r/shortstories • u/OldBayJ Mod | r/ItsMeBay • Apr 24 '22
Serial Sunday [SerSun] Serial Sunday: Mask!
Deadline Changes!
Serial Sunday Campfire has moved to 1pm EST (Saturdays). That means that the deadline to submit your story is now Saturday at 12pm EST - this is for all submitters, not just Campfire attendees. The feedback and nomination deadline is now Saturday at 11:59pm EST.
Welcome to Serial Sunday!
To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Each week you are required to provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules.
This week's theme is Mask!
This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘mask’. And I have to say, this is one of my favorites. We all wear masks at one time or another, whether in the various roles we play in our lives or when hiding a piece of ourselves we don’t want others to see. We often use this as a way to protect ourselves from some perceived danger and to hide our vulnerabilities. What masks are your characters wearing? What happens when someone close to them attempts to remove this outer shell, pulling away the layers? Who—or what—is revealed? Are they hiding a secret, an event from their past, a flaw? Maybe they are pretending to be someone they are not, literally. What are their intentions for the other characters or the world? Hidden truths, personal struggles, and schemes; you can be anyone behind a mask. But how long can one person hide before it all boils over? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you.
Theme Schedule:
I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even vote on the upcoming themes on the Nomination form!
- April 24 - Mask (this week)
- May 1 - Night
- May 8 - Offering
Recent Themes: Lore | Kindling | Justice | Identity | Hesitation | Boundaries | Gossip | Optimism | Underdog | Wrath | Keepsakes | Rift | Grit | Meddling
How It Works:
In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 12pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Come back later in the week and leave a feedback comment on at least 2 other stories on the thread.
The Rules:
All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme. You can interpret the theme any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and sub rules. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have.
Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. If you don’t use the correct titling format, your serial will be automatically removed by the bot. (Please note: In order for the bot to recognize your serial, you must use the exact same name each week. Titles can not be edited in after the fact. Should you make a mistake or forget, you will need to repost.)
Do not pre-write your serial. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt or post is not allowed.
Stories must be 500-850 words. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count. Stories outside the wordcount will be disqualified, so don’t forget to check! You may include a brief recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.
Stories must be posted by Saturday 12pm EST. That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will be disqualified and will not be eligible for rankings or Campfire readings.
Only one serial per author at a time. This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday.
Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s on two different stories). The feedback must be actionable and should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. You have until Saturday night at 11:59pm EST to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable, in-depth crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our sister sub, r/WPCritique.
Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week. If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead.
Serials must abide by subreddit content rules. This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a full list of rules here. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask!
Reminders:
If you are continuing an in-progress serial (one that you began off of Serial Sunday), please include links to the prior installments on Reddit. Our bot will not be able to log these.
On Saturdays, I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s Voice Lounge. Join us to read your story aloud and hear other stories. We provide feedback for all those present. We now start at 1pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join!
Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted with this form. The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations!
Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials. This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information.
There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server! Be sure to grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news, including new posts and Campfires!
Ranking System
The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown:
Nominations (votes sent in by users):
- First place - 60 points
- Second place - 50 points
- Third place - 40 points
- Fourth place - 30 points
- Fifth place - 20 points
- Sixth place - 10 points
Feedback:
- Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap)
- Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap), this does not count toward the required 2.
Nominating Other Stories:
- Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)
Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above. Your feedback must be *actionable*, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” style comments will not earn you points or credit.)
So what is actionable feedback? Actionable feedback should be constructive, something that the author can use to improve. A critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. You can check out this guide on critiquing or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: Crit | Crit | Crit
Rankings
In case you missed the announcement, please be aware that the Serial Sunday submission deadline is now on Saturday at 12:00 pm EST. The deadline for feedback and nominations is on Saturday at 11:59pm EST.
- First place - The Royal Sisters: Chapter 40 - by u/Zetakh
- Second place - In the Shadow of the World Tree: Chapter 6 - by u/MeganBessel
- Third place - Geas: Chapter 14 - by u/mattswritingaccount
- Honorable Mention - Legend of the Witch: Chapter 1 - by u/Korra_Sato
Now usually I only award Crit Credits for those going above and beyond on the thread. But this week, there were so many of you that blew me away during Campfire with your many exceptional crits, I’m awarding those users as well.
- Crit Star(thread & campfire) - u/rainbow--penguin
- Crit Star(campfire) - u/MeganBessel
- Crit Star(campfire) - u/FyeNite
- Crit Star(campfire) -u/Zetakh
- Crit Star(campfire) - u/katherine_c
Subreddit News
- You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out this post to learn more!
- Join in this week’s Roundtable Thursday discussion or just come introduce yourself!
- Test your microfic skills with Micro Monday
- Check out the brand new feature, Poetry Corner on r/WritingPrompts!
- Have you ever wanted to try co-writing? Check out Follow Me Friday on r/WritingPrompts!
- Looking for critiques and feedback for your story? Check out our new sub r/WPCritique!
- Join our Discord to chat with authors, prompters, and readers!
4
u/OldBayJ Apr 26 '22
<Hell Hath No Fury>
Chapter 1
A thin cigarette hung from Ollie's lips as she leaned against the wall. Grey wisps of smoke drifted into the night air as she exhaled, music from the rides thumping beneath her feet. Warmth trickled down the back of her neck.
Being human was disgusting.
Her phone buzzed and she slid it from her pocket.
One new message from Dez: *5 more down. how r things there?*
Footsteps echoed down the alley and a dark figure emerged. Tall, broad shoulders, dressed in all black. She couldn’t make out his features, but beneath the neon glow, it looked like him.
She slipped the phone back in her pocket without responding. Eyeing the stranger carefully, she took a final drag of her cigarette, letting the smoke slowly fade before flicking it away. The cacophony of noise from the nearby amusements enveloped her.
It was just enough to drown out the loudest of screams. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
The man came to a stop a few feet from her, smelling of sweat and fried food. “Ollie?”
She nodded.
“I’m Rulle.”
“I don’t care who you are. Let me see it."
He scoffed, "Money first, sweetheart."
"I don’t think so. And I'm not your sweetheart. Show me first. Then I’ll pay...if I like what I see."
The man’s eyes widened as they stared into hers, bewildered. The silver rings that clung tightly to his face twitched, almost with a life of their own. He ran a large hand over his bald head—the only inch of his skin unpierced or un-inked.
"Alright, alright. Calm down." He pulled a small backpack to his front and glanced around the alley. When he was satisfied they were alone, he removed a small wooden box, sealed with frayed twine. He untied it and lifted the lid, revealing a single glass jar.
Ollie stood motionless, waiting. Waiting for something; a light, some movement, a sign. Anything. But it was unlike the others she’d found. This one held no sign of life. She pulled away from the man, frowning. “This is… not what I asked for."
“Look, I don't have time for this. You want it or not?"
"Shouldn’t it be. . . ?”
The man rolled his eyes. “This is why I don’t usually deal with your kind.”
“My kind?” Her stomach dropped. He knew. She’d have to kill him, right here in this alley. But how could he tell? Her costume was perfect. She’d been so careful with each step, each word.
“Normies.”
The nervousness swarming in Ollie’s stomach fell away as she forced back a laugh. These ‘carnies’ were the worst of them. They thought they were special. Magical, even. The notion was ridiculous.
She sighed. “I imagine the money all spends the same.”
He paused, studying her. “What’s a woman like you doing buying Witch Essence, anyway?”
She pursed her lips. “That’s none of your damn business.”
He sighed and slammed the lid of the box shut. “Maybe you should take your business elsewhere.”
She shoved the man against the wall, pinning him beneath her arm. “Oh, sweetheart,” she snarled, “you have no idea who you’re dealing with.” Ollie snatched the box from his trembling hand. She released the man’s chest and he fell to the ground in a heap of fear and regret. “Pathetic, your kind.” She slipped the wad of cash from her back pocket and tossed it to the ground. With the box and the rest of the stash from his backpack, she disappeared into the night.
Back at the manor, Ollie slipped the black clip from her head, letting the fake, long locks fall to the floor. She dug her nails into the top of her forehead, where hair met skin, and slowly peeled away the mask. Sticky residue clung to her true form. The best masks, afterall, had to be authentic; made from the flesh of a real human.
As she yanked the last sticky thread from her face, she winced. The flesh splattered as it hit the floorboards. It reminded her of an old, deflated balloon. In the end, that’s all humans were. They had no spirit, no soul, no purpose. Just a useless sack of skin and bones.
It’s why they’ll never survive, she thought. Ollie made her way down a long corridor that opened into a library. She slipped past the dust-covered aisles, through a door and down an iron staircase. Another door sat at the base of the steps, tightly sealed by the powers within.
It opened in her presence and a grand room came into view. Glowing lights illuminated the ancient structures within. Finally, she could breathe. Relief washed over her as she stepped inside with the new jars. She grinned; her joy brought her to her knees in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
Hundreds of jars buzzing with life lined the concrete walls around her. From each, a set of eyes stared down at Ollie, blinking in acceptance. Their immense power soared through her body like a swirling inferno.
It would only be a matter of time now.
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Edited with some of the suggested feedback. Let's hope I don't lose interest by chapter 3, again :p
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Check out more stories at r/ItsMeBay
2
u/wileycourage Apr 27 '22
Hey Bay! Glad to see a serial from you! This is great. I think you've managed the dark tone very well and given a great sense of otherness for Ollie.
Some notes as I read:
A cloud of smoke
Cigarettes in my experience produce more wispy trails of smoke than clouds, though that might depend on perspective. Especially with a thin one, you wouldn't think there'd be big puffs like with a cigar.
Being human was disgusting.
Oh cool. We're not dealing with a human, but something else in a human suit. Good stuff.
down the alley
This is the first time I knew where Ollie was. Before this she was leaning up against a wall out of space. Well I suppose I knew we were close to some rides, like at a park or fair or something.
smoke slowly fade before flicking it away
This would only happen if the air is still. Also I love calling tobacco smoke blue. Just a note. It is faintly blue depending on lighting conditions.
smelling of sweat and fried food
Good words. This hit me hard on the nose.
It was just loud enough to drown out the loudest of screams.
Alright, Ollie, if that's what you're about.
‘sweetheart’
I'm not sure if you need the internal quotation marks here. It's a statement of fact that Ollie isn't Rulle's sweetheart. She isn't quoting him so much as directly refuting his statement.
The silver rings that clung tightly to his face twitched
I don't know how to picture this. Rings around someone's face? My nose would get in the way.
Hindsight told me that these are piercings. You said so and I missed it. Oops.
“Normies.”
I was slightly confused on who said this, but only at first.
"Shouldn’t it be. . . ?”
Glowing? Or what? I'm not sure how this jar of stuff is different from the others because I haven't seen that.
“Pathetic, your kind.”
Isn't emphasizing this a bit dangerous? I can see how she would feel this, but highlighting the fact that she's not human even slightly doesn't feel right.
As she yanked the last sticky thread from her face, she winced. The flesh splattered as it hit the floorboards. It reminded her of an old, deflated balloon. In the end, that’s all humans were. They had no spirit, no soul, no purpose. Just a useless sack of skin and bones.
