boy-I once was. The time I was at a party, in the bathroom, snorting something my friend had brought out of his pocket plays like a movie in the sky. Then it switches, and I get to relive that moment when I had to run from the cops who showed up at a deal. I was hopping fences and cars, generally running for my life. The drunken one night stands, the bloody fights, even that one B&E. Every mistake I had ever made was plastered to that sky.
Tiring of the agonizing spectacle that was once my life, I turn to the right, to the other light. It was a safe assumption that this was to be my future since the other had been my past. The first scene is me cutting my hair. I’ve worn it short before, but there is no funky color or style. Just short. It pans out, to a medical facility, where a man in a white lab coat is burning away my ink with a laser. There’s some bimbo I’ve never seen before and me at an altar. I’m putting a garish ring on her finger. She smiles a fake smile that makes my fucking skin crawl. It ends with a man sporting a crew cut and wearing a freshly starched suit driving a minivan to some faceless corporate office. I can’t help it anymore; I puke my guts up right in front of this tree.
Another cigarette is in my hand when the faucet to my stomach finally shuts off. As my eyes catch a glimpse of the path at my feet, I finally get what this place is. On the hand is the monster that I was; and on the other is the slave that I am expected to be. If there was anything left in my stomach, I probably would have hurled again.
“This can’t be it!” I yell to the dark sky, my eyes avoiding the two pools of light. “There has to be more!” The blackness above me chooses not to answer.
“Fuck you!” I shout to the memories at my left.
“Go to hell!” I howl at the future to my right.
The cigarette in my hand dies, the wind snuffing out its warmth. My knees hit hard ground, just barely avoiding where I emptied my stomach contents and my arms embrace in the tree. Tears want to spill out of my eyes, wish to form a river in this blasted land of jagged pasts and forlorn futures. But I refuse. I refuse, damnit!
I hold onto the tree for dear life. My muscles tighten and flex, ready for a fight. But there is no fight, only what is already done and what will one day come to pass. When my head stops spinning, when the urge to puke leaves my stomach, I get to my feet. Shaky legs hold me up as I turn from the left to the right. Then my fists begin to plow into the tree, knuckles striking bark, blood flowing across wood. Days pass as I swing my arms again and again.
“No matter which way I go,” I whisper to my broken hands when exhaustion finally ends my onslaught, “I cease to exist.” I stare into my past, watch who I used to be. “If I run back into that drug addled haze, who I am now dies.” Then my eyes turn to the bleak future at my right. “But if I continue on this fucking path, I become a man I hate, married to a woman I hate, following the doctrine of men I hate.”
I crack my knuckles, feel the blood on my palms, and crack a cruel smile.
“If I have to die, if it truly is a choice between what I was and what I’m expected to be, then I’ve already lost.”
I pop my neck, listening to the bones crack as the muscles flex.
“But I wouldn’t be standing in this fucking forest if there wasn’t a choice.”
I set my feet, my old tennis shoes balancing in the dirt.
With a last yell of defiance, one last shout to the dark sky, I run. Dodging tress, limbs, and roots, I run. Through the forest I run. Into the wild, unknowable fringes of reality I run.
A Fantasy of Sorts
To call him fat wouldn’t have done his size justice. The man was obese. But he could afford to be; so what did he care. Even as large as he was, he insisted on looking his best at all times. He was covered from head to toe in silk: silk pants, silk shirt, silk tie, even fucking silk socks. The shoes over his silk socks were crafted of the finest dragon whelpling hide and the cuff links adorning his silk shirt were the scales of the mother.
His oily black hair was slicked back and his pencil thin moustache was…well pencil thin. His brown eyes bulged out of his bulbous face, giving himself a frog like appearance. His double-no triple-chin jiggled slightly as he paced around his lavish office. He would walk in front of the large oaken desk, then around it, finally resting his massive hands on the back of the smooth troll-skin chair, before stepping back in front and beginning the cycle over again.
I gazed absent mindedly at the six high backed chairs arranged in front of the desk. Six intriguing individuals would soon be in this chamber, listening to the orders of that fat fuck. Not that it would really matter. I would have chuckled to myself, had I been able. Just then, a single knock at the door brought me back into my employer’s office. I opened the steel door and the elf quietly made his way inside.
