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Meanwhile, in Triskellian...

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  • Majik_Bun
    Meanwhile...somewhere elsewhere

    The sun sets and rises, as quickly as she blinks, the voices of loved ones seeming to echo through her very being, whispers....

    "...Not ready to let you go... ", blurs of light, flashes of misty people, in hued reds and greens, blues crashing into violets in a confused cavalcade.

    " sorry", the whispers return, but she is walking now, curiously peering around what feels like a tree, and the sun again rises and sets, the woods endless, the river calm.

    "...right into my belly, sopping wet..." the voices growing distant, as if someone had shut a window and she was locked outside. Peering in through the window, everyone so sad, and then laughing, so confusing.

    "...words will likely be "Oh...", the shadows curl in around the misty figures, seemingly infecting them as she begins to step away.

    "Esces...." the words seems to thickly roll into her, like honey before it dissolves in tea.

    She turned and peered out, luminescent amethyst eyes lifting up to see where the voice was from, so much clearer now, her tattoos no longer weaving in mass, but reaching out toward the new figure....the old figure.

    She smiles as the warmth grows all around her, casting only single last glance back at the misty, green hued, manor.

    "Farewell, my little ones" A tear could easily pass her cheek, if the warmth and the light didnt wisp it away.

    She turned back, and stepped toward the final figure, the warm, blue hued light of her reaching out to tangle with the amethyst tendrils of her own

    The wolf before her, now seen, smiled.

    "Mother" She spoke again...

    "Aesinvianna" the voice came, soft and warm....

    Sinn smiled, and in that moment there was no manor, no river, no sunset

    Before her stretched a landscape...but who can know where , when, or just was, and wasnt.


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  • TomasTailbrand
    Spat, spat, spat. The sound of the droplets hitting the wooden planks of the dock as he sits against the bowed wall of an old warehouse. He watches the crimson droplets as they form a small pool beneath him. His frame has always been big, and he is strong. Why can't he find work. He's tried, The city is gone poor. All them fancy folk up past that gate, they done moved most of the business out of Docktown. Left all the folk to go hungry down here. The dock master ain't got room. The harbormaster ain't got no room. The Sailors, well, they done hired all they acan stand to fill ships in this slow run. Left to lower myself to beg. I beg, they refuse. Desperate times and all that. Got to take what I can to get what I need. Man's got to eat. That fancy lady wolf, she always helps out with a couple of coin, then another comes. I get beat up and they take what I was given and send me to jail for the night.

    We got plenty of us down here hungry. Time to get something together. We'll show them. Sending us to jail for the night, take what little we got, or worse. There been a few done gone missing now. We ain't fancy though. We just poor folk that got left behind and ignored. Guild Council is a joke with all that bluster about the people of Docktown and the helping the folk of Docktown then doing nothing. Time to make them pay to come down here methinks. Force them folk to pay us a tax to come down here. They want to use the docks, They got to pay, They want to use the warehouse, they got to pay. We need to make our own guild down here one to make them give us our due for them coming down here to fish or anything else.

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  • MightyMia
    The young vixen sits, hands folded neatly in her lap, thumb and forefinger pinching a pear whose flesh has been pierced only once, it's sweet nectar too much for the taste buds. Morning sun does nothing to warm the face as biting wind lashes from the bay. Melancholy outweighs the sting. Bitterness and anger, overwhelming grief, those are what keep the heart beating now. Hopes of a life without bleakness, dashed on the rocks as the waves on the docks. The plants she tends provide distraction but only in that they allow some kind of penance for guilt that lives deep within a person deposited there by loss of those dear. Creaking ships spark a fleeting memory, one brief moment that paused in time, freeing her from the weight of it all. "Why?' the girl barely whispers to the wind. The reply as empty as her being.

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  • UnknownStalkers
    The night is black and inky, like the depths of the seas that claimed the life of one of theirs. The heavy clouds ready to release another snow block the moon and stars. The Shamans said it would be the right time. That snow would cover them. They have watched and waited. The pack of six, white as the snow around them have found the moment. They slip over the wall to the city unseen. They pass through the darkened streets without notice, just a group of monks or priests. They are dressed in the robes they got from that old yak, and they carry the beads and murmur prayers learned from missionaries. Into the Cathedral they slip, down to the altar. They gather the one there and carry him out. Not a soul to trouble them. That is good. They did not want to fight, only to bring their own home to rest. Back to the wall and over, taking the body with them.
    The pack vanished into the wilderness as though they were never there. The snows come as spoken and all sign of their passing is erased.