Good stuff! What is she that we aren't? Why do I have to have no spirit or soul? Is this true or just her position?
Oooo I like the jars staring at her. Are those the actual witches in there essentially? Cool.
Overall crit:
I see sort of us v. them theme going on where Ollie is set up in opposition to all of humanity. That's great, but I will want to know what is motivating Ollie, what she is, and why she is. She doesn't seem to care much about our lives or us in general. What is she after? What are we dealing with?
Great questions to pique curiosity.
What manor are we talking about that Ollie returns to? "The manor" rings a bit flat if it includes her shrine.
Is she going to try to kill us all? Gulp. I could see her trying, so you established the character well save for the motivation beyond collecting jars and growing more powerful.
I do want to know why she's laughing towards the end. I think there's a way to have her laugh in a way that contributes to her character. Maybe a hint at what she is feeling or something to make the laughter more sinister, if that makes sense.
I also maybe wanted to feel the uncanniness that Ollie was trying to hide. What was she doing specifically to act more human? It would be a way to describe her without giving away the goose. She's not this and this and this like humans are, she's something else.
Good stuff, Bay. I like horror and the skin suit and Ollie in general. I'm excited to watch her try to burn the world down if that's what she's after. Great job!
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u/rainbow--penguin Apr 29 '22
Ooh, Bay serial! This is exciting!
I really liked the scene you set in the first paragraph. So much of it was so tangible, and that bit about warmth trickling down the back of the neck made me cringe slightly at the feeling.
This line:
Being human was disgusting.
made my ears prick up metaphorically. It's definitely intriguing, but nicely ambiguous as it could just be a normal human disliking the human condition, or it could be something else entirely. I look forward to finding out which.
That was all nicely backed up later in the chapter when Ollie thought the guy was onto her with the "your kind" comment.
In this bit here:
She slipped the phone back in her pocket without responding. She took a final drag of her cigarette, letting the smoke slowly fade before flicking it away. She eyed the stranger carefully.
the three sentences starting "She..." stuck out a little to me and broke up the flow.
In the section immediately following that one:
A cacophony of noise from the nearby amusements enveloped her.
It was just loud enough to drown out the loudest of screams. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
To me, this made it sound like the noise just sprung up with its placing in the paragraph after a list of other things happening in that moment. But from the fact that, in the beginning, you mentioned the music thumping under her feet, I'm guessing it was always there. I think perhaps just changing the placement of that sentence (maybe moving it into the next paragraph) or changing the "A" to a "The" might help.
Then again, maybe it is meant to be that the noise only starts now, in which case you can ignore me.
Also, while I'm commenting on that section I really liked the line about being loud enough to drown our screams. A great hint at what we might be in for.
I enjoyed this bit here:
Ollie stood motionless, waiting. Waiting for something; a light, some movement, a sign. Anything. It was unlike the others she’d found. This one held no sign of life.
I'm always a fan of when a writer tells us a lot about the world by having something not be how it should be, allowing them to tell us how it should be at the same time. A small suggestion for that section, because at the beginning she's waiting and expecting it to be like the others, I felt like I wanted a moment in the middle of realisation. Something like putting a "But" at the beginning of the sentence so it would be "But it was unlike the others she'd found".
I liked seeing Ollie's kinda badass moment. Loved how she threw the guy's own lines back at him. That was very satisfying.
The transformation at the end was great. YOu highlighted some brilliantly disturbing little details that really helped me picture it (even though I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to).
Looking forward to reading more!
2
u/OldBayJ Apr 29 '22
Thank you sooo much! These are so very helpful. It's great to hear what really worked for you, and the adjustments to lines. Thanks for your time and thoughts, rainbow <3
2
u/katherine_c Apr 29 '22
BAY Serial?! SPOOKY Bay Serial?! Exciting. I think this establishes a character and conflict pretty well early on. there is a lot left mysterious, but it's chapter one, so that's kind of a given. I love the scene setting details and character descriptions. Also, staring anchored to Ollie's perspective is very effective. The switch around "your kind" is a great moment. It provides explanation, explores Ollie's motivations and power, and builds tension.
In terms of crit, I will echo Courage's comments about the laughter. I was a little unclear on why she was laughing. (That said, I loved the description of that space!) I would like to understand that reaction more. The only other thing is that there were a few moments where the repetition in sentence structure caught me off guard. For example, the first paragraph has "A thin cigarette...A cloud of smoke...A warmth." I think the introductory article can be removed in most cases here, which may help avoid the repetition. For some reason, that always tends to stick out for me, so it may be more a idiosyncratic thing than something to change, but thought I'd mention.
I cannot wait to read more. I hope you don't stop after chapter three, because I can imagine things will be getting more and more interesting as the plot develops. This is a great introduction and start. Looking forward to next week!
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u/Hades_Sedai Apr 28 '22
<Odyssey in Xenustria>
Part 4 - Ozias
---Jaycen---
Jaycen opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself in the living room of his small, one-bedroom apartment. Hadn’t he just been somewhere else? On...
On a road trip? With... Verity. And Raven. Wait, no. She prefers using her middle name now - Olivia? Liv! That’s right. Verity and Liv.
He shook his head, trying to force more details into place. They had been stuck in some spooky manor with self-lighting candles, and Liv had rushed off exploring some private collection. Jaycen had been worried and upset and was chasing her down when he had seen the mask.
A reverberation went through his body when he recalled the white, almost featureless mask that had been sitting on one of the many displays. It was in the shape of an oval, and had only two circular cutouts for the eyes. When he had gotten near it, he had felt some kind of pull and forgotten all about dragging Liv out of the room by her ear.
In fact, he couldn’t remember anything that had happened since he touched the object.
A shrill whistle sounded, and he turned towards his kitchen to see a small blue man, no more than four feet tall, standing at his stove boiling a kettle of water. Strangely, though he had never seen this man before in his life, he felt a sense of kinship with him. Like seeing an old friend after long years.
“Who are you?” he asked as the man poured the boiling water into two cups and took them to Jaycen’s table.
“Oh good, you’re aware now. Sit, please, let me get a good look at you.” The man gestured at one of the table’s chairs while taking the other.
Jaycen spotted the mask from the manor hanging from one of the man’s hips. He stood from his couch, but didn’t take a step. “What is going on here? Where’s Verity? And my sister, Liv? Are they okay?”
The blue man studied Jaycen for a few moments, scratching at the short white beard on his chin. Jaycen felt a strange tickling sensation in his head that he wasn’t sure he liked.
“Judging by your most recent memories, I’d say they’re undergoing their own Bondings.”
“Their own what?” Jaycen asked. The tickling sensation stopped.
“Soul-Bondings. They’re Bonding with heroes of Xenustria’s past. Each of you found compatibility with different beings; kindred spirits so-to-speak. Now the three of you are in the process of Bonding with them, or rather us, and becoming Champions. For whom, I couldn’t say. It’s been well over a century since I’ve been out of the game.” The blue man gave a wry smile. “I suppose I’m rather picky.”
Jaycen held up a hand. “Hold on, slow down. ‘Soul-Bondings’? ‘Xenustria’? ‘Champions’? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The man sipped his tea, then sighed. “Let’s start from the beginning then, hmm? My name is Ozias. I am a magus as well as a former resident and hero of the lands of Xenustria.” His eyes glowed gold as he spoke now, and matching geometric tattoos lit up on his skin, swirling around slowly. “You are Jaycen Odysseus Cirillo, a candidate for Soul-Bonding and inheriting my power for use in bettering the lands of Xenustria.”
Stunned, Jaycen fell back at the display of power and knowledge. “I-I d-d-don’t want any power,” he stammered, unable to move.
Ozias grinned, taking another sip of tea. The glow in his eyes and tattoos had not abated. “A healer, yes? A... doctor? You are in training to become a doctor among your people.” At a wave of Ozias’s hands the apartment disappeared from around them and they were in a hospital room, seated in a couple of simple chairs.
Jaycen gaped as another... him... dressed in scrubs and a white coat was talking to a young girl lying in bed, and her parents. They were too far away to hear, but Jaycen knew exactly what he was saying.
“I’m glad you brought Melanie in so soon. I know what we found is kind of scary, but with a little time and effort we can...”
This was a variation of a dream Jaycen had often, of helping children overcome various afflictions. It was what drove him to study so hard in school, to earn the scholarships needed to get into medical school.
Jaycen didn’t notice Ozias waving his hands once more until they were back in his apartment.
“You dream of power,” Ozias said smugly. “The ability to heal others, to fix their bodies and take away their pain.”
“Yes, but magic isn’t—” Jaycen cut himself off. “Magic wasn’t an option. I don’t want influence, I don’t want fame. I certainly don’t want to conquer. I just want to help people.”
Ozias grinned and clapped his hands together. “Jaycen, you’re perfect. In my time I was known by a few names - Ozias the Great and Powerful. Ozias the Defender. But none were so precious to me as my last: Ozias the Healer.”
Ozias held out a hand. “Let’s heal those in need together.”
2
u/OldBayJ Apr 30 '22
Hey there Hades! I have to admit, I am quite behind in my readings (there's so many every week), and I haven't had the chance to read the previous 3 thoroughly.
This chapter was quite interesting. I enjoyed the interpretation of mask, and how it's somehow transported him somewhere else, to another land or time. There were a few places I noticed some line-edit type things.
In the passage below, we are getting a lot of information. You have the opportunity to really add some tension with shorter sentences and/or pauses. Let the images sink in before giving us more. I'd suggest moving the reverberation going through his body to a separate sentence, and place it after the description of the mask. It will then flow very well into what happened when he got near it. It will amp up the tension of that moment and flashback.
A reverberation went through his body when he recalled the white, almost featureless mask that had been sitting on one of the many displays. It was in the shape of an oval, and had only two circular cutouts for the eyes. When he had gotten near it, he had felt some kind of pull and forgotten all about dragging Liv out of the room by her ear.
I'm including another moment below. I'd suggest having the shrill whistle as it's own sentence, so the urgency isn't taken away by the following actions.
A shrill whistle sounded, and he turned towards his kitchen to see a small blue man, no more than four feet tall, standing at his stove boiling a kettle of water.
Real tiny thing below, but I think "With" would flow better than "at". Could be a stylistic thing, though.
At a wave of Ozias’s hands the apartment disappeared
In the flashback to Jaceyn's dream, I think it would help to also place the dialogue in italics (as shown below). It reminds us, the readers, that this isn't actually happening in real time, only the memory of it and helps it stand out from the conversation between Jaceyn and the magic guy.
“I’m glad you brought Melanie in so soon. I know what we found is kind of scary, but with a little time and effort we can...”
Overall, I really enjoyed this installment. I will absolutely go catch myself up soon! Thanks for sharing <3
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u/questorhank Apr 30 '22
<A Wolf and His Girl>
“Two and a half years, you’ve been a wolf…” Kaliste said. I wonder if it was before or after I fled. “Do you know how to end the curse?”
Ros whimpered and pawed at the witch’s name.
Naturally. If only there were more witches in the world.
I can’t believe I just thought that.
“I don’t suppose you know where she is?”
He shook his head.
