Storytelling Circle

[Sir Basil]

STORYTELLING CIRCLE

"A tale is but half told when only one person tells it."

---

TELLING OUR STORY

In 1949, Joseph Campbell released "The Hero with a Thousand Faces." The argument of this revolutionary text was interdisciplinary and unifying. Its argument was simply; the Hero is a universal concept. While individual facets of the Hero may change - their titular "one thousand faces" - the central ideas of the Hero are the same. Campbell's argument is that the Hero's experiences do not deviate from an established formula -- and folklorists and narratologists before and since have made similar claim. Master of narrative math - yes, that exists - Vladimir Propp argued that there were 31 distinct functions that every fairytale could include, in a conglomerate. These phases could be abstract or literal, but although functions could be skipped over, they had to occur in a sequence. It may sound complicated - and it is - but its also a useful device for understanding the underlying structure of narrative. Thankfully, the internet has done Propp's work for you; there's a random fairytale generator based on his 31 functions. Generators like this demonstrate that the Hero's narrative, and narrative itself, isn't particularly sacred, and can be randomly or procedurally generated. Of course, that leads me to the following question: What does that mean for a writing community like Iwaku?

Thankfully, the Proppian fairytale generator isn't particularly good at creating coherent fairytales. Would-be-writers rejoice ! - you're not out of a job, yet. But, thinking about narrative as a set of universal formulas, with an ever changing Hero, gave me an idea for a collaborative writing experience here on Iwaku. I explored the Hero's Journey in my detailed Guide to the Hero's Journey but where I think this guide falls flat is demonstrating the power of the monomythic structure. Although the idea of a universal formula has been criticized for killing creativity, and resulting in formulaic and thus, boring, stories; I disagree. More importantly, I disagree because I believe that a heavily structured formula results in more creative thought, as the author must work within their constraints to create a product that pushes the boundaries of their rubric. I favour highly structured roleplay for this reason. The Hero's Journey provides a perfect rubric for a roleplay, a character, and a narrative mode. But how does this translate into the idea of a collaborative writing experience?

I'm sure that everyone has seen those threads / forum games where everyone writes a single word, in the hopes of making a usually very silly story. This is based on the French method for gathering and compiling images or vocabulary, the cadavre exquis, or exquisite corpse. In an exquisite corpse, each collaborator adds to the product in sequence. In word-based corpses, they follow a rule of : "The adjective noun adverb verb the adjective noun", and sometimes collaborators are allowed to see only the final letters of the word that the previous person contributed. It's like Mad Libs, if Mad Libs was made by French Dadaists in the 1920s. What I propose is a writing experience that draws upon both the Hero's Journey and the Exquisite Corpse, with each contributor building upon the story of another -- except with different characters, settings, and ideas.

STORY STRUCTURE

Every post in this thread will be its own part of a story. I will start out, writing about a Character - henceforth called Character A - who will have some adventures, talk to some people, and experience a piece of their story. This post is only a piece of their story and should not be a self-contained, completed narrative. The first post I make will end with Character A taking an action of some kind -- maybe it's picking up an object, or getting on a horse. This is where the idea of the sequence comes in. The next person to post will have to begin their post with their unique character ( "Character B"), possibly in a completely different setting, taking that same action and continuing the story. For example:

Post 1: Character A meets a witch. Character A talks with the witch. Character A leaves the witch's house and gets on a horse.
Post 2: Character B rides a horse through the desert. Character B gets off of the horse, and enters a saloon. Character B orders a drink and sips at their cup.
Post 3: Character C sips their cup. They are on a space station - so on, and so forth.

I have the following basic rules, in order to make sure this works well for everyone involved.

• You need to follow the template above. An action building on an action.
  This is, afterall, the whole point of the exercise. However, if you post multiple times - you don't need to play the same character. You can also jump around in time, place, and over-all setting. This writing experience is intended to give its participants lots of freedom, and the ability to switch characters with ease.
  
• Please don't exceed 2000 words in your post.
  Many people don't have time to read more than that, and in order to keep this game going, and keep people reading, a succinct post is likely better. However, you should be still following the template - and exploring your character to your heart's content.
  
• Have fun with it !
  Not so much a rule, but remember - this isn't homework. It's basically a roleplay, or a fun, collaborative, fiction writing circle. The template exists to provide ideas and challenge your creativity. However, the template doesn't have to be a hundred percent literal. The Hero, afterall, wears a thousand faces. A horse can become a motorbike, and a sword can become a lightsaber.

If you have questions, feel free to PM me !

 

[Sir Basil]

ADRAS

The air was heavy with frost. The trees stirred in a cold breeze, and bits of ice dripped from pointed leaves. A thick white fog had crept in-between white birches, and the heavy boughs of black firs. The mist had crept down through the crags and valleys of the forest, and the city seemed farther away than it ever had. The peaks of the nearby mountains were only the faintest shadow in the pure grey sky.

The tall spires stabbed through the fog - but their silhouettes were muted by the grey light of the cloud-choked sun. Within those spires, the King stood in his window, and looked down upon the world, pressing his fingers against the rough glass panes. His fingers curled, and left behind prints were they touched. He was warm, inside. When he breathed on the glass, it left behind a fine coating of steam. Through the glass, he could see the walls of his city - the soldiers standing on the walls, the laborers trying to salvage their crop from the early frost. He could see the goose girl herding her pack of swans and the stable hand bringing in a pair of fine bay geldings. A corner of his mouth twitched. The king was not old - not yet, but when he looked out upon that gray world, he felt grayer for it. He could not look at it any longer. The old King glanced over his shoulder, towards the girl in the room.

She was not young - she had come of age. Her hair was thick and blonde, braided into an elaborate collection of hammered copper and silver chains. Her blue eyes had thick kohl smeared around them, and it dribbled in black tears down to her cleft chin. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her shoulders were trembling. The girl had been crying for an hour now, and her chest was heaving with the effort of keeping her composure. She wanted to scream and strangle him — of that, the King was certain. He could see the way that her fingers pulled at the skirts of her gown, the whiteness of her knuckles, and the blood caked under her torn fingernails. Even her cloak-clasp seemed to sob, the blue stones in the stylized horse's head shimmering in torch-light like unshed tears. When he looked at her - she met his eyes. Behind those eyes, he could see the hatred bubbling out from underneath the pupils, something dark and angry and desperate. He heard the words, then, and that confirmed what he already knew.

