# Blackdirge's Vignette Vagabonds & Homeless Heroes (Updated 12/12/16 - "Phylactery")



## BLACKDIRGE (Oct 28, 2016)

Hey, folks. Some of you might remember me from way back. I used to be pretty active in the Story Hour forum (in fact, one of my threads is still stickied at the top of the forum), but it's been years since I posted anything. Anyway, over the last ten or so years, I've worked professionally as an RPG designer, editor, writer and so on, and I now write novels for Privateer Press. Point being, I've written a ton of stuff, and some of it didn't make it to publication for one reason or another. Much of it is narrative fiction, so I thought I'd share some of those literary orphans here. 

What will follow are vignettes mostly, though some of them might pass the test for flash fiction. Basically, quick reads. I've got a bunch of these things collecting digital dust on my hard drive, so if you folks dig them, I'll keep posting them until I run out.  A lot of them will be D&D related, but I've got some horror and other bits and pieces I might put up here as well. 

I'm going to shoot for an update every Monday. 

BD



Story Links:

1. "The High Road" - Minotaurs and dwarves just can't get a long. 

2. "For Abbey" - A horror flash piece about a little girl and her new puppy. 

3. "The Challenge" - In a world full of adventurers, picking fights can get you into a lot of trouble. 

4. "The Dragon's Key" - A horror/fantasy flash piece that riffs of Sleeping Beauty a bit. 

5. "Thunder & Lightning" - An urban fantasy story at 20,000 feet.  

6. "A Red Night" - Apparently, I write stories about half-orcs picking fights with the wrong dudes. Here's another. 

7. "Sometimes You Need the Big Gun" - Another short urban fantasy piece about guns and dragons and Corvettes, bro!

8. "A Pointed Education" - A D&D vignette with stubborn young dwarves and wise old dragonborn.

9. "Phylactery" - This short horror story explores the supernatural hazards of garage sales.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Oct 28, 2016)

*The High Road*

One of the publishers I used to work for was Goodman Games, a great company run by a great guy, Joseph Goodman. They’re doing some awesome stuff right now with their Dungeon Crawl Classics RPG, and I most definitely urge you to check them out. Anyway, around 2009, I wrote or co-wrote a bunch of player-centric Dungeons & Dragons supplements for 4E. Two of them were never published, and they included a bunch of short fiction vignettes I’ve always liked. 

This vignette was the intro to a fighter build, I believe. Anyway, its got minotaurs and dwarves and stuff. 



*The High Road*

Tarnak snorted in irritation when he saw the two dwarven warriors standing in the middle of the road, blocking his path. Both were armed with short-hafted battleaxes and wore sturdy coats of riveted mail. Each dwarf also carried a heavy wooden shield nearly as tall as the warrior behind it.

“This is King Ivar’s road, beast,” one of the dwarven warriors called out. “Your kind has no business on it.”

Tarnak wasn’t overly surprised at the dwarves’ reaction. He was a minotaur and that meant ‘monster’ to most. No matter he had served in the dwarf king Ivar Stonehammer’s armies as an auxiliary field commander. No matter he had personally led the charge that shattered Azagar Bloodfist’s goblin horde in the Battle of Ivory Plateau, assuring victory for the dwarven monarch whose name was now used to reinforce dwarven bigotry.

He set the head of his poleaxe on the ground, letting the haft rest against his shoulder. He took his hands off the weapon and held them out, palms up. “I understand your concern, and your dedication to protecting the road is admirable,” he said. Tarnak had learned long ago those who showed him the most prejudice expected a violent response from his kind, a stereotype he was not about to enforce. “I have papers from the court of your noble king proving I am his servant. Will you let me show them to you?”

Both dwarves scowled but said nothing. This was not the response they had expected . . . or wanted.

Tarnak took advantage of the dwarves’ silence and dug into his pouch for the writ of passage bearing King Ivar’s personal seal. “I promise, if you give me a moment, I can prove—”

“We’re not interested in your forgeries, beast,” one of the warriors said. He was the older of the two and his beard was long, braided, and streaked with gray.

Tarnak stopped looking for the writ. “You would bar passage to a servant of your king on simple bigotry?”

The older dwarf’s face twisted into an ugly frown. “If bigotry means keeping the likes of you off roads used by decent folk, then aye, I’m a bigot,” he said and shifted his shield into a more comfortable and battle-ready position. “The only way you get by the two of us, _ghrakha_” – the dwarven word for ‘animal’ was not lost on Tarnak ­– “is with an axe between your horns.”

Tarnak sighed and lifted his poleaxe from the ground. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

The elder dwarf smiled and turned to his companion. “Uthar, let me show how you how to deal with a big lummox like this.”

“Take him down, Borgrim,” the younger dwarf said, grinning.

“Oh, this is exactly what I want, beast,” the dwarf named Borgrim said and started forward, axe held high, shield tucked beneath his bearded chin.

Tarnak let the dwarf advance and took his poleaxe in a fighting grip, one hand below the axe head and the other on the worn haft some two feet below that. He spread his legs and let the weight of his body settle evenly over his stance.

Borgrim’s advance turned into a charge, and he dropped his axe low to his side, where he could more easily strike at his opponent’s legs, a classic dwarven fighting technique. The stout race had been battling creatures bigger than themselves for millennia, and every dwarven warrior had learned that ogres, trolls, and minotaurs were easier to dispatch when cut down to a more manageable height. But Tarnak had been fighting alongside dwarves for years, and he was well versed in their battle strategies. He took a step back and whipped his poleaxe up over his head, letting both hands slide to the end of the weapon’s haft, then he brought the axe down with every ounce of strength he possessed.

Tarnak’s great reach allowed his blow to strike first, halting his opponent’s advance for a crucial second as the dwarf caught the axe head on his shield. Borgrim had likely anticipated the attack, but he had underestimated the power behind it.  Tarnak’s poleaxe smashed through the dwarf’s shield with a loud crack of splintered wood, then it parted the mail between Borgrim’s head and shoulder, cut through the thick padded gambeson he wore beneath it, and finally plowed a ragged swath through his body, lodging in his breastbone with a hollow, metallic thump.

