Song writing

The kind of music that I enjoy most isn't necessarily tied to any specific genre, though I do have my preferences. Rather, my favorite kind of music is the kind that tells a story - where each verse is progressively pushing a narrative forward to reach a conclusion at the end. It's not just about a topic, where each verse is more or less about the same thing, but rather a consecutive telling of events. Talking about the way things have happened, or what a person's goals for the future are. Expressing experiences rather than ideals. That's the kind of music that I get into.

You might notice that this is fairly consistent with the way that I think about movies, tv shows, games, and books. It's almost like I'm a writer or something. And because I have experience with music, both as a singer and a guitarist, and I recognize this similarity in thought, it has crossed my mind to try my hand at writing songs. And a few times, I have acted upon that idea, and seen first hand what it is like to attempt writing music.

Let me begin by saying, whatever your opinion of my ability at writing fiction, my skill at writing music is worse. I'm not good at making rhymes, choosing strange words to end lines with, and not overly wanting to go back and change them later on to make for easier rhyming. My pacing of lines is a bit off, wanting to fit more words in a single line than I reasonably should, or having entirely too few syllables. While I can recognize terrible cadence in music, I can't seem to adapt for it in my own music.

It's been several years since the last time I attempted to write any music, or even attempted to recall what I had previously written, so while I can't really recall how any of them went, I can say with full certainty that they weren't any good. I mean, maybe for who I was at the time they were alright, but looking back, it's clear that it was written by an early teenager. An early teenager who thinks he's way cooler and deeper than he actually is.

But I still want think about it all the time and consider doing it in the future. Unfortunately that doesn't require getting better at music again in some way, which I have been seriously lacking in for a long time. And even aside from that, I'm not entirely sure what kind of songs I would write. My first instinct is to follow with what I was writing when I was younger, which is extremely cheesy love songs, because that's just the kind of person I am. But hopefully this time they won't be terrible.

The middle ages

I absolutely adore the middle ages - both the reality of what they were historically, and the way they are represented in fantasy novels and games. There's something so satisfying about winning a fight not because you pulled the trigger faster or had better aim, but because you were stronger, faster, and more skillful. That you were the one who fought better. And not only that, but to fight with honor, face to face, and to see the look in your opponent's eyes as they breath their last breaths on the end of your sword.

And of course, in fantasy, the wonder that is magic. To be able to rewrite the fabric of reality at any given moment, to control your enemies, and to revive the dead. And I can't really explain why, but that concept just seems to fit in the middle ages so much better than it would in other periods. Beliefs were different back then, and magic was something that was easier to believe in than it is today, when it is so easy to prove how false something may be.

There's just something magical about the glint of polished armor and hand forged swords, the skill required to ride horses and fight on their backs. The hulking muscles required to wield those weapons, and to draw their bows with the power to fire arrows dozens of yards and pierce their enemies throats with incredible precision.

And of course, there's the ideas and ideals of chivalry, which is more than many people give it credit for. It is not simply kindness to women, as so many believe it to be - in fact, this is only a very small bit of what chivalry is. Much of being a chivalrous knight was being a powerful warrior, and an expert politician. To gain allegiances, to hold on to them, and to fight for them. To know when to cut ties and make new ones.

Magnificent stone towers, erected over periods of years, as testaments to man's greatness. Beautiful creations, decorated with masterfully sewn tapestries that tell the history of the people who inhabit the land. Castles that stand the test of time, only to be destroyed when mankind has garnered more power than it could ever have any use for.

The middle ages are just something that I can't help but love, and I can never accurately describe why. Seeing anything even remotely related to the middle ages fills me with joy and passion, and I can't help but get excited when I see them. Knights and mages and kings and queens. I just love them. If only there were more things that used them well.

Fiction

I don't know if I've ever given the impression that writing fictional pieces isn't the easiest thing in the world - what with my frequent posts about the difficulties I have with it and all - but it's actually quite troublesome and tiresome to be writing fiction all of the time. It's incredibly mentally taxing to be carrying around a world inside of your brain that needs to be filled with people and places, and follow certain rules that keep it functional and practical. To be creating backstories and laying out plans for the futures of numerous characters, putting them on the pathways to meet and interact with one another, creating friends and enemies, developing skills, so on and so forth. In essence, you are creating life with your mind.

But to a non-writer, none of that really computes. You're just making stuff up and putting it down on paper. It can't be all that hard, they make stuff up all the time, after all. They tell lies, they stretch the truth, they try to make themselves look good to impress someone. We've all done it - we've all been there. But these are single instances, and they're not always easy to come up with. Telling a bad lie can lead to numerous lies one after another, and the longer you try to keep up the charade, the more stressful it becomes.

And that's when it becomes you telling a story. A story, in a way, is just a lie played out for the long term. But that longevity is far more than any lie a reasonable person would tell, and it is a much more elaborate one. It's one that you don't just tell when it comes up - it's one that you are thinking about at all hours of the day, constantly building on and reviewing and editing until it's perfect. And it's not just something that they tell - we write it down so that our "lie" won't be forgotten.

Honestly, I don't know what else to say to people when they claim that writing fiction isn't a difficult thing to do. And yes, I have heard people tell me that before. Perhaps it's simply because I have spent so much of my life writing, but I can't really fathom how someone would think that telling fiction would be an easy thing to accomplish. The fact that there are so many terrible stories out there should be more than enough proof to the contrary.

Difficulty

This shouldn't come as a shock to anyone, but I really enjoy video games. RPGs specifically, as I'm sure I've mentioned. And I'm sure that it should come as no surprise that I particularly enjoy video games with solid stories, just like I like my books and movies. But as far as video games go, I would never play a game with a good story if it didn't have good game play. Can you imagine watching a movie with terrible visuals, or reading a book with bizarre, hard to read text? I wouldn't. And I wouldn't play a game that wasn't fun.

But, much as I talked about a long time ago, for some reason people seem to think that a game being difficult is as much of an equivalent to being good as they do with darkness being an equivalent for being deep. Many people seem to think that if a game is hard to play, and needs to have been played repeatedly to learn intricate and specific mechanics just to be able to beat the game, that it is good. They think that if a game is easy to play, and can be picked up and enjoyed by anyone, that it must not be as good. That a certain level of dedication is required before something can be enjoyable.

I never understood this. Playing difficult games made me frustrated - they made me want to break controllers. I was never stupid enough to break one, but I certainly have thrown it many times into the back of my couch as I roared in frustration. I have quit numerous games because they were simply too hard, even if I enjoyed their story or basic mechanics. It's not fun to get mad at what you are playing, to feel like you can't get better, or that you are facing something unfair. It's not fun to be infuriated with your inability to continue. And it sure as hell isn't fun to mocked when you complain about that difficulty and told to simply "get good" by those who sing these games' praise.

More recently, I have started to finally understand how to play these games. To get around the mechanics, and to find the fun in their intricacies. To slowly move forward through them, and find the secrets that make them an enjoyable experience. But I would never recommend them to the uninitiated. I would never choose them as my favorite games. And when the topic of simply good games comes up, I wouldn't throw their names into the pile. And it's because they're hard. They make you want to hate the game before you can learn to enjoy it. And that's not a good thing.

