Long Stories: Rose Knight (3)

Aed and some of his band wait for her in the city, and they find her before she’s made it two streets. Her first inkling is the crossbow bolt as it flies past her nose and embeds itself in the wall next to her. She takes a step out of the alleyway to find the street almost entirely deserted. Aed has three friends now, not simply one, and stares at her. Among his friends he counts two mercenaries with crossbows (one of whom rewinds his) and a man holding a sword easily as large as Rose.

She mentally measures the distance to the nearest unlocked door– the library. With their crossbows and their speed they could catch and kill her before she made it, she’s fairly certain, and they stand between her and the temple district.

Rose sags. “And me, without my armor,” she mutters. “Good day, Aed. You have my attention. Whose did I attract today?” Continue reading

Long Story: Rose Knight (2)

“I’m not well versed in the ways of women, especially not noblewomen,” the smith, whose name is Ith and surname is Sol, says quietly. “And well, Sandrys is a foreigner.”

Rose nods thoughtfully. “She is.”

Truth be told, no one in the city knows exactly where Sandrys was born. Rose knows that she was raised here in the city. A few years back, she’d told Rose that her old home had been horrible. Continue reading

Long Story: Rose Knight (1)

Her sword is strapped to her back, not in a sheath as most knights would carry it. It makes it vulnerable to rust and to rain, to dulling and stains, but to the woman who bears it, it matters little. Despite strapping it to her armor, she has never once drawn it in the months she has worn it. Continue reading

Story Challenge #8: Lion’s Heart

The main gate is so heavily defended I’m certain my father will never get through. It has all manner of knights in that black armor, thralls standing stock still, with battle-axes at the ready, and one or two dark-cloaked vampires. No one could break past it, I feel certain.

My latest conquest lies on the bed, gasping for breath still, while I, wearing naught but a sheet, look down over the forces he deployed. What is this thrill, that rises up in my belly? What is this lovely, wonderful warmth?

Continue reading

Short Story #7: Beast of the Farlands

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a creature so deadly and terrible that none could ever defeat it in combat. It roared and stamped with claws like iron tillers, its tail a lion’s, long and lashing, its breath was fire, its scales terrible burnished gold, its eyes like rolling, deep dark pits that swallowed the soul of whoever gazed upon them.


No man could face it without immediately falling prey to these horrible advantages, no matter what courage they had, its eyes would paralyze them. No matter what weaponry they carried, its scales would turn it aside. No matter what armor they wore, nothing could turn aside flame. It seemed as though the countryside would forever be torn asunder by the terrible paws and claws of this great beast, and decades went by with no true solution. Sacrifices never appeased it. There was no stopping it from taking what it wanted of the fields and the cattle of the people.


There came a time when, of his own accord, a champion went out to meet it when all champions were long thought dead. No, to call him a champion would be too generous; though cloaked he was in finest wool, he had with him no apparent weaponry. Though hooded and fair of voice– fair as could be asked of any maiden, even– he seemed to have no assets with which he planned to slay the creature. More like to call this man suicidal.


Yet he went out to it, this great savage beast, went out, stood before it as it feasted on caught cattle, and hailed it thus: “Good day!”


It ignored him til he had called out thrice more.


“Good day! Good day, I say!”


Finally it turned to regard him with eyes, eyes that surely would paralyze. The townsfolk that watched, they watched from afar, worried and sure that this man would be gobbled up in an instant. They dared not hope for any better.


“Who is it who speaks? Who is it who addresses me so, in so sweet a voice? Another fine human to rend and to eat? Was the last of your kind not enough of a treat?”


The cloaked, hooded figure sways not from his course. “It is I who spake thus,” he says, quite plain. “It is I who would talk not once, but again.”


“There shall be no ‘again’, you miserable louse. I am the cat, and you are the mouse.”


With that the beast pounces and bites and gnaws. At first it seems that it has him in claws, hooked here or there through the parts of his cloak which before seemed imposing, now shred, fabric broke.


It leaves but a maiden, standing with earthen hair, her skin shaded first with blue and then red, dyes that run over her skin– even head! Tattoos seem to cover her from head to toe, and bare though she is it doesn’t seem to show.


“What manner of human-like witchery is this?” The beast utters first, clearly most miffed. Its eyes dart here, or there over her form.


The maiden folds across her chest two lithe arms, gazes back up with eyes like twin storms, of blue and of green, they crackle as she stands.


With inner strength bold and courage so bright, she faces down the creature until on comes the night. Her tattoos glow then, even in dark, shining, transfixing until the call of the lark. The beast seems to snap from its cold reverie, shaking its mane once, and then twice.


“I could but crush you with the flick of a paw,” it growls down at her, baring its jaw filled with teeth to cut her to shreds. “If you answer falsely I’ll do it, I will, so be still little human while I have my fill- of information from you or your next of kin, should I kill you the same, in a fit.”


“Ask away,” she murmurs shyly, her smile so bright. It eclipses her tattoos and turns back the night.


“How is it you resist the power of my stare? What drives you to push it all back?”


“Not how, dear beast, but what is the answer– and simple I think, for one such as I. I am a witch, empowered and strong, and that is that, true as true- can be. As to what drives me to confront you here– the land here is near to me, near and dear– I’d sooner tear out my own heart in your stead then sit and and suffer with the land and its dead.”


“Why have you not come forth before, if exception to my actions you took?” The beast’s voice is soft now, to match the little witch, soft and yet deadly inside. Its eyes search for the source of her power, sure that within her it hides.


“I was born but yesterday, out and away in the Mother’s good arms. I took to my own as soon as I could but I still needed time to grow; twice and again I’ve sought you since then and now I’ve come to show you.”

“What will you show?” the beast asks sharply, curious despite its urges- to seize and destroy her with teeth tongue and flame is all that lurks in its head. Without her tattoos it’s sure she would lose, that it would rend her instead.


“A simple enough trick, for one such as you- I propose a game.”


It scoffs and sighs, but in her eyes the beast reads no sign of jest. “Fine, little witch. Command as you wish, and I shall put it to test.”


“Be forewarned that when this game is through, I will have put you to rest.”


“We shall see,” it growls and swishes that lion’s tail it has. The witch then smiles, as if sure of her wiles, and holds a hand up to her head. She mutters a phrase, cold as black days, and changes to the Dragon Father’s child.

Her form is great, as great as the sea, with scales at least half as blue. Her grin razor sharp, she laughs in the dark as the clouds spill into the sky

to shroud it.


The beast unimpressed, stretches and yawns, grinning back with eyes cold as space. “You frighten me not, maiden fair as you were, for the Father of Dragons is agape. Take back your shape if your hide you do value, or soon he shall come and be wroth– vengeance then wrought, he’ll nail what you sought out of spite for those you now seek

To protect.”


With a rumbling, the maid sways not, she stares it back down with a snort of cold flame, lips peeled back to reveal, unashamed, her teeth like daggers. “I fear not the father of worms such as you, or the shape that I take or the threat of a scaly stew! I ask you once and ask no more: take a form greater or leave this tilled floor



The beast laughs out loud, a hideous sound, snaps its foreclaws and in a flash is all bound up in fiery chains that snap and obscure its devilish form from sight. When they again lift its form is in shift, growing massive, greater even than the maiden’s new height.

“How do you find me?” its breath is a roar, its voice thunders forth in such force that it doubles and redoubles o’er the world, bouncing, echoing and rumbling again

and again.

The maid seems afraid as she looks, up at its devilish features. The burnished gold scales of its twin writhing tails and the fur that line their tips look like spines now so large is the beast before her. She seems to tremble–

–but lets out a giggle

a giggle that turns into a full-throated laugh. The maid-dragon sighs and in a flash dries the earth all ‘round her to ash. Magic bursts forth, wild and terrible, covering her head toes and claws. Her body rolls and rocks and shifts, squirms and writhes and grows to a size ne’er broached before. Now it is the beast’s turn, small as a kitten by comparison to a tiger, sitting before her and mewling in a whisper, a whimper of a voice before her. From the maiden’s eyes comes a pitiless glare that paralyzes the creature where it stands.


The villagers shout! Is victory not near? Surely she’s beaten this terrible beast! With the creature struck down and its influence profoundly

driven away

they will prosper again.


Abruptly it ends, this victory cry. What is she doing now? The maiden in size shrinks down to her former self, her body loses all of its scales. Tattoos dot her again, covering her head to toe. Her eyes are calm though the village can’t see it, her eyes are as calm as the sea.

She smiles as the creature reaches down to swipe for her, and stops its paw with a hand, effortlessly.

“Come now beast,” she whispers soft. “Is this all you truly can muster?”

It roars its frustration and drawing in breath, lets it out in thunder


of black rolling



Fire leaps high, high towards the sky as the plains around her catch fire, but the maid just laughs, laughs and laughs, welcoming the heat with a smile. Her eyes are bright and burning ash gleams in her grin, on her teeth and on those razor thin lips of hers.


The beast stares down at her, paw raised once more, as if to dash her to pieces,

but the maid will not move

she will not move

she does not move


she stands where she is, her palm held out

to block a second roar

it never comes

no the beast never roars

again in anger or spite

it sits there instead

to be walked or led

about town under cover of night.


Under cover of night, the maid leads it forth

To the center of the town square.


To the villagers around as the morning is crowned

With the sun’s bright beams so gay

Her eyes flash gold and, with her story told

A party they do array

When celebration ends and the night descends

They fall over themselves

in bidding this maid to stay


“On one condition will I stay here with you,”

She says to them before the sun fully sets

“To guard forever and always. Let my husband be

This beast you see

Who set fire to your fields but previously

A day, or less ago.”


The villagers are distraught

At first

Then confused

This beast she means not to slay?

Its terror struck even the bravest of men!

Its breath was unweatherable! Its rage terrorized the village– all villages!– for miles upon miles while the nobles did nothing!


Now such a strumpet says it must live?


But the villagers know should she wish she could grow, she could tower above them and strike them to ash, each and every one with but the threat of a glance.


So silent they are, as silent as they can, their eyes all wide as she makes clear her demand.


“I wish there be room for this beast to sleep; for the first six days and more we shall bed, and then I shall release it to the wild instead. Tamed and mine in heart and soul, the beast will guard you, brave and bold. Let me have this or I shall go, and the things  I have done will mean



They don’t dare refuse her, so the beast then stays, and in a stable the pair of them sleep.


The first of the days the beast wakes up in ways it never imagined before. The maid by its side, its thick golden hide is replaced by skin of the same hue, but soft and comfortable to lie in and on.


Its mouth opens and shuts, and the maid she does stir, so it thinks better of attempting escape. What has this girl done to its scales so sweet, to the metal that once covered it in sheets? It does not know but cares not to find out, and in its head it hatches plans of retreat. It’ll dart off in the night as it sure must be right, to find some more knights to eat. It’ll grow a new hide to polish its stride and assist in protecting its skin.


The chance never comes as the day goes by, the maid leads it everywhere you see– she has fashioned a lead made from leather and reed and tied it to the edges and frays

of its mane.


“Such a strange girl,” a villager says, to another standing by the main way. “Where are her thoughts of marriage and devoted


instead there are tattoos

of war?”

“She is the one who tamed the Calthrax and I’ll bet she has spellbound its heart; no earthly magic could sunder the will the way that she has done with this one. I’ll wager divinity lurks in her step, in her stride hides the will of the gods.”

“Foolish talk! A tramp who sleeps with beasts,

to make them stop their attacks

what honor is there in this woman

what honor is there in that?

The voice rings out at last from the crowd who parted to let her through, and up stands a man garbed all in silk, his eyes a ruddy red hue.

“Let me speak,” the fair maiden says as he makes his intrusion. “Let me speak and I shall clear your head of all confusion.”

The man’s silk robes flow in the wind as upon her form he stares, then he laughs and throws back his head, laughs as a man with airs.

“Foolish girl,” he says with a sigh, still chuckling to his own little tune. “Your charms won’t work on a wizard as old as I. Go back to your vale in the cool and the pale where the shadows and monsters lie– return to your grove little nymph, little witch, I’ll have no truck with you- not here in this village that the beast tried to pillage while away on a trip I was due.”

“Due what?” she asks, unperturbed by his voice, staring him down once more. The beast behind her makes a low little rumble, a sound both of the magi ignore. “Trip where o’ wizard, who hails from the city out away by his estate? I came and I saw and I saved your town, and in return you treat me with hate?

“Equate not dislike for you and your ilk for ingratitude, little witch. I am indebted despite all I’ve said and I mean to repay by the stitch. But when I have paid and the debt is then gone I demand that you are gone also; every moment you stay here defies my will and the look of you strains me


“Flee I’ll do when I’m dead, old man, if for you my image is grating- I bid you away or turn quick your head, for my stay will never be abating. This village I claim as my own new vale, I can never return where I was. Away with you, wizard, your ways do not scare me, away and be done with your threats! This village is not yours to do with as you please, no matter your papers- or hateful epithets.”

“Little witch,” says he, the wizard so-called, with a start and a step forward sharp. “You cut me so, to say to me

What you do.

I ask again and again now only,

Go home to the grove you once knew.

The patience I have, while boundless at heart

Will bear not the tone

Of your wily whim or the fear

A fight

Would start.”

A pause and then, with manner wrought of silk and spiderwebs, the maiden answers the wizard and in her heart

there seems to be


“So this is how

A wizard doth truly

Repay all

His debts,” The maiden fair says, quietly and lowly as the smallest of mice might squeak.

Her eyes are downcast, manner demure as she stares then down at her feet. Whatever rage or fire within her seems to have reached a peak

Or a crest

Or a boiling pitch

And fallen back down on itself.

The wizard and his smile

Filled up with guile,

Stand there waiting for her

To leave.

When she does not he grows impatient, stamping his own foot.

“When will thou go?” he snaps in rage, those eyes of his they flare.

“Never did I say I would leave!” she cries, plainly surprised at his tone. “When will I go? When won’t I go? Ask me that then fair wizard! Should not a maid do just as she pleases and go where she should in her mind? If thou art so sure that thy own self is pure, I tell thee to cast all thy stones. Hurl thy magic and smite me down, if thy pointy shoes are so clean!”

The wizard on his pointy shoes doth rise, fire in his eyes now, fire in his eyes.

“The cheek!” he roars, and rolls up his sleeves. “Take thy place, girl, on your knees.”

The last word with magic inside doth seethe, it rolls forward and out and plays to keep,

the maiden on her toes, lashing here and lashing there, like fire, like a whip that snaps, aims to snare.

The maiden is on her toes, she dances ‘round once,

she dances ‘round again, avoiding that word like a plague

or a spark

laughing like lightning

laughing in sparks and flames

that twirl

and dance through the air

in her eyes

in her heart


The beast behind her snorts and rears, barely containing itself

Its baleful gaze descends

on wizard and witch



“What ill will bear you to me

What terrible thing have I done?”


The words, out of place on the witch’s lips seem

But the words voice curiosity

Shared by



“Stand still and die, little witch, little nymph. You do not deserve to know! I will not, shall not, cannot tell you

and there’s nothing for me to show to you

but hatred.”


Sickened at heart

With eyes still aflame

The maid turns once

and turns yet again, whirling in place to let fly with vines that snake from her arms in ink and in lines

Traced from tattoos that writhe on her skin, alive and snake-like and seeking their kin

in the veins of the wizard who gasps in rage and flings forth his power to send to the grave

this nymph who defies him, who taunts his thoughts

who lingers in his heart

and has hooks inside him

whose snakes bite and strike– he snaps out.

The power snaps out and lashes a side– the Beast who in anger between them did stride, ignoring the collar closed tight ‘round its neck, ignoring the pain from the blow it’d been struck, ignoring the pain that inside it is stuck, rebound and coiling ‘tween skin and scale, where insides and nerves and organs do quail.

Never in all of its life has a pain

Like this one been dealt to it

and in a vain

a terrible

a monstrous

moment of rage, its tail whips forth

to break the wizard

in twain.


Its tail rebounds from a shield of some make

Of force and of magic and frail hope– which breaks

as the wizard’s power fails as he stumbles on back, as he looks on aghast at the beast’s spiny back

at the monster before him

at the spines and the skin

the golden and bronze

the golden skin.


The wizard snaps out at the nymph yet again, lashing with power drawn from no ken

of man or of beast, both would have died

but the creature before him impeding the stride

of his magic

is in waves

upon the ground

and breaking

the earth



A quake in the village builds as the creature lashes out in time

Each writhing twisting, flailing limb

dredging up swaths of the earth

and rime from the mist


to the ground.

Tormented stone and cobbles break

The wizard and nymph alike are pelted

Their forms aghast with fright as the form of the creature

is melted


It falls away, disappearing

Like morning mist

In a breeze



and weak

and terrified

A woman

on her knees.



By turns yet curious

The both of them are

Wizard and nymph stand side by side

To regard the girl from afar


Both of them move

At once and in unison

Both of them move right away

The nymph to comfort

The wizard to study

But both sure to have their way.


“Gentler, fool, she’s been through much,” the nymph hisses over shoulder and bareness of back.

“You’ll break her with your cold tack,” she snaps.

“Break her? Hardly! My lust for knowledge

Knows well its bounds.

I merely think an enchantment so steep

Must be studied and kept, so to speak

Too dangerous outside where that ‘chantment

Might ride

Another soul

Near to its peak.”

The wizard is cool and calm and collected, for all that inside terror burns. What great magic forced a girl to wear a form like that? This, then, a shadow confirms.

A shadow so great, so colossally huge, that it blots out the sun from the sky. Wings stretch out mightily, a monster shakes a head

like a cave, with jaws open wide.

The silhouette fades with a tremendous crash, with a shriek like the sun cleaved in twain. The King of all Dragons, his honor besmirched, comes only to avenge

the dishonor done.

A fear drives through her, the maid and the girl, as they stare up to the creature above. Its eyes are stars and its breath is fire

hot enough

to burn


The wizard himself seems unafraid, unabashed, as he stands there brazen as day.

The Dragon King, his grin–

like the surface

of the sun–

would never

let him have

his way.



The Terrible King doth roar.


The nymph responds not, the girl frozen as well, her whole form rigid with fear. The wizard, clever and crafty as ever, is the one to talk now, and it’s the effort in his voice that’s near

to courage.

Any can see that his legs quake and shake, any can see how afraid he must be.

He opens his palms in a gesture of peace, and makes quick with what he needs

must say.


“Great Dragon King, we wished you no harm, though yesterday the nymph stole your form. Pray take from us anything just, and leave our lives to their norm. With all respect due we can pay back in time, for the pride of the King of all wyrms. Please, o lord, leave us our bodies that the debt to be paid is fair.”





The wizard steps aside, but the beast steps up, in the form of the girl as she is. She shakes and shivers, plainly confused about what

and where she is.

Still she speaks, once and again, as around her the world dims and blurs. The attention on her is too much, not enough, and her eyes are filled with tears

she doesn’t


“You-!” she calls, unsure and unright with the way that her words fall out. “You can’t take her, she’s mine to keep! I fought and for her as well! If beaten in combat by any but me, these feelings I’d never be able

to quell.

Back to your lair, lord o’ the wyrms! Back and trouble me no more! Show your tail, turn and run, leave this place like the one

that you found

before ire

found you.”

The King of the Dragons, with massive, great snout, with a lazy and terrible grin, says one thing in response to the girl-from-beast, says one thing nice and slow:





The girl shakes and whimpers where she stands between the two, the maiden who challenged her beast-self and the Dragon who defies her desire.

Still uncowed, amazed of herself, she stands strong before the nymph who beat her, glaring up at her foe, arms spread wide.

“Breathe your flames or

Make your threats

I shall not stand aside.

She is mine and mine alone

To eat-

Or keep

As I like!”

The Dragon King, old as the sky, stares down at the defiant beast turned girl, and laughs



A heartbeat passes, many, many more.

The Dragon King rears onto his haunches all at once,

his eyes flashing red like the heart of the sun

his scales flashing blue like the deepest of seas

the groaning of dragonskin

scraping together

is the only sound heard

apart from the shaking

of mortal knees.

YOUR DEVOTION IS TOUCHING,” he says with a smile, a serpentine grin.



The thought of the fiery, terrible breath turning them all to ash

still does not

put the beast in her place

still does not

make her step

to one side

or the other. Her eyes are determined and her stance is strong

though her body shakes like the leaves

in a storm

on trees

too young to weather


A hand on her shoulder makes her stop and turn,

a hand makes her turn in her place

to regard the nymph

with a pale

ashen face

and a quivering form,

her eyes flashing anger

and weary


“Why do you suffer all this for me, beast I beat and struck aside? Why do you move to help? Let me go with him and meet my own fate- you’re nothing more than a whelp.”

