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Contest Results!

On August 25, I announced a contest to tell me about your character. The criteria were simple and I was the sole judge. I received a good amount of entries and was fascinated by all of them. You guys are definitely a very talented bunch.

When judging the entries, I was looking for two things; did the character hold my interest and would I want to play it. With each of the winners, the answer was a definite yes, with some being “yesser” than others. Without further adieu, here are my choices. Expect your prizes in e-mail soon.

Third Place: Kira McGinty

Sikke Tenari – Human Psion

Sikke awoke before dawn, exhaused from the night before, feet still throbbing from the abuse of a long day running messages followed by a longer night running beer. Her hips and arms ached too, from the continual pinching by the drunken patrons, emboldened in their cups. Only on nights like last night, when her father had been working the kitchen and not the bar in the front room, did the drunken louts attempt their hands-on approach to gain her attention. Her father was a very large man, who took poorly to manhandling of his only daughter. Her brother Reynar had nearly the girth and breadth of her father, and most of his protective fiery temper, but last night Lenart had been working the bar. She found him easier to get along with than the hot-headed Reynar, but he was not as quick to lash out at patrons who had overstayed their welcome.

Stretching in the dark warmth of the attic, Sikke rolled towards the window and peered out beneath the sash. The night lanterns were still lit in the pre-dawn glow, but she couldn’t see the sky to tell if the day would be rainy or dry. She prayed for rain, as always. On rainy days her chores were lighter, since much of the cleaning required moving furniture and rugs into the yard, and she could spend the days running the streets with Skali, delivering messages around town and turning a tidy profit. Not that barwenching wasn’t profitable; she had enough money hidden in the rafters to buy her own tavern; albeit a small one with no walls, quite possibly on wheels.

Sighing in frustration that she couldn’t see the sky, but too sore to roll out of bed and actually check, Sikke glared half-heartedly at the window sash in mock anger. Abruptly, the sash rose six inches of its own accord, affording her a solid view of a red-lined but decidedly uncloudy sky.

She was too stunned to register that her sore muscles would have to spend the day beating rugs; had the window sash really just jumped open by itself? Sikke closed her eyes tightly, squeezing until the stars and explosions behind her eyelids crowded out her fear and her thudding heart had slowed to nearly normal. Maybe she was still sleeping and had dreamed the sash moved. When she woke up for real, she would see if it truly was cloudy outside, like the sailors had predicted, or if the sun had broken through the rainy season and her day was ruined.

Daring a glimpse through mostly lidded eyes, she confirmed her fear. The sash was up. And the sun was out. Her heart thudded again.

Weeks later. as she beat an innocent rug into submission in the side yard, her arms aching, black and purple spots forming all along her biceps. Once again lovable but ineffective Lenart had run the front room while Papa recovered from a fever, and once again she had felt the love and affection of a dozen drunked louts. Earlier this morning, Papa had finally arisen from bed and swallowed a few mouthfuls of water, only to deposit them immediately at her feet in the grass. She and Reynar had sent him back to bed, protesting and bellowing that he could still be useful. Only the sudden appearance of Einar on a surprise visit from the temple and his authoritative tone with their father had finally swayed him to their side, and once again the yard was quiet, but for the rhythmic and energyless thudding of the stick against wool.

Bored and sore, Sikke eyed the hand-pump well with interest. This rug was almost as clean as it ever would be, and then she could have a long, cool drink of water. Who ever heard of days this warm this early in the rainy seaon, anyway? And why in the Titans’ name wasn’t it raining, either? She hated this town, hated the heat, hated the sun, hated being a girl who had to beat rugs and couldn’t run the streets with Skali, delivering packages and living a life of freedom and excitement. Hate hot hate thirsty hate rugs hate pinches hate MEN

The pump handle rose and fell steadily with her mantra, devliering a cool rush of water into the bucket below. Although she was getting more accustomed to these events, it still took her by surprise when a random object near her starting moving of its own accord. The beating of the stick stopped abruptly, along with the squeaking pump handle. Only the steady drip drip drip of water into the bucket, and the ragged breath in Sikke’s ears could be heard.