Borgrim remained standing, his weapon dangling from nerveless fingers, eyes as big as saucers, Tarnak’s axe still buried in his body—it was all that was keeping him upright. Tarnak put a hoof on the dwarf’s chest and ripped his axe free. Blood sprayed from the hideous wound, splattering Tarnak’s face and tunic. Borgrim toppled forward onto the shattered ruin of his shield, dead before he hit the ground.

The remaining dwarf looked on, mouth agape, his weapon forgotten at his side. Tarnak advanced, his axe still red and dripping.

“P-please don’t kill me,” the dwarf said as Tarnak approached. He dropped his axe and shield in the middle of the road.

The minotaur bent down and pushed his horned head close to the young dwarf’s bearded face. He was barely more than an adolescent. “Uthar is it?”

The dwarf nodded, tears brimming in his eyes.

“I will tell you something, so you may learn from this day,” Tarnak said. “All the wood and iron in the world cannot stop a minotaur’s axe at full swing.” He straightened, towering over the young dwarf. “Sometimes you need to get out of the way.”


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## BLACKDIRGE (Oct 29, 2016)

*For Abby*

This next piece is a bit of horror flash fiction I wrote for an exercise/competition where the participants were given a photo prompt and then asked to write a story under a thousand words in no more than one hour. Yeah, it's not D&D related, but I could see this fitting into a CoC game or another horror RPG. 

Here's the photo prompt.




And here's the story I came up with to go with it.



*For Abby*

The shop smelled like rotten eggs, and Dale wrinkled his nose as the door shut behind him. The place wasn’t like any pet store he’d ever seen. There were no cages filled with frolicking puppies and kittens, no rows of aquariums sporting colorful exotic fish, and no soft screeches and chirps of parrots and finches. It was empty, really, just a square room with a bare concrete floor and a long counter against the far wall. The single note of color was a red door behind the counter. 

Dale took a few steps into the shop and stopped. Something had been scrawled on the concrete floor in fading white chalk: a big circle with a five-pointed star in the middle. He found he really didn’t want to step in that circle. To his relief, there was enough room to move around it. 

“Hello?” he said and approached the counter. 

There was no answer. 

The smell, the weird symbol on the floor, and the shop’s apparent emptiness were starting to unnerve him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the post-it note Dr. Falders had given him. She’d written and address and two words on it: _For Abby_. This was the address. It had been difficult to find, and it was in an area of town he’d never visited, had never known existed. 

“Is anyone here?” he said. This time, he heard muffled footsteps behind the red door and took a step back. The door opened, revealing darkness beyond, and disgorged a stink so revolting he slapped a hand over his mouth and turned away. 

“Can I help you?” 

Dale turned back to the counter. A very pretty woman in a white dress was now standing behind it. She had long black hair, pale skin, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her age was difficult to determine. She could be eighteen or thirty. 

The smell had faded and Dale took his hand away from his mouth. He stepped up to the counter and set the post-it note on the faded wood. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Dr. Falders sent me . . .” 

The woman nodded and smiled. Her lips were very red. “Of course. She said you would be coming.” 

“It’s about my daughter,” he said. “She needs a new pet. Something a little more . . . resilient than a dog or a cat.” 

The woman cocked her head, and her smile brightened. “I understand completely, Mr. Richards.” 

“She doesn’t mean to hurt them,” Dale said. “It’s just that puppies and kittens are so fragile.” 

The woman placed one long-fingered hand on Dale’s forearm. Her skin was cold and smooth. “You don’t have to explain. Dr. Falders has told me all I need to know.” 

Dale nodded. “Oh,” he said, surprised. What else had the doctor had told this woman about Abby? “So you’re a pet store?” 

“Of sorts,” the woman said and removed her hand from Dale’s arm. “We cater to very special clients with very special children, like you and Abby.” 

“I don’t see any cages,” Dale said. 

“We keep a very limited stock,” the woman said. “But I have just the thing for Abby.” 

Dale smiled. “Really? Oh, man, that would be great. Her fits are always better when she has something to play with.” He was afraid to hope, but Dr. Falders had been right about everything else. 

“Step around the counter, Mr. Richards,” the woman said and opened the red door. The stink returned, but it didn’t bother him as much now. If this woman could really help Abby, he could put up with a little stench. He followed the woman into a small dark room that held a big cage, the kind you might keep a wild animal in, like a tiger or a bear. There was something in the cage, but it was too dark to see it clearly. 

“Let me turn on the light,” the woman said. There was a slight pause, and then the room was bathed in white light from an overhead fixture. He sucked in a short, sharp breath at the sight of the thing in the cage. It was lying on its side, its massive head turned in his direction. At first, he thought it was a dog, but it was too big for that, plus the horns, the burning red eyes, and the shark-like teeth all added up to something very much _not _a dog. 

“Jesus,” Dale said. He suddenly felt the shopkeeper’s icy grip on his arm, painfully tight. 

“That is not a name I like to hear in my shop, Mr. Richards,” the woman said, frowning, her voice tight, angry. 

“Uh, sorry,” he said. “Abby doesn’t like it either. What is that thing?” 

“A pet for a girl like Abby,” she said. Her smile had returned. 

“It’s a little big,” Dale said. 

“Look closer, Mr. Richards,” the woman said. 

He turned back to the cage and the thing within it. On closer inspection he saw there were several small, squirming shapes in the straw beneath the beast, nuzzling its belly. He realized with mingled disgust and delight the squirming things were the creature’s young. 

“I can have one of the . . . puppies for Abby?” he asked. 

“You can,” the woman said. “It will weather your daughter’s affections quite well, and when it is grown, it can protect her from those who might wish to harm her.” 

Dale nodded, remembering the priest at the hospital when Abby was born. He’d thrown a fit about the birth mark on Abby’s arm, and the police had removed him. There had been others, doctors mostly, a few neighbors, too. They’d had to move several times. 

“I’ll take it,” Dale said. “What do I owe you?” 

He felt the woman’s cool touch on the back of his neck, and he shivered. Her voice was in his ear. “Nothing, Mr. Richards,” she said. “Just keep her safe. All that is owed will be repaid when she is ready.”


