Shippingitp IV: Flattery Will Get You EVERYWHERE

[happyturtle]

Happy's fate is in the hands of the other ship writers now. Tomorrow I move on to Dagobah and Saint Yoda.

[Cristo Meyers]

Things have... changed

Good work happy, really good, like I've already told so many times before But let it be known public, I adore what you've done with this. I don't think anybody could pull it off much(if at all) better than this.

If I were in a writing mood I'd take that as a challenge

But, I'm not, and I've already had my fun, so I leave this in the hands of a very worthy successor.

[Reinholdt]

Banter a Redemption fiction
Mordokai/Reinholdt

Spoiler

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A few days of lying low and the guards got sloppy, like always. So when Mordokai got back to his tent, Reinholdt was waiting once more for him.

“Hello again Mordokai.”

“You! You dare show your face here again!” Mordokia’s sword came out.

“I just came to talk.”

“Then tell me. What do you consider so important that you’d spend your last words on?” Mordokai circled the tent looking for an angle of attack. He knew the cat was faster than him. He’d have to find someway to block off his retreat. Reinholdt also circled, keeping a safe distance from Mordokai’s reach.

“I’m here to save you. You know that.”
“I’ve already been saved.”
“You’re chained to your pain.”
“I feel nothing but pleasure from my work.”
“A mask composed of temporary distractions.”
“I’m no longer hiding! I no longer have to hide from my desires!”
“You’re using your desires to hide!”
“I was a fool!”
“You were kind!”
“I was a pawn!”
“And now you’re a slave!”
“I was misguided!”
“You had conviction!”
“It was wrong!”
“It helped people! That’s never wrong!”
“It didn’t help me, did it?! Always for them, but never for me! Not that it did any good. The idea of helping people? Ha! What a pointless endeavor that was.”
“And when you helped me? Did that mean nothing?”
“A mistake. That much is clear now.”

Reinholdt fell silent at this. Mordokai had clearly found where Reinholdt’s nerves lay, and grinned. He was about to press, when Reinholdt looked up again and spoke.
“Do… do you remember Mordokai? Do you remember the first time you stopped me?”
Mordokai’s eyes narrowed. Why was he bringing this up now? “Of course. Your attempt was shoddy. Good thing, though, or none of us would be here.”
Reinholdt smiled a bit. “And the plot I had with the penguins?”
“It’d be pretty hard to forget that one. I’m still not sure what you were thinking. Heh. I think the cold got to your head.”
“Heh. Yeah.” Reinholdt falls silent. Both of them sort of stand there reminiscing quietly of better times. “And… and the time I tried to use nature’s power?”
Mordokai scowls. “Yes. You had the chance to kill me then. You should have if you were smart. But you were weak. You still are.”
“I was repaying a debt!”
“One created when I was weak. I never should have stopped you from killing yourself.”

“You... you don’t mean that.” Reinholdt was losing. Badly.
Mordokai’s grip tightens, smirk on his face. “Of course I do. I gave you the chance to join me! And you turned it down. But now that I truly think about it, I never actually wanted you. You’re a failure at all you’ve done and you’re of no use to me.”
“You… never wanted… me?” Reinholdt looks dazed, remembering the days without someone to help him. The days before Mordokai came.
“Of course not you pitiful excuse of a cat. Nobody could ever like you. I just needed you to stop your foolish quest.” Mordokai knew he had him.
Reinholdt is shaking, tears welling up in his eyes. When he speaks he sounds panicked. “That’s… that’s not true! You don’t mean that! I.. I won’t go back there! I’ll never go back… I’ll save you!”
“Now who’s hiding? You don’t care about me at all! You’re just afraid to be alone again!”
“N.. No! I.. you…” Reinholdt, lacking a response, burst out of the tent, scampering away as fast as he could, tears pouring out.

Mordokai steps out slowly and watches him run. Some guards attempt to follow but he stops them. Thinking for a bit, he goes to give some orders to nearby grunts. “Go and fetch me catnip from the last town we captured.” The soldiers looked at each other with confusion but knew better than to disobey a direct order, so left right away.

“Foolish cat. You’ll be back because you can’t let go. You never should have reminded me of that first time I stopped you. Because now I know how to catch you. When next you come, you’ll be too brain-addled to realize you’re stepping right into my hands.”

And yeah. I'm going to take a break from actual introductions for now.

[Mordokai]

If I were in a writing mood I'd take that as a challenge

But, I'm not, and I've already had my fun, so I leave this in the hands of a very worthy successor.

Look on the bright side.

You finally get to lay your hands on me, not the other way around

[Cristo Meyers]

Look on the bright side.

You finally get to lay your hands on me, not the other way around

*rimshot*

Thank you! We'll be here all night! Don't forget to tip your waitress!

[Deathslayer7]

awww. Happy. That was beautifully done.

[RabbitHoleLost]

Happy: Hmm, hmm. Interesting turn of happenings...

Rein: Aww. Poor kitty
:: pulls into snuggles::

[Lyinginbedmon]

Okay, I've found the Redemption saga, but I'm still clueless as to where exactly Mordokai fell. Can someone fill me in?

[Reinholdt]

Okay, I've found the Redemption saga, but I'm still clueless as to where exactly Mordokai fell. Can someone fill me in?

Go to Cristo's ships and look up the DarkMoonRising saga. Read that.

*feels anger welling up inside*

[Saint Nil]

Happy-NOOOO!!!!!! Don't you dare die on me!!! Can't wait for more of your work now.

Reinholdt-Aww. Don't worry, he'll be saved.
*gives a ball of yarn*

[Helgraf]

((Awww man ... playing up to secret character flaws I hadn't told anyone about. Bad form, Happy! :kidding:))

Along the Crimson Hinges A Redemption fic

Spoiler

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She made her way into the woods,

He watched with glee the oathbreaker, biting the torn and ragged ends of fingernails permanently discoloured by blood, pus and more noisome fluids.

walking slowly and steadily until the sun was high and she could no longer hear the noises of the men, horses, and wagons of the camp.

