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Adventurer
Join Date: Sep 2008
Location: Now you see me, now you don't
Posts: 136
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The writing sample from my special permission race application.
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Mixie sat on the edge of a bluff watching the setting suns. The searing red light pierced her brain like rusty nails, but she was used to the idea that life brings pain and forbore to comment on it. In a tattered leather-bound journal she wrote-
On this darkening as all others the suns are dying on the horizon, bleeding their red fires against the bellies of the clouds. It is a promise, or perhaps a threat, that the Gods make to us. Like the suns we are born in a wash of red, ascend briefly to a golden zenith, and then are brought low to lay hemorrhaging against the surface of Telath before we sink forever into the ground.
Bah! I spit on this lesson, and wave my pinkie at the sky which is where the gods live when they do not ride the whips that beat our backs. I have been denied my zenith, and will instead enjoy the dark embrace of night. The cold bones of existence are all the gods I require, and all that it is likely I shall be allowed.
She shut the book with a decisive snap, and averted her eyes from the sunset. Reaching into a wire mesh bag that hung from her belt, she selected a fat wiggling mouse and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully and wincing only slightly as it bit her tongue in its frantic death throes. The gathering darkness brought an end to the pain in her eyes and she felt it slip about her like a comfortable cloak. The darkening always brought to her a yearning for something, but she was never sure what it was. She absentmindedly scratched an old scar on her side, and climbed nimbly to her feet.
Solemnly, she did her dance of welcoming for the darkness, a haphazard ritual she had conceived era ago. The steps of the dance were always different, but slow steady movements were always alternated with quick jerks of speed- that was the essential thing. It illustrated the terrible nature of reality, which rolled smoothly along until intermittently horror leapt upon you, and her welcoming of the night expressed her appreciation for the advantage, if ever so slight, that it gave her. Tonight she crept in circles around the bole of a large oak, making sudden leaps and gesturing wildly with the severed stump where her pinky once had been.
Her ceremony accomplished, Mixie gathered her few belongings- the tattered journal, a thin-bladed shortsword which she strapped onto her back, and a small box containing teeth she had found on the floor of a particularly dangerous bar- and walked down the hill and into town. She held instinctively to shadows, her long experience teaching her that being noticed was never a good thing and often bad. At the outskirts of town she came to a tavern, the sign out front naming it the Rose and Thistle. She stood in front of it for some minutes, her mouth working silently and disturbing thoughts lurching through her head, then all at once sprang forward and darted inside.
The tavern was warm and the fire chased the cool night air from Mixie’s clothes. Candles on a chandelier lit the room with a dim but cheerful yellow glow, and the customers laughed and made merry sounds with their glasses. Mixie threw herself violently into a seat and surveyed the room, fixing the bulk of her attention on a table at which three men sat, one of whom she had been paid to be interested in. This man was deep into middle age, with a distinguished touch of gray well advanced on his temples. He wore modest but well made clothing, and his finger wore a heavy gold ring featuring a cabochon cut ruby. His dining companions were young and well muscled, and sat with swords leaned against the table. They were rather obviously body guards.
A barmaid approached Mixie’s table, and giving her a suspicious glance, asked “And what can I bring for you this evening Miss?” Mixie took her eyes from the three men.
“I would like a mug of salt and a plate of chicken’s feet. Please.”
The barmaid’s eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “You want to drink salt?”
“Yes. From a mug. Beechwood if you have it.” Mixie produced a small fistful of gold coins which she plunked down on the table. Those who lived the privileged life were easily disturbed, as if they knew that if their lives took any sudden turn they would wind up in a disaster, but they were easily soothed by money.
The woman looked at the coins dubiously. “We don’t serve chicken’s feet Miss.”
Mixie looked around the room. “I see..”she paused to count “…seven people eating chicken. None of these chickens have feet. What became of them?”
“We threw them away Miss.”
“Well there you go then. Pull them from the garbage and put them on a plate. Build them into a little cabin or something attractive like that.”
The Barmaid decided that she’d had enough of this conversation, and backed away to place the order.
Mixie watched the three men eat and chat while she waited for her food, but took pains not to be obvious about it. She brought forth her little box of teeth, and whenever any of them glanced her way, she was busy arranging them into patterns on the table, smiling to herself. That’s it Mixie, don’t draw attention to yourself. Nothing to see here, just a bit of harmless tooth arrangement.
When Mixie’s food arrived, she frowned to see that the mug of salt was not beechwood, and that the chicken’s feet were piled higglety-pigglety on the a plate. She glared at the barmaid, who retreated quickly. Mixie picked up a foot and began to suck it absentmindedly, sweeping the teeth back into their box.
Despite her nonchalance, the men kept looking her, and continued to do so now. Have they never seen a green girl arranging teeth and eating chicken’s feet? Mixie wondered. She hadn’t guessed they would be so provincial. I wave my pinkie at them! Let them stare if they must!
Rising gracefully to her feet, Mixie performed an elegant dance twirl, mug in hand, then suddenly dashed the salt in a spray across the eyes of the three men. In a flash her sword was out slashing and hacking. The men grabbed for their swords but could not see, and Mixie did gruesome work amongst a chorus of screams, then turned on her heels and left the tavern, pausing to remove one of the coins she had left on the table as a punishment for the pewter mug and randomly piled chicken’s feet, and melted away into the darkness.
Last edited by Mixie Shadowmuffin; September 30, 2008 at 10:00 AM.
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