Subj:	 [MW] Proving a point
Date:	00-07-13 12:38:44 EDT
From:	larathia@mcs.net (Larathia)
To:	RaumKatze2@aol.com, skyhall@hotmail.com, darklord@compusmart.ab.ca

Nighthawk summoned her people together, the 24 flights that remained. All
the colors of the rainbow, save white only, looked back at her; not
standing at any particular attention, but each one watching her carefully.

"My people," she said, "I have spoken with the human commander, Tim. I have
asked him to provide you such training as would preserve your lives should
you be grounded in combat. But he is only willing to provide an exchange of
information in our own area of expertise, that of archery. He does not mean
ill by this; humans are oft led astray by our looks. It never occurs to
them that if we could not fight evenly against strength, the dwarves would
have slain us all ages ago..."
"My people, I know you all know each but one tint for your weapon crafting.
I ask the Phoenix clan to deal with the archers, since their main concern
is how and why we use glass arrowheads. I ask that you show them how to
craft clear glass, and how to pack poison into the arrow tip. Will your
House allow this?"

some fifteen red-winged soldiers separated themselves from the group and
saluted. "Captain, for our mutual survival, we will teach them," said one.
She nodded, and they headed off to find the human archery contingent.

"When they learn respect for glass, they also will learn respect for our
skills. Finch clan; I call on you to lead the way, to learn from the human
archers anything that might be of use to us, and to teach them how to craft
the powerful bows we use. Will your House allow this?"

A full thirteen flights of brown-winged avariel saluted, then conferred
amongst themselves. Eventually, one came forward and said "The exchange we
feel is fair; their techniques may require adaptation but we feel they will
prove of value."

"Good," responded Nighthawk. "But wait until the Phoenix has finished with
them. I have further orders for you. Jay clan - we cannot share the Lady
with these humans who can never know her as we do, so we cannot share
knowlege of healing. But I ask you to disperse yourselves among the human
healers, and learn what you may. There may well be new diseases here that
we should be ready to counter." At her words, six flights of blue-winged
avariel left the gathering, wings furled tightly in anxiety as they entered
the walls of the Keep.

Nighthawk turned to the last clan, the green winged Macaw clan. "You have
suffered the greatest losses of any clan," she said. "And the humans feel
that magic is a difficult science to learn, and so have but one mage, and
that one all but untrained. I ask you to seek him out, and have him
describe his apprentice knowlege to you. It may be that the neophyte's
understanding can unlock this world's power for you, at least in some small
part." The mages nodded immediately, and set out to find the human mage,
hoping to get at least a few answers.

All that remained were the members of the Finch clan, sturdy brown-winged
fighters. "My friends," she said, "You who were the largest clan in Variel,
are the largest clan here now also. I would have the humans respect you,
and to a degree, they do. Your skills with the bow and crossbow, they do
not doubt - not after the destruction you wreaked among the moogle forces.
But if you are struck with a crossbolt through the wing, you are grounded.
If you are grounded, you cannot use your bow - and both human and moogle
can outfight you with a sword. Lord Tim does not feel his people can teach
you much, for they use weapons of steel. But I will fight to give you every
chance, no matter how slim, of surviving if you are grounded - at least
long enough to escape to a healer. The mages and the healers...they are so
focused upon their magic that they can cast whether on the ground or in the
sky; I do not fear for them. For you, who have never had to fear the ground
before, I worry."

Nighthawk took a deep breath. "My friends, you are not going to get a lot
of sleep. For before I turn you loose on Tim's men, to learn the sword
styles of this world, I am going to teach you some of the skills I have
learned in other worlds. You are quicker and more agile than any being on
this world - you do not *have* to die. Let the humans fight with strength;
the avariel weapons shall be speed and agility. Lay down your weapons; it
is time to get bruised. You," pointing to a soldier at random, "Come here.
Stand before me. Now - place your arms so, and stand as I stand...good..."

Highthawk had walked on an Alternate Prime world called Earth, once, long
ago. She had decided the martial arts were exactly what she needed to
learn, so she learned them *all*...and adapted them for use by a six-limbed
flying people. Now it was time to complete the circle, to be teacher
instead of student. Before the week was out, every last member of the Finch
clan was severely bruised and stiff.


Subj:	 [ffml] [MW] A stroll in the park
Date:	00-07-14 11:37:20 EDT
From:	larathia@mcs.net (Larathia)
Reply-to:	ffml@egroups.com
To:	ffml@egroups.com

Nighthawk had had enough for one day, and interestingly enough matters had
arranged themselves so that she could have some time to herself. Her mages
were assiduously hunting the one human mageling available, and would
probably surround him until he recited his knowlege just to get them to go
away. Her glasscrafters were busy talking with the human archers about the
value of glass arrowheads, and her archers were now practicing basic
martial arts forms on each other as training. Tim's men seemed to be
equally involved with learning and practice, so for the afternoon there
appeared to be nothing that needed doing and no-one to do it with. She had
learned to appreciate such days; they came only rarely and were often paid
for dearly later. But now was a perfect time to renew an old friendship, so
she concentrated briefly, then turned and whistled a complicated sequence
in the direction her thoughts indicated.

