Ahoy!

The skies were overcast, and at mid-day it looked like twilight was already descending. Shots rang out down the street, and already the foul stench of gunpowder wafted in clouds behind the bard as he ran.

He probably shouldn't have done that.

What had started as a nearly honest poker game at the tables of the Swampy Toad, had turned into a downright cutthroat affair, filled with backhanded bets and high stakes. Someone also died. Stabbed, right in the chest over a single misplaced card, in front of everyone. It wasn't the bard's fault the man couldn't take a joke.

Sea-Gods-Twisted-Crotch-Hairs, he still had blood on the tattered end of his sleeve.

Ugh.

Frankly, he was lucky he and his guitar made it out in one piece. Well, were he to be honest, he was more lucky to have sent a secret wink in the direction of the flirty barmaid earlier that evening. Had he not, he'd probably be in bloody pieces on the tavern floor. Or strung up by his ankles. Or trapped under a table somewhere. But as luck would have it, the lovely flirty barmaid had spirited him out the back door with a kiss and a bottle of rum to remember her by, followed by a slap on his bum.

Now, the bard dashed down the ever-uproarious streets of Tavalier, the pirate capital of the world. The bottle was tied to his belt beside his cutlass, his guitar was in one hand, and his winnings were in the other.

A ship. He won himself a whole blasted ship! And not some shady-end sloop, either! The Fool's Errand was a fine vessel. In fact, he'd served on her once before as a mere swab. She'd been his first venture out to the vast oceans.

Granted, he'd hated every moment of it. The crew had been a bunch of vile goat-sucking cretins with no regard for the vessel itself. To his memory, they were a bunch of sour old criminals who hadn't a drop of mercy or humor in their dried up old bones. Oh ho, he'd love to hold the writ up over their heads now, and proclaim himself their master!

Ooh, it'll be glorious! And there she is!

A cannon resounded behind him - a bloody cannon. He ducked impulsively, along with the half dozen other bystanders he passed. They exchanged a similar look of -Seriously?! In the middle of port!? Daft idiots- before he rushed up onto the gangplank.

An unfamiliar man tried to stop the bard, but he was too quick. The bard ducked low and shoulder checked the poor sod off of the plank, then bolted up the side. He didn't have enough hands to draw his weapon, so he had to make do with dodging. (A severely underrated skill in the pirate world, if you asked him.)

The Bard wasn't a big, broad shouldered man, and he couldn't muscle his way out of danger. No, he had to rely on his quick reflexes and his God Given Silvered tongue to get himself out of trouble. However, he wouldn't be able to utilize that particular skill set until he could get somewhere.... higher.

He cast his eyes about the deck. Huh, cleaner then I remember.  He had to spin out of the way of a particularly vicious swing of a blade mid-turn. He used that momentum to hurl himself up onto the poop deck, right above where the Captain's quarters would be. The poor Helmsman was lounging on a barrel by the railing, and looked up with shock.

No matter. The bard held up the writ and cleared his voice for a quick speech, which he belted with all due bardic expertise:

"Good Sailors of the Fool's Errand! Here in my hand I have the signed, professed, legitimate and undeniable WRIT of ownership for this fine vessel!" He waved it once, snapping the parchment open so the writing was visible. "I proclaim myself Captain of this vessel, and as such you are now my crew!"

Several individuals stopped their advances and exchanged glances. Upon closer inspection, the bard realized he did not recognize a single face on board this vessel. Craggy Grey was gone, there was no Old Piper and his funny boys, no Jerry Green and no Mad Bill.

Triton's-Filthy-Man-Bun, this is a whole new crew. Blast it all.

"Oi! You claimin' Captaincy?" One of the new faces called from the main deck. They had all their teeth, and dressed rather well for a pirate, all things considered.

The bard lowered the writ, shoving it safely into the front pocket of his britches. "Yes, I suppose - "

"GRIMEY! CHALLENGER!" That same seaman shouted. Arsehole.

The bard looked about, catching the eye of the Helmsman, who gave him a brief, amiable grin. He returned the grin before resuming his look-about. Then he saw Grimey.

No slimier individual had ever crossed his path. Oily, slick hair was pressed to the man's forehead in twisted lengths. Grimey had one pale eye with a set of fingernail scars through his bow, and he was missing several teeth. The ones that remained were black with rot. Grimey was rail thin and hunched over himself. He had a cutlass out in browned, over-tanned hands, and he grinned with a particular kind of gross malice.

