These are snippets of some of my amusing, and not so amusing, times as a Starship Captain in The Outer Worlds.
*****
The Outer Worlds is another space adventure similar to Starfield, but not quite the same. It’s more linear, not a big sandbox like Starfield, and has some very humorous moments.
I’ve assembled some small clips of my gameplay I thought would be amusing. Enjoy.
You can watch my whole Let’s Play below:
These are snippets of my NG+ 2 with lousy weapons and little ammo.
*****
I love #starfield so much I thought I’d share my amusing moments during my #gameplay Enjoy.
You can follow my journey through the my first playthrough below. And then my NG+ 1 to 5.
• Let’s Play Starfield BLIND # 01 
Newbie…
• A Broken Unity // Let’s Play Starfield N…
Winner of more than 200 Game of the Year Awards, The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Special Edition brings the epic fantasy to life in stunning detail. The Special Edition includes the critically acclaimed game and add-ons with all-new features like remastered art and effects, volumetric god rays, dynamic depth of field, screen-space reflections, and more.
Skyrim Special Edition also brings the power of Bethesda Game Studios Creations to PC and consoles. New quests, environments, characters, dialogue, armor, weapons and more – with Creations, there are no limits to what you can experience.
You are Geralt of Rivia, mercenary monster slayer. Before you stands a war-torn, monster-infested continent you can explore at will. Your current contract? Tracking down Ciri — the Child of Prophecy, a living weapon that can alter the shape of the world.
The Outer Worlds is an award-winning single-player first-person sci-fi RPG from Obsidian Entertainment and Private Division.
Lost in transit while on a colonist ship bound for the furthest edge of the galaxy, you awake decades later only to find yourself in the midst of a deep conspiracy threatening to destroy the Halcyon colony. As you explore the furthest reaches of space and encounter various factions, all vying for power, the character you decide to become will determine how this player-driven story unfolds. In the corporate equation for the colony, you are the unplanned variable.
Where loyalty shatters, legends are forged.
The King’s Fall
The Broken Crown Saga Book One
by Orlan Drake
Genre: Epic Fantasy
A Gripping Tale of
Royal Betrayal and Hidden Romance
When darkness falls on the kingdom of Ardanthia, readers
will find themselves caught up in a story where nothing is what it seems.
Princess Eloise faces impossible choices as murder and betrayal tear her world
apart. Her secret love for the Prince of Caladorn adds another layer of danger
to an already deadly situation. This isn’t just another royal romance – it’s a
heart-pounding adventure where love and loyalty clash in the most dangerous
ways possible. You’ll feel every moment of tension as Eloise walks the razor’s
edge between duty and desire.
Mystery and
Investigation That Keeps You Guessing
Sir Cedric Blackthorn brings detective skills that would
make any crime solver jealous. His brilliant mind works to solve puzzles that
could save or destroy an entire kingdom. As Ambassador Zafir arrives with
hidden motives and Baron Gorgo schemes from the shadows, every character
becomes a suspect. The investigation twists and turns through palace halls
filled with secrets. You’ll find yourself trying to solve the mystery alongside
Cedric, picking up clues and second-guessing every revelation. The chase scenes
will have you on the edge of your seat as our heroes race against time through
a kingdom ready to explode into war.
Fantasy Adventure
That Brings Legends to Life
The Broken Crown Saga starts with this incredible first book
that mixes political drama with fantasy elements that feel fresh and exciting.
Secret groups work behind the scenes, pulling strings that control the fate of
nations. The world-building draws you in completely, making you believe in a
place where magic and politics dance together in dangerous ways. This story
proves that sometimes solving one crime can prevent an entire war – and that
the most important battles happen in the shadows.
For readers of David Eddings and Terry Brooks, this
sweeping tale of betrayal, magic, and destiny will leave you breathless.
Amazon * Audiobook
* Apple
* B&N
* Kobo * Books2Read * Bookbub
* Goodreads
The
kingdom of Ardanthia is on edge. A king under pressure. A princess who has been
quietly holding the court together while her father’s grip loosens. A foreign
prince she cannot publicly acknowledge. And circling them both, the hulking
ambition of Baron Gorgo, Warden of the North, who wants the throne and has
never bothered to hide it. The entire court has been summoned to the Great Hall
before dawn, and no one has been told why. What happens next will change
everything.
At the centre, beneath the highest arch, stood
the twin thrones: one, elevated and gold-chased, draped in banners of
Ardanthian blue; the other, darker, lower, built for a shadow-king or a regent.
Every eye flickered to them, hungry for some sign or herald.
It was the heavy tread of Baron Gorgo that split
the hush. He entered first, shoulders squared, the black of his uniform a
violence against the room’s pallor. His boots left muddy imprints on the pale
runner, each step a small, deliberate desecration. At his right strode King
Leofric, features set in a mask of such stony resolve it seemed a death-mask
forged while the body still lived. The King’s eyes did not so much look as
penetrate; his gaze scythed the room and left a path of abject silence.
