The Adventures of Pyroclast Dragonlord: Blood Spilt Summer's mire of heat and humidity certainly made hauling that sack of old clothes a jovial highlight of the afternoon. I realized, as I lumbered across the parking lot, that separating it all into two trash bags rather than stuffing the seams of this one would have been much easier. Also, I should have left my sweating to-go cup in the car. Condensation dribbled from my wrist to elbow. Whatever. Worth it. Dr Pepper is my lifeblood. I couldn't risk it turning to lava in my car. I glared up at the store logo. Surely the colors had been picked by someone who preferred echolocation to view the world. I'd never been to this re-sale store before, but when I heard it actually gave money for your donation, I'd spent all morning pouring through my plastic drawers for things I would never wear again. Not exactly my idea of a riveting Wednesday morn, but I'm the kind of poor where all I had left to spend was time. When I entered the store, a two-fold process unleashed upon me. One: eternal winter bit into my skin and froze the marrow of my core; this they called air conditioning. And two: a dawning realization suggested that this very store housed every abandoned dream anyone ever had of growing up to be Brittany Spears. "Excuse me?" Some girl basically interrupted my dumbfounded stare to shove right past me. Her expert grace bumped my drenched drink right against my boob, but by the time I scowled over my shoulder, she'd already escaped out the door. I dropped my bag to brush at the watermark on my shirt, growling under my breath, "What's your first-world problem?" I realized a tween accidentally stared while I wiped wet off my boob. "What??" I barked and suddenly she became very interested in the purses. At last, I lumbered over to the sparkly "Cash for Clothes" counter. I hauled my bag on top only to trigger a booby-trap reaction. The speed of light exited the clerk's mouth. "HiHowareyouLet'shavealookatwhatyoubroughtinthen?" Like a pokemon stunned, I did nothing through the next few moments despite the grave pain they brought me. She yanked out, scrutinized and re-folded each piece of the last 5 years of my fashion sense, each iteration of it grating deeper and deeper into my nerves. I don't know what my type is, but nega-Gap-ninjas are super effective against it. As she worked, a poker face crusting over her expression, I couldn't help but stare unnervingly at what adorned the counter. Cheap jewelry lay safe under glass, fake-metallic stilettos stood beside sequined open-knit scarves, and sparkly tank-tops mounted the walls sporting 'cute' four-letter words. I glanced back at the worker as her eyes flicked over my shirt with the Nintendo controller on it. The clothing ninja folded it all back up and stuffed everything into the trash sack. She then talked in a normal pace, as if she felt the need to slow down for me--which, granted, was true, but not for the reason she thought. "Alright, so? What we're looking for are clothes that really pop? Something that really says something about your personality? The kind of thing you'd wear to a party? I'm telling you for next time?" She pushed the bag back towards me, "Because there's nothing here we'd pay money for. But feel free to shop around?" We stared at each other for a moment. Blood roared in my ears. The longer the moment grew, the more her poker-face turned into an air of 'Leave.' I kept the next words out of my mouth level. Very level. "Do they make you say that to everyone, or are you making fun of me?" Her eyes rolled as she popped her gum. "Whatdoyouthink?" My eyebrows raised far more calmly than my blood pressure. My head tilted down, and down until I glared at her over my glasses. The ice clinked in the plastic cup I held, large beads of condensation audibly dripping to the sort-of-carpet below. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, the cup tilted. My hand turned from upright to thumb-down like an ancient Roman sign of damnation. Dr Pepper dribbled from the slit, streaming down the straw, splattering as high as the knee of my jeans. The lid held, and she only stared, jaw-dropped, as my upturned cup just pissed everywhere. I forced myself to hold my gaze steady, very aware of the syrup soaking into the mesh of my hiking boot. The final drops faded out with sloshes of settling ice. Just as slowly, my hand turned the cup upright again and I stretched my arm out to her, pro-offering the souvenir. "Could you throw that away for me?" The cup dropped to the counter, wobbled, and settled standing. I whipped the bag over my shoulder, side-stepping to keep my balance and began for the door. Not sure if my malicious plan required me to stare expressionlessly straight ahead, or to keep 'intimidating' eye-contact, I ended up alternating between the two. Either way, the door's jingle released me back into the bog of summer. I trudged back to the car, blood spilt.

