Category Archives: Creative Stuff

D&D Rocks Part 1

As promised, this is the start of another rip roaring adventure with our misguided band of heroes. This one is a little older but I make no apologies.

Le Magasin pictoresque, 1895

Of all the dangers inherent in travelling, there was only one that was truly insidious. It wasn’t the concern of dwindling rations or starvation. While deadly, dehydration wasn’t the worst either. Worn, calloused feet ranked mighty low and while wearing upon the nerves, the constant threat of an ambush or attack wasn’t nearly as bad.

No, the greatest horror of a long journey was the dreaful cheery companion. For what could contend with an immeasurable journey beside a person stupidly optimistic for everything that they passed. There was no cure for the companion that delighted in the first tree seen in fifty leagues, who made predictable jokes of dieting with the dwindling rations each night or that considered the sore callouses as ‘love bumps from the road.’ No torture could amount to the pain inflicted by this one individual. It was the surest way to murder.

His name was Corran and for the last three days he had the wicked delusions of a skilled singer.

“Oh that barren road! That long and dusty road! It leads us far and wide together. Born of the wandering of our soul. Oh that barren road. That barren road! Take me down and along forever!”

It was the gravely low tones and the piercing high notes with nary moderation between that drove like thin picks into the ear. That sort of howling left a man awake for hours at night. It dulled him to civility and pleasantness. It was the sort of noise that bore down to the core, drowning all rational thought until nothing but a white, pounding rage clouded the mind.

And with the long, fatiguing monotony of a never changing background, it was the sort of sound that became impossible to ignore.

The weariness of the journey worn down the inhibitions and lulled the parts of the mind that kept darker impulses in check.

“Give me your hand, we’ll cross this land. Where we headed only the road knows. You’ll walk for awhile, I’ll cross it for life. There’s only one way this road goes. Oh that barren road!”

There was a familiar stirring in the dark recesses. A slumbering force slowly awoke to the growing dire call. It was like a feral impulse, building in momentum with each passing moment.

“Oh, I left my home. For that barren road, oh that barren road! Don’t know if I’ll return. For I have my way and I won’t stray along that lonesome road.”

“Pretty catchy don’t you think?”

Gods. It was spreading.

“Insanity?” Keirn asked. “I hear it is quite contagious. I think it would be a good show of mercy to contain it before it gets out of hand.”

“Well good morning to you, Sir Sunshine! Did we wake on the wrong side of the bedroll this morn?”

The urge to brutally maim rose within.

“We’ve listened to this crow wail his damnable song for more days than naught. I don’t think it unreasonable to ask for a short reprieve at least for one hour.”

“Oh, do you think he takes requests? Excuse me, Corran! Corran, sir! Do you happen to know the one about the bard at the bulwark!”

“I hate everyone.”

Mercifully, the insufferable howling ended as the singer paused to consider the request. But the silence was short lived as he heard the pound of feet by his side and an age old voice at his elbow.

“Enjoying yourself this morning?”

“I don’t know which would be better: slitting his throat or mine.”

Kait laughed, tossing her drab, muddy hair over her shoulder.

“I knew this was going to be an issue when we ran out of milk two days back. Don’t worry, we’ll get you some breakfast oats the moment we pass through another town. Seems to be all these hamlets have between the borders.”

“I’m not grumpy because I haven’t had breakfast!”

“The boy doth protest!” Kait cried. “You know you’re never pleasant if you don’t get your morning meal.”

“You make me sound like a petulant child.”

“If the cloth fits!” Kait smiled. She gave the lead horse a soft slap and hurried alongside the hastened wagon.

Keirn sighed. She was having far too much fun.

He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Normally, he would be satisfied with their arrangement as well. It was a menial contract but gave decent amount pay while covering rations. It worked for them as they were looking to make the trip anyway and getting paid at their destination for it was a bonus. All that was asked of them was to trudge alongside the caravan as another faceless guard in the batch. They were a show of force to scare off bandits or marauders or whatever patrolled these steppes. A rather obvious ploy given the rag tag collection of the guard. They were all clearly mercenaries of fortune with very little unity or discipline. Not that Keirn and his band were much different. Far too often young men and women with little prospects took to worn swords and bows to patrol the realms for some income unavailable back at home. But Keirn thought his band was decent enough.

First, he had Jeremiah the stoic who trudged in his makeshift armour patched together through the collection of scraps from their fallen foes and sewn together by whatever Kait could get her hands on. He clanked like a forlorn peddler, forever his wares banging upon his back.

Then there was Derrek. The self-stylized minstrel was known for his bizarre breadth of knowledge and questionable musical proficiencies. He had talent, for sure, that would shame Corran should the man decide to flex his entertainment muscle. But he had given to the study of a most concerning type of sound. His outward soft appearance and stylish dress hide a paradoxical pursuit of the chaotic and unpleasant sound of noise.

Finally, Kait – Keirn’s own sister – kept them all together. While she may seem like much, she brought a peace of mind to him that neither of the others could. A slew of seemingly mundane skills held much value on the road and these required constant materials to perform. Darned socks and decent meals didn’t materialize from thin air and she seemed to collect every little odd and end she crossed with the belief it would come in use at some later date.

But today she was not burdened with her pile of packs. They had been stowed in one of the wagons and for probably the first time ever she seemed brighter than the day. Being unsaddled had given her life to her feet and she chased up and down the lengths of the caravan, only her bow and quiver slung over her back. She was like a faithful hound suddenly loosed from its leash and there wasn’t a hill she wouldn’t speed over.

Course, this sudden revitalization didn’t help Keirn’s mood as he trudged solemnly in line with the other guards. These lonesome souls weren’t apt for much conversation. Most of them were quiet and suspicious men who kept one hand on their weapon and one eye on everyone around them. They seemed on edge as if they expected an axe to fall any moment.

Though there were a few contrary souls amongst the bunch.

Damnable Corran perched upon the driver’s seat of a large wagon filled to the brim with cargo. At his side was a young woman named Shanna who Keirn and company had crossed paths with before. She was a petite thing, somewhat round in comely places with a face that spoke of a quiet hamlet upbringing not unlike their own. However, despite their previous exchanges she didn’t seem to bitter over past actions and was pleasantly engaged with Corran in negotiating a melody they both knew.

Most intriguing, however, was raven haired Siara. She kept mainly to herself and the caravan master, riding in his head wagon beneath the privacy of the cloth canvas. Keirn couldn’t help but be curious about her, nor unable to ignore the interested looks from the other guards. She was a remarkable figure – tall and strong in the soft dress of a foreigner. But she held herself in a manner that bespoke of great skill and training in the martial skills that kept most interactions to curious looks. There was no question of her capabilities or whether she belonged at the head of the group.

The ornate long sword at her side with the faint tarnish of combat also helped. When most the mercenaries considered the wrong side of a dungeon cell experience in the field, there was not a habit of provoking those that had actually seen real combat.

But she spent all her time at the caravan master’s side. Keirn couldn’t shake the feeling that the journey wouldn’t be quite so onerous if this strange woman had elected to travel with him instead.

Them! All of them. That’s what he meant.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

“Nothing,” Keirn said, shaking his head.

“Pity,” Derrek sighed, fiddling with a glass bauble. “I was hoping to give this a try.”

“What is it?”

“An orb of Mallenaeus.”

“A what?”

“An orb of Mallenaeus,” the man repeated, staring at his golden haired reflection in its polished surface. “Supposedly these were crafted by the famed wizard which bears its namesake. Which would make more sense then naming it after a rival, after all. They say the man was paranoid, but that’s drawing fish with a net for those that dabble too deeply in the arcane. I hear he gave to wearing steeple hats believing their conical form trapped his inner thoughts and prevented them from drifting off to be captured by others in the aetheric winds.”

“He wore a pointed hat?”

“Yes. To save his thoughts. And he made balls.”

“Because he was a wizard?”

“Precisely.”

“Where did you get that anyway? And why would it read thoughts?”

“To answer your second question – Mallenaeus had to be certain that his fashion sense was not in vain. He crafted these orbs so that, when rubbed over the heads of others, they would collect their thoughts and allow him to read them within. Thus, he could confirm if anyone was in actuality stealing his own perturbations. Course, such a device had obvious value beyond fueling a madman’s paranoia and his workshop was apparently ransacked and torched with him inside for his trinkets instead of his ideas. As to your first, I found it in the back of one of the wagons.”

“You what?! You can’t just take the merchandise that we’ve been hired to protec-“

Derrek quickly rolled to the tips of his toes, stretching his arm to rub the orb madly over Keirn’s scalp. The young man shouted in protest, swiping at his friend’s groping hands but Derrek retreated the orb quickly to safety.

He hunched over, peering intently into its glassy interior.

“Hm, empty. Is your mind always this devoid of thought?”

“Give me that,” Keirn snapped, lunging for the item.

“I mean, I always have a thousand thoughts snapping for attention in mine but thus is the curse of an artistic soul.”

“You can’t take this,” Keirn said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s our duty to protect it! I’m not going to have this docked from our pay so you can pretend it’s a lost artifact. Especially when its value is obviously questionable.”

Keirn walked to the back of the wagon and threw the orb carelessly amongst the rest of the cargo.

“Kait was right, you really are grumpy when you don’t get your cereal. Like an ornery mule.”

“Is that what you all have been doing with your time? Talking about me?”

“Drab topic, I know! But had there been something more interesting of note-”

Derrek was cut short by the too familiar whiz of an airborne arrow. The minstrel paused in sudden contemplation at the unannounced appearance of the foreign object, watching with impassivity as it struck the neck of a guard ten paces in front of him between the ridges of his armour.

There was a distinct deathly gurgle as the mercenary toppled over in a heap of useless metal and dull flesh.

Derrek turned curiously to the sky, Keirn following his gaze to see a disjointed dark line piercing the heavenly veil. The line broke as it curved towards the caravan, falling in small dark streaks like the long fingers of a dark storm.

There was too little time for Keirn’s mind to consciously register his actions. Only reflex propelled him forward, snatching the silken collar of Derrek’s undershirt, pulling the distracted man with him into the dust and dirt beneath the wagon. The gentle patter of the arrows’ descent riddled the wood above them and was soon joined by the howls of pain from the wounded.

“KAIT!” Keirn called, his mind suddenly recognizing the danger as voices rose about. “Kait! Where are you?!”

“I think we are under attack,” Derrek stated plainly.

“Oh, did that thought catch your attention now?!”

Keirn scuttled on his stomach to the front of the cart. The vehicle had been brought to a stop by the driver as the guards mobilized to deal with the aggressors. Between started legs, Keirn searched for signs of his sister.

A piercing whistle broken through the pandemonium and Keirn caught the swift slithering of a swarm of shadows along the ground. Another volley had been loosed.

“Stay here!” Keirn shouted over the crash of the arrows upon the beleaguered defenders. Keirn rolled out from beneath the cart just as a terrible cry echoed from the harnessed beasts. Leather cracked in the air and the cart lurched, tipping dangerously upon its wheels as the frightful beasts broke their shaky discipline. With arrows protruding from their flanks, the horses attempted to seek refuge from the onslaught, crashing violently into the wagon stopped in front of them before careening to the side of the road.

Derrek looked up from the ground, his cover now turning head over ass down the sloped plain.

“Shall I still remain?”

“Come on!” Keirn shouted.

Panic rippled down the length of the caravan. The carts still fastened to living steeds broke from the line, scattering in all directions. The hired mercenaries stumbled direction-less amongst what cover they could. Little effort seemed to be made to organize the defenders. The non-combative members of the line were already fleeing from the direction of the arrows, heading towards the sloped, craggy plains. They said little in their retreat, those nameless travelers that kept to themselves and shied away from the men hired to protect them.

Keirn scanned the fleeing, screaming backs, looking desperately for the wave of brown hair belonging to his sister.