... followed her, turning cartwheels that left no marks upon the ground, flexing and stretching, savoring the sharp pain-cicles that spiked through his back and along his limbs. He saw her hand move down and he clamped shut his lips, bleeding them inside with the force of his bite.

Then she drew her sword, turned it towards herself,

As the blade flashed, mirth turned to sorrow, capering to skulking. He dove forward, faster than the eye could follow ... reaching ... reaching ... reaching ...

and drove it into her gut.

... but not fast enough. There was a whip-snap sound, and then a soft ragged sigh. And then there was something ... new. An emotion so long buried, so rarely invoked that it swept through him like lightning, possessing him, overwhelming resistance before it could even form.

Rage.

Blood sang and boiled in his veins; through sheer unfocused will he manifested upon that plain. The blade was seized, torn free, loosing another gout of blood that sprayed upon him.

"Traitor!" He screamed as he brought the other hand forward, grabbed the hilt and brought the whole down, tang square against a rock. He tossed it to the ground, set one foot along its edge as though he meant to keep it from escaping.

The blood spurted again, not so violently this time; the chilling gelid droplets against his face and body seemed this time to have a calming effect upon him. In truth, his whole body trembled yet ... the anger had been driven inward. Focused.

One finger touched her quickly cooling blood on his cheek. He regarded her now; her foolish senseless cowardice. This would never do. Down plunged his hands, ungentle as they grabbed bloody meat, sausage casings twisted together, slabs of muscle crushed into something that could not be called whole, but reduced the bleeding, bought time. Time for a true specialist. A paring knife, and he flensed his upper arm slicing thick ribbons of flesh, his own polluted blood steaming in the chill; with these and sturdy steel pins, he sewed over the holes, patched her with his own flesh.

When at last the grim work was done, he looked at her sword, and sung a song of dissonance until the blade shattered into pieces. These then he gathered, a broken sword and a broken woman to go with broken pride and broken oaths. He left behind a woman's finger; the ring finger. And then he faded from the broken world with his broken things.

Long ago he'd learned ... there were some things ... once broken, only a rabbit could fix.

[Reinholdt]

@ Helgraf - Another good one. Knew Happy couldn't die yet, even if it's not looking too great for her. Glad for your contribution.

[Deathslayer7]

only a rabbit could. nicely done.

[Helgraf]

@ Helgraf - Another good one. Knew Happy couldn't die yet, even if it's not looking too great for her. Glad for your contribution.

Y' do realize Rabbit is a necromancer, right? :shifty-eyed look:

[Reinholdt]

Y' do realize Rabbit is a necromancer, right? :shifty-eyed look:

Yeah... that's why I said it wasn't looking too good for Happy.

Oh, and so everyone knows, I pushed my recent one just before Happy's Mercy in the plotline so that Happy's and Helgraf's and whatever results from theirs could flow together.

[Kneenibble]

I've recently felt compelled to do more work on China Gold.

Here are links to the previous chapters if anyone's interested. It's been several months.
Chapter 1 * Chapter 2 * Chapter 3

China Gold
By Kneenibble

Chapter 4: Silence is Gold-coloured
Including so far, in order of mention:
randman22222
Kneenibble
happyturtle
Kaelaroth
FF fanboy
dallas-dakota
Ethrael
and now, Aziraphale

Spoiler

Show

The summer evening light comes mute and blue into the east-facing window – airy, insubstantial. The shadows are not distinct. Since the phone call from Turtle – safe at home with Ruto, no visible tailers – the silence in the office has been thick. The sounds of traffic seem farther away than usual: the office feels sealed, removed. The nothing out the window makes good staring. A wash of dim, flat colour lays spread across Randman’s unfocused eyes.

A door closing somewhere in the building brings him home. Sound carries in the old brick bulks – between floors more efficiently than laterally, but the decades of wear and tear have carved unpredictable channels for noise.

No sound follows the implacable door. Randman picks up the tumbler still on his desk without drinking, its gold-coloured surface specked with dots of dust. He navigates the creaky ill-lit office to Nibs’ desk and sits in his chair, putting his glass down next to the empty crusted coffee cup. The desk drawers reply with spurts of sneezy dust and the smell of old stale wood as they are opened and rummaged. Unremarkable receipts, a bottle of over-the-counter caffeine tablets, a jar of instant coffee, a bunch of unmatched and half-used ballpoint pens and broken pencils, a Sting album, the dirty magazine from yesterday and several previous issues... a bottle of yellow tequila with a few ounces left in it, which Randman takes out and places on the desk beside the two cups... a package of crackers...

The licensed pistol Randman had been searching for is nowhere to be found.

The griefless awareness of absence settles on him. The matrix that bound this collection together, that gave it use and centre, still hovers even while the consciousness they orbited is over. Soon they will be disparate, unwanted, meaningless: but for now they are still the effects of a life, of work and desire. They still cast a common shadow.

Randman tips the tumbler against his mouth and swallows the sweetly awful rye. He sits, staring at a detail on the tequila label without seeing it, resting his lower lip against the glass’s lip. He smells soaked-in smoke and a whisper of jasmine. Silence. Absence. Heat.

Some minutes later, maybe many, another sound from somewhere in the building. It seems significant but it fails to penetrate Randman’s numb trance the first or second time, hovering beyond reception. The third time, it registers: knocking.

Knocking, from the waiting room door. Randman’s brow wrinkles up and he stands, putting a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. He goes into the reception room, nearly dark, lit only by the textured window set in the hallway door where a blurry man-shadow hangs distorted on its surface, either wearing a hat or growing wide horns.

Randman hesitates at Turtle’s vacant desk, his hand near a light switch. He leaves it off, goes to the door, and opens it partially, keeping his face in darkness, blowing his smoke out through the crack. The hall lights are not bright, either. Standing there is a slim man very finely dressed in a crisply pressed white linen suit. The tugged brim of his white hat makes his face difficult to see in the stretched light.

“Mr. Randman Deuce?” he says in the kind of voice that narrates British nature documentaries.

