Penny

Maverick Malediction

Calliope felt a rush of lust as Neil departed. Her finger tips tingled and she felt an uncomfortable throb. It was always a risk to let her subconcious run free. Such lapses tended to end badly, stripped of her intellect her inner self tended to respond to base impulses which tended in one of two directions. She let out a sigh and tried to get her head on straight. Letting her innerself con the ship was likely to lead to a bloodbath or a... well a different scenario. She sat down and began brushing her hair, using an old techinque to bring herself into equilibrium, each of a hundred strokes to bring her mind to equilibrium.

She dressed herself carefully, adjusting the black fur cloak around herself. It would have been better to wear white she thought, but she just couldn't pull that off with her midnight black hair. Trying to appear pure always made her lookd fake something she couldn't afford at the current moment. The temptation to use her magic was strong. The spell she had worked with Neil had been powered by him, an enforced distance between his soul and his body. She imagined the watchers downstairs afraid she was a necromancer, then imagined the look of shock on thier faces as her magic began to rip them appart. She forced that thought down as well. The spellburn was fading but it would be days before she was up to her full potential. The battle at the party had stretched her well beyond her limits, she could feel that strength growing inside her. Maybe if she just looked at the book she could... No. She couldn't afford the temptation right now. Her hands strayed to the chalice and she lifted it up. She was looking forward to seeing what kind of show Neil and his shards of glass put on. Somehow she was prepared to be impressed.

Maverick Malediction

“Perfect,” Calliope purred. She had slept for a time, though in her dream she had felt something malign stalking her. She recalled being in a great library in which every book was a copy of the one they had stolen, its binding infinitely scaled up and down but always exactly the same tome. She got out of bed, felt weak, and hated herself for it. She wanted meat but the last thing she needed was servants or the would be guards sticking their heads in at this point. They needed to find some supplies, the gown she had worn to the ball being a little worse for wear. Carefully she wrapped the mirror in one of the small table cloths and then punched her fist into the center of it. It disintegrated in a quiet cacophony of musical tinkles. Calliope paused and cocked her ear, making sure no one was coming to investigate the sound, then she carefully poured the shards into one of the soup bowls she had cleaned out for the purpose.

“You know I think they make you pay for that,” Neil put in sardonically. She ignored him, breaking up a few of the larger shards by hand, careful not to cut herself.

“I thought you still couldn’t do magic,” Neil interjected as she picked up one of the large shards and turned it over in her fingers.

“Me?” she asked innocently, “no. You? Yes.” She cut him across the forearm with the tip of the shard drawing three drops of blood. They ran silver.



Neil and Calliope stood on a wind blasted heath, so formless that it made the mind ache. Phantom wind whipped around them, disturbing their hair but not their clothing. In the distance strange and indistinct shaped humped and crawled like blind maggots, just hinted at in the murky air.

“Gods damn it woman!” Neil complained, glancing around them in shock. He looked down at himself and found he was two Neil’s, one whole, the other slightly translucent and an inch or so out of alignment.



“Ok spill,” he demanded, crossing his four arms awkwardly. Calliope smiled up at him and lifted the bowl of mirror shards. They flowed together into a single sheet of glass so perfect it might have been quicksilver. Inside the mirror a second naked Calliope was visible behind him, her arms draped over his shoulders, her red lips close to his neck.

“I’ve removed your soul from your body,” both Calliope’s said in eerie synchrony, the words oddly sibilant as they came at Neil from all directions and maybe none.



“Don’t worry…” the Calliope behind him said, extending her tongue to scrape along his neck, something he could see but not feel.

“It isn’t permanent,” the Calliope in front of him said.



“Just a trick,” the Calliope behind him said, her lips closing around his ear lobe and tugging playfully.

“Just a trick,” the Calliope in front of him agreed. She clapped her palms together on the disc of quick silver at the same instant the second Calliope’s hands began to stray down the front on Neil’s tunic.



The mirror exploded silently. It fell into the bowl in a sound so similar to its original shattering that a musical savant could have found no difference, despite being having apparently been broken in a completely different fashion and falling rather than simply being contained by cloth. Neil thought he glimpsed himself in the mirror shards even though they weren’t oriented to reflect him, but it was only for an instant. She handed him the bowl then tucked the large shard with a drop of his blood on the tip away.

“Take a shard and focus on it, imagine what you want it to show,” she explained.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla rode atop Cydric's shoulders with a sense of glee, ducking under low branches and issuing Imperial commands as though she were riding a great warhorse. The Dwarves grumbled in their own tongue, complaining about humans, women, and human women in particular. The hill grew closer but it seemed to Camilla that the trees grew thicker even as the ground began to become rocky. A worrying light had began to appear on the eastern horizon as the sun began to rise.