“Get down!”

He felt a pair of hands pulling him to the earth as a third volley of arrows slapped into the meaty body of the large mercenary he now cowered behind.

“What’s going?!”

Keirn turned, looking into the panicked face of Shanna.

“Well, I would say we are under attack,” Derek said.

“But by who?!” the young woman shouted. There was a wildness in her eyes that Keirn had never seen before. She always looked so young to him – so naïve. The fear etched on her round face drove the severity of the situation straight through Keirn’s beating heart.

Derrek peeked over the massive frame of their makeshift cover. He reached about the fallen man’s girth, fingers wrapping about the shaft of an embedded arrow and yanking the projectile free with a great squelch of spattered eviscera.

“Dusk oak.”

“What?” Keirn shouted.

Derrek held the item aloft.

“It’s an ashen wood. It has the appearance of bleached and dried driftwood but with rather rich veins running just below the skin. Hard to find and located in only sparse copses in the distant mountains.”

“I’m not looking for a lecture on fauna!”

“This is a rare wood,” Derrek said, using his simple people words. “Not many use this wood. The feathers are also unique. And it’s flora.”

“Are you saying you can tell who’s attacking us from the arrow?” Shanna asked.

“The Rakstas Tribe,” Derrek said. “Plains dwellers and nomads that tract the Endless Steppes. Known for their husbandry and nettled stew.”

“And raiding?”

“No, the stew is definitely more famous.”

Another piercing whistle broke through the air. The three curled up as close as they could to the corpse, waiting for the inevitable arrows. Keirn cast one last glance at the retreating backs of the convoy members as they broke over the distant ridge.

“You know, there is something oddly familiar about that sound,” Derrek muttered.

“Where do they think they’re running?”

“Should we follow them?” Shanna asked urgently.

A thunderous beating echoed overhead as a screech broke the air. Startled, Keirn looked skyward to see an enormous bird with wings that blotted out the sun swoop overhead. It was then they realized that the whistle was not another volley but a cry from the mighty creature.

“Of course,” Derrek chided. “Rocs!”

The bird swooped so close that the wind from its wings was a mighty tempest knocking them prone. The animal screeched, its talons extending as it dove downward past the ridge.

“I’m going to suggest we don’t follow them,” Keirn muttered pressingly closer to the dead body as he became unnervingly aware of how exposed he was to searching eyes above.

“Concentrate fire on the birds!”

The commanding shout shook Keirn from his shock and he braved a look from behind the mountain of a mercenary to see Jeremiah standing behind an overturned cart. He waved a mighty longbow in his hands, pointing heavenward. Two more great shadows passed over the caravan.

Now given guidance, the mercenaries still breathing drew what ranged weapons they could and focused upon the threat hovering over them like circling vultures awaiting their feast.

“Come on,” Keirn grumbled, motioning for the others to follow. Arrows, spears, axes, knives and anything that could be hurled were sent past them as they jumped and ducked their way through the scattered remains of the defenders. Keirn kept an eye for a return volley of arrows, but with the mighty birds overhead he felt it unlikely another would come.

The three arrived at the cart just as Jeremiah fumbled with his arrow, dropping it from the bowstring as the cord slipped from his hand.

“Inspiring leadership there.”

“You’re alive!” Jeremiah cried. “Thank the go-… I’m so relieved.”

“Don’t get excited yet,” Keirn said. “What’s your take?”

“I can’t help but feel we’re in the kettle,” Jeremiah said. “I still haven’t seen sight of the archers. I can only assume they’ve hidden themselves in the brush. Though mighty sneaky of them to still not show their face.”

“I’m telling you it’s Rakstas,” Derrek said.

“The others made a break after the first volley,” Jeremiah continued. “I tried to warn them from running, but once one broke the rest followed. They’re just scared townsfolk so discipline isn’t exactly expected. But I can’t help they’re running into worse. Who knows what’s waiting for them over the ridge.”

“And Kait?” Keirn asked.

Jeremiah looked at Keirn solemnly. Slowly he shook his head.

Keirn leaned back against the wood of the cart. He had no idea where she could be. While they hadn’t confirmed the worst, there was no guarantee that she wasn’t in anything but grave danger.

The rocs overhead shrieked, interrupting the reunion. With a thunderous beat, one descended, snatching a horse still pulling against its reigns within talons the length of a man’s arm. The animal gave a tremendous cry as the wings beat a ferocious storm of dust. Then, cart and all, was lifted off the ground and carried into the clouds.

In its retreat, Keirn spotted the scarf wrapped form of the rider directing the animal. He appeared as little more than a pile of worn and dirty rags with just a narrow slit upon the head for the eyes to peer out. Dark tattoos ran down the exposed arm, twisting in strange symbols that could have been tribal or possibly arcane. But there was something about his posture that gave the young man pause.

Then, just as quickly as they arrived, they were gone. A trail of weapons arced in its wake. But few found purchase in the enormous feathers in the trail of its ascending call.

“What’re your thoughts?”

“He doesn’t have any,” Derrek answered.

“I don’t think flight is really an option. We don’t know the lay of the land and the plains offer little protection.”

“So we fight?”

Keirn peeked over the lip of the cart. He scanned the ruin strewed road as mercenaries continued to scramble amongst the remains of the caravan. He then turned to the brush bordering the road. There was still no sign of their attackers save for the circling creatures overhead.

“They’re not assaulting,” Keirn stated.

“Do you not see the birds!” Shanna cried.

“You think there’s a reason they’re holding back?” Jeremiah asked.

“What else? We’re broken and scattered, now would be the perfect time to finish us off,” Keirn said. “Unless…”

“Unless… unless what?!” Shanna shouted.

“Are you ready?” Keirn asked, turning to Derrek and Jeremiah.

“Ready? Where are you going?” Shanna asked on the verge of tears.

“You’re good at staying out of sight. Wait here,” Keirn instructed. “We’ll be back for you.”

“That’s what you said last time!”

Keirn burst from cover, breaking into a full run towards the brush. Jeremiah and Derrek followed, their weapons drawn in hand. Keirn wasn’t entirely sure what he had planned or even if his ideas had been fully considered. But the time for strategy was quickly ending. He unsheathed his sword, then broke up the hill with a mighty roar. A raucous burst followed immediately behind.

There was movement before they even hit the line of squat bushes.

No resistance was given. The archers broke immediately, the hunched forms jumping and pouncing over the rocks in a swarm of dirty cloth and ragged cloaks. They were not warriors, these people. Their thin forms eking out a meager existence on the dried plains did not build robust constitutions or military discipline. Many of them were young, scarcely more than children and more than a few women could be seen in the retreating line.

And there were no more than two dozen of them in total. Had even a handful of the mercenaries made it to them, the attack would have been over before it even began.

“Cowards,” Jeremiah muttered.

“Well, they are just tribals,” Derrek said, strumming his lute. “I wouldn’t be surprised if even the simplest of cantrips sent them scattering.”

“Now we just have to deal with the birds,” Jeremiah said.

But as they turned, a great blast of a horn rolled over the hills. The rocs circled one last time over the wreckage before wheeling and vanishing into the horizon.

An unearthly silence fell in their wake. Keirn paused, closing his eyes and letting the soft whisper of the wind roll over him.

It was a silence well deserved.

Continue to D&D Rocks Part 2 >

Return to the Short Story hub

The Feathered Serpent

Leave a reply

Ugh, it’s another posting day. But I’m still recovering from my concussion (read: lazy) and don’t feel like writing. So that means you get something I’ve already written!

In other news, Derek wants us to play Neverwinter. It’s a new MMO based on the hit classic Neverwinter Nights and Neverwinter Nights 2. Which is a fancy way of saying it’s boring and it sucks. Anywho, here is another character sketch for my novel in a month entry. I’ll repeat the same warning as the last time I posted a character sketch:

This is a personal document that was never meant to see the light of day. Since no eyes but mine were expected to see it, it has neither been proof read for spelling errors or grammar mistakes nor has it actually been edited to make sure the content is interesting. I’m posting this mostly as a curiosity – a brief glimpse into the creative process that goes behind my creation of a story. So, if you’re expecting Pulwitzer Prize material here, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. Now on to the show.

Graciously taken from Google image source. I am not the creator of this content.

The Feathered Serpent

“What’s that you doin’ mister?”

The ball bounced off the trunk of the tree, landing with a thud into the bucket. Slowly, the big man turned. He was a massive specimen, thick muscles wrapped about a thick, golden frame barely contained within the worn, plain clothes. But what his dress lacked in description was made up for the odd adornments attached about his person. Around his wrists with thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length. The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink running from his knuckles down his hand and beneath his sleeve.

A clatter of bright green rocks etched into the shape of round, stylistic faces jangled about his neck as he turned. Each head was deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes dominating the piece. And his shirt was simple white cloth but a strange mantle rested atop, fashioned from brightly dyed clothes woven into intoxicating patterns and fringed with worn and bent coloured feathers.

“Baax ka waalik, little-one.”

He turned, bowing his head deeply to the little boy. The child just scratched his head.

“You’re funny.”

Undaunted, the boy hurried over, stepping over the rifle lying upon the dry earth. He scrambled to the bucket, reaching inside and producing the big, black ball. It was round and hard, almost twice as big as two fist together. He turned it in his hands, looking it over from all angles. But to his young eyes it was nothing but a black sphere.

“Careful, little-one, that is no mere toy.”

The boy blinked, looking the ball over more closely.

“What is it?”

The big man moved to his side. He strode not as a mountain made to move but with the gentle grace of a passing breeze. He knelt beside the lad, clamping on great hand on the child’s shoulder as he wrapped his fingers around the ball and lifted it with his one hand. He held it before the boy, moving it slowly through the sky.

“The great Speakers say it is the sun. Its passing marks the passing of day to dusk then twilight to morn.”

The boy giggled.

“That’s silly. The sun isn’t black.”

“Is it not?”

The boy looked at him with a queer expression.

“No, the sun is yellow!”

“Is it? How do you know?”

“You can see it,” the boy said, pointing overhead. He turned his little face skyward, stretching his finger.

“You speak that but you look away.”

“Of course. Momma says you shouldn’t stare at the sun.”

“It is wise. But if you do not look, how can you know it?”

The boy scratched his head.

“Well… I have seen it. But you only see it shortly. It’s too bright!”

“But look at something in passing and do you see all that it is?”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t know.”

The giant gave a brief smile. He then lifted his hand over the necklace dangling from his neck.

“Tell me, what do I wear?”

The boy scrunched his eyes, trying to remember the object that dangled from that loose string. He could remember it was something green. Something vaguely familiar in shape but so strange that it was nothing like he’d seen before.

“Heads!” he proclaimed proudly.

The giant smiled. He peeled back his fingers, revealing the row of carved green stone. But it wasn’t three clatter heads looped together. Instead two gaping maws encompassed the strings, the carved stones appearing more like a serpent with no tail.

The boy’s mouth gaped in surprise.

“Look briefly and only see surface,” the man said, holding the ball aloft in hand. “Wise Speaker once said, look at the sun as it moves. From yellow to orange to red. But forever keep watch and all you see is night.”

“So the sun is black?”

“In time. But heed your mother, little-one, for it also bring light. Enjoy its gifts but respect its power. You have much time to enjoy its form when you are older.”

“So what are you doing with the sun?” the boy asked as the man clambered to his feet.

The large man looked down at the ball in his hands.

“I am remembering.”

“Remembering?”

He turned, tossing the object quickly from hand to hand.

“My people, we remember with these.”

“What do you remember?”

“People. Those that left. Like father and brother.”

“Where did they go?”

The giant smiled, but it was weaker now. It was the smile of a teacher, patiently weathering his pupil’s slowly march towards understanding. It was a smile that pushed what feelings were drawn, like a bucket pulled from the dark bearing precious water but dripping with painful pieces of its past.

