Ko-Fi

 Don't know who visits this page anymore, but might as well add this here:

TerryH28 on Ko-fi! ❤️.

I'm sort of an artist on top of writing, so it never hurts to link this when I can.

Don't know if I'll write here again, but I will take writing commissions, if people really wanted that. You have examples of what I can do here.

That's it. Good night.

Almarra - Icistila - 2

Icistila awoke to a sound she was not familiar to: a soft rustling that came from where she left her weaponry. She sat up slowly and quietly, focusing her eyes into the dimmed light of the cave. A figure emerged in her field of view – it looked nothing like the animals that often drifted into her cave, although only the bears and wolves would wander inside.

The figure was squatting on two hind legs, grasping around her things with two arms. It was small – Icistila figured about five or six feet, although hard to tell in the dark – and had long black hair that prevented any view of it's face from behind. It appeared to be wearing clothes, but the hair blocked the view of that as well.

Icistila attempted to rise silently, but a minor rustle caused the figure to freeze. It stood up and looked back at her, and Icistila now saw a pair of dark, violet eyes staring back at her in fear. It was young – the lack of wrinkling and tightness on the skin told of this – but there was something in it's eyes that spoke of magic.

For her part, Icistila made very little movements, mirroring the creature's posture as best as possible. The young thing started looking around the cave, searching for an exit. It's eyes fell upon the small alcove that lead to the sealed chambers, although it couldn't possibly have realized what exactly was down there if it thought this was an escape route.

The next minute happened all at once – the thing moved it's hands, summoning some sort of fog that shrouded the cavern floor. Icistila began to move, realizing that the creature had chosen to hightail it. A clawing and scratching told her that the creature could not get the doors open, so she took her time in moving through the dense, shadowy fog. Finally, she stood above the creature, although it kept pulling at the rope knob and attempting to pull the door free. After a minute, it gave up and fell backwards, landing at Icistila's feet. It turned it's head upward, meeting her eyes, then backed up and slid against the doorframe.

Icistila had seen this look before – young animals of all kinds would adopt a defensive stance that spoke of desperation when in complete fear of something greater. As the fog cleared, the creature realized that Icistila stood several feet taller and blocked it's only means of escape.

The creature opened it's mouth and began to cry, speaking a strange tongue. Icistila was taken aback by this – the only things that spoke where her and the birds in the early morning, and she had long ago tuned out these voices. This creature, however, spoke a voice that was, at times, musical and at others, dissonant. She couldn't help but focus on the shifting pitches, the variable volumes that emerged from beginning to end, the flowerly tone that had permeated the sound. It was almost intoxicating, in a way.

Finally, the creature had shut up, staring at her in absolute torment. Then, Icistila turned around and walked over to the pile that the creature had been shuffling through – it had been fiddling with her crossbow and daggers, as well as going through her dried rations. Icistila brushed away implement after implement, before coming across a large crystal that appeared similar to the mana crystals that lined the walls. Icistila tapped the crystal, as a small spark lept from it's surface and connected to her fingertips. Satisfied, she walked back to the alcove – luckily, the creature wasn't very bright, as it had begun soiling itself once she emerged with the crystal.

Icistila held the crystal to the creature, who tried backing even farther into the cavern walls. Icistila frowned, before raising a hand to the terrified thing. It watched her make a motion that she hoped it would understand – touch, speak, hear. The creature looked at her hand, then at the crystal again.

Icistila spoke, startling the thing. “Little abomination, the device will hear you, so speak.”

Something in the creature shifted, as it stared at her face when these words met it. It looked at the crystal again, searching it for answers to unknown questions. Only a faint shimmer of the intense energy that lay inside the crystal answered it.

The creature spoke and a small gust of wind flew from it's mouth, catching the bizarre words, and surrounded the gem in Icistila's hands. It pulsed, before letting loose a soft wave of air that resembled a voice to Icistila's ears. “Please.”

Icistila heard the voice, so soft and distant, and looked down at the crystal. “I-I am sorry...” The voice repeated this twice, though the tone was nothing like the sweet sound she heard emerge from the creature. She held the crystal to her mouth, and spoke. “I am the guardian of this cavern, tiny being. Leave.”

The wind's repeated the process, and soon the creature's eyes and ears perked up at the sound of the translated voice leaving the crystal. Suddenly, with renewed vigor, it began to rapidly speak it's strange, flowerly sounds.

The voices hit her all at once:

“I-I apologize! I had no knowledge, I-I am sorry!”

