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16 days ago
Current Ethical issues aside, AI prose is just really bad.
3 likes
24 days ago
She wanted to read, she wanted to write, but the main thing she wanted was something to fight
4 likes
1 yr ago
Make it clear that you don't need him to be reading Dante tomorrow. Also suggest it would be fun if you had a private language that you could use to mock English speakers in secret.
5 likes
2 yrs ago
Luckily history suggests an infinite ability for people to be shit heads ;)
1 like
3 yrs ago
Achmed the Snake
1 like

Bio

Early 30's. I know just enough about everything to be dangerous.

Most Recent Posts

To ears listening for the rumble of an approaching starship, the mudslide didn't immediately spark panic. It wasn't until the crack of trees and thudding of rocks joined the cacophony that Rene realized something was amiss. Cursing he ducked out of the escape pod and into the rain. The cold water soaking his torso shocked him momentarily until he remembered that he had taken off his armor but retained his helmet.

"Stars," he breathed as he watched mud and rubble sluice down the hillside in a torrent, carrying trees and bushes along with it, bursting around rock outcroppings to ancient and sturdy to move like an incoming tide. Brownish spray raised from the muck like fog and the very hillside seemed to slump.

"Solae!" Rene shouted at the same instant that Bouradine shouted Bel'sian's name. The two criers differed in timbre but were filled with the same cocktail of panic and dread. Rene reacted faster than Bouradine also, breaking into a run towards the path Solae had taken to retrieve the Kalderi, his turn of speed carrying him the hundred or so meters in less than twenty seconds. He skidded to a halt before the rubble the slide had bought down however, hands balling into fists as icy dread tore through his guts.

"Solae!" he shouted again when a voice sounded in his ear.

"Mistress Solae has been injured," Mia reported. For once the computer had none of the playful seduction it normally effected, a fact which chilled Rene more than he could have imagined a few seconds ago. The slide was moving sluggishly now, the potential energy that geolgy had given it thousands of years ago spent in its moment of cataclysmic fury.

"Injured, she is alive then?" Rene demanded, belatedly remembering the communications devices Solae had improvised. Rather than waiting for a reply he immediately cut into the commo circuit.

"Rosaria, Rosaria report," he demanded. Turning to look back in the direction of the Bonaventure. It was impossible to see anything through the rain so he flicked a switch on the side of his helmet and bought up a thermal view. Sure enough the six pencils of red heat which marked the Bonaventure's plasma jets could be seen edging their way across the open land between the foot of the forested ridge and the campsite.

"Mia direct Yarue to land between the campsite and the mudslide, close to my location as possible," he instructed. That lowered the odds for Savachev but soldiers did that for their political superiors all the time. He needed the ship close by if he were going to have any chance of helping Solae.

"Rene?" Rosaria's voice was tight with panic, edged with hysteria even across the distorted communications channel.

"Rosaria what happened," he demanded. It felt as though his heart was about to claw itself out of his chest so hard was it pounding. If he had still been wearing his armor, the stress readouts would have been rising towards panic, a response that the prospect of death in combat had never evinced from him.

"She saved me..." Rosaria mumbled, "she threw herself between us and the mud..." Rene resisted the urge to shout at the girl to pay attention. Even a veteran might be permitted a moment under these circumstances, and snaping her head off wasn't going to make the task of getting information any easier.

"Bel'sian!" Boradine shrieked, clutching at his head as he finally caught up to Rene. The merchant's eyes were wide and frantic and he seemed to be about to stride into the mud when Rene thrust out a hand, blocking his passage. Bouradine was older than Rene, more heavily built, but he lacked years of brutal training and genetic enhancement and the simple guesture stopped him dead.

"Bel'sian!" he roared again, tears starting from his eyes, and his face falling in an agonized mask that Rene himself must have worn a few moments before Mia reported that Solae was injured. Injured, but not dead.

"She is with us," Rosaria replied over the communicator, though Rene struggled to hear her over the shouts of the merchant.

"She is alive," Rene told Bouradine, only to be rewareded with a gabble of half formed sentence fragments which all added up to 'is she ok'. Rene held up a hand for Bouradine to be silent but the hysterical merchant was unable to restrain himself.

"Bouradine, shut up," Rene ordered without noticeable effect. Dasin looped out of the rain, scales glistening. The Syshin looked from Rene to Bouradine in askance.

"Dasin, take master Bouradine and get some emergency flares, mark a landing site for Yarue, Solae, Rosaria and Bel'sian are alive, I'm getting the details now," he ordered. The Syshin didn't hesitate, he grabbed the struggling merchant and hauled him back down the path, Bouradine resisted for several seconds before the notion that Bel'sian was alive and there was some concrete plan to rescue her seemed to catch hold and he turned and raced back the way he had come.