"I hate you," She whispered, and the words a knife in the King's heart.

The King turned away from her. He could not look at her either. He stared at the window, and looked out across the silver horizon. The blacksmith toiled in the cold, heat from her shop rising up in a plume of blue smoke. The gallows swayed in a breeze and the linden tree in the town square shed the last of its leaves. He could hear his daughter screaming behind him. I hate you, I hate you. He did not turn around. Three riders on small marsh-ponies had passed through the gates. They had no banners. Down the road, the only road that led to Lindeholm, there were other riders. A golden carriage driven by roan oxen with brass horns crept up the road. The king imagined that he could hear the gizungi of the drivers, foreign and strange. The sound of their false words rose above the screams of his daughter. Don't you hear me? I hate you! The king did not look back. He looked at the carriage. He watched it amble up the road. As he did, the king breathed a word against the glass, the name of his only son.

On the edge of the forest, past the walls of the city, beyond the apple groves and wheat fields, past the peeling barn and monastery - a pair of shields crashed against one another. Bits of salt and iron flecked from their treated surfaces as they smashed with a clatter that shook the roots of the trees. One shield, painted in gold and white, showed a horse leaping - a golden rose crowning its head. Grinding against the horse was the cold iron of an argent sun, against a blue field that chipped from the effort. The shields grunted against one another, and iron fillings dripped to a cold and marshy ground. The face of the shields, the horse and the sun, had been covered in honey, mixed with the iron and salt, and it fell away when the metal clashed. When the flecks hit the ground, the marsh sizzled, letting out little gasps as if it was what was being wounded. The arms came against one another again, smashing and grinding, the earth gasping, the wind rushing. The strain of shield against shield made all the world sing out its champion. The horse faltered. The sun pushed the horse away, sending the shield in an arc, down, down to the ground and along with it went its wielder.

The marsh was silent, the verdict had been decided.

His ears were ringing. The knight fumbled with his helmet, yanking it off. His face was streaked with mud and sweat, flushed with the exertion. He was a boy. A young boy, no more than sixteen - he had only seen a single Cleansing, and he did not remember it. His eyes were a crisp blue, and as he gasped and breathed, the flush began to leave his pale cheeks. His hair, plastered against his face, was the colour of tallow candles, a warm yellow-white, and quite long, hanging around the remnants' of a child's face. His helmet had dug into the space between his eyes, at the start of his nose, leaving behind a bloody scrape. His blood was red- and ran down his skin lazily and naturally. He pressed his fingers against it. It would scar, he thought. It didn't matter, he supposed. He had other scars. He would have more scars, when he was a knight.

His name was Adras.

The boy wiped a bit of the blood from is face, looking across to the sun-shielded warrior. The knight behind it had pulled of her helmet, and stared back at him, her face stern. Her braided brown hair was thick with streaks of grey, and her face had pits and creases, giving her a matronly impression, albeit with one flaw. A large scar stretched from her temple down to the tip of her chin, crossing over her lips. Where the scar intersected her lips, a bit of her teeth shone through, making her mouth jagged and wolfish. She was not smiling, but the way that her lips split gave the impression that she was always sneering. There was sweat clinging to her brow, and slicking the bangs of her brown hair to her forehead. The weak sunlight caught the bits of moisture on her skin, making her dark skin sparkle. Her crown of sweat did not make her prettier - but it gave her a certain nobility, that made the young boy's cheeks flush. She was, after all, Hilde the Bright - Hilde Glate.

The Bright cast her shield to the side. The sun-shield hit the ground with a hard thump, and bits of crisp leaves were stirred up with it. The frost clung to their dirty edges, and a chill hung heavily in the air. The sun seemed to dim on her shield, as it lay amongst the decaying underbrush. The woman reached down to the boy, a massively armored hand flicking in his direct. Adras looked down at it, blood dribbling down the edges of his nose. It hurt. But the numbness of the fall morning made his cheeks prickle more than the wound across his face. He pressed his hand into Hilde's. Their gauntlets made a metallic clank as he was pulled to his feet, a full-head shorter than the lady-knight. The dull pump of blood continued to sound in his ears, and the sound of the metal had aggravated it further, and he winced. The woman's brows furrowed on her face, a few lines of concern appearing at the corners of her mouth. She did not speak to him. She gave him an appraising look, her amber eyes skimming over his face.

Adras nodded vaguely in her direction, dropping his helmet into the marsh. The earth bubbled beneath the iron helm. His hand reached up to brush back his hair, smearing it with mud and blood. He winced - and the lady-knight snorted, a dull chuckle seeping up from behind her scarred lips. She gave a command, her voice stern and heavily accented: "Get your helmet off as soon as possible, when you hit the ground. You could suffocate." She reached down to pull the helmet up from the ground. She gave it the same look that she had given the boy, her eyes narrowing. She pressed her hand against the sizable dent that she had made in the helmet, brushing her fingers against the edges of the impression. The lady-knight tucked the helmet under her arm, and her lips peeled back from her teeth. She glowered at the boy, "That's enough for today. His Highness has guests, and he'll want you to greet them."

The boy's nose wrinkled, and his face twitched from the pain. He pressed his hand against his nose, smearing crimson on his gauntlet. "I don't want to meet them." He said, and the moment he did, Adras regretted it. His own voice sounded childish and sick in his throat. But he didn't — he didn't want to see the men with the cold orange eyes and the bloody blades. He didn't want to see the All-Voice - with his slippery tongue and his rank breath. He had seen enough of them. He remembered though - what his father had told him. Being King - being Queen - you have to do so much that you do not wish to do. Hilde Glate seemed to agree, and her scowl deepened, crags appearing on her already pockmarked face. She shoved him roughly in the shoulder, and Adras swayed on his feet. "You're too old to behave like this," she sneered, "One of the Twelfth should not behave like this."

It was Adras' turn to scowl. "I'm not one of the Twelfth yet."

She slapped him hard across his face. His lip burst with blood, from where her knuckles hit his mouth. It dribbled down his chin.