Nope. He shouldn't have done that. Tch, why couldn't I just keep my damn loud mouth shut? HAD to say I was going for the captaincy. HAD to come rushing onto the ship with my cock out, all full of myself....

"Ya wanna leave the ship, you fight Grimey. You beat Grimey you get he ship. Easy." That one same arsehole said, hands on hips as if they'd won something.

Like that one. Sassy. Not bad lookin' either.

"Fine." The Bard agreed. He turned and carefully held his guitar out to the helmsman. "Hold that for me, would ye? I die, you can keep it. Treat 'er well."

The helmsman reverently accepted the instrument with a silent smile. The timid crewman nodded vigorously before taking a place beside others who had started to make their way on deck. News of a fight traveled at lightning speed, and soon enough everyone was out, forming a nice little ring on the main deck for this epic performance.

All types here - still no familiar faces. Oh well. There goes rubbing his victory in their faces, wherever they were. He hoped they were all dead, slogging corpses on the bottom of the sea. Blackhearts.

The Bard drew his cutlass, and spun it in hand as he descended the stairs to the main deck. The good-lookin' arsehole who had summoned Grimey looked like they were taking bets. Hoped his odds were fair. Would be a side bonus if he made the right crew members a bit of change with this fight.

Grimey spat on the deck. The Bard winced, as did the swab who saw it. He offered the swab sympathetic nod, trying to convey to the lad that he would do his best to avenge that disgusting display.

"Right. Then whenever you're ready-"

"FIGHT!" The arsehole called.

Grimey took the lead, coming in with a ferocious shout. His cutlass sliced through the air towards The Bard; but the bard had already moved, taking a simple step to the side, and bringing his own cutlass down to deflect Grimey's assault. Grimey came right back around, all lithe limbs and graceless action. Particularly easy to predict, fortunately enough.

The Bard dodged two more similar blows, the crowd ooh-ing and aah-ing with interest as Grimey's face got redder and redder with frustration. To the bard's surprise, Grimey then executed a rather deft feint. When the Bard hastily blocked the following swing, he realized that his opponent's lean stature was deceptive. The blow rang pins and needles up through to the bard's elbow, and he pulled back to get his bearings.

Grimey was stronger then he looked.

"Go Get 'em, you slimey bastard!'
"I hope he guts you!"
"That's one way to get 'im off the ship!"
A round of laughter and cheering peeled out around them.

The Bard glanced around, at first taking the calls in stride. Obviously, he accepted the barbs as part of him claim for captaincy. However, he realized very quickly that they weren't throwing barbs at him - they were throwing them at Grimey.

Interesting.

Grimey was relentless. It was as if he could sense the obvious disdain his crew mates had for him, and he knew that this was his last chance to remain on board. His swings grew vicious and unmitigated. The Bard thought about letting him win.

He obviously wants to stay on board, and all I really wanted was to rub victory in some old bastards' faces. What right did I have to take this from good ol' Grimey?

The thoughts distracted him, and this made him sloppy. Grimey saw an opening, and his cutlass sliced through the side of his shirt, biting briefly (and bloody painfully) into the flesh on his ribs. The Bard danced back, his free hand clapping over the wound. He was bleeding now, bleeding over his only pair of cleanish clothes. As if that random poker player's blood wasn't bad enough.

"....Damnit." He muttered, glaring over at Grimey.

What he saw there shook him for a moment. Grimey was grinning, all seven gnarly teeth bared in a snarl. In those dullard eyes the bard saw a particular glee that he recognized from his early days aboard this vessel - the eyes of a cold blooded, filthy murderer. Sadist. He was clearly enjoying the fact that he'd made the bard bleed.

Well, now I HAVE to win.

The soon-to-be-Captain of the Fool's Errand swung himself into high gear. This meant going on the offensive. His speed increased, throwing Grimey hopelessly off guard. He dove in for an attack and feinted up, knocking the other mans chin with the bell-guard of his cutlass. Then he swung down, taking his own first blood on the meat of Grimey's thigh.

Grimey started cursing, vulgarities thrown hastily into the wind. The bard didn't try to block any more swings, vouching instead to utilize his size and speed, ducking and weaving around his flailing swings and spittle-flinging curses.

It was when Grimey mentioned something particularly tasteless about the Bard's mother that the duel tightened up. One deflection, a parry, slip to the side, and then the bard's cutlass found it's home, snugly wedged between two of Grimey's protruding ribs. The bard pushed his blade in as far as it would go, bearing Grimey back into the Main Mast.

