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Gone fishing.  Back in a week.

Watchmen, the movie trailer

Oh.  My.  FUCKING.  God.  Someone hold me before I wet myself.

Right.  I had to wrap up a few things on another server, afore I could funnel all my attention into LotN yet again.  But that's done now, so here we go.  Expect things to come from the Swede.

I'm tinkering with a plot line that involves the downside of Neverwinter, hence this thread.  I'm looking for characters that do have—or should have—actual connections to the thieves' guild, or other elements of the criminal underworld.  So, if you feel this applies to your character and you want in on what's planned, let me know through PM and we'll work from there.  I'll need to know what said connections are, and how you amassed said street cred.

Does your life not suck?  Is everything peachy keen with your character?  Is she happy and having fun?  Is her life like a bunch of bunnies on crystal meth, endlessly fornicating?  Is she lacking drive?  Is she lacking an antagonist?  Do you want to change any of that?  All of that?

If so, send me a line, and we'll discuss your options for mental reaming and general despair.  

Chicane now dislikes you.

[ Usually, I try to avoid conversations in my writing.  I've never been comfortable penning it down, and I've never been good at making it sound natural.  This one... at least it contains an attempt at it.  We'll see how it goes.

The lyrics quoted in the second post are from 'Some Natures Catch No Plagues', written and performed by Saetia. ]

--

Silence.

The silence had been building up inside of him.  Overwhelming him.  He’d been standing by the window for what seemed like days.  Days?  It’d probably been no more than a few hours.  The street outside was bathed in the meager light the stars and the moon offered, but otherwise, all that was out there was darkness.  No men, no children, no animals.  Nothing.  It was a landscape frozen in time, a delicate painting.  Only the rain moved; a falling myriad of tiny drops, a gentle pitter-patter against the unwashed window.  The rain and the wind.  Darkness was around him as well, pressing down on him with soft fingers.  Fingers he welcomed.  The candles and the oil lamps had long since burnt out, as had the incense, but the smell still lingered in the bedroom.

“This isn’t like you, Vessan.”

He broke the silence.

The voice came from across the room, from the bed.  There was a slight slur to it, a gritty fuzziness if you will; the voice of someone having just woke up.  Saran.  How long had he been awake?  Had he been watching him all along?  Outside the wind was picking up; it shook the inn’s sign where it hung suspended from a wooden pole by two thin chains just below their window, slamming it against the wall.

He broke the silence.

“Is all well?  You’ve been standing here all night, haven’t you?  You need rest.”  Vessan heard him moving somewhere behind him, drawing closer—the soft brushing of skin against cloth, the creaking of the bed, the padded sound of naked feet moving across wooden boards.  He was mere inches away now; Vessan could feel his breath against his neck.  It wasn’t until Saran draped a quilt around him from behind that he realized he was freezing, shivering.    
He broke the silence

“Won’t you talk to me?  Tell me what’s wrong?”

Silence.

Saran sighed and wrapped his arms around Vessan, as if he feared the elf ‘s legs might suddenly give way and send the elf plummeting out the window.  Reluctantly, at first, Vessan accepted the embrace, but soon leaned back into it, seeking the warmth.  The warmth … and the comfort?  He’d known Saran for years now.  They’d met during his time in the Gate, the time he’d spent investigating the faceless one.  What were they?  Friends?  Lovers?  He couldn’t really tell.  Neither of them could; but they’d found a way to coexist, one that worked for them both.  He’d been Vessan’s one light during that time.  He’d helped him endure, helped him survive.  He knew most of the story.  What he did not know, however, was the details of how it ended.  That was a door best left closed, a question best left unanswered.  All he knew was that, somehow, Vessan had been cast out.

He broke the silence.

“It’s going to be the death of you~” Saran murmured, nodding once towards the blood-stained hemp hand wraps on the windowsill.  

“Thit's a dangarr ah choose tae face; thit's part o' me as mooch as ... this," replied Vessan and shrank back just a little bit more against his lover.

“So you won tonight.  Now what?”

“Back tae th’ drawin’ board.  Ah prepare again, for nixt toime.”

“And then?”

“Th’ nixt 'un.”

“And the next one, and the next one.  And when there’s no one left?”

“Tharr's always soom'un left …”

“How long?  How long can you continue like this?”

“Oontil ah collapse.”

“And then what?”

“Then …”

Silence.