Except for the sharp hiss of breath from behind her. “Sikke! What sort of witchery is this!” She dropped her stick to see Einar, respendant and assinine in his cleric’s robe, his obnoxiously oversized holy symbol shining from between the folds on his chest.

“Einar! Did you see that? That was weird! Do you think there is a tidal wave coming? What else could force the water out of the ground all by itself like that?” She grasped at straws, knowing from the dark thunder in Einar’s voice and eyes that he suspected she had been responsible, and that she would be much better off to convince him otherwise. He had seen too much of this sort of thing in the past few weeks, and was unconvinced. He glared at her. “You did not cause the pump handle to move?” The note of self-importance in his voice, as though he was the sole judge of truth and righteousness and she was a mere suplicant at his knees, made her want to whack him with the rug beater.

“Um, no. I mean, how could i? You saw it as pain as i did. Some sort of underground pressure caused it to spit some water by itself. It was just plain weird!” She imagined the stick making contact with his shins, and her eyes grew wide in feigned innocence as she imagined with pleasure the pump-handle-like squeak he’d make.

His eyes narrowed and she tried to not squirm. Not only did he imagine he was the most devoute cleric ever to walk this soil, and never had had a sense of humour, but he could always tell when one of his younger siblings was lying. “Fine. Whatever. Underground pressure. Listen, i think its time we had a chat about your…..inappropriate behaviour around the tavern. Could you please put down that little stick and come inside with me?” He spun on his heel and stalked back inside, holy symbol thunking audibly against his robe fastenings as he crested the threshhold.

Sikke looked at the giant rug beater she was holding and once again imagined it making rapid, repated contact with her brother. Sighing, she dropped the stick next to the rug stand and followed Einar inside.

Eight months later, Sikke had had enough. More or less literally. Tears flowed down her cheeks but evaporated in the heat before they could get to her jawbone. The acrid smoke stung her eyes, and her mouth was painfully dry and cracked. Her blistered hands gripped the wooden pole above her head, and her cracked feet barely brushed the hot floor. They deliberately kept the bar at this height, so that it took all of her effort not to fall forward into the firepit in front of her. The wall was angled slightly forward so that she was forced to hang onto the bar. Earlier in the day, before all the sweat had been baked out of her, her feet would be moist and would slip off the narrow ledge, forcing her to swing out over the fire for a moment, before she could wrench herself back. Her arms and back cried out for relief, her calves were a bundle of knots. Her hair, once glossy and black, looked like ashes itself, and her eyebrows had long since been singed away.

Although she was desperate for coolness, for wetness, to be away from this heat and dry and fire, preferably in a cool tub, she desperately dreaded the moment when she was granted cooling water by the Temple. The cleansing tubs in the next room were filled with salt water, which stung like a thousand jellyfish had inserted their foul tentacles into her countless cuts, scrapes, blisters, cracked and weeping skin. Solid food had not passed her cracked and bleeding lips in two weeks, not that Einar’s staff had offered her anything but dry bread and water since she’d been taken to the Temple of Hadrada for “cleansing”. Apparantly moving objects with your mind was against God’s Law. At least the god her brother and father believed in.

The small door set into the floor behind the firepit opened and another log was tossed in. The flames rose menacingly and Sikke could not retreat, could not turn away, was forced to watch as her left shirtsleeve got in the way of a spark and started to smoulder. She twitched and shook as best she could without loosing her footing or her handhold, but the spark grew and her twisting only fanned the flames until the acid stench of her hair burning reached her blackened nostrils. In a panic, Sikke pictured her shirt being as far from her as possible, and was rewarded with a ripping sound, followed by the sight of her flaming shirt floating across the room and through the small barred window on the door. A further reward was offered in the form of the sound of her brother Einar strieking in terror as the flaming shirt sailed through the window and struck him square in the chest, causing his own shirt and holy symbol to be singed.

