Haunter

I've got the Vengeful Spirits box - everything on sprue. Only the plastic wrap is removed, otherwise it's MIB. I'm hoping to trade it for a Children of December box. Preferably on sprue/unassembled, but unpainted at the least. I'm in Canada, if that makes a difference.

Think I might throw my hat in the ring for this. We'll see if I can come up with anything worthy of submitting.

I'm still out in the Aether. I'd love to do more IQ. I'm just neck-deep in editing a novel so my writing time is pretty full. I might try to submit for Storied Songs if I get inspired too.

I think it's ! Word Count: 1594 Ingredients: Theme: Feast Character: The Black Hat Line: "That was not nice." Item: Barrel Location: Quarantine Zone

A Fine Night For A Party Alice popped a pomegranate seed in her mouth and savored the sweet, tart shock of flavor as it burst between her teeth. She closed her eyes briefly and sighed with luxurious satisfaction. “Do have one, Ducky!” “Oh, no. No thank you,” her companion demurred, “they stain my teeth red.” “Oh dear, we wouldn’t want anyone mistaking you for a vampire now, would we?” Alice laughed gaily at her own joke. “That was not nice.” Megan’s face flushed in spite of herself. Alice had a way of making her feel foolish without the slightest effort. She sometimes wondered why they were friends, and sometimes even if they were. “You haven’t an impractical bone in your body, do you?” Alice said as she launched herself from the divan and checked her perfect teeth in the mirror. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do a single spontaneous thing in the whole time I’ve known you!” She spent a moment preening, clearly enjoying what she saw. She looked at Megan in the mirror and arched a mischievous eyebrow, “Are you up for a little adventure tonight?” “Oh… well, I…” Megan fished for an excuse but found herself tongue-tied. Alice’s idea of ‘adventure’ had not infrequently landed them in some most unsavory drinking halls and once even in a brothel. While she would never admit it there was a part of her that was grateful that Alice dragged her along on her mad flights. She never felt more alive than when they were together. “You love it,” Alice chided, “You know you do, prude. Come on, I’ve got something special in mind for tonight!” “Oh dear,” Megan groaned melodramatically, but rose to don her coat anyway. Alice flagged down a taxi and flirted amiably with the driver as he helped them into the carriage. Megan stare wide-eyed out the window as they bumped along cobblestones through the misty streets. By night the city took on such an dangerous demeanor but she could not deny the tingle of excitement that shivered her spine. Her life felt so small and so safe that sometimes she just wanted to scream. She spent her days trapped in a prison of her own making, so afraid of stepping out of line, of breaking the rules. It was only with vivacious, fearless Alice that she let herself escape. She fantasized about someday throwing off her shackles and being bold and daring like her friend. The carriage clopped to a halt in front of a rather dingy looking house over which a towering wall loomed. A single candle burned in a window, the only sign of habitation. “We’re...uh… here.” The cabbie said uncertainly, “Miss, not to be overbold but are you sure this is the place? This is the address you gave me, but I don’t think…” “Thank you driver,” Alice replied lightly, taking his hand and stepping gracefully down from the carriage, “I am quite sure this is the place. Auntie Grace assured me she would leave a candle burning.” Megan stepped down as well, trying to look brave and carefree when the driver caught her eye. His look of concern made her confidence wilt slightly, but a look at Alice reassured her. She pressed an extra coin into his hand. “Thank you kindly driver.” As the cab clip-clopped away into the murky darkness Megan and Alice stood looking at the derelict house. “What is this place?” Alice grinned, “It’s a surprise.” Despite her pounding heart, Megan followed Alice up the creaking steps. As they stepped onto the veranda the front door opened. A hunched elderly woman squinted suspiciously at them. “You’re a long way from Gov’ner Row little birds,” she croaked. “Oh, but it’s such a fine night for a party!” Alice replied. The bent crone nodded and shuffled back to allow them in the door. Alice took Megan by the hand and entered. Megan’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as she allowed herself to be led through a narrow hallway and down a rickety stairwell into a dark, clammy cellar. “Where are we going?” she whispered, surprised by how loud she sounded in the silent space. Her face felt flushed and hot. They shuffled awkwardly through the darkness with hands outstretched. “Don’t worry,” Alice whispered in return, “You’ll see in a moment. Where are we now… ah.” Alice