Anklebiter, Scourge of Shins

Anklebiter, Scourge of Shins

Kristol couldn't help but smile warmly as the brutish highwaymen, if such rank amateurs could even be called that, surrounded her.  Grindnaclim held steadily in her right hand, with Nalbactha Glantha pointing at the two men behind her.  She would always tell others of how the names belonged to ancient Gnome heroes from her family's history.  In reality they were a poorly assembled melange of ancient Gnomanic and *ahem* creative grammar.

To the bandits, which still may be giving them too much credit, this was there lucky day.  Here they found a wagon, all but over flowing with food, goods, and several large chests.  Not only that, but the only person there was a female gnome.  Not only that, but she was short...even for a gnome!  Kristol stood only two feet, ten inches, and one half, a half she clung to fervently.  She cut quite the amusing sight to the men.  Not only was she a snippet of a thing, but she had a wild tussle of copper colored hair.  Her equipment was a sight to behold.  The leather straps on the armor were the same as on the handles of the weapons, the copper accents on her armor perfectly matched her copper hair, and there wasn't a blemish anywhere.  Not a scratch, a dent, or even a smattering of dust.  To them that could only mean that they had never been used.  

"Quit playing around with those toys and toss them over here, kid" the fat one shouted, unaware that by speaking first, he'd moved to the top of the list.  

"Yeah, we won't hu..." the ripped one started to say.  His words interrupted by a piercing scream.   

In the blink of an eye Kristol had sprung into action, her body flowing into the familiar rhythm of  combat.  Dashing through the fat ones legs.  One suddenly missing a shin and the other with a jetting femoral artery.  

Quickly recovering from his surprise the ripped man attacked her.  His dagger swiping only air as she hopped up and over his attack.  The last thing he saw was the well honed edge of a sword that had been used and loved for years.  "Oops" he thought as he passed on.

Only six seconds had passed and now the other two could finally overcome their shock and act.  Wisely, the turned tail and immediately began to run away.  

Seeing them flee Kristol thought back to what her initially reluctant, but swiftly overprotective mentor had taught her.  

His gruff voice rumbling in the back of her mind "Look here little lady, letting an enemy flee because you think they can't harm you is the height of vanity and stupidity.  You're neither of those"

In a flash Kristol was upon the fleeing men.   

Kristol was many things, but she wasn't vain.  No, she was a fucking lady.  

The Tale of kaer Mora

The highly skilled Luiz Prado of Luiz Prado Arts was kind enough to let me play with a character from a personal project of his.  All rights to the character and the pictures belong to him and I had nothing to do with the drawing, I'm not that talented.

The Tale of kaer Mora

kaer Mora is a small kingdom that once controlled the Orci mountain pass and the mountains on either side, but that was many generations ago when they still possessed what they call kaerganger, literally mountain warrior, but meaning something more like "warrior with the mountain spirit inside of their heart".   For generations these fierce warriors held their pass and mines making their kingdom wealthy, until one day they vanished.  They awoke, their minds devoid of all passion and their limbs weak as a new born babe's.  Fear and panic swept the nation as its populace began to turn on each other and the surrounding countries nipped off larger and larger portions.  Soon the pass was the only contested spot.  It has passed from the hands of the elvish kingdom of Na'lut'ha in the northern forest lands to the ownership of the Kingdom of Norbith in the Southern Steppes.  Back and forth it was won and lost a dozen times.  Until eventually an uneasy truce settled over the pass.   

It's people have been lost.  Many have renounced the old ways and adapt the ways of the modern world.  Taking and borrowing from the mixed races empire to the South and the Elvish  lands to the North.   

Yet some still cleave to the old ways.  They seek to atone for whatever misdeeds caused the mountain to revoke it's blessing.  

This is their tale.

This is the tale of Minara Titansbane, The Mountain's Storm.

Minara was a princess, heir to an ancient line of heroes and rulers of the kaer Mora, yet in name only.  She knew nothing about it growing up beyond the abstract.  To her it was just a job she was born into.  She was a leader, but for the small band of semi-nomadic people in the mountains it meant nothing in the way of pleasure or creature comforts.  She worked as hard as anyone else, trained to fight with the others, and worked the small mountain crops with the others.  

Until the day she slew her first enemy.  

Now it wasn't unusual to encounter other tribes and groups when ranging the mountains.  Normally they parted ways peacefully, but elves, orcs, and goblins were dispatched on sight.  One day she and a few other children, none older than 8 or 9, were out with one of the elders learning how to hunt prey when they encountered a patrol from the Kingdom of Norbith.  All seemed to be going well as the elder and the guardsmen talked, but once the elder turned his back the guardsman lashed out and neatly separated the elder's head from his shoulders.  The guardsmen advanced on the children, manacles in hand, eyes already glinting with the thought of the profits to be made.  With a shout Minara charges the guardsman who slew the elder.  Her eyes are filled with rage and tears as she leaps at him.