“‘Please yourself’ is what I would say, if I thought I could push it aside. You thwarted me though, you struck me down, and it is for this reason

I will not hide.

I will not save you for any new oath

but the one which i lay down:

if anyone eats you

maid of the grove

it’ll be me, not some

Dragon-like mound.”

The beast shrugs off the nymph’s placating hand, shrugs it off and stares with intent

at the leader of all flying wyrms.

“Go home, scaled one,” she says with a flat

but true steel edge to her voice. “I’m not frightened of you or the things you might do

I fear not the touch of your fire. Fly free and fast, away from this place, or suffer the might of my ire.”

As the King of Dragons’s eyes turn sharp, as they narrow with sudden hate,

the beast of the farlands shrugs off her curse,

her human form starts to abate.

Golden in skin, sleek as a tiger, larger than mountains could warrant,

she grows to a height to match one she’d taken

when battling the nymph of the grove.

Her claws launch forth and out from her fingers, she stands on four and then six legs at once. Her eyes blaze in fire, her heart with desire

for victory?

the spoils?

even she

couldn’t say.

this beast from the farlands

drives humanity


from herself.

It sheds in a cloud of sparkling fire, it rushes away in a wave. With a ripple and a sigh, she stands higher than high, an equal

to the King

of the Dragons.

Crouched cat-like

in her tiger’d shape

with claws extended and threatening

she stares at the Dragon King

where his teeth

form a smile

and his wings form a gale

as they beat once

and twice.

“GO HOME, WYRM,” her voice lashes out, terrible to hear, terrible to behold.


The Dragon King replies as his laughter dies, caught in a throat filled now

with rage.


With a leap and a snarl

that hurls earth like blood

into the air

to cloud it so thickly

the beast from the farlands

meets the king of serpentkind

in a blur

of tooth

and of claw.

“Blood and b-brimstone!” the wizard stammers out, staggering back from the force

of their clash. “What madness

solvable easily

by sacrifice!

One maiden, for this

is the world to end?”


Claws rend scales.

Teeth rend skin. Fire washes over and glows through


as blood like molten

bronze flows down

over gold and blueish

skin and scales.


Titans push and twist and writhe– the beast’s lashing tail draws furrows in the ground, the dragon’s sharp claws carve tracks.

with every tremendous




and skin

and fire within


and spatter the torn

and rent earth.


thunder sounds

as scales wrenched apart

make noises like dying


the nymph stands rapt

her heart in her throat

to see

both of them clash

and fight

to see the beast-turned-girl-turned-beast


and bleed

and stagger and twist

and writhe

with the king of wyrms


no clear victor arises from the mess

of scales and ragged

strips of gold flesh

no clear winning stumbles away

on that fateful day

that red day

that raw and red and bloody day

not until

that is

with guile, the dragon king rises

laughing all the while

a hideous


coughing noise

from a throat that seems to be patched

or comprised

of naught but scale


and blood

that runs thick and green

down his sides.

VICTORY!” he snarls, then chokes again

and again, coughing blood to the ground

to soak the already




He rears back his head, so soaked in his own


and draws in a ragged, shuddering breath. His intent is plain– to incinerate the remains

of the village his thrashing

had demolished.


A claw

like blood and nightmares


bursts forth from the dragon king’s

throat like lightning

like blood red lightning

that patters the ground

in a flood or a torrent

and silence



Over the lord of the wyrms and the drakes

over the lord of the sleeping and wake

over the king of the dragons

over those who watch him

over the beast, who slams him down



the dust.


Poised over

the great dragon’s body

dragonflames still licking her form

the beast of the farlands stands firm in her place

staring down at the fallen wyrm.

Its shape still twists

and turns

and writhes


helplessly now


the beast from the farlands turns to the nymph

and in her eyes

shines something dark


rather than shy

away from her fate

she rushes to meet it head on

the maid running up to the great beast’s


tucking herself close as can be


for a moment

heard stark in silence

is a growl that might be a purr


emanating forth

from the beast where it stands

then this too fades

and all that is left


is the sound

of the beast’s breathing

is the sound

of the maid’s breathing

and the beast-turned-girl, who stands on two legs instead of four, who wraps torn arms around the maiden- tight

who holds her close

two and one

as blood




on golden skin

and fire

burning once bright

and now softly

fades behind mischief-worn eyes


the beast

her heart slowing,

her breath coming short

holds the nymph as best she can

and held in those arms

she dies.


or does she truly?

though breath stops

it is her voice that lifts

to wake the beast from tragedy

as the beautiful grieving creature of the nymph

between her ragged sobs of confused


or perhaps


raises her head

she sees that once more life beats

in the breast

of the girl

who was once

a beast.

No grievous wounds are openly running

with blood like crimson tears.

no terrible flames crack skin like scales

open to the freezing airs

no, all of them close like magic


by the thoughts of a nymph



They embrace and more

in sight of the mage

who stands with both arms crossed

and mouth set firmly



“Shame upon both of you,” says he who sat back during all of the attack, says the wizard with eyes glowing red. “Shame and more shame! Truly the devils of sickness have caught you-

To touch another woman

as you might touch a man

to feel familiarity of that sort

with all but those

of a manly nature

is nothing more than foolishness

or dalliance

at best.”


The nymph flicks a hand

and the wizard is covered

strand by silken


wrapped from head to toe

in vines and roots that grow

from the ground around his feet

before he utters but a word

in defense

he is but meat

angry meat

with eyebrows arched

and face so white with rage

but just meat

and bone

and blood

and skin

without a spell

or a chance to win

his way free


he fumes there


while the beast girl and nymph

standing one with the other


and tamer than

the wild, shadow’d sky

(though not by much)

gaze into one another’s eyes

as like they just met


as like they had known one another

would know one another

the rest

of their beautiful




©2013 Sam Oliver (Eris)



So how long does a poem story hafta be before it’s considered an epic? Longer than this, right? I don’t care. Enjoy, guys. It took me simply FOREVER, but it’s done.



Short Story Challenge #3: Runtime

I can feel him out there, just out of sight in the fog. I can hear his footsteps– the clank of his plated boots as they strike the stone of the courtyard. Crouched behind the bush, kitchen knife hidden under a fold of skirt, eyes shut tight, I can hear him approach. The fog is too thick for him to see me directly, but he is a seer of the Nemesis family line, and an adept one at that. There is no conceivable way he doesn’t know where I am.

I cover my mouth and shut my eyes tight as I hear his footsteps pass me by.

That much is a trick, surely. I cannot imagine he would be so– well, so nonchalant, so careless in his searching. Still, I step back around the side of the statue at the shrubbery’s side. I can hear screams coming from the manor and it sounds positively ghastly. I am certain that my family is dead or dying, and oddly enough it gives me a little thrill to think of their sour faces and forms strewn across the floor.

My little dose of delight is nearly completely negated– I am also certain I will be dead soon. I have no desire to die. I have no desire for the filthy Nemesis house warriors to find me. The thought of their hands on me, even if only to kill me, is enough to send an involuntary shiver down my spine.

Footsteps again, muffled by the fog. Is the seer coming back? Did one of his visions reveal me to him…?

Yes! One of his hands, rough and calloused, reaches out of the fog and gropes for me against the statue, fingers spider-like as they stretch and then pull away. I hear his voice, speaking in that tongue, alien and unfamiliar as can be. The syllables twist and turn serpentine, and I realize he must be working a magic.

I duck back around the statue completely, as quietly as I can, hugging my knees. The fog, though, parts in a rush, dissipating to reveal the sun above, incongruous to, oblivious to the black smoke that rises, that I can see even over the tall bronze head of our house statue– of Karevus Dame, raising his blade in defiance.

It is to the fore of the statue that I am pulled as one of those spider-like hands steals me away from the metal, yanks me into plain sight– before the plaque at the statue’s broad granite base.

“There you are,” the seer hisses. “Look, can we talk?”

I stare at him incredulously.

“Your mom is worried sick about you.” he continues on, and even though the language is my own there is something terribly wrong with the way he is phrasing things. “How many lives have you gone through this time, Damien? How many runs have you done? I know you’re upset, but that’s no reason to bury yourself.”

Damien… it sounds like a butchering of my family name. It is familiar, though, and for a moment a queer, terrifying feeling washes over me.

Then my connection is cut.


I awake, shivering, covered in sweat, staring up at the ceiling of a dull, damp room. It feels as though it is deep under the earth.

As old English fades from my head and is replaced by memories from before my time connected to Nex, the quantum computer responsible for creating the Run, I feel as though my mind is being strained through a broken glass filter.

I remember what glass is. I remember what a quantum computer is. I am Damien. I am not the character I played as in my most recent Run in Nex. I am not connected right now. This is real.

I go to pinch myself to make sure, but then remember that it wouldn’t work. Nex properly simulates pain receptors, at least to a degree far above any pinch.

Why am I lying down, then? Where am I?

No, I’m in the basement of my house. I am in the basement of my house.

I clutch the sheets of my mattress for a moment, take in a deep breath. It is then, and only then, that I notice Naomi standing above me and staring down at me with her cool, blue eyes.

“You’re awake,” she says flatly. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“What?” I ask, and my voice is hoarse. “What do you mean?”

“Damien– you’ve been down here for five turns. Do you have any idea how many runs that is? Do you have any idea how worried your mother has been? She can’t snap you back, you know she doesn’t have an account. She can’t complain to Nex because you know how it treats free will. If you don’t want to come back it can’t make you, she can’t make you, and I’m the only one who knows where to find you. I’m not perfect either, though. There are over a trillion servers being run simultaneously. How would I find you in that?”

I blink up at her. The memories are coming back slowly. Nex is coaxing them into my brain. Somehow it’s managing to be gentle when it usually has, as Naomi says, a trillion servers to run. It isn’t even the most efficient quantum manager in the station.

Five turns, though… had I stuck myself with an IV? I feel my wrist to make sure. It doesn’t seem like it.

“How am I still alive?” I croak, and then wince. “Thank you, by the way.”

“You may not be thanking me when the overload hits,” she replies grimly. “You didn’t remember while you were in there, but if a run takes a little under a standard second, and a turn is about one thousand seconds…”

I stare at her. “Five thousand runs?” I ask weakly. “I just did five thousand runs? Why didn’t Nex pop me back out?”

She pauses, and then her eyes narrow. “Nex.”

A holographic representation of the station’s cybernetic manager appears, crackling into existence so suddenly that it makes me jump.

It doesn’t speak to us using the normal auditory channels, but nods its silvery head and broadcasts to both of us through our chips.

We heard you. We did not remove Damien from the network because we did not deem it necessary to do so.

“He could have died!” Naomi snaps. “When would you have deemed it necessary?”

Damien was not in danger of dying, the quantum computer broadcasts sulkily. We are fully aware of the time it takes for a human body to cease to function from malnutrition.

“So if you were aware–“

We would not let Damien die, Nex transmits, cutting her off mid-thought. Its holographic projection vanishes with a hissing crackle that seems the equivalent of a digital raspberry.

“Nex!” Naomi shouts, and the cellar’s deafening silence shouts back.

I hear her sigh in frustration. I still don’t feel up to sitting, so I stay on my back, staring at the basement ceiling. I wonder at the dampness of it. It must be raining outside.

“That thing is getting more and more belligerent,” I hear Naomi say after a while. “We should really have it decommissioned.”

“About the same time we get a utility ship out here, right?” I ask ruefully. “And get more supplies so we’re not always growing our own food?”

“Ever the optimist,” she sighs, and then groans as she stretches out. I can tell she hasn’t moved in at least half as many turns as I’ve been here. “Get up, Damien. Time to face your mother.”

I shudder. It definitely isn’t something I’m looking forward to.


My entire body aches. Everything from the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers burns as I step up the long, winding stairway to the upper part of the station. The biosphere surrounding the station is transparent right now, since the white sun is below the horizon. The irradiated surface of the rock our ’sphere sits on is glowing– well, phosphorescing– with white fungus. The harvest is getting mature now. We’ll have to go out and collect it before another turn or a flare burns it all to a crisp. This, of course, assumes that I’ll still be able to move properly after my mom finishes with me.

Naomi leads me up the stairs, waiting impatiently at every landing, checking back to make sure that I’m following. She needn’t bother. It’s not like I’m going to connect again. Not after that.

Moving in this body is… weird. It’s no more strenuous than moving in Nex’s servers. There is some sort of oddness to it, all the same, something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Then, halfway up the stairs, I remember why I ran to Nex in the first place. The memory hits suddenly, out of nowhere. Her staring, accusing eyes.

I stop, staring up after Naomi. She turns, and I can see the look in her eyes– she knows what I’m thinking. I see her lips open.

“Mom is dead,” I say flatly. “Isn’t she.”

Wordlessly, slowly, treating me as if I might be a bomb to be set off by a glance, she nods.

I continue up the stairs, and after a moment she moves on as well. Silence reigns again, but for the tap of our bare feet on the soft stepped path. I think back to the most recent run in Hereditary, in Nex’s fantasy world. I think back to the way I’d grown up there, to the cruel mother I’d had and the parental figures. Not flat or two dimensional, like you’d expect from a game. No. Nex is something of a genius– even for a quantum computer– at mimicking emotions and feelings. Why had I locked myself into ‘hardcore’ mode? Why had I turned off external memory?

I hadn’t wanted to remember my mom being dead. I’d wanted to bury myself. Nex, respecting my free will, had let me. Now I ache.

“We’re alone now,” I whisper.

Naomi nods once, shortly. Then shakes her head as we reach the top of the stairwell. “Lights,” she says quietly. They turn on with a flicker, illuminating a spotless, sterile lobby and tunnels leading to the Library, Acropolis and Jungle, as well as the secondary airlock.  Next to the wall by the airlock there’s a rack holding a trio of well maintained Hazardous Environment Harnesses.

I see silver glimmer in the air behind her a moment before Nex’s holographic projection appears.

It seems almost shy, demure in appearance, silvery ‘hair’ waving in a virtual breeze. Close to its chest it hugs a pair of synthbooks, and with a shock I realize that they are real, not merely projections– they aren’t transparent at all.

“Nex?” I ask, after a moment stretches on.

Naomi whirls, and for a moment I see the flash of a grudge in her eyes, but it seems to fade when she sees the books that Nex’s projection carries. Her voice, though, is no less stern for it, but that’s Naomi. She overdoes everything.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

We believed that these documents would be of use to you both. Were we mistaken? Nex queries. Its voice in my head seems diffident.

It drops the synthbooks and then, before Naomi or I can react, it disappears again. The books make a telltale clack as they strike the warm tile floor.

Naomi reaches them a little too late. I pick one up, staring at its title.

“‘Theories on Capital Starship Repair‘,” I read slowly. “‘by Nexus of Freeform Thought.’ It wrote these?”

“Look at the publishing date,” Naomi says quietly.

I turn the book around to see. The synth material glows, forming pattern of standard numerals representing today. And why shouldn’t it be able to write a book and run a trillion servers all at once? It has effectively infinite RAM.

I wonder at that, though, and not for the first time. If we’re really alone on this colony and there are no other people for parsecs, how are we able to communicate with the other players of ‘Heriditary’?

As if reading my thoughts, I hear Nex in my head.

We are projecting from your room, Damien. When you have the harvest, come find us.

The message is downright uncharacteristic. I have never heard Nex sound so serious, and never heard it broadcast to me and me alone. It must be to me, though. Naomi is still looking through the book she picked up.

She looks up after a while. “We should get the harvest in.”

I nod.


Taking off the harness, later, after Naomi takes the baskets we used– first to Decontamination and then to the cellar, where we usually sleep– I make my way to my ‘official’ quarters, dodging overgrown vines in the Jungle, admiring the high stairway leading to the forbidden Acropolis.

By the time I reach my room, I’m exhausted.

When I open the door, a projection of Nex stands there. Something is wrong, though. Its arms are folded, its eyes are stern, its silvery hair does not wave.

“Hi, Nex,” I say with a sigh.

The corners of its projected mouth turn upwards slightly. Hello, it transmits. It steps aside. Come in.

I step into the room heavily. Nex closes the door behind me.

I walk to the edge of the bed and sit down, gazing at Nex’s projection. It faces me, arms still folded, staring ceaselessly with eyes it doesn’t need.

“Why did you tell me to come here?” I ask.

I’m met with silence.

I know without looking that the door is probably locked. I’m in no real danger– Nex shouldn’t be capable of physical projection, and even if it was it would not hurt me. Still, my heart beats a little faster.

“What do you want?” I try again. “Are you angry with me?”

I see no flicker of emotion in its expressionless silver eyes. Only the play of its lips and its stance hints at its mood– frustrated. Finally, after what feels like forever, it answers.

No. I am not angry with you, Damien.

“Then what-”

You are depressed. I am attempting to help.

For the first time, I realize that Nex has been using ‘I’ instead of ‘We’ since I stepped into the room. Suddenly suspicious, I rise from the bed and advance on it.

Nex’s projection raises a hand. I feel a sudden tingle, and the next thing I know I am completely naked in front of it. My clothes simply disappear, the air left in their wake snapping into place with a sharp crack.

As I struggle to cover my chest and crotch, a furious blush and a tight lipped scowl crossing my face at the same time, I hear Nex speaking to my mind again.

You are out of touch with your physical body, Damien; have you not noticed that you spend your time here in a body which is male?

“Why are you bringing this up now?” I snap. “Give me my clothes back.”

If you wish it, I cannot disobey.

They appear again with hardly a sound. They are warm and freshly pressed, too, which is downright impossible. No system should be capable of it. As I look again, I realize that no system is capable of it. Nex simply gave me a different set of clothing.

It fades away as I watch, too, with the same stern look on its face.

I look over my clothes ruefully. Why had I bothered to come here? Nex clad me in a short, utilitarian skirt that I recognize came from Naomi’s wardrobe. It also gave me a blouse which doesn’t really fit well.

It’s awkward at first, as I sit back down in them, these clothes. I should take them off, I should go and get the clothes I’m used to again. I’m sure that Nex simply put them in the washer cycle, and that’s fine, but I can’t face Naomi like this.

I sit there in them, the blouse and the skirt, trying to understand what has happened to me, to understand this feeling creeping up inside of me. It starts slowly, and then quickly, rising to the forefront of my mind in a hot wave that sends a tingling shiver down my spine as I realize what it is.

This warmth, this heat, isn’t embarrassed. It isn’t a tentative, shy thing, but a roaring tiger of an emotion.

Stunned by it, staring at nothing, I let it wash down through my arms and legs and toes, this feeling, this queer, complex feeling. Sad and joyous at the same time, without a hint of shame. Here I am, dressed in Naomi’s blouse and skirt, staring at the door and praying with all that I am that she doesn’t come barging in any second. Here I am, in Naomi’s clothes, stock still on my bed, wondering at why it doesn’t feel wrong for the right reasons.

It feels wrong because my body feels wrong. It feels wrong because I am not the right shape, not because the clothes are wrong. What an odd feeling! What a wonderfully terrible feeling!

I realize it, slowly, sitting there with a blank expression on my face. Why does it feel wrong to be a boy?

I don’t think it’s the radiation, I don’t think I’ve lived here too long. I don’t feel as if I was raised wrong. What could it be, then? What haunts me to this degree?

Thinking on it, wondering about it, the worst happens.

Naomi opens the door.

Nex patches me through to Hereditary without my permission.

As my body slumps back, I have enough time to register Naomi’s expression of shock.


Suddenly, I stand before a massive, twisting hallway, one that I’ve never seen in all the runs I’ve played in Hereditary. It seems to have been carved almost entirely from marble. Its entrance contains two symbols– the classic symbol for Mars, and the classic symbol for Venus, interlocking, intertwined.

A non-player character, tall, well built, with red hair and a massive two-handed sword strapped to his back, waits by the entrance, arms folded, eyes fixed on me. Then, without a word, he unsheaths his blade, drawing it out from the baldric and stabbing it into the dirt before him.

“Four keys,” he says sharply. “Four and four again.”

There’s something familiar about him, but I already know that he must be being controlled by Nex- or at least a subroutine.

“Who are you?” I ask. If Nex were human I’d ask it to stop playing tricks. Nex is not human. Nex is an extremely powerful quantum computer with access to my memories– the originals, the backups, and the external backups beyond those. It doesn’t play tricks. It doesn’t need to play tricks.

“The first key,” he replies flatly. “I open the way forward.”

With a start, I realize that I am in the end of the first campaign, the first story ever created within the Hereditary framework. I try to take stock of my abilities, try to bring up a menu, but quickly realize that I am an unclassified level of an unclassified character with no documented abilities to speak of. I am a completely unknown character. Worse than that, I can’t see what base stats I might have.