The two mounted the dais together. Gorgo
remained a half pace behind, the subordination as hollow as an echo, while
Leofric paused a moment, breath gathering, eyes closing for just an instant.
Then he opened them, and the hall belonged to him.
“My loyal subjects,” he began, his
words a blade so honed that they barely vibrated the air. “You have been
summoned this day not for pageant, nor for the petty resolutions of our rivals,
but for the preservation of the realm itself.”
A shiver ran through the crowd, a ripple of silk
and suspicion, as he continued. “The borders of Ardanthia are pressed from
within and without. The wolves of Nerathis circle. Caladorn postures, and the
ancient oaths tremble. The time for deliberation is past.” He let the
words dangle, inviting the terror to fill in their own implication.
Baron Gorgo kept his posture at attention, yet
his eyes grazed the crowd, seeking challenge or dissent. None came, but all
could feel the burn of his hunger for it.
A movement at the rear, a stir of green velvet
and a gasp stifled in the throat. Princess Eloise entered, her face waxen, eyes
ringed with the insomnia of too many council nights and too little hope. She
wore no circlet, only the severe braiding of her auburn hair and a gown the
colour of malachite, shot through with black that mirrored the storm outside.
The mass of nobles parted for her, not with the deference owed a sovereign, but
the caution reserved for a candle already guttering in its own wax.
From the opposite end, Prince Evander appeared,
flanked by Lady Seraphina and a knot of Caladornian aides in deep blue.
Evander’s face, once a study in sly charm, had gone rigid, each feature
bracketed by the effort not to betray anything. His gaze met Eloise’s only
briefly, but in that moment a strand of tension was drawn between them, visible
to every watcher.
The King continued, raising his right hand as if
to still even the dust. “In the interest of unity, of the survival of our
world, I have chosen to announce a union that will secure Ardanthia against
every viper and saboteur.”
The crowd, packed so tight the air itself was
rationed, waited for the next breath. Leofric took it, then pronounced:
“My daughter, Princess Eloise, heir of this
realm, shall be betrothed this day to Baron Gorgo, Warden of the North and
Shield of the Throne.”
For an instant, the hall was a vacuum. Then
sound returned, in the form of a single, rising sob — a gasp that escaped
Eloise before she could master it, her hands flying to her face. The ring of
the outburst snapped the entire crowd into motion: some nobles applauded, hands
meeting in deadened rhythm; others glanced at each other, eyes wide with the
horror of the thing; a few hissed, barely audible, prayers or curses against
the rising tide.
Eloise, colourless now, tried to step forward,
but her legs betrayed her. Her voice, when it came, was ragged. “Father,
you cannot…” But the King’s hand sliced down, and the words withered in
her mouth.
“You will honour this,” Leofric
declared, “for the safety of our house and the peace of our lands.”
Gorgo bowed, the motion more a decapitation than
a gesture of respect, and flashed a smile at the massed nobles that said
everything of his triumph.
Prince Evander’s reaction was not silence, but a
single, unfiltered snort of disbelief. His cheeks, usually so adept at
containing emotion, flushed dark. He moved to speak, but Seraphina’s hand shot
out, gripping his forearm so hard that his knuckles went white.
“Your Highness, the peril has grown
insurmountable,” she whispered urgently, her voice a mere breath against
his ear. “You must depart at once.”
Evander hesitated, just long enough for the
watching crowd to sense a history behind the pause, then turned, wrenching free
of her grip, and strode from the hall, head high but jaw clenched. The
Caladornian retinue followed, blue sashes glinting in the murk, their faces a
gallery of disappointment, contempt, and smothered panic.
On the dais, Baron Gorgo’s satisfaction was
absolute. He took a step closer to Eloise, his gaze claiming her with the
possessiveness of a predator for its wounded prey. “My future Queen,”
he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
She did not meet his eyes.
Behind them, the Mage Auralias stood at the
periphery, his eyes dark with calculation. He took in the currents of the room
as a mariner reads the surface of the sea: every swell, every undertow, every
sign of storm or shipwreck. He watched as the announcement sundered the social
order, old alliances shattering, new ones annealing in the heat of the moment.
Twilight’s Dominion
The Broken Crown Saga Book Two
The peace was always a lie. They just didn’t know whose.
Queen Eloise of Ardanthia has done everything right. She
negotiated the alliance with Caladorn, married the prince, held her court
together through blight and borderland attacks and the whispered threat of an
ancient secret order. Now, with villages vanishing overnight — crops blackened,
livestock dead, people simply gone — she does what any good
ruler would do. She sends her best.
Sir Cedric Blackthorn, the precise and principled
knight-investigator. Captain Elira, a soldier who has survived too much to
flinch at anything. Tomas, a scholar more at home with footnotes than
fistfights. Ryn, a street thief from the Saltspire docks whose instincts are
worth more than anyone’s education. And Auralias — the Court Mage, brilliant
and unsettling in equal measure — who brings knowledge of old magic that none
of the others possess, and who may be the only thing standing between Ardanthia
and the League of the Moon.
Together, they are hunting the League before the League can
finish what it started.
