TKC: Rough Draft 2
I used to dream of adventure. There's nothing terribly surprising about that. Adventure's something many people yearn for. That's why we have books, movies, and games. Fantasies, all, fantasies that let people play a role, to be heroes, to be something more than their mundane lives.
But things change. People change. Or maybe I never did, and just didn't really know myself. Maybe I just never knew what I really wanted. It took an...experience for me to realise the truth: it wasn't fantasy I cherished, but normalcy, the life I'd rejected. Boring, perhaps, but also predictable. Comfortable. Safe.
So that's my new dream.
And I'm happy with what I have. An apartment, a computer, books and music. A life I've grown used to.
It's a good life. Good enough.
I used to think that wasn't much to ask for. But it is. It IS a lot. I didn't appreciate that, once upon a time. Now I do.
Things change.
Though now, my most fervent wish is for things to stay the same. Normalcy, mundanity, the slow stately march of a peaceful everyday life.
I get up every morning. I make breakfast. Coffee, toast. Maybe some eggs, bacon, perhaps fruit. It's a ritual. Some days I need to drag myself into the kitchen, forcing myself to move. but I do it. That's what routine is. And there's something comforting about it, something that eases the soul. I've learnt to appreciate routine, and all the little acts it entails.
Maybe those are deep thoughts to have over morning coffee, especially when I'm still drowsy from sleep. Maybe. That said, they're important to me, and I can't help but think them.
Especially when something threatens to disrupt my routine - and everything it stands for.
I'd felt it since stepping into the kitchen, a whisper at the edge of my senses. Took me a while to figure out what it meant, but when the realisation hit, I damn near scalded myself on my coffee. The shock hit my system harder than the caffeine. It just about turned my stomach - not a sensation anyone needs before breakfast.
With a faint clink, I set my mug on the counter. Rubbing my face, I concentrated on the disturbance, and frowned. I wasn't mistaken, and my memory wasn't lying to me. No, the feeling was dead on. I had no idea how or why, but it was.
Fists clenched, involuntarily. Shoulders shaking, I left the kitchen and turned towards the door.
Any moment now, and...
...a knock. A quiet one.
I frowned. That was...surprising. I'd expected my front door to explode in a massive fireball or something. Compared to that, the little knock was almost embarrassingly anticlimactic. Almost. It actually made me even more apprehensive.
I didn't want to answer the door. Yet there was no point in postponing the inevitable. I could feel the presence on the other side, standing in the corridor. No doubt, my visitor could feel me too.
And hell...I admit, I was morbidly curious.
Walking over, I unlocked the door and opened it. I didn't bother looking through the peephole, because I knew who I'd see.
Or at least, I thought I did. Probably a lesson there, something along the lines of 'never assume'.
Sure, the feeling I got, that was familiar. The face...wasn't.
She stared at me, looking up with fearful, expressive eyes. When I scowled, she reeled back, as if struck, a tremble running through her slender frame. She was a classic elfin beauty, down to the quivering pointy ears rising from a fall of cerulean hair. Literally elfin.
No, she wasn't what I was expecting. Only one detail fit - the robes she wore, elaborate garments of white and blue, with symbols embroidered in silver thread.
I knew those robes. Just as I knew what my senses were screaming about her identity.
I knew...but wanted her to speak first. It wouldn't do to tip my hand, not before I heard the rules of whatever game she was playing.
She spoke.
"Lord Novak?"
The question earned her a murderous glare. "Gideon," I corrected, curtly.
"Ah..." she flushed, taken aback, stumbling over her words, "...Lor...Lord Gideon, then. I apologise for this intrusion...I beg pardon, milord, I...I..."
Faced with stony silence, my wordless demand for explanation, she drew a shuddering breath, and composed herself. "I am a third-ranked adept of the Church of Senica, milord. My name is Zastra, and I beg an audience." She gave a sudden start, as if remembering something, and fell to her knees. She blushed an even deeper shade of pink, and refused to meet my eyes.
I blinked. That was...new.
We would have made quite a sight, were anyone around to see it. Quite a picture - an elf maiden prostrating herself at the feet of an unshaven tousle-haired guy clad in pyjamas. The girl was damn near kissing my fuzzy slippers.
I had to suppress a burning desire to kick her.
"You do realise," I said, quietly, "that I killed your mistress?"
Zastra stiffened. She started to raise her head, then stopped herself. Keeping her eyes low, she mumbled, "N-n-no, milord, you are master now. The Church is yours."
A snort. "Mine? Huh. News to me. So what, do I have to claim you people as dependants on my tax return?"
"Milord, I...I don't understand..."
She really didn't. I could feel the fear and confusion underlying her tone, and part of it was even genuine.
Sigh.
It isn't any fun when they don't get your references.
"Forget it," I grated, "whatever. Just get up. I'm not in the mood for your games."
