Convenire Aliquem

     He hadn’t had a destination in mind when he’d left the Templus de Ambros for the Gryphon’s Gardens. After 10 minutes of wandering aimlessly, he’d realized that the Mercury’s Elite Guardsman would always be nearby. Upon sighting the disheveled hedgerow that marked the border of the groundskeeper’s home, he sped up. The last time that Praeceptor Archeleus Imler stood inside Patrick Field’s house he was stuck in griffin form, struck by the horror of death, and fucked by circumstances outside his control. As he rounded the hedge, a wave of memory slapped him in the face. Bowing into it, he closed his eyes and blindly forced himself onward. After three or four steps, the mental hurricane died out. Opening his eyes, Archel focused on the sidewalk and slowly made his way to the door. Weak, he silently spat at the hollow sound of his knock. He tried again, but with a little extra weight thrown in. Not much better. He shrugged off the urge to continue beating on the door and opted for shifting from foot to foot while he waited.
     “Stop there!” the guard yelled.

Res Relinquebant

     “Oh, come on,” the bard whined as he stood up from the gaming table where a black stone had just been placed inside a square of his white stones.

     “What?” the old woman innocently asked.

     “Don’t ‘what’ me,” he scolded. Pointing at the Go board, he said, “you can’t do that.”

     “Who says?”

     “The rules.”

     “Oh? Do tell.”

     “You can’t commit suicide,” Bard Kent stated.