Today’s snippet, titled “Second Watch”, 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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      Shaking the flask, Mim could hear the tell-tale splash that just a few fingers of whiskey remained in the bottom. She sighed. Surely one of the others was carrying some brandy or fortified wine or ale. Her eyes trailed around the circle slowly, wondering which of her companions was most likely to spare her some little bit of liquid comfort.
      The fire had dwindled to little more than embers and ashes, but it was warm upon her face and Mim pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them. It was a simple sensation that sent her back to the few pleasant family memories she possessed; sitting around the hearth in the great library at Grandpapa’s house with her brothers sleeping around her and the heat of the flames caressing her back while Grandmama read her favorite novels aloud to them. Her mother and father would be curled up on the big burgundy velvet sofa, kissing and in the deepest collusion about their next adventure. Grandpapa making illusory scenes from the book dance before her. She did not understand at the time, but he was trying mightily to awaken the magic in her blood, to indoctrinate her as a mage even then.
      Mim felt her face drawn into a frown. Fuck ’em. They never understood me. I’m not like them. Never was…
      In the darkness, Anajalihn’s petite form stirred and Mim chuckled mirthlessly to herself. How surprised Grandpapa would be to see me now, tromping through the forest chasing a Demon Lord accompanied by an elven wizardess and a sorcerer. Well, if I can’t find my little brother, saving the world is a lofty enough purpose.
      A brief, warm shower passed over the camp, wetting her cheeks and setting the waning campfire to sizzling. Mim let the drops sit on her flesh, cool and pure, and popped the lid of her flask. The strong odor of piss-poor whiskey stung her nose hairs and she let a sad, rueful smile cross her lips, followed immediately by a swig of scorching, raw liquor.
      “Glad you didn’t die, Mim?”
      Startled, she nearly dropped her empty flask. It took a moment for her to place the voice, and a few heartbeats more before her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
      “Yeah,” she said, nodding. Her head hung low, she glanced over at him. “Glad you’re not still a hunk of granite?”
      Eric nodded.
      “Its all still a little blurry, but it wasn’t like- before. I remember crossing the bridge into Bradfield with that old guy howling about how we were evil or something and then the roar.” She squinted into the flames, frowning. “The rest is a lot of little flashes. That thing’s eyes – like they were boring into my skull, you know? Well, yeah – I guess you do.”
      “Indeed, madam.”
      “Thank the fuckin’ Gods though, I remember the pain of that last bite and the ebb of oblivion coming on – but it didn’t… swallow me. Again. You know?” Mim paused, looking over at him. “What did it feel like when, you uh… were petrified?”
      His silhouette limned in ruddy light, Eric stared into the weak fire for a moment, then looked away, cringing. “Nothing.”
      She lay a hand on his shoulder for a moment, empathizing. Then she withdrew it and the pair fell into silence. It was still full dark. Third watch would not wake for sometime and there was nothing left in her flask to push her into the heavy embrace of drunken slumber. Depressed, she tossed it back into her backpack and rose to her knees, rolling another log onto the fire.
      Eric had little to say, volunteering nothing and answering her inquiries with what amounted to grunts. Mim wondered what he thought of Anajalihn’s growing power. It had been the elven girl’s powerful spell that broke the dragonspawn’s enchantment and saved him from eternity trapped in stone. And yes, everyone agreed that it was Kenzi’s horrific final blow that killed the thing, but it had been Anajalihn’s magic that teleported them from Bradfield, overland to Stonebridge.
      Not that it had been a great idea, exactly. The potter’s shack she had scryed upon was under attack and the instant they materialized there, they had been under attack. Mim had to admit she enjoyed the manner in which she had utterly destroyed those stone giants; it was an ugly truth, but after failing so utterly against the drake-beast, she had taken the opportunity to redeem herself by bathing in gouts of giant-blood.
      “I’d have killed more,” she said under her breath,”If it hadn’t been for Trick dominating the leader…”
      Still, that had been a feat worthy of Grandpapa. He had set the leader to killing his own men and before they knew it – the whole assault team was growing cold in the dirt.
      Prudently, they had decided to rest away from the decimated village; though no matter how downwind they sought to be, the occasional breeze wafted in with the scent of dead giants and blood. So much blood.
      Mim drew random patterns in the dirt with a charcoal tipped stick from the firepit. Tomorrow we’ll catch Mazul, she told herself, furrowing her brow. I hope. By Waukeen’s Golden Scales, I fucking hope so. Maybe Anajalihn will put that tentacle spell she was talking about to good use. I’d like to see that bat-winged bastard take a little bit of what he gave that poor girl. All those poor girls. Yeah. Maybe she’ll find a way to violate that twisted fuck the same way-
      Slapping her fist into her palm, she frowned. Stop it. You just stop that right now, Miriam Staciana Vermiere-Cressen! You sound as bad as your parents ever were. You sound as bad as Mazul or his minions. What kind of person wishes torment on any creature, even one as vile as that demon… Kenzi, maybe, and her ilk. But you’re not cold like them, like the Family. You’re not. You’re not!
      “I’m not,” she said quietly. “And I never will be.”

Note: Photo from SXC.hu by CrazedCoug