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Heroes Community > Tavern of the Rising Sun > Thread: Fiction: Tamika
Thread: Fiction: Tamika This thread is 3 pages long: 1 2 3 · «PREV / NEXT»
Consis
Consis


Honorable
Legendary Hero
Of Ruby
posted October 10, 2004 07:00 AM
Edited By: Consis on 10 Oct 2004

Perhaps A Bit Of Correction Is Needed

Quote:
No, RSF is right. Fan fiction is, legally, plagiarism.

No, he is not right and nor are you. You all can choose to listen to what I have to say or dismiss it entirely, it's your choice. I think you know I've done my homework in this matter.

The fact of the matter is, "Fan-Fiction" is not plagiarism nor is it illegal. Writing stories in this manner after preconcieved characters, storylines, plots, etc will remain exactly that until the moment the author takes their unoriginal ideas and creations to the next level. That is to say that if, for any reason be it directly or indirectly, the author of such content or otherwise illicit material makes profit or behaves in such a way as to cause profit to some other organizations, persons, etc. then it becomes plagiarism.

Plagiarism itself carries written and implied implications with the sole responsibility of the plagiarized material to rest on the creator or creators' shoulders. Technically(legally) speaking, you can expect a lawsuit if profit has been determined to be directly or indirectly related to your material.

Implied plagiarism carries a much more significant(in my opinion) weight of responsibility. This is to say that your 'Fan-Fic' will be looked at by any self-respecting reader as stolen, not creative, reflecting no talent with the author, or other such libel labels. Whether you are prosecuted or not, word could spread through the vicious gossip of self-respecting reader's circles. To put it simply, no one would read your material if they think you are nothing more than a thief, whether you've been sued or not.

Thus far, I have seen no reason to suspect any such thing from Khaelo's material. But for future notice to anyone who reads this, it would be wise of you to include a precursory paragraph explaining who the real credit goes to if anyone should find your material worthy of any such notice. Take my Baldur's Gate Diaries, for example. It is not truly my work, I am simply an enthusiastic extender of someone else's genius. I start the thread off by saying this. This is very important. If an author does not immediately bring this to the attention of the reader then the author is implying that they are the originators of the material and rightfully deserve all credit received for the work.
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binabik
binabik


Responsible
Legendary Hero
posted October 10, 2004 07:30 AM

You beat me to the post Consis, and what you say is much more knowledgeable than my conjecture, but I'll post anyway.

You could always ask Ubisoft. But you have the risk they will say no. You could offer conditions, like crediting them, etc.

A few points to consider:

What about WOG? As far as I know they have not been challenged. The WOG team has mentioned they can not sell or otherwise make a profit due to copyright. Do they possibly know more about this than the people here? It's easy enough to ask.

What about map making? HOMM comes with a map editor. Maps often contain storylines, some including characters from the copyrighted material.

tor.com (Tor the big fantasy publisher) has some information on copyright as related to books. I don't remember the specifics, but they give a fair amount of leeway  to fan groups. They give some specific examples like quoting passages, using cover art for fliers and newsletters, etc.

BTW the "inside" of a book is copyrighted by the author. Cover art by the artist. Cover design by the publisher.

Quote:
Technically(legally) speaking, you can expect a lawsuit if profit has been determined to be directly or indirectly related to your material


Another way of putting it is that the copyright holder MUST show damages. Profit easily shows damages. With no profits, I think the most they could do is a "cease and desist" order.

I'm contributing, but I think everyone's getting too worked up over this. It's supposed to be fun and entertaining. But as Consis pointed out, I think a credit to Ubisoft is in order.

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binabik
binabik


Responsible
Legendary Hero
posted October 10, 2004 07:44 AM

One more thing, just informational. (and I can't edit)

Creation of copyright and patent laws are a consitutional mandate to Congress. The purpose is to encourage inventors and artists through a form of protection from thieves. You can extend from this that if no damage is shown, how does it discourage their trade?

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Khaelo
Khaelo


Honorable
Supreme Hero
Underwater
posted October 10, 2004 08:03 AM

Quote:
With no profits, I think the most they could do is a "cease and desist" order.

This is exactly what the Fox legal team was threatening for the Buffy fans.

I simply forgot the standard disclaimer.  That error has been remedied in the first post.
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RedSoxFan3
RedSoxFan3


Admirable
Legendary Hero
Fan of Red Sox
posted October 10, 2004 08:23 AM

I apologize for this. I wasn't trying to attack Khaelo. I was simply trying to make sure that everyone knew this fact. I already said that there is no reason for Khaelo to worry. I highly doubt Ubisoft would even care.

Consis. You are correct to say that there is no law against WRITING fan-fiction. However it becomes plagerism when that writing is put onto the internet.

I fully wish Khaelo to continue with her story. However Khaelo. If you are looking for feedback I started a Writer's Guild over in Glade.
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Consis
Consis


Honorable
Legendary Hero
Of Ruby
posted October 10, 2004 08:36 AM

RedSoxFan3 Is Incorrect

Quote:
it becomes plagiarism when that writing is put onto the internet.

This statement is not true. Writers(or anyone reading this) can take RedSoxFan3's word for it, or mine. It's your choice.
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Svarog
Svarog


Honorable
Supreme Hero
statue-loving necrophiliac
posted October 11, 2004 02:54 AM

I'm accusing Khaelo of plagiarism of Ubisoft. I'm accusing Ubisoft of plagiarism of Tolkien. I'm accusing Tolkien of plagiarism of the Greeks, the Vikings and other peoples whose mythology has been borrowed. I'm accusing these peoples of plagiarism of the human imagination. There.
Anyone interested to find lawyers for the parties?
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Consis
Consis


Honorable
Legendary Hero
Of Ruby
posted October 11, 2004 03:36 AM
Edited By: Consis on 11 Oct 2004

I Agree With Svarog

I would also like to add that the pinnacle for this medium of "plagiarism", in the way that we are discussing it, has been most notably taken advantage of through what many people today call "underground clubs". I've been to a couple when I lived in Las Vegas, NV. It should come as no surprise to all who visit these "underground clubs" when they rarely stay open for more than a few months. They'll consistently pop up in different locations due to legal opposition. Inside these clubs I found something that personally struck me as truly amazing.

Apparently, the disc jockeys(Dj's) are not like other Dj's. These particular electronic musical masters are sought after for their rare talent to blend a popular song, commercial, or such paraphanalia into a conglomerate of musical/visual beauty. One could easily experience sensory overload from the manner in which these shows present themselves. In fact, I'd wager that is their purpose. While at the clubs, I saw music videos and songs that were being cut, mixed, and reborn into a magical meddly of music. This was an absolutely amazing and new concept to me. Taking someone else's copywritten music material and making it better? I noticed that everyone was very complimentary of the dj's ability to do this in a very entertaining way.

Legally speaking, this action is illegal because everyone was paying a hefty price to enter the club. Therefore the dj and club were being paid for their services and this is a clear violation of the law. Once again, it lends to the notion as to why these clubs don't stay open for long while popping up in different locations at random.

Whether or not this was legal or illegal didn't matter to me when I went there because it was such an enjoyable experience. I was completely amazed and had never before realized that some people are so gifted as to be able to take all these common songs, commercial bites, movie clips, and turn it into a truly marvelous masterpiece of entertainment.