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## doghead (Oct 30, 2016)

BLACKDIRGE said:


> What will follow are vignettes mostly, though some of them might pass the test for flash fiction. Basically, quick reads. I've got a bunch of these things collecting digital dust on my hard drive, so if you folks dig them, I'll keep posting them until I run out.
> BD




Have spade. Am digging. Please continue.

thotd


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## doghead (Oct 30, 2016)

BLACKDIRGE said:


> *The High Road*
> 
> ...




I like minotaurs. Regardless of how it is pronounced. And monster characters. 

As this tale unfolded I was hoping that the minotaur would resolve the situation without bloodshed - or at least without killing. Oh well. I wonder how the minotaur's actions will affect his reception when he gets to the kings hall.

It also made me think about how the world of D&D is different from the real world. High level characters are orders of magnitude more dangerous than low level ones. At the high levels they can survive damage that would kill a dozen of ordinary people, and dish out as much damage as a squad of low level warriors. The dwarf was a fool for picking a fight without knowing anything about his opponent.

thotd


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## BLACKDIRGE (Oct 30, 2016)

doghead said:


> Have spade. Am digging. Please continue.
> 
> thotd




Will do. Glad you're excavations are proving enjoyable. 

BD


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## Quartz (Oct 31, 2016)

He's back!


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## BLACKDIRGE (Oct 31, 2016)

Quartz said:


> He's back!




Yeah, found myself missing my old stomping grounds.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Oct 31, 2016)

*The Challenge*

Here’s another tidbit from ancient history, back from the days when I was working full-time as an RPG designer/writer/editor for Goodman Games. Like the first vignette in this series, “The High Road,” this one comes from an unpublished manuscript for a player-oriented supplement for 4E Dungeons & Dragons. Also, like the previous entry, this tiny tale is meant to introduce a new rules system for the game in a narrative fashion (the crunchy bits came directly after the vignette).

This one is called “The Challenge,” and, if I remember correctly, it introduced a brawling/monkish fighter build. 



*The Challenge *

Karog brought the axe down with a satisfied grunt. The man's head came away from his neck in a warm, red spray, and Karog kicked the twitching corpse off the butcher’s block he’d been using as a makeshift executioner’s slab. Two of his men hurried forward to drag the body away.

The half-orc wiped blood from his face and breastplate and offered a tusk-filled smile to the remaining townsfolk of Harvest Tide, herded together before him and staring in open-mouthed horror at the carnage in their town square. His men stood behind the crowd, weapons drawn, faces and armor caked in the blood and soot of their conquest.

They’d ridden into Harvest Tide at dawn, drawn by rumors of an adventurer who had retired in the village with fabulous wealth. There had been little resistance, and Karog and his twenty followers had looted and slaughtered for a full day, but they had not found the treasure they sought.

“Right,” Karog said. “That’s fourteen of you sorry sons of whores dead by my axe because you fools won’t tell me where the treasure is hidden. Will it take fourteen more?” Karog grinned; nothing made him feel more alive than murder. “Or, if one you is brave enough to step on out here and stop me …” He let his last statement sink in–the absurdity of one of these bumpkins actually fighting him was just too rich. “I thought not,” Karog said after moments of silence. “Okay, Yarl, bring me the mayor—“

“What assurances do we have your men will leave us in peace once you are defeated?” a voice called out.

Karog’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Which of you dead men said that?” he said, searching the crowd of frightened faces for the speaker.

“I did.” A slim figure moved through the crowd and into the blood-soaked square.

Karog threw his head back and laughed. The elven man stood just under six feet in height–tall for an elf–and wore a simple leather kilt and a rough spun shirt. His feet were bare, and he was unarmed.

“I am Eodain,” the elven man said. “If I defeat you here, now, will your men leave this town?”

“Defeat me with what?!” A chorus of derisive laughter burst from Karog’s men; laughter tinged with greedy anticipation of more bloodshed. “I’ll tell you what, Eodain,” Karog said after the laughter had subsided. “If you _defeat _me, my men will leave Harvest Tide like a herd of gentle lambs.” He looked around at the band of thugs and cutthroats that followed him. “Right, men?” More laughter.

“Swear upon Nygor, and I’ll believe you,” Eodain said softly, his emerald eyes boring into Karog’s.

The half-orc reflexively grasped the holy symbol of his god where it dangled from an iron chain around his neck. The joy he had felt moments before drained away, leaving only cold, murderous anger. A promise made to Nygor the Nightbringer, the bloody god he and his gang of bandits followed, was the only thing that would hold them to their word. The fact that Eodain had known that poked holes of white-hot rage in the thin veil of Karog’s self-control.

Karog’s men had grown silent at the request. Invoking the Nightbringer’s name was no mean thing, and all of them, Karog included, feared the deity’s wrath. “Very well,” Karog said between clenched teeth. “I swear upon the wings of Nygor my men will leave this village in peace if you defeat me.”

“Good enough,” Eodain said. “Let us begin.”

“Gladly.” Karog surged forward, axe in a two-handed grip. He meant to end the life of his unarmed, unarmored opponent with one brutal strike.

Eodain had other things in mind.

Karog had never seen anyone move so fast. His opponent whirled away from his blow with a liquid grace, letting the axe flash through the empty air where his neck and head had been a heartbeat earlier. Missing with the heavy strike caused Karog to lose his balance and stumble forward. He was a veteran of a hundred battles, though, and he regained his footing swiftly and turned to deliver another strike with his axe.

This time Eodain did not move away. The elf shout out a lithe, muscular arm and caught Karog’s axe by the haft as it descended, halting the blow with bewildering strength. Then, Karog’s opponent, whom he outweighed by nearly two hundred pounds, punched him in the face.

It was like being struck with a battering ram. Karog’s bones and teeth shattered like glass beneath the impact, and the rough cobblestones felt like a father bed in comparison as he crashed down upon them, stunned and bleeding. He struggled to suck air through his pulped nose and mouth, and only his bubbling breath broke the silence that had bloomed around him. Above, the stoic face of Eodain loomed, his thin lips set in a slight frown. The elf held something shiny between his fingers.

“This is what you seek, Karog,” Eodain said and tossed the single gold piece onto the half-orc’s breastplate. “My treasure.”

Karog fought down a tide of frantic laughter and tried to move, but a sharp pain at the base of his skull and the spreading numbness throughout his body told him Eodain’s strike had done much worse than break a few teeth.

