I've been seeing some hits trickle into this page ever-so-slowly. If you read one of my original works (well, more like, one of the one) and like it, be sure to leave a comment. While comments won't spur me to action on finishing something immediately, it'll certainly make me think more about it.
For those of you who don't know the layout, you can find the stories I've put up on this site on the blog archive on the lefthand side of the screen. Click and read to your heart's contentment (or agony; but for the sake of my sanity I'll assume it's contentment).
Update: I have some more stuff that I'm considering putting up here, though none of the works I have now are completely finished.
Also, for those who come from my het fics: some (or most, or all as of right now) of my original works are homolicious.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Reconstruction
The first chapter of "Reconstruction" has been taken down from this blog. If you're interested in the story, send me a message and I can e-mail you a copy.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sciophobia, Chapter II
“Ey, get me a bottle o Surville's, will ya?”
“Coming right up.” Darting to the rack, Moon-Claw grabbed a bottle and handed it to the man, who gave him ten gold in response, then crouched over the wine as if it was all that was left in the world.
Chuckling softly, Moon-Claw put the gold in the chest and leaned against the wall, his tail idly swinging from side to side. He had the morning today, so there weren't that many customers until noon, and the few that came in before then were mostly the regulars. Telaendril would probably be coming by soon, actually.
Telaendril...
No, he told himself. Don't think about that. You are in the inn working as a barkeep; you are not an assassin.
He sighed, tail now thumping against the wall. He'd went and spoiled his good mood, not like he'd expected any otherwise. It always happened the night after a contract, which, thankfully, he only did one of about every two or three weeks.
Still, as he weaved through the customers and sold them their goods, the battle last night and his drunken haze afterwards seemed fuzzy and distant, and he found that it wasn't all that difficult to push them out of his mind. He found himself lightening up as the hours dragged by, and some of the regulars gave him a bigger tip than usual. When she came in, Telaendril eyed him once, but otherwise didn't acknowledge that she knew him.
The day reached its peak of activity at noon. There were at least six or seven people, and he knew a few regulars that usually came in about this time, so the crowd was sure to grow.
He was getting beer and grapes for someone when he heard an unfamiliar voice:
“Hey. I just want a loaf of bread and an apple. How much will that cost?”
He said without turning, “That'll be eight gold, Miss—” He paused when he saw her, cutting himself off and staring like an idiot.
Excepting the Shadowscales and Mach-na, there weren't many Argonians in Cheydinhal, so seeing her was like seeing a High Elf at the shrine of Malacath. She looked ordinary, wearing a common shirt and some kind of skirt made from a material Moon-Claw didn't recognize, but had some kind of unidentifiable charm to her.
Realizing that she was holding the gold in her hand and offering it to him, he cleared his throat and took it. “Right, I'll have it right out.”
As soon as he put away the money and he had delivered her goods, he asked her, “Are you new around here?”
She looked up from her plate. From the look on her face, he could guess that she hadn't expected him to continue talking to her. “Yes. I come from Bravil, but I got a job offer up here and...” She held up her hands in a pseudo-shrug.
“I could show you around town if you want.” The words were out before he knew he was thinking of saying them. If she was surprised or offended, though, it didn't show.
“I wouldn't want to be a burden,” she said, taking a bite out of the apple.
“No, really,” he said, crouching down so he was eye level with her. “My shift's over in thirty minutes and I got nothing better to do.”
“Well...” She looked down, swallowing. “Me either, so... why not?”
For some reason, that made him extremely happy, but the one or two people trying to get his attention brought it down a little. “Alright then. I'll be out in thirty, where you want to meet?”
“I'll just wait outside this place when it's time, alright?”
He nodded. “That's fine.” He took a glance over at the rest of the patrons. “I've got to. I'll see you then.” He didn't have time for anything else, so he just waved lamely and went around to tend the rest of the customers.
She stayed on his mind for the rest of the shift. As soon as he got done with the wave of new customers, he tried to find her and couldn't see her, so he assumed she'd already left.
As the rest of the shift dragged on, his thoughts began to turn to her more and more. Maybe he was doing the wrong thing, getting involved with her like that. He tried to reason that offering to give a tour was hardly considered involvement, but that didn't make him feel any better. Tour or no, he was sure it was still considered a date, and that was more than he usually gave people. All it took was three to start a real relationship, right?
