The Quarry
By Wingman

The roar of engines is a constant but distant din in my ears as we move through the trees. My arms are weighted down by the blade in my hands. I hear shouts from the right and turn to look, but the tree limbs are too thick for me to make out what the other men had come across. I glance back at my troops, each clinging tightly to the tools they had been given. We trudge forward, noses down against the sharp winter wind whipping through the narrow path we follow.

We pass by another regiment of troops, standing over their subdued quarry. A quick glance shows evidence of a short fight as they are all in good spirits. A good sign for us. One of the troops points ahead in hope that our own target may be there; however, the regiment dissents as we come upon it. Maybe further up the hill we would be able to sight it. The height should give us an advantage.

“There it is!” yells my most senior troop. The whole regiment swarms the target and takes it down. The screaming could probably be heard from the next valley over with how it rang in my ears. Grins spread on the entire group’s faces as we drag our own quarry down the path we had traversed. It’s a relief to make it back to the base of the hill. The wind feels softer here and I leave the team with our quarry as I go to speak with the overseer.

With a short exchange and a shake of hands he helps my team load the quarry atop the car. It will be the perfect tree for the season. I nod a thanks as my regiment of children get buckled and chorus an overlapping “Merry Christmas!”

To Refuse A God…
by Lunabear (CW: Offering of sexual favors and male nakedness)

Delicthicus fights his way through the humid terrain. He cuts a path through his foes until none remain. He shambles into a clearing and breathes a heady sigh of relief.

The high sun reflects a deep pool connected to a waterfall. Delicthicus drops his sullied sword with a heavy clang, his worn armor soon following.

Stripped bare, he untangles his long chestnut braid and sinks into the tepid depths. The water licks at his wounds, and he rests his head back on another sigh.

“What a gorgeous specimen,” a disembodied voice purrs.

Delicthicus stiffens, reaching for his sword while searching for the source. He notices, with dismay, that his weapon and armor are gone.

The waterfall parts to reveal a fair-haired beauty. Emerald and sky blue eyes twinkle humorously. The hair trails down rippling shoulders and across a broad chest. A fine mist covers the rest.

Delicthicus blinks owlishly. A flush kisses his cheeks.

“I am Amorandios.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t you know it is impolite to approach a deity without SOME sort of offering?”

Delicthicus scowls and rises proudly. “Make me, Immortal!”

Amorandios steps into the pool, anger in his stride. “You come into MY sanctuary, scattering bodies and blood, taint my waters, and you have NOTHING to offer??” He fists his hips. “Honestly! You beasts are SO uncouth!”

“I would offer my blade, had you not stolen it!”

Amorandios’s eyes soften. “Such fire! Perhaps…” He circles Delicthicus, hands squeezing his shoulders. “Tell me, warrior: what is your name? Your desires?”

“I am Delicthicus.” His hazel eyes harden. “I wish to belong…among my family. To earn my place.”

Amorandios roughly tugs Delicthicus’s hair before locking eyes. “And this is why you fight, yes?”

Delicthicus nods, snatching his hair back.

“Perhaps there IS an offering you can make. Directly. In exchange, I’ll give you glory beyond your imaginings.”

Delicthicus blushes furiously. “I–” He shakes his head. “With anyone…”

“Awww. If you agree, I shall take my time. You have my word, Delicthicus.” He crosses his heart.

Delicthicus bites his lips, meeting earnest eyes. He breathes deeply, preparing to speak…

The Promise
By Jen Vanderputten

Evelyn trudged through the snow. A year ago, she would have bounded from the log pile to the front door, each step moving her closer to Aedan’s weekly visit. Now, the bundles of firewood burdened her arms. She’d made a promise, but it was harder to keep with every passing week.

Evelyn entered her small house, closed the door, and dumped the logs onto the hearth. She knelt in front of the cold stone and worked by rote, laying kindling and fatwood under the iron grate, piling logs on top of it. Within an hour the fire crackled, and she stared through it. A year ago, she wished she could touch Aedan. Now, she would give anything to see him again, his half-transparent image floating behind the flames, the back wall of the fireplace replaced with the image of his room.

She closed her eyes and replayed their last conversation. Aedan’s brown eyes stared at her through the flames, and his gentle smile warmed her.

“I need you to do something for me, Evelyn.”

“What?”

“I need you to light the fire every week, just like you’ve done for the past year, even though you won’t see me through it anymore.”

“Why?! Aedan, please don’t leave me, you’re all I have.”

“You’ll see me again. Have faith. Will you light the fire? Will you make this promise?”

“But, when will I see you again?”

“I cannot say, but if you keep your promise, it will happen.”

She’d cried and argued, but in the end, she’d agreed.

One year, and not a single sign of him.

She buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.

“Evelyn?”