The Adventures of Pyroclast Dragonlord: Money Equals Power During dinner that breezy fall evening, I happened to be the only one not drinking. I'm not sure if that's important, but it feels like it should be. I sipped at my craft ginger ale, not just because real ginger is one of the greatest joys of life, but because when people I hardly know spend a lot of money on me, it makes me very uncomfortable. Thus the lack of booze. But meeting the SO's folks always ended the same: free food whether you liked it or not. And if they really wanted to go to the most expensive place in town, fine whatever, that wouldn't stop me from having me a real ginger ale. "So do you two come here often, then?" his mom asked. He made that awkward laugh that he only uses when he's trying really hard not to sound awkward. Kind of an obvious tell. "Maybe if I had a million bucks!" "I do have a million bucks." Stepdad finished off his second beer, and the appetizers hadn't even arrived. "I tell you, it's a nice feeling." Gloat did not begin to describe that petty grin. Suddenly I didn't feel so bad about the free meal. "And you're never going to make a million bucks working at that--where do you work again?" The man tilted his head up so he could look down at his stepson. "I work for an optometrist, Bill," he murmured over the lip of his bottle. "It's not exactly my long-term--" "Do we need another round here?" The tall waitress, though all smile, hid a hint of surprise to her voice. Bill spoke up first, "Good timing, Sweet Cheeks. I'll have another one of these, she wants wine, and get these two wimps stouts," he pointed to his two stepsons. "Put some hair on those chests." You've clearly never seen my boyfriend's chest. It's the Congo. "And..." the moment he looked at me, I quickly spoke up. "Still nursing this ginger ale, thank you. Fantastic flavor." K, thanks, bye. Mom-to-be-Impressed took that opportunity to segue, and got so far as a breath and eye contact with me before-- "See this is what you have to look forward to!" Bill used his bottle to point the accusation at the younger of his stepsons. He then motioned significantly at my boyfriend. "Majoring in computer science is no better than majoring in music! Computer hacks are a dime a dozen! No one will want to hire you!" As the two boys examined their navels, I found my eyebrows raising. I caught myself looking the fat bull head-on. "And what do you do?" SO's Momma quickly interjected. I tilted my head, but met her gaze before my delay became rude, and replied, "I'm a medical coder, at the moment completing a credentialing externship." The sound of Bill's slap to the innocent table jarred me nearly from my seat. "See? This is exactly what I'm talking about! Your job is nothing but a drain on the economy!" Instinct gathered my shoulders square with his. My level gaze became a fortress to his virulent grin. He didn't notice. "You ought to be ashamed with this whole 'Obama Care' bullshit!" Through every word, my head tilted slightly lower, the daggers from my eyes shooting through the rims of my glasses. "You kids have no idea what real work is and you want to just drift through life never making something of yourselves!" I could feel a burning heat lifting from me, so it only follows that hellfire must have begun blazing at my back. My boyfriend and his brother both quietly leaned away from me. My tells aren't so much obvious as they are a visceral body language which triggers an imbedded instinct for survival in all those around me. And then my laugh melted over them, icy and sharp, and entirely humorless. It stopped the bull in his tracks. "I'm sorry! Wow! It's just funny how you think you can come to my town, waltz into my home, and insult my country, president, and career! And then think that dinner and a couple of rounds earns you a sheepish 'Yessir' from me?!" Three jaws dropped. But The Bull seethed red. "Without credentialing, there wouldn't be modern medicine! We can argue about whether or not people 'deserve' heath care until your red. Hick. Face turns blue. But the fact of the matter is, your country and your president decided that this is a thing we're going to do, just like--I dunno--every other developed nation of the goddamn world! And that means someone has to credential these doctors with it all! Then we're going to need medical coders to help manage chronic illnesses so that we know who needs that money and how much. You know, so that--just maybe--we can keep people from dying!" As steam snorted from the Bull's nostrils, taunted by the red flame of my indignation, the waitress quickly distributed beer out amongst the table. "I--ha! Ha! Ha... have your next round! Your food is just behind me!" But I had thrown down the gauntlet. A war verged on breaking. So I twisted the Bull's horns against him. "Oh, Karen?" Yes, I remembered the waitress' damn name. "I'm ready for another drink now. Could you make me a Moscow mule with one of these craft ginger ale's?" I showed her my empty bottle for reference. "Yeah we can definitely manage that..." she looked from me to the man of the table, "but it'll be the price of both drinks." I looked that Bull right in the eye to watch the killing blow. "That's fine. Just put my meal and drinks on a separate ticket." Gloat did not begin to describe my petty grin as I watched his rage drain into pallor when he realized that even his millions held nothing over me.

