AmongHeroes
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Always Searching For The Next Great Story
Hello there,
I am AmongHeroes, and I'm happy you're here. I am an experienced roleplayer, writer, and fantastical creator.
♠ - I am an adult in my 30's. As such, I prefer to write with other adults.
♠ - Though I am capable of embodying many varied characters, in 1 x 1 settings I prefer writing as a heterosexual male with a generally dominant/masculine aura.
♠ - Genres I enjoy range from low & high fantasy, sci-fi, horror, gothic, romance, dark romance and noir.
♠ - Adult themes are welcome including violence, sexual encounters, etc.
Do feel free to reach out to me for partnership inquiries or for friendly interaction. I look forward to seeing you 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑒𝑠 we create.
I am made from the stardust of Her heart. Linked beyond time and moons and stars, in every life a soul fitted indelibly to a universe woven in the shape of Her claim.
Most Recent Posts
No worries, LT. Good luck with the tests!
Collab with Igraine and AmongHeroes
“Ah, you’ve got me there,” Thomas said, leaning back into the wooden chair. “There’s no greater injury than losing the affections of a woman to another woman. Even more so when the woman is playing as a man.” He chuckled lightly, watching Antonia maneuver around the bar area. Thomas propped his chin upon his arm, his fingers lightly tapping at his uninjured cheek.
“My reputation would be irrevocably stained,” he said almost to himself. “They’d say ‘There goes Thomas Lightfoot, the buccaneer captain that couldn’t court a proper woman, and thusly lost his ship in a fit of melancholy.’”
Antonia offered him the mug of cold ale, and he thanked her before gingerly pressing it against his face. “God’s wounds,” he breathed, “that bastard gave me a proper hook.” For several moments he just sat there, quietly relishing the sensation of the cool clay against his face. A smile slowly replaced the expression, and a devilish gleam came to his eyes. “Though I dare say, I think the stinking cur was the worse for it.”
Thomas took a long drink of the wine as Antonia spoke of the First Mate and the sea- artist. He shrugged and once again sat back into his seat. “I trust them to be in good spirits, in spite of tonight’s exercises. Or perhaps not?” He conceded, tilting his hair to the side. The move prompted a hazel-blond lock of hair to fall across his eyes, and he shooed it away. For a time he said nothing, merely thinking and enjoying the rogue’s company. When at last he spoke again, his eyes were affixed upon her grey gaze.
“Tell me truly, was I too barbaric, too quick to draw blood in the Boar?” His eyes narrowed. “I have my own opinion on the matter, of course, but I shall not shift your words just yet with my own.”
Antonia’s dark brow lifted curiously, the young woman obviously taken aback for a moment by the question. She’d known Thomas Lightfoot as few did, their private conversations revealing a man far more circumspect than most any would credit an already infamous pirate captain, but this line of thought caught her off guard. “He had a blade to your back, Thomas,” she said finally, perhaps a bit incredulously. “What in any sane world else were you supposed to do? Smile blithely while he gave you the blood eagle? If your pistol hadn’t taken him in the face, if I’d been just a little closer… “
Her voice trailed off softly for a moment, the sudden scowl on her face masking the true depths of the still-lingering fury that she hadn’t been that much closer, that she’d failed so miserably, to foresee the knife at his back.
“Suffice it to say, that your bullet may have been the quickest mercy he could have ever prayed to receive. Why do you ask such a thing, lovely man? What is going on in that head of yours?”
Thomas waved her admonition away, understanding her confusion. “I wasn’t referring to the bastard with the knife to my back. He accused me of cheating, and thusly he had already sealed his fate, not to mention the blade at my gut. I was speaking to the others. I fired the second pistol ball into the gang from the Feather, and it was I who precipitated the death of several of these men.”
His voice trailed off, and he looked about the Parakeet as if to watch his words drift lazily in the eddies of calm air. Antonia knew him better than anyone alive, and even with that there was still much that both of them held as mystery. Truthfully he could not say why exactly he had asked after the rogue’s opinion on his deadly incursion, not one that fit into words anyway. It was more a feeling, nothing like guilt, but something wispy and intangible that tugged upon his thoughts more and more in the past days and weeks.
