Mastermond

Ruk and Rodgar carried on with their drinking, watching as different folks walked by them on business of their own. After their third drink a game came of watching passers by: Guess the Specialty. "I'm gonna say...the stealthy approach. Come from behind and get'em before they know you're there," Rodgar commented on one walking by with a dagger on each hip and a confident, gliding sort of walk. Ruk disagreed, "no... Who wears their weapons in the open if they're coming in from behind?" Ruk gave a closer look from the bench. The man could clearly be seen to have little more than sinew beneath their flesh, even through the studded leather that m

The witch house looked damp. Each angle sagged and dripped a green grime of disuse, diseased discoloration oozed from under the shingles of the roof like the back of some wicked dragon. Each side of the house was a cold pattern of molds, a camouflage against the greens and black of the swamp that surrounded it. Each window of the house was cracked and septic from the air, opaque and carrying a sickness on each pointed edge. Children were told stories about this house: that some horrid hag lived within and would skin naughty children alive, that a portal to the Pit lie beneath the foundation and any who entered were damned, that some forsaken

In a different part of Ostview, inside the very heroes guild the grippli family sought, there was a waiting area. It had a ceder bench wide enough to cram four people on if they sat uncomfortably close to one another. Presently there sat only one person on it. A dwarf with a bald head, round face with creases below his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, a beard that reached to his bellybutton of pure pitch-black that tapered from his face into a precise point at the bottom, a fat nose that looked as though it has been squashed onto his face like a wad of clay that happened to have nostrils attached, bushy eyebrows of the same black that hi

The air in the forest the druid walked in was crisp in the spreading dusk. All about him the sounds of the animals and far-off travelers began to wane into the coming night as the dim light that passed through the canopy started to dim, and a sleepy hue was put over the world. The druid didn't walk down any path that civil beings knew; nor one that he knew for that matter. The druid had no path to follow, as he had wanted. Perhaps friends wouldn't go amiss to his mind, but the quiet of the trees greeted him as well as any kindly voice or words could. In robes of cobbled leather with furs freely given to pad him and warm his winters and ni

May my soul be undamned by the words I piece here, For as I lay them with ink upon paper, icy hands grip my throat, Chills rack my spine, aches pound my skull; just for thinking such thoughts. His form came to me like in a dream, nothing remained solid, In fact, nothing remained at all upon his exit. So I now tell this while my hands still serve my will. His looks are not for mortal words to say, no syllable, No word, no phrase could carry the weight across a human tongue To utter his visage even upon paper. No, the demon-lord's face and body and dress came to my eyes as Forbidden to look upon directly. And as my eyes averted, his

He'll be handsome. He'll have a pressed suit and tie and my eyes would sting with tears. And he would  oh god he would be looking like a deer in the headlights there as the music swelled. And as he saw her, his bride-to-be, his eyes too would be starting to water with joy. Everyone would turn around to see her, but my eyes would still be on him, grinning gleefully at the woman he'd proposed to months before. And what a proposal it would be. The place they had gone to to get out of the pouring rain when they were just in college. She, his grade school best friend, would be laughing his favorite laugh while she shook off the water from her ar

An oblong face, stretched by hopes dashed and weighing at his skin and skull; maybe Down Syndrome, but I'd never assume that on anyone. Sad eyes, framed by a bush mane of brown hair; never cut, I can tell by glancing, too long on the street and jobless. As tattered and bent as his sign is, scribbled messily with words, his dress is sadder. Dirty shirt, plain white, and plain jeans. Estimates escape me, the man on the corner; must be six foot or close to. With sad eyes I can never come close to seeing, perhaps a blue or brown. A shake in his hands, his sign begging for help and giving god's blessing on those who help. Had I coins, I'd give the

Your crown of thorns must weigh a ton You self-appointed martyr Cry at every blow you take But only on my time. Weep at every misstep Laugh at all of mine Beat yourself back up and down And never let me stand. I pray to you A futile plea Oh teary-eyed soft thing Leave these habits at your door when I come to see

Maybe something in my head has snapped. A bind that held me in place. To stagnate, To fester. Broken and freeing me from the hole I'd fallen into. A something made from iron fear and doubt. Not good enough. Not perfect. Fuck it. The something's done. Shattered to leave me in open air, Blinding light to guide me anywhere I point. An empty room. A garden to seed. I see more clearly now than I have. Maybe this will stay this way.