the time.
   
        The only reprieve was during meals, which he ate with the captain and the one other passenger on the ship, an extremely dull accountant who spoke little, and when he did deign to speak, it made one wish he hadn't. The captain, however, seemed an interesting sort, but to Cog's frustration and infinite dismay he kept to the confines of polite civility, making small-talk and changing the subject when he deemed it prudent, or the topic controversial. Getting him to talk for any length of time about anything interesting, or anything about himself, was an exercise in futility. Cog found himself going increasingly mad the longer he stayed on the ship. He decided he would bring a book next time. Or a pen. Hell, a rubber ball to bounce against the walls would have provided adequate stimulation.
   
        But despite how much it felt like eternity, the journey did not last forever: the ship finally made port several days later. Landfall was made at the port of Huad, another coastal town, situated on the granite rocks that outlined the continent, a deceptively rocky coast that belied the lushly forested inland.
   
        To his relief, Cog was allowed to stand on-deck on the day of his departure, and though he resented his practical imprisonment in his cabin, he saw the logic in it. The main deck was only slightly less frenzied at sea than at port, and passengers underfoot could cause myriad problems.
   
        When they finally made port, however,and the necessary inspections and clearances by customs had been made, Cog was finally allowed off the ship. To his surprise he was escorted off by the Captain himself, who expressed to him his wishes for good luck in his further travels. He left saying that he had other business to take care of in the city, and disappeared. Cog slung his pack over his shoulder and made his way into the city.
   
        Finally off the damned ship, he followed the directions on the back of the map and headed for the 'Eyeglass Tavern'. Arcturus had indicated 'further instruction' awaited him there, although he had not been kind enough to provide any sort of concise direction to it.  New to the city, it took him some time to locate it. It was, of course, situated much closer to the docks than he had expected, and thus he found himself doing a great deal of backtracking. Upon entering the establishment, he saw the mage himself sitting at one of the tables, enjoying a meal of gravied lamb and a brandy. He waved the wolf over.
   
        "Cog, my lad! Good to see you! Your trip was not too uncomfortable, I hope?" the tiger said, a grin suffusing his features. A bit of gravy was clung to his chin.
   
         His false sincerity, however, grated on Cog's nerves, something he had not thought possible after such incredible boredom. The mage continued to amaze. Cog sat down heavily, his face a picture of distaste. A few seconds passed in silence, and he was finally forced to answer the him. Formalities must be observed, after all. "I'm here. Alive. Good enough then, I suppose."
   
        The tiger nodded. "Good, good. Glad to hear it. But now that you are here we can really begin." he said, gulping down another bite of lamb. He swallowed loudly, and continued. "The man I spoke of earlier, the trespasser – his name is Giles Monterrey." The tiger watched carefully for any sign of recognition. Cog didn't react at all. He grinned inwardly and continued. "A vagabond of the blackest sort. He has terrorized my lands for months now, demanding tribute from the villages surrounding my tower."
   
        Cog put his face in his hands in case he couldn't hide his smirk. The last comment made quite a bit of sense to the werewolf – demanding tribute, and likely giving the farmers an excuse to pay less in taxes, likely. The tiger simply kept talking. "He is feared as a 'master' arsonist. The people fear he will burn their villages to the ground. Now...it would simply not do for me to kill this man. I am, after all, a man of peace."
   
        Cog couldn't keep a snort from escaping him, but the Tiger didn't seem to notice. "Killing him is out of the question, for me. So, I found myself in need of a mercenary. That, good man, is where you come in." He grinned and held up his fork in the air. "Kill this man! Save my people, and, earn your reward!" he said, his voice dramatic. Cog simply cringed inwardly. He shook his head, and managed to keep himself from grimacing. Shifting one leg, he stared at the man from behind his shades.
   
        "Truly, a hero's quest." he said, his voice deadpan. As he kept speaking, he kept his voice soft. "I'm sure your people are in torment, and likely you wish to resolve this as quickly as I do. Where is the vagabond now?"
   
          The Tiger held his fork in the air for a moment, and brought it back down to his dinner, stabbing the meat left on his plate. "Yes, yes. To the point. Fine." He said, his voice short. He seemed somewhat put-out by Cog's lack of enthusiasm, but his attempt at keeping a cheery attitude were worthy of applause, or of a mild sickness to the stomach. "Last seen, he was thirty miles out east, well into the wilderness. You should be able to see my tower form outside the town?. Simply walk towards it, and when you reach the first village, turn towards the smoke."
   
          Cog quirked an eyebrow. "The smoke?" he said, his voice incredulous. The tiger simply nodded. "Yes, the smoke. Oh, and take this." The mage opened a pouch at his waist and handed him a single, silver hounds-tooth. In comparison with the rest of the somewhat fetid and hot tavern, the piece of silver was ice-cold. He held it in his hand for a moment, staring at it. It didn't warm in his hand, but simply sat there like a piece of ice.  "When you find him, you might need it. 'Till then little doggy!" The tiger said, putting his fork down.
   
          With those words, Arcturus's stood, wiped his mouth, and disappeared. Simply vanished into thin air, leaving his empty plate and the silver tooth in the werewolf's hand. He closed his fist around the charm, letting the chill permeate his hand. He sat at the table for a long while before getting up and finding a place to stay. Damned if he would spend his first night off that ship sleeping on a rock.

[Tapewolf]

Good stuff.  Back to the business about 'man', have you considered filling in the species?  E.g. 'cat', 'feline', 'canine' etc?  This is something I tend to do without thinking, but it occurred to me after I noticed that you didn't seem to mention what kind of a creature the captain is.
Of course this opens up the 'Argh... what kind of creature do I make this character?' problem which has plagued me ever since I started CJP...

[Cogidubnus]

You make a good point. There are anthromorphs, and adding the specie is probably a good idea. Leaving it out leaves too much ambiguity.
I've made a correlating edit. I also forgot indicate the brilliantly contrasting fur color. Whoops.

In this case, I had decided the species, but I'd forgot to indicate. Although, yes, it is somewhat difficult to decide sometimes. I knew what I wanted from Horatio, but, well, other things might cause problems...eh well.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

nonspecifics, you can use other identifying features - eg, "the crewmember" or the like, as an identifying feature. It just gets confusing when -both- parties to the conversation are referred to as "the man" - although this is not a problem specific to your writing, so don't feel I'm picking on anything here... :-]

[Cogidubnus]

Llearch is, of course, correct. 

I'll try and keep that in mind as I write. I used to simply paragraph break all the conversations as they happened. Perhaps I should do so again.

Of course, I could just do as the good box advises, and make sure to tell the reader who it is that's speaking. 

[Cogidubnus]

 After speaking with Bill, he assures me that posting here is not bad. I don't particularly trust Bill, mind, but I suppose it's not a grand ruse to get me banned. 

So, the next chapter. Apologies about the length between posts- real life issues got in the way for quite some time. I did, however, get off my ass and do some writing while my compatriots wakeboarded. The lake is a surprisingly good muse. Enough excuses. My shame! For all to see!
*Edit - I hated the way I formatted this before. Changed for legibility.*

* * *

Ch. 3 – Happy, Happy, Growing Fire

   Arcturus's tower could indeed be seen from the town, and following sleepless night in a rather unclean bed, Cogidubnus began his trek with all deliberate speed. Not that he was afraid of roaches and spiders, but they made poor company in bed.

   The journey was largely uneventful. Being a port town, the roads leading to and from Huad were decently patrolled, and the wilderness surrounding it was largely uninhabited. Cog wasn't too incredibly worried anyway. He didn't carry his blade for show, after all.

   He'd found the first town a few days after setting out from the city. The people seemed nice enough folk, although they treated him with perhaps a little more suspicion than he would have liked. Still, he only had to mention Arcturus's name, and they pointed him in the right direction, as well as providing him food and drink in exchange for his coin.

   When he complained about having to pay, considering he was saving their village and all, they merely smiled politely and complained of hard times

   Still, they let him buy some food. Cog decided to label it a victory.
   

   The next leg of his journey was little more difficult than the first, although he still ran into no real troubles. The smoke Arcturus had spoken of was easily visible during the day, and Cog had ample time to rest during the night. He could hear various things moving around him in the brush, but he paid them little attention. He knew he didn't smell like prey. Being a were did have some advantages. He smelled wrong, and animals tended to avoid him because of that. Not that he was complaining. More than one pack of wolves had passed him by during the night.

   The end of his journey came rather quickly, however. As he neared the smoke, the trees and foliage gradually grew thinner and thinner, and he very soon he found himself merely walking through fields rather than a forest. From there, the source of the smoke was apparent.

   Right in the middle of the field was a very large column of fire. And, sitting right in the center of the fire was a spear, planted tip-first into the ground. The faint outline of runes could be seen behind the curtain of flame, and fire licked from the arcane lines to the haft of the spear and back. Not very far from it was a large tent.

   Cog grinned. Finally, he thought. Days and weeks of endless boredom, discomfort, and irritation, but the goal was finally in front of him. Kill this poor bastard, and the book would be his. The secret that Chiba had discovered would be his. The Wolf would be his.

He would be free.