The Adventures of Pyroclast Dragonlord: The Bystander Effect Nothing brought a sigh of relief like the dock to mainland. Sea breezes twined through the trees on the hills, their dark foliage showing the first changes to autumn purple. The sun dipping into the cold ocean, shot long shadows over the crumbling slopes. Lapping waves shattered against the shoreline and pulled at the abandoned structures. Years before, the cataclysmic tsunami had cracked these stone beaches, but new docks were built, new torii erected, and just as always the greenest adventurers gathered, waiting for that iconic royal blue frigate to ferry them to greater things. Four of us waited today, and the beauty made it worth the wait. We each politely ignored one another. At our stage of the game, it took only a glace to realize the fair quality of the young priestess behind me, and that the restless hunter at the edge of the pier enjoyed money given his shining heirlooms, and the elf hanging back awkwardly in the most basic of garb, holding only a wrapped bo staff was a... well the politically correct term would be "novice." The hunter fidgeted, as if the faster he tapped, the sooner the boat would arrive. The priestess stood motionless, likely working out a suitable organization to her skillset behind those calculating eyes. I myself lounged in the moment of peace. But for one among us, the world felt fresh and untarnished. That elf was exuberant. I.E. talkative, "I really like those mounts in the city." He meant the elvish capitol up the hill. No response. I don't think the priest even blinked. "If I give u gold would u buy me a mount?" I looked back at the elf drood in disbelief. How old was this guy? I right clicked on his name to explain the saber tooth tigers to him. It's not like buying booze for your little brother; if you can't buy the mount yourself, it's because you can't ride it. But, for some reason I hesitated. Much like opening my mouth just to close it again, I backed out of the whisper window without saying anything. I like to think of myself as the kind of person who corrects a neophyte before a troll makes off with their gold, but something hungry lingered about this kid's excitement. Like he was ready to suction onto the first person to acknowledge his existence and beg, 'show me your ways!' Besides, maybe one of the other two had whispered him in the time it took me to second-guess. The hunter clearly needed something to do. "If I give u gold would u buy me a mount?" he repeated like a macro. But now, the silence had become commitment. I'd chosen not to engage. The passing moments chewed at my nerves like mice. Something felt off... Something had changed... Something seemed annoyingly quiet... ...The hunter had stopped fidgeting. From the edge of the dock, he turned, unfurled a red flag, and like throwing down the gauntlet, speared the challenge banner between him and the young elf. Here? On a pier? There was no room to spar, especially for the overly armored hunter who had nothing but ocean to his back. Did he really think his expensive bow would save him once that drood took cat form pinned him beneath panther claws? But something in the hunter's grin made me feel I was missing a very conniving strategy. The flag flapped wildly in the harsh ocean breeze, and I watched the hesitation in the kid’s eyes. I could read what went through his mind as easily as remembering the first time someone sunk that flag at my feet: What's this? A spar to pass some lazy time? Oh why not? Let's see what it's like. I drew a breath, but I didn't shout, 'Don't!' In one fluid motion the elf fell to all fours, bones shifting, fur spreading over his skin. With sharp teeth, and deadly claws, the druid panther leapt. The hunter stood poised, bolt drawn, heel to the edge of the dock. But the arrow was not tipped. It was weighted. The royal frigate approached. With a crack of the bow, the blunt weight struck the kid smack between the eyes. The concussive blow felled the cat to the wooden dock with a resounding clunk. Stunned, the druid shook the disorientation from his head. The ship, sailed by the magic of one's and zero's, wouldn't really port in the usual sense, but only granted a few moments for adventurers to jump on and go. Having missed far too many ships in my time, I leapt onto the deck given my first chance. The priestess ran on. The hunter only had to step back. That's when the real onslaught began. The elf placed a dark paw beneath himself; the hunter stuck it with a weighted arrow. The elf struggled to his feet; the hunter knocked him down again. As the frigate pulled away from the dock, I watched that druid fight his way through the battering arrows, running for a desperate leap to the deck of the ship. The ship pulled away, and he skid to a stop before plunging into the ocean. The hunter spat out laughter. The priestess just stood motionless again. And the elf watched us go with large, feline eyes. And I felt that accidental decision of silence like a hot iron rod in my spine. "Oh fuck this shit!" I managed to snap the priestess's attention into eye-contact and I shot a pointing finger at the hunter. "Report him for griefing!" In the moment before the frigate zoned into intercontinental waters, I ran for the ledge. One foot on the lip of the deck launched me from the edge of the ship into a swan dive. The plunge into roaring, frigid saltiness shocked the air from my lungs. I tumbled in the ship's wake until the arch of my back regained my control in the tide and waves. Breast-stroking to shore, I finally pulled myself onto the slick rocks, my sinuses stinging with salt, the ocean bogging down my armor, and my lungs smarting with the effort. I clambered up the boulders to the pier. "Hey." I stood there. Dripping. The elf sat on his haunches at the end of the dock staring after the ship now long gone. He turned his big, glistening eyes my way and sniffled at me. Panther