Colour in the Asterisk

Unfamiliar scripts mistake another animal,

uncertain next to daylight in the chamber.

Patience scratches underneath the number,

token romance, it paces the compact vein.

The pigeon explodes against a rich cookie,

why question, postscript, the tool?

A beautiful sauce rests near eyesight,

fooling youth, involving excitement,

expires.

Tossed Hackmaster Introduction Pieces

To the eyes of a casual observer--or mayhaps even a typical patient--these whitewashed hallways are a place of last hopes, of desperate times, of deep struggles. To Death, they might be paradise: an endless supply of souls, where He need not travel far from one mark to another. But to the young woman who cradles in her arms a newborn, who cries with joy as she whispers its tiny name, who thanks her doctor profusely, and whose life will be spared today, these halls are a godsend. The occasional strips of flowered wallpaper, too, coloured in a favourable blue, help remedy the sterile aires of this unsavory saviour.

In the crystallized silence of this malevolent wurld, a man comforts his wife, shielding her eyes from the nearby door, now open, through which a body bag is carried. Her loud sobs echo through the institution, picking up wracking coughs and whelming tears as she falls to her knees, nails clawing at the wall before her, forehead roughly smashing into it. Her husband turns to acknowledge a doctor, thank him for the concern with a handshake and a forced smile, his other hand remaining in its place on her shoulder, attempting to soothe. One step at a time, they carry the boy that used to smile up at her in wonder and love when she said goodnight. One step at a time, her hopes and her prayers are chipped away, leaving her to crumble in the wake of this unfair cruelty.

There exists an irregularity within the bounds of this isolate island: a single face shows little in the way of pain or joy--instead sporting a single-eyed glare for those who step in her way. Large scars muddle her complexion, carving their way down the side of her face, even seeming to shred the eye-patch that now rests where her other eye used to lie. The edges of her lips, even, contort sharply in the depressions left by this monstrosity of a battle wound.

Her booted gait, unperturbed by the surroundings, is only remotely slowed by a limp; she walks brusquely between sobbing families and nearby practitioners, interrupting conversations with little more effort than a well placed boot or a well situated glove. With a quick backward glance, over her epaulette, gold-fringed and ensigned with a crimson band, she retakes inventory:

To the keen observer, those faces that bob behind her, wonder and annoyance flashing in eyes, could only be given the distinction "hobnob." Choosing to disregard sizes of shoe and body, however, might provide the observer another delineation: "kin." Indeed, by the way each casts a glare singularly redolent to the next, they perhaps could be considered thusly.

She turns back around, and sharply a corner. Ahead, the hall deadens with the dead-end; not a soul in sight, and only a single door leading onward. It is to this door, wooden, latched and locked, that she is bound. It is to this door, as well, that her mission guides her, if only to open it.

The door opens inward, into an alcove cut neatly between great shelves of books, fitted and neatly organized. One shuts, in the hands of a man, back turned to the door, who sits with his legs crossed neatly at the knee. His chair is leather, black and sleek. A smile, cruel, menacing, creeps up his cheeks as he slowly rotates his chair, watching you file in. The door shuts behind you with a click.

Wooden furnishings, mostly burgundy, but some a lighter shade close to tan, decorate the large office of one Councilor Mathews, whose name-plate is chipped lightly at the corner and losing its gold finish. @Five chairs form a crescent shape just beyond reach of the desk, all straight-backed and four-legged. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, providing light to the room, and flickering only rarely. Two candleholders rest symmetrically on the wall just behind Mathews, framing a fireplace.

The Councilor stands politely, masking his emotions with a well-rehearsed nod of greeting, and generously offers you a seat with a wave and a gentle, "Please."

