Penny

Damned to the Depths

It would have been an odd sight, if there were enough light to see by. The jolly boat swept in towards the shore, quick and quiet. Calliope sat in the back, dressed in a black ball dress that hung from one shoulder and clung to the taper of her body. The dress was made of several overlaid layers of thin black silk which gave it the appearance of a dark storm cloud when she moved. It had been altered to hug her form by the crew, many of whom were actually skilled with needle work from long years darning sails. She wore long black riders boots of polished black leather and had ruby bracelets and a choker around her neck. All of that finery was concealed beneath a blanket that wrapped her from head to toe, both to protect her clothing and keep her from catching what little moonlight there was. Markus was similarly swaddled to protect his own 'glad rags' as they swept in towards the beach.

"Keep to the plan," Markus said gruffly as the prow of the jolly boat crunched into the sand in the secluded cove west of the town. Calliope could see fireworks bursting above the tree line as the celebration continued, the distant boom, boom, boom thudding in syncope to her own heart beat.

"Ma'am," Sorn said nervously and Calliope nodded. The sailor lifted her bodily and stepped into the waist deep water, keeping her held up above the water to protect her clothes. Two sailors were doing the same for Markus, the indignity necessary for the to successfully pose as guests at the party. Within a few minutes they were both on the beach, dry and more or less unruffled. Calliope shrugged of the blanket and tossed it to Sorn. Were it not for the pirates hastily getting the boat back into the water they could have been a regular couple out for a stroll, albeit one that had strayed a little too far from town.

"We had best get going," she said, straightening Markus' vest.

"We don't want to miss the big show."

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

"I think we had best avoid them," Mave said as they wheeled away from the edge of the plateau and continued their trek up into the mountains. The arrival of the First of Mayene, during the declaration of the Hunt for the Horn no less, was bound to stir things up in Illian. It was unlikely one could throw a rock without hitting a spy for Illian, Mayene or Tear, and very possibly all three. Such a meeting would also draw the attention of darkfriends seeking to pervert it to their own ends as well as the White Tower who would seek to shape things in which ever direction the Amrylin, the Hall, or individual sisters thought best. None of which boded well for Mave and her mission, or for her newfound problem of what to do with this strange boy with his maroon eyes.

Even with Ali's tracking skill it took them to midmorning to find the old mill that had been spoken of the previous night. The mountains frequently sent down enough snow melt to burst the channels of the major streams which then cut other temporary ruts in the rocky earth. Such channels appeared to be dry streams, even if they had only flowed for a single season. When they finally reached the mill however they found they were not alone. Tanil and Deslan both sat on the tumbled down pile of mud bricks beside not only their horses but Mave's also. Tanil was whittling a piece of timber with a small knife while Delsan seemed to be watching the clouds above.

"What are you doing here?" Mave demanded as she walked out of the woods. The warmth of Saidar already surrounded her ready to be woven if they showed any sign of threat. Tanil immediately dropped his carving and the knife and Delsan sat up looking nervous.

"We came to find you," Tanil said hurriedly, glancing between Mave and Ali who had his bow in his hands and an arrow nooked if not drawn.

"Look we know something was up with Darius, something...wrong," Delsan cut in.

"Neither of you are murderers, we havent known you long but long enough to know that the light burn it," Tanil hurried on.

"So something strange is going on and... well that is what Hunters do right? Follow something strange? Whatever it is you two are up to we can help, we brought your horses and the supplies," Delsan said helpfully.