“The greater man told me to take item from danger place!”

“I did not intend to upset the giant!”

Icistila's ears perked up, and she held up a hand that silenced the creature immediately. She spoke into the stone, “The giant? What is this one you call 'giant'?”

The creature received the message and looked confused, then apologetic. “A-ah, it is my blunder! I did not mean to call this one the rude name!”

Icistila motioned for silence again. “No apologies. What is this one you call, 'the giant'?”

The creature tried not to meet her gaze, avoiding it like one avoids the gristle on a fried steak. Icistila's gaze bore fruit, however, as it finally turned and spoke. “The people of the village speak of the giant... the one who lives deep in the forest land and is the last of the Namdu tribe.”

A sudden chill in Icistila's veins arose, and she spoke without hesitation. “Last?! Last of Namdu?!”

The creature retreated behind it's forelegs, bracing for an attack, as it cried. “Namdu! Yes, last! No more!”

Icistila caught herself. Namdu? Who are the Namdu? Why do I care?

Suddenly, a distant memory returned to her, almost like a flash of inspiration. Namdu. Her people. Her. Long ago.

Icistila found herself crying, though she couldn't fathom why or how. All she knew was a deep sadness – assuming that was the emotion - soon embedded itself into her heart. Another memory, one she had long forgotten to the passage of time.

A pain in her arm told her she had been clenching the crystal hard enough to make her bleed. She released the hold and looked to the creature again. “You. Abomination. You are?”

The creature looked confused. “I am?”

Icistila nodded.

It spoke, but the word did not translate properly. She assumed it wasn't a noun, but a name. “Marin”.

Icistila nodded at the name. “What creature are you?”

Marin looked confused for a second, before speaking. “I-I am hew men.”

The word meant nothing to Icistila. “What is 'hew-men'?”

Marin pointed at herself, before realizing that the answer would not suffice. A minute passed as she thought of a response, before settling on something. “Ancient name, Lalamolan?”

The name triggered a memory of a people – small, walking creatures that resembled miniature Namdu, always tribalistic and territorial. Icistila began to peace it together – the Lalamolan were these, a species known as the Hewmen. Possibly, while she slept and lived away from the world, the Hewmen outlived the Namdu.

Finally, the Hewman known as Marin relaxed slightly, assured that Icistila would not kill it. More questions and answers followed as the day grew long – according to the Hewman, Marin was a young magician (“a source or rare”, as the translation placed it) who, alongside their master, began some form of magic study near the forest where Siuma's cave dwelled. Marin was asked by the “greater man” of the village they had stayed in to go deep in the forest and search for some form of magic item, as the land around Siuma's cave had become a forbidden area for non-magic using Hewmen.

“All of village did not know Namdu was still alive. Only child story, very young.” Marin shuddered. “Story spoke of giant who stood ground over ancient grave. Namdu vanish, story became legend. People forget.”

Icistila listened, thinking of the ages that had gone by. All that time, guarding the creature in the cavern. Days and nights passed in a blur, seasons changed endlessly, prey and predator slaughtered and born. Over time, the feeling of time seemed to disappear for her.

Icistila spoke. “How long has this village been there?”

Marin heard her words. “Outside, people speak of many stars passing. Thousands?”

The number entered her ears and Icistila soon felt an unimaginable weight upon her that seemed to have always been there – the weight of aeons, of years gone by.

Icistila spoke, trying to ignore the discomfort. “Is there others? Vordraci? Shiyavar? Tautemah?”

The names seemed to speak to Marin. “Vordraci, called Vordric.” The other two seemed to concern her slightly. “Shiyavar, demon. And the last, Tautem, very little in land of Nuss.”

So the Nussan still linger, as well, Icistila thought. The image of the Nussan, with their short, stubby frames, appeared in her head, and the thought brought a chuckle to her lips. She turned her her head to the cavern entrance – and realized that the sun had gone down, so late it had become.

Marin noticed this as well. “Night. Master wants me to return.”

Icistila turned to her, and realized that a unique problem presented itself to her. This one, Marin, now knows that Icistila, a Namdu, is alive and well and guards a cave in this specific forest. However, a voice in the back of her head, speaking in a tone that betrayed a firm command, relayed a single message to her:

No one is allowed to remember this tomb and what lies here.

Almarra - Icistila - 1

She awoke to the rumbling of the caverns, as bats flew above her in an attempt to escape to safer nests. Loose stones, knocked free by unfortunate creatures, fell near her pillows, sending out a cacophony that shook her awake completely. One stone even smacked into her nearby suit. Sitting up in her straw bed, Icistila stretched her arms and back, feeling relief at every pop and snap. Taking a minute to look over her skin, as discolored from mana as it was, she rose from her bed and began her day.

Of course, she began by bathing in the underground spring, spending what felt like an hour scrubbing and rinsing and washing in the eternally warm water. Then came the armor polishing – oiling down the pauldrons, re-stitching the latches, hammering out dents, and every little thing in between. Weapon sharpening and re-forging, arrow fastening, wrapping torches, all sorts of menial tasks that were important, but had long lost any real sense of urgency for her. She had time to think, but all the thoughts had been thought of long ago, when she had first adopted the routine. Icistila has had time to think, to think of things she had thought of, to forget, to think of what she's forgotten, and everything in between.

She spoke to herself. Constantly. Soon enough, she found she was not very good at starting or continuing conversations, but it was alright, as her conversations never went too long and tended to stay within her intellectual range. If anyone else had heard her during these moments, they'd have thought her mad – and they would be quite correct and incorrect. Icistila had gone mad ages ago, then contemplated sanity and found the whole thing quite ridiculous. So now, she just never thinks anymore. To hear herself say it, “it solves so many problems”. Of course, no one ever heard her say it.

Finally, as the first part of her day finished in record time – she made sure to keep track of that – Icistila suited herself up, took hold of her crossbow and dagger, and made for the mouth of the cave she called home. The craggy steps had long ago been worn to a smooth finish by her constant movement, allowing her easy purchase as she moved.

The light of the sun barely penetrated this deeply into the unnamed and unknown forest that Icistila knew. Shadows of leaves created a canopy of dark that she had long ago learned to navigate cleanly. In this dark, small creatures fluttered about, ignorant of a woman who long ago had become a part of the forest. The leaves cracked underneath her boot, and soon, the rustling of the forest floor began as Icistila began her hunt.

A doe here, a squirrel there, and soon, Icistila had collected herself a week's worth of rations – two, if it was salted and dried correctly. Once the carcasses were skinned and the meat properly prepared, she began eating in silence, as she has done so for centuries before.

The meal finally finished, she washed up again. She gathered more of her bolts and adjusted her gauntlets, as now the second part of her day began – the more important bit, she felt, since it was the only thing she kept getting up for anymore. Deep in her cavern, below the area she reserved for bathing, lay a stone door, carved long ago by a person she doesn't remember anymore. Moving through the door, she was now in a passage that continued deep into the earth, almost as if it was a dungeon that was built into the land's crust. Originally, she would take a torch along for this, but after treading this path for countless years, the dark held no more dangers for her. Honestly, the dark felt more inviting, as she could always imagine tiling or other such furnishing along the walls, instead of the same boring bedrock that has always been there.

The passage emptied into another cavern, this one lit with an ominous cyan glow via the shards of concentrated mana that had jutted from the bedrock long ago. Here and there, an infused insect would slither or scurry, crossing the rocks with ease in-between Icistila's steps. A larger door, one fit for some ancient evil or a mystic tomb, lay at the bottom of this chamber, with many symbols written across it. Icistila forgot what the language was, but she did remember that every single symbol meant something to the effect of “bind”, “banish”, “seal”, and everything to that effect. Next to the nearly twenty-foot tall door was a smaller door frame that Icistila had accommodated for her own personal use, complete with a rope pull and the door and frame cleanly carved out of each other.

Behind both these doors was Icistila's reason for a legacy of solitiude: a massive chamber, reaching into an endless abyss that even Icistila had never found the end of – not for lack of trying, either. In this abyss, however, was something more important: a terrible dragon, of enormous size and stature. It's scales were a violent red and purple, it's eyes hummed with an orange glow that bespoke terrible strength, and it commanded jaws and claws that were possibly sharper than even steel.

This dragon, great as it was, turned it's eyes to her. Long ago, she was afraid, almost hesitant to even enter the room. Today, however, the dragon's claw had swollen slightly from a lodged stone, and she was the only living being within miles that could sort out this sordid business.

With a dagger in her hand, she waved at the dragon, who growled in acknowledgment as it placed it's swollen claw on the ground. A shudder echoed through the room, but Icistila ignored it, as she began scanning the hand. Finding the growth, she felt around the scales of the beast, before her hand came across a stalagmite that had lodged itself into the creature's hand one day. With great strength, she thrust the dagger in the claw, holding on as the dragon groaned with pain before steeling itself for the next part. She cut deeply, slowly pushing the stone out as she sliced the rim of the wound open. 

Finally, the stone slipped out of her grasp and out of the dragon's arm, crashing into pebbles upon the chamber floor. Blood trailed past it, leaking out of the sordid wound.

The dragon let out a sigh of relief, before caressing the wound with it's free hand. Icistila dropped to the floor, composing herself and cleaning the blood of her dagger. She barely had time to react before the dragon nuzzled it's snout into her back, leaving snot and vapor on her.

Icistila sighed. “You need to stop stretching your arm in that direction, Siuma.” She wiped the snot off her reddish hair. “There's too many sharp ones in that area.”

Siuma growled, before it roared in agreement – or what Icistila had thought was agreement, as she had long ago given up trying to read it's expressions. It held it's injured hand out for Icistila, as the girl took a small balm out of her pouch and tended to the bleeding area.

An hour of treatment had passed in silence. No more words were said, as Icistila had long ran out of things to say and Siuma could not speak. Soon, she left the chamber, traveling back through the corridors, until she finally arrived in the bathing center of her cavern.

Another bath later, Icistila searched beneath a small pile of leather and hide clothing for something, before giving up and tearing a piece of paper from a book that someone long ago had given her. With a quill, she began writing another entry of a journal that she had no idea how many volumes she lost. The writing continued, even though she barely wrote much other than the events of the day. Finally, she threw the implements aside, and laid on the hide covering of her straw bed, waiting for sleep to take her away again. Soon enough, yet another day of guarding the accursed dragon came to an end.

Almarra - Aofie

Short story (is it really a short story if it's over several hundred words?) for a fantasy setting. Uploading it here for public critique.

=====

That morning, as the clouds over the forest lightened and melted away to reveal the clear light sky, a small girl dressed in drab burlap cloth shifted behind a thatch-roof dwelling. As she pats away the straw in her hair, the smell of rotted fruit and moldy bread rises into her nostrils. Opening her rawhide sack she dumps the last of the inedible rations onto the dew-covered grass, grimacing the entire time.

The sounds of the town begin to rise, as people begin going about their days, working and living their lives. The pitter-patter of laborers walking across the unpaved roads mixed in with the clanking steps of the town guards as they patrolled the outskirts of the town. Into this crowd ran several small children of varying races – human, dwarf, elf – shouting and playing, dancing under the legs of deliverymen and craftsmen.

From behind the straw-layered building, a young woman, unwashed and covered in various fluids, stood watching with a sour look on her face. She could not help but take in all the various smells – the dried fish, the warm pies, the odorous cheeses – and feel a little bit hungry. She strode forward, staying close to the minuscule shade offered by the small roofs of the nearby buildings, and walked near the open window of a bakery that had just opened for the day.

On the windowsill sat four large pies, baked to perfection and held there to cool, giving off long trails of steam. Behind them, the baker sat, carefully measuring the fillings for his next creation, his back towards the windowsill.

A hand, moving quickly and quietly, rose from under the windowsill and felt the pans for each pie before darting back below. The girl acted calm as a guard made his rounds before entering the nearby apothecary's hut. She shot her hand back up and grabbed one of the pans, muffling her cries as the hot tin threatened to peel her skin off. With a breath, she darted away from the bakery, staying as low to the ground as possible.

She made it behind a building, out of sight, and removed her filthy brown cloak as soon as possible, wrapping it around the tin to shield her hands. She placed the tin on the ground and began caressing her hands, rubbing them gently to soothe the burns. Once she no longer felt the burning on her palms, she reached into a hidden satchel she kept underneath her ripped skirt and pulled out a small fork and knife, both rough but relatively clean. She sat down onto the ground, next to the dried mud wall, and cut into the pie, watching as steaming and spiced mince slowly emerged, the mixing scents entering her nostrils and triggering her stomach to growl fiercely.

With a piece on her fork, she popped the mince into her mouth and began crying, both at the intense flavor she tasted and at the intense heat that began burning her. It had been a week since she had eaten anything not salted to oblivion, and to finally eat something so warm and freshly prepared brought her back, emotionally, to her days playing alongside the maids of the manor.

For the first time in almost a year, Aofie, the estranged heiress of the Yuisi family, felt homesick and dearly missed her father and brother. She wiped the tear from her eye, trying not to cry, and turned her attention back to the mince pie at her feet – which was attracting the attention of a stray dog, which began growling at her, trying to scare her away from the pie. Aofie, with what little pride she still held, growled back, trying to deepen her voice in order to drive away the dog. It lunged at her, attempting to intimidate her, and started leaning to take the pie tin.

Within a second, the dog cried, as several tendrils of warped energy that streamed from Aofie's hand crushed it's body. With a flick of her wrist, the dog's corpse was tossed far away from the building, landing beside a nearby fence post with a loud and wet splat. The tendrils retreated and subsided back into a black sheath that vanished from around her hand, which had been marked with countless scars and wounds. She felt the energy through her veins, burning like needles, and shook her head, trying to make the feeling disappear.

A loud yell to her left brought her back to her senses: “Thief! Witch!” She looked and saw a young man, just out of adolescence, in a baker's apron, pointing directly at her as he cried to an nearby person. Within seconds, a guard appeared behind the man, investigating what he pointed at.

Aofie removed her cloak from the tin, dropping the mince pie onto the ground in a scattered heap, and scrambled to her feet. As the guard rounded the building, she turned to her right and started running.

She tore through the cobblestone streets, moving past shocked kids and frozen adults, as she ran from the now-four man strong entourage of guards that pursued her, brandishing short steel swords. She turned right, passing behind a pair of homes, before stopping, as she realized the dead-end she unintentionally trapped herself in. She drew a dull stone blade that she kept in her pouch, before turning back to the alleyway opening. There, the guards stood, in formation, blades front and ready, slowly approaching her. The man in front, a man as young as her, had a look of fear and nervousness painted on his face, and his steps became more and more uneven as he approached her.

With a slight pitch, he started: “H-halt, thief!” He lowered his blade slightly. “You have stolen from a citizen of Danesorrow. Surrender now, and accept the punishment.” The men behind him, all clearly more experienced than him, gave Aofie a deathly glare.

Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, Aofie cried back. “I-I was hungry! I-I didn't even get to--”

“Enough!”, went the older man behind the young guard. “Surrender quietly and accept the consequences, young lady!” He moved closer, even passing the lead guard.

Aofie stepped back, knife forward, and felt her back coming up against a clay wall. Her mind started swirling, her stomach in pain, and her veins started burning. Almost without thinking, she spoke an arcane chant and directed her other hand at the guard coming near...

She forgot exactly how long that moment lasted, but she still remembers the scream of the old guard as his arms were torn from his body. The guards around him stared, frozen in panic, as the old man fell to the ground, letting out his dying scream as the tendrils returned to Aofie. Before the burning in her veins stopped, she felt a sharp and piercing pain in her stomach, as the young man drove his knee into her in order to keep her from chanting. The tendrils disappeared and Aofie dropped to her knees clutching her stomach, gasping for breath.

The guard grabbed her by her blouse and pulled her up to eye level, yelling. “Witch! What the hell did you do to Lars?!” She looked past him and saw Lars on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, being hovered by one of the other guards. The fourth had run out of the alley, screaming for backup against the witch. The young man shook her, regaining her attention. “Why didn't you surrender?!” He kept screaming at her, with tears in his eyes for his comrade, as tears formed in hers in response.

She couldn't speak, both for the pain and for the scene. The burning in her veins had subsided, and all she felt was the heat of her tears and the breath of the guard pinning her to the wall. All that she could hear was screams and crying.

Rewrite

I decided that, if I ever finish Open For Business, I would rewrite it.

That being said, I also decided to write what I feel would be the final page.

Best to have the ending set, so the rest can come easy.

What happened with "Open For Business"?

I don't know if anybody actually visits this website (the view counter keeps going up, so someone is visiting), but just in case, here's the thing:

I've lost most of my enthusiasm for Open For Business. I've tried to keep writing more of chapter 10 and onward, but most of the ideas I'd have for them either don't pan out very well or fall flat and becoming something out of a young adult novel, which is not the theme I wanted to follow for this story in particular.

For now, this story isn't being updated and is effectively in hiatus. Maybe one day, I'll pick it up again.

Then again, this was the entire purpose of starting this site: to have a place to self-publish that might get some public notice, in order to improve on my writing. If a story doesn't work, it doesn't work.

No shame in starting a new one.

9 - The Offer

Yuma. Big name for this busy city. At night, you get the sense that no one wants you anywhere, despite the flashing billboards. The highway roads and connecting path just seem sparse in the bright moonlight. Taking a left, I turned out onto an almost invisible pathway just near the city limits, far from any of the real city centers. Straight away, a building appeared in the distance, although at this distance, the night was more prominent than the lights in the window.

Beside me in the passenger seat, Melissa slept quietly. She had passed out somewhere along the Arizona border, and for a while, the silence was kind of nice. Said border crossing lasted all of three minutes - apparently, whoever these people are had also gotten connections in the government as well, considering the lack of checking for any weapons in the backseat. The air had grown drier the farther we had gotten, and soon, the temperature approached winter mid-day levels. Which might be a problem - I wasn't sure if this car had A/C.

---

Getting nearer the building, I started slowing down and reducing the headlights. A driveway came up and I turned in. The building was two stories tall, simple doors lining each floor, and a multitude of windows around each side. Too open, so the man knew something would happen.

The sign gleamed in the night and nearly burnt my eyes from the shine of it. Jackal's Overnight Motel, with a simple Free Wi-Fi just underneath.

Parking, I looked over to Melissa, who had just started to wake up from the car jolting to a stop. She rubbed her eyes and looked around, disappointed. "We're here."

She pouted. "Half-expected to wake up with a bear in my hands."

"You have a teddy bear?"

She shook her head, then pulled out her phone. A hand went over to the folder that Leigh had given her, then she dialed numbers into the phone. A second passed, then she placed the phone on the armrest in speaker mode.

Leigh's voice came out loud and clear through the small screen. "You've arrived in Yuma, then?"

Melissa spoke. "Yeah, Liam just pulled in right now."

A shuffling sound came over the phone, then Leigh spoke again, her voice cold now. "Alright, here is what is going to happen: you are to approach Mr. Buchanan with an offer for three hundred thousand dollars, advanced, invested, on his property. Then, a fifty-thousand dollar offer for his assistance, personally. You are not to tell him anything - what it's for, why we are asking, and most importantly, why we have 'hired' you to do so."

 Melissa looked at me, searching for an answer. I piped up. "Are you going to tell us what the deal is for, then?"

A pause, then Leigh responded. "No. Too much risk to take, especially on you two."

I rolled my eyes, then looked at Melissa. She had turned to the shotgun in the back, eying it with suspicion. Turning back to the phone, I spoke. "What's the risk here?"

"The risk is, Buchanan expects aggression and decides to hire help. In which case, weapons are free. As well, the possibility of him turning down our offer has happened before - however, as this is his third offense against us, you are to then eliminate him cleanly. I would prefer if you brought him back, however. Too much violence means too much cleanup." A sigh came through the phone. "Look, Mr. Ferguson, Ms. Faelin, I really just want him to take the offer." Her voice was exhausted, seeming almost like she was pleading. "This back and forth business has gone on long enough, and he knows that he is in debt. Get him to agree, please."

The phone hung up, and the two of us sat there for several minutes. Finally, I opened the door and got out, grabbing the shotgun from the backseat. Melissa followed suit, taking her phone in her hands, and we began to walk across the parking lot.

---

The pavement and concrete have pretty much fused after, what I assume, has been a decade of Arizona summers. The door to the building was covered in multiple building code violation papers and numerous complaints, with a Closed sign desperate to cover it all up. On the sides, above and below the hinges, the stucco threatened to keep the door shut.

We knocked on the door. A sudden clatter came from somewhere far inside, and footsteps began. I turned to the doors lined alongside the motel side; if I was a little paranoid, I might've thought someone was watching us.

The doorknob turned, and a frowning, balding man stood behind the door. He was in a small plaid shirt and beige shorts, with a purple sun-visor atop his head. His glasses were close to falling off his misshapen nose, but his deep brown eyes seemed fine.

Buchanan spoke. "Hey, don't know if you saw, but we're, uh, closed." His voice had a weird sort of accent - I couldn't exactly place it. He pointed at the Closed sign with a thick, hairy arm to make his point. "I mean, I'd be happy to help ya out in the morning, but, uh, yeah." He paused, then his eyes widened. He noticed the sling across my back, pointing at it. "You, uh, you taking your daughter hunting or something?"

I shook my head. "You Buchanan?"

His eyebrow rose. "Yeah. What's it to ya?"

I sighed, looked at Melissa. She frowned and turned to Buchanan. "Ms. Stafferson sent us."

He crossed his eyes, before the realization of the name came to him. Then he slammed the door in our faces. The rumbling and rustling of locks told us he wouldn't play nice with us.

I knocked on the door, rattling the lock chains. "Mr. Buchanan!" I shouted, careful of where my voice was carrying. "Mr. Buchanan!" More knocking, more shouting, more rattling.

His voice came out muffled, further into the building. "I tell you the same damn thing I told Leigh, Nathan, Pavel, Mickey, all them freaks in that rusted hunk of shit bar - ain't no way!" The overturning of a table came through louder than his voice. "I've had enough of it!"

Melissa jingled the door handle, trying to pull it open. "Look, Mr. Buchanan, we can talk this out," she called out over the clatter inside. "Please, open the door!"

I drew the shotgun from behind and cocked the handle, pointing it at the doorknob. "Melissa, get back."

She turned to me, her eyes going wide, then stepped back. With a loud pop, I pulled the trigger and blew the doorknob clean off the door, leaving shredded wood chips and metal bits in its wake. The door started to drift open. I kicked it in, watching as it slammed against the wall inside.

The floor of the motel management room was covered in the remains of the doorknob. Gears and screws, all scattered across. The walls were a weird looking beige, possibly due to the light of the moon. The management desk was covered in a unruly mess of documents, keys, and dollar bills, all grey against the night air. The dim, dirty light in the nearby hallway cast rough shadows across all about the room.

Some of the furniture heading into the hallway was overturned, giving us an idea of where Buchanan ran to.  Melissa withdrew her pistol, her hands shaking near the trigger. "Melissa, I want you to do something for me."

She looked up at me, trying to seem calm. "What?"

I nodded my head towards the side of the motel, then lowered my voice. "There might be a backdoor. See if you can head around." I cocked the shotgun, letting loose a shell.

She nodded, terrified but determined, and walked out of the motel. The clatter of her footsteps started and stopped.

I turned back to the hallway, still dimly lit. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and pulled out the pistol, checking its weight. Hefting it up in front, I started down the hallway. Generic paintings of landscapes and log cabins decorated the walls, trying to distract from the crusted beige stucco. Turning the corner, a doorway was barred by a square table, facing me. Behind it was the face of Buchanan, holding a tire iron and staying near the door frame. In the light, every set wrinkle was brought out, showcasing just how many years this man had endured. A bandage on his wrist was also still noticeably red. Behind him, in the room, was a backdoor; hopefully Melissa found it.

I lowered the pistol, making sure to meet his eyes. "Mr. Buchanan--"

"Shut up!" He smacked the wall with the tire iron, leaving a large dent. "You think you're the first one to come down here, spouting off that stupid corporate shit?" He threw a book at me; it missed entirely, clattering against the wall opposite me and onto the floor. "Fuck Mickey! I paid my debt. I did my time. You, him, Leigh, and the rest of the Council can go fuck right off - I'm done with your stupid underground bullshit!"

Another object, this time a knife, struck and stuck into the wall beside me. He was getting better with his aim.

"Look, Mr. Buchanan. Ms. Stafferson is offering an advance payment on your property--"

Another blade, closer this time.

"She always offers money, you fuck." His voice was quieter, if still filled with anger. "It's always about the money to them. That's how they got me! That's how they got me and Jameson and Ferguson and everyone, man!"

I paused, staying behind the corner, thinking. Who the hell was Jameson? Why am I doing this anyway? By all accounts, Buchanan was probably right - it was all about the money. That's why I'm standing here, armed with law-enforcement weapons, in a motel at five in the morning, trying to reason a man into some stupid shadow conspiracy. And for what? A debt over sixty years old, brought up by a man with no discernible background besides a nod and a whisper?

A sudden clatter, a door slamming open, and a gasp from Buchanan brought me back to the hallway. Melissa's voice filled the hallway, nervous but trying to seem tough. "Freeze!"

I looked past the hallway corner: Melissa was standing there, pistol aimed directly at Buchanan's back. He stood there, heart pounding behind his hairy chest, hand slowly loosing it's grip on the tire iron. Melissa walked slowly, keeping her azure eyes on him and the pistol high, if shaking.

Walking towards the door, Buchanan turned back toward me, frightened. Melissa yelled, "Hey, towards me!" Buchanan did as told, returning his gaze back to the college-age woman with pistol trained on him. Her ears were uncovered now; it probably took some focus to keep them hidden. I pushed the table out of the door frame, moving it against the wall.

I sunk my pistol into Buchanan's back, watching as he tensed up from the cold metal pressing into his skin. He was sweating tremendously now, the stench of it forcing a hard breath from me. As I kept him scared, Melissa lowered her weapon and exhaled, visibly relaxing.

Buchanan lowered his arms and relaxed as well, despite the pistol still pressing on him. "Faelin. That your name, kid?"

Melissa flinched, then nodded.

Buchanan gave a sad smile. "Shit, kid, I'm sorry." He scratched the back of his red neck. "I know Adrianne, and she's not the kind of woman to see you like this."

Melissa froze. "H-how do you know my mother?" She looked to me, then back at Buchanan. "How?"

Buchanan frowned. "Adrianne never mentioned me?" He looked at the floor, disappointed. "Damn. Look, me and Adrianne go way back, kid." He smirked, still sad. "Hell, she's the reason I'm in this situation. The motel thing, I mean."

"Speaking about that..." I chimed in, pushing the barrel against his spine. He turned himself to me, the pistol against his stomach. "We still have a deal to work out."

Buchanan squinted, studying my face. "So, what's your story? Which ditch did Mickey dig up to find you lying at the bottom of it?"

I punched him in the face. He recoiled, his hands going to his face. A bit of blood flew against the wall; coming back, I saw that I clipped him across the nose. "Shit!"

Buchanan rubbed his nose, looking as if he was moving it back into shape. Melissa picked up an overturned chair and motioned for him to sit down. He hesitated, then sat, the chair creaking under his weight.

He sighed, clutching his head. "Goddamn. She can't leave me in peace." He reached into his pockets and pulled out a beaten leather wallet, filled with several envelopes and cards, folded. "How much do they want this time?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Actually, they're offering you money."

He looked up at me, his eyes red with exhaustion, pain, and anger. "What. What is she offering now? A slap on the wrist if I even mention elves and the U.S. in the same sentence?" He looked at Melissa. "Tell me, Fae, is Mickey paying off Adrianne for this?"

Melissa looks at me, unsure about the question. "Liam?"

I sighed. "Ms. Stafferson is offering a sum of three-hundred thousand, invested, on your business and its related property."

Buchanan eyes open wide, unsure of the number. "D-did I fucking hear that right? That much?"

I nodded. He turned to Melissa, who shrugged and nodded, confirming the number.

He laughed. "Anything else?"

"The initial offer also comes with a secondary sum of fifty-thousand, paid for you directly." I pulled the shotgun out, cocking out a (unknown to him) live shell. " And the offer is final."

He sat there, looking at the shotgun and mulling offer the price. His lips moved as if he was muttering something, but nothing but silence filled the air. Whatever energy filled him before had left upon hearing those numbers, like a buffalo in a cage. "What, uh... what is the offer for?"

I shrugged. "She wouldn't say. Too much risk."

He shook his head. "Damn it." Scratching his neck and looking towards the wall, he seemed more like a sad old man than the crazy paranoid owner that freaked out at Leigh's name. He looked towards us, given his best sad smile. "Guess I don't have a fucking choice. Or did Leigh give you a back-up plan?"

Melissa held up the pistol, barrel pointing towards the ceiling. "These were our back-up plan, Mr. Buchanan."

He glanced at the weapons, then chuckled again. "The, uh, the name's Archie, by the way."

Melissa smiled. "We know. We saw your medical records."

"Of course you did." Archie sighed. "Did you bring papers, or is Leigh sending them?"

A knock brought our eyes to the hallway door. A voice called out from the lobby. "Buchanan? You here?" Footsteps came through the hall, followed by the sight of a humanoid figure. A man, with pointed ears and tusks and stretched skin, clad in another black suit, carrying a pistol at his side. His jaw was hidden behind a full, trimmed red beard, but I got the distinct impression of him smiling as he saw us with Buchanan. "Ah, Ferguson. Faelin." His eyes narrowed in on Archie as he walked through the hallway. "And Mr. Buchanan."

Archie chuckled. "Gratch. The hell you want?"

Gratch placed the pistol in his coat and fished out a lighter from his back pocket. "Keeping tabs on Mickey's newest agents." He took a cigar from his suit and lit it up. "Hoping that we didn't have to resort to any extreme measures to get you to agree to the offer."

Melissa looked around the room, then back at Gratch. "Wait, Ms. Stafferson sent you... to keep an eye on us?"

Gratch blew smoke. "Not on you, exactly, Faelin." He pointed at me. "Ferguson, here, definitely."

Archie turned his head up at me. "Ferguson? You Henry's gran-kid?"

I nodded.

Archie smiled. "Goddamn, Mickey knows how to make me feel like a piece of shit."

"In any case," Gratch continued. "I see that you have made the right decision and that our agents proceeded in the correct manner. I will send my report to Ms. Stafferson soon, then." He turned from us and left the hallway. In a few seconds, we heard the door of the motel slam shut.