Taedius's Writing

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Case No.: 72153-0002

Date: Pharast 21, 4722 AR

Reporting Officer: Officer Loertan Smyth

Prepared By: T. Lightfoot

Description of Accident/Issue:

Criminal activity was reported by a citizen who wished to remain anonymous at 11:27 AM, 21 Pharast. A ‘pop-up stall’ had been constructed at the opening of the Grand Bazaar approx. 15 meters from The Resplendent Rose within Absalom’s Grand Bazaar. The stand consisted of a single proprietor, identified post-arrest as Sebastian Cortinea, 18 y/o human male. The stand had no title; Cortinea was noted as calling passersby for ‘discount art lessons’. Participants interviewed on-site gave consensus that this was not out of the ordinary, as The Resplendent Rose is noted to be a place of beauty and expression.

Cortinea asked patrons to sit on a chair on stage and pose. Lessons approx. 30 minutes per session followed, in which Cortinea explained rudimentary artistic practices, such as simple shape-drawing, copying a model’s appearance onto canvas, etc. Each model was compensated with a sketch of his own creation.

The anonymous citizen reported that they had misplaced a gold-plated clockwork device, purchased earlier the same day at The Clockwork Caravan. This citizen stated that they had the device before attending Cortinea’s stall, but noticed its absence approx. 10 minutes following their departure. They were one of the models of Cortinea’s stall.

Guards were dispatched to the site of the stall. At the time of their arrival, Cortinea was finishing a session. When approached, he began to deny allegations of theft. The dispatched guards state that they were distracted by a sudden clamor; when they turned to face Cortinea again, he had begun to run down the street.

Actions Taken:

Pursuit of the suspect began at 11:42 AM. Suspect utilized magical abilities to attempt to dissuade pursuit, such as creating small flames, telekinetically hurling projectiles at pursuing guards, and creating magical sounds of objects falling, breaking, etc. Suspect’s dexterity and apparent knowledge of hidden paths provided for a difficult chase; suspect was apprehended in an alleyway in the Coins District at 12:01 PM.

Suspect was handcuffed. The suspect was accompanied by a familiar, who was detained within a familiar satchel. Suspect and familiar were brought to a local guard outpost at 12:12 PM. All items and personal effects were confiscated, including a golden clockwork device matching the description of the anonymous citizen’s, a small purse containing 15 gp, 12 sp, 32 cp, a length of wood identified as a broken wand, and two silver bracelets.

Report Summary:

Suspect was adequately detained and brought in for questioning. However, an oversight on the part of the interviewing officer resulted in the suspect escaping custody, reclaiming his items, and fleeing the scene. A bounty of 1 gp for information leading to the suspect’s arrest was placed, increased to 5 gp for the suspect’s capture.

Transcribed below is an interview with suspect Sebastian Cortinea, who was apprehended shortly following the incident.

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Sebastian Cortinea: You could’ve been a bit less rough, you know. Don’t you have any idea how much handcuffs chafe?

Officer Loertan Smyth: Those who do not cooperate with the law are brought in as necessary.

Cortinea: Yeah, well, I don’t recall drawing being illegal.

Smyth: That isn’t the point and you know it. Now: name?

Cortinea: [sigh] Sebastian Cortinea. 

Smyth: Age?

Cortinea: Too young for you.

Smyth: Be serious, Mr. Cortinea.

Cortinea: Jeez, no fun at all. 18.

Smyth: Residence?

Cortinea: Hopefully not here!

Smyth: Mr. Cortinea.

Cortinea: Is this what you always have to do? Take down such boring details? Come on, where’s the drama? I keep hearing about the guards of Absalom being these cool, badass figures. [Suspect raised hands, waving them in front of himself.] Where’s the pizzaz?

Smyth: Whatever rumors you’ve heard are of no consequence here. Now, please focus so we can get this over with. Do you understand precisely what it is you’ve done wrong?

Cortinea: [Suspect slumped back in his seat, right arm over the back of the chair.] No, honestly. It’s the Grand Bazaar. Aren’t people supposed to be able to make coin there? Besides, bringing a little art to the world isn’t bad, now is it?

Smyth: You were oper-

Cortinea: Ah-ah, lemme finish. Art, helping people learn to draw. Near a shop whose owner follows Shelyn, of all gods. I mean, c’mon! Doesn’t that sound right?