“Xibalba.”

“Where’s that?”

“Very, very far.”

“Are you going to see them?”

The giant laughed.

“Perhaps.”

“What will you do when you get there?”

“I will know the sun.”

The boy puzzled these words with a twist of his mouth. It was clear he didn’t understand, though how his childish mind did grapple with the words. The giant knelt once more, holding the ball up for the boy.

“Care help remember?”

“Okay!”

His face lit up as he took the ball. He turned to the man.

“What do we do?”

He stood, surveying the land about them. He walked over, picking up the bucket and motioning for the boy to follow. They walked towards the stone wall of the sheriff’s jail. The man ran his hand over the stone, knocking lightly on the stone.

“This shall do.”

He placed the bucket at the middle of the wall then motioned for the boy to stand at the far end.

“Now what?”

“First, hit ball off wall.”

The man motioned towards the stone and the boy squished his face in concentration. Lifting the large ball over his shoulder, he swung with all the strength his little arms could muster. The ball struck the stone, rebounded and bounced three times against the ground before rolling to a stop. The man walked forward, picking it up.

“Alobi, little-one. Perhaps you a born ball player.”

The boy blushed.

“Did I do good?”

“Good first throw. Now, watch.”

The man bounced the ball before him, scattering dirt in a soft cloud that rolled up to him. Twice he bounced the ball before him before twisting and striking the ball with his forearm. With a meaty smack, it launched from his hand, striking the wall soundly before bouncing towards the boy. It flew straight and true, hitting the ground twice before rolling to stop right at his feet.

“Now, to me. Try again.”

The boy nodded as he bent and scooped up the ball. He wrenched it back and threw it. It smacked against the stone, bouncing once before rolling to the man’s left. He nodded.

“Better. Important to watch angle. See where you want and follow back to know place to strike.”

The man walked over, patting one of the stones.

“Watch.”

He bounced the ball twice, held it aloft and smacked it with his forearm. The ball struck the stone, rebounding and returning once more to the boy’s feet. The scooped up the ball, judging the distance and scooting forward for his throw. The ball hit, though with less force, and bounced four times to the other man’s feet. He nodded.

“Alobi.”

“What’s the bucket for?”

“It is goal,” the man replied. “The final journey from one body to the next. Like the sun passing the horizon, going through darkness and rising new on the other side.”

He bounced the ball at his feet before striking it at the wall. With precision, it bounced off the stones near him and the ball dropped perfectly in the wooden container. It gave off a haunting echo as it rolled along the bottom.

“How can it come out the other side? It’s a bucket.”

“Normally not a bucket,” the man nodded, walking over and picking up the ball. He then lifted the pail and held it sideways against the stone. “Normally it on wall and sun can pass through.”

He moved the ball back and forth before the bucket to demonstrate. Then he pointed at the dirt across from them.

“Normally another wall with another goal. Back and forth, sun rise and fall. Journey of gods. Journey of man.”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t get it.”

“One day, little-one.”

A shout caught their attention and a woman poked her head from the street. She turned, gasping slightly at the sight of the large man standing before the boy.

“Come here, Blasius,” she called, her voice twinged with worry. The boy look at the man, disappointment in his face.

“I have to go.”

“Xiitech utsil, little-one.”

The boy ran towards his mother. As he came near, she pulled him close, suspicious eyes watching the man as she turned her bonnet down at the youngster. She spoke just loud enough that he could hear here.

“Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?”

“We played. He showed me his game.”

Not trusting the words of her own child, the woman took her son’s small hand casting one last suspicious glance.

“Best you clear out of here, savage. We ain’t want your kind here. Don’t make me have to get the sheriff.”

She pulled her child away, even as he cried out as they went.

“But momma, he’s real nice!”

“Hush child, these savages ain’t got no place in our towns. Best they stay on their plains.”

The man walked over to his gear, collecting his things. He picked up one particularly large, colourful cloth and wrapped it about his waist until he formed a pouch. He then slipped the ball inside, insuring it was secure before slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Finally, he readjusted the jade beads upon his necklace until the three heads looked once more about him. Their unblinking eyes keeping eternal vigilance for their wearer.

He checked his canteen. What little remained sloshed about the bottom. He would have to stop at the town’s well before continuing on.

Not that he had intentions of staying. This land was not his and he had no intention of invading these people’s lives. They who were unable to tell the difference between the natives of the plains and those that had travelled far from the south. Their ignorance and fear spoke more than their inattentiveness. But it did not bother him.

Hatred was an emotion he was far too familiar with.

And if these people felt they could rid themselves of him then they would learn that the familiar weapon over his shoulder was not for show. If this were his home, he would have more heads upon his necklace for all these ‘sheriffs’ who were suppose to be these towns fearsome defenders. But he wasn’t home and he wished to avoid bloodshed when he could.

Unlike these primitive people who waged a futile war against the invading ghostmen, he and his people had learned generations ago their fearsome might. They brought horses and they brought firearms and beneath iron hooves and iron barrels they paved a new territory for themselves with the bodies of the old.

But so many of the natives of these northern plains clutched futile to their old ways, as if somehow their drums and their stones could hold back the invasion.

Pacal knew different. They were unstoppable. For even if every ghostman and woman was slain and their skulls collected for the great racks, they left behind their armor, their weapons and their ways. Nothing would be the same. Either one learned to use their tools or they gave themselves up to the darkened halls of Xibalba. May as well just lay before the jagged knives and pay the blood debt of the vicious Nahua Ajkin then to try and resist the change that came on the tempest’s winds.

Not that there was a home for Pacal to return to. So he wandered and he came to the lands of these strangers to see for himself that which had brought about the end of the world. What he found were a people so frightening in their strangeness and curious familiarity. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t the same petty, distrustful, ignorant individuals that he discovered.

He walked towards the well, canteen in hand. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. Let them come if they so chose. He was tired of remembering.

Trumpeting the Eighth Seal

2 Replies

For those not in the know, I have suffered a rather embarrassing potential concussion. I mention that this is embarrassing because of both its production and my handling of it. Suffice to say, strenuous activity while under the effects of a potential concussion are generally ill-advised least this potential injury get potentially exacerbated. So I haven’t done much of anything save finish writing a novel in a month. A full fledged novel with distinct beginning, middle and end and of appropriate length for trade fiction.

Not a bad accomplishment for being a little funny in the head. That is, regardless of the Schroedinger’s head trauma. But no one logs onto this blog to hear me natter about my health so let’s discuss… something!

My illustrious and highly industrious friend has let slip a rather terrible secret. There is this shared world we’ve created. A world of mystery and horror, and its perfect for discussing horror and players. It is a world not unlike our own but those striking similarities serve to only make its differences all the more terrible. It is a world about great eldritch monsters, the frailty of the human spirit, the boundless power of man’s imagination and the unimaginable depths of greed and self sacrifice. It is a world that has been percolating in the back of my mind since my first years of university as I wrestled with concepts underpinning the foundations of belief and faith that support our understanding of the universe.

This is shamelessly stolen from Google. I apologize to the original artist.

You can already see the old horror elements beginning to weave through. I love some H.P. Lovecraft, a confession that may startle those who see me as only the ‘man who hates everything.’ I really enjoy that sense of dread for the unknown. It’s a hard emotion to invoke in our modern world with our understanding and grasp so widespread. Each day some new discovery or invention seems to bring ever more pieces of reality into greater focus. But how often have we heard this tale before? It seems that just before a great paradigm shift, our concepts and views were at their strongest. All it took was one little piece to plunge us over the edge and shatter the structures we’d created and had felt so secure within.

So, I needed that tipping point. I needed that soft crack against the glass that could widen and swallow my poor travelers in. It always has to start off small and seemingly inconsequential. The true horror is the slow peeling of all the comfortable layers of our old lives and beliefs, revealing the strange and bizarre one section at a time until the realization dawns upon us and we see that the universe we thought we knew is more alien and strange than it is familiar and safe. In this manner, I’ve always admired the White Wolf series of games. Almost all of them take place in modern times with the character’s journey starting rather mundane at first. Perhaps it is something as simple as a chance encounter late one night at that fancy new bar that’s opened down the street. You meet some enchanting woman who seems to captivate all that view her. You don’t remember seeing her before and the word on everyone’s lips is a name as inviting as it is exotic. You drink it in like a new wine. It’s a thick ambrosia that leaves you longing – no, aching – for more and you know you must have it. She beckons with a languid finger and you follow even if something at the back of your mind is scratching and screaming to escape.

Then, before you know it, BAM! You’re a vampire needing to subside on the blood and life of the people you once held dear.

I know not everyone shares this same romanticized vision but it was this starting point that I hoped to capture. Vampire the Masquerade, for me, had always been a story of resisting damnation and the eroding of one’s humanity. Most tales, however, were usually about bad ass nightstalkers able to pitch cars through the air or rip the throats of their enemies. I know the world had deadly horrors awaiting for the new converts, but in my experience those often fell to the wayside as conflicts basically remained entrenched and consumed with vampire politics and living out personal power fantasies.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that but one element I loved about Lovecraft and his brand of horror was no matter how much you knew, no matter how prepared you were, the horrors you faced always remained horrors. They were abominations that even with the correct spells and incantations learned still threatened to rip you from limb and shred your very sanity. They were creatures you constantly had to keep asking yourself why you weren’t running away and questioning whether your life and soul were worth wagering against them.

And in most cases, they were not. But what sort of story is it if the most sensible course of action was to flee? The simple solution was to make it impossible. And to accomplish that, I made the player the monster.

In a sense. Much like a vampire passing its curse, I imagined infecting the player with a disease. They could be inhabited by something not quite their own, something that was not quite themselves. What it was, they couldn’t know. All they knew was that it changed them and in ways they couldn’t understand. Suddenly, they had a greater appetite. Simple food could not satiate them. They hungered for something more and if they couldn’t feed whatever it was inside of them then the player himself was up for the menu. It was, in a sense, the Curse of Cain with a twist. The player was still struggling for their immortal soul and humanity but not in a figurative sense that they resisted some biblical beast symbolizing infidelity to the Lord but from the very literal sense that they were being eaten from the inside out. The food to fill this need became a currency far more valuable than any dollar or yuan. And in discovering this heightened need, players discovered they weren’t alone in this startling new power structure. Suddenly, an entire orchestra seemed to emerge from behind the screens dabbling in a business and trade wholly unnoticed before.

There was an energy that permeated everything and that fueled the universe from the smallest organism to the most complex machines. No one truly understood it; no one ever really does. Many people have differing beliefs but the most suspicious were the ones who claimed to have undeniable proof. Everyone had a stake in this new market, and those quickest to help the new attendees with their affliction often had the most questionable motives. The players were forcibly introduced to the world behind the mirror and shown the real mechanisms even if they didn’t understand them. The height of fidelity and faith and the worst depravity and debauchery all produced the same results and results were all that mattered. It was a world where the question of humanity could really be asked as great beings manipulated beliefs and reality to further their own goals.

But just because I wanted to involve the players in this struggle between the ‘Daemonkin’ I had my own desire to fill out the edges. I want to test and strain the concept as much as I could and see exactly where I could take it. Though the initial idea was to create this sort of ‘demon infection’ the end results were rather surprising. Suddenly, I had secret organizations of techno-magi controlling vast communicative networks and airwaves, tapping into an unknown and potentially exhaustive energy to ‘download’ their spells. I had beings born in the combined collective dreams of humanity, populating a rich and vast new plane of existence fueled by the wandering unconsciousness of the world’s asleep peoples. Even more intriguing was the vast new expanse of reality crafted from the emergence of the modern technological era – a whole new, untamed wilderness of cyber-realities taking form beneath the nose of ancient beings and rapidly cultivated by the young.