This is all related to Svarog's point. Even though an artist, author, movie maker, or otherwise has legal copyrights, this does not mean that something so wonderful can't still come from the original material. I agree that Tolkien and many others probably took their idea from somewhere else to make their own version of what they thought to be most pleasing to their audience. Because of this, I would not be too harsh on people who write "fan-fic". The truth is that the so-called original authors most likely took ideas and concepts from other sources as well.
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binabik
binabik


Responsible
Legendary Hero
posted October 11, 2004 04:12 AM

I learned the word "the" from my mommy and daddy


I decided to perform an unusual act. I actually looked up "plagiarism" in the dictionary.

First I want to note that plagiarism is only one form of copyright violation.

By dictionary definition, Khalo is absolutely NOT plagiarizing. Not using any of the alternate definitions. The act of plagiarism depends ENTIRELY on the author claiming the material as their own.

I can't find my legal dictionary, but I bet it's the same.

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Consis
Consis


Honorable
Legendary Hero
Of Ruby
posted October 11, 2004 06:29 AM

Yes, I Agree Binabik

I believe I've already stated that Khaelo has not done the act of grammatical/conceptual thievery. It is thus that I compliment her enthusiasm and encourage her to further her work, if she so desires.
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Khaelo
Khaelo


Honorable
Supreme Hero
Underwater
posted October 31, 2004 04:08 AM
Edited By: Khaelo on 30 Oct 2004

Well, someone bounced the thread.  I'll take the opportunity to post what I've written thus far of part 3.0 ...  Subject to heavy revision, should I deem it necesary.  

~~~
“Well, this is it,” Nicolai announced, bringing his horse up to the portico steps.  He seemed quite pleased with himself.  “What do you think?”

“Honestly?  It’s a good thing you’re not going to this Oracle for advice on purchasing good real estate.”

“The Seer is concerned with higher things than building maintenance.”

“Good thing it’s in Nekross, then.  In Great Arcan, the Seer would have to be concerned about public safety.”  Banter aside, the Oracle’s outward appearance gave Tam no confidence whatsoever.  Crumbling ruins were greatly atmospheric, but she knew all too well the treacheries of unstable masonry.

“Oh, stop fussing.  We’ve made it; everything’s going to be fine.  Let’s put the horses over by that overgrown fountain.  They can graze safely while we find the Seer.”

“Provided there aren’t any more ghouls wandering the complex.”

Nicolai pressed his mouth into a line.  “Those weren’t supposed to be there.”

“Is that so?”

He dismounted.  After stroking his horse’s neck for a few moments, he spoke again.  “Ghouls and zombies.  Ghouls are cannibals, right?”

“Yes.”

“And zombies?”

“They don’t eat unless instructed, contrary to popular belief.”

“Would either attack riderless horses?”

“For zombies, it’s unlikely.  Ghouls might, though.  They have a preference for the flesh of their former kind, not a restriction.”  She slipped out of her saddle and tested the night air.  The only decay was the autumn scent of old leaves.  “The wind died down.”

“The horses can’t come with us.  We’re going into a tunnel system.  And, as you pointed out, the buildings aboveground aren’t very stable.  Out here is the best place for them.  If ghouls found them, what would happen?  Realistically.”

She gave a short laugh.  “They’d leave the horses alone so we wouldn’t anticipate their ambush.”

“Fine.  So, we prepare for a ghoul ambush before leaving the inner complex.  Come on, Darling.”

“I still can’t believe your stable master named a horse Darling,” Tam commented as she led her mare after him.  “Did you say we’re going in tunnels?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose these tunnels are of more recent construction than the walls.”

“No, they're older.”

“Older?  And in similar condition?”

“Hey, they’re underground and the night’s nearly half-over.  You should be happy.”

The night was actually more than half gone, but she decided not to mention that.  “You need to work on inspiring your followers, paladin.”

He gave her a half-smile as he tied a lead-line to his mount and tossed another to her.  “The ruins are from a temple built over the Oracle.  The tunnels, unlike the buildings, are magically maintained.  We’ll be at the Seer’s door with no problem at all.”

~~~
Two hours later, Tamika halted in an intersection and stamped her foot.  The thud of her riding boot echoed heavily in the stone hallway.  “This place is a maze!”

Nicolai turned to look back at her.  His lantern illuminated the irritation on his face all too clearly.  “I told you, we just need to find the center.”

“Do you have a map?”

“The map only shows the way to the Oracle building, not the internal layout.  But that’s not a problem.  Everything’s fine, or it would be if you’d stop complaining every few steps.  Let’s go…this way.”

“No!  Tromping about ancient tunnels was fun for a while, but I’m bored now.  Just admit it -- we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost.”

“Yes, we are.  This is a puzzle, and we’re blundering through without a plan.  It won’t work.  We should go back to the beginning and look for some sort of sign to guide us.  The walls are covered with mosaics; there must be a reason.”

“Back to the…!  No.  The mosaics are just decoration.  We’re on the right path; I’m sure of it.”

“How the hell can you be sure?  You’re just taking random turns.”

“Random?  I told you, we’re headed towards the center?”

“Where’s the center?”

He glanced at the five tunnels branching out from their location.  “That way.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” he said, gesturing in the air.  The path his hands traced quickly became an indecipherable glyph.  “Like this.  See?”

After staring at the invisible drawing, Tam dropped to her knees.  She used her fingertip to trace a large square into the shiny brown slime coating the floor.  “The complex.”  A thumbprint marked the center.  “The Oracle.”  Another thumbprint was pressed into the corner of the square.  “The entrance.”  Leaning back, she gazed up at Nicolai.  “Explain where we are.”

He crouched, placed the lantern beside the crude map, and pondered it.  Finally, “Here.”

“How did we get there?”

He stood quickly.  “You’re being unreasonable.”

“If you know we’re there, you must know how we got there.”

“Just trust me.”

“Trust you?  You’re no ranger.  What’s this mysterious tracking…”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“If you knew, you could explain!”

“Not everything is explainable.”

“They’re directions, Nicolai, not mystical theory!”

“I’m not following directions.  I just…know!”

“That doesn’t help me!”

“It doesn’t have to help you if you’d trust me and follow…”

The lantern’s flame suddenly turned dim blue before fading into oblivion.  The darkness lay heavy and silent for a moment before Nicolai broke it with a very unpaladin-like exclamation.

“Nice.  You sound like a death knight.”

“Shut up!”  Tam watched Nicolai rise to his feet again, shadowy form swaying briefly, then his shoulders dropped.  “No.  Sorry.  That was inappropriate.  This is just…infuriating.”

“Obviously.  So, do you have a flint?”

“Ah…right.  Hold on.  It’s in my pack.”

“Never mind.  Mine’s in my purse.”  As he let his pack fall from his shoulders, she quickly pulled her flint and steel from the pouch at her belt.  “Okay, here we go.”

Several showers of sparks later, Tam picked up the lamp and tested its weight again.  It still felt about half full.  Angrily, she tugged at the wick and tried sparking at it once more.  The pathetic flame glowed dull orange before dying, just as all of its predecessors had.  “What the hell?  I hate lanterns.  Useless piece of…”

“Is it empty?  Maybe the wick got wet?”