 

[Ravenfrost]

Ah, not as beautiful like yours, Sir Basil. Not by half. Or even a quarter. But nonetheless... "Valence"

Spoiler

Her eyes stung with weariness. Her feet hurt so much she could barely walk across the wooden floor without stumbling, and her back had stabbing pains after running to and fro for hours on end in her tight-laced outfit, carrying huge slopping platters of food and beverage to the inn's disreputable customers (and trying to avoid groping hands at the same time). She traitorously longed to limp to her miserable little pallet, lock the door, rid herself of the loathsome clothes she wore, and fall into a dreamless slumber.

But no. She had a nobleman in front of her in this small chamber that was hired by the hour. That meant pain, that meant . . .

Valence slapped the decadently handsome, clean-shaven face in front of her as viciously as she could, breathing hard with the effort. The dark-haired man staggered to the side momentarily, but didn't fall.

"Is that the best you can do?" he complained, eyeing her with disappointment and not a little contempt. He held up a coin, out of her reach. (This was supposed to spur her on?)

She loathed him. His petty vices. His sneer. His low regard for "women of her type." But that didn't matter. She had been masquerading as a tavern wench for the last two days. The man in front of her was a duke masquerading as his own valet as he hunted in establishments of low repute to find fresh game. Everyone was playing a part, except the most important person of all. Please gods, let her find a way into the palace this evening. The princess was holding her engagement party tonight and all the nobility would be there. This is what mattered. It might be her only chance.

Valence had traveled for a year to find her beloved cousin Lysander after he had been carried away by the red dragon (who was not a true dragon at all, but a shape-changing witch charged by a tyrannical princess to bring him back to be her husband and consort).

Their families had tried to dissuade Valence from going forth to seek him, but there was never any question in her mind.

Valence had made pilgrimage after pilgrimage to seek aid from those witches who had grievances against the dragon-witch.

She climbed the southern peaks during a raging storm until her hands bled and her face was lacerated, serving the mountain witch, Pedws, for three hard months in order to receive the black jewel of strength.

She had braved the desert, to beg the intimidating witch-hag Fawr for her help. Prostrating herself at Fawr's feet, she had served her for three months and obtained the opalescent jewel of illusion.

From there, ever travelling towards her destination, she had gone beneath the waves, almost to her death, to find the sea witch Melangell--and survived--serving her three months to receive, for her labors, the blue jewel, which Melangell told her could cast a sleep-like silence on all around her.

Last, was the wizard Ianto in the deep forest, a man as tall as a small tree, with a most peculiar way of laughing, who had set each magical jewel into a dark medallion (which had its own mysterious power) after three months of service and bade her return to him if she wished, once her quest was ended.

Indeed, where would she go if she succeeded in her task, she asked herself. She was changed from the girl she had been a year ago. She had seen things and performed services that forever divided her from the people she had grown up with. Valence was more than half-witch, now. This was no joy to her to dwell on, but she hardened her heart to her own future and held fast to her vow to free her cousin, no matter what the cost.

Valence now touched the medallion around her neck and drew on its power. She struck the wearisome nobleman again -- this time sending him crashing back against the wall so hard that, crying out, his legs went out from under him and he fell to the floor like a heap of unbound kindling. He rolled over with a light in his eyes, and pointed to the coin that had flown across the room.

"Well done, pretty one! I like a girl that can play rough," he panted, as he picked himself up.

Valence scrambled to pick the coin up from the floor, pretending she was the venal little wretch that he thought her to be. She tensed as he eyed the unsavory sagging bed for a moment, and relaxed as he shuddered and turned away from it, tweaking one of her silvery blonde locks. "Come with me sweet, and we'll have fun tonight. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Within the hour, Valence was in the palace's finest guest bedroom suite, where the duke and his party had been ensconced. Still taking her for a fool, the duke didn't drop his pretense. His master would be at the party all night, he purred (shooting home the bolt on the door); meanwhile, they could play. Valence was quick to take advantage of the situation. She poured a sleeping draught into his glass of wine (a small vial of jarkweed was in her sleeve), had him tied up in a trice, and was soon out the door, after calling on the jewel of illusion to give her the appearance of a small page boy.

With one of Lysander's old work gloves in her hand, Valence cast a small seeking spell and was soon following a dancing thread through the hallways and up four flights of stairs, until the thread stopped before a very ornate door. (Who paid attention to page boys? They were like mice during parties, scurrying about, carrying love letters and divers other items back and forth between elegant lords and ladies. A mouse was no threat and no one stopped her as she knocked upon the door.)

Valence held her breath, dumb with hope, until she heard, yes, his voice.

Lysander!

Without hesitation, she grasped her medallion and cast a sleep-like silence upon all around her, and then thrust open the unlocked door.

He was here! As beautiful as ever, adjusting some piece of jewelry upon his person, looking in a mirror and frowning. "It took you long enough," he snapped unpleasantly, without dragging his eyes away from his reflection, "bring me the ruby cufflinks and be quick about it!"

Valence bit back a gasp. She never expected him to seem so changed. There were lines of dissolution on his face. His eyes were hard. Everything she sensed about him struck a chord of sorrow in her heart. No! He couldn't have truly changed. She'd known him forever. It was just that his imprisonment had been hard. Why was she jumping to conclusions?!

Lysander whirled away from the mirror in a growing fury, "Are you DEAF? I SAID, bring me the ruby …." And stopped dumbfounded as Valence dropped her illusion and revealed herself.

"Valence?" he gasped. "What are you doing here?" He didn't sound happy to see her.

Before she could speak, he added critically, "And what have you done to yourself? Your face is scarred, your hands are ruined—ah, cousin, you're positively ugly…" He shook his head, "And dressed like a tavern wench? Are you trying to make me a laughing stock? You'll ruin everything. Please leave out the back way before I have to call the guards."

Valence flew forward, putting her hands on his shoulders. The witch must have him under some spell.

"Lysander, please. I came here to rescue you."

"Rescue me?!" he looked at her in incredulous alarm, grabbing her wrists and moving them away. "You …"

Just then a high-pitched feminine voice, called out from the other side of the door, "Lysaaander, what's taking you so long?" Apparently she was not alone as a gaggle of titters reached a fine crescendo.

The sleep spell must have worn off.

"By the gods," gasped Lysander, looking panicked. "It's the Princess. Valence, you've really done it this time. I'm sorry. But it's your own thrice-damned fault!"

Before Valence could divine his intentions, Lysander (still gracefully agile) had lifted her in his strong arms as if in a lover's embrace, turned to the balcony window behind them, and violently heaved her into the open space.

