Return of a cursed one

Lebogan Shah peered through the slit in his door at the streets that were growing darker by the second. Soon the Parson's voices would be heard through the city of Dalasca, declaring the streets safe for the 'cursed ones'. That was what Lebogan Shah was called.
It had been that way for centuries in Dalasca. The blessed walk the streets by day, the cursed by night. Always separated.
"Retreat now blessed ones," the Parsons' song could be heard. "Lest the cursed corrupt your soul. Return now cursed ones, if you've the will to leave your hole."
A foolish chant, but it had been sung each day for centuries. The blessed would return to their homes and the cursed would emerge.
Shah's door opened. Dalasca was dirty and smelled of squalor and poverty but compared to his house the air felt cool and fresh. Other cursed were emerging, snarling at any blessed ones who remained in the streets. The blessed ones, the Altari, would be gone from the streets in minutes. The night belonged to the Krull, the cursed.
The streets and alleys were unlit and no moon graced the sky but Shah could see clearly. He walked amongst the cursed Krull, their skin like coal. A few gave him strange glances but most were used to his ghostly complexion in these streets. The night began like any other, until he saw a face he thought he knew, before it disappeared. Shah moved to follow. To find one who escaped his presence.
He knew the face, if his eyes did not deceive. Veska Ayari, one of the cursed maidens, a daughter of the Kingdom of Krull. Shah had not seen her in years and thought he'd never see her again. The sight of her alone nearly warmed the blood in his veins.
Shah had not always been cursed. As a child he walked by day among the blessed. A child of the Altari Empire. But he was forever curious and took to leaving his house at night, to spy on the cursed ones.
He had seen Veska, a girl with such passion and beauty couldn't exist among the blessed. He spoke with her and won her heart, but they could never be together. He was blessed, she was cursed.
Shah had left the city, not yet a grown man, to find a solution and he though he found it in the far off city of Mazanad. A man with ghostly white skin, cursed as teh Krull were to never see the light of the sun. Shah had asked the man to share his curse and the man bit into his neck, nearly killing him. But when he woke the curse had already begun.
Shah returned to Dalasca but Veska was horrified at him. She screamed he had given up his mortality. That he could no longer feel, no longer love. His curse was a thousand times worse than hers and she ran away, never to be seen or heard of by Shah again.
He ran through the streets. Trying to feel excitement, like those days so many years ago when he tried to feel heart broken, but could only feel emptiness. With thoughts of Veska so close Shah could almost remember how to be passionate. He tried to focus on thoughts of her eyes, her lips, her breasts. But his mind could only rest on her neck.
Shah froze. Something sharp was being held at the back of his heart.
"Lebogan Shah," Veska's voice was unmistakable. "It has been a long time."

The Broken Bottle

Joe lay on his dirty old couch on his back porch. He'd spent the night there, although he couldn't remember falling asleep.
His friends had come for a party to celebrate his escape from his vile marriage. That was the night before. Now there was just the usual devestation of the morning after.
Joe stared blankly at the unpolished deck. Tooheys cans and bundy cans everywhere. And the bottle of Smirnoff, smashed, broken shards all over the place.
It was not broken in clumsy drunkedness. It was in anger. All nights ended in anger for Joe. She was not the problem, he was. No wonder no friends had stayed to help clean up. Joe drove everyone away.
They had been so happy to begin with but the pressure of life had changed Joe. And after that he had changed her. Changed her into the witch she became, before she finally ended it with that piece of paper.
His friends had seen it all. They would support him but they also blamed him. All the jokes in the world didn't change their judging eys. He drove them away when he drove her away. Soon he would have nothing.
If only he could go back. To a time when he was not broken. But just like that bottle he could not go back.

