Need More Words

Dragonblight 05

2012-03-06T11:03:00.003-08:00

Thirteen Weeks Ago

Pain. But there was always pain. What was the pain of this, next to the constant pain of having to survive in a body that was already dead? It could be borne. It would be borne.

Shame. But there was always shame. Shame at still being to walk and talk, when all who had mattered were dead and rotted. Shame at eating the fallen, even when it was necessary to survive. What was the shame of this, next to the shame of surviving? It could be borne. It would be borne.

Tears. There were no tears. There were never tears. How could there be, when there were no eyes?

"You wanna have a go, Drug?"

"Oh hells, Corporal. It's cold."

"Yeah, but still wrigglin'." Laughter. "Well, the Sargeant said ta teach this thing some manners, an' fer ta remember its place. I reckon' we done got that covered. What do you say, deader?" More laughter.

"What should we do with it, Corporal?"

"Buggered if I know. Just chuck it outside, I guess. Ain't like it'll freeze or nuthin'."

Bright light. Falling. Cold, biting snow on naked flesh. Door slams. Muffled laughing behind it.

There was always laughter.

Until, someday, the dead girl promised, it turns to screams.

Dragonblight 04

2012-01-26T11:21:00.000-08:00

Two Months Ago

"Mouse? Mouse, is that you?"

The dead girl turned her head toward the voice. A group of adventurers were huddled around a small fire, keeping warm and roasting some meat on a spit. One of them had stood up - a Blood Elf, red-haired, tall for that race. Polished plate armor shone under the fur cloak he wore over his shoulders, suggesting he was one of their "blood knight" paladins.

"Hullo, Sir Tyrasstale. It has been a while."

"Come, won't you join me and my companions? We have enough to share with an old comrade."

The dead girl looked at the line of undead stretching ahead of her - guards, soldiers, alchemists, support personnel, all waiting patiently for the bowl of cold gruel that made for a typical meal here at the ramshackle town known as Venomspite. She looked back at the spitted rabbit.

"Ssure," she shrugged, and stepped out of line. "Why not?"

Tyrastale looked much as he had when they had fought against the Scourge at Tranquillien. Some grey hairs at the temples, some lines etched into his face. But the wear and tear of an adventurer's life had not diminished his rugged good looks; perhaps they had even improved them. Whatever. It wasn't like the dead girl cared, she reminded herself. She was pleased, though, to see that however he hadn't spent the past few years lounging in some hookah den in Silvermoon.

As she approached, he held out a hand in greeting. His grip was firm, confident, and didn't flinch at the touch of her cold, bony fingers. "Introductions," he said, pointing to the people sitting around the fire in turn. "This is Raladigia, Bayorne, and Darush, whom we have to thank for this lovely venison. Friends, this is Mouse. She fought with me on the campaign to liberate my homeland from the Scourge."

Various nodded greetings, and Bayorne, a big brown-and-white Tauren, sawed off a hunk of meat and dropped it onto her tin plate. It was charred on the outside and bloody in the center, but still tasted far, far better than the commisrary's gruel.

As they ate, they swapped war stories. Tyrastale and Bayorne had been partners since meeting in Hellfire Peninsula during the Outland campaign. The other two had joined them at Vengeance Landing, and they had been pacifying the Lich King's Vrykul allies in the east, just as she had been driving back his Nerubian allies in the west. They had just arrived at Venomspite the day before.

"It is a good sign that we are now meeting her in the middle," said the green-skinned orc Darush. "Means we've broken that flubbernugger Arthas' forces for good. Any day now we'll be smashing the gates of his citadel, mounting his head on a pike, and getting out of this frozen hell."

"Ya, it'll be good to be goin' home," replied the troll, Raladigia. "I miss mah husband and our two little ones. Gotta get da job done first, though."

"What brought you up here?" the dead girl asked.

"Gold. What else?" answered the troll. "Gotta pay the landlord, and the last two harvests ain't been dat good. And when you're good with a sword, there's always some ready ta pay."

"You know it." Bayorne held out a big meaty fist, which Raladigia laughingly punched. She was a tall woman, but even her hand was dwarfed by the tauren's.

"Speaking of gold," said Tyrastale, "Mouse, we were just talking about the bounty the High Executor has placed on General Abbendis' head. We think we could could get to her, but it would be a lot easier with a fifth. I'm thinking someone that knows her way around the shadows and is a quick hand with a dagger would be just what we're looking for. Think you'd be interested?"