What they find will change everything they think they know —
about the attacks, the conspiracy, and the true scale of what is being
assembled in the dark. There are artifacts, older than any living kingdom,
whose power was thought lost to history. There are secrets buried so deep that
uncovering them will cost more than anyone is prepared to pay. And there is a
question, growing louder with every mile: who, exactly, is the enemy?
Twilight’s Dominion is a story about loyalty
tested to breaking, courts where every smile hides a calculation, and the
particular horror of realising that the enemy has been in the room all along.
It is about a queen learning that the peace she built was built for her
— and a company of mismatched, battle-worn companions who keep fighting even
after the ground gives way beneath them.
Set across mountain fortresses carved from living rock,
fog-wrapped port cities, a besieged royal palace, and the treacherous corridors
of two kingdoms in collision, this is epic fantasy for readers who like their
politics sharp, their magic consequential, and their betrayals earned.
Perfect for readers who love:
*The political intrigue of A Song of Ice and Fire
*The ensemble loyalty of The Lies of Locke Lamora
*The world-building depth of Robin Hobb
*Characters who are competent, scarred, and worth caring about
“There’s no certainty in what’s ahead. But I’d
rather die among friends than watch the world go to monsters.”
The Broken Crown
Saga:
Book One: The King’s Fall
Book Two: Twilight’s Dominion
Book Three: Echoes of Kings – coming soon
Amazon * Apple
* B&N
* Kobo * Smashwords * Books2Read * Bookbub
* Goodreads
Sir
Cedric Blackthorn has been sent by Queen Eloise to investigate a string of
attacks on eastern villages — crops blackened overnight, animals dead, people
vanished without trace. He has assembled a team: Captain Elira, the scholar
Tomas, the street-sharp Ryn, and the Court Mage Auralias. They are holed up at
a battered inn in the village of Riverbrook, pooling what they have learned.
Ryn has found a symbol at the attack sites that she recognises from her past.
The Court Mage would prefer she hadn’t.
~800 words
A serving girl arrived with a tray — three
mugs of thin beer, a hunk of bread already sliced, a battered tin bowl of what
might once have been rabbit stew. She set them down with the briskness of a
woman determined not to get involved.
Cedric waited until she retreated, then
signalled the others to lean in. “What did you find?”
Elira was first. “Nobody trusts the
Queen, or the Watch, but they’re more afraid of the thing in the sky.”
Tomas nodded, tapping his notebook. “A
few remember blue light, but most didn’t look up. What they all describe is the
shadow.”
Cedric cut a piece of bread, chewing while he
thought. “Is someone calling it, or guiding it?”
Ryn cleared her throat, the movement
dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about the sigil. The one we found at the
granary.” She looked around, daring anyone to interrupt. “In Marinth,
there were stories about a League, never heard it called anything but that.
Supposedly, they could move information, gold, even bodies, without ever being
caught. I thought it was just a trade guild myth.”
Tomas looked up, interest lighting his face.
“Could the League be the League of the Moon?”
Auralias made a dismissive noise.
“You’re giving too much weight to old wives’ tales, Ryn. The League is a
legend designed to explain incompetence in the city guard. There’s no evidence
it was ever real.”
“Then why’s the sigil match?” Ryn
shot back. “And why are you so keen on ignoring it?”
Auralias’s expression remained bland, but
Cedric noticed a pulse beating at the mage’s temple. “Symbols recur,
Investigator. That’s what makes them useful. Even a street child should know
that.”
Cedric intervened, keeping his tone calm.
“Auralias, what do you really know about the League of the Moon?”
The Mage’s lips pressed together. “More
than you, and less than I’d like. If it ever existed, it would have been in the
days before the Crown outlawed private orders. All records are destroyed, and
the only witnesses are centuries dead.”
Tomas leaned forward. “Except the sigil
is real. And the glyphs at Oakvale match. Ryn sketched them, I checked.”
He fished in his coat, produced a stained scrap of paper, and set it on the
table. “See? The same looping curve, the half-moon mark. Whoever is doing
this wants us to know.”
“Or wants to make sure only certain
people understand,” Ryn added.
Elira interjected, “It doesn’t matter if
they’re real or not. If someone’s using their symbols to orchestrate attacks,
we treat it like a live threat. We set watches and keep everyone out of sight.
Tomas, you map the attacks; Cedric, you cross-check with any suspected League
activity. I’ll lock down the inn, keep the townsfolk from panicking.”
Cedric raised an eyebrow at his subordinate,
though he appreciated her directness. He looked around the table.
“Agreed?”
“Never thought I’d see the day I’d be
guarding a village from a bedtime story,” Ryn said, flashing a grin.
Auralias turned away, eyes on the fire.
“Just remember: stories are dangerous when people start believing
them.”
The meal finished in silence, each companion
lost in their own thoughts. The villagers cast sidelong glances, their
conversations stilled whenever the group moved or spoke too loudly. Ryn broke
the tension by stealing a second bowl of stew, then made a game of picking out
which villagers might have been spies or informants in another life.
