April+7th+Workshop

=April 7th Workshop= Writers: We have quite a bit to read for the April 7th meeting, so why don't we start with this and save our other works for future workshops. This should be a good amount of writing to discuss in one meeting. Nice work, workshoppers! Remember, the workshop is for everyone to discuss, so even though you may not have something posted, come with your ideas to share about these pieces!

Recommendation: Since there's a good amount of material, you may want to make some notes on paper to bring along. EVAN QUADE Souls Chapter One I was in the middle of my novel //Unwind//, a book about a future that negotiates the practice of “unwinding” termination. I’ve been relaxing on one of these comfy chairs at Dubuque Hempstead High School’s library. It would cause me to fall to a deep slumber on the chair. It was 6th hour, my free hour; usually 6th hour is my P.E. class, but its Wednesday, and that’s when I don’t have gym. I was so skinny, but I liked it. I hated being fat so much. I would never get fat as my old friend Nick, from middle school, who eats a total of ten pizzas. As for me being skinny, I use less weight when I’m doing Fitness in gym. My cell phone (made by Motorola) abruptly vibrated. I keep the ring tone on vibrate so no teacher can notice. It was the only rule I break in school: NO CELLS IN CLASS. I received a text from my girlfriend, Lily Herbst. Lily and I have been dating for two weeks now. The text read, //this weekend is booked, I’m gonna be on a joyful day with Terry to the Sunshine Harbor hotel, and next weekend we’re going to Wisconsin Dells.// I didn’t text back, but this was getting utterly absurd. And why would Lily say “joyful day with Terry?” This quote that she said on the text made me a bit leery. Something was going on. The librarian approached from behind, “Sir, you have to get going, the bell rang. It’s time for 7th hour.” Without saying a word, I marked the page on my novel, left the chairs without looking directly at the librarian for one second, and sauntered out the door. I seldom speak up just to say “hello” randomly to students in the hallways. I haven’t made many friends here in Spartan High School. It’s not that I’m freaky; I’m different than these people. I’m deeply religious. My view is Christian-Catholic. When I found a piece of lifetime to always believe in forever and never change, they’ve become entirely envious because they have been struggling to find their own belief. They don’t care what I have to say about God. I couldn’t fight their disagreement, I was too gentle. “Hey look, it’s the strict religious boy who thinks he has spiritual powers,” a student said as I walked past him. I continued along to Algebra—my 7th hour class. Chapter Two “Okay students, turn your textbooks to page 502,” said Mr. Hathaway, my Algebra teacher. I was an intelligent person in this subject, when it comes to equations and shapes. I’ve been an //A+// student since 7th grade. I’m usually quiet though, as if I were a wretched loner who doesn’t like to communicate, even with someone who’s trying to help. I stare at my teacher, with my head tilted a little, trying to listen clearly. “Now who can tell me the square root of thirty-six? Mr. Finn?” I flinched when he called my name. “Six?” “Come on. Why do you have to say it like if you were asking if that’s right?” said Mr. Hathaway, feeling annoyed, “Say it like you mean it.” A few students laughed with their hands on their mouth. Again, I said, “Six,” like I actually //know// what the answer is. “That’s better,” said Mr. Hathaway. Mr. Hathaway doesn’t normally call me to volunteer to the board or tell him an answer to a question, since I’m way far in the back. I liked being back there; since he barely notices me when I have my phone tucked under the desk, texting my girlfriend as fast as I could, but I text too slow. “Ethan put your phone away!” shouted Mr. Hathaway. It sounded like the first time I got caught. It was 2:20, and the bell rang.

I waited at the front doors at school, waiting patiently and quietly with obnoxious kids with insane attitudes, for the city bus to pull in. It’s so hard to find out what these black kids are saying, especially when they’re dancing and rapping like maniacs (rap really isn’t my favorite music), or when they’re shouting like they’re at a loud rock concert, and you can’t hear yourself speak normally. They give me ominous looks because of my look like I’m some kind of emo, which I’m not! I hate it when they call me emo. I just enjoy the colors of black and white. I’m just being Ethan Finn. Just myself. The bus pulled in, the black kids shoved me aside and ran up the steps. One fat kid, who was a bully to me, John Raymond, stared at me like he’s about to hang me on a flagpole, and tried to get past the driver, but he pulled him back, and asked him for 50 cents. John always forces little kids for money. Why can’t he just be like other responsible people who make their own budgets? Why is he always egging people on? I showed the driver my bus ID—an ID I use for free rides—and sat on the seat next to the driver, still feeling riled about the black kids misbehaving for the umpteenth time. I didn’t attempt to yell “Shut up!” at them. Chapter Three