Once you learn how to break through the wall of frustration, it can be easy and quick to forget how that frustration felt. How badly you hated the game before you understood it, and how much you wanted to quit. And that's the thing with these games. They're not good. They're painful and annoying and incredibly frustrating.

But they make you realize that you're good at them if you stick with them. That's what difficulty does. People just get the two confused.

Juggernaut

The storm had struck hard the night before, wind blowing the heavy rain horizontal, rattling houses, and uprooting trees. The damage done was intense, and not only would it require much rebuilding, but just getting needed materials for such purposes would be difficult, as the roads in and out of town were completely blocked off. No one had been prepared for such an event. Several houses had been severely damaged, and several people's cars had been utterly destroyed by the debris. It would take much time to recover.

But one man in particular was dead set on making sure that that recovery occurred sooner rather than later. Desmond was easily the largest man in town, being the sole worker of the fields. Come morning, as people were coming out of their hiding places and beginning to asses the amount of damage done, Desmond was already on the main road. Every muscle in his body hulking and stressing as he heaved trees, one at a time, off of and to the side of the road.

He shoved his fingers hard into the bark, forcing his grip into the tree before lifting it up off of the ground, only barely getting it a few inches off of the ground before twisting his torso hard to fling the tree off to the side. His body was drenched in sweat - it was hard for the townspeople to judge just how long he had been at work doing this - and his breath was heavy, but the moment one tree was safely off to the side, he was already moving on to the next.

There was no one in town brave enough to tell him he should rest, or that they could help. To see a single man with so much power was not only inspiring, but terrifying as well. And with the way he moved from one tree to the next, they weren't sure if they would even have enough time to open their mouths before he was swinging one around, and they might be in the way. While he was surely helping the town, it was difficult to say what his motivation in doing so was, or if he would take the time to ensure the safety of those around him as he did so. So they let him be on his way.

It took him the full day to clear out the main road, whose lining trees had previously been upright. Desmond was exhausted by the time he was done, but he said nothing to the townspeople as he went back into his home. He needed to eat and to rest, to regain his energy. There would be more trees to move in the morning. But at least now new supplies would be able to begin their path into town. Maybe soon he would be able to get back to work in his fields.

Paladin

Brian was running as fast as he could towards home, trying very hard not to trip, knowing that his bullies were hot on his tail. It wasn't fair. Most of the times on tv or in the movies, the bullies were at least rude to most everyone - but they were his personal bullies. They never bothered anyone else - they were perfectly satisfied to mock and beat on him and him alone every day without end. They weren't necessarily nice to everyone else, but they certainly weren't mean to them. All of their bitterness and anger was directed toward Brian, even though he had never done anything to them in the first place. He was just smaller and weaker than them.

Unfortunately, despite the literal years of experience running away, he was still slower than they were. He felt Fredrick's fist slam into his spinal cord - he could feel the differences between them all, he had been punched so many times - which sent a shockwave through his body, momentarily paralyzing him, which caused his momentum to throw him face down into the concrete. Only a second passed between him hitting the ground, and a knee dropping onto his back, sending another shock of pain and pinning him to the ground.

There were no words of hatred or blaming before the fists began to rain down on Brian's back, pummeling him against the ground. He wished he knew how long it would take for them to be satisfied with his poundings, but there never seemed to be any kind of pattern that he could notice. It was merely until they felt like they had had enough of it, and that always took what felt like a very long time.

But the poundings stopped very abruptly only a few moments after they had started. Brian thought the shock in his brain from his face hitting the concrete must have caught up to him and his body had gone numb, but he could hear some kind of struggling behind him. Afraid of what he might see, he slowly turned his head back to look.

A stranger was there, his palms placed flat on Brian's bullies' chests and forcing them back until they hit a wall. He could see the rage on their faces at being stopped from their beatings, but their best struggles couldn't get them out from under the man's hands. He was huge - his workout clothes were loose fitting, but big enough to betray just how massive the muscles underneath must have been. When he looked over his shoulder back at Brian, his eyes were calm, as though holding the boys back was less than an after thought.

"You alright?" he called out. Brian pushed himself up on his knees and rubbed his face. It hurt, but such a short beating made it far more tolerable. But he didn't want to answer. He was afraid of what the bullies would do if he did.

It was clear that the man could tell that. Just then, one of the bullies', clearly tired of being held back, reeled an arm back and slammed it into the man's chest. Brian flinched just from seeing it, but the man didn't even react. Without a word, he grabbed the boys' heads and smashed them together, instantly knocking them unconscious and letting them drop to the ground.

Brian blinked, shocked at what he had just seen. "Looks to me like you could use a good friend to watch your back," the man called out again. He walked over and held out a hand, which Brian took almost without thinking, easily hoisting Brian back onto his feet. "When you got some free time, come stop by the gym. I'll show you around."

Warrior

Miran pulled his gloves on as he stepped out into the ring, knowing that his victory in the coming fight would be dependent on his talent and skill than on his power. He was a strong man, with thick muscles, but, compared to the man standing across from him, he was nothing. His opponent was more muscle than man - almost to the point that looking at him made Miran feel sick. It was hard to describe. But taking a single clean punch from that mass would be the end of the fight. Miran had to make sure to avoid that more than anything else.

The bell rang, and Miran stepped forward, his hands quickly taking a defensive pose in front of his face. His opponent lurched forward from his corner, fists immediately ready to go on the offensive, and the veins in muscles bulging in his arms and legs going into overdrive the moment he began to move. Normally, muscles like those would slow a man down considerably, making it difficult to move, but Miran wasn't about to let his guard down for a belief like that. He had seen that beast fight before. He may not have been the fastest fighter in the world, but it wasn't hard for him to knock you out with one blow.

The punches came fast and heavy, raining down towards Miran's head with precision, as Miran ducked and weaved under and around them, moving quickly and attempting to stay untouched. It only took a few seconds before Miran realized with certainty that he couldn't keep this up for even a full round without getting hit. He had to do something about it soon if he wanted to have any chance of even surviving the fight, much less winning it.

He gripped his fists tightly, feeling the glove around his fingers tighten and strain. The muscles in his arms were yearning to reach forward, to explode out as he threw a punch, but he knew the timing had to be right. There was only one way for him to take this fight if it was going to go anywhere. As another punch rained down on him, his body tightened up, and rather than ducking under, Miran leaned into the punch. The massive impact smashed into his left hand, just under his chin, and the impact shook him to his core.

But that impact was imbalanced. As his left half careened backwards from the blow, his right half shot forward. The momentum was incredible, and then he let his own muscles explode forward as he went. His fist made clean contact with his opponents chin, and he could feel that impact shoot back through his muscles as well.

His opponent staggered backwards, the blow having sent a paralyzing shockwave through his system. His legs shook, and his eyes were dazed. The blow to the chin had been remarkably precise for such a brutally rough punch, and were it not for the man's remarkable muscles, it may have broken and dislocated his jaw.

Miran knew this was his chance, and that it wouldn't last long. He exploded forward, singing hard and fast, and his opponent slowly but surely staggered backwards until Miran's fist whiffed, the man flat on his back on the ground.

