Part I(?) - Master of Mimicries

 

For the first time in hours, the bell over the door rang throughout the store. Its sharp, crisp sound filled every silent space and roused the dozing owner from their gentle slumber. Warum's blinks were slow, deep as they raised their head from their half-curled hand. They straightened their posture and turned their attention to the door for the source of the noise. In walked a man who wore his net worth on his sleeve. Despite his attempt to dress casually in a half-tucked pinstripe shirt and khakis, Warum could piece together his wealth from trends common among their high-percentile clients.

The quiffed hairstyle, reminiscent of a rockabilly time, was coming back in vogue among men his age. The flowing shirt he wore came from a designer who only sold their pieces straight from the runway, the giveaway of its make being in the embroidered logo on the left short sleeve. And none of this was to mention the white crocodile print loafers adorned on his feet. The easiest tell of them all, really.

They clocked the vintage bottle loosely cradled in his arm, but even without it, they would've known why he was here. Men of his caliber didn't grace this store often enough to be social. It was also highly unlikely that he was here to buy anything, but... they had been pleasantly wrong before. They were willing to keep that option open. After quickly and precisely wiping at the corners of their eyes and mouth with their knuckles, Warum set their hands on the counter top and offered their guest a warm smile. The man nodded as he approached. They returned the gesture gracefully. 

"Hello and welcome to Alchemaia," greeted Warum. "Will you be buying, trading, or looking for an appraisal."

"An appraisal." Down went the bottle to the counter. Warum, ever the professional, didn't take their eyes away from the man. "Are you Warum Oxha'sa, by any chance?"

"Currently, the one and only." They touched a hand to their heart and bowed their head slightly.

"Excellent. Your name has been coming up more and more in various circles of mine. It would be surprising on its own considering that those social groups rarely have such fervent overlap, but tying oneself to counterfeits..."

Warum laughed. "It doesn't usually come with positive connotations, I know."

The man stared at them for a moment before looking around. The storefront was nice enough to appeal to men like him, but just barely so. Alchemaia's design was tasteful but humble. Most of the furnitures and fixtures were locally sought with a great deal of items being hand-me-downs or restorations of some sort. Some of the newest adornments were paintings from local artists and the single drum chandelier in the showroom.

To his left was a white curio cabinet of what looked to be knick-knacks and junk antiques. This, he focused most of his attention on, and then he glanced at them. Whatever ease he gained vanished. He put on a mask Warum was sure to be very impressive to his partners and shareholders. He had an authority that would have been arresting onstage at a conference somewhere, but to them, it was more of the same. Before he could even let a word out, they gestured to the side.

"Allow me to give you a tour, Mister..."

"Vaughnslig."

"Mister Vaughnslig, of course. Come this way so that I can tell you more about our mission."

They led, and he followed without question. He captured the 1929 vintage in hand and held it to his chest so that the aged label, indicative of its time, faced away from them. He curled his hand underneath the ridged bottom, a chief characteristic to be noted, as he walked smoothly in step with them. Down the hall was an intimate tasting room meant for no more than six people at a time, but just before that to the left of the hall was a bricked archway that seemed older than much of the design work around it. 

The showroom was, to typical guests, the most rustic room in the building. Both the exposed wood and woven iron belied the true age of the establishment. The modern soft beige carpet gave way to stone flooring, and the warmth from the room prior fell away to the cooler interior. Mister Vaughnslig shuddered as Warum's guests often do for they're never expecting the sudden chill. And how could they? Despite the open archway leading into the showroom, there was no indication it would be any colder or warmer than where they had come from. Warum always laughed to themself and gave the same gentle excuse:

"Ah, my apologies. I'm so used to it that I forgot to warn you."

And every newcomer would always reply the same: "It's alright. It's just a chill." Vaughnslig looked at the copious amounts of bottles filling the latticed racks. "There seem to be a number of these," he commented. The wariness was clear.

Warum placed a hand on mahogany end table as they rounded a shelf before turning to face him. "This is all new inventory. I buy and trade about a hundred and fifty bottles a week, and so I have a careful process to age them through my system." They tapped a finger against a row and tipped their head towards them. "These, sadly, will have to be written out as a loss as there's no way I can salvage them. They're tainted, spoiled, or somehow deemed below my quality of standards, and thus, I can't retain them."

Vaughnslig gazed at them, now intrigued. He stepped closer as if he could judge them without lifting a bottle for himself. "And what will you do with them?"

"I've a partner who helps me with disposal. He gives me a final evaluation and destruction report so that I can either give bottles a second chance or have some understanding of their ultimate fate."