She was surely plummeting to a death witnessed by none but the cold merciless stars above. Her mind fluttered with the thought that all she left behind was a broken heart, shattered to pieces on the white marble floor of a faithless prince's dressing room where fine ladies now trod, giggling, in their high-heeled dancing shoes.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

Okay, this is me throwing down a dibs on the next spot of this "Joseph Campbell does Cloud Atlas" project. Cos I did not spend the last two hours sneakily writing this shit at work to lose out now.

BAG JOB

[bg=black]The vertigo clenches at my stomach as the howling sand batters against my face, trying to fight its way past the goggles and mask I'm guarded by. For a second there's nothing but me and the open air, hanging there amidst swirling sands.

In the next second, I'm slamming down into the steel mesh flooring of the walkway and tucking into an ungainly roll to try and prevent my knees from being blasted on their sockets. I can hear shouts and cries from above me, the rising din of a klaxon kicking into life, which means the jig is up: they know I'm here. Rising to my feet again, I'm off like a rocket across the open walkway just in time to avoid the burst of gunfire that looses itself upon the place I landed just seconds before.

On a planet like Tartarus, there's a lot of ways to get yourself killed.

But stealing from a Grinder outpost ranks pretty high up there.

Guess what muggins here just did?

Clutching my ill-gotten gains in the vac-sealed bag hanging from my EV suit, I drop into a slide as I hit the last stretch of walkway and fall smoothly down onto the metal flooring below. The Grinder fabrication platform is coming alive like a wasp bike, hulking figures draped in storm cloaks and masks racing to try and catch or intercept me. The weapons they hold are crude, even archaic, utilising projectiles rather than rail-tech. But they'll kill me all the same if I get hit by one. And that's if I'm lucky. They say the Grinders shoot to wound thieves rather than kill them. I'd rather not think about what they say happens after that. Instead I just focus on the next jump, my leap from the main fab-platform to the lower landing station.

As I throw myself out into the open air again, feeling the sands of Tartarus batter against my environment suit, I can see the dunes stretching out below us all. Stretching out as far as the eye can see, flat and endlessly shifting, the Grinder platform like two spires jutting out from a gritty sea. Were it not for the bullets whistling past me, there might be something quite peaceful about the scene. Once again the landing snaps me back to the situation at hand, as I tuck myself into another roll in order to prevent gravity from shattering my legs into pieces. Wouldn't want to spoil the chance from some steroid-popping Grinder thug to do that for me, after all. The landing platform is wrapped around its central pillar much like the one I've just leaped from, but has numerous docking stations cropping out from it to allow Grinder swoops to land. We've timed our burglary carefully, based on meticulous reconnaissance and planning, and as I dash past the empty docking stations I'm pleased to note this has paid off. Most of the swoops are out on patrol for another few hours, leaving only a few craft remaining to ruin my day.

As I sprint forwards a door suddenly slams open from one of the outbuildings bolted onto the platform ahead of me. The Grinder soldier emerging from it comes at me like a bull who's heritage I've just called into question, a beast roar erupting through his mask. I feel my heart-rate quicken: the guy has pumped enough chemicals through his form to swell it to almost inhuman proportions, and if he gets a hold on me he's going to demonstrate just what those muscles can do to my slight frame. Cursing under my breath, I let instinct and training take hold instead. Maintaining my speed and direction, I find myself careering towards the oncoming juggernaut until the last possible second.

Just as it's looking like a game of chicken neither of us are willing to back down on I push down on the mesh walkway and launch myself into the air, letting the Tartarus gravity send me twisting over the Grinder's head before he can react or divert his charge. As I hit the walkway again and continue running I hear his bellow of rage, the twisting of his metal boots as he tries to halt and spin about in pursuit. The big roid-monkey isn't going to give up any time soon, but at least I've got a head start now. With the rendezvous coming up, just round the curve of the rusting central pillar, I snap my free hand up to my ear and tap on the comm-piece.
"Got the goods!" I shout, the mic tucked into my face mask picking up the words, "And a big, angry tail to boot! Need a pickup, ASAP!"
"Making friends are we, Sarin?" comes the reply, an amused quality to the words that I know all too well, "Stand by, on the way."

Sure enough, as I come skidding around the corner I hear the engines approaching. In the next second the narrow, sleek frame of the Jalopy comes rising up beside the edge of the landing platform walkway, mag-engines gripping the side of the Grinder structure to keep it aloft at this height. Grinning, my escape finally in sight, I rush forwards and leap across the gap between platform and swoop. My feet touch down on the cobbled together deck and I yell into the mic,
"I'm on, let's go!" I've barely finished my shout when there's another roar from behind me, and I spin about to see the Grinder I dodged earlier closing the distance between himself and the Jalopy with alarming speed. I'm about to utter something loud and uncouth when there's a rippling crack from behind me and something slams into the charging solder's chest with enough force to crumple it in. I hear a wheezing, surprised gasp escape his mask as he crumples down onto the walkway, all his momentum suddenly collapsing.

Twisting around, I see a woman clad in a battered environment suit and a pilot's mask grinning at me as she leans back into the controls, a railgun dangling from one arm.
"Told you to stop bringing friends back to my ship," Yalla smirks, taking up the wheel again, "Now strap in, loser. We're leaving."

Too startled by the intervention to snark back, I meekly clamber into the driver's cabin next to her and haul the door closed. The glass before Yalla is lit up with a luminous blue HUD, displaying readouts of the engines and swoop systems of the Jalopy. Releasing the mag clamps as I pull on my harness, the swoop drops away from the side of the Grinder platform just as more of it's occupants come charging around the side of the platform. Vertigo hits me again as the Jalopy drops nose first, hurtling down towards the waves of sand lying a hundred feet below us. I clench my jaw shut and try not to bite my tongue as the entire cobbled together swoop starts vibrating, but all I can hear is Yalla's laughter.

