Nestor Pinkly, Gwendolyn Bottlehelm, Mayor Gendry Dew, and the elf hiding under his desk were all very upset about the door being open. None of them really knew what to do about the door being open, nor did they feel qualified to do any of the things they guessed might be the correct course of action. The elf had been thinking about it the longest and was the most qualified to think about these things, so he got up and started walking toward it.
“Wait!” Nestor cried. “We should all go together!”
The elf, who had a nametag labeling him “Intern 47B,” did not wait. “Cease your shrill demands, gnome. I’m only going to close the door.”
“Er, is that a good idea,” asked Gwendolyn. “Shouldn’t we try to stop them?”
“Oh, are you going to do that, miss? What are you going to do, yell at some teenagers until they fight the devil for you? They and their bird friend just stormed in here and had everyone accusing each other of betrayal and blasting spells at each other within about three minutes.”
“Don’t call me ‘miss,’” said Gwendolyn, folding her arms defensively. “Why’d they leave you alone.”
Intern 47BB stiffened. “Probably because of my status as an intern.”
“Can we stop having a wounded-pride-off and worry about what’s going on here?” suggested Mayor Dew.
“Right!” said Nestor. “What is going on here, anyway? What’s back there?”
Continue reading “Housesitting with Nestor, Part Five”
For the next week, Nestor and Gwendolyn watched Parazoa in shifts. Gwendolyn took the mornings, because Luminous met in the evening and Odd & Ends closed around the same time. Because of the devil’s proclivity for manipulation, they agreed that the fewer people who knew about this, the better. At the same time, seven days in, Gwendolyn expressed her frustrations about the fact that she didn’t know when Linda was returning.
“It’s bad enough my girlfriend walked out on me,” she grumbled, “but now I’ve got to waste all my bloody days watching this cretin for who knows how long!”
“Cretin?” Parazoa had asked. “I thought we were having a lovely conversation!”
Continue reading “Housesitting with Nestor, Part Three”
The plan was simple, or it would be once Karessa got inside the Dufton’s mansion. Their estate was protected by an invisible magic field which produced an alarm if anyone not on the family’s guest list stepped through it. The only other way in was to be granted entrance by the pair of stone-faced guards (literally, they were golems) which stood watch over the gate leading into the estate’s extensive courtyard.
Unfortunately, Karessa was no longer on that list. The news stung. Continue reading “Bad Faith, Part Six”
Few things burn quite so hot as young love. Few things claw at you quite as painfully as young heartbreak.
Karessa spent her days and nights in her room. Crying, mostly. Sobbing. Howling. Thrashing. Bleeding out as tendrils of despair tore at her heart. Screaming his name into a pillow like a cry for help into a void in which she dwelled alone. She hated him. She missed him. She wanted him back. She wanted him dead. She wanted to die.
Time passed. Continue reading “Bad Faith, Part Five”
A long time ago, sometime after Seamoore became Skymoore and sometime before the present, a number of disabled, sick, pretentious, and otherwise undesirable people were deemed unfit for proper society, and they were quarantined in a crowded district to live in misery together. (Today it is generally agreed that this was an awful thing to do, though that doesn’t do much for the people who languished there.) The resulting region was forced to expand upward, rather than outward, and to become its own self-sustaining ecosystem, containing a little bit of everything if you knew where to look. This jungle of wood and rust, known today as the Mish Mash, was almost a city unto itself, with its own politics, its own culture, and its own leaders. Continue reading “Bad Faith, Part One”
“No! No. You can’t do this!” Teyla Eastwind sobbed, pathetically, on all fours in the abandoned art museum she called home. “You have to stay!” Continue reading “Bad Faith, Prologue”
Of all the humanoid races of Solkin, avayla had the shortest lifespan. They lived, on average, to be about forty-five. At fifty, they were truly ancient. Some speculated that this resulted in a stronger inclination toward caution and self-preservation than other species; if they were only getting at most fifty years, they were going to get as many as possible, darn it. Continue reading “Recursion, Epilogue”
The way many told it, the legend of the Suntouched was a succession of successes. Climbing Mount Paylor, mastering one weapon after the next, discovering mythic treasures, defeating this monster or winning that battle. Of course, like most legends, it was largely a lie of omission. The Suntouched had failed many times. Mostly in the early days, but some were more recent, like his defeat at the hands of Ulthanadon, The Mad Dragon, or his role in the creation of The Below. And, most prevalent in his mind these days, the failure at Tinderleaf. Continue reading “Recursion, Part Five”