A tale of Robin, my Final Fantasy XIV character, and the start of his forced journey from home into strange lands.

One or two days had passed since their fateful assignment. A lump sum of Gil was handed over prior to completion, of course Robin found this a bit odd. Why would he stake more than half before the job was done? Though, now he suspected what truly was at play. The Syndicate was often a bloodbath for those under the chairs, with eyes set on rising above their station. He was happy to ensure his love shared in their bounty, in their newfound lovefest in Old Gridania. The Duskwight was a little too cautious, however. He went back to Old Gridania ahead of Sinead, to ensure all was truly well.

Robin’s eyes found themselves leveled against a small insignia of Nald carved into the front door of his office. Suddenly he could feel the blood drain from his lanky Elezen body. It was not even the door outside, but the door inside beyond a locked one. He frowned, They’ve burned me. We’re done for. His mind was racing but he was already on autopilot. Years of seeing this done to friends and foe alike had trained him on how to respond. He could recall the time his old childhood friend had wrong the Syndicate. The way they dismantled his entire life piece by piece, person by person, until they finally found him and finished the job.

He had assembled a small assortment of papers, contracts, letters, and more. He could feel tears forming in the back of his eyes but he willed them away. There was no time. Hastily he assembled a fire in the fireplace and began systematically burning everything he could that tied him to his love, Sinead. They would target her and do everything they could to send a message aimed directly at Robin. Those delicate fingers found the contract he had drafted up for her service. There was a cold and hollow pain in his chest, his fingers shook as he slowly pushed it towards the fire. This all felt so final, but he knew it must be if he wanted her to live and have a life beyond him. The flames began to lap at the parchment. It took a few attempts but eventually smoke gave way and the flames were born at the tip, consuming the contract. He gently let it fall atop one of the logs.

Robin turned, his eyes first laid on the couch, then to his desk. Phantoms of Sinead appeared everywhere. Laying on the couch, half-nude. Leaning against the desk as she inquired about Robin’s work for the day. Or her gently waking him up after he fell asleep trying to work overnight. Conversation and laughter could be heard, but it was faint and long gone. There was an urge to leave a note, even a fake one. Perhaps for a cleaner, or landlord. But he opted against it. The Syndicate was smart and could easily read through any code he implied; he knew they had not finished lessons on fluent common literacy for dear Sinead. She may miss something he had hidden in the message.

His mind went to refugees that had arrived from Doma. It was a fairly recent development as they had just started to arrive in the major cities and ports. Prior to accepting this final mission, he had met a family of farmers that were fleeing the Garleans. They had assaulted their home outside of Doma. Robin had no particular love for Domans or their plight, but he did not like the taste of someone losing their home and heritage like he had. It was an easy choice and the furthest from the Syndicate as he could manage.

“About two months by sea, Ser. Or a few weeks by air,” the attendant at the counter smiled weakly at Robin, “The boat is leaving today. The ship will be setting sail in two da—”

Robin quickly interrupted the Hyuran woman, holding up his hand, “Give me the boat. Passage for one,” he stopped, then quickly added, “Please.”

The woman rolled her eyes, clearly noting she was dealing with another impatient Elezen. She got right to work drafting up his passage for Kugane. “Ah, last private cabin. How lucky for you, Ser. Here you are. I wish you a safe journey,” she flashed a practiced smile at him and handed him his ticket. His freedom to leave and flee everything behind. Those same emotions from before now threatened to burst in front of this odd and random Hyuran woman. However, he managed to take the ticket with a polite nod and proceed to the waiting area. All he could manage was to stare at his ticket and the few belongings he could back. Just enough to survive.
 

With great surprise and delight, Robin had found the seas had agreed with him. Though, to see the Ruby Seas for himself was quite a treat. All the sights, sounds, tastes, and people of the Far East were far brighter and more jubilant than he imagined.

Their journey had them dock in Thavnair for a time to resupply. Only a day. However, it was enough for Robin to gain a newfound love of sailing and adventure. To see this island nation for himself was a delight, but also a powerful pain. He longed to be with his Veena and their child to be.

His reverie was ripped from him upon arriving in Kugane. It was a port city where he could easily live-in comfort as a foreigner. All of his delights would be at hand but he knew this was ideal for other foreigners, namely agents of the Syndicate. He had no desire to learn the city’s feelings on organized crime and his lot. A generous fare of Gil was offered to a nearby boat taxi, “Yanxia. Near Namai,” the gentleman arched an eyebrow at Robin. “I know the risks…” Robin waved a dismissive hand and helped himself into the boat without a word of approval from the captain. To willingly go into a war-torn countryside was rather silly but it was a good place to disappear.

Robin scratched at his arm aggressively. He turned his body to one side, then the other.

A fierce urge to scratch his thighs now erupted in his mind. He scratched hard and groaned, the feeling of freshly itched skin through the itchy fabric was a small reprieve.

He found himself in a bunk house in Namai with six others, all in their own makeshift cots. He had since changed from his fine clothes to more traditional farmer garb. A plain pair of cloth pants and a thick tunic. A Non-La hung from the wall just above his bed. No one cared to warm him of the insects that plagued these farms, he felt in over his head not knowing any of the herbs in the area. If he could find lemon grass or even some mint then this could be dealt with, but the language barrier proved difficult and they had their own names for herbs.

This would be his home for over the next three years. Toiling away under the hot sun to try and feed refugees, survivors, locals, and more. They were hesitant to trust an Elezen that came from seemingly nowhere. Of course, everyone always suspects a potential Garlean agent, but everyone know the Empire would simply burn down the farm, not try to infiltrate it. The village did not necessarily warm up to him, but they tolerated him. Treating the taller Elezen like more of a beast of burden and tasks. Robin recalled answered many a question, especially from more shadowy individuals. But he paid it no mind. He simply told the people he could that he was a humble Wildwood botanist from Old Gridania. Altruistic and skilled in farming. This actually was not a lie, but his name was a lie as well as his background.

If this was the life, he would retire in then it would not be so bad. But he knew one day he would want to find his Sinead, to see her again. There was an urge to return to his ambitions. Though he had a fear of Gil and excess now, he still desired to see himself and his family restored to some power, if only through the aether and seeing their hard work restored. There were rumors of written works in Gyr Abania, and the Sharlayan may have done a good bulk of the heavy lifting for him. He set off for Kugane, to simply and quietly inquire about how much it would be to return for a time.

A small short story for my character, Robinaux, in the MMORPG Final Fantasy XIV. Character art is not my own.

“Alright, kid. Keep your hands to yourself. Speak when spoken to. Watch where those eyes fall. And mind your fuckin’ manners.” Robinaire felt moisture hit him in the forehead and cheek. The older Elezen, a Wildwood, had accidently spit on the poor lad as he punctuated the curse. The man straightened out his back and simply huffed. He looked up at the Thanalan sky, gaging the position of the sun. He shielded his eyes with a hand, “It’s about the time,” he looked back down at Robinaire. The much shorter Elezen was actually a young lad, no doubt twelve or thirteen. He was rather lanky, borderline sickly, standing at about five fulms. His clothes were immensely modest. A simple once-white tunic with rather inelegant brown slacks. The clothes looked like they had lost a fight with a moth or two. This style of dress was similar to four other boys with him, standing at his side.