Perhaps some of that old Lovecraftian vision had been lost but an entire world with its own unique rules had come into being. Each new expansion and idea was exciting and startling as the last and truly the impossible seemed possible.

Hard to imagine the name of this thing started because Derek is dyslexic.

And that’s where my confession comes in. So encompassing and engrossing was this setting that I had no idea what to do with it. I had too many elements. I had too many stories. What could, for one person, be a tale of nightmare and terror could be the run of the mill daily grind for another. I was lost within my own world without a clue of how I was going to use any of it. And so it’s sat, unused and unseen in the back of my mind and across a dozen or so different word documents. I hope to one day create something from it. Perhaps, once Derek finishes ironing out the mechanics… if he ever gets around to sending me them.

Perhaps then, Plemora will see the light of day. Until then, I’ll see about posting some of my coherent ruminations and ideas in creating this world.

Rose Lady

Leave a reply

It is late, I am tired and supposedly it my day for posting. So, I delve once more into an old and nearly forgotten journal of words.
* * * * * *
A handsome young man with raven black hair
Looked up and winked at his lady fair
He beckoned her forward and him to greet
So in the moonlight and secret they’d meet

He flashed his smile and started to say
Speeches of love in a most flowery way

You’re a rose among thornes, all elegance and grace
A beauty before me in this desolate place
Your lips are as red as the reddest red rose
Your features are perfect from eye to nose
You’re as lovely as ever a most wonderous girl
Just as the rose is Queen in the flowery world

He went on and on for quite some time
Compairing his lady with roses in rhyme
Finally she turned to him and said
But sir this is winter and the roses are dead

It’s a Trap! – Part 5

Leave a reply

< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 4

My sister is taking me to the evil dentist today. She has no soul.

—————Break —————

“Anything?”

Jeremiah looked about. Little light crept down through the scattered holes above him. The effect created dim shafts that speared the pit. The one thing he could discern was how dusty the space was. His knees scratched against the rough stone of the wall and every time he placed his hands to steady his descent, he could feel a thin film stick to his skin.

“Lower!”

The taunt rope suddenly slackened, sending him on a short, gut-wrenching plummet before it stabilized and Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief that he still wasn’t dead.

Course, he was thankful that Keirn thought of lowering him down with the rope instead of blindly jumping off like he imagined. And given the distance he’d already descended, he knew he’d saved himself some serious injury at the very least. But the depth of the pit was much deeper than he first anticipated and he waited for his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer lightning before calling to be dropped even lower.

This entire line of thinking, however, seemed pretty counter-intuitive to Jeremiah. They wanted to go higher to escape, not deeper.

“Lower!”

In the darkness, something seemed to form. He squinted, hoping it was the floor.

“Could I get some more light?”

“What?”

“LIGHT!”

There was the sound of scuffling above and Jeremiah waited, dangling slowly in the air and wondering how long this rope could hold his weight. Then, the walls seemed to be washed in dry orange before he looked up to see a torch plummeting straight for him. He cried, kicking from the wall as the burning wood tumbled by in a flash of heat. He watched it drop, clattering seemingly twenty feet below him.

“Anything?”

“Lower!”

Down and down he was dropped until he felt he was close enough. He then struggled with the tight knots about his waist. Slowly, he began to wiggle the rope loose of his confines until the rope slid from its loops and dropped him roughly on the ground. There was some more shuffling before a distant call echoed down.

“Are you dead?!”

“No!” Jeremiah groaned, as he rolled on his side and immediately regretted not having them lower him further. His chest hurt from where he’d landed but he looked around to gather his surroundings.

The torch still burned close by and he scooped it up, directing the flame towards the darkness.

Small piles of broken tiles littered the rough floor. As Jeremiah took a step, a cloud of dust and dirt exploded upwards and rolled out into the dark. He took his time examining the place, the light of the torch settling over a few tell-tale scattered bones that littered the floor.

However, from his brief inspection, he could not find a way out of the pit. He turned, making his way back to the rope when something caught his eye. Holding the torch above his head, he looked on in wonder at the expansive mural that had been carved into the pit wall.

Great men met upon a lavish field, brandishing swords, spears and bows in their naked hands. Two clear forces engaged each other in a devastating combat. On the one side, came an unimaginable beautiful people from the valleys and hills. Robes and capes fluttered from their lithe, muscular frames. Opposing them was a terrifying band of warriors with wicked weapons and iron helms on their heads. They seemed to swoop down from the very skies as if the clouds had borne them like great boats to this confrontation.

As Jeremiah studied the ancient artwork, a great clatter and shouting erupted above him. He turned, holding his torch to illuminate the shape of a figure quickly descending down the rope. At first he’d assumed that Keirn had grown tired of waiting and was surprised to see Amber dropping the last couple of feet to the floor.

“Where is it?!” she hissed, spinning around.

“Where’s what?”

There was more commotion above them and as Jeremiah turned to look, Amber lunged unexpectedly at him. For such a petite girl, she had a ferocious strength as she grabbed the torch and wrestled it from Jeremiah’s hands.

“Where’s the exit!” she yelled, waving the torch menacingly to keep Jeremiah at bay.

“I didn’t say there was one down here.”

“Where is it! Don’t try hiding it from me!”

She backed away from him, the torch waving madly in the darkness. She stumbled over a pile of debris, cursing in the darkness before scampering to her feet once more.

In the play between dark and light, she appeared different to him. The shadows seemed to harden the features of her face, turning that once round and soft visage into one of steeled malice. A frantic, almost maniacal, spirit seemed to possess her as she stumbled around. Was this the woman he had once loved? She seemed so remarkably changed from that sweet thing he’d once doted over.

Jeremiah turned from the mural, following slowly after her. Somewhere in the dark, he found his voice.

“I must know – why did you do it? Why did you leave me?”

“You all tried to kill me!” she hissed. “You’d leave me here to die!”

“No, not now. I mean before. Back at Galt.”

“You want to know why? You want to know the real reason!”

And Jeremiah had to pondered the proposition. He had often asked himself, alone in his bunk staring up at the rafters of his small house. He wondered if there was something he could have done. He wondered if he had offended her somehow. He wondered if there was no way for him to make things up with her.

He had feared a confrontation, almost terrified to know what reasons had torn them apart. But if he were to close that chapter of his heart, he had to know the truth.

“Tell me.”

The torch paused its examination of the walls for a secret door. Red hair turned, locking those vibrant eyes with his. For a brief moment, that enchanting smile spread across her lips. But that smile was only a vestige of something long dead. Instead, a wicked sneer quickly took hold.

“Have you looked at yourself recently? Please, Jeremiah, it was a fantasy. I am the daughter of the Gothar. I am a direct link to the divines. And what of you? You’re nothing more than some fat, ugly northern barbarian. I can have my pick of any man in the village and you think I’d settle for you?”

And she began to laugh.

But to Jeremiah, it was like some spell had been lifted. Whatever fear had clenched his heart seemed to release. The beauty of the girl seemed to melt away in that moment, driven back like so many shadows before the breaking dawn. All he saw then, in that dank pit, was what she truly was stripped of her fancy clothes and manicured features. Standing naked before him, she was little more than a repulsive, petulant child.

And it was Jeremiah’s turn to laugh.

The sound shook off the walls, reverberating through the small space to come echoing ferociously back upon her. It struck harder than any sword and she seemed to stumble back from its onslaught.

“Why are you laughing?” she demanded.

And Jeremiah found he couldn’t stop. It seemed so ludicrous that it was almost hard to believe it was even true. How could he have ever imagined being with this girl? How had he spent so many nights envisioning the rest of his life with her? He had stupidly looked towards those pegs and pretended to see her cloak dangling from them. It was like some cruel cosmic joke. If there were any gods, then they would certainly be devious tricksters. They were not these romantic visions etched into the walls.

“Stop laughing!”

The self righteousness of her indignation only made Jeremiah laugh even harder. His whole body shook from it that he could feel his sides begin to hurt as if they were about to split. Even if he wanted he didn’t think he could stop himself now. And as his voice rose, so did hers.

She let out an ear piercing scream, dropping the torch as his laughs seemed to pin her in from all sides. She raised her hands to her ears in an attempt to block it out. But from the darkness it felt like an entire chorus of people had come to mock and ridicule her.

“Stop it! STOP! IT!” she shouted. “I’m the daughter of the Gothar! Shut UP! I demand you shut up!”

She flung herself at him, but she was nothing. Her fists were little more than feeble taps like raindrops throwing themselves uselessly against the mountains. She tried to dig her nails in, to cut at the laughter and crush it in her fingers. Jeremiah merely lifted his arms to deflect her assault away.

“I’m the important one! Shut up! She’s just some ugly little daughter of some filthy whore!”

She screamed at her phantoms, retreating back until she pressed up against the wall. Frightened, she clutched at her ears, trying in vain to block out the unending mockery crashing upon her.

“I’m not crazy! I’m not! These visions – they are of the divine! A gift!”

But still the laughter and rejection assaulted her from all sides.

“There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing! It’s the others that are wicked! It’s the others we must be wary of! She brought this upon us. Not I!”

In the darkness, Jeremiah could see tears begin to trickle down her cheeks as Amber’s inner demons seemed to consume her in the shadows. She huddled and shook by herself – abandoned by those that had been near. As Jeremiah slowly calmed and gathered his senses, the girl he’d loved seemed to lose herself completely in the dark.

A rumble and crumble of tiles signalled movement from above. Minutes seemed to pass in the dark and Jeremiah move to the torch barely burning at Amber’s feet. He gently breathed upon the flames, slowly building them into a brightening glow once more. The girl flinched before the flames, crawling away from the revealing light as if it burned at her very skin. He turned towards the hole and dangling rope, watching a dark lump slowly inching its way down. A scramble behind him caused him to turn and he saw, wordlessly, the retreating back of the priestess as she fled into the shadows.

Jeremiah waited as the others slowly made the descent into the pit. Kait took the longest, having to slide her numerous bags down first before committing herself to the climb.

“Where’d the strumpet get off to?” Keirn asked, approaching Jeremiah’s side.

“She ran off. Don’t know where. What happened up there?”

“Took a good swing at Keirn!” Derrek announced happily. “Looked like she was going for the eyes then she hurried down after you.”

“Why’d she do that.”

“Keirn was threatening to throw her after you since you were taking so long,” Aliessa sighed. She gave a brief shout as another of Kait’s bags clattered behind them. Somewhere amongst her folds a frightened bird gave a chirp.

“Are you okay?” Keirn asked. “You look… different.”

“Different?”

“Odd. I don’t know. You didn’t kill her did you?”

Keirn looked at the scattered bones on the ground.

Jeremiah only shook his head.

“We talked before she left. Cleared some things up.”

“You know she’s crazy right?” Keirn asked.

“As a jaybird.”

“Good because some of the things she’s said…” Keirn shook his head. “Nevermind. I’m sure Kait will be glad we never have to hear from her again.”

A shocked shout drew their attention back to the rope and they found Kait struggling to extract herself from the pile of bags. Keirn hurried to her side, chiding her as he fished her out from among her things. She looked back up the way they came, giving the rope a soft tug.

“We’re not going to leave this behind, are we?” she asked.

“Unless you plan on climbing up and fetching it, it’s probably best to leave it.”

“What is this, anyway?” Aliessa asked, stepping to Jeremiah’s side and taking a look at the murals over the walls.

“Ah, see! I knew this was the way to go,” Derrek said. “That’s why the answer was ‘exit.’”

“Dear, you’re not making sense.”

“It’s simple, the floor above us was a trap.”

“Really, you think?” Keirn said.

“But the solution itself was a false lead. See, if we’d successfully crossed and gone out the door, it would have sealed anyway. And from the looks of the cables overhead, the final corridor has already been coated in a flammable grease. Had we arrived through that exit, we’d have been roasted like a boar.”