My head pounded to the sound of knuckle striking wood. How long was this prick going to knock on my door before he understood that I wasn’t opening? Clenching my eyes tight, the realization that he wasn’t leaving hit me about the same time that my hangover hit my stomach. Vomit spilled onto the carpet beside my shitty old couch.
With bloodshot eyes I saw the setting sun through the open window. Its light cast oblong shadows around my sparse apartment. It wasn’t anything to brag about, but it was home, and I smiled slightly as I let my eyes survey the loft. Kitchen in one corner, bathroom in the opposite one, living space in the middle. My stained mattress lay just under the window. I could have stared at my place for at least a few more minutes had that asshole not kept knocking.
Pulling a leather jacket onto my shirtless torso, I meandered over to the door. Through the peep hole I took a look at my mystery guest. He was slightly shorter than me with long brown hair. One green eye stared down the hallway; the other was milky white, some sword or dagger covering it with a viscous scar. Two pointed ears stuck through his straight hair and his angular features marked him for what he was: mother fucking elf.
“Can I help you, knife ears?” I asked as I wrenched my door open. His face darkened at the racial slur, but neutrality quickly flooded back to his features.
“Might be that you can,” he responded. “May I come in?”
His accent told me he hailed from the north, probably the Forest of Ages. The way he carried himself told me was a master of swordplay. That and the two rapiers belted to his waist. The leather he wore most likely covered fine chainmail. I was probably going to regret this.
“Sure,” I sighed. “Why the fuck not?” He swaggered into my meager apartment, casting his eyes (should I say eye? would that be rude?) all around. Yet he remained in the entrance way until I shut the door. “So what can I do ya for?”
“You can die,” came his shouting response. One sword stabbed forward, the other remaining sheathed. It wasn’t hard to dodge; he hadn’t intended to kill with that thrust.
“I’d rather not,” I replied as I threw a left hook. A swordsman he may be, but he was not prepared for me to have gotten my balance back so quickly. They never are for some reason. He staggered back, making his way to my living room. I followed, throwing my fists up in a fighting posture when he regained his footing. His other rapier was now in his hand.
“And here I was afraid you wouldn’t prove a challenge.” He slashed high with one, low with the other. I rolled to the right, just over his low swing and just under his high one. On my feet before he could turn, I grinned.
“Hope I don’t disappoint.” Then my right hand collided with the left side of his torso. As I suspected, there was chainmail underneath the leather. Guess I should have aimed for the head.
His left back hand slash was not unanticipated. In fact, I was counting on it. I caught his forearm in my left hand and pulled as I struck his tricep with my right. The crack of his elbow was sickeningly satisfying. I expected a scream of agony and for him to drop to his knees; instead I got a gasp and the hilt of his right saber on my temple. Not what I was counting on.
He rocked me. A god damned elf rocked me! As I staggered to my left, he stalked in with
his one good arm. It didn’t hurt as his steel slashed open my belly. I barely even noticed it. One second there was no blood, the next there was. It wasn’t deep, just fucking frustrating.
“For your sake, my arm had better heal,” the elf said through gritted teeth. I had sunk to my knees, taking ragged breaths. Victory was in his eye (fuck it, I’m rude).
“I’d be more worried about your throat,” I replied. “But that’s just me.” He gave me a puzzled look, his handsome face contorting in confusion. My eyes flashed, deep red light emanating from them. Then his neck snapped, his spine protruding oddly out the front his throat. His body fell backwards.
I felt like a cheater as I took his sabers. I really wanted to kill him with my bare hands. Not like it really mattered; he was dead.
The elf took the seat farthest to the left of the desk upon entering. I couldn’t help but stare at the scar that covered his face. He would have been almost beautiful had it not been for that scar.
“You keep staring, mother fucker,” he said, “I’ll show you what I did to the man who gave it to me.” I averted my eyes.
“What the fuck is this about?” he asked of the fat fuck.
“Patience, my elven friend,” the boss responded. “When all of the guests have arrived, I will let you know.”
“Wouldn’t consider us friends.”