Brawler

Destin slammed his glass down on the table and leaned back as he left out a loud, bellowing laugh that spread amongst his friends and colleagues. It was the end of a long day at the end of a long week at the end of a long month, and Destin's energy was what had kept the group going, and it was that same energy that let them relax and have fun in the end.

Destin was a large and hulking mass of a man, though his friends would describe him as a teddy bear most of the time. He was a good guy by all accounts, always trying to make friends and doing everything in his power to help them. That was part of the reason that he spent so much of his time working out, in fact. He went to the gym six times a week, lifting and pushing as much as he could for an hour or two at a time, and always keeping a close eye on his diet. His friends frequently had to beat him off when he crushed them in a hug, for which he always felt a need to deeply apologize.

But there was a reason that they didn't always think of him as a teddy bear. As the party boomed in the bar, a couple of characters came up to the table, trying to hit on the ladies there. Destin laughed at them, as did the ladies, which only served to make them angry. The moment one of the men put their hands on the closest woman, Destin was in motion. He leapt over the table, sending the contents of it crashing to the ground, and his fist crushed into the man's face who had touched his friend.

That man hit the ground hard, his face already beginning to swell and his nose completely shattered. Blood was already pooling in his mouth, but Destin was far from done with him. He lifted the man by the collar, lifting him so far off of the ground to have his legs dangling in the air. His fist reeled back and slammed forward, knocking out several of his teeth.

The man's friends were terrified of this beast that had suddenly appeared before him. Destin discarded the now unconscious man, broken and bleeding, onto the ground, and turned to the others, the rage and fire clear in his eyes. There was no hesitation as they broke away and ran for their lives.

The group cheered as Destin returned to the table, wiping the blood from his knuckles. It wasn't the first time they had seen him break forward like this, nor would it be the last time. But they knew that they would never be subject to his beatings - he fought to protect them. He was brutal and rough and destructive, but only to their enemies. And seeing that, knowing that, made them glad to be on his good side.

Weapons master

Daniel sat on the sidelines of the training area, his fists clenched tightly as he watched his mentor step into the ring. He knew how skilled Master Richards was, but to see him stepping into the ring with no armor against an opponent with a fully sharpened blade. He knew that Richards could win, but... These odds were not ones that he should merely be playing around with.

Richards on the other hand was smiling and relaxed. In his right hand he was holding loosely onto a long halberd that he would need both hands to swing in battle. He watched as his sparring partner, dressed in full armor, took practice swings with his sword. The opponent looked tense, worried about getting hit, despite his thick armor, which had clearly seen him through many battles. Richards' reputation preceded him, he saw, which only served to make his smile grow brighter.

As the trainers stepped out of the ring, Richards lifted the halberd and brought it down lightly into his other hand, pointing its blade at his opponent's head, who lifted his sword defensively. They tiptoed in circles around each other, watching each other. But Richards' opponent didn't have the patience for this, and charged forward. Richards couldn't help but smile as he stepped around the boy and slapped him in the back of the head using the flat of his blade. The boy stumbled, but turned quickly to face Richards once more.

Daniel's fists were clenched as he watched. Richards was toying with his opponent, but Daniel knew from experience what doing that in a fight could do to a person. He knew of the rage and desperation that could fill a person's mind, and even more than that, he knew just how dangerous that could make them in a fight. Someone fueled by that kind of energy was likely to make poor decisions - ones they wouldn't normally make. And those were the most dangerous kinds of decisions, because you couldn't anticipate them.

He watched as Richards' opponent did exactly that. He began to move faster, diving in at Richards' as the master danced around him, swinging wildly and with rage. It wouldn't be long before...

There was the distinct sound of metal slicing through wood before the blade at the end of Richards halberd fell to the floor. Even his opponent seemed surprised at what had happened. But as it occurred to him what he had done, the boy grew determined and leaped forward once more.

But Richards was still ready. His grip on the shaft of wood changed, and he knocked the side of the boy's sword to the side, opening his guard to be struck in the side of the head. Richards had switched to a bo staff style of fighting.

While his opponent looked stunned, Daniel was still worried. Richards wasn't a master for nothing. But that still didn't change the fight he was fighting a real sword with no armor.

Monk

Brandon sat with his legs crossed and back straight in the middle of the floor, his eyes closed and his mind blank as he meditated. He had a large journey ahead of him, and he knew that he would need his mind clean and calm if he wanted to have any chance of surviving. As soon as he stepped out the gate of his temple, he would be faced with a world that wanted him dead, and an unrelenting number of people who would actively try to make him so. Any moment of hesitation would be his last.

Yet he was not afraid of stepping out of the gate. He had confidence in his abilities, and the knowledge that would be necessary to carve his path forward. He would already have left, but he valued his meditation. It gave him the peace and clarity of mind to sharpen his skills.

It had been an hour since Brandon had sat down when he finally stood back up and shouldered the small pack containing his modest supplies and money. He carried no weapons on his person, knowing that anyone who came at him would underestimate him because of it, making his true power only that much more powerful. They would come at him too quickly and too loosely, and he would use that to break him.

Stepping outside of the gate felt as though he were casting aside a curse that had been placed upon him at birth. This was the first time in his life that he was to step outside of the confines of his temple and experience the real world. Gifted at birth with the white eyes, he had had to be protected. But his protectors were gone, and he had spent a long time focusing his talents. It was his only choice if he didn't want to rot alone.

It was a matter of minutes before the first one came after him. As if called by his presence, a wild-eyes man approached, knife clutched tightly in hand, eyeing the small pouch on Brandon's back. He let out a soul-wrenching scream as he leaped forward, knife flashing through the air, but Brandon was ready. He watched in slow motion as the man drew close, flying through the air, and when there were only a few inches left between them he began to move. One foot stepping into the attack, his shoulder bumping the bottom of the knife-wielding hand up and uselessly over him, his hand striking the man's throat brutally, all at one time.

The man gasped and dropped to the ground, clutching his broken windpipe, trying desperately to breath but failing. Brandon didn't stop to watch. He had places to be, things to do, and plenty other people to fight off.

Saboteur

Sam had been running around the building all day, doing "routine maintenance" on all kinds of electronics and pipings and wirings that kept the systems running. No one would find the body of the actual maintenance worker at the bottom of the dumpster out back, stripped down to his underwear with his throat slit and eyes punctured, the gore spilling out and mixing into the gross mixture of long forgotten fluids seeping from month old trash that had been left behind one too many times. Sam had had trouble fitting into the too tight jumper, but having to forfeit a little bit of decency with the zipper in front meant that the people around her spent less time looking at what she was doing, even if they were spending more time looking in her direction.

It was getting close to closing when she pulled the final switch and was ready to make a bit of madness run rampant through the hallways.

The distinctive, flirty sound of her voice letting out a little "Oops!" was accompanied only a moment later by the heavy thud of doors slamming shut and bolt locking electronically. Lights went out, and it took a few seconds for the red emergency lights to start flashing, followed by an alarm down in the empty lobby. The security guard had left early, leaving the front desk unmanned, and no one with the security override key in the building. Panic set in almost immediately, but they had only experienced the beginning.