fumbled around blindly for a moment. There was a rattle and a click as she opened a door to a set of stairs lit by a lantern above. The two women climbed the worn stone steps to the street. Megan looked around with wide eyes. Dilapidated buildings lined the street. Behind them loomed the monolithic partition wall. They had crossed into the Quarantine Zone. The foggy night air felt cooler here, damper, and full of the promise things unseen. She shivered. “Oliver!” Alice crowed. Now Megan noticed a man sauntering toward them. He was tall and thin, dressed in a well-tailored suit and sporting a tall black stovepipe hat. He greeted them with a charismatic smile that showed off his perfect white teeth. “Good evening ladies!” Oliver’s voice was as smooth as his well oiled hair, “Alice, my dear,” he said, kissing her hand, “and who have we here?” “This little bird is my dear friend Megan,” Alice presented her like a prize, “She’s a tad shy but she’s a doll. Really.” Oliver took Megan’s hand and kissed it. The warmth of his breath on her hand melted her just a little. “Have no fear, little bird,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “Fear has no place on this side of the wall. Ironic, I know, but it’s true. Over there, everyone is ruled by fear. They fear the dark, the Governor-General, even each other. Over here we are free from all of that. Over here we are free to dance, to sing, to love, to feast! Let it go, little bird. All those rules that bind you, the dance of poise and gossip, the prison of propriety and station. Let it go.” Alice’s eyes gleamed with excitement, “See Ducks, I told you this would be a grand adventure. You could use a little freedom in your life!” Megan looked from Oliver to Alice. She could certainly see why Alice gravitated to this man. She knew he was saying all the same things Alice always said, but somehow it sounded so plausible coming from him. She smiled and nodded tentatively, “I… perhaps I will try… to, to let go… just a little.” Alice laughed and clapped, “Would you look at that! I dare say you’re a man of magic. I’ve been telling her that for months. I should have introduced you two earlier!” “Now, my lovelies,” Oliver said, wrapping an arm around each waist and guiding them down the street, “Tonight is a very special occasion. Tonight, you may not be aware, is the Feast of Amen’toth. It’s a festival from old Malifaux that Cleo found in some dusty old book, so we thought it would make a grand excuse for a feast of our own!” Megan blinked, “Who’s ‘we’? Where exactly are we going?” She asked out of reflex, but curiously felt no anxiety about it. “We,” Oliver proclaimed with a wink at Alice, “are the League of Extraordinary Dilettantes!” As if on cue the trio rounded a corner and saw the brightly lit facade of an old theater. A handful of well dressed party goers loitered in the lamplight, chatting, smoking, and drinking. They smiled and waved to the newcomers. “Hail and well met!” Oliver tipped his tall black hat. He led his two companions over to his circle of friends where they were all met with wide smiles and pleasantries. “Oh Oliver,” said an elegantly dressed redhead, appraising the two young women, “You always have such good taste!” “Only the finest my dear,” he replied with a sly wink. Alice glowed at the compliment. She draped herself over Oliver, thrilled to be in the limelight. Megan looked around at the gathering, trying to put a finger on something. “But who is the guest of honor?” asked a rakish looking man in a green silk vest as he hopped off the barrel he was sitting on, “You’ve brought two such beautiful specimens! How are we to choose?” “I believe I shall let the ladies decide for themselves,” Oliver said, looking to each. Megan shrank a little. She may have shed her fear, but she still had no desire to be the center of attention. “Oh please, let it be me,” Alice implored, “I would simply love to be your guest of honor! You wouldn’t mind, would you Ducks?” “By all means,” mumbled Megan, instinctively stepping away from center stage. The redhead stepped up to Alice and brushed the silky blonde hair off her shoulder. She produced a gleaming needle seemingly from nowhere and quickly pricked Alice’s exposed neck. Alice barely had time to gasp an alarmed “oh!” Megan watched with a queer sense of detachment as her friend slumped in Oliver’s deceptively strong arms. The man in the vest and another dapper gentleman efficiently relieved Oliver of his burden. Somewhere inside of her a voice screamed to run but it seemed distant and muted. Instead she felt placid and clear, and strangely curious. “The feast can begin!” The redhead clapped with delight. “Shall we?” Oliver asked, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. He offered his elbow. “Yes, I think I’d like that.” Megan took his arm as the procession of revelers headed inside.