He kicked the door open and triggered the mechanism which covered the fire. Stepping forward onto the metal sheet he loomed over Sikke and pressed his face close into hers. “Well, Sister, i see you remain loyal to your witch-god even in the face of truth and superiority. Why do you fight us? Why will you not repent and join us on the path to Lawfulness?”

She let go of the bar and sank to her knees. The floor was hot and reeked of smoke. She tried to speak, but her dry mouth hurt and her parched throat only allowed a horrifying croak.

Einar sneered at her and kicked her suddenly. “Cover yourself, you brazen hussy. If Father could see you now, he would agree with me that you are beyond redemption.” He threw the smouldering blouse on top of her and stalked from the room. The door clanged shut behind him and this time a wretched scraping soun followed. Dimly, Sikke wondered why the lock was not as well oiled as the hinges; after all, these damn Hadradans are so superiour to everyone else. Its odd they would overlook a chore like that. Even more dimly, as sweet sleep drew her down, Sikke wondered why the door had never been locked in this chamber, as long as she had been spending time it it at any rate.

Just then the iron plate on the floor began to retract, and Sikke was forced to jump up and grab the bar before the platform disappeared entirely. As she feared, the fire was still stoked underneath, although thinking her session was done for the day, someone had started to let it go out.

A liquid sound came from above her, and she was suddenly bathed in a cool and soothing moistness, thicker than water, more sticky and fragrant. She closed her eyes and wished she had tears left to cry, so grateful she was for the healing oils that washed over her.

Einar’s strident voice could be heard echoing through the air vents, and the sound of running boots followed by the thunk of a fresh log followed. Sikke’s relief turned to chilly horror as she realised the fire was being stoked higher. But they were covering her in oil! What were they thinking? It would be too easy for another random spark to accidentally turn the entire room into an inferno!

Their plan suddenly became abundantly clear.

Einar had given up. Who knows what he would tell their Father, but she would not be returning home, cured and obediant, like Einar had promised him all those months ago.

Clutching her shirt between her teeth, Sikke looked wildly around the room and tried to formulate a plan that did not end with her a charred husk. The fire pit was shallow, only a foot deep, but it was easily eight feet across, and filled completely with red hot coals. Several sizable logs burned menacingly in the center. The footledge she stood on was about four inches across, and only rimmed the pit for about two feet on the far side of the room from the door. The bar, likewise, was short and situated directly above the ledge. The ceiling was very high, with a narrow chimney for the smoke to exit. The window on the door was much smaller than a person, and was barred at that. The door was also, uncharacteristically, locked. Not that she could have made it to the door under ordinary circumstances, but they must have realised that knowing how imminant death loomed, many people might try to walk across the firepit, and perhaps over the years some had made it. The thought made her sudder and involuntarily lift her feet from the ledge for a moment.

As she swung above the firepit by her aching and protesting hands for a moment, Sikke closed her eyes and prayed fervently and sincerely to every god she had ever heard of (except Hadrada, the bastard) for rescue. But other than Einar and his willing minions, no one knew her predicament, and no one was going to swoop out of the sky and rescue her. She opened her eyes and stared at the chimney, unwilling to accept her fate, mind racing, wishing she could turn into smoke and rise out the chimney, invisible and invincible.

Instead of finishing the return swing back onto the ledge, her feet continued to rise. Due to her frantic grip on the bar, she swung in an arc until, stunned, she found herself horizontally floating above the fire in the center of the room. Black spots rose in front of her eyes and she felt as though she would faint at any moment, but even when she tentatively let go of the bar with one hand, she continued to rise instead of falling to her fiery death.

