#striges fic

Cleaner checked the location stamp on the message.  Sith Sanctum.  It would be fun for someone at any rate.  Probably not him.  "Only if you want your face melted," Cleaner replied, snapping the comm unit closed.

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Enough avoiding it.  I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye in person.  I'm sorry I couldn't say it on holo.  I wish I could tell you where my unit was going, but I can’t.

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Spa Day or Calgon, Take Me Away Right Now! (this is a title)

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Made on Hutta (also a working title)

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“He’s a slimy coward, and as the king of slimy cowards, I should know.”

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When I return the ship is filled with hissing, as though something is wrong with the environmental systems.  The ship service droid is unconcerned, which is something of a marvel.  Still, it takes me a moment to recognize the sounds as speech.

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How can you sleep while Sobrik is burning? (thanks Bright, still can’t put this to rest.)

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“He will.  Jesp, he’s had plenty of opportunities to sell me out and he hasn’t.”

“That’s because he loves you, Kirya.  He doesn’t love me,” Rixik said, “I’m not sure he even likes me all that much.”

“He’d keep your secrets, Jesp.”

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Kirya sighed again, “All we’re doing is stopping by, dropping off the holosculpture, and leaving.  Five minutes tops.  If we’re lucky, Dad won’t even want to see us and we can just leave the holosculpture at the door,” she started toward the main port entry, “come on.”

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(note Kira, as in the JK companion, not Kirya, the Twi'lek smuggler)

"Hey," Kira said from the doorway.  Her hair was indifferently combed, her robes belted in haphazard fashion.  "How come we're the only ones who start before breakfast?  All the leishii rolls are gone by the time I get to the cafeteria."

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The United States is now the American Hegemony, with King John Clarkson Jay II at its head.  France, too, retained its Emperor, Russia her Tsar, and Germany the Kaiser.

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Hess: The pattern produced in the subject’s cloth was very complex.  Closer inspection revealed that the person in the portrait was unraveling her cloth, not making it.  The artist responsible is Ysabelle Mondenard.

Controller: The native you brought here.  Why is the painting significant?

Hess: Because the pattern in the cloth shown in her painting is the Dimensional Map.

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“I send my therapist to Jamaca.  Twice a year.”

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“You can have all the others,” Hrothgar was face to face with Nedlin now, glaring at him, “but the Wizards are mine.”

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George Talbot was an optimist.  He always had a plan.

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Trembath crossed his arms over his chest, “I would, if you remembered to send them to me.  I received one telegram, and I quote,” he pulled a yellow telegraph paper from his coat pocket with a flourish and cleared his throat, “ ‘Need help north, please pack week-end and meet Euston Station, Thurs, 9AM, RH.  Bring rifle.’” he raised his eyes just over the upper edge of the sheet and glared at his companion, “Now, I realize that brevity is the soul of telegraphy, but you must admit that’s more than a bit cryptic, especially for you.” He folded the telegraph and replaced it.

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Mr. Calcott took a deep breath, “Suffice it to say that Alan is no longer desired in Lord Hood’s employ.  For the reasons you have already stated, I cannot simply discharge him.  Therefore I am returning him to your care.”

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“Ghosts,” she chokes, “Ghosts of the trees.  Can you not feel them?  Hear them?  They cry.  Headless, they cry to me.  Handless, they reach for me.”

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Aldws shrugged, “Quiet years.  I’ve no complaints to be sure.  No complaints, and not much to complain about,” he said, setting his empty mug on the table.  He leaned forward a bit, “If a king is a good king, but nothing trying happens during his reign, will his people remember him as a good king?” he asked, “Or will they forget him altogether?”

Strider’s smile evaporated, “A hard question to answer,” he said, hiding his expression behind his mug.

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Last but not least, excerpts from WoW fanfic.  Never been seen before (and probably should have remained buried but hey, Bright posted WoW fanfic too so !not first!)

Part of a script for a never-filmed video

Morganstern: (shake head /no emote) No, no, no dragons.  Your test is simple.

Madmonk: Yes?

Morganstern: Take off all your gear and jump in the lava. (points to molten forge metal)

Madmonk: (Looks at lava) (Turns back to Morganstern) I am thinking I will die.  And it will hurt.

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(For context, both Mikail and Zhernebvog are Draenei)

“So you found no answers in Dalaran?” asked Mikhail.

“Dalaran,” Chernevog cleared his throat, “It is ruins now, you know.”

“So I’d heard,” replied Mikhail.  “But I thought the human mages were still there.  The Kirin Tor, I believe?’

Chernevog sighed, “Did you know it was Kil’Jaden himself who razed their city?” he said.

“Oh no,” said Mikhail.

“And furthermore, there are among our allies a people calling themselves high elves,” said Chernevog, “many of them are mages.  Many are in what remains of Dalaran.”

“I did not,” replied Mikhail.

“Neither did I.  Strange thing.  They look like our Blood Elves and speak Thalassian.  Or a very near dialect,” said Chernevog.

Mikhail shook his head, “Oh no,” he repeated.

“There were…words exchanged,” Chernevog sat straighter and cleared his throat again, “in several languages…that probably ought not to have been.”  He turned to Mikhail, “It was not my finest hour,” he admitted.

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Arahael dismounted and came to Beleth’s side, “This looks bad,” he said, examining her rent armor.  It was the only serious damage.  The Vrykul’s heavy axe had come down on her upper right arm and cut clean through the dark metal plate.  Sanguine ichor dripped slowly from the gash.

Beleth just shrugged and dismounted, “My blood’s poison to you, Arahael.  Leave it be,” she said.  She gathered up Witchlight’s reins and led him off.

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Last and probably least, a glimpse of a worgen before he became a worgen.

Alene sat at the corner of the deserted bar and poured himself another drink.  The room was dark and quiet.  The bartender rubbed the smooth wood surface with a stained cloth, spreading around a melange of spilled drinks and bits of food.   Alene held the chipped crystal for a moment, examining the potent amber liquid within.  The heat from his hands warmed it, releasing its characteristic aroma.  He tossed it back, savoring the warm burn of the liquor down his throat.  It joined the growing pool in his belly.  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and reached again for the bourbon bottle.  As he removed the stopper, he heard the city’s alarm horn sounding in the distance.

Giles, the bartender, put down his rag and peered out the tavern’s grimy window.  Alene replaced the stopper and watched.  The burly barkeep grunted and rubbed the heel of his hand on the glass, which did nothing for its clarity.

“What’s happening?” asked Alene, standing.  The floor tilted and he steadied himself against the bar.

Giles turned back to him and shrugged.  “Can’t see nuthin’,” he rasped, going back to his methodical wiping.

Alene snorted, “Guess I’ll have a look,” he said.  He tossed a handful of silver on the bar and took the bottle.  Alene’s dog Bishop got to his feet and followed his master, tail wagging slowly.

Giles swept the coins into his meaty hand, counting them at a glance, “Yer still shy on yer tab, Tanner,” he said as Alene donned his coat and picked up his pack.  

Alene waved a hand in dismissal, “You know I’m good for it,” he said, carefully packing the bottle away.  He picked up his rifle and checked the load, then slung it by its strap over his shoulder.  He looked back at Giles, “Unless the Campbell’s distillery’s finally gone up.  I may perish of mourning,” he said.  He plucked his bowler from the stag’s-head hat rack.

Giles grunted again, “So long as yer pay yer tab in yer will,” he growled.

Alene tugged the tavern’s door open, and the alarm horn sounded again.  He saw nothing odd in the street beyond, but heard shouting in the distance.  “Might want to lock up, Giles,” he said, putting on his hat. It settled firmly over his black hair