Murrah NaNo Writers!

Remember; give your inner editor a holiday, and turn off that spellcheck! ;)

Plus I'm working with characters that have existed since elementary school, so it's nice to finally put them in writing...even if it's really bad writing....

and now that's he's in a completely unrestricted environment, I'm finding out just what a perv he is!

Mystic was a little dismayed to see, as the man joined them, that he had not diminished once separated from the truck. Tall, broad chested, heavy shouldered, and dressed in an orange button down of decidedly better make than Mystic’s over a navy blue Cowboys T-shirt, he walked with the same kind of easy confidence that men such as Robert E. Lee, James Dean and John Wayne have earned, without rush and without aggression. But nothing about his approach could be taken lightly. He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and looked casually down at Mystic. Mystic felt his mouth go dry.

As the multi-hued bodies of pegasus and unicorn, fairy, flutter, and earthpony alike parted like a tiny sea, another pony stepped forth down the channel, clearly visible even in the flickering, sporadic firelight, in part because he stood a full foot above the rest of the ponies, and in part because the golden glow of flames were dim in comparison to his bright white hide. His gray mane was cropped short against his head and neck, his tail trimmed and looped through a leather thong. His flank was patterned with dusty cream splotches that were so pale they seemed a mirage, disappearing and reappearing with each of the fire's temperamental spurts.

Most curious of all, though, were the pony's arms.

Protruding from the sides of his broad, tall chest - much taller than a regular pony's, and oddly-shaped, a melding of a pony's torso and a man's pectorals - were a pair of muscular arms, which ended in two hands graced with only two fingers and a thumb, each. It was enough, though, for him to carry an enormous silver pot - Kibeth could have fit in it comfortably - which he grunted as he set down by the fire. A cheer broke out through the caravan, some of the loudest noise Ichna had heard them make since lodging with them, and from the ponies' mouths rose the hulking, misshapen pony's name.

"Thighmaster! Thighmaster! Thighmaster, huzzah!" the call reverberated between the wagons before dispersing on the night air. The odd stallion - Thighmaster - broke into a grin, his large white teeth gleaming from a perfect smile. He flexed his pectoral muscles and another 'huzzah' went through the crowd. Ichna caught herself staring, a mix of curious and sickened, before she let her eyes drop to her hooves.

A torso appeared beside Mystic—black silk button down tucked neatly into low slung jeans with a black belt. “Hey,” came a voice flavored in foreign accent, “can I get a light?”

Mystic tilted his head up to see a pale face with—shockingly—blue hair held back in a low ponytail, and eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “Sure,” he said, and pulled out his lighter with some misgivings. He lit the man’s cigarette and received a nod of thanks as he set it between his lips.

As he turned away, the man said, “Thanks, Mystic,” and headed for the door.

Mystic gave a dismissing wave, then met Jam’s eyes over the table. They stared at each other for a full four seconds before Jam said, “A well dressed stranger with blue hair asked for a lighter despite the fact that we’re sitting in the non-smoking section, and then thanked you by name.”

Mystic nodded. “I thought that’s what just happened, but I couldn’t be sure…” He stood and pointed toward the self same stranger, who had stopped next to a booth seat and was chatting with the diner there.

“Hey, you,” Mystic said as he approached. They met eyes—or Mystic assumed they did, since the other was wearing the sunglasses—and Mystic concluded, “You know my name?”

“Oh,” the man extended a hand, as if he’d forgotten. “And a great deal more than that.” He smiled around his cigarette. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. McKnight.”

Mystic stared dumbfounded, then looked down at the man in the booth, who smiled and waved.

“You—” Mystic narrowed his eyes, shifted his weight, and pointed again at the blue-haired man who assumed an expression of eager interest. “You—”

“Unless, of course, we have the wrong six-foot-four, blue-eyed, surly Mexican-American having lunch at The Southland Grill, but you seemed to fit the description so well, I just had to assume. You thought so, too, yes?” He looked at the seated man, who agreed with a look over Mystic and a nod accompanied by a thoughtful frown. They both looked back to Mystic.