I stepped aside, and just stared at her until she got the hint. Hesitantly, she climbed back to her feet. After another long pause, she shuffled past me into the apartment. I slammed the door once she was through, earning a gratifying squeak of alarm. Then I headed back to the kitchen, leaving her standing in the living room.
Her unwelcome appearance might have ruined my appetite, but I was damn well still going to have breakfast. Matter of principle.
After sticking a couple slices of bread in the toaster, I rummaged around for a frying pan, then set it on the stove. A few moments past before I felt eyes on my back, and turned. Zastra was peering over the counter, the bar-like tabletop separating my apartment's kitchen and living space. She seemed puzzled at my activity.
In a mild voice, I asked, "Coffee?"
Zastra didn't respond. Shrugging, I poured a mug from the coffee pot and handed it to her. She grimaced at the proffered beverage, like she expected it to kill her. But she accepted it anyway, clutching it with both hands. She took a tentative sip...and her face scrunched up at the bitter taste.
I snorted, and retrieved my own mug, the one I'd been drinking from before being interrupted by her knock on the door. I took a drink before returning to the task of making breakfast, dropping some butter into the frying pan and letting it melt.
Behind me, Zastra found her voice. "Lord Gideon," she asked, "please do not take offence...but why are you preparing a meal in this manner? Do you not have servants?"
"No," I growled over my shoulder, "no servants. I hate the idea of ordering people around."
I gave her a significant look, but she seemed to miss it. Pity.
"But milord," Zastra protested, "even so, with your magic..."
Squinting at the stove, I cracked a couple of eggs into the pan and watched them sizzle. Off to the side, the toaster gave a faint musical 'ding'.
"Yeah? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a decent meal from magic? I'm not gonna waste power on something like that."
Zastra bristled. "And yet, milord," she countered, "you have five battle spells hanging ready, all directed at me."
The rejoinder was the first sign of assertiveness I'd seen from her. Her exasperation made me smile. "So," I replied, "you DO have a spine. But...no, you're wrong. I don't have five spells..."
"Milord," Zastra hissed, "you have no need to deny..."
"I'm not," I said, cutting her off, "there's seven, not five." Waving a finger, I traced a sigil in the air, and shrugged. "But I like cooking, okay? And I'd rather not have the smell of your burning flesh ruining my breakfast, understand?"
Zastra gasped, nearly dropping her coffee mug. She bowed her head in submission, ears drooping. She probably figured my words a threat. Perhaps they were. But I considered them more a bland statement of fact.
Besides, I'd just cleaned my apartment a few days prior - and really didn't want to mess it up with elf debris. No, removing her would be far too much trouble.
Flicking the stove off, I slid the eggs onto a plate, and added the toast. A couple dabs of fresh butter completed the picture. I carried it to the counter, taking a seat across from my visitor. I motioned for her to do the same, and she sat, regarding me with wary eyes.
"Alright," I said, biting into a piece of toast, "you didn't come here just to disagree with my living arrangements. Talk."
Though from the look she was giving my meal, maybe she WAS here to criticise my lifestyle choices. Or maybe just the eggs. The concept of domesticated poultry was likely alien to her. It took a moment before she pulled her attention away from my breakfast, revulsion evident on her face. She had her gag reflex under control by the time she returned my gaze.
"I am sorry, Lord Gideon. Please forgive me. I...I am here to warn you, milord. You are in great peril, there is...there is danger, and..."
I held up a fork. "Is this where you announce some twisted revenge kick and try to kill me? Because I told you, I'm not in the mood."
Zastra blanched, panic written across her features. "No, no! Lord Gideon, please! I am not your enemy! Milord, you must believe me! I am in your service, my life is yours!"
"That's funny," I said, flatly, pointing at her robes, "because I thought I'd destroyed every last one of you. I'm surprised YOU survived."
She flinched, but didn't look away. "A few remain, milord. You are our master now."
The absurdity of the situation was almost more than I could stand. Shaking my head, I poked at my eggs, and mulled over her claims. "Fine, let's suppose I believe you. What's this danger, then?"
Zastra paled. She swallowed, wetting her lips. "It is...not on my order that lives, milord. One of the Chaos Gods is still alive."
I laughed.
My reaction seemed to throw her completely off-balance, and for a moment I almost pitied her.
Almost. Not quite.
"Yes," I replied, smirking, "of course. Which one?"
"Rak...Raksis, milord," she stammered, "it is Raksis, and he is moving."
Oh my.
I understood, then. Her words explained the whole charade. I had to hand it to my old enemies. It was a pretty good attempt. Were I just a little more gullible...but I wasn't, was I?
So.
I could refuse to play, of course.
But that wouldn't be any fun.
"Well then," I told Zastra, "we'll just have to stop him."
I smiled.
"Been a long time since I've slain a godling."