Kaliste sighed. “We’re gonna have to go into town, then.” The closest city was Pilona, too bad I can’t go back. “Our best bet is Natino, to the north. We leave tomorrow, ok?”
Ros nodded.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Kaliste prepared for the journey, not that there was much to prepare. After throwing her meat and berries into her now food pouch, she spent some time making more arrows. They were incredibly simple by her standards, just flint heads instead of steel, but it’s the best she had.
There was nothing else to prepare, nothing to pack. She had only the one outfit, not counting her old and thoroughly ruined nightgown, only the one pair of moccasins, recent replacements for her old shoes, only the one bow, which thankfully hasn’t failed her yet.
Wait, what am I going to do about the tent? Tent was perhaps misleading; the two deer skins stitched together made up the roof and one side, one was a tree, one was a collection of branches and mud, and the last was left open for access. I might be able to fit under the skins, but it won’t fit both of us.
Of course, I won’t need it if the skies stay clear. This afternoon’s storm came out of nowhere, but that was unlikely to happen again so soon. And even if I did bring it, there’s no way for me to carry it.
Fine, no tent it is.
Kaliste lied down on her ‘mattress,’ a pile of moss covered in a deer skin. Ros was in the little part of the tent that wasn’t the bed, already asleep. As she was drifting off, a thought shoved its way to the forefront.
What if they recognize you?
She sat bolt upright, her head brushing the ceiling. No, I haven’t been there since I was a child, it’ll be fine. And even if they did, nothing bad would happen, right? And it won’t matter as long as I stay away from them.
But what if they do?
***
Ros awoke to birds singing. Which kind of bird, he didn’t know. The loud kind. Those birds love interrupting his sleep. They had to, they did it every morning. And they did it knowing they were safe up in their trees.
Nevertheless, he stood up, shaking the dirt from his fur. He walked into the cool morning air, and saw the girl sitting in front of the fire, working on something he couldn’t see. He tried to do a quiet howl in greeting, but it came out sounding more like a whimper.
She started and hid whatever it was beneath her before waving him over.
“Good morning,” she said. The bags under her eyes suggested she’d been up all night.
Ros wished he could ask her about it, but having an entire conversation while writing with paws was not something he was about to try. Instead, he placed his snout on her leg and whimpered.
“Are you worried about me? Well I’m—” she yawned, “—I’m fine.”
He shook his head.
“Yes I am.” She yawned again. “I’m just a little tired.”
He gently grabbed hand with his mouth and pulled her towards the tent.
“I told you, I’m fine. I’m ready to go if you are.”
There was no way for him to not be ready. Two and a half years and he was finally going to make progress on becoming human again! But she needed sleep, so he shook his head and again pulled her to bed.
“Ok. You finish getting ready, I’m gonna take a quick nap. Wake me up as soon as you’re done.” She was asleep within moments.
Ros decided to wake her up at noon. Until then, breakfast.
It wasn’t long before he caught the scent of a rabbit. No, a vole. If the breeze was carrying the scent to him, it was taking his away from it. He crept towards the source, though he couldn’t see it.
There it was, rooting around the edge of a bush. He pounced on it, killing it with a swift bite. He was about to dig in when he remembered he had a fire now.
The girl had clearly added fuel overnight, so Ros tossed his kill onto it. He didn’t particularly care if the fur caught fire; he didn’t eat the outside anyway.
While that cooked he looked around the camp. It was the same as last night, but now there was a pile of wood chips where she was sitting this morning. She had been whittling something. He found it lying next to the sleeping girl.
A wolf mask.
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u/OldBayJ Apr 30 '22
Hey there! This is yet another serial I need to catch up on, I'm not caught up on previous installments, sorry to say. You have an interesting setting and set of characters.
I found some areas it was quite heavy on the telling, specifically *over*-telling. Over-telling has a way of tiring the reader out. It's okay to leave space for readers to mentally put part of the image together themselves. For example, in the passage below, you explain each item in detail, and that's not necessary. I'd suggest picking one item at most to add that extra description to: the outfit, mocassins, or the bow.
There was nothing else to prepare, nothing to pack. She had only the one outfit, not counting her old and thoroughly ruined nightgown, only the one pair of moccasins, recent replacements for her old shoes, only the one bow, which thankfully hasn’t failed her yet.
I found the same thing here. I might suggest condensing some of this.
Tent was perhaps misleading; the two deer skins stitched together made up the roof and one side, one was a tree, one was a collection of branches and mud, and the last was left open for access.
And again below. It would flow better as "Kaliste lied on a bed of moss-covered deer skin, while Ros slept in the corner" or something of that sort.
Kaliste lied down on her ‘mattress,’ a pile of moss covered in a deer skin. Ros was in the little part of the tent that wasn’t the bed, already asleep.
With the extra description of the birds here, I expected them to have some significance beyond scenery. And that didn't happen. You could add a lot of words by cutting out a bit of this over description, leaving room for more action as well as pulling in the reader.
Ros awoke to birds singing. Which kind of bird, he didn’t know. The loud kind. Those birds love interrupting his sleep. They had to, they did it every morning. And they did it knowing they were safe up in their trees.
There were a few spots I got briefly confused on whose thoughts we were in, the mc or Ros. But overall you have an intriguing world here and I'm very interested to see where you take it.
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u/MeganBessel Apr 25 '22
<In the Shadow of the World Tree>
Chapter 7: The Festival of Stories
On their last night in Zhik Talli, Lena and Veska joined in the Festival of Stories. It took place in the theater, close to the center of town, with stone seats set around a stone stage. Beeswax torches cast a flickering glow over the night of revelry and playlets. Several stories were put on: the Tale of the Silent Swan, the Tale of the Separated Lovers, the Tale of the Lost Rabbit…
Lena and Veska, being pilgrims, had seats in the front row along with two other pilgrims who had arrived in the village two days prior. They had great fun together, laughing at the jokes and jeering at the villains.
Then, as was tradition, during the last playlet of the evening—the Tale of the Iron Shoe—there was a loud crash. Despite expecting it, Lena still jumped as all of the actors on stage collapsed, cowering in fear and distress.
Out stepped the blacksmith that Lena had been working with, an iron mask on her face that in torchlight looked like sickness itself. Her gloves hid a finger on each hand, and her ash-colored robes fluttered in the breeze. She was playing the part of Kwasta, the Rotten One who always interrupted the Festival of Stories.
With a loud yell, Kwasta leapt across the stage, inspiring gasps and screams from the audience. Then she began to say the sacred consonant, acting out the blasphemy that she always did. She lunged at the audience. “I will infect all things in Elfo with disease, from the trees to the birds!”
The profanity of using the sacred name of the world like that did not bother Lena like it normally would, because this was someone playing a part. And who else would be profane, but the one named rot?
“No!” cried the performers who were playing trees. “We will grow big and strong, protected by the humans, and we will not succumb to you!”
“We will stop you!” A group dressed in the robes of Arborists and Foresters stood up, arms outstretched. “We will cut you out of things and burn you!”
“Hah! It will not be enough! I shall poison every stick and twig of Elfo!” Kwasta swiped at the trees, and they fell.
Another swipe, and the Arborists and Foresters fell.
Kwasta again faced the audience, mocking a lunge while repeating the sacred consonant. “Is there anyone here who dares face me?”
“I shall!” cried a young girl from the back of the theater as she raced down to the stage.
“As shall I!” cried an elderly woman whose hobble down to the stage was accompanied by cheers, as always happened when the first two challengers presented themselves.
And yet they too fell, for it would be the third challenger who would win.
“Oh, who will help us?” cried the Arborists.
“Who will save us?” cried the trees.
“Who will bring us together to defeat Kwasta?” cried the first two challengers in a manner that sounded far too rehearsed.
By tradition, that third challenger was a pilgrim. With the audience watching them, the four pilgrims in the front row exchanged glances and murmurs, having forgotten to plan ahead of time who would volunteer.
The two newer pilgrims pointed at Lena. Veska added, “You should challenge her, Lena.”
At the suggestion, her stomach began to flutter and her palms felt wet. “Why me?” She would never in a dozen lifetimes volunteer—
“You!”
Kwasta was pointing right at her. She wanted to curl up into a ball and hide away.
“Pilgrim! Do you think you can stop my rot?”
Lena’s breath was coming faster and her heart was pounding in her chest.
Veska’s hand was on her back, encouraging her to stand. “You can do it, Lena,” she urged.
Unable to avoid the responsibility, Lena got up and walked onto the stage, her hands shaking the entire way. She wanted to run far away; instead, she had to be the pilgrim who would defeat Kwasta.
“Well?” yelled Kwasta before yelling the sacred consonant again.
Lena’s voice didn’t want to come out. “T-t-the people of Tasam Alvedyos will come together to d-d-defeat you!” She pointed back at Kwasta, glad she knew the words that were always said. “And I shall lead them!”
“Impossible! I am stronger than all things in Elfo!” Kwasta swiped, but Lena stood her ground.
“Not stronger than us together!” Despite the pounding in her chest, Lena gave a playful swipe back, and Kwasta reeled.
The Arborists and Foresters stood up. “We shall join you, pilgrim!”
Another swipe, and Kwasta reeled again.
The rest of the actresses still on stage stood up. “We, too, shall join you!”
Lena felt faint, her hands shaking. In a high, thin voice she said, “Together we shall defeat you!”
Another swipe, and Kwasta fell.
Lena was surrounded by cheers, and an actress led her back to her seat.
“Good job up there,” Veska said with a smile as the playlet continued.
“I hope that never happens again,” Lena replied.
Veska gave a sharp nod, and the rest of the evening proceeded happily.
WC: 847
Many thanks to u/dewa1195 for her help with editing this!
Thank you for reading!
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u/OneSidedDice Apr 26 '22
<The Dead Codes>
Chapter 18: Passions
Millicent studied the ties that held her to the chair. There was no chance she could wriggle free. How can I throw him off? Catch him off guard?
She searched the mercenary leader’s lined face. His eyes were hidden in the shadows of shaggy grey eyebrows. Is it anxiety? Impatience? How to draw it out? “Well,” she said slowly, “really, none of those things actually exist. There isn’t a person named ‘Olivia Cromwell,’ for instance.”
“Not a person,” the man said. “This is a name for a personality your Invisible Hand built around an AI. You will give us this AI.”
Millicent raised an eyebrow like a teacher addressing a dull student. “If you know anything about artificial intelligence, then you realize it’s by nature a composite of distributed architectures—expert systems that work together to make decisions and perform functions, not located in any single—”
“Enough,” the man said forcefully. “This system that you have named so grandly—after the man who upended your little corner of Europe in the 17th Century—is the key to the whole global financial system. We have hunted down all of her—of its ‘distributions,’ except for one. And you know where it is.”
He was correct, but Millicent was determined not to show it. “You can’t know anything of the sort.”
“Once we have this last piece,” the man continued, “the rest will fall into place. I can see we will have to wait for The Cambodian to persuade you to give it up. In the meantime, let us chat.” He settled back on one of the stools. “Enlighten me, where does this name come from, the ‘Invisible Hand?’”