Smyth: [visibly irritated] Mr. Cortinea, you were running this stand without permission or permit. On top of this, you had stolen various personal belongings, denied allegations, fled the scene of a crime, and assaulted officers. You stand to be in jail for quite a long time.

Cortinea: Dunno what you’re talking about. I’m sitting right now.

Smyth: If you are not going to cooperate, I will call in my fellows and they’ll bring you to prison right now. Is that what you want?

Cortinea: Admittedly, no, but you’re not exactly giving me a lot of time to explain myself right now. Don’t I get the right to a fair trial? And to say my side of things, too! C’mon, man.

Smyth: [sigh] Very well. Then what exactly was the purpose of this ‘art stand’?

Cortinea: I just told you. I’m trying to spread the good word of art! Well- the good picture- you know what I mean. I was even compensating people! Who doesn’t want a nice portrait of themselves to hang up on their wall? People pay way more than I would’ve charged, and I gave it to them for free!

Smyth: And the items that had gone missing from the same people you drew?

Cortinea: Hey, it’s not my fault if people drop their things. Getting down from a stage can cause a little bouncing, y’know? People drop stuff. Besiiiides, holding onto their things is a favor. Someone might’ve actually stolen them if they just found ‘em on the ground!

Smyth: You will forgive the courts if they don’t believe you, I imagine.

Cortinea: Oh, I don’t think I’m gonna be talking to the courts at all. Yoink!

Smyth: Wh- hey!

A personal piece of my Vampire: the Masquerade character Vincent Moore and his Touchstone, Annie.

--

The whistle of a kettle near to boiling over fills the cramped air of the RV. A hand is raised, swiping it off of the heat and granting blessed silence once more.

Vince never quite understood tea. Even in his most lively of times, he could never stand the taste of it- ‘s’basically hot bitter water’, he had been known to say.  Of course, none of that mattered now. A distinct lack of life made the consuming of any form of liquid pointless. No matter the taste, if he liked it or not? Right back out the maw the moment it’s swallowed down. 

Fuckin’ vamps, man. Of all the shitty things, can’t even take a nip. Ugh.

The kettle is set down on the tiny countertop that made up his RV’s kitchenette, and a drawer is swung open to rummage. From it, a small tin- well-worn and more than a bit beaten out of shape- is produced. A teabag is brought out from it, placed in a mug, and the boiling water is poured atop it. Back onto the stove with the kettle, and he moves towards the couch not two steps away to slump down into it.

Why was he, one of the Kindred, of the eternal undead, making tea, of all things? There was only one reason, of course. His eyes slowly raised to the other end of the RV, where his meager sleeping quarters sat. It was not him that was using that bed (and he rarely used it anyway, outside of the fact that it was perfectly blocked from the sun). No, it was another.

Annie.

Traveling through the darkness was the only way that one like him could go about daily activities. Everyone knew that when the sun fell, the most dangerous and depraved activities began, and no sensible person would go out of their way to walk around when the moon and stars are out. He was not, by any stretch of the word, ‘sensible’, which made it only natural even before his Embrace. But more apt to the reason he had prowled last night was in search of another person bereft of their senses… despite his better efforts. 

Those who were under the thrall of drug use could not exactly trade in their preferred wares in broad daylight, and it was most common that he could find their dens after-hours. Annie was predictable- when she was in a bad place, she could be found in one of three places. Under the bridge by a little river; in a shed skirting the edge of the abandoned factory district and the town itself; or in a small shed that served as a ramshackle crack den. It did not take him long to find her, for the first option was the correct one.

Finding her alone, unconscious against the stones and perilously close to the river, is what nearly set him to find the ones responsible. But no- he had to restrain himself. Bloodshed would not solve it.

That time. It happens again, we got another fuckin’ issue.

Vince rises from the chair again, once more stepping to the kitchenette. His footfalls are heavy, only just barely not firm enough to rock the vehicle. God, but it all pissed him off. The cabinet doors are flung open as he grinds his teeth, metal creaking, wood splintering. No one ever treated folk like her right. Yeah, she slipped- so what? Don’t mean she’s supposed to be left on the fuckin’ rocks. Get her some damn help, not throw her to the fuckin’ wolves. Another tin is taken out, slammed down on the counter-

His head snaps to the side just in time to hear a surprised gasp from the bedroom.