I don’t have to look at my opponent to understand that his abilities are entirely beyond my own. I am naked before him, but at the least I am still able to gauge the first guardian’s abilities. It’s a situation that I’ve been in once before– I played through the first campaign more than once, when Nex first made it available to Naomi and me.

“Unformed one,” he says slowly. “Four and four again. Fight me if you dare.”

I can hear Naomi laughing at me. I’ve never been a fighter. In all the runs I’ve been in I can think of fewer than three times when I have actually been something other than a commoner, archer or wizard.

I don’t feel as if I have any magic ability now. I don’t have a bow. I don’t even have a commoner’s charm.

Looking at myself , I seem to be a completely undefined model– I can’t see my face, but I don’t appear to even have lips. My entire body is unformed, as the guardian had said. I suspect I know what that is– the party rule means that one is incapable of forming a character without first having a player to play with or against. Without that, I’m nothing more than an idea. Perhaps not even that.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask the open air. “Nex?”

It’s the red-haired man who answers. “Challenge accepted. Defend yourself!”

The sword flashes, faster than I can credit, and dirt flies into my face, stinging and blinding me.

I stagger back, trip and fall flat. That, as I see, is all that saves me from being cloven through– the sword arcs overhead with a hiss.

Instinct urges me not to roll, but I fake it, feinting to the right, stopping dead as the blade slams down, rolling left instead. Instinct screams to move then, and I listen this time as the edge of the blade drags back and pulls up again. Moving away, rolling, buys me a few seconds as a foot slams into the dirt where I had been.

I scramble to my feet, moving up and away, dancing out of reach of the massive weapon. The very tip of it whistles just beyond the bridge of my nose. Still blinking away stinging grit, I dart back, again avoiding the blade’s wicked curve by a mere inch.

“Beg for mercy, wench,” he snarls. It startles me just long enough that my step is too short and his too long.

The edge of the blade is at my throat.

I don’t remember this part of the challenge. Shouldn’t he be killing me?

“On your knees,” he says quietly.

I find my legs folding under me, my heart racing.

He steps towards me, then, and in one smooth motion clasps an iron collar around my neck. Attached is a chain of iron rings, the largest of which is at its end. He drives his sword through that last one, deep into the ground to the hilt.

I don’t bother tugging because I already know it’s futile.

The scent of him is metal and sweat.

I have hair when he reaches out to grab it, and dimly I’m aware of my shape changing, as he drags me up next to him with rough fingers, as he holds me there, burning pain spiking through the top of my head.

In a flash, I realize I must be one of my characters. In a flash, I understand what it means.

I have stats, abilities, spells– all sorts of things I couldn’t feel before. I can feel them bubbling up within me, feel the urge to let my power free. As that hand forces my head down and then slams my face into the dirt, the burning urge to resist is replaced with the panicked realization that I can’t breathe or cast spells with my mouth full of mud. I don’t know why I changed, why my character’s body is mine again, but I do know that it won’t mean a thing if I can’t breathe.

“Let her go,” A deep, sharp voice says flatly. It’s distinct, even over the pounding in my ears.

“It is no business of yours what I do with my slaves,” the First Key replies slowly. My lungs burn and my vision, clouded by its proximity to the ground, starts to fade to grey and black. “Unless you mean to challenge me, be off with you.”

“I do challenge you,” I hear the voice reply. “Defend yourself!”

The hand immediately releases me. I raise my head, spitting out mud, gasping, sucking in air, trying not to cry but finding tears in my eyes already. I feel helplessly weak- the iron around my neck might have something to do with that. Despite normally having access to spells, I realize that this is my old sorceress, and one who in Hereditary canon is incapable of using magic when subjected to the touch of cold metal.

A man stands before the Key Bearer– he must be a player, whoever he is, but I don’t recognize the character. A quick glance at his stats tells me he hasn’t a chance, but I let hope rise in my chest. Even if this ended at the end of a run and I were to go back to the real world– if Nex let me–, there’s no telling how long that would leave me to the guardian’s whim. One run may pass like a second in the real world, but it can take years and years, here. The hope is desperate and foolish, but it is there.

The man is a monk class- I can tell by the way he holds himself. His fists are his weapons- of that I have no doubt

His stance is stable and centered. He holds his fists steady before him, gazing at the guardian with piercing blue eyes that seem strangely familiar.

The non-player character attacks first, charging plainly intending to rely on brute strength to lay the player low– he definitely isn’t a monk class, he must be raw fighter, but the speed of his blows, and the measured strength in each strike is enough to make the air ripple.

The player, for his part, stares and, calmly, almost imperceptibly, moves to dodge each attack as it comes. I barely see him move- and not because of his speed, but because he doesn’t. Every motion he makes, every fist he confronts is faced down with that same collected, easy stare, and he makes every effort not to expend any more energy than is necessary to avoid the blow.

The guardian doesn’t have the ghost of a chance. The player monk waits until exactly the right moment, just after a heavy swing– which, to a normal player would offer only the barest breath of an opening– and then strikes his foe directly in the throat. There is a resounding crack, simultaneous with the collar around my throat snapping in two. The Key Bearer’s head snaps back at a sickening angle. He gurgles as he falls over, his eyes rolling back into his head.

I let my head slump back into the dirt, amazed at the warmth of the tears running down my cheeks.


The voice is gruff and unfamiliar. I don’t want to move yet.

A hand on my shoulder, then under it, pulls me up whether I want to let it or not. It’s rough as the one that had recently been in my hair, but its grip is much gentler as it lifts me to my feet and brushes off the dust on my back, sending an odd tingle down my spine.

It whirls me around to face my rescuer.

I stare into the man’s deep blue eyes, and for just one moment I see a fiery, blazing hot passion emanating from them. Then it is replaced with a soft smile. It seems almost incongruous on his rough features, his chiseled chin. His broad shoulders and long arms and legs are packed with muscle.

“Don’t recognize me, girl?”

I shake my head. It isn’t a character I’ve seen before. If Nex wanted me to face these challenges on my own, though, he’d make sure this was a private server, and if it IS a private server, than this character could only be Naomi. Something about the way he holds himself is strikingly familiar, but I can’t place it, and it couldn’t be Naomi because she only ever plays characters from the Nemesis family line.

“Well, I expect you will, given time. Come on, then,” he grunts. “There are three more Keys left to defeat.”

With that, he stalks off into the dark of the hallway, past the broken body of the first Key Bearer.

Not quite understanding why he would attempt to help me at all, I hesitate.

“Come!” comes the gruff call. “I saved your life. You at least owe me that debt, and I cannot face magic alone.”

Still confused, dazed from the dive into the dirt I had recently been forced into, I follow after him, making my way over the sand and onto the flat marble tile floor, feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way that is both familiar to me and alien– in all the lives I’ve lived, this is the first one here, the first run, where I can also remember the things I have already done here, remember the type of people there are in this world.

The walls are made of sandstone, smooth and sturdy. The man, whose name I haven’t yet learned, continues inward until it opens up to a vast, foreboding do me this of limestone. The ceiling is dotted with stalactites of calcareous rock, and impossible veins of shining crystal run through it, glowing red and lighting up the entirety of the interior. It casts a sickly glow over the shape of my unnamed rescuer and his bare, unbloodied fists.

He stops in the center, and across from him, I see a tall statue made of shining, crystalline gold. It must be at least eight feet tall, towering over both the man and me. It also appears to have hinges on its arms and legs and at the center of its forehead, sticking out like a horn, there is a single spike of iron.

Out from around it steps a tall, dangerous woman I recognize immediately.

Inceri is one of the deadliest alchemists in the entire history of Hereditary. One of the greatest honors of any player is to have their character immortalized and set down as a challenger in the Hall of the Key Bearers– Inceri is one of those characters. Canonically she is long since dead- it is her soul which is one of the choices for Second Key in the hall, and it is she who steps between us and the golem standing behind her.

I don’t know what I expect, but it isn’t what comes from her mouth.

“You will not pass,” she states simply, confidently. “If you think that I will let you take the second key from me here, Avery, you are very much mistaken.”

Avery? Avery Nemesis? He is Naomi. What is more, the man I’ve been following is the Nemesis house leader. Shocked– no, stunned— by this revelation, I waver on my feet. Avery- Naomi- stands strong, eyes locked with Inceria’s.

“Girl,” he says quietly. “You’re of the Dame house. I’ll let you deal with her. Last I heard it, she struck down two of your kinsmen, some years back.”

It is distinctly odd, but I do remember the foolish players who went after Inceria, even if my sorceress, Helen, doesn’t remember them at all. To keep in character more than anything else, I shake my head, and then shrug, stepping to the fore. My heart is pounding in my chest, but this time I know my spells like the back of my hand. If by defeating the four Key Bearers I will be able to talk to Nex, I am

The alchemist Inceri wears a long, heavily runed robe, and her golem is famous for being nearly completely indestructible. I watch it warily, waiting for its first move.

“Do you challenge me, Helen of the Dame house?” Her voice is steely, cold and unfeeling.

“I do,” I answer, hiding the quaver in my voice with false determination.

“I accept your challenge,” she snaps. “Come and fight me, if you dare!”

A formula springs to my lips unbidden, fey and familiar, and dances out into the open air in a string of elegant, sibilant syllables– they hang before me, gathering into a cloak, then a cocoon of gossamer light-strands. I push my arms and legs through, and then truly stand in the center of my energy armor. A tweak to the formula teleports a familiar whip-thin sword to my grip. Straight and true, it has no give to it, light as a feather, single-edged, an old friend in my fingers. It has nearly perfect balance.

I take a moment to become accustomed to flicking it through the air– it feels as though it has been ages since I practiced with it.

I have no real time to learn it again– Inceri has used her time well, drawn a slim wand from nothingness– a slim, ivory white wand, curled and re-curled like a unicorn horn. Perhaps it’s made of one.

I try to remember what her abilities are said to be, but all I know of Inceri is that her strength as an alchemist is unrivaled. My knowledge of the guild of Alchemists is limited as well. Their members are secretive, even when caught out of character, in chat lobbies.

“Idiot!” Avery bellows from behind me, and through him I can almost hear Naomi’s voice. “MOVE! I know that wand!”

As I turn my head, I see her flick her wrist, and with it the tip of her chosen weapon towards me.

Barely visible, and only for a split second, there is a ripple moving through the air. In the next moment, my limbs are on fire. Not just my limbs, either, but every part of my body from ears to toes screams as I do, pain arcing through me wildly. My armor is nothing- nothing- nothing.

Through the haze, I can see Inceri laughing, if not hear her. My ears feel as if they’ve split open. Something sticky is running down over my belly, under the cascading armor of light.

“You think that knowing my wand’s power can save you? You think that you can dodge energy like this? Really?

“It’s a disintegration wand, Helen,” Avery growls. “Move next time, or you will die.”

Half of my hitpoints are gone. I was only bruised when I lost to the last Key Bearer. This time, half of my real hitpoints are gone. I’m bleeding.

Eras Simorian, Keryx Alerion, Koju Tyfan,” I murmur. “Founders of magic, grant me speed. Haste.”

An extra action. The world around me slows down to a crawl as I watch Inceri raise the wand again. I put it to use. “Kera Fyrewind’s pride and joy,” I hiss, and let the syllables of the spell flow before finishing. “Reflect.

The wand finishes its short arc, and this time I see the ripple- at its center a bead of red- as it hurtles towards me. I feel barely a tingle as it bounces upon my invisible shield and turns back towards Inceri. Something happens to it, though. Instead of striking her directly and causing her to burst like a swollen melon, the bead of light and the ripple are sucked into the golem standing directly beside her.

To say the resulting sound is is like a ‘bang’ would be akin to calling the sound of nails scratching down glass ‘an unpleasant experience’. The golem’s chest cracks with a hideous screech, stumbles forward onto its knees, flakes of it falling down to the ground silently.

As I watch, it slowly sinks forward onto its knees, collapsing, groaning terribly. Gold shouldn’t crack like that- surely it would bend before it broke. It does, though. Every piece of it seems almost to dissolve slowly as the disintegration magic tears it apart atom by atom.

Inceri’s mouth opens in a snarl, but she doesn’t flick her wand again. “Wretched little witch. You will pay dearly for this, in blood and bone.”

“I’m bleeding,” I say steadily. “Come collect it.”

Inceri is not laughing, and her smile is fell and monstrous. She draws free a gem from thin air, pulling it out of nowhere as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her hand is closed in a fist around a gemstone probably an eighth-span around- an inch and three quarters.

She taps it once with her wand, and it bursts into brilliant flame and floats in the air before her.

A second tap sets it into a tight spin.

“Seek,” she hisses, voice tight with fury. “Slay.”

The gemstone, shedding flame like water in an ever-constant, rippling stream, spins towards me rapidly. It eats up the distance between us, heat making the air around it appear hazy.

I have plenty of warning, then, when its center flares a brilliant white and a streak of molten rock appears in front of me, when magic tingles as it strikes and rebounds from the shield I created around myself. My heart is pounding suddenly.

Again the flash, and again it rebounds from my shield and melts stone around me. A fleck jumps and burns my cheek– my shield is against magic, not physical force!

Ignoring the hiss and the smell of my own burnt flesh, I leap over the nearest puddle of molten floor– just as the ground I had been standing on but a moment previous bursts into flames.

The gemstone is relentless– every time I stop, it seems to flare, and it gets closer and closer. Its strikes glance again and again from my shield, but that doesn’t seem to discourage it.

“You’ll run out of floor before it runs out of power, girl!” I hear Naomi/Avery shout. “Stop dancing around and deal with it! You’re a magic user, aren’t you?”

Rather than answering with words, I choose a spell formula, pausing and trying not to blink as the expected flash and bubbling hiss turns a patch of limestone next to my feet to vapor. An unexpected gust of wind– wind! In a cave? – forever rids my character Helen of the need to shave her legs as it blows the freshly boiled stone against my calves.

The formula falters for but a moment in my mind, but it’s enough to provoke a miscast, and the next thing I know I lie on my back, head cracked, dizzied and dazed and burned. Poor Helen never did have much endurance, and I know I must be near her limit. My limit. Pain is flowing along my limbs, arcing from nerve to nerve– but especially along my legs.

From my vantage point on the ground, though, I watch a vast creature rise up from the ground where Inceri once stood. Constructed first of rock, and then something closer to chitinous flesh, it is without a doubt the ugliest monster I have ever seen. It is a massive crawler, like one might find after overturning a stone on Hereditary’s surface. I have no true life memories of them– having spent my entire life either at the station or on a starship– but I do remember what they look like here.

Its pincers drip poison, and its mouth is a gaping wound filled with human teeth. A hundred legs seem to writhe at once at its sides, tipped with sharp points that, as they scratch the stone under them, seem to be honed to nano-edges.

Instantly, effortlessly, with barely a shrug of its carapace, it transmutes the ground beneath it to grass and soil. The monumental effort of such an alchemical feat would have killed any lesser mortal, but the creature doesn’t even pause as it digs into the new earth and scuttles towards me.

Inceri. She changed herself! Using magic!

I can’t fathom the increase in stats. I can’t fathom the gemstone either, hovering above me. How could any sorceress fight this woman alone?

A flicker of motion. A leap. Near to tears in panic, vision blurred with them, I watch Avery Nemesis land a kick to the gemstone– one solid kick that causes it to fly down from the air and shatter to a million shards when it strikes the ground.

The monstrosity that used to be Inceri rears up as Avery lands in front of me and turns to face it.

It doesn’t gloat. Despite its human teeth, I doubt it can speak. I doubt it is capable of reasoning, either.

Its pincers descend on Avery like lightning, that mouth open to bite with those awful, perfect teeth.

Avery, with the same sureness that helped him avoid the First Keybearer, stands there and faces it. Those pincers come down with a clack, but Avery- Naomi- pushes both hands out to the sides and, as a terrible crack splits the air, breaks away both pincers.

It happens so quickly that there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind it. One moment he stands with his arms at his sides– vulnerable, watching Inceri press those pincers around him– in the next, both halves of the abomination’s mandibles are stuck in the dirt. Those teeth, then, only close on air as Avery steps back, calmly, surely. The Inceri/crawler lets out a groan that chills my blood.

I still manage to push myself up to my feet, if only barely. I can feel each bruise acutely, feel the cuts and the blood trickling from them, feel the burned, raw skin on my legs.

“Helen,” Avery Nemesis says quietly. “Our houses may not be allied, but I need you to-”

Without any warning at all, Inceri lunges forward, propelling herself– itself– in a leap that even Avery has no time to avoid. All of those legs, that terrifyingly human mouth, those bulbous, compound eyes, rush forward in an unstoppable wave.

At the same moment those legs begin tearing Avery to pieces, Nex cuts my connection and I black out.


I resume my fall onto the bed and my head connects, not with cushion as I had hoped, but with the steel headboard. Stars flash before my eyes, my eyes cross, and pain paints a gaudy pattern over my nerves.

Naomi is already screaming, hugging herself and screaming, gasping for breath, eyes slowly coming back into focus, brain registering the change from Hereditary’s vivid feeling-space to reality. I curl up into a fetal position on the bed, tears in my eyes. Vivid rage, left over in my system from when Nex had first started to patch me through, burns renewed.

For a while, there is no speech– only pain, shared between us, Naomi and me. Then, as my eyes clear, as my heart stops its pounding, as my vision slowly returns to normal, I push myself up onto my hands and knees. Something sticky is wetting the back of my neck. I suppose without the hair that I have in Hereditary it must be blood. My head aches.

Naomi’s eyes meet mine then. She isn’t crying, but there’s something understood between us.

“Nex is rampant,” she says quietly.

I nod my head, causing the world to spin briefly. “Yeah.”

“I guess we can’t stay here anymore.”

“Yeah,” I repeat. I feel as though I’ve lost something, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

“Should we turn it off?” she asks flatly.

I shrug. I’m not really at a point where I care.

I stand and manage to totter my way off of the bed.

It shocks me a little, but Nex is standing there- or at least a projection of it. It stands in the doorway, arms folded, face unreadable. Its eyes, though, are cracked and red and, as I watch, drip tears.

I didn’t think robots could even express sadness.

It blocks my path to the door, and as I watch, reaches out, as if to touch me.

I take a half-step back, staring at it.


It disintegrates before my eyes, and for a moment I’m struck dumb.

The moment fades, and I whirl to look at Naomi.

She shrugs and doesn’t look at me. “If it’s dying, maybe it’s time we let it die.”

“If it goes, the entire station could stop running!” I reply fiercely. “Don’t you care about that?”

“Mom is gone,” she says flatly. “Mom is gone, dad is dead. What are we doing out here, Damien? Are we just playing games? What are we? I feel more at home in Hereditary than I’ve ever felt here, but what can we do? Are we just going to stay here forever, playing stupid games with a decaying computer? Are we just going to keep eating fungus that barely grows on a planet that any day now might be flash-vaped by a solar flare?”

I stare at her for a while. I don’t have an answer to that, so instead I turn and walk out into the corridor, and as soon as I’m out of sight I run.


The skirt is awkward to run in, but I don’t care about that. My head aches and pounds, and I don’t care about that either. There’s still anger in my gut, at Naomi and Nex, but there’s something else roiling within me.

I hop down the short ladder-space separating the living quarters from the main parts of the station and dash off towards the Crossroads, where the airlock and the path to the Acropolis lie.

When I arrive, the lights go out.

I am plunged into pitch darkness, and I come to a sudden stop. The only light comes from the airlock’s red emergency glow. The dying star this planet orbits is currently eclipsed by  the bulk of our home’s surface.

It is absolutely, completely, totally silent. There isn’t even a hum.

Standing in the dark, my heart pounding senselessly (what is there to be afraid of?), my eyes straining to see in the black, I hear nothing but my own breathing, nothing but the sound of silence.

For as long as I can remember, there have been lights in this station. For as long as I can remember, there have been lights on in this station. Always, always, always.

I feel a tremble run up through me, feel my body freeze up. Inside, I’m calm, I can understand it, I can force myself to move in my mind. My body won’t move, though. Shrouded in black, the glow of the airlock’s emergency light is fell, demonic, terrible. The world before me swims, the blackness flows and shifts, and my mouth feels dry.

This irrational fear renders me utterly inert.

There could be anything here. There is nothing here. I am alone in this station. Naomi is the only one with me in this station. Naomi and Nex.

I tremble again. Why can’t I move?

Is this the way it will end? Naomi frozen by apathy, Damien frozen by fear?

If I were Helen, what would I do? Even my little girl character, even the last real run I did, even she would be brave enough to face a little dark. She was about to be captured by the Nemesis House Seer, and she was still brave! What would a little darkness be to her?

I can feel stupid, hot tears running down my cheeks. I am not going to be undone by something like this.