Returning to his luxurious armchair with a loud sigh, he opens a desk drawer and slips out a letter, tied closed with a small red band. "I have been asked to read you this: a message from my fellow councilman unto you. I can assure you, the words held within reflect the opinion of the Council of Bellaria. With that," and with a small flourish of his hand, removing the seal and unrolling its contents, "I shall begin:

"To whom it may concern:

"Several hours ago, two great tragedies occurred: the theft of what might be the single most valuable object in the world, and the brutal murder of a woman in cold blood. These happenings took place at the crossroads of Thane Road and Bank Street, at noon-thirty-seven sharp, one within the National Bank of Ballaria, and one without.

"It should also be mentioned that the guards stationed inside were found unconscious, as were all other spectators and observers of these events, including you. No gun matched the bullet lodged within the female, Jane Do. Similarly, no prints were found within the bank, or on the metal case, magically sealed inside the vault, that was found opened, its six locks perfectly intact on the ground beside it and its protections avoided.

"The spell-wards were checked by the Association of Magic-Users, who determined no spell was cast in or around the vault fixture, including the curses that had been placed on the titanium-alloyed briefcase.

"You wonder, no doubt, why I write of these occurrences to the @five of you, when each was found lying in the crowd outside, and will no-doubt profess innocence. We understand."

The man coughs lightly before pouring water from pitcher into glass. He sips, and continues:

"However, the @five of you are also the least-connected within this city. None were born here, none raised here, and none here more than a week. Therefore, you are perfect scapegoats for this atrocity, and such a group is needed, in order to keep the peace within this nation. I regret to inform you, but the blame shall be entirely yours. You will be tried and executed, and your families dishonored and exiled.

"That is, unless you can find evidence that points to the true organization behind these acts within the next seven days. I, as well the majority of the council, wish you luck, and hope you understand our actions in this matter."

Jaina

She ran, uncaring how far, or how fast, or even where she was going. She wished she were never born. Her family couldn’t catch her; it would mean the end of her life. She would lay in tyranny forever, oppressed, drugged, and unhappy through undeath. She sped up as she raced the roads, part of her hoping that when she rounded the corner, she would be hit by a bus, and part of her praying silently that she would get out alive, or at least to a better place.
She lost track of time quickly now that she was away from her clocks. Her parents had taken away her watch when she tried to strangle herself with it, and beat her because it hadn’t managed to end her pathetic life. And so she ran, changing directions when she saw bright lights in the distance that could have been her father’s car, and diving into bushes whenever a car closed in on her.
Her vision was blurry from running too quickly. She couldn’t see where she was going, and tripped over a stone on the ground, landing on grass. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears; each beat sounding as if a twig had snapped. But as she turned sharply this way and that in an effort to find her father, or her mother, in the darkened bed of trees she now laid in, she could not see them. Pushing herself off the ground, she stood painfully on her feet.
But finally, she stood fully alone. Breathing a sigh of relief, her first in months, she gazed skyward in thanks. The quiet, soothing calls of nature entranced her for the first truly silent moment she had ever had. Birds swooped overhead beneath the starry skies far beyond.
Her legs collapsed beneath her once again as a wave of beauty swept through her from the forest around her. Her breathing slowed, as she lay entranced on the damp grass, watching the skies as Aurora Borealis began to form.
Blue light illuminated her surroundings, giving her a sense of purity and hope. Hope that her life would be better, and her troubles over. She could just picture a normal, peaceful life:

She came home wearing her school uniform for the last day of the year. She was glad school was finally out. Her father greeted her upon her arrival, welcoming her back with a hug and a kiss on the forehead. Dinner was being prepared, and it smelled wonderful.
She bounded quickly up the stairs to change into more suitable clothes for such an occasion: a rainbow colored T-shirt and her pink-striped pajamas. She pulled the tie out of her ashen hair, letting it fall loose over her shoulders.
She stepped onto her balcony to enjoy the cool, winter’s breeze on her tanned skin. The sun hung over the horizon, its light fading into the dark of eve. Her mother called her down for dinner as the last shred of the suns rays disappeared beyond the mountains.
Stepping down for dinner, she sighed deeply. A huge weight was off her shoulder; she had passed the semester, and would not even have to think about work again for six whole months!
She sat down for dinner, where her mother was serving sushi, her favorite food. They ate, and talked, and before long, hours had passed, and it was time for her to sleep. Her mother walked her to her room, and wished her goodnight, with a final kiss and loving hug.

