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About Me
That's pretty much all that needs to be said, really. That's all the important stuff. But if you're still curious about me: other than writing, I have a passion for music-- I am currently in one band as a guitarist/vocalist and spent about a year and a half in another as a guitarist. Most of my social life involves going to local underground concerts, getting drunk and doing things I later either regret or cherish as memories. For a while I was participating in the Society for Creative Anachronism, which involved putting on armour and getting hit with bats shaped like swords. I don't do that so much these days, but I'd love to participate again in it sometime. Other than that, I'm also a huge nerd and I play a lot of video games with friends to pass time. I'm involved in what is commonly called "alternative" culture in today's day and age. I'm a punk that loves metal, and I have an affinity for gothic things.
One other thing about me is that I tend to not go halfway into anything. I always dedicate as much of myself and my attention as I can spare to it (which varies depending on the time) but that includes roleplaying as well. I don't find myself too interested in the idea of juggling a few of these, so I'll probably just pick one interested party and stick with them.
The Pitch
Writing Stuff
As I've said, I'm a semi-professional writer (or at least one in training), but that's the "work" side of my personality. This isn't going to be work for me, though I still want it to be quality. It's going to be play, a little less serious. So, I love a GM-style set up! I mentioned that I want this to take place in the dark-fantasy world of my own making, and that means you're going to have no idea what's going on at first, but I'll walk you through it, help you come up with a character that makes sense and can be fun to play for you.I like replies to be decent in detail, and as the "GM" of the setting I tend to have longer ones, especially during scene changes, but I certainly don't want to just write past each other. Especially scenes that are heavy in dialogue, I don't mind if the dialogue line itself is the only reply at all. But, we'll call a general good response to be about 150-200 words or so. I like a relatively fast pace, at least for the most part. I usually have a few free hours in a day where I can reply, and I'd like to get some kind of forward momentum in that time. I am in Pacific Standard Time (GMT-8) and most of my free time is during the day.
Partly as a result of the fact that I take on a half-GM role in this sort of thing, I also tend to play side characters as well. It'd be cool if you were interested in doing that as well, but I don't consider it a requirement. It can lead to fun scenarios, though. I tend to prefer playing the male side-characters, though I can write for female ones as well. For "my" character I tend to write in first-person, but that's not necessarily a requirement. I can work with present-tense third as well.
I tend to prefer writing on IM-systems like Discord, but I'm fine with doing it here over private messages or something of the like. Discord will probably get you faster replies from me, though.
Smut Stuff
For plot-smut ratios, my preference depends. I like the interactions between the two main characters to be a kind of slow burn, but I am vaguely hypersexual and a lot of the gratification I get out of this is from the sex acts or buildup toward the sex acts, though I love plot still. So call it 60-40, but those two numbers can switch from time to time.Now to kinks-- the meaty part. I'm a switch. Most of the time I'm dominant, but I have a quite few kinks where I'll switch submissive for. Here is my F-List. Feel free to ask me questions, if you like. I am also bisexual, which informs some of the picks.
Here's the general overview:
when playing dominant, I enjoy general dom/sub power exchange, leashes, collars, servitude, size/depth play, body worship, slutty clothing, brats, domestic servitude, causing light pain, lots of humiliation, multiple females, begging. When playing submissive, I love cuckold/cheating dynamics involving (light) raceplay, monsters, bestiality and (medium to light) violence inflicted on me; I also enjoy chastity cages, pegging/futa, humiliation.
My Character
My character is named Javik. He comes from the wild lands in the Far North, known to the civilized world of the Western Kingdoms as Haakirnir. The people of Haakirnir are known by most of the Western Kingdoms to be savage and bloodthirsty barbarians, who know lives of only violence and little beauty. Javik is snow-pale with sky blue eyes, and stands at roughy five-foot-eight. His hair is dark and stretches wavily down to his shoulders, where it curls very slightly. He has a thick beard that shadows the lower half of his face. He has the build of a warrior-- not sculpted for appearance, but intended for practical use and survival. His shoulders are broad, biceps thick, chest and stomach soft but well-built, and the same can be said for his lower body. Scars crisscross his skin and add extra lines to his face, making him appear a handful of winters older than he actually is. Just like other Haakirnians, tattoos cover his body from his neck to his feet in intricate designs-- his are black. Javik generally dresses in dark clothes when he is not in armour, as is the fashion of his people.
