|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Chapter Nine: A Bridge too Far (Or how knitting can save your life.)
The next morning was hard on most of the group. For one thing, hangovers are nasty business, and for another, that storm that had started the night before was starting to flood the town! Though they stumbled down the stairs, the heroes knew what they needed to do and were already strapping on their gear, weapons, and other essentials. Parry had also started knitting frantically in a much wider stitch than she normally used.
Cin and Feiskar started to organize the people that were milling about outside the tavern (the people knew that a group of adventurers were inside and were counting on the fact that they would not run away and leave the helpless townspeople to their own devices.) Luckily for the people of the town, these were indeed true heroes (or substitute heroes, but that is just a technicality), and they would not leave a soul behind. Those without a soul,
No matter what time of day or night it was, Harriet was to be determined to annoy Smati. Or at least, it seemed that way sometimes. Sure she knew there was something important going on with the other saints, but Smati actually had some important intelligence for Harriet this time. Stuff that REALLY couldnt wait until tomorrow, no matter what the elf at the door said. And so, shed rather unceremoniously let herself into a meeting of the saints. She was quiet about it, Harriet was going to be mad enough with her barging in like this. Quietly melding with the shadows, the were moved around the room until she was behind the drow. Quietly and unobtrusively she placed the intelligence she had managed to gather on the table, then slipped back into the shadows. Moving back the way she'd come, the were paused at the door, looking back once at the room; one didn't often get to see so many im
Ambrosio in HellDarkness, darker than the darkest night, deeper than the depths of the ocean was nothing and everything. Darkness was, and reigned. Darkness was Ambrosios every conscious notion. Eternity had come and gone, or so it seemed, and still He languished. His tormentors had left him only after six days and seven nights, He knew the passage of time only from the Demons that did attend him. In the day the demons touch burned like fire. In the night, their rotten limbs froze him to the core. For those long days and nights they had tortured him to his limits and beyond, pulling, stretching, twisting, and morphing his malleable Soul so that his appearance might match that of his wickedness. Only on the seventh day did they finally leave him. When they were gone, he was utterly alone.
To one who has spent their life cloistered away from most of their fellow men, going days at a time without spea
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
Keep in Touch!