“Have we not worked well together?”
“You give me a target. Target dies. You give me payment. Hardly seems friendly,” the elf said. “Anything to drink?”
“Only my friends get to drink in my office,” the fat fuck responded. The elf eyed him.
“Then, friend, show me to the drinks.”
“Right behind you.”
The elf stood and made his way to the bar. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey. Dwarven whiskey. Mine eyes have seen many things, but never have I witnessed an elf wet his whistle with dwarven liquor.
“Royce, if your butler don’t quit staring at me, I’m going to make his eyes match his lips.” He took a sip of his drink to accentuate his point. My employer probably would have offered a response had the chamber not shaken from the vigorous knocking at the door. Before I could open it, a giant forced its way in. The elf lifted his glass in salute to the newcomer.
“I thought I smelled you, Dak’n,” the gruff voice of the behemoth said. The elf chuckled.
“Only an orc nose would be able to smell me.”
“Only my nose, you mean.” The orc’s eyes were covered with a white bandana. The fat fuck’s nod proved my suspicions correct. The orc was blind. It seemed not to impede him; he made his way to the bar with no effort.
His armor was thick, comprised of plates of blue steel. The interlocking rings of his chainmail were barely perceptible underneath his heavy covering. The armor looked exotic, not the typical choice of every other orc I had met. And then I noticed the katana on his hip. So this was the samurai.
“Fucking fairy,” I grumbled as I drug his corpse across my floor and into my bathroom. It’s not that he was heavy; he was just dead weight. And nobody had told me to expect an elf. So why was there now a dead one in my apartment?
He slumped into my tub. There was a blood trail from almost my front door, across the living room floor, and into the god damned bathroom. Just great. I closed the door; I could deal with this particular nuisance later.
These rapiers were fine. And by fine, I mean nice as fuck. Well crafted, evenly balanced, perfectly weighted. Which means he wasn’t just some fucking street thug. Which means he wasn’t trying to rob me. Which means he was probably part of the…
Before I could even finish that thought, the sound of a raging battle in my hallway tore me from my head and back into reality. The sun had set and I was alone in the dark as I listened. Shouts. Steel clashing with steel. And…fire? That doesn’t bode well.
I almost slipped on elf blood as I ran to my front door. There wasn’t much to see out of the peep hole, but I did notice bun marks on the opposite wall. So there was fire. In my wooden apartment building. That was located above a bar. This does not bode well. At all.
Before I could open the door and stop my place of residence from going up in flames, I caught a glimpse of one of the combatants. Azure armor. Katana. Bandage across the face. The blind warrior. The Daimio. I was expecting him. A chain flew out of the nothing to my left and wrapped around the orc’s waist. That chain was expected as well. As long as these two didn’t destroy the building, I might as well let them kill each other. Save me the trouble.
The elf poured another whiskey. The orc abstained from drinking. They were discussing…something. I was unfamiliar with the language they spoke and was unable to ascertain the subject of their lively debate. The fat fuck looked over at me.
“It’s Ignan, Jant, the tongue of fire,” the boss said. “When they again speak a language you comprehend, try not to eavesdrop. Wouldn’t want to have to sew your ears shut as well.” I nodded my ascent.
Bone scraping steel ended their conversation. The fat fuck motioned at me to open the door. But that wasn’t a knock. The sound tore into me as once again it echoed through the chamber. The boss cleared his throat. I grabbed the door handle.
He was pale, almost translucent as he walked into the meeting. Hair ran down his back, as pale as his flesh. He wore it hooked behind his ears, ears covered in piercings. Silence engulfed him as he made his way into the room. He took his seat, directly in the center.
There was a muffled cry. Then that bloody sound of fire again. A loud clang, probably the orc’s body hitting the ground. Apparently his ancestors couldn’t protect him from the Ashborn. So what would protect me? My arrogance, I decided as I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. It was unnaturally hot.
“I see you killed the Daimio,” I stated to the pale figure leaning over the orc’s body. “Rumor has it that his sword houses the souls of ancestors, that their power can be used to increase his in battle.”
“Little good it did him,” came the raspy response. He stood, his black eyes peering into my soul. “He should have walked away when I gave him the chance.”