After a few minutes, she could see him coming; the great tawny, winged ball
of fur that was her familiar, Smeauer. He'd been left to himself mostly
since coming through the gate, as she had had much work to be done and he
had no taste for battle. He was well aware, with his feline intelligence,
that he was the one being who could be less-than-polite to her, but he'd
learned it was better to excercise that right when no-one else could get
ideas. He flew with the same grace he stalked, even though the wings were
the result of a long-ago polymorph spell. He spiraled downward, and landed
with a staggering thump on her shoulder...and proceeded to wind himself
around her neck, purring happily.

"Nowf smfr, *get off!*" Nighthawk spat through the fur. "I've miffd you
too, but you *know* how harf it is to clean blond fur off of fblack silk!"

"Heheheh, I know, Snuggles," said Smeauer smugly, still purring, as he
leaped from her shoulder to the ground. "But I missed having you to curl up
with nights and wanted to say 'hi'."

"Ah, you have a devious mind, my friend," Nighthawk smiled, "I'll let it go
- provided I get to tickle you!" Whereupon she immediately went for
Smeauer's belly, and the elf-cat leaped quickly out of her way, wheezing
with the cat equivalent of laughter.

"Come on, my friend," she said. "The castle is busy, and I would rather the
humans didn't see me looking friendly. They've already got this idea that
we avariel are weak and girlish; I'd hate to see that idea reinforced in
any way. I've nothing to do, I thought we could take a stroll to the
treeline."

Smeauer bobbed his head quickly, grinning widely enough to show his teeth.
"I know this *great* place in the woods, right by this waterfall. Good
fishing, very still. But I've smelled moogle about, so don't forget your
weapons - just in case."

"Sounds perfect, Smeauer. And I've never gone anywhere without my weapons,
you know that. Let's go!"

The elf-cat launched itself off the battlement, and since it was fairly
easy to get going from a height, Nighthawk did the same. Smeauer led the
way, and a few miles from the Keep delivered on his promise; a small
waterfall, and pool, and enough space between it and the trees to prevent a
complete surprise. Since the place appeared fairly secluded, Nighthawk
decided to wash her gear; she had no intention of being seen at the keep in
a less-than-professional state, and cat fur would definitely ruin her
image. The water was clean and clear, and it was the work of moments to get
her clothes washed and set to dry on convenient tree-branches. Since the
water bogged down her wings pretty heavily, she sat on a warm, sunny rock
and kept her wings spread to dry them out. She did not worry especially
about nudity; none of her people had ever cared much about modesty and wore
clothing mainly for protection from the elements, and to keep from
embarassing more prudish peoples that occasionally visited. Besides, she
never took off her charm bracelet, and with that she was never unarmed.

She spent the day with her familiar, conjuring dust-devils for him to play
with, or just talking with him as a friend does. The bond of a familiar
only works with souls that are compatible, and went much deeper than the
bond she'd forged with her troops. Smeauer was an extension of her, as she
was of him, and they'd had quite a few decades together since he'd come to
her as a kitten. She left her clothes on the branch, so as not to have to
wash cat-fur off of them again; she could wash herself very easily, by
dunking quickly and fanning her body dry with her wings.

She and Smeauer were playing a competitive game involving conjured lights,
where Smeauer would try to 'catch' the light and she would try to keep it
away from him, when suddenly a crossbolt shot almost completely through the
elf-cat's body. He yowled in pain, and fell to the ground.
Nighthawk leaped up and ran towards him, but before she could reach him
another bolt zinged past and she had to duck or be hit. She didn't have to
wait long to see her attackers; a small party of four moogles and three
moogleboars came into the clearing, walking with the strut that said they
thought this must be the luckiest day of their lives.
Nighthawk quickly considered summoning her bow and just shooting them - but
the range was short, and so was time...and up close a bow is of little use.
Feeling the pain of the arrow in her own body, she knew Smeauer's wound
would be mortal if she didn't get to him soon. The need to kill the
attackers, and to save her familiar's life, warred so evenly within her
that she stood rooted to the spot.
There was clear lust shining in every moogle's eyes as they came toward
her, the one who had the crossbow pointing it at her. They grinned the
stupid, leering grin she'd seen on countless - now dead - faces of males in
the past. Her scryings had not been wrong; when it came to the opposite
sex, moogles were just flat out stupid. Her anger at their thinking was
fanned to pure, mindless fury by the pain of Smeauer's wound. She no longer
remembered the words that would summon her sword, or her bow. All that was
left of conscious thought was that these creatures had struck down her
familiar, and were happy about it.

