A Study in Velvet Options

[Burnt Sierra]

I like this

It's always nice to read something that has a really distinctive voice, and your lead character is quite the charmer. Nice use of sly humour throughout the story so far as well.

Enjoying this, please keep it coming

[Marcel Rhodes]

Hey, shall we totally not mention that this update is about three months late? Awesome. You might want to re-read the prior posts to get the feel of it, particularly if you're new.

-------

I have always been a great believer in improvisation.

There was my grandfather, who accidentally walked in on a local laird’s highly dubious private time and blackmailed him for enough land to grow sugar; there was my father, who married a rich city-cat after she caught him with his hands in the jewellery box; and there was me, who never really planned anything.

It was for this reason, and this alone, that I was having this meeting, and around this table.

“It’s been a long time, jungle cat.”

“And you, sandwalker. I believe it has been too long.”

S’krivva - for that was her name - leant back and laughed. “And if it were not for the resistance you built up with me, you would probably still be out cold or screaming about faeries.”

“I still don’t know why the Doyen of the Thieves Guild is wandering the streets like a common thief, though. Are the others resting at His Lordship’s leisure or were you just lost?”

Trust me to walk right into the leader of the local chapter; and trust me to find an old friend.

“I think you of all should remember, J’dar: I do not get lost.”

“Ha! Tell that to the thousand and one nights we slept in the streets!”

“That was not ‘lost’, you silly young cat,” S’krivva drew breath, “that was ‘lazy’.”

“These semantic details aside, good lady,” I said, grinning, “M’aiq does have a message for your own ears.”

S’krivva leant back and laughed. “The Liar! Do you not remember how I loathed him, back when we were young?”

“S’kriv, do remember that it is only you who is no longer-”

“Silence then, kitten. I know what he desires. He has desired the same thing as long as he has been Khajiit. Understand that the… current state of affairs is good for shadow-walkers like us. What possible interest do we have in his mad grand schemings?”

“My guess, my friend, would have something to do with the number of our kin the Duke and his lady are providing with free lodgings.”

The Duchess hated our kind. This would have made her a natural ally of those scaly marsh dwellers, the Argonians, if it were not for the minor detail that she hated them too. The charming lady seemed to have a problem, simply put, with anything not as pale as herself (given that she never ventured into the sun, meeting such was a tall order).

Naturally, this meant the young men and women of the noble city guard were forever finding ‘beasts’ who had committed some crime or another: you claim to be different from us, above us, but you are still pack animals, and you know who is alpha.

“We are thieves, Khajiit. Prison comes with the territory.”

“And do you not care about those who are not thieves?”

This sentence requires explanation. To some degree, ‘Khajiit’ means ‘thief’: sneaking, subtlety, and stealth are in our souls, and to us, that is more ‘thief’ than simply taking another’s things. But to get to my point, when we say that a Khajiit is not a thief, you should imagine us adding ‘just now’.

“I care for my kittens, J’dar, but,” S’krivva leant across the table, “I do not care for yours. Besides you and that mad Nordish cat, who else works their tricks with M’aiq?”

“We are more than you know, old friend, but we are not yet enough.”

“So you avoid my question? Such an obvious feint is insulting.” She smiled.

“I will not throw away our position - and thieves have ears in high places - on a wild gamble. You are here as M’aiq’s emissary, correct?”

I nodded.

“Then you are one of his best.”

“S’krivva, I am the best.”

“Then show me. I have an item that needs procuring. It is… very important. I do not exaggerate when I say that with this the benefactors will become some of the greatest thieves that ever lived.”

“Jungle burning, S’krivva, don’t tell you still want-”

“Yes.” Her eyes glinted, which was always a bad sign. “I do.

“You will find it in a fort. It is south of the city of Cheydenhal, and it is called Naso. If you bring this to me, I will be eternally in your debt.”

“Is eternity enough time for you to repay any debts, S’krivva?” I said. “I remember many things, and one of them is that you still owe me money.”

She pulled a coin out from behind her ear, and tossed it to me. “We are even,” she said, “now go.”

As I turned and made for the door, she spoke again.

“And, J’dar? Walk softly. I have already lost three operatives to that place.”

This is why improvisation has its detractors.

This post has been edited by Marcel Rhodes: Jul 25 2008, 10:37 PM

[Agent Griff]

I can totally relate to updating a story months after the last time you wrote something for it. That happens with all my stories. I write and churn updates like a machine-gun for a few days, then go in stasis for months on end. It might be writer's block, but I call it plain laid-back laziness.