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  • Bedlam
    Adon peered out over the top of the gates leading south, back toward Triskellian. The frozen, matted grasses and snow burdened trees seem to beckon. There's death out there. He;d seen enough in recent months, and before that hauling the body of a man he has once been at odds with back home. He hadn't stayed for the rites or rituals, and whatever graven facade was placed in memorial would rarely if ever reach his view.

    He turned back, popping down from the gate and patting the guard on the shoulder as he made his way back into the town center, keeping his hood up, giving the slightest nod to passers-by. He returned to his perch near the little chapel, sitting among the gravestones, listening idly to the priest calling down fire and brimstone on the nonbeliever.

    Was that him?
    The Non believer?

    Will there be a reckoning in the end....or is this existence the reckoning realized and only now will he discover the terms of his sentence?

    The locals shuffle about their business around him and he wondered if they even saw him, or if he had become like one of the sad lonely statues posted out among the dead to bring hope, or solidify that this is a place of mourning.

    He glanced back at the chapel, and the gnawing ache at his core seemed all at once unbearable. His soul, so tainted with time and deed recoils at even the thought of entry. The thought of forgiveness.

    Adon closed his distant pale gray eyes and focused. A downward thrust, spear driven through, into the ground, and the blood. A cage surrounded in muck, another bowl of foul tasting soup, more pain. The eyes of those who hurt, and those who clearly didnt.

    Adon drug his claws over the little bench and pried his eyes open to focus on the frost glazed cemetery. He bid the empty yard in a soft, low voice.

    “Why am I still here?”, he queried.

    "The question is why you're not there..." A whisper in his ear, disembodied and soothing.
    He glanced to the side and there was nothing.

    "Maybe I am mad" he posited, but no one answered.

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  • Emmaline
    The air in the small, somber study was crisp with the chill of night, a fire burning in the fireplace providing only a tenuous warmth as the autumn wind jostled the window in it’s casement. Emmaline stood stark still amidst the chaos of papers stacked on every available surface, surveying the mess with an expressionless gaze as she exhaled with a soft sigh.

    A hallow knock rapping thrice upon the door woke her from her stillness, propelling her form forth to answer the call. At the threshold, an aged stallion clothed in all black bowed carefully, his torso hunched with the weight of duty and age combined.

    ”There is a caller at the gate, ma’am. Bannerman of Marchion Richelieu,” he relayed with a hushed whisper.

    “Thank you, Pernod. Please see him into the sitting room. I will attend him shortly,” Emmaline replied, her eyes scrunching with a soft smile as she reaches out a hand to halt the butler’s departure. “And please...retire to your chambers after. I will lock up tonight.”

    The relief was visible in the butler’s carriage as he dipped his torso once more and slowly returned into the darkness, the halo of light cast by the oil lantern in his hand fading around the corner as Emmaline retreated into the study to corral the parchments back into their folders and cases. Grabbing an oil lamp from its holster on the wall, she stepped through the door into the brisk autumn chill, locking it behind her as she departed.

    In the sitting room, glowing bright with numerous candles and lamps against the darkness of the night, Emmaline greeted the young bannerman with a crisp, formal tone. “He’s nervous, the poor thing,” she thought to herself as she poured a mug of coffee and proffered it with a maternal smile. Barely fifteen, the young boy was clearly exhausted, his eyes sunken and dark with circles. He took the beverage with a shaky bow, gulping it down with the ferocity of a man who had crossed a desert.

    “What is the message from the Marchion, young master?” Emmaline pried once the drink had been emptied.

    Clearing his throat with a nervous fidget, the young bannerman carefully laid his words into the expectant silence, “The dove flies east at three o’clock, but the duck remains at the s-southern pond. The heron is lost and the hawk waits till midnight.”

    A flicker of a scowl pursed the corners of Emmaline’s mouth, but she regained her expression with a soft smile, thanking the bannerman for his delivery.

    “Follow me...I will show you to the barracks where you will stay the night. I will have a message to return to the Marchion by morning.” Emmaline beckoned with a subtle gesture, leading the young boy into the darkened front yard. Once he was settled into the respite of the military barracks, she stepped back into the dark, autumn night, turning her eyes to the stars with a lengthy sigh. It was going to be another sleepless night.