Grimey's cutlass clattered to the deck, his eyes wide in surprise, a gurgle bubbling up from his throat.

The Bard leaned in. "Never insult a man's mother."

Then he withdrew his cutlass in a clean, quick pull, and Grimey's corpse slumped to the ground.

When he turned about, the bard was greeted by more cheers than he expected. The whole slew of crew men came right up to him for hearty congratulations. When he glanced back around, the body of Grimey was being unceremoniously tossed overboard, and the swab was scrubbing up the offended spots on the deck and mast.

"Uh -" The bard began.

Arsehole broke through the crowd and clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Fool's Errand. Mighty grateful you took care of that idiot fer us. Held seniority and was a dirty sort, couldn't get rid of him while the old captain was 'round."

Several murmurs of agreement chorused around them. The Bard slowly started to clean off his cutlass and tuck it back and away. "Right, of course, no problem. Here to help."

"So what do we call you then, Captain?" Arsehole asked.

The eyes of the crew turned on him, and this was his moment. He should have said, call me yer friend and wish me fare winds, goodbye! But he didn't. Instead the Bard put on his most winning smile, the victory fresh and the adrenaline still ripping through his veins. With one hand pressed over his wound and the other resting on the hilt of his cutlass, he addressed his new crew.

"You can call me Captain. Captain Jay Flint."

Names have Power

"She walks in beauty, like the night." Recited from memory, a mortal's poem.

Autumn colors painted the landscape around her, hues of burnt sienna, pumpkin, old blood, green olives, dry clay, umber, tarnished gold, and charcoal. Leaves, all of these colors and more, crunched beneath her bare feet, and every-so-often tumbled lazily from the skeletal branches up above. This, her season, was her favorite, and it was always her favorite here.

"...Of cloudless climes and starry skies. Hm." She looked up through the latticework of boughs to see the crystal clear night sky above. Each star was a diamond-edged pinprick, harsh against the midnight backdrop. A chill wind pulled at her hair and tugged at the bottom of her gown. The Lady held her arms out to her side and let out an elated sigh, grinning widely from ear to ear.

Then the heard it.

The sound of running footsteps.

A Visitor? She tilted her head into the breeze, eyes narrowed. Inhaling slowly, she rolled around the scents of the wood in her breath; detritus from crushed leaves and dying things, the foreboding ice in the wind, the lingering aroma of distant wood smoke, the musk of someone's fear clinging to young skin.

A lost! Giddy with the thought, she bolted like a doe through the scattered underbrush.

These woods were not mortal woods, no. They could only be visited by very particular people, or stumbled upon by innocent, unknowing younglings. Arcadia was very particular with their guests, and it always cost something to cross her dangerous borders. For the Lost, it seemed free at first - until they tried to get back home, of course. Then Arcadia pulled pieces off for itself, exacting a toll of sorts, one could say.

The Lady, and other Lords like her, Fae beings of great mysterious power and beauty, often used these Lost as bargaining chips. For what could be more expensive and desirable than something the realm itself desired above all else?

If she got to this Lost first, it would be hers! Though the earth was dry and cracking around her, she was as quiet as the still, cold evening air, and as quick as the first creeping frost.This was a spot of entertainment she had not expected! What fun!

On the other hand, many of the Lost were rather droll. Insipid, arrogant things, snot-nosed and greedy. Not unlike cats. The Lady paused in her pursuit, leaning speculatively against the nearest gnarled tree. The Lost she had managed to collect, she'd traded off just as quickly, and she never really needed anything badly enough to use them as effective pawns.

That wasn't her strong suit. Mainly she liked sucking the fear out of things, eating it, and then making them more afraid so she could grow more powerful. Anyway.

The aroma caught in her nostrils again, and just as she was about to turn and walk away from such a prestigious catch, being as fickle as the tides herself, something tapped her on the elbow.

Oh drat. She turned. She looked down. And there he was. A small human boy. She was rubbish at guessing mortal ages, so she settled on height instead. Hip level with messy blonde hair and green eyes, fairly sun-kissed, although not entirely well-fed.

"....Yes?" She asked, tilting her head at him.

The boy looked up at her with trusting eyes - they always had trusting eyes. Foolish of them, really.

""scuse me, but I think I'm lost, miss."

