DCC: Show Some Class

Martha scrolled through the selection screen while Jakalak worked with Will on his choices. He'd turned into a dwarf, the kind you saw in all those fantasy movies, The Dungeon had made several suggestions based on her choosing Dragon for her race, and unlike most classes the choice made might affect her form even further. 

It was a relief to be able think clearly, to read through the entries and have them immediately make sense instead of having to puzzle over the words again and again. Was that what it was like for everyone else, all those normal people who weren't born broken? She kept reading, and for the first time in her life she was enjoying it. 

Frost Dragon looked like an interesting class -- plenty of ice-based spells and abilities, good ranged attacks, and still pretty formidable at close range. It wasn't one of the top three that the Dungeon had recommended, though, and she thought that might be because it meant she would grow in size as she leveled up. Easy to see how that could be a problem in a narrow dungeon passageway. 

Mist Dragon was one of the top three, and it had its appeal as well. It was obviously oriented towards stealth and ambush, with solid options for fighting at long distance or very, very close -- but not much in between. It would grow the way most of the other options would. Still, she was hesitant; stealth meant out-thinking opponents, and she still didn't entirely trust herself to do that.

Battle Drake looked more like what she'd initially envisioned: powerful, sleek, dangerous. It included some good resistances and immunities, excellent damage, and while it would make her larger as she advanced in levels it also included a spell to alter its size. It was subtle, or particular versatile; it was a class for ripping things apart, breathing fire on them, and being hard to hurt. It sounded perfect, but Martha made herself read the last of the Dungeon's recommendations.

This one was called Dragonwere, and unlike the other two it took her a moment to figure out what it was meant to do. The dragon traits were a scaled-down version of the Battle Drake -- no size-changing spell, not as strong, a little easier to damage -- but it was supplemented with the ability to assume a human form, which offered greater versatility in both equipment and skills, and effectively restored the size-changing option. 

She giggled to herself. Scaled down.

Jakalak looked over. "You need some help, Martha?"

She shook her head. "No, I've got this." For once in my life, I've got this. Dragonwere might actually be a better choice, but she had always been other, outside, apart. She didn't want to go back to being a human again, ever. She scrolled back up through the selection screen and selected Battle Drake, then settled back as her body changed further.

DCC: Choices atop Choices

Martha lay back on the bed, and listened as Jakalak went over the possible choices for her race. She knew she was broken; her parents had driven that into her awareness for as long as she'd been alive and conscious. She also knew what she wanted now. 

No matter how horrible this place was, no matter how much everything here was designed to kill her, it could turn her into something else. She wanted that chance. She wanted to become something so strong, so smart, so wise, that her parents could never touch her again. "I want to be a dragon," she said. 

Jakalak nodded, slowly. "It's a strong race. Likely you won't be able to reproduce, or even marry, and it'll reduce your choice of classes. But if that's what you want..." 

"That's what I want," Martha said.

Jakalak sent her the selection screen, and she clicked on Dragon.

It wasn't pain, exactly. It wasn't unconsciousness, exactly, either. But when she came back up out of it, she could feel the shape of her new body. 

It had wings. 

It had claws. 

It had teeth. Oh, so many teeth. It stalked around on four legs, and balanced with a tail. And OH, she wasn't broken anymore.

RoH: Inside the Palace

The Watch Leader's name was Elaine Daschelle, and she brought him to the King's Magus -- a very sensible decision, he thought. "May I leave him with you?" she asked. "I have duties I should return to."

The Magus looked up from amulet, distracted. "It's genuine," she said. "Yes, leave him." She was a tall, willowy woman, raven-haired and dark-skinned, dressed in a simple dress of light blue that set off her eyes. It had the look of a favorite piece of clothing, something well and often worn. She had not yet given her name, but that hardly came as a surprise.

The Watch Leader  bowed and departed. 

"The wands are good work," Remant observed. "The ones the Guard are carrying."

"Thank you," she said, and handed the amulet back. Remant tucked it back into his pouch. Her eyes went cloudy as she looked him over. "You are positively layered in magics, and if it weren't for that amulet I wouldn't let you anywhere near the King. Who are you, really?"

Remant sniffed. "This is not to be shared unless the King permits it, but... Remant. Remant Ferrand."

"That... that explains some things," she said quietly. "I am Isabelle Binoche. I was first first among Aeristes' disciples, and the King selected me to carry on his work. I have striven, among other work, to pass as much of his knowledge and practice to the others as I can."

"I was hoping he would still be around." 

She shook her head. "The weight of the war, the weight of the years. He passed in his sleep some four years -- five years -- back."

Remant hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "I knew him, too. Not so well as you did, but I admired him."

Isa sighed, then swayed as he drew his hand back. "Let's go see if the King is occupied." 

RoH: An Evening Meeting

The walls around the palace were old and worn, with gates of heavy wooden timbers at the top of the short causeway. The whole thing was set near the old center of the city, and a pair of bored-looking City Guards were standing outside. Gone were the days when the King's Own had held the duty; Alich al'Mera itself had been lucky in avoiding the worst of the war, but a great deal of its territory had been devastated, most of its army annihilated, and its resources were entirely turned towards supporting the survivors and rebuilding a nation for them to live in. 

The guards straightened as Remant approached and dismounted. "You've made a wrong turn, friend."

Remant frowned. "Is this not still the palace?"

"It is," said that same guard, "which is why you need to move along."

Remant sighed, feeling suddenly tired. Tired, and tempted to do something horrible. He bit down hard on the urge, as he always did. "Does Captain Tillard still command the Guard?"

The guard on the left frowned, but this time the guard on the right spoke up. "Did. Retired about two years ago."

Well, so much for that approach... Remant considered alternatives for a long moment, before deciding that he'd rather be admitted properly. "Could you send for your Watch Leader?"

