New Year's Warped Resoution Challenge

[Tehya]

Well another New Year and the same old resolutions are flung about on TV ads, but for us I thought it might be fun to warp ours a bit. Maybe a resolution to rape more, or do something bad or good if that's a change in our character's lives.

A resolution of a change in feelings, or a journey we always wanted to venture on but never have. Something or someone you have wanted to approach but haven't. Be Creative!

The Creative Challenge by Artists`Ambit is yours to warp any way you see fit, and is open to any typical form of art or expression, including art 2D, 3D, poetry and short stories.

Note: This is open to all not limited to bards, artisans ect. Everyone may enter this challenge

[mozenwrathe]

Dasan, on his way to another shift at the general store, found himself staring at the entrance to the Artists' Ambit. Sure, some of the people in the town had mentioned it in passing, but the building itself had he never seen. It was a rather interesting place for the most part. Unlike some of the storefronts and bazaar stalls, it was not covered in garish designs and paints. Some would call it welcoming, but Dasan knew better than that. The Grove of Balance was "welcoming," this place was just "there." You entered and you left at will, and there was none to truly greet you or educate you. Perhaps that was just how a structure such as this worked. It was not, after all, like a tribal yurt or lodge. There were many different peoples that used this building, almost none of them truly unified. The only thing most had in common was a love for the more artistic things in life. Whether it be creating them or just observing them, given the way more than a few of the infernal banes of existence were openly gawking and drooling like the base fiends they were...

Alas, just going into the building was a "push" for the young man. Entering any place knowingly defiled by such creatures always made him cringe internally. Of course, the only way to prevent that was to either ensure that the filth elves of wickedness never heard of the place or were physically barred from entering. The best way to do that would be, obviously, to behead them all and throw their bodies into a volcano. Sadly, that option was not readily available to Dasan, as much as he desired it. Sitting down, he whispered a prayer or two of forgiveness to the ancestors, knowing they disapproved of him having blade present and not using it on the wretched infestation on two legs. Figuring there were a few rituals he ought to keep up with, Dasan decided to grab a few scrolls and parchments, seeing what he could do to create a prayer and psalm for the new year.

As far as Dasan went, he was actually pretty "accepting" of dark elves: he accepted the fact they were evil, he accepted the knowledge that they could be slain, and he accepted the sorrow that whomever this Emperor was had been misguided into allowing them to continue to breathe. With good fortune and the ancestors' will, this "Bringer Of Storms" would see his errors and bring wrath and devestation to the givers of horror and woe. Dasan would not be the one to make the Emperor see the light. He knew that already, given Dasan himself had no tribe or clan to support him, no strength of arm or spell to gain favour with yet. So Dasan knew well what he needed to do for his prayer. The psalm, however, would be a different story entirely.

***

{= this is the poem of prayer written by the Sheykan druid, Dasan =}

~* And To This Sky And Sea I Thank *~

upon my darkened skin
do I see the shimmer of the fallen glow
light from above caressing my shoulder
down to my thighs and far below
yet within my heart I feel no warmth
until the touch of lover's lips upon my shoulder
give me the will to rise from my bed
and the strength to move the largest boulder

come now down the rain or snow
for will I walk through both with grace and pride
and to every duty pressed into my hands
will I commit myself and shall not hide
even when faced with devil's smile
and their laughter coiling around my wrists
shall I steel my soul against their lies
without resorting to striking them down with my fists

this land woven together with foolish pride
shall fall apart or stand without my foreigner's touch
as my heart and soul belong to my goddess
those of the city will not waver my stance much
my goals shall soar above their perfumes
unclouded by their arrogant dreams
with clear eyes and throat will I sing out
washing away my sins in winter streams

shall I no longer tarry in what I wish
to achieve with knowledge and wisdom both
so to this end shall I consider now
the words that make up my solemn oath
becoming greater than I was before
even if o'er dead enemies will I need to climb
and if bastard race of elves gets in my way
shall I bleed them proudly just as I rhyme

***

Finishing the prayer, the druid found it interesting how easily the vehemence towards the traditional enemies of his poeple came to him. The text was almost alarming in its way, for Dasan had never considered himself a violent individual. Then again, anything to do with the dark elves had always driven him into a slight rage. There was a race that he hated as much as the "usurpers of the way and the light," but that was a far more personal thing. His desire to see the dark elves destroyed was pretty much ingrained into him from birth. So even as an outcast, Dasan would almost always side with another Sheykan against a dark elf. Sure, they had their own name for themselves: the moriel. The druid had a name for them as well: banespawn. Something he had yet to call the one klez, for that was the first moriel he felt sorry for in his entire life. Something about that one large bodied elf made him feel... bad.