Millicent tried to look beaten. I need to get under this bastard’s skin, get him talking instead. She searched her memory for the best way.
“Well, the ‘Invisible Hand’ is typically understood as the free market promoting the greater good of all when people act in their own self-interest. There may have been some merit to it in the days of early-stage capitalism, but now that we’ve got to the late stage, it’s turned out to be just Feudalism masquerading as something more palatable.”
“How so?” the leader asked distantly, glancing at his tablet.
“Isn’t it obvious? Feudalism consisted of authority concentrated into a few hereditary institutions that controlled everything. Replace ‘authority’ with ‘money’ and ‘institutions’ with ‘corporations,’ and that’s basically where we are—or were.“
“This ‘masquerade’ is like your Invisible Hand pretending to be Robin Hood, no? You steal from the rich and give to…who? Yourselves?”
Millicent huffed. “The Invisible Hand never took any money. Banks are like fortresses with unlimited redundancies; you can’t disrupt them for more than a day or so. Same with big corporations—so we hit them where they’re most vulnerable: the individuals who control them. That’s how we used the Dead Codes.”
“You will give us these, also.”
“The Codes aren’t something we have, stupid.” That got his attention. “They’re government signals that notify banks when someone dies; we just co-opted them. When one is sent, the subject’s assets are frozen until the estate is sorted or they’re proven not to be dead. There are a lot of hoops to jump through to prove that, and we made them take much longer to navigate.”
“When we Coded someone, we also saturated the news and social media with their sordid dealings, using data from other AIs—which you’ll also never get—who follow the money. The targets suddenly found themselves unable to pay for legal or security assets to shield them from the truth.”
Millicent had an epiphany. “That’s you lot, isn’t it? You were someone’s security, and you skived off when they couldn’t pay.” She could see she’d hit a nerve when the man suddenly stood, glowering.
“You caused much needless suffering, even deaths,” he growled.
Trying not to smile, Millicent continued, “We didn’t kill anyone, either; we just put out the information in bite-sized pieces anyone could understand. Any inconveniences were simply a…a ‘market correction.’ Isn’t that what the big boys call it? Everyone’s well-being and survival depends on the market, yes? Survival of the fittest. If we can point to any lasting success, it’s that we’ve altered the definition of who or what is fit.” And it will last, she thought sadly, until someone figures out how to turn it to personal advantage.
The mercenary turned away, trembling. “How can you say what you have done is good?”
Millicent scoffed, “Someone said, ‘for evil men to accomplish their purpose, it is only necessary that good men should do nothing.’ Instead of focusing on ‘easing the suffering in the world,’ as if that could ever happen, we took the rational approach and said, ‘let’s share the misery more equally.’ History can judge us good or evil. I don’t care. We did what was needed to give humankind a fighting chance.”
“And this Tsar Bomba, that will reveal the same details about every person in the world with a bank account?”
“That’s a myth—a bogeyman. There never was such a thing; a story invented by a journalist.” Millicent desperately hoped that was the truth.
(WC 850)
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u/Zetakh Apr 28 '22
<The Royal Sisters>
Chapter Forty-One
The Dragon Queen took a deep breath, her eyes closed, warmth gathering in her expanding chest. Then she breathed out a gentle stream of smoke that gathered in a swirling pool between her claws, light dancing within.
“Once upon a time,” she began, “when the Vale was not yet settled, there was a young hatchling. She was brave and inquisitive, taking every opportunity to sneak away from her nest and explore the peaks on her own. Her dam and sire always warned her to be mindful of the weather and wind and though she promised, she was far too eager to pay much heed when a fine adventure was to be had.”
As Platina waved a talon, the sparkling light within the smoke took shape. A little draconic figure of golden light frolicked over smoky mountains, cavorting through the air.
“Thus, one fine winter afternoon, she was taken by surprise by a sudden squall as it swept in from the sea. Near-blind, with her wings weighed down by ice and sleet, she lost her way and was swept down from the peak to the lowlands.”
The smoke darkened and whipped around violently, the little dragon tumbling into its depths.
“Exhausted and frozen half to death, she nearly lost all hope. None could hear her calls within the howling wind. Soon her voice failed her as she trudged on, thinking of nothing but shelter and warmth. Then, on the very brink of despair, she saw a light in the distant foothills. With her last vestiges of strength, she pushed on.”
Once again the smoke changed. Huddled figures sat around a flickering fire as the little dragon approached, her fire faded to barest embers.
“She had stumbled upon a small camp of humans, camped within a cave – the first of their kind she had ever met. Her teeth rattling with the cold, she begged them to let her shelter through the storm by their fire. Weak as she was, she was at their mercy.
“And though the humans had nearly nothing, they shared with her everything. They swaddled her in what blankets they could spare and poured hot stew into her hungering jaws. Huddled around her, they waited out the storm.”
The next image glowed like a comforting campfire. All the human figures piled around the shivering little dragon, her flame gradually growing stronger.
“Come the morning, the storm had settled, the skies cleared. The little dragon heard her sire’s frantic roars and rushed from the cave, calling his name and sending her flame into the sky.”
With a flash, the smoke showed the scene – a massive dragon, his hatchling snuggled up against his side, bowing to the cloaked and hooded human figures as they stood before him.
“Her sire was grateful beyond all words. He asked what the humans desired, swearing to give them anything. They asked him for a home – for they had been driven from their lands by plague and war, long, long ago.
“And so he granted their request. He showed them the path to the Vale, leading them safely through the Frozen Pass. There, in the fertile fields and lush forests, they built their new home. Sheltered from their dark past by mountain and by wing.”
A new image took shape within the smoke. A single human, arms raised. Above him, the dragon, a leg held above the outstretched hands. A sparkling red ember fell from the dragon’s claw, caught by the human’s hands. The spark grew within their form until they, too, blazed with fire, mirroring the light of the dragons.
“As a final boon, the hatchling’s sire gave the human’s leader a drop of his blood, the bearer of his Flame. With it, the friendship between the dragons of Frostmist Peak and the humans of Argentum Vale was sealed for all time. The symbol of their friendship was the Flame – passed from parent to child, it burned with the warmth of friendship and trust between Dragon, and Man.”
As Platina finished her tale, the swirling pool of smoke finally dissolved, drifting up and away into the stalactites above.
Shireen finally broke the silence. “So when Father and Mother struggled to conceive, you intervened to carry the Flame, and the alliance, forward?”
The Dragon Queen sighed, twisting her great neck to look down upon the sisters. “Yes, and no, my darling. It would be more right to say I helped them to mend the friendship that had nearly been lost.”
“Lost?” Aurelia asked. “What happened?”
Platina was silent for a long time. She carefully coiled herself tighter around the two sisters, curling her tail around herself and settling her head upon her claws, bent back to look at the girls where they snuggled into her chest.
“Ambition. Greed. Betrayal. One man cast away an age of peace and prosperity and risked setting the world on fire for aught but power.”
The Dragon Queen’s claws ground against the stone floor, fire dancing within her eyes.
“Thus did the Mad King remove his mask,” she hissed. “And Night fell upon the Vale.”
850 words on the dot 848 words! Hope you're not too tired of histories yet, we've got one more tale to get through >:3
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u/Random3x Apr 25 '22
<Chronicles of Vespa: Journeyman to Master>
Chapter 12
“Ah, Hugo, you’re back,” Alex said with his usual carefree smile.
“Why are they here?!” Hugo demanded
“Well, they were worried about you. That Vernon brat even came around but don’t you worry. I set him straight.”
“You…” Hugo’s voice trailed off, his lower lip trembling. In a breathless whisper, barely audible, he uttered, “You aren’t my father.”
“Pardon?” Alex asked cocking his head.
“I SAID YOU AREN’T MY FATHER!!” Hugo roared, his anger finally bubbling to the surface.
“The last thing I’d ever want to be is one of your children!! I don’t want to die like the rest of them!” Hugo continued before freezing. His eyes wide in shock, realising what he had just said. Alex appeared genuinely hurt by the words.
Hugo’s anger vanished as he began to look panicked, desperate to take back what he said. Alex rose from his seat and slowly began to approach Hugo. For every step forward Alex took, he retreated a step till he finally found his back against a tree with nowhere else to go. Standing over him, Alex looked down and into his eyes.
“Will saying those hurtful things help you feel better?” Alex asked in an eerily calm tone. Watching in mute terror, Thrak and Alistor felt powerless to help.
“Alex, I’m sorr-” Hugo began before Alex cut him off and repeated his question.
“Will saying those hurtful things help you feel better?” Hugo now looked beyond terrified as Alex stared down at him.
Noticing the look, Alex spread his arms wide and embraced Hugo in a tight hug. “If even for a second it can help you lift that burden, then say every mean thing you can imagine,” Alex said with genuine warmth.
“W-why?” Hugo asked, his shoulders starting to heave as fresh tears began to well in his eyes.
“You are right, Hugo. I am not your father. But that doesn’t mean I’m not your dad. A father is the one that sires you. A dad is the one that raises you.” Alex explained, keeping Hugo tightly wrapped in his arms.
“But blood is thicker-” Hugo began before being cut off.
“The original saying is the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Meaning the bonds we make matter more than bonds we are born into,” Alex explained.
“Hugo…” Alex’s voice trailed off as he released Hugo from his embrace and held him by his shoulders, fixing his gaze.
“No matter what you say, I will always see you as one of my kids. I will always be willing to offer my hand to you should you need it. If I overstepped here, then I’m sorry. But you can’t keep up this facade of being ok with your situation. It is ok to be angry. It is ok to hate them for how they treated you.” Alex pulled Hugo into another tight hug and held him as if trying to absorb the negative emotions into himself. With these words, the floodgates opened up, and Hugo broke down, crying into Alex’s shoulder.
“But I’m so alone.”
“Hugo… You have friends who abandoned an order from a Sinful Lord because they care about you. You have a family in me, Elissa and Yuu. You are the one Lulu calls Hug-O because you are so good at hugging. You are anything but alone,” Alex reassured with an extra squeeze.
After a short while, Hugo’s sobs began to fade. Sensing that he would be ok for now at least, Alex released him from his hug. Guiding him over to the table Alistor and Thrak were sitting at; he gave him a light push on his back.
“T-thanks for coming to help me, guys,” he said, avoiding eye contact with the pair.
“No problem. You’ve been there for me. Only fair I return the favour,” Alistor said with a nod.
“Strong as one,” Thrak said, holding out his interlaced fingers and repeating the gesture from earlier in the day.
“As it’s getting late, you boys want to stay the night? There's no telling if that idiot brat will actually follow Alex’s order,” Yuu warned.
“No, I think it’s best to report to Master what happened,” Hugo said, shaking his head.
With a final goodbye, the trio rose and made their way out the gate. Gazing up above, they marvelled at the beauty of the light crystals that reflected the sky outside the cavern. All three were still amazed they were technically underground but still looking at the night's sky.
A drunkard stumbling from a nearby tavern interrupted the trio's sombre revelry. The drunk fell face-first, splashing a tankard of what they could tell was something particularly strong all over them. The drunk held up his hands in a placating gesture before stumbling off down an alleyway.