"Say again Rosaria," Rene said, able to turn his attention back to the conversation that had been going on while he dealt with Bouradine.

"We are trapped in an old mansion... stars... stars I think we are buried alive," she whined beginning to hyperventilate.

"Its ok Rosaria, I'll get you out, are Solae and Bel'sian alright?" he demanded, despite his words his tone made it clear that his concern for the Kalderi was a distant second to that of his golden haired paramour. Fortunately Rosaria was in too much of a state to notice.

"Get us out... right... how are you going to do that?" she asked, which, now that she mentioned it was a dammed good question. The rumble of the Bonaventure was growing louder, Rene looked back over his shoulder and saw not only the thrusters, still picked out in infrared, but also four emergency flares burning behind him.

"Mia, pinpoint the location of Solae's transmitter and display it on my helmet, create a wireframe of the hillside," he instructed. Instantly a red dot appeared below the wireframed hill, nearly ten meters beneath the surface a red dot blinked. Surprisingly glowing projections seemed to indicate a room of some kind and all three women. Obviously Mia's link was able to give her more useful information than Rene could have hoped. Ten meters meant millions of tons of dirt and rock, more than he could hope to move with what he had available on the Bonaventure. A half dozen plans entered his mind and were immediately rejected as unworkable. What was it his father had said, the solution to every problem is inherent in the problem itself? Well the problem was that the love of his life was buried underneath tons of mud and water. Water...

"Ok, I have a plan, Rosaria, carefully, and I do mean carefully do what you can to dig Solae free, I need the three of you to huddle as tightly as you can in that corner you are in, I'll keep you updated," he advised. The roar of the Bonaventure's landing thruster ceased, having built to a roar which Rene's helmet had blocked out for him. Turning around he saw the ship settle unsteadily onto the ground. Bouradine and Dasin were already headed towards him, both looking worried and sick. He waved them back towards the ship.

"Bouradine, get Savachev aboard and into the medical computer, Dasin, help me get the fuel hoses unhooked."
Emmaline rushed along behind amal, casting her eyes back to see the flickering witch lights in the eyes of the skeletal creatures rising from the floor and clawing their way out of the walls. Dark Magic hung in the air, oily and bitter to Emmaline's magical senses as the Winds fluttered in corrupting discordance. Ahead of them more of the creatures were rising, bony fingers scraping across stone as they struggled to raise themselves. Iron scrapped against stone as ancient weapons, were gripped in boney hands.

"Run!" Amal yelled and Emmaline complied, skipping and jumping over the half roused dead. Pausing once to swing her staff in a glittering golden arc that shattered the rib cage of a creature directly in her path. They passed under a stone arch and into an ante chamber where a door of black iron hung from vast stone lintels. It was covered in dust and strange runes which Emmaline couldn't decipher and in the center was an intricate brass locking mechanism, filaments of metal running out like spider webs in all directions. Emmaline's throat was dry but she wasn't panicking. After witnessing the procession of Settra's unholy legions in the half remembered tomb city, a mere walking corpse was only alarming rather than marrow freezing.

"Dead end," she announced as Amal began to examine the door barring their passage. Emmaline turned and lifted her staff begining to chant and draw upon the winds of magic. Her eyes began to shine as threads of golden light extended from the arch way to form a net of glittering golden filaments, that hummed and pulsed like the strings of a strange instrument. The first skeleton stumbled into the net and shattered like a clay pot dropped from a great height, pieces of smoking bone scattering back down the corridor. Emmaline flinched slightly but maintained the spell as a second skeleton duplicated the act.

"Any luck?" she called through clenched teeth.
Emmaline landed on top of Amal with a decidedly unladylike squawk, driving the breath out of the thief. She sneezed violently as dust and grit rained down on the pair of them in a steady stream. Above them lightning could be seen flashing across the mouth of a small shaft. They found themselves in an ancient dusty corridor. Stonework that was worn smooth by the passage of ages surrounded them. The style was strange to Emmaline's eye, though she wasn't a scholar of architecture.

"You know, for two people with a flying carpet, we sure fall down alot," Emmaline complained, rolling onto her back and staring accusingly up at the shaft above them.

"Well I suppose it is what I get for not just running away when I had the chance," Emmaline went on, she ought to have just left whoever was pursing them mired in mud and ridden on. Now they were stuck down a hole without their horses.

"Where would have been the fun in that?" Amal asked, pushing himself to his feet and ensuring no bones were broken. Emmaline followed suit, her staff appearing in her hand, a soft golden light emerging from its golden head to illuminate the darkness which extended off in both directions.
6000 words for me, maybe next year :(
Congrats Calle!