It was Smeauer, oddly, that broke the silence. "You guys are gonna hurt a
lot worse than I do," he gasped, but there was a smugness and a pride in
his tone. "I'm glad I'll get to see it."

The moogles snorted with laughter; the female was alone, unarmed, and
already naked - what to fear? As the moogles reached her, a moogleboar
reached for her arm...but the first to touch her was a moogle, reaching for
her crotch. At the touch, the pain that had rooted her lost its hold, and
her fury took control of her body.

Almost lazily, it seemed, her fingers shot out and completely crushed the
windpipe of one of the moogleboars. When it staggered, hands at its throat
trying to breathe, she used it as a convenient pole and did a flip over its
body. Now she was on clear ground.
The crossbow-wielding moogle quickly aimed and fired, snarling, but
Nighthawk was beyond rational thought, in the timeless mode that all
warriors reach when they need to, and the bolt skimmed harmlessly - but
fairly closely - past her side. In the moment of puzzlement it had (it knew
it should not have missed, not at that range), Nighthawk's foot snapped out
and broke its neck. Now she had control of her fury; she spoke the command
word that released her sword from the bracelet of charms. A three-foot
blade of bluish-black glass rested in her hands, but the five remaining
attackers had decided they could rape her later. Every last one readied its
weapon; the moogles carrying spears, and the moogleboars carrying clubs.

A spear stabbed at her; she dodged and sheared off the point. The second
spear-wielder tried to stab her simutaneously; this was foiled by the
simple expedient of whacking the wielder  - hard - with one of her wings.
With a quick curving step, she drew one of the moogleboars an extra smile
while it swung wildly at her, and danced neatly out of its way as it fell,
conveniently, on its partner. The three moogles then tried to form a
triangle around her, but she dropped one with a convenient kick to the
balls, and then spun to stab another...the act of the spin bringing her
wings to bear on the third. By the time it could see again, she had stabbed
it.

The skirmish had taken only a few minutes, and only two attackers lived;
the ball-kicked moogle, and the moogleboar trapped under a body. she
pronounced the web spell that would hold both still, then ran back to Smeauer.

Too late, she saw immediately. Even abandoning command form and flying
naked at top speed for the keep, her friend had lost too much blood to
live. Gently, she eased the bolt from his side, and used reiki to dull the
pain. Smeauer tried to purr, but it sounded like a dying engine on a cold
morning. Eventually, he gave up. Slowly, he nuzzled her hand.

"Good job on them, boss," he whispered. "I love you..." The light dimmed in
the eyes so like her own, and he died.

She had lost familiars before, of course, but none had been as intelligent
as Smeauer had been. He had been a friend of the truest sort, the kind that
one can use to re-set one's moral compass when things looked dark, and the
kind one could confide anything in. In her way, she had loved him. And he
was dead; the familiar bond was broken...and she wanted, against all
reason, to cry. To scream. And to hunt down every last goddamn moogle and
make a belt of their detatched stuffed penises. She spun, and walked with
lethal intent toward the two she had made captive.

"You killed my friend, who was as nothing to you," she said in the language
of her own people. "I am going to show you what pain *really* means..." 
They couldn't understand her, but her tone and her expression was
unmistakable. After a while, Nighthawk enacted a silence spell because she
got tired of letting them hear their screams.

In the morning, Nighthawk flew back to the Keep, wearing a new belt and
carrying a bundle wrapped in white hides. When she greeted the avariel on
duty, her voice was even but distant, and rigidly controlled.

"I ran into a patrol, yesterday," she said. "They are dead, and you may so
inform Lord Tim. I do not know if there are others. I go to make a pyre for
Smeauer, who died by their hands."

The watchman nodded sympathetically; many of the avariel had lost familiars
over the years, and knew what it felt like. "As you command, Captain. New
belt?"

"Yes," said Nighthawk, her voice thick with vengeance. "Pass the word to
all the troops; henceforth, any moogle or moogleboar slain by an avariel's
strike is to be stripped of its genitalia - and you are to wear their
tanned, stuffed penises as war trophies henceforth, until they are
defeated. Smeauer died because they thought at first to capture me;
otherwise they would have shot at me first. Let them be reminded that their
lust can and shall be their downfall."

The watchman nodded and saluted, and took off to relay her information and
her orders. Nighthawk took the body of her familiar down to the courtyard,
where some of her soldiers built a pyre. She placed Smeauer's body, wrapped
in the hides of the moogles who had killed him, on the pyre, and set it
alight.

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http://www.mcs.net/~larathia
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People ask me how I do it,
And I say, "There's nothin' to it,
You just stand there lookin' cute,
And when something moves, you shoot!"
And there's ten stuffed heads in my trophy room right now,
Two game wardens, seven hunters, and a pure-bred Guernsey cow.
--Tom Lehrer, "The Hunting Song"
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