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  • Fisher Fox

    Staci grabbed a poker, and spread the charred wood and coals through the small fireplace. She bent upright with a twinge of her back, then settled into the feathery bed and giant covers. The world finally stopped bumping up and down like an angry jennet, but sleep wouldn't come. Not unlike the last wisps of smoke from the fire, a malevolent worry clung in the air around the whole manor. Lying awake, she brought the candle on her bedside table into life, and curled up with a dense iron-plated book. A stamped and crisp paper fell to the floor reading, "Special Pass, Staci Fisher, Esq" Tucking another blue parchment in, she crooned, "Beaumont Family Liaison," with a broad smile.

    Settling in a pile of blankets and pillows, she set the book in her lap, studying the new sketches she's scratched out. Amid broken scenes of bumps of hills and trickling rivers, a few sketches had more detail. Slowly, she scanned them each with the flickering candlelight.

    One such sketch is a white-walled estate of plaster, entrenched in a shallow valley with roots lined up into the distance. Raised beds cover a bountiful harvest, with different patches of carrots, tubers, and parsnips. A dozen faceless, but grinning horses in simple garb stand before the manor, with a plentiful basket set at the feet of the tallest horse.

    Another is a detailed dark glass bottle, with a simple label reading, "Guillame, 879" Only a cup of smooth, toffee liquid remains in the bottle. A tight-necked cork and three cups sit next to the glass. Most of the cups have some little remaining in the bottom, but one is completely licked clean.

    The last sketch is far from finished and a mess of people and faces. A large, open courtyard stretches against the page, half-finished horses filling up the scene with high noses and over-frilled clothes. Many arches lead this way and that, trees or stairs letting the artist keep the perspective close. The one finished bit is a bannerman tacked with a staff and stiff heraldic banner, and foppish tunic. He bears the flourishing symbol of Duke and family Richelieu with a great pride to his long face.

    Turning to more private pages, Staci smiled, collapsed the book, and sought dreams once again.

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  • Dollface
    Meanwhile, somewhere far to the northwest.......

    Bright jade eyes opened to stare at the vast miles of western sea before them, their glow nearly unnatural for the briefest of moments, as the wind whipped auburn strands across her cheeks. The storytellers were right when they said this was a sacred place. She could feel the energy seeping from the earth here, especially in this spot high upon the cliffs. Stretching her fingers, palms upturned on each knee, she closed her eyes for another deep inhalation of that energy, the sound of high waves crashing against the steep cliffside below her magnifying that rush often encountered when visiting this location.

    The sound of a lofty bell began to clang its mournful song in the distance, those black ears twitching above the small smile that flickered across her face, ‘So that’s why I felt the pull to return. I’ve been sitting here nearly eight hours’. Once her senses returned to her fully she realized she’d been sitting that entire time on a pebble that seemed to have dug its way into her backside. Meditation; It’s one hell of a numbing agent. Rising to her feet she drew the drab garments assigned to her around her small frame, there would be rain come nightfall. Sniffing twice she deduced it would bring a thunderstorm with it. Sighing to herself, she drew the deep hood back over her head, hand clinging to its base beneath her throat. Saying one final farewell to what had become her favorite spot beneath the lone, wind-swept pine atop the highest crag, she turned her feet and her attention back toward the tolling of that high-towered bell.

    ‘At least the incessant singing plaguing my dreams has stopped since coming to the temple’, she silently mused to herself. But, she wondered, as she often did, was it worth leaving everything she knew behind? Sighing as she climbed the last rise, she resignedly accepted her fate. If what they had said was true… She’d have gone mad on her own without the teachings being bestowed upon her in a matter of moons. The singing, it seemed, was some sort of warning she should have been aware of long before now, had she been taught her people's history.

    The evening lights of Cathair Murias finally came into full view as she tread the last few steps over the rise that would take her to her temporary ‘home’.

    Waves crashing against the steep cliffs behind her, and wind whipping her hair to the southeast, she closed her eyes yet again, focusing with all of her might that that same wind would carry the love and longing emanating from her core along its gusting flight to the one place she would ever consider her true heart’s home.
    Last edited by Dollface; 09-27-2018, 10:15 PM. Reason: Cause sleep deprivation.