That erked Dasan in ways he had never been annoyed before.

Going back to the quill and parchment, the druid sought to try to write something less volatile. This was a place of art, not war. And Dasan figured there had to be something remotely thankful and creative within his body somewhere. After all, if those worthless lumps of flesh that even starving carnivores should turn their nose up at could dance beautifully, then any Sheykan worth their salt could do infinitely better.

**

{= And this would be the psalm to Gaea and the ancestors the Sheykan penned slowly and carefully. To his credit, he was trying to not think of what he himself wanted, but what the spirits were wanting of him. =}

~* Wandering To Where My Home Shall Be *~

shall this land of snow and blistering heat
become now and forever my hunting grounds
where love and life shall weave together
creating ofr me tapestry of home
this now will become my native lands
for my feet to stride and my ears to listen
without either am I just a roaming soul
to never romance my blood with glory
all threats to my life aside and away
shall I serve as shield and spear to history
remembering well the sacrifices before me
and will create new legends for those after

released am I from bonds of broken bronze
enslaved no more to want and will of others
as the winds howl at my back to move me
so shall I run forwards towards the light
no true destiny shall I be given unjustly
but will my hands and heart earn every gift
courtesy of the rivers and mountains
will fill my haversack and nets over time
to bring back to those whom I call my own
and then to share in the name of Gaea
giving back by blessing fowards
making the cycle of life complete anew

[Tehya]

All I can say is Bravo! Do write more those poems and the story were beautifully written.

[mozenwrathe]

The man known to most as just Prydain or "Pry" (though sometimes "Pryd" and a few calling him "Mister Mahn) stepped into the Artists' Ambit for a few minutes. Well, he thought it would be for only a few minutes, as he just was not that eager to head into the Might Makes Right at the moment. He had two scimitars he was working on waiting for him, and neither of them had been working out right. Having broken them thrice so far, this was Prydain's fourth molding for each of the twin blades. Meaning that would be six destroyed blades in two days. Needless to say, Prydain was far from pleased. Still, work did not stop on the weaponry just because he had some difficulty making them. He did not dare ask Miss Alta to "take over" for him on the order, as she was the one mainly responsible for any customized mithril weapons and armor. Sure, there was Taurn - if he were not consistently missing in action as of recent. Something about trouble to the northwest that some of the militia had been dispatched to. Which meant in Prydain's case leaning more heavily on Fariday. Not that the torian seemed to mind, as he too was learning to perfect his craft and start on the way to learning mithril. James was useless for such tasks, as he did not work steel. Neither did the other two women that Prydain had read in the records worked there - one Rita Highlander and some dame Varisanna. (At least he hoped with names like those such were women. He could always be wrong.)

Prydain heard none of the commotion behind him until it was too late. Three men had rushed in to snatch up one of the artisans - a chirot, he imagined, given the wings. The woman had cried out for help of some sort - any, really. But the three barbarians had roared in defiance, insisting that all such frail creatures belonged to them by right of strength. Aden'Ver had decreed them superior, and the other artisans should know themselves blessed that they would be next. Prydain had hoped to avoid conflict, and could have easily allowed the woman to be carted away. It was when one of the barbarians specifically yelled out how "all those frail little white-haired whores were meant to be their slaves" that Prydain chose to react.