The dead girl looked at him with empty eye sockets and grinned. "Killing Scarletss? Yesss. Yes I think I would like that very much."

Molten Front Diary 03

2011-11-22T09:47:00.001-08:00

Day 2
So Hamuul Runetotem done had this plan where we was gonna sneak up on one of Staghelm's lieutenants. Note ta self: when a bugger comes from a long line of buggers what's idea of "sneak up on" was about gettin' at a clump of grass withouts its spottin' you, don't agree ta his plan. Now, Hamuul be a slab of overdone beef, and I's out farmin' fire elementals fer ta ease his pain. Bugger this.

Day 12
Seven instances of Sudden Bear on Top, two of Sudden Moonkin on Top, and one Sudden Firecat on Top. Glad thing I's a tough bugger. Startin' fer ta suspect these druid wimmenz like this position on purpose, though....

Day 19
Tell me again? Why is we tryin' fer ta fight fire by growin' a tree?

Molten Front Diary 02

2011-11-16T05:42:00.001-08:00

Day 1

*oof*

"The hell you doin', lyin' there on the ground there?"

"I'm trying to get some sleep, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Well great googly moogly go back a sleep kid. Yer the only bugger what knows what fuhg he's doin' 'round here. An' don't 'sir' me - I ain't yer dad."

Day 7

Mylune still makes noises like a chipmunk on helium when she done gets real excited.

Day 29

Saynna Stormrunner stands in the fire Every Glubberfubbin' Time we attack the Forlorn Spire.

Dragonblight 03

2011-11-12T19:38:00.001-08:00

One month ago:

A memory coalesced out of he nebulous cloud: a young, awkward Forsaken, struggling still to learn how to control her own animated corpse, nervously looking up at the bodies dangling from the trees, rough hempen ropes around their necks. The Scarlet Crusade had been a terrifying force, mysterious and malevolent, hunting her for the crime of not staying dead. But it was a new night, and the hunters had become the hunted.

Only one guard remained outside the cathedral. Quiet as a mouse, the dead girl slipped through the shadows until she was behind the oblivious woman. Plate armor protected her from a quick stab in the back, but the lack of a gorget left her throat vulnerable. Too late she tried to turn as the thin but strong loop of wire dropped down over her head and around her neck. It tightened before she could scream, closing her throat and allowing only a rasping gurgle to escape. Panicked, she struggled, trying to break free, completely forgetting the weapons at her belt, but the dead girl's bony hands were too strong, and a knee pressed into the small of the woman's back, keeping her off balance. Slowly the dead girl forced the larger but ever weakening woman to the ground. Just before the light left her eyes forever, another forgotten memory coalesced and the dead girl whispered, "Not so tough without your car, are you?"

What the hell did that mean, she wondered as she unlooped the wire from the corpses neck. Sometimes she remembered glimpses of her first life, when she had still been human, were strange and confusing, devoid of context. Ah well. Best to forget it, and focus on the task at hand. She stood up and motioned for her companions that the path was clear. Five forms emerged from the darkness behind the lumbermill: Bayorne the big Tauren shaman, Tyrastale the Blood Elf Paladin, Raladigia the Troll warrior, Darush the Orc hunter, and Nightfang the panther.

"Good job, Mouse," whispered Tyrastale. "We couldn't hear a thing from where we were. No indication that anyone's raised an alarm."

"Time to pay the general a visit. Everyone ready?" whispered Ral.

Four heads nodded. Weapons drawn, they walked through the open doors into the cathedral.

Dragonblight 02

2011-11-06T18:40:00.000-08:00

Four months ago:

Morning. Consciousness returned. Consciousness meant pain. There was always pain. Pain was better than oblivion. The dead girl willed her limbs to move, her body to rise from the wool blanket she had spread on the frozen ground the night before. "Happy, happy, joy joy," she whispered to herself. "I am a cheerful affront to nature."

She rolled up the blanket, lashed it to her rucksack, and dug out a tin cup and a spoon. She looked around, searching for some breakfast. She had arrived at Agmar's Hammer late the night before, too tired to do more than drop her horse off with the stablemaster and find an open spot to drop her blanket in a field of snoring orcs and tauren. There, over on that small hill. Smoke from a cooking fire, and soldiers queueing up. She threw her rucksack over one shoulder and walked over to join the line.