The reputation of the Ashborn was well founded I noticed as I sized him up. Pale flesh covered his muscular body. He wasn’t big, not like the orc, but he was built, every muscle being visible. His hair was hooked behind his ears, long and white. But that wasn’t what stood out about this…thing. Spikes jutted from his shoulders. Tiny horns poked out of his face where his eyebrows should have been. Black pools of hate were underneath the horns, the white irises being the only clues they were eyes.
No shirt covered his torso. Only scars and pale skin. His legs and feet were hidden under tight leather pants and boots. Spikes covered his forearms, exited his skin around his knuckles. In his hands was a wickedly sharp chain. It would appear that I didn’t want to get close to him nor keep my distance. I shook the doubt from my head and grinned; I was prepared for this. He smiled back, his forked tongue sliding along his dagger-like fangs.
“I like your jacket,” he said in that raspy voice. “Why not toss it to me. Wouldn’t want to hurt it when I tear your ribs out of your chest.”
“Sure thing, you demonic fuck.” I took my leather jacket and threw it in his direction. The tattoos covering my arms came to life as the coat flew through the air, tribal marks dancing off my skin and into the air. The angry ink flashed red as it sliced through the air, matching the light now pouring from my mouth and eyes. The pale one dove forward.
Up he came, covering the distance between us in a few steps. His charge ended in a swift uppercut, those claws screaming as they moved to embed themselves in the soft tissue underneath my mouth. Backwards I flew. He seemed prepared for my back flip. I wish I could have seen those black eyes when I reversed my momentum midair, as my tennis shoes slammed into his chest. Bet he was surprised.
My feet hit the ground. I landed in a crouch, one hand on the ground, one out wide. My ink hissed as it grafte
d itself back to my arms. He was still on his back…had I hit him that hard? The sound of steel roaring through the air told me I hadn’t. I ducked; his chain took a chunk of the wall with it. He kept his chain dancing as I stayed prone. Then he brought it crashing down, hoping to snap my back with it.
I rolled to the left, back towards my door. His chain ravaged the floor of the hall. No time like the present, I thought as I ran in his direction. He whipped his chain where he thought I was, but I had already taken flight, diving over that menacing weapon. The Ashborn opened that wicked mouth of his I as I soared over. Flames erupted from his throat, enveloping me. I kept my cool though, rolling as I hit the ground. I stood up, in a boxer’s stance.
“You’re fun, Judas,” he rasped at me. “If I had more time, I would enjoy this.”
He took a step forward, his claws dripping liquid fire. I couldn’t stand up and bang with him and we both knew it. Guess I was going to have to use my head. Again. My eyes flashed, their hateful ruby illuminating the hallway. But he had stopped moving. As I calmed my aching mind, I could see a sword sticking out of his chest. He fell forward, impaled from behind on the orc’s katana. But it wasn’t the orc standing there as the Ashborn hit the ground.
“Oops,” said the gnome.
Black pits of searing agony with white irises. His eyes were exquisite, more magnificent than any precious gem stone. I was awestruck by this creature, this beautiful tragedy sitting in my boss’s office. He put a black cigarette between his lips, lighting it on conjured fire.
“Take a good look, butler,” his raspy whisper of a voice said. “They say you can almost see Hell in them if you look hard enough.”
“Glad you could make it,” the fat fuck said. “Now if the other three would arrive, we could begin.”
“Other two, you mean.” A cultured voice from the open doorway floated into the chamber. He was only two and a half feet tall, but carried himself with the grace and strength of character of one much taller. His eyes were not visible behind his dark spectacles and his mouth was covered with a surgical mask. The leather case he carried matched his leather coat. The light of the chandelier shone off his bald head. The mortician had arrived.
“Nurse,” the Ashborn acknowledged his presence as the gnome sat down next to him, smoke pouring from his nostrils.
“How have you been?” the surgeon asked. “Sustained any injuries since that fiasco with the dracolich?”
The pale one finished his cigarette and eyed the gnome, turning those soul stealing orbs onto the tiny man seated to his right. And he shook his head.
“No. And I still maintain I didn’t need you on that