With a sickening crunch his axe impacts the left side of her chest.  Her eyes begin to glaze over and her body slumps around the axe when her eyes snap back open. An emerald flame seems to radiate from her eyes as she grips the axe haft and twists it from the guardsman's hands.  All is silent except for the sickening sound and sight of Minara pulling the axe out of her chest.  Her ribs and muscles clearly showing in the wound. 

The other children describe what happened next as kaer minok torang padan or "when the mountain sky violently begins to storm on a clear sky".  Minara was enveloped in a rage and fury that made the hardened soldiers quake as she tore through them.  When all was said and done she stood among the bodies of half a dozen guardsmen.   With shoulders heaving she collapsed, her fury expended.  

Eventually she was brought back to her tribe and cared for, the elders marveling at how quickly she healed until only a savage scar remained on her chest.  

From that day on her tribe had new energy.  They had been blessed by the mountain.  The kaerganger had returned.  Soon other tribes began to hear of her and moved to ally themselves with her.  

And so began the return of the kaer Mora and their queen Minara Titansbane, The Mountain's Storm.

The Louisiana Downs

As I entered the casino I was assaulted by a cacophony of sensations.  The incessant chattering of the penny slots, an epileptic cascade of lights.   The scent of stale cigarette smoke and broken spirits permeated the air.  Mindlessly the people pressed the buttons on the box in front of them.  Bing, bing, bing went the machines as they performed their teasing ritual.   Letting the down trodden catch a mere whiff victory.   Tantalizing them with the hope of a better life, yet constantly withdrawing to just outside of their reach like a stripper before pay-day.  Milking each and every cent from the zombies that clambered through the door.  Robotic strippers bilking and tormenting their prey.  Draining the last bit of value from the shattered dreams and hopes of the masses.

And there it was that I saw Louise.   A large woman by any standards, her skin reduced from its former glow to the color of three day old coffee.  Dark black circles under her eye accentuating the red eyes and the tiny pinpricks of her pupils.  She was surrounded by an aura of desperation as she fed her ill-gotten funds into her robotic lover.   Hoping and praying to get her fix, to fill the hole inside her where her soul had once been.  She was completely lost in her own world; a world brought on by ice and her mechanical mistress.  So intent was she upon her mission that she didn't even notice as her emaciated partner was dragged off from the seat next to her.  His unconscious form being roughly deposited in the back by the trash like a used condom.  Limp, disgusting and filled with wasted potential.

Yet she continued.  Pull, pray, pout.  Pull, pray, pout.  Over and over the cycle continued until what remained of her purse was depleted.  Only then did she notice the absence of her partner.  Genuine emotion began to flutter within her.  A tiny ember of who she used to be before the twin demons sank their claws into her.

DING! DING! DING! JACKPOT! JACKPOT! JACKPOT!

And just like that the ember was snuffed out.

Short monster prompt

A short story for a contest about a monster attacking Hampton Roads:

It came with promises. Wealth, jobs, respect. All these things were promised. It would put us on par with the other great cities in the world, New York, London, Tokyo and more. So we welcomed it with open arms. Embraced it like a long lost lover and gave it everything it requested. People, time, materials, money. More and more we sunk into it and more and more it promised us. Draining us and clouding our minds, preventing us from seeing the truth. That is how the monster won, with candied lies. That is how the Light Rail consumed Hampton Roads.

Not bad for a max word count of 100.

First and a Half World

First and a Half World

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon as we begin our trek towards work. Groggily trudging into the site superintendents trailer. A brief respite of chilled air washing over us as we scrawl our names on a sheet of paper. Marking down who were are, the day it is and who we belong to. All too quickly we step back outside, the sun reaching down and quickly warming the air as we venture towards our work. The air is heavy with the miasma of burnt dust and the occasional hacking cough from my co-workers. Their lungs working overtime to protect themselves from the unknown toxins and hazards being thrown into the air from the heavy equipment. Only the few of us who were wise enough (or perhaps weak enough) to coat our lungs with tar from the small white sachets have avoided the cough. Dirty hands all grasp the same door handle as we what feels like a descent into an earlier time. Each one grasping where hundreds of other hands have while covered in all manner of filth that is passed throughout the group like an infectious legend. Even if it doesn't take root in one of us we are the host to pass it further along the job site and beyond into the clean world that we return to at the end of the day. Sure there are stations every so often to sanitize, but only God knows when they were last serviced and refilled. No one even bothers to stop there any more; no one needs that disappointment at the start of their shift.