//Thank god it’s over now,// I said to myself, walking apathetically uphill on Martin Drive, the street I live on, after getting off the city bus. I pull out my cell phone and looked again at the suspicious text Lily sent me, just as she guaranteed that we would go out this weekend. Still, who is this Terry person? Is he just an ordinary friend? I was hoping he was. I try to get over it and slid the phone back in my pants pocket. We’re in a relationship for crying out loud! She couldn’t possibly do anything weird, could she? It’s hard for me to elude a bad sign of what could happen to me. “How was school, honey?” my mother asked. “Okay,” I replied. I proceeded to my bedroom. The relationship with my parents is fine, but a bit uneasy; it would depend on the attitude and personality of the face-to-face talk. I love them so much, but I don’t get the point why I’m acting like they’re pissing me off. I know it’s always started by me when an argument goes on. But from time to time, the guiltiness comes into me. I get a feeling I’m disobeying one law of God: //Honor you mother and father//. In the night, before I lay down, sleeping like an angel sleeps, I take a little round-shaped blackish prayer rock, and ask for forgiveness, free me from sins, let him know they’re still my true family.

The prayer rock was a gift from the people of the St. Anthony’s Church Youth Group Retreat. The retreat was a special get together to learn the message in God’s words, a time of meeting new people, and even learning a way of praying. The team members would share their sides of their stories of anything having to do with “friends,” “family,” “happiness,” “gloominess,” anything that relates to God’s feelings. A team member sent me the rock as a thank-you gift for attending the retreat and going forth to a path of better faithful success. Inside the bag was a note: // I am your little prayer rock…and this is what I will do. Just tuck me under your pillow until the day is through. Then turn the covers back and in to your bed, and WHACK, your little prayer rock will hit you on the head. Then you will remember as each day is through to quiet yourself and say your prayers! When you are finished just drop me on the floor. I will stay there thru the nighttime to give you help once more. When you get up the next morning CLUNK, I will gently stub your toe. So you will remember once more to say your morning prayers before you go. Put me back upon your pillow as you quickly make your bed. And me your clever little prayer rock will continue in your aid. Because GOD cares and loves you so he wants you to remember to HIM you know! God Bless, we are praying for you as you make you self connection with your FAITH and our LORD!! // All of the instructions said by the rock gained more experience in me. Never underestimate it. Always take that advice. They will listen, and guide you.

