Tak – Out of Context

Touched

“M-my name is F-Finzen”, stammered the Halfling. “W-what’s yours?” He blinked hard, forcing the sleepy haze from his eyes, one pale blue, one brown.

In his right hand, he clenched a falchion that looked far too heavy for his stature. A leather strap protruding from the pommel, was wrapped tightly around his wrist. Finzen stood almost naked save for a magically patterened breastplate and a loosely wrapped sheet of cloth.

From the shadows behind the Halfling, emerged a medium sized dog. It padded forward slowly, sat down to his left. A reflection of the campfire flickered in the dog’s eyes, one brown, the other pale blue. It stared intently at the newcomer and growled softly.

Finzen raised his spare hand to head height and scruffed the back of the dog’s neck. “Th-this is B-Brutalus. He’s my m-most t-trustworthy f-friend.” Finzen smiled broadly. Brute, were it possible, would have smiled just the same.

The demon snarled and spat at the comparatively diminutive pair.

“W-well, if it’s g-going to be l-like that…” Finzen trailed off. With a warbling wail and no further delay, the tiny warrior dashed towards the intruder. Brutalus, suddenly frothing at the mouth, snarled menacingly and charged after his master.

Love

The Grand Chronicler’s Circle was a favourite destination for Xyrven. Every street was lined with carts filled with inks, nibs and empty scrolls. Scribes offered writing, translation and language services just as the farmers peddled their freshly harvested goods on each tier of the Terraces.

The Grand Library, central to the district, housed texts from all over Golarion. Xyrven frequented the building, spending hour after hour skimming through the innumerable books and scrolls.

It took him several months before he was confident enough to hold a believable conversation with any of the library’s attendants. He took note of unique sounding writings that were referenced in the texts and would ask for them by name. He learned the organisational structure of each section of the library and spoke of obscure documents until finally, somebody offered to retrieve them. Within six months, he became quite popular and by the turn of the new year, even the surly head librarian would raise an eyebrow and nod as he came and went.

Xyrven didn’t know what they thought of him. Perhaps they considered him a bright young student, keen to learn the ways of the world. At worst, they may have thought him a child of the middle castes, desperately trying to claw his way into upper society.

In truth, he only came to the library for one thing.

Her name was Prem. Her rich, onyx hair flowed like a waterfall on the River Sald. Her brown eyes were pools so deep that Xyrven lost his breath every time she smiled. She smelled like the seerbloom of Kyonin and though he had not tried the plant himself, Xyrven was sure its effect would not be even half as potent.

Sitting curled up in a corner of the study area and thoroughly enchanted, he stared at her over the edge of the leatherbound tome resting on his knees.

The scene, paused in that moment, swam on the surface of the pool of dark red liquid below his restrained body. It wavered with each droplet of blood that dribbled down his chin and landed in the basin…

Lesson learnt

“Have you got it?”

An excited whisper. The drunkard’s breath hangs in the still air, reeking of cheap ale.

The hooded figure before him nods, presenting a pale, closed fist. Sinewy fingers open slowly, revealing a gold brooch no more than 15 centimetres in diameter. Inlaid filigree of the finest quality glistens despite the meagre light from the crescent moon.

“Good, good.”

The man begins to wipe spittle from the corner of his mouth, then pauses, staring at the lower half of the hooded figure’s smooth, unblemished face. “Heh. You’re just a fucking child.”

With surprising speed, the man snatches the pendant away. Xyrven’s fingers twitch in response, apparently too late to stop the manoeuvre.

The man smiles broadly as he pockets his prize, straightens to full height, turns and begins to walk away.

“My payment?” Xyrven whispers harshly.

The man grunts. “You’ve a lot to learn, boy. I say you have ten seconds to run away before my associates turn you inside out, Master… Lothien, isn’t it?”

“How did you…” Xyrven’s words trail off as six bulky figures emerge from the shadows, blades of all lengths sliding from their scabbards.

———-

Half an hour later, lying on his back on a marble plinth in the gardens of The Heights, Xyrven stares up at the winking stars. He smiles. Hand in his pocket, he gently runs the tips of his fingers along the detailed filigree on the finest brooch he had yet seen in his young life.

Elsewhere, a seething criminal vows to hunt down Lothien the thief, as the counterfeit brooch crumbles in his quivering fist.