Shit.

Vince shuts his eyes, and a deep breath is pulled in. Rouse the Blood. Hearken to Humanity. Call upon the Blush of Life. Color begins to return to his cheeks, after so very, very long of unnatural paleness. The veneer of a heartbeat pounds in his chest. God help him, but that’s uncomfy these days. The mug and the tin are picked up, and he carries himself swiftly to the door.

“Ann?” he calls out, voice quiet and calm. “S’all good- it’s Vin. You’re in the RV- y’decent?”

Silence hangs like a heavy curtain for a moment. The brief shuffling of sheets is what he hears first. After that, a quiet voice. “... yeah.”

The door is pushed open with his shoulder, and it takes but a step to bring him to the side of the bed. It was effectively a closet within the RV itself; sun-blocking black curtains hang over the singular window, with the bed itself bearing similar colors. Annie herself was wrapped up in the darkened sheets, both hands raised to her face. Thin hands rub at dark-ringed eyes of green. Long blonde hair remains ratty from a lack of chance to shower, to say nothing of the situation she had been in not an hour or two prior. Exhaustion is writ across her visage, displayed as clear as the state of borderline-emaciation she held. A woman of eighteen, and she looked like she was already a foot into the grave.

God, if that wasn’t familiar. Vince draws in slow, gradual breaths; he forces his expression into a soft smile, offering both tea and cookies over. No words are shared just yet- he waits for her to accept them, which she does after a short moment of staring.

“... m’sorry.”

His head shakes from side to side. A calloused finger rises to sweep some of her hair from her face, tucking it behind an ear. “What happened, huh? How’d the bit at the station go?”

Both of her shaky hands curl around the mug, raising it to her lips to take a long draught. His eyes focus on her as a shudder rolls through her body. “They turned me down. Said I didn’t have what it took. It- it got to me, Vin.”

“Dumbasses and liars, the lot of ‘em, but…” A singular bark of a laugh comes free from his lips, and he sits down on the bedside proper. I told you, y’can just come here. You don’t gotta- y’know.” No gestures or gesticulations are made. He knew. So did she.

“I know, I know, but-”

“Nah, no buts.” The back of one of his knuckles ever-so-gently tap-taps to the side of her head, causing Annie’s face to scrunch up in a pout. “We’re tryin’ t’get you off that shit, alright? These jackwagons like t’test, and we can’t have that failin’ ya. You’re better than that, Ann.”

Annie slumps back against the sheets, a long exhale flaring her nostrils out. Eyes flick off to the side, towards the window, and silence reigns again as she sits. One hand removes itself from the mug, and she takes one of the tea biscuits , raising it to quivering lips. “... yeah. I’ll- yeah.”

“That’s m’girl.” Her hair is tousled with a flick of his hand, and he rises back up to standing. “Drink up, get some more rest. I’ll drop y’off soon, alright? We’ll get you a shower, too- gotta look presentable.”

As Annie curls back up into the sheets, her eyes roll. But the ghost of a smile takes to her lips, and she turns away to nestle in. Vince exits with another wide step, door softly shutting behind him.

… and a hand runs down his face.

[A story about my tiefling in a Pathfinder campaign, Curse of the Crimson Throne.]

--

Strasza did not sleep well last night.

Now, she never was a particularly deep sleeper. There were plenty of reasons for her to be able to get up and go from a dead sleep in an instant. Even among more welcoming communities like Korvosa- or, as welcoming as it used to be, at any rate- tieflings did not have a particularly good reputation. A tiefling that was a mercenary, even less so. In Old Korvosa, where she used to live, one would be wise to sleep with one eye open, and have a blade near to hand. This was to say nothing of the nightmares, the dreams of chains and agony… and all that she had seen in recent times. Soldiers, monsters, plague, sickness, aberrations, death, undeath and the… everything that was Castle Scarwall.

That castle would not leave her mind for a long, long time. If ever.