Vaughnslig's next question echoed across time, repeated by many customers that came long before him and will come long after. "What if your friend turns around and sells the rejects?"

"Oh, dear no. They never would." They gave him an intimate smile. "They're duty bound, through and through. You may not know who he is, but I do. And a selfish contradiction of our contract just isn't his style." 

They then opened up the drawer of the end table and took out a black cover book. Though it was new, the cover had been beaten soft with clear use, and some of its pages boasted wine or dirt stains in its margins. They set the book on the table, opened it, and then made a motion for Vaughnslig to flip through it at his leisure.

"You can read my reports here if you want. Every endtable has a book inside of it with living reports on every bottle on every rack. Approved bottles are shelved, and ones that have both my and my partner's stamps of approval are then put up for sale."

Vaughnslig didn't reply to this. He merely stepped closer and traded the book for his bottle. Again, Warum didn't so much as glance at the item, but even without doing so, they could tell that the wax seal didn't match the age of the wine's label. It was hard to say whether that meant the seal came before or after but once they had their hands on it, they would be able to prove one way or another with confidence. Vaughnslig skimmed the notebook with clear intent. He was trying to find something that didn't add up, something that would lead to some clear sign of foul play, but there was a page that made him stop immediately. He took a few steps back to the rack, looked at the book then the bottles, and then he reached out to grab one.

"Is this a... Jîte Commalier?"

"An almost-exact likeness of it," Warum replied, proud of their unique find. "I believe this will be one of the few bottles on this particular shelf that gets fast tracked to the selling stage."

He turned his attention to them. "How much?"

"After an initial evaluation, it's worth about 70'000 lanttums."

Vaughnslig sobered immediately. His excitement was summarily dashed as he reminded himself that the bottle he was holding was a fake. "70'000...? The original, at auction, is hardly twice that much to start. To think that an imitation would be so comparable still."

"If I were to take this to auction, my brand of collectors could easily outsell the original within the hour." They walked closer and cradled the wine as if it were a gift. "You'd be amazed how deeply competition runs among my circles."

Vaughnslig stared at the bottle, dumbfounded still. Though to them, he was fighting with himself. To buy or not to buy...? To engage with a counterfeit or walk away...? "And they know, yes? That this is a forgery?"

"Oh, they're well-aware! My bottles come with a certificate of inauthenticity." They laughed gently while putting away the fake, though no less beautiful bottle, of Jîte Commalier.

The man couldn't help himself. He snapped the book closed with a decisive thud, and his brows tensed in confusion. "Then what do they get out of it? Surely, they don't parade it as the original! You can hardly attest to the integrity of every person who comes in here?"

Ah. Now, here was the delicate part. Warum was careful not to reply to him immediately. They reached out for their ledger and let a silence set in that was somewhat uncomfortable for him. They nodded to his bottle, which shone a subtle red in the light as he picked it up. Instead of kicking him out or giving him a stern piece of their mind, they led him further into the showroom. There was a wine cart at the end of one of the shelves. Six bottles and a book were set on top. As they walked deeper, more of the shelving spaces were empty.

"Do you remember Maks Gulver-Mindt?" Warum asked calmly.

Hesitation and then, "Ha, yes... It's been a while since I've heard anyone say their name out loud instead of in some hushed whisper. Most of anyone I know refuses to admit they still associate with them in some way."

"Well. Maks was one of my clients. A founding partner of Alchemaia back in the day. They set me up with clients who wanted to get rid of their counterfeits and recoup some of the loss, but it took another five years before they actually bought anything from me. One of my highest buyers, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Warum stopped by another end table that had a single bottle on it. They picked up the wine, read its label, and strode into the walkway between shelves to stow it. "The first three transactions were standard fare. They liked to pretend they had an original before turning around and admitting the truth."

"Mm, yes. They were a bit of a... 'prankster', that way." That single word and his tone said all that needed to be said about he truly felt about that. "They've gotten me twice in the past. Not in bottles, but it's a trend among them to lie and then reveal. A very standard yet gentle crush of expectations with them."

Warum nodded, knowing it all too well. "But as I'm sure you know, they began to sell the fakes. One after another, they bought a few more bottles from me to try and flip for a higher profit. Two I've managed to reclaim because I have friends who just so happened to be on the look out for other counterfeits to bring to me, not knowing that Maks already acquired them from me. The others, well... They led to a not-so-classy end to their reputation."

"Am I correct, then, to assume that you directly had something to do with that?"

"Of course I did," Warum replied. 