Some of the men nearby pounded on their locked doors, trying to get her attention, yelling for her to fix her mistake, but she merely smiled and waved at them. When they saw how calm she was, they become muddled and confused. Who was this woman that was so calm in times of mayhem? It didn't take long for them to realize.

And that was when a fuse blew near the vents, sparking a fire, and smoke began to pour into the confined and locked rooms. Their shouts became more frantic, their pounding harder, but it lasted only a matter of minutes. Their craze had done nothing but burn through their oxygen quicker. The men fell silent as Sam walked the halls.

She had left a safe path for herself, of course. Certain doors remained open, certain locks left unlocked. But only she knew of their order. Even in a rush, no one who had happened to be outside of their cubicles at the time of the lockdown would have been able to find her path quick enough.

The smoke sensors went off when she was about halfway down, soaking her stolen clothes through, and she merely tossed them away. She had no fear of being exposed. Not now. Let any man lucky enough to have saved his breath see her soaked, lean figure in their dying moments. A parting gift she was more than willing to give.

She exited into the alley behind the building, where she had stuffed a dress and lingerie into a small crack in the wall behind the dumpster where she had discarded the body. She had earned a little reward that night.

Sniper

Dran squatted atop the roof of the building across from his target, systematically assembling the pieces of his sniper rifle. The motions were muscle memory to him by now - relaxing, and something he could do to keep his hands busy while he focused on more important things. There was a breeze in the air, and the distance between him and his target was several hundred feet. Then there was the problem of shooting through a window, keeping a clear sight, and making sure that no one could trace the bullet back to him. It filled him with excitement.

He mounted his sniper on its legs an laid down on his stomach. He was three levels below the office of his target, and facing its window to the back of the desk. The target's head would be plainly visible,  though the angle would prevent him from knowing if there was anyone else in the room. For that, he would have to rely on the mannerisms of his target, and the deep knowledge of human behavior that he had so long studied. To know what made a man a man was to know how to take that humanity away from them.

He waited patiently for several hours, taking long and deep breaths and resting his heart as he waited. He saw his target enter and exit the room a number of times, and he was sure that many of those times the target had been alone. But Dran was not one to take unnecessary risks. While he may have been able to take the shot easily, that did not mean it was safe. He could not see whether or not there was anyone in the hallways near his target's office. But he knew that, late in the day, the others in the building would leave long before the target did. And that would be when it was safe to shoot. In the meantime, Dran studied the target's movements to learn his signs.

The sun was low in the sky before Dran let his finger fall on the trigger. He had a silencer screwed onto the end of his barrel, to ensure that none would overhear his shot. The longer it was before his target was found dead, the better. And the fewer who saw him moving the better. In and out. Kill and get away before he could be traced. Be far away. Don't leave a trace. That was the goal.

The moment his target's head popped up, Dran's finger pulled the trigger. A second passed before his target dropped, his head split open and his brain spilling on the floor. Dran was already disassembling the rifle before his target hit the floor. The heat of the muzzle didn't bother him. He had long since destroyed the nerves in his hands with heat so as not to be concerned with that very problem. In and out. No hesitation.

Assassin

Guiverna slipped her way through the crowds, dressed as a commoner amongst the people, looking frantically from side to side as though lost and confused and unsure of where she was going. She made her way through the crowd, a bit roughly, bumping into people and apologizing profusely as she went, before she made it to the far wall. She pushed herself up against it, trying to avoid bumping into anyone else, until she came across a door. She pushed it open and rushed through, moving too quickly to make note of the "Employees Only" sign at eye level.

As soon as she was inside, however, her demeanor took a drastic change. She continued to press herself up against the wall, but she blended with the shadows and took silent steps, no longer an awkward and lost civilian. Her eyes darted around every corner and pathway, instantly taking in her surroundings at all times, making note of what could be used as a weapon or means of disappearing. She heard footsteps approaching, and ducked into a side room, and waited for the voices to go past.

She was hasty with her movements through the back hallways of the facility, making her way to the CEO's office. The layout of these hallways, hidden to the public, had already long since been memorized, as well as the paths most and least likely to be populated with traffic. From there, her own path had been selected. Not the most straightforward or fastest, but the one least likely for her to be spotted during, and where she would leave the fewest tracks. Walking on carpet instead of wood or tile, keeping her hands off of the walls or doors. Anything to hide her presence.

When she reached her target, she leaned against the wall and listened through the wall to the conversation. The CEO was in a one on one meeting with one of the team leaders about some of the lower members, and what their worth was to the company. The conversation was heavily against the people's favor - both people speaking wanted to fire as many people as possible, for any reason they could find, just to save a bit of money.

Guiverna flexed the muscles in her arm, forcing the clasp of the band wrapped tightly around them to pop open, and the knife that was held there to fall into her open hand. The door to the office opened and, as they stepped outside to say good bye, she slipped in behind them. She waited, patient as could be, for the CEO to re-enter. She heard the soft click of the door closing from her hiding spot behind a shelf, and as he walked past, the knife was in his throat before he could even register what had happened.

He fell sputtering to the ground as the blood drained from his body, and she patted him down, took his keys, and ran through his files. By the time she left with all of the sensitive information she needed to shut the company down, he was only just dying on the floor.

Character creator

I couldn't tell you why in particular I enjoy this so much. I am constantly on the lookout for good character creators with which I can experiment with different looks and clothing styles, and as I make new things at random I try to imagine why it is that they look the way they do. Why they choose to wear the clothes that they do, or why they might have some kind of scarring on their faces. Things that I simply decide at random to add on, and how they can become relevant.

I thoroughly enjoy making these characters this way, even if the creators I have to use are frequently highly stylized or clearly designed for younger girls to be creating some kind of online persona. It's not very often that I have any kind of idea of what kind of character I want to create before I get into it, though it does happen from time to time. And even when I do have an idea of what kind of character I'm trying to make, the lack of option that are available to me in creators often causes me to improvise, and characters change and evolve and I learn more about them as I go.

Of course, like with most things, you tend to lean towards certain objects or styles as you create your characters. Personally, I love giving my characters swords, whether they're back mounted, on the hip, or held in the hand. Sometimes I give these characters more swords than they could ever practically use or carry. I just love me some good old fashioned swords.

It's also times like these that I notice how very Power Rangers I make my characters at times. Characters related to fire wearing red clothes or having red hair, lightning yellow, ice blue, and so many other examples that I can't even list them all. I match clothing colors, and I either match those to their hair or I invert them to make some kind of contrast. And the eyes are much the same as the hair.

It's funny that I put so much time and effort into creating these visual representations of characters that only I will ever see. I certainly won't ever place those kinds of images into my books - they are both visually lacking and made through the use of outside sources. But they're a nice reference point for me, and they give me something to think about.

But as I said at the beginning, I am constantly on the look out for more. After all, you can only make so many characters on the one creator before you've seen the materials enough times over to know what's available, and you run out of different combinations you want to try. But to be honest, most creators aren't very good. At least not for my purposes. And if you've ever tried googling character or avatar creators, well... You know my struggle.

