The fire crackled lightly in the darkness of night. Zent’s head bobbed in a lulling rhythm as he tried to fight off sleep. It was still early, but he was exhausted from carrying Xib on his back across the plains. She lay unconscious still, just within reach of the illuminating flames. Zent could feel his mind push into a haze, and ghosts of his past met him there. A woman dressed in elegant red, hair a brilliant gold cast an evil gaze down at him. Zent felt a ghostly hand grip his pant leg, and the rogue looked down to see a child’s face, half-decayed. Its mouth opened and scorpions flew from it. Zent tried to scream, but only heard the cackling of goblins. The woman, too, opened her mouth to speak but was drowned out by the cackling of goblins. Goblins?

                Zent’s mind flickered from the sins of the past to the horrors of the present. Xib, still unconscious, was being peeled away from the sanctity of the fire into the darkness just beyond.

                “Like Hell.” Zent growled and in one movement slid onto a leg kicking away the small fire pit he’d built, then rose onto both feet. The light disappeared almost immediately. In the moonlight, which took a moment for Zent’s eyes to adapt, he could see the crest of bumpy goblin heads, and the long triangular goblin ears bouncing. Zent charged into the dark, after the closest of the bumpy heads.

                A weird barking giggle came from behind him, and Zent turned around. The darkness finally was becoming familiar and standing two feet his superior, Zent saw a massive Trogg wielding a club trying to crush him. Zent rolled out of the way, and produced the first of his two blades. The silver blade glinted in the moonlight. The trogg turned to face Zent, but was met with the stippling of his blade.

                “Woodpecker Strike!” he shouted, assaulting the stomach, legs, and lower chest of the trogg with two dozen inaccurate, but sonic speed stabs. With the final strike, Zent darted away from underneath the trogg and continued to pursue the goblins. The trogg stood silently for a moment, then blue black blood gushed from the multiple wounds endured in such a short time, pouring even as the final howl of the trogg pierced the night. It stumbled, fell to one knee in a pool of its own blood, then fell onto its face into the sticky black substance.

                The goblins were fast, much faster than Zent had expected while carrying a body.

                But not as fast as he was.

                Leaning into his run, Zent’s heels barely touched the ground, feet in the air almost as soon as they hit the dirt. The tall grass rustled loudly as he cut a path through it with his torso. The goblins cackled even now. He wondered if they were simply over confidant, or if they really were as brainless as some people said they were. As soon as he could make out the head of the closest goblin he pulled a throwing knife from a pouch on his belt.

                With a keen eye, he thrust the knife forward into the night. It soared into the darkness, but Zent couldn’t tell where. The goblin didn’t falter, so he assumed he had missed. Zent’s teeth ground together, angry at himself. He could feel himself running out of stamina, his breath growing heavy with every step.

                The rogue shook his mind out, and pushed as hard as he could to advance on the closest goblin. When he was within range, he leaped into the air gripping his dagger with both fists tightly, and slammed the blade through the skull of the goblin. It crumpled, and Zent straddled the body as it slid into the dirt. He successfully scraped both knees, tearing open his pants cleanly. Zent looked up to see that his blade had snapped from the handle with the impact. He threw the useless hilt aside and slid his second dagger out of its sheath. Not good. If they ran across anything worse than this before reaching Borea, Zent may not be able to deal with the problem.  At first he tried to palm the off-hand weapon in his left hand, but it felt awkward as his main blade. The weight was wrong. He thought it might be better to improvise, and returned the weapon to his right hand, and picked up a stick for his “main” weapon.

                Zent saw the goblins ahead had slowed considerably with the removal of this one from their pack, and now understood why. Each of the four goblins had taken a limb. Now Xib’s left leg drug recklessly against the ground. Zent didn’t have to rush before he caught up. The goblins made clicking gargling sounds, and dropped Xib entirely. She didn’t protest, and Zent was genuinely worried about somebody other than himself for the first time in a long time. He cursed under his breath.

                The goblins advanced as a three man pack, each wielding a stone axe, lashed to a stick with leather strands. Zent’s shoulders sulked a bit as he saw the sight. In a few deft strikes, he had disarmed two of the three goblins, literally. Their weapon arms fell onto the ground with a splurt of the same blue-black blood the trogg had left. The hands still gripped tightly to the axes they had been equipped with only moments before. Their screams of pain fell upon deaf ears. The final goblin tried to escape, leaving his weapon behind. Zent appeared in front of him, without the slightest of movement from the brush to either side. In his head, Zent painted this one as their leader, though he had no evidence of this being the case… it just felt cooler this way.

                Zent kicked the goblin square in the face, and it fell backwards, screaming and clutching its broken, ugly long nose. Zent kicked the ribs of the goblin ‘leader’ for good measure, before picking up Xib and beginning their campsite. When he finally carried her to the fire place, relit the flame, and inspected her more thoroughly, he came across a disturbing revelation.

                When morning came, the gates of Borea were greeted with a man covered in dirt and blood, with a girl wrapped in many many blankets on piggyback. His eyes, red but for his pupils, were wet with rage and determination. The guards of the Borea gate ordered the man to stand down- but he could not. Zent took another step forward, and pikes were produced at his neck. Veins popped from the skin around Zent’s forehead and neck, down into his shoulders and legs.

                “I…” he growled through a husky, rash voice, “ … for… Illicia! Bring… Illicia…”

Zent coughed loudly, and blood spat from somewhere in his lungs onto the pikes before him. The guards leapt back slightly staring at the stain on their finely polished weapons- as if they thought somehow the weapons would never be bloodied.  Zent tried his best not to die falling backwards, and shifted all his weight to one side, away from Xib’s wound. The girl rolled from beneath the bundle of blankets in which she was hid, blood staining three layers of the wrapping around her wound.

                “Captain, he cited Lady Illicia.” Said one of the guards.

                A helmed man replied, somewhat metallically, “Restrain him, and bring the Priestess. Even if she does not know the man, she may be of some use resurrecting them. “

                “Yes Sir!”

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HAWK EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!

Today, a friend of mine wished that she could keep her foot. She didn't mind losing a few toes. Didn't mind losing all of them, as long as she got to keep her foot. I've never heard a person wish for something like that before. How can I fulfill that dream? This is a selfish wish but still, how can a person be denied something so simple with such sacrifice? 

She was hiking in Deception Pass, when a boulder fell on her foot. It crushed it completely, breaking every bone. She's at the Harborview hospital... the same hospital my grandpa stayed at. And all she wants is her foot. She doesn't think she can handle the whole thing being amputated.

I'm not sure what to think.

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