Fighting back the terror gripping my body takes all of my will.

Fighting it away robs me of my strength, and when I finally do move it’s a shaking, single step, away from the airlock. When I turn, I can see a tiny circle of light at the far end of the path to my immediate right. That must be the Jungle. It’s a green light that falls there. That means life support isn’t off yet.

To the left of me is more blackness, but I know for absolute certain that in that black is the path, the hallway to the Acropolis.

When I was very small, Mom used to warn us of demons and other creatures lurking in the Acropolis. Things to scare small children, she later admitted. Stories.

High city. That’s what it means. I don’t know my way around there. This station is large enough to get lost in.

I realize, though that I can see, just the tiniest bit, by the large window and the stars. The atmosphere of Ythma has always been red, and so it casts odd shadows that somehow manage to fill my heart with even more dread than before. Swallowing it down, I start towards the blackness and the pathway to the Acropolis.


My fingers touch the wall and my heart touches the bottom of my throat. I don’t know how long I have been walking. I don’t know how far away the Acropolis is.

The only noise I can register is my heartbeat, and the starlight is weak and only intermittent. The red glare it occasionally casts against the floor is less a comfort and more a terror. My heart jumps with every step, and I don’t know how much more I can stand. What’s worse, twice now I have seen holes in the floor only after near stepping in them. The wires exposed there are jagged strips of old metal, and even with the power out I am sure they would cut my bare feet to ribbons.

I keep a hand on the wall now as I move forward, and eventually, heart still leaping wildly in my chest, I come to an opening and, as soon as I set foot in it, lights burst on and into brilliance.

It’s a tiny room.

The Acropolis is a tiny room.

It’s circular in nature, domed at the top, and all around are panels and other things I can’t quite understand. A chair sits at its center, turned away from me, and the far wall has a sealed door like you might find leading to an airlock. The plating here is rough with age, and I step carefully as I move forward, worried that the floor might give way at any moment. The way it creaks at me is not encouraging.

Before the chair I can see a massive bank of screens and above those, the words ‘Acropolis’ shine redly where they’re set into the wall.

The lights flicker for a few moments, reminding me of my time limit.

At first I don’t know what to do, but logic dictates that if there is a place where Nex can be fixed from, it would be here.

I take another few tentative steps forward, reaching the chair. It’s set in a swivel base, so I gently turn it around.

It takes all of my willpower again, this time not to shriek. Mom is sitting in the chair, eyes blank and glazed, fingers set and stiff as though still at the controls. Carefully, slowly I pull her away from the chair and, gently as I can, try to set her down on the floor. The artificial gravity of the station is almost as strong as it ever was on the starship, so she doesn’t exactly float to the ground.

It doesn’t smell like a corpse, though, and it occurs to me that Nex must have been running filters in here nonstop to take away the stench.

Numbly, I climb into the chair where my mother must have always been sitting. I stare down at the controls.

They stare back up at me.

This time I do shriek, heart thudding wildly, as Nex rises from the control panel like a vengeful ghost. Inadvertently, I push off, kick off from the platform and the chair falls backwards with a crash– vision blurred with sudden tears and stabbing pain, I hear a second, third, fourth crash and feel warmth all around me.

My gaze returns to normal and, dreading what I’ll see, I look downward. It nearly makes me sick- a jagged, rusted edge of the floor– it had given way under the chair!– has been thrust, driven into my foot so far that its tip pierces the top, pinning it in place.

Below that there is nothing. A black, dark void greets my sight, and I realize that I’m floating. All around me I feel warmth, incongruous with the terrible burning now running up and down my leg.

“Ah,” I say quietly. “N-Nex?”

A silvered hand reaches out impossibly long and, with the precision of a laser, melts through the base of the floor edge stuck in my foot. It returns to the greater cloud and the managerial AI carries me and sets me down, supporting my injured foot at the heel as red slips down over the semi-solid surface of its projection. Slips over it and drips on the floor in a steady trickle.

I don’t have time to think. I look at the screens.

An AI is not allowed to debug itself. It isn’t allowed to fix itself no matter how dire the situation.

Two switches show on the keypad before me- or at least, two switches that I actually recognize.

One is labeled ‘Quantum Memory Control’ and the other is labeled ‘Reboot from Last Backup’. I haven’t the faintest idea which one I should flick, or if either of them needs flicking at all.

A soft tapping noise, above the drip of my blood on the floor and the hum of the computer bank, sounds from behind me. I turn slightly and let out a soft, weak sigh of relief. “Naomi!”

She smiles very briefly, winces as she limps a step forward and I see that she is leaving a trail of blood behind her. I cover my mouth and shut my eyes, unable to properly drag my eyes away from the mess of bleeding cuts marring her bare right foot.

Slowly though, so slowly, she reaches the computer bank with me and plops down a heavy synthbook I recognize. It’s the starship repair book.

The lights dim, flicker, and for a few moments at least, go out. They come back on barely a moment later, but I realize we have no time to lose.

“I brought it along, but I don’t know how it’ll… uh… help,” Naomi mutters flatly. “Nex is not a starship.”

“Nex was on a starship,” I point out. “I’ll look through it.”

“You’ve never touched a synthbook in your life,” Naomi growls.

“I’ve had more than one life to learn to read,” I reply grimly. “Remember? Five thousand of them at the least.”

She nods faintly, obviously in excruciating pain. “Right.”

I open the book to the first page, quickly looking through the table of contents to find the section on AI repair. As soon as I find the section on quantum computers, I read through it and Naomi gets to work.

Within fifteen minutes, we restore power to the lights. Within the next fifteen, Naomi falls unconscious.

It’s not a sudden thing. Her eyes droop and her movements grow faint. Twice I remind her that she needs to focus, twice she nods vaguely and then, as she collapses, smacks the big red ‘engage airlock’ button, something I now recognize after what feels like an age of poring over the thick synthbook.

The airlock opens, on the far side, the door sealing it cycling outwards as if opening a vault, as if a secret door in Hereditary. It slides away like magic and reveals a short hallway. The synthbook projection flickers and disappears as Naomi slumps and, barely able to support her weight myself, I still catch her and hold her upright.

We took the liberty of waking up the rest of the station, Nex broadcasts.

I blink as the lights come back on full force. The hallway is still unlit. I swear I see shapes moving in it, though.

You both have done enough work for me to repair myself the rest of the way. All we need is your authorization.

I stare at Nex’s projection, reflected in the screen where it stands behind us, supporting me and Naomi both.

I touch the button authorizing AI self-repair, blue and glowing bright on the keypad. It whirs and clicks for a moment, lights flickering for a heart-stopping breath, and then they flick on and stay that way, and the newly illuminated hall shines bright. The sign above it flickers into life as well: Greater Quarters – Colony Central – To Acropolis.

From it steps a elder man, wide-eyed and owlish, blinking in the light. His gaze catches on mine, flicks from me to the body of my mother, to my foot, pierced through with metal. It travels to Naomi’s unconscious form and my expressionless face, my clothing.

He turns his head back towards the corridor behind him. “Jenkins, run and get in touch with Medical right now.” He turns back and then rushes in. I’m about to warn him about the rusty floor, but my mouth won’t work. It doesn’t seem to matter. His boots glow as they strike the metal, and he doesn’t seem to touch the floor so much as skim over it. Anti-gravity, perhaps.

He looks around at the place briefly, as if checking it for danger, and then looks me over once, twice. I wince. I’m still wearing Naomi’s clothes…

“Are you alright, girl?” he asks quietly. “That foot looks bad- here.”

A ripping noise. He tears through the fabric of his shirt. His gloves pulse red- strength enhancing, perhaps.

I realize he was talking to me only after he takes my foot into his hands.

“Deal with Naomi first,” I manage weakly. “Please.”

“You need it more. There is a rusted metal object in your foot. This is going to hurt,” he says gently. “Brace yourself.”

Tears well up in my eyes.

I don’t care.

We’re not alone anymore.

We’re not alone.


©2013 Sam Oliver (Eris)


More on this one in a later post. I’m too tired to even tag this much.



Short Story Challenge #2: Pipes

Trees race by while I stand still, and they leave me bare in the plains beyond them, bare and shivering as the humans on their great steeds surround me. Plated in scales no Pan could touch, the other-dwellers drop from their mounts, iron fangs drawn and pointed at me in unison. I’m not hurt by my capture as much as by the forest’s betrayal.

“Beautiful as it is dangerous. Fetch a net. A year back a young faun killed Marco.”

“Aye, oi remember.”

Their voices are alien, foreign to my ears, and though I know what they say I can’t communicate with them. Humans speak a variant of the sylvan tongue, but cannot understand the main branch.

I twist in the circle of their points, crouching, staring. I can see no way out past them. Perhaps under them? I bring the panpipes up to my lips, taking in a breath. I let the air flow over and into the topmost pipe.

“Spell! Argus- counter- we need it back alive!”

The note is so piercing it even makes me wince, but the response is near instant. The ground beneath me opens up, slams together again as I drop. The earth muffles shouts and curses and traps one iron fang as it closes above my head.

“Rithma’s staff-!”

“Spread out- it’ll-“

Whatever they say, I don’t hear. The root pulls me away too quickly.

The world blurs as the twining thing, wrapped around my legs, whisks me away faster than a blink.

It drags me down the tunnel and then releases me suddenly, leaving me on my back, aching all over, alone in the near pitch blackness under the earth. The only light is from a light-touched spore-tree, glowing just enough to hide the shadows beyond. It had been guesswork– if I had been plunged into the earth without a tunnel here, I’m sure it would have been much worse.

I look at the pipes sadly- I can feel the broken edges. Ten pipes they had been, all in a line. Now they are five. The rest must be lost somewhere along in the darkness.

I push myself up to my hooves. Thankful for the fey tunnel I’d been dragged into, but apprehensive about what lies ahead, I suck in a breath and continue into the dark.


I come to a wall– a solid mass of thick tree roots bars my way.

I can still hear the a set of plated boots above me. I think it must belong to a human thread-twister and one of the Scaled, but there’s no way to know. When I pause, they pause. When I stop, they stop. When I lean against the root wall before me, they bicker.

“It can’t have gone into the tree.”

“She stopped, and here it is.”


Earthfather’s child, warmed in the sun

Your leaves I search for, the humans I run


Part your roots and let me through

Only this I ask of you.


It works– I feel the roots part before my fingers. I duck into the gap and it closes behind me. The footsteps do not follow me.

More roots hang down before me, touching, feeling for me as I pass. The voice of this earthchild is strong and very much awake.

Child of the forest’s sin, go you where and back again?

I shiver. The voice itself is… sick somehow. Wrong in ways I can’t begin to fathom.

I can crush those humans for you, grind their bones and break their hearts.

Shall I take and batter their scales, soak them in the ancient art?

Their skull’s soft dust will feed my roots, their eyes will burst and nourish my bark….

I reach the edge of the child’s rootcircle, only to find that another wall of roots bars my path as surely as the darkness blocks my sight.

Shouts from above me, a cry and a crack. The hissing, whistling sound of branches moving, creaking in wind. Then silence. Then heavy, muffled breathing, a noise like a cry or a whimper, a wounded animal.

“Oh gods Argus oh gods it killed him oh-“

I freeze under the earth. A root is twining around my neck.

Slowly, carefully, I bring the pipes to my lips. Its roots must go on and on.

Another root plays against my hand, another drifts down my back and curls around my short tail- it is all I can do not to panic, my heart is beating so loudly I know the whole tunnel knows it.

“Gods no, gods- why, why did it do that, the tree moved, the whole tree moved-“

I draw in a breath, inching the pipe over to the second longest reed.

Air escapes my lungs in a squeak as a root viciously encircles and constricts my chest.

You think I am blind, little faun, but under the earth I feel your intent.

Put it out of your mind, put it out of your hands. Drop the pipes, little faun, drop them now or I will squeeze until your mind is raw.

Choking, I let the pipes slip from my fingers, a dull, terrible feeling growing in my stomach. They thud wetly in the earth. The ceiling above me opens, and the root pulls me upward into the sun. I’m left blinking and blind for a few moments, bare and feeling terribly exposed.

The price is paid, little human. Take your faun, take the forest sinchild and go.

There is a man here, as my vision clears. A human dressed in plate. At his feet another man, dressed in withered earthchildren woven together so tight you couldn’t see the join between them. They’re painted a lurid red, but the red isn’t as bright and sick as the pool around his skull, broken open to show the white of bone, gleaming in the light of the sun.

The root releases me, and my hooves clack on the stone-hard bark near the base of the wicked, ancient, sky-touching earthchild. Its branches sway and hiss menacingly, and another shudder goes through me. I haven’t my pipes, so I am well and truly defenseless.

I stand there, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, as the human straightens, walks over to me on shaking legs and, grasping my arm roughly, drags me after him.

The touch of his hand is leather, not iron, and its like being handled by the dead, but I let him pull me away from that terrible earthchild– because I know that if I try to run, the wicked creature will kill me for certain. I walk with him meekly as I can, ready to bolt once we’re out of the tree’s range.

To my horror, however, we only walk a short while before we reach his den– a short, thin-walled tent, like that made by a worm- but much smaller.

He pulls me with him and throws me into the tent. I scramble away from him, surprised at first by the spaciousness, and then by the unmistakable tingle of filthy human magic. For a few moments, at least, my body ignores my pleas to move, and he capitalizes on the moment to clasp bands around my wrists and just above my hooves.

“Hah. There,” he says. His voice is shaking. He seems frightened, continually glances back towards the massive earthchild, still visible, its thick trunk towering above the ground, its many boughs curled and deceptively tranquil.

“I can’t believe the Captain risked us for you,” he murmurs darkly. “You can’t be more than twenty years come and gone, and here he’s willing to sacrifice the lot of us.”

The magic fades, and I kick out at him once.

“Stop trying to attack me.”

The filthy tingle is back. Suddenly I can’t think of striking at him. Attempting to move my leg for another kick results in a hot, sick wave of pain.

I glare at him, but can do nothing else.

“Whatever. I don’t know where the Captain and his squad are, but we aren’t going anywhere until he gets here.”

I don’t say anything. Why should I bother? He can’t understand me. Even if he could, humans hate fauns. They hate panii in general.

To myself, I mutter, “Mud-drinking human. I’ll be gone long before your Captain arrives.”

His eyes open wide, and then narrow. “Fauns speak Sylvan?”

I quickly shut my mouth and turn away, but it’s too late. “Tell me.”

Pain lances through my lips and forces them apart, searing fire moves my tongue for me. “Y-Yes! Of course we speak Sylvan!”

It fades as soon as it came.

A pause as both of us stare at one another. My heart is pounding again, and I know my fingers are curled against the floor. The human feels too close. The burning touch of his scaled plate makes me want to squirm away, but I’m afraid if I draw attention to it he’ll order me to stay close. Humans are sick creatures like that–

“I never knew,” he whispers, and sits back. He stares at me. “I never- I never knew…”

Silence passes between us for a while, awkward and thick.

You speak Sylvan?” I ask, curious despite myself.

He removes his helmet, gazing at me steadily. It is only then that I notice his tapered, rounded ears.

“Yes,” he replies. “I do.”

“You’re– earthblooded!” is what escapes me. “Why are you with them-?”

He shakes his head ruefully. “My mother was a feywolf and my father a mercenary. She was his slave. I signed on to the military when I was younger.”

Now the feyblood doesn’t meet my eyes. His, I notice, are a deep silvery grey, mirrors to mine.

“Why did you try to run?” he asks sadly. “Argus is dead because you ran.”

“You would run as well if you were hunted down by the most dangerous predators in all the forests combined. You capture fauns and eat them. Or… the humans do.”

He actually laughs, and for a moment fear stabs at my heart. I listen, all the same.

“We never eat fauns. We’re preserving them. We try to catch as many as we can from the groves we schedule to be cut down.”

I shrink away as he reaches out to me, but it’s only to pull a long metal stick from behind me. It isn’t an earthmetal. I know it’s likely some worked human abomination, but the colors are a soft green, and almost pretty.

He brings the tip just before his lips and speaks again. It takes me only a moment to realize what it is. The fact that he again speaks his human branch of Sylvan is a help.

“I’ve found her…. Argus is dead. Massive rooted wood-walker here too. Killed Argus. Probably not the faun’s fault. Pitched the tent. Awaiting orders.”

A voice comes back through the rod.

“Remain where you are. The Captain will be back from his hunting foray and we will pick you up. That is an order.”

“Understood,” the half-man replies sharply, and looks up at me again.

I shiver under the force of that gaze, not meeting his eyes. “You do mean to take me with you.”

“There will be more fauns where we are going,” he says softly. “Take comfort in that.”

“I take no comfort in false promises,” I snap. “You captured me. You are betraying your kind.”

“And if I sided with you, I would be betraying my kind as well.”

“I am not a human,” I point out. “I am not one of the humans.”

“Is that meant to be persuasive? I’ve lived most of my life with humans. Why should I care whether you are a human or not?”

“Because you’ve lived most of your life with humans,” I respond, and look him in the eyes. I take a deep breath, take a chance, twining some of the magic of the panii into my voice. “You want to learn about your sylvan family too. You are curious.”

He frowns. “I may be curious, but I can learn all I need to about the fey from the library in the citadel.”

I sigh, then, pushing myself up into a sitting position, glaring at him. “And what will you do with me?”

His grin is downright frightening. “Whatever I wish.”


As it turns out, he wishes to comb through the fur on my legs with his fingers, as though a bird preening feathers. As it turns out, he is searching for bite-flies and the little white eggs they occasionally leave behind. I let him, because resisting is pointless. I don’t know what form of magic he has me under, what form of human sorcery it is, but it binds me fast whenever I attempt to disobey him.

His hands touch on a lump in my left leg. I wince, kick reflexively, but thankfully don’t manage to hurt him.

“When did this happen?” he asks softly. “When did you hurt your leg?”

“Months ago. I couldn’t move it. I fell and couldn’t move it. It’s better now.”

Well, I hadn’t fallen, really. But he doesn’t need to know that.

He frowns. “The bone never set properly.”

“What?” I ask blankly. What does he mean?

“It healed wrong. Look, it’s out of place here. Your other leg isn’t like that. Does it hurt when I press on it?” he does so, pushing. His fingers feel like razorpine and his palm like coarse sand wrapped in bark and scraped slowly against an open wound.

A squeal escapes without my meaning it. I try to tug my leg away, but his grip is firm and the pain is too much.

“Yes it hurts! Stop!” I snap. “Why do you care?”

He shrugs, looking up at me with serious eyes. “I’m sure you wouldn’t understand why I care.”

I turn away from his gaze. “There’s nothing wrong with my leg.”

“Here,” he says quietly. “I’ll show you what’s wrong with your leg. You haven’t the slightest idea.”

He reaches out, but I grab his wrist as his hand moves towards my head. “What are you doing?” I snarl. “Keep your hand-“

A chilly, sickish, tingly feeling spreads outward from his wrist into me. It trickles up my back and settles in my mind like a gentle, soft weight. Suddenly, I know.

The bone in my leg is splintered and fused together in five different ways. The bump on my leg is where the broken shaft is protruding out into the skin surrounding it. I have a clear image in my head of what the bone looks like– a stick split in the center, the edges of it surrounded by lumps of flesh formed around to cushion them. The knowledge of the way the bone mended wrong, how instead of fusing along the seam, muscle formed a wedge between the cracks in the bone and slowly began to push it apart.

Just as quickly as the feeling came, it vanishes, leaving me with foreign knowledge in my head- knowledge without understanding. Seam? Muscle? Fused?

They are human words! How did he fill my head with human words?

I have an ache centered in the front of my head and it stings as I move my leg. It hadn’t stung before I knew what was happening. Did he magic my leg like this?

It looks the same as before, though, so I resist the urge to aim a kick at him.

“What did you do to me?” I ask.

“Showed you what was wrong with your leg,” he says dryly. “I told you that I would.”

“What is a seam?” I ask again, feeling lost. “Why do I know of- muscle and… fused? Why are those words in my head?”

“Sylvan doesn’t have those words. A seam is stitching, but here it means… like a crack. Where the bone should be joined together. Muscle is what you use to move. Fusing or fused things are… things that are… together? Pushed together or held together.”

I shake my head, still uncomprehending, but he sighs, lifts his shoulders, drops them again. “When the Captain gets here, I’ll have the healer take a look at it.”

I close my eyes as he finishes picking through my fur. Now that he’s groomed me I know what will come next.

“Is this your first time?”

His voice interrupts my train of thought, but only slightly. I stare at him and narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”

He stands, stretches in the not-so-cramped confines of the surprisingly spacious den. A bed of woven plants and iron sits in the corner of it. To my surprise, he walks over to it and sits on the edge.