Oh, how she wished her dreams were true. Alas, it was not to be. She had run away, and her father would not let her return; not that she wanted to.
Her father had handpicked all of her friends, meaning none would help her in her time of need. There was no place to go.
She had nothing to live for anymore. There was no love in her life, only despair and agony that she had long since learned to contain. But in the peaceful meadow, she could hold it no longer.
She wept, each tear bringing with it memories of times when her father had beaten her, and her mother had done nothing, or when he beat her mother, and she was too cowardly to stop it. Her stomach squirmed, forcing her upright in pain. She heaved on the grass to her side, letting up what little was left of her dinner from the night before. Her hunger pained her; she had not eaten a decent meal in more than a day.
She stood up painfully, glancing at the sky one last time before she sauntered away from the forestry, and towards the small town beyond. If her father were looking for her at all, he would have already given up and gone home. Her father hated to waste time on her behalf.
For a long time, she simply walked, not bothering to pay attention to where she was going. She passed many restaurants, but after checking her pockets for spare coins, she would sigh, and walk on, stomach growling.
People glared at her as she walked past them in the streets, showering her with looks that plainly said, “Get this pile of dung away from me.” She ignored them as best she could, but their hate-filled eyes stung her as sharply as her father’s own looks had, and that was a pain she could not ignore.
She began to despair, thinking she would never find food, and be forced to either go home to her father, or die. She could never go back, but could she end her life of her own volition?



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Naruen, Chapter 3

((This one's a short chapter.. Be warned!))


When she awoke, she lay before the pedestal that held the ring, with the statues still embracing behind it. The mist had all but gone, and her vision was normal once again. All forms of pain had left her, even the ones she inflicted upon herself. Her new wounds were now old ones, healed and ready for more. She stood up, staggering. Her body had not moved for some time.
Making one last symbolic kiss, she reached for the ring, and took it in her hands. She examined it, eager to see the words she already knew were there: the words told in legends, and myths.
Inne Gold We Tryst – The ancient text upon which nations fueled their hatred for pirates, thinking them only petty thieves. It was the text upon which the Vampyr, whom her own ship was named after, thrived for so many generations. But it was more, oh so much more.
Many thousands of years previous, it was the last defense, the ring that stopped the wars between man and beast. Love, it was to the Vampyr, and brought on an end to their feeding upon human blood. A symbol of power to the world, so powerful it could end the world, or save it. And it lay still in her mortal hand.
Her purpose now had been set. She would delve into the world of the eternally damned, and bring back with her the one man she truly cared for. Escaping the pits would not be the difficult part of returning; the difficult part would be finding a way to shore. Her crew had undoubtedly already pronounced her dead.
Naruen returned to the surface in much the same way as she came, though this time, she could see by the light of the ring she now wore on her left hand.
It was twilight, the time of silence within the night. Pirates worshipped this time of meditation, because it was the eve before battle, the great silence that lay prelude to the war that raged for many centuries, and would continue to rage for many more. It was the silence between day and night, and their eternal conflict.
She lay still for a moment, gazing at the stars, and wondering if they would still be there when she entered the Netherworld. After all, why would such people, who were eternally damned for holding so tightly to their spirit that they could not embrace the full wonder of the seas be shown the light by which they were never guided in their lives?
She rose once more as the sun began to rise, and set forth across the island, in search of a way to the mainland. As she waved through the trees, she once again felt the urge to dance, and to sing, though this time noticeably less potent an urge.
Spinning clumsily about, she began to wonder if memories were the true cause of what had befallen her, or if it was simply an illusion. But the more she thought about it, the more entranced by her surroundings she became.