“Who’s asking?”

A soft, moisturized, workless hand lays itself without pressure on the doorknob. “Zirus Phile at your service, Mr. Deuce. Excuse my dropping in on you like this. May I come in?”

“You’re lucky you caught me, buddy. We’re short on staff this evening. I was almost on my way out.”

“I was in the neighbourhood without my phone. I thought to try my luck, sirrah. May I?”

Randman steps backwards towards the open office door.

Zirus takes the gesture as invitation: he opens the hall door the rest of the way, and closes it behind him. He follows Randman delicately into the bluish indistinct light of the office.

Randman grabs his tumbler on his way to his own desk and sits down behind it, smoking. Alertness has slapped him like a coiled wet towel. He keeps his eye on the man and his ears wide open. Even without a dead partner, two clients in two days is plenty to make Randman suspicious.

“Zirus Phile. Let me guess, Enochian?”

“French, sirrah,” the man replies cordially.

Randman draws and sighs out a long, deep lungful of hot smoke. He considers the empty glass briefly, and before his silence hedges on impolite, shoots, “What can I do for you, Mr. Phile?”

“Forgive me, sirrah, but before I say – you are Randman Deuce the private investigator, yes?” His face is smooth, soft, and held with a trim and smugly polite smile: his eyes remain veiled, indistinguishable shapes.

“The one and only, buddy,” Randman returns, heat-niggled hackles rising. “What is it you want?” He pours a little rye.

“Ah. I apologize, Mr. Deuce. There’s an abundance of counterfeits in this world!” Zirus closes the office door but stays in its wake with his very fine coat pockets full of his hands. “First may I, as a stranger, offer my respect towards the recent death of your partner?”

Randman’s forehead wrinkles up. “You want to tell me what you’re here for, or what?”

“Your skilled help is required, sirrah, in obtaining a lost valuable. Possibly a stolen valuable.”

“What kind of value –“

Zirus flips the light switch in a rapid gesture: the dusty fixture draws detail and shadow instantly and Randman flinches. The eyes under the hat’s shadow are dark, soft and seductive. If carnivorous plants had eyes, perhaps something like that. In his other hand is a sleek, silvery gun, pointed straight at Rand’s face.

“I must ask you to remain seated and keep your hands on your desk please, Mr. Deuce. I apologize again, but a gentleman ought to allow himself precautions.” Randman stares at him his face a cool mask. “I am fully prepared to shoot you, I warn you. I intend to search your office.”

“You picked a funny place to rob.” He smirks and drinks his rye, eyeing the junky room deliberately.

Zirus’s seductive eyes flare and his narrator’s voice turns frosty; he totes the gun. “You might tell I’m not looking for money, sirrah,” he says, and his free hand fingers a crisply pressed lapel. “Goodness no.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

The resolve in Zirus’s face weakens slightly. He narrows his seductive eyes and, keeping the sleek gun generally pointed in Randman’s direction, he creaks over to Nibs’ desk. Its old, smelly drawers get dust on his exquisite linen suit as he fumbles through their useless contents, his gestures growing with the sharpened clumsiness of frustration even while his face remains composedly and smugly pleasant.

“The tequila is on top,” Randman offers.

Zirus shuts the last drawer and turns on the calmly seated Randman. “If you will kindly stand up and come to the centre of the room, I’ll need to search you and your desk please, Mr. Deuce.”

Zirus does not notice that while Randman’s face remains a cool mask as he puts out his cigarette, gets up, and walks around to the front of his desk, hands up in the air, his eyes become as hard and sharp as cracked flints. The first few pats around his midsection are all Zirus manages in his mistake of judgement: with cobra’s reflexes Randman hooks his fist across that soft, smooth jaw, twisting the skull at just the right angle to put out the light. As he topples with a last surge of panic, Zirus fires his sleek gun. The bullet leaves a fuming hole in the scuffed chair rail beside the window and throbbing peals in Randman’s ears. He swears.

Zirus’s hat rolls away from his head as his body lands. His hair underneath is a dark bunch of wavy curls like grapes.

Randman squats, empties the supine man’s very fine pockets, and relieves him of his weapon. He lays the items on his desk to examine them. It is a spatial convention without any nucleus, even in the presence of their very finely dressed owner. A wafter-thin cellphone, monocle, a pocket watch, a wax-paper packet of chocolates, a perfumed handkerchief, a keycard for a downtown hotel, a patent leather wallet. Inside, a variety of plastic and a theatre ticket for later that evening. And, amidst a moderate thickness of dollars, a few Chinese yuan.

Randman’s eyes narrow. He flips open the cellphone and jots down the number and makes a note of the hotel.

Zirus starts to gently writhe and vocalize. Randman leans against his desk and puts the sleek gun into his waist – still warm from Zirus’s hand and smooth with a brushed nickel finish. He puts a fresh cigarette into his mouth and sets fire to its end. A third of it is gone by the time Zirus sits up and rubs his chin, face crinkled in pain. Randman waits for him patiently.

“That was most ungenteel, sirrah,” says Zirus.

“You think I’m going to let anybody come into my office and hold me up? Here. Wipe your mouth.” Randman throws down the perfumed handkerchief and gestures to an empty chair with the gun. Zirus pulls himself into the chair and dabs at his lips. The small red circle left behind on the white cloth seems to jolt him. He stares at it without speaking.

“The jade bottle isn’t here,” Randman says, pouring a slug of rye with his left hand and then taking a drag with his right.

Zirus is jolted again, and looks up at Randman, his seductive eyes wide and startled. His lips move with the impulses of a number of stifled questions until, swallowing them, he composes his soft face into its prior smugness. “Sirrah, I can offer you a very handsome sum if you will produce the bottle for me. You will also find me none too curious about how you produce it, if you take my meaning. What do you say, Mr. Deuce?”

“I say for one thing you have no handsome sum in your handsome wallet there, unless the yuan has gone up recently. I also say you might have made that offer first.”