I had to figure out what is going on with the details of Lily with Terry. There has to be someone who will be able to listen, understand, and be able to share any feedback of how //this// could help me out. I went to my mother, who was making enchilada in the kitchen for dinner. “Hey is it alright if I meet with Sophie O’Conner anywhere and anytime this weekend?” Sophie is my youth administrator for St. Anthony’s Catholic Church. “What do you need to see her for?” Mom asked. “Umm…just for something I want to ask her about serious situations.” I felt jittery about mentioning my girlfriend with some other guy I don’t know. I didn’t want her to feel apprehensive about what’s going on. “Do you have her number?” said Mom. “Yes.” “Okay. Well if you want, go ahead and call her.” I picked up the phone adjacent to the kitchen table and walked back to my bedroom to speak with Sophie in private. I waited impatiently for Sophie to answer, but it still kept ringing. There was no answer. I left her a voice message. “Hi, this is Ethan Finn, and I was wondering if you would like to meet with me anytime this weekend to have a talk? I--I have many…questions to ask you. If you could, that would be great. Thank you.” I hung up the phone. I sat on my green cushioned rocking chair—which I call my “throne”—in the living room, turned on the TV., and waited wistfully for Sophie to respond to my voice message. Chapter Four Nothing. Just nothing. What a shame. So much luck, just to get a little help. I moped back to the kitchen and put the house phone back on the charger. “Did you get a hold of her? Mom asked. “No,” I mumbled, “I’ll try her again later, but I left a message anyway.” I sat back on the green, pillowed chair—or the throne as I call it. “So what were you telling me before? What did you want to see Sophie for?” “It’s this relationship business…” My voice was beginning to quaver, “I want to ask her how she would feel if she were betrayed. How she would feel if she were being cheated on. You know what I mean?” “Ethan, are you like worried about what might happen between you and your girlfriend Lily?” I was silent for a second, hoping she wasn’t dumbfounded, like my statement wasn’t making any sense. “I…. Never mind.” I walked away. Suddenly, the phone rang. “Hello?” Mom said as she answered. “He is, hang on? Ethan! It’s Sophie!” “Hello.” I said. “Yeah there’s something very important I want to explain to you about…. It’s about my relationship…. Uh-huh….” I stood intently listening to her guidance. “Oh thank you so much, you’re the best…. Ok, I’ll see you then… Bye.” I hung up the phone. “Sophie says she’d be happy to chat with me this Saturday afternoon. She’ll be down at Panera Bread.” “Sounds good,” Mom answered. // 7:00 pm // I tucked myself in to my fluffy bed with a red maroon mattress and blanket as soft as a fat, fluffy cat, feeling the suffer of anxiety with distress, known to be the curse I’ve had. Like I was turning to a non-humanist, so strict I couldn’t let my future kids experience the outside world. I sat up on my bed to use my used Compaq Laptop on my right side to find entertainment to elude the dangers of the troubles that worry me. In order to prevent chest pains, cold sweat, and a twitching area of my pale skin. I tried to keep in touch with the mouse, my back stabbing me a bit like a gentle tap with a hammer. I collapsed, my head striking the pillow. I gave up. The prayer rock from the St. Anthony’s Youth Retreat called out to me as I faced the other direction. I probably knew what it was time for. I took a firm grip onto the stone and sat it in front of me. “Our Father,” I started out, taking a deep breath as I got ready to say the next lines, “who are in heaven,” a dramatic pause, “Hallowed be thy name.” My heart started to pound at the speed of an active athlete, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. On earth as it is in heav—” I had to stop for a second to calm down, my muscles clenching until it cramped. Everything around me is edgy; I would be compared to the same quiet character Melinda in the book //Speak// by Laurie Halse Anderson. After my heart slowed down, I continued to finish the prayer, “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses,” it was working out pretty well, “as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Silence. I released my hopes to see what God can do for my issues. // 9:00 pm // I desired to make it through the night, and not turn cranky with too much anxiety causing a lack of sleep—as if it were insomnia—and might as well daydream of a nightmare. If only I were breathing adequately, all my sorrows would drift away, my greenish-gold eyes will remain closed, and an adventurous land will come to me. This would be the beginning of a new world.

__**Numb**__

Killing my sel---f so--- swee---tly I--- don---'t see--- me cry---ing--- i---nside dy---ing--- i---nside X2

Sweet promises of ha-pp-ne-ss just how perfect ca-n thi-s ge-t nobody here to- wi-t ne-ss my fall into the pre-ci-pice

Killing my sel---f so--- swee---tly I--- don---'t see--- me cry---ing--- i---nside dy---ing--- i---nside X2

Never beleived mu-ch i-n fa-te still hard to go arou-nd thi-s bai-t falling down into- the- pai-n suffocated by a-ll thi-s ha-te

Killing my sel---f so--- swee---tly I--- don---'t see--- me cry---ing--- i---nside dy---ing--- i---nside X2

__**Corrupted Courage**__

So few of us left those who can see your soul Whish i werent so adept cuz what i see turns me cold and its hard to accept that your heart is gold I see through all your threats how can you be so bold?

I see your corrupted courage I see your twisted lies I here your drunken slurring as you ignore the cries Now we're converging To pull off your disguise Had enough of this purging Just look me in the eyes

Actin like you're bumblein I see you for what you are Actin like you're stumblein I see you with my scars All I am is numberin self inflicted bars I see your courage crumblein I see you for what you are

EVAN QUADE
 * Lost for Comfort**

He aimlessly paces, through a corridor of disarray, Wondering why he always feel betrayed... He gives an astonishing gaze, But they treat him like being in a maze... Causing confusion...making an abrupt illusion...

He continues on, as if being withdrawn, Wistful to be wonderfully known, like a flying swan... A burden of jitteriness controlling everything, He couldn't risk anything... He says "It's no use, I'm in pain like getting a bee sting."

There he remains in the black hole, trying to get out, Surrounded by sorrowful souls about... He thinks he can give up, By ending it all with a death cup... Where will he go? Some may, or may not know...

There was no need to cease, And letting himself decrease... He will get his chance, For his moment to enhance... He has realized that his time has come, To be very visible, and never again feeling glum...