Her eyebrows lifted, and her mouth quirked into a smile. She had no glamour here, in her home. Arcadia did not allow for true disguise of one's natural form, oh no! One must be proud to wear the skin that magic stretched upon you! And she was, indeed, quite magical. The fresh, deep green of the wick of a sapling graced her brow, and delicate vining branches, chocolate brown, framed her face and curled down her neck, weaving between and through segments of her flesh. White fawn-freckles dotted her high set cheekbones, and her slit nostrils flared, blackened nose trembling at the scent.

Or rather; lack there of.

For this boy was not afraid anymore. There was the remnant of fear, there in the sweat of his palms, but nothing fresh.

"Oh yes, boy, you are quite lost." She crouched before him, now curious. "Aren't you afraid?"

The boy smiled. "Oh no."

"Don't you want to go home?" She asked.

A whiff of it. Pungent in the air as his expression changed. He sucked tightly on his bottom lip and glanced around, as if expecting pursuit. "No."

She narrowed her eyes. New details were plucked from the child's flimsy attire - the bruises on his neck. A black eye. The faint smell of old blood, hidden beneath the fresh linen smell of a bandage.

Humans. Disgusting. She curled her lip in disgust. That a breed would so abuse their own offspring was insulting. A least most animals would just eat them.

"....Can you tell me where the bus station is?" The boy continued, red in the roundness of his cheeks.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. He was fidgeting now, with his belt loops.

"Well." She straightened her back, still crouched in the leaves before him, and sighed. "And all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes."

The boy looked at her. "That was pretty."

"It's a poem." She smiled. "Do you like poetry?"

"Yes." He nodded, smiling now.

She could see the faintness of old tear tracks on his sweet face. She reached out and touched them. "Come with me then." And she took his hand.

The boy did not question, did not ask her where they were going, and did not resist her gentle tugging through the darkened wood. He was unafraid of her, which was, quite frankly, foolish. She was a Fae of the Autumnal Court, those who thrive in fear. And yet...

And yet this boy.

"What is your name?" She asked, looking back down at him.

"Timothy Franklin." He said back.

She stopped and swooped down, catching the spoken name as it escaped his breath, cupping it in one hand and then clapping it over her heart. The boy looked surprised at the sudden gesture, and she bent down to him.

"That name is mine now, and I will hold it so that no one else can use it against you. Your new name is Monk, and you will live with me here, for a time." At LEAST until those marks fade away, at LEAST until he is old enough to go back on his own, at LEAST until I tire of him..... The excuses poured into her mind and she offered him a toothy smile.

Again. No fear, just another smile. "Thank you."

She tugged his hand along, further and further they went. Jack'o'lanterns propped, lit and waiting on lightning-shattered tree trunks, candles burned forlornly at forgotten shrines, strange creatures mewled and howled in the distance. Bats squealed in the air, and twigs snapped in the shadows, red, slitted eyes watched them....

And still, only a smile.

They arrived at the great oaken gate of her keep, nestled into a jagged, impenetrable cliff side. She rapped once on the door and it slowly creaked open.

The boy hesitated outside the door. "Miss?"

She turned to smile down at him.

"What's your name?"

She giggled. "Oh I can't give you that, silly."

"Can't I watch it for you, like you'e watching mine?"

She ruffled his hair. "No, no, there's no need, Monk. My name is safe as long as I don't say it."

The boy nodded. Then he asked, "Well, then what can I call you?"

Precocious little thing. Smart. Sweet. Oh so unlike the denizens of her realm, normally. With their jagged teeth and boney arms, they made poor company. She found herself visiting the Spring court more often of late; perhaps this was just what she needed.

"You may call me Thicket."

"Mine"

She was so hungry.

Dazed, blurry vision flashed around the room as jumbled memories glinted in the darkness of her mind like knives.

My lunch, where's my lunch, I know I brought one -

Knots twisted painfully in her neck and belly, and one leg buckled. She braced herself against the break-room counter, shutting her eyes against the swimming lights and surfaces. She felt like her insides were on fire, like her innards had become two battling octopus, strangling each other. She had never been this hungry in her LIFE.

She pushed herself away from the counter and her heel slipped. Rubber sole squealed against sterile tile and she stumbled forward to careen into the break room table. She opened her eyes as she steadied herself there, but something was wrong. She lifted her hands off of the table surface, and found that she had left hand-prints on the blue marbled tabletop.

Red hand prints.

What...?