“Ve need to harry,” she insisted, her accent thickening unconsciously as her unease grew.

“Probably easier if the big ox weren’t carrying your behind,” Thor grunted, though his heart wasn’t in the insult. Before Camilla could respond the sun peaked over the tips of the distant World’s Edge mountains and the hill infront of them flared into sharp relief, the black smudgy shadows of foliage turning emerald as the morning sun struck it. The trees exploded into motion, seeming to surge up the hill like a frozen wave suddenly unthawed. They struck something and recoiled, a low fence of stones that sparked and flashed.

“A rune fence,” Thor muttered in quiet awe. Beyond the fence the hilltop was bare, tree stumps littered it, obviously harvested by whatever dwarves had settled there, either to provide timber or to clear a defensive perimeter, or both. The sun continued to rise and the chaos continued to spread.

“Myrmidia’s tits,” Camilla cursed/prayed. There was no way in hell that they were going to break through to the minehead through that wall of rending thrashing timber. Worse, some at the rear of the group had turned and she saw glowing green eyes regarding them.

“Run!” Camilla shouted, “Run for the grove! We have to stay in the shadows as long as we can!”

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

The timing of the explosion was perfect. A half dozen more of the would be rocketeers had been just about to launch. Instead they were flung into the air, their packs exploding or igniting wildly throwing them in all directions. One went off in mid air like a firecracker, raining bits of detritus down over an acre of ocean. The barge wallowed and began to slow, though it was still undercontrol, someone was at the helm and was edging it over towards their would be victim. As soon as they were in jetpack range there was a coordinated abandon ship. Six figures rose on the smoke trails of their jetpacks in a phalanx.

“Some guys,” Jocasta complained, “just don’t know when to take a hint.” She cut the power to the port nacelle by 90 percent and upped the drive as high as it would go. Their port side dropped into the water like a router blade, spraying a wall of foam thirty feet into the air. It crashed into the oncoming attackers, sending every one of them splashing down into the ocean where they could fight to get out of their gear before it dragged them down.



“Down, down and drowned, down and drowned and never found,” Jocasta hummed as she brought the power back up. The barge wallowed and stabalized, the enemy boat slowing down and emitting an unhealthy looking plume of black smoke. Where the jet skis had gone she had no idea. Probably decided to spend their hard earned vacation days as far from the barge as possible. Jocasta ease the throttle back and out of the red, correcting their course for the main docks on the edge of the crater ocean. She was soaked from head to toe and red water from the stabbed merc was sloshing around. The white gauzy dress she had been wearing clung to her body leaving little the the imagination. Something wriggled beneath the wet fabric and a dragon fly drone popped up from between her breasts. It shook its wings irritably, making an electronic buzzing sound.

“Hey, take it up with your travel agent sister! I was team hotub,” Jocasta scolded.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

The bag stubbornly resisted my attempts to pummel it into submission. The padding deforming around my fists as I circled and punched.

“Good, keep your hands up,” Hadrian encouraged. After an hour of practice my body was glistening with sweat, I was not normally one for intense physical activity, in this realm at least, but I found the idea of being ripped appart by the God Emperor knew what concentrated my mind.

“She appears thirty seven percent more focused than yesterday,” Lazarus commented, having joined us at some point during the training session.



“Bio signs suggest increased endorphin production as well as serotonin and dopamine secretion which combined with decreased cortisol suggests…”



“Enough Lazarus,” Hadrian put in quickly before the Skitarii came to the right conclusion. Lazarus made a clicking noise and cocked his head towards Hadrian but fell silent.

“Limited muscle mass renders close combat an option of last resort,” he said instead. I paused in my assault on the Chaos tainted punching bag, breathing heavily.

“Not to worry, I plan on keeping the two of you between me and anything I might need to punch,” I assured him. With the best will in the world, two days wasn’t going to make me a combatant. Lazarus reached down and selected a training sword from the weapon rack, a bundle of wooden dowels weighted to mimic a standard naval cutlass.

“Try to defend yourself,” he instructed and then darted forward. I yelped and knocked his blade aside, backpedaling to avoid his follow up.



“Concentrate on your feet,” he instructed. The punching bag smacked into him from behind and knocked him off balance, its forty pound mass glistening with frost. I tapped him on the shoulder with the blade before he could regain his feet.

“A trick, in a fair fight you would have been killed,” he observed.

“Not alot of incentive for me to fight fairly I suppose,” I returned. He made a proforma salute and attacked again. I split myself into a half dozen copies of myself, the illusions all menacing him with their blades. It was convincing enough that he could have felt their touch, but he backed away, fending off thrusts and cuts as they came. A light in his cowl changed and he focused on the real me, lunging forward to tap my chest with the point of his blade. My doppelgangers all scowled with disappointment and then faded.