“No.  It isn’t empty.  It isn’t wet.  It isn’t smothered.  It’s just stubborn.”

“All right.”  He let out a shuddering sigh.  “It took a couple hours to get here, and it’ll take several hours to get back.  We go on without the lantern.” Despite the confidence of his tone, his scent had grown sharp with sweat, and the trembling in his stance was more pronounced.  His breath came rapid and deep, half-controlled.  “Tamika?”

She rose to her feet and noted how his head tilted at her movement.  After considering a moment, she asked, “What are you afraid of?  Is there a monster in these tunnels?”

He visibly startled.  “What?  No, it’s clear.”

“But you’re still afraid.  Shouldn’t we get out of here?”  In the silence that followed her question, Tam closed her eyes and checked the night’s progress.  Dawn was disconcertingly near.  As little as she liked being lost in an aimless maze, she liked being caught outside at morning even less.  She made her decision.  “Fine.  You win.  Since we’ve gone this far on these feelings of yours, we might as well finish this.”

“The lantern?”

“I’ve got it, for what it’s worth.”  She held it up to show him.  When he still didn’t move, she added, “Hey, I’m not going to think this is a good idea all night.  Do your paladin thing and lead.”

“It’s pitch black.  You have to lead.”

“What?  The tunnels are perfectly visible if you let your eyes adjust.”

He blinked at her.  Tam waited patiently.  She knew humans’ darkvision was inferior to her own, but surely he could see in this darkness if he tried.  It wasn’t hard.  As the silence grew longer, however, and she gazed into his wide eyes, she felt her confidence slipping.  He looked squarely in her direction but his eyes were unfocused.  Silently, she moved a few steps to her right.  He did not turn to keep her in view.  He was truly blind in the charcoal darkness.  “You’re afraid,” she murmured as the weight of his predicament hit her, “because you can’t see.”

His head snapped towards her.  “Of course I can’t see!  It’s an underground tunnel, at night, with no lantern!  You’d have to have preternatural…”  He took a deep, shuddering breath.  When he resumed speaking, his tone was calmer.  “As I said, you have to lead.  Can you see the opening I chose before?”

“Yes.”

“Can you trust me?”

She smiled to herself.  “Can you trust me?”

The smile that brushed his lips was faint, but he held his hands out to her in answer.  She took them, and his grip tightened around her fingers.  “That way,” he said, nodding towards the passage again.  Accurately, Tam noticed.

“That way it is.  Let’s go.”

Their progress was slow at first.  Nicolai moved with hesitation and a shuffling walk.  To Tam’s surprise, though, he unerringly indicated a new passageway at each intersection, never a wall or dead end.  After a while, she laid her hands on his shoulders in order to guide him more securely.  Finally, he closed his eyes and let his stride match hers.

Outside, dawn broke.  Tam felt it in a brief burst of anxiety supplanted by quiet numbness.  Usually, the deadening sensation meant that it was time to sleep.  She looked at Nicolai.  His eyes were closed and his face expressionless as he concentrated on the pressure of her guidance.

“Are you tired?” she asked.

“Yes.  But I want to finish this.”

Tam frowned, but said nothing.  Trying to stay alert, she began to hum to herself.  The tune echoed pleasingly in the damp, enclosed tunnels, so she added the lyrics.  A few stanzas in, she realized that her choice of song was a bawdy drinking ditty she’d picked up from fellow death knight Charna.  With a quick glance at her companion, she plunged on regardless.  Maybe he wouldn’t notice.  When the bar song was done, she deliberately selected a sedate elven lullaby her mother used to sing.  This she followed with an epic romance sung by the merfolk, and a shamanistic hymn she had learned from a barbarian bard.  As the last few notes faded into the darkness, she noticed that Nicolai was grinning.

“What?” she asked, biting back irritation.

“Nothing.  Ah.  I was just thinking it’s too bad there aren’t monsters in here.”

“You think I’d scare them off, don’t you?”

“I think you’d charm every beastie and goo-thing within earshot into trailing your footsteps.  Wouldn’t that be a sight -- the Pied Piper of Oozes.”  He laughed, then added, “You really are very good.”

Pride flushed away her anger.  “You think so?  Would you like to hear more?”

“Please.”

“Any requests?”

“Am I imagining things or is there light up there?”

“You’re changing the subject,” she teased, but when she looked, she saw the dim, diffuse glow as well.  It came from an opening on the left side, spilled across the slick floor, splayed up against the opposing wall, and crept along the ceiling.  “Are we going in there?”

After a hesitation, he whispered, “Yes.  Stay alert.”

From the doorway, Tam could see that this was a chamber, not another passageway.  The room seemed empty, so she guided them inside.  “It’s beautiful!”  Soft light surrounded them, emanating from the very walls and ceiling.  Nicolai audibly gasped.  In wonder, Tam took her hands from his shoulders and reached out to touch the white luminescence.  For all its unearthly beauty, however, it was unpleasant and sticky under her fingers.  It clung to her skin, still glowing, and it smelled odd.  Its odor was faint but sharp and bitter, like the mechanical air of an alchemist’s lab.  Disenchanted, Tam wiped the goo off on her pants leg.  It left bright white streaks.

There was a slight scraping sound, like the rub of stone on stone.  It came from the back of the chamber, and Tam turned just in time to see the Seer emerge from a well-concealed door.

“This is it.  This is the place,” Nicolai said behind her.  “Oh…damn!”  To her surprise, Tam heard him draw his longsword.

“Indeed,” answered the Seer.  The door had vanished behind him.  Nicolai drew in his breath.  Apparently, he had not expected the Seer to be a vampire.

He was a traditional vampire of Axeoth, not a refugee from Antagarich, and he took obvious pride in his appearance.  His skin was like pale marble, nearly as ice-white as the glowing substance on the walls, and his hair was slick jet black.  He was dressed in a crisp, tailored outfit of black and white. He had a haughty gaze and an aristocratic tilt to his chin.  He frowned at Tam.  She could almost feel the disdain in his eyes as he took in her nut-brown complexion, her thin features, her loose braid, her course warriors’ garb.  She held her head up and stared right back, savoring his displeasure.  She particularly noted the surprise in his face when he met her crimson eyes.  So.  The Seer wasn’t expecting another vampire to visit.  He promptly turned away from her and looked over Nicolai.  Inspection complete, he approached the paladin.  “Mortal.  You stand before the ancient Oracle of this land, having defeated the trials of Combat and Darkness.  The trial of Blood yet remains.  Will you undergo this third and final trial as well?”

“Trial?”

“To determine if you are worthy to receive the wisdom you seek.”

“Is that a fancy way of referring to the test for blood kinship?”

The Seer’s lips pinched.  “Are you prepared?”

“Yes.”


(To Be Continued!)
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Targan
Targan


Known Hero
posted October 31, 2004 05:38 PM

cool story

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Khaelo
Khaelo


Honorable
Supreme Hero
Underwater
posted November 10, 2004 01:06 AM
Edited By: Khaelo on 9 Nov 2004

Pardon my poetry.

This section has been posted, removed, overhauled, and now reposted.  Suggestions are welcome, as always.


“What does the Trial of Blood involve?”  Nicolai asked.

