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Chosen Worf

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--- Assassination ---

Stars twinkled in the night sky, gazing down at a slumbering castle. They glinted off of the sleeping guards' helms, throwing shining shadows onto the cold battlements. A cold winter breeze rustled darkened banners.

A sudden thunk sounded from the ground below. A lone grappling hook sailed over the wall, latching on to the closest ledge. A guard snored loudly, then slipped back to his dreams.

A few seconds passed. Then a black figure, clad in blackened leather, slipped over the edge of the wall. It landed on the walkway, the sound of its padded footfalls lost in the rustling of the banners. Like a deadly shade of legend, the figure glided over to the sleeping guard. Suddenly, a silver blade flashed in the starlight; then the figure ran off along the wall towards the stairs into the courtyard.

The guard's voice had been silenced forever.

Meanwhile, the shade flitted between the lush trees and bushes of the courtyard. The guards that were awake remained oblivious; the few that saw movement out of the corner of their eyes dismissed it as the wind in the trees.

The black breeze quickly made its way towards the keep's imposing timber doors. A pair of well-armored knights stood at attention on both sides, long pikes planted firmly in the ground. Unlike the bunglers on the walls, these were professionals; they remained awake and alert.

One of the knights noticed a black shadow running towards the door out of the shadow of the trees. He opened his mouth to call "Halt;" but all that issued from his mouth was a small squeak before a pair of daggers sprouted from his and his partner's necks, pinning them to the wall. The last thing the knight was aware of before he slipped into oblivion was the shadow's swift theft of the door key from his clenched gauntlet.

As the pair of guards died silently, the figure slipped into the dark keep.

Recalling the fortress's layout from memory, it passed phantom-like through the dark hallways.

14-Jun-2012 03:34:31 - Last edited on 14-Jun-2012 03:50:06 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Finally, after a couple of flights of stairs and running down a long chamber, it found its goal: a tall, ornate door, emblazoned with a leaping stag and a pair of crossed swords. Easily picking the lock with a still-bloody dagger, it opened the door and slid inside.

---

Meanwhile, a guard on the wall stirred, then stretched and yawned. Scratching his nether regions, he heaved up with a grunt, snatched his spear from the wall beside him, and thumped down along the wall on a late patrol.

He wondered groggily about whether anyone had snitched on his sleeping on the watch, and how that would affect his pay. Beer wouldn't buy itself, after all.

Down the wall a little ways he saw a pair of legs stretched out into the walkway, and a man slumped against the wall. The guard chuckled; it seemed he wasn't the only one prone to napping.

"Oi, Tom!" the guard called in a gruff voice.

No reply.

"You'd best wake up, Tom, or the overseer'll have your pay docked."

Still no answer. The guard grunted, and clumped over to Tom's still form.

"Get up, lazybones," the guard said. "I'll not have you igno-"

He cut short, noticing the sheen of starlight on the blood slowly oozing from Tom's neck. For a moment, his sleep-dulled brain struggled to comprehend what he was seeing; then, dropping his spear, he ran off down the wall, screaming frantically.

---

The shrill cry jolted Lord Barthelas out of his sleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily; then a candle sparked to life on the far wall from his bed. Backlit by the candle was a dark figure.

"Who are you?" Barthelas said. "How did you get in here?"

The figure said nothing. Barthelas quickly reached for the sword that was hung above his bed, but a dagger flashed from the figure's hand, nailing Barthelas' outstretched wrist to the wall. He screamed in agony, blood gushing from severed veins.

Slowly the scream petered out. Breathing heavily, Barthelas spoke again.

"What... what do you want from me?"

14-Jun-2012 03:34:40 - Last edited on 14-Jun-2012 14:13:52 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

The intruder reached up and unwound layers of black leather from its head. Barthelas began to fidget nervously, wondering what sort of monster lay under the black strips. But then the last strip came away, revealing a tall teenage boy with dark hair and glinting black eyes. Barthelas relaxed visibly.

"I want payment," the boy said, in an eerily monotone voice.

Barthelas frowned. "Quit playing your games, boy. I don't owe anyone anything."

"Oh, but you do," the boy said, as if he were a teacher correcting an erroneous student. "You have debts to many. In particular, to all of those that you have robbed, cheated, and ground into the dust."

The boy scowled, eyes flashing in contempt. A bead of sweat popped involuntarily onto Barthelas' forehead; something about those black pits of eyes unnerved him.

"All I've done is looked out for my family," Barthelas pleaded, switching tactics.

"Then you do not regret your actions?" the boy asked.

Barthelas' jaw muscles tightened, and he returned the boy's piercing gaze defiantly.

"I did not think you would," the boy said after a second of silence. "Perfect."

He slowly stalked over to the side of the bed, drawing another dagger from a holster on his thigh. Barthelas began sweating profusely, eyes widening in fear.

"Wait," he stammered frantically. The boy paused beside him. "I can give you money. You're a peasant, aren't you? I can give your family all that they desire, and more."

The boy stared down at the sweating man below him. Then, curling his lip, he said, "I don't want your money, you dog."

The dagger flashed downwards into its black-hearted sheath.

--- END ---

14-Jun-2012 03:34:50 - Last edited on 14-Jun-2012 14:15:07 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

--- When Breathing Stops ---

The sounds of slow, labored breathing and soft sobbing wafted from the shadows of the hospital room. Occasionally a thick cough punctuated the otherwise stillness. Out in the hallway, someone flipped a light on, and the beams spilled through the small rectangular window of the door to reveal a young woman sitting hunched over a weary-looking aged man.

A few more moments passed, and slowly both the sobbing and the labored breathing ceased. The woman gently reached forward to hold her hand under the man’s nose, and feeling nothing, slowly withdrew.

---

Mark opened his eyes. He was still in his hospital room, and it was dark but for the white light beaming from the door window. He looked down at himself. Thin IV tubes ran from his thin arms up to bags of vascular fluid, and dried black blood specks dotted the chest of his white hospital shift. His legs were covered with his favorite hand-woven quilt. At his side near his left hip sat Melanie, his daughter. Though she was backlit by the window, a strange silvery outline let Mark distinguish her sorrowful features: beautiful brown almond shaped eyes, small quivering lips, and a small cutely bowed nose.

“I’m awake,” he said, sitting up. She said nothing, and turned her face away.

“Melanie?”

“She can’t hear you, Mark.”

He turned to the right look at the source of this new voice. At first he could see nothing; then, slowly, a figure seemed to coalesce from the shadows, until eventually a man stood beside the bed. He wore a brown fedora, with a matching trench coat. He wore large horn-rimmed glasses and his hands were in his pockets. But most strange to Mark was that he could see the man as if he were standing in broad daylight.

14-Jun-2012 03:35:00 - Last edited on 14-Jun-2012 14:19:11 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

“What do you mean, she can’t hear me?” Mark asked.

The man looked down and shook his head.

“Stand up so I can have a good look at you.”

“I haven’t been able to stand in months,” Mark replied.

“Stand up, Mark.”

Mark slowly shifted his legs over the edge of the bed, being careful not to disturb Melanie, hesitated for a second, then slowly rose to his feet. The man took off his glasses and slowly examined Mark from head to toe. Mark felt strangely exposed as the man stared at his shift-covered body, but the feeling disappeared when he put his glasses back on.

The man nodded satisfactorily. "Everything seems to be in order. Come along."

The man's prognosis made Mark felt oddly comfortable. He started forward, then stopped and glanced back at Melanie. His gut told him that he would not see her again for a long time.

“What about her? She’ll have no one left.”

“She will be alright,” the man said, with no doubt in his voice. “Come on. There are others waiting for you.”

Mark turned once again to look at the bed where his still body lay. Then he followed the man out of the door into the blinding white light.

---

A small creak from the door caused Melanie to look up from the floor. Just a nurse passing by, she thought, though she did not see a shadow in the yellow light. She glanced back at her father. The shadow of pain had fallen away from his face. She gave a tearful grin, knowing that he was at peace.

She sat by the body’s side for a few more minutes. Then, gathering up her purse, she walked over to the door and left through the dimly lit hallway.

-End-

14-Jun-2012 03:35:10 - Last edited on 14-Jun-2012 14:20:52 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

--- Tristan's Peace ---

Tristan stumbled through the slightly ajar gateway, wisps of snow following in his wake. He lay facedown on the warm stone floor for a few moments as the giant gates swung shut, then slowly raised his eyes to the glowing hallway before him.
A blazing hearth cast a gilded glow around the grand hallway, and the ornate obsidian pillars seemed to lean in towards the crackling fire, their ornamental designs of mythical creatures reaching their frosty paws and claws towards the warmth. A trio of brown-robed monks lounged on stone benches around the flames, the shadows of their fur-lined hoods obscuring their faces. Tristan got to his feet.

“No one has braved this mountain in years, stranger,” the leftmost monk said, rising out of his seat and turning away from the fire. “And those that would try would not do it during the stormiest season in recent memory. Why have you come?”
“I want to join you,” Tristan said, clearing his throat.

Beneath the shadows of his hood, the monk raised a grey wizened eyebrow. He said nothing, but beckoned Tristan towards the fire. He thankfully acquiesced. A few moments later saw Tristan wrapped tightly in a thick bearskin blanket with a steaming cup of hot tea in his hands. “Thank you, good sirs,” he said, sipping his drink. “I couldn’t ask for better hospitality.”

“It is our pleasure and duty,” the monk replied as he reclaimed his seat. “What is your name?”

“I am Tristan, son of Trevor.”

The monk gazed thoughtfully at him, examining his face. “Why do you wish to join our convent?”

Tristan stared away into the fire, memories flashing through his mind: children screaming, women pleading for mercy, bloodstained blades. When he looked up, his noble young face was fraught with pain.

“I want to find peace.”

The monk reached up and lowered his hood to stare once more into Tristan’s eyes. He squirmed slightly under the monk’s intense brown eyes.

14-Jun-2012 03:35:19 - Last edited on 18-Jun-2012 20:06:49 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

“The winds have spoken to us of you, Tristan Baneblade. We know of your robbery, pillaging, murder. The blood of your victims taints the bones of the Earth. Why should we allow someone like you to join our peace-loving order?”

Tristan’s eyes dropped to the floor. When he looked up, golden tears sparkled on his cheeks. “I need- no- I have to make amends. I’ve sinned, and now I fear that the gods themselves have spurned me. These things have weighed on my mind for years; I want to be free of that worry.”

The middlemost monk then spoke, his voice deeper, softer, and more powerful than his companion’s.

“We do not have the peace that you seek, Baneblade.”

Tristan’s eyes widened. He quickly looked between the three monks, desperation replacing pain on his features. “Please,” he begged, *I*ll do anything. I’ll… I’ll write down all of my transgressions as penance. I’ll be the most devout monk in this convent. Just please… I need to join you.”

The monks said nothing for a small while. Tristan began sweating.

“Your peace is not here, Tristan,” the middle monk repeated. “You cannot join our order.”

Tristan hung his head in disbelief.

“We will give you a bed for the night, and you will leave in the morning.”

The group sat in silence, and the fire slowly began to die down. After what seemed like an eternity, Tristan stood and took his leave. The rightmost, silent monk led him away through the shadowed convent hallways.

---

The next morning saw Tristan trudging through last night’s deep snowdrifts, the sun thankfully hidden by a curtain of clouds. A light snow drifted silently down, settling on Tristan’s shoulders and dark brown hair.

The head monk's final words still echoed in the back of his mind: “You will find your peace, Baneblade. But it will be in the most painfully familiar surroundings.”

--- End ---

14-Jun-2012 03:35:28 - Last edited on 18-Jun-2012 20:08:50 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

---The Lightning and the Eagle ---

It was a humid day in Vietnam.

Of course, to the natives, humidity was not out of the ordinary. The thick air, which was stifling to any outsider, was like a familiar blanket. However, a new layer of familiarity had woven itself into their daily lives of late: the monotone roar of fighter jets. The constant cacophony only lent a voice to the smothering atmosphere.

Private Mark Aquila had never gotten used to the humidity.

He lay caked in the thick mud of a steep bank, his sweat mixing with the thirsty earth. He glanced at his watch, then slowly rotated his head to listen to the sky. The jets had not yet arrived. He wanted to sigh, but decided against it. One never knew how much movement would attract the Viet Cong’s attention. He had seen men gunned down for merely scratching their noses. Unnecessary movement was not an option.

He returned his attention to the scene below his bank. It was an idyllic, ordinary Vietnamese village. A few ragged chickens strutted proudly between the dingy straw huts, lords of their domain. Mark sometimes wondered what it would feel like to be one of the peasants of a village, and have to go out into the surrounding paddies with the leeches and the snakes to hack a living out of the swaying rice stalks. It seemed like an honest life. A shame they had to turn Commie, he thought.

The jets roared in the distance. Mark blinked, capturing the scene in his mind.

As the jets screamed closer, Mark felt the familiar rush of adrenaline begin seeping into his body, like a Roman citizen about to see a man executed in the Coliseum. He gently lifted a pair of camouflaged binoculars, waiting for the spectacle with a macabre eagerness. The rumble of the angels of death overhead became almost unbearable, until Mark let out a whimper that was drowned out by the whine of falling napalm.

14-Jun-2012 14:15:18 - Last edited on 20-Oct-2012 01:51:49 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

The gates of hell opened, and its tiny victim was instantly engulfed in flames. A few screams echoed out of the inferno, and a gust of wind pushed the scent of roasting flesh up the little hill as the blood-red column of fire bleached into a pillar of smoke. Mark watched the village burn. It was one of hundreds, thousands; there was no use in crying over it. Napalm still flickered in the center of the little town, giving the swirling white smoke a frantically beating heart. A young woman burst from the clutches of the pale beast, her ragged shirt pulled over her face. She stumbled a few yards away from the column of smoke before falling face-first to the ground. Mark held his binoculars’ gaze on the shaking figure, nearly entranced. She raised her tearful gaze to the rice paddies beyond, and then cut her own throat.

The binoculars refused to budge from the corpse, no matter how strongly Mark forced himself to look away. In truth, the woman was nothing special to look at: a weak chin, unfortunately coupled with a large nose. She was ordinary; and yet, Mark could not tear his eyes away. In another world, she might have been his wife. He couldn’t help but imagine their life together: a pair of children, a boy and a girl, a cozy little shack in the middle of the village. He would come in from the paddies, ankles caked in mud and carrying a basket of rice on his shoulder, and look up to see his beautifully ordinary wife sweeping their small porch. She would turn her gaze upwards and smile; and he would smile back.

The wind shifted, and the white beast of smoke swallowed his dream.

--- End ---

14-Jun-2012 14:15:27 - Last edited on 20-Oct-2012 01:52:27 by Chosen Worf

Chosen Worf

Posts: 929 Gold Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

--- Judgement ---

Chilly. Not cold, but chilly. That's what Mother always said. I really should've kept my sandals on while I was in that boat. I'll catch my death of cold. Wait a second...

I giggle.

Oops, the line's moving. How long have I been here? How long have we been here? Who are they? I don't recognize any of them. The door is still a ways off. Really ought to have kept my sandals on. These rocks are a bit slippery.

Why is that? Oh, they're wet, that's why. Colored red, too. I'd be sick, but I can't bring myself to it.

I reach up to scratch my scalp. Or, it feels like my scalp, anyway. If a bit slick. And now my nails are colored red too. Such an interesting choice of paint. I would've loved to have been a painter. The crashing sea, the beautiful rivers, the soaring cliffs: I would've painted them all. With permission, of course. Mother always said to never forget permission. And also to not get too close to the beauty.

Door's getting close now. Everyone's standing in line, even though there's no gate that I can see. No doorman either. But we still go through one by one. No one speaks up about the inconvenience. Then again, it's not like we're in a hurry. Or at least, I'm not.

Someone moans. A scream echoes from the looming door. No one is fazed.

I feel like I'm getting close to something important. Like a birthday. Only even more important. Life-changing even.

I giggle again.

It's my turn to step through. I do so promptly. Punctuality is a virtue. Be early for being early, Mother always said.

I notice my surroundings, for the first time, surprisingly. Everything before was so... nondescript. But this, this is a room I could paint. Three men on jeweled thrones, sitting in row. All wear crowns, but the largest and most decorated belongs to the man in the middle. His is studded with sapphires and rubies. They all are wearing long white robes. I really should've dressed for the occasion.

"Arianne of Crete," the man in the middle rumbles.

14-Jun-2012 14:15:36 - Last edited on 30-Nov-2013 04:53:40 by Chosen Worf

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