ixris

The pain choked him.  He kicked his broken leg towards her tail, but it was lodged deep and sharply in his gut.  At first, only this intrusion was bad enough. But then, fire leaked through his gut.  He screamed. He grabbed for the tail, but it would not dislodge from his flesh.  A clammy sweat broke across his brow, and he gagged again on the pain.  Slow down, slow down! he thought as his hands shook and he reached for his shears. His Guild shears, presented as a symbol of his standing in the Guild.  Given to him by Martin when he completed his training. And now abused, sullied, as he held them left-handed and sawed frantically at the mur

The hall was filled with the sound of thunder, a steady, pulsing sound that Kirban knew would lead to machines of some kind.  He could run towards it, but he had waited through swarm after swarm of silver birds with empty beaks.  He would not simply run and let a monster follow him towards the next step of life. He was anxious with waiting, but practiced at being still, being patient.  He reminded himself of watching sheep through summer mornings with his brother.  He reminded himself of staying up, reworking seams until they lay perfectly. But his stomach was twisted in fear, and he wanted to be sick as he leaned on the pike the failed kni

He passed swarms of the silver birds, their beak pouches laden down with crystalline dust that used to be the others fighting in the Labyrinth, laboring towards life again.  Kirban always went the way they came.  He assumed they probably were ferrying the crystals to Utgard proper for some purpose or another.  And he figured they probably entered from the direction by which he would have to leave. And it was that way that he again caught up with the three-legged terror. He recognized her handiwork, such as it was.  The dripping messes in the tunnels.  The gore that streaked the intersections.  Kirban's heart leaped in his throat, his stomac

“Come to finish me off?” an old man wheezed even as Kirban rounded the bend.  He lay slumped against the wall, his eyelids fluttering in pain, his hand over a draped white robe stained with blood.  His beard was waxed to curl magnificently, and the dim light reflected on a gold broach by his collar.  “I won’t let you.” “I’m not,” Kirban said, standing his ground at the passageway, leaning on the haft of the pike. The old man narrowed his eyes at Kirban, frowned.  “You just gon’ stare all day, then?” Kirban half-shrugged.  He remained silent, taking in the situation, the area

A snarl snaked and coiled its way through the air, lodging like the cloying taste of medicine in the back of his throat.  Terror clenched sharply on his bowels, and Kirban struggled to stand.  He wanted to to hide, to fade into nothing and cease to exist, just so he wouldn’t have to face another monster. But he didn’t.  Shaking silently, he peeked around the corner and there saw a monstrous beast.  It was nearly as tall as he was, its skin mottled grey and thick with spines.  Its face was crowned with an axe-like beak, and its long, whip-like tail was barbed on the end.  This creature was slung low, and an evil smirk was painted

The tunnels were unforgiving in their sameness.  Blackness and dull grey stonework were all the markers by which he could navigate.  The longer he spent here, the more sure he was of getting lost for all eternity.  In time, he too would fade into the crystals to be swept up by silver birds. You are looking at this without perspective... “I have perspective just fine,” he breathed.  “This place is full of beautiful things that want me dead.” A sound filled the air.  It punched him deep in the gut, vibrated in his lungs, and swelled through his throat.  Its size and volume pressed him against the wall, his eyes huge a

The prints disappeared as the blood dried or wore off.  Following them had forced him to leave his right-hand-only path.  Without them, he was stranded in the middle of crossroads, frowning under a dimness lit by – he thought, for a moment – the glittering bodies of Shades and Glows, creatures he hadn’t seen since before he entered the Labyrinth. But the longer he stared, the more the movement faded into a simple flicker, less likely the familiar forms than simply a trick of the eye. Kirban frowned and studied the crossroads.  There was nothing here to tell him which way the three-legged creature - or perhaps it only smear

It started as a soft pat ... pat ... pat...   Regular in intervals, quiet and yet echoing in the silence of these stonework halls. Then, there was light.  And red. Blood soaked the grouting between the stones, ran pink through the nitre, and still dripped, steaming quietly, from the ceiling.  That was the source of the noise. Kirban was sick then.  He wasn’t sure what his stomach emptied itself of, as he hadn’t eaten since he arrived and met Else.  He did know that he braced himself against the wall and heaved, the faint and sweet stench of blood and death mixing with the bright acid of vomit.  He wept after, watching some poor

It was a long time before grief’s tight fist eased away from Kirban’s chest.  He used his good hand to keep the weight of his coat – when had it gotten there? – pulled around his shoulders.  His other arm, his right arm, was still broken, still slung to his chest.  His right leg throbbed with every movement, hot blood finally starting to stir beneath his skin.  But only barely. Weight on that leg had been difficult the entire time.  Now it was excruciating.  His head was heavy, listing and lolling now and again as broken bones refused to support it. He managed a pathetic shuffle-limp that shot jolts of pain through h

I. On Saturday, I wanted to kill myself for the first time in nine years. I don't feel that way anymore.  I'm okay again.  Just saying. Some people, they get down there, and it's everything they can do just to get through another day.  Me?  I handle emotional pain way better than I do physical pain, and I imagine death, in addition to being messy as hell, hurts. One of my coworkers offered me chocolate the other week.  It was nine in the morning.  "I don't think I can do chocolate this early," I told him.  It was true. Turns out, neither could he.  He spent the rest of the morning moaning about how much of a stomach ache he had.  "I ate