“Quickly,” Karog whispered as Eodain again loomed over him, this time with his own axe in both fists–fists Karog now saw were little more than clubs of callus and scars.

“Gladly,” Eodain said and brought the axe down.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Nov 7, 2016)

*The Dragon's Key*

Here's another flash piece I wrote as an exercise. This was another one-hour challenge, where you get a prompt and then have to write the story in one hour. I've gone on to publish a bunch of stories like that, but I there are a few I can't quite find a market for. This is one of them. 



*The Dragon's Key*

Edward’s gaze lingered on the ornate silver key in his hand, on the five words etched into its blade. _Open my heart. Release me._ The words had haunted him for over a decade, and he had searched every dark corner of the world for their meaning. He’d traded all he owned, including his land and title, to learn the key’s origin, and more importantly, where to find the lock it opened. Penniless, his will nearly broken, his search ended here, atop a high, windy peak on the edge of the world.

Before him yawned an immense cavern, its entrance a raw sliver of darkness that opened like a wound in the mountainside. From out the cavern wafted the stench of brimstone and the rancid odor of the beast—the last obstacle in his way. 

His father’s armor and sword were all that remained to him. The armor covered him from head to toe in the best steel smiths could provide. The plate and chain would turn aside a foeman’s blade and perhaps even the steely claws and fangs of the beast. His father’s sword gleamed in the fading sunlight, its slender blade etched with the words of his house—words no longer rightly his. 

Edward stuffed the key into a pouch and strode forward, taking his longsword in a two-handed grip. As he neared the cavern entrance, he saw within the blackness a soft reddish glow, fiery and alluring. The glow became brighter as he moved into the cavern, at last illuminating both the prize for which he had long sought and the beast that existed to keep him from it. 

The dragon lifted its scaly head from the serpentine tangle of its limbs and opened its eyes, molten pools of swirling gold and scarlet. Behind the dragon, upon a plinth of shining onyx, rested an ornate coffin with a glass lid. His breath caught in his throat, and any fear he had of the dragon vanished. All he could see was her raven black hair and alabaster skin. His lips moved as he reverently whispered her words. _Open my heart. Release me._

“Have you the key?” the dragon said, its voice a bass rumble that seemed to shake the roots of the mountain. 

The dragon’s question startled Edward and pulled his attention away from the glass coffin. Only now did he notice the scattered bones, cracked into shards, at the dragon’s taloned feet. Only now did he notice how large it was, that its scales glittered like a coat of mail, that its claws and fangs and fiery breath had spelled doom for dozens, possibly hundreds before him. 

“You shall not keep her from me, beast!” he shouted, his voice wavering with both fear and longing. 

The dragon opened its mouth and laughed, revealing many rows of ivory daggers, each a foot long. Its laughter filled his ears to bursting, caused his armor to rattle upon his body, and stole the strength from his limbs. He nearly dropped his sword and fled the cave, but he could still see her there, waiting for him, waiting for his key. 

He stood his ground.

“I have no intention of keeping you from your prize, little man,” the dragon said. “That is not my role.” It glanced down at the charred bones on the cavern floor, and its fanged mouth split in a wide predatory smile. “I ask again, do you have the key?”

He did have the key; the others before him did not. He was the one chosen to free her from her slumber, to claim her for his own. He dug the key from his pouch and held it aloft. The dragon’s head shot forward on its long snaky neck until it was mere inches from his outstretched hand. The heat coming off the beast was suffocating, the radiant glow from its eyes blinding.

“That is the key,” the dragon said, obviously disappointed. It pulled its head back, rose to its feet, and stepped aside. “You may approach.” 

Edward sprinted past the dragon to the plinth. He flew up the steps, his heart pounding in his chest, arms outstretched to touch his prize, to hold her in his arms. 

When he reached the coffin, he flung open its glass lid and then stopped, struck dumb by the beauty of the woman laying within. She wore a thin white dress, gauzy and transparent in the reddish glow of the dragon’s eyes. Her face was unimagined perfection, her body young and supple. Her eyes were closed, and there was no breath in her body. Edward knew she was not dead, for upon her breast was that which held her in unnatural sleep. The locket was heart-shaped, its chain cleverly forged in the shape of interlocking hands. 

Edward pushed the key into the locket, turned it once, and the locket parted and fell away in equal halves. He reached out to touch the woman’s face, and her eyes snapped open. Edward recoiled. Her waking did not bring the rush of joy and fulfillment he’d expected; instead, it brought a hungry surge of terror. Her eyes were the swirling scarlet yellow of the dragon’s, and when her hand locked around his throat with unbreakable strength he felt ragged talons bite into his flesh. 

He tried to pull away, his feet scrabbling on loose stones beneath him. He looked down and saw, to his horror, there were no stones, only hundreds of keys, each like his own, each bearing the same words.

The dragon’s daughter opened her mouth and yanked him forward, down toward ivory fangs and the fire beyond them. Edward opened his mouth to scream, but her fiery kiss silenced him. The dragon’s booming laughter followed him down into darkness.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Nov 14, 2016)

*Thunder & Lightning*

Here's another short tale spawned from a one-hour writing exercise. This one ended up being a homage to the very famous story "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet" by Richard Matheson. I put an urban fantasy spin on it and took it from the POV of the monster(s), and the result is, well, this. 



*Thunder and Lightning*

“Here comes another one,” Voreg said with a grin, revealing the needle-like teeth behind his wide, fishy lips. “Wanna bet again?” His wings beat slowly, keeping the rotund thunder imp aloft in the night sky. 

“Bah!” Krillik replied, his irritation manifesting in a nimbus of tiny lightning bolts around his furry head. Unlike his toad-shaped companion, the lightning imp was tall, angular, and covered in light blue fur. His gossamer wings beat like a hummingbird’s, a frantic blur much faster than the eye could see. “You’ve already lost three times, and you know we’re not supposed to be doing this.” 

“Come on, Krillik,” Voreg croaked. “Give me a chance to win back my shinies.” 

“Fine,” Krillik said, bearing his fangs. “But if Thor catches us, I’m telling him it was your idea.”

Voreg chuckled happily, and the clouds around the pair of imps boomed with the sound of his pleasure. “Same set up as last time?”

“Yeah,” Krillik nodded. “I get one shot at the air carriage and you get to look in one of the windows. First one to cause a human to lose soil his britches wins.”