Two of which were Hyur boys, they were evidently twins though one had much more disheveled and longer hair. The other did his best to trim it, perhaps with a blunt knife. They looked to be about sixteen. The other was a rather short Miqo’te, his eyes giving him away as a Keeper of the Shroud, who appeared to be around Robinaire’s age. And lastly there was a rather husky looking Roegydan, no doubt edging on eighteen.

The man huffed, his mouth slack. He quickly turned on a heel, almost seemingly eager to get out of this alley they found themselves in. He then started down the alleyway towards the street. They had been there for almost an hour, waiting for someone.

“W-Wait… they still haven’t come yet. We have to wait!” Robinaire, his voice much lighter, a slight throat crack every few syllables. He was calling after the Wildwood man. The young Robinaire shot out an accusatory index finger, the boys around him growing rather anxious, “We paid you your fee—” the man stopped and looked at Robinaire, impatience written across his brow.

“Don’t lose your head, kid! You already can’t listen to what I say!” He turned toward the street and looked around the corner, his voice a bit calmer, “I’m checking. That’s all, but I am not going to give it muc—” It was his turn to be interrupted. The Wildwood staggered back into the alley, back peddling as a figure approached him, walking into the alley with them.

A rather tall and imposing Highlander woman stood before the Wildwood gentleman. Her skin was as golden as the Sagolii on a bright afternoon, her hair darker than the night. She regarded the Wildwood, frowning. Her attention then turned on Robinaire and his cohorts. A strand of hair fell, she quickly tucked it back behind her ear. If she were to be an average, lost, local then she would be extremely well dressed. A light tanned jacket hugged her shoulders, a fine animal hide no doubt. The same hide clung to her hips, exposing her naval to show off a rather audacious gold jewel seemingly pierced there.

Robinaire could feel his cheeks reddening as he ogled this stranger. She was now looking towards the man; she then clapped her hands together once. The bracelets clacking loudly, “Good, good! You’re late though. He’ll be happy to have them. Let’s go,” she gestured for the Wildwood to follow, and he in turn stared at the boys, his stare was red hot fury. Don’t step out of line. At least that is what Robinaire imagined. The Wildwood let the boys usher behind the Highlander. He then brought up the rear but… at a considerable distance of a few yalms. Robinaire felt confused but went along with it. They traveled through the Steps of Thal towards the crafters’ guilds. This was his second day in Ul’Dah and he was already treated to a feast for his eyes. The sights of Gridania were much less splendorous. And the locals… Robinaire’s eyes fell to the saunter of the woman’s derriere, cheeks reddening further.

They found themselves in front of the Goldsmith’s Guild, the front entrance just ahead. A small automated mammot glanced at them and welcomed them in the tinny tone. The young Elezen frowned, confused at the strange automaton. Robinaire glanced around and saw the Wildwood, though he was leaning against a wall, looking in the other direction. Young Robinaire arched an eyebrow. He was acting like he was not a part of their little entourage. Was this man truly so dangerous? He looked back at the woman, who was escorting the boys into the Guild. “You too, don’t dally. We have to get you little lads to work!” She clapped her hands again, lightly giggling as she ushered Robinaire in. The woman, satisfied the boys were inside, shot a swift glance to the Wildwood, then turned into the Guild.

The inside could only be described as organized chaos. A myriad of crafters came and went, flying from workstation to workstation. The majority of the crafters were Lalafell. Each and every one of them was handling some form of dazzling jewelry or metallurgy. Gems, sapphires, diamonds, opals, citrines, pearls. It was all there, and Robinaire was slack jawed. “I… don’t think they would notice if they were missing any…” the Miqo’te boy looked at Robinaire, whispering conspiratorially into his ear.

“That ishn’t a good ideash,” the shaggerier twin spoke, still dealing with a lisp. Robinaire chuckled, looking at the cracked lip on the boy. Still healing. He was quite familiar with each of them, all five of them having found one another through one way or another. But mainly through the various orphans being corralled around Old Gridania.

Robinaire nodded at the boy with the lisp, then to the Miqo’te, “Ruax is right. This will be easy Gil. Besides…” he glanced around, “I don’t think they want to alert the Flames that they’re hiring kids.” The Wildwood man brushed past them, interrupting their conversation. He turned towards the Front Desk and politely nodded at an attendant. He looked like he was looking for something, but his motions were rather embellished. Robinaire frowned. Pretending. This was all a cheap cover. He glanced towards the back of the Guild. The Highlander was speaking to two Lalafell. She pointed towards a door in the back, then curled her finger at Robinaire.

Young Robinaire jostled Raux and his friends. The Roegydan lad seemingly found himself entranced by the gems. He leaned against the railing overlooking the goldsmiths toiling away at their hard work. “Let’s go, Swyggz,” Robinaire tugged the back of his wrinkled shirt. The Roe looked over his shoulder and nodded. He couldn’t recall the last time he heard Swyggz talk. A lad of few words but he was always reliable. With his motley crew collected he walked them over to the Highlander then towards the door. Suddenly he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Robinaire looked upwards from behind his dirty blonde bangs, it was the woman,

“I’m sure that lout told you but let me remind you… mind yourselves. If he wants you to talk then he will ask. Otherwise? Smile!” The pressure of her hand was firm and it had begun to hurt. Robinaire’s face cracked a little. He shook her loose. “And smile!” She clapped her hands together and motioned towards her lips, showing a rather embellished smile. Robinaire attempted to mimic it, look almost deranged. The woman choked back a laugh, “Good enough. Get inside.” The façade fell instantly, she looked rather bored now, practically pushing the boys through the doors and shutting them behind them.

They were greeted by a much calmer atmosphere. They were standing on a crimson rug, leading down a lengthy hall that was dimply lit by aetherical light. Robinaire’s ears twitched, practically hearing the hum of the lanterns. At the end of the hallway was a Lalafellian gentleman making great strides towards them. “Come, come! You’re late! Where’s Leticia?” Robinaire glanced around, all of them seemingly confused. The Lalafell reached them. He was rather short, even for a Lalafell, and his hair tied up into a rather neat bun. Darkened skin tones complimented his dark hair. He looked impatient, “You came with a dark-haired woman, right?” A clap was heard from the other side of the door, then laughter. Muffled conversation. “Hmph. That answers that. Let’s go, you mutes. Follow me and hands to yourself.” He ushered them to follow.

Thus began an interesting journey of various hallways, doors, and hushed conversations. Robinaire tried his best to remember exactly where they were. However, he lost count by the thirteenth turn and seventh door. A few folk passed them by but they were careful to always be looking forward, never regarding the Lalafell or the boys. This was clearly a whole other side of Ul’Dah.

Eventually they came to a pair of gilded doors at the bottom of a staircase. There were two large brass knockers at chest height. The dark skinned Lalafell waddled to the side where he found a rope. The knockers were sadly out of his range but with two swift tugs, then a longer tug, Robinaire would hear a distant drone through the heavy doors.

They waited only a few moments. Suddenly the doors swung open. An older Hyur gentleman greeted them. He looked to the boys, confusion on his face until he saw the Lalafell, “Ah, Huna. Another batch of hopefuls?” He smiled weakly, “Jolly fine. Come along, everyone.” He stepped away from the door and motioned for the lads to enter along with Huna, which was seemingly the Lalafell’s name.

“When are we going to get something to drink?” The Miqo’te asked weakly, looking towards the Hyur and Huna.