“Clever of you to invest the illusions with body temperature, however each of them was uniform without the normal variations induced by layering of fat and tissue,” he informed me.

“Well I can’t say I’ve had any complaints before,” I huffed, setting the sword down and taking up one of the water canteens, gulping greedily.

Damned to the Depths

Calliope felt oddly nostalgic as they made small talk with the nobles. It reminded her of old times when she had entertained the Great and Good of Callaverde and they had all danced to her tune. Before they had all turned on her of course. Something primal rumbled in the back of her mind and for a moment she thought she smelled something like fire crackling over rock. Like all such moments it passed quickly and faded from her mind. Markus proved himself a man of hidden talents, though perhaps it should not have surprised her that so capable a swordsman found the less improvised footwork of the dance a natural fit. They shared a pair of dances, a slow waltz and a spritely sarabande before other partners drew them away. There was much talk of pirates and piracy, mostly of the ridiculous demands of one Markus Flintbrook whose vessel was currently prowling these waters. Did she know that they had captured a score of his men and planned to hang them on the morrow? Would she be attending? Did she want an escort to such a beastly business?

There was no formal feast, instead plates of food were circulated among the crowd by servants in party coloured livery. It was quite the display of culinary skill. Small ships made of mashed potato crusted with sharp cheese with little pennants of sauteed green onion. Elegant little roses made of slivers of beef or bacon. Little faux apples made from candied pork with gold leaf. Coiled and recooked noodles woven into patterns of trees with sauted meat for trunks and vegetables for leaves. Lime tart and custard pies, little mandalas made of nuts encased in brightly coloured sugars, butter short bread and almond crisp. Calliope wasn’t sure she had ever seen or tasted its equal. Drinks were served in a similar fashion and judging by the amount of wine circulating Calliope knew that many a noble cellar would need restocking in the morning. Claret and champagne flowed freely, as did crisp whites with an appley finish which was apparently a specialty of the islands. The drink was less to Calliope’s taste, her sensibilities having been eroded by the cask rum mixed with lime juice and gunpowder which was the sailors daily comfort. The apple brandy they served seemed a poor tipple in comparison, and she had to be careful not to toss it off to quickly lest she give herself away.



“May I have this dance Lady?” A nervous looking man with pinched cheeks and a receding hairline asked. Calliope extended her hand and took his.

“Callypsa Haukenbrook,” she introduced herself, performing a slight curtsey before lifting her fingertips to the proscribed position..

“Marcel D’amarlane,” he replied, touching his fingertips to her and beginning to circle as the orchestra took up the tune.



“I am not familiar with the Haukenbrooks, are you a local family?” he asked, making polite conversation. Calliope gave him the same vague account of overseas travel that she had given her other dance partners.

“Calypsa, its a strange name, have you ever been to Callaverde by any chance?” he asked.

“I’ve heard of it,” Calliope responded with understatement that didn’t amplify the statement. They curved and reversed direction, switching hands with easy grace.

“I had the pleasure of visiting there some years ago. I even attended a feast with the potentate there, Call… something was her name? A terrible sorceress, her own people rose up against her later that year, though I heard she escaped and cursed the city as she fled,” he pressed. Up until this point he seemed to be making conversation but something in her manner must have given him pause because he suddenly gave her a very appraising look.

“Calliope,” she supplied for him. “A very terrible woman I am given to understand.” Marcel missed a step but quickly recovered, though looking a little pale.

“My Lady I…” he began but she continued speaking over him.

“Can you imagine if she were here now,” she told him lightly, spinning through the dance step and coming in close for the stylized embrace.

“Walking here among us in secret?” she tittered as though this was the most wickedly entertaining thing she could imagine.

“Can you imagine what a woman like that might do if someone were to expose her like that? Why I bet she would flay a man alive! Perhaps burn his intestines alive. Maybe even rip his mind from his body entirely,” she tittered again, though judging by the now pasty white complexion of her dance partner, it wasn’t quite the light giggle it had started as. She blinked her eyes, her pupils suddenly slitted and serpentine, then, in the next heartbeat back to normal. Marcel made a choking sound and stumbled, colliding with a waiter who expertly kept his tray aloft while disentangling himself from the guest. Such accidents of drunken gracelessness were certainly common at this late hour. Marcel snatched a glass of brandy and downed it in a single gulp before casting her one more fearful glance. Calliope waved a gloved hand and waved with her fingers. He fled the dancefloor.

“What is wrong with that poor devil?” another woman asked as she took a glass of wine from the waiter.

“Always a mistake to attempt a dance you can't finish,” Calliope told her in a slightly disappointed tone.