Reaching the peon serving what she suspected was supposed to be oatmeal out of a black cauldron, she held out her cup. The peon reached out with a ladle then, noticing her skeletal hand, stopped. He looked up at her and took a half step back, blanching at the empty eye sockets staring at him. "No. No deaders. You... you not eat here."

"Oh, for fuck'ss sssake," she replied. "Just give me some damn breakfast."

"No deaders," the orc repeated. "Sergeant's orders. You go away."

"What sergeant? What the hell is thiss? Sergeant?! Sergeant!"

She could hear grumblings behind her. Hungry Warsongs and Taunka and other less stupid orcs and tauren realizing that the line had stopped moving. Tough. She was a member of the Horde, one who had seen a lot more action and spilled a lot more blood in its service than most of them. Let them wait.

An old orc with sergeant's stripes on his Warsong Offensive tabard came out from behind a pile of crates. He glared at her and demanded, "Get out. We don't serve your kind here."

The dead girl defiantly placed her fists on her hips and glared up at him. "You Warsongss need to learn some fucking mannersss. You aren't chopping wood in Ashenvale anymore." She could feel the two orcs approaching her from behind, one to either side, but she was not going to be intimidated. "I'm a Horde soldier, and I will be treated as ssuch."

The sergeant spat on the ground. "Get her out of here." The grunts grabbed her arms. She twisted, lunged - it should have been childishly easy to break free. But dammit these two were attuned to the camp's magical wards. It gave them inhuman strength within the camp walls, and their grip was like iron. She tried to kick the sergeant, but she was off-balance and he sidestepped it. His fist slammed into her solar plexus with the force of a kicking kodo. With a "woof" the air left her lungs. He spat again, this time into her face. "Get this stinking filth out of my mess," he repeated.

They dumped her at the base of the wall, and began with the kicking. She curled in a ball, trying to protect her head and chest. Even so, at least one rib cracked before they lost interest and walked away. It hurt as she lay there gasping, slowly regaining control of her breathing. But so what? It was only pain. There was always pain. Pain was better than oblivion.

Molten Front Diary 01

2011-11-05T10:00:00.000-07:00

Prelude:

Two night elves, standing on a small rise, looking over a battlefield. It is littered with corpses, most of them night elves and tauren, many still smoking. A wrecked glaive thrower smolders next to the carcass of a gutted firebird. The land is eerily still and silent.

She is wearing heavy plate armor. He is wearing ... feathers.

General Moonfall: Well, Arch-Druid, it's as bad as the reports indicated.

Malfurion: Yes, this is a disaster. I thought we would be able to open a portal into their rear and catch them by surprise. But they knew. Somehow, they knew we were coming.

General Moonfall: My sentinels are experienced at catching poachers, at hit-and-run border raids. Not protracted battles. And your druids .... well, no offense, but most of them have been asleep for thousands of years. Against Staghelm's forces, they're completely outmatched. Over one thousand dead....

Malfurion (letting out a heavy sigh): I know. But we have no choice other than to continue. We have no choice. We must push the enemy back into the Firelands, and then hold the line, if the Avengers are to have any chance against Ragnaros.

General Moonfall: What we really need is... someone tough enough to really pull this outfit together.

Malfurion: Ratshag?

General Moonfall: Possibly.

Malfurion: Elune help us!

Dragonblight 01

2011-11-02T04:35:00.000-07:00

Three months ago:

Dead girl, lying in the middle of a frozen wasteland.

She is lying on a wool blanket, wearing worn but still serviceable black leather armor. Empty eye sockets stare unblinking up at the gray early morning sky. Fingerless gloves reveal white bones, the flesh stripped away. Her face is extremely pale, shriveled, flesh stripped or fallen away in patches. Under the armor, her body appears gaunt and wasted away. A rucksack lies on the ground a few feet away. A thin layer of frost has coated everything, cold and silent.

But in the Blight, even such meager offerings are not turned down. As the rising sun forces the night's fog to relinquish its grip, carrion birds are beginning their morning patrol. The dead girl, black against a sea of white, is quickly spotted. Several circle her, slowly descending, warily watching for the larger scavengers that wander this dying land. One lands a few feet away from the body, and with a triumphant squawk to celebrate its courage, waddles toward her, eager to claim a mouthful of the remaining flesh.