An exertion sees her sitting up on her bed, a hand rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her other tugs the sheets off one of her horns, letting it flutter down to the bed. It was still early, she had no doubt; morning calls had not gone out, and there was no bustling of revolutionaries to prepare for whatever hells Queen Ileosa and her minions had for them. Despite everything that Strasza and her companions went through, the citizens of the city had been through something potentially worse. It was one thing to face death in the eye, but another to be under the thumb of a tyrant. 

If there was any time to try to get some answers, it was now.

She dresses quickly, donning a simple set of clothing. She would stand out, no matter what, but with no one awake, maybe she could get where she was going quickly. There was no fear of an attack in the small hours of the morning, not with the spell that hung over this place, and- if she was right, anyway- there was no need to get ready to leave yet. With any luck, her party would have at least another day to rest, considering the wounds suffered in Scarwall. Long strides carry her down the halls, passing by other rooms; burning orange eyes flick from side to side, spying them.

The first one she passed was Nimue’s. The inquisitor… Strasza had slung more than enough barbs her way for her actions, but even more, for her faith. What did an ‘inquisitor’ even do? Surely she was not the epitome of them- if that was all that heretics had to fear, heresy would be far more prevalent. Even so, something itches in the back of her mind. She had… conviction. Belief. It definitely could not spring from herself alone, and she always bore that symbol of hers, calling down magic from above.

Strasza’s lips quirk, and she turns away, head passing down the hall- only to catch the sight of gold rounding the corner. Gold- that must be Fuso. Fuso. His very existence was baffling to her. A man who existed purely to take the fall for someone else- someone who died, came back, and remembered almost nothing. By his explanation, anyway. Whether or not this was the true status of his soul was up for debate. What was objectively true was the fact that he did die… and came back.

--

Memories flash as she walks. Castle Scarwall, not a turn of the sun ago. They stood on the top floor of the castle, and all had come to calm. The undead had fallen; together, alongside their temporary companion, the hero Valzu, they struck down the phantoms binding the castle, and the curse was lifted. The soul of the one who was trapped there stood before them, their soul-flesh torn apart and reconstituted. Until they ceased speaking, and from the nothing came another figure. The one they had seen before. Blond hair, armor ringed with orange light. That heavenly messenger of the goddess of the dead.

She really wished they had a better fitting name for him than ‘Dave’, but an adage about roses and other names passes by the edge of her mind.

“You have done a great deed for my Mistress this day,” he had said to them, “and Her favour is with you. Perhaps she might even crack a smile.”

A flash. But a few moments after that- a small package is sent from his fingers, towards their inquisitor. “Ah, and before I forget. Let her know we’ll be coming for her soon.”

--

The memories fade.

She had kept walking, and found herself rounding a corner. The room before her was where she had intended to go. Her head turns, glancing about. No one here? ...Good. A bracing breath fills her lungs. One hand lifts, sharp-nailed fingers curling into a loose fist. For a moment, it hovers by the door’s frame; her other hand balls up as well, muscles tensing. Damn it, Strasza. We’re not going to get answers if you back out now. Eyes squeeze shut- that breath is released in a rush. C’mon. Let’s- let’s do this.

Her hand moves forward-

“Don’t be so shy, child,” an old woman’s voice calls.

Brows shoot up in surprise. Did she know? Was she being too obvious? Was this some kind of- Her head shakes, hands untensing; one rises up to card through her shock of silvery hair. Focus, Strasza. Focus. Shoulders droop, then her posture lifts, and around the corner she goes. 

The shrine to the gods in this underground hideaway was a simple thing. A couple rows of dilapidated pews and loose wooden chairs sat facing a makeshift altar, which was on a slight raised dais. Atop the stone structure, statues of the gods worshipped in Korvosa sat. Depictions of Abadar, Sarenrae and Shelyn take precedence, with another of Desna a bit off to the side. If there were signs of Asmodeus or any others who aligned themselves with evil, they were not obvious from this angle. At this time, there was but one other person in the ‘chapel’... and it was exactly who Strasza was looking for. In the front row, holding something on her lap, was Keppira d'Bear, the high priest of Pharasma.

“You needn’t skulk around, you know,” the old woman hums out, turning her gaze up towards the tiefling. A wry little smirk rests on her lips, wizened features displaying mirth that belied her age. “Come, sit.”