“Our apologies if you aren’t Mystic McKnight, of course.”

Mystic took a deep breath, his eyes jumping between them. “Who are you?”

Blue hair held out his hands, complete with a cigarette between the fingers of one, as if he were explaining a game play. “Alright, we’ve debated how we would answer that when you asked. Zenith wanted to say, ‘Derkins from the Tribunal sent to reestablish a connection with you because there are rumors you’ve been scented by the Renegaul,’ but I wanted to say, ‘Your destiny!’ in a really creepy voice—”

“Wait, hold on, what did you just say you were?”

The two exchanged a look, then held up their palms. “Your destiny!”

The stranger coiled in the middle of the room regarded him from under a familiar black velvet hood. His skin was a familiar olive brown that shifted to scales patterned with familiar splotches of gold. His voice, however, and his build were completely new. “I take it you are the owner of this establishment?”

Even the greeting was familiar. Keeping both his recognition and his curiosity carefully guarded, Kyran bowed. “I am. How may I help you today?”

At first the stranger didn’t reply. His hooded head swiveled, taking in his surroundings, and he gave what might have been a derisive snort. For a long moment his eyes fell on the egg resting behind the main counter. It sat on a velvet cushion between two heat lamps, just as it had done for the past month and a half. The stranger’s eyes moved from it very reluctantly as he once more addressed the store keeper. “I’m looking for the ingredients to counter a spell I believe you helped put in place.”

“I?” Kyran tilted his head to the side and blinked bi-toned pink eyes at the other naga. “I’m afraid you are mistaken on that point. I merely sell ingredients – I do not cast spells.”

“I did not mean directly,” the stranger clarified, pulling a scroll from beneath his cloak. “I simply meant that you are the only person in the country, as far as I can tell, who could possibly have provided the ingredients.” He held out the scroll for Kyran to take. “Albino naga venom, you see, can only be acquired from an albino naga and your kind is amazingly rare.”

Kyran unrolled the scroll and looked at it. “Yes, I am aware. It makes one wonder what is so special about our venom that so many spells require it? Has anyone tried these spells with regular venom?”

The stranger shrugged. “Not to the best of my knowledge and there is enough at stake that I am not willing to risk it.”

“Oh?” Kyran wasn’t really interested, but professional courtesy, such as it was, required that he ask. “And what are the stakes?”

“My mother’s life.”

Well, the albino thought, that certainly explains that.

Just as Kyran was about to pull out his ledger and start the depressing task of figuring in his latest useless fashion purchase the soft scrape of scales on hardwood alerted him to the entry of another curious courtier. He looked up and bit back a curse. “Good day, Prince Aldair.” He did not bow as the king’s third son slid into the room.

“Good day, Master Kyran,” the blue naga smiled at him, lifting a vial of phoenix ash off the shelf and examining it. “How are you this fine morning?”

“I am well,” the apothecary lied, schooling his lips into a tight smile. If he had no time for brainless courtiers he had even less time for cynical princes who would probably question the effectiveness of every item in the store.

“I would imagine so, seeing as, if I’m not very much mistaken, Countess Nevri has just left.” Setting the vial back where he’d gotten it, the prince gave him a knowing look, “I know my morning always improves when she leaves.”

Kyran allowed himself a wry chuckle, but was not too loud in his agreement. Politics was not a game he cared to play and not a day went by when some courtier or other reminded him how much care one should exert in picking their enemies.

“Has Queen Ahkdana been through yet?”

Kyran nodded, repressing a shudder. “Their Majesties the five queens came through on the fifth day of my stay, as soon as I had things in sufficient order to entertain visitors.” None of the five had stayed long, but it had been long enough for each to make an impression and the one made by the bright, coy topaz queen had been anything but favorable. She had refused to touch anything for fear of damaging her skin – for which he was grateful, she had complained about the smell – for which the exotic sapphire queen had called her a fool, for which he had been grateful, and had peered at him like a firebird on display in a store – for which he had wanted to bite her. While he would not wish any of the queens back in his store, except perhaps to be certain that his accommodations were working out, as long as he was never left alone with the topaz queen he would declare himself content.

