Alphabet drabble challenge!

Post your stories for the drabble challenge here!

X is for Xenophobe


Kelech pressed on through the shrouded archway, the bleak shadows giving way to an amphitheater brightly lit with braziers. Chained at the center was a naked human male, fearful and weak.

“It saddens me, to offer our patron such filth as you,” Kelech proclaimed, drawing a dagger across his palm. He paced a circle around the sacrifice, scarlet drops shining in the firelight.

“That your degenerate people rule this land is a sin against all creation. Your life will be but one spark to feed our master’s glorious inferno.”

“In Kossuth’s holy name,” he intoned as the knife came down.

Ooooooooooh! Awesome!

D is for Donkey-wife

Brenn awoke with a bugbear of a headache. His head felt as though his brain were trying desperately to escape his skull, which he admitted was understandable considering the great lengths he had gone to to try and kill off his brain-cells last night.

He lifted his head off of the nude, half-orc dancing girl whose stomach he’d been using as a pillow and glanced around blearily. As his eyes focused, they settled on the huge brown face that was staring down over him in an expression of equine puzzlement.

The donkey snorted.

“Gods Damnit…” Brenn sighed, “Not this again…”

S is for Schematics


There was a solution here; there had to be. Cael’s ink-stained fingers sifted through the pile of papers, quills, and the remains of what he dimly remembered as dinner from the night before. Or was that two nights ago?

All other thoughts were dismissed as he found the page he’d been searching for. His eyes danced over calculations of residuum absorbency rates, ambient arcana measurements, an idea forming …

He turned from the desk to a makeshift workbench he’d cobbled together, upon which were strewn various oddments of the artificer’s craft. His dragonmarks glowed as he called upon their power.

Z is for Zombie

Tzesira’s fist connected with the half-rotted elf’s head, snapping it backwards with a sickening crackle. The zombie fell over onto the rocky cemetery ground, twitched a few times, and lay still.

“That’s right, fucker!” She said, wiping bits of decaying flesh and bone off her hand, “Stay the fuck down this time.”

A low groan from behind her made her turn, instinctively spinning into a defensive stance. In the gathering gloom she saw three more lurching figures stumbling towards her.

She grinned manically and beckoned the undead with her open palm.

“That’s more like it!” she growled, “Bring it, bitches!”

P is for Puppy


While he certainly enjoyed the activity, Roscoe remained unsure precisely the function served by taking his new puppy for a walk. Sparky seemed to be having fun, though, so Roscoe ambled along behind him amicably.

“Oh. My. Gods! Roscoe, that’s amazing! “

Startled, Roscoe looked back down to see Cael holding Sparky, inspecting the obviously happy golem-puppy.

“Good mobility, the articulation’s astounding,” he paused as Sparky extended a leather tongue to lick the noble’s face,”it even has a tongue.” Cael laughed. “What else can it…”

Still very excited, Sparky let loose a spray of warm water down Cael’s front.

R is for Remembering


Leaning over the gunnel of the Highwind, Dhenirigan took in the dwindling bustle of Highmark’s streets as the city settled in for nightfall. Being shipboard again took him back, remembering the longest time he’d spent apart from his wife.

Elise was a goddess in her armor, as always. The waning sunlight glinted off its polished surface, dancing in her flowing hair. Dhenirgan smiled as she’d buttoned his coat to the top, as always.

“We’ll see each other in Yeshual. Even this war won’t keep me from your side.”

As he leaned in for a goodbye kiss, she answered softly.

“Quite.”

This is not a drabble - I'm just posting so I get notifications. Keep 'em coming

M is for Mustache


“Your care for your appearance is a useless affectation,” Feyrmalken intoned, watching Warryn don the well-cut coat he wore over his armor.

The warlock raised a skeptical eyebrow as he answered.

“You clean yourself constantly. What’s the difference?”

The fey cat had begun licking a paw, but paused for a retort.

“I am merely removing the detritus of this horrible mortal realm from my person. What’s your excuse?”

The gnome smiled mirthlessly, admiring his long mustache in the small mirror he carried.