Well done RarerMonsters and AdmiralVorkraft! I'm looking forward to January and another round! Happy holidays Quillers!

Ramos. He's got an action that detonates a friendly construct... and he just so happens to be a friendly construct. It's a real corner case, and your opponent will do <everything> in their power to prevent it, but it'd be damn funny if you could pull it off. Otherwise, I'd maybe go after things with 3 AP like Swift, Melee or Casting Expert, Nimble - Howard, Coryphee, Cassie, Candy, Nekima, Bishop, etc. They tend to be lynchpin models and/or big hitters, which is handy, and you're getting 3 AP for the price of two which is efficient. You could also use it to get an important model to do something dumb like move out of scoring position near the end of a turn to deny points for zone strats like Turf War or Reconnoiter.

I thought there'd be a glut of Zoraida stories too so I abandoned mine and thought I'd try Lucky. My idea quite a similar concept - trying to escape the threads of fate, but was much less elegant than this. Not happy with what I produced this month, but plan A wouldn't have held a candle to this so maybe it's for the best! :-p I didn't really pay attention to the tense switch until you asked, so apparently it worked okay for me. I might have formatted a little differently - put a double space marking the change from recollection to current action to delineate it a little more clearly. Oh, and in the fish plant you wrote 'sleep' where I assume you meant 'slip.'

Love it!! The tone is just perfect, and the concept is very elegant. Your stories often have a really evocative narrative voice, and this is no exception. Quite possibly one of my favorites of yours.

No, it's not up to my usual standards (and thanks for that - it implies that my usual fare is reasonably good... I hope!) Life has been rather heavy lately - I've moved across the continent and started a new life - new town, new job, bought a house, etc. Writing hasn't been top of mind, but I wanted to keep the rhythm of writing for the Quill so I thought I'd try to submit something. Writing off the side of my desk during snippets of lunch breaks is hardly ideal. Meh, you can't win em all. I'm sure I'll be back in form in a month or two!

Yeah, took me a while too. :-p I wanted the opening to be dense and purple prosey as a juxtaposition with the fact that the protagonist a bumbling gremlin. Sort of playing it straight then switching gears. It was cinematic in my head, but didn't translate well to text. Meh.

I went with the sewer theme, and used Secret Weapon bases. Very happy with them. I went on to make themed scheme markers that were barrels of lurid green poison pouring into the sewer. Simple, but distinctive.

So, here I sit, painting Silurids (old metal ones at that!) and I must wonder... how many Silurids do you typically find you use? At 7SS they're not cheap. One seems like a pretty affordable scheme running solution. Two for 14SS I could see justifying if I was running a couple of marker-heavy schemes. I have hard time envisioning a scenario where I would want to dump 21SS into Silurids... or am I just thinking small here? How many do you typically run, and under what circumstances?

A fun read! I thought you really captured the flavor of bayou gremlins. As you noted, formatting's a bit hard to read, especially with all the dialogue. Good fun.

Hmm... Where did all the writers go? Anyway, if anyone's out there, here's my submission for the this round: Luck Runs Out Word Count: 1638 Elements used: Theme: ThreadsCharacter: The Idol (um... well, as an object, anyway)Line: "But why... Why me?" (More or less)Item: ScalpelLocation: The Bayou (Under it at least)C&C more than welcome.

