Today’s snippet, titled “Belonging”, is a piece I wrote about my current character, Mim, to sort of demonstrate her experiences with a major in-game event.
      Be forewarned, there are mature themes and naughty language below.
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      Breathless, she lay on her back upon the frozen marble. As she watched, her breath hung heavy and white in the air; it took so long to disperse that, if she squinted, Mim could begin to discern shapes in the puffy clouds. With Trick’s enchantment warding her from the worst of the chill, she could almost believe she was back home, laying on the desk of her father’s favorite ship, The Sea Snatch. Her brothers would be clustered around her, all but the baby, Balic, zapping each other with cantrips and imagining they saw war in the formations.
      Mim never saw the same things the boys did; never the hordes of snarling orcs or elven villages all afire. She supposed she should have guessed even then, at six or so years old, that she was different.
      That she did not belong.
      Don’t you worry, little flower. Your mother did not show a whit of power until she was nearly eighteen and three months gone with you, her father had told her reassuringly as she perched upon his lap, wiping tears on his sleeve. No more tears, Miriam, you are the grand-daughter of the renowned Wizard Calvaris Cressen and Lady Greta the Fierce, one of the finest sorcerers of her generation. Your mother has come well into her power and I am the first son of the legendary Raider, Carey Vermiere. No matter which wind fills your sails, your destination is greatness.
      “Would you still think that if you saw me now, Daddy?”
      A hand touched her shoulder. “Did you say something, Mim?”
      Shaking her head, Mim rolled to her side and looked up at Anajalihn. “Hard to say. Things are… kinda fuzzy.”
      “Yes, I understand. Even a brief jaunt in the aether can be quite disorienting to the uninitiated.”
      The elven girl stood, dusting herself off. Mim was, once again, in her debt. If Anajalihn had not used that knack of hers to teleport both Mim and Eric to the those of those evil stairs – neither of them would have survived.
      Grandpa could have taken lessons from that girl, Mim decided. For all his power and skill, she had never known him to be capable of the things Anajalihn did with ease. The tentacles in the river, for one. And when those yetis had burst up from the snow banks inside the ruined hamlet, Mim and Kenzi had torn them apart with great effort and enchanted blades – but Anajalihn barely spoke a syllable and scattered one of the beasts to dust.
      The sheer enormity of her power was vast – and terrifying. Though she was unlikely to to end up on the receiving end of Anajalihn’s spells (well, her offensive ones… the unfortunate dropping of Grue into a pit trap or the light singeing of Durgon by a errant fireball aside) Mim frequently found herself intercepting foes before they could reach Anajalihn. Just as she had done during the battle with the yetis.
      Mim climbed to her feet and glanced around the dark room. Trick had not yet returned, but Kenzi was there, essentially unscathed. Eric looked worse for the battle, but he was still breathing at least. Tuanar was-
      She closed her eyes, recalling suddenly the sad reality. Tuanar was dead; buried beneath a cairn of rubble and snow in the hamlet. Perhaps… if we survive, we can find a priest to resurrect him from the finger I took. But first, Mazul must be stopped.
      “Where’s that Azri chick?” Kenzi asked from the door way. “She run off already?”
      A soft, lovely voice responded – with just a touch of haughtiness in her golden tones. Mim grumbled to herself; as this new elf had oh-so-politely pointed out to her, she was the only one incapable of speaking another language. She should have listened to her Mother after all. Her brothers – even Balic, the only one of her seven brothers to wield a blade instead of spells – all spoke at least two or three others. Mim had never quite been able to wrap her tongue around the dancing syllables of Elvish or the rolling highs and lows of Celestial, the gutteral grunts required for Dwarven or Orcish or Gnomish, nor any of the darker, blood-soaked languages her Grandmother chanted.
      That should have been yet another clue that she simply did not belong.
      “We’re all here,” Eric said, still on the floor. He began to climb to his feet.
      “Except my apprentice.”
      “And Trick,” Kenzi said, peering into the gloomy depths of the room.
      The Brotherhood of the Broken Chain, such as it was, gathered itself in the entrance of this new room and steeled themselves for whatever horrors of combat was to come. More visions of unspeakable evils? Another living, murderous statue? Mazul himself?
      Mim grit her teeth, suddenly bolstered by the presence of these people around her. Those she could call comrades-in-arms as well as, more or less, friends. Allies. She narrowed her eyes, forcing the whisper of a smile from her lips as she realized that here, at least, she belonged.
      She took one step forward. “We got this.”
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Note: Featured Image, “starrynight”, by MagicMarie from SXC.hu