“He’s not actually being serious, is he?” Kait whispered.

“This way should do it!” Derrek announced, heading into the darkness after plucking the torch from Jeremiah’s hands.

“Just get your bags,” Keirn said. He stepped to Jeremiah’s side as they formed rank. He pulled the long rod from his sleeves, admiring it in the light of Jeremiah’s torch. “At least we still have this to show for our troubles.”

“Seems rather fortunate that she found it before we did,” Jeremiah said.

“Not really. This isn’t the first time that Mai-” Keirn stopped mid-sentence, looking quickly at Jeremiah.

The dark man scowled.

“What was that?”

“Quite a little puzzle, that. I guess we’ll never know for sure.”

“You knew she would be here!” Jeremiah cried, grabbing his friend by the wrist before he could sneak off.

Keirn shook his head.

“I didn’t know she’d be here. But I won’t say it was a surprise. And you seemed so excited when we first bumped into her that I wasn’t going to bring it up. Then there was the whole issue of the creature chasing her and then getting stuck in all those traps and it… just never seemed like the right time to mention it.”

“So this whole damnable adventure had been a trap from the start!”

“This way!” Derrek called, waving the group towards a darkened passage. As the torch drew closer it revealed a set of stairs leading up.

“Look, it’s not my fault that we’re mortal enemies with a woman who has seemingly unending underworld connections.”

“We agreed we wouldn’t deal with that witch again!” Jeremiah cried. Keirn hissed at him.

“Look, the others don’t know and I don’t see why they have to.”

“I’m not keeping your lies now! I can’t believe I agreed to all of this.”

“You agreed because you know you’re needed. Without you, who would be our moral compass?”

“But you don’t ever listen to me!”

“That’s not true. We didn’t throw the tart down the pit and now we’re all better people for it.”

Jeremiah sighed. But perhaps his friend did have a point. Deep down he didn’t really think they would throw her in but maybe that’s because they knew he would intervene. Perhaps it wasn’t the strangers that needed to look up to him at all.

“Oh, before I forget, we packed these up for you,” Keirn said. He held out Jeremiah’s scabbard. “But I thought it might be wise to at least give this to you for now. Who knows what else we’ll come across.”

Jeremiah took the sword. They paused at the top of the stairs as he handed the torch to Keirn then wrapped the leather thong around his waist. The metal of the scabbard slapped against his unarmoured side and to feel the blade against him without his armour on was a strange sensation. But he patted the handle, its presence somehow easing his mind.

“We really need to get you something new,” Keirn said.

“This is just fine.”

“No, look. The reward for this little beauty is quite high. And now that she-who-we-don’t-speak-of has to pay all of us for retrieving it instead of just the little tart, we’ll have plenty enough coin to get you something a little more respectable. Something a bit more knightly.”

“It’s fine,” Jeremiah said. “It’s really not important how it looks but what I do with it that matters.”

And Keirn regarded him curiously as the girls pressed by to continue on after Derrek.

“I’m… glad to hear it. But I insist we get you something. At the very least, let’s get that awful armour of yours repaired.”

“Fine but I’m not sure how comfortable I am with giving her some ancient powerful relic.”

Keirn turned the rod over in his hands. He looked down the corridor to make sure the girls were out of earshot before looking back at Jeremiah.

“Look, if the ancient murals are anything to go by I don’t think her abuse of this artefact is really going to be an issue. From what I can gather it’s for…” Keirn paused as he tried to think of some tact. “Let’s just say its powers are for personal use.”

Jeremiah shook his head.

“Now you’re joking.”

Keirn smiled.

“Buddy, you’ve been missing out a lot by skipping temple. Come on, let’s get out of this dusty place and I can tell you more. Who knows, the gods may not be as bad as you think.”

They hurried down the corridor to catch up with their compatriots. However, as they approached, they found the others standing before a great iron door. The girls were watching Derrek expectantly as the young man pulled anxiously on the bars.

At the sound of their approach, all three turned around and began shouting. But as Jeremiah stepped into the room, he felt the floor shift slightly. A pressure plate slide beneath his weight and before they could react, a crash of metal sounded behind them. They turned to see a second metal gate had sealed them in.

“Turns out I was wrong,” Derrek muttered. “Seems like it was a trap all along.”

A rumble in the distance caused each member to turn with concern to the other. Jeremiah looked at Keirn.

“I still hate temples.”

Return to the Short Story hub

Diary – Dota 2 fan fiction

Leave a reply

I woke with a start. The world was dark and sulfurous. Pools of lava warmed the ground and filled my belly with fire. The air smelled like the great volcanoes in the heart of my mountains, but this was not the vast ledge where I roosted with my family. It was not the ancient forest of pine and fir I hunted for food and for sport. This was an unfamiliar world filled with strange creatures.

A spike of black rock curved in a semi-circle around me forming a nest of sorts. Tucked to one side was a funny looking man standing behind a wood stall and offering all sorts of strange objects. He took what little coin I had for potions of green and blue, a funny looking donkey and a stack of twigs. The man, round and chubby and looking more like a tasty treat, assured me that I would find use for these cryptic objects. Before I could press him for more information four strangers appeared at my side.

Looking left and right I counted four others appearing suddenly in this rock-nest. A man in metal, a man smelling of ozone and summonings, a man riding a piece of bird-meat, and a thing wreathed in purple haze. I knew nothing of these beings, though the chubby merchant smiled and sold them more objects from his stall. They were creatures unlike anything that I had seen in my mountains.

From the Great Sky a disembodied voice sited a countdown to the commencement of our hunt. Was this the ancient god of my race?

Dispersing from the rock-nest, I was sent to accompany the glowing purple demon. I hovered close to the wide paths as we trailed armed greenmen. The stagnant air affected my ability to gain the great heights I would reach in my home range. We moved cautiously through a sickly forest. The trees had turned to grey twigs; twisted stumps that hemmed in the path. We passed obsidian black towers as we rounded a corner to suddenly face two heavily armed opponents.

The bearded man hung back shooting at me from a metal tube. His unfamiliar teeth had range. But his lady moved in closer. She appealed to my right half with her silver flakes and touch of frost.

They crossed a mighty river to enter our woods choked with forgotten decay. At their feet, more greenmen rushed into the deadwood; raising spears into the air and sending small fires flying into our own greenmen. Their mall fires were pitiful in comparison to the flames burning in my own belly.

Greenmen attacked greenmen. Their deaths revealed fetid flesh that I would be loath to dine upon. Instead I turned my gaze to the river. The raging waters divided the land itself into the living and the dead. Beyond the ribbon of blue was a healthy forest of green. I knew it was fresh with delicious prey. Only two individuals stood in my way of that prize. Two individuals I would freeze and burn to reach that golden paradise.

Suddenly I am surrounded. Hulking strangers burst into the space around. Swords are hefted overhead and swung in a great arc. A boulder tumbled out of the cloudless sky. An arrow skimmed my outstretched wing.

I had no escape. Figures blurred in my vision. I became confused. , boulders came tumbling from the sky and arrows skim my outstretched wings. I panicked belching fire and breathing ice on those that came close. It didn’t work. Pain erupted in my chest. I fall from the sky hitting the ground hard. I could not lift my heads, every inch of my leather hide burns with pain. It was the end. The end of my own hunt, oblivion took over.

There was sweet blackness, the great release. Then the sulfurous stench of the Earth’s heart fills me once more. I blink awake in a ring of black stone. A nest with a merchant manning a wooden stall.

Hayashi no Jinjya: The Shrine in the Woods

Leave a reply

Didn’t win but here’s a short I submitted for a writing competition:

Hayashi no Jinjya:

The Shrine in the Woods

Word Count: 2,466 words

Her scratched fingernails slid aimlessly over the worn keys. The soft glow of the menu highlighted small cuts and dirt smeared across her face. But no matter what settings she tried, or where she waved her arm, she could not get any of those five stubborn bars to light.

Frustrated, she slammed the cellphone closed and pulled her knees beneath her chin.

She eyed the empty festival stalls dotting the lane. Their plastic banners, boldly coloured, hung limp overhead. A deceptive peacefulness filled the front of the shrine. The only sounds penetrating the thick copse of trees were the distant cries of an absent child. Her mother stood on the edge of the tree line, frantically peering between the trunks into the gloom. A colourful pinwheel was clutched to her chest. To Carla it seemed like she had been standing there for hours, never attempting to leave the front court in search for her wayward kid.

Carla flipped her phone open again. The reception bars were still empty.

It was a strange emotion: feeling utterly alone, yet surrounded by so many people. Carla couldn’t remember how long she waited on these steps. Time seemed to move slowly at the reclusive shrine. At least the shaking had stopped.

A fire crackled in the late winter night, the glow from a large iron barrel belching thick plumes of smoke into the twilight. Four older men sat around the barrel warming their hands and chatting softly. The kindling came from the same middle school where Carla spent her days teaching. She felt a twinge of guilt when the students’ wood projects were broken for fuel but knew it was not her place to say anything.

A tapping overhead caught Carla’s attention and she looked up at the thick shimenawa rope. It was a massive knot of woven rice straw with pristine white zig-zag pieces of paper dangling like thick icicles. She never understood their meaning only that they demarcated the transition to places considered sacred.

Carla glanced at her phone. Still no response.

An overbearing sense of anxiety filled the front of the shrine like an unwanted guest. Were they through the worst? Was this just beginning? They had no information and everyone was left literally in the dark as the power had been off since Carla awoke.

The gas lantern at her side hissed at the crunching of gravel beneath soft runners. She looked up from her self-imposed exile to see a round face smile encouragingly.

“Oh, Carla-sensei,” the girl whispered bowing respectfully. Her long black hair tumbled over awkward shoulders. The girl still wore her school clothes which always reminded Carla of an outdated navy uniform.

“Hello Ai. How are you?”

The girl chewed her lip. She was shy – a common trait in her students – but one of Carla’s favourite pupils. Ai’s eagerness to learn impressed Carla, even if she possessed the typical teenage awkwardness and uncertainty. Thankfully, she took her lessons seriously and could converse rather well with Carla. And it was a rare soul who even tried to bridge the language divide.

“I thought you are hungry,” Ai said in that slow drawl the students adopted when they first began speaking English. Carla could almost see her flipping through a mental dictionary as she translated her thoughts. She produced a small round can from behind her uniform.

“It’s pan!” Ai offered as if that made things clearer.

Carla gave a polite bow as she took the can with her hands – you always accepted gifts with both hands. She turned the tin over slowly. It was light and the metal cool to her touch. There weren’t any labels or familiar markings to suggest what lay within.

She hoped it wasn’t fish.

A tab, much like a pop can, was fastened to the top. She caught Ai plucking at the air as if Carla might need further instruction. Carla’s cheeks prickled at the implication. She was a foreigner, not an idiot.

She breathed away the indignation. She was stressed and tired. Perhaps food, even smelly salmon, was all she needed.

The can gave a soft pop as she pried the lid off. Instead of a pungent seawater smell, Carla found a soft, spongy yellow substance inside.

“It’s pan!”

Confusion knitted Carla’s brow as she poked at the food. Pinching a small amount she brought a tentative piece to her lips. Surprised, she tasted the soft linger of pineapple sponge cake. She felt a moment of brief embarrassment wash over her as she made the correction.

“It’s bread.”

“Oh yes, so sorry. It’s bread!”

Ai bowed hastily in deference to her teacher. Carla smiled and motioned to the stone step. Pulling her skirt beneath her, Ai sat.

The one thing Carla could never appreciate was the sweetness of their bread. Of everything she missed from home, it was a simple fresh, crusty bun that she longed for the most.

“Where did you get this?”

“I find it down way…” Ai paused, struggling with some idea she couldn’t quite express. Instead, she merely turned and waved down the road. “Offering for strength and happiness.”