Just as I'm convinced that we're about to go sand-diving my pilot snaps on the engines and sends the Jalopy gracefully twisting out of it's dive, the hoverpads kicking in to keep the swoop hurtling gracefully above the sands. I let out a sigh of relief as Yalla grins at me.
"You know I hate it when you do that," I tell her, and her grin widens.
"Why do you think I do it? Now, let's see the merchandise." With a nod, I unclip the vac-bag from my suit and pass it across to her. She opens the outer seal and peers inside quickly before nodding and passing it back. "Nicely done, kiddo. Just what the old man asked for." I look inside myself before sealing it up again, as trying to reassure myself that the two fusion cores are indeed still inside.
"The Grinders are gonna be pissed," I observe, eyes flying to the scanners on instinct to check for pursuit. Yalla just shrugs.
"Fuck them, we need Earth-Tech more than those gasoline-huffers. No way they're gonna catch the Jalopy in those rustbuckets of theirs either, so unwad your panties already." I chuckle and retort with,
"Kinda hard to do that in an EV suit, cap."

Yalla is already focusing on her instruments and HUD again, but she finds the time to shove me playfully.
"Then get your ass below deck and clean off, Sarin. You smell like a fucking Grinder and I don't need that in here. Should be smooth sailing from here to Novy Prosper, so get some sleep whilst you're at it. I'll holler if I need you." I nod and pull the harness off, rising to my feet and towards the cabin door. Just as I'm reaching for the exit, Yalla catches the back of my suit. "Hey. You did good today, kiddo. So get yourself some rest, you've earned it." I smile at her from beneath the now transparent mask as I open the door.
"That was actually a compliment, cap. Be careful."
"And have a fucking shower whilst you're at it, you smart-mouthed little shit," is the immediate retort.

Laughing, I stop out of the control cabin and onto the deck of the Jalopy, sealing the door behind me. Already the Grinder platform is a distant shape on the horizon, a pair of spires fading into the empty expanse that is the sea of dunes around us. All I can hear now is the hum of engines and the howl of the winds kicking up waves of sand: this, at last, I can finally take a good few seconds to gaze out at. The twin suns burn in the sky, blasting away any potential sources of shadow on both the Jalopy and the desert sea below.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sounds and the vibrations of the swoop wash over me.

Through the filtered mask, I inhale deeply.[/bg]

 

[Ananfal]

"The One", if you go by the name of the main character. Or my personal favorite title, "Darn human body". :P

Spoiler

[BCOLOR=transparent]They inhaled deeply. It was a unique experience for them.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]They had never done such a trivial thing before. How strange. It was almost... tiresome, having to do such tasks. Normally it was done for them, but now they had to take care of it themselves. They didn't think they liked it.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]How novel, liking things.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]They shook their head - distractions were also something they were unused to - and got back to the task at hand, the only reason they were released from their.. Home? Prison? What a strange thought. It had never been a prison before. Perhaps being in a body for the first time was affecting their thoughts?[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"We are the One." They spoke the words, savored them, and enjoyed the sheer truth in those words. Truth was their domain, their kingdom. Their life, if one could call it that. They frowned, the expression pulling down their lips. Again with the strange thoughts. Physically shaking it out of their head, they moved on.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]The sun was beating down on them, lighting up the world around them in hues of green and gold. (Technically it was the leaves that were green and the sun gold, but they left the phrase as it was. It was true enough, after all...) It was... pretty. An opinion. They hadn't had one of those before. They... they liked it.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]They took a step forward, then another. Walking was hard, they found out, as a few steps later their foot caught on an upturned root and sent them to the ground. That was how they discovered pain, and found out that they most certainly didn't enjoy it. They frowned again, deeper this time, as blood oozed out of the scrape on their palm.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]Regaining their feet, they found that it was easier for them if they assigned certain among their number to do menial tasks while others focused on mimicking human thought processes as much as possible.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]One of the things they assumed was a must was assuming a name, which bothered them greatly. They were a collective, while names were by definition a separator, something which identified individuals. Eventually they settled on Wahid, Arabic for one, which was their title, and so they were satisfied.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]Practicing a smile, they continued on their journey, sometimes overwhelmed by their newfound emotions (such as the time they had spotted a bunny, the human parental instincts forcing them to stop and marvel at the 'cuteness' before they had managed to get ahold of themselves). After an hour, they arrived.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]They knocked on the door and waited.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"Hello, dearie. What's your name and how did you find me here?" A plump motherly woman answered the door, a gentle smile on her face as she brushed her hands in an attempt to rid herself of some flour.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]They smiled, the action much more comfortable than it had been a simple hour ago. "W- I am Wahid, and I was told the answer to ou- my troubles was in this forest. From there, w- I just walked." It was more of a struggle than they had thought to avoid using their preferred pronouns, but they knew it wouldn't go over well.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]The woman's eyes twinkled and they had a feeling (still strange to them, little things with no rhyme or reason to them) that she knew exactly what they had wanted to say, but kept her silence and instead simply waved them into her small cottage. The door closed by itself after them, and they jumped slightly.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]Darn human body.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"And what's your problem, sweetheart?" The woman prompted them after a few moments of comfortable silence, having resumed her bread kneading (which had seemed to be interrupted by their arrival).[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"It is... strange." They picked their words carefully, wanting to avoid such lies as they had said earlier. It hurt them to lie, since they were truth in its entirety. "It seems as though no one else could help. Thus the reason for coming here." Their avoidance of pronouns seemed to amuse the woman, but their evasion of the actual problem seemed to exasperate her at the same time, resulting in a good natured sigh.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"And what's actually bothering you, dear? Now now, don't go dancing around the subject again, I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong." The woman scolded gently, shaking her dusted finger in the air. They felt chastised somehow, despite not really having done anything wrong. How did that happen?[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"We were sent here for a reason." They decided to abandon all pretense, obviously not having fooled the woman at all (not to mention how tiring the lies were). "We are sure that you know of what we speak."[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]The woman's smile dimmed slightly, and she turned away from them. They did not expect the pang of unidentified emotion that struck them at the sight. Human bodies and emotions were so troublesome, they didn't like it! And even when they didn't realize it, it was affecting them, making it hard for them to function.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"Yes, I had thought it would be something like that. I just thought I had more time." The voice of the woman brought them back to reality (what a strange phrase - where else would they be?) and they shifted on their feet, but didn't speak. The woman somehow noticed their movement, and reassured them. "Oh it's not your fault, dearie. You're just doing what you're told, that's all. Probably don't even know what this is all about." She turned around to face them now, eyeing them critically.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"Which one are you? I've met a few before, strange little ones they were." They were too shocked by having the same phrase they used for humans applied to themselves to answer her question. It didn't matter, she was able to answer it for herself. "You're probably Truth, or the One of it at least. I haven't met you yet."[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]Suddenly she smiled, and their human body reacted to something hidden there, tensing up slightly in preparation (to fight or flee, it was unknown at the moment). They wondered why she smiled, for seemingly no reason.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]Seeing their confusion, she deigned to explain to them. "Oh, I'm just thinking about what a mistake they made." Silently they cocked their head to the side in a human gesture of confusion, which made her smile again.[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]"Out of all of the Ones they could have sent me, they sent me Truth. While we go back, I can explain to you what is going on, and you can judge the truth for yourself. And when you do, we can talk about a plan."[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]They didn't understand what she was talking about, but it was clear from the expression on the woman's face that she was extremely confident in the veracity of her last statement. Deciding to withhold judgement for the moment, they nodded and held their hand out in a courteous gesture they had picked up from somewhere they couldn't remember at the moment. (Perhaps a romance novel?)[/BCOLOR]