Another glinting steel memory, and her hand flew to her neck - she felt the blood there, she could feel the torn skin - it had not been gentle. There weren't two delicate holes like in the movies. She should be dead right now. She was an excellent student, and from what she was feeling on her neck, and saw on her hands, she should be dead, not walking around not -

So Hungry. Oh God, I'm dying.

Her insides heaved again, and she let out a startled cry, bending in half with her arms wrapped about her middle.

"It will pass. Go on. Have a nibble." A voice, velvet lined with arsenic, the gleam before the angler's sharpened maw, the madness of a torturer's gentle touch. It was in her mind as well as her ears, it was everywhere around her, in her heart like an ice-pick.

She spun, bumping her hip into the table. A mug shook, spun and fell, breaking on the floor. He stood there, smiling, her blood still on his chin. Though her memories were in the dark - she couldn't shake it, couldn't reach past them - one thing remained, and it was that she hated. This. Man.

But she could make no move against him.

"What - what did you do to me?" She asked, throat tight, eyes burning, teeth aching.

He shrugged, licking a fingertip clean. "I made some improvements. Enough questions, pet."

Her mouth sealed shut. She felt panicked. I can't move. I can't speak. I can't do anything!  It was like his voice was a vice, and her free will was clamped within it.

He stepped aside, and gestured out the door.  There was the hallway. She could hear footsteps. Night crew. David and his radio playing Devo all the time, Tiffany with her collection of pocket-sized poetry books left around the place. Diego the custodian with the wallet full of family photos and the handlebar mustache -

She could smell his mustache wax. She could smell the rose scented pages of Shakespeare's love sonnets volume 2, she could smell the half eaten bag of chips.

She could hear their heartbeats. Delicious rhythms pounding through their thick veins, roaring like a river of life, calling her to sip from it deeply -

No!

Her stomach roared. Her fingertips reached back and curled around the edge of he table.

That Man tilted his head at her. "You don't eat, you become useless. You become useless, I need to put you down." He shrugged. "But honestly, you don't have a choice, and I don't have time to baby you, so - Go. Eat."

She didn't understand. She couldn't grasp what he was saying until she let go of the table. She felt the howling in her stomach and she stumbled as she felt the teeth inside of her head crack and split open, sending shock-waves of pain into her eyes. When her hands investigated she found the fangs here, long and yearning. Her jaw ached.

I am so hungry. Eat, eat, EAT. 

No. No, this isn't what I think it is, I'm not going to do that - Her thoughts were the only will she had, it seemed, as she moved out of the room and down the hall. They screamed in her darkened mind as her hands reached for Tiffany, glasses clattering to the floor. They howled in protest as Tiffany asked her why - what was going on - help me, help me, help me. Her thoughts could barely process how she ripped into her friend's throat with a bare hand to stop the noise, how her eyes marked the page of Sonnet number 97 as it lay open on the floor.

Then her thoughts could do no more, rallied as they were against her own body's unwilling actions. But they watched. They watched and heard as brave Diego came with a mop and died to it, broken ends in his sternum, blood mingling with Tiffany's on the floor. Snarls, hissing, foreign noises came from her own throat as David started to run down the hall. She watched, detached, as she leaped upon him and tore his throat out with his teeth -

And secretly wept when his blood poured down her throat, and how good it felt, and how revived she was, and how the pain in her chest instantly receded, and she was so lost in that glory, that blood, that blood of her friend, that her thoughts could make no more noise but silent hatred, and then it was over.

He patted her on the head. "Aw, good doggie."

"Fuck you." She said. She could say it, she said it. She tried to reach out, to take hold of his throat, but her hand raised an inch before He lifted one finger.

"Tut tut tut, little mutt." He bent at the hip to be eye to eye with her. He smelled like... he smelled like master. She felt bile in her throat and then tasted blood.  "Smile, little doggie."

She smiled. She hated him.

"You're mine now. And your pet name is Emira."

"I'll show you what a fucking 'pet' can do -" She started, spitting anger, body vibrating in the attempt to defy him.

He raised his hand again and made a fist. Her heart clenched, seizing in her chest and she gasped, the pain unreal, worse then her hunger, worse then anything, and she clawed at her own chest to get it to stop.

"Watch your mouth, Dog." He warned. "I own you. You will do as I say, when I say it. Nod your head."

She nodded.

"Your name is Emira now. And you are Mine. Understand that?" He grinned, eyes mad, face contorted with cruelty. "Mine. Now say it. What. Is. Your. Name?"