Relief supplies, Carla thought. It would explain the lack of labels. Perhaps things were worse than she thought. There hadn’t been any news over the town’s public announcement system but that was probably due to the lack of electricity. But she still didn’t have contact from her head office. She flipped open her cell but there was still no signal.

“You hear from family?” Ai asked, leaning in to look at the screen.

Carla offered the empty inbox as a reply.

“Don’t worry, Carla-sensei,” Ai smiled.

“Thank you,” Carla said, offering Ai a piece of sweet bread.

The girl merely shook her head and rubbed her stomach.

“Ippai.”

No subject, past tense – full. No doubt she had already eaten before thinking of Carla. Carla only wished she knew they were handing out supplies. She could have helped instead of sitting here feeling completely useless.

Carla licked dry lips as she searched for something to say to the third year student.

“Where’s Yuki?”

The two girls were best friends and almost inseparable. Ai cocked her head sideways in that curious fashion her students had when asked a question they didn’t fully understand.

She gave a short sigh and reached into her pocket, pulling out six hundred-yen coins. She looked morosely at the small collection before turning and glancing at the shrine behind her.

Carla followed her gaze, spotting a pair of vending machines not far from where they sat. Was she thirsty? Carla reached into her pockets and was surprised to find her wallet missing. Then it dawned on her; she’d left her purse in the teacher’s office.

Ai looked very curious to see Carla remove her empty hand from her pocket.

“Gone home.”

“Home?”

Carla looked around at the gathered solemn faces. The shrine was an evacuation area indicated by the green sign hanging from the gate. With the worst over, everyone should have returned home. Yet no one here seemed ready to leave.

Carla was waiting for more information. This wasn’t her first earthquake, but it was the worst. She didn’t know what to do but the thought of being alone in her dark apartment kept her on the steps before the shrine.

“Yuki was at 4-C,” Ai whispered.

Fourth floor, third room from the front stairs – the music room. Ai was an avid member of the Band Club so it seemed reasonable for her friend to be there. Perhaps she was working on the upcoming student rehearsal for the cherry blossom festival. The trees about them were just about to bud and Carla was excited for that brief week when they would bloom and surround the town in a cloud of soft white and pink.

Carla nodded but was surprised to see tears welling in the girl’s eyes.

“What about your parents? Are they coming?” Carla asked.

Ai wiped her eyes with her palm before looking around and shaking her head.

“They’re not here.”

“Maybe they will come later.”

“No,” Ai whispered. “No, I do not think they come. It is good. They are safe.”

The girl smiled.

Carla looked at her phone. Still no reception.

“I am sad for Carla here,” Ai said slowly. “You should be home. Gomenasai.”

“Oh, no! This is good. I’m happy to be here!” Carla said.

“Happy?”

Ai tilted her head.

“Of course!” Carla sighed. “To tell you the truth, I was very scared. When it started, I didn’t know what was happening. It wasn’t until Takuma stood and shouted that I knew something was wrong.”

Carla paused but Ai sat patiently, staring at her. She couldn’t tell if the girl was waiting for her to continue or completely lost in the words. Oddly enough, Carla didn’t care.

“I crawled under a desk with everyone else. That’s when I felt it. The whole school seemed to shake and the windows sounded like they were going to shatter in their frames. But it was the floor that scared me the most. It bent and waved beneath my hands like it was made of water. I thought… I really thought it was going to collapse.”

Carla could feel that fear building up in her again. She shuddered and pulled her suit jacket tighter about her.

“And then everything was still. I remember Iwai-sensei opening the door and yelling for everyone to evacuate. The class ran. I followed but just as I reached the stairs, I remembered that Megumi asked to use the bathroom. I was worried she would get left behind. I ran to find her and then the building began to shake again. The floor shifted beneath my feet and the walls rumbled so loudly. And then…”

Everything else was a haze. Her best memories were a jumble of noise and chaos. She could vaguely recall the burning of dust in her eyes and the sharp stabs of pain running up her body. But she must have got out, how else could she get to the shrine? The last thing Carla remembered was collapsing against the wall with the girl’s bathroom only feet from her. Had she heard someone crying within?

She felt that growing knot of worry in her stomach return. She had so many unanswered questions. Were the rest of her students alright? What of her co-workers? She didn’t know them all that well even after a year together. Few spoke with her, perhaps fearful of making a mistake with their English, but Carla felt she was beginning to understand them. Even if it was just a little.

She didn’t notice Ai move until she felt warm arms wrapping around her and the young face pressing against her shoulder.

“Carla-sensei! I… I thank you.”

“For what?” Carla asked shocked that the shiest girl in her class would suddenly embrace her.

“For being so brave.”

“I’m not brave.”

“You are! I could not… I didn’t leave my desk. But you went for Megumi. You came here and alone! Your stories of travel inspired me. I wanted to see your world. I wanted to be you. You are brave and pretty. And… I say thank you! Thank you for coming. I could not be brave without you.”

Her arms tightened and Carla lifted hers to return the embrace. She was speechless. Not because these people were reserved with showing affection but as a teacher there had always been a distance between them. A gap created more by her strangeness than her position. She wasn’t Japanese and this cursed her forever as an outsider in their world.

“Well, I think that’s a good goal,” Carla said. “I love travelling and I think you will too.”

She wasn’t sure what it was, but the hug was comforting. Perhaps it was the contact, that little bit of tenderness, Carla needed. For a moment the two women sat on the steps of the shrine in peace.

A gust pulled the trees, bowing their great heads to its passage and the thick rice straw rope swung above them.

“Almost my time,” Ai whispered.

The girl pulled back, her hands briefly taking Carla’s.

“Gambare, Sensei. You will do well!”

An encouraging phrase – good luck. As she stood, Carla felt the girl slip something cold into her hand. She looked down to see Ai’s six coins.

“I can’t take these!” Carla cried as Ai turned.

“Yes,” Ai said, bowing respectfully. “Carla was brave. It is Ai’s turn to be brave. Don’t worry, Sensei, I don’t need them. I am good swimmer. I have family who help me on my travel. I now help you on yours.”

The great shrine doors groaned opened before a hunched priest with the barest wisps of hair dotting his spotted head. Ai gave a bright smile before turning and passing beneath the faded wood torii gate. The old man raised a gnarled hand to stop her but Ai merely shook her head. Wordlessly he nodded, moving aside. Carla cried out, standing and hurrying up the steps after her student. As she rushed towards the gates, the aged priest eyed her briefly before slamming the doors shut.

Carla stood there, staring at the cracked wood. It was then she noticed the mural etched on the front. She ran one hand over the stylized ukiyoe etching of a grand, forked river. A trickling stream of downcast people made their way towards the waters. Before them stood a balding man in faded robes holding out his hand.

For those with enough coins they passed over the river along a marvellous bridge. Those with less picked carefully along a ford; the water pulling at their exposed ankles.

The last group, those without coins, passed naked by a tree covered in clothes. They waded into the turgid waters; their faces petrified as the waves curled around their bodies wrapping like thick snakes about their arms and neck.

It was a passing but not for the living. Carla looked down at the coins in her hand then to the dead cellphone in her other. She began to realize that she would never receive word from her family.

And yet, as she turned back to the gate, there was a worrying fear those doors would never open for her either. They were not built for her. They were built for everyone else. They were built for the Japanese who looked upon them and understood.

In the distance, the unanswered cry of a lost child echoed through the night.

It’s a Trap! – Part 4

Leave a reply

< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 3

Oh my goodness, I completely forgot to post yesterday!

Errr… there is no man behind the curtain!

—————Break —————

“Come with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I?!”

Jeremiah stabbed the crackling logs within the fire pit. A swirl of embers twisted upwards, dancing briefly like small fireflies before burning their little bodies out in a bright flash of light and heat.

Jeremiah lifted the lid of the pot suspended over flames. The fresh squash was beginning to cook nicely and the heady scent of herbs filled his nostrils. He stirred the mashed vegetable with a long ladle, hopeful to not burn it to the bottom this time.

Keirn sat at the table, still dressed in his travelling garb. The shadows from the fire played across his eager face, ringing an almost hungry expression in his eyes. But it was not food that his friend sought. There was something else behind his sudden return and Jeremiah was suspicious of some further play behind his request.

“I have to wonder over your insistence in remaining here,” Keirn said, thrumming his fingers against the table. “It must be awfully lonely now.”

Jeremiah turned towards the pegs by the front entrance. Most lay empty now. His brothers and sister had long since moved out, having met spouses of their own and having houses of their own to tend. The only cloak that didn’t belong to him had remained unmoved upon its peg for quite some time now. And yet, even though its owner was never coming back to claim it, Jeremiah couldn’t find the motivation to throw it away.

And it wasn’t particularly out of some grander fondness for his mother. He liked her well enough, but to him she had been a bit of a tyrant. The youngest of four and the third brother to boot, he offered little to the household and his lineage other than another mouth to feed long after his mother cared for rearing young.

At least, young at his age. She was far fonder of babies than children and the moment his brothers started having some, any positive attention Jeremiah hoped he could still get was quickly transferred to them.

But despite her growing neglect of her own child, Jeremiah still remained in her home even after her very health began to leave. And when the gods came to claim what was left of her, that cloak remained. Jeremiah had such plans for it, but any time he took it from its hook the empty void it left just came to reinforce how quiet the house had become.

“I have plenty here,” he said, stubbornly stoking the fire. “Master Beadell says that my training has been coming along really well lately.”

“Master Beadell is old and senile. The old fart is lucky if he can remember which foot to properly put in his slippers.”

“All the more reason for me to tend the apothecary. And maybe in a few years he’ll name me…”

“Name you what? His successor? He keeps forgetting his wife is dead! I’m pretty certain that place is going to his son and no matter how many years you put in it won’t change that fact.”

“Look, not all of us can just abandon everything we know to wander off into the horizon on some silly sense of adventure. Some of us have people we care about. And people that care about us!”

“I know you and Amber are through,” Keirn said flatly.

“What? But how-”

“Well she’s hardly here tending to your hearth,” Keirn said, pointing at the pot now giving off a steady stream of blackened smoke. Jeremiah cried out, leaping to the flames and dragging the smoking pot away between a pair of large iron tongs. “Also, I saw her earlier with Cairen behind the temple in a most… how do you say… un-priestess like fashion. That girl does seem to have quite a fire in her, though. She should really have worshipped a Vanir.”

Jeremiah dropped the pot on the table, cursing as he quickly removed the lid. He wetting his scorched fingers as he surveyed the damage. Keirn leaned forward, pulling the nape of his cloak out of the way as he inspected the contents.

“Don’t worry, I prefer meat anyway. And it’s not like we could have bundled that up to go.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Why not!”

“Have you not listened to a word I’ve been saying?!”

Keirn waved his hand.

“Those are just lingering doubts. Everyone has them. Come, it’ll be exciting!”

“I can’t leave the house unattended.”

“Sure you can. Just inform my mother. She’ll keep an eye on it. It’s not like she has anything better to do.”

Jeremiah shook his head at his friend’s blatant disregard for anyone’s feelings.

“There’s nothing for me out there. Everything I want is here, in this village. I still don’t see why you need anyone to go with you. Or why you left the Academy in the first place.”

“The student life isn’t for me,” Keirn dismissed. He leaned forward. “Look, Jere, I need you. I need you to do this for me.”

“Why?”

“Well… because… because…” Keirn looked about the small room for some answer. But there was nothing in the humble dwelling to assist him. A simple hearth filled the space between the larder and the large table. A small cleaning basin was set to the side and was surrounded by various drying herbs cultivated from the tiny garden in the back. Across from them lay Jeremiah’s apothecary supplies – the tools and containers he’d been stocking up with his pay from the rare peddler that stopped in the village. Finally, a large straw bed lay before the stairs that descended into the small cellar where most of the food and wine was stored.

“Haven’t you always wanted more. More than this?”