[BCOLOR=transparent]The woman laughed but went ahead of him as they exited the small cottage together, her hands weaving patterns in the air quickly as she locked the door behind them without a physical lock being present.[/BCOLOR]

 

[Sir Basil]

ADRAS

Adras pulled the key from the lock. Set into its bow was an engraved seal: a horse with a crown pressed above its head. The cuts and shoulders within the stem were jagged and ornate, set with many different metals. It was multilayered - meant for a complex lock with all of the slots and tumblers that each of these angles were meant to subdue. His fingers pressed against the edges of it, and where the key touched his pale fingers, red marks were left behind. He closed his hand around it, and there was a jolt of pain, a sharpeness. A bit of blood pool in his hand, and dripped, down down to the floor. He looked down his nose at his hand. His fingers were shaking, and a few red droplets rolled down his fingers. He opened his mouth, as if to say something. Nothing came out from his mouth. It was all very still.

His eyes hurt, burning in their sockets. The silence was crawling in his head, ringing in his ears. His fingers opened, and the key tumbled down towards the floor, where it made a dull clatter. He did not pick it up again; letting this precious device sit there on the tiles, next to its home in the lockbox. The box was the same style as the key - ornate, with jewels and gold set into the brassy bands that held the Linden wood chest closed. The white wood had been stained a deep , blotchy crimson. It smelled of rust and piss and sweat. Adras reached out to press his fingers against the side of the box. He tilted his head tot he side, and closed his eyes, fingers searching for the sound.

Ba-dum, went the box. The rhythm was steady, and although the drumming sound was distant, it was still clear. He could feel the sound of it beneath his fingertips, pulsing under his skin. He nodded once, and pushed the box aside. It made a dull-scraping sound of the tiles. Bits of painted glaze and inlaid bronze chipped away in small, glassy flakes that were sharp as knives but Adras paid them no heed. He clambered to his feet, with the dull clank of metal drowning out the sound of the box. When he stood, he could feel the floor groaning and cracking beneath him, the tiles being reduced to chips of powdered and pulverized ceramic. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, willing the burning that ate at the corners of his eyes to leave him. The prickling sensation ebbed away with the rhythm of the box, and the room came into focus once again.

He had leaned against the throne - and now, he stood before it. It was a tall backed chair, cared from the same white wood as the box, but now, it had been stained deep crimson from the corpse slumped within it. The corpse's hands clutched at the arms of the chair with pale-knuckled fingers that had gone rigid with death's grip, but its mouth and head were strangely lax; the mouth and tongue lolling open. A bit of drool dripped from his lips, salivating for life, but unable to live. The corpse's long beard was stained with blood, and it hung in grey-rags around his throat. The corpse's glass eyes stared upwards, at a vaulted ceiling that had been painted with scenes of great heroes and monsters. The dead man's gaze seemed to be locked on one painted man in particular - and the story came spilling into Adras' head as his burning eyes connected with the portrait of Thiele.

Thiele. The name tasted bitter in his tongue, as if he had been chewing on dark greens for days. Adras snapped his gaze away, and turned his attention to the corpse. He moved towards him, his sabatons kicking up chunks of ceramic as he leaned over the dead man. He placed his fingers against his throat, but the man had been dead for hours now; there was no pulse, and there hadn't been for some time. Something twitched in his throat, and he felt as if he was seizing up , face paralyzing, but he swallowed hard and pulled his fingers away. The corpse did nothing in response, simply sat there; cold and dead. Adras pulled the sword from the man's guts, and it came away bloody.

The black tempered blade fit too perfectly in his hand, as if he had been born holding it. The carved runes along the side of it seemed to whisper, but it was perfectly still and quiet in the room. Adras knew that he was just imagining it. His eyes skimmed over the runes, eyes widening as if he was reading them for the first time. Their meaning did not elude him, as they had the first time. The words bubbled up within him, making his throat burn. He wiped the side of the blade on the corpse's brocade robes, leaving behind a crimson stain on the ivory brocade. The gold threads dulled. Adras' motions were mechanical, and the creaking of his gauntlets and pauldrons made him feel more like an automaton than a man. He thought of the mages, who had their strange homunculi that lifted heavy tomes and old runestones. He bit his lip hard, but no blood seeped from the indention. It didn't even hurt. It was strangely unsatisfying.

The silence was interrupted by the sound of foot-against- tile, a few rapid fire sounds of ceramic bouncing against ceramic. There was the sound of chains and metal bouncing and clacking against one another. Adras' head whipped towards the sound. Her narrowed his eyes, peering through the gloom. The torches had all gone out. Through the colonnaded arcade, he saw the flash of silver fabric - a stream of white hair. He saw wide and terrified eyes; blue and watery. A woman stood in the arches that encircled the hall, gathering her skirts around her knees to help her run. Her hair was half-up in a pair of braids set with hammered bronze - but the other half of it was plastered to her face, knocked loose by her hurry. A fur coat had been tossed carelessly over her shoulders, and the strap of a small satchel crossed her chest. She froze in her tracks when Adras looked at her, with his dripping hand and stained sword. He could see himself in her eyes, and his stomach turned at what he saw. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. His hand shook on the sword.