   He reached into his pocket, and removed the houndstooth that Arcturus had given him. The trinket was ice cold still, despite his body heat, and Cog rolled it about in his hand for a few moments. He had no idea how the damn thing was supposed to help him. He peered at it for a long while, pressing on it in different ways, but to no avail. The thing merely sat like a lump of ice in his hand. He looked at the thing with a bit of irritation, and simply let it sit in his palm. Perhaps it was self-activating.

   The roar of the fire masked his steps nicely, and Cog approached the tent softly, walking slowly. He took care to stay away from the burning pillar of fire, though he could barely feel the heat from that bonfire. He shrugged, and stopped next to the edge of the tent. Bending forward, he put his ear to the canvas, listening.

   He grimaced. The fire that masked his steps also served to mask whatever else might be in there. If anyone was indeed in there. His face skewed, and he took a step back, sliding the sword from his scabbard.

   He may not be able to pinpoint a target, but it wasn't like he was dealing with a very large space. Bringing his sword to one side and setting it level with his hips, he moved one leg backward and adjusted his hips to the side. The effect was something like cocking a gun. Taking a breath, he straightened his whole body forward and swung, his entire body propelling the sword forward. It cut through he tent about as easily as it had the air before it, the cloth slicing neatly instead of ripping, not even slowing down at the poles supporting the canvas. The wind that seemed to eternally blow about there flipped the cloth into the air and carried it away, revealing a rather untidy sleeping area and a few bits of used camping gear. Cog cursed and pursed his lips, and returned his sword to his sheath in the blink of an eye. He'd just have to go find him now, then. He turned to begin his search.

   The next instant, he felt a sudden draft blow opposite the wind, and he dove forward. He had barely thrown himself forward, when a massive explosion ripped up the ground behind him, flipping and propelling him over and onto his back. Bits of dirt and half-melted rocks pelted him as he rolled to one knee.

   Standing and grinning before him was a mountain of a man, clad in full plate stained black, and carrying a small animal in one hand. Nothing about him indicated how he might have caused the explosion, excepting for a bit of smoke curling up from one hand. A golden salamander decorated the breastplate of his armor, and his blue eyes stood out in sharp contrast to his soot-blackened face.

   He dropped the animal. "I was usin' that tent, ya know."


   Cog snarled and lunged forward, rising off one knee and propelling himself at the armored figure. The armored man's grin faded, and he took a step back. Too late. Cog's particular style of swordsmanship, Iai, was in large part an art of anti-assassination, and emphasized speed more than anything else. This also made it very handy as an assassination art.

   Cog covered the small distance almost instantly, and he drew his sword and struck in a single, fluid motion, his sword a flashing, silver blur. The glittering line was aimed at the unarmored head, in an attempt to possibly blind or maim before a killing blow could be struck. It would have worked, too, but Cog had no idea what he was dealing with.

   An instant before his sword struck, the ground again erupted before him in a shower of debris and fire. It threw Cog into the air and backwards, and he hit the ground with a large thunk as yet more rocks and dirt fell on him. He heard the armored man call out to him.

   "Hey, now, we've only just met!" the armored man said. Cog rose, his adversary still grinning, both of his hands now curling with smoke. "God's but yer fast." he said, cracking his neck with one gauntleted fist. "Don't see too many who hit like that, now, not for a few decades..." he murmured, shaking himself a bit before stomping forward.

   Cog kept his face stoic. The armored man's grin faded a little bit, and he raised his hand. "You'll understand that I'm taking a little offense, what with you tryin' to kill me and all."

   He lowered his arms to his side, his voice losing it's mirth. "You've got about...oh, twenty seconds to get out. I'll not be saying it again."

   Cog nodded to the man, standing up straight, as though he was about to leave. The man relaxed his guard for an instant, and Cog lept forward again, grabbing the hilt of his blade, but stopping just short of the man and throwing himself back. As expected, a gout of flame erupted in front of him. Cog hadn't really quite expected the source, however.

   The black-clad man wasn't using anything clever, really, just his fists. He certainly didn't look like a mage, but the swirling flames in his hands indicated otherwise. He was simply throwing the fire from himself, in the form of very large, exploding balls. Cog's face soured – this didn't really bode very well for him. He preferred to take mages and the like out from the safety of right behind them, with a clean swipe to the head, before they knew what was going on.

   Cog thumbed the little tooth Arcturus had given him. Despite the rather oppressive heat created by the pillar of fire, it was still ice-cold. He rubbed it a moment, not quite sure how to use the thing, and simply held it in front of him. The armored man raised an eyebrow and brought his other hand up.

   The armored man wasn't wasting any time. The hand was already swirling with fire, and it took only an effort of will to send it flying for the Iaidoka. Cog had no time to react – by sheer luck, the little tooth was the first thing to contact the flames before they exploded.

   He was launched back again, but was untouched by the fire – the flames simply slid off him. As he slammed into the ground, he winced as a rock bit into his back. He was really getting tired of being knocked down. A little behind the ringing in his ears, he could hear the booming laughter of his opponent.

   "Doggy has a few tricks! Not that a little frost magic'll help ye much, but eh." He laughed. Cog stumbled to his feet, the little tooth in his hands still cold. "The name is Giles. I make it a point to introduce myself to opponents who last longer than twenty seconds. Save's me a lot of time, understand." the armored man said, sliding up to the column of fire.

   He grinned toothliy, and stuck his hand into the roiling inferno. The salamander on his chest glowed brightly as he reached. The fire did not touch Giles, his arm leaving a trail as it burned upwards.

   His hand closed around the spear in the middle, twisting and then breaking the spear up out of the ground. The column of fire instantly faded, and as Giles swung the spear in front of him the head began to glow a bright, hot orange. A slight hiss could be heard, and a little blood trickled off its tip.

"A course, yer twenty seconds is up now, so I'll not be saying it was nice meeting you." he said, suddenly flipping the spear into a ready position at his side, almost dragging along the ground as he charged at Cog, fires beginning to swirl in his other hand...

[Aisha deCabre]

Nice chapter, Cog!  And a pretty neat story so far, very well done.  Keep it up.   

[Tapewolf]

Good work, keep it up.

[Cogidubnus]

 This is, after all, prose and poetry.

            Hourglass

A darkened room, by gaslamps lit,
or by some incandescent glow,
where, outwaiting the hours I would sit,
and watch the world grow old and go
and watch petals, from a pewter vase,
make rings of flowers upon the glass
like withered, yellow clocks that tell,
what days and hours, now lost, befell
But I - I sit in peace, and watch
as all around me turns to dust
The timeless keeper of time I stand,
and drip the timeless grains of sand

[TheGreyRonin]

 Interesting and entertaining as always. I find your writing often leaves me wanting to read more, something that only a handful of authors have been able to achieve over the years.

[e_voyager]

well done a joy to read as always Cogidubnus

[Cogidubnus]

 I know, I know, I should finish one project before starting another one. A friend asked me to write him a story, however, and I (perhaps foolishly) said yes. So, here 'tis. Chapter one.

For those of you not familiar, this is set in Elswyr, of Elder Scrolls fame. A fanfic! Jubilation.


Ch. 1

Torval


Fire.

Fire, burning and consuming, a waving skirt in the tall grass, the wind blowing with it clouds of ash and heat. Smoke, blown high by the prevailing wind, stood as a dark harbinger of the death soon to come. If one stood in the correct place, one could smell the sweet smell of the sugars in the cane fields burning, along with the more bitter smell of charring grasses. Much farther in the distance, one could see the beginnings of a large forest, across a sparkling, blue river.
The Kahjitt in the city were just becoming aware of the impending danger – the smoke in the distance becoming too pronounced to ignore. Too late, unfortunately: The fire, blown by the easterly wind, was blowing straight for the little town, a ring of fire bending across the plains and to the banks of the river. The only reprieve lay in crossing the river into Valenwood.

Straight into the arms of the waiting Wood Elves.

The Elves had set up camp just across from the town. Parties of bowman, waiting in both the trees and on the ground waited for to run for the river. Arrows stuck in the ground gave the far bank a bristling appearance, volleys upon volleys of arrows ready for the archers to rain upon the fleeing Kahjiit. Their faces were grim with anticipation. The fire burned, and the Kahjiit would be driven here. There would be no Torval, not anymore.

In the city itself, the panic had only begun to rise. Kahjiit streamed out out the city, some running for the plains to try and find a gap in the fire, and others running for the Valenwood border, to cross the lifesaving river there and thereby escape fiery doom. Those who made for the plains quickly found that the fire was, indeed, a complete circle. Those who tried braving the inferno died, the smell of burning bodies joining the charred smell of burning grassland.

Those who ran for the river fared no better. The Bosmer's arrows were swift, and their hearts stone – weeks later, masses of arrow-marked kahjiit bodies would wash downstream and into the southern seas, most of them completely stripped clean.

Of the few Kahjitt who survived the destruction of Torval, very few ever went on to be anything more than refugees from that land. Among them, however, was Za'Riijah, a female Kahjitt, and her yet unamed kitten.


Skirting past the ashen wastes of what was once vibrant fields of crops, they made their way to the closet available city - Senchal.

