One girl. Two cats. A world full of adventure.
Abbernathy Tells is a twelve year old girl who prefers the companionship of her two cats and a dying tree over others her age. When a horrible tragedy strikes on her thirteenth birthday, robbing h...
Calleighdia promised Feign her magick would take care of everything. All he had to do was deliver a stone.
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Back from Exul, the commander sought to bide his time holed up in his quarters, sharpening his blades and adding to his collection, but he knew he would not be left to his own devices. The Archmage would want a full report on what transpired in Exul and she would be coming to his quarters to fetch it.
Hot water coursed over Feign's head and onto his shoulders, stinging his eyes and scorching his skin. Calleighdia had told Feign it would take awhile for him to return to normal, but he had hoped the witch would be wrong. Instead, hemma sensitivities still plagued his body.
Angered, he cursed Calleighdia under his breath. A bar of animal fat clutched in his claw, Feign scrubbed at his chest and arms, trying to lift the odor of Exul from his fur. The scent of their weakness and cowardice stung his nostrils and reminded him of the hemma he'd occupied during Calleighdia's plan.
A sudden urge to kill something rippled through him. If only the archmage had permitted Feign his axe, he could have minimized his time in Exul and ended the princes' lives right there. He wouldn't have returned smelling so repulsive.
Another surge of anger flaired to life within him and with a mad-man's fury, Feign slammed his fist into the shower's wall. Chunks of obsidian fell to the basin floor and caught in the drain.
"Damn witch," he hissed, "My axe would have been quicker. It's always quicker."
Resigning himself to live with the scent of hemma for the time being, Feign got out of the shower, grabbed a fresh tunic from off the sink and headed toward his living quarters. A coppery scent flooded his nose as he entered and helped to temper his rage.
Opposite from where he stood, his personal arsenal decorated the walls. From single-bladed daggers to double-sided axes, each had been mounted with utmost care. The glow of the fire from the hearth reflected in those polished steel and iron blades, casting the room in a reddish hue.
A worktable ran the length of the farthest wall, an array of hand-sized weapons, leather holsters, and sharpening stones strewn on the marred wood. Small jars of varnish made of Feign's own mix of tar and blood sat off in a corner collecting gnats. Various large, glass jars filled the space, each housing a green liquid reminscient of pond scum, a head from one of Feign's enemies suspended in the liquid.
The first of the heads to meet Feign's gaze as he strode in was the one with murky, grey eyes. This head bobbed up and down in its jar atop the mantle, the fire lighting it in a way that gave it an otherworldly feel. Though chunks of flesh had rotted away and floated freely in the liquid, the face remained just as Feign remembered when he had taken it from the mage at the Chapel of Calomar. The gold bangles worn in the cat-man's ears, though rusted now, had jingled like tiny bells when Feign's axe had ripped through his spine.
