a_story_by_me blah-ze for anyone that wants to read. by me. was just lying around doing nothing. this is the first half, the rest will come later... Sleight of Hand … it is here, my servant, that thy will gain thy greatest ally, my Red Slayer… to bind all to the thrall, the blood of an innocent child slain before fate dictates…but beware, sorcerer, and heed my warning: this child will hunt thee til their fate be thine, for they exist only for vengeance and hate… From the Book of the Accursed Korhil Jho Seeing the child playing happily in the shadowed alley behind Migage's store didn't surprise Lint unduly. Street children were common, usually with faces smeared with grime, wearing scraggly clothing, and smelling of a scent which reminded Lint of onions. This street child, however, was dressed in a fine white petticoat, had a face smeared in honey-cake, and smelled faintly of rose oil. So in the end, it was the prospect of honey-cake, not kidnapping, mayhem, or murder, which had persuaded Lint to walk carefully and quietly closer to the child, keeping to the shadows. The child, who had pulled out another cloth-wrapped morsel of cake, was completely unaware of Lint as she padded close up behind the child, got a tight hand on the cake, and pulled hard. At the last moment, the little girl seemed to sense something, and her hands tightened around the sweet. Lint, instead of lifting the cake lightly like just another purse from an unsuspecting merchant, had a sudden contest on her hands. She spun, instinctively, bringing up her hand with palm outstretched, and came face to face with the girl for a moment, the girl's chubby face twisted by the effort of holding onto her food, cheeks puffed out, mouth pouting, black hair flying wild around deep, stormy blue eyes. Then Lint got her hand around and onto the girl's shoulder and pushed, dumping the child hard onto her backside, yanking the cake out of her hands, and sprinted out of the alley into a dense afternoon crowd packing the harbourside. The fact that the child didn't scream, or cry out, didn't impact on Lint at all. She was already stuffing down the crisp, sweet cake, keeping half an eye out for any whayguard alerted to her thievery. The fine white linen cloth that the cake had been wrapped in went inside her brown, salt-stiff coat, and she licked her fingers clean twice, until she could only taste the dirt on her hands. Her stomach rumbled-the single piece of the cake hadn't been enough to fill it-and she sighed. Today, like every other day, was still a work day, and Lint needed more than a bite of honey-cake, after all. Still, luck seemed to be with her. She found a perfect victim, a cadaverous and aristocratic man, with a bronze skullcap and a huge, ebony walking staff. He was walking with a peculiar stiff arrogance, not even glancing at the people he ruthlessly pushed out of the way. Trailing behind him was a shorter, stooped figure in an enclosing black robe, shuffling alone subserviently behind the other. Outlander, thought Lint, No citizen would walk along the Tiagella harbour like that. She pushed her way through the crowd, passing stalls selling every type of ware from beyond the seas, past dark-skinned Alsgormen and bearded Norsemen. Lint switched directions, walking toward her target, and then stepped out, colliding directly with him. He shoved her out of the way, but her hands had already rifled his robe. She found a dagger and a heavy pouch on his belt, and took both, shielding them from his sight by turning her body slightly. This slight change of direction, however, meant that she had careered straight into his manservent. As she bounced away from the second impact, she heard chains rattle, and looked up inside his hood to see a tortured face, eyes maimed, half-healed scars crisscrossing his cheeks. The stench of the man was putrid, the foul, decaying odour of carrion, mixed with the coppery taint of blood. While she was able to remain on her feet, the man tottered, arms and legs thrashing vainly. The aristocrats spun, his face angry, reaching down to jerk the servant back to his feet, and cover him again with his robe. Lint faded away into the crowd, her heart hammering in her chest. She still clutched both of her prizes inside her coat, and as she slid into an alleyway, she heard an enraged yell from where she had just left. She rounded a corner, and felt a sudden, very sharp pain spear into her head, driving her to her knees. With the pain came a voice, spitting with rage, as if it were inside her ear, "FLEE, THIEF! YOU CANNOT HIDE, MAGGOT, FOR I AM VOLEUKA, I AM JHO’S CHOSEN SORCEROR!" Lint writhed, pierced on the burning point of that pain. She tried to call out, to scream, but her voice died in her throat, choked off by the raging malevolent presence. Lint vaguely felt earth grind under her rough-cut hair on the back of her head, tasted blood in her throat. She heard a gloating chuckle from the presence, a sense that it was enjoying this torture, and that was enough to make her vomit. She felt bile rise in her throat. "I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN LIKE A BEAST, AND…" The voice was cut off with the abruptness of a taut cable snapped. The pain vanished, leaving her slumped like a rag on the pavement. She gasped, sucking in breath that burned her throat. Her eyes wouldn't focus, she fixed on a head-shaped object in front of her. Lint heard a voice, but it was fuzzily faint and distant. She felt someone shake her, then her sight began to clear, resolving into a boyish, sun-browned face, with a pair of narrowed dark eyes framed by equally dark hair. He reached behind him, the action bringing into view the sword he held in his other hand. The glint of the steel brought the world into sharp focus, and Lint acted, putting a fist into one of those dark eyes, and rolling to her feet. The man fell with a muffled curse of surprise, but Lint only made a few short steps before she stumbled and lurched into the alley wall. She tried to totter onwards, but the ground seemed to lurch beneath her. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're injured. Sick. I can help you." The voice, originating from the man, was sharp, with a brittle accent. An outlander's voice, but soothing, caring. Lint opened her mouth, trying to respond with a snapped comment, but only managed a gurgle, her tongue flopping like a dead fish in her mouth. The man crouched down, picking up the bag that Lint had stolen. This, like her reaction to the sword, galvanised her to action, "Hey! That’s mine! I stole it fair and square!" The man blinked, thought about it for a second, then threw it to her. Lint, exhibiting all the coordination of a snuff addict, made a weak attempt to catch it before it thumped into her chest, "Ow." The man sheathed his sword, taking a step backward, "We need to get away from here. Can you walk?" Lint gave him a suspicious, not altogether friendly, stare, "Who're you?" "I'm Temrin Showkin. I'm a soldier under…" "That's nice. I'm Lint. I don't care." Lint pushed off from the alley wall and staggered across the alley, almost falling over. She would have, too, if the soldier hadn't come over and steadied her up. He worked on a ship, she could tell by the rough texture of his hands and the smell of the sea coming from his clothes. She felt a leather jerkin below his dark greatcoat, held on by a diagonal blue sash. That marked him as an outlander rebel, from the provinces. "I think you should lie down…" The soldier started, but Lint raised a fist warningly. He made a peculiar noise, like a snort, and held up his hand to his face, "Don't hit me again." Lint turned to walk down the alley, leaning with one hand against the wall to steady herself, when she caught a faint whiff of the familiar sweet scent of rose oil. She spun around, the soldier giving her a questioning look, but couldn't see anyone. She turned back around with a sniff, to see the child she had robbed standing in front of her, a broad smile on face. The eyes, no longer angry, were expressions of pure joy. "Hello, Lint. I've been looking the city over for you." The girl's voice and appearance, childish and cute, didn't match the complicated syntax, "I have more cake, if you want it." Lint watched on in confusion, but held out a hand to have another piece of the cake, followed by two more, wrapped in the linen cloth, given to her. Then Lint narrowed her eyes, Now I'm hallucinating, too. She sniffed, and moved as to walk away. The child stepped around Lint, and Lint shook her head at the way the day had turned out. "Oh, hello, Temmy. Lint's told me so much about you, you know." At this, Lint stopped, and turned around. The soldier had frozen. His face was a mixture of confusion and disbelief, "Who are you? And how do you know my name?" The girl turned around, hands on hips, those clear eyes standing bright in a face that reminded Lint of Migage Sulla whenever she toppled a stack of apples at his store; calm, full of pretend annoyance, and humour, "Lintegil! You didn't introduce me?" For a half second, it all seemed too much. Lint had to sit down on the edge of an old beer barrel now used as a refuse bin, and then she put her face in her hands. For a few seconds she sat, blinking slowly, then she began to laugh with the absurdity of it all. "Temmy, dear, go help Lint." The girl's voice now had a subtle edge of command to it, and the soldier walked over to Lint and lifted her, gently, to her feet. "Now, Temmy, I want you to follow me. Help her, now, she's still a little unsteady on her feet." So this it was how Temrin Showkin found himself following the small child through a maze of alleys and back streets, leading the other, older, girl, the one he assumed was a thief, along beside him. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd got here - he was meant to be blending into the crowd, waiting for a signal from the others, but then he'd gone to buy a scarf for his sister. He hadn't asked Madden if he could, but she would understand. He kept a hand on his sword, looking around him, but was soon distracted by a crunching and chewing noise beside him. The thief-girl, Lint, he remembered, was eating pieces of cake, stuffing the delicate morsels into her mouth as though she were starving, which she may have been. Her body was alley-cat thin beneath her jacket and her face was smeared with crumbs beneath the oily, raggedly-hacked mess of hair, which might have been red in another, cleaner, situation. He could smell it now - honey cake - and she looked up at him. Her face went guarded and almost sour for a brief moment, then she somewhat reluctantly passed him a chunk, before scoffing the rest herself. "Hurry up, Temmy. I'm tired and I want a bath." Up