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  • Eyriel
    It wasn't quite the same. These trees, this forest. It was small, so very, insignificantly small in comparison to the homeland. To the trees of her birth. Not quite the same, but still so familiar. The difference in size, that...that led to a necessary readjustment. Climbing and hopping through the branches of these much smaller trees were in fact quite a bit more difficult. Thrice more difficult when trying to do so silently. And silently she must. It was a challenge. A readjustment. But her skills and training had not rusted all that much, despite how grounded she had been for so long. She was once more back where she belonged. In the trees. Hunting. Alice blue eyes glittered with a strange, almost ethereal luminescence in the dwindling light of dusk as she watched her prey from the boughs of a rather, helpfully, large magnolia tree. Those she was watching, bandits of the worst kind, glanced this way and that on occasion, nervous. They had lost several of their number in the past week, and it was beginning to spook them. Even more so given these were wolves and jackals and, strangely enough, the only kinds who seem to disappear in this part of the forest. As the last light of the sun blinks out from behind the horizon, the screams begin, and end.

    Meanwhile in Three-Corners

    "What do you mean, a blue-eyed demon? There's no such thing! You've been hitting the mead too much on your hunts is all." "I'm telling you it's real! There's a blue-eyed demon out the forest! It was probably conjured by that witch for some reason...." "Psshaaw! If there was really a demon as you say and you saw it, you wouldn't be standing here telling us about now would ya? You'd be dead wouldn't ya? Wes all beens outs in those woods an aint never has any of us' been seein' a blue-eyed demon. Aint that right Natik?" The group of gossiping hunters from Three-Corner glance over at the well-built elk as he preps himself for another foray into the forests for another day of hard earned meat, shillings and coppers for his little town. He was the best hunter, everyone knew it. He wasn't the best because he brought back more game then others, other hunters often bring back more then he does. He was the best because he could bring back that which others could not. He, more importantly, was the best because he did, indeed, always come back. The other hunters, weren't always so fortunate. For a moment, he pauses in contemplation at their question, giving weight to his choice of words before answering,"There is no demon out there..." "Ha! See tol-" "....what ever is out there is far worse." Not caring to explain anymore, Natik the Elk Hunter strides into the brush of the woodlands, swiftly vanishing from the other hunter's senses before they could knock their stumped minds back into working order to ask for more details, leaving them stumped, and with goosebump chills that inevitably make them question whether to continue being hunters or not.

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  • Willy
    This is important. Clean the wound, or it will fester. Willy peeled the bandage from his collarbone where the stitches had held the tender flesh together, only recently loosened from a fight. The coppery smell of blood greeted his intrusion and stained his golden brown fur with sanguine warmth. "Scheisse" he muttered. His sticky fingers drifted up to his snout, and he gave a tentative sniff. Fresh, warm, clean. He knew he shouldn't have been moving it, but a duty had to be done.

    An airy whistle came from behind - it was dismissed.

    On the rosewood desk before him lay a spread of what he needed. A tumbler of whiskey, a bucket of tepid water, a rag, and a fresh bandage. He gathered the rag and soaked it in the bucket. Holding it above the wound, he squeezed it in his fist. A splash of sea water hit his skin as he inhaled through his teeth. The wound throbbed with pain as the blood was washed from his fur. The rag went back in the bucket, and the smell of salt stuck in his nose. It calmed him for a moment.

    The whistling came again, sharpened, and lifted the bristling fur on Willy's forearms.

    "Clean the wound, or it will fester." he repeated aloud through gritted teeth. Thick fingers lifted the tumbler of whiskey, and Willy held his breath for what came next. With one quick motion, he spilled the tumbler's contents over the yawning gash. Fire cut through his skin, and the smokey aroma curled the hairs in his nostrils. His breath escaped back through his teeth with a hiss. He grabbed the bandage, and tucked the loose end under his armpit as he began to wrap it across his shoulders.

    The whistle came again, and slashed through his nerves. The bandage fell from his hands as he whirled around, wild-eyed. He shot an accusing stare at the kettle sitting innocent and cold on the end table - mercy if it was the kettle, but he knew better. His gaze snapped to the oaken rack that held a headsman's axe. The melodious whistles deafened him to all else as his feet carried him across the room, driven by a feeling of "just having to make sure". As he clutched at the axe blade, the resonance that whirled around his mind stopped.