Great update though. In a phrase, you might call it:

'Enter the plot-coupon'

Plot-coupons, however, are a staple part of all great stories, and I believe yours can firmly be called as such.

I simply love how J'Dar words his phrases. He has a nice and sardonic way of talking to people. Such characters make stories great or make them suck. In your case, I suspect it doesn't take much guesswork to figure out how J'Dar contributes.

[Colonel Mustard]

Very good piece here-sardonic, clever and original. J'Dar is definately one of the best fan-fic characters I've seen and this has been a joy to read. I look forward to more.

[canis216]

Excellent stuff, excellent. Everything fits so well together.

[Marcel Rhodes]

Cheers, folks. It's definitely the patter that makes J'dar. The plot coupon took a lot of thought - I changed my mind a couple of times (I edited the last post to switch a few 'thems' to 'its', after I decided not to go with the Boots of the Apostle), but I'm happy with what I've got here. Let's see how J'dar handles situations where insulting people isn't enough.

-------

A race such as mine, drowning as we are in sugar and tied as we are to the dance of the moons, knows all about lunacy.

One of the most important things about madness is that there are two types - not that one would notice, the way your kind treats anyone whose spirit softens. There is stark, raving insanity - the sort that involves painting oneself blue and pretending to be a Xivilai - and there is zi’kantha, which has an odd echo in your phrase ‘so crazy it just might work’.

I had not yet worked out which of these S’krivva had sunk into. Of course, I didn’t really care, because this was something I had to chase anyway. This was so crucial to the Guild that three operatives had died?

Regardless, S’krivva still knew me well: I simply cannot leave loose threads be. It is, in one sense, a curse - I always find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time - and, in other, a blessing - I always end up somewhere interesting.

Fort Naso could indeed be described as ‘interesting’. I had never understood why big blundering men came to the middles of forests to build their little stone huts; it was obvious that the trees were here first.

It wasn’t even as if they were at an advantage in places like this. As I walked through the door, it remained pitch-black, even with the torches lit-

Wait.

Someone had lit the torches.

I threw myself up against a dark patch of wall for cover, and raised my nose to the air. Great. Absolutely wonderful. This would not be the slightest bit difficult. I detected no major problems. No.

In case my readers are not aware, I am here struggling to convey sarcasm in print.

I could smell death. It permeated the stone, the air, the wood… consider how bad death smells to you, and then consider that we could not smell so ineffectually as you if we plugged our nostrils with cork.

My hands went to my belt, and each readied a throwing knife.

We Khajiit have, of course, an advantage in the dark. Without light, Merrunz himself would be at a disadvantage against one sharp jungle cat. It was because of this… confidence that what happened, happened.

I knew that he was not a friendly fellow the moment that I saw him. I may have dubious connections, but not even I am on good terms with old men in black robes with cowls.

Well, maybe I could be, if it wasn’t for the skeletons. Three of them, armed with very sharp-looking swords, blocking my way down the corridor.

“Thieves Guild, I suppose?”

The words, I am ashamed to admit, caught me off balance. I was not used to giving people the chance to say anything. I was most certainly not used to being asked questions.

“I belong to no Guilds, deathmaker,” I growled.

“Oh, nonsense!” The old man actually laughed. “You smell the same as the first three. I’d wager you even have the same master!”

…smell…

“What did you do with them?”

“Need you ask, cat-man?” He gestured in front of him, at the skeletons dividing us. “Don’t you recognise your colleagues?”

Me and S’krivva were going to have serious words about this.

“I’ve got Talos, Kynareth and Akatosh already: I’ve been naming them for the Nine Divines,” the old man giggled, his canines glinting uncomfortably in the dancing firelight. “You look like a Zenithar to me: lucky, but never lucky enough.”

…teeth…

“You do not know the half of it, you demented old fool,” I said coolly, adjusting my balance. “You see, the thing about luck is-”

I had no intention of finishing my sentence. A steel knife had already left my right hand, sailing straight through the skull of one of my bony foes. I didn’t know which god he was, and frankly I didn’t care. Truth be told, I was more worried about the two other skeletons.

“The perennial weakness of a man who relies on range is that his friends always get in the way.”