*   *   *   *

Senchal


Unlike any other place in the world, Senchal was ruled and not-ruled, a place of order and a place of unbridled freedom. While law ruled those who adhered to it, the true master of the city was gold, and sugar – always, always sugar. Anything one wanted could be gotten, for a price, and to those who knew how, any experience was not out of reach. It was a smuggler's paradise, a glorified bay of pirates barely held in check by the rule of the Mane.

Of course, the little kitten did not know this. It knew merely that its mother was warm, that it was hungry, and that it hadn't slept on something soft for weeks. To tired to cry anymore, the kitten merely lay in it's mothers arms, dozing exhaustedly in the haze of arid smoke that seemed to continually fume around the older Kahjiit.

When it awoke, however, things had changed, and not to its liking. Two strange men were talking to her mother, talking and hissing loudly in turn, and waving bright, shiny things around in their hands. She cried out her distress, and her mother seemed to tighten her grip on the poor child. The two men continued to brandish the shiny objects, until one of them put them away and pulled out a handful of shiny objects.

Her mother's grip slackened, and the baby quited for a moment. It opened its eyes to see the man hand her mother a handful of shiny, golden things, and set down two little purple bottles. Her mother stiffened and then slackened, a slight mewling sound coming from her, and taking a rattling breath seemed to clutch the child closer. The child began to wail again, discomforted by both the strange men and the sudden pressure applied on it.

Za'Riijah let out a mewling wail again, and felt her body begin to shake, not only with the monstrous proposition in front of her, but the telltale shakes of skooma withdrawl. She had a pounding, excruciating headache that was only going to get worse. Her child's crying wasn't helping either. She gasped, her vision suddenly going double as a fresh wave of wracking pain quivered down from her brain and into her toes, and felt of bit of blood trail down her chin. She'd bitten her tongue.
Unfortunately for the child, Za'Riijah was already into withdrawal. And she knew, like all Kahjiit, that skooma addiction could not be cured. Blocking out the sounds of her child's crying, she handed her to the grinning dark elf and practically lunged at the little bottles, unscrewing the cap and downing almost all of it in a single gulp. It wasn't long before she was in the pleasant dreamland of a skooma high, the tears on her face already drying.

The baby would never remember these events, save for impressions and a lifelong dislike for the smell of skooma, and so it would never remember the face her mother made as she handed her baby over as a slave, for three-hundred septims and two vials of skooma.

*   *   *   *

As soon as the baby grew old enough to walk and speak, she was fitted with a slave bracer, and was begun to be taught her role in life. Normally, slaves taken by the Sugar Knives, as the drug dealers were called, were again sold to a third party for a substantial profit, and a slave bought for less than a third of what she was worth would indeed bring a profit. They had a different role in mind for the young cat, however – even as a baby, she had shown herself to be uncannily bright, and they had need of a young one to train.

Golcat, as she was known, for the relatively small amount of gold she had been bought for, was to be given to Ja'Khaij, the gang's chemist. The elderly Kahjiit would make use of her as a lab assistant, and through doing so would train his own replacement. He was old, and his time was nearing an end – by the time the little Kahjiit was ready to take over the processing of moon sugar into Skooma, it would be time for him to retire, or simply have died from age.

This wasn't to say hers was going to be an easy life. Lessons would often involve being in close proximity to corrosive chemicals and noxious fumes. Ja'Khaij, who had worked with the chemicals for years, possessed an extremely emaciated, raspy voice, and had a terrible, sometimes bloody, cough. Alchemists who worked with the kind of materials he did didn't tend to live long, and they would be no kinder to the little Golcat.

Golcat grew up with a rasping, hollow voice, and possessed a minor little cough of her own. Throughout her life, she would have troubles breathing. Her training as a Alchemist, however detrimental, was also in addition to the more menial tasks normally given to slaves, such as taking care of the hovel she and Ja'Khaij called home, cooking, and generally being at the entire gang of thug's beck and call. She grew up thin, lean, and eternally smelling of moonsugar, alchemical supplies, and sweat. Though by no means was her life easy, it was far better than the fate of some slaves bought by the Knives of Sugar – she never had to worry about being used the way some were, nor having to suffer the awful fate of a drug mule. She lived with the old Alchemist uncomfortably, as more a disfavored child than a slave

The bracer never left her wrist, however, the metal band a nagging, constant reminder of her true state. It rankled at the young Kahjiit. While she dared not ever express her dislike openly, like most slaves, she would sometimes daydream about escape.

In the meantime, however, she continued to live with the Ja'Khaij, and to be taught how to make the skooma that gang sold so voluminously.


*   *   *   *


Today was a little different than most. The light that filtered through the slatted windows of the little room I called home was still dim with the early-morning Senchal sun, but it still seemed...

I bolted upright in bed and opened the slats a little further. The sun was practically fully risen – I had overslept by at least an hour. Stumbling out of bed I threw on the dirty clothes that the old s'wit
graciously allowed me to wear and padded into the main room of the hut, hoping beyond hope that Ja'Khaij hadn't awoken early this morning to see me not preparing breakfast.

I exhaled. He hadn't, and I still might make it through the morning without a beating. I opened the little cupboard that contained out supplies, and setting a few pieces of sweet bread Ja'Khaij had bought last week on the counter, and took the single match allowed me every morning and began to light the stove. I had to be careful – if the match was wasted, it wouldn't matter how early I woke up. Breakfast would be cold, and I would be sore the rest of the day.

I took a piece of wood from the pile beside the stove and placed it inside, the coals still just slightly alive beneath the cold ashes. I lit the match on one the the faintly glowing embers and held it beneath a smaller twig.

It lit. I exhaled, stoking the flames, and began to prepare breakfast. Buttered toast and a few pieces of meat was generally how Ja'Khaij liked to start the day. From the look of it, he was going to sleep in this morning. I shrugged, a little irritated at the old man. Sleeping in was a cardinal sin for me, anyway. Fetcher.

I grabbed a broom and began to sweep the trash dotting the dirt floor of the little hut into a corner. I'd take it outside later. There were places where one could dump trash, but the bay was closer, and gave me five or so minutes to enjoy the sun. It was, perhaps, one of the few indulgences I had.

I sometimes suspected that Ja'Khaij could smell the saltwater on me, but he'd never said anything. Sometimes the old man could be tolerable.

I finished sweeping and flipped to toast, and reached into the cupboard for the flask of Mazte  Ja'Khaij kept in there. The codger had spent some time in Vvardenfell, apparently, and had become enamored of the local drink. I poured a measure of it into one of our clay cups, crinkling my nose at the smell, and set it on the table, next to his chair. Ja'Khaij swore by it, but I sometimes wondered if the stuff wasn't used somewhere to remove varnish.

To my astonishment, the smell of sizzling meat still didn't rouse the sluggard from his bed. I grimaced, taking the just slightly cooked bits of sweetmeat and lavishly buttered toast, and placing them on a plate next to his glass of mazte. I sat down on the floor and waited for the old man to rouse.

When he still didn't rouse twenty minutes later, I began to get worried. I knew that Ra'Jiirah would be coming to meet the old fetcher at a little before midday, and that the druggist still didn't have all the skooma ready to be handed over yet. It still needed measuring and packaging, and Ra'Jiirha would probably beat the old man if he was too lazy to have gotten everything ready by now. I sat there for twenty more minutes, waiting.
   I stood. The old man would probably beat me for this, but...

Entering his room was strictly forbidden. But then, so was oversleeping. I carefully eased the driftwood door away from the wall, intent on waking the old man softly.

The damn door squeaked louder than a mewling kitten. I knew this, and despite how carefully I tried to open it, it still screamed into the early morning air. I cursed, and simply threw the door open, uncaring. Maybe it would wake him up for me.

What I saw confirmed that Ja'Khaij wasn't sleeping.

Ja'Khaij was curled into a fetal position, fangs bared and his body twisted unnaturally. A pool of blood covered his mouth and chest. Years and years of slow erosion to his lungs and throat had finally caught up with him, and Ja'Khaij had drowned in his own blood last night.

"Oh."

Of course, at the time, I didn't feel much of anything at seeing the old man dead. It was...too different. A foreign concept. I vaguely felt the notion that I should be shocked, or disturbed at seeing him dead. Even if it was just a dead body, I should feel... something. I felt nothing, however, except for a sudden rush of adrenaline. I would realize what had just happened later, and largely be the happier for it. But at that moment, I simply felt numb.

It was only an hour past dawn, and I had five hours before Ra'Kiirah would be coming to collect this weeks product. And I also knew that I had a sudden, refreshingly unrestricted access to the alchemical supplies.

When Ja'Khaij wanted to teach me, he'd bring an alembic and a mortar and pestle into the main room and watch me there, sometimes actually letting me do real work with it. I was supposed to take over for him one day, after all. But at all other times they were kept in his room, a place that I was strictly forbidden to enter.

There was a good reason Ja'Khaij had kept the equipment locked away. Skooma, in it's basic form, was an extremely mild acid. An extremely expensive acid, if one wished to use it for corroding metal, but an acid nontheless, and a foolish slave with enough moon-sugar, time, and knowledge might be able to melt the bracer off its arm.

Three things I suddenly had in droves. The idea hit me slowly, an over-shy guest in my mind. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to entertain it either. It was impossible. It was unthinkable. But, yet...wasn't this what I wanted? This was golden. Getting another chance like this...