The dead girl sits up.

The carrion bird shrieks and flaps its way back into the air, outraged at the deception. The girl was only pretending to be a meal! Its companions added their shrieks. Lie! Falsehood! Cheat! Then, slowly, they begin to drift off, their never-sated hunger driving them to search for meat that followed the rules. The girl watches them go with her eyes that are no longer there. As they disappear into the greyness, she reaches out and extends a single bony finger.

"Not yet," she rasps defiantly.

Then she stands stiffly, stretches and brushes the frost from her arms and legs. She picks up her blanket, folds it in half and rolls it into a tight bundle. She lashes it to the rucksack, slings it over her shoulder, and resumes the long cold walk to Venomspite.

Taking the Long View

2010-02-23T17:33:00.000-08:00

"I am an abomination?"

"Well, no, I mean, that is, I don't think so, of course, but the church teaches-"

"The church? Roberte, let me tell you something about your church. It is false. It is corrupt. It is not a servant of your gods, but rather of petty, corrupt men."

Roberte Leguise, my financial manager, sat across the table from me, blinking in startled bewilderment. Like all good men of the Free Cities, he had been raised to believe in the wisdom and infallibility of the church and its bishops. It provided moral guidance, interpreted the will of the gods, and guided men how to choose good over evil. I, however, had shed such illusions centuries ago.

I sighed dramatically. "Roberte, I will tell you how little you should trust your church. Two hundred years ago, I, Alecksander Liyosh, served as the Bishop of Borleon for over a decade. If the church leaders truly thought I was an abomination, would they have allowed this?"

"What? How? I mean, how could you...?"

I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. "I was bored, and the church elders needed money. So I bought the bishopric for a decade. It was slightly inconvenient, with the daylight issues and all, but it did provide me an opportunity to serve as a patron of the arts in some very different and exciting ways."

I was fucking with his head, of course. I would rather confine myself to a monastery and eat nothing but wretched old monks for the rest of my days than to serve as a middle manager in a giant religious bureaucracy. But Roberte held considerable power over my life, should he ever screw up the courage to exercise it, and I felt it was best to keep him slightly off-balance. Nothing too profound, just keep him slightly in awe of me for as long as I needed him. All part of taking the long view.

It was six months since our escape from the sack of Caylindra. We had established ourselves in the island city of Ventorri using what remained of my emergency cache of gold. I insisted that he keep two-thirds of it for himself, and only one-third for my investments and support. This made him rich beyond his wildest bourgeois dreams, and me practically a pauper. I had to live in a house so small it was practically a shack - only fifteen rooms. In place of Tibbens and his son who had lived with me and taken care of all my household needs, I now had to make do with an old shrew of a woman who came by to clean and launder four days a week. My wardrobe was a mockery of what it once was, shabby and plain and much of it cut in last year's fashion. But such sacrifices were necessary in these desperate times; three or four decades from now, Roberte's management would have built my funds into something more reasonable. During that time, I wanted him feeling very well taken care of. All part of taking the long view.

We returned to reviewing my investments. Roberte calmed down as he discussed that which he truly understood - assets and risks and dividends. There were shipping firms, and smithies, and houses of prostitution. Even some stage production called a "light opera", which as far as I could tell was as about as far from true opera as yodeling. But the details did not matter. To be honest, the details bored me. I was primarily interested in Roberte, watching his pulse, his capillaries in his cheeks, his pupils. I wanted to be sure he was working honestly with my money, that he was putting it into the same businesses that he put the money I had given him into. I knew he wanted to build a small fortune to improve his daughters' marriage prospects. As recently arrived foreigners, marrying some minor nobleman with a respected family name was of course out. A couple of enterprising young merchants or investors, much like a young Roberte, would be much likelier matches. And these young men would take take the girls' doweries and over time grow them into real fortunes. And most likely it would be Roberte's grandchildren or great-grandchildren who would marry into the Ventorri nobility. He understood that - it was all part of taking the long view.

And then, when the investments had born fruit, and the descendants were living on large, beautiful estates, everyone will have forgotten Alecksander Liyosh. That is when I will appear, and eat Roberte's descendants and take all they have. After all, it will in truth be my money. Waiting for such long-term investments to mature is a painful sacrifice, but ultimately well worth it. It is all part of taking the long view.