“Blood.”

“Besides the obvious, I meant.”

“Nothing.  Either you pass or you fail.  There’s no room for bluffing or,” the Seer shot a meaningful glare in Tamika’s direction, “outside help.  Just the blood.”  As he spoke, he withdrew an obsidian dagger from a sheath at his belt.  He waved it carelessly, and an illusory wall dissolved behind him to reveal a stone pedestal topped with a clear crystal bowl.  Nicolai raised an eyebrow at the theatrics, but he followed the Seer to the pedestal.  Tam trailed behind, curious.

The Seer and Nicolai faced each other over the rune-carved bowl, which Tam identified as an obvious relic as she approached.  It was nearly perfectly transparent and half-filled with water.

“State your inquiry.”

“I seek the grandchildren of King Nicolas Gryphonheart.”

“Offer your price.”

Nicolai held out his left wrist to the Seer, who seized his arm.  The vampire smiled and slowly pressed his blade against the exposed blue vein.  The flesh resisted at first, and then suddenly gave way.  At the first scent of blood, the Seer finished the cut savagely, dropped the knife to the floor to shatter, and yanked Nicolai’s wrist to his mouth.  His tongue lashed to give a feral caress before his pale lips closed around the wound.  Tam’s stomach fluttered and tightened as she watched.  The warm, tangy scent of blood and fear set her mouth to watering.  Even as the scene drew her forward, however, she noted how Nicolai stiffened and leaned away.  His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were wide.  As much as his fear excited her, familiar and empowering, Tam felt the equally powerful desire to make it stop, to make the kill quick and clean.  Her hunting ethic surged forth: cause as little pain, as little noise, as little trace as possible.  Struggling prey could do harm.  The Seer’s sadism repulsed her and dredged up tiresome memories.

After an eternal second of feeding, the Seer pulled Nicolai’s wrist away and spat a small amount of blood into the bowl.  He then held the bleeding wound over the water, allowing the crimson to fall into red, pink, and yellow blossoms in the crystal liquid.  When he finally released the paladin’s arm, Nicolai immediately snatched it back and laid his right hand over the gash.  In the bowl, swirling streamers of blood faded into a salmon-colored fog.  A dim glow rose from the depths of the water, and the Seer gave a single nod.  “The offering is acceptable.”  As Tam watched, the relic’s light clarified and began to echo blurry shapes.  She could catch only the most fleeting impressions, but the Seer watched the images intently.  He began to read the Oracle.

Arabelle, eldest, the one left aware
Remembers that long ago, darkness-soaked night.
She pulled her brother from earth back to air,
Sister made mother and cleric of light.
Now in a sanctuary built of magic and song
Icicles hang where a girl once shed tears.
She’s frozen the memories painful so long.
Break through her peace and reorder the years.

Joscelin, second, the one she revived
Knows nothing of necromancers, ambush, and strife.
He followed his sister and through her survived,
Raised by an Order fighting for life.
Yet he would not bow, this wandering heart,
Giving to healing but not to the rules.
Adventures away from the paladins’ art
Drew him to travel with wise men and fools.

Lysander, the third, is the one now called king.
Stilled by a curse and abandoned for dead,
He struggled and refuted death’s poisoned fling,
Broke her embrace, and conquered her bed.
Acknowledged, he sits aloof on the throne,
Courageous and just and all regal things.
Acknowledged, he dreams, a brother alone,
Shackled to power, a gryphon sans wings.

Casandre is fourth, the one who just left.
No weapon e’er touched her, nor claw of the lands.
Alone in the forest, of her family bereft,
She toddled in blessing to Tulerean hands.
Her magic still holds, and her bond with the beasts.
But bitterness bruised her so she ran from the fey.
Clanless barbarian, she shares her bleak feasts
With dogs and chance lovers on the Wasteland’s stark way.

Nathan is fifth and the one whom luck kissed.
Amongst the black wreckage, they found the gold child.
The King took his grandson the attackers had missed,
And treasured in trust the investment so mild.
Called now Nathaniel, a stone-steady knight,
He stands and defends his brother’s rich realm.
His fathers both lost, he ne’er learned his birthright.
His honor he won with the sword and bright helm.

Nicolai, sixth, the one born to the Crown,
Half-gryphon, half-prince, his nation’s despair,
His playful demeanor was met with a frown.
Reluctant bard boy made an uneasy heir.
But freedom now looms, the edge of a cliff.
The gryphon can leap without fear of his flight.
The human stands frozen, wingless and stiff.
How long can a paladin hide in the light?


“That’s enough,” Nicolai interrupted.  “We only need the first five.”

“Oh?  You don’t want to hear about your sister?”

“My sister?  Priscilla died when she was four!”

“Hmm.  True, I see.  But you did ask for information on all of Gryphonheart’s grandchildren.”

“No, I don’t need anything on Priscilla.” Nicolai softened his tone. “You’ve already provided more information than I expected.  Personal names and everything.  I’m very grateful.”

“The one good thing about paladins is that they always express their gratitude,” the Seer replied archly.

“Can you repeat the stanzas again?” Tam broke in as Nicolai dropped his pack to the floor and began digging through it.  The slash across his wrist had vanished, and Tam assumed he had used Lay on Hands to heal it.  The Seer hesitated at her request, but Nicolai paused in his search to look up.  At his querying glance, the vampire promptly recited the whole Oracle again.  Tam listened, and then surprised the Seer by repeating it back to him word-for-word.

“Very good,” he said, though he looked anything but pleased.

“It’s a talent.  I don’t suppose you’d be willing to supply the back-story for the poetry?”

“The Oracle has said all there is to say.”

“Don’t worry, Tam, I can fill in most of the major gaps.  Here, Seer.”  Nicolai pressed a small, heavy pouch of coins into the Seer’s palm.  “It’s not a lot, but it’s what I could scrape up.”

The Seer opened the pouch and examined the contents.  “Gold and silver.”

“It’d be all gold, but I’m a paladin errant.  We don’t get paid as well as the Order-affiliated paladins do,” Nicolai said.  He sounded genuinely apologetic.  Either he was a superb actor, Tam thought, or a colossal fool.

“It will do.”

“Wonderful.”  He gave a small bow.  “Ah, do we have to pass another Trial of Darkness to get out of here?”

After a thoughtful pause, the Seer gave a genuine smile.  Nicolai actually seemed to be winning the austere vampire’s regard.  “No.  There is a shortcut.  I will activate it for you.”

Activating the shortcut turned out to mean lighting up a number of wall murals.  Fifteen minutes and three one-way doors later, Tam stood in the tunnels’ opening, squinting at the brilliant morning sun outside.  “Uh?”

“It’s daylight,” Nicolai told her over his shoulder.  “No ghouls.”

“No vampires, either,” she reminded him.  “We need to camp in here until dark.”

“I’m too excited to be tired now.”

“You’ll feel it later.”

He tipped his head at her, but his smile was knowing.  “I’ll fetch the gear.”

Tam watched him stride off, then set about finding a dry spot to set up their camp.  He returned leading the horses, laden with their saddlebags which he promptly removed.  While he munched on hard biscuits and looked at his map, she pulled off her breastplate and braces, and loosened her belt.

“Tamika, you remember the whole Oracle?”