When someone had to yell at him to catch his attention, he realized that he was making entirely too big of a deal out of this. It was time for him to get off now, anyway, and his replacement hadn't arrived... so she'd probably be gone before he left anyway, hell, she probably would have been gone anyway. Oh well, it was worth a try...
When his replacement, Mariana Ancharia, arrived, he didn't really give sneaking out that much thought. If he'd figured the Argonian would be out there waiting for him, he might have done it, but supposed there wasn't really much use in it as it was.
So, naturally, he recoiled a bit when he heard the voice and saw her sitting on the bench waiting for him, wearing a pleasant smile.
“Hey. Busy day, I'm assuming?”
Standing here in front of her, with her pale eyes and calm, radiating demeanor, it was hard to imagine that he could really have that much of a corruptive influence on her. That part of him that had earlier raced ahead of his mind took control again, and he found himself saying, “Yeah. Where do you want to start?”
She shrugged, standing. “Wherever is best. You know the place better than I do.”
He chuckled, eyes scanning the horizon. “That I do...” This was the commercial district, western side of town, everything taking on a bright shade of yellow in the afternoon sun. The Newlands Lodge loomed in front of them, Mach-na's books and Borbas' Goods and Stores not too far off. It wasn't that far to find your way in Cheydinhal, he figured, scratching his chin, but he could still tell her what he knew. “Well, let's just start here. That alright?”
She smiled again. “Sure.”
He took her around town, explaining the history and function of each building as best he could, and he found that he did a much better job at it than he would have expected. The weather was fairly good; not hot, but warm enough to make him gaze longingly at the pools of water around the bridges going into the residential district.
When he passed by the abandoned house, made evil eyes at it and didn't say anything about it, she asked, pointing at the place, “What's that?”
He shrugged, trying to slow his heart, feeling stupid for getting her involved all over again. “It's... um, it's just a run-down house. I don't know who owns it, but he hasn't sold it yet. Been like that for years.”
“Strange,” she said. When she didn't say anything else and instead asked a question about Riverview, he let out a deep breath he hadn't known he'd taken.
He explained to her what little he knew about the place, then pointed at the house located to its right. “That's where I live,” he said. “It's not Riverview, but it's a nice place.”
“I like it,” she said, casting it an appraising eye.
“Where do you live?” Moon-claw asked.
She hesitated before answering. “It's over there.” She pointed at Aldos Othran's old house, on the other side of the road. “I bought it from the count, split the price with one of my friends.”
He found himself grimacing. “Oh?”
“Yes. She and I both got offers up here around the same time, and the move was more than either of us could afford.”
Oh, a she. There was no cause to worry, then. “Well, it's good that you found a way to make it work. Where do you come from again?”
Another hesitation before she said, “Bravil.”
“Hrm?” He raised an eyebrow. “Bravil? That's a pretty dramatic switch, going from Bravil to Cheydinhal.”
She nodded. “This is much nicer than I'm used to... and it's nice not to have the skooma addicts wondering the streets.”
The mention of skooma made Moon-claw shudder. “Well, we should continue on. There's not much left.”
She gazed once again at his house before turning to face him. “Alright.”
When they finished the tour, the midday sun was at its peak, and he knew that it was time for their walk to be over. They were standing in front of Mach-na's Books, Moon-claw fiddling with the few pieces of gold in his pocket that he'd collected as tips, waiting for her to speak.
“Thanks,” she said after some time. “I wasn't really expecting to find anyone who'd be this nice. It's definitely different here than it is in Bravil.” She laughed, and Moon-claw laughed along with her.
“It's a nice place,” he said, then took a deep breath. “I guess I'll see you later, then?”
“Yes. I suppose you will.” She stood there for a little longer, as if she was reluctant to leave, then said, “Bye,” waved, and disappeared into the alleys. He watched her long after she had went out of sight.
Sighing, he started the walk back to his place. There was nothing special about her, he decided—or if there was, he hadn't been around her long enough to notice it. It was just the risk factor, the thrill of doing something he knew he shouldn't that set him off. Or was it? He couldn't tell yet.