The Hyur chuckled, “There will be water after the interview. You can enjoy your fill.” He then stepped into what appeared to be a grand foyer. Robinaire had to blink. There was opulence and luxury… everywhere. From floor to ceiling. The marble flooring was inlayed with a brilliantly polished gold filigree with a deep red carpet to compliment it. The walls had various paintings. All depicting times in history or vast landscapes. Some of deep woods, others of snowy valleys. Robinaire looked up to find an oversized chandelier hanging over a grand staircase, this too was gold but it was designed in such a way to cast shadows of various celestial bodies all across the room. Truly this young Elezen had seen nothing of this level of luxury, and neither did his compatriots. All five boys stood, mouths agape.

Robinaire’s ears twitched, there was a distant melodic tune in the air. He glanced down an adjacent hallway.

“Okay, gentlemen,” the Hyur caught their attention, “We’ll be conducting the interview shortly. To save everyone’s time we will just have you all assessed together. Mind your words. Speak when spoken to. Refreshments come after. Easy, right?” The Hyur smiled warmly. He was sharply dressed, wearing what seemed to be tailored vest and finely measured soot black slacks. The boys looked at one another, then back to the Hyur and nodded in unison. “Beautiful. Let’s get you to the assessment room.”

He motioned for them to follow as he went down the hallway. They passed a few paintings, all of dour looking Lalafell. All seemingly with that chocolate toned skin. The music was getting louder. It was indeed a piano. “Sounds pretty. What do you think they’re gonna do with us?” Raux leaned towards Robinaire, hushed whispers. His brother was commiserating at Swyggz, though the Roegydan lad only replied with a thousand-yard stare.

Robinaire frowned, “Ask questions, yeah? Interview. They just figure out if you are going to be a good fit for the job. Like when we practiced how to lie to the Wood Wailers. Just stand up straight and lie, but do it with style,” Robinaire winked at Raux, a cheesy grin followed. The young Elezen learned a few tricks from other older lads as they grew up. But he was still green behind the ears.  This was his first real taste of the real world out there. Raux shook his head, laughing.

“Now, now, boys. Silence from here on out.” If the Hyur heard the conversation, he did not show it. After some walking they found themselves in what seemed to be a large room with gilded windows along the wall. Stained glass and spilling in a warm amber light. Robinaire could have sworn they were underground. Was this some sort of trick? The mystery was completely forgotten as he came face to face with source of the music.

At the opposite end of the room on a slightly lifted stage sat deep wooden grand piano. The wood finish was practically dark as the void, with a golden trim to accent it. The cover was open to allow the sweet, melancholy string music flow freely. A woman was at the helm, pale slender fingers stroking the keys as she played the sad song. She herself had flowing black hair down to the small of her back which went well with her crimson silken dress. It clung to her curves perfectly, showing off her tall frame and leaving nothing to the imagination. What caught Robinaire off guard was her ears. At first glance he assumed it was another Wildwood with a rather interesting hat. As the boys were led to the center of the room, he could make out what looked to be like ears. These too had the raven-colored hair to match.

“Viera?” The deep unfamiliar tone of Swyggz was heard from behind him. Robinaire was going to comment on hearing Swyggz for the first time in weeks but… Viera? That was their name. He hummed, his heart skipping a beat as he admired her. He wanted to simply sit on that bench and listen to this sad tune all day and night. His adolescent mind began to spiral out of control. What did she smell like? What was her name? Are those ears sensitive? Did she have a tail? Admist the piano music he could hear others. Hushed conversations. He suddenly realized this large room was full of people. All rather dapper looking folk, some trading glances at Robinaire and the boys but for the most part just enjoying themselves. A lot of them had glasses in their hands, amber liquid swirling around. Ah, more wine. Everyone always had wine here.

Robinaire had so many questions about this interview but that damn Viera. The song took a turn as she struck the brass strings with a strong fervor, her head bowing and flowing with the music. Her body writhed and wriggled, the dress catching the glimmer from the windows, practically glittering. Her eyes opened, revealing deep green pupils. She glanced over towards them and smiled. The Elezen suddenly felt like he had accomplished all he needed to in this life. If the gods sought to shuffle him of his mortal coil, this would be fine. The song reached a crescendo. Her fingers began to dance across the black and white keys as if she were casting some grand spell, her entire body was into it until… it was over. She struck the keys one final time and let the tone die out into the air. The gentlefolk began to politely clap. Seemingly this woman was quite popular, or at least well received.

Behind the Viera emerged a large man. Another Highlander, but this one was a brick of a man. Robinaire was unsure if the doors they passed would be able to fit that barrel frame. The Highlander wore fine clothes, all white and finely tailored. However, his shirt was left open enough to expose most of his chest, revealing sun-kissed skin and matted chest hair to compliment. The Viera stood up and emerged from the piano. Long, delicate arms wrapped themselves around the Highlander’s neck, she lightly pecked him on the cheek and whispered something in his ear. Too far to hear. The Highlander chortled and brought a large hand adorned with various rings against her derrière.

“It’s business time, beautiful. Get yourself a drink.” The Highlander waved the Viera off, who looked completely unphased by having her ass slapped in front of the crowd. They too seemed unphased, all eyes on the man. He looked at the boys, “Welcome, lads,” his voice was deep but raspy, “I’m gonna be interviewin’ you lot today. You can call me Sigmund.” He stepped off the lifted stage, the Viera was off to the side now, nursing a full glass of that crimson wine. Watching Sigmund, though Robinaire suspected she may be off somewhere else mentally.

Sigmund gestured around him, “Ignore the folk. They’re just here for another shindig. But we’re all excited you’re here, fellas.” He approached Robinaire but quickly placed a hand on Swyggz’s shoulder, “This lad looks like he might be the top contender!” The people began to mutter around them, all in their own little circles of conversation. “Aye! Aye! Let’s get the tester out here…” Sigmund let out a shrill whistle, echoing off the walls of the room. Robinaire shrunk a bit, a little wary of this man he has never met. When the Wildwood told them about working at the Guilds, he thought it would simply be cheap labor. This seemed like something else entirely.

Robinaire then saw two Keepers emerge from the side, a door closing behind them as they hoisted this large trunk. It had to be about five or six fulms in height. Nearly three fulms wide. And by the looks of it, it was heavy. It took them a few moments to arrive in the center. They then began to fumble with the clasps and locks. The trunk itself was rather plain and unremarkable. However, when it was finally open, they were able to separate it and reveal a rather ornate looking device. Robinaire couldn’t put his finger on it. It looked like something from Skysteel Manufactory had made love to something from the Goldsmiths’ Guild. There were various crystals, vials, and spinning devices. At the center was simply two large steel rods.

Sigmund whistled low, “Scary, huh? It’s fiiiiiine. This is a machine that tell us just how /strong/ you are!” He thumped his chest with his fist, “How strong that soul of yours is!” He thumped it once more. “Now who is going to be first? How about you? You look like the shot caller of this lot!” He gestured towards the Miqo’te who looked rather horrified to be called out. “Step on up! Grab those two handles and we shall see. What’s your name?”

The Miqo’te looked panicked, “I—Er.. ehm… G-G-Gota’ll.. h-how about R-Robinaire g-goes first..” He looked panic stricken at his friend.

Robinaire furrowed his brows, “Truly, Gota?”

Sigmund roared with laughter, his belly shaking, “Come, come!” A rough hand wrapped around Gota’s bicep and tugged him towards the machine rather roughly. “Gota will be first everyone! We’ll run the interview in two!” He held up two fingers and the room rumbled quietly. Metallic sounds were heard between the crowds. Metal on metal. He looked at Gota, “Alright, lad. Grip the handles and focus deep in that heart of yours,” he poked Gota’s chest and roughly gripped his hands, placing them on the cold handles. “And do not let go.” He punctuated the final warning with a rather deep tone.