A shining piece of M’aiq’s wisdom. I relied on it very much as I drew two more knives, backing up slowly to keep the caster obscured. A pair of silver swords gleamed worryingly in the firelight.

“Finish him, you useless husks!” The man roared. “I am thirsty, and I wish for a drink!”

…thirst…

A sword swung. I dropped to the floor, under its swipe, and rolled backwards, rising again onto my feet. I threw a knife.

It severed one of the skeletons’ hands right at the wrist. It dropped the sword, smiling emptily, as I sent another through its head. My hands went to my belt-

And I had to duck again. As I tried to get up, a rough backswing slapped me in the jaw with the flat of the blade. I staggered, and hit the wall. I had nowhere to go. If the skeleton actually had facial muscles, I suspect it would have been smiling properly. It swung the sword again, bearing straight down on my skull.

Then the claws came out.

The thing about our claws is that they are controlled by instinct, not by choice. Normally, this is good enough for us: many of us can trick ourselves at will, bringing them under a vestige of control; those who cannot, carry swords.

I was no good at the former and too proud for the latter. Switching them with steel had not improved the matter.

I caught the blade under the claws on my right. This looks impressive, I assure you.

With all my strength, I pushed the blade sideways, away from me; it sent the last skeleton spinning in a circle, and, as it turned away from me, I grabbed its neck and pulled.

There was something of a crunching sound. The skeleton, instantly beheaded, collapsed, sending its sword skidding towards the old man. I looked up and grinned.

It did not have the effect I expected. Spellcasters usually enter paroxysms of terror when their friends are removed. Given that they are men in skirts, this is not wholly surprising.

But this one was different. This one looked at me, straight in the eye, and grinned right back.

“In that case, furball, I will eat raw.”

He tore off his cowl with the sort of force better seen on a Dremora. That face… it would be fair to say that the cowl did wonders for it. That face was scarred and sunken and soulless, and all of a sudden I realised where most of the deathsmell was coming from.

The vampire.

He leapt at me, the image of a hunting cat. I slipped to the side, and advanced with my claws, but even before he landed he had prepared a fire spell, which he sent flying in my direction with an unholy scream.

If we take as a given that my entire body is covered with fur, you will understand why I do not like fire spells. I ducked again, and lunged at the vampire. I caught him right in the face with four points of steel, and yet I didn’t cut him.

If I needed any more confirmation that this was a man with supernaturally enhanced abilities that came with the price of sharp teeth and bloodthirst, that was it.

He laughed. “Steel claws? Very cute, catman,” he said, with a sneer. “Could you perchance try something stronger - for example, a few rude words?”

Oh, jungle burning.

“I know what it is you seek!” He laughed again. “But it is beyond you. Only one of your kind ever truly mastered it, and even he was so foolish that he lost it!”

He lifted a necklace from out of his robes. A simple gold chain ran through the item S’krivva’s zi’kantha desired: a ring.

“I am not done studying this quaint little token,” he said, advancing on me. His look hardened. “It has many secrets left to yield, and I shall not be disturbed by petty thieves. It is not your fault you were sent here, but you did destroy a third of the Imperial Pantheon. That merits the death penalty, don’t you think?” As he asked, a maddened look entered his eyes, and he punched me in the face.

He really did have the strength of a Dremora. He sent me spinning across the room, skimming and rolling to a stop alongside the fallen silver of my dead predecessors.

…silver…

Talk about deus ex machina.

I grabbed a sword, silently thanked whichever god I hadn’t just metaphorically killed that had intervened, and took a stance. All of a sudden, I wasn’t woefully under equipped.

It only took one swing.

I aimed it straight at the jugular, as fast as I could. He stepped back, but I released the blade from my fingers as it swung, and that extra length brought it across his neck. As he fell to his knees, clutching his throat, the necklace, severed, fell to the floor and the ring ran free.

Finally, S’krivva’s childhood dreams would be realised.

I slipped it on my finger and turned invisible, as the mad vampire struggled for breath.

“The thing about luck,” said the air, “is to take your chances.”

This post has been edited by Marcel Rhodes: Aug 1 2008, 04:01 PM

[Agent Griff]

Great follow-up with the battle against this vampire necromancer!

I especially liked the vampire's quiet confidence but it was pretty stupid of him to arm his minions with silver-coated weapons. Oh well, the kind of luck only a leading character can have.

