Eleese Batrachian

[Mariana Xiechai]

Waning: Character thoughts of suicide.

People like to posture that they understand what it means to be alone. They like to lament it with poetry chalk full of angst and metaphorical jargon about being an island. Most times it's something about not having a significant other. Or not enough friends. Or maybe even traveling the road, and not seeing people for a few weeks at a time. They think they understand what lonely means, its definition, its application. They think they know what it's like to truly stand by yourself and have the disgustingly soul crushing epiphany that there is no one else out there, and that no matter how loud you scream, and scream, and scream, nobody is going to hear you, because there is no one to hear.

People don't know anything.

I know what alone is. Alone is madness. It's a creeping madness that gets in your blood. And you're alright at first, sure, you're just fine. Peachy even. A few months go by and you figure out how to survive in this new unforgiving terrain you're on and it's just grand. You can get food, and water. You can build yourself shelter from tropical torrential rains. I learned, though it took me a good while to get a system going. And while you're learning to survive, that's the easy part, that's alright. Because you have something to set your mind and your hands and your feet to, and it's okay.

It's what comes after that. The loneliness. It starts early, but it's just a niggling at first. You think now and then that you miss your friends a little. Then you miss them a lot. You're plagued by dreams of loved ones that you once had. For me it was my husband, my bright-eyed husband with all of his ambitions. You don't really realize how much you love someone until you're forced to live without them, until they're ripped right out of your fingers, or rather, you're ripped right out of theirs. You start pretending that you're talking to them when a year's up, and you allow yourself this leniency; it's okay, you say to yourself. You just need to fill in the silence, but everything is going to be alright, you'll make it through this.

Sucker. Stop lying to yourself.

You start answering back for them. You talk for them. You pick a tree or a bush and it becomes them, and you have conversations with it. It's just banter at first, just chatter. You don't realize that you've changed your voice to sound like theirs when they're answering you. But that's alright too, who cares that you're doing that? It's just talking about the weather, usually, or about the strange furry creature you managed to snare and eat for dinner. It's no big deal, just another way to pass the time when you've survived another day,  you've earned yourself a little conversation.

And then suddenly you're throwing yourself at the tree that you were talking to, sobbing at it, beating it with bloodied knuckles, begging that it tell you why it let you get near that portal, why it didn't stop you, why it didn't tell you to stay back despite your own stupidity...

You're dying, you'll die here alone and it's all your own bloody fault.

It takes two years. At least it did for me. That was when the other thoughts set in. When you're walking near the edge of a cliff and you look down at those foamy, too-green waves of water, and you think, just one jump. That's all it takes. There's no dark god to yank your soul here, no Realm. All it takes is just a jump, and then you'll be flying, and you'll hardly feel the rocks exploding through your useless hunk of meat when you hit the bottom. And you can finally forget about how the loneliness is crushing you, following you, grinning down like a contented beast and licking its jaw as it feeds off of your growing mania.

But you're stubborn. Oh yes, you're stubborn. Always have been. Confident, powerful, resolved. Every day you walk by the cliff and you just keep walking. You laugh in the face of your own dementia and depression and you just keep going because no, no you won't let it win. You're stronger than that, and some day he'll pull you back again. You tell yourself he's going to pull you back again, he loves you. Days tick by and you keep telling yourself that over and over and over again, and it helps you fight. In the beginning, it helps you fight. Tick, tick, tick, days go by, you've shaved off the trunk of a tree, chipped off the lime of a rock, kept track. But then one day you wake up and you don't see why  you should make another mark. They glare at you mockingly, they glow out of wood and rock and they whisper to you.

He's not going to come for you. Nobody's going to come for you.

“Shut up. He loves me, he'll pull me back. He will.”

If that's true, why are you still here? How long's it been? Poor Eleese. Poor Eleese. You're alone.

“I won't be here forever. Any day now, he'll bring me back. He'll take me home.”

He's forgotten about you. Everyone has. Your friends, your family. They think you're dead. And you are dead, aren't you Eleese? Poor Eleese. You're already dead, and you just don't know it yet, you don't know it yet...