He picked up an empty ink pot made of kilned earth and flung it at the farthest one of the men. Striking him true, the barbarian - clearly a full head taller than Prydain himself - reeled back in pain. The other two men struck the chirot in the small of the back, knocking her to the floor as they growled threats at Prydain. Mostly about how such a blasphemous action would only end in the man's demise. So The Hidden did the only thing he could: he politely invited them to try to enslave him outside. His words were so flowery and his voice so effeminite, Prydain could hardly believe his own ears. If it were not for how aggravated he was, The Hidden would have collapsed on the spot, laughing at himself. The trio of barbarians were forced to agree, as Prydain had wisely (albeit callously) invoked the name of Aden'Ver during his empassioned plea. The chirot having not been forgotten, the barbarians dragged the poor thing outside while allowing Prydain to go ahead of them. And before Prydain had made it out of the door, the first barbarian blindsided the man, hitting him in the ribcage with a heavy club.

This was exactly what Prydain had expected from the trio.

Smiling inwardly, he rolled with the blow and flung himself outside, all the while acting far more injured than he was. Coughing up a little blood, Prydain wheezed and staggered backwards as the first barbarian seized upon the moment to jump on him. It was then Prydain struck a knifehand into the man's throat, cutting off his ability to breathe. Prydain's next blow was an elbow to the man's nose, breaking it. The barbarian got in a few good swings with the club, however, hammering away at Prydain's ribcage. The smith was not having it, however, and ended the man's flailing with another elbow - this one to the ear. Knocking out the barbarian cold, Prydain pushed the heavy form off of him before the second man caught up to him with a boot to the ribcage. Kicked far and high, Prydain went sprawling across the snow and dirt in agony. Drawing a sword, this man was clearly aiming to maim and perhaps even slay The Hidden - which suited Prydain's thoughts just fine. The broadsword cleaved downwards, leaving Prydain nowhere else to go but into the sword swing itself. Both hands rose to catch the arm, and the smith flung his shoulder into the barbarian, knocking him backwards. Throwing himself to the ground, Prydain claimed the same club that had almost shatered his ribs for defense. (His blades he had "forgotten" inside, trying to not call attention to his actual prowess.) The club would do him no good against a sword, so he opted to avoid the next few swings. None of them were wild and untrained - clearly, this man was a seasoned warrior. Still, Prydain waited for just one mistake he could capitalize on. That showed upon the fifth swing, as the second barbarian - of decidedly more tanned skin than the first or the third one - rushed in to finish Prydain off quickly. The club struck thrice: first to the man's hands to knock the sword from them, second to the man's knees, and then finally to the back of the skull. Prydain knew not if he had slain the barbarian or not, only that there was a third one remaining. The last one thought it best to use the chirot he had been holding as a shield, insisting Prydain drop his weapon and give in. Prydain complied to the barbarian's demands and turned around. The mocking laughter of the barbarian echoed in his ear as the third man mocked him for his naivete. Of course, the barbarian threw the chirot into the side of the building and kicked the girl again out of spite. From there, he ran up to Prydain to give him the killing blow through the back. Prydain turned at the last moment and flipped the final assailant over his shoulder. His next action was to continue to stomp on the man's chest and arms until he stopped moving.

Three up. Three down. Three ribs bruised. And at least three dozen bruises to nurse. Obviously, Prydain was getting far too lax in his training.

Throwing the three men into a wheelbarrow, Prydain called over a few passersby to wheel them to the Healer's Hut. Giving each of the two men moving the wheelbarrow ten mehrial each, he told them to give a message to the people that worked at the place: "Fix Them And Take The Money Out Their Purses." Coughing up some more blood, Prydain realized he had been hurt far worse than he had given the men credit for. He also felt strained, for throwing that last man had pulled some of his muscles out in the wrong way. Such a bother. Walking slowly back into the Artists' Ambit, Prydain picked up the chirot on the way and then lay the fragile female down on a table. Calling for any practicing healers, he offered twenty mehrial to any willing to tend to "the little slips wounds." He managed to get five all vying for his attentions then. Rolling his eyes, he told three of them to work on the chirot and the other two to fix him up. The healers insisted they would accept ten mehrial each, as none would normally bother to even spit in their direction. Shrugging caused him a lot more pain, now that the adrenaline was burned off. The two healers working on Prydain - one slyph and one half-wolven (who was definitely eyeing his behind) demanded the male remove his tunic and upper vestments to see the extent of the damage done to him. Coughing a few times more, he complied - much to the pleasure of more than a few lookers on. As his wings were "within," there was nothing to truly see except for his mithril tattoos.