Elira stationed herself by the door, hand
always resting on the hilt of her sword, eyes never quite still. Tomas worked
by lantern, scribbling diagrams and lists and odd runes that might, in another
context, have been poetry. Cedric alternated between reviewing his notes and
watching Auralias, who stared into the flames with a focus so intense Cedric
wondered if he saw something there that no one else could.
Cedric pulled Ryn aside as the others made
ready for bed. “You’re sure about the sigil?”
“You don’t forget a symbol that comes
with that many warnings,” she said, fierce and certain.
He smiled, in spite of everything.
“We’ll follow it through, then. Watch yourself around Auralias.”
“Always do.”
They rejoined the others. Tomas and Elira had
staked out bunks at the back wall, with good sight lines on both windows and
the main door. Cedric took a spot on the floor while Ryn slid onto the bench
nearest the exit, hands folded behind her head.
The last thing Cedric saw before drifting
into a restless half-sleep was Auralias, standing at the window, face a mask of
moonlight and calculation. The mage’s hands were clasped at his back, but every
so often, they moved in slow, deliberate patterns, tracing out invisible glyphs
that lingered, for just a moment, in the shadows along the wall.
*
Captain Elira waited until the inn’s common
room had emptied of all but the snoring and the truly sleepless. She stoked the
hearth to life, then pulled on her oilskin and stepped outside for a final
circuit of the perimeter. The mist had thickened, rolling up from the river in
ragged layers that clung to the ground and distorted every light and sound.
Above, no moon showed; even the stars were erased.
She made her round efficiently, checking each
window, every door latch and bolt. The cold was deeper now, sinking past flesh
and into the bone. At the back of the inn, in the wedge of shadow between
outbuildings, she paused and listened. The silence was not empty, but heavy,
filled with expectation, like the moment before a duel.
It was then she saw the watcher.
A figure at the side of the orchard, a good
thirty yards off, where the line of trees met the remains of a split-rail
fence. A hooded cloak, pale in the mist, motionless except for the faintest
stirring as the fog eddied around it. Elira’s hand went to her sword; she let
her eyes adjust, waited for the trick to reveal itself, but the silhouette
remained.
I am a new author writing under the pen name Orlan Drake, my
real name is Chris Hills Farrow. I’ve
worked as a freelance writer for magazines in the past but have always wanted
to write fiction, and after having more free time during the lockdowns, I have
made some progress. I enjoy fantasy because it opens my mind to other worlds or
ways of life that do not exist in real life, or have ever existed.
Website * Facebook * Instagram * Bluesky * Amazon *
Goodreads
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the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
Enter The Broken Crown Saga Giveaway Here
Starfield is the first new universe in over 25 years from Bethesda Game Studios, the award-winning creators of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and Fallout 4. In this next generation role-playing game set amongst the stars, create any character you want and explore with unparalleled freedom as you embark on an epic journey to answer humanity’s greatest mystery.
In the year 2330, humanity has ventured beyond our solar system, settling new planets, and living as a spacefaring people. You will join Constellation – the last group of space explorers seeking rare artifacts throughout the galaxy – and navigate the vast expanse of space in Bethesda Game Studios’ biggest and most ambitious game.
In Starfield the most important story is the one you tell with your character. Start your journey by customizing your appearance and deciding your Background and Traits. Will you be an experienced explorer, a charming diplomat, a stealthy cyber runner, or something else entirely? The choice is yours. Decide who you will be and what you will become.
🦇📚 Magic happens
and sparks fly in the small town of Havers-By-the-Sea when a sharp-tongued
vampire crosses paths with a broody gargoyle. 🦇📚
Vamps and Vendettas
Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 3
by AK Nevermore
Genre: Spicy Small Town Paranormal Romance
Karma sucks.
Ophelia Diamondé never asked to be summoned to Havers-by-the-Sea, but when the
node makes her an offer she can’t refuse, she officially becomes stuck
representing the crappy little town. Having to clean up their messy legal
issues isn’t what she wants to be doing, but anything’s better than being
returned to the vampire court’s clutches—or at least she thought so before she
met the opposing counsel.
Gideon Sperry isn’t known for his patience or his giving nature, but he is one
hell of a lawyer. Unfortunately, all that goes out the window when Ophelia
shows up, and the lawsuit between Havers and Fayet becomes personal.
But the facts aren’t adding up. When it becomes clear that karma’s had a hand
in bringing them together, they need to find a way to build a case against
who’s really at fault for the turbine debacle. If they can’t, it’s not just the
town itself that’s in danger, but every resident’s very lifeblood.
Magic happens and sparks fly in the
small town of Havers-By-the-Sea when a sharp-tongued vampire crosses paths with
a broody gargoyle. VAMPS AND VENDETTAS, a spicy slow burn paranormal romance
novel in the Star-Crossed Chronicles series by AK Nevermore.