Their tone hadn't changed nor had their outward expression, but there was an aura emanating from them that gave Vaughnslig pause. He quieted himself for a moment as he took them in. Warum was half a head shorter than him, but their presence now was far larger than their physical stature. There was an intensity that overshadowed and overwhelmed his authority. And though there was a softness in the way they stood before him, a sort of humility and patience that fit someone long seated in a hospitality role, he felt... cowed. As such, he went against his earlier suspicions.

"I see, and well said without revealing the more... explicit details. I can't say I'm too keen to have myself go their route, and since I haven't heard of any others who have done the same, consider me satisfied in that vein. You have your way of sussing out the bad actors. We can leave it at that."

"Good."

Once they left the aisle, he offered his hand out to them. Warum regarded it for a second before taking it firmly with one of their own. "Ymmerick Vaughnslig. Pardon my rudeness. We haven't been properly acquainted."

Warum's intensity vanished when they smiled, and the shadows didn't seem quite as deep anymore. "Oh, don't worry about it, Mister Vaughnslig! We're friends, we're friends, you and I. Now― Let me show you the rest of the room and then we'll return to the gallery. I can't wait to properly appraise that little friend of yours."

Untitled Mecha WIP

 

❖ This is a snippet of a future project. At this time, I'm not sure if I'll be writing it as its own thing, or just writing it in parts and then collecting it into something cohesive later. For now, let's enjoy the ride. ❖

The near-silence of space was the only place where Ego could concentrate. No overlapping voices, no deploying pilots, no distractions. Just the oh so faint hum of the cosmos. Humans couldn’t hear it, but it was at just the right frequency for Ego to hone in on. It was lazy and soft and— hell, they would say it— it was cute. The sound had become familiar to them, something that was solely theirs, over the past few weeks as they tore through ships and mechs that needed to be salvaged.

Which weren’t a lot considering the number of them. Ego had even pulled their more interesting findings all the way into an asteroid belt to save certain wreckage for later examination. Their crew hated it when they did that, but if Ego was going to do all the work, then they would dictate how the parts were treated until they were returned to the ship. If they ever were.

Their internal systems whirred as they cycled space dust into breathable air, which they pumped back into an emergency oxygen canister on their retrieval vessel. It helped keep track of the time. If one could imagine, drifting planets around a blinding white sun didn’t often make for good clocks. They were too slow; they lulled Ego into a rhythm that was hard to break from, and their crewmates got impatient (or antsy or downright angry) when they were gone for too long. Ego sucked their teeth and sneered as they drew up a holographic only they could see. C1, 29%. By the time all the canisters filled up, Ego would have had their fill of space. They pulled their gloves down over their hands and turned their eyes at the detached vessel in front of them.

[WIP] Champion of the Night-Sun

That's not going to be the title, but I genuinely have no idea what I'm going to name it right now. I just want to get past this writing/editing hell. But here's a bit of something I'm "excited" to work on.

────── ❖ ──────

     “Iosefka.”

     Her head whipped up, her eyes wide and filled with unshed tears. Lot had stopped ascending the stairs to look back at her. Behind him was the starlit sky filled with constellations that spelled her demise. The halo of the night sun fell upon his head like a crown. He looked beautiful, and she was terrified.

     “Is everything alright? I can feel your heart racing from here.”

     “It’s...”

     She touched her fingertips together before shifting her hands slightly and interlacing her fingers. It was hard to calm down. Cold fear loomed behind her, a shadow of its own. It was perhaps the irony that made this all the more frightening for her. Life had been nothing but cruel. Why would that change now, when there was nothing but the night, the silence, and them?

     “It’s...?” Lot’s smile slowly widened. He took a couple of steps back down towards her, and she wanted to run. She wanted to hike up her skirts and flee through the stone-faced hallways as far as her feet could take her. But she was trapped here, tied to Lot’s destiny, her purpose unfulfilled.

     What was she meant to say? “I’m just wondering... Do— do we have to go up there?”

     Lot’s expression changed, curious now, and he looked over his shoulder to the open doorway at the top of the stairs. And then he laughed. It was a lovely sound, rich and amused. Surely, if she was running, she would hear it echoing wherever she managed to escape. If she managed to escape (even in her dreams, she would never get away).

     “Iosefka. Darling.” He descended the rest of the way until his shoulders could eclipse her shoulders. Being so close, he blocked out the night-sun, but the madness of the moon was in his eyes. Brilliant, haunting, and hypnotising.

     She hated him, she hated her life, she hated the strings of fate that wove them together.

     “It’s just the moon, I promise. There’s nothing else.” When his hands slipped from her shoulders, he took the stairs again. “So, when you’re ready.” His voice had been so soft, so kind. He wasn’t giving her a choice.