And the bruises. Oh the bruises. Prydain was forced to see his entire left side was a mass of them, discolouration making him a truly technicolor terror. His right arm showed a few as well, and for the life of him Prydain could not remember being clipped on that side. It would be a full hour of prayers, prodding and pinching before The Hidden could breathe again normally. (Part of that was the heavy incense one of the other healers insisted upon.) The damage done to his body had been far, far worse than he had believed posslble. The barbarians were far more powerful than he had thought to give them credit for. If it were not for the hard work of the healers that had happened to be inside the Artists' Ambit, there was a strong chance he would have passed out walking aimlessly on the streets. The chirot was recovering just fine, her wings having been damaged from her rough handling by her would-be kidnappers. Slowly getting to his feet, Prydain gathered his clothes and walked back to where his weapons and scrolls had been left behind earlier. Looking around for some parchment and quills, Prydain took another ink pot - this one full - and started to write. Considering that so many were still talking about the vulpine celebration of the new year, The Hidden thought to himself about changes he would need make in himself to make this year better than the last one.

**

~* Resolutions For The New Year *~

I. Kill more people that obviously deserve killing, including anyone using a deity's name to try to cloak their actions in legitimacy.

II. Start working towards learning mithril, so Miss Alta can pay me even more money than I am already making - because money is good.

III. Complete the revisions on the tower, so Vesta and Kuwanyauma have a glorious place to live and study, work and prosper. As well, make sure to get fur blankets for the floors in all of the bedrooms.

IV. Get James to learn how to work leather. The boy needs to do more than look pretty and sell weapons.

V. Practice with my swords more often, so I can kill people more efficiently and with the vindictation deserved of all those who are determined to aggravate, annoy, or oppose me.

VI. Burn down a temple or two of Ishtar, because the evil bitch goddess of doom deserves it.

VII. Get married.

**

Of course, Prydain kept this list to himself. After all, there was no telling who was a servant of Ishtar within this place, and he was in no condition to start a fight with this many people. Sure, he had finished being healed, but it would take him a day or three to be back up to full strength. The bruised might be gone, but the sheer exhaustion that he felt from the thoroughly worked over ribs remained. The aching was a constant reminder of his own arrogance and inexperience. Ryla would have mocked him for getting hurt in the first place, let alone bruised and battered without even noticing it. Of course, the woman probably went to bed in her armor, so that wasn't a fair comparison. Still, it had been weeks since he had last trained with the woman, and he was showing it.

Now, to actually do something that was related to the original purpose of the Artists' Ambit. The man thought to himself what to try to sit down and write. After all, he would not be travelling to the Might Makes Right for an hour yet. His legs had just started to quiver beneath him, and he was still seated. Taking out some bread and cheese, Prydain thanked Lotaneth silently for the baskets the catperson brought to the Might Makes Right on a weekly basis. Even now, such a gift kept on giving. As such, Prydain thought to himself about what he had heard recently in the avenues of Nanthalion, that some famous bard and her friends were still in town and occasionally visiting the Artists' Ambit. Some woman named Neelkamala D'aari, or something like that. There was a memory or two regarding that name, but for the life of him he could not remember what it was. Shrugging to himself (and wincing again bitterly when his shoulders rebelled), he commenced writing on another scroll, seeing what came out of his quill and fingers this time around...

**

~* The Measure Of A Miser's Means *~

once upon a far off time
was there a man who lived in mansion high
upon a hill he purchased in gold
and cared for by servants poor and many
his fortune was vast in jewels and platinum
using rich parchments to draw his fingers
pressed every day just for his personal needs
wasting all and sharing nothing to others
for powerful wizard and warrior both
was this man in his anguished youth
and as he grew older and far wiser
did greed seep in where once only anger reigned
until like dragons of legend
did he have a bed of precious things
hoarded away from the unwashed many
to be his and his alone until he perished

once news of his death rung out
did the adventurers all come to capture
each a piece of his belongings for themselves
only to discover the horrific truth
for his vaunted chateau was now a deathtrap
claiming the lives of more than gallant few
with strange creatures lurking the many halls
the servants all having been transformed
by baleful curses and unfathomable magic
until the house itself became a legend
and all those who once dared its secrets
were either consumed by the darkness within
or had been remade in the dead miser's image