Down the corridors we go, electrical wires hanging haphazardly about like vines in a jungle with no way to tell if they are live or dead. One can only hope that the others that have gone before us have done their job and properly subdued them so that they pose no threat to us. On we go before arriving at a massively heavy steel door. Locked with an arcane wheel and key we wait for one of blue guards to arrive and work their magic. With a grunt and a few mystic beeps the door opens and whatever traps and alarms laid in wait for the unwary are disarmed, preventing a horde of taciturn and pedantic guards from descending upon us and questioning our every action.

And so the day has begun. The soldier pulls up a chair and watches us with coffee in hand as we begin our work. Plying our minds and bodies in an effort to force the mystical devices held in the steel racks to bend to our will. Day and night we slave to bend and subdue them to make them perform the tasks we require. Start. Stop. Restart.

The Vase

This is the story of Michael. He was a very average lad. Dark hair, emerald green eyes and just a hair under six feet tall. His job afforded him with a fair amount of time to do what enjoyed most. Wander the city. He loved having a lazy day where he could wander around with no destination in mind. The majority of these trips were nothing extraordinary. He would wander and drink in the sights, sounds and smells. However this is the story of what happened on an autumn day that was out of the ordinary.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

WHAM!!!!

Michael slowly opened his eye and looked at his alarm clock. His fist aching slightly from the pounding it had delivered. With a groan he sat up and got out of bed. A shiver ran through his body as he came in contact with the cold floor. He staggered off towards the shower, the haze of sleep still encircling his mind. Hot water soon rained down upon his body, banishing the chills and the fog of sleep from his body. With a contented smile he left his shower and went about his routine. The scent of oatmeal and syrup. The sound of the coffee dripping into the pot. The sound of his head hitting the cabinet door as it did every morning, followed quickly by the sounds of him cursing and swearing to fix it as he also did every morning.

After finishing his morning routine he found himself outside of his apartment building, dressed and ready to wander. And wander he did. Whistling the same mindless tune that he whistled every time he ventured forth into the urban jungle. And off he went. Left, then right then left. Following a random path towards….somewhere. Soon he lost himself. The pulse of the city had absorbed him. He was no longer an individual, instead he was but a nameless face in the crowd flowing down the streets.

Several hours passed and he found himself standing at the entrance to a park. Forward he meandered into the park and a hush seemed to descend upon him. It was as if the hustle and the bustle of the city had disappeared. An oasis. There was no other way to describe it, but as an oasis. A smile slowly spread across his face as he drank in the beauty of the moment. Michael wandered the park for a short while, before acquiring a hot dog and seating himself upon a bench so that he could rest, eat and marvel in the fact that such an oasis could exist in such a large city.

Time passed and the sun slowly began its inevitable descent from the sky. Michael rose from the bench and decided that it was time for him to head home. As he was leaving the park a small shop caught his eye. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what caught his eye. It might have been the weathered hand painted sign or it could have been the warm inviting look of the store.

As he entered the shop a warm feeling enveloped him. It felt as if he had walked into his grandparents house. The shop was infused with that warm feeling of age. The feeling that the people who had lived there had spent many years living and working in and had created many happy memories there. A little old man sat behind the counter. A weathered face that matched the store and a small inviting smile. The old man welcomed Michael into the store and turned to walk towards the back of the shop. The man had gone no more then three steps before he grasped his chest and collapsed. Michael started in shock at first, before dialing 911 on his cell phone and requesting paramedics. Rushing over, he began trying to remember what he had learned when he took CPR as a child during his summers at the YMCA. Valiantly he fought against death. Compressing his chest and forcing air into his lungs. For five long minutes he did this before paramedics arrived on the scene and relieved him. The paramedics quickly stabilized the old man. The old man looked around the room and fixed his gaze on Michael.

“Thank you” he whispered.

Michael just blushed and said that it was nothing and he hadn’t really done anything spectacular, just what any person would do.

“No” the old man stated firmly “You helped me. You saved my life and for that I owe you. Under the counter the is a box with the word vase written on it. I want you to have it.”

Michael tried to refuse but the old man insisted as he was being loaded into the ambulance. Back into the store he went and under the counter he looked and there it was. An unassuming brown box wit the word “vase” written on it. With a shrug of his shoulders Michael picked up the box and headed home.