Cole Martioski
 * Is This Really The End**

“We appreciate all of your soul giving we also would like to thank you the vulnerable for coming in such valued time. But before we get to discuss the gratitude of your acceptance of death we would like to tell you “our” sponsors. They are McDonalds, Burger King and Subway. Just thinking about food makes me want to eat a piece of you right now! Just joking.”

This is a little snip it from my novel that I am currently working on.

Meg Bradley
 * Stories Without Endings**

It all seems so surreal. That tree, the big, leafy maple across the street, has been chopped down, replaced by a small rose garden. And that house, that crumbling thing on the next block, has been repainted beyond recognition. The laundry still gets hung out to dry every day; it still flutters in the wind. The youngest children, the ones who are yet too young for school, run and play in the unpaved streets—there has even been a construction project. How is it that all this has happened?

While I was shut up in my bedroom, my life seemed to grind to a halt. With the curtains shut, I saw none of the outside world; seeing precious few, speaking to even less. When my fingers traced the contours of the window frame, pulled back the shades for the first time since that day, the light that spilled into the room seemed irreverent, misplaced. I don’t understand. Inside me, everything stopped.

How can it all go on like this, after what I’ve done? I waited and waited to be punished. I waited and waited for the world to being to crumble from underneath me. That baby should still be growing inside of me, not strung up somewhere in the sky, from star to star, like a sad sort of lullaby, or like a story without an ending.

Somehow, I expected that when I turned and hid, stopping time in my own life, that it would in turn stop for the rest. But the laundry is still hung out to dry, and life goes on.

= =

= **Kindred Spirit** = __**Chapter One**__ //__Alexander Brandt / Sir Calibur__// THE VILLAGE OF Menoso was abuzz with revelers the night after The Illusionist’s final show. Farmers, winemakers, and even city dwellers had traveled out to the middle of nowhere to see the elusive magician. Word had spread quickly through gossip and rumor that it was to be the final performance, that the Illusionist was hanging up the mask and cape soon to cruise into retirement.

The owner of the local tavern didn’t give a very large damn about all that, though. People were in town and people got hungry when they stood around and watched fire shoot out of the ground and marvel as earth turned to magma and back again. Such people also needed a place to stay. So as the owner did what he did before when people pushed through his front door and demanded room and board: he calmly took their money and served them.

His instincts were correct. Mere minutes after the show ended and The Illusionist had disappeared, a tidal wave of people blew through the door, all shouting amongst each other about everything they could remember about the show. Within another few minutes, most of them were too drunk to talk coherently.

Of course, such activity made the tavern possibly the most uncomfortable place to be on the face of the planet. People complained in the background when they were accidentally shoved by the more intoxicated of the patrons and whined but the owner of the very now profitable establishment blocked such complaints from entering his ears as thoughts of a vacation kept him cool, despite the constant overwhelming demand for drinks.

Turning at the feint sound of his cook dinging up another order, he quickly read the name off, struggling to raise his voice over the collective ramblings of the crowd. “Phillias! There’s an order here for a Cassandra Phillias!”

Even one who had seen many strange things in his long ownership of the tavern had to raise a skeptical and surprised eyebrow when a scrawny figure managed to push their way through the crowd of roaring drunks of men. And she did it with such ease, as if there was nothing blocking her way.

“That’s me,” she said, voice just loud enough to get over the bellows and burps from the people around her. When she received a stare instead of food, one of her own eyebrows went up. “I paid for my meal when I ordered it. The girl told me I could do that.”

“Oh, right, right!” The bartender guffawed as he pushed the plate the rest of the way towards her. “Sorry about that! Can’t be too careful when you’ve got this many people here. I’ve had more than a few who’ve tried to filch food during stuff like this. But then again, it isn’t every day the Illusionist shows up in town.” He quickly returned to serving drinks, ignoring the woman’s grumbling as she walked away. But when her back was turned, he couldn’t help but cast one last glance at her. “Damn girl looks like a skeleton.”

Cassandra, the girl—or woman, to be more accurate—indeed seemed to lack any real meat on her to differentiate her from the walking dead. If not for the short brown locks that rested on her shoulders or the way her eyes gleamed with cunning, it would seem much more sensible to bury her six feet under.

Even more surprising was the ease at which she seemed to move through the crowd, all while keeping her plate balanced. It was like the path to her table was already set. Perhaps the most surprising of all was the speed at which she ate the food from said plate. Within seconds, a chicken leg had already lost most of its meat. Soon enough, she dropped the bare bone to the plate and began on the rest of her meal with animal-like ferocity. And even when the plate was finally cleared, she appeared to long for more.