Themes
So, along with my mentions of "dark fantasy" and the like, I'm going to take a minute to talk about the themes I tend to enjoy using in my writing. Like I said, most of it has a kind of philosophical and political bend to it. I'm an anarchist, and that comes through in a lot of my writing. The narratives are never really clear-cut, with a good and bad guy. In fact, the general prevailing "good" often hides an evil, and the supposed evil hides a secret good. Characters' lives navigate power structures. Most people are self-destructive to some degree or in some small way. I like writing people tormented by their past, depressed people, people struggling with some kind of conflict that occurs primarily within themselves rather than the greater world at large. No one is a hero. Nothing ever goes as planned. I like to focus on what it means to be human and think about big questions like-- what does it mean to be human? How do we survive a world that seems determined to eat us alive? Why do people do terrible things to one another? How do we deal with death? With trauma?A lot of this will come through in the role itself as well, since it is a kind of narrative, even if it's intended to be more sexual or playful. It's not edgy, not really, more gritty, realistic, I suppose. Sex, life, and death are the three things that just about every single person thinks about on a daily basis, in some sense. I think it'd be fun to play with that.
Potential Roles
| Role Title / Example Roles | Description |
|---|---|
| Caravan Guards | The most developed/planned starter in this list. The two characters are employed by the same merchant to guard his trading caravan while it travels from one city to another, but things never go as planned in monster-infested wilds. |
| Thief and Bounty Hunter | Your character has stolen something from a low-ranking nobleman, and is currently hiding out in the woods, attempting to get to the safety of another city. However, my character has been tracking them, and intends to apprehend them and bring them to "justice", regardless of whether or not doing so is actually just. |
| Pit Fighter(s) | My character is doing an exhibition match in one of the city's local fighting rings. Your character fills one of the following roles: (1) Is watching the match; or (2) Is the enemy fighter. |
| Bounty Poacher and Mercenary Company | My character leads a mercenary company, and our group has been pursuing a bounty on a beast living in the wilds that's been harassing travelers. However, you managed to get to it first, and kill it all on your own. A small part of my company ambushes you to steal the proof of the kill, but I am impressed by your skill, and intend to take you into the company. |
| Monster Hunter and Village Girl | Your character lives in a village that has been getting harassed by a beast in the wilds for some time. Desperate, the denizens of the village have put together some money to hire a warrior to defend them from the monster, and I have taken up the contract. |
Writing Samples
Transience
Unpublished short story I wrote a while ago. Clocks in at around 2,500 words-- it's a little confusing, so bear with me. It is also entirely not romantic, nor smutty. It's here primarily so you can get an idea of my prose style and themes I like to deal with.My dear brother,
I can hope only that this letter finds you well, and soon. You have come such a long way since Father's death, and your years on the streets. You have made me proud in ways I could never say. Would that my mind could still find the words.
I can hope only that this letter finds you well, and soon. You have come such a long way since Father's death, and your years on the streets. You have made me proud in ways I could never say. Would that my mind could still find the words.
I am sick. I have been sick for some time. As the years rise and set, more often I slip away, and fall into places of oblivion. I wake in the morning, some days, with no memory of how I got to where I am, what happened the night or day before, no memory of the people I've met, or even who I am. My studies become difficult as I forget the details that I once was so careful to note. I write it down now, every word. I will forget. Life will slip away from me. I will forget you, and Father and Mother, and myself. I will forget living.
I ask only that you do not forget me.