Strasza’s hand slides down off her head, around one horn, to rub at the back of her neck. Embarrassment was not a common expression for her, but it showed here. A quiet, breathy chuckle ekes out; her tail flicks nervously behind her. “Erm- right. Right.” Long strides carry her across the way, between the pews, and to the high bishop’s side. She sets herself down next to her, a couple feet between them. 

“Much weighs on your mind, child.” One hand lifts from her lap, to gesture towards Strasza. “It shows on your face. Do not be afraid; you are safe here.” 

At first, Strasza’s burning eyes flit away. Her arms settle on her legs, and her posture slumps forward, hardly fitting for someone in as close to a holy place as they could get. Or perhaps, considering her heritage, it was entirely fitting. Who could say? No doubt some would have commentary. But her attention does go to the aged woman after a silent second; it is here that she notes what else the bishop is holding. Within her other hand, she held a statue. Unlike the ones on the altar, it was not a depiction of the god themselves. Rather, it was a symbol that could be more easily transported, perhaps affixed to the belt. A spiraling comet, made of a glimmering metal.

It was when she saw this that her breath caught in her throat. Despite herself, her muscles stiffen, and her back straightens, just a bit. Anxiety flits across her visage before she quashes it, forces it back within. Not nearly quick enough to escape D’bear’s eyes, however, for she meets Strasza’s gaze with her own. It was kind, warm- knowing.

Was she going to regret this? ...Perhaps.

Heaving out a breath, Strasza pushes herself to calm once more. Sharpened teeth chew briefly at the inside of her cheek… before she finally focuses, and utters out a few words.

“...Tell me…” 

A pause hangs in the air as Strasza’s brow knits.

Keppira D’bear lifts a brow, a sophic smile tugging up the edges of her lips.

A character for a Curse of the Crimson Throne campaign I'll be playing in.

Name: Strasza

Age: 33

Race: Tiefling

Gender: Female

Occupation/Job: Fighter

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Body shape: tall, broad, muscular, strong.

Hair style/colour: Long, silver

Skin colour: Deep blue

Eye colour: Bright, burning orange

Outfit: Hide and leather armour. Somewhat ragged, but not overly so. Protective and padded where it counts.

Accessories: N/A

Weapons/Tools: Shadow Weapons (usually a battleaxe)

Personality: Cheerful, upbeat, easy to anger, quick to forgive and forget, malicious when provoked

Quirks: gets impatient easily, hates to remain in one place for too long, usually wears some form of covering (cloak, etc) and bandages over her arms

Likes: combats, drinking, carousing, general rabble-rousing

Dislikes: Order, civil law, being made to stay in one place for too long

Backstory

Tieflings. Strange humanoids, born of the union between mortal races and the denizens of the hells. Their spawning comes from reasons as multitudinous and varied as their appearances. Some seek power, to mate with demons and create a being of great strength; others desire the perverse pleasures of those deep-dwelling outsiders; others make pacts for personal reasons, and the coupling happens as a result of the bond.

Some, however, are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thus it was for Strasza’s mother, kidnapped and bound by cultists as they attempted to summon a Kyton- demons who flagellate and replace portions of their bodies to gain greater strength. The one they brought about was known as an ‘Evangelist’- chain devils. And though she escaped and survived, she bore a child of mixed blood.

Hiding in the outskirts of Korvosa, she raised the child with love and care regardless, determined to make a positive influence on both her child and the world. Though Strasza grew up to be a wild, free-wheeling woman, she was content, for she overcame even the worst of the prejudices thrown at her by those who crept too near to their home. 

Strasza saw her father but once: when the kyton tracked her and her mother down, in order to claim the child (not even in her teens at the time) and transform her as per their kind’s perverse mutilations. Her mother was slain in the process of defending her, and Strasza took many wounds from the whips and chains that her sire bore- but in his haughtiness, she took an opening, and rammed a silver knife (stolen by the girl not long ago, but accepted as a gift nonetheless) through where his heart should be with vicious force. It is unknown if the evangelist recovered from the wound...but he has not sought his wayward daughter since.

Alone now, Strasza continued to keep to the outskirts of town, eking out a living as a petty thief (never caught, owing to her inky-blue skin allowing her to meld into the darkness) and later, a mercenary. She still loved the city she grew up in, for in Korvosa, one could do anything...if they were clever, strong, or quick enough. It suited her very well. 