Fortunately, that longing disappeared seconds later. Unfortunately, it was right after a particularly drunk man stumbled right onto her table, bringing it, her mead and one person unlucky enough to be caught in his path, to the ground.

Like most people who’d nearly had their lives ended by a clumsy drunk, Cassandra was visibly agitated. Had he fallen but a foot closer to her, she probably would have lost feeling in everything below her torso. As the man’s head soaked in what remained of her mead, she delivered a hard kick to his arm. “I hope you’re going to pay for that. I wasn’t finished.”

Her eyes followed him as he stood. Truly, he was a giant of a man, standing at least a foot taller than her. She judged that it would take at least four of her to match his girth, perhaps even more than that.

Gazing down at her with beady eyes as he cracked his knuckles. cracking them loudly enough to silence the crowds. “Your drink, your money,” he growled, beginning to turn away. His head slowly turned back towards Cassandra when her hand clasped the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t believe you understand the rules of this fine establishment. You break, you buy.” She stared defiantly up at the giant, not flinching as she looked into the eyes of someone who had clearly been the alpha of the town for a very long time.

“You have a death wish, girl?”

“No, I’m just really adamant about people reimbursing me for meals that they wasted.”

He seemed both insulted and impressed by Cassandra’s silver tongue. It was not many people who could keep their cool when he had his eyes on them. “You really think this is smart, girl? Talking back to someone who could snap you like a twig?” But even the goliath was unnerved when his words went unheeded.

“Hmm? Nah,” she said with a wave of her hand, “It's not like you're that threatening. You've got muscles, true, but where's the brain?.”

The woman’s confidence continued to rattle the goliath's. “I’ll give you one last chance to walk away before—”

“Oh, you’re giving me a chance to walk away? I wasn’t sure you could understand the concept of mercy with that brawn to brain ratio that you have.”

That comment became the final nail in the coffin of his patience. It was bad enough that she thought she could tell him what to do in his bar, but to also have the audacity to talk back to him? He was going to break her like the arrogant little twig she was. It was almost in slow motion that he brought his fist back. She didn’t even try and get out of the way.

As he sent his hand flying forward, he let out a monstrous bellow. When he felt his knuckles make contact, his initial reaction was satisfaction. This, however, quickly turned to shock when he saw that the woman was still standing there. Instinctively, he sent his other fist forward, dealing what should have been a devastating blow. But again, nothing. Each time he lashed out, his hands stopped inches from her face. For more than a minute, he threw punch after punch at her, desperately trying to break through the invisible barrier. Finally, after expending all his energy, he staggered backwards, stunned by the woman’ invincibility.

It was right then that his realized his reign as toughest person in the bar was officially over.

“M-magic!” he stammered, eyes glancing around, searching for any kind of backup. “Stupid witch!”

Cassandra’s arrogance was well earned at the moment. “Excuse me? You don’t know my class. And unless I decide to tell you, you will refer to me as ‘Magister’.” Bringing her arm up, palm towards the ceiling, she began the real fun.

The giant rose unsteadily from the ground. It took several more seconds for him to realize this, but the moment he did, he began foolishly running in place, trying to escape the invisible grip.

“Since you probably didn’t know, this spell is called telekinesis. I would explain what it does but—” She smirked. “—I take it you’ve already had a firsthand experience.” Each spin and twirl brought deepened the growing red on the man’s face. At the moment, he was practically a tomato. “Now if you want down, I suggest you drop enough money to pay for everything you so kindly broke.”

She was surprised at the length he held out before complying. Crossing his arms, he attempted to wait it out, knowing she couldn’t keep him up there forever. That… didn’t work out too well. Whether it was the vomit working its way up his throat or the blood rushing to his head, he relented, shoving his hand in his pocket and dropping a bag of coins to the floor.

“Good.” She nodded with approval. “Now how much are you going to drink the next time you’re here? You never know, I might pop in again. And trust me, if you’re always this dumb of a drunk, you really don’t want to be around me.” She dropped him roughly to the ground, not bothering to keep his face from being first to come down.

Clambering to his feet and stumbling towards the door, the man shoved one of the more scrawny patrons out of his path, taking small pride from knowing that he still had dominance over some people. Nervously, he glanced backwards, expecting Cassandra to inflict some measure of pain on him for that act of rebellion. He lucked out. She had chosen to ignore his petty display. The rest of his exit went by without incident.

His departure seemed to re-ignite the conversations that the fight had halted. Seconds later, everyone seemed to have forgotten the brief scuffle.