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

Saga 2: The Moon Thief

---

It was a sweltering night in Xarame, but then all nights were sweltering in that desert city of rough yewn sandstone and faded adobe. Xarame crouched where the rocky foothills of the Khorhaja began to shoulder their way out of the sands of the Great Shem, eventually rising to block the way to distant Koth far to the north, save for the few passes on which caravans chanced themselves against bandits and storms for the hope of riches and wealth on one side or the other. The seven spires of the Caliph's palace rose into the moonlight, surrounded by the shorter towers of the cities hungry emirs. Many of those emirs would have built towers to dwarf those of the Caliph, but the difference between wealth and power was a sharp thing in Xarame, in ancient times an emir had tried to build such a tower only to find himself ground into the mortar of the palace while still living, or so the story went. Beyond the palace the city sprawled to its mighty stone walls and its crowning parapets like a wave that struck the edge of a great ocean. The buildings were less grand, slums in some places, but they bustled with trade. Textiles from Stygia, perfumes from Kush, gold and silk from Turan and the lands beyond came to Xarame to be exchange for iron work from Aquilonia, Nemedian wines and even ice diamonds and amber from distant Vannaheim. The great pulsing arteries of trade had made Xarame rich beyond the dreams of the humble shepeards who had founded the city in eons passed, so that it was said among the nations that even the beggars of Xarame ate of gold plate and bathed with frankincense. That wealth had bought with it a paranoia that others might seek to take what the city claimed as its own and so when rumor reached the Caliph that a great thief had come to Xareme to steal the Moon Stone which was his greatest treasure he was naturally concerned.

"I have thwarted many such thieves mighty Caliph," the Stygian Woman proclaimed. Her name was Sythemis and she was a great beauty, round of hip and bosom with jet black hair that shone like lake water under starlight, with the full lips and dark eyes of ancient Stygia. In other lands she was known as the asp or the sand viper for a rumored fondness for poisons and supposed sorcerous arts. Like many she had answered the Caliphs call to protect his treasure until the great thief was apprehended. The Caliph leaned forward on his thrones, the thousand colors of his silken stole shimmering and the gold chain around his neck clicking as he did so.

"You are a woman," he said sternly, "how can a woman accomplish such things?" There was a general murmer of approval from his courtiers, each draped in his own silk and jewelry, though each careful not to rival the Caliph, lest they find themselves in that jealous princes ill graces. They were not best pleased that the Caliph had chosen to bring in outsiders, even though the implication that their own guards might be corrupt was far from unfounded.

"A man looks at another man as a threat," Sythemis said, taking no insult, "but what threat can a woman be?" The question had a playful edge, but as she spoke she lifted her hand and pinched the fingers together. The gesture looked innocent, save for the fact that the shadow cast on the wall of the opulent throne room was not that of a woman closing her fingers, but of a snake striking across the shadowed wall. The Caliph sat back, considering the beautiful Stygian woman in her simple robes of white linen and her serpentine wristlets of polished copper.

"Very well," he said after a moment, "you will bring me the thief before the moon is full and I shall reward you with your weight in rubies." The words bought a mutter of low disapproval from the gathered nobles but the Caliph once again held up his hand.

"If you fail to do so however, you will become my slave concubine for as long as I will it," he decreed. Sythemis lowered her eyes to the tiled floor of the throne room.

"As the Caliph wishes."

Tales of Tamriel

Kris squared her shoulders, lip curling in distaste. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the blood that ran from her split lip. To her Ulfric Stormcloak was a traitor to be reviled, not a friend to be visited. The Nord sized her up with a glance, evidently no stranger to such reactions. He held up his palms in a guesture of friendly negation which did nothing at all to dull the steel in his eyes.

"I can take you Ulfric or I can take you to Ulfric," he said, his tone still friendly but the slight change in emphasis as clear and sharp as an autumn afternoon. Kris cast a look at Dax and then shrugged her shoulders.

"When in Windhelm I suppose..."

_____________________________________

At this late hour the throne room was not precisely packed but at any time Ulfric held court, he could expect attendance. The infamous Yarl of Windhelm lounged on his stone throne, a great fur cloak tossed over his shoulders that seemed to fit him far better than the silk finery that made up the rest of his costume. In his hands he held a crown worked to resemble a score of intertwined sword blades. Men and a few women lined the ancient stone throne room, mostly in armor and all armed, they had a hungry look, like a pack of dogs straining at the hunters leash. They eyed Kris and Dax as they were escorted towards the throne, between Dax being an Argonian and Kris' obviously Imperial Legion leathers, they glances were less than warm.

"Yarl Ulfric," their escort began without preamble.