You wipe the tally's away. You tear them off the trunk, you smear the stones with mud and dirt and dung. You run and it chases, your solace is now your torment. He's given up, of course he has. You can't search for four years, you can't. How could anyone even expect you to have still been alive? He's mourned you and he's recovered, and so have the rest. They laid your coffin bodiless down, they put a marker in the ground, and you're alone now, you're just walking dead. A ghost, a wraith, you don't really exist and it's all over now, and you're running, and you're dying.

And you fall. Through the floor you fall, vines snapping and catching on your flailing limbs and roots tugging on your hair. You dangle there, in the air, suspended, a fish caught and laid out to be eaten. The room is aglow with light, a room carved by hands. Someone built this, you realize, they built it and that means someone was here, someone that wasn't you. Oh, it's so beautiful. You want to reach out, to touch it, your grubby, bloody fingers grope for it like an animal clawing its way towards the sun. You can only imagine what you look like, Feral, is there even anything sentient left about you? There is spittle leaking from your mouth, your teeth are stained, your nails are long, your hair is a ragged mess. You twist and squirm, and fall to the floor in a heap of dirty flesh and aching muscle. You crawl, you drag yourself over the cracked stone floor towards one of those lights, you heave yourself up the wall and try to press yourself against the glass, to see what's inside.

A face. There is a face. Your heart lodges in your throat. Tears sting your eyes. You run your fingers down the glass; you want to touch it, to feel the skin beneath your fingers. You want to cup it in your hands. It doesn't matter who it is, you must have it. Desperation seizes you. You find a stone and you begin smashing at it, at the glass separating you, you peel it back and you don't notice the blood running down your fingers from the sharp edges. You pull and pull and pull, and a door opens, hinges creak. Strange runes glitter to life on its surface, awakening. Liquid pours out, steaming, curls of it rising from the ground. And there he is, lying there, glowing, colorless and strange. You rush towards it, grope for it, but you cannot touch it, your hands go right through. You become more desperate, it begins to dissolve before your eyes, you're crying again, begging, just wanting to touch it, to touch...

Eleese.

You're not alone anymore. You can feel it in your head. There is a presence, your hands are glowing, your eyes. It's consuming you. You're not afraid, if it kills you it doesn't matter. Death would be preferable, because you cannot go back to the all encompassing alone when you feel them there, in your head, smoothing intangible fingers over your broken mind. You feel their pity, pity grows to compassion. They are gentle and kind and benevolent. The light is on your hands now, up your arms, behind your eyes, inside of you. It's so warm, so very warm. You cry from the feel of it, the relief of it, being plucked out of the ice and laid before a roaring fire. It's repairing...me. It's fixing...me.

It's...it's...

Aldurne. My name is Aldurne, and I'm here now, Eleese Batrachian. You're alone no longer.

[Candy]

[Gosh darnit, Mari, I was just about to go to bed and now I want more. ><]

[Mariana Xiechai]

[xD Sorry MonMon. But I'm glad you enjoyed it!]

I shall begin with what I know.

My name is Eleese Batrachian. My father was a vagabond, an interesting fellow to be certain, and far too charming for his own good. My mother was never married to him, but she often told me about him, how he came in and swept her off her feet. Regretfully she informed me that he also managed to sweep off her pants, and that was how I came into the world some months later.

As a child I was...impetuous. One could hardly blame me I suppose. My mother was not exactly known for her reservations, so as it stood, I was the daughter of a thief and a whore. I started out at the low end of the slums, living in a complex filled with the less than affluent. Food was the main priority on the list, and though my mother had found her own means of getting it, I was too young for such an endeavor.

Food it was, and so food was where I started. I learned how to pick my way through a good steady crowd, my fingers grew nimble, and before long I was bringing bread and fruit and meat to my mother, presenting them like treasures plucked right out of the sea. She slapped me for it, beat me for it, and then cooked it up and served it anyway.

