Today’s snippet, titled “Dull The Edges”, 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.
– – – – – – – – – – –
      “We gotta do it.”
      “Yes, but it does deplete our resources considerably. If another of us should fall…”
      “Why is this even a question? Of course we must bring him back!”
      “Let’s leave him – we’ll come back for him when we leave.”
      “If we leave.”
      The barrage of voices made her skull throb. It was either that, or the lingering effects of their disastrous encounter with the Banshee. Mim pulled her knees up to her chest, letting her elbows rest on them as she closed her eyes. Her head drooped between her arms and she wished for all the world that she had even a drop or two of Zzar, a swallow of Morrigan’s Firewater, a drought of the cheapest, dirtiest grog in Luskan… anything to dull the sharp edges of reality for a minute or two.
      Who would have thought doing good for the world would scar a person so badly? Mim wondered if maybe her Father had started out like her, just wanting to do the right thing but then something traumatic happened that drove him to the easy path. Or if Grandpapa, her mother’s sire, had just wanted to mend broken things with his arcane powers until confronted with true evil? It was doubtful, she knew, but sitting there in the snow, her ass half-frozen with the stinking corpse of an undead-redead dragon at her right and the fresh-smelling but hideously rent body of her friend, Eric, to her left – Mim could not help but question everything.
      It would be so much easier to kick some snow on the broken form and callously carry-on if she were like them; if she were the type who could justify lying and cheating, stealing and pillaging and murdering. But she was not cut from the same cloth and even as her friends discussed it around her, Mim twisted the enchanted ring upon her finger and knew the decision was already made.
      “We can’t leave him behind. We don’t just leave people behind.”
      Someone else scoffed. “We left Aiden. And you left me.”
      “Tuanar, you got separated from us – but we knew you would catch up. That is hardly the same thing!”
      Mim shook her head, keeping her mouth tightly shut as her companions bickered. There was no accounting for what had happened to Aiden, but Tuanar had considerable tracking skills and they had not doubted that he would follow their trail. Granted, he had not exactly tracked them to Stonebridge so much as fortune (and misfortune) had tossed him in that direction, but Mim was glad to see him. She suspected, despite their less than enthusiastic welcomes, the rest of the Brotherhood had been pleased by his return as well.
      Tuanar had come stumbling onto shore, utterly bedraggled, after the battle on the docks. That was the fight in which Anajalihn had put that rumored tentacle spell of hers to use and in which Trick had let loose a rapid-fire barrage of arcane fireballs that Grandpapa would have envied. The same fight which had only just ended when Tuanar’s cry of “DRAGON TURTLE!” had set them back to battle once again.
      A warmth spread through her body suddenly, sacred magic healing her wounds, as Kenzi bonked her on the head with a wand. She placed a hand on her hip, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and rolled her eyes. “Its not my fault the first one fizzled. Cheap parchment, maybe, or like, bargain-basement inks. Blame the stupid cleric who scribed the damn thing!”
      Rubbing the back of her head and wincing, Mim chuckled mirthlessly. No one could possibly believe it was Kenzi’s fault that the ritual failed; calling back a soul from the afterlife was difficult for a skilled priest, let lone a flaky, flippant thief. Lifting her head a fraction, Mim cast a quick gaze at Kenzi. Pretty Kenzi, bearing her satchel of disguises, never looking the same twice. Funny Kenzi, with an easy, biting sense of humor and no lack of male attention. Sneaky Kenzi, who could vanish and reappear at will, daggers close to hand. Cold Kenzi, who had voted to let the wounded Ogres drown rather than die clean deaths with a few well-placed arrows.
      Yet Kenzi had been amongst the first to advocate using the spell encapsulated in the ring.
      Mim remembered how weak she had been after the Banshee’s defeat, her heart so heavy from the sight of dear, pale Anajalihn and handsome, elegant Eric, both lying still in the dirt. It had taken every last ounce of resolve to stand again – but Kenzi had wasted no time in setting hurts to healing with that wand of her and incanting both the Elven magess and the Human fighter back to life.
      There was more to the girl than shadows and secrets and ice. Mim closed her eyes again.
      Everyone surprised her from time to time. For all his immense power, Trick hardly seemed to take anything seriously. Yet, when they argue about how best to track Mazul, he had been all business. And when the camp was assaulted in the wee hours, as everyone else slept, Trick had obliterated the entire squad before the rest of the Brotherhood awoke.
      Tuanar was an enigma, but his occasional bursts of insight and his skill with a long bow were undeniable. Eric spoke so mannerly and seemed to civilized, but when the steel song rang out, he was as fierce as any foe. She was glad to count them both as friends and allies, even when she disagreed with them.
      “We must bring him. Logically, we will need his support against Mazul, and besides that, it is simply the right thing to do.”
      Anajalihn’s rationale was strong, and so typical of her, but Mim was still genuinely amazed that Kenzi supported her position.
      “He’ll be so weak and sick afterward – even assuming whatever God he worships allows him to return twice – he’ll be useless! Better to save the spell for one of us.”
      Staring down at the ring, the innocuous band of silver upon her index finger, Mim wanted to cry. Waukeen’s Golden Scales, I need a fucking drink! She hated the part of herself that felt as Trick and Tuanar did; the selfish part which knew she was the most likely to fall and would need the power locked within the ring. The part of her that was so self-serving and ruthless and callous.
      Just like them, she thought, her brow furrowing. Like Mama and Daddy and the rest… just like them.
      Resolved that she would not capitulate again, that she was nothing like her family, Mim unfolded her long legs and rose from the icy ground. Even dangling hundreds of feet above the ground with three of her compatriots hanging from around her waist had been less painful. Still, she turned to Eric, growing slightly blue in the cold air, and wet her lips.
      “We are going to raise him,” she said at last.
      All eyes fell upon her and it seemed everyone spoke at once. Mim ignored the. You can protest all you want, Gods damn you, but I have quailed to the majority opinion every damn time a debate arose! This time, I’m doing what I know is right!
      “Do I just point it at him, or what?”
      Kenzi smirked. “The command word is engraved in the metal. Just speak it. Its not like those stupid scrolls; any idiot can activate that ring.”
      Mim grit her teeth, choosing to ignore the jibe, and squinted at the beautiful, incomprehensible runes.
      “It is Draconic,” Anajalihn said softly. She took Mim’s hand and drew it close to her face, turning the band to read the inscription. “Here, Mim. Direct the ring at Eric’s corpse and say – ‘Irthos Arcaniss Gethrisj’.”
      Nodding, Mim tested the words in her head and stepped closer to her fallen friend. By all the Gods, please let this work…
      “Irthos Arcaniss Gethrisj.”

Note: Image from SXC.hu by pirshulet