Luck Runs Out The weak candlelight barely penetrated the gloom of the dank hallway. Tiny rivulets of water slithered lethargically down the mossy stone walls and disappeared into the cracked floor. The intrepid treasure hunter tugged down the rim of his battered fedora and crept further into the darkness. Lucky LaCroix (whose real name was Cooter, though he just conveniently ignored that fact) held the candle high with one hand while his other hand carefully unrolled a giant spool of rough twine to mark his path. It was the only way he would be able to find his way through the labyrinth of tunnels. He had long since lost track of how long he had been down in the ruins, and had no idea how deep beneath the bayou he was. Measures of time and distance were not a gremlin’s strongest suits. He only knew that there had to be something valuable down here, and he was going to find it. He would pull something out of here that would prove he was a real treasure hunter and earn a little respect from his kin. The scrawny gremlin crept down the hall, humming a slow ominous tune. He carefully placed one flat foot in front of the other. He’d lost a toe on a previous delve and wasn’t eager to lose any more. The hall turned one sharp corner, then another, and another. The labyrinth continued through a maze of intersecting hallways that all seemed to feed back into each other. He shuffled along, always carefully bailing out his rapidly dwindling ball of twine Lucky paused when he stepped into a large round room with six tunnels leading off in different directions. Undaunted, he pulled out his trusty broken compass. It so rarely steered him wrong that he figured it must be magic. He gave it a spin with a flick of a long green finger. Once it stopped its wobbly circuit he smiled with renewed surety and headed off down the tunnel it indicated, bailing out twine as he went. He descended a long staircase, taking him even deeper beneath the swamp. The air was even colder down here. Cold, and a thousand years stale. He noticed that his fingers were getting hot because his candle had burnt down to a nub. He quickly lit another candle. He may be an intrepid adventurer, but that didn’t mean he wanted to get lost down here in the dark. Further down the sloping hall he paused and scratched his ear, suddenly alert. He was convinced that the gaudy faux-soulstone earring he wore made his ear itch to warn him of danger. He scanned the hallway high and low. Mostly low, since that was where he could see best. Sure enough he discovered a thin tripwire strung across the hall. With exaggerated slowness he drew a rusty scalpel from its pigskin sheath and carefully cut the thread. A dozen spears jumped from their hidden ports in the walls, creating a thatch of death in front of him. Lucky grinned smugly and scooted under the low gap left between the spears and the floor. “Lucky: one, Evil drippy ruins: zero.” He chortled. At last he reached a vaulted ritual chamber. Every inch of the floor was ornately carved with symbols and runes he couldn’t begin to understand. He stepped carefully among the symbols, superstitiously avoiding any pictograms with faces. In the center of the room squatted a stone altar surrounded by ancient yellowed bones. Atop the altar stood a small golden idol in the shape of a creature with folded wings and a sword. Lucky’s beady little eyes grew wide. This was what he had come for. He scratched his itchy ear and scrutinized the altar carefully, expecting some sort of trap. Around and around it he walked, looking at every angle for some sort of clue. Nothing obvious presented itself. “What would Lucas McCabe do?” he thought to himself. He imagined the famous relic hunter deftly snatching the priceless artifact and making good his escape. He imagined the hero emerging from the catacombs to the cheers of awestruck and adoring companions. It was a small leap to imagine himself in the role, returning to the village laden with treasures. Everyone would be impressed. Maybe even Ophelia would take notice. A wide smile split his face as he imagined the hero’s welcome he would receive. He sighed. All the years of mockery and ridicule would be worth it. They’d see that he was a real treasure hunter now. Lucky shook his head and focused on the task at hand. He stepped carefully through the scattered bones and peered at the idol, which sat on a short stone pillar protruding from the center of the altar. He could hardly see over the edge of the altar, only his battered hat and eyes made it above the edge, and then only if he stood on the tips of his toes. As