I grew into adolescence. One would think that would mean I might have taken up my mother's trade. Hysterically, she often railed at me about finding an 'honest profession,' and claimed she was ashamed of the fancy baubles I'd begun to pull in. Apparently spreading her legs was far more admirable than spreading a few merchant's purses. I could never have demeaned myself to that level. Why was never really clear I guess, but there you have it. I followed my father's footsteps and from those infamous roots I grew.

At sixteen cycles I was the head of my own group of cut-purses. I'd clawed my way to the top with finesse, tact, and a lot of chest bindings and leather caps. Thankfully at the time I was less than well endowed, and my face was not all that breathtakingly beautiful, so I could pass for a smallish, pretty boy. I could probably thank malnourishment for the lack of curves, but it certainly wasn't something I lost sleep over at night. I ran my group well, and, despite the general feelings of honesty amongst thieves, fairly. No, we weren't fat, but we were full most nights, which was more than many of the younger, less “established” outfits could claim. My rule was that we didn't steal from those in our district who barely had anything to give anyway, instead we took from those who would only gripe about the loss for a while, whine to the guards, and then probably forget about it.

I told them, of course, that the reason for this was to pass less noticed in general. They bought it. My real reason? Alright, I'll own to it, I'll confess. There was this little bookshop owned by an elderly ylian, the most beautiful woman I've ever known. She had a kindly, wrinkled face and wisps of curly white hair. When I first met her, I was trying to nab a book that looked like it had golden filigree etched on its cover. But a woman that old has had her fair share of petty thievery, and so she caught me red handed, grabbed me by the arm and told me...

“You want to keep that, do you? Alright then. I won't call the guards. But you have to promise to come back every day, and learn to read.”

It was ridiculous, but I nodded at her so that she'd release me, thinking to myself of how exceedingly stupid she was and peering towards the alley where I could see my accomplice poking his head out. “Yeah, sure, whatever lady,” I answered, my voice quivering and struggling to keep its low cadence.

She chuckled at me and leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “I figured you'd say that. You're such a good little girl. Don't you worry about what your friends think though, it will be our little secret.”

I stared at her bug-eyed, and then I swore at her bitterly as I darted off. Ah, the art of blackmail. I suppose I learned that at an early age as well. Couldn't have had a better teacher. And so it was that every evening I went back to her and I learned my letters. I resented her for it at first, but that was before the literacy began taking hold. It was before she began bringing me little cups of tea to sip by her small hearth, before I began falling asleep to the lull of her words as she brought stories to life from the pages. Before she taught me that the cover of each book was a portal, and not just a scrap of leather.

I read those books and I wanted to be the hero. I wanted to be the one on a great adventure, with daring and stealth and trickery and intelligence, battling against the bad guys so that everyone was happy in the end. I wanted to fall in love with someone, deeply and hopelessly in love, I wanted to know what it was like to have someone actually want to be with you, and not the way my mother was every night with a different man. I wanted to be a princess, a pirate, a knight...and I was, for those few precious hours spent between the ends of a book. I wasn't just the whore's daughter and the thief's inconvenient spawn. I mattered. I, Eleese, mattered.

And then I'd go home again, offer my trinkets and food, and my import was stripped with a few derogatory words and sharp blows to my face.

Angst does us no particular favors. Long story short, they both died. My mother of some plague she unsurprisingly picked up, and the old woman of the age that was waiting restlessly for her since the day I met her. I did not mourn the former, but for the latter, that was another story. I knew I wouldn't be welcomed at her funeral; she had family, she had a job and a business and though not rich by any stretch, she mattered in society. So I waited until all her grievers had departed, and then I walked to the mouth of the Well and threw my bundle of wildflowers down after her, one by one by one.

The next day I left the town behind, and walked forward into my own story.

[Mariana Xiechai]

Let me put a disclaimer. Here. Now.

No, you cannot whore your way to the top.