🦇📚 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐒 📚🦇
✦ Sassy Vampire FMC
✦ Overprotective Gargoyle MMC
✦ He Falls First
✦ Hidden Powers
✦ Loads of Snarky Banter
✦ Touch-Her-and-Die
✦ Forced Allies
✦ Dark Secret
✦ Second Chance Romance
✦ Slow Burn
✦ Small Town
💋 𝑺𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 = 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️
Explicit Scenes ~ Very Hot
Prologue
Greenthorn Indoctrination Center, Vampire Tribal Lands
Ophelia sat on a hard plastic chair, clenching a mangled pamphlet between her sweaty palms. The silence in the stark, cream and beige waiting room was beyond oppressive. She’d been there since six that morning, and the hour hand on the clock above the frosted glass door had made almost a full circuit.
She riffled her hair. The wait was fucking ridiculous. What the hell
was going on back there? All her forms had been completed, every legal
requirement satisfied. She’d even taken the intro course to their bullshit religious instruction
and been blessed by one of their preoti. This part should’ve gone faster, especially after her more-than-generous donation to the
cause.
Fucking bloodsuckers.
God, she just wanted to burst through that stupid door and get this
over with. Damn it. No. Breathe. She struggled to bite back her temper. Be contrite, Phe. Try to channel fucking worthiness. She snorted. Like that was hard. She was a hell of a lot farther up
the food chain than the rest of the losers that’d shown up to volunteer.
Throughout the day, seats filled with indigents and the dying had
slowly emptied to the right and left of her until only herself and two other
people were in the room.
One of them was laid out on a hospital gurney. Bags of saline and lord
knew what else hung from an IV stand beside him. The other, a woman and
presumably the infirm man’s caregiver, slowly flicked through her tablet. By the way she was
chewing her lower lip and shifting in her seat, whatever she was reading was
juicy.
Ophelia scowled, hooking the long, jagged bangs of her pixie cut behind
an ear. What the woman should be doing was reading up on how to properly care
for the soon-to-be-corpse’s colostomy. Even across the room, the stench of shit was eye-watering.
What a cunty little campfire scout, all prepared for the wait. Ophelia
flicked her nails and picked at the black gel tips, begrudgingly admitting that
she’d been too confident she’d be one of the first volunteers called and hadn’t thought about how to pass the time. Normys looking to join the
vampiric tribes and subscribe to their fucked-up religion were usually either
vagrants, on death’s door, or some special kind of desperate.
Ophelia was a very healthy twenty-nine, a rising star in the litigation
world, and fell squarely into the last category.
She was also positive that her soon-to-be-husband would completely lose
his shit if he knew she was here, and every second that ticked past increased
the probability of him figuring out where she was. Ophelia wiped her sweaty
palms against her thighs, all too clearly imagining him bursting through the
door, full-on gargoyle.
Her eyes flicked to the clock. These assholes needed to hurry the fuck
up.
The bullshit work conference she’d invented wasn’t going to hold up to close scrutiny, but it was the best she could do
on short notice. The approval for her to join the tribes had come through
almost immediately, and she needed that goddamned virus.
She slowly exhaled and flipped open the mangled pamphlet for the
umpteenth time, smoothing it over her bespoke, tailored slacks, glad her phone
had died after the first few hours, nixing any temptation to call Deo and come
clean about what she was doing.
Fuck around and find out never went over well with him, but that—and his abs—were one of the many reasons she was head over heels for the guy. No
one else had ever cared enough to call her on her shit. She chewed a nail,
knowing exactly what he would say about all this, but screw him. He wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was a supe and she wasn’t. This needed to happen. She could feel it in her bones. It was the
next step.
She couldn’t lose him, couldn’t think about him with someone else after the fact, and her mortality
guaranteed that was gonna happen.
Yeah, over her undead body.
Her gaze dropped to the pamphlet. Rereading it was stupid. At this
point, she could recite it verbatim.
“Vampirism is a sacred gift.”
Ophelia didn’t quite snort, but damn, that line got her every time. Bit of a stretch
there. Though, she had to admit, the tribes had a killer marketing team. She
did snort at that, running a hand over her face. God, she’d been here too long, but Vampiric Syndrome wasn’t a gift, sacred or otherwise. It was caused by a virus carried by
gravers, a rare species of centipede from the eastern continent that fed on
dead bodies.
Gotta love nature, right? Gross, but nothing special. Well, unless they
chowed down on someone that hadn’t quite passed into the hereafter. That was unfortunate, and probably
unpleasant if said undead were a supe, but if one had the questionable honor of
being born a normy like her?
Hello, vampire.
Ophelia put a hand to her churning stomach. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to ingesting one of the fucking things,
but if the Victorians could down tapeworms to drop a pound or seventeen, how
bad could this be? Granted, tapeworms didn’t have twelve rows of razor-sharp teeth, but…
Fucking A. Who was she trying to kid? It was gonna be horrible.
God, stop being such a pussy. To be with Deo forever, she’d chase the fucking thing with a shot of broken glass if that’s what it took.
Ophelia blew out her cheeks and slumped, her tailbone throbbing from
the hard plastic. It was a serious bummer she’d been inoculated for Vampiric Syndrome as a kid. Before the Purge, all
you had to do was bang someone already infected to contract VS.