Happiness

Stretching out as he yawned, Brett rolled over as he always did, onto his right hand side. His arm landed heavily across the form of the other human lying in his bed. They didn’t stir.

For a brief moment, he was startled. Methodically, he pieced together the events of the prior evening and couldn’t help but grin as he recalled how it had all come to a close.

He was beautiful.

Brett leaned in to nuzzle, resting his nose against the other man’s cheek.

Before long, he feel asleep again, to the sound of his companion’s breathing and the steady pulsing motion of his rising and falling chest.

Onwards

*ptink*

The rhythmic sound of water droplets glancing off a hollow metal railing.

Before you descends a mossy concrete stairway. It recedes, like a monstrous tongue, into the wide open maw of the Deep Dark.

Dreamer

As the already lukewarm water cascaded down her body, she lost herself in a scenario.

“Hey, I really have to talk to you. Can you spare a minute?

I, uhhm… Your laugh makes me happy… and I like you a lot.”

She bit her lip as she ran the sponge over her skin absentmindedly and further opened the hot water tap. She looked away shyly as if he were standing before her. He looked handsome, drenched in the summer rain.

“You have this confidence about you; an aura. That and let’s not kid ourselves, you’re really hot.”

The man’s cheeks flushed. She laughed nervously.

“Can we, uhhm… Can we get a coffee? Sometime. Anytime, really.

Great!

Now? Oh sure, this afternoon would be… great.”

The hot water tap hit its bump stop and the water temperature began to plummet.

… and don’t come back

He pointed at the door.

“Get out.”

She shrugged in indifference, no longer concerned about his approval or his opinion.

“Fine.”

Optimism

When I first put on glasses that were made specifically for me, I immediately looked up. Right in the centre of my view was the moon. I was about 22 years old.

I was moved to my very core and I couldn’t stop staring.

For the first time in my life, the outline was crystal clear. I could make out the greys and the whites of Oceanus and Mare Tranquillitatis. I would swear even now that I could make out even the finer details of Copernicus, Kepler and Archimedes.

It was so beautiful that I cried quietly, standing on my driveway.

I clenched my fists and determined at that moment, that I was going to be somebody. Somebody worthy of his one shot on the planet. Somebody free of anxiety, doubt and fear.

I’m still working on it, but every time I remember to look up and I see that moon, I am reminded of that night and I feel energised.

I am grateful to be alive. I am thankful for the challenges I’ve faced. I will continue to learn, evolve and grow and I will attack every new challenge with determination, surety and fervour.

Reboot

Your bed.

A familiar ceiling.

The sounds of a neighbour proceeding with a renovation, pushing their luck with the morning noise restriction.

This is home. A place of love and laughter and comfort, far from the realities of your recent experiences.

How can you be here after all this time? Wasn’t your home lost along with the rest of the city when the war began? You watched it burn. You were held by your older sibling as fear seared like acid inside your stomach and anguish, like you’ve never felt before, overwhelmed you.

“Too much! More precision. Start again.” A gruff voice. Authoritative. Confident.

The kitchen.

Tiger, your mother’s cat, nudges your leg and circles eagerly as you open a can of pet food. She stops to sniff at the inside of your ankle. You smile and squirm as her whiskers tickle your bare leg.

Your father, as usual, sits in his study, poring tirelessly over maps and scribbled notes on a theory he calls ‘The Puzzle’.

“Get us in there”. A gruff voice. Authoritative. Confident.

A faint flicker of a memory. A man not unknown to you…

Your father calls to you. You look over and he gestures for you to approach, his familiar fingers moving in an unfamiliar fashion.

Something’s not right.

You try to stop walking, but your body disobeys. Like a marionette on strings, you jolt towards the study, muscles straining in protest.

“No, no, stop. It cannot be forced.” A gruff voice. Authoritative. Frustrated.

“Start again.”

What do you do?

You awaken from your reverie and find yourself standing in a field.

Knee high grass rustles gently as a cooling breeze caresses your cheek. You turn your head towards the tantalising smells of roasting food.

To the west, the clouds present as a camaïeu in orange. On the horizon, silhouetted by the arc of the setting sun, you make out what appears to be a small cottage. Smoke rises from its chimney.

From above you in the east, the palette of deep purples is giving way to a slate grey evening sky, followed by a starless, matte onyx.