Saran let out a sigh and let go of the elf, turned away from him.  He moved about the room silently, picking up his clothes, getting dressed, gathering up his belongings.  Vessan wanted to turn, to call out. Don’t leave. He didn’t want to be alone.  Not now.  Not … ever?  He didn’t call out.  He couldn’t find his voice.

“It’s not a part of you, Vessan.”

He broke the silence.

“It used to be, back at the Gate.  When you first picked it up.  When you did it for the rush, as a way to blow off steam.  Not anymore.  It’s not just a part of you.  This ... this is you; it’s all you’ve become.  A simple thug.  A drunk.  Cheap entertainment“

Saran waited for what seemed like hours for a response.  Hours of endless torture.  There came no response, no reaction at all.  How had it turned out like this?  This had been supposed to be a night of celebration; he’d actually won his fight, hadn’t he?  He’d not only beaten one of the top contenders in Waterdeep, he’d utterly dominated him.  A night of celebration?  What a joke.

“You may wear a tigersuit, Vessan, but you’re a goddamn lamb~”

There never came a response.  The only sound to fill the room was that of the door opening and then slamming shut behind Saran.

[My first attempt at writing in … well over a year.  We’ll see how it goes.  There might be a few loose ends to the story, and some parts of it might be considered esoteric.  Hopefully, it’ll work nevertheless – if nothing else, you have something to read and shudder at.  

The title, tormentertainment, is a portmanteau—a word morpheme that fuses two or more words together.  I'm a sucker for word plays; have always been.  Enough rambling.]

--

Tormentertainment
The air, stale, warm and reeking of alcohol, was sand in his mouth.  Every single breath taken, an accomplishment; every move—no matter how small—an act of defiance in itself.  Ignore it, he told himself.  Push through it.  Overcome it. Easier said than done when he hurt all over, from exertion and from the blows he had sustained so far.  The effects of the initial burst of adrenaline were starting to wear off and it showed.  He had begun to slow down; he was getting sloppy.  He had dropped both hands and opened himself up.  But he couldn’t stop, no matter how tired.  Wouldn’t allow himself to.  This was better than the alternative.  This kept the demons at bay.  

The audience cheered in unison as Vessan’s opponent sprung into action.  He launched a quick jab and used it to tee off on.  He sank to one knee and shot in for a takedown.  The timing was off, but it made no difference.  Vessan was much too worn down to defend against it anyhow.  They hit the cage floor hard.  It didn’t matter much that Vessan managed to lock his legs behind his opponent’s back and pull guard; the perspiration which drenched them both worked against him and his guard was easily passed by the larger opponent.  He got pinned down and mounted and a barrage of short elbows and punches soon followed  Each blow that connected was followed by a loud roar from the crowd.  They were getting hungry.  The tension in the air, the expectations and the excitement, was almost palpable.

The elf brought his arms up to cover up his head and face, to shield himself from the storm.  That was what ended it.  He failed to see it coming.  The larger man shifted his weight around too quickly for him to react; he grabbed one of Vessan’s arms with both hands, stepped over his head with one foot and fell back while keeping the wrist pinned against his chest.  He exploded his hips upwards, into the backside of Vessan’s trapped elbow.

Vessan cried out as the pressure on his elbow joint increased, as it hyper extended.  He tapped.  He lost.

He could hear the crowd : furious, ecstatic, cheering, chanting the name of his opponent.  He felt the strain against his elbow joint lessen as the winner released the armbar and rose to hail the spectators.  In the distance, heard the cage door unlock.  People were rushing in to congratulate the winner.  To celebrate.  But he remained down, eyes tightly shut.  He didn’t want to face any of it—not the defeat, not the rest of his life and the thoughts which plagued him.  It would all come rushing back at him, soon enough.  But right now—when he could focus on simply breathing, on the red hot pain radiating from his elbow, on the cut across the base of his nose—none of it could touch him.  Alien as it might sound, he savoured the moment.

Strange.  Strange how the world turns; how people change with time.  

Two years ago, he’d been a priest and a sailor.  He’d been about as pious as they came, and he’d very much been in the favour of the Dancing Lady.  There’d been a red line to tie together all he did, all he wanted—a purpose, if you will.  Now where had he landed?  It wasn’t his faith that had changed, or any of his commitments.  But the world had turned, and he had failed to turn with it.

The mission he’d been assigned and set out to accomplish all those years ago, had been an utter failure.  It’d failed in every single aspect.  The freak still roamed free.  Still wrought havoc.  They’d come no closer to catching him than the day when he’d first set out.  What had happened, then?