Which was what had kicked off the Purge, the development of the
vaccine, was the reason all corpses were now cremated, and a whole host of
other shit.
Including the tribes’ need for volunteers to maintain their population.
A shadow moved behind the frosted glass. Ophelia sat up as a brunette
vamp with a severe bun and a nurse’s uniform straight out of the 1940s pushed through with a clipboard. A
name tag at her breast read “Crake,” and the tatuaj around her eyes radiated to her temples like a spider’s web. The markings looked like a tattoo but weren’t. It was how the virus presented itself and was the basis for their
fucked-up caste system.
“Ms. Diamondé?
It was about goddamn time. “Here,” Ophelia said, raising a finger before she stood. She wiped her palms on
her slacks and grabbed her purse.
Nurse Crake tongued her cheek, her unnaturally red lips pressed
together. She looked Ophelia up and down before checking off something on her
clipboard and gesturing for her to follow.
The hallway beyond was as stark as the waiting room had been. White
walls, sanitary molding, doors with stainless steel kickplates. All of those
had bars dropped across them, moans and thumps coming from within. One of the
long fluorescent bulbs flickered above.
“Birthdate?” the nurse asked, her dark eyes on the clipboard.
Something hit one of the doors as they passed, and Ophelia adjusted her
purse higher onto her shoulder. “Uh, November third, 2015.”
“And you’re here because…?” The nurse flicked through a bunch of papers, and Ophelia caught a flash
of her signature at the bottom of one of the many consent forms she’d signed.
She wet her lips. “Vampirism speaks to me,” she bullshitted, though it wasn’t totally a lie. The part where it extended one’s existence indefinitely was absolutely calling her name. The rest of
it could fuck off, but if she had to eat a bug then drink blood to make that
happen, so be it.
Nurse Crake glanced at her askance like she knew Ophelia was full of
shit. Well, at least she wasn’t stupid. She stopped at a door and pushed it open, gesturing for
Ophelia to go in.
The room beyond looked like every other doctor’s office she’d ever been in. Padded, papered table, crappy cream and blue wallpaper,
a wheeled, stainless steel table, and a little laminate counter area with a
tiny sink and canisters of swabs and cotton balls.
“Remove your clothes and put them and the rest of your belongings in
here,” Nurse Crake said, handing over a clear plastic drawstring bag with
Ophelia’s name scrawled on it. “There’s a gown on the table, ties in the back. The doctor will be with you
shortly.”
The door clicked shut behind her, and Ophelia took a deep breath before
beginning to undress. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her slacks and wriggled
out of them. Deo. Think about Deo. A visual of the mountainous, gruff blond man flashed across her mind’s eye. The way his stubble glinted on his square jaw, his intense
turquoise eyes…
“It doesn’t matter how much time we have together, Phe. We’ll make the most of what we have, and I’ll love you until the end…”
But it did matter. She flicked a hand across her cheek. The thought of
growing old while he stayed eternally young—there wasn’t a fucking chance she was going to subject him to mashing up her food
and changing her diapers. And he would, damn him. No. This would take all of
that off the table. It was the only way they could be together without her
fucking mortality hanging over them like a shroud.
She tied the gown and sat on the table, paper crinkling beneath her.
Her pulse raced. He was going to be so angry with her, but he’d get over it…right? He always did. And then they could be together forever. With her
credentials, whatever tribe she was assigned to would give her a dispensation
to work outside the tribal lands.
The mandatory tithe her position at the firm would provide all but
guaranteed that. She’d done the research. Save for two she couldn’t track down, every volunteer since the Purge with a high-paying career
had returned to their normy lives. Tithing was how the tribes were funded, and
her salary was three times what the majority of them made.
Then why are you sweating so much?
Fuck. She raked a hand through her hair. Did it matter? Introspection
was pointless and not her jam to begin with. For better or worse, this was
happening.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and a moment later it was pushed
open. A thin, dark-haired vamp in a lab coat came into the room with another,
younger male and Nurse Crake behind them. She carried a stainless steel tray. A
crimson velvet cloth covered whatever was on it. She set it by the padded
table, then busied herself by the counter.
The dark-haired vamp flipped through her chart, pursing his lips, and
pushed up his glasses. The tatuaj beneath them were the same webbed design as
Nurse Crake’s and the other vampire’s. Guess there was a tribe of medics.
“Ms. Diamondé,” the dark-haired vamp said. “I’m Doctor Wong, and this is my intern, Louis. He’ll be observing today, unless you have any objection?”
“Nope.” As long as they made her into a vampire, Ophelia didn’t care if they did it on stage and sold tickets.
“Wonderful.” He smiled, the tips of his pointed incisors gleaming. “I apologize for the wait, but in cases such as yours, we like to give
the applicants time to fully consider their commitment to our cause.”
Seriously? That’d been some kind of test? Ophelia bit back a snarky retort, the paper
drape crinkling beneath her. “Of course.” She smiled back, hoping it looked more genuine than it was. “Completely understandable. However, I am fully committed.”
