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The Framed Women of Ardemore House by Brandy Schillace
Shards of Earth by Adrian Tchaikovsky
The Second Murderer: A Philip Marlowe Novel by Denise Mina
An Ugly World for Beautiful Boys by Rob CostelloOriginal rant: 12/18/2024
I work nights. I have a sign next to my doorbell telling people so, and asking them to not disturb me. Today I have had to take that sign down. Apparently no one can understand that this does not apply when I'm expecting them - and more than one person has used that sign as an excuse to not do the job that they were hired for. Today's incident is a case in point (but not the only example).
I've a kitchen remodel in progress since June, because we wanted it done before Christmas.
It is now mid-December, and still not finished.
This project has been mismanaged every step of the way.
Starting with the delivery of materials. We were given a window of delivery that fell outside of our vacation plans, but received notice of delivery DURING our vacation. The only recourse was to cancel delivery and reschedule later. That cost an extra month.
The boxes sat in our house for weeks before the project manager came to unbox/inspect. Items were missing, and had to be ordered before installation could occur.
When installation finally was scheduled, the install team found one of the cabinets was broken - which the PM missed. Installation was half-done, awaiting a new cabinet. They also found that the studs in my house are 24" apart, not 18" as estimated by PM - requiring bracing be installed, additional work for which the contractors were not originally hired.
And then there are the drawer pulls that never got ordered. We picked out handles/pulls to match the other cabinets, but those never got ordered because "I thought you wanted to get something special for that." We never said that. We wanted something to match the existing cabinets.
After another 3 weeks wait (during which time I bought and installed drawer pulls myself, thank you very much). Replacement cabinet is here (no PM inspection) and today the installers were scheduled to show up (between 8 and 10, ha ha).
They were not here by noon, and no communication. Wife called the PM and was told that they were on their way. We waited.
My outside camera shows that they were here shortly after 1:00, knocked so softly that even the dogs didn't hear it (did not ring doorbell), and left. Without knocking again, without calling.
The countertop/backsplash can't even be started until the cabinets are done. This will likely not be finished until well into January - and that's optimistic.
Look, I understand about scheduling, and how sometimes you can't follow through on a promise no matter how much you want to. But is it too much to ask for a bit of notice when you can't make an appointment?
I work nights. I literally have to sacrifice sleep to be present for anyone coming to my home during the day. A little common courtesy would have turned this ranting negative review to a simple "oh well, shit happens" shrug. But I have not received that from anyone involved in this project.
I cannot recommend that anyone use this storefront to arrange any kind of contract work. No one communicates anything, no one does the job that they were hired to do.
(The install was not finished until February '25.)
Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers by Jesse Q. Sutanto
The Lager Queen of Minnesota by J. Ryan StradalCharacter created for an online game, 4/16/2016
-=-=-=-
Raised by his mother, Josef was a rather spoiled child. He never wanted for anything, including pocket money, provided he attended daily lessons. When younger, that was spent on sweets, so that he never really lost his baby fat. As his mind expanded and he learned to read, his daily diet of empty calories began to include penny dreadfuls - adventure stories with no real literary value, chock-full of villains up to no good, heroes being all noble, damsels being distressed, and, of course, unrealistic portrayals of derring-do. How Jo avoided tooth decay we may never know, but he developed a very bad case of mental cavities: hero worship. His favorite type was the Noble Thief - he strikes from the shadows, to bring low those who abuse their wealth and power! Usually in the motif of some forest animal, like the Black Fox, or the Wolverine. Or the Honey Badger.
Most families apprentice their sons out when they grow big enough to do some real work - generally, about seven years old or so. Sorcerers, being distrusting of strangers, like to keep it in the family, and therefore prefer to apprentice their own children. At least, that's how it was with Josef's father Gamelon. When Gamelon decided it was time to train up an apprentice, Josef was already twelve, well into a rebellious streak, unfocused, and much more interested in rescuing damsels than in scrubbing cauldrons. He was, however, bright, learned quickly, and forgot nothing. These traits worked against everyone involved.