Vyprania's Story: Grizzly Hills

2010-01-26T20:00:00.000-08:00

The combined armies of the Alliance and the Horde were broken and defeated, destroyed on the fields in front of the Wrathgate by Forsaken treachery. Lord Fordragon was slain by the toxic poison clouds, and the young orc general had been struck down by Arthas himself. With them died not only the hope of a quick victory, but also the dream of a combined effort by the two great factions of Azeroth to work together to bring down the Lich King. New leaders emerged to rally the shattered armies. Ambitious, angry leaders. Scared leaders.

I wished to avoid this. Squabbles between the Horde and Alliance were a distraction from our true purpose, the defeat of our great enemy. It was a waste of time and manpower, neither of which were in great supply. With a frontal assault on Icecrown now impossible, I rode up into the Grizzly Hills to lend my support to the campaign against the Vrykul villages there, before they could marshal their forces and join the Lich King's main army. The local commanders were happy to have a seasoned veteran like myself, and seemed genuinely unconcerned with the fact that I was a Death Knight. Perhaps the prejudices of the living were beginning to fade as they became used to our presence among them, I thought, or perhaps things were just so desperate that they no longer cared. Whatever their reasons, I was put in charge of the assault on the village of Voldrune, and personally struck down Thane Eriksson. The Vrykul were fierce warriors, true, but undisciplined and poorly trained; they were no match for a knight of the Ebon Blade.

But I could not avoid the stupid conflict for long; the rich resources of the hills attracted scavengers. Soon orcs were crawling through the area, attacking the local woodsmen and stealing the lumber the Alliance needed to continue the war. I was hunting for trolls infected with scourge that had been moving south from Drak'theron Keep when I ran across a patrol of orcs preparing to assault the Blue Sky Lumbermill. They were simple grunts and I was able to stop them before they could start their attack; I killed three and put the rest to flight. As I was searching the bodies for anything useful, I saw her in the trees. A blood elf, skulking about, clearly looking to cause trouble. Damn the Horde bastards! How could they not understand that the war against Arthas had to be waged? We needed that lumber - taking it from us only made our real enemy stronger. The voices in my head screamed in outrage at the injustice. Well, I would not allow it. I would not!

Gripping my mace firmly, I motioned for Grubhunter to follow me. As we closed on the interloper, I was startled to see that she was also a death knight. With her helm on, I could not tell if it was someone I had known at Acherus. It did not matter though. This was war, and I needed to do whatever was necessary to bring Arthas down.

With a shout of pure anger, I hurled an Icy Touch blast at her. As I charged in, my mace ready to smash her skull in, Grubhunter leaped for her ghoul minion. She was startled, but not completely caught off guard. Her greatsword swept up and parried my attack, then her riposte crashed against my bone shield. For several minutes we went at each other, weapons striking each other, death and decay boiling the ground and killing the plantlife, the two ghouls shrieking and grappling and ripping each other. I was faster and had a longer reach, but as the fight went on her greater strength began to wear me down. I was forced onto the defensive, falling back, my parries coming slower, my mace growing heavier in my hands. Then I was too slow, and her sword struck my helm, just above the nasal guard. The armor absorbed most of the blow, but it was rent and I could feel the hot metal graze my forehead. Blood began to run into my eyes, and I realized it was only a matter of time before death came for me again, this time with no Dark Rebirth. Tears of frustration ran down my cheeks, mixing with sweat and blood, knowing that I would not get the opportunity to take my revenge against the one who made me. As her sword rose up before me, I wondered if this would be the final blow.

Suddenly, she cried out in pain and fell to her knees. Grubhunter had dispatched the thief's ghoul, and had leaped onto her back. His razor-sharp teeth had pierced the armor of her pauldron, and sunk deep into her shoulder. Struggling to see through the red haze, I swung my mace with all the strength I had left. There was a terrible crunch as it struck her her right arm just above the elbow. Her right hand fell from the hilt of the sword and hung, useless, at her side. Looking up at me, she struggled to hold her greatsword in front of her with her remaining functioning hand. The voices screamed for her death, demanding it, and I brought my mace around in a sweeping blow that caught her in the side of the head. Shattered, her helm flew off her head and into the trees, and she fell to the ground, my ghoul's weight driving her into the tortured ground. The side of her head was a bloody ruin.