“You can’t blame me for trying to conserve my employer’s budget, can you, sirrah?” Zirus reaches for his hat and replaces it over his grape-bunch curls. “At any rate, of course I am not carrying the fully handsome sum with me now.”

“Who’s your employer?” Randman asks, keeping a hand near his hip.

“You’ll forgive me for not answering that question.”

“Fine. But I need some sign of your good faith, buddy. Nothing you’ve shown me so far that I haven’t punched is handsome at all, except maybe your suit.”

“Peek in my wallet you have there, sirrah, and see how handsome you find Sir Robert Borden. In fact, find ten of his portraits so you’re quite certain.” Zirus’s voice eagerly recollects its narrative slick with the business. “If this taste motivates you handsomely enough, and you can bring the bottle to me –“ He pauses, as Randman, smirking, begins to take bills out of the seized wallet on the desk. “You do know where it is, don’t you?”

Randman smirks, pockets the tenth hundred, and says nothing.

The significance of this silence is not so deliberate. Zirus squirms. Randman’s smirk becomes brittle. “On delivery of the jade bottle into my hands I can refund you with fifty thousand dollars.”

Randman takes a breath and then a last puff of his cigarette. When it is put out under his shoe, he picks up his tumbler and swallows the slug. It makes a convenient concealment for his reaction.

“That’s not too bad to look at,” he says finally, putting down the glass, eyeing the drops of gold-coloured poison left in the bottom.

“It is not, sirrah!” says Zirus. “Not at all. Now please, Mr. Deuce, I’d like my things back.” Randman lets him gather up everything from the desk. As his wallet goes into one of the pockets of his very fine coat, he adds, narratively, “I’m staying at the Marlborough Hotel, when you decide to contact me. Please do so as soon as possible. Fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Deuce.” He stands with his soft, workless hands on the desk, glancing smugly at Randman as if expecting something more.

Randman meets his eyes levelly. When nothing more comes, Zirus asks neutrally, “May I please have my gun back?”

“Not today, Phile,” Randman returns. “Next time I see you. When there’s a few more people around and a room you’re less curious about exploring.”

A brief and swiftly suppressed spasm of rage contorts Zirus’s soft, smooth face.

“As you say then, sirrah. Next time. I shall expect that to be very soon.” He tugs the brim of his hat lower over his seductive fly-trap eyes and heads out. Randman sees him out the hall door and locks it, making sure of its security. He leans back against the distorted glass where the gentle hall light shines through, closes his eyes, and passes a long sigh up from the depth of his rye-filled belly.

It’s almost dark outside. Randman stays there a little while breathing. From outside and below comes the roaring and screeching sound of the tires of a rapidly accelerating car.

Also, hey RHL -- I noticed that the epilogue to 'Tea Shades' didn't make it into the index. Do you manage that? If you see this, could you please kindly add it in? I'd appreciate it. The link is this: [URL="http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=4740361&postcount=1159"]Tea Shades: Epilogue[/URL]

[Mordokai]

Dammit Reinholdt, stop trying to make me feel bad for falling!

Nice ship though.

[ghost_warlock]

>>
<<

*drops off a fic and then walks away whistling*

Resonance (Redemption fic)
Flora/Pickman (also featuring RabbitHoleLost)
Song: “Forms of Imprisonment” by Universal Hall Pass

Spoiler

Show

Stable fortress
What makes the boundless stand on a pin?
For saturnine blue torches downed in size

Rabbit watched a leaf fall and flutter down from Flora’s tree, joining a loose ring of others on the ground. The dryad lay huddled on her bed, no longer even whimpering; her rage long since cooled to melancholy.

Flora had barely moved for days; did not, would not, eat or drink anything. But Rabbit had no idea if this was normal for the dryad, or a symptom of her depression. Surely all living things needed to be nourished; but did Flora’s tree alone sustain her?

The necromancer sighed sadly and returned her gaze to the leaves on the ground. Was this normal; should so many leaves be dropping? Should she leave them where they lay, or remove them?

Flora offered no answers, did not respond when called and had even ceased pulling away from Rabbit’s touch. Shaking her head, Rabbit left the room.

Subterranean forests
Move outwards by design
Consider
A diamond’s view of time
Can see more ways

He could ignore the call, the push, no longer. It was a tremor within him. He was compelled by not a voice but frantic, indistinct whispers. Hours spent screaming and beating his head against gravestones had earned him no peace. And good sense this made, as lacking a brain was he – no need for brain nor heart nor lung when but a sack of spore you are.

Undead, but not wholly dead, the spores pulsed within him. They desired something, a sensation new to him as in the centuries since his transformation they had been silent.

Like rapid lichen he scaled the walls outside the citadel, slipped past the sentries with the ease of a shadow in a lightless room. Though a new place for him the citadel was, there was no question of where he must go to find the dryad: he was guided to her by the rustling within him.

A leap brought him up to the window, gazing in at her from the darkness outside. Curled upon herself, she slowly opened her eyes at the light click of his hooves upon the glass windowsill. Her eyes widened and she flinched as he leapt at her.

We’re offering a new power
Stop sheltering a doomed flower
That’s not what we’re meant to be made of
Swallowed Saturn under the terms of our imprisonment
To arrest in a new form ‘till the shadow of him covered every good limit
No more narrow cage to gild
Don’t let the stable fortress come to nothing

Crouched on the bed beside her, a clawed hand clasped over her mouth, the creature pressed a talon to its lips. It released her then, back arching as if bowing as it withdrew.

She stared at the creature. From previous experience, she was no stranger to the dead that yet prowled the land. Living in Rabbit’s citadel had merely desensitized her to the horrors. This creature now before her was like, yet unlike, any of the dead-but-not-dead things she’d seen before.

Within it, she could sense a subtle, pervasive life. It was balanced in a delicate symbiosis with the necrotic flesh. This creature was an example of partnership between undead and alive; a unique ecology all its own.

It reached out and she pulled away. Then, realizing it was offering her something, she held out a hand. The creature dropped a handful of tiny, gray-green spore; like dozens of miniature seeds in her palm.