“Is this your first time being captured?” he asks. “Have you been caught by humans before?”

“Mud-drinkers twice, orcs once. I almost prefer the company of orcs,” I say flatly.


“There are usually fewer of them.”


There is silence between us for a moment. I don’t feel like talking to him now anyway. In fact, I haven’t a clue why I started up conversation in the first place. He is a monster, like most other humans. He may have given me information, but he invaded my mind to do it. He may have helped me escape the clutches of that earthchild, but he did it for his own gain.

I want nothing to do with him. I want to escape.

To that end, I rise to my hooves and step outside of the tent.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me. I can feel his eyes on my back as I step out into the air.

Little faun….

A series of terrible, violent and obscene images spring into my mind. Sensations like hard oak pistons drive into me from every direction. My legs quake. Little faun. You know what it is I will wreak; back to the tent where the humans stink. Come out again if come out you dare. I can reach you, even there.

The voice sickens me to the point that I feel dizzy, and I stumble back into the tent again, hugging myself and trying to banish the memory of it– like wet, slimy, rotten death, like a tendril of something terrible is worming its way into my mind. As soon as I step into the tent again, it leaves me, and I blink back tears.

“It talked to you.”

I stare at the half-blood.

I nod once, weakly, and turn back to the entrance of the tent, gazing outward.

His voice draws me back again, though. “What does it say? I can hear it but I can’t understand it.”

“It says- it wants to kill us both. And it s-shows me. What it will do to me if I try to escape.” I can feel my voice crack, and I sit down, staring into the bright of the day and the dark of the earthchild’s shadow. “When will your Captain be here?”

“I don’t know,” he replies quietly. “When he does get here, he will take care of the wood-walker.”

Time goes by again, in total silence. Finally, though, I let curiosity get the better of me.

“What is your name?” I ask, curious.

“Yimmer. My surname is Kindleheart. I am a private and a pathfinder for the Aegis legion.”

Silence passes yet again. For a time all is quiet, and then it strikes me.

“You didn’t ask me my name,” I point out.

“Fauns have names?”

I can see him grinning, but it still hurts. “Of course!” I huff, feeling put off. “Everything has a name.”

“What’s your name?” he asks quietly. He is resting on his back now, arms behind his head. “What do other faun ladies call you?”

“My name is Sarah.”

“That’s an odd name,” Yimmer says, after a pause.

“It’s the name I was born with,” I reply shortly.

“It’ll do. I’m sorry we had to meet under such poor circumstances, Sarah.”

Any time I meet a human is automatically under poor circumstance, in my opinion, but I don’t voice it.

I suddenly feel a warm, steady hum in the bands around my arms and legs. Startled, I rise.

Sit down,” comes Yimmer’s command in bastard Sylvan. I find my legs folding under me. The bands begin to glow. Though the humming can’t be described as uncomfortable, it isn’t comforting.

I’m about to say something when I hear voices from outside of the tent.

“This looks to be the tent. It has our insignia.”

“I’m not losing any men to a tent mimic. Ho there! Private Kindleheart!”

Yimmer, sitting up now, calls back.

“It’s me! I’m not a mimic. You can come in!”

“T’would be better served if I cut my own throat! Step out so I might see you for myself, Private.”

With a sigh and a sheepish grin I can’t be sure he means, the half-human stands up and walks towards the entrance of the tent.

Bound by his command and the ever present agony-threat of the bands around my wrists and ankles, I sit there and wait as he ducks out.

“Well, I’ll be! Alive and well, Private Yimmer? A faun can be a wily one- did it escape you?”

“No sir. She’s in the tent. The control bands work a treat.”

I stare at the entrance to the tent I sit in. The silk twitches aside to reveal a human with bright blue eyes and wild silver hair that cascades down its shoulders. It doesn’t seem to be clad in any particular type of iron, but it is wearing dead, dry skin, leather. Studded in each glove is a thick earthstone, glowing green. The blasphemy of Terrus’s tears set amidst dead flesh makes me sick to my stomach in a way iron couldn’t match.

“So you’re the one who killed Argus,” it says softly. I can’t be sure from looks alone whether this human is a man or a woman. “We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to catch you.”

I don’t respond. What would be the point? I wouldn’t be understood. I am not the one who killed Argus- that wicked earthchild killed Argus, if Argus was the robed human lying in his own blood.

“On your knees. Wait there until I call you.”

My hesitation causes searing agony to writhe its way up my spine. It’s all I can do not to cry out, but my legs fold themselves under me and I sit on my knees obediently. The burning is slow to fade, and the humiliation lingers even when the pain is gone. I am not by nature proud, but this… taming, if that is what it is, is swiftly shredding even that small inclination towards self-respect.

The human, dressed in its dead skins, leaves. The first to come in after him is a short but wiry human with soft green eyes and a bald head. He wears iron scales for protection and carries a short fang at his belt. He seems more curious than malicious.

He looks directly into my eyes and smiles. I hear his thought-voice in my head.


Do not despair. Soon you will be with more of your kind than you have ever seen.


I gaze back at him steadily. I can’t answer. He wouldn’t understand me, so what would be the point in trying?


I can hear your thoughts, faunling. If you think it, I know it.


I don’t know if I believe that. I’m quite sure that if I wanted to keep my thoughts hidden it would be a simple enough thing. I don’t like the intensity of his stare, and I don’t care about joining more of my kind. All I want is freedom.

He straightens, then, nods once, smile fading, and leaves the tent.

“She does not want to be here, Captain.”

Their voices are hard to differentiate, but I recognize the wiry man’s thought-voice in his true voice. The Captain’s tone is familiar as well.

“If our operation relied on its comfort, we’d never have tried to capture it.  Anyone else want to spend some time with the beast? I’ll overlook it as long as there isn’t a mark on its spotted hide when we reach the gardens.”

“What, sleep with a faun?”


“I will,” I hear Yimmer say.

“Fancy yourself a little faerie wife, Kindleheart?”

“About time you started eyeing women though, right?”

I shiver, hugging myself and shutting my eyes. These stupid bands! Were it not for the Captain’s command and these horrible devices I know I would be able to escape.

At least, if I still had my pipes I could escape…

“Set up camp here. There’s room amidst these trees. Mind you don’t settle too close to the wood-walker. I’d rather not fight that thing until I absolutely need to.”

A heartbeat or two later, I hear sounds of movement all around the tent. I quake there, sitting on my knees and trying not to think about what is almost certainly coming. It doesn’t work- trapped as I am on my knees at the Captain’s orders, I stare out into the day and wait, in dread and doubt, for the day to turn to night. After listening to each human pitch their own ideas for Yimmer to hear on how to have me, after being cooped up in the tent for who knows how long, the tent flap twitches aside and Yimmer, golden eyes soft and tired, steps in.

“The Captain says you may move now,” he says dryly. “Do not leave the tent.

I push myself away from him immediately, still hugging myself, eyeing him suspiciously. He ignores me entirely, moving to the woven plant-and-iron nest in the corner, lying on it and staring at the wall of the tent.

For my part, I lean against the farthest wall from him, still hugging my knees- which ache horribly from being in the same position for the entire day. The pain in my leg, where the bone is splintered, was made much worse for me sitting back on it. Now I’m not so certain I could escape even if the bands were away and I had a moment of freedom. I watch Yimmer until he closes his eyes, until the rise and fall of his chest stabilizes, evens, and he seems to be asleep. Eventually I close my eyes as well, and my heartbeat slows down enough that some semblance of rest comes to me.


I am awakened, and rudely. A hand is curled tight in my hair. I won’t begin to describe the taste in my mouth or what I see when my eyes open. I will say only that in one moment I am stunned, confused, terrified. I can’t breathe. Something is- blocking my lungs from drawing in air. I scream, shout, bite- around whatever it is in my mouth, but it pinches down on my tongue and forces my mouth open wide.

The noise- from what little I can see around the belly of whoever stuffed their fingers between my lips, wakes up Yimmer who, initially bleary, is near instantaneously furious as he rises to his feet and takes stock of the situation.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? A man can’t have fun in peace? Want her all to yourself, Yimmer?”

The hand releases me, though, and something in my mouth is withdrawn just as I bite down. I feel a sharp blow to my side and curl in on myself, coughing, gasping.

Yimmer’s voice, when next it comes, is sharp as a fang, and deadlier than ever I have heard.

“Get out.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to- you know… at the same time?”

“Get out of my tent!” comes the answering snarl. From my dazed vantage point on the floor, I see a man calmly drawing up the woven animal-skin over his waist again.

His eyes linger on my prone form as he ducks out, and he leers openly. “Suit yerself. It’s a long trip to the gardens, boy. I’ll get my chance.”

As soon as the tent flap closes behind him, I feel Yimmer’s hand on my arm drawing me up with him.

Without a word, he pushes me into the nest he made for himself and, upon drawing the woven silk sheet over me, walks to the entrance of the tent and, leaning against the wall, closes his eyes again, taking up silent guard.

Shaking uncontrollably, I lie still in the bed, jumping at every footstep. My tongue is sore and bleeding from the man’s nails digging into it, and something in my mouth tastes absolutely foul even with those thick fingers gone. I feel violated in the worst of ways, as though a part of me is now soiled. Inexplicably, I find tears in my eyes, find I’ve lost the strength to hold them back. Alone in the tent but for Yimmer, who only feigns sleep in the corner, I cry until the tears won’t come anymore. When they finally leave me, when my cheeks are drenched with them and my heart aches fit to burst to pieces, I take a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly.

I open my eyes to find Yimmer staring into them, close enough to touch.

Still saying nothing, he brushes a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. I can’t help but notice the coarseness of his skin– not as rough as the fingers had been, from before. Finally, as he looks at me, as he stares at me, I understand.

“Don’t cry, little faun,” he says, quiet as can be. “I’m here. If that man comes back I will drive this sword into his gut. No one will miss him.”

He isn’t seeing me, not really. Even as he gazes at me, even as I watch him smile, I know it is not me he sees lying before him. Those are the eyes of a pan mad with anger, and to be honest I find them more frightening than anything I have ever seen. How could he care about what happens to me? The moon has not even risen into the sky on the day he found me, the night is not yet at its peak, but he protects me. Why?

“What hurt you, to make you like this?” I ask, and curse myself for my weakness.  I don’t know what drives me to ask in the first place. Some idiotic curiosity spilling over in my heart. “What pushes you to do that for me?”

Yimmer blinks, then shakes his head, as if clearing it, stares at me as if truly seeing me for the first time.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, and turns away, leaning against the side of the bed of iron and woven plant. “I… I suppose I really don’t. It doesn’t sit well with me. Their treatment of you. Argus didn’t die… just so they could… hurt you, like that.”

It’s alien. Wrong somehow. I didn’t grow up with him. I never sang or played the pipes or danced with him in the forest. I’ve just met him. I’ve only just now begun to understand him.

Why would he help me? There must be some motive beyond me, something that I don’t understand.

“Who was Argus?” I ask, after a time.

He doesn’t answer, and after watching him for a while, I decide he must be asleep.

It isn’t until I lean over to see his face that I can be sure.

Tears are streaking his cheeks, his breaths come in short and clipped, his eyes are shut tightly.

I pull away, lying against the plants. So woven, they don’t really feel like the green friends I know in the forest- they don’t feel alive. I’ve heard humans talk about it once. Cloth perhaps. Silk for what spiders and worms weave.

After a time, I manage to find sleep. Though silent, I can feel Yimmer’s crushing sorrow, and though dreamless, my rest is not restful.



The human voice startles me awake. I look into the eyes of the human captain. They are downcast, and after a moment I realize he is staring down at Yimmer, and not at me.

“Private Kindleheart, on your feet.”


“We leave. Now.”

“Yessir,” Yimmer replies. Were he full human, I could not read him. Since he has sylvan blood, his emotions are clear as day: He doesn’t want to go. The captain turns to me.

“Faunling. Stand. Follow.”

I find the nearly familiar agony burning in my legs, and quickly rise to my hooves, standing. As the captain steps from the tent, I follow after him, tossing a quick glance back at Yimmer, who rises as well. Then the pain shoots down my legs, followed by a less familiar sharp spike of it along the bone. I cry out without meaning to, but force myself to follow after the human, stepping out into the dawn.

A voice fills my head, and not one I am pleased to feel.

Little faun. You will not escape. The men and their dogs will die.

I’ll wrap you up in a rootfold cape and tear you apart inside.

Say one word to the human fools and you will be first to fall.

Deep in the earth, buried and covered, I will begin to draw.

The marrow from bone will slake my thirst and in blood my seed will grow.

The strength of the images that twisted earthchild sends me chill my blood, chill me to the core. I feel shakes and shivers roll through me. I can’t stop them, and nearly fall when Yimmer notices. He steadies me, a hand on my shoulder, a hand on my back. As the world fades into focus again and I hear those around me, I am aware of muttering.

I realize that Yimmer is holding me, then, that aside from his hand, he has an arm wrapped around me.

“Her leg is broken,” he says to the stares. “She shouldn’t be walking on it in the first place. How are we to deal with the wood-walker?”

“A fair question,” concedes the captain. “We brought torches. I suggest firebrands as a defense at least, to ward it away, and then moving swiftly out of its reach.”

Yimmer glances at me, and I find myself shaking my head. “No,” I whisper. “Fire won’t work. This earthchild is bigger than- at least five of the oldest sleeping earthchildren put together. We can’t fight it with fire.”

I can see your lips moving… I know what you say…

I freeze, trembling. I can feel the vibrations as the earthchild’s roots move underneath me.

“What is your name?” I ask, quietly. “If you are to kill me, tell me your name.”

“What?” Yimmer says sharply. “I’m not going to-“ Then, realization. “Captain! The wood-walker will strike now! We need to mo-“

All around, the ground caves in. All around us, the earth gives way. Wriggling, writhing under it, seething with growth and masses of living, squirming roots, some as thick around as my thighs, some as thin as a hair. Shouts, screams, cries.

The air is thick with the sound of snapping, crunching bone, battered iron scales, broken fangs and rent skin.

Just as abruptly, the air is thick with rain. The sky opens up and pours down rain, heavy as can be, and I hear the earthchild scream in agony, see its flailing roots, bare and smoking as water pours onto them, feel its pain as a palpable wave.

I am astonished, but not for long. On hands and legs both I feel the human magic hiss and drain free, and instantly I understand, instantly I know as I watch the roots stiffen and still.

“Purifying storm,” I whisper. On one leg, then on both I bolt, but I don’t make it far. As I yank myself away from Yimmer, stumble, trip and near fall, I feel his arms around my waist and chest, feel him draw me back hard against him. He should know better.

I smash his toes in with one hoof, stomping hard, and slam the back of my head into his nose. It makes a sickening crunch.

He doesn’t even flinch, even as something warm runs down the back of my neck, something warm and sticky.

“Listen to me, faunling,” he whispers. “Listen to me, Sarah.”

I don’t know why I can’t run. I don’t know what keeps me here. The human magic contained in the bands still wrapped around my legs and wrists is gone. Their foul leash is gone.

“You can’t run. Don’t run.”

Even without magic to tell me not to move, to send pain scything through me, I listen to him. I relax in his grip, half-turn, easing up my hoof from his foot.

“They will kill you if you run. They will track you down now. They think it is panii sorcery and nothing I say will convince them otherwise.” His voice is thick. It doesn’t surprise me, considering his crushed nose.

I can feel his pain bubbling up through his toes. I can feel his heart pounding against my back, even through his leather scales.

“Are you going to run?” he asks quietly. I can barely hear him over the sound of the rain.

I shake my head, aware that my hair is wet with his blood. Terror steals strength from my limbs. Terror and stabbing pain lingering in my leg. I’ve failed again.


“I will not run,” I say, in a voice that comes out more like a whimper. “I promise. I swear.”

“Do you have her, Kindleheart?”

“I have her. With respect, sir, our division is in disarray. What’s left of our men might take days to reach the Gardens.”

The captain stares at Yimmer for a moment, and then nods. “Go on.”

“Let me take her there. Two will travel much faster than a group like this.”

“Absolutely not, Private. If you split off, what’s to stop it from kicking free and running as soon as it can?”

“The bands, sir,” Kindleheart points out. “The control bands.”

The captain hesitates. Finally, he seems to make up his mind. “I’m coming with you.”

Yimmer’s expression doesn’t change, but I can feel his hope sink away. “Yes sir.”

I turn slightly in his grip, looking at his face- bloody, sylvan features slightly smashed from contact with the back of my skull. I can see the pain in his eyes, but I can’t really understand it.


I realize then, walking with him, that my heart is pounding in my chest again. As we pick our way over petrified roots, as we stumble through the forest, following after the captain, I feel excitement rushing through me. He doesn’t know those filthy human bands are magic-less now. He doesn’t know I’m free.

I feel as though my heart could burst in my chest.

Any second now, I know he’ll weaken, I know his grip will weaken, and I will escape.

I know he will.

I’m led down, around and away from the whole of the earthchild. Its roots are still and its branches no longer sway as though alive. Its magic, exposed to the purifying storm, is drained away, just like the evil energy stored in the bands was leeched. The way is twisting and winding- some of the roots are as thick around as whole other earthchildren. Twice I stumble, twice Yimmer is there with his arms around me, to pull me back against him. He could let me fall, but he doesn’t. Twice then, I realize I could bolt. Twice, I let my hooves continue to carry me unhindered and refuse to attempt escape.

I don’t know what comes over me. Even with my heart pounding and my legs trembling  with every step, even though I know the chances I have of escaping shrink with every step I take towards the edge of the forest, I can’t make myself run.

Then, all at once, we stop. A dread rushes through me all at once. Something about the human’s stance seems off. Something about the way he holds himself seems wrong.

“That seems far enough,” the captain says, and then he changes. His eyes turn a sharp red, his fingers lengthen, his whole body twists and then rises. Leather footwear turns to hooves, woven clothes fall away to reveal the lower half of a massive stag and the upper half of a man– he is a pan. Armor fades away to nothing, a glamour I hadn’t even noticed. Naked and massive, he towers over both of us, wild muscle rippling as he stretches out.

He faces me, faces Yimmer, grinning with jagged teeth. His words come in full sylvan.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist, boy. Her song ensnared you, and now you’re both mine.”

Without a word, I can almost feel the half-blood soldier draw free his iron fang, and I do feel him push me gently away.

The pan’s voice is familiar, and almost instantly I place it, even in sylvan base instead of common, like back in the tent. Dimly, I wonder what happened to the real captain of Yimmer’s legion. Dimly, I realize that this must be why the earthchild had not struck him down. It had not sensed him. He is not human.

Dumbly, I stand on my hooves, numb.

Yimmer takes a step between me and the pan, who stares at me with open lust and fiery rage. That gaze focuses on the halfblood next, and even though the twisted pansatyr is without a fang, he stands three heads above Yimmer, just as I stand a head below. He is massive. Even though Yimmer holds iron, I know it is a fight he will not win. The pansatyr’s eyes gleam with hidden magic and craft.

Quaking, I freeze in indecision.

Yimmer’s gaze flicks to me but a moment. “Run, faunling,” he whispers.

On broken leg and shattered hope, I bolt.


After crashing through the forest a time, I come to the edge of a thick stream. The water flows past, cold against my fingers as I kneel down and let it run over them. Reeds, spidery and thin, stretch up into the air in the bank, as if begging for rain. I twist my fingers around them, hide among them, ducking, crouching down, listening. In the first few minutes, all I could hear was my heartbeat. Now it still holds true. There is no sound of pursuit. My leg is pulsing agony in hot, sick waves. I can feel the bone where it pierces muscle.

Every instinct tells me I need to run. I can’t scent him– the pan– and I don’t have the scent of Yimmer…

He had just smelled of leather, mostly. Leather and something else. Something familiar and strange at the same time.

Like home, like the groves.

I’m surprised by tears, dripping down my cheeks.

My heart freezes in my chest at the sound, very faint and yet very close, of a stick snapping. I close my eyes, crouched, ready to spring away despite my leg’s protests, fingers curling against my palms. Steadily, crunching noises- squelching noises, sticks crunching under hooves, ground giving way under the weight of something massive. I hear it all, feel it in my bones as it approaches.

“Come out, little faun,” a voice- the voice of the pan, of the fat man from the tent, of the captain. “Come out and see what I’ve done to your friend…”

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

I left him. It’s my fault. I left him there to fight alone.

“He screamed and screamed… will you scream like he did? He isn’t saying anything anymore, and I’m getting bored….”