Strength

I've talked before about my struggle with not making characters too powerful, and the problems with making a character like that, and why we as writers naturally tend to lean towards making those kinds of characters. Or at least why I do, though considering how many broken characters I've seen in my day, I have to assume that others feel similarly. But just because we don't want a character to be overpowered doesn't mean we don't want them to be powerful. So we have to consider what it means to be strong.

When I say strong, of course, most people would naturally think of physical strength, and rightfully so. In a fantasy story, one can't very well swing a sword without the muscle to pick it up, after all. But strength is not merely what one can lift - It is also in what one can withstand, what one can comprehend, and what one can accomplish.

And to be fair, to a certain extent, much of this can be tied to physical strength. After all, the more you can lift, the more damage you can withstand. But that is not the only way you can gain this ability. The strength of will and mind can convince your body through adrenaline to survive far past its normal limits. As long as one does not admit that they are in pain, they can continue to withhold through whatever hardships they might face, pushing forward where others would fall and die from exhaustion and pain.

And you don't need to be physically strong to take down an opponent if you know all of their weak points. If you can see the spots holding their armor together, know their vitals and pressure points, and can move quickly and accurately, then you need wield little more than a knife and some fleet feet to get around your opponents and dismantle them. The strength of knowledge grants this, undermining the strength of one's opponent without difficulty.

There is nothing to say you can only have one of these, nor that you can't use all of them. Having any one of these naturally gives some lenience towards the others as well, whether it be conscious for the character or not. But using them all to great extent is what makes a character overpowered. After all, you can give a character the ability to control the cosmos, but make them dumb as a rock and it's not good for much to them. But make someone privy to the secrets of the universe, and if they can't survive one fight long enough to use them, and they're just as useless.

Every strength has its weaknesses as well. They keep them in check and from becoming more than they have any right to be. But that's a discussion for another time.

Age

There are many problems I have when it comes to writing, and I've talked about several of them already, so it should come as no surprise that I have yet another I wish to talk about. When I'm writing a character, in my head their age is simply a matter of child versus adult versus old. This, of course, being extremely limited, and rarely stated towards the readers, which makes it a matter of opinion based on the character's actions how old they are.

Even when I'm reading, however, I have this problem. A character's age may very directly be stated, and I still have little more clue as to how old they are five minutes later other than one of these three categories. I don't know why it is, but this is simply how I think of people.

On the one hand, this allows me to avoid certain stereotypes associated with certain ages, I suppose. There's no world-questioning twenty year olds, mid-life crisis fifty year olds, rebellious teens, or anything else you might think of. Age is little more for me than a point in life for events to be occurring. A princess might, for instance, have troubles going on when she is approaching a marrying age, a man might have to face his daughter's first date, or an old couple might face the onset of dementia.

But a lack of specific age can also lead to a lack of understanding or relating between reader and character. If a reader is older than a character, and can think back on what they did or would have done while that age, that character becomes more real for them. If they faced the same hardships, they have empathy. And for a younger reader, they can think forward and imagine themselves doing the same things as they age, and create in their mind a world soon to come. Age gives a character a place in both their world and ours. It is just another way that they can become more real.

I don't know why, knowing all of these things, it is hard for me to say how old some of my favorite characters are, both that I have written and read. Some characters of mine specifically I couldn't even tell you if they were a teenager or an adult. Are they in their twenties? Thirties? I have no idea. I just know what kind of quest I want them to go on, what kind of things i want them to be capable of, and what I want them to learn. As far as I'm concerned, the age is only a modifier. Just something that can be added in later if it comes up.

I wonder if I am alone in this. Of all the characters I have written or read, I think the only character whose age I can state in certainty is Harry Potter, and that is only because his age is so directly tied to the story. Is this an uncommon thing? Or am I alone? Just how important do most people find age to be?

I may never know.

In the dojo

Jason pulled his gym shirt on over his head, having to pull it down over his abs as it folded and rolled over them. He pushed his hair back and out of his eyes before sitting down and beginning the process of wrapping his fists in tape. The threat of bruising and tearing the skin on his knuckles as he trained was severe, and he was willing to lose a little bit of finger mobility for safety.

He walked out onto the floor and picked up the chain that he was going to be training with. He connected one end of it to a barrel filled with water, weighing about fifty pounds, and tied the other end around his hand. With that done, he heaved the barrel up with both hands and carried it into the training ring. His partner was already waiting, katana in hand and already drawn, and shifted into a defensive stance as Jason set down his barrel.

The two bowed to each other before Jason stepped back, letting the chain reach its end and draw taut. His partner stared at Jason's chest, watching the movements as Jason prepared to heave. He yanked as hard as he could, and the barrel launched up and towards himself. As it soared into the end, he whipped his arms around, pulling the barrel through the air and giving it the centrifugal force to stay airborne and begin to spin above Jason.

His partner never took his eyes off of Jason's chest. It was through his chest that every action he was going to take could be seen. He could see the way Jason's muscles reacted to the way the barrel was swinging above him. They had practiced this a number of times, and the length of Jason's chain had been long since determined. It was simply a matter of timing.

Jason whipped his arms forward, hurling the barrel in his partner's direction. The katana flashed forward, slicing through the air. But it was too early. The whip through the chain had taken a moment to fully process in order to divert the direction of the barrel. It struck Jason's partner with full force, knocking him hard to the ground. The barrel smashed uselessly into the ground, and Jason was tugged forward several steps by its powerful momentum.

He dropped the chain from around his hands and went quickly to his partner's side. He was holding his head, already starting to swell. They had been practicing this for weeks. It wasn't going very well.

Color

Mark only had vague memories of what colors were, having lost the ability to see them when he was a young child after being hit by a car. He remembered being very upset about it at the time, and having to struggle just to understand where he was going and what he was looking at for a long time. But that was over thirty years ago, and he had sense become well accustomed to the gray world that he lived in. He could see the subtle differences in shading that allowed him to tell when a traffic light was telling him to stop or when to go, and whether or not his cheese had begun to mold. There were very few things that he could not get by without color - mostly things like work clothing in companies that required you to match a certain style.

On occasion he dreamt of a world of color, but the colors were old and muddy - they blended together in strange ways, and he could tell that things were wrong, though he didn't fully understand why or how. And when he awoke, he would be in a cold sweat, and hardly remembered what it was he had seen. While some other color blind folk might have considered dreams of colors to be miraculous and worth celebrating, to Mark they were little more than nightmares.

But when he was told about a company that was working on corrective lenses that would reinstruct the brain on how to interpret colors, he found it hard to say no to. He tried not to, but he could not help but look back on the days of his youth from time to time, when he had been just a bit more normal, and the world had seemed to have more life to it. He was never sure if that was simply because he had been a child, or if it had something to do with the loss of color. He had always relegated himself to never being able to know, but perhaps...

It was all still mostly theory, extremely experimental and needed heavy testing - and he was perfectly willing to do some of that testing. When he told his boss about it, the old man was ecstatic, and told Mark to let him know whenever he needed days off to be a part of the experiment. It wasn't that his boss pitied him for his color blindness, but it was hard to say no to something like that.