Hoping it wasn’t the last thing she ever did, Sikke let go of the bar with her other hand, and willed herself towards the chimney. Slowly, surely, her head righted itself and she began to rise towards the opening. She prayed that it was neither barred nor bent after it left the room, and that she could fit her less-than-shapely self through. Surprisingly, she slipped into the opening with less than an inch to spare, and she realised that eight months of a diet of hard tack and water had left her much less stocky than she had once been. She glanced down at herself to confirm and was rewarded with the sight of her barely clothed torso, clad only in a singed camisole, ripped and filthy from her luxurious stay at the Repentance Hotel. She recalled the shirt held tightly within her teeth and made a note to redress once she was free.

The chimney rose straight and true, although a few nails gashed her skin and clothing as she rose past them. Since she could barely move her head, she could not anticipate any obstacles, nor could she determine if she was headed for freedom or not. So when she finally rose free of the shaft and cleared the roof, the cold evening wind was a shock to her senses, as was her position many stories above the city, on a hillside with a commanding view of the bay.

She nearly dropped herself in her surprise, but caught herself a mere two feet above the slate rooftop, again the black spots threatening to crowd out her vision as she set herself down gently on the shingles. She was on a small platform between two lines of several chimneys on each side, slightly sheltered from the wind. She sank down to he knees and contemplated how she would get down, and realised she would have to lift herself mentally again. As she gathered her wits and thought about how she might accomplish that, the black spots finally won and she collapsed in a swoon that may have been sudden sleep, or may have been a dead faint.

The salty spray coursed over the sides of the ship, soaking Sikke’s new boy clothes and leaving her face and lips ever more chapped and painful. She closed her eyes against the stinging bluster and was grateful that her moist cheeks had a credible explanation. The seedy wharfs and rotting warehouses of her hometown grew less visible against the fog and mist that blanketed the coastline continually from late winter until midsummer, but she turned her back long before they had completely faded from view, glad to be free of that place at long last.

Second Place: Donna Fitch

Mordecai Shadebane – Male glimmerfolk

Mordecai Shadebane was a young glimmerfolk male in the world of Mosaic, where, for unknown reasons and by unknown hands, chunks of other worlds have been transposed into the present one. His highly lawful neutral society, contained within the Blessed Radiance Holdfast and constantly at war with the forces of the Shadowkind, suddenly found itself in a completely new world. They were certain this was the work of Shadow. Mordecai’s birth shortly after the transposition was seen by his parents as an evil omen, and they kept the child hidden from the watchful eyes of the Inquisitors as best they could. Instead of three golden soul orbs orbiting his head as normal glimmerfolk had, his were violet. On his back was a large, intricate birthmark. As he grew older, rather than adhering to the lawful strictures of his society and the teachings of the Book of the Orb, young Mordecai seemed chaotic in his thoughts and actions. And he manifested the power to blast dark power from his fingertips. Had not the strange aasimar Lucius Morningstar convinced him to leave the holdfast when Mordecai was fifteen, the young man would have surely been executed right there by the mob that had gathered to arrest him.

Morningstar became Mordecai’s mentor, although the young man had little idea what he was mentoring him for, except that he was a member of the Order of the Cartamundi, a mysterious organization that had something to do with mapping. When Lucius Morningstar disappeared, his last missive summoned Mordecai to the city of Alliance, where he met a group of others whose mentors had also disappeared. Together they set out to solve the mystery—a mystery inextricably linked with the origins of the world of Mosaic.

Danger stalked Mordecai as he began finding evidence that he was being followed by an Inquisitor. Leaving the holdfast was a crime punishable by death—as were many behaviors Mordecai had indulged in while adventuring, from drinking coffee to enjoying the pleasures of a tiefling barmaid. As a child, his mother had scared him into good behavior with tales of this boogeyman until he almost didn’t believe in such a creature. But now he was beginning to believe. Especially when, after a fight with a pack of shadow mastiffs, the type of monster said to devour bad little glimmerfolk, he found words from the Book of the Orb blasted into the stone floor: “He who walks by shadow, by shadow is devoured.”