At first, it seemed like a breeze.  Information was a plenty on the eccentric puppet master.  In fact, there existed too much; he spent countless weeks trying to discern what was plausible and what was not, what leads to follow up on and what leads to forsake.  For months, the investigation stood still.  But—and there was always a but, wasn’t it—the information, though plenty, was too insubstantial.  He needed more to go on before he could act, more meat.  Then came the break-through.  Then came she.  The only reliable witness he’d found; the only one willing to speak, openly, about what he’d put her through.  Her description of him was a perfect match : a gaunt, emaciated elf with a mask of marble seemingly sewn to his face.  One who could not speak, but could project his words straight into the very minds of those around him.  She even had a name to go with the description.  In fact, she was the first one ever to name the creature.  Sekh-mu Isara Nur, the faceless one.  From there, it had escalated.  Through her, he’d managed to discern the creature’s goals and aims—and in the end, found him.  

Youthful exuberance and overconfidence, if you will, had led him to believe that he could stand his ground against the abomination alone.  What a fool he’d been.  Tezrian had been right all along, from the very start.  He’d been getting himself in over his head.  Now.  Now he suffered the concequences.  The only thing the confrontation hatched was misery; it allowed the faceless one to penetrate the inner circle, through Vessan.  And through him, he had burnt it to a cinder.

No.  Correction : he forced Vessan to burn it to a cinder.

“Seshene!”  Ice cold water splashed across his face and he flung his eyes open.  Above him stood a scrawny old man and next to him, a child, hardly more than twelve, holding a now empty bucket.  

“You alive, elf?” the man continued, eyeing him doubtfully.

“Th’ arm.  Think ‘e bro~”  

Vessan fell silent, cut off by a voice that sliced through the clamour and cheers all around them with ease.  “Winner by tap out due to a straight armbar in the second round, and still King of the Cage : the champion, Levi Pelt!”

“Ain’t the first time, is it?  You getting’ manhandled like this?” the old man was scowling, poking at Vessan’s damaged arm with a finger.  “Arm’s broken, and I’m pretty damn sure it’s been it before a couple o’ times.”

The elf didn’t respond at first.  What could he say?  That he had a bad habit of picking fights he knew he couldn’t win and letting himself get beat up on regular basis?  That he did it to forget?  To have something else to focus his thoughts on?  Hardly.  This was his burden to carry; he’d earned it himself.  He doubted the old physician could do anything to help, even if he actually wanted to.  He wouldn’t take that chance.

“Then splint it,” came the muttered response.

A crimson envelope would find its way to Me'uranu through Ritham.  Within it, a letter penend down on a smooth piece of parchment--expensive, by the looks of it.

"Me'uranu~

You do not really know me, nor will I pretend to know you more than by name; yet I cannot help but pen down this quickest of notes afore I leave for Waterdeep for a few days.  You mentioned the ... cursed yoke you carry, the other day--when we came upon each other and coversed at the feet of the mountain Frostbite.  A few days afore that, I overheard bits and pieces of a conversation betwixt you and the ecclesiastic Rafferty, regarding the same issue.  I have come to understand that this is no simple curse you battle, and thus have I taken the liberty of looking into your case.  A good friend of mine has lately been conducting research on curses and diseases similar to the one with which you seem to wrestle.  I offer a possible way out, using the method she has developed.  

It is a pragmatic solution, a treatment still in its experimental stages; yet a chance, nevertheless.  She's offered to provide me with the necessary equipment, and tutoring, in order to treat what she believes to be the root of the problem.  However, I want us to be on the clear that there are no certaintees involved.  Not having gotten all the facts on my table as I pen this down, the treatment I am suggesting might not even be suitable.  I am hoping you will allow me to investigate this, through a quick physical examination.  If it is a match, I want you to know that there are risks involved; there might be side effects to the treatment, such as extreme fatigue and worse.  It is not a guaranteed success.  Yet the studies conducted so far have been very encouraging; most patients have been effectively restored.

I hope you will at least consider my suggestion, Me'uranu.  It is a possible way out of the turbid tunnel I presume you find yourself in, at the moment.  Think it over.  Carefully.  We will discuss it more at length, upon my return from Waterdeep.  

Cordially,
  Seshene, Vessan."

Beneath the signature, the mark of the Dancing Lady was etched into the parchment : twin feminine lips.