Her head whipped up. She peered into the fire, but the bricks remained bricks, and Aedan’s face was not there.

“I’m glad you kept your promise.”

She froze. The voice was behind her.

She turned, still on her knees, and looked up.

Aedan reached toward her, no longer transparent. He leaned over, and her trembling hands curled into his. His arms lifted her and wrapped around her as she fell onto his chest.

The Stone
By Quetzalcoatl

It was a grey day, when the rain hugged the morning dew, that the mother has not woken up. The little bear cub right by her side could not understand what had happened. The cub just kept wailing and weeping, poking her mother with his nose. But she still did not move. Only a faint smell of warmth remained. The long thorn that was stuck in her mother´s side grossed her out. The stone, which she laid upon, was soaked in red. The little cub has stopped by now, only quietly whimpering on its own. She soon became hungry, and as she had no other choice, she left the homely cave in search of food. She won´t come back tonight.

Quite some time has passed and the little cub of once has turned into a fully grown bear. Now she was no longer afraid of steep waters, of the mean fishes knocking her over while standing in the wild river. She knew which berries she had to eat without feeling sick afterwards, which plants would soothe the pain of her wounds, where to find game. She learned, which animals are friendly and which to better not mess with. The meddlesome jays, always warning her from dangers, the annoying hedgehogs, who´ll only hurt you if you try to play with them. There were a lot of things, she learned from her mother, but far more, that she did not. Now she has her own cub, she´s got to teach and it sure wasn´t easy. But in the end they all grew up to be proud little bears, when the time for them to leave has finally come. Many seasons have passed this way, peacefully. Occasionally, she´d give the strange hairless bears that came to her territory a good fright, but nothing eventful happened. Only life.

Then came the day, after her thirty-third winter has passed, and the forest just began to bloom, when she felt, that her time has come. And she decided to make one final journey.

It was already late at night when she found the cave. Far too many memories have held her up along the way. But now she was here, at the place she has left so many years ago. Her mother was no longer here, but the stone was miraculously still red. The old bear remembered being a little cub, how big the cave has been. How big the stone her mother had rested on was and how small it seemed, as she herself laid upon it. She still smelled her mother scent, and the stone still emanated her warmth. As she slowly closed her eyes for the last time, a single thought occurred to her.

“I have returned.”

Something For the Mantel (Chronicles of The Dragon)
By Makokam

Jostica stepped out of the cab and looked up at her family home.

As she grabbed her luggage, she sent her voice to her Mother with a twitch of her fingers, “Come open the door.”

As she carried her bags up to the door, it opened and her Mom stepped out. “Oh sweetie, you’re early!”

Mother and Daughter embraced before heading inside.

Other family would be coming, but for now it was just Jostica and her parents. She enjoyed seeing them more than she thought she would, even if it’d been over a year since she’d left.

They sat drinking eggnog and her Father winked and said, “Don’t tell anyone,” as he poured rum into hers.

She couldn’t help the smirk on her face. “Sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t my first.”

“Oh?” he said, looking slightly disappointed.

“There were a couple rough fights where everyone came home and we passed around a bottle to help settle the nerves.”

He nodded. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” He added more rum before handing it her. He raised his own glass. “To the new hero.”

Jostica and her mother raised theirs and drank.

“We wish you could have come back last year,” her Mother said.

“Last year was really busy. And I’d just found Jonathan, so I wanted to spend the holidays with him if I could.”

Her Dad looked away, while her Mother huffed and set her drink down. “I thought we talked about this. That man you met isn’t your Brother. Not anymore.”

Jostica’s fingers tightened around her glass. “He is my Brother. He’s the same person I’ve always known.”

“That man is a killer. A monster. I saw what he is. If you don’t believe me go look up the footage of-”

“I’ve seen it!” She held her tongue for a moment. “I’ve seen it in person.” She went to her bags and pulled out a present. She tore the wrapping off and tossed it to her Mother, who looked down at a selfie of Jostica on top of a building, smiling widely…with her arms around Jonathan.

The Last Soldier (Tales from Alsuria) [Repost from private]
By ThatWeirdFish

Benjamin shuffled awkwardly away from his unit’s bonfire as their beer made their boasting louder. He didn’t need to know how many women they had bedded… As he made his way back up the beach, he noticed the one they called the “Red Vet” sitting by himself next to a small fire. Curiosity drew the cadet closer to the copper-skinned alien.

“Hey… uh… okay if I join you?” Benjamin said, fiddling with his rifle’s strap.

Though his golden eyes were neutral as they locked onto Benjamin’s, the veteran nodded.

“Thanks, the gossip was getting to me.” Benjamin sat down on the stump across from him and set his rifle across his knees. “So… where are you from?”

The veteran said nothing as his tail flicked in the beach grass.