“I suppose,” Thomas began, looking back to Antonia, “that I fear that the pursuit in defense of my own honor and prestige will pass into something beyond mere swift reprisal, and move simply into nothing more than a lust for murder.” At the word murder his face contorted into a scowl. Thomas brought the mug to his lips, and drank.
Antonia kept her silence for several long moments, letting his words, their import, what was said and what was not, linger in her own thoughts. “I’m no man’s conscience, Thomas,” she said finally, taking another long drink of her own wine before she continued. “God Himself knows I’ve done things that would taint even the sweet light of day. But if you’re going to begin a life of senseless murder and mayhem, probably best to start among the innocents - say, massacre an entire orphanage perhaps? Or cut down a church congregation come together at Sunday Mass? Because no man with so much as an ounce of sense is going to weep for the loss of the crew of the Crimson Feather.”
“Think, Thomas. Just for a moment longer at least, without a guilty eye to your own vast well of sins, would you? Do you think those corsairs would have been contented to simply continue drinking their grog, playing their cards - when you shot one of their crewmen?”
“Oh, Heaven above knows I’m uncannily fond of my Silver Fish, but you know me well enough to know I’ll tell you straight when you’ve done something mightily stupid. And Heaven knows just as well, you’ve done many a breathtakingly dumb thing. But this night at least, you acted rightly on your instincts. Best to claim the high ground, take the offensive position than to sit back and let your crew be taken unawares. Would you have preferred seeing your own laid to waste there in the Boar, all because some drunken, murderous piece of offal felt cheated at cards?”
Thomas smiled to Antonia. It was a slow smile, and one that was rare upon his features. Her words rained upon him like a welcome and cleansing cascade. He thought of his own words, and several times he began to reply to her, but every time he found himself at a loss for witty speech. The words fluttered within his mind, coalescing into retorts or counterpoints, and all seeming completely ineffectual beneath the empathetic gaze of the rogue.
Finally, he looked to her in a way Thomas Lightfoot had never looked at anyone. Then, lost in that moment, he found his words.
“At sea we trust the stars, the great beings in the sky, to guide us and show us the way when we have nothing but the indifferent waters churning beneath us. You know that above all we trust one star, one singular point in the inky night that ushers us with unwavering vigilance.” He paused, the words welling in his throat happily and genuinely. “I have found that it is not the only star the cosmos sends to guide us. Some,” he said, “are lucky enough to get a star that walks beside them, and in quiet moments of doubt, guides them ever homeward, and where they truly belong.”
Antonia listened to those lovely words from her lovely man, her own slow, slightly incredulous smile growing by the moment as she watched the truth in those incomparable copper eyes shining. There was nothing she wouldn't have given at that moment, to be alone with her lovely man in the crow's nest of the Skate, with the vast dark ceiling of midnight stars above them.
But here in the relative quiet of the tavern, in the shadows, Antonia could at least pretend to be the star Thomas seemed to think she was, and that smile shone brightly on her face as she reached to his face, letting the backs of her fingertips run softly along the length of his unhurt cheek. "How fortunate for you," she said with a small, sweet laugh that gave just the tiniest hint that once, somewhere, there may have been an innocent, happy young girl beneath the roguish spider, "Not everyone has two Home Stars in their world, looking over them."
“Ah, you’ve got me there,” Thomas said, leaning back into the wooden chair. “There’s no greater injury than losing the affections of a woman to another woman. Even more so when the woman is playing as a man.” He chuckled lightly, watching Antonia maneuver around the bar area. Thomas propped his chin upon his arm, his fingers lightly tapping at his uninjured cheek.
“My reputation would be irrevocably stained,” he said almost to himself. “They’d say ‘There goes Thomas Lightfoot, the buccaneer captain that couldn’t court a proper woman, and thusly lost his ship in a fit of melancholy.’”