“Deal,” Voreg said. “Here it comes.”  

The sky was suddenly filled with a loud buzzing drone and a myriad of blinking lights was visible through the thick clouds. The human flying machine appeared soon after, a vast metal tube with long flat wings, each bearing two smaller tubes that seemed to be making all the noise. 

“Here I go!” Voreg exclaimed and flapped off toward the human machine.

“Fine. Take your shot,” Krillik said with a dismissive wave. The air around the lightning imp grew brighter as he began drawing energy from the surrounding clouds. 

***
“I saw it!” Lloyd Richards screamed, spraying spittle over the serene face of the flight attendant. “It was on the wing! A monster with fangs and scales and big, drooping wings!”

“Sir,” the flight attendant said softly. “You are frightening the other passengers. If you do not calm down—”

Richards cut her off. “The other passengers?! They _should_ be scared!” He turned to look down the twin aisles of seats where over one-hundred surprised and worried faces looked back at him. He then glanced out the small window next to the seat where he’d been sitting seconds earlier. The wing of the 747 was clearly visible even through the rain and the dark. “There was a monster on the wing of this plane! I’m telling you!”

Suddenly the entire cabin was filled with a blinding bluish-white flash as a bolt of lightning struck the wing of the 747, sending up a shower of sparks. Lloyd Richards saw the whole thing. He saw the lightning strike; he saw smoke billow from one of the jet turbines attached to it; and he felt the plane shudder from the impact. Richards was not a good flyer under the best circumstances, and the events of the past five minutes—the appearance of the flying toad monster and the destruction of one of the plane’s engines—pushed him completely beyond his limits. 

“We’re gonna die!” Richards screamed and barreled forward, smashing the flight attendant to the ground. She made a terrified squawk as she went down, and Richards leapt over her and ran down the center aisle toward the cockpit. He made it no farther than seat 12C, where Sky Marshal David Sanders sat. 

Marshal Sanders’ taser was out of his coat pocket and in his hand the moment Lloyd Richards knocked over the flight attendant. As Richards ran by, Marshal Sanders shot the terrified man at nearly pointblank range, sinking the taser’s tines deep into his target’s khaki-covered buttocks. The surge of electricity sent through the trailing wires felled Mr. Richards like a slaughtered ox, and Sky Marshal Sanders was out of his seat and had his quarry cuffed soon after. 

The passengers of Flight 317 were so intent on what was happening inside the plane they failed to see the scaly horror plastered against the window next to the seat Lloyd Richards had recently vacated. The monstrous face, with its lantern-like eyes, bat-winged ears, and toothy maw wore an almost comical look of disappointment. 

***
“Gods damn it, Krillik!” Voreg howled, his displeasure cracking off the clouds around them. “The lightning get’s them every time!”

Krillik held out a paw and tapped its palm with one taloned finger. “Shinies. Now,” he said. 

Voreg dug into the drooping skin around his midsection and removed two small diamonds from the fleshy folds. He placed them into Krillik’s waiting paw. “Tell me true, Krillik,” Voreg said unhappily. 
I’m scary, right? 

Krillik opened his mouth and tossed the diamonds in. He crunched down on them and chewed contentedly for a moment before answering Voreg.  “You are scary, Voreg,” he said. “So frightening in fact they don’t’ quite believe you’re real—even after you’ve scared them senseless. Lightning on the other hand . . .” He paused and grinned toothily. “Well, there isn’t a human alive that isn’t familiar with what that can do.” 

“Fine—“ Voreg began, but a tremendous, crackling bolt of yellow lightning suddenly flashed between them, close enough that it singed the spiny whiskers on Krillik’s face. The booming thunder that followed sounded very much like a bellowing voice—a very angry voice.

“Damn!” Krillik exclaimed. “He saw us!” The two imps flew off in different directions, leaving thunder and lightning in their wakes.


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## Quartz (Nov 14, 2016)

More!


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## BLACKDIRGE (Nov 14, 2016)

Quartz said:


> More!




Look at it this way; unlike my old story hour threads, you don't have to wait for me to actually write anything. You'll get something new every Monday until I run out of stuff. 

Thanks for reading.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Nov 22, 2016)

*A Red Night*

Once again I’ve delved deep into the digital ruins of my hard drive and unearthed a tidbit of ancient fiction. This is yet another piece from when I was an RPG designer/writer/editor for Goodman Games (posted with their kind permission). Like the “The High Road” and “The Challenge,” this is from an unpublished manuscript for a player-oriented 4E Dungeons & Dragons supplement. Also, like the others, this is a vignette meant to introduce a gaming concept through the narrative, in this case a wresting/boxing-type option for the the fighter class. (I know, grappling; what was I thinking?)

As I was reading this thing for the first time in many years, I realized it’s a Robert E. Howard (Conan) pastiche (sincere apologies to REH fans). I can’t remember if that was on purpose or not, but there you have it. Anyway, this one is called “A Red Night."



*A Red Night*

Narl studied his target from across the crowded tavern, barely noticing the noise and stink of the Wastrel’s patrons. A full tankard sat untouched on the stained table in front of the half-orc assassin, but he was not drinking. This was a red night, and he needed to keep his wits sharp to complete his contract. _This_ was no ordinary target, no fat priest or slovenly merchant with muscles of sodden dough and fighting skills that would shame a child. This target was dangerous.

His name was Bjorngar the Great, an infamous pirate captain whose moniker Narl had found ridiculous until he’d seen the northerner in the flesh. Narl was hardly small, but Bjorngar dwarfed him. The massive human was well over seven feet tall and had to be three hundred and fifty pounds at least, most of it iron muscle by the look of him. To make matters worse, the red-haired pirate was armed with a long-hafted executioner’s axe, a weapon far too massive for anyone without Bjorngar’s strength and size to wield properly. If his sources were correct, and they usually were, his target could swing that axe with a skill that bordered on supernatural.

Despite his target’s physical advantages, Narl was not overly concerned. Bjorngar lacked the training of a Black Throat assassin, training that had turned Narl’s body into a living weapon more than a match for the best armed and armored warrior. Plus, he had another advantage: Bjorngar had been drinking steadily for the better part of the night. Most of his crew had either retired or lay in a drunken coma around their humongous captain, who sat behind a graveyard of empty flagons.

