Tuesday, October 30, 2012

In Which We Meet Shizake

Hey guys.

So, this is kind of like the Character's on Couches thing, but it's not. Shizake was part of a capcha I got when posting a comment on Jezzy's site. It got me thinking.

So, here we go.


Author paces around her cluttered writing room, office, den, whatever you want to call it. It's badly lit, and corners hold shadows, perfect for inspiration to walk out of. But it's been awhile since inspiration has hit. Author is fairly certain that her Muse, whom she has never seen or spoken to, has abandoned her. 

Trolling the internet in search of something, anything, Author comes across a word. 

"Shizake? What is Shizake?" It has to be something. Author knows that. Everything is something. And if it stands out enough to procure comment, it's something important. 

Is it a place? It brings to mind sweeping spires and dangerous cliffs. But no, that's not right. 

Is it a world? Barren landscapes with sweeping winds and never ending deserts. That's not quite right, either. 

Author sits at her overly stuffed chair. It's so comfortable as to be uncomfortable, if that's even possible. Picking up one of the many chewed on pencils on the pristine desk, she brings the eraser end to her mouth and makes like a defective beaver. 

"Wha' ith Shi'ake?" It's rather hard to speak with a pencil in your mouth. 

"I am." A deep voice comes from one of the corners, but Author can't tell where. 

Peering into the darkness, Author finally finds a pair of deep brown- no, golden eyes staring back. As Author looks, he comes into focus. Deeply tanned skin crossed with scars. Sandy blonde hair hangs in a single tail down his back, many different ornaments decorate it. His square, neanderthal-like face with a slightly crooked nose, as if it had been broken one too many times, is rigid in it's glare. 

He steps out of the shadows and Author can see what he is wearing. Very little. Pants, tight at the waist and ankles, but flare out at the sides are dusty and worn with age. His feet and chest are bare. As is his face. 

"Isn't Shizake kind of a short name for one of the Zhahilen?"

"What is your point?" 

Author shrugs. "You speak Common quite well, also." 

"And?" This man would be a hard nut to crack. 

Author shrugs again, but stops as she hears his teeth grind audibly. She turns her gaze back to him, and stops. He is pointing a sword at her. The handle is- 

"Is that bone?!" She's out of her seat and around beside him in a flash. 

"It is the bone of the leg of my Kahlorahkta." 

Author takes a step back, looking the tall man up and down. "You're a Zha'Dahkrah? But your hair-? And the sword?"

"Yes. The sword is made from steel. I gave up my life many many days ago." 

"And your hair-?" 

"I am no longer Zhahilen, I am Zhacorahl."

"You are Forsaken?" 

Author rubs her chin as she takes in this information. Taking a seat back in her chair again and curls her feet up underneath her. "Very well. If you would pass through the door behind you and choose a room, all accommodations will be provided for you until you are needed."

*stretches fingers*

Well. That was something. I love my writer brain. 

Have a wonderful Halloween! 

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