Antonia offered him the mug of cold ale, and he thanked her before gingerly pressing it against his face. “God’s wounds,” he breathed, “that bastard gave me a proper hook.” For several moments he just sat there, quietly relishing the sensation of the cool clay against his face. A smile slowly replaced the expression, and a devilish gleam came to his eyes. “Though I dare say, I think the stinking cur was the worse for it.”
Thomas took a long drink of the wine as Antonia spoke of the First Mate and the sea- artist. He shrugged and once again sat back into his seat. “I trust them to be in good spirits, in spite of tonight’s exercises. Or perhaps not?” He conceded, tilting his hair to the side. The move prompted a hazel-blond lock of hair to fall across his eyes, and he shooed it away. For a time he said nothing, merely thinking and enjoying the rogue’s company. When at last he spoke again, his eyes were affixed upon her grey gaze.
“Tell me truly, was I too barbaric, too quick to draw blood in the Boar?” His eyes narrowed. “I have my own opinion on the matter, of course, but I shall not shift your words just yet with my own.”
Antonia’s dark brow lifted curiously, the young woman obviously taken aback for a moment by the question. She’d known Thomas Lightfoot as few did, their private conversations revealing a man far more circumspect than most any would credit an already infamous pirate captain, but this line of thought caught her off guard. “He had a blade to your back, Thomas,” she said finally, perhaps a bit incredulously. “What in any sane world else were you supposed to do? Smile blithely while he gave you the blood eagle? If your pistol hadn’t taken him in the face, if I’d been just a little closer… “
Her voice trailed off softly for a moment, the sudden scowl on her face masking the true depths of the still-lingering fury that she hadn’t been that much closer, that she’d failed so miserably, to foresee the knife at his back.
“Suffice it to say, that your bullet may have been the quickest mercy he could have ever prayed to receive. Why do you ask such a thing, lovely man? What is going on in that head of yours?”
Thomas waved her admonition away, understanding her confusion. “I wasn’t referring to the bastard with the knife to my back. He accused me of cheating, and thusly he had already sealed his fate, not to mention the blade at my gut. I was speaking to the others. I fired the second pistol ball into the gang from the Feather, and it was I who precipitated the death of several of these men.”
His voice trailed off, and he looked about the Parakeet as if to watch his words drift lazily in the eddies of calm air. Antonia knew him better than anyone alive, and even with that there was still much that both of them held as mystery. Truthfully he could not say why exactly he had asked after the rogue’s opinion on his deadly incursion, not one that fit into words anyway. It was more a feeling, nothing like guilt, but something wispy and intangible that tugged upon his thoughts more and more in the past days and weeks.
“I suppose,” Thomas began, looking back to Antonia, “that I fear that the pursuit in defense of my own honor and prestige will pass into something beyond mere swift reprisal, and move simply into nothing more than a lust for murder.” At the word murder his face contorted into a scowl. Thomas brought the mug to his lips, and drank.
Antonia kept her silence for several long moments, letting his words, their import, what was said and what was not, linger in her own thoughts. “I’m no man’s conscience, Thomas,” she said finally, taking another long drink of her own wine before she continued. “God Himself knows I’ve done things that would taint even the sweet light of day. But if you’re going to begin a life of senseless murder and mayhem, probably best to start among the innocents - say, massacre an entire orphanage perhaps? Or cut down a church congregation come together at Sunday Mass? Because no man with so much as an ounce of sense is going to weep for the loss of the crew of the Crimson Feather.”
“Think, Thomas. Just for a moment longer at least, without a guilty eye to your own vast well of sins, would you? Do you think those corsairs would have been contented to simply continue drinking their grog, playing their cards - when you shot one of their crewmen?”
“Oh, Heaven above knows I’m uncannily fond of my Silver Fish, but you know me well enough to know I’ll tell you straight when you’ve done something mightily stupid. And Heaven knows just as well, you’ve done many a breathtakingly dumb thing. But this night at least, you acted rightly on your instincts. Best to claim the high ground, take the offensive position than to sit back and let your crew be taken unawares. Would you have preferred seeing your own laid to waste there in the Boar, all because some drunken, murderous piece of offal felt cheated at cards?”