I would have to act quickly. I ran out and got a stick from the stove and light it, and ran back into the room, lighting the alembic, and grabbed a stoppered bottle to pour into the glassware. Eight similar
bottles dotted the desk, and crates more were set into the wall, all of them pure skooma. I poured two into the Alembic and set down to waiting, grabbing Ja'Khaij's uneaten breakfast and running back into the room.

It felt odd, eating his breakfast next to his dead body.

Perhaps it was the excitement, or perhaps it was the fear I had of Ra'Jiirah suddenly bursting into the little hut, but the two bottles seemed to take ages to boil down to the consistency I wanted,
pudding-thick. I poured in eight more bottles, getting it down to the consistency I wanted. I had eight bottles of skooma in the little jar, which was about how many I thought I'd need -  I then poured as much water as I dared back into it, filling it to the brim, and set a distillation cap on top of it. A I placed a smaller jar under the catch, and waited.
  It took another hour before I saw what I needed to see. A slight bend was beginning to develop in the glass arm of the distillation setup – which meant that it really was a strong as I was going to need it. I turned off the flame, and stared at the little glass cup, about halfway full of hyperrefined skooma. Taking a rag, I gingerly grabbed the top of the vial and held the mixture over my arm. I saw the glass bottom begin to bend, and clenched my teeth.

Though I would later come to realize that I was lucky the mixture didn't simply explode, or burn my arm off, I was at the time only fairly certain that it was going to hurt like hell. And it did.

The skooma began to drizzle out the bottom and react with the slave bracer almost instantly. The fumes nearly gagged me, and made a hellaciously loud sound, like a dozen eggs being fried in a pan at once.
I coughed and tried to keep the smoke out of my eyes.

The skooma started to come out faster and faster, the smells and sounds getting far worse, and I nearly choked before I felt a scream burble up from my throat. My hand was on FIRE. The bracer still hadn't been eaten through yet, though...

The keyhole. The damn keyhole. I'd poured the acid straight into it, and my wrist was now being nicely chewed up. I bit back a scream and tried to keep any more of the liquid from dripping down there. It didn't work entirely too well, although now more or less acid seemed to make little difference.

Between the smoke, the sounds, and the burning pain, I felt like it took an eternity to burn through that bracer. Considering how much of the skooma I had, though, it couldn't have been any more than a minute. I can still remember the yip I let out when I saw the little band of metal give a sudden jerk, and fall away from my wrist. I literally threw the ruined alembic into the wall and the old bracer with it, and ran into the kitchen for fresh water. My hand still felt like a nest of fire ants had decided to burrow into my skin, and they were starting to dig tunnels.

Water didn't seem to help it. I panicked briefly, and in desperation I grabbed my former master's glass of mazte and poured that onto it. It was one of the most painful things I've ever experienced in my life, the feeling of that alcohol mixing with the acid on my hand. I know I screamed. Sometimes you get lucky, though – no one seemed to question Ja'Khaij's beating the little slave girl again. My yowlings were dismissed as a particularly brutal one. Still. The mazte, although it intensified the pain for the moment, caused it to begin to fade away a moment later. It would still throb for weeks, but the acid was no longer trying to show me my insides. I would forever after have a hairless patch on my wrist, however, in the perfectly odd shape of a keyhole.

Things moved quickly from there. I stole the bloody robe that Ja'Khaij had been wearing, and hiding my maimed arm inside it I simply left our little hovel. It was the last time I would ever see it – not that I wished to. Staying in Senchal would have been suicide. But getting out of the city could have been no simpler. Cloaked as I was, and without a bracer to set of magical alarms at the gate, I was free to pass through, no questions asked.

And so I did. And, as I walked out of the gates, I shivered. It was the first time I had ever seen the dunes outside of Elswyr without a wall or bars between myself and the sands. I dared not take a moment to gaze at them, however, and looking at the sign I tried to deduce what direction to go. I was illiterate at the time, but I did know how to read two words – my own name, and Rimmen.
My slave bracer had been from Rimmen, and the name had been etched into the metal. The place was famous for it's slaving.

I thought a moment. It was, perhaps, the one place they would expect me to try and avoid. Looking at the sign carefully, I traced my hands over the symbols to make sure, and began walking down the sandy path towards the distant city.

End Ch.1

[Cogidubnus]

I take absurdly long times to write. This is something I wish was not true, but the more and more I write, the more and more it becomes apparent.

The  Epic of Golcat Ch.2

   The Kahjiit are slavers in Rimmen.

   Not that there aren't Kahjiiti slaves. And not as though the Kahjiit are the only slavers – the Dunmer, the Altmer, the Akaviri, and those damned smooth-skin lizards, they'll all make a slave of you if they can. Anyone who can find a rusty bracer and a lock will make a slave of you, if they can.
   I made sure they couldn't. Never again.

   In some ways, I'm not entirely sure how I made it to Rimmen in the first place. The sands between Senchal and the Farthest City are indeed warm, and fugitive slaves are not an unknown sight. If the bounty hunters didn't get you, many, many others certainly could. Merchants, pilgrims, and wandering guardsmen with only a passing interest could easily recognize the tattered form of a runaway slave. Beleaguered, exhausted, and ragged were all marks of the bracer. This could also be easily mistaken for poverty – more often than not, it was the other way around. From experience, those who were simply beggars kept their hands and forearms in plain sight, lest they be mistaken for a slave hiding a bracer in its sleeves. And how much more careful one has to be around trading lanes or large cities!

   The sand was hot. Every step I took burned deep – I don't think I quite understood what a trip across the desert was, when I started. Not as though I'd ever had a chance to learn about the warm sands, but...
   The excitement of escape wore off after a few hours, leaving only a cold tightness in my gut. Senchal was far behind me, and yet not nearly far enough - by this point, they would have found the druggist's dead body. They'd be looking for me now, and when they didn't find me in the city they'd really start trying to find me. Slaves were expensive, and bounty hunters could make a nice profit bringing escapees. It wouldn't be that hard for them to find me either: I looked down at my still-throbbing forearm and winced. The heat was starting to make the wound itch, and the coarse fabric of my robe wasn't helping soothe the irritation. I resisted the urge to scratch the raw flesh.

   If I didn't find some sort of way to...escape, something, some way to keep myself hidden and alive, I might as well turn around now. I looked behind myself lamely, then back towards the open road and down at my feet. I cringed, and started walking a bit faster.
   Hobbling. If they caught me now, they'd break both of my feet and fuse them back together wrong. Standard procedure with an escapee – keep it useful, but make sure it can't run anymore. They wouldn't hesitate either. Alchemists don't need their feet, after all.

   In my fear, I became foolish. In an effort to hide my own tracks, I moved off the relatively cool dirt road and onto the burning, glaring sands. The pain of having your footpads burnt and scratched with every step, the particles digging into the crevices in your feet and in your toes...it wasn't as bad as a beating, not nearly as bad at first, but it got pretty damn close. Walking was a torture. Only later would I realize walking on the open desert was probably unnecessary, and probably even detrimental. A single pair of tracks wandering into the sand was just as strange as a ragged and confused-looking individual hiding her wrists. Even so.
   I was lucky in one thing: I was running in the complete wrong direction. For a slave, Rimmen is the last place you should want to go. It is for perhaps this reason that they never hunted for me in the right places, a little distance off the road to the Farthest City.
   
   I was stupid, but luck smiled on me. Or maybe Sheggorath did. Either way, before water became a problem I happened upon my first sugar plantation, complete with a working well and irrigation system. I wasn't welcome, of course, but I didn't exactly ask. The brackish, filthy water at the root of the moonsugar plant was foul, but it kept me from dying of thirst, and thought the root of the sugar-stalk is bitter, it was more nourishing than the sand, at least. The Sugar itself, I did not touch – I have never been fond of it. Some Kahjiit say that they feel...connected, through it, that they feel connected with their brothers, and with all the Kahjiit. I have never felt such – the sugar makes me feel... lost, and very small. I don't partake.
    I suppose many things exist in this world, but I know many would consider a Kahjiit without a sweet tooth one of the strangest.

   It was a one-week journey. Stupidly, luckily, and almost haphazardly, I made my way to Rimmen. I left only a few broken canes of sugar and bloody footprints behind me.

   *   *   *

-Rimmen

   I reached Rimmen the night of the sixth day, my arm red and inflamed with the promise of infection, my mouth parched and my stomach empty. After passing thorugh the gate, the magical ward  proclaiming I was not a slave, I breathed a small sigh of relief, glad to at last be out of the desert and into a city. This was my first inkling of the nature of Rimmen – had only gotten to he inhaling part before I choked on fetid air, and what I saw next drained me of any desire to relax.
   Filth and squalor do not describe the streets of Rimmen. Poor, squamous, muddy, disease-ridden, infested and bloody begin to. I saw people, there, kept in pens like livestock. All races. Argonians, Kahjiit, and all the others. Cages, built from the sticks and rubble of whatever building had recently fallen down around its own muddy foundations, the broken remains holding yet more broken remains, the weeping shells of former people. Now simply bodies of despair and brokenness. As a slave...I had been fortunate to never see such – I had been beaten, degraded, and seen terrible things, but nothing like this.
    A dunmer, covered in sores, shifted on his chains, blood and pus leaking past the iron shackle, and stared at me as he sat in his own filth.
   His eyes terrified me.