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Naruen, Chapter 2

Minutes passed before she landed solidly on the ground far below, crushing the bones of others who had walked the same path before her. Brushing the dust off her leather vest, she set herself to walking forwards, deep into the belly of the island. Her vision failing from the darkness, she changed her hum slightly, from a nearly silent murmur to a loud, blaring, noise. She listened intently, gradually standing to full height. With her eyes closed, she walked for several steps, stopped, and listened more.
Her heart pounded heavily as she sidestepped her way over slippery rocks, and ducked beneath stalactites, praying that her voice would not fail her for even a moment. Hearing something in the distance, deeper in the cave, she stopped humming, and began to twitch her fingers to what the tune would sound like.
She squatted down, close enough to the rock below her to feel them brushing against her thighs, and readied three throwing daggers: two from her collection of decaying blades, and one of her good ones. She threw one several feet away from where she heard the movement, and spoke softly, even calmly, “Who’s there?”
A shuffle of feet answered her at almost the same time as she quietly repositioned herself on another nearby rock. She threw another blade, this time to the right of the general area. “Who are you?” she spoke, this time with more fear showing in her voice.
Another shuffle came, with no answer. The creature had thrown away his warnings, and stepped into her trap. She threw her third blade, deep into the heart of the being before her. Frowning slightly, she drew back to full height, and stepped forward to the body through her sense of hearing.
The one problem with being a pirate, at least for her, was that she kept having to kill people, which she loathed with a passion. She drew up close to he body, and rolled it over. In a faint light, she noticed it was a man. Drawing the blade from the man’s body, she kissed the tips of her fingers, and placed them to the wound.
“This man has not wronged me,” she spoke pleadingly with the gods. With the blood upon her fingertips, she drew a circle on the man’s forehead, and a cross over his chest, extending from right shoulder to left leg, and vise versa. Kissing the center of his forehead, the middle of the circle, she whispered softly to the body, “May you be reborn anew, at peace.”
Rising up from the man, she now noticed where the glow had come from: a large, golden door. The door of her dreams.
Through the door she went, racing with the mere moments of time she still had left. There lay a small, golden ring beneath a statue of the pirate god and goddess as they embraced each other, with their arms extended towards it.
She kneeled before the statues, and once more kissed her fingers, this time before touching them to her own heart, in a show of fealty to the god and goddess. Her vision faded into nothingness as a swirl of silvery mist surrounded her.
Awaken, Naruen, daughter of mine. Tell us, why do you seek the sacred ring of Alystra? The voice of a woman filled her thoughts, and echoed inside her head.
Rising from a deep slumber, Naruen blinked away the dust that covered her eyes, whereupon she saw that she lay within the Chamber of Pirate Lords, before Alan and Jaina themselves. Standing to her full height, she was still only a doll to them, but she spoke anyway, her voice not showing even a speck of anxiety. “I seek Alystra’s ring to gain entry to the Netherworld, to bring back the man who died to save my life many years ago.”
How do we know you shall honor that which you have spoken, and not seek to dominate the world? Will you repeat the Pirate’s Code of Honor for us? Came the voice of Alan, deep, and without emotion.
“I shall not repeat the Code, for to do so is dishonor within the Code itself!”
You seek our permission granted so you may perform with the ring, as you will? Came the soft female voice once more, as if she were a baby to be caressed, and mothered.
“I seek not your permission to take the ring for myself, but rather the gift of the ring to do with as I spoke.”
And how can we trust you, daughter of the seas, when you are a Pirate, made in our own images to lie, to cheat, and to steal? How can we know that you are even capable of controlling the ring, and not the opposite?
Naruen, whose anger never moved her, now drew her twin scimitars, and rammed one through the man-god’s heart, and one through her own. Gritting her teeth, she spoke one final time to Jaina before falling to the floor. “As a blade fells an enemy, so, too, does it fell its holder. To live as all actions return to one’s self; this is the Pirate way.”