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

The drones reported that the island was free of hostels, though they persisted in playfully labeling Dirk with a question mark. Jocasta tucked her long barreled pistol into its holster at her hip and followed the big armored man up onto the beach. The pristine stretch of sand was somewhat marred by the large surface effect air boat that had run up on the sand and grounded. It was easy to imagine the mercenaries leaping from its sides, yelling and brandishing weapons while the sunbathing tourists fled like panicked geese. Jocasta skipped over to one of the piles of detritus and picked up a bra that appeared to be made of little diamond shaped sapphires woven together with gold wire. She held it up to her chest and struck a pose.

“If you are quite finished?” Dirk asked. Jocasta stuck her tongue out and dropped the expensive piece into a pocket, despite the fact it seemed unlikely to do too much to conceal even assets more modest than her own.



“If lingerie and airboats don’t improve your mood I fear there is no hope for you,” Jocasta opined philosophically and hopped up onto the deck of the barge. It shifted slightly under her weight but was stuck fast in the sand. She was just about to ask Dirk how they should get it out onto the water when he planted both hands on the curve of the hull and heaved. For a long moment nothing happened save a whirring of servos in his armor, then the boat slid an inch, then two, then slid out into the water, Dirk jumping aboard just before the water reached the knee joint of his armor. Jocasta grabbed the controls, took a moment to orient herself and then fired up the big fan that drove the barge. The subsonic thrum made Jocasta’s belly tingle and her air streamed out towards the reversing fans as she backed them. She turned her hair golden blonde and shook it like a model in a commercial. No use wasting a good wind effect. As soon as the barge had come around enough, she jammed the throttle forward and the noise grew so intense that Jocasta’s comm deployed a cancelation wave to mute it. A great wave of white foam formed beneath the bow as they picked up speed and then the hull lifted and they were skimming the water at the head of a long wake. The barge wasn’t a pleasure craft, but it was designed to shift thousands of kilos of cargo quickly. That kind of power still translated to speed when it was empty. Jocasta let out a whoop and shoved the throttle to the gate. Almost immediately red carrots sprang up in her vision. Only one of her drones was aloft, flying a pattern high above, the others busily clinging to the surface of the barge and one gripping onto her hair for dear life. Fortunately the lone overwatcher was sufficient to provide warning. A large airboat much like their own was arrowing towards them on an intercept course. Within moments it hull was visible, laser fire licking out from it like a questing tongue. A quartet of what looked like high end jet skis were flanking it like outriders. The laser fire flecked harmlessly of the hull, powerless to do much damage to what was essentially just steel skirting without any mechanical components to damage, the engines buried under the deck. Dirk returned fire with much the same result. As they closed Jocasta saw a flash of smoke on the enemy deck. For a moment she thought Dirk had hit something but then a man rocketed into the air, leaping the distance on a tail of fire, his jet pack carrying him onto the deck infront of them with a crash.

The Star-Breakers! A Sci-Fi Outlaw Story!

I'm interested

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

Sythemeis gave that thief a look that said much without words but tempted though she was she chose not to argue. What good would it do to explain now that if he had tried to cross the wards the wizard had set he would have become the nine hundredth and ninety ninth set of finger bones in the collection of Antiachus the Mooncursed?

“Follow man,” she instructed the word ‘man’ laden with contempt. They climbed higher into the tower, the stairs lacking the larger than life rise of the dungeon. At intervals arched windows granted vistas of the palace gardens and the city beyond both illuminated with moonlight and winking with the cruder light of torches. They reached a great doorway and passed through. Inside a dozen guardsmen stood about a circular guard room, its floor tiled with alternating black and white wedges.

“Touch them not,” Sythemeis advised. The men were typical of the Emir’s guard, dressed in studded tunics with silk sashes over their shoulders and belted at the waist. High boots of woven leather gave their legs a rough and unhealthy aspect. None of the guards reacted to their presence as they all stared blind and bemused up at the waxing moon. Their eyes were monochrome and pearlescent like the nacre of a shellfish. One or two of them moaned softly as they passed.

“They looked upon the moon,” she told Amal as though that explained everything. There was an eagerness in her voice a yearning like a thirsty man at last in sight of a broad river.

“We must hurry, she swells,” she explained, reaching the stairs on the other side, atop the next flight they came to a door. It was of dark wood, inlaid with golden tracery and thumb sized gems which themself would have been worth a small fortune at the gem sellers and pawn brokers. A great lock was built into its center veins of gold and silver running away from it in a hateful imitation of the sun.



“No man has stepped beyond this door without a key,” Sythemis explained, reaching out and touching the wood with the palm of her hand. For the first time it was tentative and uncertain as she felt the grain of the wood beneath her smooth palm.

“A task for a master thief, one of three which are laid upon this tower,” she told Amal, turning to look at him, her dark eyes glittering in the moonlight.

“We must hurry,” she repeated, “if we are not gone when the bones return Antiachus from the depths, we shall wish for a death that will not come.”