He stopped at the edge of the river and peered down into it, watching the reflection of the sun beaming back at him, and realized that either way, he had just made one of his greatest mistakes.
“Coming right up.” Darting to the rack, Moon-Claw grabbed a bottle and handed it to the man, who gave him ten gold in response, then crouched over the wine as if it was all that was left in the world.
Chuckling softly, Moon-Claw put the gold in the chest and leaned against the wall, his tail idly swinging from side to side. He had the morning today, so there weren't that many customers until noon, and the few that came in before then were mostly the regulars. Telaendril would probably be coming by soon, actually.
Telaendril...
No, he told himself. Don't think about that. You are in the inn working as a barkeep; you are not an assassin.
He sighed, tail now thumping against the wall. He'd went and spoiled his good mood, not like he'd expected any otherwise. It always happened the night after a contract, which, thankfully, he only did one of about every two or three weeks.
Still, as he weaved through the customers and sold them their goods, the battle last night and his drunken haze afterwards seemed fuzzy and distant, and he found that it wasn't all that difficult to push them out of his mind. He found himself lightening up as the hours dragged by, and some of the regulars gave him a bigger tip than usual. When she came in, Telaendril eyed him once, but otherwise didn't acknowledge that she knew him.
The day reached its peak of activity at noon. There were at least six or seven people, and he knew a few regulars that usually came in about this time, so the crowd was sure to grow.
He was getting beer and grapes for someone when he heard an unfamiliar voice:
“Hey. I just want a loaf of bread and an apple. How much will that cost?”
He said without turning, “That'll be eight gold, Miss—” He paused when he saw her, cutting himself off and staring like an idiot.
Excepting the Shadowscales and Mach-na, there weren't many Argonians in Cheydinhal, so seeing her was like seeing a High Elf at the shrine of Malacath. She looked ordinary, wearing a common shirt and some kind of skirt made from a material Moon-Claw didn't recognize, but had some kind of unidentifiable charm to her.
Realizing that she was holding the gold in her hand and offering it to him, he cleared his throat and took it. “Right, I'll have it right out.”
As soon as he put away the money and he had delivered her goods, he asked her, “Are you new around here?”
She looked up from her plate. From the look on her face, he could guess that she hadn't expected him to continue talking to her. “Yes. I come from Bravil, but I got a job offer up here and...” She held up her hands in a pseudo-shrug.
“I could show you around town if you want.” The words were out before he knew he was thinking of saying them. If she was surprised or offended, though, it didn't show.
“I wouldn't want to be a burden,” she said, taking a bite out of the apple.
“No, really,” he said, crouching down so he was eye level with her. “My shift's over in thirty minutes and I got nothing better to do.”
“Well...” She looked down, swallowing. “Me either, so... why not?”
For some reason, that made him extremely happy, but the one or two people trying to get his attention brought it down a little. “Alright then. I'll be out in thirty, where you want to meet?”
“I'll just wait outside this place when it's time, alright?”
He nodded. “That's fine.” He took a glance over at the rest of the patrons. “I've got to. I'll see you then.” He didn't have time for anything else, so he just waved lamely and went around to tend the rest of the customers.
She stayed on his mind for the rest of the shift. As soon as he got done with the wave of new customers, he tried to find her and couldn't see her, so he assumed she'd already left.
As the rest of the shift dragged on, his thoughts began to turn to her more and more. Maybe he was doing the wrong thing, getting involved with her like that. He tried to reason that offering to give a tour was hardly considered involvement, but that didn't make him feel any better. Tour or no, he was sure it was still considered a date, and that was more than he usually gave people. All it took was three to start a real relationship, right?
When someone had to yell at him to catch his attention, he realized that he was making entirely too big of a deal out of this. It was time for him to get off now, anyway, and his replacement hadn't arrived... so she'd probably be gone before he left anyway, hell, she probably would have been gone anyway. Oh well, it was worth a try...
When his replacement, Mariana Ancharia, arrived, he didn't really give sneaking out that much thought. If he'd figured the Argonian would be out there waiting for him, he might have done it, but supposed there wasn't really much use in it as it was.
So, naturally, he recoiled a bit when he heard the voice and saw her sitting on the bench waiting for him, wearing a pleasant smile.