After one year of drudgery, the boy had formulated his plan of escape. He would cast a disguise spell, take a modest amount of funds and a single book (not enough to warrant a real search; surely he'd never be missed by such a cruel father), and travel to the Big City, there to Make his Fortune and Become a Hero (tm).
After two years, he had a vague idea of how hard that was going to be. His father kept everything locked up, and not one of the stories he loved contained any actual instructions on how to pick a lock. The Plan was on the back burner.
In the third year, he was learning actual magic - of the create a small light variety, decipher this scroll, learn how to mix that potion, now clean everything up and put it away. But he was learning where things were kept, and the routine that the Master kept. The Plan was fading.
In the fourth year, even Jo had to admit that the magic was becoming more interesting. How to master an enemy's will. How to damage an enemy's body. How to find that which is hidden. Perhaps the Black Fox could be a sorcerer. The Plan was nearly forgotten.
Until one day, mind not on his work, Jo mixed sulfur when he should have mixed phosphor and received a sound beating for the mistake (not to mention burning lungs and a nasty cleanup job).
Within the week, he grabbed the first spellbook he found unlocked, a single gem, and scarpered. A few miles away, he stopped to examine his loot. Only one spell contained within the tome looked anything like a spell of transformation, so he cast it directly from the page. Josef promptly blacked out. When he awoke, the page was blank.
Jo rushed to a nearby pond to inpect his handiwork. Did he changed to a dwarf? A grizzled soldier? A DRAGON?
The reflection that gazed back had dark, curly hair, emerald-green eyes, a slightly rounded face, and a pouty expression. It looked like Jo. Vastly disappointed, he heaved a great sigh, and trudged to a tree to relieve himself. One soaked pair of trousers later, Jo learned the extent of the spell's effect.
After congratulating himself upon the perfect disguise (Gamelon would never be searching for a runaway daughter), Jo began to wonder why his sorcerous father had such a spell in his collection. It wasn't long before such speculation was put away, never to be examined again.
Back on the path, Josef flagged down a cart, a farmer and family taking some produce to the city for sale, and continued the journey in the back with the wife and children. Conversation was awkward, and went somewhat along these lines:
Mother: "Where are you going, dear?"
Jo (in falsetto): "To the city, to seek my fortune."
Child 1: "What's wrong with your voice?"
Jo (coughing): "uh, Nothing."
Child 2: "You smell like wee."
Jo: "I, uh, had an accident..."
Mother: "Oh, it's all right, here, you can borrow a skirt and wash your trousers in the stream at our next stop."
By midday the cart had reached the gates. With one foot on the streets, a blur of motion, and someone small & quick promptly snatched the pack out of Josef's hands. Watching spellbook, gem, and scrimped coppers quickly escape, Jo thought, "Oh, no you don't." With skirts flying (trousers were still wet), he gave chase.
This is usually the part where all worldly goods are lost and the hero of the story laid low, but Jo's magically transformed body was surprisingly fleet and actually caught up with the young thief, bringing him low with a flying tackle. "Lemme up!" the urchin yelled.
"Won't," Jo replied. "You stole my stuff. Say uncle."
"Won't say uncle to no girl!"
"I ain't a girl, this is a magical disguise." This, with some pride.
"Yeah?" All struggling ceased as the young thief appraised the disguise. "Good 'un. All right, you got me. Take yer stuff, I ain't crossing no wizard."
"Sorcerer. But I want to learn thieving."
Thus began Jo's second apprenticeship. Charlie was part of a gang of child thieves, and the leader, barely out of childhood himself, was impressed enough with the story of the runaway apprentice that he allowed Jo to take the initiation challenge. Well, buy into the gang, really, with the stolen gem.
In all ways, an objective third party would classify it as much harder than the first one. Meals were more scarce, work more physically demanding. Fueled by imagination (and the last of the baby fat), however, it seemed much easier to Josef, the work inconsequential compared to the skills learned. Pick a pocket? Nothing to it. Climb a wall? Show me that wall! Open a lock? You got it! Disarm a trap? What trap?
Two years, and the Jackal was ready to swash a buckle. Adventure awaits!
Now if only that damn spell would just wear off.