The Miqo’te was horrified, his tail immensely bushy and waving quickly, his ears standing upright and pointed heavensward. “P-P-Please… isn’t this j-just questions?” Gota looked at Sigmund, who was ignoring the child and simply ogling the pianist Viera.

Robinaire frowned, his brow starting to sweat. This was no normal interview. Were they going to kill them? What would the purpose be? He looked behind him down the hall they came from. It was now crowded with onlookers. No chance of an easy escape. He then looked to his friends, whom all had the same panicked look as he, even Swyggz. He mapped out a dozen different plans but they all wound up with them being caught or subdued. Unfortunately, he wasn’t even allowed that luxury as Sigmund suddenly pulled a lever on the machine.

It whirred to life suddenly and Gota began to yell, a guttural scream of panic as the machine glowed. A few chimes were heard and a crystal on top began to glow brightly. The crowd around them began to mutter loudly amongst one another, seemingly surprised by what was happening. Gota flailed but ‘kept his hands on the handles. Suddenly the light of the crystal burned bright, then instantly dimmed. A flash. Robinaire rubbed his eyes, the image burned into his skull. He looked over at the machine and saw his friend Gota slumped on his side, unmoving.

“Gota!” He called out. One of the Miqo’te from before walked over and checked the boy, kneeling at his side.

“Be still, Grey,” Sigmund pointed at Robinaire, “He isn’t dead.”

The Miqo’te nodded at the boy, then at Sigmund. Without further direction, he gripped the boy by the forearms and dragged him across the marble floor and off to the side. Sigmund chortled as he inspected the machine, spinning the crystal a few times. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to the people, “Three!” Sigmund laughed again, “Juuust three, people.” He crossed his arms, frowning at Robinaire and the others. “If this is what you’re going to bring, lads, well… I dunno,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

Robinaire shouted, his face torn in confusion, “What the hells did you do to Got—” He had no idea when Sigmund got so close. All he knew was the searing pain on his face after being struck by the back of Sigmund’s hand, rings and all. Robinaire could feel a warmth on his cheek, rolling down and falling to his shirt. He looked down and saw the crimson stained the already stained top.

“Speak when spoken to you shite. What is your name?” Sigmund was deadly serious now as he stood over Robinaire.

The Elezen, despite the hard hit, stood his ground. Though he was frozen in fear rather than being brave. He motioned to answer but stopped out of fear. He did not want to be hit again.

“Your name, you knife eared cunt!” The boomed voice echoed.

Robinaire was spoken to. “R-Robinaire, ser…” His voice trembled. What happened to Gota? His mind raced.

Sigmund roared with laughter, “That name is about as frilly as her panties,” he thrust a thumb towards the Viera. Robinaire’s cheeks reddened, though that may have been from the violent backhand. “Robin be easier. Now get your dainty fingers on those handles. Now!” He looked to the others, “Elezen! Robinaaaaire,” he laughed, “We go in two!”

The crowd chuckled along with Sigmund. Everyone was in on it. Robin was horrified but he maintained his composure as best he could. He stepped towards the machine, his soft shoes gliding on the marble. It was a lot more imposing up close. The brass practically hummed. His nostrils flared and he immediately frowned, all he could smell was burnt hair.

“Grab them now! We’re going in one!” Sigmund yelled at the back of Robin’s head. In turn Robin gripped the cool handles. He half expected to be shocked, or to be knocked out but everything was quite normal for now. Sigmund approached the machine and gripped the lever from before. He looked at Robin and winked, “Win me some Gil, kid.” Robin let out a scream as the man pulled the lever, not even giving him a moment to protest.

The machine hummed to life once more and Robin felt the handles become ice cold, but his hands were stuck gripping them. The cold traveled from the handles through his fingers, his arms, and down his back throughout his body. The crystal on the machine began to spin wildly, erratically. It looked much different than when Gota’ll was being ‘interviewed’. It felt like an eternity but truly the Elezen lasted over fifty seconds before the world slipped out from under him, he too slumping forward and to his side. Unconscious.

Sigmund walked over to the machine and inspected the crystal. “Huh,” he stroked his chin in contemplation, then looked towards the crowd. “Robin got himself a seven, everyone!” He clapped and the others joined in. Sigmund looked down at the unconscious Robin, “Well done, lad!” He roared with laughter and went to grab the next boy.

Some time had passed but it was truly hard to tell just how much had passed in this under city. Robin can recall first starting to stir when he heard muffled conversations around him. He felt his head resting against something soft. The Elezen lad cracked open his eyes and was greeted by another glittering chandelier. He pulled his legs back and found himself on a chaise sofa, “Wha… where?” He glanced around, his vision a little blurry. His body felt freezing.

“Slow yourself. Warm,” he heard an odd accent nearby, an familiar voice.

Robin put his feet on the ground and steadied himself as his vision slowly focused. “Where am I?” His head began to pound as a headache sat in. There was some kind of orange orb ahead of him. His nose filled with the scent of firewood burning. Gods be praised, he could warm himself up. The Elezen rose to his feet but stumbled, his legs feeling like flan. Strong arms caught him, someone much taller. They began to guide him slowly toward the fire. He looked up at the blurred vision, but all he could see was crimson red.

The blur spoke again, that same foreign accent, “You will be cold. Sit by the fire,” the words were blunt, but spoken from a feminine voice. Robin could feel the crimson on his cheek. It was silky and felt warm. He wrapped his arms around the person, just happy to find any sort of bodily heat. The voice sighed lightly and a hand fell on top of his dirty locks. “You’re aether drained. An empty glass. Rest and recover, Robin.”

Robin could feel the call of sleep once more now that he was no longer in his penumbra. He pulled his head back to look upwards as she was let down onto the floor. Raven-black hair framed a chocolate tone face, and green eyes came into focus. It was the pianist. His heart began to beat but the exhaustion was winning the war.

“Rest. Robin.” She began to shoosh him, her voice reassuring. He had no reason to trust her but he seemingly had no choice. His final thoughts were of the Viera, and if he got the job.

This is a brief background story for my character, Philip “Amenamy” Ross, in the MMORPG Star Citizen. As always this is a work in progress. Character art is not my own.

Philip inhaled deep, he could feel goosebumps ripple across his neck and back as that familiar numbing overtook his body. The harsh smoke clawed at his throat but it was a small price to pay for the tradeoff. The urge to cough was rising quickly. Looking around in a panic he hopped off the bathroom stall toilet seat, lifted it up, then blew the smoke in and flushed. A loud roaring cough echoed off the walls of the New Babbage Interstellar Space Port men’s room. He frowned knowing toilets don’t quite work that way, at this point he didn’t care much.

The soft trills of the MobiGlass quietly sounded off. He placed the ignited joint back between his lips and inhaled once more. His other hand now free to cycle over to his bank account. The credits were already deposited. That was refreshingly fast. He grinned and exhaled once more, this time blowing the smoke at his feet. He could afford the smoking fine now after that job.

“I always knew the corporate way was the easier way,” he said to no one in particular but himself. Closing the MobiGlass, he tossed the joint into the toilet, flushed, and proceeded out of the stall. Luckily, he knew this bathroom was a little less popular due to the walk from the space port lobby.

