Wulfen

Awesome, thanks! I'd checked the upcoming page, but apparently not recently enough.

So I'm eyeing up additional models for the Dashel crew, and still don't see any dates for the Guilds Patrol M3E release. I can pick up a couple Guild Guard from M2E, but I really don't want to mess with it if Wyrd is going to release a box with all four Guard. Do we have any indication what the plan is for them?

No one is asking for job terminations. That's pretty absurd. But pretending that this isn't a bad look doesn't help either. I can go to my LGS right now and buy new releases. Warmachine. Hordes. Infinity. Batman. Sigmar. 40K. Fallout. And some of those are just as niche as Malifaux.

That was for the GenCon pre-release stuff.

Quite honestly, there has been word zero about the July releases. Distributors received none of it. Not a one. All that we saw on webstores was a sudden change marking the release date from July 2019 to August 2019. I love Malifaux. I've been around, in some form or other, since the very day M1E released (the night before, actually). That said, I have a hard time believing that Wyrd couldn't store a couple truckloads of faction packs and rulebooks. Wyrd is not immune from criticism just because I love their game. I don't care who's fault it is, but stop playing the blame game and communicate to your customers where their product is. The July releases cannot be blamed on Alliance or ACD. Period.

I stand by Loctite Gel Control superglue. Works fantastically on both plastic and metal models. To each their own, of course.

This game has died a permanent death in St. Louis, I think. The crews that I knew were interested took a look at the beta rules and said, "No thanks." Our lone Henchman is no longer even discussing trying to build the community. Especially finding out who's in charge of this (and more importantly, who's NOT involved), well, all I can say is good luck. I feel bad for pushing locals to buy in.

Thanks cybogoblin. Can't wait to get some time to read the other entries, including yours!

I'm calling mine finished after a last round of edits. Touch of Glass

Thanks for your feedback, Panda. I lengthened the ending a bit because I wanted to highlight the Glass Man and his mannerisms. I wanted to show another layer beneath him. If anything, I considered throwing out the opening, but I thought it gave a nice flavor to the protagonist, so I kept it.

Got my entry in. Not completely satisfied with it, but a lot of projects on the docket this month. Touch of Glass

I hadn’t eaten for what felt like several days. Life in Malifaux is hard enough, they say, without an empty pit for a stomach. Turns out the Guild is pretty particular about who they’ll hire, and even that damn Captivating Salvage ran me out of their dive of an establishment. No skills, some henchmen said. Too thin, not enough muscle. I tried to argue otherwise, but really, he was right. He threw me out pretty easy. So when the Glass Man showed up with a job, I wasn’t too abashed to say no. *** “Hey,” a voice whispered, waking me out of a restless, disturbed sleep. I was hiding in one of many dark, twisted alleys, near a nameless brothel that sat at the center of the slums. Too near the quarantine zone for my taste, but I seemingly had little choice. I looked up to see a shadowed form standing over me, faint outline of teeth showing as he smiled. “Hungry?” I didn’t answer right away. Hadn’t been too many strangers had even deigned speak to me, let alone offer up food. He must’ve read the desperation in my eyes, or heard the howling of my stomach, because his grin grew wide. His eyes sparkled in the dim light. “A quick job for me, friend, and you’ll be full,” he said. “Fresh bread, steak, a whole chicken, whatever you want.” “Who’re you, then?” I asked. “And what sort of job?” “The simplest kind,” he said. “You may call me the Glass Man.” He interrupted my next question with his own, the smile suddenly gone cold, his eyes flashing and dark. “Now, you want it, or do I move along, friend?” I had little option. I nodded in agreement, croaking bellow of my hunger answering in kind. *** The Glass Man was tall, very tall. He wore a deep overcoat that hid most of his features, and a bowler that reigned in thick, greasy strands of pale hair. He had a thin face, his skin almost ashen, cheek bones protruding from sharp angles. He had a strange smell about him; it didn’t reek exactly, not like the alley and its piles of refuse, but a different, alien smell that I couldn’t quite place. We walked through the alley and past the brothel, and more besides, stepping over filth and drunken men. Several girls stood outside, beckoning, sensual curves, scars and broken, stained teeth or worse, but the Glass Man didn’t even spare them a look. My gaze lingered until I felt long fingers grab my torn shirt and pull me back to my senses. “Time enough for that later, friend,” the Glass Man said. Secretly I hoped so. Even in their frazzled, beaten condition, it’d been a long time. The narrow street wound around to the northwest, shacks, shanties, and decrepit buildings on either side, buried in the darkness and despair of the night in this part of town. We saw few travelers once the brothels disappeared behind us, and the ones that came near quickly passed by once their eyes lit on the tall man beside me. As we walked, I noticed a faint light coming from the Glass Man, from inside his long coat. I felt light, a side queasy, but quickly disregarded the feeling; my hunger and the emptiness of my gut spoke to that. We made one last turn, past a statue that still stood, its earnest face painted over by the slum’s current inhabitants, a mockery of itself, and then the Glass Man stopped. We stood in front of a home, narrow, with a tall, slanted roof, somehow in much better condition than the ramshackle buildings and sheds that surrounded it. A slender pole stood by the wooden porch, lamp burning brightly, which I found odd. There had been very little light, and no lamps to speak of in the vicinity save this. “And here we are, friend,” he said, making a grand motion with one hand, in the direction of the home. “My humble abode.” I put one hand over my stomach, silently praying it wouldn’t betray me. “And the job?” “First a meal, and then you’ll see.” A loud, hollow growl escaped from my stomach. I followed him inside. *** The man was true to his word. Mutton, a loaf of bread, and fresh fruit. I devoured it all, washing it down with a large glass of ale that was refreshed twice. “Had your fill?” he asked. I nodded in response, cherishing the fullness, savoring it. “Very well then. Let us adjourn downstairs to my study, and I’ll show you what you came for.” He led me through a dark hall, to an open doorway, stairs leading down. Dim light traced the frame of the opening, its source hidden below. The stairs led to another short hall, a closed door on the opposite end, the hall lit with a lamp on one wall. Again I caught the smell