now is the grand manor abandoned to all
and the lands around it gnarled with weeds and shrubs
standing like a mausoleum in the snows
a grave for so many lost and fallen souls
still luring the bold and the bastards both
some seeking riches of the dead and the damned
others wanting the bodies for their own twisted ends
yet any who truly go inside the evil estate
know not what they will find waiting for them
always believing they shall be the victorious one
only to learn far too late
are they so very far from prepared

once upon a far off time
was there a man who lived in mansion high
now is the man no more than corpse and rumour
the miniature palace an opulent labyrinth
tomb for so many thanks to his greed
and somewhere deep within the halls
something laughs in wicked glee
knowing eventually will more arrive
to feed its desire for blood and bones

**

Not very cheerful was that at all. Sighing once, Prydain let the parchment slide down the table as he pushed it away. Completely disheartened with his efforts, he moved the writing materials away from him. Scowling at them all, he wondered why he could not "write happy." Sure, Prydain was a bitter individual, but this was far more morose than his normal attempts. Wanting to just knock everything away, The Hidden gave himself some time to sit down and think about what he wanted to attempt to pen. Shaking his head a few times, the man leaned back slightly and stretched out. Wincing once again, the smith would just remain there and eat more of the bread and cheese from Lotaneth's farm. Not remembering to put back on his tunic and upper vestments for a while longer, Prydain managed to miss all the interested stares he received from some of those within the Artists' Ambit - not the least of which were coming from two new entries - Idomeneus Blackfriar, the son of a slightly infamous wolven mage, and one of Neelkamala's consorts, the half-wolven Yashawini. Neither of them had ever seen Prydain before, but a male of his size and colouring easily caught there attention. Before either of them could approach the seemingly unwary and distraught male, they were confronted by a few humans - men that had been watching Prydain's fight earlier from safely within the Artists' Ambit itself. Quietly and yet fervently, the men each told their own version of the tale - including one where Prydain apparently was the one being kidnapped and raped, then snapped the necks of his carnally sated abductors with "meaty thighs that would make the most ardent lesbian lust for cock."

Oh, if Prydain only knew the rumours that would start from that line alone...

Idomeneus snickered slightly, thinking if even half of any of these tales were true, the still completely oblivious Prydain would make an excellent sex slave for his good friends within Adenfort or Luanna'supc. Of course, that would require actually capturing the male - which had already been expressed to be less than likely. Yashawini was more wondering where he had gotten that delicious looking cheese, as men that dark were not truly her preference. They always happened to have something "wrong" with them, namely not lasting long enough to assuage her fire-blooded passions. (She tended to be a little rough with her toys.) Still, the half-wolven made it a point to get a better look at Prydain for now, and was sure to give Neelkamala all the different versions of the tale - starting with the gang rape one. After all, boy-on-boy sex was hot to observe, and even more amsuing to embellish upon. Without a name to associate to the body, it was unlikely the man she was watching now would ever know he was being used as story material.

Prydain, for his part, finally noticed a few were staring at him. Throwing back on his clothing in haste, he almost knocked over the ink pot. Cursing his own clumsiness, Prydain thought now would be the best time to write something else. His mind cleared of the rage from before, he thought now of those three barbarians and why he chose not to slay them. Realizing that something had been guiding his hands, he closed his eyes and attempted to meditate. What he found waiting for him was something he had been dreading. Once he woke up from the self-imposed trance almost half an hour later, The Hidden was fully ready to set quill to parchment again. Though his moment of lucidity had left him, he was far more in control of his emotions than he had been previously.