I stood over her, gasping for breath. Grubhunter, even his few remaining brain cells realizing that the enemy was defeated let go of her shoulder and walked over to stand behind me. The thief struggled to push herself up with her left arm, but only managed to get up a foot before rolling over and falling onto her back. She stared up into the sky, breathing shallow, ragged breaths, the pulsing blood flowing from her wounds slowing. I considered smashing her damn skull and ending this, but the voices had quieted and my anger was fading. As I watched her face, the blue glow of her eyes faded, to be replaced with the demonic green of the blood elves. Then they turned blue again, but the blue of he high elves. I watched, fascinated, wondering who she had been before accepting Arthas' Dark Gift. Had she been one of the rangers who fought the Scourge invasion? Had she followed Kael'thas to Outland? Or had she been a recent recruit into the war, taking up the sword just in time to be struck down by the latest scourge outbreak? A year ago I would have called her sister. Ten minutes ago I had called her enemy. Was she both? Was she either? As I wondered, her eyes faded for the final time, her life force gone forever.

Quietly I shouldered my mace and began to walk toward the lumbermill.

Some Thoughts On The World of Aleksander Liyosh

2009-02-18T19:43:00.000-08:00

In the history of our world, there has been a repeating pattern of barbarian invasions coming out of central Asia and crashing into the civilizations of Europe and the Middle East. This can be traced all the way back to the original Indo-European speakers, and continued with the Huns, the Magyars, the Turks, and the Mongols, as well as many others. This happened because there were real limits to the abilities of central governments to maintain standing armies, particularly on frontiers. Nomadic tribes, by contrast, could easily shift from a peacetime footing to an aggressive, expansionist force. Nomads, in turn, were limited by the ability of their leaders to hold such non-cohesive groups together and so were never able to completely overrun the West.

In the 16th Century, however, the age-old pattern began to shift. This was due to the increasing effectiveness of muskets. A peasant conscript army or a farmer's militia with guns had a huge advantage over guys on horses. Huge. Nations like Russia began pushing into the Asian steppes, seizing territory, conveting it to agriculture, and blowing away marauders.

But the invention of gunpowder is a funny thing. It appeared around AD 1000, but took several centuries to develop into an effective weapon. In the 1400s bronze cannons brought about the fall of Constantinople and the English sub-kingdom in France. And in the 1500s hand weapons changed infantry warfare forever. But gunpowder is made from three very common ingredients: sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. There were no prerequisite inventions - anyone could have figured out how to combine these elements a thousand years earlier, possibly preserving the Western Roman Empire. Or, it could have never have happened at all.

Which brings me to Aleksander Liyosh. He lives in a world where gunpowder was never invented. In many ways it's comparable to the early Victorian era. Ships sail the seas, central governments are managed by bureaucrats, young men and women dress in high fashion and attend balls and operas. It just happens that there are no farmer militias to hold he barbarians at bay.

Fire and Storm

2009-02-15T13:54:00.000-08:00

They burned the Opera House! The Opera House!

Fucking barbarians.

I'd provided most of the funds to endow the Grand Opera House of Caylindra more than eighty years ago. Here I had listened to hundreds of wondrous voices, let their voices lift my soul, their sadness make my eyes shed tears, and, on special occasions, their terrified screams made my heart pound with excitement.

Gone now, all gone.

Two blocks away, the Museum of Arts was an inferno as well. Beyond that, I could see smoke beginning to pour out the windows of the Royal Light Theater. I had endowed both of these as well, over a century ago. Aleksander Liyosh, patron of the arts, at your service. But not any more, I thought bitterly, as the flames destroyed the things I loved most. I could weep.

Fucking barbarians.

Yes, yes, it looked like they were burning the rest of the city too. From my apartment balcony I could see that the worst of the fires were concentrated around the East Gate, and were spreading out from there. I supposed it was a good thing that they had not started burning a few hours earlier; otherwise the building I had spent the day in might have been engulfed before I awoke at sunset. I am not entirely sure what would have happened to me had this happened, but at the least some very expense clothes cut in the latest style would have been destroyed. My manse lay about a mile from here on Ruby Hill, far enough to the west that the fires shouldn't have reached it yet. Some time remained to salvage something from this disaster.