I cannot count how many idiotic stories I've read where the female leader gained access to her station through her womanly wiles and voluptuous curves...and nothing else. Oh sure, you might be able to use it to augment the assets you have between your ears.  And you might be able to pull that seductress drivel with the low level grunts, but by the time you get to the higher ups you'll either run into men with enough money to pay for his pretty parted legs, or have so much chlamydia nobody would take a second look at you.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not knocking women who actually take up this gig. I mean think about it. You have to stay in shape and gorgeous for a bunch of pock-faced lard-bellied yahoos if you want to feed yourself. Not exactly my style of living, and not exactly easy. Then you have to act like you like them. Enough to screw them. I'm good, darlings, but I'm not that good.

That said, allow me to explain why I find this belief so offensive. You're taking away my achievements, you arseholes. I clawed my way through wit and skill. I trained and pushed and earned my station through nothing but my sharp mind and quick reflexes. I connived, and conned, and tricked people so that I could rob them bloody well blind.

And you can't even represent me right in a book! RUBBISH I SAY!

Where was I? Oh yes. Setting the story straight, as it were.

I was The Snitch. Notorious, longed for I imagine, though frankly I've never been a knockout looks wise. Puberty and getting three squares a day gave me curves to be admired from a distance and I'd say imagination took care of the rest. That and money. I'm not quite that arrogant. I had money, I was the leader, and I had power. When someone sees someone else that can get things done, naturally they tend to want to cleave to it.

That and people have this weird affinity for chasing after the unattainable. I can relate, but my reaching was almost always for objects. I like shiny things. Like a crow, except less feathery and I like to think somewhat less annoying.

Anyhoo. I was fortunate enough to be found by a group trying to lift a particularly lovely bracelet. Emeralds all over it, set in a little circlet of gold. Pretty for a young woman. If I tell the diary I wanted to stand in front of a mirror and pretend to be a princess instead of a gutter snipe for a few moments, I doubt it will judge me.

They caught me, of course. Well, sort of. Rather, they were watching precisely what the people were doing, and keeping careful tabs on their merchandise. And when something went missing under their noses...well, they knew who to look for. Frankly it's a brilliant scheme for employing the underhanded.

I rose swiftly. And again, I don't say it out of arrogance. I think I can thank the old woman for some of it. Knowledge is power, after all. I could read, others couldn't. And you'd be shocked what useful ideas you can find lying in wait between two covers of a book. I started out an expendable hand, and after eight long cycles of rigorous work, I found myself leading the most influential band of thieves that existed in the lower levels.

The hardest part of the process was of course knocking off the current leader. Before that was difficult, but that task was nearly impossible. He was well-liked, brilliant really, and knowledgeable about all that went on around him. Well, almost all. He never caught on to the fact that I was slowly and studiously siphoning money out of the collective pot. He never figured out that I was sneaking into his room in the dead of night storing said money beneath a well-oiled floor board until it became quite the considerable sum.

A considerable sum people began missing when counting time came.

A sum he started searching for while laying into innocent members, getting into fistfights because of carefully placed “hints” as to possible culprits, and eventually seeming to send  some unfortunate pickpocket to the Realm because of a bad blow to the head.

It's amazing what a little spiked drink can do to someone's temper, is it not? Or to people's powers of observation? Isn't it also very interesting how much morale you can raise when you valiantly take a drought in front of everyone in order to chase after the poor, unfortunate soul? Oh, the fearless heroine! Oh, the selfless leader! Wandering backstage while the hired mage makes putty out of a dozen drunken minds, letting them stare gape-mouthed as a phantom body disappears in smoke.

And books say we whore our way to the top! HAH!

This fallacy clearly doesn't bother me at all. Shut up.

Now then. After utterly decimating any hint of popularity he might have had, it was rather easy to trip over the floorboard during a search, gasp in surprise, and have him expelled from the group. Just thinking about it gives me chills really. There's nothing like six months of careful plotting bursting into fruition. Delicious.

And now that I have so prettily set the scene for. Well. Myself, I guess. Why am I writing this again? You know what, it doesn't matter. I am because I can. Nobody asked you.

There was a set of daggers. Gorgeous daggers. The sort of bejeweled, be-crusted daggers that make a woman's heart stop. So pointy. So shiny. Upon seeing them, it was of course instantly decided that I must possess them. I told myself I had every intention of selling them and putting the tria earned in the pot, and maybe, maybe I would have if things had turned out differently. It's doubtful though. You don't sell such pretty things. You snuggle with them at night. Sheathed of course. I'm not a masochist.

