Recent content by Marek

The moment the pressure lifted, Marek moved. It was as if someone had cut his leash. His body snapped into motion, closing the space between them as the assassin stumbled toward him, momentum gifted by Lilette’s push. Marek dropped low, blade angled, eyes sharp and unrelenting. They moved in...

He blinked, glanced over, and squinted. The two women from earlier, one older, confident, already tugging someone smaller through the press of bodies. Marek straightened a fraction, eyes narrowing on instinct more than irritation. “Grousing?” he shot back, dry as dust. “That’s just my face...

Marek gave a brief nod and rose from the table, moving off without fuss or flourish. He let the noise of the tavern swallow him, slipping out after Fane and the cloaked woman as they disappeared into the street. Their trail led him into a narrow, empty alley, lantern light thinning to shadow...

Marek had clocked her two days ago. It was a habit born of necessity of living by wits and lies, of spotting the other liar in a room before they spotted him. The limp was wrong. Too consistent. The way she loitered without ever truly settling, always angled for an exit. The way her eyes...

Marek’s grin faltered for half a moment as his eyes caught the faintly blue-black cast of skin beneath the hood. …Ah. Drow. He squinted, head tilting a fraction, instincts prickling before sense caught up. Unsettling, sure, but then the thought followed swiftly on its heels, accompanied by a...

Marek came in from the side with the easy confidence of someone who had never once questioned whether he belonged anywhere. Leather creaked, blades chimed faintly, and he cast a lazy glance over the assembled party before his eyes landed squarely on the drow and his florid display. A crooked...

Marek came back to the world with sand in his mouth, a ringing skull, and the overwhelming conviction that he had just lost a fight to stationery. He staggered to his feet, swaying once before catching himself. The ache set in all at once, head pounding, shoulder screaming, right hand a mess of...

For one fatal moment, Marek believed. Believed that a man with banners, titles, and a watching crowd would choose honor above all, especially in front of such a huge crowd. Believed that a knight with a legacy to uphold would meet steel with steel, or spit defiance and die standing rather than...

Marek moved with the fall. Not away from it, but through it. As the armored bulk crashed down, Marek flowed past the trajectory, boots skidding once in the sand before he turned and stepped in close. The sky vanished for Sir Cuttlefish. Marek stood over the knight, framed against the sun...

Marek had expected resistance. He had not expected nothing. The impact should have bitten. Should have torn. Instead it rang, hard, resonant, his supercharged blade screaming as the knight’s armor drank the blow and spat it sideways in a riot of igniting runes. The force traveled through steel...

Marek squinted as the knight bellowed something else from inside that metal oven. Insoui-what? “What?” he shouted back reflexively. “Incense? No, I don’t want to buy any incense!” His attention slid instead to the hovering tome, to the way the runes flared and guttered, to how Sir Dwendare’s...

Marek had been only half-present when the fanfare began. Drums thundered. Horns blared. He blinked slowly as Sir Dwendare Castlegrip emerged in full, gleaming armor, plume snapping, banners rippling. For a few unfocused moments, Marek’s mind drifted somewhere unhelpful. He’s got to be...

“Fuck me sideways,” Marek muttered, squinting at the sun. His boots dragged against the stone as he was gently, but also actually very firmly, nudged toward the wide, sand-slicked fighting circle. The Duel of Spellswords. The crowds were roaring and the banners were flapping. Somewhere nearby...