If you want to be
You can free any form you love
We put a ban on poetry and growing things
To see the seasons we’ve been sweeping
Under Saturn’s hair
We’ve been sweeping seasons
Asleep,
All the kings are out on ant hills
So don’t let this come to nothing

Cradled on her hand, the spores sprouted and grew; tiny toadstools beginning to take shape. Vibrant red with orange spots, yellow stalks. They reminded her of a forest fire; burning away the detritus and leaving in its wake room for new life to take root.

She looked at the creature. It sat with its withered expression blank, sunken eyes glazed over, mouth hanging agape, jaws lined with sharp teeth jutting out at irregular angles. The creature had to be one of the ugliest things she’d ever seen. So ugly, in fact, that she couldn’t help but feel it was intentionally trying to be so offensively hideous.

If this was the case, though, it gave no confirmation, merely stared at her. In her palm, the toadstools seemed to pulse, whisper. She began to understand a little of what they said to her, though their voices were soft and often indistinct.

Don’t look at me like I am a monster. Life cannot always be beautiful. Lock not away the dead. Consume the corpses to grow your flowers. This is necessary. Life feeds on life. Devour to survive. So it is. So it’s always been.

Come taste
Our strong sense of will
All bets on the table trumping a visit with a death by inches
Of what a win – win game of will is
Come in Sally and sing
Under the stars, say no to sleep

Rabbit found them there, sitting on Flora’s bed. Startled by the trespasser, Rabbit gave a shout and dropped the tray she carried; spilling food she’d scrounged for Flora as well as a heavy, iron pitcher filled with water for the tree. At the sound of Rabbit’s shout the creature leapt off the bed and up onto the windowsill, sprinkling tiny spore about the room as it did so. Crouching there, it hissed at Rabbit, claws splayed and jagged teeth gnashing.

Shouting again, Rabbit scooped the iron pitcher up off the floor and hurld it at the feral-looking intruder. The creature dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the pitcher. It hissed again and dropped out the window, away into the night.

Giving mental instructions to her undead forces, Rabbit commanding some to search for Flora’s attacker while others would stand guard outside the window. She would leave nothing to chance in case the creature returned. Rabbit turned her attention to Flora, checking to see that she was all right.

The toadstoods' voices in Flora's mind were now joined gently in song. Hiding them with a turn of her hand, the dryad lightly embraced Rabbit when she came near. Then, with a sweet smile, Flora rose and began to pick through the mess of food on the floor, looking for what edible bits she could scavenge for herself and her newfound, secret friends.

For those who wish to be they can free any form they love
Stop putting bans on poetry
And sweeping seasons,
Holding pins
With the weight of the world

((OOC: In case it need be said, no the toadstools are not growing into Flora, the spores just sprouted in response to her natural dryad-ness magic. She can put them down or plant them or something; they aren't permanently affixed to her body or anything like that.))

[happyturtle]

@ Reinholdt: I already told you how much I liked Banter (and the followup which I got the sneak preview of--haha, the rest of the thread is jealous now! ) Well done.

@ Helgraf: Wow! Just, wow. Love it. That was the perfect thing to happen to Happy. Broken heart, broken will, and now broken body.

@ Pickman: I'm glad to see Flora get some more attention. The only thing that's really stopped me from writing more about her is that RHL hasn't written about her own redemption yet. Until she does, I have no idea how to write Rabbit.

[ghost_warlock]

@ Pickman: I'm glad to see Flora get some more attention. The only thing that's really stopped me from writing more about her is that RHL hasn't written about her own redemption yet. Until she does, I have no idea how to write Rabbit.

Yeah, it seemed that Flora was sort of being neglected/forgotten in the midst of all the tidings of war. I...felt kinda bad for her. Essentially, I thought Flora could use a friend and something to take care of, since her traditional role as a dryad has been somewhat derailed by all of this falling business. So, now she has some talking toadstools to keep her company! Think of them as a dryad version of some intelligent kittens only she can hear.

Oh, and this idea came also as somewhat of a homage to one of my favorite, no-longer-updated, webcomics: Mt. Zogon. Not sure how many people have heard of it, but it used to be published in DRAGON/DUNGEON magazine, I think. It's about a druidess and her mushroom companion.

Galeena is the best. Druid. Ever!
Here's some samples for the unfamiliar:

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Not that I'd necessarily expect Flora's personality to develop along lines anything similar to Galeena, though.
>>
<<

[Cristo Meyers]

Okay, I've found the Redemption saga, but I'm still clueless as to where exactly Mordokai fell. Can someone fill me in?

The index hasn't been updated, but these are the relevent episodes at the top of the page. There's about 4 more in between there and the last one in the index, but it was enough of a pain to find the relevent ones...

edit: I lied, the others are here, here, here, and here. I believe all the others are in the index.

[Reinholdt]

The Trap a Redemption Fiction
Mordokia/Reinholdt

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Reinholdt eventually made his way back into camp. He couldn’t give up, he just couldn’t. They used to be friends. Well, Mordokai did used to be a friend to him didn’t he? Reinholdt shook his head. Did it matter? Reinholdt was being Mordokai’s friend whether he liked it or not. And friends don’t watch as the other one destroys himself.

That was why he was here again wasn’t it? To save Mordokai? Or was it all for him? Was he being selfish and clingy? Just unwilling to let go? It felt like it a little, but something still told him this had to be done. Even if there were ulterior motives.

Mordokai entered. And like the last two times, he began by startling him a bit.

“Hello Mordokai.”

Mordokai, like always, instinctively went for his sword, then relaxed. He puts on his smirk, knowing he’s won before the battle of words even begins. “What’s the matter cat? Didn’t feel bad enough last time you left and decided to come back for more?”

“You know why I’m here, so don’t patronize…” Reinholdt sniffs the air. There was something different about Mordokai. He couldn’t quite figure out what, though. But it was… relaxing in a way.

“I know you’re here because you need a friend. I’ve changed my mind Reinholdt. I want to apologize for earlier. I still like you.”