fur receded, his thighs lengthened, and his paws formed hands. The elf stood to face me. Dark welts already swelled all over his body. Wiping blood from his nose, he looked up at me. I stared into pained eyes, unable to miss the fresh blood around the iris. "I just watned to get the hell away for a while u know?" I knew. In fact, I too came here to give my unhappy life for the alliance. I just stared sympathetically back at him as he spit blood into the sea. "When you're 20, you'll be prompted to get a riding license. Then you can buy that mount." He looked at me sideways, still cupping his hand to his bleeding nose. Crossing my arms against the chill wind, I walked abreast with him. "Life sucks. I know." I sighed, "And sometimes you just want to be somewhere life isn't. And this place ...is just another shade of hell." The elf glanced up at me, and I met his gaze. "But it's not usually this bitter of a shade." He sucked at his bleeding lip and stared into the ocean. I looked off into the low sun. "Brb. Stay here." I disappeared from the dock just long enough to exit, swap, and load. Like a myth of homeliness melting into a goddess, my cheap leather armor flurried into skillfully embroidered robes. Runes rippled with magic across my crimson armor as I stepped back to the dock. I walked to him with the kind of symmetry, and magnificence which could only be earned in long hours of expertise. My black gloves, adorned with fractals, undulated like flames with the magic ricocheting between my palms. The power grew greater and bluer. At last the spell cast and I reached out to place the portal through space-time in the middle of the dock. "Click it," I told him. "Same place the ship goes. You'll just find yourself in a tower rather than the port." The sadness in his brown eyes ebbed in the tear-blue glow of the portal. That look of gratitude could conquer a lifetime of loneliness. He reached through the portal, and--at least I hope--got the hell away for a while.

The Songs of Skyrunner Taroteye: Tells "I fold." Pyroclast's words hit like a rock dropped in my stomach. With that, all the fun had finally drained from this game. "No! You're not allowed to fold! I finally got lucky this hand!" I shoved my five cards in her face forcing Py to lean back sharply into her masses of frizzy, brown curls. With a smirk she took them from me and shuffled. "And that's exactly why I fold." "Ugh! I don't understand! Even when counting cards you're still beating me!" I wailed. Py looked back then forth at the three decks between her two hands. "You're still counting cards?" "Admittedly the math gets harder the more decks you add--" "No shit!" "--but statistically I should have won at least one hand by now! How can I be so bad at this?" I clutched at my head, my knees tucked under my chin. It actually hurt how much I failed. "Yeah," Pyroclast teased me, "how is a psychic so bad at poker?" That word always put a bad taste in my mouth. I smacked and glared up at the tipsy dealer. That shit-eating grin. "I'm no more a psychic than you are a magician," I retorted. "Hey now." In a buzz of bending cards, she bridged the decks impressively. "Don't go insulting magicians. They know how to slight-of-hand spiders into your pudding." Without moving my knees, I nabbed my hard cider and glugged at the bottle in a way that made the sour, pear fizz accidentally go up my nose. I wiggled my sinuses. She dealt me a new hand. I glowered. "I'm bad at this." "You're empathic!" Py exclaimed. "Stop counting cards and start reading me! Just empath if I'm lying or not!" That's not a verb. That's not a word! "That's not how empathy works." Py leaned back on her hand with plenty of room to stretch out since we were playing on the floor. She guzzled her cider and wiggled her toes, maybe to see if she could still feel them. "So how does it work, then?" I put my head to my knees, my hair sliding over my shoulders in waves and curls. "I can't read your mind, or 'just tell if you're lying or not,'" I moaned. I looked up at her, pleading for her to understand. "I read people's intent." Rather than adding her empty bottle to the other three in a diamond shape, she actually balanced it on top of them. Py looked back at me with interest. The tilt of her head said, Go on...? "When people talk, I don't just hear what they say, but why they're saying it. If someone lies, I can hear them hiding. From there it's just logic to find the probable lie and guess the probable reality. But with cards!" I spread my hands emphatically over the untouched deal, "I can't tell a damn thing! The intent is always, 'I'm trying to win!' 'I'm trying to win!' 'I'm trying to win!!' Everything anyone ever does in a game is to win! It's not a lie if bluffing is legal in the rules! It's not deception if throwing off your opponent is the point of the game!" I scrunched my eyes and play-pounded my fists against the air. "All I'm reading off you is, 'I want to win!'" Py snorted a laugh. "Well I can read you like a book! You wear your emotions" "'On my sleeve,' I know," I said along with her. "I always have," I admitted. "It just doesn't seem fair to hide them when other people can't hide them from me. All I ever do is read people's emotions before they even realize they're feeling them." Pyroclast sighed with a smile. She flipped my curls back behind my shoulders to reveal my face. Popping the cap off the last cider, my friend offered it to me. Pouting not at Py, but at the inner depth of my own ineptitude, I gratefully took it and sipped. "Cmon." Py picked up her cards. "One more hand, then you can grind me into a pulp at Tetris." A bit of love returned to my heart and a bit of smile to my face. "Yay." We anteed. "One card," I asked. Py dealt for me, then said, "Two." The miniscule hesitation before her draw screamed like a neon sign to me. "Stop trying to lose!" Py shot a bug-eyed frown at me. "How the fuck do you do that?!?"