"Adras — " She said, and her voice came out as a gasping, desperate sound. The sound of somebody begging for their life. But what she said next — they were not begging words. The fear was still there, a wavery undercurrent to bold words, said in order to shame; " — Are you proud of yourself?" Her nostrils flared, her lips pulling back from her teeth in a sneer. He heard the inhale of breath whistle through the slight gap in her front two teeth. He remembered calling her "horse-face" when he was a child — her teeth had always been a bit too large for her face.

Adras didn't reply. He stepped over the corpse of a man - his plate boot crushing the gashed remains of his curriass. The argent sun tabardwas crumpled under his step, and he heard the corpse wheeze - the man had been long dead, but the gases were still escaping him, his flesh gone soft as putty. He took another step, trodding over a split gorget. Another step, another corpse. He walked a trail of corpses towards the woman. He saw her shoulders shake, but she did not move from the spot. Her gaze turned steely, as Adras inched closer and closer towards her, the blue in her eyes turning as hard as an Eirreen diamond. He was close enough to touch his nose to hers - close enough to move his sword up and draw it through her skin. But he didn't.

"Kela." He said, staring at her. Their eyes were the same, blue and cold, dull without the torchlight. They had the same nose, long, aquiline. The same posture - pointed chin held high, shoulders back, aware of their shared place in the world, "Not proud," He admitted, and he sheathed the sword. The blade slunk, reluctant, into its sheathe; the opposite of magnetic attraction. He shoved it, firmly in, and the silence went away.

There was the sound of screaming in the distance, the shouts of men and women. He could hear the sounds of blades being brought down against bones, the crackle of flames consuming wood in the distance. The whole hall sang with the sounds of war, and the echo of it was so loud it rattled the marrow in Adras' bones. The woman stared at him, and there was a wetness in her eyes, tears that were held back. Without the kohl around them, her eyes seemed far away. "Not proud," she repeated. "But you thought it was necessary, didn't you?" Her tone became accusatory. "You've justified this, somehow. You've told yourself a lie that this was all necessary." She gestured to the hall. The floor was littered with the twisted forms of men and women, their armor sundered, their swords broken, eyes staring at nothing. Adras looked away from her, looking over the piles of corpses, the mounds of dead flesh and ripped armor. He clutched at his chest, and took a deep inhale of breath, but it did nothing to calm him. His whole body began to shake.

The woman lifted her eyes to the painted ceiling, staring at the frescoed heroes and monsters, Gods and spirits, mages and mystics. She reached up into her coiffed hair, and pulled from it a small silver fastening, carved in the shape of a stallion leaping. Her fingers pressed against the back of it, against the sharpened pin. She lunged at him — and his eyes were locked on a dead man's. He did not see her take the hairpin to his throat - he could only feel the clatter of chains against his hair, the brush of a knife against his throat. Adras let out a howl, as blood dripped from a bloody gash in his throat. He swiped hard at the woman with the back of his gauntlet, the points of his fingers smacking hard against her cheek. A bloody indentation was left behind, as the woman was sent sprawling to the floor. Their shared wounds oozed, dripping down their throats. She clutched at her cheek, as Adras clutched at his throat. She laughed, as he struggled to form the Words.

"You're going to let me leave," Her voice was stern and cold. Adras's fingers trembled, and his tongue lolled in his mouth, trying to bid his body to make the sounds that would knit the flesh. Even as his gestures failed him, her voice cut through his focus, reminding him of childhood days where she had declared herself Koni. He felt a stabbing pain in his body, a sensation that prickled from the wound in his throat, to the palms of his hands, all the way down to the tips of his feet. His eyes snapped towards the box, sitting untouched beside the corpse in the throne. He looked back at the woman, and then, his eyes snapped back to the box. He took a step towards it. Another corpse. And then another.

He could hear her laughing. He could hear the sounds of her skirts shifting, the sounds of her feet - running against the stones, the sound of her hair jingling with metal chains. Adras' hands brushed against the box. Badum, went the box. He turned away, back towards where his sister had once stood. There was nothing there - no woman. There was a glint on the floor. He moved towards the shimmering silver shard, the chest rattling behind him. Badum, badum, badum. He leaned down, his greaves crunching. He reached out to brush aside cracked tile, and his fingers closed around the stallion hairpin.

He wiped away the ceramic dust, and straightened himself. The hair ornament sat in his hand. He smiled down at it, and looked towards the open door of the hall. Sunlight was streaming in. The screaming had not stopped. He could taste smoke on his tongue.

 

[Ravenfrost]

(from The Continuing Adventures of Salt and Steel)

With a neatly-thrown apple, the young white-haired magician, Salt, had broken the enchantment that held his friend and the other occupants of the tavern captive for the last few minutes. He swiftly tore the hood off the individual that sat facing Steel (for all the world appearing as if they had been two friends chatting over a drink--that impression perhaps marred by the fact that the cloaked stranger was stealthily reaching into Steel's jerkin to grab his amulet). The grey-haired Steel blinked his eyes as if awakening from slumber, but his fist had already reflexively closed on the intruder's slender hand.

Meanwhile, Salt stared at the culprit as the woman turned her violet eyes ruefully up at him, her free hand rubbing the back of her head. Salt's hand caught in the tangles of her red tresses and an elaborate hair ornament nudged at his fingers. He frowned down at it, while the smell of ale, pipe smoke, and pigeon pie danced around him, and then disengaged himself from her. Curse it! He could already see the old swordsman getting a soft expression on his face as he gazed at the pretty druidess in front of him.

Setting his jaw, Salt roughly pulled a chair over to the table and sat down with the two.

"Explanations are in order," he said curtly, in a voice low enough not to draw attention. "And don't play games. You've been following us. You've made several attempts to rob us. You cast an enchantment on my friend. You've gone beyond bad manners into criminality. So explain why we should let you go and make it good, my lady."

He could see the young woman weighing him up, judging how she could play him. Steel, the fool, was blind to her calculations; his tongue was practically hanging out of his head as he stared raptly at the pretty wench.

Salt was one step ahead of the would-be thief; he could read her body language like a book—the way she was adjusting her expression, the tensing of her body--she was going to make a scene, play a damsel in distress being molested by two lechers, and likely escape that way. He subtly twisted a ring on his left hand.

"You had your chance, lady," he hissed angrily, clamping a hand on her wrist and before she could counter, pricked her with a drug that was a fast-acting soporific and nervine that would cause temporary paralysis. An effect similar to the enchantment she had cast on his friend. (Salt had more weapons in his arsenal than just magic.) His opponent started angrily, awareness flashing in her eyes, and then slumped, inert.