“Wait, what?” Reinholdt was glad and worried at the same time. But something in the air made him concentrate on the glad part. Alarm bells were ringing, but they just weren’t getting through.

“I said, I’d like to still be friends with you Reinholdt. It may be awhile before I consider returning to my old ways, but it’s a start at least, right?” Mordokai kneels down, opening his arms to him.

“But you…” Reinholdt shakes his head. Something wasn’t right. But the feeling of having Mordokai as a friend again was absolutely euphoric. And wasn’t he ready to risk everything to get him back anyways? Reinholdt, hesitantly at first, walks up to him, eventually being embraced. It only takes a half-second for him to finally figure it out. This close the smell was undeniable. Mordokai’s clothes were laced with catnip. The truth rolled over him like a splash of ice cold water. Too little too late. By the time he figured it out, Mordokai’s strong grip already had him firmly, ripping off his sniper rifle with one hand and stuffing him in a prepared cage with another. The door slammed shut behind him, lock clicking.

Mordokai leans down and sneers in triumph. “How does it feel kitty cat? How does it feel to be betrayed yet again?!” He slams his fist into the cage sending it flying and Reinholdt reeling. When it comes to a stop, Reinholdt only lies there, staring, no longer having the will to stand up and fight. “Hurts doesn’t it?!!... But you already recall that don’t you? Heh. Friends with you? The only thing we share now is a history of knives in our backs and lies.” He steps over to the cage. “But don’t worry kitty cat. We’ll still have lots of fun together.” He reaches down, and the dark shadow of his iron fist fell over Reinholdt.

***

It wasn’t long until Reinholdt found his way into a torture chamber. The usually talkative cat hadn’t said a word since he was captured. Stretched out by the limbs, he could do nothing but watch as Mordokai paced a bit in front of some wicked looking tools, occasionally picking one up to admire it.

Mordokai’s back remained turn as he held a curved blade in his fingers, using it almost as a mirror. “Did you know torture is an art that can be taught? Would you like to know who taught me? No? I’ll give you a hint. It’s an expert.” Mordokai got only silence. “Oh very well. Look, you made me break down and tell you,” he said mockingly. “It was Happyturtle.”

“Happy…?” Reinholdt’s eyes went wide in disbelief, his silence broken.

Mordokai turned around, clearly pleased with himself for finally getting to Reinholdt. “My oh my, yes. She rather enjoyed our sessions, too. I know I did.” Out of nowhere, Mordokai clenched his fist and punched Reinholdt as hard as he could in the stomach, several ribs clearly snapping. As Reinholdt wretched blood and vomit from the impact, Mordokai just smirked. “That’s for speaking without being given permission.”

Mordokai leans in close, waving the blade in his hand closer. “You know what they say, don’t you? There’s more than one way to skin a cat. This will be for all the times you tried to mess with my head. I’m going to enjoy our time together… friend.” Eyes flaring with hatred, he moved in.

Now I could describe the tortures Reinholdt endured.
I could try to explain the physical pain he went through.
I could attempt to display his heart as its already broken pieces were slowly shredded into fine particles.
I could endeavor to show the complete and utter sadistic pleasure Mordokai got from doing this.
But I would fail.
I would fail because there are some things words can not describe.
All I could do would be to show the result.
The half cat that was left.
His tail nothing more than a stub.
His fur all shaved off.
His nose, two bloody holes.
One ear gone completely.
His left eye filled with a large, painful looking screw.
Internal injuries too many to list off.
Most disturbing of all, though, was his mouth.
It was smiling.
It was whispering.
Over and over.
“Friend… friend…”

Enjoy. I'll comment on the new ones when I get a chance to read them.

[RabbitHoleLost]

Helgraf: Uhohhh. As always, I look forward to reading anything you post here. This should get interesting...

Kneen: Hmmm. I wonder ho wit got lost off the archives =/
Don't worry, I'll fix it. As for the rest of the index, I have tomorrow and the day after off in which to work on it. Work has been a bit hard recently >>

Ghost: I love it. I do. There's just something so incredibly...intimate between Pickman and Flora there. I feel kinda guilty Rabbit came in and broke it.
I'm sure Rabbit's confused by the embrace.
Hm.
Hmhmhm...

Reiholdt:.. you're just as bad as I am

[Reinholdt]

@ Kneenibble - You, sir, have a way with words that I envy. Your descriptions of the little things just adds so much more realism to your stories. And the way you did it made it that much more like an old fashioned detective story. Very well done.

@ Ghost Warlock - Yay! I wanted to get back to Flora/Rabbit someday. But like Happy said, gotta wait a bit for Rabbit's redemption ship to understand somewhat. Well I don't think I'll ever quite understand Citadel Rabbit . Thanks for the nice ship. It was breath of fresh air in a depressing downward spiral.

^ Worse even.

[Dragonrider]

Nightmare fuel, Reinholdt!

[Reinholdt]

I've been asked to add a clarification. Read only after reading the ship.

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Reinholdt is not dead. Severely maimed with wounds that'll never heal, yes. But alive. And left open for other authors to pick up. Like Happy, I'm going to concentrate elsewhere for a little while.

Possibly on other characters. Possibly on a nicer, feel good ship. Don't know yet.

Correction. I'll probably just take a break for a week or something. I've written way more than I ever expected.

[TwoBitWriter]

I have written another Redemption fic, with Jon. Decided to put a slight twist in at the end.

An Unexpected Encounter A Redemption Fic

Starring: Jon and Mangosta

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An Unexpected Encounter

“How I hate impersonating the rank-in-file,” Jon muttered to himself. He knew it would be too dangerous now to impersonate Mordokai’s guard, so he had taken the place of a common foot-soldier instead. He had his spear pointed skyward, and used a free hand to shift his leather jerkin to a more comfortable position. The man whose place he had taken was dispatched easily enough, and his clothing fit Jon well enough. Jon hadn’t killed him, of course, but had simply left him unconscious and naked at the side of the road.