The giant northerner suddenly lurched to his feet, lurched around the heaped and snoring bodies of his crew, and then staggered toward the tavern’s front door. It was what Narl had been waiting for, and when Bjorngar walked out into the night, the assassin counted to thirty then followed.

The Wastrel was one of the more popular taverns in the port district, and this late at night it was one of the few businesses still open. When Narl stepped outside, Bjorngar was nowhere in sight, but he soon heard the sound of piss splashing against brick in the alley next to the Wastrel. He crept into the concealing shadows of the narrow corridor of trash-strewn dirt that connected Eel Shadow Road and the Way of the Mermaid. Business and personal dwellings crowded in on either side, blocking the silver glow of the moon and creating a stretch of blackness that was nearly complete. Narl’s orcish blood allowed him to see in the gloom, and he spied his mark a short way down the alley, leaning against the wall and voiding enough steaming urine to fill a horse trough. The great oaf had left his weapon in the tavern.

Narl smiled. At no time was a man more vulnerable than when he had his most prized possession in hand. The half-orc glided toward his target, his massive hands outstretched to seize Bjorngar by the throat from behind. From there he would lock his arms around the big northerner’s bull neck, and not even Bjorngar the Great’s strength would save him from being throttled to death. He was within a few feet of his target, who was still doing his best to piss a hole in the stone wall of the Wastrel, when the northerner whirled around, spraying Narl with a shower of warm urine. He recoil for an instant at the disgusting assault, long enough for his foe to reach out with one apishly long arm and grab him by the throat.

Bjorngar’s grip was like a steel vice, and Narl realized his target was not as drunk as he should be. He twisted like an eel, momentarily slipping free, but again, the northerner’s absurdly long reach allowed him to lock his fingers around Narl’s shoulder and pull him back and off-balance. He became alarmingly aware his opponent was not only far larger and stronger than he, but he was also no stranger to unarmed fighting. With a twist of his hips and feet, Bjorngar spun Narl around and pulled him into a bear hug, locking both gargantuan arms around the half-orc’s back. Narl squirmed and fought, slamming his fists into Bjorngar’s head and shoulders, but the pirate’s strength was unrelenting.

“I’ve always wanted to try my strength against one of you Black Throat killers,” Bjorngar said, blowing ale-sodden breath into Narl’s face and grinning. “I’ll be very disappointed if you’re the best they have.” The northerner’s grip tightened, crushing the breath from Narl’s lung’s and turning his shout for help into a weak, rattling gasp. He slipped into darkness to Bjorngar’s booming laughter and the sound of his vertebrae snapping like rotten twigs.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Nov 29, 2016)

*Sometimes You Need the Big Gun*

Okay, this another short piece that was created as a writing exercise. In this case, we had to throw together a 1,000 word story in an hour, and the story had to use these four words: 
caustic, vermilion, pariah, and maleficent. Some of those were definitely easier to work into this mess than others (as you'll see). Anyway, what I ended up with is an urban fantasy mishmash that I kind of like. The story itself has some issues, but I sort of dig the larger world it hints at. Maybe I'll come back to the idea someday and flesh it out with a short story or even a novella. 



*Sometimes You Need the Big Gun
*
“Code Vermilion?” Richards said. “What the hell is that?” 

Daniels looked down at the data display in the center of the Corvette’s console—where a navigation system would usually go—and frowned. The words CODE VERMILLION were splashed across the black screen in vivid scarlet . . . or vermilion, he guessed. 

“Never seen that one,” he said, still looking at the screen. “Location?”

“It’s coming through now,” Richards said. “Corner of Western and Lenora.” 

“Well, we’re closest,” Daniels said and put his foot down. The Corvette’s engine roared, and the car shot forward. One of the BFA’s three patrol cars, this one, the fastest, was called the Maleficent, and Daniels had just recently been assigned to street patrol. That he’d gotten his hands on Maleficent was a stroke of luck, although the Corvette did have the downside of getting to the scene quicker than any of the other cars. Depending on the fairy creature running amok, that could be quite dangerous. 

They screamed through the streets of downtown Seattle, minutes away from their destination. Daniels could see smoke, red smoke, rising over the city in the direction they were travelling. 

“What do we got in the back?” Richards said. “Anything big?”

“Just the Anzio,” Daniel’s replied, grinning. “Daddy’s favorite pop-gun.” He’d been with the BFR—the Bureau of Fairy Affairs—for a couple of years now, and his predilection for heavy military ordinance and a willingness to use it had made him somewhat of a pariah. Still, he got the job done, and he really didn’t care what the others in the bureau thought of his methods. Richards, his partner for the last year, was good with it, and that’s all that mattered. 

Richards chuckled. “Well, let’s hope its something big then.” 

Daniels grinned. “I always do.” 

They’d reached Lenora, a sharply slanted cobblestone street with a great view of the Puget Sound. There were no other cars on the road, and Daniels slowed Maleficent to a crawl. It had suddenly grown very warm, and the street ahead was obscured by a cloud of red smoke. 

Daniels hit the brakes and put the Vette in park. “Let’s just have a look,” he said, starting to feel that excitement he always felt just before he put a bullet into something. 

Richards nodded, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out his sidearm, a Smith & Wesson .500. The revolver had been a gift from Daniels, and it packed enough punch to knock an ogre on its ass. 

Daniels got out of the car and was immediately struck by the heat and the slightly caustic smell in the air. He went around to the back of the Corvette and popped the hatchback. Inside were the pieces of his Anzio, a massive 20 mm anti-material rifle. It was meant to be fired from the ground, braced with a bipod, but it could be shoulder-fired in a pinch. The gun’s original military purpose was to take out vehicles, sending its massive explosive-tipped bullets into and through engine blocks, light-armored personnel carriers, and such. It could also ruin the day of a rampaging frost giant, remove most of a troll’s head, and even crack the stony skin of the duergar. 

He hoisted the massive rifle up, and set it atop the Corvette, bracing its considerable wait on the vehicle. The smoke below was billowing toward them, and the faint sounds of screams were audible but muted through the haze. He also heard what sounded like chains beings scraped against the asphalt; that particular sound was moving toward them. 