“Yes.”

“Can you write it down?  The Seer seemed snippy, so I didn’t bother him about it.”

“Considerate of you.  Do you have paper and inks?”

“Inks!  Oh, gods, I forgot inks!”

“Never mind, I’ll use my own.  Hope you can read red.  Paper?”

“The back of the map should do.”

She tugged off her boots, set them aside, and began digging through her saddlebag.  As she withdrew a tiny crimson bottle and set to finding her pen case, she asked over her shoulder, “So, you say you have some idea how royal grandchildren got scattered like butterflies in a cyclone?”

“Huh?  Oh, yes.  It happened all at once.  My aunt and grandmother…”

“Some of us were not drilled in Enrothian royal lineages.”

“This is the lineage from Erathia, not Enroth.  My grandparents, Nicolas and Gwenllian Gryphonheart, had two daughters.  Catherine, my mother, was the older and Beatrice was the younger.  Mother was a bit…ah…nontraditional.  She objected to pretty much any marriage my grandparents tried to arrange for her.  Beatrice, on the other hand, conveniently fell in love with Robert Byford, a young noble from a powerful but wayward house.  They wed, and while Mother was going in and out of the army, my aunt Beatrice had five children.”  He took a breath.  “In 1153, Beatrice, Robert, their children, and my grandmother Gwenllian were traveling on a diplomatic mission to AvLee.  All of the children were very small; the youngest was an infant of about two months, and the oldest no more than five.  Necromancers waylaid their caravan.  Everyone was killed, or so the historians always said.”

Tam sat down to record the Oracle’s verses as Nicolai continued, “Now, with Lysander’s pulling of the Gryphonheart Blade and the Oracle of the Dawn’s words to him, it comes to light that none of the children perished.  It’s a miracle.  Beyond a miracle.  But that’s the way it seems to have happened.”

“Huh.  I did hear about that, now that I think about it.  King Deathknell was quite proud of having offed the Erathian queen and princess.  He used it for political leverage with the grumbling nobles.”  She glanced up to see Nicolai’s frown, then dropped her gaze back to the words she was writing.  “I suppose you don’t need to hear that.  So, this ‘dark night’ refers to the attack?”

“I assume so.  The Oracle gave us some background on each sibling as well as information on their current circumstances.”

“Some more cryptic than others.  ‘Sanctuary of music and song?’  What the hell…?”  Tam stopped as a connection hit her.

“Well, as Oracles go, it was quite lucid.  Nathan is obviously Nathaniel Stonestead.  But, yes, some of the others…”

“Icy Point!”

“…I have no clue.  What?”

“Icy Point!  It’s a town in northern Great Arcan.  There’s a monastery nearby famous for its choir.  One of my troupe mates in Nekross applied to be transferred there before she became a shadow mage.  Officially, it’s a center for Life and Order magic, but the real attraction is the music.”  She held the transcribed Oracle up for Nicolai, who accepted and examined it.

“Who’s there?”

“I think we could find Arabelle there.  Look at her stanza.  It should be close, too.”  

To her shock, Nicolai started silently mouthing the words of the first stanza, using a finger to track his place.  A sharp retort about illiterate knights crossed Tam’s mind, but Nicolai was concentrating very hard, so she opted against interrupting.  He was a paladin and a royally-reared prince to boot.  She boggled at his poor education.  After a minute or so of puzzling out the words, though, he gave up and flipped the map over.  “Where is the town?  No, wait, I see it.  Yes, that is close.  We’ll go there first, then.”  He handed the map back to her.  “By the way, you’ve got the most bizarre Elven script I’ve ever seen.  No offense, but my Elven is rusty.  You don’t happen to know the Erathian alphabet, do you?”

“Oh.  Yes.”  She looked at the map side.  The place names were scribbled in Palaedra’s bastardized cross between Erathian and Enroth scripts.  Her own writing was the vampiric variant of the AvLee elves’ letters.  “I suppose you’d prefer something easier for you to read?”

“Enrothian, Erathian, or the Dwarven runes, please.  I can figure out classic Elven and most of the mage glyphs, but it takes a while.”  He shrugged and smiled.  “Anyway, before we head off, I suggest we stop off at the creek aways west of here.  We both need to bathe and do laundry.  That creek is in the right direction but is far enough away that the Seer’s nasty pets shouldn’t make another unexpected appearance.”

“You figured the ghouls were his, too, huh?”

“Why do you think I pulled out the charm for him?  No use provoking another attack.  Arrogant bastard.”

She grinned as she pulled her grimy tunic over her head.  “Did you notice the brown roots of his hair?  He was a dye job.”

“The widow’s peak was painted on, too.”  His laughing eyes grew wide.  “Uh, are you…?”

“I’m going to bed, you goof.  Of course I’m getting undressed.”

“Er.  Um.  I’ll, uh, I think I’ll just, ah, face this other way here.”

“You do that.  Ugh, there’s still slime on my pants.”  He nearly turned to look.  She stifled her laughter as he caught himself and brought a hand up to shield his eyes, even though she was nowhere near his field of vision.  “So,” she continued as she peeled off the offending pants, “you’re half-gryphon, Nicolai?”

The edges of his ears were red, but he chuckled.  “I was hoping you’d forget that stanza.  Have you ever dealt with a gryphon cub?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“Pleasure indeed.  Think about a puppy’s energy and put it on really strong coffee.  Add a double dose of kittens’ curiosity.  Mix in enough brains to find and cause a lot of trouble.  Now give it wings and a really sharp beak.”

“You had wings and a really sharp beak, huh?”

“Very funny.  Anyway, you get the picture.  Gryphon cubs are a handful, to say the least.  I wasn’t the proper, dignified schoolboy my father had been, so the castle staff said I was half-gryphon.  They weren’t entirely wrong, either.  I’m told my mother was also rambunctious as a child.  Can I turn around now?”

“Yes.”  Tam slipped into her bedroll.  Watching him lay out his roll, she cheerily asked, “You’re not going to sleep in your armor, are you?”

He gave her a mock glare.  “Turn over.  You said you were tired, so go to sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, but he’d hit the truth quite well.  She rolled over and listened to Nicolai remove his plate and padding before crawling into his roll.  She only peeked once.

____________
 Cleverly
disguised as a responsible adult

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Asmodean
Asmodean


Responsible
Supreme Hero
Heroine at the weekend.
posted January 15, 2005 02:33 PM

Finally got my chance to star this

____________

To err is human, to arr is pirate.

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Khaelo
Khaelo


Honorable
Supreme Hero
Underwater
posted January 17, 2005 10:13 PM
Edited By: Khaelo on 22 Jan 2005

interlude

While Tamika and Nicolai slog through the wilderness of snow, cold, and writer's block, I would like to add a brief interlude to this thread.

The following story is only tangentally related to HoMM and my psuedo-Axeoth and not at all related to the ongoing story here.  It was inspired by an exercise in the Writers Guild.  I'm placing it over here because A) the exercise has hit roadblocks which need to be cleared up in-thread, and B) I absolutely loathe the Glade's color scheme.  Seriously.  For those inclined to give feedback:  If you haven't looked at the Writers' Guild exercise, please don't do that before reading this.  This story is supposed to stand on its own, and most of the info I placed over there is either spoilerish or inaccurate, possibly both.  (Afterwards, of course, feel free to head on over and pester the other guild guys to get their rears in gear. )

This version is slightly tweaked from the versions e-mailed.