Jeremiah lifted a careful amount of squash to his lips, testing to see if any of it was salvageable.

“No.”

“Not even once? Never have you woken from your sleep and turned over to see the separator between you and your mother’s bed thinking that there was more to life than this useless little village and its useless little routines? What life really remains for you here: one of endlessly toiling at a business that will never be yours, waiting for some lovely maiden to walk by to come and warm your bed in the hopes that perhaps in her arms you’ll find some solace that lets you sleep?”

“Why do you even care!” Jeremiah shouted, tossing the ladle angrily towards the water basin. He thundered to his feet, stomping back to the hearth and upending the contents of the pot into the fire.

“Because… unlike this unsympathetic village… I need you.”

Jeremiah turned towards the other man.

“You having a laugh?”

“No, I mean it.” Keirn’s voice grew soft – almost vulnerable. “I can’t do this on my own.”

“Why not?”

“At the Academy, we were taught to recognize the limits of ourselves. I know I can be a little… brisk and that sometimes my actions may need a more moderating hand. I’m no valiant knight, Jeremiah. But you, however – you are.”

He looked up at his friend, the flames reflecting brightly in his eyes.

“You care and that is a powerful thing. People see that in you and that can be a great strength. With a little refinement and a little direction you can be the very thing people look up to. The person people turn to when in need. A kind face whose honour holds him to a higher calling than the petty schemes of the rest of us rabble.”

Something stirred within him at those words.

“You really think so?”

Keirn nodded.

“Of all the village it was you who spoke to me in the glade. All the other children were content with calling me names or throwing rocks at my head. Adults turned a blind eye or sneered when I passed. But not you – you sought me out even after I mocked you and turned you away. Day after day you came, sitting on that rock despite what I did. Even when I sought further refuge, you came and you waited.”

Jeremiah felt his face flush at the memory.

“How did you know?”

“Because I didn’t leave. I stayed in the trees. I… wanted to know if you’d still come even if I had left.”

Keirn stood, crossing the room and resting a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder.

“I need you Jere, because you’re the only friend I have in this rotted village or anywhere else. Come with me and leave this empty place behind.”

That night, Jeremiah went into the basement. Behind barrels of stored cheeses and pickled vegetables was one particular chest. It was covered in dust and cobwebs, abandoned in the darkest spot. Abandoned but not forgotten. Jeremiah fiddled with the rusty latch, finally opening the lid with a terrific groan.

Inside lay an old sword and a suit of worn armour. Jeremiah stared at those treasures of a man he’d never remembered. A man his mother refused to speak of and whose last belongings his siblings shun. Jeremiah took that suit and sword back upstairs and spent the rest of the evening checking the straps and latches and polishing the metal.

The next morning he greeted his friend, shifting uncomfortably beneath the unfamiliar weight of the strange metal suit and shouldering a bag filled with what little belongings he couldn’t leave behind.

But even from the start, Keirn hadn’t been truthful. They met a strange bard shortly after: a resident of one of the further villages. Shortly after that, a woman with familiar brown hair and even more familiar features came running after them down the dirt trails.

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 5 >

Return to the Short Story hub

It’s a Trap! – Part 3

Leave a reply

< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 2

I had such glorious plans for articles today. Instead, I spent most of the holiday playing Dota. Now I’m super behind on my writing.

So here’s part 3 of the D&D story!

—————Break —————

Amber gave the rod a gentle shake. In the dim torchlight, it glowed golden and twinkled from the priceless gems inserted in its tip. It was almost three feet in length and slender in girth. But it looked undeniably valuable – a relic from a bygone era and almost forgotten by all save the most devious.

“What shall it be then? Should I just let this slip and fall into the empty void much like our relationship?”

“I can’t believe you’ve had that all this time,” Jeremiah said. “We’ve been risking our lives searching this forsaken place and you’ve just been quietly carrying it in your pack. How typical.”

“Please, you’re nothing more than common grave robbers,” Amber scoffed. “This place is sacred to one of the blessed Vanir. I’ve been sent on a holy intervention to preserve its purity.”

“You’re one to talk about divine sanctity!”

Amber shook her head.

“I knew it was a mistake coming. I should have left you all to be buried here with your misplaced greed and heresy. I thought maybe we could rekindle that which was lost. But it’s clear to me what you are and what you’ve always been – selfish, self-loathing denouncer of the gods.”

“Gods damn clerics. Will someone just shoot her already?!” Keirn cried.

Jeremiah felt a pang strike his heart. This is not what he had envisioned. This is not how he saw his life unfolding. He was meant for simpler things: a small farmstead and apothecary in town, a roasting pheasant over a fire spit and a loving wife to return home to in the evening. Even with her face contorted in anger and spite, he couldn’t help but see that first beauty that had made his mind blank and heart stop.

With great reluctance, he drew his longsword and pointed it towards the woman.

“Drop it or I’ll drop you.”

Amber laughed. It was a shrill sound devoid of any mirth.

“And now the coward finds his spine? Spare me the dramatics, Jeremiah, you were never good at them.”

“I’m not the same man you left.”

Curiosity coloured her features as she re-appraised the armoured man. For but a moment, Jeremiah considered whether he was capable of running her through. It shouldn’t be difficult. She had only the barest of leather protection padding her simple travelling clothes. And it wasn’t like she would be trained in the use of her walking stick to defend herself. No, she was the daughter of a priest with little knowledge than some outdated religiosity and the most effective methods for gutting a man’s heart.

She took a step back, her boots pressing slowly against the tile behind her.

“Then go ahead, love, show me how much you’ve changed. Run me through on your blade. Let my blood stain your hands and this temple. Leave my body as some forgotten sacrifice to this nameless deity!”

She leaped from tile to tile, picking her safe path across the board. Jeremiah just watched her go, watched the bob of her fiery hair as it trailed behind the priceless artefact they were tasked with salvaging. Only three columns from the end, she turned back to smile wickedly at his frozen advance.

“You see, you may put on armour and play a warrior but you’re still that lost silly boy from the glade. A sword doesn’t make you a soldier. A codpiece doesn’t make you a man.”

She turned towards the exit, pumped her arms, and leaped the last few rows. She fell short of her target, landing heavily against a pair of runes that crumbled immediately beneath her weight. She scrambled for the ledge, the rod slipping from her hands and rolling across the floor with a clear ringing tingle. She pulled herself up the ledge, brushed dirt off her clothes and retrieved the rod.

She turned back to the company, giving them a soft wave as she moved towards the exit.

“Do pass on my regards to Alfather. However long that may take for you to run out of food. Or for our friend to come through the door.”

The pounding on the lowered door reminded them of the company that awaited them in the dark. The company that had only begun stalking them when they ran into the fiery priestess. Amber bent to crawl through the gap on the other side, but as she extended her arm to scramble through Keirn gave a great shout and released the stone in his grasp.

The door smashed to the floor, a great clatter indicating the hidden lock slid into place. The pulleys and chords overhead shifted and groaned as the change in position was transferred across the room. Amber cried, looking up at the network of balances before trying to squeeze through as quickly as she could. After a few seconds of realizing she wouldn’t make it in time, she pulled herself quickly back as the exit slammed before her face.

“What did you do that for!” Aliessa cried. “Now we’ll be trapped!”

Keirn glared at the other woman, his face flushed a deep red as he gripped his knees panting for breath.

“If we’re… going to die… then she’s going with us.”

Amber drew to her feet across the room.

“Figs for cods! Have you any idea what you’ve done, you muck sucker?!”

Kait raised her brows.

“Quite the mouth on the priest’s daughter,” she muttered. “Honestly, Jere, I have no idea what you saw in her.”

Jeremiah sheathed his sword.

“It matters not. What’s done is done.”

He watched Amber slap the rob against her palm to remind them she still held the artefact. But Jeremiah knew it was an empty display of rebellion. There was nothing to be done about it for the moment.

Derrek gave a spurt and spasm on the floor. Aliessa stirred, holding his golden head gentle as he slowly lifted himself to his elbows with a cough. He looked curiously around the room before turning to Keirn.

“The door’s closed.”

“We had some… complications while you were out.”

Derrek struggled to his feet, Aliessa helping as best she could. He leaned heavily upon her as he looked over the tiled board from this new perspective. His eyes settled on Amber and he gave a crooked smile.

“Oh good, you’re still here. Keirn would have been so mad if you’d left with the rod.”

“You know she had it?!” Aliessa exclaimed.

“Of course. It’s the only reason she came here.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I thought the rest of you knew.”

Derrek blinked at them. Jeremiah sighed, shifting his feet beneath a clattering of metal rings.

“Can we just get me across this damn thing?”

“No point now with the doors closed,” Derrek said, pointing to the pulleys above them. “The counterweights are situated in small alcoves in the adjoining rooms. You can see the holes where the chords diverge there and there. Without someone to displace the weight on the other side there isn’t anyway to open them.”

“Can’t we just lift them?” Keirn asked.

Derrek shook his head.

“They’re weighted down to prevent precisely that. You’ll notice there are no handles or locks on these doors. Rudimentary precautions probably installed to safeguard against temple thieves.”

“So… us,” Kait said.

“More of the temple-temple kind. What with the war between the two divines, some clergy turned to their own number to steal into rival temples and snatch their holy relics. Helped shift the balance usually in favour of the Aenis since the Vanis were so unlikely to take such actions. Or so they say.”

“Whole bunch of nonsense,” Jeremiah grumbled. “And now we’re all going to starve to death because of some foolish belief in sky wizards?”

“At the very least it seems pragmatic,” Kait said. “I mean, it stopped us from stealing.”

“Which brings us back to the original problem. Any idea how we can get out of this, Derrek?”

The bard looked at the sorcerer while he considered his words.

“I suppose we could wait for whatever is still prowling these corridors to smash down the door.”

The pounding had subsided for the moment, but Jeremiah wasn’t a fan of facing some fantastic beast with the strength to tear through the thick stone containing them inside. Especially given the limited terrain they were offered with the tiled floor taking up much of the room.

Not to mention the large holes now spread across its surface because of their attempt to cross.

“Honey, you can’t think of anything else?” Aliessa asked.

“Well, there is one other option we haven’t considered.”

“What’s that?”

“We jump down the hole.”

Keirn laughed. Then abruptly stopped.

“You’re serious?”

“It has to go somewhere.”

“But what if it’s a deadly pit filled with sharp spikes!” Kait cried.

“I guess we can wait then,” Jeremiah said. “Who shall start splitting the rations.”

Keirn sighed.

“Fine but we throw her down first.”

Keirn pointed across the room at Amber.

“No! I won’t do it!” Amber screamed

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

Amber held the rod out over the hole.

“I’ll drop it!”

“Then you can pick it up again when you land,” Keirn said. He took the tiles slowly, trying desperately to remember which ones were safe from the earlier crossings. As he got near Jeremiah, the other man couldn’t help but speak.

“I don’t think this is a really good idea,” he whispered.

“Are you volunteering?”

“What if she dies?”

“Then we know it’s not a valid route. Gods, you two were just shouting how much you hate each other a moment ago.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean that I wanted to see her dead!”

“Can we possibly put this to vote?” Aliessa called.

“Oh, good idea. All for?” Derrek asked, immediately shooting up his hand. The woman at his side gave him a horrifying look.

“I, personally, am not comfortable with this,” Kait said from her tile.

“Do you have a better course?”

“No, I just wanted to say my part.”

“What is this?!” Amber cried as the last objections were raised. Keirn continued his approach and she stumbled back. “You can’t be serious about this!”

“Don’t struggle, you’ll only make it worse.”

“I knew you were trouble!” Amber shouted. “The moment that whore of your mother came to the village, we knew you were no good. My father was right, only rot grows from spoilt earth! The whole lot of you should have been strung up in the town centre for the crows and maggots!”