But more pressing dangers drove such ephemeral frights from his head. The party’s search for their missing mentors led them to the Underdark. They needed to find the evil city of Oubliette, located somewhere in the midst of the Sunless Sea. In a battle with three ogres who had commandeered a bridge, the party had rescued a gnome engineer who had been imprisoned by an evil sorcerer. The gnome was from a village on the shores of the Sunless Sea, Jewelport, and he readily agreed to take the party there and from thence to someone who would know how to find Oubliette.

As Mordecai and the party reached Jewelport, they saw a terrible sight. A horde of pirate goblins were attacking the gnomes’ monkey butlers who were holding their annual cotillion! The party waded in. The monkey butlers squealed and capered about in terrified panic while the torch-wielding goblins darted and snatched them as shields. Mordecai’s eldritch blasts saved the day with his pin-point accuracy. In all, he and his companions slew all the goblins. Only one monkey butler was wounded, but that was his own fault when he grew overexcited at the end and landed wrong in a triple somersault.

The big win was celebrated by gnome, monkey butler and adventurer alike. The gnomes passed out valuable gifts to Mordecai and his friends, and feted them until the ship came that would ferry them to Oubliette.

After many adventures with the rakshasa lords in the horribly depraved city of Oubliette, during which Mordecai decided that the Inquisitor could not possibly be following him, the party hastily left, armed with important information and a new direction in their search for their missing mentors. As they traversed the twisting tunnels on their way out, they came to a vast cavern and saw the ruins of a yuan ti city. Here Mordecai Shadebane suffered his big defeat.

As they stepped into the cavern, an arrow slammed into his shoulder. A cold iron arrow. As the pain spread through his body, he saw a shimmering, armor clad form hovering in the air above him, with golden soul orbs floating around his head. Another arrow flew toward him. He saw another nocked in the bow, and heard a booming voice saying, “Mordecai Shadebane. You have defiled your body and consorted with shadow. You have been judged and found wanting.”

The second arrow found its mark. The third arrow missed. Three others did not. Mordecai did not run. He fought back, angrily hurling his eldritch blasts back at his tormentor, representative of the society that could not leave him alone even though he left it alone and meant it no harm.

In vain. Mordecai fell to the stone floor of the cavern. Dead. (Dead at -61 hit points.)

His friends did not desert him. They slew the Inquisitor in a fierce battle, then carried Mordecai’s body back to a place of safety. The next day, the party’s druid reincarnated him. Mordecai Shadebane is now Mordecai Morningstar. A gnome.

First Place: Randall Walker

Julian Vanderdecken – Male Human Swashbuckler

Lord Fleurange crossed his legs and slipped off his suede gloves. Laying the fine garments on the small café table, he picked up his teacup and sniffing the brew within, sighed, and sat the cup down again. Across from him, Sir Moynton sat, eyeing Lord Fleurange curiously.

“Is the tea not to your liking this morning, My Lord?” Sir Moynton took a long sip of his own tea as if to prove to his liege there was nothing wrong with it.

“It’s not the tea, Moynton.” Lord Fleurange stared off into the distance and drummed his fingers on the table.

“It’s clear something is bothering you, My Lord. What can be so troubling on such a fine morning?” Sir Moynton gestured lazily towards a sky colored a deep sapphire blue. “You can’t even see the mists of the Mournlands from here yet.”

Lord Fleurange twisted in his chair to face Sir Moynton directly, and rested his arms on the table, “It’s this business with Lady Janyth.”

Sir Moynton suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and placed a mask of concern on his face, “Are you still trying to forge an agreement between your two families?”

“If you mean a marriage, yes. I continue to send Lady Janyth stacks of letters, and all I get in return are simple scrolls.” Lord Fleurange stared into his teacup.

“Wouldn’t gold work better, My Lord?”

“Lady Janyth is a woman above reproach, Moynton. She’s a beautiful, naïve, young thing. I’m sure she’d have no interest in gold. I had hoped to woo her with honeyed words; but so far, I get nothing but dry, uninteresting responses. She’s polite enough, but I’m not making suitable progress. Besides, I’ve already signed a defense treaty promising funds and troops for her father. After all, their city sits on the border of the Mournlands as well.”