“If I’m going to die young, I might as well take the advice and leave a good-looking corpse.”

T is for Tango

“Sweetheart, I really don’t have time for a night out,” Capulette pleaded for the fifth time. Benvolio just smiled, squeezing his wife’s hand.

Moments before their carriage came to a stop, the strident sound of violins cut across the usual sounds of nocturnal Highmark.

“You didn’t,” Capulette exclaimed as he stepped out, offering his hand.

The milonga was crowded, but Ben led them through masterfully. Finally, he turned abruptly on the dance floor to twirl her into an apilado, stepping directly into the dance as she giggled appreciatively.

“You dance for them every day, my love. Dance tonight with me.”

I is for Indecent

A procession of young men and women in white robes passed by the outdoor café where several of the Thunderbolts had gathered for lunch. There was a peaceful solemnity to the group that drew Kallista’s attention.

“What’s with the parade?” she wondered aloud.

“They’re Peloran virgins, Kal, on the way to the temple,” Delona responded.

“Whata-who now?” the tiefling asked, incredulous.

“Virginal clerics of Pelor, Kallista,” Dhenirigan answered pedagogically. “They forgo sexual congress as a form of worship. They believe forsaking mortal pleasures brings union with the divine.”

The rogue stared at the knight, eyes agog.

“That…that’s just plain indecent.”

Y is for Yearn

Tzesira perched in an alcove overlooking the training yard, enjoying a good stare as Selgrumel worked over a group of dummies with a practice sword and shield. The young warlord wore an utlitatian outfit similar to Tzesira’s own, her toned muscles clearly defined as she worked steadily through her routine. The fierce, purposeful movements of the vigorous hobgoblin led the monk’s mind to wander, contemplating those strong hands put to other, if equally strenuous, activities.

Finally pausing after the last of the last of the dummies lay ‘vanquished,’ Selgrumel looked up, meeting the shadar-kai’s fixated gaze.

L is for Lesson

"I believe the lesson has been learned." Halatir interrupted with a faint smile.

"Uh, but Lunomi and I haven't-" started one of the two House soldiers who’d been sent to the dojo for personal training from the war hero.

"You misunderstand me. That was the maneuver. That wasn't the lesson," the swordmaster said, "Today's lesson is in humility. Delona has been training with me since she was five years old. What she lacks in political status she more then makes up for in ability. It's just something to keep in mind when you're meeting new people. We will continue tomorrow. Dismissed."

Delona lingered in the courtyard, slowly dismantling her bristling smiley face of arrows while she waited for the other two to gather their things and leave. After the courtyard had been put back to rights, the half-orc teen slipped through the halls to Master's study. She smiled at seeing the meal for two already waiting and took her accustomed seat. Halatir subtly studied her with concern as they ate in comfortable silence.

"Delona?"

She smiled softly and shook her head. "It's alright, Master. I've been called worse things."

Q is for Quintuplets

“Vedran, you have to help me!” Brenn exclaimed, dragging his friend out onto the balcony, away from the party.

“Gods, what’s wrong?” Vedran asked earnestly.

“You have to find out which of the Eldirel quintuplets I slept with!”

Vedran offered a stony stare.

“It was dark, things get confused!”

Vedran sighed.

“Don’t be like that. Their family has major contacts in the shipping business.” He grinned wolfishly. “And at least one of their daughters had major contact with yours truly. Up top!”

Resisting the urge to slap his friend, Vedran walked silently back into the ball.

W is for Widower

Brenn and Kallista were not a particularly subtle couple, and there was something about their combined charisma that infected the Highwind's crew. Dhenirigan remembered that feeling - of being the captain in love, and happy, and how his crew had responded to his moods. He was happy for them, certainly, but it made him nostalgic. Of course it wasn't really the mood he missed, it was the woman. It was easier to remember her in happier days, but thoughts of her slow decline, when there was nothing left to fight, were rarely far behind. Either way, he was still alone.

N is for Naughty

“Sparky?”

Roscoe rounded the Street corner, his metallic eyes surveying the city crowd. After a moment he spotted his dog-shaped companion hiding under a market stall.