Thomas smiled to Antonia. It was a slow smile, and one that was rare upon his features. Her words rained upon him like a welcome and cleansing cascade. He thought of his own words, and several times he began to reply to her, but every time he found himself at a loss for witty speech. The words fluttered within his mind, coalescing into retorts or counterpoints, and all seeming completely ineffectual beneath the empathetic gaze of the rogue.
Finally, he looked to her in a way Thomas Lightfoot had never looked at anyone. Then, lost in that moment, he found his words.
“At sea we trust the stars, the great beings in the sky, to guide us and show us the way when we have nothing but the indifferent waters churning beneath us. You know that above all we trust one star, one singular point in the inky night that ushers us with unwavering vigilance.” He paused, the words welling in his throat happily and genuinely. “I have found that it is not the only star the cosmos sends to guide us. Some,” he said, “are lucky enough to get a star that walks beside them, and in quiet moments of doubt, guides them ever homeward, and where they truly belong.”
Antonia listened to those lovely words from her lovely man, her own slow, slightly incredulous smile growing by the moment as she watched the truth in those incomparable copper eyes shining. There was nothing she wouldn't have given at that moment, to be alone with her lovely man in the crow's nest of the Skate, with the vast dark ceiling of midnight stars above them.
But here in the relative quiet of the tavern, in the shadows, Antonia could at least pretend to be the star Thomas seemed to think she was, and that smile shone brightly on her face as she reached to his face, letting the backs of her fingertips run softly along the length of his unhurt cheek. "How fortunate for you," she said with a small, sweet laugh that gave just the tiniest hint that once, somewhere, there may have been an innocent, happy young girl beneath the roguish spider, "Not everyone has two Home Stars in their world, looking over them."
Thomas smiled and rubbed a hand over his injured cheek. As he passed the empty bar, guided by the dreamy voice of Antonia, he leaned across and withdrew a bottle of wine and two pottery mugs.
“Well, my apologies for soiling the velvet,” he said, “I must say that I am unaccustomed to you in such dress, and it failed to cross my mind. You make a much more lasting impression in lace and skirts.”
His eyes wandered up and down her figure before he spun on his heels to sit heavily into the chair Antonia had selected. Thomas set the wine upon the table, and shrugged with another sideways grin, smarting his cheek painfully.
“I will say, however, that you do fill out a man’s breeches with finesse, Antonia.” He looked back to her over his shoulder. “You should be mindful, or you’ll be drawing the attentions of men of a very different persuasion.”
As his jest hung in the damp, dark interior of the Parakeet, Thomas reached forward and uncorked the wine bottle. He poured an equal helping in both mugs, eyed the level of the crimson liquid, and then with a purse to his lips added a great deal more. Satisfied, he slid a mug across the table for the caramel-skinned rogue.
“Now, I won’t hear of you not drinking your fill tonight…” Thomas brought his own cup to his mouth and drank, his eyes looking to Antonia over the earthen rim. “You have earned your reprieve from vigilance.” Once more he let his words linger, an unspoken thanks, and the note of something more profound ringing dully in the sound of his speech.
And besides,” Thomas continued, his copper eyes gleaming in the candlelight, “we must drink to our next endeavor. Why, even now Dujo has begun preparations. We sail on the day after next. ”
“Well, my apologies for soiling the velvet,” he said, “I must say that I am unaccustomed to you in such dress, and it failed to cross my mind. You make a much more lasting impression in lace and skirts.”
His eyes wandered up and down her figure before he spun on his heels to sit heavily into the chair Antonia had selected. Thomas set the wine upon the table, and shrugged with another sideways grin, smarting his cheek painfully.
“I will say, however, that you do fill out a man’s breeches with finesse, Antonia.” He looked back to her over his shoulder. “You should be mindful, or you’ll be drawing the attentions of men of a very different persuasion.”