Richards was on the other side of the car, aiming the Smith & Wesson at the smoke. He turned toward Daniels, pointed with his revolver, and made the fingers of his left hand walk across the hood of the Vette. He wanted to get down there, see what was happening. Normally, Daniels would be right there with him, but he didn’t like where this was going. There was a fairly large dimensional nexus not far from here, in the Seattle Sculpture Park, and he felt wait-and-see was a better option. 

Daniels shook his head, opened his mouth to give Richards an order, and then left it hanging open when their “target” came rushing out of the smoke. He’d never seen a dragon; they were supposed to be intelligent but so belligerent and dangerous they rarely applied for asylum on Earth, and even when they did, it was never granted. This dragon was snakelike, perhaps thirty feet long, and covered in red scales. It had four legs ending in taloned feet or hands, a long, whip-like tail, and a head that was all teeth and horns. Hanging from its dagger-filled mouth was the limp body of a young man—at least the parts the dragon hadn’t eaten yet.

“That’s a goddamn dragon,” Richards whispered, his eyes big as dinner plates. His gun was hanging at his side, almost completely forgotten. Daniels had seen this kind of thing before—sometimes the creatures that came through the nexus were so out there they just short-circuited your brain.

Daniels was afraid, sure, but had seen enough combat not to be completely rattled by one of the most feared monsters of mythology. He racked a round into the Anzio and took aim. The dragon heard the noise, instantly realized the threat, and dropped its meal onto the cobblestones with a wet plop. It reared up, its snaky neck bringing its head ten feet above the street. It opened its mouth and sucked in a huge lungful of air. It was what Daniels had been waiting for. He raised the muzzle of the Anzio, sighted in, and pulled the trigger. The massive gun unleashed thunder and smoke, and the explosive-tipped round smashed into the dragon’s open mouth and then out the top of its skull, spraying scales, blood, and brains in a wide arc. 

In its death throes, the dragon’s released it pent up breath, shooting a column of crimson fire straight up into the air. The heat from those flames, even twenty yards away, was all but intolerable, and Daniels felt his skin stinging with what would likely be first-degree burns on any exposed flesh. 

The fire faded, and the dragon collapsed into the middle of the road, leaking bright crimson blood onto the cobblestones. 

“You okay,” Daniels shouted to Richards. The Anzio’s discharge had all but deafened both of them. Richards turned to him, eyes wide with shock, but gave the thumbs up. 

Daniels nodded and drew his combat knife from the sheath on his hip. This was his first dragon; he’d need a trophy.


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## Richards (Nov 29, 2016)

I gotta say, I heartily approve of the fact that two of the last three feature a guy named "Richards."

Johnathan


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## BLACKDIRGE (Nov 29, 2016)

Richards said:


> I gotta say, I heartily approve of the fact that two of the last three feature a guy named "Richards."
> 
> Johnathan




Well, I do aim to please. 

It's funny, though, a lot of these stories were writing exercises where I had to pound something out in an hour, and for whatever reason, Richards is the first surname that popped into my head like half the time. Who knows why. 

Thanks for reading.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Dec 5, 2016)

*A Pointed Education*

Here's another little vignette I wrote for a 4E supplement that never made it into print. This one would have been the introduction to a fighter build focused on throwing weapons. It's one of those vignettes that always left me wondering what happened to the characters; maybe there's a longer story in there somewhere. Anyway, it's called "A Pointed Education." 



*A Pointed Education*

“Master, would it not be better to take up our axes and blades and face the enemy in honorable battle?” Arimus asked. The dwarven youth’s thin lips were turned up in a smirk as he balanced a practice javelin in one thick-fingered hand. “My father always said that missile weapons were for elves and cowards not true warriors.”

The other students had been pulling their own practice javelins from a row of vaguely anthropomorphic straw targets; now all turned to look at the insolent Arimus, as he prepared to again match wits and wills with Master Iocretian. A hush settled over the small practice range – anything that broke the monotony of daily drill was highly regarded. 

Iocretian, the aging dragonborn master peltast, continued to pull his javelins – real ones with barbed heads – out of one of the straw targets. Once he had gathered his six missiles, each of which had struck the center of the target from nearly sixty paces away, he turned to regard his most difficult student with a toothy grin.

“Well, Arimus, your father may have a point there,” Iocretian said, scratching the spines at the base of his chin as if considering the dwarf’s words. “However, I seem to remember that it was an orc javelin and not a battleaxe that pierced your father’s skull during the battle of Gulgur’s Canyon. Pity that orc wasn’t versed in the ways of ‘honorable combat’ like your poor sire.”

Arimus’ face turned bright red, his cheeks flaming through the fuzz of his first beard. It was a brutal riposte by the master peltast, and the other students shrank away from the awful truth of Iocretian’s words. 

“My father was a _hero_!” The young dwarf shouted, tears filling his eyes. “He killed fifty orcs that day in Gulgur’s Canyon, and I’ll fight anyone who says different!”

Iocretian’s face softened, and his scales seemed to sag more than usual. He knelt down to the fuming Arimus and put one clawed hand on the young dwarf’s shoulder. “Arimus,” he said, “no one is claiming your father is a coward. Only a fool would name Utren Stoneaxe so. But you must understand your uncle sent you to me so you don’t suffer a similar fate as your father.”

“To die in battle?” Arimus said, his eyes now filled with stubborn pride. “There is no greater glory.”

“No, you young fool,” Iocretian said and cupped the dwarf’s bearded face. “Your uncle didn’t want you to die _young_ like your father because he couldn’t be flexible in battle.”

“I don’t understand, master,” Arimus said, hurt and anger still staining his words. “My father was a skilled warrior.”

“Yes, your father _was_ as skilled warrior, but he knew axe and shield and straight-into-the-teeth-of-the-enemy and not much else. Think, boy! If you’re father could have thrown a hammer or a javelin with the same skill he wielded his axe, it would be him teaching you the ways of a dwarven warrior and not your uncle and me.”

Arimus opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, his eyes wary but intrigued.

“Yes, now you understand,” Iocretian said with another toothy smile. “Flexibility, boy. Adaptation. These are the traits that will ultimately lead you to victory in battle not just a ‘glorious death’ in your first skirmish. Learn the way of axe, learn the way of the shield, but let me show you a trick or two as well.”