   So, as calmly and quickly as I could move without running, I tucked my arms into my sleeves and walked, keeping my hood up and my head down. Looking straight ahead, I kept going and didn't stop until I found myself in front of the first building I could find without a slave-pen in front of it. Wooden, rickety buildings surrounded it, this one building of stone and mortar oddly out of place. It appeared as a palace to me, although it wasn't bigger than a small house. I couldn't read the words on the front, although I could make out a faded, grimy eye.
   I found out later that entering from the north was one of the less-savory ways to enter the city, but at the time I thought I'd stepped into a city of hell.

   I tried the lock, and to my infinite relief it was open. I practically leaped inside, slamming the door on the inside was and then slamming it shut a moment later, not even bothering to look around before entering. My face froze for just a moment as I faced the door. I must look insane.
   Too late now.

   I took a breath, and turned away from the door. Staring back at me were three sets of raised eyebrows, each one turning their gaze towards me and away away from a more immediate task. A red-robed, voluptuous Altmer woman, a blue-robed Breton, and a Argonian in a fairly sturdy outfit of a shirt and pants all looked up at me incredulously. The Breton seemed to be occupied reading something, a tome in one hand and a quill in another. The Argonian was with him, a stack of coins in his hand. Perhaps paying the Breton to read something? Was reading really that hard? The Altmer woman was siting calmly at the desk in front of me, engaged in reading something else.
   "I told you ve should have locked ze doorrs.."
   "Shut up, Skink." the Altmer said, setting her book down. The Argonian simply blinked at her and shrugged. She looked at me with a bit of concern in her eyes, her brows knitting together and a single tooth biting her lip before continuing.
   "Are you alright, dear? Do you need something-"
   "Tell it to -leave-, Zath." the Breton spoke up, giving the Altmer a look. "You're too soft with them, you know? I don't like it any more than you do, but in Elswyr the law is the law, and-"
   "We should at least ask it was it wants!" the alter responded calmly, her eyes somewhat large. The Breton rolled his eyes again, throwing up his hands, and continued to read from his book. It was fascinating, watching him – I couldn't read. As he continued, he would add or take a gold coin from the Argonians hand, or from the table in front of himself.
   "What do you want, dear?" the Altmer said, making me flinch. I opened my mouth to speak, and then stopped.
   What did I want?
   Her eyes saddened just a bit as she looked at me. "I'm sorry, dear, but the Mages Guild can't help you. We must obey the laws of the land, wherever we go, and that includes slavery too-"
   "Not a slave!" I rasped. I looked around the room quickly, inadvertently meeting the eyes of that Argonian. My gaze instantly darted to my feet, and as I looked at my bloody feet on that dusty stone floor I suddenly cursed at myself. Gathering my strength I raised my gaze back up.
   I was not a slave.
   
   The Breton looked up at me again, his eyebrows arched, and with a silent look at my hidden wrists and then at the Altmer he returned to his reading. The Argonian beside him looked at me strangely, his eyes appraising.
   "Oh, my dear..." the Altmer said, her already large eyes widening. "I know it's hard, my dear, but things can't continue this way forever. The Emperor-"
   "Not A SLAVE!" I rasped again, a flower of anger opening up inside me. I wasn't a slave. I was not. I would never go back to that again -  I couldn't go back to that again. Bloody feet, terrible food, cold nights and an exhaustion in my very bones, I would take over slavery a thousand times over. Nothing was worth the beatings, the constant threat of being sold to someone worse, the...
   These people treated me like a person, even though they thought of me as a slave. At the time, I didn't realize it, but they were the first to really do so. The old druggist, may he rot in hell, sometimes slipped up and did the same, calling me by name and generally regarding me as another person. Perhaps a side effect of living in that cramped three-room shack – it wasn't like he could just ignore me. But these people, they cared: but perhaps cared is not the right word. They respected me. Even the Breton, as much as he was resigned, didn't simply ignore me as refuse to be swept out. I was living refuse, deserving of at least a little consideration.
   I could never go back to being a slave again.
      
   I was tired, bloody, and my arm throbbed faintly with the promise of infection. But will all the hunger, and the pain, I still was free. Myself. And every time I thought about that cold bracer clasping about my wrist, I hard a difficult time suppressing a growl.
   "Not a slave." I rasped softly. The Altmer's expression grew puzzled, her head moving backwards just imperceptibly. Her eyes drifted dover to the Breton fellow. When he very carefully didn't respond, the Altmer swallowed, and turned back to me. She settled herself, and took a deep breath.
   "What do you want, then?" she said. Her voice was polite, but didn't quite have that sympathetic tone anymore. Somehow strained. Never having seen a person of a delicate temperament before,
I couldn't know that she was simply nervous as hell at this suddenly bold Kahjiit slave. To me, the woman seemed like she was taking on that low, carefully controlled voice that Za'Riijah would use before he lost all patience. If he wasn't mollified, a beating would follow shortly.

   The tone itself was almost painful to me, freezing my thoughts and then thrusting my mind into dazzling activity.
   What did I want?

   "Alchemy." I said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "I...I am here about alchemy." I coughed.
   All three of them looked up at me, Skink and the Breton looking up incredulously from their book. The Altmer's gaze was almost pitying again. 
   "You're here about the-?"
   "Down the first stairway on your right. You'll be wanting to talk to Ambrose about that." the Breton said, interrupting the Altmer and pointing down the hall.
   "Faulk, don't-"
   "She's here about alchemy, Zath. And Ambrose is out alchemist. And he is down the hall, first stairway on the right." he said, giving the Altmer a glare. He turned his attention back to the ledgers, pointing at something and nudging the Argonian.
   "These expenses here, Skink, aren't accounted for, I know it, but I'm almost be certain they were for a set of soulgems we needed to fix that nasty business with super-scamps. That, or it was the refurbishment cost for the summoning room. That incident with the surprise hunger. I'm never going to get that desk back out of oblivion..."

   I was dismissed. The Altmer, Zath, just gave me a weak, timid smile, and looked down at her desk absently.
   There was nothing to be done, then. I turned, feeling oddly exposed somehow, and walked down the pretty wood hall, and took the first right down the flight of stone steps.

   *   *   *


   The thing thing that strikes you first about walking into that glorified dungeon was the cold. It wasn't a light chill, or the cool dampness of the underground – it was a well and truly freezing cold. A light coat of frost glazed over the floor-stones and crawled up the walls, the cold made me aware of every step I took. The temperature difference between walking on hot sand and ice is almost painful by itself.

   I sniffed: the air was very, very dry for the seaside Rimmen. Above, the ground had been mud and slush, but down here all I saw were small icicles formed by dripping moisture hanging from the cracks between the ceiling stones. The very moisture in the air seemed frozen up in those crystals, and it made the air almost difficult to breathe. If one closed one's eyes, one might think you were in Skyrim, and not the land of shifting deserts.
   I walked in slowly, my feet crunching on the frost-covered floor, and I reflexively wrapped my robe tighter about myself. The room was quickly sucking the heat off my body. I felt my clothes around me begin to chill, and I felt the air even begin to work on the heat trapped beneath my fur – within only a few moments, I felt that I had lost all the heat of the sands and the sun above me. Whatever made this room so chill worked quickly, and as I began to shiver I stopped, staring at the walls in sudden awe. Swirling designs and shapes flowed within the frost of that room, little more than a trick of the blue, eternally-glowing light at the corner of the hallway, but I had to move my head but a little to see thousands and thousands of sparkles and lights dance before my vision – to a slave who had never been outside Senchal, let alone Elswyr, the sight of ice was strange and fantastic.
   I had an academic knowledge of ice, and I had seen the great ships that carried blocks of it from the far north unload in the harbor, but my knowledge stopped there. I had never seen it myself. My first sight of it was to me memorable, but for far more reasons than simple novelty.

   I started to shiver in earnest, and having only a thin robe and my own fur, I couldn't possibly stay down there long – in all truth, I may have been fine, but I had never known anything but the constant and unremitting heat of Elswyr. Anything less was already cold to me, and conditions of ice and snow bordered on the physically adverse. I would learn to stand the cold, but then, it was too different. I started to walk briskly, the rough warmth on the pads of my feet leaving little trails of refrozen frost in my wake. The hall turned sharply from the stairwell, and it opened into the basement proper.
   Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of small jars, red-clay each one, stood in innumerable rows upon the far wall, each one neatly labeled in small black print that declared the contents. To the side, upon the leftmost wall, was a table cluttered with alchemical apparati, at least two alembics boiling and a alchemical oven baking as a smallish, black-haired dark elf worked quickly at the mortar and pestle, green-robed and with his back to me. Above me, and fairly covered with ice, was a swirling, glass-covered ball of white, occasionally peering out with cold, azure eyes at the world outside it. It seemed to stare at the alchemist below most of all.
   I sniffed again, rubbing my nose at the burn caused by the cold. The dry air was terrible for scent – it made the nose almost numb, and impossible to smell anything. The scent of ectoplasm, the leftover stench of the dead, and steaming wolfsbane, however, are overpowering enough to make things that don't have noses gag. I could feel the stench crawling up my nose from across the room.