Thanks,
~Khaelo

Edit: 1-20-05  Tweak Two
Edit: 1-22-05: Tweak Three


Last Kiss

Early morning light teases through the muslin curtains of our bedroom.  It glints off my sword and armor, carefully propped in a corner, and plays through the warm yellow parchment of Robert’s scrolls scattered on the floor.  I push away the heavy blankets, shiver, and step out of bed.  The cold frisks away my last anxious dreams.  Robert shifts positions in his sleep.  Pulling back the curtains turns the sunlight into a white glare, but he still sleeps.  His long hair lies tangled across his pillow.  Gently, I run my fingers through the earthy strands.  This rouses him a little but not enough, so I give his shoulders a shake.  At that, he opens his eyes to peer at me.

“Rarrrgh,” he says.

“Get up.”

He drags his fingers through his hair and scrunches it, undoing my work.  I collect my clothes from the rough dresser we share, lay them in a stack, and then start filling the washing basin with water from the pitcher.

“Jezebelle.”  Robert is watching me with ravenous eyes.  “Come back.”

I pause.  “They expect me at the chapel site.”

“Yes, and they expect me at the University.  In two hours.  We have time; come back to bed.  Aren’t you hungry?”  I continue to hesitate, and he tips his head.  “Ah, why do I have to seduce a succubus?  I’d like to start this day pleasantly, lace.”

The delicate nickname, his hopeful tone, his golden brown eyes as liquid and sweet as maple syrup …My stomach tightens.  He knows me too well.  I clutch the cold, smooth porcelain bowl, but his gaze heats my face.  “No,” I protest one last time.  He shakes his head and smiles, holding his hand out to me, and my resolve snaps.  He wants this.  Reluctantly, I place the bowl on the dresser and slip back under the blankets.

Robert begins to run his hands over my body, as he always does, stroking my face, arms, shoulders, back.  He whispers against my ear, “Silly Jezebelle.  So reluctant, a honeybee who shuns flowers.  Ah.”  I wrap my arms around his neck.  With every thrilling heartbeat, shame flushes my cheeks anew, and I bury my face against Robert’s hair.  His wandering fingers smooth over my shoulder blades and trace the pattern of my scars.  “I wish you still had your wings,” he says, a lament he has voiced a hundred times.  I don’t want to fight about this again, so I say nothing, and he moves on.  I try to distance myself from temptation, try to fix my eyes on the rough dresser, the basin, the stack of clothes, but the sweet well of pleasure deep within Robert teases me.  I break, and in blind, aching hunger I reach for it.  Soft, swift caresses elicit its rise, his joy, my nourishment.  His skin grows warm under my touch, then hot.  The wash of Robert’s energy soon swamps my guilt, filling my blood with nectar.  For one beautiful, blasphemous moment, I believe that this is what I live for.

In Robert’s mind, I am a creature of light, beauty, and joy.  In Robert’s arms, I can pretend that it is so.

When we are done and I am sated, he gives me a last kiss before finally getting out of bed.  He wraps the thick coverlet around his body and takes it with him as he goes into the kitchen to prepare his breakfast.  He will get dressed later.  I finish filling the basin with cold water and cleanse myself before pulling on my stockings and leggings.  The wool-colored tunic slips easily over my malformed shoulder blades.  All succubi and incubi are born with wings, but I bear scars as a gift from my mother.  She cut off the wings, the tell-tale sign of my nature, and left me on a village doorstep to be raised as an elf.  Hers was the greatest act of love I have ever known.  Robert regrets the loss of my wings because he still thinks that there is nothing wrong my hunger.  For all his brilliance and study and travel, this one concept eludes his grasp.  It is the one thing I wish he understood.  I lace my boots and secure my belt.  My armor must remain empty in its corner, a warrior without a war.  My duties as a paladin, a knight of honor, now concern civil life.  After plaiting my hair, I join Robert in the kitchen.  

As usual, he has a bowl of porridge at his side and several messy, dog-eared notebooks spread across the table.  The brick oven has heated up the small room quickly, and Robert’s blanket now drapes the back of his chair, abandoned.

“Look,” he says, pointing out a passage.  “I found this spell in the margins of Theodore’s commentary on Hiacyalon.”  The names mean nothing to me, so I just nod.  “Obviously, the spell’s effect is the same as better known incantations, but look at the technique!  I’ve never seen anything like it.  As soon as the University libraries are fully accessible, I’m going to cross-reference this.  Maybe test it in the labs, too, once they’re built.  Ah!  Why does construction take so long?  When will it be finished?”

“I don’t know.  I’m only supervising the chapel.  Don’t worry, you have time.”

He grins.  “Ah, lace, I never forget your gift.  Most of my colleagues would kill for the chance to share your immortal life.  No, I’m just impatient.  The elegance, the ambition, the sheer breadth of the University…it stuns the mind.  Oh, Jezebelle!  White spires reaching to the sky, topped with opal roofs.  Rows of sparkling columns lining gardens of exotic flora.  Cavernous libraries of the rarest tomes and scrolls, lit by oil lamps and colored glass windows.  It will be the pinnacle of the Crescent Isles’ glory, the jewel of our hard-won independence.  Can you blame me for being eager to see it completed?  Also,” he adds, rearranging the notebooks, “it will be much more convenient to work once the construction crews are gone.”

His porridge is congealing.  I push the bowl closer to him.  “Eat now.  You can read once you get to your study.”

“My study is full of sawdust and noise,” he says, but he picks up the spoon anyway.  While he eats, I gather his notebooks and place them in his satchel.  When he’s finished, he gets up, leaving his bowl on the table.  “Blessings and fortune to you, lace,” he says, giving my cheek a kiss.

“Same to you, beloved,” I answer in our traditional ritual of departure.  He disappears back into the bedroom to get dressed.  The autumn morning is clear but cool, so I pull my rose-tinted cloak from its peg before walking to the chapel site.

Despite Robert’s gorgeous vision, the University has no soaring white spires or glittering stained glass.   Only one tower stands above the site, a rod of dull granite topped with a temporary roof of tarred wood.  Throughout the University grounds, I pass mountains of black volcanic soil, some of them graced with opportunistic tropical weeds.  The chapel backs against the alchemists’ kilns.  Soon, there will be a wall enclosing its courtyard, but for now it sits amongst squat, earthy red beehives. It stands out like a djinni amongst humans, an ethereal being out of its proper element.  Its pale, silvery walls and arching windows are veiled with rough wooden scaffolding.  It has no roof.

When I arrive, the workers are milling about as usual.  It’s an odd crowd: djinn, gnomes, sylphs, elves.  One incubus, a pale figure with electrum tinted wings and silver blond hair, sits high on the scaffolding already.  He waves at me, as he does every morning, and I ignore him, as I do every morning.  As the other workers spot me, they start a slow migration toward the building itself and the scaffolding.  My presence signals the start of the day, and work begins without any action on my part.  Since I know nothing about construction, this suits me fine.  I am only here as a representative of the ruling council.  