Two years went by of visits to Aperture Inc., with little progress to show for it. Mark had tried on a few dozen kinds of glasses and contact lenses, grown use to the heavy lights, and even made a few friends with the staff members. On a good day, their inventions made certain grays lighter or darker, and one time he even thought he saw the color green. But most of the time nothing happened. But that never stopped Aperture, and it never stopped Mark from testing.

And one day he donned a pair of glasses and nearly had a heart attack. There was red. Bright and vivd red, more than anything that he could remember, and it was in everyone's faces. Varying amounts and shades, but it was there, without doubt. He had heard people talk about it so many times, never understanding, but it was as plain as day.

It was a great breakthrough. The company published its findings to great fortune, attracting new testers and customers, and a great number of investors.

But Mark benefitted the most, because he got to keep that first pair of glasses.

Fishing

Lea walked out of the woods, her bloodied knuckles wrapped tightly around the grip of her rapier, and pistol stuffed into the belt wrapped loosely around her waist. The sound of rushing water was what was drawing her, and the sight of the river was the first thing she had seen in some time that put her at ease. She scanned the area to make sure that there were no more beasts coming for her, and set up a fire to ensure that none would approach. The bright light, intense heat, and choking smoke that rose from it was sure to keep any intruders at bay, while the thick scarf wrapped around her face just under her eyes protected her from it.

When the fire was done, she stuck the end of her rapier into the dirt just a few feet away from the flames. She was unconcerned with the risk of losing sharpness - she carried more than enough supplies to keep it sharp for a lifetime of heavy use. And she had more important things to worry about. It took a good while, but she created a makeshift fishing pole from branches and old string she carried on her, a bent nail and bits of meat for hook and bait. And finally done, she sat down on the edge of the river and cast.

The quiet was rare and serene. It reminded Lea of the old days, before her world had been torn asunder and any meaning it had had taken away from her. Back in the good old days when all it took to get by was a little know how and a good spirit. Now it took that and a lust for blood. One that she still didn't quite have.

But she didn't have to think about that as she waited for the fish to bite. She didn't have to think about anything. She just had to wait and react. So she thought about how she would cook her food when she caught it, and how long she would make it lost. She would savor its flavor, eat it perhaps over the course of an hour. And if she could catch more than one... She would live like a queen for days to come.

It was a long time before the first bite came, but she had nothing but time. She was stronger than when last she had done this, and the moment she felt the nibble on her line, she ripped the pole back hard and sent her fish flying into the air, landing on the dirt behind her. She leaped on it ravenously, tearing the hook out of its mouth and striking it hard in the face, crushing its brain and killing it instantly.

It was over the fire and cooking within a minute, and she was back at the water, line cast out once more. This would be a good night.

Blood blade

Angelo leaned against a wall, breathing hard, soaked in blood and sweat. He knew most of the blood wasn't his, but he had lost track of just how much. The sweat was surely his, though. He had been running for what felt like hours, trying to escape the madness of what the world had become. Seemingly overnight, all of his friends and neighbors had gone from being human to what could only be described as demons. Beasts with long and viscous claws, which had already torn at his skin a dozen times. But what he had experienced was nothing compared to what he had managed to run through.

The stench was strong in his nostrils, but he was far past the point of worrying about it. What he needed to worry about now was finding a weapon that he could use to keep himself alive with. These beasts were far past what he could handle with just his bare hands. Anything he could use to keep them at a distance would be a help. And as he glanced around the alley for something to use, he couldn't believe the luck of what his eyes fell on.

A long dead corpse with what appeared to be a katana sticking out of its chest. The blade had not yet begun to degrade, and looked as though it had been freshly sharpened. It had a long and deep blood groove running down the center, stained red with the dried blood of the body it was embedded in. Angelo couldn't have asked for a better weapon to keep himself alive with.

He took a firm grip on the blade, immediately followed by a hand taking a firm grip on his arm. He was paralyzed with fear as he saw the corpse open its eyes and glare angrily up at him, making sure that he didn't pull the sword out of his chest. Angelo didn't know how to respond. He had seen some messed up shit that day, but this... This was somehow on a different level.

"What do you think you're doing?" The body's voice was old and raspy, barely more than a whisper, but it nearly made Angelo shit his pants. "You think you can just take this? You think just because a sword is sticking out of someone's chest means that you can take it? This sword is mine, and if you don't let go of it, I will let you know how it feels through your chest."

Angelo let go of the sword instantly, stumbling backwards as the corpse let go of him, falling on his ass in the middle of the street. He watched in petrified horror as the corpse stood up on broken legs and slowly pulled the blade out of his chest, new blood running down the fuller and dripping onto the street.

"Punk kids," the corpse mumbled, staggering away. "Just because the world is ending they think they can do whatever the hell they please."

Mix up

Colt reigned in his horse to stop, raising a hand to gesture for his partner to do the same. "You hear that?" he asked quietly.

The two paused for a long moment, listening and waiting. Colt wasn't sure what it was that he had heard, but he was certain that there had been something. Something that shouldn't have been there, and sounded unlike anything he had ever heard. It wasn't just a whistling in the trees. It had been quiet, far in the distance - but it had been low and rumbling, like the sound itself was attempting to move the earth.

"Think you're losing it, Colt," Ray muttered under his breath. "Come on, we got places to-"

But he was cut off as the noise came again, this time louder and closer, sending the vibrations through their chests and spines, raising the hairs on the back of their necks. The trees shook and scattered their leaves, and in the distance, at the top of the hill range, they saw a shadow appear. They were a day's travel from the hills, and to be able to see whatever it was was coming up and over meant that it had to be massive.

"Still think I'm losing it, Ray?" Colt's rifle was already off of his back, trained on the shadow that had appeared. Ray pulled out his pocket telescope, trying to get a good look at the form of what had appeared, but it was too far away to make anything out. But Colt did not lower his rifle.

"Colt, you can barely shoot someone from ten feet away. Even if a bullet could travel that far - which I'll remind you, it can't - the hell makes you think you could hit that thing?" Colt didn't say a word, frozen on his horse, the butt of his rifle pressed firmly into the square of his shoulder. "It's way too far out, anyway. We're better off just continuing on. By the time it gets here, it'll be nightfall."

But before Ray could speak any further, the shadow moved. It launched into the air like a bird taking flight, and grew at an alarming rate. The next roar came at them like a tidal wave, sending their horses reeling, and nearly rupturing their ear drums.

Colt hit the ground hard and rolled, whipping the rifle back into position. But the shadow was growing larger at an alarming rate. The beast was massive, with beating wings and massive claws, and its scales began to shine in the sunlight as it approached. As it grew close, and they saw its true mass, Colt pulled the trigger. The explosion of the fire was painful on their already weakened ears, and the bullet struck the beast directly in the chest. It cracked the scale it struck, but the beast barely moved.

And then it lifted its head and spewed forth a burst of flame, and Colt and Ray ran.