The Songs of Skyrunner Taroteye: The Road Not Taken The problem with being empathic is that you can't really hate anyone. This guy named Dave acted obnoxious, xenophobic, and he had no curb to his temper. But, whereas Pyroclast couldn't quite bring herself to be friends with anyone, I could never quite bring myself to be enemies with anyone. Not because I didn't lack the courage to stand up to someone. Instead, I over-abundantly understood their misery. Regardless of my opinion, Dave had earned Py's respect, which seemed to be the closest thing to friendship that someone incapable of trust gets. We put up with him in favor of the company of his wife, and he put up with us for the same reason. One time that summer, I sat on the bench of his deck, watching the sun set behind the shining leaves of the paper birch. The clouds bled with beauty. Dave lounged in a chair, his feet on the bench, drinking beer and smoking a cigar. He celebrated his status as a newlywed, and new home-owner, and new aficionado at life. He'd earned every puff. The party roaring on inside, Py closed the sliding door behind her, joining us in the quiet. Py never was one to miss such a sunset. She took up the other lawn chair and Dave passed her the cigar. After a few puffs and a compliment to the flavor, she offered it back. "Keep it. I'm done." Dave gazed out over his yard. His home. He sighed. Very little else exchanged between them, yet through the haze of the smoke, something very clear happened. Like looking through to an alternate universe where their souls and subconscious spoke but their voices did not, I watched what really happened. I heard everything they didn't say. Empathic sight pierced through it all, and they didn't even know I heard the truth: "After tonight, we won't be friends." Py looked at the cigar. "Oh, so sharing your cigar isn't finally acceptance, but rather goodbye." "How do you think I could accept you, now that I know what you've done?" Dave didn't even know he was thinking that, he had buried it so deep under denial. "I expected you'd be happy for me." Py didn't even know she had expected that until everyone's response. She didn't even know there could be another way to react until no one reacted well. Dave's temper flared across him. "Damn it, Py! I'm the one who's supposed to be happy!" I could read this in his eyes. "I married the person who loves me most in this world! I own this house and poured my sweat into it!" Dave's work on the tree impressed me. It had been trying to dismantle the deck with shoots which he'd actually sawed and axed back with his bare hands. "This is my summer, with my sunset, my beer and my cigar! How can you be happier than me!?" His soul screamed. Pyroclast tried to blow a smoke ring. "Because." She would never have flinched at this. "My battle is over." The turmoil of anger and regret and frustration and envy churned within the happy man. But the truth of it was, "How could you leave me behind?" Py put the spent cigar down and stood. "You could come with me. You know I would help you through your own pain." "You!? YOU?? You know NOTHING of my pain!!" Always calm, she felt, "Nothing, but how to conquer it." "How can you leave me behind?!" Souls could cry in a man who never shed a tear. "Why must you stay behind? It's not for Steph!" No one would have loved more to see Dave face this torment. No one would have loved more to help him through his torment than his wife, Steph. At that moment I realized the similarity in their battles still held a horrific difference. They had both escaped their Shade of Hell. But... "Alex is still trapped there." Dave felt abandoned by a friend when Pyroclast won her Battle. She now stood free. And Dave remained safe from his tormentor, able to wage his own Battle for freedom from his own Shade of Hell. His sister, however, remained trapped with their tormentor still. Dave couldn't abandon Alex, like Pyroclast abandoned him. He would suffer, until Alex too could be safe. Then, brother and sister would Battle together. Pyroclast did not know any of this. She could not know any of this. The next morning she would wake coughing, her voice grinding, her head pounding, and it would be years before she smoked again, if ever. Over that time, she would come to piece together everything I had just seen. She would be alienated, shunned, and wronged. Dave unconsciously took out his every rage at her for leading the way. A way he could not follow.