of something not quite right, like a lost word on the tip of my tongue. He took out a key from a pocket, unlocked the door and pushed it open. He waved me in with a flourish of his hand. “After you, my friend.” I took a few nervous steps, uncertainty gnawing at me. I stopped just inside the room he’d called his study. Another lamp stood in one far corner of the room, its soft glow highlighting the harsh edges of furniture and several devices. A small desk sat near the lamp, its faded wood cracked, seams running along the top like veins. A cushioned chair sat opposite. My eyes caught on two statues on the opposite side of the small study. They both reflected the light in dazzling colors, greens and blues, reds, hues and shades I didn’t recognize, but beautiful all the same. Stained glass, black lines running over the statues, isolating patches of color. Both human-shaped, one tall, massive, almost like a giant of a man stood inside. They had no eyes, but I felt them anyway, the statues staring at me, waiting, expectant. “Your task, my friend,” the Glass Man said. “I’d like you to inspect my works of art, tell me your thoughts.” I was skeptical, of course, my nerves on edge. “That’s all?” “Strangers, I find, are the best to review works like this,” he said. “Please, feel free. Look at the colors, see how they form patterns, run fingers over the lined edges, check for flaws, blemishes.” “I’m not much for artists. You sure you got the right man for this?” “Without question.” He sat in the chair and waited patiently for me to fulfill my end of the bargain. I hesitantly approached the larger statue first. My hair stood on end as I reached to touch it, glint of light sparkling off the edges of the shaped glass. I turned to glance at the Glass Man, and I felt the sudden movement, too late. I looked down to see two massive hands reach around my torso, pressing me against the statue. Stained hands made of glass. “Look, I just wanted to eat,” I yelled. “Honest work, that’s all!” “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,” he said. “Unfortunately for you, my friend, I’m the paver.” “I...I don’t understand...” The statue squeezed, held me tight as the Glass Man moved closer. “Do you know why they call me the Glass Man?” I could only whimper in pain, held tight by the glass monster, but he continued as if I cared one whit at that moment. Truth be told, I’d never given it a thought. We’ve all got our names. “You don’t? Of course not, I would think you’d have little enough idea,” he said, running a finger through his long, pale hair. “A simple enough story, really. My father, you see, he was a large, hulking brute of a fellow. A man of the fist, it could be said, and I had ample experience with that particular aspect of him.” My scream split the air, a torrent of misery flooding from my open mouth. Coldness gripped me. “I’m sorry, may I continue?” the Glass Man asked, as if rudely interrupted. “My mother, you see, had gifted me with rare intelligence, and an artist’s deft touch. Such a sad day when she left me, bereft and alone with my father. He labored to provide for us, and I took it for as long as I could; he was my father, after all. But I could hardly stand by. No, not for long, most certainly.” He paused here, apparently deep in thought, his thin brow furrowed in consternation, like he was stuck on some memory. Tears crept from my eyes, streamed down my face. After a handful of seconds passed, he blinked and continued his story. “It was the Breach, really, that finally did the trick. And the Neverborn, of course. They found me quickly enough, granted me their wicked sharpness, honed my talents. The very essence of the Glass Man that stands before you now.” He held my hand in one of his, and then I truly realized what he was doing to me. My hand was thick, a stained yellow. As I watched, my lips trembling, thick lines appeared, dark undercurrents that ran up my hand, to my forearm. The lines broke into patterns, and hues began to flood into the separated segments on my arm. “Did you know, my dear friend,” the Glass Man said, as he studied the art that spread over me. “That glass can hold a soul as well as the precious stones that brought us to this world?” "It wouldn't do to take yours on an empty stomach." END Story is 1616 words right now. I used the following of the four possibilities: Character: The Glass Man Line: The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I'm in.