he craned his arm to reach for the idol his elbow brushed through the grit and dust on the long abandoned altar. From his vantage point at eye level with the flat top of the altar he saw some of the dust and pebbles disappear down a crack around the base of the idol’s pillar. His ear began tingling furiously. He balanced awkwardly on a misshapen skull to lift himself high enough to examine the new discovery. After a thorough examination Lucky decided that it was probably a pressure trap. He eyeballed the golden idol, trying to gauge its weight, then reached for his trusty bag of rocks. He hefted the bag, guessing that surely it must be a similar weight to the solid gold idol. He steeled his nerves and in one smooth motion swapped the bag of rocks for the idol. Unfortunately the idol was far heavier than his bag of rocks. Surprised by the weight, he fumbled it and knocked the idol off its pedestal. It bumped and rolled across the altar and landed on the floor with a dull thud. The loose bag of rocks immediately flopped off of the pedestal, which began to retract down into the altar with an ominous grating sound. Lucky squeaked with alarm and unceremoniously tumbled off his skull perch. He scrambled over to grab the idol and stuffed it in his sack. Around the room sections of wall were slowly rising, sloughing off centuries of dust. From inside the hidden alcoves came ominous hissing sounds. Six Razorspine Rattlers slowly slithered into view, shaking off the torpor of long statis. “Snakes.” He muttered, “Why did it have to be snakes?” Lucky half-stumbled, half-scurried backwards toward the door he’d entered through. He scrambled to his feet and bolted, following the path of his carefully laid thread. His remaining twine unspooled erratically as it bounced on his hip with each step. Lucky had hardly gone twenty paces before his feet got tangled in the swinging thread. He landed with a squeak and a thud. He rolled over to see the giant snakes picking up speed as they slithered towards him. He fumbled for his rusty scalpel and quickly cut the threads from around his ankles. Lucky ran as fast as his spindly green legs would carry him, clutching the precious idol to his chest. He followed his trail of string back along the dark hallway. His battered hat fell off his head as he slid under the thicket of spears jutting from the walls. He reached back and snatched it back just as a Rattler darted to strike at his hand. The fearsome snakes hissed with frustration, stymied at least temporarily by the wall of weapons. “And did I panic?” He smugly narrated to himself, adjusting his battered hat, “No, I did not.” He clambered up the slippery stairs, humming his own personal theme song. His smile dropped and his pace quickened as the sound of snapping wood echoed from down below. His triumphant trot turned into a dead run as he hit the top of the stairs. He sprinted along the corridor, straight into the six-door room and came to a skidding halt. Instead of one thread marking his path, now his twine split impossibly in six different directions, heading down each hallway. He looked at each of the identical passageways and whimpered. He thought he remembered which one he’d come from but he couldn’t be sure. He hastily pulled out his trusty magic compass and gave it a spin. It spun and spun, finally coming to rest pointing back the way he had come. He shook it vigorously to get its mojo working then tried again. Satisfied that at least it was pointing in a different direction, he headed down the hallway it indicated. Lucky stopped when he reached the next intersection. Again, his twine stretched off down the dark hallways in all four directions. He gave his compass a quick shake and spin, then darted off down another random hallway. Surprise quickly gave way to blind panic when he encountered another intersection with string heading down each hallway. At each intersection he gave the compass a spin and tore off in the direction it told him to. Lucky ran frantically, racing around corner after indistinguishable corner, always taunted by the hissing in the darkness just beyond sight. Finally he charged back into the round six-door room. He stopped in the middle, panting. Strings extended in all directions. He gave his compass a betrayed look, then tossed it over his shoulder. “Why?” He asked no one in particular, “Why me?” The only answer he got was a nerve-rattling hiss. He spun in a circle with wide eyes. Slithering into the candlelit arches of the six doors were the six giant snakes. Lucky hugged the idol close, a treasure hunter to the end.