With love, dear brother,
This was dark work, but it was work that needed doing. The duty of an elder brother is to protect his sister, that's what Father always said. The time was well and damn sure past for protecting, but he'd at least help her. Any way he could. And in the years since Iris had gotten ill, this was the only way of helping that might've had a bloody shot at working. He'd tried going through the physicians, telling them how she'd mind-rotted, but they never came up with shit to help her. Wasn't even sure if they tried at all, really. So, this was what he had to do. But that was the burden of the elder brother: you did the hard things, the costly things. You did the dark work to protect your family.
He trailed one hand against the near, shadowed wall of the half-timber framed building. Each one of them was built damn near into the next, crushed so tightly together that some became indistinguishable. But Hagen knew the thin alleys well, and he knew how to get anywhere in the city through them. He stuffed a hand into his coat pocket, his fingers brushed the little folded parchment, and his mind brushed the memories with it. His calloused fingertips traced along the cool, leather-wrapped grip of the dagger that lay across it. It made him sick to touch, and his hand never seemed to warm it. The things he'd soon do with it followed him around the dark streets, like they were stalking him, tugging at little threads of guilt that he left wherever he stepped. But this was the only thing that'd help Iris. That meant it was worth it. That meant it had to be worth it. She didn't deserve what she got. She was too fucking smart for it. Too smart and too young for a life lived not knowing up from down, left from right.
The streets were empty this time of night, empty of anybody but the beggars and lowlives, and Hagen fit right in with them. He could take one, but somehow that didn't seem right, like he'd be doing Iris a misdeed in that. Or, was it that he felt like he was betraying them? He wasn't awful sure exactly. It hadn't been too long since he was where they were at, spending every spare copper coin on cheap bottles of whiskey. He passed by a hunched shape that smelled of shit and booze, and for a moment he thought he recognized the hooded face. It looked an awful lot like him. Hagen had Iris to thank for bringing him out of that dark time. So he owed this dark work to her, but he wouldn't take one of his kin. Except if he had to. He'd do anything he had to, to get her back. There weren't any price he wouldn't pay.
Hagen came to the mouth of an alley and stared left and right down the street, which stretched far into the darkness, spotted by flickering and meagre lanternlight. The streets were empty this time of night, except for the beggars and lowlives, and except for one fellow who was walking merrily into the dark. He hummed on the midnight breeze, clad in a fine green coat. A physician. Awful fitting for this, to be sure, since it was their bloody fault Iris was still stuck the way she was. It was their fault Hagen had to trust the occultists and other bastards who hid on the fringes of the city. At least their methods had a chance of working. Careful to keep his footfalls light, Hagen followed the physician. Kept the pace brisk. The sooner he got back to Iris, the better. The hilt of his dagger slickened with cold sweat. Best make this quick.
Move fast, and quiet. Years on the streets taught him how to, and how to do it well. Quiet enough that someone who wasn't used to being followed wouldn't notice before it was too late. The smell of the man's expensive perfumes was thick by the time Hagen came within arm's reach of him. He swallowed the urge to choke on it, and lunged to seize the man by his greying hair.
The physician's voice was bleary and weak. Panicked but addled, like he'd had far too much to drink. "Where am I? Who are you?"
Hagen swung the door shut, turned the lock. "Wouldn't bother worrying yourself about it, mate."
"My head. . ." He reached up, touched a hand to the bloody cut on the back of his head left by the pommel of Hagen's dagger. Dim realization crossed his face, and though the man's tongue worked slow, his mind began to catch up.
"Don't get smart," said Hagen. Before he could scrabble up, he planted his boot on his throat. Just lightly. Just a threat.
The physician gasped and wrapped wiry fingers around Hagen's boot, but he was still too weak from the forced nap. "You're making a mistake. You've got the wrong man."
"No, I'm sure I don't."
"Do you even know who I bloody am?"
Hagen leant forward. Grinned. Savage. Something about it felt good. "I don't care."