Family heirlooms are always so dutifully guarded, unfortunately. Something to do with the priceless thing called “sentimental value.” But a thing is a thing, and whatever emotional attachment it really had died the moment the original wielder bit the end of their opponent’s blade. And it's always depressing to see such pretty things behind glass, wallowing away, never used for what they're supposed to be.

You know, for stabbing people.

The plan was of course intricate. I mean, are you surprised? If you are, read up. You skipped important paragraphs and I don't have time for your short attention span. Mine's bad enough as it is.

I went into the mansion, clumsy, loud, practically announcing myself to be honest. Got arrested, thrown in prison. Ah, the benefit of thick, beautiful black hair and a few well-used lock picks. Store a few in the lining of your clothes for good measure. Really, who guards evidence when the one who wanted to take it has already been caught red handed? And what guards are still awake and alert enough to notice the black-clad nolthrir woman slinking along up in the rafters while they're lounging away and sleeping off their recent visit to the tavern?

It was working brilliantly. They were right beneath me. Then in front of me. I could almost feel them in my palms, ready for use. Those lovely, glittering things would soon be mine.

And it was at that moment, right as I was about to bust into the display case, that one plucky little goody-two shoes lawyer came bustling out of his office. Smashed through the glass. And began trying to engage me in a toe-to-toe fight.

I don't think you quite appreciate the hilarity of this situation. Let me try again. Lawyer. Tall, yes, but scrawny. Reedy even. A klyros lawyer. Who nevertheless somehow got up the balls to get out from behind his cramped little desk in his cramped little room and try to fight me, a well-known professional duelist, with the very daggers I was trying to heist.

And he knew nothing but the veritable two-step taught in swordplay kindergarten. He was aware he was going to lose from the moment he met my blade. He probably knew that before he even got out of his chair. And so even before I held my dagger against his throat, and before I managed to disarm him, I'd decided no, I wasn't going to send this one to the Realm. I mean come now, men with gumption are rare enough! A dying breed! Killing him would have been a crime, especially if, Dakkru forbid, he got lost in the damnable place!

He was kind of adorable too, in a scaly, lizardly sort of way. Not that this is relevant. And it totally had no influence on the above decision. No. None at all.

So. There I was. Fight had lasted all of three minutes. He was panting. I was grinning. Considering a vacation to a beach somewhere after I clonked him on the head and made off with my victory trinkets. I had to add effect of course, so I said in my best 'rabid animal' voice,

“Did you really hope to defeat me?”

He opened his mouth. Well, smiled really. Parted those shiny, pointy teeth to show me the glyph inside. Five fingers. Red, in the shape of a hand.

“Nope,” he said. “Gonna cheat.”

My first thought was damn.

About thirty fiery fists started dancing around me in a circle. I could see the look of intense concentration on his face. He wasn't even a master. He was probably just some apprentice with enough of a brain to figure out that fishelf meant sensitivity to heat.

My second thought was not bad.

Oh, I was already planning how I was going to get out of the pickle by the time the useless guards came tromping along. I was frustrated of course, I'd been kept from my shiny things after all. Girl's got to have her frosting! But I have to admit, there's something fun about getting jilted in the pursuit of all things valuable now and again. I looked back as I was carted away to see the klyros swaying on his feet, and I couldn't help but smile.

My third thought was, well done, little dragon.

I had no particular way of knowing that the course of my life had just taken a nose dive off the nearest cliff and was headed straight for a bed of sharpened stalagmites. Or perhaps another metaphor might me, that it had just run into a nest of agitated, untamed pterosaurs caught in the middle of mating season. Or even better, it had smashed into a wall, and then been tugged until it came pummeling through about five feet of solid stone. Facefirst. Painfully.

What am I trying to say here. I'm saying, well...I'm saying...

I'm saying that that was how I met my future husband.

[Mariana Xiechai]

So this was now my scenario. I was, unfortunately, for the time being, I hate to admit it, it's really quite....