I can't speak for other writers, but I tend to shy away from canon characters just for fear of not doing them justice - everyone's got their own idea of those characters, and there's plenty of fluff written about them so I usually more free to muck about with my own creations.

I'm hoping I can find the time to write this month. In the middle of unpacking post-cross-country-move, so time's a bit shy. Now to settle on a story idea. I've got several half-baked ones, but none look like a full story yet.

Well done folks! Nice to see so many new and infrequent writers jumping into the ring!

Just like it says on the tin: I've got the Jack Daw starter box NIB (Shrink wrap is off, but otherwise it's all there) but I'm trying to resist starting another faction (for now...). I'd happily trade it for any one of the following M2E starter boxes: Open Graves (Nicodem) Shadows of Redchapel (Seamus) Hide & Seek (Dreamer) No Shelter Here (Pandora) The M&SU (Ramos) I'm in Canada, but will trade internationally. PM me if you're interested!

Really really nice! Your language, word choice, and use of repetition really drive the feeling of single-minded obsession beautifully. His detachment and loss of self came through nicely too. "What you are, my friend, is an apotheosis of singlemindedness, of purpose without reason..." - what a great line. it totally sums up everything that precedes it. Very cool.

Ladies, gentlemen, bug-eyed tentacle things, For your reading enjoyment (I hope): Fool For Love Words: 1750 Elements: Theme: Obsession Character: The Monster Line: "In walked a one-eyed stranger" Item: A Mask Location: Railroad tracks. This started off really hard to come up with a concept for, but once I did the thing just wrote itself. Sadly, it did not edit itself so I had to hack out 250 extra words. I hope I didn't lose coherency in the editing. Comments and feedback are definitely welcome.

Iron Quill: Obsession - Fool for Love October 6 The supply train is six days late. We’re running out of almost everything. The rail workers are grumbling, and I can’t blame them. There’s only so much I can do with rice and salt pork. We’ve sent out foraging parties, but even they’re coming up with little but the odd small game or edible greens. I just hope the supply train comes soon. In happier news, I believe I have a secret admirer! I don’t know who, but surely it must be one of the rail workers. I feel eyes on me, but I’ve never caught anyone looking. It’s shallow of me, but I hope it might be the Frenchman, Christian. He’s handsome and gentle unlike so many of the others. If nothing else, it is a pleasant distraction in this dismal camp. October 9 I found a flower on my pillow in my bunk tonight! So innocent and sweet. Greta was there when I found it and teased me mercilessly. She suspects it’s one of the overseers because she doesn’t think a worker would have the sensibility to leave a delicate flower. I don’t care who my paramour is, I simply enjoy the spark of romance in this dead land. October 12 Still no sign of the supply train. Even the rice must be rationed now. The foraging parties have seen signs of Neverborn activity. There are rumors that they have destroyed tracks behind us or hijacked the train. One of the pathfinders saw signs very close to the camp. I have always been frightened of the Neverborn, but find myself curiously unafraid now. I cannot account for it, except for being buoyed by my private intrigue. There has been no sign of my secret admirer, but I still feel that I am being watched by loving eyes. October 15 We have found some relief in a most unexpected fashion. The foragers found three deer with necks broken set beside the trail. Several of the more superstitious men swear they will not eat them, but I will prepare it all with gratitude. Someone is watching over us and I, for one, will not take it for granted. October 19 My admirer has sent me another message. In the kitchen this morning I found another gift, a tiny figure carved of knotwood. It is a remarkable likeness of me, right down to the apron I wear in the kitchen. I hid it before anyone noticed. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, fantasizing about my mystery man. I saw Christian in the chow line at dinner tonight. We shared a look that I am sure confirms my suspicions. I am all aflutter. October 20 What joy! Sweet Christian has invited me to a private rendezvous tomorrow night. After I wash up the dinner service I shall meet him at the edge of camp for a star gazing date. A date! I feel like a giddy schoolgirl. This beautiful man has swept me off my feet! October 21 My hands are shaking as I write this, though I must confess I am unsure if it is from fear or excitement. So much has happened tonight that my world is all askew. I skipped through my work today, feeling light as air. I bathed and cleaned up my best frock. Greta helped me do my hair and apply some of her makeup. I’ve never had much of a hand at it myself. I put a flower in my hair, the same kind he had left on my pillow. I dare say I’ve never looked prettier. Late in the evening I walked to the end of the new tracks. Christian was there, but had not taken such care in his appearance as I had. Also he smelled of gin. We sat together on a stack of rail ties and talked a while, gazing at the moons and stars. It was disheartening to realize as we talked that he was perhaps not as soulful as I had believed. While he was soft-spoken, his interests were those of every man in the camp - drinking and gambling and fighting. I tried to steer the conversation in a more romantic direction, and asked him about my little statue. It quickly became apparent that it had not been he who carved it. I attempted to politely excuse myself. I had no stomach to continue this disappointment. He pleaded with me to stay, and when I declined became