I feel my heart grow colder in my chest, colder still. My eyes close and my heart stings it beats so hard. I can smell blood now. He’s upwind of me. I know he is. I can smell him and the scent makes my legs tremble. Thick with wild lust, thick with hunger and rage. It’s a heady scent, something that lingers in my nose and lungs and inundates me like magic. It’s a pressure I can’t stand.

I hear Yimmer’s voice, then, raised in a whimper. I feel terror rooting me to the spot. I can’t move. My heart is racing and I can’t move.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I can hear the footsteps begin to crunch away over sticks and brush.

“Maybe I’ll leave him here, to drown in the muck…”

I hear a splash. A gurgling noise. Suddenly, I can see a shape, struggling, sputtering in the stream, not even two armspans away and still nearly shrouded with reeds. Skin like olive thrashes in the stream. A hoof is barely visible resting atop Yimmer’s back and holding him down. He will drown.

“Come out, faun… don’t you want to save your friend?”

Finally then, my body unfreezes.

I stand, straighten on legs that shake, straighten no more than two spans away from the pansatyr where he stands, one foot on the bank, the other on Yimmer’s slowly weakening body. Instantly I realize that he is already staring at me, has been looking at me the entire time. I can see it in his grin, can see it in his eyes.

“Good girl,” he says softly. “Good little doe, so loyal.”

Flee flee FLEE scream my instincts. Run until you can’t run anymore!

Numbly, barely aware of it, I twist the reeds in my hands.

I twist them and twist them until I realize they’ve taken on a shape– a familiar, wonderfully comforting shape. As the pan steps towards me onto the bank, the dawn catching his features and shining bright, I bring the pipes, formed from hope and eager, friendly reeds, up to my mouth.

Staring at my grinning, jagged-toothed antagonist, feeling his sick intent, I blow into the shortest reed. Energy gathers around me and, at the call of the reed- which splinters into pieces under the pressure, launches itself forth.

The blast ripples outwards in a terrible wave, sings through the air like lightning. It smashes into the pan’s chest with a hideous crack, and he stumbles back into the stream, so shocked he can’t breathe a curse. He makes a tremendous splash as he falls over.

Shaking in terror and relief, legs moving without me willing them, I half-limp half-stagger into the stream after Yimmer. The water is frigid.

My fur is soaked through, but I ignore it. I wade, then hop back onto the bank and, heedless of reeds, roots or otherwise, follow it along the bank. In the light of the dawn though, it does not take long for me to find him.

Find him I do- he lies facedown in the water, spans and spans- countless steps downstream.

I don’t call out. The pansatyr is not dead and I have no wish to draw attention to myself. Instead I lean at the edge of the water and, gripping Yimmer’s hand, I pull him up onto the bank of the creek, pull him up, put my arms under his and manage to drag him into the cover of the reeds. There I sit, holding him in my lap, heart pounding, pipes- sans the lowest- clutched in my hand.

I wait.

I listen.


After a time, he stirs, and my heart leaps. Yimmer’s eyes flutter open. His body is caked with blood and mud. He’s shivering uncontrollably and completely naked, though rendered decent– by positioning if not by dirt.

“Sar-!” he starts, but I cover his mouth with a hand desperately.

“Shh,” I hiss. “No words.”

I know my lower half is wet and cold, but he is so freezing it must be an improvement.

I slip my hands down and then up under his rear, pull him up tight against me.  It’s then that I feel it- rather, I feel the lack of it, and I stare into his eyes, bleary, frightened and riddled with guilt. There’s no time to talk, though. As I open my mouth, I hear a familiar crunching noise, of hooves on twigs. I hear harsh breathing, feel an oppressive presence.

“I’m going to eat you, little faun… i’ll eat you right up, swallow you whole… you and your blasted pipes…. I was just going to have fun before… now I’m angry….”

I feel Yimmer freeze- insofar as it’s possible, shaking and cold as he is. His body is cut in a dozen different places, but I don’t think they hurt him. I think he’s too numb for that.

I know songs on the pipe to warm the blood, I know notes to play to put heat in the bones of anyone who listens to them. I dare not, I know not to play those songs now. I can nearly feel the pan. I can hear its heavy breathing as though it stands right next to me, as though those jagged teeth are about to plunge into my neck.

Suddenly, I feel an urgency. If he finds Yimmer…

I can’t defend him like this. I can’t face the pan sitting down.

And I know I must. I know if I don’t face down the satyr here, he’ll regain his strength- his fur will dry, his chest will heal, and he’ll come after me again when I am unaware. Then he’ll kill me. This is not a fight I can run from.

At the least I can draw him away from Yimmer and give him a better chance!

I stand, letting Yimmer rest on the bank. I leap from behind the reeds all in one moment, duck a hairy hand and scramble away into the trees. My leg cries out in pain, my hoof barely supports my weight. It’s a short run.

All at once, before I can steel myself, before I can even scream, the pansatyr is upon me. His thick fingers close tight on my left arm and yank me back so hard that it does something terrible to my shoulder and the pipes drop from my fingers.

Tears of pain dot my face as he bears me down, as one of his hooves crunches the pipes into the grass. He hurls me forward onto the ground, face down. His hands reach for me, grabbing my legs, his breath released in a heavy growl. Those thick fingers dig into my fur and pinch my skin.

Terror takes me- mindless terror. I kick out. His grip slips and my hoof connects with his jaw. His remaining hand doesn’t let go, but he snarls and I know I’m going to die. “Stupid little doe-“

“Drop her,” Yimmer says flatly. I can’t see him, but I hear the pan shift, twist around to face him. He’ll get himself killed!

“You should have stayed down, boy who is not,” the pan says with a low chuckle. “Now I’ll eat you, too.”

“I’m more of a man than you,” Yimmer says, and there’s no fight in his voice at all. He sounds tired and cold. He smells tired and cold. Determined, perhaps- but it won’t protect him. He’s buying me time. “More of a man than a wild, lust-crazed beast. Even Sarah is more man than a monster.”

“Monster?” the pan asks slowly. It drops me, but not before leaving long scratches on my thighs, dirty and stinging. He straightens and turns, he stands and turns and walks towards Yimmer’s voice, one hoof after the other. “Monster?

I scrabble in the mud then, with one hand, ignoring the terrible ache in my leg, tears streaming down my face, gasping in mixed relief and panic. I find the shattered remnants of the pipes and my heart plummets. The world fades to grey and black.

I hear a gasp and a sharp growl, hear Yimmer’s reply. I hear his subsequent whimper of pain, and my vision blurs red. Sharp red, like the splintered pipes in my grip.

Thick pipes, thick reed pipes. Splintered.

Rising, I turn and, walking slowly on grass and dirt, approach behind the pansatyr who, so intent on Yimmer, bent over him, doesn’t notice until I drive one of the splintered, jagged pieces of reed pipe into the back of his neck. I slam it in so hard that its tip bursts from the other side. He rises with a hideous gurgle, turns, swinging, the tips of his long fingernails slicing into my bare chest, clipping me and sending me stumbling backward. He follows after me, tottering forward a step or two. A moment more and the pipetip disappears. There’s a sick squelching noise, and then the pansatyr topples, collapses into a heap on the ground.

For our parts, Yimmer, clutching the jagged piece of reed, stares across at me as I stare back at him. The moment comes, lingers, and then is gone. Tension seeps away from us in a tide.

There are many questions I have– why he would pretend to be a soldier, what drives him to be a man, where we will go– but for once I stifle my curiosity. I’m too weak to move, so it is Yimmer who walks to me and sinks into my arms.

Cold, shaking, but overwhelmed with relief, we hold tight to one another.

As the sun shines down and slowly begins to warm us, I finally understand what it is that drew him to protect me.

“I love you,” I whisper into his ear.

His smile warms me more than the sun ever could.



Okay, so I’m a dirty liar. I AM working hard– believe you me, in the last few months I’ve been working harder and writing much more than ever I have before. The caveat of course, is that it takes much longer than I thought to write a short story- I CAN do them in a day, but that would be easiest when I have nothing BUT short stories to write. And hardest, because then I get distracted. I may not be playing competitive games, but there are plenty of other things to distract you when you’re intent on fulfilling a resolution! Well, here it is- after all that work. I have actually done two in the time it usually takes me to make one, but I can’t post the other one, alas.

Anyway. Hope you enjoyed. If it drags on too long this next time I’ll do poetry or something to tide you guys over. (and because I haven’t poeted in a long while)

See ya!


Short Story Challenge #1: Red Ribbons

Red Ribbons

a short story by Sam Oliver

They hang from the pommel of my sword. They shine, slick with tears. I raise my head as the sun catches the glint on the metal along its blade, as I stare down my opponent. Arnold stands between us, his good eye on me, then on Trannis before me.

He raises his hand, giving me an almost imperceptible nod.

His gravelly voice rings out. “Let this battle commence, a duel to the death between Rhymerta Craveheart and Trannis Silverblight. Let it be known that this is a duel of honor, and therefore no law is to be invoked by any present, living or dead, that states one or the other should be ruled unlawful and therefore criminal.”

He lowers his hand and gives me the wink I’ve come to recognize, out of sight of Trannis.

Tear him apart.
The meaning behind it this time is different from any other fight.

Red ribbons whirl, and the dance before me blurs with my tears and the rain as I stride forward. The water seems to hang in the air as I bring my blade up, as I roll my shoulders into a tight whirl, spinning on my heel. Trannis, expecting a single thrust, is too late to block. He is an experienced fighter.

I am more so.

My sword arm numbs with the impact, with the force of my own blow. For a moment I am blinded by a flash, and in the next Trannis’s boot has itself on my chest. As my vision clears, I find my arms out, spreadeagled, the point of his sword hanging above me, no, dropping towards me. I lean my head to the side and feel that evil blade drive into the dirt near my head.

The blasted traveler’s pack is being crushed beneath me and a flicker of worry touches my numb heart.
I bring my own sword in close and stab up and forward. I feel the point sink into something and twist the pommel, twist the whole of it, forcing it in deeper, driving it in until hot, red iron splashes against my lips. The tang of it is familiar. I lick it away, and sound rushes back.
I rock the hilt up, twist it again as he screams. Trannis’s panic spills out around me in echoing waves.

“No! Mine!” he screams incoherently. “B-BOUNTY! No!”

I shove him off of me, pushing him over, my blade, having riven through groin and belly, I pull free, wrapping my fingers around the red ribbons tied to both the pommel and my wrist.

With its familiar weight in my hand, I push myself back up to my feet. Slick something– not rain, but curiously cool and sticky– runs down the side of my head.

Trannis is wailing piteously, an animal crying in sick pain and anguish. I put a stop to it, reaching forward, pressing the slick, red metal blade against his throat, drawing my sword back.

Now gurgling, he falls face forward into the ground as it rapidly becomes muck. The rain, freezing cold but like a gift from heaven, doesn’t touch me as I stand there, staring at the man responsible for the murder of my family. Staring at him where he lies in the mud.

Honor? This was no honorable duel.

The corpse of my opponent still warm, Arnold Goodeye gives me a grim smile. “Well done, lass.”

The words echo in my hollow heart, and I let the briefest flick of a smile touch my lips.

I do not answer him. Instead, I turn away and walk the path out of the village.

“Lass!” Arnold calls after me.

I heed him not.

My steps carry me past the old willow tree near the edge of town, past the broken down huts nearby. At the village’s edge, a yawning pit stretches, reaching down into the black abyss below the continent. Were the sun to shine, I am certain I would be able to see the ocean below this vast, floating rock.

Here, at this abyss, I unwrap the pommel of my family sword slowly, unwinding the ribbon from around it. Without the ribbon, it is just a sword. Unremarkable, chipped here and there, with an edge said never to fade with time or with continued use.

It is just a sword.

I stare at the sick red staining its surface, at Trannis’s blood where it mars the metal. Still staring, I let it slip from my fingers and down into the black abyss. The ocean below is too far, I know. I will not hear the splash.

I can still watch it caroming off rock, face to face, spinning down into the darkness. When the silver glints up at me no more, I turn back around and move towards the village again.

I have things I must do.

I enter the smithy first, stepping into the shop and gently closing the door behind me.

“You have much to answer for, Rhymerta Craveheart, and a truly steel nerve to enter here after killing my husband,” Limanda’s soft voice murmurs directly in my ear.

I pay it no heed. The witch herself is standing before me, behind the counter not three feet from me. A crossbow, held in wary but strong hands, is leveled at my breast. I take note of the bodkin headed bolt. It would pass through me and out into the path beyond. Such a tip is meant for piercing armor.
“Your husband slew my children in exchange for a bounty, Limanda,” I say quietly. I feel nothing, even looking at the tip of the bolt meant for my heart. Fear for life is long since past.

“So you took vengeance upon him instead of visiting him with justice?” she asks levelly. “Has slaying him in turn brought your children back to you?”

I ignore that. “His body lies outside, should you wish to bury it.”

“Kind of you to allow me to bury my own husband,” Limanda says without irony. After a moment, she lowers the crossbow. “I will not be joining him today, but one day you will be repaid for the pain you have inflicted on my family. Now this child will be born without a father.”

“That is fine. I came here to ask a commission,” I murmur. “Since Trannis is dead, could you do the deed?”

“What need you forged?” Limanda asks. Her voice, like mine, seems hollow. I can see the beginnings of tears in them, feel the drying ones on my face. The ribbons around my wrist feel heavy.

“I have need of a sword of singing steel,” I answer. “And I have need of it now.”

Limanda stares at me a moment, then gives a bitter laugh. “Singing steel? You trouble me for a tale.”

“I have need of it, nonetheless. Can you create it, Limanda Silverblight?”

“If I had the materials, then of course I could,” she says, then gives me a sharp look, momentarily breaking her grim demeanor. “Have you the materials, then, Rhymerta?”

“No,” I reply. “I do not have all of the materials. I will. And I will return with the rest. For now, here is the Song.”

I pull free a scroll of parchment from my traveler’s pack and lay it on the counter.

She picks it up, reads through it, and pales.

“Such a Song has never been written to a blade before,” she says quietly. “Are you certain this is what you would have me try, though I have never made a blade like this? Can you pay?”

“Limanda, the fame of being the first to create this blade would be enough,” I say hollowly. “Am I not correct?”

Limanda Soulblight gnaws on her thin lip a moment, staring me in the eyes, down at the parchment, back at me again. “Yes. It will be enough.”

“Good.” The word is sharp as it drops from my lips. “Then see to preparations. I will see to collecting the other materials.”

“Know you what all of them are?”

“Yes,” I answer firmly. “Good day to you, Limanda.”

“Curse you for what you have done, but may the Tears bless you for what you are to undertake, and the tragedy my husband inflicted upon you,” she bids to my retreating back. I know without looking that she turns to her work as the door closes again behind me.

The first ingredient to singing steel is a mandrake. There are none nearby, but all know that my husband Ivan is a wizard. Among the magical ingredients upon the shelves, the dried mandrake root shows itself almost prime among the magical items in our home.

Red stains the wood floor still. I have not the heart to wash it free from the house. It is all that I have left of my children.

I think back to Trannis. The look on his face when he had struck down my children before me, when he had walked out of the house, laughing, the mangled manikins that had once been part of my heart spread-eagled, roped to the chairs he had left them in.

Myself, bound and soiled, staring at the floor, forced to listen to the shrieks and the crying and the harsh panting, the terrible laughter. Rage wraps me again, but it is a cool rage, a calculated rage. Arnold had found me and had freed me.

Despite his terrible methods, Trannis had been working within the limits of the law. A bounty hunter need not pay for his victims, so long as they are truly on the lists. It is I who am now to blame. The House will no doubt soon learn of his death, if they do not know already. I can expect his associates to come for me.

I have time still, though. Time to work.

The mandrake root here is not what I came for, however. It is dry, and that will not do for a singing blade. I need living mandrake. And then I need to kill it. A mandrake’s death shriek can penetrate the deepest powers of magic available to man, beast or aberration. Only those touching iron are said to be able to survive it.

I reach instead to the staff, lying still on my husband’s workbench, charged with eldritch powers beyond any reckoning. If there is any way to gather these ingredients with expedience, the secret lies within this wooden husk.

Taking it up, I finger a symbol along its edge. Sung wood is nowhere near as potent as sung steel, but this will do for my purpose. I only hope that my husband will condone my actions when he realizes what Trannis did to our children. I do not feel that I can bear to tell him now, however, even as I see the symbol to reach him engraved upon the staff’s hilt, below the crystal embedded in its top.

The crystal is clouded. Wherever he is, the crystal cannot find him. For that I am thankful, at least. Were he here now, I do doubt he would be able to overcome his rage. The village would not long survive his wrath, for allowing Trannis to murder our children, and I have need of Limanda to create this singing steel for me.

With that in mind, I touch the symbol of the Siren’s Lair, and, with it firmly thought in my head and the image held in my heart, I vanish.

Her song falls around me as I step forth from nothingness, as I stumble into the shallows direct from the air. I catch myself with the staff, rapping its heel against the ground and using it to support me. The Siren is coiled in front of me, watching, singing in her hauntingly beautiful voice. Her tail is coiled and her arms are relaxed, but I am quite aware of the deadly venom contained in those lovely white teeth and the sting hidden within her claws.

After a moment she seems to realize I will not be enchanted; I cannot even understand what it is the words to her sweet song are, only that if I were able to, I would instantly be enthralled. A Siren’s song cares not for whether one prefers men or women– only that they are able to understand the singer. Thwarted thus, the Siren pouts, folding her arms and ceasing her wondrous racket.

Instead, she speaks in plain words. “What dost thou want of me, witch?”

“I came for mandrake,” I reply quietly. “I seek to create a singing steel blade.”

“Fruitless, but sweet a quest, to be sure. Cans’t thou not rest a while here?”

“You have had not my husband, you shall have not me,” I answer, and that puts an end to that.

The Siren sighs and rolls her golden eyes, then flicks a claw away behind me. I carefully move out of the shallows and turn, still keeping my eyes on her, only half-daring to look at where she seems to indicate. When it becomes clear that she is not about to strike at me– at least yet– I risk a quick glance.

It is a garden.

Buried in the ground I can see the tops of mandrake– and other varieties of nightshade. Wolfsbane as well, and I step around it lightly– tales of novice magicians falling prey to the flower still haunt my dreams. I am almost certain my husband was joking about its lashing roots and poisonous pollen, but I have too many things to do now to risk it.

I turn my gaze from the Siren, reach down and yank up one of the mandrakes by the hair. It kicks once, dangling from my fist, then is still. I turn back to watch Siren, in time to catch a blur of scaly movement, in time to watch claws dart up towards my face, to see her pretty sharp teeth flash in a snarl.

I shout, raising an arm, crying out as the Siren’s claws sweep toward my face. To my utter surprise, the ribbon wrapped around my arm catches around the Siren’s wrists and draws them taut together, uncurling itself from around my own wrist as it does so.

Shock opens, then shuts my mouth. I cannot believe my luck. The Siren is unable to draw away now, trussed– but for her thrashing tail– and staring up at me with hatred. She says not a word, but she needs not.

The look she gives me is more venomous than the sting hidden in her claws, more poisonous than the wolfsbane trampled beneath her waist as she’d lunged. I contemplate leaving her here and making away– I have the mandrake now. There is no need for me to stay.

I would have, too, I think, but she speaks as I begin to turn.

“So thou art like to abandon me, as thy husband did. If thou hast the heart, why cans’t thou not simply do away with me here? I am at thy full mercy.”

Her voice is strangely pathetic, now that she is out from the shallows of the water. Her eyes are warm, like golden pools, and her tail is invitingly strong. For a very brief– no, the briefest– moment I wonder what it would be like to lay with her as a man. What would my husband see in such a creature, or any other man, for that matter? What would draw them to her? Where is her lure cast? Would to me she promise companionship or carnal pleasure?

These wonders are broken by the realization that curiosity is a form of corruption, and that in this case I am being corrupted by being near her without answers.

A terrible desire comes across me when she speaks next, and it is through sheer force of will that I prevent myself stumbling towards her.

“Come lie with me, Rhyme. You are curious, are you not?” the Siren coos, her voice layered with a heat the likes of which I have never felt. It infiltrates me at odd places; I can feel it tingling along my thighs and arms, belly, under my breasts. It forces a shiver through me. I open my mouth to answer her, but the words will not come out. How long has it been since I have shared a bed with my husband?

Her words weave in and around me, penetrating skin and somewhere inside of me, to something primal in me. Of a sudden I am faced with the images of my dead, mangled children, of Trannis and the coming wrath of the House. Shame, hotter and more dangerous than desire could hope to be, clears my blurring mind. I would lie with this monster and forget the quest which drew me here in the first place. She would have me dead in an instant, and then who would be there to meet the House but poor Ivan?

It is through instinct and that shame that I resist, that when I do manage to speak finally, it is hoarse rebuff.