She was peering into a long piece of silvered glass, and from that glass a woman looked back at her. The woman looked familiar somehow. Her eyes were faded and tired, her skin sunken. She had long hair, all frizzy and tangled and brown. Or. . . black? Strange. She didn't know what brown looked like. Or black, for that matter. Who was the woman in the silvered glass? Was it. . . strange, she couldn't seem to recall any names. There were moments in time, vague flashes of faces, the sounds of words but not what the words were. And that made her very, very sad. Sad, and afraid. And the woman in the silvered glass looked sad and afraid with her.
The door swung open, and through the dark stepped a man. No, two men. One was familiar, the other was not so. One was tall, with age around his eyes, and big. The other was little, with age in his hair, and slight. The tall one dragged the little one with him toward her. She studied the taller man. He was familiar, too. Like the woman in the silvered glass was, but different too.
"What are you doing out of bed, Iris?"
And it was his voice that brought it all back to her. That stern voice, how could she forget it from her childhood? "I'm. . . I'm not sure, Father."
Father shook his head. "No, Iris. I'm Hagen. Your brother. Father's dead. He's been dead a long time."
"Oh. . ." How could that have been? It seemed like last time she'd seen Father had been. . . well. She wasn't awfully sure.
It was the little man's turn to speak. He sounded afraid. "She's mind-rotted. I can help, you know, I'm a physician!"
"Oh, you'll help." Brother's voice was sharp. What had been his name?
Brother reached around the little man. There was a flash of something shiny. In the darkness, she saw a little river of red spill down from the little man's throat to gather in a little pool at his feet. That should have been frightening, shouldn't it? But it wasn't. It felt routine. Like something that had happened a thousand times before. Like waking up in the morning.
"Are you hungry, Iris?"
She traced her gaze up from the little pool of red back up to Father's face. He'd gotten so old. "Where's Mother?"
Father didn't respond.
The little man's legs gave way, kicking weakly, but Father held him up and brought that red-stained dagger around. He pressed it into the man's stomach and dragged it down. Like unlacing a shirt, the man's stomach split open, and the room felt thick with the scent of metal. Thousands of crimson snakes tumbled out from inside the little man to land in a wet heap on the floor. Steaming, and fresh. She crept away from the woman in the silvered glass and toward them, on hands and knees. She stuck her hands in the snakes. Warm and sticky. She supposed she was rather hungry. Her hands were stained so dark that she could barely see them as she lifted one to her mouth, and when it touched her tongue and her teeth cut into it, it felt familiar. She saw the face of an old friend smiling in her mind, and she took another bite, and another. She remembered Father's name, and she leant forward and pressed her face into the mess of snakes, digging with her teeth and tongue and matting her hair and face with blood and sweet flesh, and with every bite Iris saw more and more.
"By all Three gods, I hope this works," he whispered. He didn't know how much longer he could watch her this way. But if it helped. . .
Iris looked up, caked in blood with a string of meat dangling from her teeth. "Hagen. . . where are we?"
She remembered! His heart felt as if it was about to burst. He couldn't believe it, years of trying, years of searching and finally, here, she remembered. A smile split his lips and he said, "My home."
"Your home," she said. Her eyes were far away still, and her voice was flat. Perhaps she wasn't fully back. "You have a home. You've been off the streets. . . how long has it been?"
"More than half a decade."
"And I. . . where have I been?"
He didn't have the heart to say. He looked past the physician's empty corpse. His voice was hoarse. "You know what you told me, years ago, Iris? Before all this."
". . . No, I rather don't think I do." She looked down at the guts she'd gripped in her hands. "I don't. . . remember much. Where's Father?"
His heart sank. He wouldn't say it again, not like this. "You wrote me a letter. You said, 'I will forget you, and Father and Mother, and myself.' You said, 'I will forget living. I ask only that you do not forget me.' And I didn't. I didn't forget, I spent years looking, searching for a way to bring you back and now. . ."