Hangover

James woke up because his head was pounding, feeling like a hammer striking repeatedly against the front of his skull and sending a constant ring through his ears. The pain was excruciating, and he tossed and turned in his bed, the sheets already thrown wildly about from his midnight thrashing. He knew he had to get out of bed, to get some water to ease his pain, but he hardly wanted to move. He had drunk far too much the night before. He could hardly remember getting home.

But the memory of what he had done at the bar was nearly enough to sober him up. His oldest friend, Samantha, was the one who had taken him out to the bar after a particularly bad break up - had encouraged him to drink and be merry and to seek out new ladies in whom to forget his pain. And in return, he had turned to her. Had told her how he wished that she would let him love her - how he had always lusted for her, and had only chosen to confide in other women because he knew that he was not good enough for her, and that a woman like her could never fall for a man like him.

They were not his words. It had been the drink talking to her, not him. Supplying words that had no basis in reality, and that he could not understand how they had come to his lips. He could only imagine how uncomfortable he must have made her with his words, and he feared that perhaps he would scare her away from him. He could not afford to lose her as a friend. He had known her for too long, confined too heavily in her. She was always the one who was there for him when he needed it, whether he actively wanted it or not.

She was there for him at every poor decision, every painful consequence, and every falter. She was his shoulder to lean on, and the light in every darkness he faced. He knew that as long as he could turn to her, he would be able to make it through anything that life threw at him, and that he could figure out what to do next.

He didn't remember when he had gotten out of bed. He didn't remember when the glass of water had gotten into his hand, or when he had managed to drink half of its contents. And he especially didn't remember when he had pulled out his phone, pulled up Samantha's contact, and stared at her photo.

Had the words really belonged to the alcohol? Or had they been his words all along? Words that he had felt deep down inside, but never been willing to acknowledge? Or perhaps that he had not had the strength to acknowledge?

The phone was to his ear, ringing, before he even realized that he had dialed her number. He heard her voice on the other end after three rings, sleepy. He had clearly woken her up.

"Samantha," he said, almost too quietly for her to hear. "I'm sorry about last night. I was drunk, I wan't thinking. But... I think I needed to say it. I think I've been wrong. I think... I think that all along, I've loved you, and I just didn't know it."

Hitting on

Michael was in the midst of a conversation with his friends at the bar, jovially drinking and chatting away, when he heard the distinct click and creak of the door swinging wide open. He was an observant fellow, and frequently looked to see what was causing a noise that caught his attention without missing a beat in the flow of conversation with his friends. But when he looked toward the door, beer already raised to his lips, he froze in his tracks. The woman walking in was the most beautiful dame he had ever laid eyes on, and he knew in an instant that he had to have her.

He had been single for years, and half the reason his friends so frequently took him out to drink was to try and entice him to hit on the ladies around them, hoping that one of these days he would get lucky. He didn't follow through with their leads very often, and when he did it almost never worked out. But this girl... Just looking at her was like he was already being pulled into everything that he had ever dreamed of.

And it was only a few moments before his friends saw the look in his eyes, and as one grinned mischievously. Before he could even tell them what was on his mind they knew, and were pushing him out of his chair and in her direction, as she strutted her way to the bartender to order a drink. He stumbled forward a few steps, but continued to walk unbidden by his friends, drawn inexplicably towards this woman who had quite literally just walked into his life out of nowhere.

He sat down beside her, hoping that he appeared to have some form of grace with the movement, and the girl turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised, waiting for him to speak, challenging him almost. "I don't really know who you are," he started awkwardly.

"You don't know me," she replied flatly.

He gulped hard and dry, but pushed on. "You don't know me. But I really want to. Know you, I mean. I saw you come in, and I just..."

"You're not very good at this." Her words were harsh and cut like a knife, sending Michael mentally reeling back. "Are you gonna offer me a drink?"

"Y-yes, of course, why don't I-"

"I already ordered."

Michael felt like he was being bullied. And then the words started coming out of his mouth without his say-so. "Where are you from?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are those your mom's eyes?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"What are you doing for the rest of your life?"

She slapped him so hard, Michael fell completely out of his chair and hit the ground face first, breaking his nose. He was not good at this.

Arcane

The night of the hunt was fast approaching, and Aseera knew that the call would be coming to her door shortly to take to the streets. It was that or cower in fear behind closed doors, knowing that she would only have so much time before the bolts were broken, her safeties unmade, and her life taken from her. If she was going to die, she would much rather die hunting than cowering in fear.

But she also knew that she was not strong. She was quite weak, in fact, barely able to swing a weapon worth using, nor did she have any skill with which she might have learned to strike accurately to take out foes without having the strength to fight them with brute force. She was in no way a fighter. She wasn't even much of a thinker. For much of her life, she had gotten by on her looks. She had never been proud of that fact, but she was aware that many people whom had helped to push her forward in life had done so because of her looks. But being beautiful was not going to help her against the swarms of the lifeless and decrepit.

So she had chosen another path. A path of misunderstood, misused, and mistrusted power. A path of magic and wisdom that could only be gained through those who had come before, and left behind for the taking. She would have to embrace a darkness that had so long been told to her that she must never take. But with the hunt approaching, what other choice did she have? She would have to follow in the footsteps of the old and great ones who had come before her, regardless of what anyone around her thought.

And she knew exactly who to talk to about doing that. The local doctor knew of those who had come with magic before her, and how to find them. And when Aseera went to talk to this doctor, she was told of them, and what she would have to do to join in their ranks.

So she laid on the table, and allowed the clamp to be placed on her eye. She was injected first with pain killers - a dozen different kinds that filled her body with numbness and paralyzed her. But still she could see. And she watched as the knife was slashed across her eye, splitting it wide open, though she felt nothing. She watched as a strand of what she could only describe as light was pushed into her, and in her mind's eye, she saw the truth of the world before. She was filled with the insight of those who had come before - it overwhelmed her, and she passed out.

When she awoke, she was alone. And the night of the hunt had already begun.

Pie

Jack felt like an idiot donning his apron, foolishly labeled "Kiss the Cook," but it was the only one left in the kitchen, and he certainly wasn't going to be doing any baking without one. When he was younger, trying to learn how to cook, he had spilt melted butter on himself, which had burnt him and ruined his favorite shirt. The aprons he got were thick, making sure that something like that wasn't going to happen again. He was more careful about these kinds of things now, and he couldn't remember the last time he had spilled anything in his general direction, but he wasn't about to take that chance.

Sandra giggled at the sight of her boyfriend in something that he so obviously would never wear. She had intentionally gotten it for him nearly three years ago, hoping that one day it would be his only option left when he went to cook. She knew how much he loved to cook, and how he never did so without an apron. She also knew how much she loved to kiss him - and he her - and how cute he looked when he was frustrated. She could hardly see a way that she was losing in this scenario.

They had talked about Jack teaching Sandra to cook for a long time, but when it came down to it, most of the time Jack simply did the cooking on his own. He enjoyed it. He found it relaxing, being able to combine a variety of odds and ends from the kitchen into something delicious and beautiful. He basked in the sights and the smells of his creations all throughout. But Sarah was finally ready to sit down and take a crack at it, and for whatever reason, they had decided to do this through a pie.