“Ah… do you speak common?”

Silence.

“But you understand it, right?” Benjamin cleared his throat as the veteran narrowed his eyes. “O-obviously… sorry…” His fingers drummed on his rifle barrel as he tried to come up with some way to recover from that.

The veteran’s gaze shifted from the young man to the fire between them. He then broke a nearby branch and added it to the fire. The bawdy cheering from Benjamin’s unit drowned out the popping of fresh sparks.

“I joined because my twin brother signed up,” Benjamin started after the silence became unbearable. “We were always trying to outdo each other. I bet he’s jealous that I got a planetside assignment. Why are you here?”

After studying Benjamin’s eyes for a moment, the veteran pulled out a notebook and pen from his pocket. He then wrote something down, tore out the page, and handed it to the young man. Benjamin was surprised to find it written in perfect common:

War destroyed my people and land. I fight so that others may not find the same fate.

“That’s very noble and… I’m sorry,” Benjamin dropped his gaze to the fire. “I… always wondered why you were the only one….”

The veteran shrugged with a hint of a sad smile.

Step Up (Alchemy’s Kin Universe)
By MacBoiZen

“Ya know, we coulda just used the stairs.”

The young man chuckled, walking on the edge of the multi-story office building like it was a sidewalk curb. Malik tried to regain his breath after the rather abrupt flight to the roof stole it from him. “Calais, I get it. You got air powers. Doesn’t mean you gotta show ‘em off all the time.”

“Hey, quickest way up,” he said with a smirk.

“Whatever, man,” Malik replied, dusting the gravel off his jacket. “But hey, that was a damn good speech you gave. Nice intro to the city. I bet everyone from our block was cheerin’ the whole time.”

His friend rolled his eyes. “C’mon, dude, it wasn’t that great. I was just acting for the cameras.”

“I’m bein’ serious,” he said, peering over the half-wall to the metropolis roads beneath them. Calais floated over and sat next to him, tapping his white sneakers against the stone. “I mean, look right there.”

He peered down at where Malik was pointing. He thought he could make out a small crowd in the street below, maybe a few camera flashes as well. They sounded excited from the little shouts he could discern. The faint sound of car horns could also be heard, likely from the disgruntled drivers having to maneuver around the human traffic.

A small smile crept onto his face.

“Whole lotta guys from our part of the city don’t get to come up and be a hero like you.” he continued. “After everything you did for our community, you’re a role model to those people, I’d say.”

“I was just tryna protect our neighborhood, that’s all,” Calais said. “Wasn’t about to let more people get hurt with the powers I have.”

“I think that’s why you got the job, ya dork. If you’d do anything for our home, governor must think you’ll do the same here too.” Malik nudged him with his elbow.

The retaliatory gust of air sent him back onto the gravel again.

“Well, I’ll try my best.” Calais laughed.

Left Out in the Cold
By Robin Graves

The wind blew through the trees, their branches whipping like a practiced lash. It was winter, making the fire roaring in the family room stand out all the more against the blackness of an early sunset. There was a knock at the window of a knuckle tapping cautiously. On hearing this, Adam got up from his desk, looked out into the hallway, and quietly closed his bedroom door before making his way to the window.

He peeled back the curtain, revealing the face of Dmitri huddled against the glass. “Can I come in?” asked Dmitri, a longing in his voice.

“My dad is home.” After a pause, “You know you’re not allowed here,” spoken with eyes cast downward, ashamed, embarrassed.

“You can still let me in, he doesn’t have to know.”

A harsh gust shook the curtain, draining all the warmth from the room. Adam shivered, bundling his arms tightly together, looking incredulously at his friend’s unflinching face.

“At least I think it works like that,” Dmitri continued. “Only one way to find out.” But Adam didn’t return his smile. Instead he repositioned himself, taking a wider stance and garrisoning the entry. The twinkle began to fade from Dmitri’s eyes as understanding finally crept in. “Come on, man.”

A laugh floated in from the family room. The family was huddled around the TV, watching the sitcoms that ran after dinner. Adam had excused himself from the tableau to work on his homework, knowing full well to expect this visit. It was obvious that’s why he was there in the first place. Dmitri’s face was pale in the lamp light, shining against the darkness like a lonely, dying star. His eyes flashed with a hunger Adam could feel in his bones–he wanted what he had.

“We can talk at school tomorrow.” Great boughs groaned and raked across the sky. Their two worlds faced one another through the window.

Dmitri stepped back, already bleeding into the shadows, eyes black and cold as the night. “Whatever.” In an instant he was gone, leaving Adam alone to stare out from his second-story bedroom.

The First to the Reunion (Sword Isles)
By Connor A.

Marcos was the first to arrive, and he dreaded it.