After some seven hundred years in this world, I would like to think that I can no longer be surprised by anything. However, tonight it occurred to me that this was not the case after all. I had heard of this new king of the horsetribes, of course. Lord of Fire and Storm, they called him. Rathgah Agzul, chieftain of the Gluth tribe. Or was it the Khellori? Really, you can't expect me to tell one band of smelly horsefuckers from another. Either way, he had unified all of the tribes under his banner, as happens every three or four generations. When they do this, they get around to riding on the Free Cities, which either pay them to go away, or muster up an army. The army either drives them off, or gets destroyed, in which case a bribe must be paid after all. I've seen it happen six or seven times now.

This time the Free Cities had elected to raise an army, and that had gone badly. A week ago there had been talk of some horrendous disaster, with only a handful of survivors escaping, but I assumed this was the typical exaggeration the living are prone to. Then last night people had been talking about the city of Borleon having been not only sacked, but razed to the ground. I scoffed at this; barbarians don't destroy cities – who would pay them their bribe? But it appeared I was wrong, and this new Lord of Fire and Storm was playing by a different set of rules.

Walking back into the apartment, I began to dress. Quickly, since there was much to do, but still carefully. The impending destruction of the city which had been my home for a quarter of my existence was hardly an excuse to let my standards down. Rather the opposite, I should think. Silk shirt and undertrousers, black pants with red piping, a purple velvet evening jacket, and a cravat – knotted just so – made up my ensemble. In the back of the closet I finally found a pair of knee-high boots which were properly polished, and a tricorner hat with an elegant red plume completed the look.

As I walked to the door of the apartment, I glanced at the pretty young boy lying on the sofa, looking peaceful and natural, as if asleep. The previous night I had thought that, in exchange for a few moments of ecstasy I was sparing him the pain of growing old, losing his beauty, having to sell himself to increasingly poorer and less savory men. As it turns out, I had spared him the pain of seeing all that was wondrous and civilized in Caylindra be destroyed. Such a shame he could not thank me for it.

Out in the streets, chaos reigned. Citizens trying to escape, desperately clutching a few meager possessions, gangs of looters foolishly acquiring a few possessions more, and bands of unkempt barbarians doing, well, whatever struck their tiny brains as amusing. I saw horsefuckers drinking, looting, raping, dragging bodies behind their horses, brawling amongst themselves, and one fellow juggling knives for no apparent reason. I kept a cloaking aura tight around myself as I walked, rendering myself almost completely unnoticeable, not because I feared confrontation, but because I was in a hurry. Damn the barbarians for making it impossible to catch a cab!

When I reached my manse, it was immediately clear someone else had gotten there first. The door was broken down, and in the front hall lay the still-bleeding bodies of Tibbens and his son. I felt a momentary pang of regret – Tibbens had served me well for over twenty years, and the boy was shaping up to be a fine replacement. Now, in addition to everything else, I would need to find someone else to assist me in what I needed to do, and then I would have to break in a completely new servant.

Fucking barbarians.

Tibbens was still alive, moving feebly in the bloody pool, but there was no time to finish him off. Upstairs I could hear voices and the sounds of dirty, filthy hands as they went through my closets! This could not be tolerated. Up the stairs I dashed, moving much faster than a normal man. As I ran, I replaced the concealing aura with a fearsome one. In my suite I found three dirty, greasy-haired tribesmen pulling clothes out of my closet and tossing them onto the bed. I saw that they already had found the silver – it filled a sack on the floor. Outraged at this trespass, I seized the nearest of the trio and hurled him across the room into the wall. Unbidden, my fingernails grew and hardened, forming razor-sharp daggers which I used to open the throat of the second man. The third had time to turn toward me and take half a step back before my spinning kick caught him in the chest, crushing his ribcage and bursting his heart. Stepping over the wreckage of his body, I grabbed the man I had thrown into the wall and roughly jerked him to his feet. Pulling his head back to expose his throat, I sliced open an artery with my teeth and hungrily pressed my mouth to it, hungrily sucking the life from him. None of the soothing anesthetic I usually released to ease the transition – this one would feel everything. His screams and fists beating my shoulders and head gradually subsided until his heart stopped beating. Dropping him to the floor, I allowed myself a moment to enjoy the euphoria of the kill. Then I checked my jacket and shirt – good! No errant drops of blood had soiled my clothing.