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Naruen, Chapter 1

It was a hot afternoon on the Grand Ocean, and the deck men were all slumping against the sides of Vampyren, scrambling for what little shade they could find as the ship changed directions. It was heading for shore, but upon orders from the Captain, it was headed to an island in the middle of nowhere.
The history of Vampyren was a peculiar one. It was rumored to have been the ship of the first of the Vampyr, but since then, no vampires had ever commanded it, or worked on it. Throughout history, its name was recorded in multiple places at once, as a ghost ship, a carrier of The Gate of Hell, and as a simple pirate ship; it was none of these.
These days, it was a pirate ship, yes, but it was also the only ship to be commanded by a girl, and the strongest ship on the seas. The commander, Naruen, was a young girl of seven when she first boarded the ship as its Captain. Now, Naruen was fifteen, and beautiful.
As she stepped out of the Captain’s Quarters, Naruen’s auburn hair blew in the wind, revealing a scar across her neck, where a sword that would have killed her grazed her. A man had died to save her life, throwing himself into the blade just as it began to cut her skin. She wore a skull-and-crossbones earring on that side – the Pirate code for rebirth and salvation. Her normally blue eyes turned a light shade of pink in the sunlight, when reflected off of the ocean.
She did not even have to look around her ship to know that the crew had been slacking off; like all good Captains, she had a connection to her ship. When a crewmember was slacking off, she knew it. No matter where she was on Vampyren.
Upon seeing her, they all went back to their posts, and began to work once more. It wasn’t that she was a cruel Captain; she just set straight all of the crew whenever one didn’t work.
Most of the crew was already sweating after hearing where they were headed; they were afraid she was just going to leave them stranded there if they didn’t work at par. Having no intention of doing so, but wanting them to work, she simply left them to believe it.
The day faded fast as she watched her crew work; often, she even helped them. Vampyren reached the island as the sun set.
“Drop Anchor!” she shouted loudly enough to be heard across Vampyren, but no louder. “Lower the rafts!” she yelled once more, as she jumped over the side of the boat into a small raft. She steadied it, and then motioned her Second to follow her into the tiny wooden raft before she dropped it into the calm sea below. She had left her First in charge of the ship while she was gone.
She and her Second rowed to shore, and buried the raft in the sand. She drew her twin scimitars, and listening to the island’s call for a moment before putting them back into her scabbards, and tossing them onto the sand pile where they had buried the raft. Her Second proceeded to un-strap his weapons, and drop them in the new pile.
Taking off at a brisk walk, she began to hum The Call to Nature – a song used in ancient battles to time attacks. Her Second picked up the song, and walked off in another direction.
Remembering her childhood and all the fun she had in a forest she once visited, she started to glide between trees, spinning and dancing to the tune she hummed. Minutes passed, and still no vision had come to her of where she was supposed to be. The vision that she needed to visit this island had been the first in years. Still, with no vision, she could do nothing but continue to dance, and dance, she did.
And then she saw something in the trees around which she danced. Leaping up to it, she noticed it was a wire of a sort. She tugged on it, and the land around the tree fell into a dark pit.
By the tune she sung at that moment, she had two hours before her Second would go back to the ship, and pronounce her lost. She flipped down into the darkened pit hole.