“You know what, I’d like to change my vote,” Kait said.

Keirn paused before the last three rows, readying his jump. Amber raised her staff, pointing it aggressively towards the sorcerer. Undaunted, he jumped the distance, landing upon the other side. Amber gave a great shout as she charged forward. Keirn merely crooked his lips before side stepping her clumsy lunge, grabbing her stick and knocking her to the ground.

She coughed up some of the ancient dust, rolling on her back and glaring up at him.

“Know that the gods will thrice curse you for your transgressions!”

“Says the girl who snatched the holy relic,” Keirn said. “Speaking of which, want to hand it over before you’re sent in. I’d hate for it to break and the entire point of this stupid adventure ruined.”

“Never!” she spat.

Keirn shrugged and merely whacked her with her stick. She cried out but refused his demands. So he struck her again and again. This continued for a bit, with Keirn pausing after every strike to ask for the relic but Amber refused to acquiesce. After enough beating, however, she eventually cried out.

“Fine, fine! I can’t believe you all just stood there,” she hissed, struggling to her hands and knees. “In my mind, you’re all culpable for this.”

“Yeah, yeah, save your sacred indignation for a captive parish. The rod please.”

Keirn held out his hand. Amber’s face contorted into a horrible mask of fury and malice. Keirn just waited and she finally slapped the rod into his outstretched palm.

“I hope you’re happy.”

“Not yet,” he said as he began prodding her with the butt of the staff towards the pit.

“Know that if I die, my god will strike you down for your impertinence.”

“Amber, dear, you’ve been wagging that threat for as long as I can remember. If I was going to be punished, it would have been a long time ago. Not quit stalling and jump into this dark and potentially lethal pit.”

She stood at the edge of the broken tiles, looking into the gloom. Her hands fidgeted, clearly anxious about the possibly inglorious end that faced her. She looked to each gathered face, quietly pleading for someone to take her side or stand in defence. Aliessa merely turned to the ground. Derrek seemed honestly curious about the outcome of their little test. Kait glowered back at the other woman.

Thus, it was with a heavy sigh that Jeremiah finally stepped forward.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun. But this can’t continue.”

Keirn rolled his eyes.

“You can spare your conscience, she was going to leave us all for dead.”

Jeremiah frowned.

“That’s not how morality works. It doesn’t bend to whatever is convenient to you. It’s wrong to force her down the pit and I won’t let you.”

“So what then? Should we send you instead.”

“Yes.”

Keirn laughed then stopped abruptly.

“Oh, you’re serious. Was there some sort of crazy draught that I missed this morning?”

“Of course I am serious! You’re not forcing her down there.”

“Aren’t things over between you two?” Derrek called from across the room. “Might as well just dump her!”

Aliessa slapped his arm.

“There will be no dumping!” Jeremiah cried. “If we’re so determined to have someone go down, than I will be the one.”

Silence fell between everyone gathered as Jeremiah looked to each challenging them to contradict him. Keirn merely shrugged.

“Fine but I really think this would have been best for you – you know, emotionally and what not.”

He removed the staff from the small of Amber’s back and the girl waved her arm angrily at the retreating stick. She brushed her clothes and stepped back from the pit making sure to fire one last withering look at Keirn.

Jeremiah made his way slowly to the other side, pausing before the jump over the last three rows. Amber sheepishly stood across from him, looking down at her hands in what he could only assume was a mix of awkwardness and shame.

“Look… you really didn’t have to step in on my behalf. I do appre-”

“Stow it,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve had your maiden act before. This isn’t for you.”

Amber sneered and shook her head.

“Of course it isn’t!”

She stomped off to a corner to hunker down and sulk. Keirn took her place, holding the staff out for Jeremiah. Jeremiah stretched, taking a hold of the opposite end. He then jumped forward, clutching the staff tightly as the other man pulled him forward. His feet struck the tiles, each crumbling beneath him, but the momentum generated by the two brought him tumbling to the other side.

“Thanks.”

“I still think we should toss her.”

“I’ll pretend that’s out of some misplaced concern for my well-being.”

“Also, she’s a thrice cursed brat.”

Jeremiah stood to his feet, brushing dirt from his hands and carefully approaching the edge. Not many of the tiles were broken on this side and it seemed the pit just yawned down into endless nothingness. A soft cloud of dust rose from Jeremiah’s hurried crossing to the other side. He poked at one of the nearby tiles, listening as the pieces tinkled as they fell through the gloom. He counted the seconds, straining his ears for the telltale sound of them striking something underneath.

“Second thoughts?”

“All the time.”

He poked at a few more tiles, widening the hole for him to fall down.

“Look, if we’re going to go through with this foolishness, we can at least not be stupid about it. Take off your armour.”

“What are you on about?”

“Trying to not get you killed,” Keirn said turning to his sister. “Kait! Toss me your rope!”

She sighed as she stood and began the acrobatic technique of searching her numerous bags without falling from her square. While she was busy with that, Keirn lent a hand in unbuckling the straps keeping plates of Jeremiah’s armour on.

“This is looking in pretty rough shape.”

“We haven’t really had the chance to fix it. Or buy a new one.”

Keirn held up one piece with a clear cut run right through it.

“Does this even protect you anymore.”

“It’s not always about protection,” Jeremiah replied, snatching it from his hands and placing it gently on the ground next to its kin. He looked at the makeshift suit spread before him. “Sometimes, it’s just about the image that you portray.”

“Oh really?” Keirn asked motioning for Jeremiah to lift his arms as he helped slide the thick chain shirt off. “And what image are you looking for? Hedge knight?”

Jeremiah didn’t respond.

“Truly? But you… you are…”

“Am what?!” Jeremiah growled.

Keirn backed off.

“You were just so reluctant to leave, I guess. I don’t know. I always assumed you were resentful that I dragged you from your home. That I convinced you to leave everything you enjoyed for this dung heap of a life wandering aimlessly from town to town.”

Jeremiah opened his mouth to protest. He tried to force out the denial of his friend’s words but nothing seemed to come. Instead, he just unstrapped his scabbard and placed his sword at the foot of his equipment.

“Here it is!” Kait called, tossing the snaking rope towards the men.

“Well, let’s get you ready then,” Keirn said, motioning for Jeremiah to lift his arms as he tossed the rope about his chest.

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 4 >

Return to the Short Story hub

It’s a Trap! – Part 2

Leave a reply

< Return to It’s a Trap! Part 1

I saw G.I. Joe Retaliation and I’m just too confused to post anything. So here’s some D&D.

—————Break —————

The village of Galt was peaceful. Perhaps that is what drew so many people to it. There was nothing remarkable in its countryside. No fabulous ruins of an ancient civilization with legends of promising forgotten treasure lured adventures to the hills. No strange arcane towers jutted from the wilderness begging people to wonder what occurred within the sequestered walls. No castle of a feudal lord broke the horizon reminding the peasants of the divine protection and the weekly tribute demanded of them from some absentee ruler.

For the villagers of Galt, there was nothing but placid farmland and serene wilderness branching out in all directions. Nestled among the distant woods and sloping vales lay other quiet settlements. Possibly as content as Galt but never as pleased.

The villagers always maintained some extraordinary tranquillity welled up from the land like some miraculous brook they all savoured. But they needed no ghostly lights or monuments to highlight it. They had the very villagers themselves to attest to this strange power.

For whoever set foot in the small village found it almost impossible to leave. Travellers were rare but rarer still were those few that could resist the pleasant charms and carefree spirit of the village. And no suspicion or doubt clouded the minds of the residents. They welcomed each wanderer as if they were some lost kin. And that hospitality brought more to roost than not.

Jeremiah knew his family came from elsewhere. That much was certain with his family’s darker complexion and thicker frames compared to these pale, slight people. But Jeremiah could count the number of times his strangeness was remarked upon and usually such taunts were hastily reprimanded by the offending youth’s parents.

Jeremiah remembered little of where he did come from. The youngest of his kin, his recollections of that early time were little more than some shaky visions of a covered cart and the whiff of some peculiar roasted meat. His mother never spoke of that place and his eldest brother always hushed any questions of their origins.

He was told, time and again, he was a member of Galt. And for the Pitmans that was enough. Jeremiah had far fonder memories of being educated in the local town hall than whatever place actually gave birth to him. He could recall sermons in the tiny parish and of rolling down green meadows surrounded by colourful flowers. He loved the two hounds his mother let him keep, the poor pups found one sunny afternoon lost in the wilderness.

Jeremiah took an interest in the power of plants and herbal remedies. And while the situation that spurred his study of salves and concoctions were tinged with bitter emotions they landed him a respectable apprenticeship with the local apothecary. And there was this lovely girl from the parish who made him smile and feel all funny in his stomach. They laughed and played beneath the maypole and frolicked in the quiet groves.

But that all ended when he arrived.

There was nothing auspicious about his entrance. Much like others before, he had come quietly in the night. Found sleeping in his mother’s arms as she appeared humble before a homestead pleading for a safe place to sleep. Perhaps the only peculiar note was the scar she bore down her neck, a long and old wound that hinted at a past to be fled.

But who in Galt didn’t have some ancient spectre they wished to be forgotten. So the mother was welcomed and found the perfect place to raise her two children that was both understanding and secure. Her eldest was a girl with long brown hair and inquisitive eyes. She seemed to take to the village and its ways quite willingly, laughing and playing with the other children.

But her brother was the odd one. A dark shadow seemed cast over his demeanour. He was quiet and reclusive and sneered or turned away those that approached him. Only his sister seemed to pierce that shield he’d raised about him. He seemed to loathe the village and everything within. He was the single black spot on a sunny day. He was the dark cloud that hovered in the horizon as a portent of an encroaching storm. He was trouble and Jeremiah would often wonder what cruel twist of fate bound his and that boy’s destinies together.

For the children Kait and Keirn were the village’s small trouble that they wished not to discuss. Their pivotal years were filled with whispers and gossip. Never before did Jeremiah hear of questions or concern over a strange arrival. Where did this family come from and why did they come here, people whispered. None would dare finish their thought or voice that one idea that every one shared.

What would it take to get rid of them?

For even if the children were peculiar, it was the mother that kept the villagers at bay. Jeremiah had little interactions with the elder Faden but she was a formidable woman. It would have been nothing for her to take control of the village, assert her will and have all people bow before her directions. But while she unnerved and cowed even the boldest man, she kept to herself. Only when her children seemed threatened did some dark fury bubble just beneath her eyes.

And none dare raise a weapon against her. For one doesn’t receive those scars by toiling in noble’s fields.

It was at Jeremiah’s mother’s insistence that the boy approached the lad. She seemed convinced that all the other boy needed was a friend and with that small gesture the entire clan would ease gently into the simple village life. Their first interactions were brief but it was his mother’s vow that dark night that convinced him to get close to the youth.

His persistence was rewarded. But only just. While the young Keirn did finally allow the other boy into his life, Jeremiah always knew he was kept at arms length. He didn’t recall his own past, but he wondered if the other boy did. And if it were those memories that forced him to shut all others out.

But time passed and the boys grew older. Then, out of the blue, Keirn announced he was leaving for the strange Academy. Few knew what that meant, they were just happy to see one of the Faden clan leave. Jeremiah felt sad and even slightly betrayed by this sudden proclamation. But he was one of the few to actually see the youth off. He could still remember his sister quietly weeping as her brother shouldered his pack and headed down that trail with nary a look back. Everyone, including his sister, felt that this was the end of him. He’d gone and would never return.

And for that year and a half, the village seemed much like Jeremiah remembered. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene. Kait took the post at the town hall, schooling the younger children in their letters and numbers. Jeremiah spent much of his time with that red haired beauty.

But then he unexpectedly returned and Jeremiah’s life seemed like it would never be the same

Continue to It’s a Trap! Part 3 >

Return to the Short Story hub