"These two handled themselves well in a brawl at the Winds Favor, they are new comers to our city and no doubt eager to prove their loyalty to you and to Skyrim, for an appropriate fee of course." The last remark bought a hearty laugh that seemed to somewhat cut the tension in the room. Kris revised their guide from tough bastard, to clever tough bastard.

"Approach then and let me look at you," Ulfric boomed.

City of Thieves

Kashvi watched the manor for several long minutes without speaking. Dark eyes cataloging every detail. The place was a fortress and no mistake. The cleared ground around the manor making any kind of approach almost impossible. Given enough time it might have been possible to have themselves smuggled in, but Joe Shipwreck had made it clear that time was not a luxury they enjoyed. An idea kindled in Kashvi's mind and it brought a low grin to her face, her teeth flashing in the moonlight.

"If you can get us out Mr Galt, I think I have a way in..."

_______________________

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Galt said the following evening as the two thieves reconvened at the old watchtower. Kashvi passed the second bundle to Galt even as she slipped her arms into the leather loops that held the bamboo to her arms.

"Is this even safe?" he demanded as Kashvi pulled the leather straps tight. She was dressed in her working clothes, dark black leathers festooned with pouches and equipment. All of the pouches had been tied securely as had the sheath which held her various blades. The preperations for this had taken her most of the day, but she was confident that they would be sufficient.

"It's not very safe," she admitted. She was pretty confident they would be sufficient. Without waiting for further discussion she leaped off the tower. Wind rushed past Kashvi as she plunged downwards, but before a few heartbeats had passed she spread her arms. There was a jarring shock as the thin membranes of fabric which stretched from the bamboo to her belt opened and caught the wind. She soared upwards over the darkened city like a bat, her smile widening she flew through the night sky. Ordinarily the fabric would never have taken her weight, but she had spent hours meticulously inking them with arcane glyphs designed to slow a fall. It wasn't true flight, that would be magic on an order much higher than Kashvi could manage, but the effect was impressive none the less. She leaned forward controlling the glide as she angled herself towards the distant manor, the sound of rushing wind loud in her ears. The glyphs were already starting to burn away, their potency rapidly being expended. She hoped that Galt would be able to manage the feat, but it wasn't as though she had time or they money to let them practice. The manicured woods rushed past below her and the manor loomed up, its spires and steeples seeming to grow up out of the ground. At the last moment she pulled her arms back, flaring herself up to slow her approach. It had to be fast, because there was no concealment other than darkness and the tendency of men on guard not to look up at the sky, but darkness was usually all the concealment she needed. She hit the roof harder than she had intended, the glyphs failing at the last moment and driving her knees against the slate. She skidded over the tiles and only just managed to snag a weather vein to prevent herself from plummeting down into the courtyard, a fall which would have broken bones and possibly her neck, an embarrassing situation for the few moments it would take for a guard to deliver the coup degas. No matter she was down. She unhooked the bamboo splints and hung them from the weather vein, turning to see how Galt was handling the unorthodox approach.

The Pavonis Campaign - Warhammer 40000

The stunned survivors were just starting to pick themselves up out of the ruins when Katiya's bolt pistol and Zeb's shotgun hewed them down. Katiya was expeditious with her shots, each round bursting the head of an enemy like a pulped fruit until there were no more targets. Blood mingled with ferocrete dust and the superstructure creaked somewhat alarmingly.

"We need to get moving," Katiya said, clambering up the rubble to reach the main control room beyond. The core of the station was a cylindrical shaft containing the broadcast equipment. The mechanisims themselves were arcane, tied with seals of the Mechanicus and incensed by swinging burners. Three levels of catwalk ringed the central transmission spire, one sunk into the ground and one above them. The commissar and her aide stood on the central catwalk.

"Emperors teeth," Katiya growled as she beheld the formerly sanctified chamber. The transmission spire had been daubed with strange runes that made her eyes ache. Small pieces of polished metal and pieces of animal bone and feathers were tied in some kind of fetishes which hung from seemingly random pieces of equipment. On the bottom level an astropath was plugged into the array, the flesh around his input plugs black with infection that should have long since killed him. Whatever was going on here, it was clearly more than a simple broadcast station.