“Away, temptress, away Siren. I will not submit to your deadly coils; even when your voice is sweet as to make the heavens themselves cry for you. Have gone with you!”

My words manage to make themselves heard, but no sooner have I finished them then she laughs. She laughs and laughs, silvery, light and haunting. “Before I do disappear, as thou wouldst wish– take this final gift, for thy stout heart and chaste ways. The sorcerer Ivan did not last half so long as you!”

Never have I felt so thoroughly mocked, so defeated in victory, as she slips into the water and takes my ribbons with her, unhindered– the ‘gift’ is a brief parting of the legs which make her tail, revealing herself to me briefly like some common harlot- and yet, from the desire that urges me to chase her, I know her skill in teasing is far greater than any harlot available at any guild or house. Near overcome, I manage to press my thumb against the emblem of the Hydra on my staff, praying every moment that she will not sing. The Siren’s Lair is no longer necessary. I hope never to need to return to this place. I envision the dark depths of the Hydra.

I vanish once more.

This time I step from air to sand, from sand to stone, and stare into the gaping jaws of the First Head. Stone teeth hang above me, stone teeth jut up below and before me. I step from the sand and onto the petrified tongue of the First, picking up a booted foot above the forked tongue and laying it down again. Without a blade and without much of a prayer, I enter the darkness of the First of the Hydra’s many throats.

The old stone beast spans much of the southern half of our adrift continent. Its bulk is huge almost beyond measure, and legend has it that its eerily statuesque appearance is solely the work of an incredibly powerful mage. It is in the depths of its massive body that one finds the rarest of luminous iron. Not in ore veins, but in perfect orbs scattered about. It is this that I must hunt, through the serpentine throat of the long-calcified creature.

I am not more than ten feet in when all light fails to penetrate further. I fumble, in the dark, for a symbol my husband had taught me, one engraved into the surface of the staff. In moments the head of the crystal at its tip blazes brilliant.

As I step forward again, a glint of red catches my eye on the ground, and it is with some astonishment that I realize my arm is wrapped in ribbon.

The ribbon that I had kept, on a whim, from the pommel of my family’s old blade. The ribbon which had, a mere minute before, saved my life. I had never had a chance to miss the weight of it. Now in the light of the staff, it seems to glitter and sway against the breeze rather than with it– which itself is drawn in and out again steadily and rhythmically, to give the whole place a sickeningly alive feel.

The ground gives way, after a quarter of an hour travel at least, from unrecognizable and somewhat ridged, rough stone to a long, dark, smooth marble passage downward– likely to the grand Belly of the beast. With no visible luminous iron thus far, I am certain that I will need to turn back and enter another of the mouths. Perhaps my husband took all supplies of luminous iron with him; perhaps no iron existed here in the first place. Regardless, I decide there is no hope of finding it here, and am about to turn away when a screeching creature vaults up the near totally smooth slope.

Two massive hand-claws, stained red with overuse, adorn its horny fists. Its skin is scaled and appears like pebble rather than that which I or my husband are made. Its eyes are a wicked orange, and its tongue, forked, flicks out to taste the air and to taste the scent of me.

It is at least as tall as I, its neck serpentine and coiled, its teeth sharper than the edge of night. Those deadly claws are what have my attention, more than its razor mouth and its hideous snarl, more than its charge, even, and I stand transfixed as it charges me down.

It is old fighter instinct that finally pushes me. I duck away and out. It swings, misses with one claw, turns, and slips.

Somehow my ribbon is responsible. Somehow that scaled foot caught on the tail edge of my ribbon- which then curled and pulled without me willing it.

The serpent-man goes down, but not for long. It uses its flicking tail for leverage, pushing itself back up and hurling itself towards me again. My back is to the wall (which is unpleasantly wet) and I roll left. I manage to stop in time, but now I stand at a precarious edge. Down, and still down, this passage leads to the Belly– where acid and terrible creatures are sure to lie in wait– and before me stands a now furious serpent-man. If the fall would not kill me, I am sure to be slain upon regaining consciousness, or perhaps before. I would lie broken until something worse devoured me or slew me.

Those terrible claws face me again with the serpent-man as it regains its bearings.

It is then, and only then, that I notice a glow from a small pouch at its belt, and my heart skips a long beat. I am certain it carries a luminous iron ob with it.

It approaches more cautiously this time, though, staring me down. I am certain it will attempt to force me to fall down the throat of the Hydra. I am certain it will attempt to push me down, and as I brace myself, I realize I have but one option. I cannot let it and its luminous iron fall into the Belly and be lost. I must deal with it here.

I lift the ribbon on my wrist, unwrap it slowly as the creature approaches, casting the staff aside a moment, letting the brilliance shine here. I can’t afford to use the staff. If it were to be cut then I might never return home. It is a long walk, and I have no wish to die of starvation; to win here would be hollow a victory if I only were to die later.

Without warning, the creature rushes me. It takes two long strides and swipes with the claw- a wicked slash from the left. I duck right, rolling away from its swing. It follows, and as I come up that left metal claw comes down for my head while the right drives for my stomach. I hop back, still rising, but slam into the wall.

Stunned, I stagger away as claws slice the air beside me. I nearly slip, but warrior’s training makes me lash out as I am about to fall. The ribbon, as if guided by an unseen manipulator, arcs through the air and coils around the long, serpentine throat of my assailant. I pull back my arm sharply. The resultant crunch goes far beyond sickening. It makes me downright queasy, and for a few moments I lean against the wall and try not to think about what had once been the serpent-man’s neck. My weapon is slick with green blood. I watch it slip down the edges of my red ribbon. As if bewitched, the green drops all slide away, spattering the floor. My ribbon is once again crimson alone and untainted.

I retrieve the luminous iron- as I had surmised, a sphere rests within the pouch my antagonist had kept. I also retrieve the staff where it rests against the far wall, exactly where I had left it, and, thumbing the symbol for home, I am lost from the sight of all nearby, the light of my husband’s staff retreating with me.

An empty house greets me as I step forth from the space between spaces. The iron in hand and mandrake stowed in my traveler’s pack, I make my way out of the house. As I leave, a biting fly nips at my ankle, of all places, and I note- dimly, through fatigue and emptiness- that I would do well to renew the pest charm. The thought of biting flies– or any other living thing, really– desecrating the space my children once laughed and played in is a numbing one, but intolerably so.

I pass my husband’s workbench, and find there a note addressed to him there. Whoever left it must not know of my husband’s ways– he never returns to the house during the week. It is more likely that I will meet him while I am out, since I am to visit the Artifacte Boutique next. I pick up the note and pocket it.

Stepping out onto the main road, to the cobbles that lead me to Limanda’s Smithy, I see almost immediately that Trannis’s corpse has been moved. I am unsurprised to see a dagger stuck into the post at the edge of my husband’s property, either. Nor am I surprised to read the runes and understand– the House is after me. They mark me for three days hence and advise me to give my regards to my loved ones or arrange for revival. They apologize for the inconvenience.

I take the dagger and stick it in the sheath at my belt. It is the third such dagger I have found, and you never know when you may need another blade. As all I have now is my red ribbon, I am sure that I will need this blade.

I walk down the eerily quiet street and arrive at Limanda’s Smithy. I find it strange, but no one is on the street. Cobbles have been unearthed here or there, and shattered in other places as if by obscene force. The door to the shop across the way appears to have been torn entirely from its hinges. There are signs of struggle all over– but no fires, no corpses. Curious though it may be, it does not penetrate the depressed gloom that surrounds my heart.

The door to the Smithy itself is partially ajar, and so I crack it open the whole of the way.

A tableau of mayhem reaches me, and a hundred little niggling signs now suddenly make sense.

I have not heard a thing– not a whisper, not a yell, no noise whatsoever, since I arrived here.

I realize then, as I shout, that no noise is escaping my head.

Standing there, lifting Limanda by both arms and busy tearing a ragged line through her clothes with a razor sharp nail, is a massive, terrible troll. Scabbed and scarred in a dozen places, bristling with almost half-a-dozen useless feathered shafts, its broad, tall form turns to look at me and lets out a silent, terrifying roar.

It is naked, and I realize with a sickening clench in my gut that I have saved Lima from one terrible fate only to join her in it.

With that yawning pit in my stomach, I snap free the ribbon from my wrist once more. Iron in one hand, ribbon in the other, I stand stock still, fright making me quake.

The troll’s scream is felt rather than heard as it hurls Limanda against the far wall in a silent crash of metal and splintering wood. Of a sudden, fury fills me up.

It cannot compare to the terrible fury that once ran through me as I struck down Trannis.

It cannot compare to that. It is enough, however, to make me shake with rage.

The troll charges, stooped low, swiping forth with a long dirty hand tipped with razor nails. Barely aware of my action, I spin inward along the edge of its arm and flick up with the ribbon. It tears a wicked line up through the troll’s leathery belly, breaking scars and through an arrow shaft on its way up through the troll’s jaw and neck.

Gurgling and hissing silently, it sweeps me aside with one long, bony arm.

I tumble out the door. Everything blurs. The ribbon flees my arm, curls under me, trapped under the traveler’s pack as I slam onto my back, forced to stare up at the overcast eye through eyes blurring with tears of pain.

I feel the vibrations of the troll’s approach, feel its heavy footsteps, and I cannot, I simply cannot make myself move. I brace myself for the end and, as it steps on my chest and grinds me into the dirt, crushes the air from my lungs, I only hope it desecrates me while I’m dead and not while I’m alive–
— no.

A voice inside of me, quiet as a feather’s touch, whispers that. No.


No divine strength gives me power beyond my endurance. No terrible demon hides in my heart. Nothing in me but my own stubbornness forces my hand free from its position underneath me. With all my force and all my heart, I grit my teeth and, drawing the marked dagger from my belt sheath, I pull it free and jab it into the troll’s leg. It barely even feels it. It must not feel it. A hideous finger is busying itself cutting through the padded leather of my old armor– the armor I’d worn to the duel, the armor I’d killed Trannis in, the armor I’d trained my children in.

Tears help me, I drive that dagger in past the hilt, carving a hideous track through the troll’s knobbly flesh. I force it to pay attention to me, wrenching the dagger down with all of my waning strength. A ragged cut spills hot yellow-green blood everywhere.

Of a sudden, the troll lifts its foot and kicks me.

The dagger is wrenched free from my grip, but it seems stuck in the troll’s leg and does not fly loose as I do.

I do not know how long I roll, only that after I come to a halt, there is sound. Sound ungodly terrible, sound like the world is ripping itself apart. The shriek goes on and on, ceaseless, and it is then that I remember the mandrake. I also remember the sphere of iron clenched in my hand and nearly cry myself to death. It is all that saved me, and yet it has doomed me. The mandrake is ruined now– the trip was for naught, and the troll will kill me and Limanda and the rest of my villagers, my husband will return to find our maimed and defiled bodies and–
–and it is then that I see Limanda standing over me.

The wailing has ceased.

She is clutching her arm, which hangs loose against her side- not her dominant left, thank the Tears. She reaches down and helps me to my feet, lifting me onto unstable legs.

The troll, where it lies, is dead. Yellow-green blood runs from its ears, and its eyes are open and unseeing. The mandrake had done its work.

“Villagers?” I ask weakly, when I can talk at all. “Arnold?”

“Smithy cellar,” Limanda replies shakily. “Are you well?”

“I am– I have had better days,” I mutter, and then I collapse against her, and she against me, and for a time we are content with that, hugging each other, friendship renewed, baptized again by tragedy.

“What a dark day this has been,” I remark hollowly. “The mandrake is spoiled now.”

“I have been meaning to ask you, Rhyme, but for what reason do you seek to allow me to create this singing sword?”

“Singing steel is required to revive the dead,” I reply softly, with a sigh. “I hoped to bring back my children.”

Limanda blinks, at that, then gives me a sharp look I know very well. “Hoped?”

“I have lost the mandrake, and the Siren surely waits for my return now. All is for naught without mandrake to infuse the blade with song, and the luminous iron to forge the connection between blade and magic.”

“Have you no luminous iron with you, then?” Limanda asks. “I thought you would return only when you had gathered the ingredients– though I mean no disrespect. Your timely arrival brought us salvation.”

I laugh bitterly. “At a cost.”

Lima narrows her eyes, then. “Rhymerta Craveheart– do you mean to tell me that you believe the lives of your children are more important than the lives of all those who live within this village?”

I pause. What mother would declare anything other than ‘yes!’? Why then, do I have this sinking feeling in my heart?


“You don’t believe that. You have lived in this village forever, and to gather another mandrake is a matter of swallowing your pride. You know your children will be returned to you.”

I stop, at that, staring Limanda down, feeling a cold rage running through me. What could she know of loss? Of the anguish I feel?

And yet– I realize that I have done nothing yet to ease it for either of us; I killed her husband and– justified as it may have been– I have thus killed a part of her, as her husband killed two pieces of me in slaughtering my children.

My heart aches horribly.

“My husband deserved to die,” Limanda says flatly. “Anyone who murders children deserves to die. It does not ease the pain of his passing; he was kind to me when he was alive. But it justifies it in my eyes, and I bear you no true ill will for his death. He brought it down upon himself.”

“You are wrong,” I say suddenly. In the silence that follows, the only true noise is the pit-pat of yellow-green troll blood running down and sliding off of my ribbon, until only red remains. I clutch it tighter. “No one deserves to die. Not truly. We live and suffer here, and none of us, not one of us is safe from that suffering.”

I look away as Limanda fixes me with a critical stare, and then I continue.

“We are the toys of cruel fate and fortune. They fight over us and favor one of us or the other with small petty things. But we all die in the end, though no one deserves it. The death, true death, is the end of choices.”

Limanda Silverblight walks to the dagger where it sticks up from the troll’s leg and tugs it free. Even one completely without magical talent can see that it is ablaze with power.

“Do trolls too deserve choices?” she asks. “Would you grant the troll life again if you could?”


“Then your system is corrupt,” Limanda says flatly.

“I know, but-“

“I never said I didn’t like it. Come here. This blade will do.”

I follow Limanda as she walks into the Smithy.

Already charged with the death of the troll and the mandrake, all Limanda needs to do is mold the luminous iron in with the blade. Somewhat serendipitously, the steel dagger accepts the added metal and swiftly takes shape as a short sword.

Limanda works her magic over the forge, as I work muscle on the bellows. At times she needs me to lift things, and directs me here or there. Twice she calls me ‘Trannis’, but I bear it.

It is an odd time, and when the blade is finished, a day after we started, we are both exhausted.

We sleep then, back to back, before our work, resting our heads one against the other, both worn beyond belief. It is only now that I feel terrible pain in my ribs, and a weakness in my body I cannot fully explain. The troll had kicked me, but so absorbed had we been in our work, I had not thought to check.

It is Limanda who lifts my armor away, traces a finger down twin ragged lines of pus and crusted blood along my ribs. The touch is like fire. At first the heat is inescapably painful, and my breath rolls free of my lungs in a harsh gasp. Then her fingers touch my cheek instead.

For a moment I meet her grey eyes with mine.

Her eyes turn stonier than ever, though, and she looks away. I can see tears in them before she turns. She wraps my ribs, bandaging them up as best as she can.

The other villagers give us both a wide berth, even Arnold leaving us both alone. For a time, the solitude is beautiful beyond words. Despite the mixed cold and hot messages from Limanda, I feel safer here than in my own home. The singing sword is still cooling, but finally I feel close to my ultimate goal.

I will have my children back.

It is day three, and the sword still is not cool enough to touch. This is also the day I am sure the House will strike at me, and, coincidentally, the day my husband is sure to be back in town.

I had been unable to visit the Artifacte shop– it had been destroyed almost entirely by the troll.

It is then that my husband contacts me. The staff glows, a fire rolling along its edges. From its crystal tip, it projects an image of my husband– his white hair, his shaven face and warm brown eyes. He smiles at me– well, at the far wall. It is only a projection, after all.

Then he speaks.

“Trannis! I hope this finds you in good health. I trust with that meddling bitch and those brats out of the way we will be able to enact our overall plan. The hag had the plans for a singing steel sword. Well, you know House policy. Find them on her corpse– I trust she hid them well. Burn them. The House already knows how to make them. We don’t need any of that. Oh, and if anyone at the village asks, do tell them I’m dead. We wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise, now would we? I’ll be back in force in about three days time on the pretense of collecting bounty on my dear darling wife. That should do, eh? Anyway, have a blast if you haven’t already. Just don’t mess around with my research stuff, alright? I will see you in the flesh, as it were, in three-“

The staff shatters into a hundred thousand shards. The projection vanishes. I’m barely aware of my ribbon crawling back into place. My heart screams out, my fingers curled against my palms, my eyes shut tight. I hug my knees and take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to make sense of the dizzying message. No matter how many times I replay it, no matter how many times I push it or twist it or recite it mentally, the evidence, the terrible, horrible evidence is apparent.

The bounty on myself and my children was offered up by my husband, Ivan. Ivan.


The word echoes in my mind, bounces in the hollow confines of my heart until I know it will break.

Limanda enters the room at a run. A glance passes between the singing sword, the shards of the staff, and me.

“What happened?” she asks. “I heard some of that. Who was it? Who was trying to contact you?”

I cannot answer her.

I rise to my feet slowly, reach out to the anvil and lift up the forged singing steel short sword. I feel its balance and know it to be perfect. I twirl it in my fingers, staring at nothing. Then I stand and, ignoring the blazing, terrible pain as the sword marks my right hand with some of the inlaid script of the song, I begin to sing.

    Those of earth too weak to see
    The world that yet was made for thee
    Come forth now and find thy home
    Within the arms of your mother, your own
    Children made to die untime
    Children lost, daughters of Rhyme
    Rise again and learn anew
    The ways the earth had taught to you.

It is Kimberlin who forms first, appearing from the swirling air and rapidly taking form, confused, terrified, tears coursing down her face. When she can see again, when she can move again, she shuts her eyes against the glow of the forge, blinking.

Imberann forms second, and, being elder, rapidly goes from confusion, to terror, to confusion again– and then, as her eyes meet mine, she lets out a shriek, rushing to my side.

Kim soon follows.

The sword drops from nerveless, burned fingers, and ignoring the agony in my hand, I hold my children close again. The moment lasts forever, and it still is not long enough. I can see Limanda crying too. I can feel Kimberlin crying, can feel Imberann whimpering, feel both of their trembling, warm forms, feel their tears and their hopes and dreams all fragile and confused, emotions tangled into a massive knot, the scarcely remembered ghosts of pain nevertheless haunting them. I can feel all this and more from those of my blood.

And so, it is with heaviest heart, it is with the grace of the Tears that I manage to calm them both down enough to listen to me.

“Listen to me– Kim, Imber. Both of you. Listen to me.”
Arnold is at the door to the Smithy, and he listens too. The other villagers I’m sure are too busy making repairs to bother with us.

“Your father is the one who ordered you killed,” I say quietly. The words seem surreal, coming from my mouth. Even for me, my world goes hazy, blurred with stronger sorrow and compassion than I can bear. I hold my children close.

“We know,” Imber says solemnly. “We know all of it, mother. We saw you kill Trannis.”

For a moment it takes me aback. “You… saw me kill Trannis? While in the void?”

“We’ve always been with you, mommy,” Kim whispers. “Helping.”

“How-?” I ask, but stop. The ribbon.
“You needed our help,” Imberann says, when she sees my expression. “Don’t argue. We’re old enough. We’re not innocent anymore.”

“I–“ it is very nearly too much for me. I shake my head helplessly. “I thought Kimberlin at least might–“

“That man did terrible things to us, mother,” Imberann whispers. Kim nods weakly, and I see tears in both of their eyes and then it really is too much to bear. I’m strong for their sake, but inside my heart breaks and my resolve hardens.

“Are you going to kill daddy?” Kim asks quietly.

Limanda stares at me from across the anvil and then shakes her head slowly.

I turn my gaze on Arnold, and he shrugs helplessly. It’s all beyond him, I’m sure.

“No,” I say, and it is a struggle to keep my voice soft. “I am going to stop him.”

A voice calls out, then, as if fate crafted it.

“Raiders! They come from the north!”

Arnold curses and moves into the Smithy, towards the weapons rack.

I stand straight, however, giving him a look.

“This is my fight and mine alone. Limanda, Arnold, keep my children safe.”

I reach down and take the singing steel sword. It hisses in my grip, but I find it a comfort.

Then I walk out the front door to find my monstrous husband.

My feet carry my numb body out into the cold of a northern afternoon. The overcast sky brings down snow. I am in nothing but furs, bandages and breeches– Arnold’s breeches, in fact. They are a size too small.