So it was with an arrogant smirk that she retrieved her prize, tying it with a loose string to the thin leather belt around her waist. Though it struggled with the increased, it held, its incessant jangling barely audible over the renewed roaring of the crowd. So she left, eager to do away with the sound of drunks and tavern wenches. No one was eager to impede her progress. Those blocking her path to the exit parted the moment they caught sight of her, fiddling nervously with whatever they happened to have in their hands as she passed.

But outside the tavern, she stopped. A pair of bony hands, not unlike her own, had reached up from the shadow of the aging building. She could only make out the silhouette of the man, but his anorexia far exceeded anything she had seen before. In his presence, she felt fat.

So she untied the coins from her waist and dropped them in his trembling fingers, watching with a deep sense of satisfaction as he thanked her repeatedly, groveling at her feet and praising her kindness. But she could not tear her eyes from the ribs that poked dangerously far out of his skin.

With a sick stomach, she turned away, leaving the man to his tears of joy. The stables was her true destination. She had a friend to pick up.

Amongst the scattered piles of hay and animal droppings, her mount awaited her. An aging gray stallion, he had nevertheless stood by her side loyally for the past several years. But his reactions were slowing, his body beginning to dull. She had no doubt that Alchon would pass on before the year was done.

Cassandra ran her fingers through his mane before allowing them to slip down to his saddlebags. Knowing no one was around, she flipped the brown leather bag open and reassured herself of its contents: the luminescent black robe that she had donned when she had wowed and amazed the magic-deprived people of the country. She shut it before the weathered and nostalgic part of her compelled her to try it on one last time.

The thrill of it was gone. Menoso was merely another town behind her. It was depressing. As eager as the people were to see the magic and widen their eyes in awe, there was no thrill in impressing them. To those without their mana unlocked, magic would always be amazing, no matter how basic or old the spell you were using was.

‘This is the last time,’ she decided, something she had promised herself after the last five shows. It never stuck. This time though, another thought accompanied it, one that hadn’t popped in for a long time. ‘Maybe it’s time to go back to the school. What if this is what Master James meant when he said to get my fill of the world. It could be time to go back.’

The school—or the Academy, as it had been dubbed by those less than fond of magic—was the only place where her craft was actively taught. Mages and sorcerers had been running it for what seemed like the beginning of time. There wasn’t anywhere else you could go to learn the arcane without tracking down a necromancer. And the chances of that were slim to none.

"MILK, PLEASE."

The order was accompanied by the clinking of a silver coin on the counter, which the young and beardless bartender accepted with hesitation. No one ordered milk in this part of Portside. Either you had ale or you were dead about an hour later because the other men saw you as a weakling who couldn't hold their alcohol.

Regardless of that possible gruesome scenario, he accepted the coin and went to the kitchen to fetch it, returning a minute later with a perspiring glass of white milk, complete with a small chunk of ice, courtesy of the local mages. If the hooded customer noticed the strange looks they were being given by majority of the other patrons, they didn't acknowledge it as they took small sips of the creamy beverage, somehow managing to avoid catching any of it above their mouth.

Bending down, the young bartender caught a brief glance of the customer's face and recognized the soft features of a woman. At that realization, he no longer feared her; he feared what might happen to her if others noticed. Women weren't safe in taverns, be they low or high class. Bad things happened to women who went in such places alone, horrible, violent things. "You should leave," he whispered, leaning across the counter while checking to make sure no one else was watching. "Give it a few minutes and you won't be able to leave alive."

The stranger kept her hood down and did not respond. Her rate of drinking, however, sped up ever so slightly, which the younger bartender took as a sign that she was taking his warning into consideration.

Having done all he could without risking the wrath of those who might take advantage of the girl, he went back to his cleaning, moving from cheap wooden mug to cheap wooden mug, dipping his cloth in a bucket of water in between glasses, watching a group of off duty guards playing cards in a corner of the bar under the moonlight.

The hooded woman followed his gaze, head turning just enough to the left so that she could count how many she might be up against. When the largest of the men caught her looking at them—an officer judging by the gold buttons near his collar—, she twisted her head back and took another sip of the milk, a few drops of sweat running down her forehead as adrenaline began to work its way into her system.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She looked up, hoping the words had come from the bartender.

They hadn’t.

She struggled to maintain her composure as the shadow of the man loomed over her. It was going to happen again. The cycle was going to repeat itself again. There was nowhere she could go to escape the eyes of those who would see her dead. No matter how far she ran or how long she waited, they always recognized her, always struck down her hope.