As his jest hung in the damp, dark interior of the Parakeet, Thomas reached forward and uncorked the wine bottle. He poured an equal helping in both mugs, eyed the level of the crimson liquid, and then with a purse to his lips added a great deal more. Satisfied, he slid a mug across the table for the caramel-skinned rogue.
“Now, I won’t hear of you not drinking your fill tonight…” Thomas brought his own cup to his mouth and drank, his eyes looking to Antonia over the earthen rim. “You have earned your reprieve from vigilance.” Once more he let his words linger, an unspoken thanks, and the note of something more profound ringing dully in the sound of his speech.
And besides,” Thomas continued, his copper eyes gleaming in the candlelight, “we must drink to our next endeavor. Why, even now Dujo has begun preparations. We sail on the day after next. ”
And the second portion is up!
The Vaults
Beyond the darkness of the gateway, bright sunlight greeted the members of the Bain & Hoyle Company. Around them the sky was a vivid blue, as beautiful as any summer day seen upon the Earth. Skyward, wispy clouds drifted. It was through these clouds that an observer would see the distortion in the otherwise pristine sky. The clouds themselves appeared to be drawn down at the ends, the cotton tails curling as if being viewed through a fish-eye lens.
As the eye travels down from the cobalt blue, it lands first upon a great green expanse of lush earth, seemingly suspended like an island in the globe of the sky. The island of green is completely flat, its surface only obscured by brilliant flowers and vibrant grasses that sway in a gentle, almost imperceptible breeze. Below this island, rooted to its earthen base, descends an almost infinite tangle of wooden tunnels. Conspicuously tree-like, the tunnels end in clusters of spherical chambers, hanging from the passageways like grapes from a vine.
Still further, descending along this upended tree, the sky begins to change to a deeper blue, followed by a hue of purple, then rich indigo, and at last a color that is wholly black, save for the tiny pin points of stars shining upon its face. The light from the stars warps at the polar opposite of the blue sky above, completing the orb-like effect of the environment.
Positioned before the group as they haphazardly descend onto the soft grass of the island, a twisted monolith of stone is set, rising several feet above the flat ground. Before it, almost hidden amongst the flora, is a creature of strange aspect staring coolly at the new arrivals.
This creature stands, and his form becomes clear. He stands roughly seven feet tall, with a body that is humanoid in nature. His arms are exceptionally long, and large hands brush the ground as he stands erect. The skin of his body is covered with a fine coat of fur in a rainbow of colors, all reflecting a hue of the flowers in which he sat. His legs are deer-like, and they end in broad hooves lost behind the grass. Around his left leg curls a short tail, tufted with a bright blaze of cerulean hair.
His face however draws the most attention. With a large, triangular head, reminisce of a strange cat or bear, the creature’s muzzle protrudes slightly. The lines upon the face denote age, and the curl of the black-lipped mouth harkens to kindness. Four wolfen ears perk up from above a broad swath of cloth that completely obscures the creature’s eyes, and a mane of the same cerulean cascades down the head and neck.
The creature raises one enormous hand. Long fingers outstretch, as if trying to encompass the group before it. Upon its hand is a mark; a crude eye painted in the style of henna. At last it speaks, and its voice is slow, warm, and deep.
“Welcome to the vaults, travelers. I see that you seek within, and I will gladly take you to your destination.”
The creature bows slightly. “My name is Vos'o'los, and I am the Keytaker.”
The second hand reaches out, the palm raised to the sky as if ready to accept something. “First, before I take you into the depths, you must provide the key.” Beneath the cloth, the eyebrows raise. “I trust you possess it?”
Beyond the darkness of the gateway, bright sunlight greeted the members of the Bain & Hoyle Company. Around them the sky was a vivid blue, as beautiful as any summer day seen upon the Earth. Skyward, wispy clouds drifted. It was through these clouds that an observer would see the distortion in the otherwise pristine sky. The clouds themselves appeared to be drawn down at the ends, the cotton tails curling as if being viewed through a fish-eye lens.
