The Wedding Reception

The stink of the seashore loomed heavily in the humid night air as Neverlin took another long swig from the bottle of blackberry wine. Smacking his lips, he slunk against the side of an abandoned warehouse. He strained to keep his eyes open as the soporific effects of the sweet liquor dulled his senses.  Normally, he did not condone drinking to excess, being a firm believer in keeping one’s facilities optimal.

But it had been a particularly tough week and the life he led now seemed a grim caricature of the one he envisioned.  So he sighed and indulged himself with another swallow.

Everything was neat and elegant, just as he liked it.

The granite dining table set with a complete service of silver-gilt flatware, rich cut glass, and fine burgundy napkins of the softest silk. The Necromancer sat motionless at the head of the ornate table, his index fingers pressed to his lips in thought. The lengthy candles cradled in a pair of five-branched candelabras were burnt down to mere stubs.* Covered plates containing his favorite dish had long grown cold. He finally let out a long, disappointed sigh, resigning himself to the obvious.

That mendacious cunt had stood him up.

Hot Gardack Nights

A mosquito zipped and buzzed about the mammothskin tent, bumping up futilely against the soot covered ceiling searching for an escape.  Neverlin sighed, dabbing the moister from his forehead with a silk napkin and sunk deeper into an arrangement of satin pillows.  Even in the late evening the sticky hot weather was intolerable, and he was sweating like a virgin in the Pyramid of Ancients.  A pile of searing red coals in the center of the tent certainly didn’t help matters either. The mosquito dove towards him suddenly, perilously close, but still just out of the Necromancer’s grasp. With a blink, Neverlin snuffed the life force out of the tiny insect and watched it spiral downward onto the smoldering coals, incinerating it with a faint sizzle.

He really hated the swamps.

“It’s called a blind spot.” 

Mandisa’s sour expression remained the same, Neverlin sighed.  Time was short and the concept complex, but he knew Mandisa required a more comprehensive explanation to ensure her participation. He must focus, but found himself distracted with the impudent Fenixx at Mandisa’s side.  It irked him terribly to watch this concupiscent jackal sniffing around the priestess.  The Herald had a taste for Tempests. Last week Sekhmitt, this week Mandisa…next week who knows, perhaps Satet-Ka. Neverlin wondered briefly if Mandisa would cave to the demon’s steady stream of smooth lines and juvenile innuendos.  He blocked the thought from his mind and breathed deeply, setting to his task. 

It was midday, yet still she felt chilly, unaccustomed to the gentle sun of the Northern lands. Or maybe these were the recent changes in her body, due to almost constant use of Xotli's powers. Going back wasn't easy. Her guise as a priestess made her forget, no wonder - humans forget easily. The body forgot, and although the pain was gone from the arms and back, the memory of it still lingered: training without a day's rest with that sword wasn't easy.