As the regular workers set about their tasks, becoming a mingled mosaic against the gleaming walls, a group of about twenty individuals stands off to the side, separate and idle.  They are all elves, all dressed in browns and golds, and all still milling.  They watch me approach with half-eyed glances and quick looks, never enough to catch my eye.

“Greetings,” I hail them.  “I am Jezebelle Helena, Paladin of the Isles.  You are looking for work here?”

No one steps forward but the group makes a general mumbling noise which I interpret as assent.

“Very well.  Do you see the djinni over there by the round blocks?  The one in the red robe?  That’s Ashe.  He’s a priest.  He designed this building and oversees its construction.  He’ll have work for you.  Go speak to him.”

This meets the group’s general approval, and they start to move off.  I am about to take my usual post near the northwest corner when a face amongst the elves catches my eye.  I turn to see a lecherous stare cast in my direction.  Under normal circumstances, such a thing is rarely worth my attention.  However, this elf boldly raises his gaze and meets my eyes.  He has ashy dark brown hair and pale gold eyes.  For one explosive moment, I believe he is from my hometown.  He grins, and then vanishes back into the faceless band.

No.  It cannot be the same boy.

I remember the elf from long ago, a boy with rough hands and walnut hair and eyes the color of grass in a drought.  I can’t recall his name.  Perhaps I forgot deliberately.  My mother -- my foster mother -- sent me down to the mill with a measure of wheat, and this boy met me at the door.  He was the miller’s son.  He met me with a scalding stare, and the heat in his eyes warmed his smile.  The growing hunger of my childhood, the appetite without a name and without a cure, flared painfully in my gut.  I was cold tinder, and he threw sparks like a bonfire.  He took my grain, and then he took me into the back room where flour tinged the air and sunlight filtered through in yellow streamers.  Pressed against the splintering wooden wall, listening to the scrape and groan of the millstones, I tasted nectar for the first time.  There was pale dust in his dark hair, tacky grit on his skin, lust in his gauzy eyes.  When we finished, he left me among the flour sacks.

The elf’s searing gaze stings even after it is over.  I drift to my post in the corner and sink onto the mound of dirt.  Though I try, I cannot resist the urge to look back towards the elves.  They have lined up in front of Ashe, who sweeps before them, undoubtedly giving his signature pep talk.  He is a djinni, a creature of flame given flesh.  His scarlet robes billow like smoke, his gestures quick as fleeting sparks.  All of the elves’ attention centers on him, and I can no longer tell which one stared at me.

They all look the same after a while.  The boy with walnut hair taught me satisfaction, and I learned the lesson gluttonously.  All the virtue of a lifetime fell away in one autumn.  I ran from one boy to another to another to another.  The nook of the frontier wall, lichen-coated and icy in the shortening days; the sticky place behind the blackberry patch gone papery and dry; the steaming waters of the hot spring under disdainful midnight stars; the sooty, metallic heat of the forge; these were my secret lairs.  Every union fed my hunger and fed my guilt.  These were not the actions of an honorable girl, but control never occurred to me.  I didn’t care yet.

“Jezebelle.”  Ashe has appeared by my side.  I startle.  With no footstep or breath, the djinni frequently surprises me.  It’s only noon, but his crimson cheeks are flushed, his loose turban already unraveling, two tiny horns peeking up from under the amber strips of cloth.  He never stops moving.  I shift away from the uncomfortable heat radiating from his body.  From the corner of my eye, I see his burning gaze fixed on me.  “The men say you’re staring at them.”

“Oh?”  My hands grow cold, and I still their flutter by folding them in my lap.

“Mmm.  Some are making rude suggestions.”

“Tell them I’m married.”
“Married?  Is that what your arrangement with the mage is now?”

“It’s not an arrangement; it’s a bond.  Our shared life ties us together.  If one dies, so does the other.  I have no other name for it,” I say.  After a pause, I add, “Do the men fear my kiss?”

“They don’t recognize you as a succubus, not without the wings.”  He tilts his head to me.  “I merely wanted to alert you to the situation.  Good day, Jezebelle.”

The elves stand in groups, glancing at me and whispering to themselves until Ashe shoos them back to work.  What are they saying?  My forehead and cheeks feel hot, but my gut seizes into ice.  What do they say about me?  I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders, protecting what little modesty I have left.  Is it even worth protecting anymore?

That long-ago winter was cold and unusually snowy.  Privacy was hard to find.  So, when my foster mother left to assist the mayor’s wife with her first childbirth, I snatched the opportunity to see the boy with walnut hair again.  We snuck back to my foster mother’s cottage and climbed through the tiny back window.  Four of my five sisters, my foster mother’s daughters, were in the front room.  I don’t remember the excuse I had given them for my absence.  It didn’t matter.  The boy tossed me onto my foster mother’s bed, threw aside the patchwork quilt of four generations’ labor, and I took him there.  His slim body pressed me into the enveloping scent of my foster mother’s perfume, of which she habitually wore too much.  Her honeysuckle, oak, and maple mingled with the sweat of the boy and the stale hay and unwashed wool of the bedclothes, and I forever remember that as the smell of elf.  Then, in the midst of our tussle, my youngest sister walked in.

Nothing really happened.  That was the worst part.  My sister made a small sound, like a chipmunk run over with a cartwheel, and then she ran out and closed the door.  The boy with walnut hair yanked himself away from me, snatched up his clothes, and slipped back out the window without a word.  The falling snow covered his footsteps within a matter of minutes, and it was as if he had never been with me at all.  I heard voices on the other side of the door, in the front room.  After an hour of huddling, shivering in silence and darkness, I pulled on my damp stockings, replaced my skirts, relaced my bodice, and walked into the other room.  None of my sisters said a word, none of them looked at me, and none of them paused their tasks: their mending, their herb-sorting, their embroidery, their lettering.  The fire spit and hissed, casting its amber light on lowered faces and darkened eyes.  I sat down.  Still, no one spoke.  I took up my jar of shafts, my basket of feathers, and began fletching arrows.  The fire snapped and scolded, but not a sound from my sisters.  For five hours, we remained in silence until my foster mother came home.  She blustered in with drifts of snow, bringing news of the mayor’s healthy new son, a bottle of sweet red wine, and fresh warm bread.  My sisters and I gathered around her, and no one mentioned a boy with walnut hair.

The silence never descended upon me so harshly again, but it never left either.  I felt it everywhere.  The venerable matrons of the village gathered in my mother’s cottage to knit and gossip and send me dark glances while whispering behind their handkerchiefs.  The girls at the well in the numbingly cold mornings filled their buckets as quickly as possible then scurried away as I approached.  The men harrumphed while drinking their wine and gave me long sidelong glances, stripping away my clothes and scrutinizing the shuddering soul beneath.  No one said the words in my presence, but they echoed in my head just the same:  snow.  snow. Tramp.  Harlot.

“Jezebelle!”  I cringe and throw up my hands.  Ashe peers at me with a deeply creased brow.  A rogue lock of smoky hair has escaped from his turban and curls around the base of the left horn.  “What are you doing?”

“You scared me,” I say.

The priest is still looking at me.  His gaze burns.  “You’re watching the elves very closely,” he says.  “Is something wrong?”

“They’re fine,” I lie.  Sin upon sin, guilt upon guilt.