Rain

A single drip and then a patter, so begins the rain
I watch it with an aire of dread out through my window pane
The night is fast approaching and the day will soon refrain
And all the while there's water flowing quickly down the drain

The rain's mystique in my mind is anything but inane
Its origins could only be the work of the arcane
So high and far its world is impossible to attain
Out of reach and understanding no matter how hard we strain

Tonight the rain will surely bring another type of pain
I try to not think thoughts that are easy to entertain
Perhaps there is a way, a sort of injury to feign
Alas I can't avoid it, hockey training in the rain

Between the Shelves

Nebba scurried back to his hiding place as the dusty Dickens was taken. He felt a pang of regret, why choose that copy? The readers usually wanted the new editions with the shiny pages. But Nebba loved the smell of the old ones. There was work to do so Nebba slid down the back of the shelves to find his next vessel.
Books held amazing power, they could transfer a reader into another world for hours to safely return when they put the book down. Creatures like Nebba gave the books power.
Nebba did not like being in the open air, he dashed across the carpet and leaped into a new volume, Huxley this time, weaving through each page like deer through a forest. He delighted in every word, every syllable and every letter. The book was now ready for an eager reader to enjoy.
It broke Nebba's heart to see books taken that he had not prepared. The reader would struggle through lifeless pages and no doubt put the book down. With good fortune they may return and take another but many didn't. Readers lost for Nebba's shortcomings.
If it were possible Nebba would enchant every book, but he was only one and there was not enough time. Leaping out of Huxley and back to the carpet, skipping between the eager readers shoes and into an Eddings.
His life was always under threat. The books were powerful objects and became even more dangerous after he brought the pages to life. He could take join in their words but never their stories. For when one of his kind was drawn into the story they could not escape like the readers could. They would be trapped and become a part of the story.
So many had fallen in this way, becoming characters in narratives, slaves in paper and ink. It was the constant threat to Nebba's kind. So curious to know the world they sent readers to they needed a will of cast iron to resist.
Nebba knew that one day he too would succumb. He too would become a character in an amazing narrative, drawing readers into every scene. But for now he could still take joy in the simple things. Words, letters, suffixes and similes. And the smell of old books.

Krull Assassin, Part 2

Kekai followed the elf servant girl through the labyrinth that was the palace of King Baredah. The other Krull Assassins and the Arcaner Mardai followed. The went up and down different flights of stairs, made as many left turns as they did right turns. There was no direct way to navigate this place. Only perfect knowledge of every corridor would ensure correct navigation.
Despite being a humble servant the elf moved with the quiet grace of one trained in stealth. It was true that elves possessed a natural control of their body that most members of other races could only dream of but Kekai was still intrigued.
At the back of the group Mardai could be heard muttering away again. If any other member of his squad was to act that way Kekai would murder them where they stood, but Mardai was not a Krull Assassin and he was essential to completing their mission. And they were so close.
They approached a strange door that looked more like a giant’s long shield, made from solid brass. The girl looked back at them. She could lead them no further. The Krull Assassins were ready for this eventuality. Kekai signalled to two of his brothers to go to work. They produced a number of strange tools, normally the arsenal or the master thief, today another weapon of the assassins.
"Just look at her," Mardai whispered, Kekai tried to shoo him away but the Arcaner wouldn't be denied. "The silent treatment won't work on me now. What do you think? Should I see if that lovely complexion stretches over her whole body? Or would you like to do the honour?"