(notes)
Josef/Josefine is a magic user/thief, much more confident in the physical skills than the magical. Jo is transgender, physically female/mentally male, magically transformed by a spell while a teenager. The spell is no longer available for study, so the duration is unknown and possibly permanent. I've left enough room so that the race of the character is flexible, as are the specific skills and spells known. Weapon of choice would be something flamboyant, possibly a rapier, or saber, or flintlock pistol, (and of course a dagger main-gauche) all depending upon availability and funds.
Game date: 3/25/2012
There were exactly three places on Algoron that Desirea could order a drink without being asked to repeat herself. The pirate's cove brought too many unpleasant memories to mind, and she hated being surrounded by dwarves. That left Nordmaar. The whiskey was sometimes palatable, but more often tasted like lamp oil filtered through a syphilitic sailor's spleen. Either way, it was potent. More importantly, it was far away from any politics she cared about. So she bought another cup of the bitter highland malt.
Her thoughts kept returning to the day the Inquisitor was attacked.
-=+=-
A scream echoed through the streets of Abaddon, barely recognizable as human. It carried volumes of outage and anger, perhaps a little shock, but no trace of pain or fear.
"Do you think I have no experience with such tricks?" The shouted words were surprisingly clear. "I'll take this vision and make it a reality on you!"
Scant moments later, Epistatia staggered into the church, her face ashen and her body shaking.
It had been a vision sent. An invasion of the Inquisitor's mind, and it wasn't supposed to be done. There were laws that forbade any sort of attack from one citizen upon another. Unfortunately, some didn't think the laws applied to them.
Desi watched Epistatia shudder as wave after wave of the vision hit. The same thing, over and over, she said - her mouth sewn shut by an unidentified man. Twenty times or more. None of them could help - not Neziji, not Desirea, not even Epistatia herself - and the one who set the nightmare upon her wasn't likely to assuage it. But as time passed, the afflicted woman pulled herself together, muttering threats through gritted teeth.
The Wizardess pulled a wooden stake from one of her many purses and pouches. "May foinest one yet," she told the Inquisitor. "Boosted eleven toimes." She handed it over. "Ay 'opes, iffen that ever 'appens ta may, ay kin bay 'arf so brave abaout it."
-=+=-
Desi pulled a long drink from the cup. The next part, she knew, would not be so much remembered as...relived. The thought both terrified and comforted her.
-=+=-
The room was suddenly freezing. At least the elf thought it was. Considering recent events, and her oh-so-foolishly words just now spoken, she thought she'd better check.
"Nezi? Is it colder in 'ere, ayr izzit just may?" she whispered. Both the other women verified that the temperature had indeed dropped, and continued to do so. All pulled their clothing tighter in a vain attempt to hold their bodies' heat in place.
A dark fog entered the chamber. "Ay fink...summat's 'appenin'," she said. So this was it, she thought. So soon after its attack on Epistatia, the rogue vampire was coming for her. I hope I can handle it. Let my mind not break. Let it not know of my time on that damned ship...
The shadowy mist seemed to grow eyes - two bright, tiny spots of light, and moved straight toward the Wizardess. Just as it reached her, it vanished, although from the cold Desirea felt, she'd swear that it went right through her. Desirea's companions stared at her. No, not at her...at some point above and behind her.
Neziji asked, "Desi? Alright?" but the words were lost among a thousand other voices, entering the elf's mind directly, without so much as a by-your-leave to her ears. "Servant," they said in unison. Thousands of throats commanded by a single will. "You. Use. Mistress' gifts. SHE grants. You. Strength."
Desirea knew that Nezi had spoken, but the knowledge was abstract, somehow not real when compared to the universe that seemed to be pushing the boundaries of her mind to the breaking point. Helplessly, she shook her head, trying to focus on her friend's face, and the voices continued. Some screamed. Some whispered. Some howled. Some hissed. The words formed from different parts of the universe, as if she were drowning and the sea itself were speaking to her. "Mistress. Is. Pleased. With her... Servants."
This couldn't be a vampire's nightmare sending. Everyone who had endured that attack said that it was always the same vision, repeating. This was...something else. Something that Desirea felt she had to answer. Her voice a trembling whisper, she said to the void, "The gifties ayr moin in this loif. Ay'm 'ers in th' afters."