As the eye travels down from the cobalt blue, it lands first upon a great green expanse of lush earth, seemingly suspended like an island in the globe of the sky. The island of green is completely flat, its surface only obscured by brilliant flowers and vibrant grasses that sway in a gentle, almost imperceptible breeze. Below this island, rooted to its earthen base, descends an almost infinite tangle of wooden tunnels. Conspicuously tree-like, the tunnels end in clusters of spherical chambers, hanging from the passageways like grapes from a vine.
Still further, descending along this upended tree, the sky begins to change to a deeper blue, followed by a hue of purple, then rich indigo, and at last a color that is wholly black, save for the tiny pin points of stars shining upon its face. The light from the stars warps at the polar opposite of the blue sky above, completing the orb-like effect of the environment.
Positioned before the group as they haphazardly descend onto the soft grass of the island, a twisted monolith of stone is set, rising several feet above the flat ground. Before it, almost hidden amongst the flora, is a creature of strange aspect staring coolly at the new arrivals.
This creature stands, and his form becomes clear. He stands roughly seven feet tall, with a body that is humanoid in nature. His arms are exceptionally long, and large hands brush the ground as he stands erect. The skin of his body is covered with a fine coat of fur in a rainbow of colors, all reflecting a hue of the flowers in which he sat. His legs are deer-like, and they end in broad hooves lost behind the grass. Around his left leg curls a short tail, tufted with a bright blaze of cerulean hair.
His face however draws the most attention. With a large, triangular head, reminisce of a strange cat or bear, the creature’s muzzle protrudes slightly. The lines upon the face denote age, and the curl of the black-lipped mouth harkens to kindness. Four wolfen ears perk up from above a broad swath of cloth that completely obscures the creature’s eyes, and a mane of the same cerulean cascades down the head and neck.
The creature raises one enormous hand. Long fingers outstretch, as if trying to encompass the group before it. Upon its hand is a mark; a crude eye painted in the style of henna. At last it speaks, and its voice is slow, warm, and deep.
“Welcome to the vaults, travelers. I see that you seek within, and I will gladly take you to your destination.”
The creature bows slightly. “My name is Vos'o'los, and I am the Keytaker.”
The second hand reaches out, the palm raised to the sky as if ready to accept something. “First, before I take you into the depths, you must provide the key.” Beneath the cloth, the eyebrows raise. “I trust you possess it?”
First post is up, and the second one for those in the Library is soon to follow tonight. Thanks for the patience!
Atticus kicked at the melting body of the Nixie. Fetid water splashed as his boots struck the amorphous blob, only angering him further. The tips of horns began to sprout from his forehead, and the skin beneath the rampant tattoos was morphing to a deep red. His fists clenched and unclenched, seeking to grasp and to damage, to strike and to tear. Atticus would have sought to further expel his rage save for the quiet sound he perceived behind him.
Taking giant lungfuls of air and holding them in his chest, Atticus forced the anger and futility back into his stomach. The growing horns ceased and retracted, and the color of his skin returned to its natural hue. With the crimson of his eyes still glowing brightly, he turned at last to face the noise, and the scene of controlled chaos.
His eyes first alighted upon Siya, and instantly his demonic heart jumped into his throat. She stood there, half bent with pain, clutching delicate arms tightly about her slight frame. For the briefest of moments he looked to her, unsure of what to do. Beyond the tiny vampire was the severely wounded Aislinn Hoyle, apparently alive from the ministrations of the unconscious Dr. Blair. Reginald Hoyle appeared well enough in spite of it all, though even in the dim light the powerful werewolf seemed ashen and dazed.
In the end Atticus’ heart made the decision for him, and he moved forward to scoop Siya into his arms. He clutched her tightly against him, sitting down upon the stone floor of the cave with consummate care. With his shoulder and bicep he pressed her face beneath his jaw and beside his neck. With words spoken with a gentle urgency he breathed into her alabaster ear.