Nebyr: *motions for the others to stay put and slides forward. Loudly announced* We are not bandits. *there are three centaurs in the clearing. They’re chopping firewood. From the looks of it they are a family – a father and two brothers or maybe a nephew and a brother. Cambrin is trying to hide behind his father.*

Father (Voice #1): *looks at the sword at Nebyr’s waist, hefts his axe and asks* And just who are you?

Nebyr: Before I answer that, may I ask where we are?

Father: *arches an eyebrow* Wybren, on the border lands nearest (what did I name that country again?).

Nebyr: *nods and sighs a little* Good, I was hoping we’d cleared the border. We are political refugees from (seriously, what did I name it?). My name is Nebyr, the former captain of the king’s guard.

Father: *looks back in the bushes* We’ve heard tales out of (bloody impossible to remember country name). Am I correct in assuming you have the former crown prince with you as well.

Nebyr: *nods and though his hand doesn’t stray from his sword he says* We mean no harm and want no quarrel. We seek the capital and aid of the royal family of (can’t remember this one either! Sheesh!).

Father: *exchanges looks with son/cousin/whatever, then nods* Our business is the sale of wood, not politics. You seek no quarrel, we’ll give you none. We can, however, give you directions to Tylden or, if you wish to wait until we’ve finished our work for the day, we can take you part of the way ourselves. I do warn you, however, that we still have three more trees to cord and this one *he gestures over his shoulder to Cambrin who protests* is not much help.

Rashka: *slides forward to the head of the group* We should not be followed past the borders, so we have time to wait and I would rather not risk getting lost. *looks at the partially hewn log and the skittish colt and smiles* Also, we have swords and while we’ve been traveling are not yet exhausted. At least some of us should be able to help you in chording that wood.

Father: *grins* Welcome then, Your Majesty, to (whatever the name of my country is.)

“No knives in the fight!”

I don’t know who’s shouting, but it isn’t an Apostle. Someone who put their money on the one about to get gutted, is my guess. When Wolf looks up, I’m rolling out of reach, standing and grabbing hold a tiny hand before anyone else notices him.

“That’s a cheat! Bets are no good!”

And that’s the start of a new fight I don’t want any part of. I think I’m going to lead Jam out of there, but ends up he’s the one leading me. We’re bouncing through arguments, and no one’s minding us anymore, because now it’s their money at stake. They’ve got each other to tear apart. Jam takes me back to the street light. Breathing is worse than the knife would’ve been. I’ve got blood in my ear, and it makes me think I’ve gone deaf. I can’t even feel my finger anymore. There isn’t a part of me that hasn’t got a complaint, but mostly there’s a ripping in my chest that beats out over and over, “Too close, too close, too close.”

~

“You don’t get into fist fights with the customers! Are you out of your mind? I oughta have you thrown in jail, or fire you at the very least.”

“I was trying to break up a fight—”

“And a fine job you were doing, too. You call that breaking up a fight? I think you broke his nose!”

“I didn’t break anything, Jimmy. He’s the one that hit me with the –”

“It’s Mr. Denzen when I’m shouting at you.” Denzen gave him an extra hearty shake, bringing Mystic’s hands to his bleeding head.

“Gah, Jimmy—Mr. Denzen—please!”

“Jimmy!” Mable finally broke through the invisible barrier Denzen had created and grabbed hold of his elbow. “You can yell at him later, when he isn’t bleeding all over the floor. I’ll even help you. But right now, let’s make sure he lives to hear it.”

Mable forcibly removed Mystic from Denzen’s grip and started leading him away. He tried to shove her off, found himself pitching uncontrollably, and grabbed hold of her again. “I was just—breaking up—”

“Stop talking,” she said, directing him toward a bar stool, “and sit down.” She tilted his head back and carefully touched the abrasion. He winced and teetered backwards.

“Dizzy, can you get some rags, and some ice?”

“I think I’ll be alright.”

“You better be. I still have to yell at you.”

“Brilliant incentive.”

“Can you see okay?”

“If everything would stop rocking, I’d be able to see it just fine.”