Even as she said it, she knew that she was a beat behind. The voices filling her mind had moved away from that point, but she couldn't help herself. It was the ancient pact. The servant of Drakkara is granted power, to do with as she will. And when life fled, the power is returned - along with the servant herself, and whatever she had built from the gift. Desirea's teacher had drilled it into her. Use the power. Return it with interest. It became a mantra, to be repeated in times of doubt. Let no one question your right do do what you will. To take what you will. And at this moment, Desirea was filled with such doubt as she'd never felt before.
But the legion of voices didn't seem to be questioning her at all. A word at a time, they continued to speak. "yesss. In. Time. You will become. One. With. Us. THE Dark Servant."
Still, she had to complete the mantra, if only to reassure herself. "Thass the dayl. Nobody tykes me from 'er."
The current and former Inquisitor continued to hover, concerned, but they might as well have been ghosts for all that Desirea noticed. "She's... I think she's alright, for now," Neziji was saying. Her voice, which Desirea normally found so warm, rich, and full of undertones, now seemed flat in comparison with the host.
"Now. You. Will. Exhalt. Her. She deserves. Praise. In Abbadon"
There it was. A command. A holy quest. Some people hoped, prayed for exactly this opportunity their entire lives and never got one. Desi had never considered herself destined for anything - never sought such favor. Hells, even when she swore, she was as likely to profane one god's name as another. Yet, here she was, with a holy quest, and it was...impossible. Exhalt Drakkara in Fatale's own kingdom? She might as well waltz into the Vallenwood and claim the Crown of Stars. Desi's fingertips began to ache from the cold. She put her hands under her arms.
The noiseless cacophany continuted. "Many Gifts... she Bestows. To. Her. Childs. Servants."
Still a step behind, the woman asked - nay, pled, "'ow can ay do tha? Th'ovver owns this plyce. 'is faythful run it."
The Wizardess began to feel warmer...much warmer, despite the freeze in the air. No, this heat originated from within. Deep within her being, that special place outside space and time from whence flowed the source of her magic - that was burning with the fire of the sun. Of a thousand suns. Desirea burned inside her own skin. As she loosened her clothing, a million miles away two finite, flat voices conferred.
"What is she saying?" someone said through chattering teeth.
"You really don't understand her?" a familiar voice replied.
"I'll be honest," said the other. "I've only ever understood about a tenth of what she says... I tend to piece it together based on others reactions."
The air suddenly thickened...or was it maybe the darkness? All the thousands of voices united ... the power of the thousand suns united... into a single command: "SILENCE!" The force of the word drove Desirea to her knees. Stunned, she dropped her bright pink jacket. The flat voices fell away.
"Continue. Serve. This. Place," the Legion continued, once again in the halting, wavelike pattern. "Make. Tribute. To. Our. Mistress. Make others KNOW. Where... Your. Gifts... Originate."
Desirea wanted to heartily agree, but all she could do was laugh with hysterical relief as the dark mists receded, taking with it the shouting, whispering, howling Legion.
-=+=-
As the experience faded once again to memory, Desi wiped her brow and shivered, then drained her cup.
The first thing she'd done was take a last name. She'd only ever had the one name, and no memory of a family before the ship. But now she knew exactly who she was. Desirea Legion.
Then she signed that name to a public proclamation of Drakkara's approval. Of Desirea, of Abaddon, of all that had been accomplished by the people of this kingdom.
Baby steps, really. But a start.
And now?
Now that might be as far as it went. Because, holy quest or not, Desi could not bring herself to blindly follow just any fool who thought he could lead a rebellion. The priests were going to set back nearly everything that had been accomplished, by both Vaedryn and Sereb. And she was getting the strong impression that, if they ran things, she would not be welcome here once Fatale's tenets became the law of the land.
She blinked back a tear and ordered another cup of whiskey. She didn't really feel ready to die, but if that was the penance for failing her goddess, then that was just how it would have to be.
Game date: 2/7/2012
Another fruitless day searching the swamp. Aside from a stray squad of retreating elves, they'd found no soldiers to harass. As for siege equipment, the marsh greedily guarded its stolen treasures so far.