**

~* To The Remainder Of Your Dreams *~

and in the coldest of mornings here
will I awaken to your warmth at my side
lips of softness against my throat
fluttering and teasing my heart's echo
my eyes now open to see your beauty
and here am I always astonished
to know your blessing to me
is your presence in this bed
and your arms around my waist

shall I not sully this bed we share
with lies to ensorcel and vicious words
my rage and my woes shall I leave outside
pushing them into the fireplace
so such heated emotions of baleful bile
can keep our treasured abode
heated and free of the creeping mists
for are you more treasured than gemstones
more powerful than any spell I have known
and right now in this very moment
are you all mine
as I am yours

this dream is just a fond desire
one that I shall strive to make more true than steel
but right now is this only a fantasy
something to try to swim towards
in the cold rivers of the ways of belonging
from one person to another
and are you still so far from me
yet standing merely on the opposite shore

**

Finishing up the second writing, Prydain felt a lot better about himself. Once again, Prydain did not sign the parchment or leave any notable markings trailing the writing to himself. Getting up and walking away, the smith picked up his things from the ground. Throwing on his heavy cloak again, he made it a point to thank the healers who had treated him earlier. Not seeing anyone truly familiar to him, he left and made a round about way back to the Might Makes Right. He failed to notice the various eyes that followed his back until he vanished from sight, or the mutterings which followed. A few of the wolven and half-wolven ended up being "summoned" as it were by Yashawini and Idomeneus, those of that heritage putting aside any normal differences to come up with a small dance to commemorate this day. A day when one fought against many and was victorious. It would be called the "Tanec Krvavou Pomstu," and taken back to all of their tribes to be shared and advanced upon.

The chirot who had been the "start" of his day had already left, flying back to her mistress - a lesser known high human sorceress who had a fondness for chirot and nature spirits. The woman, having heard the tale of her pet, offered prayers to Gaea, Ishtar, and Katarein. A rarity, the woman had learned of the worship of the last mentioned goddess when she was younger by her elven rhetor (now one of her lovers). Whomever this strange dark-skinned human was, she would have to find them and thank them somehow - personally if at all possible. Someone who actually interested in the well being of others was scarce, and could be potentially useful later on. Especially if they were as weak-minded as most males were around an attractive woman...

[Stormbringer]

A resolution to get more in touch with nature this year.

[Tehya]

It had been a notable year, so many things happened, a war ended in victory, Traghorn had flown her to her lair, bestowed upon her the gift of knowing her dreams, and helped end the war. Her home was no longer the simple cabin in the woods, doors opened to her by the infamous Lord Ryo a fellow bard, the palace of course being her job centered her there, and a fire temple since she bonded with the chaotic fire priest.

She had taken people on a journey to meet the dragon of dreams Traghorn, watched them become lulled into their dreams and drifted into one of hers at the same time.

Amazing thing; how fascinated Tehya was with this dragon, so much so, she pledged that she would follow one dream that kept reoccurring. She never really understood the gods in the world, and had spent endless hours listening to Christolf go on and on about Gaea, but teaching fell on deaf ears. She had a tendency to dissect things, and clues were stored in her mind to investigate more in the future.

Tehya became fascinated with the weather, and collected as many books as she could on the subject realizing that things of magnitude happened when there were drastic changes in the weather. There was no god connected to this, and she began to read about the battle of Sturmtsalise and most knew what the name of that battle meant (Eye of the Storm) and whose name was connected to storms, none other than the Emperor Stormbringer. There were other meanings to that name and each were investigated, read about, and finally she went on digs to where the battle was. That is a whole different story, not yet fully understood, but she was sure she found definite proof in that rubble that was once a battlefield.

Her first resolution was to prove what she found was real, something hidden in a trunk in her room that no other had seen.

Not only was her fascination that year centered on finding out more of her facts, but she realized that seeking something that would suffocate her was a dangerous journey, a journey she might want to turn away from mentally and emotionally. Funny world she lived in, and she had a tendency to dissect everything, watching people come and leave the palace, noting that the doors sometimes swung both ways. An agitation of starting something to only hold the pie so to speak was disturbing. Tehya might have a tiny streak of subservient in her, but she was definitely a free spirit so when one dream was smashed she would quickly move on to another. Hey she had Traghorn as a teacher and no one could dream one dream forever it became boorish and tedious.