ahead, the girl stood with hands on hips for a brief moment before flitting off down another alleyway. Tem broke off a section of the sweetcake and helped the thief up the alley, savouring the taste of the cake in his mouth. He looked back at the thief - she was stumbling, as if she had had too much wine, but that wouldn't explain her disjointed thrashing back in the alley. The only time he'd ever seen a person act like that was when Aieron Southson had been accidentally shot in the back of the head by Shayden Olsou's crossbow, and he'd gone into sleep and died, three days later. The thief wasn't showing any signs of that, though she did breathe in crumbs from her honey-cake and go into a coughing fit. "You shouldn't eat it fast, you know," The girl looked up at him with the alertness of a cat, halfway through licking her fingers, "Why not? Food's food, isn't it?" "This is honey-cake. You usually eat it on Yelnsday." Tem finished his own piece. "You might. I eat whatever I can get, be it Yelnsday or any other day," "Doesn't your family eat well?" "Don't have a family, never had one." "So who's the girl? I thought she was, well, a sister." "Never seen her before, though you knew her. Think I'd be wearing all grotty clothes if she were in my family? I ain't got nothing, and never will." "Is that why you're a thief?" The girl grunted something, and Tem heard the sharp rattle of horse hooves on pavement, and they ducked into a side alley. Before Tem ducked in, he saw the little girl, her face a sullen mask. He started, but was distracted. There was a sudden shout from the other end of the alley, and the tramp of feet. A half-dozen guardsmen - the Tiagellate whayguard in brown leathers wielding a motley collection of rusty weapons, led by a tall man with the bronze cap and black staff of a sorcerer. Behind him, fading into the shadows because of his cloak was undoubtedly his demonthrall, bound with magical chains to contain the unnatural horror within him. Tem turned, but the cart they'd heard, pulled by a terrified horse, smashed into the alley behind him, blocking the passage with splintered wood and thrashing animal. Tem swept out his sword, his knuckles white on the hilt. Beside him, the thief was standing still, body shaking violently, and Tem saw the sorcerer pointing his staff at her, his lined face a rictus of concentration. He snarled a command, the whayguard rushed forward. The alley was so narrow that only two men could fight side by side, and there wasn't enough room for grand swings. The men were obvious veterans, some were missing eyes and ears and had scars like white worms on their weatherworn skin, while Tem hadn't ever fought with a man in his life with the intent to kill. He backed up a step, sweat beginning to form on his hands, but the sight of the girl, shivering, helpless, at the mercy of the sorcerer, stirred something inside him. He leapt forward with a cry, but his thrust was parried and smashed into the wall by the sword the other held. The guardsmen stepped in and pulled his sword free, but Tem punched the man with a closed fist, as hard as he could, then slammed into him with his shoulder. He clearly heard the snap of the man's jaw shutting as the point of his shoulder hit it, and the man bounced back off Tem like he'd been poleaxed. He stumbled backward, then dropped jerking to the ground. The thief fell too, and Tem realised the man he'd pushed had broken the line between her and the sorcerer. The next fighter came on a little warily, glancing at his companion and waiting for a few moments. He feinted, then swung his sword at Tem's midriff. Tem blocked it - just - then the guardsman slammed him into the alley wall, pinning Tem's sword against his and trapping him, though the man couldn't attack until he broke free. He caught a whiff of the man's foul breath, then the man chuckled and called to the others, "Come 'ere, Derrio! Nab 'im when I let 'im go!" Tem strained against the man, but he simply grunted and slammed Tem back against the stone. Tem could see the other man step up, then there was a flash of brown leather coat and steel blade and that guardsmen fell back, blood spurting at his throat as it was opened. The thief turned to fight the soldier that had Tem pinned, but her stab was blocked as he pushed away and brought up his sword. Tem's blade, however, stabbed deep into the flesh beneath his armpit, and hot blood pumped back over Tem's hands. The next two men attacked as one, one snarling a curse. Tem got enough blade in the way of the man's blow to deflect it away from his body, then Tem's belated riposte ripped open the man's thigh and sent the guardsmen stumbling backward. The second whayguard was grappling with the thief - as Tem watched the man swung the hilts of his sword into he chin and dropped her senseless against the opposite wall of the alley. He took at step, then stumbled; Tem saw the glittering tip of the thief's dagger in the centre of a growing dark spot on his chest. The wounded guardsmen slumped against the alley wall, trying to stem the flow of blood with his hands. The last standing whayguard stepped over the body of his dead companion, his face a measured mask of controlled fury and caution. He held a sword in both hands, the tip pointed at Tem's head. Tem saw, behind the man, the sorcerer begin to move, and stepped sideways to put the soldier