"You won't touch a hair on her head," Kekai hissed at barely a whisper, though he felt like he was shouting to the sky at Dursa herself.
"It's not the hair I'm interested in," Mardai sneered back. Kekai stroked the blade in his sleeve with the tips of his fingers, if he wished Mardai would already be dead. But Mardai knew Kekai had to stay his blade. They could not complete the mission without the Arcaner's powers.
The girl was less than a pace ahead of the Assassin leader, her face was now turned, watching the Assassins work to open the door. Kekai begged silently to her not to overhear the Arcaner's words. She was already terrified, he wanted to protect her. Mardai would do nothing but harm.
After much work the door clicked open, the assassins were all positioned along the walls of the corridor as Kekai peered into the room with a tiny mirror, so as not to expose himself to a waiting attack. The room had two elven soldiers armed with bows pointed at the door waiting for Krull to enter the room. Kekai gave a signal to another assassin who used a similar mirror to also survey the room inside. Then they drew throwing stars and sent them slicing into the ribs of both archers. Two other assassins followed the stars and finished the elves, who had started to moan in pain. The star could never be as accurate as the bow, but its ability to turn corners made it a useful tool.
They entered the treasury, Kekai making sure to keep himself between the girl and Mardai at all times. The Arcaner had work to do here, then Kekai's blades could contemplate work. The Arcaner walked to the middle of the treasury room and closed his eyes, slowly turning in a circle before he stopped and his eyes shot open. "There it is," he said wide eyed in his usual slimy tone.
The Arcaner stepped nimbly through mountains of elven treasure. His eyes on one thing, the magical weapon of the elves. None of the Krull before now knew what it looked like. Only Mardai's talent to identify objects of power allowed him to find it.
Mardai knelt in front of a chest of solid gold, looking up helplessly as it was locked. Kekai motioned to his assassin's to get to work with their lock picks.
"What is your name?" it was the girl. Her voice broken and hoarse, but still the hint of lyrical beauty was there.
"I am called Kekai," he whispered back. "What do they call you?"
"Meila," the girl looked to the ground. It was such a beautiful name, why did she look down. Kekai could not speak more. Mardai was muttering Arcaner spells. Nonsense words to any but one trained in magic. He held in his hand the object of power, a small statue of a tree. It no doubt represented the Olarea, the Tree of Life, source of much of the world’s power so the elders said. The elves' lands lay closest to where the tree was said to grow. Maybe this statue was linked to the tree itself. If so it would hold devastating power.
As Mardai raised the tree it began to glow, its cold silver surface changing, so the tree almost looked real. Mardai's eyes stared straight at Kekai, and he the assassin felt he could almost hear the Arcaner's thoughts. Almost see his magic.
I know what you would do when my task is done assassin. My life means nothing to you, just like your fellow assassin's lives mean nothing. But your heart is not so cold. Your lovely elfling I have put under a curse. Her blood now flows with mine. If you kill me you doom her. It is already done. You'd best stay your blade.
Kekai's eyes bulged in horror as he saw the spell leave Mardai's hand and enter Meila, the magic spreading to every part of her body, as it already was through Mardai. And then it was gone. Kekai saw nothing but what his normal sight could grant. Mardai had shown him that spell, and now Kekai could do nothing but wait for the second spell to be cast.
This spell would win the great war for the Krull and doom the elves of Alfeira. After this spell was cast the Krull race could recover and rebuild and their land could become beautiful again. But Kekai swore a silent oath. He would never again set foot in Krua. He would escape the Arcaner's influence with Meila and start a new life. And if the snake came after him he would find a way to break that curse and then take his revenge.