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Jai'alan

It was the seventeenth day of the nineteenth month, and the High Council was in session. They met twice a month, on fixed days, and all of the noblemen’s sons spent the day inside, pondering the actions of the High Council. Each of them sought his own way to spy on the adults. None ever succeeded.
It was on this day that the youngest daughter of the Jae’el family aged her fourteenth year. This meant she would become a woman, and would be forced to marry by status, and not by love. She felt this was not how it was supposed to be done, and so she sought a way to enter the Council, to speak before them.
She had trained herself secretly in the arts of a thief since she was six, and the art of Blademastery since she was nine. If anyone could enter the Council without permission, it was she.
She looked into her mirror, and saw her reflection. Her eyes were a light shade of blue, her hair black and wavy. She was considered beautiful among the nobles, meaning the suitors would arrive rather quickly, and each would request an audience with her.
She donned her black robe, and pulled the hood above her head, to cover all traces of her appearance; her robe had daggers and lockpicks hidden throughout. She picked up the sword she had trained with for years; it had been used for many years, yes, but she cared for it well. She attached the belt and scabbard to her robe, around her waist.
Walking over to her window, she grimly recalled the night when her mother had seen her climbing out of it; her mother had bars placed over it. Luckily for her, she knew the blacksmith who fitted it, and requested he build a latch. Opening the window, she reached out, and flipped down the latch; it sprung open, without a sound. She climbed out, and closed it again before heading down to the ground, some three stories below.
It was winter here, and the air around her was well below freezing. It was a good thing she put on her robe; it was quite thick, and prevented the cold from getting to her. She neared the ground, and, noticing no guards were present, dropped down the remaining half-story. Landing perfectly, she walked over to the entrance to the Council’s hall. She had also practiced walking like a boy, and acting like one, knowing it would come in handy eventually.
The door was of ancient woodwork; it was old, yes, but still in good condition. She knocked twice, and a hatch slid open. A man’s eyes were on the other side.
“Who goes thar?” the man asked.
“My name is not of your concern. I will give it when I speak before the Council, as is my right as a man of another land.” She had studied the laws of the country, as all nobles were required to. Her trick worked; the man opened the door, and let her in.
Around the room sat forty-nine people. Each wore formal clothes, as if in a contest for most formality. All of them except the lead councilman smiled at her, and bid her welcome.
“Show yourself, to prove you are a man,” stated the leader; evidently, he had not fallen for her trick.
“Tell me, do you ask all newcomers to this land to stand naked in front of many men who may or may not have a personal liking for other men? That must be why people are leaving. I ask for a Trial by Arms to prove my manhood,” she replied coolly; she was ready for this.
“Very well. Who will face this outsider?” he asked of the others; not a one raised his hand. He walked grumpily over to the weapons rack in the back of the room, and drew himself a blade.
She drew her own blade, without pause, and without faking uselessness. They circled each other for a moment, looking for weaknesses and openings. She found one, and laughed, without attacking. The foolish man thought she had cracked, and attacked, arcing his blade down at her. She blocked and shoved him backwards by leaning forcefully on her blade.
He came at her again, this time more skillfully. She parried his undercut, and knocked his blade flying with the flick of her wrist. She put her sword back in its scabbard; it was dishonorful to fight an unarmed opponent.
Once again, he came at her, his face red with rage. “I’m going to kill you!” he shouted. She knocked his hand away from her neck, not pausing before she delivered a blow to his neck that would leave him unconscious for weeks to come.
“Anyone else?” She smiled to herself. She knew none would come forth to face her. When none did, she stated clearly, “Good.
“My name is Jai’alan, of the Ulan clan. I have come before your Council to state that you need to keep your women here. One woman for every three I have counted here makes her way to my village to seek shelter. Each tells me of the horrors of forced marriages to people they hate. Tell me, why do you persist?”
One brave man replied. One of forty-eight. “They do not love each other when they are married, but they gradually begin to love each other afterwards. You of all people should know that young ladies don’t know what they want!” She laughed at him.
“Each of the young ladies that ran away has come across a man they truly love, and have married them, with or without their parents’ consent! In my eyes, and the eyes of my clan, these girls should have a say in which man they are to marry. Of course, this rides upon you having one last chance. Solve the problem, and there will be no war. Continue to force women to marry for status, and if even one more runs away to my village, there will be war, and THEN we shall impose the very same rule once your barbaric village is under our control.” Once again, she smiled to herself; she knew how to make men do things.
“Do you understand me?” she asked, calmly. Not a one moved an inch. “I said, ‘Do. You. Understand. Me?’”



I do so hope you've enjoyed this… Please let me know, but use insightful responses! I'm not a big fan of the generic "I love/hate this" replies! Let me know what about it is good or bad!

kthxbai! <3