between him and the staff the man held. The whayguard stepped back at the move, sword swinging to block any attack Tem made, showing a newfound respect for Tem. Tem forced the man back another step, then more motion behind the guardsman distracted him. The sorcerer had remover the manacles from the thrall and stepped back, and the thrall had begun to shiver. The soldier fighting Tem glanced over his shoulder to see what Tem was staring at, but neither combatant looked back at each other. The demonthrall's robes, only loosely draped over his naked, emaciated frame, dropped loose. His body was a mass of runes cut into his body, some scars, others were bloody. The thrall's head flew backward, a scream of pain emanating from his lips, and his flesh began to warp. His thin body began to fill out, wasted muscles swelling huge, skin splitting aside to reveal them red and raw and rippling. There was a low muffled crunching noise as the thrall's bones deformed, his skull warping to a more wolfish, triangular nightmare, the longer bones elongating and expanding to accommodate an eight-foot frame. Multiple sets of straight horns from the crown of his head down to his mid-back sprouted, his hair became matted with blood to form a mane of tangled black. In his open, screaming mouth, the teeth sharpened to piranha-like razors, his feet crumpled to form iron-hard hooves. The head snapped down again, the scream modulating from a terrified cry to a terrifying snarl of bloodlust and infernal hate, and the eyes narrowed as they focussed on Tem and the whayguard. The sorcerer threw the demon something from a respectful distance - an axe, five feet long, the head shaped into jagged triangular fangs to form a gruesome, feral weapon, already stained with rust and old blood. The demon caught the axe in one gnarled, bleeding hand as a child would catch a stick, and brought it fluidly in a two-handed, rising swipe through the whayguard Tem had wounded as he rose, nearly bisecting him from hip to shoulder, spattering the last guardsman with gore. That man stumbled, and the demon roared as its backswing missed the guardsman by a bare millimetre and smashed through the stone wall off the alley. The guardsman rose with a desperate cry, his sword stabbing into and through the blood-wet muscle of the demon's chest, but it ignored the blow and smashed a brutal fist into the side of the guardsman's head. It snarled, eyes fixed on Tem, prying the trapped axe free. Tem's legs found strength in fear. He turned and ran, but in his dazed state his legs tangled with something on the ground and he fell heavily. It was the guardsman that had gone down in the first moments of the fight, only now beginning to stir. Tem got up, leaving his sword on the ground, and almost collected the thief as she rose drunkenly to her feet. He grabbed her, tackling her in his attempt to get past her, then lifted her off her feet and ran to the end of the alley. The horse was dead - Tem scrambled over it and slid down the tray of the ruined cart. Behind him, there was a shriek of tortured metal and a cut-off cry, both of which made Tem run even faster. In his arms, the thief had found another piece of cake and was unwrapping it, face bizarrely and totally unconcerned. Tem ran until he couldn't breathe. He was someone along the harbourside - he could smell the salt past the coppery scent of blood and hear the waves over his thundering heartbeat, the sun was now falling and no one was around. He dropped to his knees and lay the thief down. The thief climbed to her feet, wiping blood from her face. He looked up at her pleadingly as she took a bite of cake, then she shook her head and looked down at him, face riven with confusion, fear, indecision. She tossed the remaining half of the cake on the ground in front of him, took a step back, turned on her heel, and ran. Then Tem was alone, his breath gradually slowing, his whole body shaking, his mouth dry and tasting foully of fear. Tem wasn't alone for long. Out of the gathering dark, a short figure in a white dress sauntered up to him, the surety and arrogance in the stride of the girl at odds with her babyish appearance. She came up to Tem's crouching figure, and though he was still taller then her somehow he was still intimidated by her. "Why did you leave me, Temmy?" Her voice was innocent and light, hurt, her eyes bored into him. Tem managed a groan in reply. "You went away, you and Lint, left me alone." She continued, voice darkening. "You don't like me any more, do you Temmy?" Tem rose, startled, but the girl's hand closed around his shoulder like a fist of steel, and her voice was the scornful, evil tone of a mature woman, "You should have followed me, Temmy. We could have been friends." Tem looked up, his face confused, a heartbeat before the girl's fist caught him on the cheekbone and spun him around, dropping him to the ground with stars flashing in his vision. He spat out dirt and blood, then his vision cleared to see the hard black toe of the girl's shoe swinging for his temple. Everything flashed bright and swung nauseatingly, and Tem wondered if he hadn't taken a wrong step back into that alley looking for scarves. 031027 ... blah-ze i wrote this for my english extension 2 major work... not entirely sure if im meant to put it up. oh well, too late now. 031027 what's it to you? who go blather from