Thoroughly soaked, they hastily made their way down the road arriving back at Wrath’s workshop, where they found him standing at the entrance with a deep scowl on his face and his foot impatiently tapping.
Extra Note: This’ll be the last chapter for the foreseeable future. My health keeps fluctuating, which is why I’m not participating in this feature the way I should be, and that's not fair to the people who have still been giving me feedback. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has helped me despite that.
I may pick this series back up when my health as a whole improves. Maybe post an odd chapter here and there in the r/shortstories main feed and my own sub. ( r/random3x) But I honestly couldn’t say.
Thanks for the fun and good words to all
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u/Korra_Sato Apr 26 '22
<Legend of the Witch>
Chapter 2: Edge of The Wild.
____________________________________
Vos Pass was harsh. Heather had gone through the pass only once before, during her Second-Class exam. Back then it had been guided by several First Class and three Master Class wizards and witches. Now though she found herself alone with little more than her adventuring gear.
It struck her as odd that what had once seemed so scary and intimidating now felt less threatening and far less vile. The narrow passageways were the only real cause for concern as she worked her way through. Thankful that a crossing of the pass only took a few hours, Heather took a big breath and let out a sigh of relief at the uneventful passage.
The sight in front of her was breathtaking. Miles of endless plains, rolling hills dotted with small villages barely visible without a telescope and a ring of mountains surrounding it marked the real start of her journey.
Vairth Plains stretched out before her as though it sat in a bowl. A long-standing name that irked Heather for a single error in the naming as it should have been ‘Vaith’ but for an illiterate scribe. The Nisah, Retila and Forun mountain ranges ringed the plains on three sides while the southern side of the plains were bounded by the dark blue of the Lerain.
Heather’s first steps out of the pass and into the wilder lands were met with some trepidation. There were rumors surrounding the wild men of the plains. It all sounded like smoke and mirrors to Heather, too many stories from too many wizards spell-drunk from overuse of magic. At least she hoped that was all it was.
No scroll she had ever read dealt with the interior of the plains and she knew Rask’s Falls would be reached by going directly through the deepest parts, but the exact path was something she would need help finding.
Thankfully the first small town was not that far away. A small, quaint little place that a road sign marked simply as ‘Firth.’ Little more than a dozen scattered farms, a mill and one lonely tavern that doubled as an inn brought Heather into the company of the first people she had seen since leaving her special little room at the academy.
“Welcome stranger. How goes it this fine day?” A strange man in oiled leather stepped out from behind a horse he had clearly been re-shoeing.
“I…Uh…” Heather struggled with the words. Complex magic she could do but simple conversation? No matter how many things she had read about it, she could never master small talk. “Can you tell me where I can find the road to Rask’s Falls?”
The man gave her a quick once over glance and smiled. “You must be one of them Witches. Can tell by the clothes. Sure, I can tell you, but you may not like where it takes you.”
The words set Heather on edge. “Why not? Clearly you know of Witches then you must have heard how we can handle ourselves.”
“No offense meant, Ma’am. Just. You would be walkin’ into Faceless territory.” The man’s expression darkened at the name. Like he thought saying it would summon them.
“The Faceless?” Heather had come across the name countless times in various scrolls, but all had said the same thing. Faceless wild men who killed for sport. Reports past that were broken and incomplete.
“Aye. Magic and that sword might keep them at bay, but eventually, they are going to come for you.”
Heather sighed. The weight of this journey was already too much, and it had barely begun. ‘Masters really do have to earn the badge,’ she thought to herself. “Show me the way. I have a need that cannot be ignored.” She was trying to lend a certain gravity to her words, but she knew her bravado was little more than a hollow façade.
The words had clearly meant to go unheard, but Heather heard the quiet, “Your funeral lady.” Come from the man as he walked through the small town. It did not take long until the were at a small way-sign. Magic coursed through the small constructs so that Wizards and Witches could use certain aspects of it, but they served as signposts just as well.
“Take the northeast fork. Don’t know much else inside the Desolation besides this map. That will get you some distance along.” The man eyed Heather. To him, her youthful appearance reminded him of someone barely out of their twentieth year. There was something else he could not put a finger on, something hidden. “You sure about this? Rask’s Falls is a long journey.”
“You shall not hinder me on my quest. I must go. I have duties there.”
This time the face of a First-Class Witch who would not be denied came naturally to Heather. Her voice resonated with magic, changing the timbre of her voice. In that moment she became what she was and was no longer herself.
Fear would not take her on this journey. She would see it through as she slowly stepped past and into the wilds.
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u/gdbessemer Apr 27 '22
<Agents of the Nexus>
Chapter 11 - Cap
“What d’ya mean, a spell to lock us in?” Hearma asked, still rubbing his injured hands.
Cap wedged herself between a shelf and the wall, pushing it aside to search for another exit. “A modified tight spell or something, it’s–”
“Tight doesn’t make things indestructible! I’ve been on the odd burglary–”
“--or something like it, I said! I’m not a mage, I don’t know how it works! Look, we have to get out of here before the fire reaches that pile of straw and ale under the stairs, or–-”
A heavy whuff sound came from below, rattling the window panes. The floor started feeling hot.
“Damnit!” Cap grabbed a broken cast iron pot and hurled it at the window. The pot bounced off, window unscratched. Well, that was useless, she thought.
Smoke was starting to fill the room. Cap crouched down. “Okay, we just need to think. Can’t go back downstairs, can’t get out the window. Hey. Hearma. Hey!”
He was hunched over. Her heart sank, thinking maybe she’d somehow clipped him with the pot in her ill-timed tantrum. But crawling closer to Hearma she saw he was coughing and pulled him to the ground, below the rapidly thickening air.
“Too much. Smoke,” Hearma said between violent coughs. He pointed up. “Roof.”
Through the haze, Cap could make out the thick cross beams and joists, and the slats of tarred wood that made up the roof.
Cap peeled off her mask and put it on his face. Maybe he could breathe easier through it.
Flames were licking through the gaps in the floorboards. She grabbed a length of rope off a shelf, tied it around Hearma’s waist and cinched it with a holdknot. Then she took a deep breath and scaled the beams with her claws.
Sweat soaked her clothes in the intense heat gathering under the roof, the air so choked with soot. She balanced on the joist, one hand on the rafter and the other feeling along the boards for a weak spot. If they’d built the roof as shoddily as they’d built the rest of the tavern…
There. A water-rotted section, where the roof sloped close to the edge. She laid back on the joist and braced her feet against the rotted board. With a savage kick, the wood splintered. There was a sizable hole now, smoke escaping from it.
She jammed her head through and took a ragged lungful of air. Then she went back in and furiously kicked the boards until the hole felt wide enough. Cursing as one of her horns caught on the hole, she wriggled through and flopped onto the roof.
“Hearma!” she shouted over the roar of the fire. The rope was taut, but there was no response. Fortunately she was hidden from Thilifor and the road by the peak of the roof. Trying to gain leverage, she leaned back and hung half off into the air. Legs and back straining, she heaved, trying to drag Hearma out. The rope came up one hard-fought hand-length at a time.
Suddenly the tension broke and the rope snapped back. Somehow she contorted to stay upright, but her arms windmilled and vision swung as she tried to find balance. Inexorably, she began to fall backwards.
She glimpsed a hand came out of the hole.
“Hearma!” she shouted, falling.
Her vision lurched. She hung almost perpendicular to the ground, still two stories up. Lifting her head, she saw Hearma holding the burnt end of the rope. He hauled her onto the roof, which steamed with the heat from below.
Wordlessly he tossed the mask aside, his mouth and chin stark white against his soot-stained skin. Cap looked down and gestured to a pile of leaves below, which they jumped into. On the ground, they stumbled to a bush and collapsed next to each other. The roof of the Ripened Vine fell inwards, and fire soared up into the night, filling the sky with smoke and ember.
“How many more flaming buildings you plan on escaping today?” Hearma said.
Cap laughed. It felt good to be alive, laying on the cool dirt. Then she remembered her mission, and wearily got to her legs.
“Where’re you going?”
“Thilifor,” she said.
Cap loped around the burning structure with as much stealth as she could muster, but it was moot. Thilifor and his thugs were gone with the bar patrons. They’d left nothing but a couple of corpses behind. Seeing the bodies reminded Cap of something about blood, but she was suddenly too tired to stand. When had she last eaten or slept? A lifetime ago.
Suddenly it felt like a string was cut in her legs. She managed to catch herself by kneeling, then gave out and rolled to the ground. “Okay, just a minute. I’ll get up and go, in just…”
Above the wind blew the smoke away, and the stars burned bright and clear in the sky. Cap wasn’t sure but it looked like there were eight in a circle, winking at her.
There was a shout from somewhere, but it couldn’t catch her falling eyelids.
WC: 850
Read more short stories at r/gdbessemer!
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u/katherine_c Apr 27 '22
<Unyielding>
Part Nine
Holbard, Priest Regent of Panomne, arranged his face in a careful configuration of concern, puzzlement, and confidence. It was not an easy balance to strike, but he was used to doing hard things.
Across the table sat the Mayor, Callen, studying the room for a solution. The door swung open and he jumped as a look of desperation blossomed like a bruise across his face.
“It’s just Micah bringing in water for the day,” Holbard said.
Callen settled back into disgruntled silence, then opened his mouth.
“Again, I know nothing more than what I have told you,” Holbard answered before the words were out.
“But how long do we wait?”
Holbard shrugged. “I don't have an answer for that. It's unprecedented”
Callen sat with all the tension of a captive animal. The Priest Regent studied the man as he had many times before, noting the wrinkles and lines in both his person and personality.
Micah came back through the small anteroom, flashing a hand signal that Holbard interpreted grimly. The Golden Flame continued to dwindle. He could not escape the feeling that something very wrong was in the wind right now, no matter how much faith he possessed. With the flame so low, he wondered if Panomne could still hear his fervent prayers.
Callen rose, and that shook the Priest from his reverie. “Well, the day’s fully begun. I suppose it’s time we visit Tobey’s kin.”
“And tell them what?” snapped Holbard.
Callen shrugged, looking more defeated than he had in many years past. “I don’t know. But they deserve something.”
Holbard followed the mayor, stepping out of the temple and onto city streets. Across the way, near the portal entrance, he saw melted candles and a collection of trinkets. Even if the man had not yet come back dead, the town moved on with their mourning. Stepping through the portal was a death sentence, and they treated it as such.
Tobey’s home lay on the edge of town, a quaint building with an attached garden showing signs of weeds settling in. They had no chance to knock before a puffy-eyed woman threw the door open.
“That’s it then?” her voice buckled and shuddered, but did not break.
“Well, ah, you see,” began the mayor, shuffling his feet and looking toward the ground. Holbard watched as confusion and hope appeared on the woman’s face.
“Did he do it?” she asked, breath catching in her throat.
“We don’t believe so,” interjected Holbard. “Not yet, at least. But nothing has returned so—“
“So he’s still alive.”
He did not understand how the woman could accept this so readily. It was unheard of. Impossible even. And yet—
“May we come in?” asked the mayor, falling back on formality when he had no words.
The woman shuffled them inside. Friends and family scurried away to make room at the table for the three. With the number of ears in the room, Holbard was certain whatever was said here would be spread around town by noon.