The Chronicles of Briar Petrichor: Thaumorrhage I met Pyroclast on the Battlefield. She never forgot what she fought for. But I... I can't remember a time before the fight. I've always thought that everyone had their limit to endurance of agony before they are crumbled by it. But if that's so, no limit has been found which could break her. I woke from the Battle in beauty, and in pain. Curling, woody, thorned bushes shaded me. The roses surrounding me, deeper than wine-red, faced their darkness to the sunlight. Buzzing the full scent into the air, gentle bees flitted between golden pearls at the flowers' centers. I watched the black diamonds on their fuzzy backs. Every breath pained me. I tilted my head, and each throb through my body became individual torture. Nevertheless, I gazed down my arm outstretched in the grass, staring at the rivulet of crimson draining across its length. My eyes gripped; I only tried to swallow back the pain! But it choked me, and bubbled from the corners of my sputtering lips. To fight for so long... To not be sure that what I needed even existed... The idea of finding a way to stand back up in this pain... The strain of returning to the Battlefield in exhaustion... After all the fights I'd survived... After I'd truthfully done more than enough... Maybe I should let this one end me. My lungs ached with fluid; I couldn't scream in pain because of it. "Skyrunner." I scrambled back from her voice just above me, from the knight herself leaning over me. My dead weight pushed on my elbow. The steel of the trembling dagger in my hand felt hot compared to how cold I'd become. My heart quaked against my eardrums and I couldn't force a breath. I stared up at the Arcane Knight. Her cloak draped over her shoulders like a thunderstorm over a mountain. Crimson fire of arcane magic danced across her armor. Though streaked with black mud, flecks of spent magic, and splashes of drying blood, she seemed more resplendent than if she had been riding in triumph. Lips cracked, she looked as if she'd fought until her body suffered. Loose strands of curls wound their way from beneath her helmet, clinging to her face as wildly as the briars. Dire, green eyes took me in with neither kindness nor cruelty, only curiosity. I saw my reflection in the eyes of Arcane Knight Pyroclast Dragonlord. "Sky, over here." She said it to some companion, but her grave gaze never left mine. Pyroclast reached to me, and I drew back. Her fingers only touched the glistening oil on the shaking dagger. She tried to smell it, but gaining nothing there, she neared her fingertip to her lips. A pale hand smacked the knight's gauntleted wrist. "You don't need to taste it to know it's poison." The Arcane Knight gradually lifted her gaze to a woman tressed with streams of unicorn-white curls. "I need to taste it to know what kind," the knight patronized. "Don't." This second woman wore a star-blue dress and bare feet to the Battlefield. Her platinum hair fell in curling rivulets down to her hips. She looked at me, and the briars. They were growing. "What is this?" "I've seen it before." The Arcane Knight reached for me. I didn't even realize how badly I'd been gasping until she gently guided the dagger to the ground and said to me, "Just try to breathe." The girl whom the knight had called Sky, knelt in the shade with me, her kind eyes melting her expression into mourning. I think that was the moment I broke. The sharp pain that twisted inside me suddenly sobbed out. Every breath struck me like a wave and wracked back out of my chest in a crimson mist. It both gasped from my mouth like hot breath in winter and also poured from between my grit teeth in streams. The fluid appeared glass-clear, but mahogany-red. I felt a hand at the back of my neck, supporting my head as I choked on screams of pain. "That's not blood," I heard the knight beside me say. "It's cold! He's cold!" Sky allowed herself to be drenched by it. It ran down my neck, it ran down my arm, and it soaked into the ground where the thorns and roses grew ever larger. The Arcane Knight ignored the twisting vines reaching for her, and her deep voice struck the truth. "He's thaumorrhaging." Suffering, my hand gripped into the soil. The wet dirt felt warmer than my fingertips. The knight touched my shoulder. "He's hemorrhaging magic down the length of his arm," she pointed, "and from his throat." "Hemorrhaging magic?" Sky repeated, disbelieving. The