“Hey. Busy day, I'm assuming?”
Standing here in front of her, with her pale eyes and calm, radiating demeanor, it was hard to imagine that he could really have that much of a corruptive influence on her. That part of him that had earlier raced ahead of his mind took control again, and he found himself saying, “Yeah. Where do you want to start?”
She shrugged, standing. “Wherever is best. You know the place better than I do.”
He chuckled, eyes scanning the horizon. “That I do...” This was the commercial district, western side of town, everything taking on a bright shade of yellow in the afternoon sun. The Newlands Lodge loomed in front of them, Mach-na's books and Borbas' Goods and Stores not too far off. It wasn't that far to find your way in Cheydinhal, he figured, scratching his chin, but he could still tell her what he knew. “Well, let's just start here. That alright?”
She smiled again. “Sure.”
He took her around town, explaining the history and function of each building as best he could, and he found that he did a much better job at it than he would have expected. The weather was fairly good; not hot, but warm enough to make him gaze longingly at the pools of water around the bridges going into the residential district.
When he passed by the abandoned house, made evil eyes at it and didn't say anything about it, she asked, pointing at the place, “What's that?”
He shrugged, trying to slow his heart, feeling stupid for getting her involved all over again. “It's... um, it's just a run-down house. I don't know who owns it, but he hasn't sold it yet. Been like that for years.”
“Strange,” she said. When she didn't say anything else and instead asked a question about Riverview, he let out a deep breath he hadn't known he'd taken.
He explained to her what little he knew about the place, then pointed at the house located to its right. “That's where I live,” he said. “It's not Riverview, but it's a nice place.”
“I like it,” she said, casting it an appraising eye.
“Where do you live?” Moon-claw asked.
She hesitated before answering. “It's over there.” She pointed at Aldos Othran's old house, on the other side of the road. “I bought it from the count, split the price with one of my friends.”
He found himself grimacing. “Oh?”
“Yes. She and I both got offers up here around the same time, and the move was more than either of us could afford.”
Oh, a she. There was no cause to worry, then. “Well, it's good that you found a way to make it work. Where do you come from again?”
Another hesitation before she said, “Bravil.”
“Hrm?” He raised an eyebrow. “Bravil? That's a pretty dramatic switch, going from Bravil to Cheydinhal.”
She nodded. “This is much nicer than I'm used to... and it's nice not to have the skooma addicts wondering the streets.”
The mention of skooma made Moon-claw shudder. “Well, we should continue on. There's not much left.”
She gazed once again at his house before turning to face him. “Alright.”
When they finished the tour, the midday sun was at its peak, and he knew that it was time for their walk to be over. They were standing in front of Mach-na's Books, Moon-claw fiddling with the few pieces of gold in his pocket that he'd collected as tips, waiting for her to speak.
“Thanks,” she said after some time. “I wasn't really expecting to find anyone who'd be this nice. It's definitely different here than it is in Bravil.” She laughed, and Moon-claw laughed along with her.
“It's a nice place,” he said, then took a deep breath. “I guess I'll see you later, then?”
“Yes. I suppose you will.” She stood there for a little longer, as if she was reluctant to leave, then said, “Bye,” waved, and disappeared into the alleys. He watched her long after she had went out of sight.
Sighing, he started the walk back to his place. There was nothing special about her, he decided—or if there was, he hadn't been around her long enough to notice it. It was just the risk factor, the thrill of doing something he knew he shouldn't that set him off. Or was it? He couldn't tell yet.
He stopped at the edge of the river and peered down into it, watching the reflection of the sun beaming back at him, and realized that either way, he had just made one of his greatest mistakes.
Sciophobia, Chapter I
Even in the dead darkness of midnight where everything took on melancholy shades of gray, he could see the caravan. It was a company of four: two merchants in the wagon (hidden from view, but he knew they were there; race unkown), pulled by two mounted Imperial guards. The wheels grated against the stone pathway, the entire wagon shaking and creaking in response. One of the guards actually looked worried about it as they passed over a few bumps, but Moon-Claw knew that was soon to be the least of their concerns.
From his refuge in the bushes, Moon-Claw could hear a conversation going on, but the words were lost. Good, he thought, it would make it all the easier.