I paused for a moment to consider options, then made a quick run through the manse to see what other damage the intruders had done. Apparently they had quite thoroughly ransacked the ground and upper floors, but had not investigated the cellar. My wine collection was undisturbed, though I hardly expected it to remain so for the rest of the night. Apparently these looters realized pilfering went faster while sober; the drunks would be along in time, however. Much more importantly, the heavy crates of uninteresting junk and bric-a-brac covering the rabbit hole remained untouched. The ancient smuggler's tunnel, the reason I had first established myself at this location, extended more than a mile beyond Caylindra's walls. Although I had never seriously expected to need it, I kept it stocked with gold, falsified letters of introduction, a modest wardrobe – anything that might be needed should an ill-mannered mob show up with torches and pitchforks.

Or a fucking barbarian horde.

My kind to not travel well alone, however. The need to sleep during the day, hidden from the sun's burning rays, makes the process both extremely difficult and dangerous. There was a wagon waiting at the end of the tunnel, and horses, watched over by some hired farmers who had no idea as to their purpose, but I needed someone I could trust, someone whose ability to see the long view (and the potential for much greater profit) would keep him from dumping me on the side of the road the first dawn and riding off with my gold. Fortunately, I knew of one such individual.

Ten minutes later I was knocking on the front door of one Roberte Leguise, who had managed my business matters for the past twelve years, handling investments and taxes and the like while making sure my true name always remained out of the public records. It was a modest middle-class neighborhood, mainly red brick town houses, populated by people who could be relied on to have poor taste in culture but nevertheless kept things clean and tidy. I was most pleased to see that the waves of looters and fire and not yet reached this part of the city.

After waiting a minute, I knocked more forcefully. “Roberte, it is I, Aleksander Liyosh. There is little time. Open this door!” There was no response.

“Roberte, come now, open this door! I can hear you breathing on the other side. Quickly! We have business, you and I, and it cannot wait.”

From inside came his voice, trying to sound firm, but mostly terrified. “I- I cannot do that. You cannot come in; I will meet with you at our regular time and place, but not now. Or here. Please, Sir Alecksander. You see, I- I know what you are.”

“You do? Splendid, that will save me the time of explaining. But Roberte, stop being an ass. The city is dying as we speak. I can save you and your family, but you must trust me and open the door!”

There was silence for a minute, then the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened a crack, and I could see the man's face, pale and sweaty. In front of him he held a Seal of Archibald the Martyr.

“Oh put that silly talisman away, Roberte. If I wanted you dead it would already have happened,” I said, pushing my way past him into the house. “But as it happens, I need you alive. And happy. So go tell your wife and daughters they have ten minutes to gather what they wish to take, no more than they can carry, and then I will get you out of the city.”

“You can do that? But- but where will we go? How...?”

“I'm thinking Ventorri. The horsefuckers don't swim too well, so I expect they'll leave that island be. We can catch a boat across the channel at Saltriver. 'How' we can cover later. Now hurry, man!”

It was hard work, keeping my aura over all four of them to keep the various gangs in the streets from noticing us. It took all of my concentration, and by the time we got to my manse I really wanted to let them have the older, weepy daughter. But we made it, and my cellar was still unmolested. Two hours later, with dawn approaching, we were finally on the wagon, slowly rumbling down a narrow country lane. The city's fires continued to burn, lighting our way. I anticipated that in another two or three days there would be nothing but ashes within the walls. The older daughter was still weeping, damn her, but once dawn came I would no longer notice. There was a crate in the wagon were I would spend the day, sealed against the burning eyes of the sun.

Roberte was a city man, not terribly experienced at handling horses, but fortunately ours had agreeable dispensations and were in good condition, so he should be able to manage. I clapped him on the shoulder. “Roberte, you get us to Ventorri, and we'll rebuild my fortune, and I promise I will make you a rich man.”

I could see a grin fighting to get past the fear that gripped his face. Yes, I knew he would like the sound of that. Good. I needed him to see his interests as coinciding with mine. I stepped into the rear of the wagon, nodded to the family, and climbed into my crate. Quite a step down from the feather bed with silk sheets I had slept on the day before, but it have to do for now.

Fucking barbarians and their Lord of Fire and Storm. Someday, they would pay for what they had taken from me.