The next morning dawned clear after the nights heavy rains. True to the watchman's prediction the body was gone when Amal and Emmaline mounted their horses and rode out of the southern gate into the brilliant sunshine of the early morning. Neither of the pair were particularly early risers, but the possibility that some of Vandershute's ill fated posse might be searching for them didn't encourage them to tarry. Given the events of the previous night they had debated attempting to rouse the carpet, but had agreed that the situation wasn't that dire yet. They were also uncertain on what to do with the strange box they had inherited from the dead thief. Truthfully, Emmaline felt it might have been better just to toss it in the street, but Amal had pointed out that having something always put you in a better bargaining position than not having it.

The road was a sluice of mud and progress was slow. Emmaline regretted not attempting to find a boat, never having been much of a fan or horses. There were enough travellers on the road to churn the mud to a slippery muck and they were frequently forced to press their horses close to the trees to maintain any kind of a pace. She was just about to suggest they halt and eat some lunch when Amal reigned his horse in beside her. She envied him his seat, he might be a thief from the streets but he obviously had the blood of desert horsemen somewhere in his background.

"I think there are riders coming up behind us," he said in Arabyian. Emmaline instinctively glanced over her shoulder before Amal could grab her to prevent it. There was a shout from behind her as several hundred yards back she saw horsemen forcing thier steeds into muddy gallops. Sunlight glittered of blades and the tips of arrows.

"Sorry," Emmaline blushed and glanced back to the road ahead an idea occurring to her.

"Follow me!" she called and pushed her horse into a clumsy charge that carried them around the curve. The stretch of road beyond was deserted. Whispering quietly to herself she lifted her hand and the mud infront of them began to congeal and dry as she wrung the water from it with her spell. Their steeds stepped up onto the dry road and their speed increased dramatically. Behind them water seemed to return to the road, restoring the quagmire a few feet behind them. Emmaline grinned as their pursuers rounded the corner to find their prey several hundred meters ahead with no apparent explanation.

"We can out run them easily this way," Amal snickered. Emmaline nodded, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.

"We could," she admitted, "but I have a better idea."

It must have been an extremely frustrating hour for their pursuers. They seemed to gain on their prey until they were almost in bow range, and then the pair would round a corner, and suddenly be several hundred yards ahead, their horses apparently not even tired from the leisurely pace. Somehow their horses didn't appeared to be coated in mud either, nor were they gasping for air having been driven through the mud. Emmaline was enjoying herself immensely.
Emmaline frowned and passed the pendant over to Amal, she had considered herself a follower of Ranald once, but she wasn't sure if Asaph was approve, and if there was one thing that Ranald would approve of, it was covering ones rather shapely ass. Instead she reached into the drawer where she had concealed the odd metal cylinder. It was made of blackened steel and fitted so finely together that the seams in it were almost invisible. There was a stud at the top which she tried to depress with a finger but nothing happened. Pursing her lips she began to rotate the sections against each other, imagining some kind of code. Amal placed his hand over hers.

"If it is some kind of thieves codex, there may well be traps," he cautioned her. Emmaline froze and then set the cylinder down on the table. There was a knock at the door and the innkeeper, who had vanished while Amal was outside, appeared with an officer of the watch, dressed in a rain slicked leather coat and some indifferently maintained mail. He took one look at the corpse and then a rather longer look at Emmaline, restraining himself from licking his lips with an obvious effort of will.

"Nah, its like the others, crossbow bolt, black quarrels, not this lot," he said sourly. Emmaline glanced at the corpse and saw that the feathers of the quarrel had been dyed black. The watchman scratched his armpit absently.

"I'll send a couple of boys to toss it out in the street, watch will sweep it up in the morning, if the damn barber surgeons dont get it first," he told the innkeeper and then turned and stomped out of the room. The innkeeper, clearly relieved his well paying if eccentric patrons weren't going to be carted of to the town jail, bowed obsequiously.

"I have another room for you mine Herr, Frauline, not quite as fine, though it has a nicer window," he dared to joke. Emmaline rewarded the effort with a snicker and followed him out.

Five minutes later they were drying infront of a peat fire in a smaller room that was still better than Emmaline had seen before she had been taken away to Araby. She wiggled her toes in front of the blaze pondering events. Amal was turning the odd black cylinder over in his hands, considering it.

"You know," Emmaline ventured, "this might not have anything to do with us at all. It looked to me like we maybe just..." she paused for dramatic effect. "Got in the way of a quarrel between the two of them." Amal didn't laugh, the nuisances of Riekspiel apparently not yet sufficiently absorbed to allow for puns. She pressed on.

"Maybe he was just fleeing across the roof tops and was shot at an unfortunate time. I wonder what it was about? Some schism in the local guild of thieves perhaps? Some enemy of the temple of Ranald?" That was harder to figure, Ranald was not exactly a popular god, but he wasn't hated either. Theologically on the Shyallan's had a quarrel with Ranald, and somehow Emmaline doubted the local Shyallan convent was turning out master archers.
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