She looked at the floor, and Hagen watched her eyes flicker over the guts in her hands, on the floor, spread all about them. Iris whispered, "Oh, by all Three gods," and Hagen could hear his sister in those words. He could hear her, how she used to be. "Oh, gods, what have you done? What have you made me do?"
She looked up. It was the first time in many years he'd seen her so alert. There was horror on her face, but still, he couldn't stop himself smiling. He'd done it. He'd brought her back. He felt hot tears trickle down his cheeks. That was all it took. A little death, and some words. "I brought you back, Iris. I did it. I told you I'd do it. Whatever it took."
She stared at the blood on the floor, at the work it had taken to get her there. "No, Hagen," she said. "No, no, no. You can't. I can't. This man. . . I can't live this way."
He couldn't bring himself to say anything. A pit opened in his stomach. All he had done, all the work he had put in. . . but for her, it was too much? She was back now. She was supposed to be happy.
"I can't live this way, Hagen. This. . . What I've done, what you've done, it's not right. It's all wrong."
"It was the only way," he said. "The physicians couldn't do shit. But I found a way, all the same. This was the only way to bring you back."
He reached out to touch her hand, but she recoiled. She shook her head, and looked sick. "I don't. . . I don't want to live this way."
The room felt smaller, darker around him.
Iris slowly leant forward, her hair hung down to frame her face. When she spoke again, her voice was flat. "Hagen?"
"I'm here."
"I. . . where am I?"
He shut his eyes. They'd been so close.
But there was no work too dark, not when it came to her.
I ask only that you do not forget me.
With love, dear brother,
This was dark work, but it was work that needed doing. The duty of an elder brother is to protect his sister, that's what Father always said. The time was well and damn sure past for protecting, but he'd at least help her. Any way he could. And in the years since Iris had gotten ill, this was the only way of helping that might've had a bloody shot at working. He'd tried going through the physicians, telling them how she'd mind-rotted, but they never came up with shit to help her. Wasn't even sure if they tried at all, really. So, this was what he had to do. But that was the burden of the elder brother: you did the hard things, the costly things. You did the dark work to protect your family.
He trailed one hand against the near, shadowed wall of the half-timber framed building. Each one of them was built damn near into the next, crushed so tightly together that some became indistinguishable. But Hagen knew the thin alleys well, and he knew how to get anywhere in the city through them. He stuffed a hand into his coat pocket, his fingers brushed the little folded parchment, and his mind brushed the memories with it. His calloused fingertips traced along the cool, leather-wrapped grip of the dagger that lay across it. It made him sick to touch, and his hand never seemed to warm it. The things he'd soon do with it followed him around the dark streets, like they were stalking him, tugging at little threads of guilt that he left wherever he stepped. But this was the only thing that'd help Iris. That meant it was worth it. That meant it had to be worth it. She didn't deserve what she got. She was too fucking smart for it. Too smart and too young for a life lived not knowing up from down, left from right.
The streets were empty this time of night, empty of anybody but the beggars and lowlives, and Hagen fit right in with them. He could take one, but somehow that didn't seem right, like he'd be doing Iris a misdeed in that. Or, was it that he felt like he was betraying them? He wasn't awful sure exactly. It hadn't been too long since he was where they were at, spending every spare copper coin on cheap bottles of whiskey. He passed by a hunched shape that smelled of shit and booze, and for a moment he thought he recognized the hooded face. It looked an awful lot like him. Hagen had Iris to thank for bringing him out of that dark time. So he owed this dark work to her, but he wouldn't take one of his kin. Except if he had to. He'd do anything he had to, to get her back. There weren't any price he wouldn't pay.
Hagen came to the mouth of an alley and stared left and right down the street, which stretched far into the darkness, spotted by flickering and meagre lanternlight. The streets were empty this time of night, except for the beggars and lowlives, and except for one fellow who was walking merrily into the dark. He hummed on the midnight breeze, clad in a fine green coat. A physician. Awful fitting for this, to be sure, since it was their bloody fault Iris was still stuck the way she was. It was their fault Hagen had to trust the occultists and other bastards who hid on the fringes of the city. At least their methods had a chance of working. Careful to keep his footfalls light, Hagen followed the physician. Kept the pace brisk. The sooner he got back to Iris, the better. The hilt of his dagger slickened with cold sweat. Best make this quick.