Desirea eased into the hot bath, grateful for this perk of office. She carefully applied a flame spell to the metal mug in her hand. Both the tub and the mug bore permanent scorch marks, but she could live with that. As the water worked its magic on sore muscles, the heated liquor eased her sore throat and helped random memories surface.
The first day she'd had this particular drink...
-=+=-
"Eidolon, would you please explain these...unusual requisitions?" the Count asked.
"Wa-" the elven woman croaked, then coughed - a dry, hacking noise. She continued, whispering. "Wot 'uns d'ya call hunYOOsual?"
"Let's start with the armor," Vaedryn said, silently noting the atypical lack of volume in her voice. "Don't mounted knights generally have armor already issued?"
She nodded. "Hit's too 'eavy. 'adda cobber fa' doon an' 'e coulden' gettup. But ay canna hask 'em t'foight wi na proTECKshun, cannoi?"
Sereb's son nodded, and rose from his chair. "You do know that what you're asking for is rather expensive, yes?" He crossed to a row of shelves and began pulling various boxes and jars from them.
"Ay," she rasped, "but look 'ere. Ay'll henchant them mayself, and ay'll e'en bayjem tha stuff aoutta may own pocket." Another dry cough.
The Count took his ingredients to a small tabletop cauldron and lit a fire under it. "I can't promise you silksteel, but I will get the best I can manage. Five sets, yes?" He began to mix substances in the cooking pot, glancing up to see Desirea nod.
"Moving on... Potions of detection I understand, as with healing. But why water breathing, pray tell?"
She cleared her throat. "We nayd ta bay able ta blend inta th' swamp. Wa'er brayvin' let's us 'oide unner th' sayrface."
Vaedryn nodded again, and poured a portion of the mixture into a handled cup. "All right, but why so many of them?" He handed the cup to the Eidolon.
"Tykes twoice as much fer 'orses." She accepted the brew and sniffed, then eagerly took a large mouthful. The hot liquid felt like golden magic to her throat. "Cor, tha's good," she exclaimed - not at her usual volume, but definitely no longer a raspy whisper. "Wot kinna witch's brew izzit?"
"Hmm," the Count pondered. "Well, it is a prized secret, but I suppose I can tell you. This potion contains cinnamon, cloves, allspice berries, oranges, and fermented apple juice. With a bit of honey. Witches call it 'mulled cider'."
He sat down at his desk once more, steepled his fingers, and said,"Suppose you outline your strategies for me."
Desi was just glad that he hadn't asked how she lost her voice.
-=+=-
The squad's first training session in the actual swamp was drawing to a close. "Thass enuff," the Commander called out to the five men under her command. "May bum's saddle sores 'av got bums wif saddle sores." She stood in the stirrups to relieve some of the pressure, and that was when the leg cramp hit.
Desirea yelped as the cramped leg buckled, pitching her head-first into knee-deep brackish water. Under the surface she stayed for a few seconds, feeling humiliated over her poor performance. Then she started hearing muffled voices and splashing.
They can't find me, she thought. They're trying to find me and they can't. After a moment's consideration, she cast a water breathing spell upon herself. Let's see what they do.
She began to count her own heartbeats. Fifty passed...then a hundred...two hundred. The voices grew fainter and louder, the splashing more frantic. The water smelled and tasted terrible, and she had nearly decided to surface on her own when a rough hand grabbed her tunic collar and yanked upward, pulling the garment half off her body while lifting her completely out of the water.
"I found her!" Rodoald shouted, and shook his commander like a wet rag. "Are you all right?"
Desi spit rancid water in his face and laughed. "Ay'm foin, ya git! Put may daown." Which he did, post-haste, and backed away a step.
"Y'should say a'yer fyces!" the Eidolon exclaimed. "Way're sao gonner use that STRAtegay when-" She stopped talking. Five faces were staring at her in what looked like shock.
"Wossmattayr, ay tol'ya ay'm arrayt..." One of the men - Barton - pointed at her chest. She looked down to see that her tunic was ripped, exposing most of her torso.