[Marcel Rhodes]

Yeah, I was kinda obliged to give him that way out. I was considering getting J'dar to pontificate for a bit about the raw idiocy of leaving your one weakness lying around in sharp, weaponised forms, but it would've totally ruined the last line, and if there's one thing I like doing, it's pithy one-liners.

[Agent Griff]

But when J'dar slips on the ring, does he turn invisible? At first I didn't understand who was speaking. I thought it was a parody on the narrators seen in some works of fiction and movies who seem to speak out of thin air at first, but then I started thinking about the Ring of Power from LOTR.

Hm, is J'dar now the Ring-Bearer?

[Marcel Rhodes]

All I can say on that front is that, although J'dar does have hairy feet, he is taller than four foot five.

I might edit that last section to make it more clear, come to think of it. But it'll have to be tomorrow.

[Colonel Mustard]

Damn good as always Marcel. I especially liked "It did not have the effect I expected. Spellcasters usually enter paroxysms of terror when their friends are removed. Given that they are men in skirts, this is not wholly surprising."
Good show old boy, good show!

[canis216]

Very nice work. I love it.

[bbqplatypus]

I just got around to reading this, and I must say it is VERY good. What I like most about this story is the cultural atmosphere and attitude you've been able to establish. There are all kinds of little turns of phrases that contribute to this.

My favorite quote so far is "The Golden Galleon is a story, it is a lie, it is a legend, it is an urban myth; it is, indeed, many words and phrases which imply falsehood..."

[Marcel Rhodes]

I like that one too, Platypus, which is why I shoved it in my sig, but I'm starting to think I prefer "I would of course love to stay and talk, but I am actually lying when I say that, so… you get my idea."

I'm starting to worry I'm pushing this Khajiit 'tone' of voice a little too far in this piece, but I still like it: I invite critical comments.

-------

“The Ring of Khajiit,” S’krivva sighed, from somewhere in the room. “This is… interesting.”

“Do you know what has interested me of late, S’kriv?” I asked. “In order of importance: The Real Barenziah, the question of whether magic or a pick is most suitable for a rotting door-”

“Use a magic pick.”

“-and fighting the last three souls you sent after this toy, minus their flesh, plus a vampiric deathmaker.”

She took off the ring, and put it down on the table between us. “Their ends are not news, J’dar,” she said, “as you well know.” She began pacing up and down the room like a caged wolf. “It does not make for a story for kittens, it is true, but the value! This artefact will make kings into paupers and gods into men.”

“Both of those events, S’kriv, are nothing new.”

She grinned. “I suspected we would come to history soon enough.”

“History is a very interesting study, sandwalker,” I said, picking up the ring and watching her eyes follow, “most of all, that of debts owed.”

-------

It was a reasonably short ride to Leyawiin. I say ‘short’. In this day and age, one’s best method for timekeeping was to count the highwaymen. The sun might melt, and Masser and Secunda could return to the void, but bandits would still appear on the Emperor’s roads more reliably than clockwork.

Of course, at that point there was no Emperor.

In honesty, not a soul seemed to have noticed. A man in a skirt may have summoned a dragon god in the skies of the Imperial City, and a mer in a dress may have attempted to hold the Empire together, and it may have become the fashion for Daedric influences to show up wherever their inexplicable desires, well, desired, but I have always suspected that the only way to get a point across to a man of Leyawiin would be to ram a wooden one in his face.

It was for this reason that a Leyawiin separatist group could meet in a bar.

“I don’t trust that mad Thieves’ Guild girl,” Si’valit (do you remember? She had an axe!) noted, as politely as a Nordish cat could. “You know what she thinks of our struggle.”

“Si’,” M’aiq said, with the beginnings of a smile on his face, “if you are willing to ‘struggle’, as you put it, for Khajiit, you should also be willing to talk like Khajiit.”

“Can she help it?” I asked, playing along. “Is it her fault she spent twelve months on the snow-covered edge of the world speaking that dull tongue?

“Oh wait,” I shrugged, “yes, yes it is.”

Si’ glared at me. Frankly, I was not surprised. Still, it had the effect that M’aiq intended: we lapsed back into Ta’agra, which is the best tongue for telling secrets.

M’aiq downed his flin and spoke. “As we were saying: the fact that those abominations in your hands stopped a blade, J’dar, does not make them a wise investment.”

I grinned. “At the rate the Empire’s economy is sinking, I shall be able to sell them back at a profit.”