Move fast, and quiet. Years on the streets taught him how to, and how to do it well. Quiet enough that someone who wasn't used to being followed wouldn't notice before it was too late. The smell of the man's expensive perfumes was thick by the time Hagen came within arm's reach of him. He swallowed the urge to choke on it, and lunged to seize the man by his greying hair.
*
Dragging an unconscious man through the streets was sure no easy task. By the time Hagen had brought him back, his muscles pulsed with dull ache and his body was slick with foul-smelling sweat colder than the night air that stained his clothes. He was damn lucky he found the man not far from home. It was only when he'd brought the man past the threshold that he began to stir. Too bad, that—it was already much too late for him. He was lucky, too. If he'd hit him much harder, he might've ended up dead, or at least in a long sleep.
The physician's voice was bleary and weak. Panicked but addled, like he'd had far too much to drink. "Where am I? Who are you?"
Hagen swung the door shut, turned the lock. "Wouldn't bother worrying yourself about it, mate."
"My head. . ." He reached up, touched a hand to the bloody cut on the back of his head left by the pommel of Hagen's dagger. Dim realization crossed his face, and though the man's tongue worked slow, his mind began to catch up.
"Don't get smart," said Hagen. Before he could scrabble up, he planted his boot on his throat. Just lightly. Just a threat.
The physician gasped and wrapped wiry fingers around Hagen's boot, but he was still too weak from the forced nap. "You're making a mistake. You've got the wrong man."
"No, I'm sure I don't."
"Do you even know who I bloody am?"
Hagen leant forward. Grinned. Savage. Something about it felt good. "I don't care."
*
There was a commotion somewhere. Voices, the thumping of boots. She didn't know where. She felt like she should know, but when she tried to think of it, all she could think of was darkness. Should that have been frightening?
She was peering into a long piece of silvered glass, and from that glass a woman looked back at her. The woman looked familiar somehow. Her eyes were faded and tired, her skin sunken. She had long hair, all frizzy and tangled and brown. Or. . . black? Strange. She didn't know what brown looked like. Or black, for that matter. Who was the woman in the silvered glass? Was it. . . strange, she couldn't seem to recall any names. There were moments in time, vague flashes of faces, the sounds of words but not what the words were. And that made her very, very sad. Sad, and afraid. And the woman in the silvered glass looked sad and afraid with her.
The door swung open, and through the dark stepped a man. No, two men. One was familiar, the other was not so. One was tall, with age around his eyes, and big. The other was little, with age in his hair, and slight. The tall one dragged the little one with him toward her. She studied the taller man. He was familiar, too. Like the woman in the silvered glass was, but different too.
"What are you doing out of bed, Iris?"
And it was his voice that brought it all back to her. That stern voice, how could she forget it from her childhood? "I'm. . . I'm not sure, Father."
Father shook his head. "No, Iris. I'm Hagen. Your brother. Father's dead. He's been dead a long time."
"Oh. . ." How could that have been? It seemed like last time she'd seen Father had been. . . well. She wasn't awfully sure.
It was the little man's turn to speak. He sounded afraid. "She's mind-rotted. I can help, you know, I'm a physician!"
"Oh, you'll help." Brother's voice was sharp. What had been his name?
Brother reached around the little man. There was a flash of something shiny. In the darkness, she saw a little river of red spill down from the little man's throat to gather in a little pool at his feet. That should have been frightening, shouldn't it? But it wasn't. It felt routine. Like something that had happened a thousand times before. Like waking up in the morning.
"Are you hungry, Iris?"
She traced her gaze up from the little pool of red back up to Father's face. He'd gotten so old. "Where's Mother?"