"Aow, vat's rayl maCHOOR o'ya-"
"Leech," Barton said. She looked downward again.
A huge, flat, black worm - easily the biggest leech Desirea had ever seen - was attached to her breast like an infant. She saw its body ripple as it swallowed.
The first scream was reactionary, borne of shock and, let's be honest, fright. It was possibly the girliest sound to escape her lips in decades. The shriek echoed off the waters of the swamp and, distorted by the various trees, carried for miles.
When she had finally spent all the air in her lungs, the dark elf drew in a deep breath and swore in rage. She dusted off words and phrases which had rarely seen the light of day, learned in the brig of a pirate's ship, most in languages she didn't even understand. Some words she made up on the spot. All were equally incomprehensible, though obviously the intent was to consign the abominable thing to the foulest depths of Hell. With a final curse, she grasped the slimy creature and yanked it away from her flesh.
The third scream was pure pain.
A couple of knights moved to help, but she batted them away, arms flailing, until her vision started to fade. She stood shakily for a few seconds, bent at the waist and hands on her knees, raggedly gasping.
"Less...gao...'ome," she whispered, voice spent.
It was not her finest hour.
-=+=-
"Sa ennyways, thass it. Wotchar thank?"
Vaedryn's chin was cupped in one hand, hiding his expression, but his eyes were crinkled at the corners. When he put his arms on the desktop, his face was unreadable. "That is certainly an...unusual...use for mounted cavalry," he stated.
"Yeh, well, ay'm doin' the best ay can wif wot ay knaow," the Eidolon replied. 'Wazzit hup ta may, ay'd a picked a baird, a clayric, anna couple hasSASsins. Cor, iffen ay coulda 'ad yer woif an' Neziji, way'd givvem a'wot-for."
"Perhaps you would, at that, but they're leading troops as well," the Count replied.
He smiled. "Make use of whatever you can from the Room of Alms, and I'll fill the rest. I'm quite eager to see what comes of your plans." The woman nodded.
"Don't let me detain you," said the Count, signalling the end of the meeting.
-=+=-
The water in the tub was getting cold. Time to either heat it or get out. Desi checked her fingertips. Well-pruned. She sniffed them. It might have been her imagination, but she could still smell the brackish water of the swamp. Another hour, then. She flamed the side of the tub.
Tomorrow would be another long, weary day.
Game date: 2/1/2012
Desirea sat in the tavern, once again wondering why no one had ever designed such a place with every seat in a dark corner. She watched the unit of knights under her command steadily growing more boisterous as the evening wore on.
Earlier today, the knights had not been fully focused, that much was clear. The news of the Althainia/Shalonesti forces' retreat from the swamps had them all in high spirits.
"Come on, Commander! The invaders are leaving. Can't we relax for one day and celebrate?"
She pondered the request. It was always a fine line, maintaining discipline among such men. "Arrayt, gaon an' 'ave some fun."
At one time, the Eidolon had turned to drink for the classic reason, to forget. What she'd found was that it did the exact opposite, bringing up memories. Just as it was doing tonight.
Desirea sipped her rum, remembering the day she first took command of her unit...
-=+=-
The new Commander looked at her mounted warriors, each sitting ramrod-straight in brightly polished armor, all in a neat row - ready for inspection. She sighed, silently praying, What the hell am I doing here, Drakkara? She'd asked this question many times before, but it was purely rhetorical.
She knew nothing of military protocol. Her only battle experience had been gleaned from watching pirates raiding merchant ships, safely from belowdecks - the only times she had been safe on that accursed ship. I'll just have to use what I do know, she thought, and drew a deep breath.
"Arrayt, ya grayt clankin' gits!" the slight elven woman yelled with gusto. "Wot the bloody 'ell y'fink yer doin', loinin' up loik that? Myking pritty TARgets fer hARchers? Brayk up tha' loin!"
The knights, most of them burly men twice her size, murmered amongst themselves, making no attempt to follow the order. She watched them, waiting to hear a certain phrase. They did not disappoint. There was always one.
"What did she say?" one of the men asked his fellows, who responded with a burst of laughter. "What language was that?"