Still not meeting the guard’s eyes, she put on a fake smile and stared down at her drink. “Hello, officer. Care for a drink? I’ll get one for each of your friends, on me. Anything you want.” Try as she might to put some enthusiasm in her words, she felt like some of her fear had managed to slip in.

“Maybe. But I’d like to ask you something first.” He leaned a bit to the left, trying to get a look at her eyes, but she turned away just in time to avoid his eyes. Bringing his arm up, he leaned on the counter, try to make the lean look casual. “I’m guessing you heard about death of Lord Varon a few months back?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, instead pulling a crumpled paper out of the pouch on his belt, uncrumpled it and held it up to her face. “Have you seen this woman?”

Her eyes flickered up to look at the face on the poster. It was like looking in a mirror.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">They say she’s blind or something. ‘s got no color to her eyes or in her hair. Some claim that she can kill people by looking them in the eyes and that that’s how she got away when they caught her.” He crumpled the paper back up and held in his fist. “You seen anyone like that? Empty eyes and silver hair?”

The woman did not move. Despite the perspiration running down her face, she tried to maintain a smile. “Can’t say I have. It’d be odd if she was here, though. It’s a little far from where they caught her.”

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Not if you’re a criminal.” He leaned forward and whispered through her hood to her ear, his alcohol-stained breath drifting up her nose. “Now,” he breathed, “About those drinks…”

He knew.

If she didn’t move, she was going to die, either by resisting arrest or by hanging. But she couldn’t do anything without attracting further attention from the other guards already watching her from the corner. “Well, just tell me what you want and I’ll—”

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">I know what you are, Moraius,” he whispered, grabbing her arm. “And you’re going to hang for it.” He tightened his grip. “Or maybe a mass-murderer would prefer something more painful, something like to your methods.” His other hand inched towards the sword hooked to his belt.

He didn’t have the chance to withdraw it.

Karen’s other hand drew a knife from her belt and shoved it into the man’s chest, pushing it through one of the gaps in his armor. By the time he realized he was in pain, Karen was away, sprinting out the front door with the speed of an athlete. She could outpace them before they got up an alert. She had to get of the city. There were other towns, other boats she could take. Portside wasn’t the only place where boats made port, despite the city’s name.

The clanks of steel behind her served only to strengthen her resolve. Slipping through a small group of people talking in front of an alley, she ducked behind a chimney protruding from the rear of one of the many row houses that exited in the narrow side passage, allowing herself to rest for a moment. It would be several minutes before they realized she’d taken a side passage. By then, she would be long gone.

Or at least hidden.

Of all the windows and doors in the opening into the alley, she found only one unlocked. She recognized the appearance of the thick wooden door as that of oak. It was thick, reinforced by metal frames and heavy, barely sliding open across the stone floor of the house. Yet it was unlocked. She chuckled at the irony before slipping inside, opening and closing the door noiselessly. From the other side, she marveled at the number of locks that had been placed on it, each one carelessly undone.

But as she crept through the house, her expression turned to awe. Before she’d even set foot in the living room, she felt her mouth drop to the floor in shock. Where she would have expected cheap wooden furniture, she saw couches and chairs lavishly cushioned and covered in a dark crimson felt.

But the furniture paled in comparison to the marble fireplace that it surrounded. The stone had been intricately carved with patterns of every sort, making one wonder why anyone would tarnish such art with smoke and ash. And though the room was empty, save for the trespasser, a small flame still licked at the stone, surviving off of a single log as it sent a thin stream of smoke up through the chimney.

And the weapons.

The walls were covered with them. No matter where you looked, there was a blade of some sort, be it short or long, broad or thin. But not so important was the blade itself as much as the hilt was. Each weapon possessed a golden handle that seemed to glow in the firelight.

It was a masterpiece of wealth hidden within the slums of a city.

It felt so horribly cliché and unlikely, stumbling across such a goldmine in such an unlikely location, but she accepted it and pushed any thoughts of theft to the back of her mind. Whether she needed to money or not, she was no thief. She would not let herself fall into the gutter of crime that she had worked so hard to stay out of. She would never sink that low.

She took one step towards the kitchen before she felt something cold pressed in her back, followed by a, “Do not move.” It was easy enough to recognize the feel of a gun in her back. Judging by the size of the barrel, it was probably something small, a pistol, maybe.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Turn around. Slowly,” the voice ordered.