In her line of work as a mercenary, Strasza was assigned to provide an escort. Her charge: an elven woman named Ilaeda. A waywatcher who had broken her arm in a conflict close to the outskirts of Korvosa, and went into the city for treatment rather than walk all the way to the woods. Rather than be perturbed and off put by the scars that ran across Strasza’s form, she praised them as trophies of a successful battle- perhaps a strange outlook for an elf, who are prized for their beauty, not their disfigurements. Strasza, surprised and intrigued by this, made arrangements to see her again. And again. And again. In time, the two fell in love, and Strasza offered Ilaeda her mother’s ring as a sign of devotion.

All would have been well and good from this point, had Strasza not been called one day to identify a body. Ilaeda lie dead in a Korvosan alleyway, surrounded by no less than a dozen corpses of thugs. Each was felled by a single arrow. She was killed by a cowardly stab in the back. The running theory was that she was ambushed and to be robbed, but defended herself until one managed to sneak up behind her in the chaos of battle. Most disturbingly (to Strasza), Strasza’s mother’s ring was missing. Following leads, she traced it to a pawn shop, who bought it from one Gaedran Lamm, a well-known criminal mastermind. All alone and lamenting that she could not afford to buy the ring at the moment (and failed to intimidate the pawn shop owner into giving it to her), a vow was sworn: hunt down Lamm and make him pay...in coin and blood alike.

A little piece I did for one of my D&D characters, within a homebrew universe.

--

“Keep quiet. Our prey lies in the woods beyond.”

A large hand, holding a dagger, gestures forward. Steiner von Schwarz, Huntmaster, had come with boon companions to the hunt once more: a particular dangerous job, for some unknown beast...or beasts. “We must proceed with caution. We do not know what has caused the deaths of travellers- only that it comes swiftly, and leaves little but blood behind. Understood?”

Two nods come in response. A bowman and a rifle-bearer, a Huum and another Cronf, had come with him this day; while they held the flank, he would engage this foe in direct combat. His sword and dagger- truly, a shortsword in any smaller being’s hands-  had seen him true through many a hunt, and in melee, no beast was his match. Still, with an unknown enemy, it was risky, but what was the hunt without risk?

Quiet steps tread through the underbrush. It was silent- far too silent for any true hunter’s liking. A shudder of anticipation rolls through Steiner as they go. Their foe was near. He knew it. A clearing soon parts the path, and forward do they go, step by careful step.

Crack. A branch is broken underfoot.

A rush of wind- then a scream. Steiner whips around with broadsword brandished- a moment too late. The bowman falls forward, his death throes coming strangled; to the ground he goes, an unceremonious heap, bleeding profusely from his back. A claw mark tore through leathers like a knife through paper; skin and muscle were shredded just as simply. But the assailant? Gone.

“Damn it!” he grumbles out, eyes focusing once more. The trajectory of the swipe meant it would have dashed to the left- forward charge towards the nearby bushes, a war cry bellowing from his lungs. If anything, he could spook it out of hiding- 

And he succeeds. But not in the way he hoped, for the bushes part in a blur of blood-red. High above him does a figure go, pouncing through the air; Steiner follows it with eyes wide, just in time to watch the hulking figure land upon his fellow. He had not the time to raise his gun, to let the black powder sound its rapport. A Cronf was no simple meal for most beings, but the rifleman had no time to even scream, for massive fangs ran through head and shoulder with nary a pause. Decapitated in an instant- his lifeblood sprays and splatters as the remains of his body fall limp to the ground.

His foe was clear. The beast they came to hunt- and gods help them, it was bigger than expected. A long beast, some unholy mixture of lizard and big cat; its frame was muscled, coated head to toe in deep red scales, and no less than three times his size, but the strength of its legs and position of its frame belied its swiftness. Massive fangs protruded from its maw, dripping with saliva and gore both; as golden eyes narrow on Steiner, a growl rumbles into the air. A sickening crunch sees the end of that hunter’s head, bone and brain matter splitting, swallowed down. 