“Sparky!” he said, kneeling in front of the cart, “Come out from there!”

The panicked construct merely looked at its owner and whimpered.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. Tzesira threatens to eviscerate everyone. She never really means it.”

Sparky didn’t respond, but continued hiding under the cart, shaking.

“I don’t see why she was so upset anyway…” Roscoe mused, “Granted, you shouldn’t have been in her bed but after all, it’s only water.”

O is for Origins

“Well someone must know *something* about his early life”, Kallista said with a shrug, her voice barely above a whisper, “I mean Monti must have it on file.”

“Yeah”, Delona muttered, “But she’s not going to tell us. And he keeps his cards pretty close to his chest.”

The two women tilted their heads and peered at the gnomish warlock who was eating alone across the mead hall.

“Short, pale and mysterious, huh?” Kallista sighed, “Well, I guess one out of three isn’t bad. Still, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”

Delona groaned and palmed her forehead.

“Dear gods, Kallista…”

K is for Knitting

Roscoe rifled through the pile of afghans heaped on his windowsill, distraught. The indigo one would look good, and she’d always loved that color. But he’d run out of the same dye batch near the end, so it wasn’t even.

“You cared enough to make it,” he could just hear her saying. “That’s all that really matters.”

The forgeborn wished he could cry, or whatever the appropriate thing to do was. He’d spent hours choosing the right grave gift. Then it came to him.

In the chest by the door was the first scarf he’d made under Mrs. Rosamund’s tutelage.

U is for Uvula

“Well, I just wish I had one,” Roscoe claimed petulantly.

“Roscoe, do you even know what one does?” Kallista asked, confused.

“I will have you know I am very well-versed in their myriad uses. I’ve read extensively on the subject.”

“But you don’t have the other parts that go with it. It would just be this dangly bit hanging off.”

“Maybe so, but there’s something to be said for their aesthetic value, I think.”

“What are you two talking about?” asked Monti as she walked into the meeting room.

Startled, the artificer and rogue looked up, answering in unison.

“Uvulas.”

B is for Bastard

“Bastard? Is that truly the worthiest insult you can muster?” Vedran smirked at his opponent, some patrician slumming at the Explorer’s Union.

“’S the truth, markless,” came the response.

“Doubtless, but there are so many better choices,” the bard replied, moving to the attack.

“Whoreson. Baseborn. Mongrel.”

Each word carried with it a strike, pressing through the man’s inferior defense.

“Half-breed, half-blood, half-caste.”

Vedran’s attack quickened, moving in for the finish.

“Misbegotten, ill-spawned son of a contemptible slattern.”

The last blow knocked the man to his feet as Vedran smiled disdainfully.

“Better to be illegitimate than irrelevant, wouldn’t you say?”

F is for Fieldmouse

"Do you have to do that?"

Feyrmalken looked up from the fieldmouse he was tormenting, offering a grin of impossibly sharp teeth.

"No," the fey cat answered Warryn. "But I LIKE to. It's my nature to be amused by tiny, helpless things struggling against their inevitable fate. Take note, little warloOUCH!"

The cat screeched as a bolt of eldritch energy crackled past his nose, allowing the mouse to disappear into the underbrush beyond the campsite.

"Even a fieldmouse has a fighting chance, with the right allies," Warryn said coolly. With that, the gnome returned to the campfire -- and his friends.

Dude, that's awesome!

It really is! That's one of the best ones so far I really can't wait until we get into Warryn's backstory in game!

C is for Confusion

“He wants a what?” Shallahai asked with a surprised head cock. It was hard to read the alien expressions on her face, but Kallista was getting used to noticing the wilden’s unique body language.

“A uvula.” The tiefling replied with a laugh.

“What’s a uvula?”

“It’s that little dangly thing in back of your throat.”

“The back of our throat?”

The leaves on Shallahai’s back ruffled with confusion.

“Well… not *your* throat… maybe”, the tiefling shrugged.

“Why does he want one?”

“I don’t know. Because everyone else has one?”

“We don’t have one”, Shallahai said matter-of-factly.

Kallista sighed in exasperation.