It wasn't a particularly difficult recipe by any means, but Jack liked to do things from scratch, and he had a lot of explaining to do. There was a lot of rushing back and forth across the kitchen, double checking on things, questions and answers about what to do and how to tell when things were done. Things that Jack hadn't consciously thought about in ages, and that he surprisingly had to think about in order to give a satisfactory answer.

But finally the pie slid into the oven and the door closed, and there was a moment of peace in which the two silently reveled in their victory. Jack had full confidence that the pie would be delicious, and Sandra knew to trust in Jack's word on that. When he turned his head to say something, she surprised him by throwing her arms around his neck and planting a big kiss on his lips.

Jack couldn't help himself, and slipped his arms around her waist as he kissed her back. They stood like that for a long time, leaning against the table, before Sandra finally slowly pulled back, her arms still around his neck, and smiled brightly at him.

"How long have you been waiting to do that?" Jack asked with a coy smile.

Sandra sighed dramatically. "Forever!"

Typical

The snow was falling hard, the wind blowing it down and directly into Rider and Estis's eyes as they rose hard into the night. They were blinded, unable to aim their path with any certainty, and they trusted in their horses to point them in the right direction. They had little other choice. They rode in silence - not because they wished to, but because they knew that opening their mouths would lead only to them being stuffed with icy snow, that would drain them of their heat and water.

Though neither said it, or gave any notion of it, they both wished to be riding in the opposite direction. Rushed on by the snow, back to their homes, where they could be in peace and comfort as the night rushed down upon them. It was late, and they were tired, but they knew that they had to push forward. If they didn't, there would be no home for them to return to. Distant threats preparing to rain down on them, ready to take from them everything that they once held dear.

When the wind finally died down, and the pair could afford to open their eyes, it was nothing but whiteness that they could see in every direction. For an hour they continued to ride in silence, unsure of where they were, or what was coming for them, or if the snow would strike at them again. But finally they decided, remarkably close together, that they could speak, they had but one thought on their mind.

"Do you know where we are, Rider?" Estis asked. "It has been many hours since we set out, and that storm was far too powerful for me to watch our path."

Rider shook his head. "I am sorry, your highness," he replied, "but I know no more than you. I could see nothing through the snowfall, and it is far too white out on these fields for me to find my way. At least not in this darkness. We will have to wait until the morning's sun before we can correct any failures. We must trust in the horses for now."

"And if we are lost? If we are somewhere where you do not know your way?"

Rider removed his helmet to brush the snow out of its eye pieces, his long hair falling down to show how the icy flakes had invaded his protection and stuck to the long locks. "We will not be lost. There is no land this far from our kingdom which I do not know well enough to find my way. Regardless of what direction we have gone, I will find our path, your highness."

Estis sighed and rubbed at her eyes. They felt frozen in place. "Men," she muttered.

Have to go

Eileen navigated the complicated steel beams in the roof of the abandoned warehouse, three stories above ground level, with not a single floor remaining that could catch her if she slipped and fell. The rain had only stopped less than an hour prior, and the beams were still wet and slick. Eileen's old, worn tennis shoes were thin with little traction, and they certainly didn't keep her from feeling the bitter cold of the winter night time's effect on metal.

She had to hook her fingers into the chain links when she reached them to get any kind of grip on them, and as she let her feet slip off of the beam they were perched on to be supported entirely by the chain, the strain on the joints in her fingers was immediate. She felt as though her fingers would simply snap off at any moment, and trying to pull them back out so she could begin her slow and arduous decent down the chain was agonizing. All of that on top of the freezer burn she felt in her skin at just how cold the metal was.

It took a matter of minutes for her to descend far enough that she could plant her feet on her destination, but it felt like hours. The large box, suspended in mid air by the chain, swung from side to side as she set her feet down. She slowly squatted down and let her feet slide over the far edge of the box so that she could finally rest for a moment, to ease the burn in her muscles that her descent had drawn. She had been training for this event for months, but no amount of training could have prepared her for these conditions. The rain had forced her to slow, and the longer she was moving, the more strain she was putting on her body. It was meant to be a quick in and out. This was turning out to be anything but.

She gave herself no longer than five minutes of rest before swinging her legs back around to her side of the box. She gripped the top of it tightly in one hand as she lowered herself down its front. There was a small panel of glass near its top - a window to the inside - and she lowered herself until she was at eye level with it. Inside, she could see her goal: Michael. The boy whom she had loved.

With her free hand, she began to enter the case's passcode. The panel was soaked and slick, which made it hard to enter the numbers with any accuracy. It took her a few tries before it accepted her passcode, which meant she had to hang longer, and the burn in her arms was only drawn out longer. Two beeps signaled her success, and she popped the front door open as much as she could with the chain still wrapped around its corners.

Michael's eyes opened instantly, sensing the change. His cryogenic chamber had been unsealed, and he knew in an instant that it wasn't how it was meant to be opened. "Eileen?" he asked, surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to get you out, Michael," she replied. "We have to go."

"It's not safe for us out there. That's why we got in these, remember? To escape until peace comes."

"Things only got worse on the outside, Mike, and no one else is going to come for us. We have to go."

Michael glared at her for using his pet name. "And how do you know that?" he asked incredulously.

"Because I've already been out for a year. And I've seen what happened. I couldn't just leave you here. So please, we have to go."

Bounty hunting

Dust and sand whirled through the air, making it hard to see for any normal person looking through the storm that brew in the desert sands. But there weren't many normal people left hanging around in this shit hole, and if there were, they certainly wouldn't be hanging around outside in the wind. But bounty hunters in these parts weren't looking for normal people - in fact, most of them were looking for other bounty hunters.

Raisten was one of many of those bounty hunters, looking for a dozen or so other hunters, many of which he knew were looking for him in return. He wore his external battery pack on his back, hooked directly into his brain with valves and wires, activating the heat sensors in his eyes to penetrate the billowing mess. He knew that he wasn't the only robot out in the sands. But he also knew that his battery wasn't the only one that started to get hot after a few hours in the sand.

He held his rifle loosely in his hands, fingering the revolving barrels that allowed him to shoot bullets exponentially quicker. It lowered the accuracy of the bullets, and while no other hunter would settle for such inaccuracy, Raisten found it useful. The other hunters expected bullets to hit in very specific spots, and reduced the amount of movement they made in order to dodge attacks while conserving precious energy. But if those bullets weren't landing where they were expected to, they became much more likely to hit.

Far up in the air, above the sandstorm, crows flew overhead, circling and waiting for the crippled and broken steel to fall uselessly to the ground, as their power sources were pierced and broken. The crows could use those parts to build their nests, and the weight of steel compared to twigs meant that they could more comfortably rest when the winds picked up, knowing that their eggs would be safe and sheltered.

A fire rang out in the distance, and Raisten knew one had found another. He turned slowly and carefully in the direction of the bang, waiting to hear what happened next. If another shot rang out, the hunter had survived, and it could quickly become a firefight. That, for Raisten, was the best possibility. He would be able to see the explosions and track the two. If not, he would move slowly in the direction of the noise. He couldn't afford speed. He only had so much energy, and expelling it would only make him easier to find. He had upgrades to make. And this was the way to do it.