I would like to point out beforehand that I am rather exhausted, and bored, so I thought, Hey, why not write some wee short stories about two of your characters at 3.46am in the morning, so please do excuse my failing ability to storytell, spell, and any other such thing associated with English and/or proper grammar of any which kind.
Silverpine.
The cold, midnight air awoke him, his cloak providing little shelter from the piercing night, chilling him to the bone. Ironic then, that all he was now, a pile of bones and a bundle of hate. Forsaken such as he had no reason to sleep, no reason to rest, yet he did so anyway, clinging to the memories of a normal life, long lost. Nearly forgotten.
Khuelas 'Slackjaw' Duskwither had seen, suffered, and lived through more than most, with a death under his belt and even more wars, he was no stranger to it, yet the sounds of the forsaken war machine in the distance still put him on edge... An all too unfriendly reminder of the scourge invasion of his home.
Picking himself up, cracking his exposed knuckles when on his feet and rubbing the space where his jaw should be, an annoying habit, yet one he could not shake, Mordo had offered to attach a fresh jaw to his skull. Khuelas refused. He might be dead, but he was no abomination.
He set out into the mist shrouded forest that lay before him, the shadows enveloping him as soon as he was gone. Leaving not a trace. Only the dull sound of war in the distance unsettling the otherwise quiet, ... dead night.
Brill.
Junior Apothecary Drahken Dramortis, an eccentric apothecary, brilliant mind, partially insane, was one of the habitants of Brill, wittling away his days in the Brill Apothecarium, creating new concoctions, mixing old, blowing up scarlets, not doing what he was told. (Especially by Holland, but nobody liked Holland.) Upon mixing a final batch of 'Wound Sealer XXL, The Third Edition', he turned to the stockpiled shelves to his right, containing all sorts of ingredients for all that he required, except that, well, it never actually had anything of what he required. Muttering angrily to himself, something about Gordo being a bastard abomination, he picked up his cloak, and ventured out onto the cobbled streets of Brill, then turning to the west, set out in search of some Silverleaf.
Drahken was in a world of his own, as normal for him, dreaming up new elixers, exciting new poisons, or ways to torture scarlets. Idly picking up Silverleaf, looking down as he bent over to pick the herb before him, the world spun, turning a sickening black, darkness encompassing his vision, and then there was nothing.
Slowly, but surely, he regained his consciousness, and his wits. Before him stood a Scarlet, a sergeant by the looks of him, or maybe a Lieutenant, Drahken really couldn't tell, any Scarlet not dead was generally bad news anyway regardless of his rank. The scarlet began to talk, in a tongue Drahken had long forgotten. Common, a simple dialect, spoken by simple folk, yet it escaped his memory ever since his re-awakening, and yet, while held captive in a tower full of scarlets, bound to a chair, Drahken made a mental note.
-Learn Common.
Subject: Short Stories and Other Such Tales. 
Tue May 31, 2011 2:48 pm