Bah. This is so humiliating, must I say it? I was at the mercy of this plucky klyros, sitting across a desk from me, trying to look serious as his lips twitched in the beginnings of a smug little smirk. Oh, it just rankled me so badly. My wrists were bound behind me, otherwise I'd probably have lunged across at him and given him a black eye. Or a blue eye. Or...I mean, do klyros even bruise?

Whatever. One of his eyes would have been abused.

“It would appear you're in something of a pickle, Snitch.”

Brat, I thought. “Untie me and I'll show you what it's like to be in a pickle.”

He steepled his fingers and peered at me in that overly dramatic fashion, like he was trying to actually read me. Hah, good luck with that. Licking his thumb, he began sorting through the stack of papers in front of him, reading aloud as he went.

“Let's see here.” His eyes scanned the pages. Well, I presumed that's what was happening, it's hard to tell when the reader doesn't have any pupils. “It looks like you're responsible for drugging a garrison of guards...”

“They looked like they needed a nap.” I grinned, and he briefly raised a brow before continuing.

“You've committed countless acts of grand larceny.” He continued.

“Thank you.”

He paused and raised the other brow, looking at me questioningly.

“For calling my larceny grand. I think so too.” My grin widened.

It was hard to tell behind the paper, but I'm pretty sure that one earned a smile.

“You committed arson on a nobleman's mansion while he was away with his wife...” Again, he paused, reading over the entire article. A look of confusion appeared, and he slowly set the papers down, studying me. “You were almost caught because you ran back inside. Why?”

I narrowed my eyes sharply. The last thing I needed was this arrogant bastard thinking I was soft. “None of your business.”
Briefly the lawyer looked down again, before tapping one sharp claw on a single line. “The witness stated that you were seen leaping out the second story window with a four cycle old child in your arms. You were attempting to heal her when help arrived, and you barely managed to flee because of a sprained ankle.”

“How was I supposed to know those idiots left their daughter alone,” I snapped. “Who does that anyway?”

Surprise flitted across his face. “I wonder why you would bother.”

Offended, I spat, “Just because I'm a criminal doesn't mean I'm an asshole. You try looking up and seeing a screaming kid in a window and tell me what you do.”

The paper was gone now, so I could fully see the smile on his face. It was that sort of friendly smile, all gentle and warm and fuzzy. Damn, I preferred the arrogance. “A nolthrir running into a fire. That's an interesting picture.”

I grunted, staring out the nearby window and praying the guards would come back and tote me away for torture or something.

“You'll be happy to know that she survived, and as far as the report goes, suffered no severe injuries.”

“Yeah, whatever. I didn't get my gem-studded centuries-old amulet for that little mishap, I'd rather not have to relive the painful ordeal.” I sagged back in my chair and heaved an exaggerated sigh.

A lengthy pause ensued, one that made me feel like I should start sweating. I could feel him looking at me, and for whatever reason it made me want to cringe. Gods, I hated him. Him and his smug little face and his smug little voice and his smug little magic...

“I've been assigned to your case, Eleese. I'll be defending you in this trial.”

It felt like all the air had been sucked right out of the room. I slowly turned my head to look at him, staring blankly. I wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Frankly I wasn't quite sure what to say to the fact that I was even going to get a shot at a trial. This changed things considerably. It gave me time to come up with a solid plan of action. And we all know how conniving I can be when I can think things over beforehand.

“I see,” I answered carefully. I began paying more attention to the things that were in his office, taking interest in the scrolls nailed to the walls. They boasted many of his accomplishments, headlines from trials he'd won, and I had to admit a lot of them had pretty heavy odds for the one sitting in the chair of the accused. My gaze caught on one piece in particular: LAWYER KNOWN AS ZETCH “DRAGON” BATRACHIAN WAS ON FIRE IN THE COURTROOM.

That was too much for me. I burst out laughing, rocking back on my chair precariously and ignoring the mildly miffed look he was giving me. “What is it?”