    The room was quiet again - quiet still, he had to remind himself. After all, how could the axe make such noise with nobody to wield it? He drew his palm over the blade. Dull, and cold. The axe could not whistle anymore, not since he struck it blunt on stone to escape the sound. Warmth spread down from his shoulder, and Willy drew an exasperated breath. The blood was still flowing, and had left a spotted trail where he crossed the room. He would have to start over.

    The wound was clean, but something festered.

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  • Eyriel
    "Did you see that? Seven. Seven! Cups of coffee, in the past two hours!" "I know. It isn't normal. Something isn't right." "You mean you haven't heard?" "Heard what?" "She has been rushing about the city for well over a week, now almost two, doing housecalls, and spending time at the Orphanage along with her shifts here. As far as anyfur knows, she hasn't returned to her room for more then a few minutes at all." "You mean....she has been awake this whole time?! That would explain the coffee....but it can't be healthy for her! She is a squirrel! And we all know how bad of an idea it is to mix coffee with -any- kind of excitable fur." The conversation between the three were nothing more then a distant babble to Eyriel's ears, her focus on the child in front of her, tending to her leaky eyes as she applies a poultice, pain-number, and bandage to her scrapped and scratched knee. "Now you know better then to run without paying attention" The snuffling child nodded before running back to her mother. This was how it has been for her for the time the gossipers mentioned, going to one patient to the next, one issue after another, and no, she had not had any sleep in the entire week and a half. Not one wink.

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  • Eyriel
    It was not hard work, washing bloody bandages, just tedious. However it was a necessary chore, and one of many that a Healer is required to perform. However much her focus may seem to be on her task at hand, her ear was consistently sorting through the various chatter at the Infirmary, listening to the variety of gossips amongst the patients, including two regular chatty old ladies that come to see her often. One a wolfess, the other a cattess. Her ear focuses on them for a moment as they discuss a particular piece of gossip.

    "Did you hear about the they bodies found in the harbor?" "Oh yes I did! I heard it was grisly...." "Ohhh grisly can not even begin to describe it! I have a nephew who was one of the constables on the scene. He told me that...they were butchered! If that was not nearly disturbing enough, he wouldn't tell me all the details since they were still investigating it...but he said the way they were butchered was strange." "How ghastly! Soon it won't even safe for little old ladies to buy a piece of bread anymore! Speaking of strange....have you noticed how oddly the rodents in Docktown have been behaving the past few weeks?" "I did, very much so. I experienced it myself several times too. I swear....I felt like they were planning to strangle me in an alley somewhere with how their eyes burned into me!" "How horrifying! It is not just you however....apparently they have been rather....abrasive to many of your kind....and also mine. I wish I knew is so strange." "I agree, it is too much strange. I do not know how much of such strangeness my poor old heart can take....murders and oddly behaving rodents...." "Yes indeed, but at least it seems that whatever it was has passed." "Ahh that is true."

    At this point she lifts her head up and smile at the two old ladies, the warmth of her smile reaching all the way to her eyes and infecting the two, "I can make an herbal mixture that will be good for lowering your stress and easing the strain on your heart." "Ohh~ you are such a dear sweet Eyriel. I was worried when you hadn't shown up to the infirmary at all for the past month. It is such a relief to see you here so healthy and well." "It is indeed! But listen now young lady, you are not getting any younger and should really think about finding yourself a nice squirrel to settle down with! Any squirrel, or man for that matter, will be lucky to have you!" Eyriel softly laughs at the two, "It is not a problem. This is merely my purpose as a Healer. And I will never. Abandon my purpose." The two ladies give her a sly smile at her casual avoidance at the talk of men, but entirely miss the icy cold mirror glint in her eyes as at her own words brings back in a flash images of two wolves, whose lives were not-so-abruptly cut short, and the events that led to it.

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  • Eyriel
    Washing the bloody bandages, her gaze icily drifts across the numbers of poor victims of the muggers rampage. It seemed it had been getting worse. Her focus was not entirely on her current task as her left ear wandered through the wade of voices, focusing on one particular pair of gossiping shrews. A little old wolfess and her neighborly cattess.

    "Did you hear about the bodies they found washed up at the harbor?" "Ohh! You mean....the two wolves? I heard it was grisly." "Ohhh! You do not know the half of it. One of my nephews was the constable who discovered. He told me they had been butchered! But not like any kind they had seen before and are quite concerned." "That is just terrible! Who would do such a thing? Could it be the muggers? Will it ever be safe again to buy a bit of bread? Ohh! Did you here how Docktown's rodents were acting strange a few weeks ago?" "Yes I did! I was a witness myself to their strangeness. They had weird looks in their eyes whenever I was around. By S'Allumer, I thought some of them were planning to strangle me in an alley! What made them act so odd?" "I do not know, but it seems whatever it is has passed and they are behaving normally again! I am glad, so much strangeness. First the weird behavior of the rodents, and then these grisly murders.....I do not know how much my poor heart can take."