"Approach the conduit only by nines," a mechanical voice declared. Katiya's head whipped around to see a servo skull floating towards her. Well a servo skull of a sort. Rather than the sanctified units she had seen countless times in the past this one still had meat on it. THe flesh was rotting but had been articulated somehow by mechanisms beneath the ruined black skin. As it spoke the mechanisms worked in an eerie counterfeit of human musculature. The effect was like watching a spider wearing a deathmask attempting to pretend to be a human.

"Intruders to be destroyed, blood to be shed, only by nines," the thing continued in its synthesized voice, droplets of oil dripping from a mouth that was held open by a metal grate.

"The Emperor Protects," Katiya hissed, and then whipped her power sword out in a glittering arc that bisected the head. It fell away in a shower of sparks, giving a brief and grizzly view of intermingled machinery and human brain matter. The spire exploded into action, pistons pumping and steam jetting in all directions. Metal screamed on metal and the whole structure seemed to shake. Dozens of the psuedo-servoskulls burst from recesses and passages in the wall, gibbering insanely. The only common and understandable phrase seeming to be 'only by nines.' They rushed the intruders, some spitting las bolts from their eye sockets, others wielding short cutting torches or blades, other still chomping mechanically with decayed teeth of old bone or rusted metal.

The Knight's Song

Juliette ordered an ale and asked for bread and stew, finding herself suddenly hungry despite the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. The ale was wheat beer rather than the barley she was used to and cloudy, but it was cool and robust and she found she enjoyed it. The stew was the typical annual type, a pot that simmered continually with fresh ingredients added to the base each day. The predominant meat in the area was evidently mutton which gave the stew a greasy texture that was less pleasant but it was hot and went well enough with the fresh crusty bread that had just been taken out of the oven.

Juliette considered Torm's offer as she ate. It wasn't uncommon for a knight to employ a bard in such a capacity. Knights, particularly young landless ones, needed to make their reputations. A lord wouldn't open his halls to a knight with no reputation, who might be one step removed from a bandit, nor would villagers part with hard earned coin to hire such a man if he were not vouched for. It was obvious to her that Torm had lost his patron and as such was literally a freelance, or would be if he had a lance. His only hope of maintaining his horse and armor, much less rising in the world, was to make a reputation for himself. Juliette was not overly particular when it came to the paying of debts, but she owed Torm her life. More practically she needed money for a horse and new clothes, and lute strings having only what she carried. It might have been possible to gain that on her own, but particularly the first one would be a problem without any money. She supposed she could steal a horse, but just like Knights, bards needed to manage their reputations. The tale of a bard who stole would spread, and that bard would starve for lack of an audience anywhere except perhaps entertaining bandits.

"I would need a horse and a change of clothes," she said around a mouthful of bread, glancing down at the lute. For all its age the strings appeared to be new, new enough that she could probably hold off on purchasing spares till they reached a town that sold decent ones. She thought of her shortsword and her bow, both lost to her now. She would need to rearm herself too, though if she were traveling with Torm that certainly cut down on her chances of being attacked on the road, and of surviving said attack.

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

If Emmaline had not been so focused on watching for her lovers return, or so worn out by his attentions the previous evening she might have been able to spot the trouble before it was too late. As it was she was leaning against the stone wall of a chandlers shop in a most un-justicar like way when she felt the hard metal muzzle of a pistol press into her ribs. At almost the same time a heavy hand, dirty and smelling of sausage grease clamped down over her mouth.

"Guntag Frauline Justicar," a grating voice said from behind her. Emmaline didn't recognise the speaker but the distinctive smell of sour ale pricked at her nose and she sneezed into the hand covering her mouth. Her assailant cursed and fetched her a blow across the shoulders with the butt of his pistol.

"We are going to go for a little walk" Alebreath told her, "If you shout or try to escape I'll put a pistol ball through your back." The pistol jabbed her ribs and the hand went from her mouth to her shoulder.

"Who are you?" Emmaline demanded, though she allowed him to turn her away from the gunnery school and march her down to an alley beside an inn.

"Just someone with a use for a Justicar," Alebreath replied. The hand left her shoulder and gripped her ass for a moment before returning to its place and shoving her down into the alley.