Salt reluctantly caught her so she didn't fall to the floor, though he was so enraged that he would have preferred to let her drop. "And that is why we don't let your cousin drink!" he said loudly to Steel. "Lend me a hand, man, for I swear she's put on three stone since last year! Let's get the poor girl some air."

Steel gave him an accusatory look as if he'd just orphaned a baby deer, but hauled the woman up into his well-muscled arms and exited the tavern, as Salt went to pay his bill.

Once outside, Steel muttered, "What now, oh brilliant one? Am I supposed to carry an unconscious woman up and down the length of the village as if advertising one of your sleeping potions? I'm sure that won't draw undue attention to us."

"Cut line, Steel," his friend said wearily, leading him over to where their horses were stabled nearby. "I'm sure you're put out you can't flirt with her--though in this state, she'd probably be just as responsive as the last barmaid you tried to chat up."

Salt held up a hand as Steel began to bluster. "Listen! This is the one. The thief that's been dogging our footsteps. She held you and the entire tavern in an enchantment while she tried to rob you of that amulet you call your lucky piece. I know you prefer to be gallant with the ladies. But she is NOT our friend."

Salt met the swordsman's eyes with a dead serious expression until he saw Steel begin to capitulate.

"Alright, alright," Steel agreed sheepishly. "So she's not our friend. What now?"

"Now, we ride out of town a short ways and interrogate our prisoner," replied Salt grimly. "I promise not to hurt her unless absolutely necessary and then, as little as possible. I'm not a villain, Steel! So, if you'd kindly mount that monstrous beast you call a thoroughbred, while I lift her up to you, I can cast a cloaking spell and we'll be on our way."

With a sigh, Steel mounted his steed and soon was gently cradling the incapacitated body of their stalker in front of him as they headed towards the old ruins at the edge of town--the ones that were rumored to be haunted by mischievous (some said, evil) spirits.

 

[Turtle of Doom]

The horse slowed to a trot in front of an old abandoned building. It was one of many nearby, and there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it. It was just a building sitting on an old cracked street in the middle of an abandoned city. Jenny swung her legs off the horse and landed with a thump on the ground. A small cloud of dust puffed up around her piecemeal boots and clung to her ankles. A cough shook her chest and she brought her handkerchief up to her mouth as she took in the scene.

The building in front of her stretched high into the clouds. The windows were broken and the once smooth edges and corners were now jagged and dangerous looking. Rust stretched up the side of the building eating away at the metal. If Jenny hadn't known better she would have said that the building was actually swaying in the wind, but she decided that it was just a trick of the mind. The building couldn't have been that bad off.

The doors were barely hanging onto the building as they sat, lopsidedly guarding the entryway. They were not good guards as the glass that used to be housed in them was shattered to the point that rendered the doors completely useless. Jenny entered the building without even bothering to open the doors. She simply stepped through them. The sounds of her feet slapping against the tile carpet echoed in the large lobby area.

She cleared her throat and called out, "Hello" just to hear her own voice echo back at her before the silence fell once again.

A gust of wind from some unknown location wound through the building, brushing Jenny's dirty brown hair back from her face. Raising her nose into the breeze she sniffed it and sighed. All she could smell was dust and stagnated water. The water probably from the broken down fountain at the back of the room and the dust because, well, everything was covered in a thick layer of the stuff.

Footprints scuffed the dust on the floor as she moved further into the building. Everything was dead silent save for the whisper of her boots along the floor. She approached a door on the opposite end of room. The wood was swollen, and as her hand closed around the knob it was clear that nothing was going to get this unstuck. Jenny sighed, blowing out a stream of air and floating a stray strand of hair out of her face. A frown appeared on her face; she would have to find another staircase.

Her eyes cast about the room looking for another entrance to the upper floors, but not finding any. Grumbling, she made her way around the perimeter of the room just to make sure she hadn't missed anything in the shadows lurking in the corners and up against the walls. Her hand trailed over the wall everywhere it could. The once smooth panels were freckled with little divots from the sand blasting against it over the years.

Her foot got caught up on something and she stumbled forward, a loud metallic clanging echoed through the room as the thing she kicked skidded across the floor. A pry-bar. Jenny grinned and hurried over to pick up the tool and then turned back toward the ornery door. It took some time, but eventually she pried it out of its frame, the rusted hinges breaking from the force, and sending the door to the ground with a loud thunk.

Stepping into the stairwell was like stepping into an entirely different building. It had been completely sealed off from the dust and the winds. It was pristine, almost shiny inside. It made Jenny feel uneasy, but she pushed the feeling down and marched up the steps with a single-minded determination. She climbed and climbed and climbed; her legs grew heavy with the exertion, and still she kept climbing. The stairs creaked under her weight, unused to having anybody climb them anymore, but still Jenny climbed. The air grew thinner the higher she climbed. She felt lucky that there were no windows in the stairwell, because she surely would have given up and headed back down if she could have seen how far off the ground she truly was, but as it stood she just kept climbing.

After an unknown amount of time she finally reached the top floor and once again she had to use the pry-bar to open the door. This one was harder and she just could quite get the right leverage to open it. She pushed and pried and still the door wouldn't budge. With a growl, Jenny took the pry bar and swung at the door with all her might. She didn't climb all this way to turn around and walk away. She swung again and again, in anger and frustration. The bar hit the hinge, the hinge cracked and the door moved a fraction of an inch. Jenny gaped. She hadn't expected anything to actually come of that. Turning the pry-bar she jammed it into the gap made and finally, the door fell and clattered to the floor.

A small, albeit triumphant, smile pulled up the corners of Jenny's mouth as she stepped over the door into the dark hallway beyond. She was almost there. The shadows seemed to grow and stretch toward her as she walked. The carpet fell apart under her steps, but still she continued on. It felt as though the building were swaying, but she ignored the sensation and continued still. The door at the end of the hall was open. Waiting for her, inviting her in. As she stepped through the threshold something sailed through the air toward her head. It surely would have knocked her out if she hadn't snatched it out of the air at the last second.

"It took you long enough to find me," said a voice in the shadows. "You look like you could use something to drink."

A bottle rolled across the floor and stopped at her feet.