He walked over to the sink and turned on the hot water, a little splash of cold too for that above room temperature feel. The practice of washing hands was sure important. Philip looked forward, catching his own glance. He could start to see some gray hairs forming in his hair and stubble. He smirked to himself recalling a time when he heard women dug the salt and pepper look. The man had just entered his 30s and still couldn’t seem to land a solid career track.

Thoughts of his last job screamed in his mind. He offered himself praise and harsh critiques equally.

“Alright, Ross, you’ll be our pilot for this operation. Head up to the bridge,” the words were firm, the man stared at Ross.

Philip caught himself slack jaw for a moment then shook himself free of the mental hamstring, “Ahh… absolutely, sir.” He offered a curt nod and headed for the hangar. He pressed the button for hangar bay and the elevator stirred to life.

He was alone for now. Without a helmet on he emitted a guttural yell into the void of the Port Everus. His throat felt tense, he could feel a vein pulsing on his neck, the warmth of the blood rushing to his face. Horrified, excited, panic, all the best friends of his anxiety came rushing out.

“Am I ready for this? Can I do this? You’ve only flown this ship on simulations…” Philip’s thoughts echoed loudly in his mind, as if he were before a jury all laying out their verdicts to him,” Do you realize how expensive this ship is? You’ll lose the job, idiot,” another shadowed face shouted at him, “Crash it! Smash it! Don’t even request clearance before taking off!” He gripped his fist and thumped his chest twice, trying to bring himself back to the shores of reality.

The LED light on the elevator landed on his floor and the elevator came to a halt. Philip stumbled on his feet slightly but caught himself on the door frame. The door hissed open and he was free to enter the hangar.

He placed one foot in front of the other, taking care to focus extra hard on the floor. He began to count the tiles he stepped on.

He didn’t get very high by the time he reached the main room. Inhaling the metallic smelling oxygen, he looked up and there she was, the Anvil Carrack. Philip’s eyes were wide, his nose flared. A mechanic took notice and walked up next to Philip, “She’s beautiful in person, eh?!”

Philip turned to him, his facial expression a mix of horrified and humor, it almost felt like a joke. The mechanic chuckled, “Ahhh… don’tcha worry, pal. Feel bad for the sucker flying this whale,” the mechanic laughed at his word play then began to return to his duties, “You can just relax in the lounge and eat some grapes and weird cheese!” And he was gone.

That stupid bastard. Philip couldn’t help but grin. He turned his focus back to the Carrack and marched forward towards the elevator.

He certainly wasn’t green by any stretch of the imagination. He flew Drake Cutlasses for private security, and even had a brief stint with the UEE… but may have failed the mental evaluations. With the occasional freelance cargo run here and there in his Aegis Avenger, or consulting job. The resume was there but he still hadn’t found the right job. This was his chance. A chance at a nice cushy corporate gig, climb the ladder and relax at the top. Ross clenched his fist, now filled with determination.

The elevator was waiting, a member of the crew awaiting him.

“Hello, sir. Callsign Amenamy, right? Name is… ah, yes, Mr. Philip Ross?” the gentleman waiting for confirmation from Ross.

Ross let the horror of his mind fade to the back, he quickly pivoted and grabbed the crew member’s hand and shook it, “Guilty as charged. Philip Ross, a pleasure,” he gave another quick shake and then let go. “You can just call me Ross, or Ames, whatever is easier for you, my good man.”

The member of the crew smiles, taken aback for a minute but nods, “Excellent, Mr. Ross, glad to have you aboard.” He steps to the side making room for Ross. He then turns his attention to a tablet and makes a few swift gestures with his finger. The elevator starts it’s ascent into the belly of the Carrack. The man then turns the tablet towards Ross, “Here you are, Mr. Ross. This is a non-disclosure agreement and temporary contract under the Star Phoenix freelancer agreement. We just need your signature and emergency contact details.” He pushed the tablet into Philip’s hands.

The fine print was so thorough he almost felt himself go cross eyed. He reached into his exosuit pocket and retrieved a pair of glasses. Another sign of his age that he didn’t seem to appreciate much. “Excellent, nothing like the old-fashioned red tape,” he grinned to the crew member but he seemed to lose interest. He was now communicating on his own comms. The elevator continued its ascent, the inner bowels of the Carrack humming as the systems continued their warm up.

In between reading the fine print about loss of life and risk management he could overhear the crew member speaking, “Yes, sir. We’ll prepare the rooms. Oh!” he sounded surprised, “The Chairman will be joining as well? I’ll prepare the VIP quarters as well.” Ross blinked, surprised that the corporation Chairman would be attending this operation as well.

The familiar chaos of his anxiety rose up once more. Like a nosey neighbor leering over your fence. Always curious about what is happening and how they can royally fuck it up for you. “Hope you don’t commit homicide by crashing this proverbial Titanic into a space iceberg…” Ross shivered. What a horrible thought.

He refocused, shaking his head and blinking a few times. Quickly scanning over the rest of the corporate jargon, he initialed his John Hancock and hit submit. A quick scan of finger print surprised him. The deal is made. We can’t screw this up now. Ross handed the tablet back over to the crew member. His knees then buckled a moment as they came to a stop.

“Apologies, Mr. Ross, this elevator is hot on the brakes. The bridge is to the right. If you need the head then go down to left and past the elevator. You can’t miss it,” the crew member then gave him a thumbs up, “We’re in your capable hands, Mr. Ross, smooth sailing.” He then turned back into the elevator and pressed the button for engineering.

“Thanks! Uh…” the doors closed before he could get a name. Oh well.

Philip turns a heel towards the bridge, utterly trying to force every horrible thought he comes up with like he is trying to block pop up ads. This is your chance. This is your foot in the door. Close the sale, Ross.

The slide doors open, welcoming Philip to the bridge. A gentleman in the copilot chair turns to greet Philip, “Are you the pilot? A pleasure, the name’s Fury.”

Philip nervously chuckles to a non-existent joke that no one said, “Wait this isn’t the bathroom?” He claps his hands on Fury’s shoulders like they are old friends, “Just kidding, Fury! The name is Philip Ross. Callsign is Amenamy. Whatever is easier for you,” he hops over to the pilot’s chair and sits himself down. The chair coming to life and turning him towards the bow of the Carrack.

Fury leaned over, “You ever flown one of these before?”

Philip froze in the middle of his flight check. He knew this question would come. He considered for a moment then leaned over towards Fury, a wicked grin on his face, “Let’s just say you’re looking at a top tier Starship Simulator 20XX player, my friend.” He then leans back and places his helmet over his head. He turns it until it clicks into place, a soft hissing sound emitting for a moment. Then the comms clicked on and Philip’s static laden voice sounded out, “You’re going to be in great hands. Now, everyone clear for takeoff.”

The commander from earlier sounded off in the comms, “Don’t forget to turn the engines on, Ross.”

Philip snapped his fingers and silently cursed himself. With great shame he thumbed over to the engage button and activated the engines, “R-Right, sir, just a test. Requesting permission to take off from the dock…”

Philip sighed deeply as he dried his face off. The acrid smell of midgrade space kush wafting off of him amidst the sterile smell of bathroom cleaners. He tossed the towels into the bin and walked out of the bathroom.

The job had been completed. Some mistakes were made, the landing was a little tough on the ice moon Calliope, but it was complete. He felt he even made some decent impressions. The resume was tighter and that cushy corporate job was closer than ever. He eyeballed his MobiGlass, maybe there was some freelance work available for tomorrow. But for now, he needed a drink.