“Perhaps your letters aren’t getting through?” Sir Moynton took another sip of tea.

“Well, the first two bundles went through just fine. That charming young man…what was his name? Van-something, Vandyke, Vanwilder…?”

“Vanderdecken?” Sir Moynton added helpfully.

Lord Fleurange pointed his finger at Sir Moynton in agreement, “That’s it. Vanderdecken.”

Lord Fleurange sighed, but this time took a sip of his tea, “I’d really like to use him, again. He was the most reliable courier House Orien has employed in this region in years. Not like that last fellow we used. My letters ended up scattered all over the western third of the Mournlands.”
Sir Moynton smiled into his tea, hoping his liege wouldn’t notice, “I doubt the foul beasts and unliving horrors in that place read much, My Lord.”

Lord Fleurange looked up and eyed Sir Moynton with a frown, “Very droll, Moynton, very droll. Nevertheless, I need a reliable courier.”

Sir Moynton smiled. It dawned on him that he had a piece of news that would improve his liege’s mood and would allow him to get on to more serious matters. Leaning forward in his chair, Sir Moynton made his declaration, “My Lord, I may have good news for you this morning. Vanderdecken is back.”
Lord Fleurange’s demeanor seemed to lighten almost immediately, “Is that right? You mean he survived the Mournlands?”

“Yes, My Lord. I saw him only yesterday.” Sir Moynton drained the last of his tea, and pushed his cup to one side, “And note this, My Lord. He’s now dragonmarked.”

“Dragonmarked? The deuce, you say. Please tell me it’s House Orien’s mark.” Lord Fleurange leaned in closer, eagerly drinking in the welcome news.

“It is, My Lord. After I saw Vanderdecken in the street yesterday, I did some poking around, bought a few drinks, and gathered some information from the townsfolk. They all said that Vanderdecken was back and on his feet. The guild house officer even confirmed it. Vanderdecken wears the least dragonmark of the House Orien. There’s some concern that his mark manifested itself while he was away in the Mournlands, but you know how superstitious the guild can be. Regardless, Vanderdecken is here, and he is in good standing with House Orien.”

Sir Moynton sat back, pleased that he could give Lord Fleurange some good news. There was nothing worse than serving a depressed liege.

“Excellent!” Lord Fleurange smacked the hard table with his right hand and promptly winced. Rubbing away the pain in his hand, he added, “Yes, this is indeed excellent news. I’m sure if I can get this next bundle of exquisitely crafted letters to Lady Janyth, she’ll send for me immediately. Get me that courier, now, Moynton. Get me Vanderdecken.”

*******

“…so this just illustrates the point, my friend, that when you have a woman on each arm, don’t start inventing new and interesting contests. You see…”

“Thump! Thump! Thump! Gurglnnnnnn…”

Julian Vanderdecken realized that his stories weren’t always well received, but even he was surprised at the gurgled response of his companion. Curious, Julian glanced to his right and with a shock, realized that the ebony feathers sprouting from the center of his companion’s chest were the ends of three different arrows. His last breath robbed of him, the teamster slumped over, the reins slipping from his hands to trail on the ground beneath the wagon.

Immediately fearful that a similar bouquet of arrows would soon sprout from his own torso, Julian didn’t hesitate to take action. Clutching the satchel now slung over his shoulder, Julian braced his left hand against the wagon seat, and propelled himself over the side. Hitting the ground hard, he remembered to roll into the fall and came up on one knee. As the wagon’s wheels ground past him, he began to hear the shouting of his attackers. Looking over his shoulder, he now spotted them. Bows slung over their shoulders, they waved their axes menacingly, and sprinted toward him.

“I’m to be the rabbit, then,” Julian urged himself forward, “Move…NOW!”