Well, if you liked it enough to ask for more, then mission accomplished I guess. Definitely more coming!

Quentin Jones wasn’t quite sure how the stone had ended up in his hands, but he found himself looking at it constantly, hiding it in a turned up palm, or flipping his coat pocket so he could watch it glistening inside. It sparkled in spots, then changed, the surface going opaque, like a fog swirled inside. Movement would tug in the corner of his eye, and when he looked back down at the stone, it would just be that white, cloudy swirl, a storm inside the stone. He hadn’t fallen asleep exactly, he was fairly certain of that. He had sat down, just for a moment, while on duty near the Guild patrol waystation, and he’d just come to all of a sudden, this stone in one hand. Quentin thought about reporting it, but he told himself someone had left it for him for a reason, and it was captivating; the hairs on his hand stood when he held it, and the voice in his head told him, “Nah, you keep it, Jonesie.” So he did. His shift was almost over, the darkness of nighttime full, only the dull lamps on corner posts to light the way. It was feeble light at best, almost as if the dark itself pushed against the light, crowded it until it shone only immediately around the lamps, dying only feet away. He paced across the dimly lit street, near the edge of the industrial zone that bordered the Guild enclave to the east. Brooding buildings and storefronts watched in silence, tenants long since shut for the night. In these days of quarantine and uncertainty, Malifaux’s citizens, even those of lesser quality, had locked their doors at night, afraid of what the dark brought with it. Another nameless, dark street, he thought. Another night of endless boredom. Not at all what Quentin Jones had signed on for. “Hey, Jones!” His head snapped in the direction of the voice; a lone figure approached from the west, wide Guild hat silhouetted against the faint light behind. Quentin’s fingers quickly dropped the stone in his pocket, a reassuring pat to make sure it was safe. “That you, Mort?” he asked the approaching man. “Shift end, finally?” Mort stopped a few feet from Quentin. He was tall, lanky. He had a cigarette hanging from a corner of his lips, tiny wisp of smoke trailing up, highlighted by the hanging lamp. His uniform was ill-fitting, like they were made for men much broader and much shorter. “Yep, time for relief, Jonesie,” Mort said with a tip of his hat. “Make sure and drink one for me, will you? Or ten.” ** Quentin glanced to his left and right as he walked west through the quiet downtown, towards the waystation, and another long night of drunkenness after that. Here and there he caught flickers of movement, shadows within shadows, but when his gaze lingered, he saw nothing but a dead town in the middle of the night. One block west and a bit south, one of the taller buildings was still lit, the gentle aura highlighting the sign that hung over the Star Theater. Quentin’s pace slowed as the theater came into view. Two showgirls lingered just outside the door, greeting several men that walked through with sensual talk and gestures, short skirts showing off long, firm legs. He picked up the pace. Quentin hurried across the street until the Star Theater and its beautiful girls were behind him. Another hour, sooner if he could help it, after his briefing and a quick shower, and he’d be joining them. Drunk and broke, just like back home, he thought with a sad smile. At least these ladies are worth it. The thought of worth reminded him; he pulled the flap of his pocket, and the stone glimmered, almost like it was smiling at him. His fingers dipped into the pocket, gently stroked the surface of the stone. Quentin’s focus on the odd, changing stone slowed his gait. It took him an extra fifteen minutes to get to the waystation and check in. ** Quentin hurried down the dimly lit hall, the sound of his boots on the lacquered wood floor reverberating down the hall’s length. By the time he filed his report with the shift boss, which consisted mostly of a blank look, briefly answered questions, and the required, “Yes, sir’s,” he figured he had at most a couple of hours left to get comfortably drunk at the Star, enjoy a show or two. He nodded as he walked past the Guardsmen, one a bit on the older side, the other a sullen, dour-faced older boy, that stood by the large armory doors; the boy barely even looked up at Quentin before his disappointment showed and he put his head down again, apparently more content to look at the floor. Quentin had heard stories of the secret weapons and tests the Guild ran within the armory, but he truly didn’t know what lay beyond, and it was locked besides. One of the Guardsmen, the older fellow, nodded back. “Morning,” he said, as Quentin hurried by. “In a hurry?” Quentin looked back with a short smile. He noticed the stone felt warmer in his pocket, and he patted it. “Shift’s done, and the Star is waiting, my friend!” The Guardsman’s deep, barked laugh followed him down the hall. No one else was in the changing room, and the showers were quiet when Quentin busted through the door in a hurry. He started to undress, but when he felt for the stone in his coat pocket, it roared to life in his hand. The stone set his hand, then his arm on fire, his skin darkened into an angry red; no flame showed, no smoke, but Quentin burned all the same. He tried to throw the stone, tried to release it, but his grip wouldn’t loosen. The storm within the stone churned, and now Quentin saw other things inside, a strange tint that coiled and spun, like a snake. He tried to shut his eyes, squeezed until his head hurt, but he was transfixed, paralyzed as the invisible flame worked its way over him. He managed a shrill scream, cut off by the thing that came out of the stone, cut short by a dark, malevolent presence that invaded his body, that entered through his open mouth and nose, plugged his ears. He couldn’t breathe, the only sound an echo, like the onrushing sound of crashing surf on the beach back home, back on the other side of the Breach where demons didn’t exist. His mind recoiled from the touch, screamed and begged, pounded on walls that would not break or bend. Tears streamed down his face, dried on his warm, flushed skin. Quentin’s vision faded, the last sight before the blackness folded over him of the stone still gripped tightly in his hand. It was a dull grey, rough, cool to the touch. He felt a snap in his head, like the flick of a switch, and he fell into darkness. ** Sam Watters watched as the Guardsman walked back down the hall, towards him, the lone lamp flickering as the Guardsman passed it. Sam glanced at the heavy, reinforced doors behind him, and then at his partner, Jake, barely more than a kid, who stood on the other side of the door. Jake leaned against the wall. Way too casual, too young, for Sam’s liking. How a lazy kid like that got armory duty he’d never know; too many losses, maybe, had forced the Guild to recruit kids. Once they were alone, he’d have to get on this one; Sam wouldn’t stand for it, even if his boss did. Sam cleared his throat as the man approached the door, stopped in front of him; Jake looked up, then back down again, uninterested. “I know you, Guardsman?” The man nodded. “Yep, name’s Jones. Quentin Jones.” “Well, need something, Jones?” Sam put his hand on his belt, near his holster, to reinforce the question. Something felt wrong here, not quite right. Jones smiled, a large grin, like he knew something Sam didn’t. “Yes, something like that.”