   That seemed to be the Ambrose that Faulk had been speaking of. I coughed softly, sucking in a breath of cold air that turned my cough into a true hack.
   "Just a damn minute!" the elf suddenly exploded, his arm doubling the speed that he was mixing with, and turned his head to regard me. Glowing red eyes stared into my own, eyes filled with the typical Dark Elf disdain for anything that isn't a Dark Elf, and all life in general, and giving the mixture a final stir he set the mortar and pestle down to turn and glare at me fully.
   "Now what the hell are you here about!" he said, his eyes narrowed and a frowning darkly. I found my voice suddenly gone, and stood there shivering for just a moment.
"I...Faulk said to see you. About alchemy."
   
   The Dark Elf frowned deeper, if that was possible, and turned back to his table. He dumped the mixture he'd been working on into a beaker of water kept unfrozen by an open flame, and then leaned against the table and looked at me. His red eyes were appraising, although the rest of his features seemed to be simply confused.
   "You saw the sign, eh? Slaves are ineligible." he said sharply, his red eyes glittering in the cold light. How or why a dunmeri kept the temperature so gods-cursed cold is a mystery to me, but this creature of the ashlands who migrated to the desert apparently preferred to live in a tundra. Shivering, with my feet slowly aching from the freezing mud and slush from the outside caking and coldly biting into them, I stood there silently for a moment.
   Still a slave. Poor looking Kahjiit without a name, with a burned arm and a bounty hunter looking for it, still worthless to keep around and dangerous to allow in. A slave, a piece of runaway labor that would bring far more trouble than it was worth – just a pair of arms and legs. Better to send it away, make it someone else's problem, make it someone else's fault for harboring an escapee until the bounty hunters came, and broke its ankles and drug it back to its masters. Nothing to be done about it – in Elswyr, the drug lords were King, and even the Mane himself respected their power. If the slave was theirs, there would be hell to pay. Better to just ignore it.
   It'll go away eventually.

   And indeed, the Dark Elf's eyes had slackened a bit, his mouth pursed in disappointment. He opened his gray mouth to speak. And as he was about to speak and proclaim my utter doom, kick me out into streets that would have eaten me alive then, a second blossom of fire sprouted within me. I had finally broken.

   I looked at the dunmer with as much venom in my eyes as I possibly could, and growled deep in my throat. The dunmer's eyebrows rose, and without preamble set both hands to hanging loosely at his sides, a classical mage's stance.
   "I don't recommend your trying to kill me, slave." he said, red eyes suddenly as cold as their surroundings. "I promise that -I- won't kill -you-. I will drag you back to the pit that you crawled out of, though, and personally demand of your master a beating the likes of which you've never felt. Or you can stop with this -nonsense-, and I can forget that I ever saw..."
   "NOT A SLAVE!." I screamed at him, baring fangs. I bared my arm, showing the slowly-infecting key-shaped burn on my arm, and practically shook it at the mage. "Do you see a bracer around me arm? Do you?"
   "What damned business is it of yours where I come from or what I've done?" I spit. "I came to see an apparently arrogant fetcher of a dark elf about alchemy, and instead I'm accused of..." I fumed, my claws bared. "Of...being a slave. Bastard!
   I showed him one clawed hand. "If I could, Dark Elf, I'd rip those pretty red eyes out of your skull."

   A sudden silence descended. I don't think I would have actually ripped his eyes out, but slowly my anger faded as I realized what I'd said. The dark elf stared at me silently, his face unreadable, and with a cold dread I realized that I'd probably just sealed my own fate. He'd turned me into the city authorities, they would report me as a lost slave, I would be imprisoned, a shackle placed back on my hands, and a sledgehammer and a plywood board would insure that I'd never run away again...
   Somehow, I managed not to display my horror. Ambrose was still silent and unreadable, a statue, as icy as the frost around him. I kept his eyes, and hoped that dark elves didn't have the hearing to listen to my heart hammer away inside my chest.
   About five seconds passed, and the dark elf smiled.
   
   "Not a slave. Good." he said, turning back to his potions. He worked busily for a moment, gathering some things, and then waved over at me.
   "Come here."

   I stood quite still, not very sure how to react. My mouth hung open when Ambrose again turned to me, his red eyes narrowed.
   "I get it, I get it! Not a damn slave! Now get your ass over here!" he said, gesturing roughly. I started forward with a jerk and joined him at his table, the dark elf passing me a cup of something steaming.
   "Identify." he said shortly, and stared at me. I started back at him, face blank, and again the dark elf sighed in disappointment, and reached as it to take the cup back.
   "Look, if you can't identify something this simple.."
   "Ah!" I said, moving the cup back. "I understand."

   I held the thing straight under my nose, which in retrospect was a very bad idea. I later learned that in proper alchemy, using your hand to blow the fumes of the concoction back at you is infinitely preferable to perhaps passing out from the wrong sort of potion – what's more, I truly doubt that Ambrose expected me to divine the substance by smell alone. That was how that bastard of a druggist had taught me to judge skooma, and it was all I knew. Undoubtedly the alembic and retort that the Dark Elf had subtly slid my way was intended to help me identify it. Still, this one was only foul, and I gacked only just a  bit as I sniffed.
   The mixture was green, thick, and smelled faintly of grass and earth, but had the distinctive dry-tang of a fungus. That, and the horrible smell, and the thickness of the mixture...
   "This is Heather and Blackwort." I said, giving the alchemist a look. "And shit."
   The alchemist then gave me a look, and took the cup back from me, turning to set it down.
   "Correct. Not many recognize that last one. Although you failed to mention from what species, I think that we can forgive such an omission. You'll be boarded and given 10 septims a week, dinner will be with the rest of the guild at five, and you will be expected to keep all these apparatus in working order at all times, as well as assisting me for eight hours a day, or whatever I ask, whichever is longer. You will not enter the alchemical lab when I am not present, and you will not use any of the apparatus for any illicit purposes. Not that that covers much in this land, but..."
   He turned, and gave me a slip of paper, and I looked at the words helplessly as he spoke. "Please read this in its entirety, and sign at the bottom." he said, indicating a single black line.
   I stared at the paper, hoping somehow that they words would magically come together and make sense to me, but when they still remained a senseless jumble of ink I looked up at the dark elf, almost cringing.
   "I cannot...read." I said.

   Ambrose looked at me for a moment, blinking. He looked at me concernedly for a moment, and then back at the mixture I had correctly identified, and then with almost a shrug laughed softly.
   "There's a first for everything, I guess. A Mages Guild associate that can't read. There's been stranger folk in this organization, I guess. Can you sign your name?" he said, handing me a quill.
   "No ink's necessary. A little thing I made when my inkwells kept freezing." he said.

   I ran into another snag here. I couldn't really sign my name, as I didn't really have a proper name. Golcat was the best I could possibly do, and that I could indeed write. But then, a runaway slave named Golcat was on the lose. Seeing as it wasn't exactly a common name...
   I mimicked the symbols from the fifth word on the paper, and hoped that the Dark Elf wouldn't notice. I handed it back to him, and as he read it his eyebrow raised again just slightly.
   "Your name is 'Therefore'?" he said, looking at me sharply. I said nothing, looking sideways at the wall. The elf sighed again, and marked that name out.
   "If you can't write either, that's fine, I guess." he said morosely, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You'll just have to learn. I'll sign for you." he paused. "What is your name?"
   
   I thought for a moment. I had only moment – the look on his face was evidence enough that he suspected.
   "S'mrrat." I said, saying the only name I could think of. It was a nonsense word, an onomatopoeic sound that faintly echoed two Kahjiit words, the words for gold and wandering. Roughly put together, the meaning could be divined as "Lost Gold."

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

Cute.

Applicable name she's chosen for herself, too.

[Sienna Maiu - M T]

*Gasp!* 
Something truly worth reading!

However, now is not the time, with a daunting class project hovering over head.

"Musings in Moonlight"? stun-ning.

I really must get back to this thread and soon. Oh but to be of a nature that I could comment more freely and accurately on your work.

[Cogidubnus]

Cute.

Applicable name she's chosen for herself, too.

Cute? I guess I'll take that. 

*Gasp!* 
Something truly worth reading!

However, now is not the time, with a daunting class project hovering over head.

"Musings in Moonlight"? stun-ning.

I really must get back to this thread and soon. Oh but to be of a nature that I could comment more freely and accurately on your work.

Why thank you, very much. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Class projects, however, are much more pressing. Believe me, I understand. 

[Sienna Maiu - M T]

I find that "Hourglass" is just terribly catchy.

huzzah for understanding!

[Cogidubnus]

Cogidubnus Mithlome presents A Keaton the Black Jackal Fanfic

   


Eldorado: A Short Story


   "Over the Mountains
    Of the Moon,
    Down the Valley of the Shadow,
    Ride, boldly ride,"
    The shade replied --
   "If you seek for El Dorado."