Father didn't respond.
The little man's legs gave way, kicking weakly, but Father held him up and brought that red-stained dagger around. He pressed it into the man's stomach and dragged it down. Like unlacing a shirt, the man's stomach split open, and the room felt thick with the scent of metal. Thousands of crimson snakes tumbled out from inside the little man to land in a wet heap on the floor. Steaming, and fresh. She crept away from the woman in the silvered glass and toward them, on hands and knees. She stuck her hands in the snakes. Warm and sticky. She supposed she was rather hungry. Her hands were stained so dark that she could barely see them as she lifted one to her mouth, and when it touched her tongue and her teeth cut into it, it felt familiar. She saw the face of an old friend smiling in her mind, and she took another bite, and another. She remembered Father's name, and she leant forward and pressed her face into the mess of snakes, digging with her teeth and tongue and matting her hair and face with blood and sweet flesh, and with every bite Iris saw more and more.
*
He watched Iris bury her face in the physician's guts, her teeth flashing in the dark and soaked with blood. He didn't know this would help, if it really would bring her back. He had to trust the dark things he was told. He knelt down in front of her across the half-devoured mess of guts, reached out one hand to comb through her auburn hair. The blood was starting to stain it red.
"By all Three gods, I hope this works," he whispered. He didn't know how much longer he could watch her this way. But if it helped. . .
Iris looked up, caked in blood with a string of meat dangling from her teeth. "Hagen. . . where are we?"
She remembered! His heart felt as if it was about to burst. He couldn't believe it, years of trying, years of searching and finally, here, she remembered. A smile split his lips and he said, "My home."
"Your home," she said. Her eyes were far away still, and her voice was flat. Perhaps she wasn't fully back. "You have a home. You've been off the streets. . . how long has it been?"
"More than half a decade."
"And I. . . where have I been?"
He didn't have the heart to say. He looked past the physician's empty corpse. His voice was hoarse. "You know what you told me, years ago, Iris? Before all this."
". . . No, I rather don't think I do." She looked down at the guts she'd gripped in her hands. "I don't. . . remember much. Where's Father?"
His heart sank. He wouldn't say it again, not like this. "You wrote me a letter. You said, 'I will forget you, and Father and Mother, and myself.' You said, 'I will forget living. I ask only that you do not forget me.' And I didn't. I didn't forget, I spent years looking, searching for a way to bring you back and now. . ."
She looked at the floor, and Hagen watched her eyes flicker over the guts in her hands, on the floor, spread all about them. Iris whispered, "Oh, by all Three gods," and Hagen could hear his sister in those words. He could hear her, how she used to be. "Oh, gods, what have you done? What have you made me do?"
She looked up. It was the first time in many years he'd seen her so alert. There was horror on her face, but still, he couldn't stop himself smiling. He'd done it. He'd brought her back. He felt hot tears trickle down his cheeks. That was all it took. A little death, and some words. "I brought you back, Iris. I did it. I told you I'd do it. Whatever it took."
She stared at the blood on the floor, at the work it had taken to get her there. "No, Hagen," she said. "No, no, no. You can't. I can't. This man. . . I can't live this way."
He couldn't bring himself to say anything. A pit opened in his stomach. All he had done, all the work he had put in. . . but for her, it was too much? She was back now. She was supposed to be happy.
"I can't live this way, Hagen. This. . . What I've done, what you've done, it's not right. It's all wrong."
"It was the only way," he said. "The physicians couldn't do shit. But I found a way, all the same. This was the only way to bring you back."
He reached out to touch her hand, but she recoiled. She shook her head, and looked sick. "I don't. . . I don't want to live this way."
The room felt smaller, darker around him.
Iris slowly leant forward, her hair hung down to frame her face. When she spoke again, her voice was flat. "Hagen?"
"I'm here."
"I. . . where am I?"
He shut his eyes. They'd been so close.
But there was no work too dark, not when it came to her.
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