A nagging Drak appeared most everywhere she went, his leer and lust followed her for years. She wanted none of that, knowing there was something deeper in life. Surely life was more complicated than panting after something you couldn’t grasp. A lesson well learned, but this Drak took forever to learn what was beneath her lovely tanned flesh. It took ages that’s for sure, and finally she seen the change, those clever eyes of his reading more than flesh and tits, although she knew he was mauling her sexually in his mind, He knew; to actually hold onto her, freedom would have to exist, and he could master her dreams and become an intellectual stimulant as well as a pleasure giver sexually.

An intellectual stimulant who would know that one could exist with such a feeding of satisfaction, but she began to be summoned into dreams, glorious places and travels. You see his first gift to her was an earring, one where he could manipulate her dreams. In most sane times she would have balked at having anything connected to her to manipulate her mind into a peaceful or exciting journey, but this year she needed it, painful things covered up well with the places his dreams took her…where she found other dragons, and watched a drak created. It didn’t have to be real …dreams fed a bard’s very nature. Bards survived on dreams to fuel their imagination.

Her second resolution was to venture on and grasp new dreams.

Some say bards are never to be trusted, some swear to that, and there are enemies in obscure places. She held no pregidous to those darker than she, and in fact was curious on what made their mind’s tick and had written a numerical code and obtained a magical quill to relay some of the facts to the Emperor whom she worked for.

Then the days of the Blood Moon arrived and one dark person decided to beat her and one of the Emperor’s horses, kidnap her to rape and throw her out of his gates. Bard’s don’t forget and she pondered and hired spies to watch that very manor. Once bonded she was told Belson had killed her mate, that didn’t set well with her, and she knew if she remained enemies with Belson something would happen, and decided to listen to the teachings of her father. Yes, Tehya never forgot her roots and if anyone looked at her right wrist they would see the reminder of simple wheat braided into a bracelet, reminding her of where she was raised. She was taught to befriend your enemies and keep them close to you.

Her third resolution she had already begun, and it was to befriend Belson. She painted a picture of him and delivered it to his manor. His cockiness and orders were hard to swallow, and one order she refused to do. Another meeting might ensue, but on public grounds or in the Inn.

Her third and last resolution was to befriend her enemies.


Note: Great story Pry and another beautiful picture SB

[Ehlanna]

Adara, the sweet kitten, awoke with a yowling wail of shock and grief. Convulsive sobs racked her body as she gazed at the empty bed through tear-filled eyes. Sniffling at the nasty dream she slipped out from under the covers and on bare feet padded to the bedroom door. One hand lifted to brush away the trickles from her nose, the other pushing open the door she quickly scampered down the stair, her short silk nighty swishing over her thighs and her tail drooping out from under the hem, an attitude matched by her sagging ears. The dream still strong in her mind, full of the feeling of lose and abandonment, the cruel words of her mistress still ringing in her ears as if she had actually heard them: "leave me alone, adara, I have had my fill of sugar-sweet cat girls. Cat girls as a whole, in fact. So, get yourself packed up I will be sending you back to be sold to someone who might want a useless foot-warmer or whatever it is you can do"
Shaking her head, unable to believe she could even dream of such a thing, she peeked out into the shop and padded quickly past all the clothes on display, not even raising a smile at the be-ribboned dress she passes on her way to the kitchen. Slowing her approach as the feeling from the dream washes over again the pretty little kitten gives another soft sob as she listens to the sound of someone making clattering noises in the kitchen, the sounds of someone making tea. Recognising the sounds a smile almost flits across the kitten's features, but it it stillborn as she notes what is missing - she can hear no sound of milk being poured, nor can she smell the cinnamon that should be put in.
Warily approaching she peeks round the door and watches her silver-haired mistress busy making a pot of tea and a smile cannot but help come to her face and she knows it was all a dream. The kitten takes a step forward, ready to bound and spring at her mistress and wrap her up in snuggles, wanting to give as much as she recived when the elf maid turn to her and all thoughst of cuddles flee from her mind as the cold words crash over her, "packed yet?"
The Kitten came awake with a wailing cry and looked round rapidly and gasped in shock at the empty bed. Tears flooded from her eyes and great sobs racked her body. She turned and buried her face in her pillow and shook in abject misery, not noticing the door open and her mistress enter with a tray laden with tea and warm milk sprinkled with cinnamon.

[Tehya]

Very nice story always enjoy your writing.