The doctor nodded, and Nurse Crake took Ophelia’s arm, swabbing it to install a port for an IV. Ophelia winced at the
pinch. The woman might not be particularly pleasant, but she was efficient.
“Well, then everything appears to be in order,” the doctor said, flipping through pages as the nurse sent a burst of
frigid saline through the IV. Louis scanned the chart over the doctor’s shoulder, reading along with him and taking notes. “I see you’ve completed the first course of religious instruction as well. Highly
commendable. Are we ready to proceed?” he asked Crake. At her nod, his eyes flicked to Ophelia.
She swallowed roughly, her mouth dry. “Please.”
Doctor Wong and Nurse Crake exchanged a glance.
“Then lie back to be secured,” the doctor said, reaching for a box of blue gloves on the counter. “The process doesn’t take very long, and as soon as we’ve finished here, you’ll be transported to the applicable tribe’s sect for recovery. That usually takes two to three days, and your
reintroduction will be evaluated based on how well you adapt to reanimation.”
Ophelia nodded, fighting a sudden burst of anxiety. The wedding was in
a week, and there wasn’t a chance in hell she was missing it. You can do this, Phe.
She lay back, and Nurse Crake moved to her side, pulling thick leather
straps from the sides of the table. She buckled them around Ophelia’s torso and forehead, then pulled out others for her arms and wrists.
“For your safety.” Crake smiled, her grin much more predatory than the good doctor’s and about as legitimate as Ophelia’s had been. The nurse filled a hypodermic, then plinked it.
“Ah, what is your preferred orifice?” the doctor asked.
Ophelia started, her gaze fixed on the needle. “What is that?”
“A lethal injection,” he murmured, pushing up his glasses and still scanning her chart. “Where would you prefer the vessel to make entry? It’s not listed here.”
“I-I thought I had to eat it?” Ophelia stammered.
“Any hole will do,” the nurse murmured with a smirk, setting the needle aside to transition
the end of the table flat and secure Ophelia’s legs. A slot opened beneath her rear and Crake yanked up the drape
leaving Ophelia’s bare ass to dangle.
Her nether regions clenched. She hadn’t— “Mouth. Mouth is fine.”
The doctor grunted and reverently folded back the crimson cloth. He
murmured something and made a solemn gesture before lifting a low jar that’d been nestled on a cushion.
Ophelia’s breath sped at the writhing contents, reconsidering all of her life
choices. No. She could do this for Deo. For them, for their future.
The doctor shook the jar, sending the churning mass to the bottom
before setting it back on the cushion and opening the lid. Decay laced the air.
He picked up a pair of long, silver tweezers and plucked out a flailing insect.
Its fanged maw gaped as it struggled, twisting and curling up on itself.
“Injection please.”
Nurse Crake jammed the needle into the IV’s port, and a horrible, searing burn sped up Ophelia’s arm. She whimpered at the rush of heat cresting over her, her heart
stuttering. Its fluttering beat a mantra: For Deo, for Deo…for Deo…
The doctor held the irate centipede above her. “Waiting for pupil dilation…and open.”
Her lips refused to cooperate.
The doctor frowned and gripped her jaw—
The centipede fell from his grasp and hit Ophelia’s face with a cold, chitinous slap. She recoiled as it flipped, its
tiny legs scrabbling to grip her skin. Its length conformed to the contour of
her cheek and then skittered sinuously to her nostril. Her arms jerked against
her restraints, her head unable to thrash, and a terrible lethargy stealing
over her. Heart slowing, her vision grayed, fingers twitching, mind screaming: get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF!
It wriggled into her nasal cavity, clawing into her sinuses, and a
garbled moan slipped from her lips. Blinding agony seared across her vision,
and she screamed, sharp teeth feasting inside her skull. Her eyes watered. No,
it was too hot for tears, the scent of copper thick, cloying the back of her
throat. Her pores wept, her skin coated with a slick, sticky film, and the air
redolent with the scent of blood.
Nurse Crake licked her lips.
An unnatural numbness bloomed from the bridge of Ophelia’s nose, radiating from her eye sockets, and the rest of her body
seized. Foam flecked her lips, her eyes rolling back into her head. A bright,
white light shone down for a moment and was ripped away, along with any sense
of peace she’d ever felt. Nothing was left but searing, burning, unrelenting pain.
Emotion dissolved beneath it, thoughts a murky haze, her body
unresponsive. She was hollow, her mind a void. Empty.
“Very good. It’s taking well. Note the patient has entered rigor. Her sudden pallor
coinciding with the sheen of blood-fever and the emergence of the tatuaj around
her eyes, there and there…” the doctor said, pointing with his pen, his voice distant and tinny. A
godawful cramp went through her body, and a horrific, spattering stench filled
the air. “Bowels voided…” He frowned. “Someone didn’t fast as instructed.”
The urge to laugh burbled up Ophelia’s throat, spittle foaming from her mouth. Agony morphed into a bizarre
euphoria, her limbs leaden and the feeling of an immense weight crushing down
on her. Her heart, still.