Character Particulars:

Name: Philip Ross
Call sign: Amenamy (Ames or Amen for short)
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 181 lbs
Age: 30 Earth Years
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Occupation: Corporate Freelance Pilot, Business Consultant
Places of Interest: Can usually be found in Area 18 as he has residence there

RP Hooks: Corporate work, shuttle piloting, VIP escort, above board wetwork, general business propositions, smuggling, amateur botany, piloting enthusiasm

Personality: Bold, confident, and horrifyingly anxious. Ross is always one to try and ace a first impression. A strong firm handshake followed up by a warm smile. However, below the skin he feels like he is internally going to combust at any given moment due to the anxiety. He is quick to disarm a tense situation or offer a joke as a line of defense. The gallows humor is very strong in this one.

This is a short backstory about one of my characters I played in a Dungeons & Dragons 2.0 campaign. Artwork is not my own.

“Oi, knife ear!” A loud mouthed patron from outside the tavern called, towards a young boy, Elven ears and ragged clothes, walking the dirty streets. The patron’s cohorts chuckled, nursing their tankards, clearly they knew he was one for starting trouble, “Don’tcha ploughin’ ignore me, you mutant shit!”

The boy stopped and looked over, “You better not kiss your Mum with that mouth,” the boy smirked, he was a wordplay assassin and this would slay, “Although she don’t need much kisses after I been through with ‘er!” The boy extended his arms and let out a guffaw, as if the King himself would rally the town and hail the destructive linguist.
The patron narrowed his eyes and hefted his tankard towards the boy with expert precision. What followed after is a bit of a blank for the boy. The tankard struck him clean against the temple, clearly still half full– or was half full, knocking him into the dirt road. Beer mixed with a little blood and dirt to create a sludge.

The patron and his boys laughed, cheers from the crowd and pats on the back were welcomed by all, “No point in ‘avin ’em here, they just suck the teat of the King is all.” No love was had for the Elven kind in this remote village, half a day’s ride from the nearby capital and seat of the throne.

The town was called Freeport. It was more of a crossroads sort of village, having convenient access to the ocean as well as having the main highway cut through towards the capital. Many folk who travel through Freeport have either the castle or the prestigious Mage’s College as their destination.

“Oh Kel, friend, what did you do now?” A swift kick to his ankle started the boy, he thought he heard a voice but maybe it was a dream. And why was this massive pain blooming in his head?

“Are you alright?” There was the voice again. The boy blinked swiftly and glanced upwards, blocking the bright light with his dirtied hand.

“Ugh..w-what.. who..?” He was still recovering from the minor concussion incurred by the hefty tankard wound.

A human boy, brown hair, blue eyed and with a loud declaration, “C’mon, mate! You don’t recognize your mate Robin?”

The boy slowly returned to his feet, holding the wall his back was previously against. Some stranger was kind enough to pull him from the middle of the street, or maybe an angry trader trying to get their wagon through, “What the hell happened to me?” The boy brushed his fingertips against his eyebrow and found blood, dirtied and congealed, “Great.. that swill drinker clocked me with his watered down piss mug.”

Robin smirked, “You always had a queer way with words, Kel,” he began to pat the dirt off of Kel’s shoulders, helping him stabilize himself, “Come on, let’s get walking, I’ve got some fantastic news for you.” Robin was about the same age as Kel, both embarking on their journey from boyhood to young adulthood, roughly on their 13th year in this life. However, Robin wore much more cleaner clothes, brilliant reds and copper colors on his tunic, and the finest leather boots Kel had ever seen. Robin was also human, and Kel, a half-elven stain on this plane of existence.

“News? Your family finally needs that new stable hand?” Kel applied some tattered rag to his head wound in an attempt to clean it up, all the while looking pathetically hopeful at his friend. They continued to walk down the street and out of the hustle and bustle of society.

“Come now, you know Papa has no love for Elves,” Robin gave an encouraging smile, then rethought his words, quickly fumbling an apology, “N-No offense, of course, you know we’re friends!”

Kel waved it off, “I know, I know.. I just need to find a job, I can’t keep running from bridge to shack for shelter.” Kel stared forward, they had been walking a bit of time until they came to a stable for travelers to hitch their horses before walking the narrow streets, “So what’s this news? Are you confessing your love on horseback?”

Robin laughed, “No! My heart yearns only for the Baudelaire girl by the mills,” he turned a slight flushed pink at the thought of the sweet girl, deep chestnut eyes he could lose himself in.

Kel shook his head, “Bad taste, mate. I’d go for the Mum, the pair on her could knock a lad clean out with a quick turn of the hips, eh!” He ribbed his friend and they both enjoyed a laugh. All the while Robin took the lead on the chestnut thoroughbred and led the horse away from the stables.

With the worldly experience of a boy in his thirteenth year of life, Robin tried to mount the horse, rather pathetically. Both arms gripped the saddle, his foot feverishly trying to find the stirrup. Kel gave him a rough push upwards, “I thought you said your Pa taught you to ride?” He crossed his arms and waited for Robin to acknowledge his piss poor attempt at mounting a horse.

“Piss off, Kel, ol’ Herb here is a giant compared to me! Let my legs grow a little,” he kicked the horse in the hind slightly and cantered up a small hill away from the stables and society, “.. and just for that acknowledgement of my lack of experience, you can walk alongside me to the big oak.

“You’re just being melodramatic, Robin! You’re showing off the fancy horse and hiding some big new– what? Herb?!” Kel chuckled between his faux anger, keeping up with the steadily paced walk up the hill towards a large, lone, oak tree at the top.
“Mister Herb to the likes of you, street elf!” Robin feigned a nobleman, chest puffed with haughty attitude and all.

Kel smirked, “Stranger names have been given to horses, I suppose.” The heart beat of his forehead slowed down, all the caked blood gone from his face save a wicked gash above his eyebrow. He tossed the bloody rag to the grass as they approached the large oak tree.
Mr. Herb whinnied a bit and began doing a strange little dance, favoring his rear left leg. Robin’s face twitched as he looked back, “Perhaps a bad trimming by the farrier,” he stopped the horse with couple clicks of his tongue and dismounted, not as poorly as his mounting earlier.

“Sorry to say but Missterr–” Kel really emphasized how ridiculous it was to give a horse a title, “– Herb ‘as piss poor shoes, my mate,” he gave Robin a hearty slap on the back, “And tell me this fuckin’ news! I am sick of walking to this tree, is it a big town secret?!”
Robin furrowed his brow, “Well.. yes,” he knelt down to look at the horse’s leg, neither of them were wrong, the horseshoe was misaligned a nail had dug into meat of the poor creature. Still focusing on the horseshoe, as if staring would fix it, Robin spoke, “I was accepted into the Mage’s College in the city.”

Kel sucked his teeth at that, “Wow.. but why a secret? Your family ought to be proud.” He could feel pangs of jealously mixed with the fading throbbing of his head.

“A trist between the headmaster and my Mum, can you believe it?” Robin said it so casually, as if it were common. “They concluded enrollments for this semester too but with my birthday coming late this year, Papa got me in!”

The half-elf nodded, observing Robin’s attempt to soothe the pained horse, “Congratulations, Robin, really, I am happy for you,” the words were kind but the tone faltered a little, almost on the verge of sadness, “You’ll be leaving before the leaves turn, ay?”