Julian leapt forward and began to sprint himself. The wagon trail was uneven, though, and his riding boots made it difficult to find good purchase on the gritty surface. Barefoot, the ruffians behind him were having no such difficulty and were gaining on him.

“I’ve got to go just a little faster,” he thought.

No sooner had the idea sprang into his mind, Julian could feel the underside of his left arm grow warm. His arms pumping hard to improve his speed, Julian caught brief flashes of the elaborately curved mark of House Orien glowing in deep blues and violets. Almost immediately, he could feel his stride growing longer, and his weight becoming lighter. The forest blurred past him and before long, he was several yards ahead of his pursuers, their slowing forms dwindling in the distance.

Near the end of his own breath, Julian took advantage of the curve in the road, and dashed into the forest underbrush. He continued for several yards, zigzagging a path that he hoped would confound his pursuers.

“With any luck, they’ll tire of me, and go back for the wagon,” he thought.

Finding a broad tree trunk, Julian collapsed against it heavily. Drinking deeply from his waterskin, he wiped his mouth and then fumbled with the catches on his satchel.

“The cargo I could give a kobold’s ass about. But this, however…” Julian’s thoughts trailed off as he carefully opened the satchel’s main pocket and lifted out a bundle of letters; wrapped in ribbon and heavily scented with musk. The writing on the envelopes was unmistakable.

“Lord Fleurange’s letters to Lady Janyth. I’d hate to lose these,” he thought.
Julian sniffed the bundle and wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent. Replacing the bundle into the satchel, he closed the flap tight and reset it over his shoulder. Listening carefully, Julian could no longer hear any sign of his pursers and so carefully made his way back to the road. As he settled in for the hike back to the last town, he once again mused about his package.

“Yep…I would indeed hate to lose those letters. After all, Lady Janyth is ever so grateful when I deliver her mail.”

*******

Lady Janyth traced a single finger down the thin line of hair that led from Julian’s chest to his navel and circled the indention twice. Julian stirred from his slumber and chuckled lowly, “That tickles.”

Raising up slightly, Lady Janyth kissed along Julian’s shoulder and slipped her hand lower, past the edge of the sheet that covered them both. As her hand found what it was seeking, she whispered into Julian’s ear, “Does that tickle, too?”

Julian closed his eyes, “Mmmm…no my good woman, that’s an entirely different feeling.”

Despite it being the first thing in the morning, and the fourth time since he had crept into her bedroom the night before, Julian found that Lady Janyth’s attentions were having the desired effect. Finding him ready again, Lady Janyth slipped over on top of him, and began riding Julian slowly. The sheet fell away from them both, and Julian slipped his hands along her curves and rested his hands on her bottom.

A sharp rapping on the door brought Lady Janyth up short, and she let out a muted squeak.

“Yes?”

The knocking began again, accompanied by a powerful male voice, “Janyth, it’s your father. I must speak to you immediately!”

Lady Janyth brought her hands up to her face and whispered to Julian, “It’s my father!”

Exasperated at her obviousness, Julian bucked his hips, and dumped Lady Janyth off of him ungraciously and whispered back harshly, “I heard, I heard…stall him!”

Gathering the sheet around her, Lady Janyth called out to the door, making an attempt to sound sleepy, “One moment, Daddy, I’m just waking up!”

Although used to dressing in a hurry, Julian nevertheless had some difficulty finding his clothes; scattered about as they were throughout the room. Searching frantically, Julian found his shirt hanging from a mirror on the far side of the room. As he hastily slipped the garment over his head, Lady Janyth tossed Julian his pants, which she recovered from under the edge of the bed. In what can only be described as an acrobatic feat, Julian hopped both legs into his pants at the same time. Securing his belt, Julian next went to search for his boots. The first boot was easy to find, as it was standing upright on Lady Janyth’s dresser. Whirling about, Julian scanned the room for the other boot and didn’t immediately find it.

Another loud knock sounded on the door, and the powerful voice of Lady Janyth’s father rang out again,

“Janyth, do NOT make your father wait all day.”