   Keaton the Black Jackal, black-backed jackal succubus, the self-proclaimed queen of dark and souls, was sitting in a crouch among the detritus of a ruined, smoking conversion van, and with her combat-booted legs drawn up into a curl was busy reading a green-and-red book. Fascinated, she turned the pages voraciously, reading through the book in an almost record time for the vicious Cubi. The succubus had never really had the time or inclination to read much – but this book had piqued her interest. It had been clutched in the hand of a dead mouse being, her bloody embrace staining the verdant green cover shades of ghastly red. She'd been an unremittingly gothic-looking sort of girl, wearing black clothes and stocking and deeply spiked hair sculpted to fall over one eye. The book had been resting on one of the pieces of the girl that hadn't been cut into several pieces, and the Cubi had plucked the bloodstained pages out of the girl's hand out of simple curiosity. She was interesting in what sort of literature such a strange girl would have been reading. Earlier, when the Jackal had been disguised as a rather pitiful, wet and normal-looking Doberman, who managed to get aboard the van as a hitchhiker, she had found the little gothic mouse-girl really rather interesting. Along with other things, including her belief in the ultimate power of darkness, and her hatred for all forms of conformity (with a overtly hostile look at the succubus), she'd claimed that she had no soul. Keaton found that to be a rather interesting statement – almost a challenge. The mouse's talk about darkness had indeed been interesting, although irritating. When the mouse mentioned a distant blood relation to a destroyed civilization of darkness-wielding creatures, the Jackal found herself getting more than a little angry with the mousie.

   The look on the mouse's face when Keaton transformed back into what she truly was had made the succubus laugh. For such a dour, angry-looking person, sheer terror looked somehow hilarious on that makeup-caked, spiky haired face. Covering herself with inky darkness, her hand dripping blackness as it grew long, razor talons, the Jackal had given the little goth an almost maniac grin, and brushed the hair away from the little mouse's eye, the razor of her hand making the purple-black strands fall off in the process, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "You're in luck, little mousie." she had almost giggled. "I'm a regular fucking preacher." she had said, and as she did so leaned back, her wings spreading wide in the van's backseat. "I'll help ya' find your everlasting fucking soul."

   A wing-tentacle had morphed into a blade with a edge fine enough to cut rocks, and had speared into the greasy-looking rat fellow driving the van. The other eleven tentacles, razor-edged to the last, had descended upon the poor little goth in turn, cutting through hands, feet, arms, legs, and finally separating her head from her shoulders before cutting her torso into several pieces. She'd screamed to the last, until her larynx had been cut in two. The pain, however, faded from her eyes only a few moments after that.

   Even as the light faded from her eyes, Keaton could see a similar light emanate from the mouse's dessicated body – to the Cubi's eyes, the vision of the girl's soul, a strangely peaceful figure for a person in such turmoil, rose from her body with a soft-blue glow. Her eyes were closed, as if in expectation – despite her violent end, her final rest called her away, to sleep for eternity.

   Keaton's grin grew yet more maniacal, her darkness-drenched form grinning even as her bright, white-glowing eyes caressed over the mouse's softly glowing form. The truck was beginning to go out of control, the driver dead for several moments now – the darkness draped over Keaton insulated her from most of the bumps, and gave her the few moments here that she needed. As the soul rose, subtly called to its destination, the Jackal simply reached forward a hand, and surprisingly, snagged the soul's insubstantial ankle. The mouse's eyes opened slowly.

   "I found iiit!" the Jackal said, giving herself a fit of giggles. The mouse, momentarily confused at being kept from her metaphysical journey, looked at the black-coated Jackal quizzically for a moment before her eyes focused, and her eyes flew wide. She opened her mouth in a soundless scream. The Jackal simply tugged on the ankle, easily overcoming the afterlife's pull on the former goth, and licked her fangs, ichorous darkness dripping from the long, black teeth.

   "You know what they call Jackals, right?" she asked cheerily, taking a kind of macabre amusement from watching the being's soul try and fight her grasp. Sometimes, a particularly strong soul, someone who had a will of iron and a strong heart in life, could escape the grasp of a weak Cubi, or have garnered enough favor with whatever afterlife called it that their souls could slip away. Not this goth girl, though. Oh, no – she had this one. Keaton gave a deep, malicious grin.

   Fucking beings, she thought. What gave this...piece of shit the idea that she had it bad? Claiming a kinship with darkness – little fuck. She almost lost the grin on her face, looking at this writhing, screaming piece of shit that claimed blood with the darkness that drenched and permeated the succubus Jackal. Bitch, she thought. It's bad enough that you're a being, but even suggesting that you have any of my blood...

   The Jackal stared at the soul, as if expecting it to answer her. At the very last, her face seemed to darken yet again, but this time with malicious amusement rather than anger. Ichorous fangs once again twisted into a hideous smile.

   "Jackals are eaters of the dead." she answered for the mouse, and with that, proceeded to utterly consume her. She didn't literally need to swallow the soul – as a Cubi, it was more like...draining it. A little concentration, and Keaton's eyes lit up as the soul began to dim in her grasp, losing its blue glow, and began to grow indistinct around the edges. The Cubi gasped, rivers of power flowing into her, providing her with not only sustenance, but with a veritable pool of energy and life. Glorious. Magnificent. Elating. Overpowering.
   Delicious.

   The soul began to scream in truth, for in truth, the death that was never meant to be had descended upon her. With every second, the Cubi was not only sucking away the mouse's life, she was sucking away pieces of her. Her essence – her memories, her likes and her dislikes, her smile, her laugh, and her tears. Little by little, piece by piece, the succubus tore the little mouse apart, like a vulture tearing morsels from roadkill. Slowly, the mouse began to simply...forget. Pain and blindness descended upon her – she no longer knew her own language, or possessed anything but her closest, most cherished memories. Christmases, times spent with a surprisingly caring family, the anger and rage she'd felt when they'd been snatched away from her – she forgot the name of her brother, her mother and her father, forgot who they even were. Gradually, they lost all significance, and the rage of loss that had come to define her slipped away too, leaving only a choking sadness. That horrible, frustrated feeling of just-almost recalling something, something dreadfully important. Just out of reach – her heart a hole, empty, missing something that could never again be filled.

   She would never remember, ever again. And even as the darkness began to close around her yet further, as she lost her very essence, her very self, she let out a gasping, silent cry – blind, broken, and utterly alone.

   Euphoric, even as the van rolled into a ditch, the succubus let out a deep, contented and rumbling sigh. The darkness covering her body stuck itself to the seat, and made the rolling journey tolerable – but she could have been on a roller coaster and not noticed it. The mouse's soul had been pure pleasure, pure agony and humiliation and terror – and the succubus felt wonderful The van rolled right-side up, the inside of the van a ruined, smoking hole, and through the haze the Cubi could see the driver himself begin to fade. Breathing deeply, her eyes heavy-lidded, she grinned again, staring at the greasy-looking rat's soul, and with a surprisingly quick lurch descended upon that one too.

   After savoring the richness of the mouse's spirit, the rat's could simply not compare – and rather quickly, she simply devoured it, the spirit barely given time to realize its fate before snuffing out entirely.

   Keaton had retreated to the back of the van after that, laying out on one of the rough-carpeted bench seats to enjoy the afterglow brought on by devouring two souls – a feat the likes of which she'd gone almost weeks without. A contented smile on her face, she'd lain back and seen the little green book, clutched in the mouse's bloodstained, amputated hand, giving the cover a bloodstained, macabre appearance. In a rare good mood, the succubus picked up the green-bound volume and tossed the attached hand towards the rear of the van. She opened it, glancing momentarily at the picture of a fez-capped raven upon the inside cover, and flipped open to the first page. Centered lines met her eyes, the book revealing itself to be a volume of poetry. The succubus made a face, and nearly set the book down. The first line, however, caught her eye:
   "In visions of Dark Night", it began, "I have dreamed of joy departed, But a waking dream of life and light, have left me broken-hearted-"

   Keaton raised an eyebrow, and kept reading, and checked the cover just once before continuing to read through the poem voraciously. The Selected Poetry and Prose of Poe, the book declared itself, and the succubus found herself enraptured within the book's dark, melancholy pages. Poetry had never spoken to her before – Keaton, being a girl of action more than thought, of sensation and feeling rather than memory and consideration, didn't have the time or the inclination to reflect over nuanced words and rhymes, and would much rather enjoy devouring souls than read about souls tormented. The agony of souls wasn't something she had to read about, anyway. It was a subject she was intimately familiar with.

   Yet even so, hour upon enraptured hour passed as the succubus read through the tome of poetry. Curled up in the seat of that totaled conversion van, reading the book through her magically-aided eyes and the light of the full moon, her combat boots resting comfortably upon the plush seats and a blissful smile upon the Cubi's face, she had never felt so warm, before, not even in basking in the glory and warmth of a feast of souls. She turned another page, and yet again fell under the spell of the darkly rhyming words.

   The title of the poem, Eldorado, was vaguely misleading: it really didn't have anything to do with the place. It talked about a gallant knight, who searching for the fabled city, finally died of old age before he could get there. As he died, he spoke to a shade passing him by, imploring him to reveal to him the path to the fabled city. The shade replied, "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow: Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied --"If you seek for El Dorado."