The whip Desi kept coiled around her waist snaked out, curling around the comedian's neck. She quickly wrapped it around her own saddle's horn and guided her horse backward with her knees, silently giving thanks for the hours of training she'd endured to learn the maneuver. The knight fell heavily from his saddle and lay bruised on the ground, momentarily helpless under the weight of his own armor.
"Ay SAID," Desirea hissed, "Brayk up yer loin."
This time, the men quickly moved to obey.
"See, the PROBlem wif Fataloites in GEN'rul," the Eidolon lectured as she rode past each member of her unit, "izzat thay're a'too ready t'dye fer thayr god." She stopped and flicked her whip at a knight who was attempting to help up his fallen comrade. The tip landed on his helmet, not harming him in the least but ringing out like a bell in a tower. "Layve 'im," she ordered, and wheeled her mount about, facing them. "That en't 'ow ya win a war." She paused, then shouted, "'ow d'ya win a war, ya silly buggers?"
As one, they replied with the age-old aphorism, "By making the other bastards die for their gods!"
The elf nodded and went on, once again riding among the men. "An' the PROBlem wif knoights speCIFFikly, izzat they a' want the glory kill. Go one-on-one wif the biggest, baddest bugger onna fayld."
"That en't 'ow ya winna war, eivver. hesPESHly iffen yer houtNUMbered. So, t'dye we're gonner work on lairnin' t'cut a swath an' disapPEAR. Stroik, vanish. Stroik again. Gottit?"
An awkward couple of seconds later, the knights replied, "Yes Ma'am!"
She turned her attention to the lone armored figure, still struggling on the ground. "Wotcher nyme, sojer?" she asked him, a kind tone in her voice.
"B- Barton, ma'am," he wheezed.
"'ow long ya bin onna ground, Barton?" the elf queried sweetly.
"I don't know...couple of minutes."
Desirea leaped from the saddle, landing lightly next to the prone man, and whispered in his ear. "Four minnits. Yer a dead man, Barton." She stood and addressed the rest of her unit. "Barton 'ere's dead. Ennybody tell may why?"
The seconds ticked by. One knight finally spoke up. "Because he's been underwater all this time."
"Cor!" exclaimed the woman. "They tol' may tha' knoights wazza craym o'tha crop. Glad t'say summa you kin fink." She remounted. "Yer gonner bay foightin' inna MARSH! A bleedin' SWAMP! From 'ere on aout, don' wayr nuffin y'canna e'en SIT UP IN! GOTTIT?"
This time the reply was near-instantaneous. "YES MA'AM!"
That's what I need, she thought. They're ready to train under me. Now let's see if I can make them willing to follow me into battle.
"Ay bin told," she said, "that aych o'you knoights is worf twenny graound-paounders. Izzat roight?"
Among the staggered chorus of "Yes, Ma'am!" came a few interjected, "Thirty!"
"Then lemme tell ya this," Desi replied. "Afore we're done, yer a' gonner bay worf a HUNNERT. Enny man 'ere wot dies afore 'e's kilt an 'unnerd o'the hENemay, that man izza deZERTer. Ya gets no burial, no 'onner, yer fam'ly gets no penshun, an ay'l PERS'nally hANimyte yer BLEEDin CORPSE 'til ya fill yer quota! GOTTIT?"
The response was practically a cheer. "GOT IT!"
"Arrayt naow! Ditch yer hARmour an' remaount. An' summun 'elp Barton up afore ay slit 'is froat on PRINCiples."
-=+=-
Desirea smiled into her mug. Yes, they'd follow her in battle. Most of them would follow her to the gates of hell, now. Some of them might even live through this war.
I might even live through it.
She made a mental note to reschedule the next day's exercises for two hours before sunrise. They'd get no warning, because the enemy would not warn them either. We are not out of the muck yet, she thought. Hope we can all hold our breath long enough.
Unleashed by Emily Kimelmanwritten 11/12/2016
Writing prompt:
One specific hit-man is well-known for always killing his targets within a week. The only problem is that he doesn’t really do anything. His targets always died of natural causes or accidents. What started out as a scam for easy money, turned him into a world famous killer.
