I wouldn’t be surprised if this is illegal, but I’ve had enough of this sobriety shit. I’ve been stuck on this damn ship for six months now; I need something to lighten the load. Gradually I cracked open the fuel compartment of the ship’s torpedo with the end of my wrench. A melodious odor lingered from sludge as it poured into the small bucket in my hands as the chief engineer clambered down the distant ladder of the torpedo bay. The almost but not muppet with flesh flopped down the gangway of the room at full speed, screaming. “What are you doing? Stop, no! Why are you doing this; we need that!”

In due time the liquid continued to drain from the torpedo as the muppet slapped the side of my head repeatedly with the force of a feather duster as I remunerated to the frantic conversation. “I need it more! I haven’t had a drink in months!”

CE: “That’s torpedo propellant! You can’t drink that! There are so many dangerous chemicals in that liquid!

E: “Fuck You! I’m getting my torpedo juice!”

CE: “No! Give it back; there’s a pirate skiff in the system!”

E: “This is a battle cruiser! Use the guns!”

CE: “We have no guns!”

E: “Why don’t you have guns!”

CE: “They don’t work in space!”

E: “That’s a lie!”

CE: “Well, ours don’t!”

E: “Then get a different damn torpedo!”

CE: “No, this is federation property!”

E: “No, it’s mine!”

CE: “Fuck You!”

The blaring claxons and flashing red lights heralded my secured prize as I raised the bucket of torpedo juice moments before the projectile was shunted from the weapon’s room airlock.

E: “Ah shit.”

CE: "That's going to get stuck."

E: "Yep."

Mid-day 3/2/045: "Warsong's Bridge."

A soft wind blows through the encampment as I turn the haft of my spear between my gauntlets. The small detachment of our regimental engineers is sprinting between the river's shore and the nearby forest as I observe the distant swamps of Kadesh. Death's hand lingers above the regiment plucking away at the strands of my heart as the enemy legion approaches unseen miles away.

The scouts say we are outnumbered and word has gotten out that we are merely to buy time for the king's army to assemble. There won't be any escape should we be driven into the knee-deep waters of the marsh, they would sooner run us down than accept surrender. The terse rattling sounds of boots scraping against dry gravel betray the sergeant-at-arms's approach as the weathered veteran appears astride my posting.

His dour clean-shaven appearance betrays his status as the section commander as he tucks his feathered helmet under one arm. He doesn't speak for a long moment as he observes the shifting of the spear's pole in the dirt judging. My half-plate is in tatters from the march toward the front as many others as the superior speaks after returning his sight to the distant swamps bridged roadway. "Armsman."

There's no lapse between my feet and arms snap to attention and the unspoken command. Years of training with the regiment have brought my mentality into a perfect representation of mental discipline. One right face raised gaze, and the pole's stamp into the dirt is completed before I voice my completion of the order. "Sir!"

I lock eyes unblinking like the soldier I've been trained to be as the officer leisurely turns to face me. There's a look of disdain in his eyes before he speaks; a judging unspoken hatred that speaks volumes as he returns his gaze to the enemy's approach. "Cut the bullshit, son, I'm not going to report you to command for being personable."

"Yes, sir!?" hesitantly I lower my parade rest into an at-ease posture before leaning onto my polearm to relieve the aching in my feet. It catches his eye but he says nothing as he sips from a small mug of ale.

"How's the watch Tir?"

"I already sent off my farewells with the corpsman sir. I'm vanguard." The old fellow gazes into his drink for a moment before tossing the clay pot down the slope. My eyes followed the shattering utensil as he spoke in his standard aggravated tone.

"They put you on the front, why wasn't I informed of this?"

I didn't say it was because my family back home was killed in a raid and that I wished to die with honor. I didn't say it was because I hated the rebel horde and I wanted to mangle as many as I could. Instead, I pulled my scarf below my collar. The red fabric clung to my helmet like a blindfold given to the soon-to-be hanged. "I don't have anything left sir."

He took a moment to inspect my person before slapping the side of my helmet with his closed fist. The blow rang through my helmet carrying my head back an inch before I returned to my position of rest unfazed. The officer grabbed the end of my scarf inches from my countenance before whispering.

"Don't you fucking try that again; there are better ways to die. You're one of us, we don't leave our own to die on the battlefield! Head to the rear line and find the medics, make sure no one we don't like gets in there. You might be the best spearman in the platoon but I don't need another corpse on my hands. Do you understand!"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

It isn't that difficult to convince the average adventuring party you're a wizard. It's all in the acting and clothing, and I became rather adept at that tidbit because when a mob hears the word warlock, someone will wind up hanging from a noose. Of course, you can't keep that kind of secret forever, so the eldritch sort of magician seldom lives to old age. It's usually a case of running till you can't any longer. I’d been out in the farthest recesses of civilized society, so I didn't think it was possible to run any farther when I ran into the company. A memory of that moment plays itself back in my mind as I sidestep a glimmering bolt of lightning. The trace sparks and winding spider webs of the flash sparkled with the impromptu meeting while avoiding the gangly fingers of the inquisition. That alleyway would be piled with bodies before they gave up. I knew I would have to throw in with the friends who saved my life. The brilliant beam of the blinding bolt’s passage fades, allowing sight of the narrow cavern and horde of bandits pouring out of every tunnel around our group's modest three-tent encampment.