After a day’s march, Jon was beginning to feel a bit tired. Luckily, Mordokai had decided to camp his army for the night. This was the opportunity that Jon had been looking for. When no one was looking he stole into a nearby tent and quickly changed out of the uniform, being careful to make it appear as if a soldier had simply retired his gear for the night.

When Jon emerged from the tent, he was dressed as a beggar. He still wished to avoid attention for the moment, so stole through the darkened camp. He approached the tent where Mordokai, and presumably Turtle, were.

“I hope this is all worth it, Turtle is causing me more trouble than she is worth…” Jon muttered.

“What brings a beggar to an army camp at night?” A sudden voice came from behind Jon.

Swearing silently, Jon turned to face the man who addressed him. The man’s face was cloaked in shadow, but his voice was still eerily familiar…

“Oh, just looking for a handout, good sir,” Jon said, masking his voice to sound as pitiful as possible. His right arm twitched, preparing to grab his assassin’s dagger if needed.

The man stepped forward, grinning at Jon. “You can drop the act, Jonlas. Mordokai himself might be able to see you for what you are, but I am not like the rest of the riffraff here.”

Jon froze. “Mangosta…” he said, standing upright and drawing away his tattered beggar’s cloak. “I am not surprised you would serve one such as Mordokai…”

“I serve only myself, Jonlas. It just so happens that Mordokai’s interests and my own are parallel for the time being…”

Jon gritted his teeth. “My name is not Jonlas… it is Jon now.”

Mangosta laughed bitterly, slowly dragging his own dagger, matched perfectly to Jon’s. “You can fool yourself by pretending to be something other than what you are, but we are one and the same. I had my suspicions it was you who absconded with Mordokai’s barbarian wench. Have you lost your stomach for murder? Are you reduced to kidnapping helpless, beaten women?”

Jon shook his head. “I have another purpose now… and I took the barbarian woman because it was my assignment, and I shall complete my task.” In a flash, Jon’s dagger was in his hand. He held onto the grip tightly, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

“You have already failed, Jonlas. Turtle is gone, she ran off, and is likely dead now. Does that displease you?”

Jon again froze, a chill running up his spine. Mangosta was as deceitful as he, but he knew that the man would never lie to him. He had never failed Rabbit before, and now he seemed to have done so.

Mangosta noted Jon’s reaction and laughed. “You have no business here now, Jon. You could have taken Mordokai’s life long ago, but you failed to end this war when you had the chance. You are too weak to face me now. I had thought there was a chance for you and I to work as one, once again.” Mangosta slid his dagger back in its sheath.

Every instinct in Jon’s body made him beg to spring forward and drive his weapon into Mangosta’s heart now that he was defensless, but he held back. He began to sweat, and had to swear to himself to not violate Rabbit’s order to not kill needlessly.

Mangosta turned and walked away. He called back at Jon. “May as well leave, Jonlas. I will do you a small favor, because I am an honorable man and I do owe you. I will not tell Mordokai about you, or tonight. Leave now, dwell in your cowardice for the rest of your life.”

Jon said nothing for a moment, but put his dagger away and drew the beggar cloak over him again. He would have to track Turtle, somehow. Luckily, the nearby woods were the only place where she could have successfully escaped to, he would try there first.

But… for now…

Jon called out to Mangosta. “This isn’t over, brother! We will meet again soon!”

[Saint Nil]

Shadowland

Mercenaries

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Sticks and stones pleted her skin, but the words stung worst of all.
Freak. Loser. Half-breed!!
THe other children stood far away from her, mostly rallied around a larger boy, who seemed to to be egging the others on.

Get the freak! Get her!

Mores stones flew towards her, her arms covering her face.

Fre-Blood trickled down his face, wear the stone batted it back towards him.

Bushranger!

The other children fled as they saw him, as he helped MoonCalled to her feet. The 8 year old girl was brusied all over, and Bushranger led her to their hideout.

Don't worry MoonCalled, I'll take care of you. We orphans have to look out for each other, Bushranger said with a wink.

Bushranger..tears welled up in MoonCalled's eyes.

Don't worry, were family now. Just call me Brother.

Bushranger began to wrap up MoonCalled's bruises, as she began sobbing into his arms...

.........only to wake up in the camp.

MoonCalled realized that she it was Vespe's shift, and looked over at him.

Vespe just nodded at hear, telling her she was mumbling in her sleep again. MoonCalled just nodded, wrapping her blamket back over her.

Brother....you were the only one ever care for me. I've caught your murderer, why can't you rest in peace?
MoonCalled rolled over, lost in her thoughts and memories as she fell back asleep.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Vespe put his hand to his eyepatch. Foruntatly, MoonCalled knew enough medicine to stop the bleeding. He hoped she would be able to get a good nights sleep for once thoug.

He continued to rub his fingers over the eyepatch, talking to himself as he lept guard.

Counting the paladin and my lost eye, the score between us is 200-201 Twobit. I'm going to have to find a new way to make you suffer if I want to get ahead.

Vespe prodded the fire, glancing at the Wolfbane. They kept his drugged to keep him from running away until they could deliver him to Fanboy.

Both MoonCalled and Vese had work toghter for a long time, but both took this for personal reasons, even though the Vampire was paying a fine price for the rebel.

Vespe leaned back, rubbing his eye-patch.

I'll get the upper-hand next, Twobit. Trust me, I will find a new way to make you suffer.

Vespe mearly grinned, letting the night sky give them the cover they needed to rest until they could earn their pay.

Just wait.

