Purpose

“Do you resent your purpose?” Zorina asked, tugging one of their discarded gloves over her left hand. She flexed her fingers experimentally, watching as the black organics molded to her skin. The faceted ley lines in the smart fabric remained dark. “No more than you resent yours, I imagine,” Aeron replied. They touched Zorina’s wrist,

Light as a

She stared cross-eyed at the duratyne feather her claws held aloft. It was short for a secondary, but long enough that she could lay it across her armored forearm and link her elbow and wrist. The tip was broad, the body wide—these were the pinions that locked tightly during flight, formed the airfoil and generated

Reunion

She leaned back on her elbows, kicking a branch into the fire with the heel of her boot. The flames protested briefly, coughing and sputtering on the damp wood, but slowly licked their way back into a crackling cone. The damp hadn’t quite crept through the thick cloak she’d laid out onto the packed snow,

Cemetery

The new Stormwind Cemetery was a surprisingly pleasing place to relax: fewer mounts traipsed through the cobbled streets, vendors ceased hawking their wares at the gates, and if you didn’t mind the occasional bouts of sobbing (she didn’t), it was quiet. Wonderfully quiet. Shackleton doffed her spired helmet and rested her head against a marble

Frost

Sorina watched one of the dwarf’s gnarled hands come to an uneasy rest on the heavy hammer suspended from his belt. The other meaty paw white-knuckled the handle of a massive tankard still resting on the bar. She made a point of slowly unfastening the leather baldric that secured her runeblade to her back, carefully propping

Fireworks

Every Fourth of July the local orchestra put on this fantastic rendition of the “1812 Overture.” My friends and I watched, sprawled on tattered blankets and aging plastic lawn chairs at the back of the green, agreeably wasted on cheap sangria and Smuttynose. An ancient dude in the percussion section glared furiously at his bass

Opportunity

“How ‘bout you give me the name of Walker’s ship?” “Specify: Walker, Dorian; Walker, Belle; or Walker—?” “Dorian, ‘course.” “Dorian Course not found.” “No—listen, here. Fix your shit. Tell me the name of Dorian Walker’s ship.” “Request confirmed. Specify star date.” “Alright. Okay. I ken your drill. Tell me the name of the ship from

Valentine

At precisely 6:14 p.m., a key turns in a door. As it opens, a slice of fluorescent brilliance knifes into a twilit room, illuminating a white cat. The innocuous bundle of fluff remains impassive until the person attached to the key strides into the isosceles light and pushes the door shut. Locks it. “Miao,” the

Asking For It

The sun hasn’t come up yet. A young woman briefly checks the weather on her mobile phone, notes the unseasonably warm temperatures predicted for the afternoon, and selects a summery dress from her closet. She hurriedly finishes her morning ablutions, fills an aluminum tumbler with coffee, forgets to snag her pre-packed lunch from the refrigerator,