    At this point she lifts her gaze from her finished washing task and smiles towards the two, a gentle warmth to her smile that was contrasted by the mirrored mask of her eyes, and yet the old ladies would not notice, "If you would like, I can mix up a mixture of herbs to help with stress to aid a weak heart." "Oh you are such a dear sweet Eyriel! What would we old doddies ever do without such a sweet healer as yourself. We seriously wondered when you stopped showing up at the infirmary a little over a month ago. It is good to see you back and healthy. We were all worried." Eyriel laughs softly at her words, "It is of no problem to make such medicine. It is my purpose, and I would never abandon my purpose." A stream of images briefly flows through her mind at her own words, of two wolves who were no longer among the living and how they left this world.

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  • Ulliem
    Waves slap against the hull as the Termagent, now fitted for whaling, cuts through the seas under the haughty winds of the spring.
    "Thar she blows" comes the call from the nest above. The third whale of the hunt. The sea will provide, as she always does. Questions called, answers given...a Leviathan...finally, the prize of prizes. Two baleens are worth half of what this beast will fetch.
    The crew moves with practiced efficiency as the whaleboats are lowered to the rough seas. The crews all racing to the target. A tall sculpted grey wolf standing at the helm of the lead cutter, his silvery polished steel harpoon glinting in the morning's sun.
    Oars glide silent into the water as he steadies his aim. The throw, strong and accurate, sinks deep into the leviathan piercing the back of the beast.
    "Stern All! Stern all, for your lives, lads."
    The crew rowing backward from the beast as it thrashes in pain and sounds, diving deep. The thick line hooked to the harpoon running out of the bucket, smoking over the loggerhead. Up the bull comes for breath, dragging the whaleboat further away, bouncing across the rough seas and showering the crew with seaspray.
    Tiring, the leviathan surfaces, slowing to nearly still. The crew pull the line, getting close enough for the grey wolf to plunge the lance deep into the heart. The beast, sprays, blood this time then the flurry...
    Backing off to observe the beast swimming in circles until it beats the water with it's massive tail, shudders, and turns fin out.
    Hours have passed in the kill, the men are exhausted. Yet they still row with mighty backs, towing the 50 ton beast back to the Termagent which is sailing toward them.
    The cutting in, always a challenge to beat the sharks, yields tons of blubber, oil, and meat, The spermaceti yield near 400 hundred gallons and worth a small fortune is tucked neatly away in the hold. A few hundred pounds of bone and baleeen are stored as well before the carcass is lost to the swarming sharks, along with three deckhands.

    Time to sail home again and see that beauty of an arctic wolf that is his mate to be.

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  • Bedlam
    The city spread out before his eyes in flames, smoke rising from manors, towers toppling from shear heat as loud, low booms thundered from the south...from the north. He watched from his window, tapping his pipe out onto a half eaten slice of red velvet cake. Drawing the curtains he climbed back onto his couch and pulled a blanket over his head, hand snaking out to pull a dark serpentine tuft of dusk grass from a box under the coffee table. The familiar metallic bitterness crawled down his throat and he could feel the numbness spreading through him already. Closing his eyes he could still see the flames, the city burning in the darkness. As the heat splint the timbers of the inn around him a line shone in. He lifted his eyelids and pull his cloaks hood down, distance steel grey eyes absorbing the new vision, people in the west commons , someone talking to him, who was it?

    Familiar faces, voices, scents, some good, some bad, some ...difficult. Someone above him, something about his gear, and item glistening in the air as it rises and falls out of view. He could feel his "medicine" wearing off already, it was taking more now. He swore left right and sideways he was taking less, but his dosage was now three times what it once was, but he was functional, wasn't he? He checked the exits, always checking exits, and the city is pristine. Well it was as pristine as it ever was. No Flames, no smoke...

    How did he even get here.

    He took a moment to get his bearings and pushed away from the tree walking toward the alley without a word. Glancing over the water of the bay as he emerged, he paused taking a breath. It was going to a rough week.

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