With Mercedes running late and Death attending an unexpected meeting with Ambrosius, he could not avoid having a direct conversation with his mother. Even then, both of them sat in a tense silence while the souls around them reminisced over their lives.

“Have you ever looked into a soul’s eyes?”

Marcos looked up at his mother. Isabel’s eyes stayed fixed on the papers sprawled out before her, yet he could not shake the feeling that she was looking at him. It was nerve wracking.

“Not directly,” he answered honestly. “Never had the chance to. Why do you ask?”

“I heard you were courting Death, so I assumed you would have had plenty of opportunities to see them.”

Marcos choked on his own breath. “Where the fuck—”

“Language.”

“Did you hear that?”

Isabel picked up her tea and took a slow sip before answering, “I have never been one to listen to rumors, but after Dara told me of a certain incident in the Magic District, I thought it wise to pay closer attention.”

“What incident?”

“The one where you cast a light spell directly into Lord Fianna’s eyes.”

“He was the one who walked into my light spell.”

Isabel finally looked up at Marcos. He froze, but when he saw a faint smirk on her face, he relaxed for the first time that evening.

“I am rather interested in what kind of individual he is,” she continued. “He must have a considerable amount of patience if he can withstand your impulsivity.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“The permanent spot in my study begs to differ, young man.”

And just like that, the two eased their way out of the tension from earlier and into something that resembled more like the conversations the souls were having. Marcos savored every moment of it, not knowing if it would continue once the others arrived.

Becoming Home (A Tiefling Tale/Cordelia’s Journey)
C. M. Weller

Becoming Lord Kormwind was a process, and part of that process was getting measured for his soon-to-be extensive wardrobe. Standing with his arms and legs akimbo was nothing new. Back in the Dojo, the master would make him hold two pails if Kosh had been especially mouthy. FULL pails if Kosh had hit a nerve.

“Is my lord glad to finally be home?” asked the Tailor, tape measure tracing lines around Kosh’s nearly-bare anatomy.

“Home. Hah. Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said the Tailor, diplomatically. “Expand, please.” This with the measure about his chest.

Kosh breathed in. Centering his Ki as was his habit. Then he flexed to be sure the Tailor got every possible way he could fill out a shirt. At the call of the total, he breathed out. He was not Kosh, anymore, he reminded himself. He was now and forever the Viscount Kormwind Arachis Felbourne Whitekeep, ninth of the name. And so on. As he had always been.

It would chafe, for a while, Being a Lordship. Yet it was the only place he could be secure.

*

Becoming Delia Gardener was a process. Ever since her gifts made themselves known, that process now involved learning Druidic practices so she could at least keep them from leaking everywhere. Sitting in the gardens was nothing new. Putting her bare hands into the good soil, however, was.

Blumenkrone was a good teacher, half the time. This felt like the other half.

“What am I doing again?”

“Feel the life in the soil,” he said. “Not with your senses, but your SELF.”

Huh. Clear as mud. Cordelia closed her eyes as her fingers wriggled a little. No. Not Cordelia Maripose Heartsalve Bellarin. Delia Gardener. Not-so-common maid of the inn just beginning a different thread of her life. And trying very hard not to be a disappointment, as she always had been.

Just like coming home, it fit. She could sense the living earth. It felt like… belonging.

Home
By RVMPLSTLTSKN

The temple is not cold, neither is the city, but Vienas can’t feel that far. The floor and walls are sticky with damp in places and temperate. An earthy scent permeates. She could smell the changing of seasons in the places where building met earth.

Since giving up her sight, she is more aware of her surroundings. The smells of vermin and food, sounds in the night and day, the feeling of the air, its humidity and storminess. She knew they lived in what was once, not so long ago, a kitchen. She had some memories of working here, a punishment and very formative experience. She couldn’t cook then and was made to clean. She couldn’t cook now and was unable to truly clean. She swept mostly, her soles mired in grit and pebbles until she had moved the broom enough to clear the floor. She almost had a technique now.

She wondered, reflecting on the memories she had of this place, her reason to stay, what Padas had done to resist the ascendant god. She knew her reasons, her duty to the temple and city, to her god. Would she have gone if she had known they all would?

She grew pensive while she swept slower and slower.

Was he simply stubborn, this quiet man from the sea? Did he have a family he stayed for? Did he simply not hear the call; was he protected by his god in a way she hadn’t been?

There was more to him than he showed. A depth to the careful, studious gaze. She had seen it once, unaware it would become her most precious memory. His low-caste red bronze skin and mop of hair. The way he looked around before stepping forward, cunning and blunt. The kindness and fear in his gaze. The way he held that divine sword, like he hated it but needed it. Not a god, especially not a war god, but just a quiet man doing the things that needed doing.

For his family? For home? Would he tell her, if she asked.