She gasped, pain released. Her hand left a bloody print on the wall of the hallway. Something dripped nearby, a slow bloody dribble. The darkness of her mind was swimming with razor blades. She hated this man. She would end him. She would end him if it took millennia.

She locked eyes with him. "My name is Emira."

And you are going to regret this.

Wind-Swept

Oh, the wind, the wind... She loved how it felt, arching across her shoulders and down her back, twisting cool fingers into her hair, smoothing worries off of her brow and sliding a frisky caress up her ankle.

If she jumped, would the wind catch her? Would it be strong enough to float her to the Earth, leaving her splashing playfully in the waters far below? Would it feel like flying? Behind closed eyes, she imagined it, gliding through the air, hair blown back, scarf slipping free and flitting behind her, winding through the air like an eel.

As she imagined the laughter slipping free from her, it did so, the sound ringing out over the falls and their pounding, brutal waters. She was knee-deep in pushy, eager flows that whispered in burbling chirps for her to jump, jump, jump! She could imagine it, as vivid as reality, behind eyelids flickering and fluttering; she could feel herself melting and molding into the waters and down, down she would go -

"Hey! Hey, don't jump!" Some stranger's voice rang out behind her, shattering the gleaming images that danced in her mind.

She opened her eyes and looked down. The waterfall roared below her, and the white foam reminded her of an open maw. Goodness, she was high!

"Hey!" The sound was accompanied by sloshing now. She lowered her arms from their akimbo at her sides. The whispering waters receded to mere currents, and the yearning dissolved like footprints in sand. Slowly turning, she peered at the stranger who was quickly slogging closer.

He was unremarkable at first glance - peasant's clothing on a peasant's body, spray making his hair cling to his head in a wormy mop. His face was screwed up in a grimace as he struggled to meet her where she stood, at the tip top edge of a waterfall. He had quite a ways to go.

"What are you doing?" She called out, head tilted to the side.

The more she watched him, the more details sparkled and gleamed on him. She noticed that he was strong - the clothing, wet from his travel into danger, clung to corded muscles. His hair, though sopping wet, shimmered with color in the sun like a raven's wing. He had markings on his face that she did not understand but they fascinated her. The clothing, too, was no mere peasant's clothing. She liked how many pockets it had. She could tell. The ones past the stranger's knees were bloated and floating from the water's wild attempts to drag them down.

"I'm - " He stopped, blinking to look at her face. She was now grinning broadly. "I was... trying to help you?"

She snickered. At the sound, he scowled, but that just made her laugh even more. Her wild grin spread, and she raised her hands to contain the expression on her face. Her odd confidence wavered but for a moment when he cocked his head at her revealed hands.

Where five human fingers would have been, there were three, almost birdlike talons, dark-tipped and sharp. They extended from rough hide, like oiled leather that covered her wrists and faded into pale freckled skin at her elbows.

She dropped her hands back to her sides, nervously twisting the claws into her clothing. Her rough spun tunic was torn short past her waist and cinched with a leather belt, but the sleeves were shorn at the elbows as if left unfinished. Her trousers were obviously cut for a man, and she very obviously didn't care.

The Stranger stood knee-deep in flowing river-water, staring at her with annoyance bordering on bemusement. He let out an exasperated sigh and pushed sopping hair from his eyes. She giggled when she noticed that his teeth were sharp, and his eyes were not human. This was good - Humans made her nervous. Because of what she was, of course.

"You... don't need help. Do you." He crossed his arms.

She took a great breath and barked another laugh. He just looked to funny, standing there! Delighted by the new face, she decided she should speak with them. So, she hopped in place to spin and face him. Her foot slipped and she wobbled on the other, throwing her arms out like wings, nervous energy crackling at her fingertips, literally, and as her heart thudded into her throat, and her smile twisted dreamily into the image of her falling, falling, falling -

The Stranger caught her hand and pulled her off of the edge. Somehow he had made it however far to snatch her from a potentially catastrophic fall. She blinked, snapped out of her reverie by foreign strength, and the first thing she noticed was that his hair curled a bit around his face, and one strand was stuck in the fine jet hairs angled at the tip of his chin. "Oh!"

He smirked at the expression on her face - no doubt perplexed more then it was frightened.

She bit her bottom lip and looked up at him from under her lashes, cheeks pink. "...Well, maybe a little help?"