Ashe pauses a moment before saying, “You and I, we’re both veterans of the war.  We risked everything we had for a taste of freedom, for the chance to follow our natures without fear.  These elves risked nothing. They called us evil, you and me, succubus and djinni.  But now here they are to reap the fruits of our hard-fought battle.  I understand if it upsets you.  But, Jezebelle, we can’t take another war before rebuilding from the first.  We need their help and their friendship, like it or not.”  He lays a hot hand on my shoulder.  He’s all wrong, but my tongue is tied with ash and memories.  “If their presence bothers you, then go home.  We’re getting along well enough, and I can give you a report tomorrow.” With that, he is gone.

I will not go home and abandon my duty, no matter how useless.  I am a paladin.  No one questions a paladin’s honor.  That is why I chose this profession when I left my hometown.  With my strength at arms, I prove my strength of soul.  Now that the war is over…The memory of Robert’s body caresses my mind.  I think of the love with which I debase him, and I recoil.  Now that the war is over, I am only a succubus again.

I tried to stop.  For the rest of that winter, I clutched my hunger to myself, an animal gnawing in my gut.  The boys did not make it easy.  Accustomed to my eager appetites, they tempted and pinched, taunted and pleaded.  I held on.  The growing agony and weakness of my body filled the resounding silence surrounding me and numbed the burning sparks within.  I held on.

My hands shake, and I rock back and forth.  The afternoon sun glares at me.  The elves are still staring.  Their motions are hasty and agitated, and they look over their shoulders frequently.  Ashe stares too, his golden eyes burning away the layers of my lies.  His god, a god secret to his people, must strip away my delicate mask to show his priest the ugliness beneath.  I see it in Ashe’s eyes, the tight line of his mouth, and the odd tilt of his head.  He makes a “go away” gesture at me with one hand, and I know immediately that he knows.  He will expose me, tell his fellow djinn, and it will all begin again.  I get up, shivering and sweating, feeling too warm from the inside and too cold from the outside.  I begin to run.  I think I’m going home.

I fell on a warm spring day, a week or so before May Day.  My heart beat too fast in the heat, and my limbs would not move as I wanted.  I had spent the previous night crying again.  That morning, I made a decision and walked the long road up to the mill.  The boy with walnut hair was there, smeared with mud and powder.  He grinned when he saw me and brushed his hands off on the front of his pants.  I demanded that he marry me.  Right there in the doorway of the mill, with his curious eyes fixed on me, I offered him the last shred of my decency.  After a moment of perfect silence, he laughed.  He saw my lie.  He took my arm and shoved me into the back room.

My desire was beyond control.  The instant my back hit the wall, I slapped his clumsy, calloused hands away from my skirts and kissed him on the mouth.  Too many weeks had passed.  I wanted him, everything about him, everything I could take.  It was a kiss I had never given before, and I didn’t know its power until it was over.  Instead of allowing his pleasure to filter into my blood, I seized him by the hair, kissed him on the mouth, and drank the energy I wanted.  I pulled it right out of his core.  His screams against my mouth were strange and silent.  I don’t know if they were cries of ecstasy or terror. By the time I sated my appetite, he stared at me with dead eyes, eyes the color of dry leaves.  My heart thrust hot blood into my cheeks with panicked, shuddering throbs.  I left his body among the flour sacks and fled.

The evening stars peek out from under the falling dusk, and I run through half-cobbled streets looking for a home.  Ashe’s burning eyes follow me everywhere.  Who will he tell?  Will word come back to Robert?  Beautiful, blind Robert?

“Jezebelle!  Jezebelle!”  Hands seize me from behind, and Robert spins me around to face him.  “Sweet gods!  Where have you been?  I went to the chapel, but the djinni didn’t know where you’d gone.  He said you just ran off…”  He goes on and on as he guides me home.  We stumble in the door.  He unclasps my cloak and presses me into a chair.  He fetches a cup of water.  When he looks at me, his eyes reflect a vision of someone lovable.  But the reflection he sees is a delusion, a distortion.  He lies to himself.  I am no more a creature of joy and love than the University is a complex of towers and gardens.  

This cannot go on.

“Beloved,” I say.

He kneels beside my chair, takes my chin, and lowers my head to his.  His lips are soft on my cheek as he kisses me.  His hands rest on my shoulders.  The delicate thread of life thrums in his touch.  I slide off the chair and wrap my arms around him.  “I love you,” he whispers, and I know I have ruined him.   I bring my lips to his.  “I love you, too,” I tell him, and then I kiss him on the mouth.

It is the kiss I have given to only one other and that by accident.  Now, I do it deliberately.  Robert’s energy, his life, the delicious nectar of his essence, rushes into my body.  His eager response suddenly dissolves, and he struggles in my arms.  He’s young.  He doesn’t understand.  He pushes away, and I pull him closer.  His hands scrape at my skin.  Lines of pain begin to sear down my scarred back, but I ignore them.  I cling to freedom, freedom for me and freedom for Robert.  The torrent begins to ebb.  The weight in my arms sags.  A few moments more, and it feels empty and useless, so I let it go.  Robert is gone, but I feel nothing.  My own limbs have grown heavy and numb.  The bond that imprisoned Robert in this broken life will not release him without taking me as well.  It pulls me into the welcome chill of death.  My final battle is won, and all that remain are echoing memories.  I release them into a silent void.
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Svarog
Svarog


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statue-loving necrophiliac
posted January 20, 2005 03:29 AM

I see Khaelo, your Muse’s been in the mood lately. Excellent story. Emotional to the bone, authentic to the human psyche, although presented through a “non-existant” succubus. Painfully imressive ending. Melancholic love against agonizing freedom, basking in the bloody aftermath. Loved it.
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Khaelo
Khaelo


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posted January 21, 2005 03:02 AM
Edited By: Khaelo on 20 Jan 2005

Thank you.  I'm glad you enjoyed it.    That, after all, is the ultimate goal.
 
It's been tweaked again, based on comments by non-fantasy readers.
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RedSoxFan3
RedSoxFan3


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posted January 21, 2005 08:11 PM

Well I read the rest of the story. It was quite good. However I don't understand a lot of things about Succubi and this deadly kiss thing. Did she commit suicide or simply kill Robert?

Another thing that was unclear was the timeline of events. I think the timeline of events and when things happened isn't exactly clear.
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Khaelo
Khaelo


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posted January 22, 2005 12:36 AM

Attempting to lay to rest the perpetual question:
Quote:
My own limbs have grown heavy and numb.  The bond that imprisoned Robert in this broken life will not release him without taking me as well.  It pulls me into the welcome chill of death.  My final battle is won...

Would the addition of the phrase in bold clarify the situation at the end?  Every single person who's commented on the story has mentioned this ambiguity, and it's a bad one, so I'm eager to fix it.

As to the nature of succubi, it's out of character for Jezebelle to suddenly spew an encyclopedic entry on her species.  It's unfortunate, because that would be much more convenient.    Instead, I tried to sprinkle information through the story on a need-to-know basis.  Is it still too subtle?

Where is the timeline unclear?
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RedSoxFan3
RedSoxFan3


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posted January 22, 2005 08:38 AM

When did she do stuff... with guys? Because I kept thinking it was a flashback while she was at work.
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