Lady Janyth hopped out of bed and began to quickly look for her own clothing to put on and addressed the door, “But Daddy, I’m getting dressed! I’m not decent!”

Julian caught Lady Janyth’s eye, winked, and whispered, “Well, he’s got THAT part right.”

Lady Janyth stuck her tongue out at Julian as the voice rang out again from behind the door,
“Janyth, I’m going to count to ten, and then I’m breaking the door down whether you’re decent or not.”

“Ten!”

Julian continued to scan the room for his boot, hopping about unevenly on the other one.

“Nine!”

In a moment of inspiration, Julian lifted up the blankets that had spilled over the foot of the bed and spied the boot. Still trying to hop about on one foot, Julian attempted to slide the newly uncovered boot over his foot – and promptly fell over, landing with a ‘thump”.

“Seven!”

Rubbing the painful spot that had now developed on his behind, Julian gathered himself together and once again shouted a whisper at Lady Janyth, “Your father cheats!”

Lady Janyth shoved Julian’s pack into his arms, and gave him a peck on cheek, “Hurry up, lover boy, he’ll be here any second!”

“Four!”

Dressed, even if haphazardly, Julian dashed towards the window, and opened the shutters.

“Three!”

As he started to climb out onto the balcony, Julian glanced back once again at Lady Janyth. She was struggling with a dress that had yet to cover her naked bottom. Climbing back into the room, Julian strode purposefully over to her, spun her around, and gave her a deep kiss full on the lips.

“Two!”

Momentarily stunned by the surprise kiss, Lady Janyth watched as Julian bowed and with a flourish, doffed his hat in her direction, “Ta ta for now, my good Lady!”

Shooing Julian away frantically, Lady Janyth whispered loudly again, “Go GO!”

“One!”

With a crash, Lady Janyth’s father was as good as his word, and the door flew open. Spinning around to meet him, she feared the worse, as her father looked straight past her towards the window.

“I…I,” she could only mutter.

Striding past her, Lady Janyth’s father went over to the window, and she was afraid to look. Hearing the shutters latch close, though, she turned around. Julian was gone.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she barely heard her father speak, “Get properly dressed, Janyth. You’ll catch your death with the windows open like that.”

*******

A little flushed in the face, but certainly none the worse for wear, Julian stepped lively along the streets and alleyways of Vathirond. His escape from Lady Janyth’s was a close one, but nothing he hadn’t experienced before. After all, Julian had been escaping from various fathers for some time now. Still tucking in his shirt, he mused to himself that he should plan his next exit a little more carefully, though.

Not that his visit with Lady Janyth hadn’t gone well. In fact, he sought out and welcomed the embrace of that woman. Besides, sticking it to that pompous suitor of hers, Lord Fleurange, was an honor and privilege – and getting paid for it, to boot! A sweeter deal, Julian could not conjure from recent memory.

As he neared the guild house, Julian felt a tingle in his left forearm, and glanced down at the dragonmark tattoo that still resided there. In the light of day, it was a dull green and blue color. It lay there, quiescent, and Julian figured he’d imagined the sensation. Last night, Lady Janyth had traced its pattern over and over, fascinated by its complexity, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the story. Even now, Julian was unsure he could remember the events surrounding its appearance, correctly.

Julian stepped through the door of the guild house and was greeted with a warm wave from the attendant on duty. The nice thing about being part of House Orien, was that no matter what city you went to, you could be made to feel at home. Julian figured that as a courier, he had the perfect job for someone with such a powerful wanderlust.

Checking in with the local guild manager, Julian grabbed a room key and headed upstairs for a long deserved rest. The room was tiny but presentable, and even had a window. It was too bad the window directly faced the mists of the what was formerly Cyre. Shaking his head as if to dust off cobwebs, Julian stowed his gear and stretched out for a long nap. The evening wouldn’t start for several hours, and Julian wanted to be ready for the next adventure.