     Iosefka waited at the bottom of the stairs, still worrying her hands together until it felt like she would rub the black shadows off her skin. She watched his back again, as intently as she always did until the night-sun brightened around him once again. When Iosefka felt a tug on their spiritual tether, she followed.

     She picked up her skirts, and even though she wanted to sprint in the opposite direction, she made the same steps he did. Her stride was identical and smooth and graceful. She stared down at her feet, not terrified of tripping but of the radiant night-sun. It washed over her, illuminated her, and it was brilliant in its shine. Iosefka closed her eyes for a second and allowed tears to roll down her cheeks. When she landed on the top step, Lot was there for her. He wiped the tear from her face, but she could hardly feel it. The moonlight embraced him, cherished him, made him another star in its holy sky whereas she was embraced yet overwhelmed and consumed.

     He was a champion chosen by the night-sun, and she was merely his shadow washed away in his light.

How Time Serenades

 

The Golden Beek Tavern was incredibly busy this fine midday. The usual riff-raff and gossipers were present, but there were also out-of-towners and ambassadors from far flung countries who were in dire need of a drink. One table held a group of mercenaries, and Amahle swore that she caught the faces of some familiar brigands gathered at the corner table. The energy of one group fed into another, thus creating a seamless cycle of loud laughter and general excitement. So long as the mood stayed high and the ale kept flowing, Amahle was more than happy to sit among the bustling crowd.

An arm was thrown around her shoulders, and the man next to her filled her tankard with a laugh and a hard pat on the back. Another of her drunken tablemates looked at her with a discerning eye before shaking his head.

     “Can’t quit peekin’ at ya, lad. You’re pretty enough to be a missus.”

     Someone belched in a fashion that was both impressive and repulsive before saying, “Lass or no, you’ve no chance in hell, Sancha!”

     The one named “Sancha” started to speak, looked at Amahle again, and then nodded with deep bobs. “Aye, all right. Fair!” He pointed at Amahle’s tankard. “More drink for you, then?”

     Amahle raised the mug, feeling its weight in her rough hands. “I think it’s full enough.”

     “Uh?” Sancha leaned towards the tankard until he was close enough to put his nose in the liquid. He stared into the dark brown pool before turning his head one way and then sharply another. “AH!” He shouted victoriously as if discovering a fabled prize. He then stared up at Amahle. “Right you are then!” He slapped the table with a throaty laugh before returning to his conversation with his compatriots. As strange as the behaviour was, Amahle couldn’t deny that it was a little charming.

In Desperate Times

In a none too subtle way, this was inspired by Redfall. What a... tragic, tragic game that ended up being. Instead of using the actual characters though, I put my own spin on some characters being in that universe and how their own messiness could play out with those events. 

Just having a bit of fun, and I actually enjoyed it. (We'll see if that stands in a few weeks.)

     “You should call him!”

It was less of a suggestion and more of a plea. Desperation that came from Reima’s colleagues. They pursed their lips together as they mulled the idea over. They knew they should; they needed his power. Wave after wave of vampires were coming after them, and he was their singular defense in that regard. But still— using their bond just to risk seeing him again? Even the idea was embarrassing, and it was eating them alive. If they weren’t overheated from all of the exertion thus far, they would have been burning up from shame. Humiliation, embarrassment, cringe!!

     “Augh!” Reima thrust their hands up into their curly hair. An eerie chill broke over their skin as supernatural birds flew past them. Feathers fell like bullets, pinning ghouls and low level vamps to the floor.

     Another person on their team spun around. “Reima! Call him! Now!”

They didn’t want to, they didn’t want to, they didn’t want to— 

     “Fuck! Fine!” 

They pulled out the promise ring their ex-boyfriend gave him a long time ago. Even though they didn’t want to call him, they kept it just in case. Even though they had a messy break up, they kept the damned ring anyway. They wanted to let him go, but couldn’t. Didn’t want to. Because they knew that if they ever needed him, he would be there for him without fail. And they absolutely needed him now.

They clutched the ring against their chest and poured all of their intent into it. Behind them, a ghoul tore itself apart trying to get away from its feathery bindings. It gurgled and scrambled closer with unnatural speed. Reima didn’t hear it; their senses were narrowing down to a point as they summoned their ex. Unfortunately for them, they were a standing duck. Pain seared through their body as the ghoul clawed open their side. Their friends called out their name in panick; Reima screamed someone else’s.

     “Friday!”

     “Good to see ya, babe~ ♥ ”