He pulled out his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming at the guard that was the farthest from him. Drawing back the string, he let it fly. It met its mark on the guard's neck, sending him flying off the horse.
The other guard stopped and his head darted down. He got off his horse and kneeled down beside the other, probably asking if he was alright. For now, he probably was—it wasn't a fatal shot, Moon-Claw guessed, but the poison would kill him.
The merchants, Redguards, emerged from the wagon, and Moon-Claw could hear the sound of voices again. He ignored them as he loosed another arrow, which sank into the other Imperial with a wet thud.
The merchants would be looking in his direction now. They always did. Moon-Claw brought up a hand and called upon the Shadow, rendering him invisible.
This was the fun part.
He was behind the two merchants in just a few seconds. He pulled out one of his daggers and slit the throat of one of the merchants. The other one whirled around and gasped, and Moon-Claw took a second to admire the sheer terror on his face before plunging the knife into his heart.
Leaving the carnage to rot, Moon-Claw sheathed the blade and began his walk back to town, whistling quietly to himself.
-
He used the secret passageway to get back into Cheydinhal, since the guards probably wouldn't take too kindly to an armed, bloodstained Argonian in all black. It was so dark that he couldn't really see anything in the city, but finding his way to his house was second nature. It wasn't a really big place, but big enough to earn the envy of the less well-off people.
He went immediately to his room, stripping off the shrouded armor. He began the process of maintenance: wiping off all the blood from the cloth and daggers with a wet rag, making sure that all of his arrows were still in condition, sharpening the daggers...
It when he was wiping the blood off the dagger that the familiar black void began to fill his stomach—he'd just ended four innocent lives.
It never hit him when he was doing the killing. No, he was trained too well for that. It was always in the aftermath, when he was repairing the damage of the night, that it happened. And as always, he needed a drink more than anything, but the Bridge Inn would be closed by now.. He of all people would know that.
As soon as he had his nightclothes on, he was sitting at the desk in his bedroom, a bottle of mead in front of him. It tasted like crap compared to Tamika's, but he never had any of that at his home.
Tamika's...
He had been drinking Tamika's after it had happened, he realized. It was the first alcoholic drink he'd ever had... and how old had he been, sixteen? Nevertheless, he'd remembered staring at the bottle, hating the taste and hating himself even more for not being able to stop.
He had taken a life. Because of him, Irene Patrick would never live again.
She had screamed. Oh, yes, he had enjoyed the look of pain on her face, enjoyed the dull thwacks of the shovel as the blade sank into her flesh. Damned skooma addict, she'd let her mouth get out of control and then she'd tried to—
He shivered just thinking about it, but that wasn't important. What was important was that she would never be able to redeem herself, never have the opportunity to get off the skooma.
But she deserved it, didn't she?
Nobody deserved death, he reasoned, taking another gulp of mead. His mentors had tried to tell him that death was natural, tried to familiarize with him, tried to get him to make it his life. But he'd revolted, turned on them and escaped and lived for all of six months on his own before he'd killed somebody of his own free will.
Two, three bottles—then same as now, all gone, and the next thing he'd remembered then was a throbbing in his head and that accursed voice:
“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer.”
“I didn't mean to do it!” he'd said, not even worried about the stranger's appearance in his house, convinced that if the man was here to kill him he'd deserve it anyway. “I couldn't control myself.”
That was because he was bred to be a killer, bred to live and feed and profit off death. And as much as he hated himself for it, there was nothing he could do to fight his nature.
And so he lived now. Barely. He never did enough to be able to afford Tamika's, but he had a decent house, even worked part-time at the local inn serving drinks so that nobody would get suspicious.
But deep down, he wanted something more. He brooded on it every night when he was in his bed, as he was now, and every night when he fell asleep his dreams were dark and answerless.
His eyes were closed now and everything was pleasantly buzzed. There was the reward for the contract, of course, but he could get that tomorrow. The stupid vampire didn't have a life outside of the sanctuary so there wasn't really a rush or deadline.
For now, Moon-Claw was content to sink into slumber. It might be dark and answerless, but the void that it brought was always more welcoming than the void that was his heart.
From his refuge in the bushes, Moon-Claw could hear a conversation going on, but the words were lost. Good, he thought, it would make it all the easier.
He pulled out his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming at the guard that was the farthest from him. Drawing back the string, he let it fly. It met its mark on the guard's neck, sending him flying off the horse.
The other guard stopped and his head darted down. He got off his horse and kneeled down beside the other, probably asking if he was alright. For now, he probably was—it wasn't a fatal shot, Moon-Claw guessed, but the poison would kill him.
The merchants, Redguards, emerged from the wagon, and Moon-Claw could hear the sound of voices again. He ignored them as he loosed another arrow, which sank into the other Imperial with a wet thud.
The merchants would be looking in his direction now. They always did. Moon-Claw brought up a hand and called upon the Shadow, rendering him invisible.
This was the fun part.
He was behind the two merchants in just a few seconds. He pulled out one of his daggers and slit the throat of one of the merchants. The other one whirled around and gasped, and Moon-Claw took a second to admire the sheer terror on his face before plunging the knife into his heart.
Leaving the carnage to rot, Moon-Claw sheathed the blade and began his walk back to town, whistling quietly to himself.
-
He used the secret passageway to get back into Cheydinhal, since the guards probably wouldn't take too kindly to an armed, bloodstained Argonian in all black. It was so dark that he couldn't really see anything in the city, but finding his way to his house was second nature. It wasn't a really big place, but big enough to earn the envy of the less well-off people.
He went immediately to his room, stripping off the shrouded armor. He began the process of maintenance: wiping off all the blood from the cloth and daggers with a wet rag, making sure that all of his arrows were still in condition, sharpening the daggers...
It when he was wiping the blood off the dagger that the familiar black void began to fill his stomach—he'd just ended four innocent lives.
It never hit him when he was doing the killing. No, he was trained too well for that. It was always in the aftermath, when he was repairing the damage of the night, that it happened. And as always, he needed a drink more than anything, but the Bridge Inn would be closed by now.. He of all people would know that.
As soon as he had his nightclothes on, he was sitting at the desk in his bedroom, a bottle of mead in front of him. It tasted like crap compared to Tamika's, but he never had any of that at his home.
Tamika's...
He had been drinking Tamika's after it had happened, he realized. It was the first alcoholic drink he'd ever had... and how old had he been, sixteen? Nevertheless, he'd remembered staring at the bottle, hating the taste and hating himself even more for not being able to stop.
He had taken a life. Because of him, Irene Patrick would never live again.
She had screamed. Oh, yes, he had enjoyed the look of pain on her face, enjoyed the dull thwacks of the shovel as the blade sank into her flesh. Damned skooma addict, she'd let her mouth get out of control and then she'd tried to—
He shivered just thinking about it, but that wasn't important. What was important was that she would never be able to redeem herself, never have the opportunity to get off the skooma.
But she deserved it, didn't she?
Nobody deserved death, he reasoned, taking another gulp of mead. His mentors had tried to tell him that death was natural, tried to familiarize with him, tried to get him to make it his life. But he'd revolted, turned on them and escaped and lived for all of six months on his own before he'd killed somebody of his own free will.
Two, three bottles—then same as now, all gone, and the next thing he'd remembered then was a throbbing in his head and that accursed voice:
“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer.”
“I didn't mean to do it!” he'd said, not even worried about the stranger's appearance in his house, convinced that if the man was here to kill him he'd deserve it anyway. “I couldn't control myself.”
That was because he was bred to be a killer, bred to live and feed and profit off death. And as much as he hated himself for it, there was nothing he could do to fight his nature.
And so he lived now. Barely. He never did enough to be able to afford Tamika's, but he had a decent house, even worked part-time at the local inn serving drinks so that nobody would get suspicious.
But deep down, he wanted something more. He brooded on it every night when he was in his bed, as he was now, and every night when he fell asleep his dreams were dark and answerless.
His eyes were closed now and everything was pleasantly buzzed. There was the reward for the contract, of course, but he could get that tomorrow. The stupid vampire didn't have a life outside of the sanctuary so there wasn't really a rush or deadline.
For now, Moon-Claw was content to sink into slumber. It might be dark and answerless, but the void that it brought was always more welcoming than the void that was his heart.
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