Robin glanced up and nodded, “But only a day.. half day’s ride away, we can still see each other on my breaks.” He smiled at Kel and stood up, giving him a pat on the shoulder, “I know you’re upset but you’ll find work soon, and maybe I’ll become a Grand Wizard, and.. and every respectable Wizard needs a stable hand! You could even become a farrier and learn to fix piss poor jobs like this,” he gestured to the poorly attached horseshoe worn by Mr. Herb.

“Thanks, Robin, that sounds like a right grand ol’ future for Kel,” he spoke his name in the third person in a rather snarky tone, it made himself cringe on the inside but there it was. He back peddled a little, “I’m happy for you, really.. I am. So when do you actually leave?”

The other boy exhaled, brushing his hair back in a dramatic pause, “Tomorrow actually,” he avoided Kel’s eyes, “A carriage is picking me up to catch up with the other new students who left already.” Robin smirked, “Bad luck though, my family won’t even see me off on my journey, it’s too early for them apparently.”

Kel raised an eyebrow, a little insulted that his friend considered this bad luck, “Not even your Mum?”

“Nay, she didn’t like the whole idea of me becoming one of those spell slingers,” he kicked the dirt a little, “So they’re just having a carriage arrive outside the town stables before the sun rises.” Robin smiled at Kel, hopeful for encouragement from his friend.

“Well, I dunno if Mister ‘Eeerrrbb will be happy or sad,” he looked at the horse in distress, “Although he looks right pissed right now, he’s probably happy you will be gone.” Kel faked a smile at the boy.

Robin flashed a grin, an idea, “Actually.. want to see a spell? I found it in a book, it may help ol’ Herb here.”

Kel rolled his eyes, he much rather would have preferred stealing some lunch from a stall as opposed to seeing his friend get excited at having a future. Thoughts plagued his mind, Robin will become a fancy Wizard and forget about old Kel. The half elf would roam the streets becoming the world’s most professional orphaned, half-elven, beggar. He watched Robin nonetheless, happy to encourage him just a little.

Robin knelt down once more, closing his eyes and mumbling something. His hands caressed Mr. Herb’s leg, reddened with pain, “Are you sure about this, Robin? You might blow the poor creature’s leg off,” Kel protested but with barely an effort, more curious to see what this prospective new student may be able to do.

Robin ignored Kel and continued, a warm glow emanating from his hands and around the wound. He continued to mumble the strange words until half a minute passed. The warm glow faded and the Mr. Herb began to calm.

“There! You see?” Robin flashed another of those now cocky grins at the half-elf, “A mending spell! Or maybe calming? Either way..” Robin gripped Mr. Herb’s previously injured leg, “He’s good as new and ready to ride. Want to –“

Only the Gods knew what Robin was about to ask. All Kel could recall about this moment was a swift red dash of color against his tattered rags. Mr. Herb quickly wrenched his leg from the boy and reared his back leg into the side of Robin’s head, killing him instantly and nearly beheading the boy. Only a few bits of flesh and cartilege ‘kept the human’s head attached.

“.. R-Robin.. ? Herb.. ?” Kel was stammering, shocked, and bewildered. They were only ten.. maybe fifteen minutes outside of town but no one was around. It was just two.. no.. one boy now and a horse by the old oak tree. He glanced around at the blood stained grass, even the tree couldn’t escape the viscera. The body of Robin twitched slightly but it wasn’t him, not anymore.

What happened next is something Kel could never explain or acknowledge. He was a good lad, he really was, or he thought he was at least.. but..

The crickets chirped, frogs croaked, and the cocks would soon join them in the transitioning soundtrack of early morning to dawn. Kel trotted along, his red and copper finery glistening in the nearby lantern light of the tavern. Mr. Herb contentedly whinnying, his poor leg feeling far better. They both approached the stables, a horse drawn carriage idling with a finely dressed man, the driver he imagined, waiting.

“Can I help you, sir?” The driver glanced at Kel, not paying him much mind.

Kel smiled, “I believe you’re to take me to the college to begin my studies,” he rehearsed this probably too much, it sounded fake but there it was, out in the open.

“And who are you?” The driver questioned the rider. He wouldn’t dare bring another imposter along and risk his job.

Kel inhaled quietly and then began, “Robin, sir. My name is Robin and I want you to take me to the Mage’s College.” Deep pangs of guilt struck at his heart. His friend lay at the bottom of a gutter on a bridge outside of town, rotting away for the rats to feast. He felt awful but justified it to himself. Why let the flames of a new life be dashed away, like a human head being struck by a horse hoof?

The driver nodded, “Robin..?” He stretched the end, waiting for Kel to verify he had the right man.

“Robin McCollough, sir..” He mulled it over while dismounting his horse, tieing the leads to the back of the carriage, as if he already knew he was in, “.. but.. it should be more Wizardly, eh? It’s all showmanship and peacocking at the College, I bet.”

The driver’s mouth was agape, it was the right name but usually new students were much more reserved and never had a horse either, “Uh.. right, I.. ‘spose you’re correct,” he walked over and helped Robin with the leads, “The College has stables you can utilize.. I don’t think we normally allow this tho–“

“Graves!” the boy grinned, his finger in the air, as if he were pointing out his idea but with a physical exclamation. He didn’t wait for approval, he simply strode past the driver, placing his fine leather boot on the step and hefting himself in the carriage, “Robin Graves will be my new Wizard name.” He was convinced and shut the door behind him.

The driver furrowed his brows and went to the driver’s seat, grabbing the reigns and trotting the horses towards the capital. He muttered to himself, something about Wizards and their strange, eccentric, and rather queer ways of speaking.

Kel, now Robin, kicked up his legs on the opposite seat in the carriage. He thought to himself, I’ll take this opportunity for us both, Robin, I’ll make it my own.

This is a short backstory about one of my characters I played in a Dungeons & Dragons 2.0 campaign. Artwork is not my own.

The rain fell, and the smoke rose to meet it. The charred skeleton remains of a hamlet sat in the distance beyond the trees. This could be compared to any number of small villages that dotted the landscape. Yet this one was a village that the boy called home.. used to call home. A young boy, no older than eight, prostrated on the ground before an aging oak tree. He coughed, panting a little, trying to catch his breath. Shielding his eyes from the rain he glanced behind and upwards to see the smoke rise above the trees. If it weren’t for the rain then his face would yet still be soaked from the tears.

A distant scream cut the natural orchestra of the rainfall. Men had attacked his home, his town, friends, and family, all ripped asunder from their early morning routines. Flashes of the memory assaulted him, his Mumma telling him to run and helping him through the window. His Papa holding a wood cutter’s axe to his side, opening the door to greet whomever banged from the outside. From the sounds of metal and screams, it was not a friend. The boy ran as hard as he could, as well as any eight year old could through a thick forest.

“C-Charlie.. where are you.. ?” The boy muttered, wiping the rain and dirt from his eyes and forehead. He looked around him for the black billy goat he called a friend.

The boy sniffled and rose to his feet. His clothes were soaked and tattered, the usual uniform for the son of simple folk outside of the city. He meandered further into the wood, too frightened to return to his home just yet.

“Please, Charlie.. Papa will punish me if he knows I let you out,” a brief flash of a happy memory fluttered to the forefront.