Arcane Knight drew a careful breath, and I thought I heard pity within it. "Magic, spirit, life-force, qi. Whatever it is that gives us Strength. I learned it as thaum. This much?" she judged, "The soul reservoir in his throat must be torn." I strained to lift myself up and failed. Pain lashed through my ribs with the movement, and my screams drowned in bleeding thaum. "And that's why he's hemorrhag--thaumorrhaging?" Sky shook. Pyroclast stared at me evenly, her voice only nearly quaking. "It's a horrifically painful thing," she affirmed, "to have your voice torn from you." Sky rolled my cheek against her shoulder and wrapped her arm under mine. She lifted me and held me against her. I gasped and clutched at the back of her dress, my hands slicked with crimson thaum. I knew this torture would last for days. My thaum would bleed away, but unfortunately my body would live. Without Strength, I would become nothing but a husk without a soul. She hugged me. Her arms tight around me, her cheek to my head, and my eyes to her slender neck... I clutched her. Even my tears ran cold. I had met Arcane Knight Pyroclast on the Battlefield. She had to have recognized me, because hers had been the blade that felled me. My heart beat like shards of glass. I gripped Sky to bear the torment until she gasped. I realized my nails had drawn blood from her skin. "Hush," she soothed, but excruciation encapsulated me. I swallowed it down. The strain of the words tightened my whole body. Fists clenched until the bones ached, "End... this...!" Breath fought against thaum for space in my lungs causing sudden heaves to wrack my body. "It's alright! Let it out." She stroked my hair unraveling from its braid as my body violently convulsed into bitter coughs. I heaved until mulberry-red thaum spilled from my mouth and down her shoulder. Cold, and slick, it smelled of dead flowers. I shook and I collapsed against her, but I could breathe. And with that breath, I begged. "...End! ...This!!" Sky met the Arcane Knight's gaze. I already felt my lungs filling back up with thaum. Sky looked up. "Put an end to this, Py." I shielded my eyes in the crook of her neck, my tears trickling down her collar. A gentle hand stroked the back of my head. "Between his shoulders," the Arcane Knight said. "Through to his heart," Sky agreed. I felt exposed. "Only if he's lucky." In one motion, the Arcane Knight ended it. My head fell back with a gasp, my eyes burned wide with shock, and my hands gripped Sky. Pyroclast's palm rested between my shoulders, but with it she held no blade nor weapon. Like a drop of ink in water, an ebbing of the pain curled through me. I gasped breath after full breath. My grip loosened and my hands fell to my sides. Exhaustion pulled my eyes into my lids, and my head tilted further and further back. The torment evaporated from me, leaving me alive. I felt two sets of hands catch me as the world began to fall. The Arcane Knight's voice spoke deeply beside my ear. "I placed a powerful healing thaum in between your shoulders. I put it there specifically so that you will forever remember to keep them straight and back. Always stand squared when looking Shades of Hell in the eye." I remember them laying me back into the soft grass. Grass grown from my own bleeding soul. Sleep cascaded over me.

The Songs of Skyrunner Taroteye: Racism Ahead Handing the cashier my credit card, I noticed her incredible white nail polish. She didn't just have a French manicure; instead each nail glistened completely stark white. I want nails like those! Oh it wouldn't look as good on you, Sky! It's the contrast between colors that makes it really outstanding! Oh my god, is that racist? I'm racist... I am not racist! I'm always changing my skin tone in video games as dark as it can go! ...Yep. I'm racist. I wonder if some people feel they were born the wrong race, like people feel they were born the wrong sex--OH MY GOD. That's the most insensitive thing I've ever thought about transexuality! Up to and including the last time I ever said the f-word! I'm a horrible person! I am! I'm going to go home and spend all evening acquainting myself with cis, white privilege! I'm a terrible ally and a terrible per-- "Miss?" Horror-struck, I snapped back, staring at her slightly concerned expression. The lady handed me back my card. "Are you alright?" "Yeah!" Stuffing my wallet into my purse, I shuffled off with a quick murmur, "Your nails are pretty."