The guard on the left shrugged and pulled on a rope. Overhead, a bell sounded -- muffled behind stone, but audible through the arrow-slits that were once meant to help defend this place.

A half-dozen guards spilled into the courtyard behind the gate, pulling on buff coats or coats of brigandine, juggling halberds as they did. They wore wands at their belts as well; the King's Magus, whoever held the position now, had been busy.  It was nearing dinner-time; likely they'd been eating, or preparing to. The Watch Leader was easy to spot: he was the one with ink on his hands.

"Stranger to speak with you, Lieutenant," said the guard on the left. 

The woman studied Remant just as intently as he studied her. "State your business, stranger," she said after a moment. 

"I seek entry, stabling, and an audience with the King."

She laughed, but it was more surprised than scornful. "Are you mad, or do you have some grounds for this?"

"Arguably both," Remant admitted, then unclipped a pouch on his belt and reached slowly inside, coming out with an amulet he'd been given many years ago. "I'm going to toss this to you," he said. 

She nodded, and he did. 

She caught it easily, studied it, frowned, studied it harder. Then she looked up at him. "Who are you?"

Remant sighed. "It's probably best if you don't know."

RoH: A Simple Purchase

The solicitor's name was Valeria A'Maris, and she regarded Reman't return with some surprise. "I take it our problem is resolved?" 

"After a fashion," Remant told her. "The former Viscount Durzen is still walking around, but we have come to an agreement."

"An agreement?" asked Valeria. "I didn't hire you to make an agreement, I hired you to either kill him or drive him out."

"Be that as it may," said Remant, "this agreement doesn't require me to put down a man who appears beloved of his servants, is doing valuable research, and simply hasn't quite come to terms with the fact that he is dead. It also provides your client with a guaranteed sale, at which point the presence or absence of the undead former Viscount is no longer your concern."

"I see," said Valeria. "Who, exactly, would be purchasing the estate, exactly? Surely not yourself."

Remant sighed. "A reasonable concern, I suppose. As it happens, I would be the one purchasing the estate."

Valeria laughed in disbelief. "You--? You own a horse, a sword, a bow, and some arrows. You do mercenary work..." 

Remant nodded. "Yes. Years ago, I came into some money. Until now, I hadn't seen fit to use it, and it has been sitting in an account with the Church of Rilique -- which has a branch here in Alich al'Mera. I could provide a letter of credit this time tomorrow."

He waited a moment, as the solicitor gaped at him. "I happen to know, because my client mentioned it, that she had discussed the matter with local friends and family, and Sir Dominic Reville had offered to purchase the estate from her for the rather generous sum of five thousand gold... I believe, and I'll thank you not to repeat this, because he wishes to improve his station with the title of Viscount."

"...I can see where that would complicate matters," Remant admitted. "I'd be willing to offer six thousand,  to smooth the waters and give your client an excuse for making a new agreement."

"I will contact her immediately," Valeria said. "If you would have the letter of credit here tomorrow afternoon, we can very likely conclude your deal -- and if my client refuses, well, you can always take it back to the church and disavow it."

Remant nodded. "It will be done, and I will see you tomorrow."

Valthor: a moment of quiet

The hold was comfortably warm, warmer with Kiela pressed against him. A single candle-lamp lit the space, and the half-full bottle of brandy was safely tucked between the bedroll and the wall. Valthor liked being with her, even if the hammocks in the crew quarters didn't allow them to sleep together. As a representative of the Admiral, Valthor could have asked for better accommodations, but he very definitely didn't want that kind of attention -- and whatever this was, he didn't want to draw attention to it and apparently Kiela didn't either. Very likely the crew knew, or at least some of them, but it wasn't something that either of them was talking openly about. 

They'd sparred on deck, of course, she with her cutlass and he with his rapier; but then, Valthor sparred with anyone willing, and on a ship full of pirates there were plenty who wanted practice. Rapier, cutlass, saber, belaying pin, even a loose section of rope; he'd practiced against all of it. 

No, this was a delicate shelter, private moments stolen away from shipboard duties, fragile and probably temporary. They both knew it; perhaps that was part of the reason they treasured it. 

She stirred against him, and he said softly: "If we keep this up..."

She rolled over so that she was facing him, a small but unwelcome separation. "There's a tincture to prevent children," she said. "I haven't been taking it. Do you want me to?"

"Do you want to?" he asked. "I could be gone at any moment."

She shook her head. "I don't think you will, though. And I might like to have your child, if the gods see fit."

He nodded slowly. He had never considered being a parent himself; it was enough difficulty to deal with his own parents. "I might like that," he admitted. 

"Our child, should one come," she said slowly, "would not be the first born at sea, nor among pirates."

Valthor considered that; considered the secrets he was holding, and the things he had and hadn't said.

"When we first met," he offered cautiously, "I told you I wasn't a vampire. That was true, but not complete. My father was a vampire, long ago human, and my mother was an elf."

"What?" She didn't pull back, but the shock on her face struck him like a blow.

He nodded. "Were we to have a child, I suspect it would be only human, with a touch of Elven ancestry. But if we're considering this, well... it's something you should know."

"But how is that even possible?"

"Vampires can be fertile, under certain circumstances. It's most common among the newly-turned, but there are rituals for the elders, a temporary lessening of power in exchange for the chance to bear children -- or father them." 

She considered that, but didn't draw away. "I knew there was something strange about you. You have fangs?"

"I can," he admitted. "Even full vampires don't always have them -- not visibly, not all the time. But that's why I don't really need to breathe, and why I can walk on walls."

Kiela hesitated a moment longer, then rolled him over, stroked him, mounted him. "Come on," she said, quietly fierce. "Put a baby in me." 

Music: Collateral

The Midnight