Michael returned home and lay down on his couch. The box resting on his coffee table. Michael looked at the box. The box just stood there. Michael continued to look at the box. The box continued to just sit on the table. With a sigh Michael sat up and opened the box. As he removed the cover and looked inside he was surprised at what he found. Pieces. Shards. Splinters. It was a broken vase. It appeared as if a long time ago someone had smashed the vase and placed it into the box. Michael looked at the contents. His mind could not fathom why the old man had given him this trash. He stared at it. He sat there and looked at it. Slowly in his minds eye the vase reconstructed itself. It was a thing of beauty. Hand crafted and dyed. It was the work of a master craftsman of that there could be no doubt. With that image firmly in his mind Michael rose from the couch, got some old newspaper and a bottle of glue. He withdrew one piece and methodically searched through the box for the neighboring piece. Nearly an hour had passed before he found the neighboring piece. He applied the glue and reconnected the two pieces. As he looked at it a sense of accomplishment and warmth filled him. And he continued. He continued to search and find more pieces to glue together. More pieces to fix. To try and repair the vase.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

The sound of his alarm filled the apartment and Michael groggily looked around. He had fallen asleep on his couch, while working on the vase. He quickly went about his morning routine and hustled off to work.

All day long he thought of the vase. Of what he had accomplished and of what it would look like when he finished. The day seemed to take twice as long to finish. Five o’clock came about and Michael was gone. Rushing out of the office and back home. Upon entering his apartment he quickly changed clothes and began working on the vase.

And so began his routine. He would work during the day at his office, the vase constantly in his thoughts. Upon arriving home he would change and work on the vase until sleep over took him and he fell asleep on the couch. He would wake to his alarm and repeat the whole cycle again.

He began to both love and hate the vase. He loved the passion that had arisen from it. He loved how he thought it would look and he loved what he was doing. However there were times when he hated the vase. There were often days when he could make no progress, when it seemed as if the vase itself was hiding pieces and trying to prevent itself from being fixed.

Slowly and stubbornly he worked at it. Slowly, but surely he fixed the vase. Slowly, but surely the vase began to stand up. Slowly, but surely the pieces became a vase.

This continued on and on for several months before it was finished. The vase was finished. Michael had put it back together. He had fixed the vase. And although you could still see the lines where he had glued it together and it still had a few tiny pieces missing, pieces that had been lost to the winds, it was beautiful. The lines did not detract from the beauty of the vase. The lines enhanced the beauty of the vase. The lines made the vase more then it had been. The vase was no longer just a vase. No longer just a piece made by a craftsman. It had surpassed all of that and become a work of art. Michael looked at the vase and was moved. He loved the vase. He had fixed the vase. He would continue to search for the missing pieces. He would take care of the vase and make sure that it remained fixed. Michael loved the vase.

The Vines

A young man was walking down the road one day when he came across a field of flowers. The young man sat down and looked at the wide variety of flowers. There were tall flowers and small flowers, large flowers and tiny flowers. Some were yellow. Others were purple, green or red. All the colors of the rainbow were there in this field. As the man sat there he inhaled deeply and was enthralled with the aromas. The aromas were unlike any he had ever smelt before. It was a gentle, comforting aroma. A soft smile drifted across his face as he gazed upon the flowers. The young man gazed upon the flowers, oblivious to the passage of time.

Time passed. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days and days turned to weeks.

During this time he watched others come by and stop by the field. Each one would stop. Some for a few days and others for only a few minutes, yet each one left with a flower and a content look upon their face. So the young man decided to go into the field and attempt to find his flower. He started his search with the flowers closest to him. As he gazed upon them he reached out for a flower. As he grasped the flower the thorns pricked his flesh and scarlet drops of blood welled upon his hand. The young man sat back down. He was puzzled. He had seen others grasp the flowers, yet none of the other people had reacted as such. After a few hours of contemplation he decided to try again. He reached out and was greeted with the same result. More blood was drawn. The young man was not too be discouraged. He kept reaching and trying, losing more and more blood in the process.

Time passed. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days and days turned to weeks.

The young man had made his way into the middle of the field. He continued to reach out and grasp flowers attempting to find the one that was for him. His strength was failing as he gazed around the field. As he glanced around the field he saw it. There was the flower. The one flower that was for him. He crawled towards it on his hands and knees. His strength failing him as he made his way there. As time passed he moved slower and slower. As he reached out to grasp the flower his strength finally failed him and his body collasped into the field. Time passed. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days and days turned to weeks. The flowers grew on top of the young mans’ body. Slowly the body was absorbed into the field until the only evidence that the young man had been there was a scrap of cloth on one of the flowers. Soon a stiff breeze came along and rustled through the field and then the cloth was gone.

Time passed. Minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days and days turned to weeks.

As the sun set another young man walked over the crest of the hill and spied the field. The young man sat down and stared at the field in awe of its beauty.