-- Acyl
I used to dream of adventure. There's nothing terribly surprising about that. Adventure's something many people yearn for. That's why we have books, movies, and games. Fantasies, all, fantasies that let people play a role, to be heroes, to be something more than their mundane lives.
But things change. People change. Or maybe I never did, and just didn't really know myself. Maybe I just never knew what I really wanted. It took an...experience for me to realise the truth: it wasn't fantasy I cherished, but normalcy, the life I'd rejected. Boring, perhaps, but also predictable. Comfortable. Safe.
So that's my new dream.
And I'm happy with what I have. An apartment, a computer, books and music. A life I've grown used to.
It's a good life. Good enough.
I used to think that wasn't much to ask for. But it is. It IS a lot. I didn't appreciate that, once upon a time. Now I do.
Things change.
Though now, my most fervent wish is for things to stay the same. Normalcy, mundanity, the slow stately march of a peaceful everyday life.
I get up every morning. I make breakfast. Coffee, toast. Maybe some eggs, bacon, perhaps fruit. It's a ritual. Some days I need to drag myself into the kitchen, forcing myself to move. but I do it. That's what routine is. And there's something comforting about it, something that eases the soul. I've learnt to appreciate routine, and all the little acts it entails.
Maybe those are deep thoughts to have over morning coffee, especially when I'm still drowsy from sleep. Maybe. That said, they're important to me, and I can't help but think them.
Especially when something threatens to disrupt my routine - and everything it stands for.
I'd felt it since stepping into the kitchen, a whisper at the edge of my senses. Took me a while to figure out what it meant, but when the realisation hit, I damn near scalded myself on my coffee. The shock hit my system harder than the caffeine. It just about turned my stomach - not a sensation anyone needs before breakfast.
With a faint clink, I set my mug on the counter. Rubbing my face, I concentrated on the disturbance, and frowned. I wasn't mistaken, and my memory wasn't lying to me. No, the feeling was dead on. I had no idea how or why, but it was.
Fists clenched, involuntarily. Shoulders shaking, I left the kitchen and turned towards the door.
Any moment now, and...
...a knock. A quiet one.
I frowned. That was...surprising. I'd expected my front door to explode in a massive fireball or something. Compared to that, the little knock was almost embarrassingly anticlimactic. Almost. It actually made me even more apprehensive.
I didn't want to answer the door. Yet there was no point in postponing the inevitable. I could feel the presence on the other side, standing in the corridor. No doubt, my visitor could feel me too.
And hell...I admit, I was morbidly curious.
Walking over, I unlocked the door and opened it. I didn't bother looking through the peephole, because I knew who I'd see.
Or at least, I thought I did. Probably a lesson there, something along the lines of 'never assume'.
Sure, the feeling I got, that was familiar. The face...wasn't.
She stared at me, looking up with fearful, expressive eyes. When I scowled, she reeled back, as if struck, a tremble running through her slender frame. She was a classic elfin beauty, down to the quivering pointy ears rising from a fall of cerulean hair. Literally elfin.
No, she wasn't what I was expecting. Only one detail fit - the robes she wore, elaborate garments of white and blue, with symbols embroidered in silver thread.
I knew those robes. Just as I knew what my senses were screaming about her identity.
I knew...but wanted her to speak first. It wouldn't do to tip my hand, not before I heard the rules of whatever game she was playing.
She spoke.
"Lord Novak?"
The question earned her a murderous glare. "Gideon," I corrected, curtly.
"Ah..." she flushed, taken aback, stumbling over her words, "...Lor...Lord Gideon, then. I apologise for this intrusion...I beg pardon, milord, I...I..."
Faced with stony silence, my wordless demand for explanation, she drew a shuddering breath, and composed herself. "I am a third-ranked adept of the Church of Senica, milord. My name is Zastra, and I beg an audience." She gave a sudden start, as if remembering something, and fell to her knees. She blushed an even deeper shade of pink, and refused to meet my eyes.
I blinked. That was...new.
We would have made quite a sight, were anyone around to see it. Quite a picture - an elf maiden prostrating herself at the feet of an unshaven tousle-haired guy clad in pyjamas. The girl was damn near kissing my fuzzy slippers.
I had to suppress a burning desire to kick her.
"You do realise," I said, quietly, "that I killed your mistress?"
Zastra stiffened. She started to raise her head, then stopped herself. Keeping her eyes low, she mumbled, "N-n-no, milord, you are master now. The Church is yours."
A snort. "Mine? Huh. News to me. So what, do I have to claim you people as dependants on my tax return?"
"Milord, I...I don't understand..."
She really didn't. I could feel the fear and confusion underlying her tone, and part of it was even genuine.
Sigh.
It isn't any fun when they don't get your references.
"Forget it," I grated, "whatever. Just get up. I'm not in the mood for your games."