   The succubus barely contained another giggle, and staring at the page for a moment longer shut the book entirely, tossing it over her side and into the pile of parts and blood that was once the book's owner. She sat up quickly, stretching a bit, and scooted just a little off the seat  to clunk onto the grassy shoulder of the road . "I guess you didn't ride fast enough..." she said, grinning to herself, and with a swing in her step hopped up onto the road, and began to walk down the highway. In the distance, a town could be seen, faintly, with some sort of large structure on the hill behind it, unlit and too dim to make out clearly. Daring to whistle, she walked down the asphalt, swinging her arms up and over her head and giving to the entire world a contented, blissful smile. She even let her headwings appear, her vibrantly yellow coloration reflecting like a warning sign in the moonlit night as she stretched the thinly membraned wings, fluttering softly in the cold night air.

*   *   *

   Around her, in the waving grass just off the road, two or three forms shifted in the waving razorgrass and johnson weed, ready to ambush the Succubus. Unseen eyes watched her walking down the road, the jackal practically skipping down the two lanes of asphalt towards the town up ahead. Grips tightened upon leatherbound pommels, and hushed whispers spoke incantations of power. A succubus, fat from a kill, walked their streets. You could almost see the glow of soulsucking still falling softly over the Jackal's yellow form.

   Keaton walked unawares, still feeling blissfully serene and euphoric after such a meal. The effects would fade all too soon, anyway, and she was going to enjoy it while she could. In the far, far distance, the silhouette of a mountain could be seen in front of the shadow of a castle, both of them cast against the light of a pale moon. To Keaton, the scene was almost perfect – such an ominous vision was the best after-dinner visage that she could have thought of. It only made her drift deeper into relaxation, the succubus contemplating just stopping in the road for a moment to bask in the moonlight and shadow. Despite the feeling, she kept on moving – nothing on the open road but waving grass, and Keaton felt like having a bit of fun tonight.

   A sudden, stunning pain pierced her left shoulderblade, the force of it enough to knock her forward. Warmth trickled down her bare back, and looking down at her chest the succubus saw an arrowhead peeking out of her skin, just above her heart. A drop of blood fell from the tip. She gave a rough, bloody cough, crimson fluid from her lung staining her chin just a bit and filling her mouth with a coppery taste. Over her hack, she heard a low, humming sound.

   She almost fell over again, stumbling forward as another arrow buried itself deep into her other shoulder, piercing through her and letting another warm stream of blood flow down her back. The Jackal screamed this time, more of a rasping exhalation with her lungs filling with blood. She began to call the darkness around her, the inky blackness flowing up her legs even as she turned around. A single hand went to the first arrowhead sticking out of her, preparing to snap the tip.

   Behind her stood four individuals, all of them variously garbed in the myriad outfits of adventurers. One warrior stood in front of the lot of them, twin longswords grasped in each leonine hand, and garbed in a rather patchwork assortment of mail and plate. His swords, however, glowed in the nighttime, red and yellow runes dug into the metal. His fangs were bared at the Cubi.

   Three others stood behind him – from the looks of them, a mage, an archer, and something that you didn't see very often at all; a gunman, looking coolly at the succubus from down the barrel of a large pistol. The chamber in the center rotated once as he pulled back on some part of the mechanism, and as the darkness flowed up and over her head, Keaton's improved sight could see the faintly glowing, enchanted bullets peeking out from inside the weapon. She didn't have time to admire the weapon, however – the mage, dressed in a russet-red cloak and tightly wrapped and gloved forearms, was spellcasting quickly and promised to rain destruction down upon Keaton's head. The green-clad archer was pulling back and notching another arrow already, too.

   She snapped the first arrowhead, screaming softly at the pain, and rather quickly the shaft of the arrow fell out of her with a thunk, the darkness covering her flowing into her wound and pushing the wooden intrusion out. On her back, as if it was always there, a gigantic mace suddenly appeared – and snapping the other arrowhead she grabbed it and ran at the lion, the cat slipping down into a low stance and moving both swords wide.

   She hefted her mace, the Catastrophe, and made as it to bring it down upon the lion's head. The warrior skillfully maneuvered his blades to stop the massive bludgeon, setting himself up for a perfect counterstrike. He barely had time to register the dozen or so razor-sharp tentacles that cleft clean through his sides. He fell, clattering onto the road in pieces of mail and flesh, his glowing swords bouncing on the concrete. She ran through the rather gory detritus left behind by the unfortunate warrior, cocking her mace back as she lunged for the mage.

   Even as she did so, she heard the twang of the archer's bow, and felt the arrow again smack into her – the darkness that surrounded her seemed to bunch up where the arrow struck, however, forming a thick lump around the outside of her arm where the arrow simply stuck, and then fell. Keaton swung her mace at the mage, still busily engaged in casting, and to her surprise the wizard managed to dance out of the mace's way. Catastrophe hit the cement with a thunderous crack.

   The archer was already nocking another arrow, aiming for the Jackal's white-glowing eyes. Turning her attention for just a moment, she dragged her mace along the ground and rushed the archer, too close for the fox's ranged weapon to be particularly effective. With a swipe of a tentacle, she cleft through the man's bow, the wood parting like butter, and with another great, coiling strike of her massive mace she knocked him off his feet with a soft crunch. The archer's arm bent sickeningly, and raising her mace high overhead Keaton brought it back down into his face. The fox's skull collapsed in a spray of blood and fleshy matter.

   From behind her, however, she heard a crackling, almost whining sound, and turning quickly see saw a ball of light just before it crashed into her. She spat out a curse.

   The pain of the ball was not the worst pain that Keaton had ever endured, but the sound of sizzling meat didn't make the succubus enjoy the sensation either. She screamed, falling into the grass some distance away. She lay there and smoked for just a second before she heard a deafening crack echo through the night, and another blinding pain in her side. She cried out again, a hand instantly flying to her shoulder. She felt blood, and the smell of gunpowder flowed into her nostrils.

   Above her, on the slight ridge that the raised road afforded, she saw the gunman cocking back on his gun and taking careful aim. The mage was again gesturing, bits and motes of light flowing around his hands. It was at that moment that Keaton realized the darkness that surrounded her was gone, eaten away by the mage's previous ball of light. She was unprotected – that armor was one of her best weapons. That it could even be dispelled made the Jackal's blood boil. She wanted to scream.

   She had no time. Rolling to her side, she heard the loud crack of gunfire and a soft thump land right next to her head. She stood quickly, looking up. The sight that greeted her vision was the massive mountain, and the castle behind it, framed by the large, luminous moon. Hurt and bleeding, the succubus began to run, trying desperately to call the darkness back to herself. The ball apparently had some sort of after-effect – the darkness would not respond to her call, slipping off the succubus's body almost as soon as it touched it. Keaton snarled again, running into the undergrowth. She was staring straight at the mountain, now, dark, ominous and moonshrouded.

   Over the mountains of the moon..., a malicious voice seemed to whisper in the Jackal's ear. It sounded like that mouse's voice, but somehow colder than it had been in life. Down the valley of shadow. Ride, boldly ride! Something said again, snickering as it spoke. If you seek for Eldorado...


   The adventurer's only heard the succubus suddenly shriek, a yell that was maddening and rage-filled, and then the sound of heavy footfalls upon the grass. They both reacted with professional decorum, moving the bodies of their comrades out of the road before chasing the Jackal into the woods, her trail leading towards the castle that lay far in the distance.

[Tapewolf]

Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did

[Sunblink]

Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did

When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then [/shameless plug lol]

I believe I've already praised and praised you away via MSN for the sheer awesomeness of this story, Cog. Keaton was totally in-character (especially the "I'm a regular fucking preacher" line, which was marvelous and made me laugh maniacally), the writing was wonderful and fluid, as usual, and the ending made me ramble and stammer over and over again because I just loved how you tied the story into Keaton's appearance in the Castle RP. Plus, you made Edgar Allen Poe a major theme, who I LOVE (Masque of the Red Death is my favorite published story of all-time. Suck on that, Shakespeare). That is a major bonus.

You are totally fucking getting something awesome for Christmas, Cog TOTALLY. Because you rocked my weekend with this.

~Keaton the Black Jackal

[Tapewolf]

When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then

Oh, I know.  Yet somehow I still have to restrain myself from telling you to hurry up with it 

[Cogidubnus]

Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did

When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then

Oh, I know.  Yet somehow I still have to restrain myself from telling you to hurry up with it 

Somehow, I'll take that. the fact that I was able to elicit an emotional response is a compliment itself. Even if it was a bad taste. 
And you and me both, brother. 

Well-written, although I can't honestly say I enjoyed reading about what she did

When Keaton's backstory is out you're not gonna enjoy reading a lot of things, then [/shameless plug lol]

I believe I've already praised and praised you away via MSN for the sheer awesomeness of this story, Cog. Keaton was totally in-character (especially the "I'm a regular fucking preacher" line, which was marvelous and made me laugh maniacally), the writing was wonderful and fluid, as usual, and the ending made me ramble and stammer over and over again because I just loved how you tied the story into Keaton's appearance in the Castle RP. Plus, you made Edgar Allen Poe a major theme, who I LOVE (Masque of the Red Death is my favorite published story of all-time. Suck on that, Shakespeare). That is a major bonus.

You are totally fucking getting something awesome for Christmas, Cog TOTALLY. Because you rocked my weekend with this.

~Keaton the Black Jackal

Ehehe! Again, I'm truly glad you liked it! Keaton is a surprisingly fun character to write.