The Adventures of Pyroclast Dragonlord: Homophobia Ahead Hundreds of perfectly closed copper links, and hooking clumps of slightly opened links lay scattered across the damaged mahogany table. The smell of sharp oxidation clung to the air and coated my fingertips. My copper hauberk lay heavily in my lap. Slowly, delicately, I twisted a link together, closing the seam. I ran my thumb over my work to judge the quality. Dutifully, calculatingly, I matched the next four links on the seam and hooked another open copper hoop through them. Examining the positioning closely lest one mistake twist my efforts, I clasped the pliers. Eerie cellos of Time's End moaned in the background. I tilted one pliers up, and snaked the other down, perfectly gripping the single open link without hooking the hauberk. Biting my lip, I applied the perfect pressure and torque... The front door banged open, I jerked, and the pliers slipped almost stabbing into my wrist. Fifteen pounds of hauberk took the opportunity to unceremoniously slide off my lap and fold up in a jingling mess on the floor. My jaw set in annoyance. I looked up. In the frame of the front door, the most miserable expression gazed back at me. Skyrunner, in a mass of platinum curls and waving dress, verged on tears. "Py?" she pleaded. "Am I racist?" I have no idea the expression I must have made, but the pause seemed sufficient. I pulled the limp armor back onto my lap. "Little bit." Sky collapsed into the rocking chair in an avalanche of self-loathing. Taking my time with it, I untangled the shirt and folded it into a loaf of metal. "What happened?" Slouched on the most comfortable and most vivid blue cushion in existence, Sky stared at the ceiling. "There was this girl with really pretty, white nails. And I thought the color looked good because she's black, but then I realized that was racist, and then I thought about how I can't be racist because I like to play a black countess in Dungeon Deffenders, as if that excuses anything, and I wondered if some people wished they'd been born a different race like some people feel they were born the wrong sex which is so insensitive to both racial and gender inequality which reminded me of the last time I ever called someone the f-word which just concluded the fact that I need to spend an eternity researching white, cis privilege because I'm a horrible person." "I heard you say 'fuck' just this morning," I responded. "No the other f-word," she mumbled. "The homophobic one." "Oooh. Eh. Sounds like you've got a handle on it." I took a swig of bitter tea. "Go to the internet. Find out why what you said feels racist. Learn not to be insensitive." Sky heaved a pathetic sigh. "The real question is," I looked at her. "What happened the last time you called someone that f-word?" She moaned. I smiled for story time. Sky rolled her head to look at me without having to sit up. "Do you remember the days when the DDR machine would eat a quarter and someone would complain, 'Ugh! GAY!' or at the end of a round you'd say, 'You beat me!' and they'd say, 'HA! You got raped!'?" I ran my tongue over one of my canine teeth, anger cropping up all over again. "I don't miss our childhood." "Well," she continued. "I was telling a friend a story. I don't even remember what it was about, just that someone I knew had pissed me off royally, and I was saying, 'He's just so...!' I needed some nasty word! 'He's just a huge...!' Any word offensive enough! Then I practically shouted that word. "But when I turned to see if my friend agreed that the person in my story was just so un-nice that they deserved offensive words," here Sky's voice wavered a bit, "the expression on his face held nothing but shock and alienation. "At that moment I learned something I didn't know about that friend." Guilt hardened her voice. "And he never talked to me again." I sipped at the tea, but it didn't cure the dryness in my throat. "Rightfully so," I said. "Rightfully so," she agreed.

The Songs of Skyrunner Taroteye: The Unobtainable As the dinner rush drained from the cafe, the noise ebbed with it. Warm woodworking, and red art-deco ceiling settled into quiet and began radiating a lazy, old home feel. The grandfather clock ticked away. I dipped my spoon into the hot fudge and carefully chiseled off a bit of vanilla ice cream. The sweet whipped cream married with hot home-roasted nuts and melted the icy vanilla on my tongue. The whole sensation ended with fudge blanketing my entire sense of taste in rich heaviness. And the process started all again with another spoonful. Oh, love melted in that parfait glass. Between my drawn-out moments of pleasure, I glanced up at Py. Normally, she stared off into space, lost in planning, strategy, tactics, problems to solve. But tonight, she stared with an unusually focused gaze, in an unusually specific direction. Even taking a sip of coffee didn't waver her eye. I licked the sugar from my lips and glanced over my shoulder in curiosity. I recognized the man. He wasn't a waiter, because in all the time we've frequented this cafe, I'd never seen him attending a section. I thought he might be a seating host, but tonight he simply bussed an askew table abandoned in a haphazard state of dropped silverware and food. Still licking my lips, a process which at the moment seemed more like erasing ink with a felt pen, I looked back at Py. I knew exactly what fumbled through her mind. Since his first night a few months ago, that gent's tortoise-shell glasses, baggy knit sweaters, and hunched posture altogether gave him the appearance of an old man who sold balloons at a park. It seemed a particularly odd look on someone who otherwise could be approximately in his mid twenties. And it seemed a particularly odd attention-grab for a warrior such as Pyroclast. But being single was not yet suiting her, and blatantly, she'd fallen smitten. Tonight however, the glasses were gone, leaving his blond hair as the main highlight of his face. Tonight, he wore jeans and a black professional shirt with minimalist white buttons. Tonight, he stood straighter, making him not only look taller, and thinner, but also confident and calmer. Tonight, Pyroclast stared. I scraped my spoon around the edge of the glass. "Py, you've devolved from 'checking out' to leering." Pyroclast buried her face in her hands, and heaved a groan, “I miss sex!”