They’d need the numbers if they hoped for anything other than buying time. A sweeping arch of blood traces the air as an ax cracks open an approaching bandit’s jaw in a vicious assault from somewhere in the shadows opposite the cave. I can’t see Disappearance, the team rogue, aside from a dim shimmer in the distance, as they lurk like a damn predator behind the horde, decapitating stragglers back to front. A distant howl of rage heralds the fleeting sight of the savage Jim the Brick, Kane, and his towering longsword deep amongst the cyclical hellscape of the party’s frontline. In a broad arc, that clever cast-iron metal rips roughly halfway through a red-cloaked hooligan’s rib cage. The dying criminal clings to the wound as the mighty barbarian places a leather boot against their chest and pulls the sword free with the sound of warped flesh as it passes along the jagged blade. Nopparage, the party druid, tends to the flock of charging raiders as the stone beneath their advance sharpens to rip the heedless men and elves’ feet to ribbons in the deadly trap.

The sharp crack of a black-powder musket breaks the din of battle from the bandit’s line as the party's glorious leader Dunalong’s Chi-wrapped arm swats the bullet into a bandit who’d been sneaking up behind Nopparage. The foreigner’s visage is set with a grin as the combat drags onward in a flurry of spraying blood, decapitated heads, and chaotic violence bent from lances of purple magic originating from the scroll in my hands. And yet, as the engagement continues, the number of bandits is seemingly endless, as the moderately sized cavern floods with hundreds of poorly armed, exiled knights. I wouldn’t be honest if I said; they appeared to be confident; instead, they seemed to be utterly out of their minds, smiling with unhinged glee even as their head was cut from their neck with an open-palm chop and thrown into a warrior’s chest with enough force to cause an explosion of gore.

Amidst the chaotic din, communication becomes impossible as the purple spirit running the length of my plate-mail flickers with an unnatural vacuum that swallows all it touches. The distant scream of Dunalong’s pained yelps prompts me to act as all other options remain to spend one after another, keeping the horde at arm's length. All light within the cavern is slashed away as a void of rippling tendrils extends from with the slightest beckoning of one sweeping arc along the corrupted magical conduits of my plate. This Holocene of gathering energy passes, the brim of the right shoulder plate demonic laughter echoes through the canyon as lashes pick off the bandits. An enemy's quarterstaff breaks over that same pauldron before shattering into a bloom of wooden shrapnel as the cackling madman rips towards the roof before being disfigured by the horrific abyss of eyes and jaws hanging to the ceiling.

This abyssal horde doesn’t care for the number of enemies as the ambush turns into a slaughter as blood rains thick as a waterfall. The mangled excellence overtakes my being, and I can’t help but scream in ecstasy from the carnage as the rest of the party looks on in horror. I’m not myself as Dunalong sprints across the divide, dodging between the falling bodies of dying dissected body parts. A peal of unhinged laughter rips through my extended jaw, irrespective and uncaring of my attempts to regain control of my carcass from the partial possession of the demonic servants of my god. “The Great Unmaker Shall Claim The Souls Of This World; Death To The Mortals; All Will Die In Zorg’s Firey Embrace!”

This bout of horrific nightmare fuel rages as the tendrils, now deprived of targets, slither along the walls toward the party, mere feet away before a flaming fist shatters the fragile hold of the demon. The pain is immediate as the ground dents the brim of my Sallet. The trailing moments are a blur in tandem with lingering anguish as I return, cradling my head as the group argues overhead. Their speech is impossible to hear what they are saying but judging by the amount of aggressive gesturing, it wasn’t anything good. I’d either be dead or done with the situation in the next few minutes, so I can’t honestly be bothered to care much. After a brief contest of vomiting, I rose irrespective of the ongoing argument; Once more, my boots touched the cavern floor, staggering slightly before slurring my words. “I’m fine, just a demonic mild possession.”

Disappearance (if that was even his real name) hooded form grabbed my shoulders and began shaking my already failing stability while screaming, “What the hell? You were a fucking warlock this whole time!”

The group erupted into another chaotic discussion, worsening my mind-bending headache. In no moment, I’m entangled in the half-brawl and half-part conversation. “I assumed it was obvious!”(Warlock) “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s awesome! Dude, who’s your god!”(Barbarian) “Everyone stops; calm down!”(Monk), “You thought it was obvious, you dress like a damn arch-mage; fake badge and everything!”(Rogue), “Hey why don’t you sit back down.”(Druid) A small dribble of blood runs from my right eye as I break the grapple and gain some distance from the party. The group's general composure turned melancholy as I made the ground. “Okay, so you will not kill me, right?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? Bro, you’re one of us!”(Barbarian), “Are you planning to go traitor, if not we're good?”(Monk), “Do I look like I care about the kingdom’s laws, I don’t have many friends as it is!”(Rogue), “What, why?”(Druid).

Without a thought, I leaned over and wrapped a hand around the small spell book on the ground before throwing the useless chunk of paper into the corpses piled in the center of the chamber. “Just checking; if I’d known, I would have told you all earlier. Alright, I think I’m good; what’s the plan now?”

The sound of squelching flesh wreaked the silence as Dunalong set his still bloody arm, hand, wrist, and shoulder onto my left knee; “We’re going to track down that bandit chieftain, and you’re going to lead him to the deepest layer of hell for us.”