“Siya, you must feed.”
Atticus pulled lightly upon her chin, pressing the pulsating artery of demon blood against Siya’s tiny fangs. He knew of her aversion to feeding, of her hatred of its incessant call, and the disdain of her very nature, but he cared not about that now.
“Don’t be stubborn now, not now,” he whispered with a mirthless breath of laughter. “Siya you must, if not for yourself, do it for me.”
His ruby eyes looked down, imploring her to take all she needed from him, all that her beautiful, tiny body required. In a moment of weakness he added one last word, one last uttered syllable, filled with as much enchanted persuasion as he could muster.
“Please?”
Reginald Hoyle
The world still spun to Reginald Hoyle. It hadn’t ceased since the Doctor had released his hand from him, and had collapsed into a wakeless stupor upon the cold earth. Fighting his way from where he sat, Hoyle crawled to the still form of his sister. His hands crawled up the thick furs around her body, and he willed his knees to press him forward to her face.
Through watery eyes he gazed upon Aislinn’s placid expression, and as tears began to stream down his cheeks he pressed an ear gently to her lips. Like the frail brush of a butterfly’s wing, he felt her breath tickle his ear. In that moment Hoyle began to sob. Mighty, body wrenching sobs of relief and joy. His tears flowed and dripped in irregular cascades, and into Aislinn’s mated grey hair. For a time he could not move, not release his touch upon the only person in the world that shared the blood in his veins.
At last he freed himself from the clutches of his relief, and lifted himself off of her. He wiped the tears from his eyes, and he traced the white scar that smiled upon the flesh of her neck. The sensation threatened to send him into another fit of emotion, but he fought back the potent elixir of rage and solace. Instead he turned upon his knees to face both Raleigh and Henry.
“Please,” Hoyle said. “Please, help him.” His fingers pointed to the exhausted Dr. Blair.
The effort to plead care for the Doctor was too much for Hoyle, and he slumped back down against his sister. He closed his eyes, his mind sifting through the happenings of the recent past. Somehow he recalled the concerns voiced by both the Dryad and the Siren, and bringing a steadying hand to his nauseated face, he attempted to answer them.
“The mark…” he began, “…yes, it had to have been the Solas na gealaí. Somehow, they must have been…” Reginald trailed off into silence.
He grimaced, wracking his brain for an explanation for it all. Never had he heard of the water spirits of the North quarreling with the children of the moon. Werewolves were often a warlike race, but not in recorded history was there a time when conflict had broken out between the two groups. It made no sense. Why would a Nixie care at all for the life of long lost werewolf…?
Then Hoyle heard the words of the Siren, and a memory thrilled through his mind. The Lady of Ice
He forced himself from his back, resting upon his elbows as he looked to Henry. “The Lupus Naturae, they have come to some horrific axis with this Lady of Ice.” Hoyle’s voice was hoarse with disbelief and fear. “They are working towards similar ends, they must be. There is no other explanation.”
With a grunt and a slight stumble, Hoyle levered himself to stand. He called upon the wolf inside of him, and he rapidly transformed into his natural, massive form. Gleaming jaws snapped, and thick slabs of muscle rippled beneath his mottled silver fur. Somewhat more stable, Hoyle bent to throw his sister over his shoulder.
“We must go.” He said to them all, his guttural voice echoing within the cave. Without a glance back to the others, he stalked away into the darkness of one of the rough-hewn tunnels of rock.
It has been such a pleasure reading these little snippets of fun. Great work.
LT, you get magna cum laude for your submission
.
LT, you get magna cum laude for your submission
.Ha! Nice Hellis. Be okay with a significant other that is prettier than you...priceless.
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Ok, so the OOC has fallen into a lull in the last few days. I know you all are waiting on me to post, and I apologize for the delay. Until I post tomorrow night, I thought it would be a good time for some light-hearted fun. This little game is by no means required, but I think it would be hilarious to see what people come up with for their character. Enjoy!
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