“My apologies, master,” Arimus said softly, and then found something very interesting to look at between his feet. 

“Keep your apologies, boy,” Iocretian said. “I’d rather have you hit that target there more than three out of six casts.” 

Arimus smiled. He had been the only student to hit his target three times, and the backhanded acknowledgement of that feat by his master was not lost on him. “Yes, master, four at least on my next try. I promise.”

“Then let’s see it . . . young warrior.”


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## Quartz (Dec 5, 2016)

I remember something similar from the Forgotten Realms comic.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Dec 8, 2016)

Quartz said:


> I remember something similar from the Forgotten Realms comic.




Cool. I didn't copy; I swear.


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## Quartz (Dec 8, 2016)

If memory serves it's the issue in which Onyx the dwarf is introduced and he styles himself 'Onyx the Invincible' whereupon an older, wiser dwarf calls him 'Onyx the Invisible' and the lesson proceeds from there.


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## BLACKDIRGE (Dec 13, 2016)

*Phylactery*

This another horror flash fiction story born of the same one-hour writing exercise I used to do on a bi-weekly basis. With a limit of 1,000 words and just and hour to write, the end rushes up on you fast with these things. Sometimes the stories work regardless, and I've sold a bunch that began life as flash writing exercises. What follows is one where I like the premise, I like the characters, but I think I'd need another 1,000 to 2,000 words to tell the story properly. 

Anyway, it's got a very D&D-esque title. 



*Phylactery*

“Can we _please_ leave?” Robert said, and set a tiny frosted glass swan back on a rickety cafeteria-style table. This particular table was loaded with tiny glass animals: glass frogs, glass ducks, glass rabbits, you name it. It was exactly the kind of useless (and worthless) junk you always found at garage sales, but despite the mountains of used Tupperware, the piles of ancient VHS tapes and CDs, his wife dearly loved to sift through the cast-off debris of middle-class America. 

Every time they drove through a residential neighborhood, Laura kept an eye out for the hastily scribbled construction-paper signs posted on telephone poles and lampposts. To her, these signs pointed to an endless possibility of treasures just waiting to be found in a nearby driveway or front yard. To Robert, they meant standing in someone’s impromptu junkyard bored out of his mind.  

“Yeah, just a sec,” Laura said from across the cement driveway of the dilapidated bungalow she’d forced him to seek out, following nauseating lime green signs declaring “Garrage Sale!” ad “Every Thing Must Go!” She was hunched over a collection of jewelry boxes, mismatched china, and other random gewgaws. He watched her reach for a small carved wooden box, but a gaunt elderly woman in a shapeless green dress standing next to her snatched it away before Laura could pick it up. “Oh, sorry,” Laura said, jerking her hand back. The woman frowned at her, then turned and walked toward the open garage. There the proprietor of this little bazaar, a withered old man in a ratty straw hat, sat in front of a three-legged card table, one gnarled, veiny hand resting atop a battered tin money box. 

“How much for this?” asked the woman in the green dress. 

The old man tilted his hat up with one finger, his rheumy eyes running up and down his potential customer. He said nothing for a moment, then smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. “Sorry, lady,” he said. “That box isn’t for you.” 

“What?” the woman said, her brow furrowing. “Why not?”

“It’s not for you,” the old man repeated. “It’s for her.” He leaned forward and pointed at Laura. 

“Ridiculous!” the fat woman shouted, her face crinkled in outrage. She tossed the wooden box on the old man’s card table, causing it to sway and nearly tip over, then turned and stalked out of the driveway. 

Robert had moved to stand next to his wife during the altercation, and he put one hand on the small of her back and leaned close. “Can we please get the hell out of here,” he said softly. “This is got to be one of the sorriest collections of garbage you’ve dragged me to in weeks.” 

Laura turned and kissed his cheek. “One more minute,” she said. “I like that box. Plus he said it was for me.” She winked at him and then approached the old man. 

He picked up the wooden box from the card table and held it out for Laura. “Here. It belonged to my wife. I got it in Japan during the war.”

Laura smiled and accepted the box, running her hands over the polished wood. Robert could see it was actually a pretty thing, made of teak or mahogany with an inlay of mother of pearl, a rare diamond in a pasture of manure. He came up behind her to get a closer look. 

Laura opened the box, and Robert, looking over her shoulder, saw it held a single faded Polaroid photograph. He glanced over at the old man and saw he was staring at Laura intently, his mouth working silently, his eyes fixed on her hands. She reached in and picked up the photo. It showed a man and a woman seated at a table, arms around one another. They were dressed up in what looked like mid-70s dress clothes, and both looked very happy. The man was obviously the proprietor of the garage sale, some forty years younger. The woman looked to be in her early forties, her long hair black and lustrous, her fairly average face made pretty by her vivid green eyes.

“Your wife?” Laura asked, setting the picture back in the box and closing the lid. 

“Yes,” he said. “That’s my pretty Amanda. You look a little like her.” 

_Way to sell it, dude_, Robert thought. Laura was blonde, had blue eyes, and looked nothing like the woman in the photograph. The old man was starting to creep him out. 

“Thanks,” Laura said. “Are you sure you want to sell the box?”

“Sell it? No, ma’am. I want you to take it.” He rose from the card table. “And the picture. Amanda would want a pretty girl like you to have it.”

“Oh, okay,” Laura said, obviously a little embarrassed. “Are you sure?”

“Please take the box,” Robert whispered. “So we can leave.”

“The rest will be here when you get back,” the old man said. He looked strangely gleeful. 

Robert frowned at the old man, wondering what he meant, but he had his wife by the shoulders and was gently steering her toward their parked car. He was home free and uninterested in anything else the old geezer had to say. Minutes later they were safely ensconced in the Acura and driving away. 

Laura had the box on her lap. It was open, and she was looking at the picture within. She said very little on the drive home, barely responding to his efforts at conversation. She was completely intent on the photo, her eyes hazy and unfocused. 

When they got home, Robert was feeling guilty for being so pushy at the garage sale. He got out first, went around the car, and opened the door for his wife. She was still looking at the picture, but when the door opened, she set it back in the box and closed the lid. She turned her face up to him and smiled. 

Her eyes were brilliant emerald green.


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