Dead.
A wrenching shudder wracked her body as her heart spasmed, once, twice,
then sluggishly began to beat again. She strained against the straps pinning
her to the table, her chest heaving with the effort.
“Very good,” the doctor murmured.
The room came back into focus, sounds sharper than they should be. The
flow of ink from the doctor’s pen as he wrote. Loose strands of Crake’s hair rubbing against one another. The slow scrape of Louis’s blink.
“What the fuck?” Ophelia gasped, her tongue thick and her eyes darting, colors far more
vivid than they had been. Bright, everything was too damned bright.
“Welcome back, Ms. Diamondé. Disorientation is a normal side effect of transitioning,” the doctor said absently, busy making notes. “Rest assured, any increased sensitivities you may be experiencing will
lessen over the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours as the virus continues the
reanimation process.” He stabbed the pen against the clipboard, finished with whatever he was
writing, and set it aside with a wide smile. “Now, let’s see where we’ll be sending you, shall we?”
Crake wheeled over a tray. The doctor snugged his gloves before taking
a pair of hemostats from the nurse and dipping a wad of gauze into a yellow
solution. He dragged it across Ophelia’s brow, then discarded it almost immediately for another, the tiny pad
thick with gore.
Ophelia winced at the rough drag of it across her skin. Jesus Chri—
Agony flared through her skull, and she cried out. The doctor hummed
above her and swapped out the gauze again. “You need to put a call in to Vesper,” he murmured.
“Vesper?” the nurse spat out behind him, incredulous. “Are you sure?”
“Mmm” he hummed again, swabbing. “The tatuaj are gifted as the Great One wills, and whom are we to judge
which tribe she’s been deemed worthy of?”
“But—” Crake pushed forward, her eyes narrowing above pinched lips. “I’ll alert the court.” She scowled and left the room. Louis raced after her, his face white.
“What—what’s happening?” Ophelia lisped, her tongue fumbling against sharp incisors. A terrible
thirst had overcome her, making it hard to think. She licked her parched lips,
the acrid taste of her own sweat roiling her stomach. Vesper? She couldn’t remember a tribe called Vesper.
“Your transition may have very well just signed the death warrants of
everyone who witnessed it,” the doctor said, snapping off his gloves. “Prince Kremlyn suffers no rivals for his concubine’s attentions.”
What? Ophelia’s mind raced. No. She couldn’t be a—Deo. The wedding. She’d left her engagement ring by the sink. That last fight they’d had. He’d think she abandoned him, that she’d run. “No, no. I-I’m not a concubine, I’m an attorney—”
“You are whatever the tatuaj has decreed,” the doctor said firmly, moving to the door. “Someone will be in to take you to seclusion. Whatever call to vampirism
you felt, I very much hope it keeps you warm at the citadel. You won’t be leaving it.”
The door shut behind him with an ominous click, and Ophelia’s breath stuttered. The citadel? No, that was impossible. What had she
done, what had she done? Oh, God—
Agony bloomed through her skull at the word, and she whimpered, tears
tracking from the corners of her eyes. The awful reality of her actions crashed
down around her, and an insatiable thirst gnawed at her hollowed insides.
The names of the women she couldn’t track down—the two who had disappeared—flitted through her mind, along with a very bad feeling that she’d be joining them.
**Don’t miss the
other books in the Star-Crossed Chronicles series!**
Weres and Witchery
Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 1
A sassy witch with curves for days stirs up passion with
an irresistible alpha shifter.
Get it on Amazon
Wards and Warlocks
Star-Crossed Chronicles Book 2
A sassy warlock with oodles of style has sparks fly with
an angsty shifter.
Get it on Amazon
AK Nevermore enjoys operating heavy machinery, freebases
coffee, and gives up sarcasm for Lent every year. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’s a
certified chef, restores antiques, and dabbles in beekeeping when she’s not
reading voraciously or running down the dream in her beat-up camo Chucks.
Unable to ignore the voices in her head, and unwilling to
become medicated, she writes Science Fiction and Fantasy full time.
She pays the bills editing, wielding a wicked hot pink pen
and writing a column on SFF. She also belongs to the Authors Guild, is a
chapter treasurer for the RWA, teaches creative writing, and on the rare
occasion, sleeps.
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Who doesn’t love the Witcher games? And, as Dandelion always remarks, Gerald has a tendency to get himself into trouble galore. Here are some snippets of my #gameplay as I walk in the shoes of
#geraltofrivia in #thewitcher3
Below is a link to my complete #playthrough https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGMbUTcbBXk&list=PLdsoZL4f2hMKxCmRgd41w_t4qLy3f-EH7
These are snippets of some of my amusing, and not so amusing, times as a Starship Captain in The Outer Worlds.
*****
The Outer Worlds is another space adventure similar to Starfield, but not quite the same. It’s more linear, not a big sandbox like Starfield, and has some very humorous moments.
I’ve assembled some small clips of my gameplay I thought would be amusing. Enjoy.
You can watch my whole Let’s Play below:
