Biotin Enriched Bomb

[lapdogmetalslash]

Together as We Are

TW: graphic-ish violence & singular instance of disfiguration. Death. Mention of blood. etc etc.

The clatter of hooves mingled with the cheerful shouts of the drunken crowd surrounding the spectacle. Throngs of Tanchicans fanned out at every corner of the Great Circle. A sea of veiled faces—surely a disorienting sight for foreigners.

Metehan twitched his mustache beneath his own veil. The familiarity of the silk felt comforting. The sounds and smells of the city did as well. He regarded the galloping horses, their lean bodies showcasing intense musculature. Their beauty was mirrored in the bright sun as its rays caught on their sleek, well-manicured coats. They rounded the bend, quickly disappearing from view.

So he turned his attention back to the crowd, moving all the while. He passed through the packed space without pause, stepping through walls of inebriated people. Being armed and armored assisted greatly with that.

Metehan’s eyes continued to scan, making an active choice not to linger on the many beauties within the crowd. He cursed his business for making it necessary, especially as he noticed those beauties’ eyes lingering upon him.

He always believed the gowns of Tarabon outmatched the scant Domani ones. It was the thoughtfulness of their design. It spoke to his people’s desire to live openly, all the while maintaining personal privacy.

Despite its troubles, home feels right. Always has, yes.

Another turn, and he was back in the city proper. Passing through a single alley caused the noise of the festivities to fade significantly. He increased the motion of his eyes as he moved. The crowd was thinner, but still lively. Now that they had the option, people moved around him with plenty of space.

He spotted who he was looking for moments later and quickened his pace, causing the chainmail beneath his burnt leather to clink audibly. He held his hand against the flanged mace on his belt to keep it from swinging haphazardly, moving into a slight jog.

He kept this pace until he fell beside the reason for his haste. She did not regard him as he fell into lockstep. They strode through the crowd like twin pillars. Few men stood at his height, and fewer women still. But Elif Sedai was unlike many people. The transparent veil she wore only slightly obscured an ageless visage. Golden braided hair spilled in controlled waves around a sea-green Taraboner gown. Always a marvel, her beauty was.

“I can explain,” he started.

Her brown eyes, nearly prismatic despite their singular color, sternly regarded him.

“Please don’t.”

Her eyes adjusted, as though looking through him. He knew, both through intuition and by the nature of the Warder bond, what she saw. Always a listening ear, a prowling enemy. But then again, they were always prepared for a threat.

“How many? Arms? Intent?”

Elif’s face adopted a bright smile, a hand gingerly wrapping around his hand. Somehow, it deepened her eyes. Those brown prisms trapped him like a sandpit.

A truer beauty has never existed, yes? His mind thought without prompt, hopefully vividly enough that the sentiment carried through their bond.

She laughed, partly playing a part, but part of it was genuine. Which brought a smile to his own face. One that was less beautiful, as it tugged his scars taut and revealed the signs of maturing. Then she pulled herself into his arms, tilting her head in to mime a nuzzle.

She spoke quickly, shielding her mouth and volume with his neck. Her breath sent shivers up his spine.

“Four. Two swords, parrying daggers. An axe. Mace and shield. To capture, if able. Kill, if required.”

He let the disarming comfort of Elif leave his mind, diving into the space that left him indiscernible from a killer. Which, he knew, he was. He had to be.

“My channeling is limited here, too many eyes. Catren Sedai and Dominik are in the King’s Circle, we ca—”

“It’s too far, you know that, yes.”

“I do.”

A voice spoke snidely behind his back, high-pitched and whistling, the sort of voice that spoke of too many broken noses. “Think it might be bes’ we take this off the street, ya think?”

Metehan gingerly kissed Elif’s forehead, still pressed against him. He felt her warmth like a quilt. And, like a quilt, it was patchwork—many types of affection interlaced in its pattern. He replied without turning, while she lifted her head and planted a hand against his face.

“Owing to your friends being quite shy, yes?”

Elif’s fingertips cooled against his face, resolve filling his body through her use of Saidar.

He pulled away, letting her go. He would smile if it were possible. But the deepness of the mental hole he had to dive into voided the impulse. Turning to regard the stranger.

The man smiled at him, a crooked nose perched over a weak mustache. His veil was tattered and far more transparent than Metehan’s. An uncared-for crescent axe hung at his side. He peered past the shorter man into the alley behind them, where the other men had disappeared.

“Lead the way, ser,” the miscreant said with a mockingly embellished bow.

So he did, taking himself further away from the pulse of his ward. She knew to suppress the worry she felt. No sense in meddling with his battle sense. He was a tool now, a tool for the White Tower as he had been for two decades.

He turned a corner that had come too quickly, finding himself facing a dead end where no windows looked in. This place was no stranger to muggings and killings. The three others stood at its end with weapons drawn; two had discarded their veils.

The one Taraboner among them kept his on, staying back. A mace and shield would make fighting with his ensemble difficult. Perhaps he was the one in charge, which his gruff voice then confirmed.

“Let's resolve this in a way that you get to leave in one piece, yes?”

Metehan nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The Warder acted at a speed unbecoming of his size, his hand already pulling a dagger from its sheath on his chest. He whirled backward and drove its point home into the neck of the broken-nosed miscreant. He let him keep the blade.

He completed his motion to see the others reacting in anger and surprise. He had already pulled his mace from its loop. Two men charged him, swords held high and daggers low.

They had likely never parried with those. To untrained killers, offense was all. That sentiment wasn’t always wrong, though. Where theirs was that of pestering, biting insects, his was the concentrated force of a horse’s kick.

He met them in their charge, dodging sideways into the wall as one blade swiped down. He pushed off the wall into the man he was closest to, the collision of his shoulder sending the man into his compatriot. Not forcefully enough to make him fall, but enough to give Metehan room to bring his mace sideways with enough force to end the other threat with a cracking response.

He felt the blood more than the dagger. Thanks to his chain, it had not sunk deep enough to cause fatal or lasting damage. His hand caught the sword arm as it was ineptly brought around. He dropped his mace; at this distance, its effectiveness was limited.

He pulled his free hand up, past the hand that held a dagger in his side, and brought it to the armpit. Using his body, he brought the man up and over into a slam. He felt the upheaval pull the blade free from his side.

The man hit the ground atop the arm of the other fallen attacker. He gasped as air was forced from his body by Metehan’s slam. Metehan had brought himself on top with the motion, ready to fully end the threat.

Premonition caused him to fall back, though, as a heavy mace did the job for him unintentionally. The Taraboner pulled his weapon free, slapping it against his shield as he advanced. Metehan scrambled backward to the first dead man, borrowing his axe.

He rose in unison with the first hit, pulling the axe up just in time to catch it. The head broke from the shaft immediately, and the blow still met his rib cage. Pain from broken ribs flared, then subdued itself slightly.

He snatched his own mace from the ground, then a stumbling roll brought him to the end of the alley, effectively trading places with his assailant. The man had already crossed the threshold past his dispatched allies, running at Metehan with shield in front and weapon raised.

Metehan held his weapon in a two-handed grip before him.

When they collided, both maces swung from opposite points. Mid-swing, Metehan noticed frost rapidly enveloping the shield and arm of his opponent. When his mace found its mark, the shield splintered and the man’s arm shattered up to the shoulder.

The resulting shock caused the man to lose the swing and fall to the ground. The Warder stood over him and, without malice, mused, “Unlucky.” Before finishing the deed.

At the entrance to the dead end, Elif stood with her arm outstretched and fingers pinched together. She dropped the posture and waited. Metehan walked toward her, one hand feeling at one wound while his ribs screamed on the opposite side.

She met his wounds gingerly when he arrived. “Not good... I will heal what I can.”

He smiled, eyes closed against the pain as his mind surfaced from the battle sense. Sternness entered her voice through the worry.

“Now you must explain why you tarried for so long! We lost an hour of time. You would not be in this predicament if not for that.”

His hand fell from his punctured side to his pouch, fingers fishing through the coins to find the ring within. He gathered it with two fingers, then pulled it free. He opened his eyes to see hers brightening the alleyway with shifting caramel luster.

He pulled her hands into his own, the ring resting between their joined palms.

“I can explain now, yes?”

[lapdogmetalslash]

Crane in Flight

My first attempt at any kind of fan-fiction, let alone for something I hold so dear. Be gentle!

The gold of the flying crane was muddied by dried blood and the grime of hastened, embattled travel.

Seven remained of twenty—eight including their charge, the newly appointed Diademed Battle Lord.

Anker's weary eyes drifted to the infant now carried by Bodil, nestled in the crook of his arm. Even so, Bodil's sword hand never left the heron-marked blade sheathed at his hip.

A concerted forced march had replaced galloping hooves. Their mounts had been impaled by Trolloc arrows or released to buy them time. Weary feet and aching joints were forgotten in the face of duty. Even now, the plight of his body barely registered.

Without turning to regard him, Bodil spoke. Anker strained to hear his softened words through the ringing in his ears.

"Fal Moran is only a league away, brother."

After a moment, Anker nodded in acknowledgment before replying with a weary smile.

"So long as a single Malkieri lives, the Shadow will fear."

His face felt cold, and he knew his skin had long since gone pale. A hasty tourniquet fashioned from his undershirt had soaked through at his thigh. His limp grew more pronounced with every step, until he was falling behind at a pace they could no longer afford.

The uproarious cackling of the Trolloc horde carried even through the white noise filling his ears. They would be upon them soon, and with that the extermination of Malkier.

He stopped.

Unsheathing his blade, he held it horizontally inches before his brow. Like his resolve, his voice did not shake despite the blood loss and the certainty of death.

"Tai'shar Malkier."

His compatriots and brother turned, drew their blades, and answered in unison.

"Tai'shar Malkier."

Then they resumed their march without hesitation.

All save his brother.

Bodil had entrusted the child to another. Sword drawn, he too turned to face the Shadow for the final time.

Anker's lips curled into a wry smile when Bodil stepped beside him. He kept it even as the Fade crested the hill, followed by a fist of Trollocs. The skyline darkened against their numbers.

Bodil's voice carried over the din.

"I always thought you were the ugly one, but now I realize we share the same face."

"Even in the face of death, you refuse to admit that I'm the handsome one," Anker snorted.

"Burn me, they'd need at least eight more fists before that."

Bodil clasped the back of Anker's head, drawing their foreheads together until their hadori touched. Eyes closed, they recited in unison.

"The end of the world is no end, if I end it with you."

The earth trembled as the Trollocs stampeded toward them, driven onward by their Fade.

Anker settled into Lilypad Carried by Lazy Water. Bodil adopted its accompanying form, Frog Leaping through Cattails.

The fist crashed against the cyclonic force of the brothers. Their blades eviscerating the Trolloc line. Fighting as a single unit, dozens of beastmen fell as the battle cry of "TAI'SHAR MALKIER!" filled the air.

The Fade pulsed its will through the fist, driving the Trollocs onward despite the carnage.

Their companions, now beyond earshot, still mimed the Malkieri battle shout.

As the brothers fell, one final cry from the five who remained carried across the hills, through the Borderlands—a declaration that the Shadow had not conquered the Light.

"TAI'SHAR MALKIER!"

"TAI'SHAR MALKIER!"

[lapdogmetalslash]

“I think it knows my name,” Armaund mused, kneeling with his finger waggling beneath the kitten’s chin. The feline let out heavy purrs, pulsing like comforting waves. He fought the urge to bury his face in the fluff of the strange little animal. Its deep blue-gray coat shimmered so pleasantly.

“She,” Paul said from overhead, rather matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“She, not it… that’s a girl cat.”

“Oh, is that so?” His finger tickled beneath her furry chin a little more. She mewed in response, rubbing her cheek against his wrist. Tinier than tiny, even his hand dwarfed her. You wouldn’t have been able to tell if you only had the roaring motor of her purrs to go by, though.

“Yes, but she does still need a name. Even if you don’t plan on keeping her.”

Armaund pondered it—admittedly the name more than the concept of adopting her. He was certain, more certain than he’d ever been about anything in his life.

He held his hand still, letting her brush along his knuckles, angling his head to meet her gaze. Their eyes met, and—

The first day home. Adjusting. Learning the litter box. Hiding beneath the bed. Uncertainty. Apprehension. Thinking it had all been a mistake, that it wasn’t going to work, that he’d made the worst decision of his life.

But then he wakes.

The second day begins with muted purrs and a warm presence above his head. She lies curled into a ribbon-like shape. Her tiny, sleepy mews make him memorize the moment. A singular, perfect snapshot in time.

A day like any other, he steps through the door, tossing his keys onto the couch cushion, where they’ll remain lost until morning. A familiar patter dances across the wooden floor, footfalls softened by eager steps. Her face is fuller now, serene and mature. A kitten no longer, made apparent by her abrupt stop before his feet and a hearty, “Mrow!”

He chuckles, and his dutiful march toward her food bowl earns another enthusiastic, “Mrow!” This one, he decides, sounds appreciative.

The summer heat beats upon the world like a drum. Brutal and relentless. Despite it, his body feels waterlogged and heavy. Through the season’s bright light, all he can see is dread. A pale blue haze hangs over everything. Grief lingers inside his heart, and anxiety settles into his bones until they are too heavy to move.

A reluctant turn of the doorknob. Somehow, it’s the heaviest object in the world. It turns slowly and pushes open with agonizing resistance, the hinges creaking like molasses. His vision blurs with the tears he can finally relinquish.

I can’t believe she’s gone…

Then, through the haze, comes the visage of a now-aged face. Blue-gray that is now mostly gray. Whiskers stiff and thinning. Limbs slower than before, but still capable of finding their way to the tops of the cabinets.

A croaky and ever-so-sassy, “Mrow!”

He sniffs and wipes his eyes. A smile pushes through it all.

“Food. Right.”

He holds her in his gaze a little longer, committing the face of this tiny creature to memory. Knowing the weight of this companionship will be crushing when it ends.

But he knows, in that moment, that the gift of having existed together will be worth all the pain in the world.

“Welcome home, Eternity.”

[lapdogmetalslash]

The spot of light in the corner of the window where the curtain falls short. Irregular and unnatural, its white glow makes falling back asleep impossible. The most minuscule floodlight in existence, and somehow it disrupts me so entirely.

It wasn’t alone, however. Even just an hour ago, the endless tapping of the torrential rain had bothered me. The downspout didn’t reach the ground, instead ending several feet above it, making every deposit of water announce itself at the end of its journey.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

I turned myself over, trying to push it from my mind. But it only caused me to zero in, to focus on the contentious noise. Unsettlingly, it settled into such a regular rhythm that I would have spilled any secret to make it stop.

I shift again, facing the wall now. The rain continues to fall, the downspout dropping audible torture upon me.

I’m not tired, I say to myself. Not tired at all.

But I should sleep. Shouldn’t I? It wouldn’t be wise to face the day on so little sleep.

I close my eyes again, the wall becoming blackness. But an image of the relentless downpour takes its place, plummeting to the earth as it always does when it rains. My imagination goes wild. It can’t help but saddle the sound with imagery.

A humble goblin farmer stands beneath the sprinkling waterfall, his face battered by tiny splashes. The only soothing sensation he’d felt in months. Pure, crystalline water that quenched his thirst and renewed his hope amidst it all.

For his mind could only wander to the remnants of his home. Bloody and broken bodies now simmering in hot flame. Humans, dwarves, and elves had slaughtered them without a second thought. They deemed goblins unworthy, primitive, and stupid. Creatures to be quashed for the expansion of their cities.

Bold, I think to myself. Flipping the narrative of the paper-thin villains we’re so often presented with in popular fantasy media. Not original, but I could run with that. Maybe kobolds too? What if they liked ice instead of fire? A fake magical chieftain? I could make it work when I wake up.

My eyes open again. I’m staring at the light now. It peeks through the window and haunts me. The day has arrived, and I didn’t sleep.

Now the dog has awakened with my slightest movement. His small paws stretch so rudely across me, and his tiny groans reach my ears as he works the stiffness from his limbs. I try to ignore him, but he starts licking my face.

“Fuck, dude. Okay, I’m getting up.”

[lapdogmetalslash]

My first post, a poem I wrote before the inevitable stomach ache from the milkshake I just finished, and bed:

Peculiar is the taste of sadness that trails down my cheek, into a mouth that only receives it openly from the sob that it lets loose.

Salted like hallowed grounds, ironically shed because of the dead I cannot see. Their visages pass me by, swiveling in constant motion that may be only the airwaves of silence.

The silence of remorse. Terse and avoidant. A protective veil that stings the longer it encloses. Wrapped inside, encased in mind. Maddening were it not so utterly damning and bereft of feeling.

A multitude of sorrows await those who tarry too long in the halls of grief. Unrequited ideals and unsavored memories. Left unbidden it is no friend to a heart. In fact, grief unattended is its greatest enemy. A blood clot in the soul. It staunches. Preventing emotional extremities from feeling.

Cold.

Colder.

Until they wilt away. Felled into permanent sleep. Comatose, it lacks what we need most, a place to rest and a place to preserve ghosts.