Wait

"Wait," her melodic voice sang.

I could have turned around.

She would promise so much.

Hot nights of December passion.

Cold mornings of August loneliness.

Long walks in the rain.

A body to hold tight.

Love, obsession, pain, loss, betrayal.

I stepped onto the train.

This time she could wait.

Dalsakesh Manor

At night the streets of Red Rock were just a dark orange blur, especially from this height. Daneski Vilton climbed carefully up the side of the Dalsakesh Manor. It was one of the tallest buildings in Red Rock and housed one of the wealthiest men there. Hasha Dalsakesh was the owner of more Red Rock horses than any other man except Lord Faralay himself and unlike Faralay he was obsessed with foreign luxuries and decorations. Nobody had dared to scale the Dalsakesh Manor in the past, but Daneski had worked out how to do it.
There was a guard keeping watch on the top of the tower, but unless he looked straight down at the wall, and he would have to lean a long way over his barrier to do so, he would never see Daneski. This meant Daneski had to be quiet as flea in the dirt as he climbed, which was why he moved so slowly.
There was also a soldier on the ground walking circuits of the tower. Each circuit took four minutes, after which Daneski would need to be hidden behind one of the drapes that decorated the tower. If he had to hurry to the next drape then the guard above would hear, if he didn’t make it in time the one below would see. Most saw this task as impossible, for a master like Daneski it was simply a challenge.
The only unlocked window was the highest in the Manor, at least eight stories up, and Daneski was almost there. If he were to look down now he would see the entire city, its flat topped roofs and grid of streets and alleyways, fading into the gloom. Many would hear of the great heist he was about to pull in the days to come, it was his most ambitious job yet.
Daneski once again carefully positioned himself behind one of the drapes that covered the tower as the soldier below made his circuit once more. The drapes were decorated with pictures of mountains and forests unlike anything in the Faran Badlands that Red Rock was surrounded by. Daneski always wondered how much of the world there was. He had been read stories as a child about heroes and wizards travelling through incredible lands but could barely believe anywhere could really be so different. Dalsakesh’s treasures were some proof however.
He was within reach of the window now, the guards above and below still oblivious. Somewhere nearby on the ground were Milosh and Grendic, two of the toughs in the gang that Daneski was also in. Jeneal, their leader, would be with them, she was running the show. Everything needed to work perfectly.
Daneski had with him a stone, which he would throw from the window when he was ready to make his escape. When they saw the signal Milosh and Grendic would start a diversion, drawing the attention of both guards, so Daneski could make a speed descent down the wall with as much treasure as he could carry, which would hopefully be a lot. Then Jeneal would meet him at the bottom and they would make for their safe house, Mad Naric’s.
The guard passed by, oblivious once more, and Daneski made his move, still being careful with every movement he glided up the wall and onto the windowsill. The room he saw was filled with all kinds of golden artefacts but it was not these that caught Daneski’s eye. A man in an armchair holding a crossbow was staring straight at him, Hasha Dalsakesh. Or would have been staring at him, had he not been sound asleep. Daneski breathed a sigh of relief. He had been about to risk the huge fall and jump from the building. Either way though this man was sure to complicate matters.
Daneski felt for his knife, but he carried nothing except the warning stone. He could not risk carrying the treasure he wanted while the sleeping man was armed and ungagged. On one of the tables in the room the aristocrat had been eating something with a silver knife and fork. That would have to do. The thief took the knife and crept behind the sleeping man’s chair. With the blade on his neck Daneski carefully removed the bolt from the crossbow before covering Dalsakesh’s mouth with his hand.
The man woke immediately and tried to called for help but only the tiniest mumble was able to escape.
“If you want to live, stand up and stay quiet.”
Daneski tried to keep his voice calm and authoritative, praying to Almar that the man would fail to see through the bluff. This knife was so dull it would barely draw blood, he could never kill with it.
“Even if you scream now I could kill you and be gone before anyone could intervene,” Daneski whispered, thankful to see his hostage tense with fear at the words. Meanwhile Daneski’s eyes scanned the room like a sprinting wolf, desperately looking for something highly valuable to sneak away with. He would not be taking a sackful of loot home with him today.
In this light what looked gold could be brass, silver could be polished iron, jewels could be real or fake. He needed a sure thing, something that was guaranteed to be valuable. Then he saw it.
Daneski grew up around horses in Red Rock. He had ridden in the races as a child until he became too tall and heavy. He had even ridden Dalsakesh’s horses for a short time and had won a highly prestigious trophy as well. As the rider Daneski had been given a small painted wooden replica of the trophy but Dalsakesh had received the real, solid gold version. Daneski would never forget it, and he was looking at it now. He just needed enough time to throw his stone, wait for the diversion, then grab it and leave. He turned Dalsakesh away from the window to face the middle of the room then moved his hand from the man’s mouth to go into his pocket for the stone to throw.
“You know,” said Dalsakesh. “You won’t cut much with a serving knife. Guards!”
Dalaskesh spun and Daneski had to duck the rich man’s fist. Daneski responded with a slash of the knife but it was blocked by a forearm and sent sliding to the floor, without leaving even a mark. Daneski realised what a fool he’d been, he’d faced his hostage directly in front on the table he took the knife from. The guards would be here soon, Daneski needed to get that prize or this would all be for nothing, but he also needed to escape. Milosh and Grendic would have heard the commotion, they would be doing their best on the ground to make an escape route but that would only be open for a short time. Daneski had to act fast.
He dodged two more punches and responded with a strike to the man’s jaw that sent him reeling back. Daneski took his chance and grabbed the trophy before leaping from the window, catching a drape as he did.
Climbing down was an exercise in speed, not stealth. For any other to climb that wall with the heavy trophy in hand would be near suicide, but Daneski was a master escape artist. In moments he had both feet on the ground and was running into the side streets with Jeneal, Dalsakesh screaming incoherently from the windowsill.
“So you finally got your hands on that trophy after all these years,” Jeneal chuckled. “Get any trouble from the old boss?”
“Nothing a good right hook couldn’t solve,” Daneski joked back.
“You idiot,” Jeneal laughed. “We wanted you to break into his house, not break his jaw.”