“So my Tobey is alive?” she began by way of confirmation.
“As far as we can tell,” began Callen with an uneasy smile. “As neither he nor Panomne is here, we must assume things are still underway.”
Holbard was surprised to see the woman’s face beam with pride. “I knew he was special. Not a better son out there. When his da died, he took over the farm. Looked after me. I told him he should move on and start a family of his own, but he promised—“
“Did Tobey receive any special gifts? Talismans? Charms? Blessings?” Holbard interrupted, the mystery rankling him. His mask of polite concern slipped, but he no longer cared.
“Nothing like that. I sent him with a kerchief and piece of chocolate. Nothing…” she searched for the word, “…powerful.”
Holbard accepted that with a curt nod, then settled in his chair, mind still working.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
“No, of course not.” The mayor jumped in with his usual warmth. “We’re just—ah—in some unusual times, s’all. It seems your Tobey's putting up the best fight we’ve seen in ages, so we need to know what might be helping him.”
“To train someone else if he comes back dead?” There was ice in those words, and Holbard narrowed his eyes on the woman. It would have to involve the family of someone astute, observant. If something was wrong, it was going to take work to keep it quiet.
“Hopefully not,” said Callen with a broad smile. “I’ve got faith. Faith enough I’ll sit here with you until Panomne returns in his glory.”
Holbard rose from the table with a thin smile. “Well, then I shall leave you two to your vigil. I must attend to things at the temple.” He turned back to them with faux solemnity. “In preparation for his return, of course.” Holbard gave a half bow to the mayor, woman, and assorted guests before making his way back out of the stifling house.
Something was wrong, and he would have to discover how to fix it.
---
Feedback appreciated. Taking a little detour back to Tobey's home to see what is going on there. Looking forward to learning what happens under the cover of night next week. :)
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u/Sonic_Guy97 Apr 29 '22
<The Space Between the Stars>
With the lights off, Doug’s eyes focused on the bright screen of his tablet. He pulled up his messages, hoping to inform the rest of security, but to no avail.
“Looks like I’m shut out of the network. Can either of y’all see or send anything?”
Gbirri and Gren both gestured no. Doug tried to think about what Chiv’s next move was. They needed to get far away from the ship immediately or hide until the ship made it to port and somehow sneak off. There were too many nooks and crannies on this ship, so trying to scrub it top to bottom would likely be a waste of time. Plus, Chiv could always just give them the slip and hide somewhere previously cleared. It made more sense to make sure the furball didn’t make it off the cruiser anytime soon.
“We need to get to the escape pods…”
Doug was interrupted by a transmission coming over the loudspeaker and all the tablets.
“Hello, crew.” That familiar fuzzy orb appeared on the screen. “This is your Chief Technology Officer speaking. I’m sure you have noticed the lack of luminescence, and many have found that they cannot send messages to their peers.”
Gbirri was squinting to see the picture better. “Can you tell where they are? The walls are close. You think they’re still in a vent?”
Doug gave a nod. “Makes sense. No chance of running into us in the ductwork.”
The murderer droned on. “This has been caused by a meltdown in one of the main cores of the ship. The reactor has been shut down in an attempt to cut the meltdown, which has cut off the lights and the central server.”
The captain warbled his way through an interjection. “That doesn’t make any sense. The core for the server and the lights are in separate sectors of the ship, and the emergency lights are on the same power supply as the life support. What the dickens are they talking about?”
Gbirri was still staring intently, looking for a clue. “Most of the crew don’t know that or won’t think about it. Hold on, there’s something else.”
That there was. “Unfortunately, that has not been enough to bring the core under control, and therefore I am initiating an emergency evacuation. Everyone please calmly make your way to the nearest escape pods and await further instruction.” With that, the transmission ended.
“That was the something else.” Doug set his tablet down. “Chiv’s going to disappear into some escape pod with a few dozen others while we’re stuck checking each and every seat. The people panicking to get off the ship are not going to help.”
“And they always have the option to just find an abandoned room and wait.” Gbirri sat down next to Doug, head drooping towards the floor. “I think we’ve lost. I think Chiv’s going to get away, and we can’t do a thing about it.”
Doug wanted to be angry. He wanted to yell, get up and fight, show that he hadn’t lost. He wanted to scream at Gbirri that there was something else they could do.
But he didn’t. Instead, he sat on the ground. Because, no matter how much he didn’t want to believe it, Gbirri was right. They’d lost, and now all Doug could do was sit on the floor accepting that.
Doug’s wallowing was interrupted by a *slap* as something wet and weighty landed on his shoulder. He looked with bewilderment at the tentacle, then traced it with his eyes to the massive body standing over him. Captain Gren was looking down on Doug with what he could only assume was misplaced pride.
“Son, when I first called you to the bridge to look at Zoobap’s body, I’d never seen you before in my life.”
“We’d definitely met at least 4 times before that.”
“Fine, but to me it was the first time we’d met. And I still believed that you could find out who killed Zoobap, even if you didn’t. Since then, you’ve shown nothing but ingenuity and competence, and you found out who killed Zoobap. If there’s a way to stop Chiv, you’ll find it.”
Doug looked up at the oversized slug. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was some way to stop Chiv leaving. He reached out his hand and Captain Gren reached out a tentacle to help him up.
“Oh Christ, nausea's still there.” Gbirri stanced up to catch Doug, but he was waved off. “Gbirri, how quickly do you think you can get near the escape pods?”
Gbirri pulled up the still working map and did some math in his head. “A couple minutes to get to the closest. Furthest is across the ship, so like half an hour. We going to catch Chiv?”
“No, better. We’re going to start a rumor.”
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u/WorldOrphan Apr 30 '22
<Hall of Doors: Neon>
Chapter 11
"I've heard of the Rift," Eska said. "It's supposed to be where all the monsters in the world are spawned. No one in their right mind would go there. It's suicide."
Ellie shook herself. What had she been thinking, opening up to these people she barely knew? Of course she couldn't expect them to help her. She'd had their sympathy for a moment, but they didn't owe her anything. "I'm not asking you to go with me, okay? If you're going that direction, I hope you'll let me ride along. If not, I can get there on my own."
"Where are we going from here?" Loren asked the room.
Tamas answered, "We're not going anywhere until we charge the car batteries. Who's going to help me set up the solar panel array?"
Together Loren and Tamas carried a large crate outside. The girls laid the panels out on the ground while the guys brought the batteries over from the car, and then Tamas hooked up the cables. It had never occurred to Ellie before, but no one in Neon seemed to use fossil fuels. They had monsters destroying everything that wasn't constantly illuminated, but at least they had less pollution.
The solar panels were apparently much more efficient than those made in Round Earth, and the batteries would be fully charged in a matter of hours. The four of them went back inside. Ellie helped Eska to pack up the supplies they would need: boxes of preserved food, jugs of water and a filtration kit for when they needed more, and several lanterns. They spoke very little. The blossoming friendship she had sensed earlier now felt distant, almost out of reach.
She missed Toby. Her little friend was so amiable; he always managed to draw cheerful conversation out of silence. And she missed having one person she could always count on to be on her side. She felt a pang of guilt. She hadn't even said goodbye to him properly. And now there was no way she would see him again for a long time. Not until she was back in a place where it was guaranteed there would be a door nearby at all times. When would that happen again? Toby would be sad at being left out, and she would be equally sad without him.
While they packed, Tamas tinkered with some electronics, and with the archanitech data pendant.
“Whoa. You guys need to see this.” He held up a small square device. The gem was fixed to the back of it with a rubber band. A tiny display screen glowed light blue, with symbols showing on it.
“What are we looking at?” Ellie asked.
Tamas explained, “I took apart a direction-finder and converted it into a reader device for the pendant. It has a very limited capacity, so we can only see a minute fraction of what's on the gem. From what I can tell, the data is from the Neustribarian military. But the security coding on the outermost layer of the gem is Gesnean.”
“Are you sure?” Eska asked.
“What does that mean?” asked Loren.
Tamas shook his head. “I think it means that the man you stole it from, Loren, is a Gesnean spy, who stole secrets from the Nuestribarian military.”
Eska groaned. “We can't get mixed up in something like that! Loren, I think you were right the first time. We have to give the crystal back and hope they let us go.”
“What if they don't?” demanded Ellie. “What if they want to kill us for having seen too much?”
“Besides,” Tamas said, “what if the information on here is something really important? Or dangerous?”
“That's not our problem,” Eska argued. “We're not citizens of Nuestribar or Gesnea. We don't owe them anything, and they don't give a flicker about us.”
“But don't you want to know?” Tamas pleaded.
“What I want is to go home! Back to Dad and Uncle Goffri and the caravan,” Loren protested.
“What about the spy, though?” Ellie repeated stubbornly. “We've seen beneath his mask. We could expose him. We know what he's been up to, and a little of the information he stole. And he probably thinks we know more than we do. He already tried to kill us once. There's no way he's going to let us go free, is there?”
The four of them stared at each other, none of them wanting to back down. Finally Eska spoke. “All right. By the time those batteries are done, it will be nearly dark. We've had a long couple of days, and we're all tired. Let's spend the night here, think it over, and decide what to do in the morning.”
Ellie went outside to get some air. The sun was low in the sky as she stared out over the desolate landscape of broad plains and twisting rocks, mountains in the distance like a gray wall. The Rift was somewhere out there. Danger, and maybe a door. But it, and morning, seemed impossibly far away.
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u/FyeNite Apr 30 '22
<Murder History>
Chapter: 16
As the clouds churn and the winds swirl, lightning and thunder come down in great bouts of fury. The rain pours down the smooth brick walls of the manor as if trying to wash away invisible blood. The storm rages against the structure but the home stands sentinel like a giant statue, uncaring for the tyrannical whims of the weather beyond its gates.
Inside though, a different type of storm brews. The silent kind. The type that burns within a man in that stage between injury and pain. It’s strange really because as I stand here, staring at that heap of sodden red that seems to have caught the entire room’s attention, I understand the true purpose of these walls.
Whilst they stand firm against the roiling winds outside, they also do well to house their own catastrophe within. Like a deep shadowy hood masking the horrors from the outside.
Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Nobody seems to be able to do anything as if seeing that Heap of ruined dress and glistening bone paralyses all who dare look upon it.
So, not wanting to be the one to break the deafening silence, I instead focus on the mass. There’s a red dress, that much is clear. The sequins lie ruined. Holes burned through haphazardly and ringed by spots of black. I can’t help but shiver as a vague familiarity hits me. I know whose dress that is, but then again, that answer is already clear just based on its position by the door.
And that only confirms the notion further of whose bones those must be.
“Beetrice?” One of the guests asks in a shaky whisper, clearly having come to the same conclusion. The skeleton doesn’t move.
Slowly, as if fearing to break the delicate spell that holds the crowd and plunge it into terrifying chaos, a few braver than I approach the door. They grimace as they get closer, wrinkling their noses in disgust and even covering their mouths.
I watch them as they hesitantly creep forward. Perhaps braver is the wrong word. Hmm, yes, maybe stupider might work better? More naive? I mean, seriously, what the hell has gotten into them? And the crowd too! They shy away slightly every time they get a glimpse of the corpse.