Down Steiner crouches, sword and dagger prepared. No fear. No fear. Avenge them! His face twists, a maelstrom of emotions washing over him at once: grief, anger, bewilderment, hatred. Blades are brandished- yet he is provided not a second to move, for the beast crouches. Down, ready- and it pounces, flying towards him. Jagged claws are extended, maw agape, teeth bearing in--

--

And with a gasp, Steiner sits upright. A hand flies to his chest, pounding at the expanse above his wildly-beating heart. Open are his eyes, wide as saucers, and his breaths come rapid. He glances around- left, right, up, down- 

All is at peace. His newly found comrades rest well in their bedrolls, save for one, who rolls over in their place in the corner of his vision. Did she hear? he cannot help but silently wonder, yet a lack of calling out or visible concern leads to an assumption of ‘no’. His breathing regulates, slowing to a manageable pace; a deep breath is drawn in, exhaled in a rush. These friends- if he could call them such, in truth, for he had just met them- were fine. 

For now.

No- no such thoughts. His head shakes, and a hand runs through deep brown locks. Shifting in his place, the massive Cronf turns to lay down once more. And beneath his breath, he mutters: 

A writing commission for a friend. Their directions: a story between a vampire lawyer and a fae teacher, with all other details to be left to my discretion. 

I liked this, a lot.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1500

Want to commission me? Check out my commission page here!

--

“von Reiter! Baby! Hey, can you help me out with something?”

As a voice is heard behind the closed wooden door, upon which was emblazoned ‘Edvard von Reiter, Attorney at Law’, the sole inhabitant of the office glances up from his papers. The moonlight shone in through a window, yet only a candlelight illuminated the office otherwise. Papers sat piled high upon a mahogany desk, and vials of reddish-ink were lined up next to quills- a veritable high-speed signing station. Glasses are shifted up the man’s nose through a sharp-nailed finger pressing to the bridge; his other hand reaches up to sweep ebon-black hair atop his head, down to brush his dark tailcoat into place. By the puzzled look on the sharply-dressed man’s face, whoever was beyond the door was an unexpected visitor this evening.  “Enter. How may I assist-”

No time to finish that sentence. In a blur of colour, a figure throws wide the door, dashes in, and slams it behind them. The bell that sat atop the frame jangles wildly, ringing out discordant notes, until some moments pass and silence comes again. In that same time, the figure dashes towards the chair, hovering behind it. 

Immediately, the man’s eyes half-lid, and his brow falls again. Lovely. A fae.

“You know, for a vampire’s office, this place is positively clean!” A voice more high-pitched than it sounded behind the door rings out from the winged little creature. Blue skin was offset by verdant adornments, vines and leaves coiling around a lithe form. A shock of purplish, leaf-like hair sat atop their head, and pointed ears seem to perk as the figure took in their surroundings. “You’d think there’d be dust and papers scattered about, a bloodstain, maybe, but this is-”

A sharp clear of the throat cuts the fae off, the attorney folding his hands upon his desk. “Do you have a case for me, or not?” von Reiter replies. “I am a very busy man.”

“Right! Right. The name’s Elvina.” The fae pauses to bend their upper body forward in what might be construed as a bow. “So, you know all about the rules and laws and all that un-fun stuff, right?”

Von Reiter dips his head in response. “That is, indeed, my line of work. Explain to me the situation, and we shall proceed from there.” A piece of paper is fwipped from a stack; a quill dips into blood-red ink, and his chin lifts to encourage the other to speak.

“Excellent!” Diminutive hands clap together once, a surprisingly bell-like sound echoing out. “So! I was...eh- summoned by a mortal, right? Wizard, lovely chap, nice and amicable. Wanted their children to learn aaaaaall about the magic that runs through the worlds!”

“An understandable choice.” Notes are scribbled in shorthand, von Reiter’s eyes not leaving the fae. “And an intriguing choice of professor- but, continue.”

“Why, thank you! See, I knew you would understand. A-hem- but there’s a little...snag. Tiny one! Really, almost insignificant-” Here, an index and thumb come dangerously close together. “I noticed that one of the kids- lovable little scamp, but not the best at his homework, not by far, let me tell you!- wasn’t doing so well! So, I may have- may, mind you!- invited him to come home with me for some...extra lessons!”

The scratching of quill to paper suddenly stops. Perking up, von Reiter redoubles his focus on Elvina, eyelids coming close in a narrow squint.

“...And I left a little...gift behind!” Elvina smiles, bright, yet nervous.

“...You what.”