more forceful. Then the unthinkable happened. From the shadows there came a great rushing sound and suddenly Christian was torn from me. I heard a most grisly crackling sound followed only by silence. I was too frightened to move, and could only stare in the direction he had gone. I caught a fleeting flash of a featureless white mask caught in the moonlight before it vanished. For a long while I sat in stunned silence, then crept back to my bunk without a word to anyone. October 22 I could not sleep. I had to make sense of this. Christian was clearly not the man I believed him to be, but who that man is may not be a man at all. As my nerves calm things begin to fall into place. The sense of being watched, the anonymous gifts left in secret. It all makes sense now. I feel as though I should be more afraid than I am. Instead I feel a queer titillation. I do not think the creature is a danger. Quite the opposite. Last night he protected me when Christian tried to take advantage, and I can only assume it was he who provided the meat when my pantry was bare. Of course I cannot speak of this to anyone. It is my secret alone, and a precious one it is. October 24 The supply train finally arrived late this afternoon. Sweet relief. Fresh food, materials for the tracks, and more. I was unloading of the food supplies when in walked a one-eyed stranger, grim and black-clad. Without preamble or introduction he began questioning me about Christian and his disappearance. I was quite taken aback. I told him Christian had been courting me, and that I had last seen him two nights ago. I left out the precise circumstances of our parting. I do not think he believed me, but no matter. I have a plan. October 25 The workers found Christian’s remains this morning. I saw his body, all crow-picked and mauled, when they brought it back to camp. I felt a curious lack of sympathy. Beneath the veneer he was a selfish, lustful brute like the rest. I felt a fool for having believed he could be any more than that. My eyes are open now and I know the direction my heart pulls me. Tonight after the camp slept I crept away to the end of the track. I brought with me a heart I’d woven of dried grass and a garter. A simple gift, but made with love. I waited for some time, hoping for a visitor. I had abandoned hope and began walking back to camp when I heard a rustle of leaves in the stillness. I turned back and saw that my heart was gone. I peered into the darkness and again caught a fleeting glimpse of that enigmatic porcelain mask. I called out to him but what could I say? We gazed at one another for a long moment, then in a wink he was gone again. How shy he is, how mysterious! I was heartened to know he received my token. October 31 The odious hunter, De Guiche, has made himself an unwelcome resident of our little camp. The workers idolize him, of course, with all his tales of battle and blood. He has even enlisted some men to form a party to hunt my the no, my creature. I cannot let this come to pass. If even half his stories hold grains of truth, my noble creature could be in danger. I cannot match a man for strength or speed, and I have no skill at arms but that does not render me helpless. I stole what medicine I could from the medic and mixed it into tonight’s stew. I’m not sure quite what it will do but if nothing else it should ensure the men are too sick to hunt tonight. I have packed a small bag with what little I have of value. I am leaving this camp, this life. I will go to my beloved creature and he will sweep me away from this place. We will cast off all shackles and forge a new path together. I will leave this journal here so that someone will know where I have gone, and that it is of my own free will that I choose this path. Love knows no bounds. Yours, Roxanne Cardinal October 31 There is little time but I must write this down. I am a fool. I went to the end of the tracks, my head full of notions of love conquering all. I called out for my creature and he came. He spoke my name from the shadows. I thought I might faint, but I remained resolved in my love. He spoke to me of longing and loneliness. He echoed so many of the same feelings I had held for so long. In my heart I was so sure that this would be a moment of transcendent beauty. I beckoned him forth from the cloaking shadows and he came. He stepped into the light of my candle and removed his porcelain mask. I cannot put words to the horror of his face, the grotesqueness of his form. I blanched and stepped back. He reached for me, I think to offer comfort, but I recoiled. Then I ran without another word. I heard his anguished howl as I fled, desperate for the safety of the camp. I cursed myself for a fool again as I heard the groans of many sick men. I had poisoned them all, and now they all lay bedridden and helpless. Even De Guiche was in a state. There was no safety here. I heard the night watchman scream first. He was soon followed by another and another. I am now hidden beneath my bunk writing these last words as an apology to whomever finds this journal. I am so sorry. I have doomed us all.

I'm in... ...well, probably. I'm moving across the country to start a new job and set up a new life this month so I <may> not have a ton of writing time. Still, it's an inspiring set of elements so I'll certainly try!

Sebastian's face is so rich and layered. It really pops! Very impressive. I also love the faces on the Ashigaru and Crooked Men. I would give my right hand to be able to do faces that well... though then I couldn't hold a model to paint it, which might cause its own problems... but I digress... I also think you did a lovely job with the spatter on Bete - it transitions from red to white very well. Quite striking! Overall I really like the way you do your highlights and washes. Crisp and clean, and not too strong or OTT.