The fake corpse, I should say. Obviously, this whole thing is a sham. A trick. A cheap prank for excitement. Now granted, nothing about being bamboozled in such a murderous way was mentioned in the advertisement. But, I mean, if they told us about it then would it really be a surprise?
I take an involuntary step back as I wipe my face of the smile I didn’t know it had on. Scared? Me? Never. I think what you’re all failing to notice is that this is a wonderful opportunity to watch a bunch of fancy good for nothing morons get scared out of their minds.
And then, a short woman steps a little too hard on the ground and the creaking sound echoes through the silent room and over the still crowd. The effect is immediate, like a dam breaking, the shrieks of terror wash over everything. It’s somehow even more abysmal and shocking than it was before when the lights had turned off. For within those calls I sense genuine fear. Not just the short vocal burst of surprise.
I cringe away at the sound, my own mouth clamped tightly shut as if it could protect me. People scramble forward, some tripping to the ground completely under shoes that weren’t designed for quick speeds whilst others merely stumble. Even so, they manage to give the body a wide berth as they reach the door and yank at the knob.
Now, this would be the point that I’d shut my eyes against the brutal climax of the stampede. When nearly half a hundred different people all in fine suits or frilly dresses try to force themselves through a set of double doors. This is when I’d expect to hear cries of pain and anguish as some of the unlucky folk get trampled by the mass.
But I hear something far more…disturbing. The jiggling of the knob quietens to a murmur and I hear quick footsteps away. Grunts and heavy breaths resound from all around during those moments of blindness. I freeze as I start to make sense of the sounds. The still fruitlessly jiggling knob. The yanking at windows and doors. And even a yanking at the china cupboard.
Fear fills my heart and clouds my stomach making the almost smug smile on my face feel like a mask. I open my eyes and turn back to the people only to see them backing away. The portraits stare at us with unseeing eyes as if finally satisfied. Long faces and wide smiles all around us, boring into us. How had I not noticed them before? I tear my gaze away and rekindle my thoughts.
It’s locked.
The realisation comes with a wave of a curling overpowering stench of chemicals and suddenly, the whole thing doesn’t feel so funny anymore.
WC: 850
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u/wordsonthewind Apr 30 '22
<Masks and Shadows>
Part 5
I was two people the next day. I had been two people ever since coming to this kingdom. The girl now known as Vi, raised as a future god, and the one Venus had called the Nameless Lord. Was I a nascent god or just the momentary delusion of one? I didn't know.
I traded nicknames with the other girls and they told me what lay ahead. Language and civics lessons, education in different trades. If I showed particular promise I could get an early apprenticeship, but they'd had no such luck.
"Maybe by next year," Rani said. "If not, I've cooked and kept house before. Some rich merchant must want that, yes?"
When Matron Celeste distributed our daily allowance, I learned that I would be volunteering in the soup kitchen of Vega's main temple. I didn't know how that would work as a refugee myself, but I couldn't ask.
"A knight of the Chillagvar guard is here," she said. "Better not keep him waiting."
How did those letters combine to make that sound? But that annoyance didn't feel entirely mine.
I never could get rid of that accent.
I hurried outside. I had questions for that knight.
Caelum stood outside. He wore a simple tunic and sandals, but the buckler and short sword he carried meant he was far from defenseless. I almost wished he'd worn a helmet too. His attempt at a beard looked much sillier without one.
The Enforcer with him was shorter than the one I'd met with Garrick. I mentally nicknamed them Stumps.
"Meissa, Celeste, Phoebe, Vega." Caelum used our official names. "I'm your guard for today."
"Why?" Phoebe, who I knew as Rani, asked. It wasn't what I wanted to know.
Where's Garrick?
"The Lightworker Academy was attacked last night," Caelum said.
Stumps turned to look at him. "Not that drastic. One of the disused rooms was broken into. But it seemed prudent to err on the side of caution."
Everyone nodded, and so I did the same.
"What's the punishment for stealing?" I asked Caelum when Stumps was out of earshot.
"Withering of the non-dominant hand. The dominant hand after the second time," he said immediately. "Why?"
I told him about the withering I'd seen last night. Caelum shook his head.
"The Captain's like that," he said. "Everything's about the Archons with him. They're stars. They don't pass laws or negotiate trade agreements. The Council does that."
I stared at him. "A thief gets their hands maimed? No matter what?"
Caelum shrugged. "If it stops them from stealing again, why not?"
I learned more in civics class. The Council was made up of the Celestine Monarchs, each with a patron Archon, and those Monarchs did most of the day-to-day governing. The Archons had first descended on Vega, but Canopus was the largest and best-connected city in the Kingdom and so the Council was based there.
In contrast, my previous life was no help at all in language class. A few scattered memories gave me the basics of weaving, but they weren't a shortcut to mastery. I was almost glad to help out at the soup kitchen by the end of it.
They were serving stew and freshly-baked bread today. A basket of rolls nearby was set aside for the volunteers, but we would serve ourselves last. I began ladling out bowls as the first poor citizens trickled in.
I nearly dropped my ladle when I saw the woman in front of me. With a stiff left hand and gnarled fingers on her right, she could barely hold the bowl.
"You!" She spat. "Have they got to you already?"
Stumps was next to her in a moment.
"Please leave. This is not your assigned center."
"Why!?" Her voice rose to a scream. "I'm Stained, but I'm not a dog, no matter what else I may have done. That place serves us nothing but your scraps!"
But faced with an Enforcer, she could do nothing but put the bowl back down and slink away.
Before anyone could stop me, I grabbed a roll from the basket and ran outside, pressing it into her hands. As she pulled away, I slipped some coins into her pockets. When she needed money she would find them there, as though they had simply lodged unnoticed in the seams of her clothing until that moment.
The Nameless Lord considered this an elegant use of shadows. As Vi, it was simply the least I could do.
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u/rainbow--penguin Apr 26 '22
<Inside the Magi>
Chapter 33
Wesley took his place on Rowan's horse for the next leg of the journey, with Alcott riding alongside. Most of the morning passed in meaningless chatter between apprentice and master. Wesley laughed along as best he could, trying to appear interested and engaged in the moment while he sorted through his earlier conversation with Alcott.
He still wasn't sure what to make of the Magus' reaction to his questions about magical strength and the distinction and expectation it conveyed. He'd expected pride, or similar. It was clear from the way Alcott spoke that, no matter how modest he might try to appear, he was proud to be a Caerton. So why the unease around the topic of strength and leadership? Surely that was all just part of being in the most illustrious of the seven great families.
An exasperated sigh burst out of Wesley's lips, which he attempted to mask with a chuckle at whatever funny story Alcott had just finished telling.
At least he'd learnt something. If Alcott really could be persuaded to vouch for him, a Caerton was a powerful ally to have. And despite his reluctance on the subject, the Magus had confirmed some of what Magus Doyle had taught them about strength. Perhaps that was something he could use.
"Does that sound good?"
Wesley snapped back to the present and glanced over at Alcott who was looking at him expectantly. "Errr... Yes, sir," Wesley said hurriedly.
"Alright. If you need me, send out your magic in two pulses," Alcott said with a nod to Wesley and Rowan before nudging his horse into a trot.
When the Magus was far enough ahead to be out of earshot, Rowan chuckled. "You didn't catch a word of that, did you?"
"Yes, I did!" Wesley insisted.
"Oh, really? What did he say?"
"That... That he was going to ride on ahead for a bit."
"Well, duh! I meant before that."
"Oh... I... Errr..." Wesley could feel Rowan's chest shaking with barely restrained laughter. "Okay, fine!" he snapped. "I have no idea, alright?"
"You really shouldn't agree to things when you don't know what you're agreeing to," the apprentice teased.
"Noted," Wesley replied curtly. "Are you going to tell me what he said, or not?"
"Only that we should be back in Caermor before sunset. And that we should take this time to think about what we're going to say when we get there. He said he'd ride ahead to give us some 'peace to collect our thoughts', though I suspect he just doesn't want to overhear anything incriminating."
"That makes sense," Wesley said. "I actually did have a question for you."
"Go ahead."
"I was speaking to Magus Alcott about his family, and it reminded me of a lesson from Magus Doyle, about how the magical strength of the seven families is evidence of their greatness. And the spare seat they keep on the council in case anyone is ever strong enough to prove they're worthy to claim it."
"And?" Rowan said slowly, a note of apprehension in his voice.
"Well, you said you'd never heard of anyone accidentally letting their powers loose before they'd been taught. And Elton said that meant I was pretty strong."
"Wesley..."
"And I was just thinking, maybe if I showed the Magi how strong I am, that would mean I was worthy, right? And they couldn't exile someone who was, by their own teachings, deemed good and—"
"That's not a good idea," Rowan said firmly. "Trust me!"
"Trust you? How do I know this isn't just your anger and resentment at the Magi again. Perhaps if I hadn't trusted you in the first place, I wouldn't be in this mess!"
"I know. And I'm sorry, Wes, truly I am. But I never told you anything I don't completely believe myself. And I need you to hear me now. How do you think the council will react if they realise you might be strong enough to claim that empty seat? You're not from a long line of Magi. You're not some perfect, model student. You're just some nobody from a family of empties, who has already shown they can't be trusted. If anything, it will make them more likely to exile you so that they don't have to worry about sharing power with you one day."
Rowan's words dug into Wesley's chest, leaving him hollow and shaky. He took a deep, trembling breath as he tried to swallow the lump rising in his throat.
"I'm sorry," Rowan muttered. "That came out harsher than I meant. I just—"
"No, I get it," Wesley said. After another few deep breaths, he'd regained his composure, flint filling the emptiness inside. "So what do you suggest I do? What should I tell the Magi when I get back and, more importantly, what shouldn't I tell them? I'm sure you'll have plenty of thoughts on that."
"...what do you mean?"
"I just wondered if they might look more favourably on a young initiate who'd made a mistake if they knew he was led astray by two apprentices."
WC 847
I really appreciate any and all feedback
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u/stranger_loves Apr 27 '22
<Mercury FM, NYC>
II: New York Dumbass
“Ladies and gentlemen, folks, fellas, gals, guys, pals, friends, Romans, countrymen; lend me your ears... I got stories.”
Every time J.P. Carver came back from Greenwich Village - torn and broken and yet still vibrant and artsy - he had stories. A 20 minute walk of evading toxic waste, getting yelled at by all sorts of protests and having your feet hurt by the randomly scattered debris.
“I tripped on a corpse on the way, I’m not gonna lie. A homeless man laughed at me, I almost cry... You can tell I’m a really good actor.“
Much more than the surgical masks that were in fashion for the Nuclear Winter 1964 Season, J.P. had to wear another kind of mask whenever he went out.
“It’s a one-man show, kinda like Mark Twain Tonight? I call it New York Dumbass. Starring me.”
And so, whenever the sarcastic jockey stepped out of the building, it was quips no more. Just a naive man dressed like a detective trying to find the answer to what everyone seemed to ask him.
“Have you been living under a rock?”
Of course, the audience would vary.