I stepped aside, and just stared at her until she got the hint. Hesitantly, she climbed back to her feet. After another long pause, she shuffled past me into the apartment. I slammed the door once she was through, earning a gratifying squeak of alarm. Then I headed back to the kitchen, leaving her standing in the living room.
Her unwelcome appearance might have ruined my appetite, but I was damn well still going to have breakfast. Matter of principle.
After sticking a couple slices of bread in the toaster, I rummaged around for a frying pan, then set it on the stove. A few moments past before I felt eyes on my back, and turned. Zastra was peering over the counter, the bar-like tabletop separating my apartment's kitchen and living space. She seemed puzzled at my activity.
In a mild voice, I asked, "Coffee?"
Zastra didn't respond. Shrugging, I poured a mug from the coffee pot and handed it to her. She grimaced at the proffered beverage, like she expected it to kill her. But she accepted it anyway, clutching it with both hands. She took a tentative sip...and her face scrunched up at the bitter taste.
I snorted, and retrieved my own mug, the one I'd been drinking from before being interrupted by her knock on the door. I took a drink before returning to the task of making breakfast, dropping some butter into the frying pan and letting it melt.
Behind me, Zastra found her voice. "Lord Gideon," she asked, "please do not take offence...but why are you preparing a meal in this manner? Do you not have servants?"
"No," I growled over my shoulder, "no servants. I hate the idea of ordering people around."
I gave her a significant look, but she seemed to miss it. Pity.
"But milord," Zastra protested, "even so, with your magic..."
Squinting at the stove, I cracked a couple of eggs into the pan and watched them sizzle. Off to the side, the toaster gave a faint musical 'ding'.
"Yeah? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a decent meal from magic? I'm not gonna waste power on something like that."
Zastra bristled. "And yet, milord," she countered, "you have five battle spells hanging ready, all directed at me."
The rejoinder was the first sign of assertiveness I'd seen from her. Her exasperation made me smile. "So," I replied, "you DO have a spine. But...no, you're wrong. I don't have five spells..."
"Milord," Zastra hissed, "you have no need to deny..."
"I'm not," I said, cutting her off, "there's seven, not five." Waving a finger, I traced a sigil in the air, and shrugged. "But I like cooking, okay? And I'd rather not have the smell of your burning flesh ruining my breakfast, understand?"
Zastra gasped, nearly dropping her coffee mug. She bowed her head in submission, ears drooping. She probably figured my words a threat. Perhaps they were. But I considered them more a bland statement of fact.
Besides, I'd just cleaned my apartment a few days prior - and really didn't want to mess it up with elf debris. No, removing her would be far too much trouble.
Flicking the stove off, I slid the eggs onto a plate, and added the toast. A couple dabs of fresh butter completed the picture. I carried it to the counter, taking a seat across from my visitor. I motioned for her to do the same, and she sat, regarding me with wary eyes.
"Alright," I said, biting into a piece of toast, "you didn't come here just to disagree with my living arrangements. Talk."
Though from the look she was giving my meal, maybe she WAS here to criticise my lifestyle choices. Or maybe just the eggs. The concept of domesticated poultry was likely alien to her. It took a moment before she pulled her attention away from my breakfast, revulsion evident on her face. She had her gag reflex under control by the time she returned my gaze.
"I am sorry, Lord Gideon. Please forgive me. I...I am here to warn you, milord. You are in great peril, there is...there is danger, and..."
I held up a fork. "Is this where you announce some twisted revenge kick and try to kill me? Because I told you, I'm not in the mood."
Zastra blanched, panic written across her features. "No, no! Lord Gideon, please! I am not your enemy! Milord, you must believe me! I am in your service, my life is yours!"
"That's funny," I said, flatly, pointing at her robes, "because I thought I'd destroyed every last one of you. I'm surprised YOU survived."
She flinched, but didn't look away. "A few remain, milord. You are our master now."
The absurdity of the situation was almost more than I could stand. Shaking my head, I poked at my eggs, and mulled over her claims. "Fine, let's suppose I believe you. What's this danger, then?"
Zastra paled. She swallowed, wetting her lips. "It is...not on my order that lives, milord. One of the Chaos Gods is still alive."
I laughed.
My reaction seemed to throw her completely off-balance, and for a moment I almost pitied her.
Almost. Not quite.
"Yes," I replied, smirking, "of course. Which one?"
"Rak...Raksis, milord," she stammered, "it is Raksis, and he is moving."
Oh my.
I understood, then. Her words explained the whole charade. I had to hand it to my old enemies. It was a pretty good attempt. Were I just a little more gullible...but I wasn't, was I?
So.
I could refuse to play, of course.
But that wouldn't be any fun.
"Well then," I told Zastra, "we'll just have to stop him."
I smiled.
"Been a long time since I've slain a godling."
-- Acyl