He helped her back to shore, sopping wet and grumbling as she giggled through 'eeps' and 'oops'. She was not themost graceful of creatures, and these stones were slick. Once they made it back to the rocky bank, she rung out the bottom of her shirt. WHen she glanced over, she saw him deflating the water-filled pockets one by one. She tittered, one talon on her lips in delight.

"So. Who are YOU, then?" He asked.

She tightened the scarf around her head, tongue pressed between her teeth and poking out ever-so-slightly as she focused on the knot. Talons were better for taking knots apart, not making them.

"Me?"

He rolled his eyes, a half smirk still sparkling with river water on his face. "No, the waterfall."

"That's the Forever-Fall." She nodded.

"I meant you. YOU. What is YOUR name?"

Her grin returned, and she bowed at the waist. "Delighted to meet you strange-stranger! You may call me the wind!"

"I'm not calling you that." Expression flat, one eyebrow raised.

She groaned, face turned into a pout for about two seconds, before her mood swung again and she shrugged gaily.

"Then you may call me Neria."

Awake

He opened his eyes.

A muddled confusion overcame him; gravity was ephemeral, vision was a black canvas, his body was pinpricks of discomfort. Had he opened his eyes? It looked the same when he blinked. Maybe now they were actually closed? He exercised this over and over until he noticed a difference.

A crack. There was a thin, white crack just at the very bottom of his sight. He wondered if he could touch it? He  began the exploration of that thing called 'movement.' He had hands, and fingers, and elbows which he kept knocking. He realized his knees, too, were awkward and incredibly in the way.

He couldn't move very much at all. Something was in the way. And the more he thought about the restrictions, the more uneasy he became.

What if this is it? What if this is all I get to do, everything I see is darkness and a smear of light, what if I never see my own hands or face or legs, what if, what if, what if....

The more these thoughts raced over his mind, the more he banged and thudded in his cubicle, and the more he did, the louder he became, and the more furious he banged and pounded and clawed at his encasement. Until -

Until the whole front side of whatever he lay in exploded outward, showering him with bits of dried splintery wood. There was momentum that came with the outstretched arms, balled up fists at the ends of them, crashing through his prison. It pulled him upwards, along with a long, sucking breath inhaled through dusty lungs.

He frantically brushed at his face and his chest and arms, shaking with the unknown rush of new life.

Sort of.

The light outside of his old grave was dim - twilight, full moon, stars lighting the open air. He blinked slowly, though felt no need to keep his eyes safe from the dry winds that tugged at his clothing. A moment of terrified and curious reflection overcame him, as if he was speaking to himself from far away.

I am fucked. But I have no idea why. And who the hell am I to BE fucked, anyway? No really, who am I? I know things - pointless useful things, like language, and up and down and breathing and eating and math and shoe size and that I like hats - but I have no idea who I am. No idea. 

He looked down at his hands. He knew he was a he. He glanced around. He made sure he was a he after seeing that there was no one else around. Then he felt silly. He had no idea why he should feel silly. He felt like his world was spinning on an awkward axis, throwing common knowledge at him intermingled with the blank, empty void of where HE used to be.

He let himself flop back down into his coffin.

It was a coffin.

He immediately sat back up, pulling himself clumsily out of said coffin, and spilling out onto the floor which was a lot farther away than he thought it was. He ended up face down on hard, smooth stone, and surrounded by the scraping of dried leaves blowing across the tile. There was a door open behind him. Thick pillars hid the rest of the world except for this one little room.

It took him a minute to work his legs right. And when he finally did get to his feet, he started to dust himself off and tidy himself up to distract himself from the thought that he couldn't feel how cold it was, or that falling almost four feet onto his face didn't even hurt, or that he had punched the lid off of a coffin to escape it. 

"No, you stop that. Stop freaking out." His voice came without obstacle, as if coming from a breathing, bleeding, salivating being. There was no gust of dust, cough, or black ooze, no feral growl or snarl instead of words, just... his voice.

That was ok. He could deal with that. And though he did not feel the need to breathe (which unnerved him a great deal,) he took the time to take a nice, deep, soothing breath.

"Ok. Ok. You aren't dead. You aren't really dead. You're just... you're just sort of dead. Half dead? Ugh." He shook his head. He ran his hands through his tawny hair. It was not white and dead and falling out. His fingernails weren't three feet long and cracked. His skin felt like it was all there on his face. He had eyelids....

Exasperated, he turned back to the coffin. He walked around it slowly, looking for some sort of plaque or something. There was nothing. It was a black coffin, elevated on a pedestal at the center of a pillared mausoleum in the middle of frickin' no where, and he was alone, with no memories of how he got there.

There was something inside the coffin though. When he plucked it out, it made him smile. He spun the fedora between his hands and in the same fluid motion he placed it rakishly upon his head, flicking the front brim of the dashing accessory.

"Whelp. Nothin' for it, 'spose. I'm sure it'll come back to me." His smile faltered for a fraction before he turned with comical resolution to the open door. "Forget it. It's fine. This is fine." He passed through the door and into the new night, and though he had no idea what strange, deserted suburban area he had emerged from, he did discover something.

Grafiti. All over the outside of this mausoleum. He read it, after taking a moment to decipher the font, and when he figured it out, he couldn't help himself. Doubled over, arms around his ribs, he laughed, sucking in air he didn't need just so he could pretend he was alive. He dashed pretend tears from the corners of his eyes and nodded. Among a many-layered war of obscenities and arguments, done in bright swirling colors read:

You Don't Know JACK

"You know what? Neither do I." He tipped his hat at the crypt, turned on his heel and meandered down the street. The first person he met would get a firm handshake and the following introduction.

"Hey there. Nice to meet ya. I'm Jack."

Escape!

The manacles dropped to the floor; click, clatter, clang. The loss of them hurt, physically ached in his bones, like he had been growing around them this whole time. The skin around his wrists was red and raw, scar upon scar upon newly worn flesh. It was a wonder, a beautiful moment in time, unbelievable.

Though his blood pounded in his pointed ears, and though the riotous noise in the other room ebbed and surged like waves on a cliffside, and though he knew he had to go, he stared. He stared at the lack of those manacles for longer then he should have. It's almost like I can breathe again, He thought, knowing he had to run, but being unable to look away.

There was a crash, a loud one, from the other room. It rocked him out of his revelation. He pocketed the key in his pants and cast his eyes about the room. He had nothing but the clothes he wore as possessions, a necklace bound to him from his father, and the key in his pocket.

His scant quarters were barren, save for the now discarded manacles and his pallet. His door was half shrouded by a thick curtain and nothing else. His masters did not expect him to leave. He wouldn't have been able to before, the spellwork on the shackles making it impossible to go anywhere but where he was told to go.

He could taste his heartbeat as he approached the curtain. Each footfall felt heavier now, weighed down by terror and doubt. Is this some trick? Was the key a trap? Was this whole thing some elaborate charade? Would they be standing there, past that doorway?

Then, in a fleeting moment, he was past the curtain, as if it had never mattered before. No one waited, lurking with cruel smiles. With that border having fallen around him, the rest crumbled and he was running. He knew the way out - he knew all the ways out, every passage, every door every window. A Minor torment, to know how to escape but being unable to. He'd endured worse, could endure far worse if he was caught. As the noise receded behind him, he ran faster. He ducked around corners, hid behind statuary and shadows to avoid being spotted.

And then he was free. Out the door with the two lion heads, down the hall, and over the threshold. Not only free of the keep and it's ruthless overlord, but free of the Hellscape, free of the whole realm! The shimmering tingle of the portal washed over his skin as he emerged, whole and unscathed, in a whole new world.

Giddy, ludicrous laughter hissed past chapped lips. His vision clouded, hands on knees, panting for breath in the twilight. Twilight! His knees gave out entirely, and he let himself fall into the tall grass. The moon was overhead, and it was full of light. He pushed hair out of his face, roping it over his horns. Bruises on his face still stung, and his wrists burned, but the air was so clean and clear!

He held his hands up to look at them. He had six pewter rings to his name, each useless and empty enchantments he could now fill, the bindings upon him gone at last.

Tools do only what they are told. Slaves do only as they are commanded. You are both, and as such my property. Your father has no use for a half-breed whelp. There is no place for you among your mother's whimpering kinsmen. Therefore, you are from nothing, and to nothing you will return.

His master's - former master's - voice echoed down the vast chambers of his mind. He ran his hands over his face, deep breaths in and out to soothe the panicked hysteria that his laughter had become.

Who am I? He thought. I had a name. I know I did.... He blinked, gazing once again up at the moon, a single long ago memory floating to the surface of his tumultuous mind. A woman's face, a human woman with brown hair and green eyes and a smile, a smile for him. She said something with love in her voice before the memory quietly drifted off.

"I am Zephyrius."