July 15, 2024
December 18, 2015
Iron Will
Morgan lay at the bottom of a ravine, marinating
in a pool of bodily fluids. Gods,
apparently, do not adhere to the subtle approach to inference. Morgan had had the audacity to say no to
their recruitment. They'd been
gentle. The ravine was only two hundred
feet deep. As he lay there naked and
broken, they asked again. He again
refused. A boulder came pitching down
and landed on his chest. He heard the
ribs on his right side crack in unison.
Another fell immediately after, pulverizing his shoulder.
Morgan coughed out blood through his mouth and
nose. His consciousness did not haze
from the pain. Nor was he spared the
agony of vultures and vermin picking at the wounds. He mentally went far from where he was,
remembering the feel of his father's arms about him as he carried him away from
the mortal world. The powers that had
thrust him there watched aghast as he fell asleep with a serene smile on his
face.
He awoke from sleep with ants and beetles crawling
on his suppurating wounds. Pain washed
over his body freshly as the sunlight slanted over him. He sensed other sentient beings, but felt no
movements and smelled no trace of bodies.
“Surely, you cannot think that mortal pain will bend me to your will,”
he croaked, dehydrated from blood loss.
“Would you not want it to end?” a perfect voice
asked, gentle and calm.
“I can continue to say no, and you can continue to
pummel me until I die again. Or you
could give up, and I will die of exposure.”
As could be expected, they registered
indignation. Morgan spat out a clot and
drummed the fingers of his left hand on the ground. “Impasses end when negotiations begin,”
Morgan quoted.
“Why would we deign to negotiate?”
“Because it is obvious,” Morgan whispered to the
ground, “that you want me for something; you should try to be more
appealing. Neither god nor demon will
buy my soul cheaply and your sales pitch, frankly... it sucks.. Give me a good reason death is not preferable
to serving you.”
July 13, 2015
5-foot Adjustment
She lounged across the divan, long and
sensuous. Her eyelids drooped lazily as
the incense burned away any cares. A
servant came in and informed her that her assassin was at her disposal. “Wonderful,” she purred, “send him in.”
Morgan walked in unhesitently. Few crossed her threshold with such
self-assurance. He stopped five feet
from her chaise and seemed to be observing her, even though his eyes were unnaturally
still. “Come closer,” she said.
He obeyed her word, but not her intent, stopping
two feet short. His expression changed
to mild amusement. He knew what she
wanted. “What you desire,” he stated
plainly, “is not my intention to give.”
She pouted teasingly. “I'm bored,” she remarked, “as always. There must be something else to do here, but
mostly there's not.”
“Ah, boredom is something I can ease. I just prefer a different means to that
end. Perhaps, a change of scenery would
alleviate your boredom?”
“Take me away from here? Do so!
They say the chambers are warded against portation magic.”
“Your rooms, yes.
Come to my cabinet and we can step away unimpeded.”
“They're really that dense, eh?”
Morgan smirked.
July 08, 2015
For Sara G.
Khael’s eyes flew wide as Morgan appeared out of
the ether, a bundle of cloth under one arm. Morgan cursed loudly in an odd
language. He gently placed the bundle on a worktable and collapsed to one knee.
“I won. Did not get coup. Too dangerous.”
Morgan silently
cursed Magir’s lack of vocabulary while hoping Khael did not want details. “No
coup? This?” Khael poked the cloth bundle.
Morgan hissed in
response. Khael smartly decided to leave the bundle be and left a purse of
coins next to it.
Morgan left for
his cabinet. Sitting on his narrow bed, he peeled away layers until a small
person was revealed in his lap. In the desperate and sudden need to end the
recent battle, he killed his opponent, grabbed for his brother, and jaunted to
Hysperia without giving much mental time to what exactly had happened to
Michael. Michael hadn’t said a thing, not that he had the time to comment in
Morgan’s expeditious finale. He was indignant, understandably, but was still
uncharacteristically quiet. “How old are you?” Morgan probed.
“Ninety-six, of
course!” Michael blurted out, his voice squeaky and thin.
Well, his mind
was still cognizant of who and what he was. So, it wasn’t true chronomancy,
probably just a tweaked form of transmutation. In an odd moment of levity,
Morgan squeezed Michael in a hug, cloyingly gushing, “Aww, aren’t you so cute!”
Michael went to
punch him, but his strength was that of a seven-year-old along with his
proportions. He failed to even leave a red mark. “So, I’m guessing you have the
sexual development of a youngling, too?” Morgan said a bit more soberly.
Michael looked
down to realize that, rather than the short undeveloped stem of a human child,
he had nothing. “I’m missing something down there.”
“Missing or
inverted?” Morgan queried.
Michael felt
around. “No, missing, I don’t have anything.”
“So, he turned
you into….” Morgan started laughing. “I must stop ascribing intelligence to
those who so sorely lack it. He probably forgot children can have genitalia.”
“Is undoing this
going to be a problem?”
“Only if you want
to be intact once I’m done attempting it. I honestly don’t know how to undo
it, so this may take some research, but for now, you are a Scafir youth. I can
try ageing you a bit, but no guarantee that puberty will happen since we are
hoping that Zwigif was aiming for was a Scafir child."
"What do you think he was aiming for?"
"He was aiming to make me helpless... or less effective."
"..."
"He would have failed on both counts. I'm more concerned that you were gravid before he hit you with the transmute, but you aren't now."
"What do you think he was aiming for?"
"He was aiming to make me helpless... or less effective."
"..."
"He would have failed on both counts. I'm more concerned that you were gravid before he hit you with the transmute, but you aren't now."
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