Again, she obeyed. She had no desire to be shot. Maybe there was the off chance she could negotiate with them. Turning around, she came face to face with the very woman she knocked to the floor. Only this time, their roles had reversed. Now this woman had the upper hand.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Who are you?”

A simple enough question with a socially compromising answer. Whether or not honesty would keep her alive was a gamble, but could only hope that it would pay off with her freedom. And dishonesty never won you any allies. “Karen Moraius,” she answered, trying to keep her voice stable.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Why are you in my house?”

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">I was… being chased.”

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">By who?”

This was going to be the potentially destructive answer. There was the chance this woman would automatically assume she was a criminal without giving her the chance to explain herself. If so, then escaping the guards had been futile. “…by the city watch.” She held her breath, bracing herself for—if not a gunshot—the alerting of the guards.

There was a long, tense silence.

She wasn’t dead. Amazing. Karen exhaled, feeling a small sense of relief beginning to dumb down her vigilance. She easily fought it off. She wasn't out of this just yet. The gun was still hovering inches away from her chest.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Why?”

“…<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">I was framed."

"For what?"

She took a short breath and spoke the name of the crime as quickly as she could. "Murder." There was another long silence after that word was uttered. Karen could hear her own heart beating up into her throat. She kept her eyes locked with the woman’s. She had to stay—or at least act—confident if she was to get out of this confrontation alive.

Although the gun did not falter, there was a visible softening in the woman’s features. She pulled the gun back another inch. “Are you lying?” She pushed the gun back into Karen. “Because if you are, you’re going to regret walking through my door.”

The runaway forced herself to relax, letting her shoulder loosen. “No, I swear by the Mother I’m not,” she whispered, struggling to keep her voice level.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Swearing by Her doesn’t add anything to your argument. Forgotten deities don't have a habit of helping us out.” The woman slowly brought the flintlock weapon to her side. “So if you don’t want a metal shot in your stomach, I suggest you start explaining yourself.” She pointed to one of the cushy chairs, particularly one that had been pushed to the corner.

Karen was more than hesitant to do so. An interrogation? This was more than she had in mind. The idea of escape briefly flitted through her mind. What was another enemy on the already long list going to matter? With much willpower, she shoved the thought to the back of her brain. Again, she obeyed the woman.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Who did you murder?”

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">I told you, I—”

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">Who?”

"I-I…" She could lie. That seemed like the only way she was going to get out of this unscathed. Or it could completely screw her over since this woman obviously had more than enough training with that gun. "It… was…" She looked away, unwilling to meet the woman's gaze as she answered. "Varon. I was framed for the murder of Lord Varon." She cringed, waiting for the reaction.

It didn't happen.

Instead, the pistol shook. The woman faltered, even seemed afraid for a moment. "Y-you?" she stuttered, "You're kidding. That's why you had an entire squad after you? You're behind the Varon murder?"

"I said—"

"I can't believe this!" She was bent over, laughing, not even bother to keep the gun ready. "Mother, there is no way! There is no way! You're just a little girl with weird eyes!”

Anger flashed through said girl’s eyes.

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">And unless you're hiding a blunderbuss under those clothes of yours, there is no way that you killed him." She laughed for several more long seconds before she finally regained control of her voice. “I used to deal with criminals every day. People like that—killers, thieves, all of them—there’s just an air about them. You know what they are. You can’t change that. With you… I don’t see that.”

The anger disappeared from Karen’s eyes. Suddenly, there was hope. She had a chance of getting away alive with this woman… or at least more of one than she did running desperately for her life down some forsaken alley. “Does that mean… you’re letting me go?”

The thought process the woman seemed to go through for this question was more than enough to dispel the sense of reassurance she’d only briefly held. She paced, leaving an anxious Karen staring nervously at the pistol she still held at her side. “Maybe.” Her tone was more serious now than ever. It was as though she’d had a sudden change of heart about Karen’s morality.

Karen’s mouth hung open. ‘Maybe’? That whole thing about the air of criminals and now the only answer she could give was ‘maybe’? “Please, just let me get out of here! I—”

“<span style="font-family: Book Antiqua,serif;">It’s a question of duty, Karen Moraius!” she growled, turning an angry gaze towards the girl, “Not one of innocence. I have a duty to my brothers—” She scoffed the last word. “—in arms and to my superiors. I should have incapacitated you the moment I heard your name.” Her body stiffened as she brought her arm up for a rigid salute. “Captain Melissa Akana, Portside guard and military service.”