Calming myself, I pushed my chair forward again and leaned towards him, noticing the way his chin tipped down for an instant, and I could tell he was looking at my chest. Well, prison clothing wasn't exactly modest. Poor guy probably never left his study enough to go find a pretty girl. Schmoozing wasn't typically my method of action, but hey, when the shoe fits.

“I've heard of you, Dragon,” I said smoothly.

His chin, and I presume his eyes, shot back up. It occurs to me that a klyros could sneak a peak without anyone really noticing. Rather creepy in a way. Also rather unfair. “Have you now.” His voice was carefully neutral. How adorable.

“Oh, yes. You have quite a bit of bravado going on. I like that. And you've led a rather interesting career. From acting to lawyering...it's an interesting change of career, but I doubt many people realize how...” I leaned closer, and he leaned back. It was difficult to keep myself from laughing again. “Smart. I bet it's rather useful, being able to keep up that poker face when you're playing the defendant.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but I could see the way his adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. I have to admit, even though it wasn't exactly my area of expertise, messing with Zetch was just plain FUN. “Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere. I'll need some time to go over the evidence stacked against you, it's rather lengthy, it will take me some time to sort through it...”

I put my feet to the floor and darted forward, kissing him abruptly and then flopping back in my chair again. With the expression on his face, I'm still not sure to this day precisely how I kept from falling into hysterics. He was hunched back against his seat, eyes bulging, mouth hanging open. The general picture made me think of a fish flopping about out of water, gasping for air. There was a knock on the door, and after a few seconds of stunned silence, it seemed to snap him out of it. “Enter.”

I was almost disappointed when the guard appeared to take me back to my cell. Disgruntled, Zetch began organizing and shuffling papers about, refusing to look at me.

“I have utmost confidence in you, my dragon,” I murmured.

The last heard thing I heard was his muted sputtering as I was dragged out of the room and down the hall.

[Mariana Xiechai]

To make a long story short, because I know how easily attentions tend to deviate, he won my case. I got to sit and watch him sway the jury with apparent ease, observe him wandering about like a conductor in front of a choir. I'm not sure how much my flirting served to further motivate him, but in any case, I have to admit the man was damn good at what he did. I also have to admit that as the trial commenced, my flirting became less a tool to manipulate him and more something else entirely. Even more absurdly, as everything drew to a close and the switch I orchestrated for the daggers was carried out without a hitch, my thoughts drew more and more towards the disappointed fact that when it was over our game would be at an end.

By the time the jury stood up and announced my innocence based on the fact that the daggers, the key evidence, were all fakes, and by the time Zetch turned and looked at me with that smug smile I'd grown to think of as charming, I realized what my next target for theft was going to be. I wanted that klyros lawyer. And I decided that I was going to steal him.

Like all good heists, you must know the history of your target. Zetch Batrachian's was not quite what I expected, and learning about him honestly only made him more of something valuable to attain. He had it rough from the start, lost his parents in some giant flood that wiped out the whole village and left him and a few other survivors behind. Took quite a bit from him too; his father was a pterosaur trainer, his mum a fisherman. I never had a stable home life, but it would be horrid to have it and lose it, probably even moreso than never having it in the first place.

He grew up at a military base in the Doors until ten, and then stayed on to finish the mandatory military training. I guess he learned law there, though there was a gap between the now and then where he took time off to join a traveling show. He wasn't exactly a famous actor, but snooping about some small villages and dropping his name got some people to remember seeing him on stage.

All of that was well and good, but unfortunately no matter how much I dug around I couldn't find hide nor hair of a hint of someone who'd ever had the man's heart. He didn't exactly seem like the type who'd be invested in romance, though, so I guess that wasn't a shock. I'd have to wing it, which made the prospect somewhat exhilarating.

Creepy as it may sound, I had to first find out where he lived. After all, home is where the heart is, and since I couldn't really find anything externally I'd have to start burrowing inwards. Which brought me to the little house somewhere on the Barn level, not sizable, but sturdy enough. And since as far as I knew, it only had one occupant, it made sense that it wasn't overly large.

I made my way up towards the mortar-and-stone cottage, noting the smoke drifting from the chimney. The hour was ungodly, so no doubt he'd left the fire on to keep warm while he slept. I could have done this during the day, when I would have known for a certainty he'd been at work, but slinking in while he was completely unawares struck me as far more fun.

Picking the lock was easy. They don't make them to avoid fingers as skilled as mine. I had to admit, he kept his place surprisingly neat and tidy for a man. A little kitchen nook off to the left, a pleasant seating area with cushions of a muted color. The fire, despite the time, was still crackling at full blaze, and I wondered if he used it to try to further his knowledge of his Way of choice. Another corner boasted bookshelves that were full to bursting, a small single bed for sleeping, and at the house's center was a table with a single chair.

Zetch wasn't in the bed. The klyros had fallen asleep bent over a thick, open book on the table, the pages serving as his pillows as his breath ruffled them slightly. I held up my fingers and let the smallest bit of crystal light come to life on them, stepping closer to get a better look.

When he wasn't smiling, Zetch always had this look of keen intensity. It wasn't necessarily a brooding look, but you could tell he was focusing on something, hard and fast, looking at it from all angles and trying to find a way to take a crack at it. It was like the world was this puzzle to him, and even when he was sleeping there was a crease between his brows. Apparently oblivion didn't offer him any respite from his musings either. His fingers were still curled around a quill-pen, and the sentence he'd been scrawling had abruptly trailed off into nonsensical gibberish. He looked so oddly vulnerable, did my dragon. I can picture it as clear as day, I can see him as though he were here with me now...

Gods. Oh gods I miss him. I can't think about that. I can't. I...

I reached out and slowly slipped the quill out of his fingers, watching him carefully. He stirred slightly, eyes sluggishly moving beneath the lids, but he did not awaken. Once I had it in hand, I brought my fingers down and moved to sign my name on the page, but stopped dead. Gently, I coaxed his hand out of the way and leaned closer to read what he'd written.

“....the Waterfall. Suspected piracy of vigisimi jewels. Value of approximately 500,000 tria...”

That was my heist. But it didn't surprise me that he'd kept track of that. What did shock me was that below this was in bold letters “IN CASE OF TRIAL” and a synopsis of how one might poke holes in the prosecutor's claims. He was setting up a way to get me out of cycles in prison, before the threat even fully came into fruition.

Maybe it doesn't make sense, but I wanted to cry. You have to understand someone who has never really received love. People thrive on affection, and when you grow up knowing your father saw you as an inconvenience and your mother a disgrace, it takes root deep inside. And no matter how much you try to get rid of that concept, it's still there, it's still clinging. You try to eliminate that hurt by denying it, or scoffing at the whole idea. You tell yourself you're above such silly, childish notions, bigger than them, stronger. But deep inside you know you're not, and you know no matter what you do, you'll never really prove worthy of the thing you want the most.

Zetch Batrachian had poured more love into that book for me than anyone had before, maybe save for the old woman. I didn't have to steal it from him. He gave it to me, and I still don't know why. I don't think I ever will. I remember sitting there, leaned over him in the semi-darkness and staring down at the parchment. I blurred some of the words with my own tears, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from them. An hour could have gone by and I wouldn't have noticed it.  Forget poetry, forget flowers. Zetch managed to get into my heart with lines of dry lawyer's jargon.

I reached out a hand and gently ran my fingers along  his cheek, back and forth, watching as the furrow in his brow slowly relaxed away. I didn't have the foggiest clue of how to go about getting this man to fall for me, but it wasn't a game anymore. I needed him to love me.

Eventually I knew I had to leave. He might have been a heavy sleeper, but if I started sobbing like an idiot there was no way he'd stay blissfully unawares. I picked up the quill again, changing my plan as I wrote down the lines.

“I'm flattered, Mr. Batrachian, that you would go to so much trouble. Perhaps you would grace me with your presence at the shores of the river? I do hope you'll consider it.

         Sincerely,
            Eleese.”

As I left, I realized I had an entirely new goal, and I wasn't quite sure how to pull it off. You cannot steal love. You have to earn it. And I was a thief.

...Damn.