"Maybe more than one use," he leered. Emmaline considered her options as she was lead towards a cart that appeared to be loaded with barrels. From the smell they were barrels of pickled herring, a staple at inns throughought the city. A disheveled looking nag was hitched to the harness of the wagon and looked none to happy about it. Before Emmaline could begin to incant a spell the pistol was pulled away and her hands were trussed behind her back with what she assumed was herring wire from the way it bit her wrist. That would have helped her cause if the next thing that happened hadn't been a gag of some kind of greasy material being tied around head. She tried to speak but it came out muffled as Alebreath pulled the gag tight. There was no way she could work a spell with both her hands and mouth impeded.

"Wmmmrh arrmmm yoummmm?" Emmaline demanded but her attacker picked her up and slung her into the back of the wagon, grabbing her feet as she kicked and binding them with the same wire that bound her wrist.

"I'm a guy whose brother is going to be hung tomorrow morning, unless maybe he has a Justicar to trade for him," Alebreath returned. He shoved Emmaline back into the cart, hastily making a hollow among the kegs to conceal her. Using some more of the wire he bound her to the lower hoop staves of two of the hundred pound barrels. She got her first look at him, an ugly heavy man whose nose had been broken more than once and had added the ornamentation of drinkers veins beside. He had lost an eye at some point and wore a filthy looking patch that made Emmaline itch. The pistol he carried was a simple crude thing, like any wagoner might use for protection. It was cheap but it probably worked well enough. From the fact that he hadn't prepared the wagon in advance it was clear that this hadn't been premedetated, the fellow had proabbly been making his deliveries, spotted her, and come up with the plan on the spur of the moment. That was good in its way, but it also would make it harder for Neil to find her as the randomness of the attack would work against her.

"I got a place we can get to know each other better while we negotiate for my brothers release, but I dont want you to be uncomfortable while we travel, or overcome with a need to try to get help. He spread a heavy horse blanket over her as he chuckled, keeping her from sight from those on balconies above just as the barrels would keep her out of sight from the street level. Emmaline didn't struggle, she had been tied enough in more pleasant circumstances to know that she wasn't going to be able to break free of the wire restraints, and she didn't want to encourage her captor to clout her across the head. The sound of his hobnails rang on the stones of the alley before the wagon creaked as he climbed up into the drivers bench. There was a shaking of leather and the tired horse's hooves began to clatter. Emmaline squirmed her body down as far as she could till her feet could reach the barrels at the end. Probing with her toes she touched one barrel after the other till she found what she was looking for, one of the empties being returned for reuse. Cursing into her gag she worked her toes under the barrel and then waited until the sunlight of the open sky hit the top of the blanket. Flexing her body she flipped the barrel over the back of the wagon so that it clattered to the ground in the mouth of the alley with a crack of splintering wood.

"Oh you bitch," Alebreath snarled, but he didn't stop. As Emmaline predicted he didn't want to stop in the street to retrieve the barrel, it would attract too much attention that she might have used to try to alert people that she was being held prisoner. As it was it would serve, she hoped as a clue for Neil, in the event she wasn't able to free herself. The wagon clattered on through the noisy streets of Nuln.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

"I hear Tilea is nice this time of year," Camilla responded with a slow grin spreading across her her face. She set her own glass down, enjoying the warming burn of the liquor as it slid down into her belly.

"Of course there are the civil wars, the skaven, the plagues, the bandits..."

Cydric laughed at the joke.

"Or we could try Lustria, of course there are the lizards, the dark elves, the plagues, the pirates..." he amplified. Camilla snickered. There were few places in the Old World or beyond in which ease and safety could be found. The Empire, like every other land, was perpetually awash with with troubles.

"Maybe we can take some time when we get to Marienburg," Camilla said hopefully.

"Didn't you get kidnaped by vampire's the last time we were there?" Cydric asked with a cocked eyebrow. Camilla giggled.

"Sure but at least the bandits there are actually the ones running the city." Cydric chuckled at this and Camilla slipped into his arms, feeling the rough scrape of his stubble against her cheek as she lifted her lips to kiss him.