Author Games: Path of the Guildpact

Quarterfinals: Calais Agate

She walked along an empty path to a destination she did not wish to go. But to an outsider, she was only another face, one to turn away from. Other species turned away from her, her lumbering steps too menacing for the temperaments of those on the outskirts of Gruul, where they lived in harmony separate from the battles and fights the ogres and other hardy species took up in defense.

To others, she was angry. She muttered under her breath what those around her would have thought to be words of vicious hate, of malicious intent against their families. She could see them, watched them as they turned away, whispered of what they thought to be true about her. Her task had torn her apart, the thought of pure blood on her hands nearly too much to bear. And yet, the trials had changed her. She knew now that to be strong meant she could not pretend words of others did not affect her. She could no longer remain naïve as she once was, could no longer remain hopeful of change.

There had been so many times she should have known, should have opened her eyes to the fact the world was not her friend, and could never be. No matter how much she wanted to believe all species were the same, there would always be hatred and prejudice. She marched on.

As she continued, the desolate landscape became filled only with sparse brush and shrubs, and there was no one around but herself. No one was there to guide her actions, no there to call for when she most needed it. She was at a breaking point, mentally the trials had done irreversible damage. They had made her into what others wanted to see: different, outcast, angry. Her footsteps brought pangs of magic and shot them into the earth.

She roared into the sky, and in the distances birds scattered from treetops into the sky. She approached a small village, where small children took pleasure in looking out for foreigners. It was a trading hub, one that specialized in woven goods and in pottery. They were comprised mostly of elves. She roared again, sending the children into chatters and shrieks.

There was no way to tell what this task would be worth if she did not become Guildpact. She chose not to think of herself, chose only to seek and find and succeed. To others, she waddled, and lugged a large club behind her, tracing her path in the dirt. What was to be done was to be bloody, was to be something irreversible, damaging to an entire village and more importantly, damaging to ogres. And yet, she had to, she must.

Villagers became curious as she stomped into the village. They could see only danger, and they began to shout and hide for cover. They could finally feel the hurt she had felt her entire life. Maybe they would rebuild their lives, and makes things better as it had never become for Calais. Not even Heccan could have torn her from her focus and concentration. She was set, her eyes on only the destination. She could not listen, she could not look, at the others. They had never been there, and they never would be.

If she had been in the right frame of mind, she would have instead yelled for help. But at this moment, there was no one but Calais and the small child that sat paralyzed in the middle of the street. Eye watched, but there were no faces. There were voices, but no mouths. She did not listen as the child was picked up by Calais and thrown onto the ground. To collect lifeblood was easy: one must kill.

Innocence: something she now longed to have again. If she could have only kept her feet on the ground, and not soared so high as to have expected more than what would be given to her. She had wanted so much, she cried to the world, she had wanted too much. And now she was filled with rage and anger and sadness and she roared again and this time magic was expelled from her body at its most powerful, and the child, having been thrust to the ground several times during her turmoil, was relieved of its pain.

She could not look at its face, could not study its features. Instead, she thrust it into her bag. There was so little of herself that she had began with, that she could no longer think of herself as anything but an impersonator. Who was she, now? She carried the child and her destruction away from the village, which lay in tatters from her explosion. The villagers were dazed, confused, and as she turned her back on them, there was a howl.

Where had she lost herself along the way? Where had she so foregone her morals that she had sacrificed everything for power and glory? No one was there to help her. No one was there to care.

"I am no one," she said to to her bag. But she knew she was someone: she was evil; she was despicable. And she could never forgive herself for what she had done during the trials. She marched to Rakdos. She walked along an empty path to a destination she did not wish to go.