“Less of that, jungle cat. It is an important point; you can barely control the things. Between that and your hopelessly short knives, how do you intend to survive a real battle?”

I leant back on my chair. “M’aiq, let me tell you a story about my grandfather-”

“Do you know what saved you, J’dar?” Si’ suddenly hissed from beside us. “It was not your temperamental metal hands, and it was not your assassin’s knives, and it most certainly,” she snorted, “was not your useless magic. It was a sword, J’dar.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What are you implying?”

She leant across the table, fire in hers. “I am implying that it is time you gave up this mad nonsense and carried a real weapon.” She unhefted her axe. “Do you see this, J’dar? This is a real weapon. The Nords are not as stupid as they look.” She held it out to me. “Try lifting that.”

It must have weighed as much as myself. Straining to lift it to a combat stance, it slipped out of my hands, the handle smacking my foot. OW. As I sat down, nursing my foot and cursing under my breath, Si’valit picked it up and continued.

“You are weak, skooma fiend,” she said, as the patrons turned to watch the stupid kitties playing with the axe, “and that will kill you. Claws may have kept you alive in the Senchal alleys, but here, you need a sword.”

I stood up.

“That is interesting,” I forced a smile, “given that I never needed one to beat you.”

We looked at each other.

It is generally considered bad etiquette for a male and a female to come to blows. It harkens back, once again, to the deserts: it is not so much that females are weaker - they are so by birth, but not by destiny - as it is a simple fact that fights that remove members of both genders from a breeding population is tantamount to tribal suicide.

This gave M’aiq time to intervene.

Before we had time to think, he was on his feet, a hand on both our shoulders. He muttered a word, and I instantly lost all feeling in my body.

“They call this spell ‘paralysis’,” said M’aiq, as we toppled, “but I prefer ‘peacemaker’”.

It was a short effect. Consider the amount of effort one invests in tying someone up, or cutting all their tendons, and realise that even a nine-tenths saving of energy still asks very much of a caster.

Si’ said not a word as she got to her feet, unsteadily. Neither did I.

“In the name of all that is sweet and holy!” M’aiq roared. He seemed to grow in size, as if his robes were filling out from the inside. “Here, now, after everything we have seen, you choose to scuffle like moonless kittens? You are many years more than a month old, children, and the moons have chosen your forms. There is no excuse for this. None!

“Si’valit, you are dismissed. Leave this room, and do not return tonight.”

With a last piercing stare at me, the Nordish Khajiit turned on her heel and slunk away. It stung.

“As for you, mad city cat,” M’aiq gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

I sat. There are times to resist orders, and this was not one of them.

“She does it for your sake, you know,” he said, softly. He caught me by surprise: I had expected him to turn me inside out with words alone.

“She knows you, J’dar; better than I, at any rate. I, for one, totally fail to understand your… decisions, at times.

“She cares for you, young one, and she fears for your safety.”

“M’aiq, if you had not so adroitly stopped us from moving, I suspect she would have given herself more things to be afraid of.”

He waved a hand. “Enough of this. We shall speak again tomorrow, of your next assignment. I do not approve of your style, but you finish what you start. Go.”

I rose, and headed for the door. “More skooma, city cat?”

“Yes,” I said, with a grin, “I always finish what I start.” As I turned to the door again, I heard him speak again.

“Tell me, J’dar: what did your old friend ask you to find?”

I laughed, loud and harsh. I reached into my pocket, and I brought out a simple trinket. It was a ring. “This, my friend. I thought that, if it must cost three lives, it should go with one who saves them.”

M’aiq smiled. He twisted a finger, and the ring shot across the room into his outstretched hand.

“In that case, I should hold onto it for now.”

This post has been edited by Marcel Rhodes: Aug 7 2008, 12:54 AM

[Marcel Rhodes]

Hey folks. Yes, I know, three months late, et cetera, your father and I just don't know what to do with you, et cetera. I've been tied up with my professional projects and my move to Aberdeen, which is a lovely city (sorry, did I say 'lovely'? I meant 'not lovely'). Still, most of that's out of the way now, so I've managed to cobble something together. Enjoy!

-------

Skooma has numerous side effects. There are the well-known ones, such as turning your mind to mash, eliminating your motor skills, driving you mad, consuming your soul, and being as addictive as air, but there are others. The most important one is what it does to your dreams.

I tossed and turned under the thin sheets. It had been a good night, in that sense, but Si’valit had the ability to put a dampener on anything. That was the sort of cat she was. She had been since I met her, all those years ago.

It was to there that my thoughts wandered - no, were forced - as I simultaneously froze and melted in the numbing heat.

---

We burned the Plague Quarter back in the Second Era. Before it earned that title, it had been the pride of Senchal; a cat from here could buy your entire Empire with a few petty trinkets.

The stories are divided on the wisdom of our action. If you ask the sailors, our fires angered the gods. If you ask the locals, then the gods started it, not us.

But we tore the heart out of it, like Lorkhaj. It has been two Eras since our ancestors writhed with a malady beyond the influence of the Mane himself, and yet those charred husks still tower above the city like rotting giants. And where there are carcasses, there are vultures.

That was what they called us.

No dungeon, bank or manor has ever been as thoroughly picked over as the remnants of the Plague Quarter. Two Eras of hosting the desperate dregs of a port city had done nothing for the décor.

Imagine, if you will, that you have a talent for flight. Perhaps you are a true scavenger bird. So, as you swing down over the city searching for prey, one particular feature would grab your attention.

People never stopped dying in the Plague Quarter. We were poor, we were hungry, and we were mad; any one of these is considered a challenge, but all three in concert moves into far more serious territory. So you, our scavenger, are naturally interested by the body propped up against a crumbling fountain, lying as still as the rainwater filling the basin to the brim.

This, I believe, is your cue to circle slowly.

Such a laborious approach (why must you take so long?) gives you considerable time to assess the state of play in this city. To the south, you can still see the port; to the east, you see the new Noble Quarter: built on the open plan we so love, with green and verdant squares inside each and every home. The west, the sea; the north, us.

I can only assume that you are some kind of cultural boor, because you are circling ever lower.

They built this place out of granite. They quarried that grey sparkling stone out of the cliffs a hundred miles to the north, just because they could. How that exuberance is mocked by the black charcoal stains on every wall! As you drop, the soot should form shapes; pointed peaks mirror the fires that pointed straight up, presumably to get the gods’ attention.

Not that it helped, of course.

Bodies were nothing new in the Plague Quarter. Your avian self survives on them, when you are not taking our livestock from the fields; truth told, more concern is raised over the latter than the former.

It is for this reason, as you settle beside the still body and crane over its chest, that you find yourself extremely surprised by the hand that has shot out around your neck.

I snapped your spine in half neatly, stretched awkwardly (have you ever lain still against stone for five hours? I think not), and proceeded to eat for the first time in three days. I do apologise, but needs must.

Have you ever starved? I do not mean in the sense of ‘I think it’s time for dinner’, or ‘I’m so hungry I could eat a horse’. I mean in the sense of a rumbling pain that consumes you, constricts you, mocks you - like your soul is fighting to get out of a breathing tomb. A desperate need - there is a reason that such needs can be called ‘hungers’ - to feed, to survive; to sacrifice everything that you have ever been for an all-important now, chasing sustenance more than any sugar in the world.

It was at that point, just as I was about to assuage the animal roaring of my stomach, that an arrow neatly parted the hair on my head.

[canis216]

Interesting flashback. I look forward to seeing where you take it.

[treydog]

One of my "start of autumn" resolutions was to read more of the work being done here at Chorrol.

And it was my great good fortune that this story was one of the first....

You asked for critical input; you mentioned that you feared you were coming on too strong with J'Dar's voice.... My considered opinion:

Don't change anything! And now go back and write some more! Please?

[mplantinga]

I have to say that I just decided to give this story a read-through today, and I've enjoyed it very much so far. I think your main character is quite compelling, and the choice to make M'Aiq feature so strongly is unique and refreshing. I hope to see more of this story in the future.

[Kiln]

Yeah I think most of the writers here understand the how difficult it is to update consistently. Gotta say I often write short stories myself because I end up starting something I believe I'll have time to finish but things get hectic and I just lose the inspiration I had. Thats the only real downside about waiting months between writing, there's always a chance you'll simply not want to continue a story.

Eh enough rambling, continue please...I was just saying that I hope you update more frequently so you don't decide not to finish it.

[Marcel Rhodes]

Hey folks, thanks for all the feedback. I've been a little bogged down with university (my fee-paying body still hasn't bothered to, well, pay me the money they owe me, and it's been two months), but I can say that another installment is in the pipeline. It might even be done today, but please continue to breathe in and out.