Next will be the 3 Dark Lords

[CurlyKitGirl]

And now, good sirs and ladies of the thread I present you with what has come before in:

Definition drabble

Outraged
Accentuate
Domicile
Alienist
Prolix
Dragoon
Ineffable
Golem
Jurisprudence
Definition - by Helgraf
Lothario
Exculpate
Touchstone
Prelapsarian
Remora
Kickshaw
Bifurcate
Simulacrum
Undulant
Wisenheimer
Conciliatory
Videlicet
Scapegrace
Sanguine - by Helgraf
Frieze

And now:
Zany - a foolish, eccentric, or crazy person

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The man Renfield, the oracle, Graf, one and the same clung to the desperate hope that the not – coney would save the coney. Only so much he blessed by Tsukies’ cool gaze could do, even here in the amphitheatre wherein angels and fallen angels had sung and danced. The blood of the coney coursed with fevers’ dark poison and she would die before the sum rose if the not – coney left her.
To this one mad fragmentary hope he clung with the tenacity of a shipwrecked sailor as he watched the masked not – coney bless the coney with a cool hand. She would live. But to what cost?
As the not – coney left a hot desert wind blew through the tableau. Change was coming fast.

25% extra!

And now, in the intertwining series: Falling
Falling Part One - Game Start
Falling Part Two - The Players Meet
Falling Part Three - Love Quadrangles?
Falling Part Four - Summer Lovin'
Falling Part Five - History Lessons

Curly/Mordokai/Flora/Mi'ir:
Falling Part Six - Revelations of A Demonic Nature

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"Trees! Evil, man - eating killer trees!! I mean, why?!"
"Demon made them?"
"Could it be that it's something to do with the dryad within?" It wasn't, but hey, suspicion breeds conspiracy. Bit of a shame she couldn't admit to one of her works of art, even if it was a drunken one. But some of humanity's best creators had been drunk. Or mad. Or on one of natures' natural hallucinogenics. Or a combination. "Pardon me for asking Sir Knight and Mi'ir, but where exactly did you come across these trees? I'm a bit well, worried." That you three would get eaten before I'd gotten bored with you. With true stage flair she turned hurriedly back to the fire and bustled about getting dinner up for them; stupid pansy of a dryad, worrying about scorching her tree. She wasn't even a true dryad, nothing more than a wet flower maiden.
With true gallantry Mi'ir walked over to where the meek, but useful Curly (yeah right) knelt trying to hide her nervousness and said consolingly, "Don't worry Lady, we can move at night even if we need to go through that area once again."
"Are you sure it's okay?"
"Yes Lady."
"I think it must be demons, dryads seldom go mad." Silence fell. Ah, there was the ditzy wench; unknowingly sowing the seeds of doubt between her comrades. You couldn't do this yourself, got to wait for a so - called member of the same species to bring up their faults. Now the innocent and unwitting Curly has to be the one to ask what she meant. So she did.
"Well, dryads are subject to the same mental problems and curses as humans. So their trees can reflect it too. But I've never heard of man - eating trees before." She trailed off and went back to picking at some food. An awkward silence fell shortly before the general consensus agreed it was most likely the work of demons. Curly supposed it was time to interject a little sense into the conversation. "If it was truly a demon and not a work of their own nature, he must be a very powerful demon indeed to change the basic design of such a passive and gentle being as a dryad." A bit of ego - stroking and flattering the drip at the same time, make amends for the unknowing insult Curly had said earlier. Except it certainly wasn't unknowing. "Killer trees. Demons are mental." Yep. Makes for more fun. Oh, right, "Did you two decide to acccept the bodyguard offer?" It was said softly, with real regret, as if she'd dearly miss them on should they take it up. "Well, we do need the money, and he's the chief oracle of Sune's sister. So we're taking the job."
"We hope you two'll be alright."
"We'll be okay. Honest." Curly nodded in assent.
"We leave tomorrow."

Timeline - wise:
Parts One - Three take place three days before Alienist, all on the same day. Part Four the day before Alienist and Part Five on the same day as Alienist.
Part Six is about three days after Alienist, and two hours after Prolix. Prolix takes place the day before Mordokai and Mi'ir take up the off and Ineffable takes place that evening.

[Destro_Yersul]

Well, Destro had another idea. Or rather, two other ideas. The second is for a redemption one, and involves Destro again. The first idea is shorter and completely unrelated, so you all can have that one first.

Flight 00

Curly/Ghost

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Attention. Attention. Now boarding Playground Airlines Flight 00 to Las Vegas. The loudspeaker crackled, sounding out the boarding call for the flight. His flight, he reminded himself, standing and making for the gate. Ghost had been wanting to go to Vegas for a while now, and when the chance came he had taken it without second thoughts. It was only later that he learned his flight would be leaving at Midnight, to land in the morning. hell of a time to fly, he had thought.

Still, he was going to Vegas, and that was something, wasn't it? Ghost wasn't much of a gambler, but the city had more than just casinos. Always plenty to do in Vegas. He thought about this as he went through check in at the gate, standing behind a brunette carrying an absurd number of books. Ghost stared at her bag. She must have had twenty books in there, at least. Who needed that many books? Then it was his turn, and he forgot about her for the moment.

Shortly thereafter, as he made his way to his seat, he was reminded of her again. Mostly because she had the aisle seat, next to his. Hi, she said as he approached. Are you sitting here? Do you mind if I take the window seat? I like to watch takeoff, but I wasn't sure who was supposed to sit here.

No, that's fine. Go ahead. Ghost stowed his bag in the overhead bin and let her move over before sitting down.

Thanks. I'm Curly. She smiled at him and they shook hands. Ghost. He replied.

They fell to talking, after that, about their reasons for going to Vegas and what they hoped to do there. She learned that he was an artist, and was taking some time off between showings to look for inspiration in the sleepless city. He found out that she was an English major, which explained the books at least, and was going to visit friends.

At some point in the flight the flight attendant came by and apologized for something or other. Apparently they hadn't brought enough blankets along for everyone, and were asking people to share. That's ok, Curly said before Ghost could get a word in. We'll share. She smiled at him and put her hand on his. It might even be kinda fun.

Ghost didn't get a whole lot of sleep on that flight. Neither did Curly, for that matter. But as he left the plane, with her number scrawled on a spare bit of paper, he found he didn't care much. The Ghost Warlock stepped out of the terminal into the bright morning sunlight and grinned. Viva Las Vegas.

The title is a Tennis joke. If you still don't get it, look up the scoring system.