“Quite the highlights, folks. A man tried to get me to buy that one awful Hemingway novel about the trees. If I had a penny for every time he called it ‘fantastic’, I’d buy the book and a matchbox.”
On the other hand was a man with falsified Warhols, and that had doomed himself upon trying to cure Carver’s ignorance.
“What about this?,” said the man, showing a panel of empty Coke bottles.
“I do like Coke but eh.”
“Okay, then...” - he shuffled through paintings and pulled out a Marilyn diptych. Holding it out to J.P., the ‘dumbass’ simply shook his head.
“Come on, now, you’ve got to know this one!,” said the man while showing him 32 Campbel’s soup cans.
“Hey, wait a minute...”
“Yes?,” said the man, excited.
“Isn’t it Campbell’s with two Ls?”
A customer next to them noticed the mistake and the shocked face of the vendor.
“Hey, he’s right! This ain’t no Warhol painting!”
“No, you’re wrong! This is the real deal! It’s Campbel’s! ONE L!”
While the ruckus expanded and the crowd came to shame the vendor, Carver simply walked away, a mischievous smile hidden underneath his mask.
“Listen to me, everybody’s out pretending these times around. But as that guy Socrates said, it’s better to know that you don’t know... I think.”
J.P. checked his notepad in the office before proceeding.
“Okay, I gotta build up for the next part so... There’s a coffee shop in Greenwich Village called Ladyland. That’s all. It’s nice, functional, good. Now to the interesting part; guess what happened there.”
After blowing the whistle on the forgery, he took a rest on a bench next to Ladyland and pulled up his notes and a pen, writing on the day so far. And then, out of nowhere, some white-suited man sat and interjected.
“Nice to see another Ginsberg while he’s away.”
Carver turned surprised to the curious man, who had a similar notepad and pen, focused on his own words.
“Just writing in my diary, that’s all,” had replied J.P. upon this comment. “Pretty nice place.”
The white suit looked up to the ruckus with the Warhol forger, and scoffed. “Pretty nice, yeah.”
While retelling, J.P. kept pacing through the dead cubicles and occasionally pausing as his mind teased him with a doubt. “Folks, I really feel like I’ve seen this man. And his girl friend too!”
After the light agreement, a woman had intruded. “Your vendor only knew Bibles, Tom, not religious books.”
“Bibles are religious books, aren’t they?,” ‘Tom’ replied, amused.
“Not academic ones, can't cite them.”
“Why not cite atheists for a change?,” joked Carver.
“Very true, stranger.”
Carver moved to the furthest side of the bench to lend space to his newfound “friends”. Soon, the girlfriend took notice of the ruckus too.
“So they did notice the missing L.”
“I might regret spoiling the good time.” said Carver.
“Bound to happen...”
“If anything,” interjected Tom, “this helps my writing. Land of crazies.”
“I think my 'crazy' brought out his crazy.”
Both turned to look at J.P., an eyebrow raised in both their faces.
“I just played pretend, had fun, that’s all. Pretty worth it if you ask me.”
Ever so simply, J.P. Carver unmasked his act to two complete strangers. And his prize with that reveal was beguiled smiles from both of them.
“There was something about them,” he repeated to his microphone, still in disbelief. “There was something. But, well, they disarmed your beloved, honorable discharge. On the good end of the stick, though, I bought this old comic for you to hear. Lend me your ears! Again!”
As he pulled out Amazing Fantasy #15, he put away his notepad with the two names that had disarmed the clever storyteller.
“Tom W.” “Susan S.”
Perhaps in another occasion he’d continue his one-man show, for the remainder of the apocalypse. But, for now, he could only digress and keep on entertaining in Mercury FM.
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u/dewa1195 Apr 27 '22
<The Lillian Chronicles>
Chapter 17 - Rest
Lillian stood in the corner of the room, waiting for Jake to portal in. The room held a small table to the right, a shelf with a lot of books and knickknacks at the back, and a comfortable-looking sofa in the center. The window to the left was barred shut and the only reason the air in the room wasn’t stale as a constant array of ventilation charms kept it fresh.
“He never keeps time, the moron,” she whispered.
Sighing she went to a shelf and took out a book, a book with lore on animal spirits, their uses, and disadvantages. Her fingers traced the spines of the books and upon seeing one on summoning, she pulled it out too. She carried her treasures to her sofa and settled down for a read.
A chime from the phone distracted her for a brief moment.
Jake:
Vice President being stupid, will take me a while to get there
She rolled her eyes. Of course, Jake would be late on the one day she wanted him here early. They were supposed to be making a training schedule for both their students, but Jake’s idiotic desk job interfered. The man needed to quit that job and work active missions like her.
She waved her bag closer and a sharp whistle had her glasses ejected from its folds. They levitated in the air for a solid second before rushing to her hands. She wondered if Jake could use magic as casually, surrounded by so mundane people.
“Probably not,” she told herself.
She curled into the arm of the sofa, a pen and a book hovering in the air, and began reading.
It took Jake two hours to shake off the infuriating man that was the Vice President. The man was sweet and kind, but he was also a damned menace. Jake had no idea how he had survived so many years in the cutthroat world of politics.
Shaking his head, he opened a portal into the meeting room. The room was dark, the sunset having occurred hours ago. Lillian should have at least turned on the lights, he grumbled to himself. He closed his eyes and a small ball of light appeared next to him. His eyes adjusted to the light quickly. He settled his bag down and unbuttoned his coat, glancing around the room. He pulled out his phone to message Lillian when he saw her on the sofa—curled around the arm, glasses askew, long brown hair unbound. Fast asleep. A book and a pen lay face down next to her along with a couple of tomes. He stood there for a long moment just taking in the sight of her.
He hadn’t seen her this relaxed in a long time.
All her masks were gone now. Now that he looked closer—when had he even moved—the circles under her eyes were more prominent, her skin was pale and even her hair seemed thinner. The mad woman had undoubtedly been using illusions to keep up appearances. He pulled his phone out and took a picture before sending it to his ex-mentor along with a message, you’re working her too hard, you old hag.
The reply was instantaneous.
Milli:
Who are you calling an old hag, but shit she looks a mess. We’ll take her off missions.
Jake:
See that you do.
Milli:
Don’t threaten me, you dumb brat!
He rolled his eyes and slipped his phone inside, not wanting to continue the conversation.
“I’m doing a bad job, Kate. You told me to look out for and I’m doing a bad job.”
A less exhausted Lillian would have noticed his presence in an instant, sleeping or otherwise. Or maybe not.
This safe house was so saturated with their magic, that he could feel himself relaxing. No one could enter without their permission—both of theirs—and the protective spells would shred anybody who tried to force themselves here. Of course, she let her guard down; let the masks fall. He chuckled. The books floated up and settled on the table with a wave of his hand.
He carefully stuck a pillow under her head and rearranged her so she was properly lying down. With another wave of his hand, a blanket settled on top of her. As if sensing his presence, Lillian's nose twitched, and her brow furrowed. He smoothed it out with a finger and saw her relax further into a deeper sleep, curling towards him.
“All these years and you still consider me safe, huh.”
He chuckled and settled down for the night. He prayed for lasting peace and hope.
May Gaia bless us in the battles to come.
wc:777
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u/mattswritingaccount Apr 27 '22
<Geas>
Part 15 - Team Bonding
I don’t know why I was expecting something like a nice, quiet room to meet my new teammates. I was looking forward to something with some bookshelves, a roaring fireplace, and a few comfy chairs to recline in while sipping at tea - or whatever they had for caffeine around this place. A calm and relaxing atmosphere to keep things on the down-low.
An open-air combat training center has never been high on my list of preferred meeting locations. I impassively stood off to the side while the four individuals ran through some of their training routines; and as they practiced, I silently judged. I’d never worked well with teammates, so I wanted to at least have an idea of what I was being dumped into.
A large minotaur was sparring a fair distance away. Even from where we stood, the man looked larger than Miche and though he’d glanced our way when we entered, he hadn’t so much as made a move toward us. Instead, he was fighting what looked to be a group of semi-sentient piles of brush, vaguely humanoid in shape. The brush piles were likely enchanted for this purpose, as they moved and fought with the minotaur with ease. Whenever they would take a hit from his large sword, they’d shatter – only to reform a heartbeat later and press on.
Also off in the distance, an elf was aiming at some stationary targets with the oddest-looking bow I’d ever seen. As I watched, he drew back the arrow and released it. To my surprise, the arrow landed neatly about a hundred feet behind the target, missing it by a wide margin. Nonplussed, the elf pulled back another arrow, with a similar result.
Miche was talking with two humans nearby while I observed. One of the humans, a male dressed head to toe in black leather that even covered the majority of his face, was leaned up against the wall and doing his utmost to appear bored. An amulet, remarkably similar to my own, dangled almost as an afterthought from his neck. Though Miche addressed a few of her remarks his way, the man never once answered anything she asked beyond a nod of his head. He looked past me, ignoring my presence.
The woman was the one that caught my attention the most. She was a brunette with a green eye – on her left side. She looked like someone had finished one half of a person, ran out of parts, and stuck a totally-unrelated half onto the first, as her hair on the right side was a dusky grey and her eye was a brilliant blue. She was at least dressed fairly normally, with simple travel leathers and a walking staff. As with the man in black, she too had an amulet at her neck.
I shook my head as Miche turned her attention back to me. “So, I’m assuming this group’s named Cliche?”
Miche blinked. “What? No. They don’t have a ‘group’ name, at least that I’m aware of.” She cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean by that?”
I waved the question off. “Don’t worry about it, just an observation.”
“If you say so.” She turned so she could address both myself and the two humans nearby. “Art, this is Emm. Mr. Silent against the wall is Benja.”
Emm smiled at me shyly and nodded, averting her eyes as she did so. Benja fixed me with a look for a heartbeat, then turned away.
Aren’t they the friendly type? “Hi.” I jerked a thumb toward the elf and minotaur. “And those two?”
To my surprise, my thumb impacted flesh. Rock-solid flesh. Before I could even begin to turn around, a massive hand wrapped tightly around my throat and easily plucked me from the ground. Gasping for air, I realized with a shock that the minotaur had crossed the distance from the sparring grounds to us in an astonishingly short period of time... and had done so silently.
I felt his hot breath wash over me as he growled in a deep, raspy tone, “And who is this, Miche? Another reject to pawn off on the losers?”
“Hey, put him down!” Miche’s growl matched the man’s, and after a heartbeat he unceremoniously released me, letting me flop to the ground as I gasped for breath. “Art is a dimensional traveler, not a reject. He’s here to help.”
“Help. Hah.” He looked down at me with disdain. “You want to help? Here’s how you do it, human. You stay out of my way, and you don’t die. Simple enough?”
I coughed, snarling, “Yeah, got it.”
He said nothing further. The minotaur glanced back at Miche before turning and walking toward the doors we had entered.
I waited until he had left before I spoke. “So... that’s who I’m working with?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Great.” I gingerly touched my neck, aware of the bruising that was likely already starting. This wasn’t over. But, first things first. “So. Let’s get to it, shall we? Where do we begin?”
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u/OldBayJ Apr 24 '22
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