When Dizzy returned with the wet rags and ice, Mable set to work cleaning the blood from Mystic’s face. Though she worked carefully at the cut, he still recoiled with a curse.

“Come on, be a big boy,” Mable chided. “You’re lucky, it’s not very deep. He must have been too drunk to aim.” She folded a piece of ice into the rag and set it against his head. “Here, hold this, and look out, because here comes trouble.”

Mystic rolled his eyes to see Denzen approaching.

~

I know there’s going to be Hell to pay when Daddy finds out. I know Mama’s going to cry again. But all I can think about is how I lost, how badly I lost, how I could have been cut open on the street and dead before anyone knew I was missing. I lay back on the pavement to try to ease up the pressure on my ribs, but it doesn’t work. Still feels like someone’s kicking me. I lay a while and just work on breathing, and I can feel Jam watching me.

“I’m alright.” The words don’t come out right, and I turn and spit out blood. “I’m alright,” I try again. “How’d you get out?”

“Mama opened the door.”

“And she let you leave the house?”

“Well, you see.” I can hear him thinking, and quick. “She didn’t really know I left.”

“Yea, and I’ll bet she’d having a cow right now. Let’s go home.”

The words a gunshot, worse than the pain in my side. Home. Like swallowing blood. Jam thinks the same thing, I can tell by the way he doesn’t say anything. I turn over so I’m looking at him, but clutching my sides because moving like that makes me feel like I’m breaking in half. When I see him, I think of all the places I’ve seen those eyes—watching from the bedroom door, staring out the window, hiding under the bed, and now watching someone hold a knife over me. Always scared. He never looks anything but scared.

Then I know why I lost. I lost because there’s no way to win here. There’s no fight left in us.

Underneath was a giant, golden birdcage. The cage was intricate, probably worth a single pony's entire life's savings, bedecked with all sorts of rubies, diamonds, emeralds, inlaid with lapis and ivory and onyx, a rainbow of color and expense. What sat inside was easily the ugliest bird that ever existed. It was fat; much fatter than anything that could fly should ever get, so fat its excess hung all around the perch it sat on and completely covered its feet. The rolls of its massive stomach were featherless, instead showing wrinkly, sunspotted gray-brown skin beneath. The ratty feathers it did posses were scattered haphazardly over its skinny, tiny wings and its bulbous head. They were a mix of chartreuse and fuschia, each with a tiny white tip. The bird had four miniscule, beady black eyes, sunken into its head so they were barely visible, unlike its gigantic, curved beak, which was barred in various browns, all of which resembled previously eaten organic matter.

The diseased-looking, obese monstrosity let out a surprised caw as Indigaster revealed it, but this sound was more like that of a strangled cat. It was sickening, and one almost longed to put the bird out of its clear misery just upon hearing it.

"Now, now, Precious, I know you were just getting your beauty sleep, but I need you to read something for me," Indigaster seemed to be trying to soothe the bird as he nosed open the latch on the cage. The bird let out a burble - somewhat like a disgusting burp - and hopped forward off its perch toward the edge of the cage. Somehow it managed to fly through the air, despite the fact that the mass of its fat hung all around it like hundreds of saddlebags.

"I need you to find me the lore on horns on non-unicorns, Precious, please," Indigaster requested softly, smiling at the bird as if it were his own daughter. The bird peered up at him with what looked like a glare but, for all Regulus knew, was admiration, before it began to flap its hideously frail-looking wings.

Somehow, it managed to take off into the air. It was almost as though it was levitating and flapping its wings was really no mechanism for flight at all. Clearly the bird was magic and able to fly by other means. It levitated across the room, toward Alile, who - with abject terror on his face - dodged out of the way. The bird ended up perching on what appeared to be a tall coat-dresser, but it managed to shove open the door with its beak. Inside were stacked, with no seeming attempt at organization, a number of dusty old tomes. The bird floated down to examine the books and, with a single look, 'grasped' a thin, black-leatherbound book with its levitation and floated to the table nearest Indigaster. The bird gagged, once, which must have been another of its unique caws.