A cool Fall evening, the boy playing outside of the goat pen. Charlie, the black billy goat bleating encouragement from his home of straw and dirt, a modest plank roof overhead. The boy stopped, and looked at Charlie,

“No, Charlie! I won’t open the gate. Mumma wouldn’t let me play outside after I let you out last,” he crossed his arms defensively, a puff in the chest of the tiny human. The goat merely bleated, dragging its rear hooves in the soil before lowering its head to chew some of the very few tufts of grass.

The boy let out an embellished huff, as if he wasn’t going to help out his good friend Charlie. He looked once to his left, then to his right, the coast seemed clear enough. Distant murmurings of his Papa working on the neighbor’s crop fencing, and his Mumma in the kitchen, were telltale signs enough that he wouldn’t be discovered just yet.

Releasing the fence quietly, the boy grinned wickedly and gestured to his good friend Charlie. He turned and ran to the edge of the woods where he liked to play. This would be a fun adventure today.

The boy slipped, tripping on a root. He was wrenched back to reality by the sudden pain and sickly wetness from blighted lands. This was not the fun forest adventures he envisioned. This was reality and he was alone. He let his face sink in the mud, blowing bubbles around his ears as he exhaled. The boy gripped two handfuls of mud as he pushed himself up.

A boisterous laugh could be heard nearby, not even fifteen feet away from the sodden child.

“Hey now, lass! Ahh-hah! When I said I wanted ya’ nice n’ wet, I didn’t meet ta’ wander out in the rain!” The voice let out another laugh, his accent familiar to the man at the door of his home. A loud series of bangs echoed out amongst the trees, what sounded like a stick or hammer against a trunk of some poor oak.

“Out now, Sheila, make it quick on ya I will, eh heh.”

The boy wiped his face once more, clearing the mud, he looked around but could not see anyone amongst the trees and gloomy overcast. Fear gripped him and he began to crawl forward, away from the man.

The rapping’s of the man grew louder and louder, a bang against a tree for every taunt he offered, “Don’t make this ‘arder than it has to be, sweet girl, me boys and I won’t do ya in like those knife ears,” the disembodied voice hacked something from the depths of his throat and let it loose,

“We know those fookin’ knife ears ‘ad ya against yet will, lass.. we ‘ad to do the good work of ridding the vermin,” he laughed hard at this. The boy held the sides of his temple, tears starting to well up. His fingertips grazed his ears, pointed to a tip, like any Elf would have, or Half-Elf in his case. He quickened his pace, crawling faster, until he found a clearing, and at the heart of it an ancient oak, gnarled and macabre. A crow or two made it’s home on the branches, not perturbed by the rain or dealings of the local folk. At the base, a recess naturally formed, and in it a soaked to the bone woman, human, trying to make herself as small as possible. The dirt turned her dress from, what once was probably a light gray color, to the deep browns and reds of the earth. The boy motioned forward and lifting his hand to approach her for help, but a nudge came from behind and froze him in his tracks.

“Ayy.. ah-hah! You ploughin’ nearly gave me a start, how’d ya end up ‘ere?” An undersized man, or maybe an oversized Dwarf, grinned wickedly. His ragged beard and tattered clothes with piecemeal leather strapped over his chest and thighs denoted a mercenary, or bandit, someone the boy didn’t like. The Dwarfman held his wooden mace and approached the woman slowly from the edge of the woods into the clearing.

The boy blinked and looked over his shoulder. It was Charlie, his piercing goat yellow goat eyes staring at the boy. Charlie nudged the boy’s shoulder as a greeting. The boy hugged the black billy goat, a brief moment of happiness for finding his friend. His gaze quickly returned to the Dwarfman. The source of the horrible words, the horrible banging, the awful screams, it was this man and his friends that turned the boy’s world upside down.

The boy spoke in hushed tones, loud enough for Charlie to hear and then to be drowned by the rain, “Charlie.. we gotta help her.. we gotta stop tha—“ A loud crack echoed off the puddles and around the clearing, quickly followed by a yelp of pain.

“You should show more gratitude, you fookin’ sheila!” He held his mace to the side, a gash of deep red dripping from the wooden club. The woman held her forearm, no doubt shattered or worse. She whimpered and pleaded but she was beyond words, pure shock and adrenaline controlled her now.

The boy bit his bottom lip, he had no idea what to do. He had seen a brawl or two after Papa and his friends drank from their big cups but he was no scrapper. He felt around and found he was holding a meager stick before even realizing it. He gripped the stick and slowly rose to his feet.

Charlie the black billy goat let out a loud bleating sound towards the boy. The boy went wide eyed and stared at him, but the Dwarfman took notice,

“Ay whassat? Where’d the fook you come from ya degenerate shite?” The Dwarfman sucked his teeth and grinned noting the ears on the small, gangly child, “.. ‘tis a shame, c’mere so Uncle Gragus can take ya to the Gods.” The Dwarfman, Gragus, regarded the woman once more. She was a pile on the ground, whimpering and crying for any God that would listen to her, but her prayers fell on deaf ears.

Gragus gripped the woman by the collar, his wooden mace in the other hand, and he dragged her without protest towards the boy.

The boy panicked, he was only about ten feet away by this point. He threw the stick towards Gragus but it only served to humor the Dwarfman. He continued his dramatic pace, battered woman in hand, club in the other.

“Doth not alloweth this beest the end for thee, boy. I wilt aid thee. Doth thee wish to avenge thy lands, thy folk?” The black billy goat bleated, shaking the rain from his head and staring at the boy.

“C-Charlie.. y-yes! Please! Help me!” He pleaded to the goat, desperation and fear tearing his voice.

Gragus let out a hearty laugh, stopping in his tracks, “Ayy a wee goat can’a help ya! Why yell at the poor sod, let ‘im go and let me do me job,” his tone was almost placating but the boy paid him no mind.

Charlie bleated once more, you could almost see a grin, “Wilt thee beest mine ally still, Cillean? Aid me at which hour mine folk art threatened?”

The boy, Cillean, pleaded once more, “Y-Yes, Charlie! Yes! Help me, pleas—“ The cry for help was never finished before Gragus interrupted,

“Enough o’ ya goat talkin, you fooked knife-ear!” He was already upon Cillean, mace held high. Before the mace could come cracking down, a pair of sharp insectoid-like legs rose from the back of the Dwarfman. Like a calculated surgeon, the bladed legs glided through the Dwarfman’s arms, each meaty limb falling to the rain soaked mud,

“Ayy! What ta’ plougin’ foo—“ The last syllable lost to eternity as the head of Gragus joined his arms in the mud, his torse falling to the side. A large, black arachnid maybe the size of a deer, chittered triumphantly, feasting on it’s well-earned meal and paying Cillean no mind.

White hot fear filled Cillean, what was going on and why is this happening, question after question rose to the forefront. His brain focused on the why and the fight or flight never kicked in for the poor boy. The corner of his eye caught the body of the woman, red soaked and very much dead, her stomach an empty cavity from which the larger than life spider had emerged. Viscera mingling with the earth He sucked in his breath at the realization, “M.. mumma..?”

A loud bleat echoed behind him, “Aid me and mine allies, no matter the cost, Cillean. I wilt aid thee. Cometh,” the black billy goat turned back towards the ancient gnarled oak. He looked back to the mentally eviscerated Cillean before proceeding into the recess in the tree.

Soft slaps in the mud could be heard, one after the other. Cillean wondering who was coming now, but then he realized it was his own feet moving towards the oak tree. He could smell deep earth, rain, and blood but the fear was gone, he was numb. The boy disappeared into the ancient oak, following his good friend Charlie.