Dukerino

Power Ballad pt 91 - Music is magic, magic is power (Dee)

A crag in the mountain becomes a rough-hewn tunnel. Caged sconces with electric lights pit the granite walls. The cords which feed them power snake along the ceiling. Wooden floorboards smooth out the rugged path below their feet.

As tributaries split from their passage, their goblin escorts lead them down turns and junctions, pausing at times to let other groups through and exchange rapid-fire Kyssaki.

Thekla’s ears twitch as she strains to listen. “I think we’re in an hone...

Power Ballad pt 90 - They choose me all over again (Dee)

“You are not bringing that to dinner.”

Dee snaps shut the hardcase and slides it onto Hammer’s flank. “Yes I am.”

“Diak’zinae, love of my life,” Anise says. “That is a fucking bazooka.”

“It’s a shoulder-fired recoilless rifle,” Dee says. “And it’s one of the few ways an on-foot individual can pose a threat to an adult dragon.”

Anise rubs her temples. “We’re getting hosted for a dinner party, Dee. You can’t bring a shoulder...

Power Ballad pt 89 - Yes, packmistress (Anise)

Dee doesn’t waste time or words upon their return. A ring of the muster bell summons her pack, arriving piecemeal across the half-packed camp.

“Let you get back to it in a second.” Her arm is clamped around Anise’s waist, her cords of muscle, her silky skin. “Just a quick announcement. Anise is a Voraag now. She’s staying.”

A spreading gasp from the assembled pack. Then a piercing whistle of approval from Rarek—Rarek—and the rest of the orcs join in with...

The Warlock, ch 18 - a pyramid

The warlocks and their hostages wander through the carnage. A faun dashes from them and sends a helmet skittering and revolving along the viscera-streaked floor. Caspar’s mind is numb from the system strain and the venting adrenaline and the surreal nightmare that saved them.

Tilliam hems and haws as they force him into his harness. He blubbers for mercy all the way up the rope to the abandoned interceptor. His woman friend Corinne moves with the same mute acceptance Caspar has.

The Warlock, ch 17 - a robe

I’m relaxing in a stalactited lagoon at Bina’s, a pre-soak for our little viewing party, when an itch echoes in the back of my brain.

Someone is praying to me. Not Caspar.

Florin, the Rogarth fellow, is on the roof of the taphouse again. He’s sitting cross-legged, his face in his hands, hot wet tears trickling down his fingers, and he’s praying. Not aloud. But I can feel it, like the heat of a struck match.

ma’am or irene or however you want me to call you plea...