The streets are crowded with panicked villagers– running to and fro, from one another’s houses or huts, almost all of them moving away from the approaching shadows at the edge of the village.

“Move,” I say softly. “Invisible.”

An almost imperceptible ripple passes through them as they part, consciously or not, to give me room to walk through them. It is a short walk from the Smithy to the edge of town, to the place I slew Trannis.

Four men stand at its outskirts– raiders? Well, they may well be. They are fully armored, chain mail hauberks and shirts, greaves and gauntlets. On their chests and on their shields– those that have them– is the emblazoned emblem of the House. Wolfsbane crossed with a dagger rampant on a black background.

One carries a longsword, gleaming with runes. One carries a greataxe, glistening with poison. One carries longbow and wears a quiver of arrows. At his belt is also a short sword. The last one holds a glaive, and it strikes me as an odd weapon for fighting a mark. Behind them all marches my husband, Ivan. He carries nothing at all.

“Calm down!” he shouts, ignoring me entirely. “We are not robbers! We are the House! We just came by to pick up the body of Rhymerta Craveheart.”

“Visible,” I murmur quietly.

I appear from the air.

“That should be interesting,” I say loudly, staring into his shocked brown eyes. “Since I am not dead, and Trannis the traitor is.”

“Rhyme,” he gasps. It’s almost inaudible, but my sword lets me hear it. “Rhyme, are you– you’re alive!”

“I may be a hag, but I know how to survive,” I whisper, just loud enough for them to hear me. I see him stiffen. I know he hears me. “Which is more than I can say for Trannis. Now, I will give you a choice, because I loved you. You may turn around now, and leave, never to return. Or we will fight, and I will kill you.”

“Is there not some way we can-“ he starts. I hear his magic words as he uses them to speak with the man directly to his left, the one wielding the bow. It is near simultaneous with his normal speech, making it hard to pick out, but the singing blade resonates with them all the same.

Shoot her when I say. I don’t know how she survived-

“You murdered our children,” I interrupt him. I know not how I keep my voice level. “There is nothing more we have to say.”

“Sword, resonate,” I whisper. I’m not ready to tip my hand.

The longbowman draws and fires in the blink of an eye, but my sword lets out a piercing shriek far faster than that. I realize that I am the only one who can hear it only after I clap my hands over my ears and realize they are simply standing in dumb amazement. The longbowman’s bow is in pieces.

Incredulous, he removes his quiver and empties it. Shards of wood, feathers and barbed arrowheads fall to the snow.

 Circle left, Eric and John. Barris and I will go right. Isaac, take a retreat for now, but be ready on my signal.

The words vibrate through the hilt of my sword, and before they can enter their formation, I step forward into the dance.

All strategy forgotten, they close in on me all at once. I spin, and the sword draws a neat line through the air, cleaving through the longswordsman, separating neck and shoulder from his body.

Moving with the momentum of that spin, I bring the blade around to engage Ivan, but my blow rebounds from a hastily created shield. Momentarily caught off guard, I find my momentum again as the House-man holding the glaive brings the pole around and tries to catch me with the curved blade at its tip, moving in a broad sweep. Ribbon unraveling from my wrist, I wrap it around the shaft as it moves and twist to the side, pull it past me, easily tugging him a step forward and forcing his glaive to punch into the longbowman, who was attempting to flank with the short sword.

In this silent dance, I turn, draw the edge of my singing steel sword through the haft of the glaive-wielder’s weapon, then onward, barely pausing to deliver a powerful kick to his chest. I turn to find the greataxe swinging towards me, the man having stepped around the longbowman. The edge of the greataxe catches my arm, and something truly nasty stings abominably in the dripping track it leaves as it passes. He is too slow on the backswing, and it was not my dominant arm he struck– with the flick of my wrist, I bring my shortsword around and, taking a step as light as feather inward, I take both his arms at the elbow. All of this leaves Ivan.

Sound rushes back.

Screams. Wet thumps. The sound of blood pattering on the snow. Four men fall back from me. The gash on my arm is the only blood that is mine.

All of this, leaves Ivan. He stands there in his glimmering magic shield, shaking in fake-terror, staring me down with brown eyes that show vulnerability and hide calculation and deceit.

But not from me, not anymore.

I am not fooled.

“Suffer!” he snaps, and the word jumps like lightning from his lips.

“Solace,” I murmur, and the sword in my hand generates a hot glow that surrounds me in soft energy. The bolt of red lightning rebounds and hurtles off into the open air before exploding magnificently, raining sparks of red agony.

“Die!” he growls. The word turns ashen as it leaves his mouth and forms itself into a deadly bolt, which hurtles towards me.

“Day,” I whisper.

A shield of light and the rebirth of dawn washes over me. The death bolt enters it, but gradually disintegrates and slows until it is but a puff of bad air by the time it reaches me.

“Fall!” he shouts, pointing at the ground beneath my feet.

A rumbling beneath me nearly causes me to lose my footing.

“Fool,” I say flatly.

The ground drops out from underneath him. It literally crumbles away in a circle around him, exposing the dark abyss below, all the way to the depths of the invisible black ocean. He only has a precious second to react.

Before he can open his mouth, I interrupt him.


The world is quiet. His scream is silent, and he descends like a stone.

Actually, like an old family sword. He caroms from edge to edge, and I watch. I force myself to see his shield shatter, force myself to watch until I can see him no more, and all that remains is me, the red of my ribbons, my sword and the village.

I refute my statement inwardly, and sound returns.

“Heal,” I murmur to the earth. The singing sword closes the ruined hole at the edge of the village, and then the shine leaves it, and it is a dull sword once more. Perhaps only for today, but it is done, nonetheless.

And I am done.

There is a graveyard, on the farthest side of town, that I visit with my children every year. It holds Trannis, and a coffin for Ivan. Not the Ivan I knew at his end, but the Ivan I spent so many years with before. Next to them both are the graves for Kimberlin and Imberann. There is a grave for Limanda and me too. It feels… better that way. A piece of me died, a piece of them died– some part of us died that day, some part of all of us. And we share that, Limanda, me and the children, for better or worse.

I tie a red ribbon to each grave every year. So that I remember.

So that others will never forget.

So that all of us– all parts of us, are connected. The bad and the good, the irredeemable and the redeemed. We are all of us a family.

We are all of us moving on, one day and one life at a time.


©2013 Sam Oliver (Eris)


Hey. This one took two days (and interest). I started it yesterday (roughly!) and finished it prolly around twelve fifty five. Like most of my work, it started off fairly small and then just snowballed into something. I started with the words ‘Red Ribbons’ as the title, and just started writing from there. Enjoy!

Decidedly darker than usual. I always say that, but this time I mean it.


Poem: Elf Lord

I know a man

With silver eyes

Whose heart is cold as snow


He’s trapped within a golden globe

Where other men can’t go


He loves to listen to all the girls

Sing their pretty songs


But try as he may

Try as he might

He cannot sing along


I know a man

With silver eyes

Whose heart is still as stone


He courted me

And gave me this

A child

Not flesh and bone


I raised her up

As best as I may

And hoped only

For the best


But father’s call

Has grown too strong

I fear she will not rest


She’ll scour the earth

For to find

Herself a human spouse


Her silver eyes

Forever behind

A veil

Not a blouse


I know a girl

With sylvan eyes

Who wears the guise of a man


She’s my daughter

Through and through

I love her


I can.





©2012 Sam Oliver (Eris)



What, can’t I enjoy writing simple sylvan poetry??? Does it have to be epically long every time??? Pish posh!

My, Sam, such harsh language. You’ll scare your readership away.

Anyway. Enjoy.



Short Story: Silver and Steel

“Kinley’s, if you’d please,” the warrior says quietly. He shifts the copper piece towards the middle of the table and gives me an appraising look as I reach down to gather it up.

His gloved hand touches mine as I draw it away, and for just one moment I glare at him. It had been on purpose, I’m sure. He’d been a moment from gripping it and pulling me closer. His coin in hand, I sigh and turn to head back up to the counter. I can feel his blue eyes laughing at my back.

Ignoring the man, I take the copper to Joesa. “A pint of Kinley’s.”

Joe’s eyebrows shoot up, then narrow. “Is he sober?”

“I assume that’s why he wants the Kinley’s,” I reply and then sigh. “I don’t understand why he needs me to get it. He has legs, right?”

Joe shrugs his thin shoulders, and those knowing brown eyes meet mine. “Probably to watch you walk, Tam. I can’t imagine anyone actually likes the drinks here. Nowadays I think they must just come here to watch your hips.”

I’d blush, but I’m still thoroughly put off by the soldier in armor back at his table. “Funny. Give me the damn pint so he can forget all about me.”

Joesa shrugs again, reaching under the counter and slapping a tankard of the thick brew down in front of me. I pick it up and bring it over to the soldier. He’s the only one in the Inn right now aside from me and Joe. The quip about him forgetting me was mostly a joke. I know when I look at him that as he looks at the table he’s already mulling over taking me to his room for the night. I don’t bother looking enthusiastic, either, as I set the tankard down on the table and as, once again, his hand touches mine.

This time, however, it lingers, and cursing myself for an idiot, I stay.

“Is there a problem, sir?” I ask in my there-is-a-problem voice. I don’t recognize the coat of arms on his plate, but I do recognize the bloodstains on his mailed arm. I’ve seen enough soldiers to know when one has seen too much.

This man isn’t like that. I can tell when his blue eyes flash amusement, when his mouth opens and his white face brightens. He has brown hair somewhere under that helmet. I can see wisps of it hanging in front of his face. “Tam, right?”

I know my face is blank. I don’t bother voicing it. Of course that’s my name. Everyone in the town knows my name.

“Would you like to go for a ride?” He asks, in what might just be the worst pick-up line I’ve heard in years. Either that or he’s serious. I stare at his expression for a moment.  Before I even know what’s happening, I nod.

It occurs to me, as I walk back to Joesa and he rolls his eyes, that I don’t really know for certain what he meant. Joesa hands me an apple, which I slip into the pouch I always wear at my side. “You might get hungry,” he says dryly. “Riding can take it out of you.”

I just give him a blank stare, and he shoos me away.

I walk right back to the table. The wooden floor creaks under me. Really I need to get rid of the squeaky boards one of these days. I don’t think Joe can even lift a hammer. I wait until the soldier is done sipping his pint of Kinley’s before I even open my mouth.

“Outside, on my horse,” the man interrupts me, answering my unspoken demand for information before it passes my lips. “She’s a good one. I promise she won’t bite. I can pay you for your time.”

His face is without any facial hair whatsoever and smooth but for a jagged scar that runs from his cheek down his chin. His eyes are sparkling blue and mischievous. There’s blood on his armor, and it’s some kind of metal I’ve never seen before. It shines like silver. I have a dozen questions, and I open my mouth to spit one of them out, but somewhere in my head the signal gets lost and instead I just nod and walk out the door into the outside, trance-like.

His horse is outside. It isn’t tethered or anything. It’s just standing there in the fading light of evening. That’s another thing to wonder about. Who goes for rides this close to dark?

It’s an immense horse. It isn’t barded with armor either, and doesn’t have a saddle or anything. It shifts its head to look at me. I hear Joesa shout something out at me. Something like ‘Have fun’, I think. The horse’s skin is black as true midnight- or would be if it weren’t striped with white. I have never seen a mare this large. Its hooves are near the size of my head.

I hear the clatter of boots on the wooden floor behind me. “Not going to stand there all day, are you?” he asks, his voice gentle. “I thought you wanted to go for a ride.”

I step out and around the horse, wondering if I could even mount the thing. Wondering also how I could go about it. She stamps a great hoof into the dust and snorts, as if reading my mind and laughing.

Then I watch the soldier vault onto her back.

“Saddle?” I mumble weakly.

“She won’t wear one,” He replies, grinning. “I won’t let you fall.”

He reaches down for me. The part of me that trusts in common sense slams its head against its mental prison as I grasp his hand and let him pull me up in front of him. I’m honestly glad I wear breeches and not a skirt. The metal of his armor is cold against my back- through the blouse. I shiver. He reaches around me to grasp the reins. Now my arms are cold too. I don’t know where to grip without a saddle. I can feel the muscle of the mare under me ripple. Her skin is soft as I reach down to stroke her mane, but I’m not even really thinking about it. I brush her neck, and one of her ears flicks. She looks back at me, rolling an eye to stare.

Her eyes are intense enough to drown in. They’re silver- true silver, like the truth of the midnight skin she bears. It’s a little disconcerting how intelligent she feels.

After a moment, though, she turns back and I hear a clucking noise near my ear. Without so much as a tug of the reins, the mare starts to move. I cling to the mane without even meaning to, but I don’t know why I worry. The horse moves with enough grace that it’s almost like floating as she picks up speed.

In a moment, the world I know is spread out before me. In another, it’s falling behind.

I watch the Inn recede for the first few minutes, as we continue down the road away from the town. It takes me a moment to understand exactly what I’m seeing, and a few more minutes of my conscience jumping up and down screaming to get my attention.

I squeeze the horse’s neck. “Stop!”

To my utter amazement, the man tugs on the reigns lightly and the horse slows down- not completely, but to a steady walk instead of a canter.

“Is there a problem, Tam?” the soldier asks me quietly.

I look around, feeling awake for the first time and very conscious of his metal presence behind me, the coolness of steel and that odd metal against the too-thin fabric of my blouse. “Where are we going?” I demand. “Where are you taking me?”

By this time the Inn is a dot back behind us and the haze of the town on the plains is barely visible. Ahead the road becomes a crossroads.

The plains stretch on to either side of us, but the dark brown blotch of a forest is visible along the left path of the upcoming crossroads, and along the right I recognize an old shack rumored to be inhabited by a witch. It sticks out starkly from beside the road.

“To that hut over there. Is that alright? It won’t take long.”

His words should trigger all manner of alarms, but instead they make me shiver, and not from the cold. I don’t like the sound of it at all, but I don’t complain again. My conscience finally just stops talking. It’s obvious my mind isn’t about to listen to the last vestiges of my reason.

The horse doesn’t pick up the pace. It’s eerily silent, and I wonder at how a horse can make so little noise. The only real sound is the clink of the soldier’s armor clattering together every once in a while.

After another minute of the walk, the shack is growing closer, now quite visible and obviously abandoned. The warrior clicks his tongue agan. Muscles ripple under me as the horse steps off the road and then stops completely. We’re still a little walk away from the shack.

The armored man slides off, lifting a plated leg over his horse’s back and dropping down onto the dry, dead grass. I follow suit. Dismounting I can do. I’m not a complete idiot.

Finally, now that I’m off of his magnificent horse, I realize what I’ve forgotten. “Who are you?” I ask.

I feel like he might be ignoring me at first, but then he shrugs, still facing away from me. “Sar’Neal.”

“That’s a gnome name, isn’t it?” I ask. I can’t see what he’s so hesitant for. He nods once, shortly, and that’s the end of it. I should be relieved I guessed right, but I get the feeling I could have said anything and he’d have nodded.

Sar’Neal approaches the hut and beckons me after him. I notice that he keeps his hand on the hilt of his weapon where it rests in its sheath. The dead grass is thick around my legs, tugging at me, almost like it actively resists my feet. I push on through though. It’s then that I notice Sar’Neal stepping over it, through it without the slightest difficulty. In fact, the dead grass which seems like it tangles me, presents him with no resistance at all, almost recoiling from his shining metal boots. A tingling starts at the base of my neck and works its way down to my butt. Something isn’t right. Why should metal boots make him immune?

We draw closer to the shack. It’s truly run down. The wood is rotten, the windows smashed and the interior is unlit and abandoned. The whole thing is covered in dust. We make our way to the front of it, and that’s when Sar’Neal turns to me.

“I need your help,” Sar’Neal says slowly. His voice isn’t as deep as it was in the tavern. I don’t know why I notice that, of all things. It makes the tingling worse.

I stare at him. “Huh?”

He unclips his sheath and hands his sword to me. For a moment I just stare at it, open-mouthed. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. It’s not too heavy, after lifting tankards and waiting on people most of my life. It’s a short sword, too, I can tell because the sheath is small. Joesa has a proper sword, a memento from one war or another, battered and scarred and longer than my whole arm. I couldn’t even lift that one. This one is light. I almost wonder if it’s made of metal, and I draw it out of the sheath awkwardly to check.

It shines like his armor can’t. I was wrong. The armor is like wrought iron in comparison with this blade. This is true silver, like the horse’s eyes. It glitters and shines, sparkling intensely in the dim light of the evening. I have to screw up my eyes to even look at it directly, and I fumble with it. I don’t drop it– grim determination and too much experience with spilled drinks helps there– but I come damn close to stabbing myself in my own foot.

Finally I get it back in the sheath. Sar’Neal hands me a belt, too, pulling it from a pouch on his belt. I don’t comment on how he managed to stuff a belt in such a small bag. I’m familiar enough with magic to know it when I see it, and I don’t bother gawking either. Instead, I fasten the belt around my waist and attach the sword sheath. The weight of it is weird on my hip, but it makes me feel just a tiny bit better about myself. I feel a glimmer of silly pride. It isn’t even my sword.

The soldier smiles at me, but his face turns serious as I finish and look up at him. I bet without his boots he wouldn’t be so tall. He’s only a couple of inches taller than me with them on.

“Underneath that shack is a woman no man can slay,” Sar’Neal says quietly. “She holds power over all those who have known the pleasures of a woman’s touch. Whether she is sorceress or witch or malignantly possessed, no one can say.”

I stare at him dubiously. “So you want me to kill her.”

He laughs. “No. I want you to distract her so she can’t bewitch me. I’ll deal with her directly. Like I said before, I can pay you for your time.”

I hesitate a moment. A tiny voice in my head whispers, When will you have the chance to do this again?

I open my mouth to say never, and catch myself just in time. I close it again and, resigning myself to looking stupid, just nod. Sar’Neal pats me on the shoulder reassuringly. “Follow, then.”

He brushes past me and opens the door to the shack. It seems like it should fall apart in his fingers, but it opens and, as he takes a step inside, he vanishes.

I hesitate a moment longer before I make up my mind and follow after.

It’s like walking through a hundred spiderwebs. Something of it clings to me, and the world spins around me a moment. When I get my bearings again, I’m staring at the inside of an earthen room. There’s a tingling and then a light, piercing pain in my ears for a moment. I swallow, and the pain recedes, leaving me with a headache. The earth seems to press all around here. The walls to the room bear roots and are composed of brown and black soil. I turn- there’s a blazing light from behind me to act as a torch. It flickers frantically.

I look down with a sense of foreboding. Sar’Neal is nowhere to be seen, but there is a ring of speckled red mushrooms around my feet. On a suspicion, I slip a hand into the pocket of my breeches and, removing the apple Joe gave me, I bite a piece of it off for comfort. Acting on intuition, I toss the remaining whole of it outside of the ring. It falls too fast and the white of its flesh turns brown with age in a mere moment. Well.

That explains where Sar’Neal went. I wonder if he even noticed time accelerating or the flicker of the light?

I step out of the fey ring of fungus, swallowing my bite of apple. As I walk out, I make sure not to look back, instead bending down and picking up the apple I’d tossed. Well, no getting out this way again. Not without terrible luck– barring the ceiling collapsing and flooding this place with natural light, I can’t think of any way to rid myself of it right now, either. My only choice is to move forward.

On closer inspection, though the exposed flesh of the fruit is browned, it isn’t rotten. It can’t have been that long. There isn’t any time for relief, though. On the far side of the room is a veiled doorway. Beyond, flickering shapes dart here or there. I feel like running, but I force myself to move slowly. My intuition saved me once.

Before the doorway stand two pedestals. On top of one there is a necklace of silver that glimmers in the glow from the doorway I’d entered from. On the other is a ring of metal that seems to be like the armor Sar’Neal wears. I already have a necklace on. I finger it thoughtfully. It’s not made of silver, but hardwood. It has a symbol of fertility attached to it in the form of the faerie queen, given to me by my granny before I left to help Joesa with the Inn. I think she wanted me to have children with Joe. Or maybe just anyone. Hard to tell, with granny.

The symbol is said to bring the queen’s favor.

My hand hovers over the other necklace where it lies still on its pedestal. I pull it away suspiciously. It’s my intuition again. I have a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach just thinking about putting it on, or even taking it off its pedestal.

I decide to listen to it this time, too, and I leave the necklace where it lies. The ring is too much to resist, though. I take it from its resting place and resolve to give it to Sar’Neal next chance I get. Or at least show it to him. I’m curious as to what the metal is.

Pocketing the ring in my pouch, I push the veil aside from the door and pass through. A chill runs through me as I  step into the hall beyond.

It’s pitch black. The glow behind me is gone.

No, not completely black. Flickers of light flit about here or there like lightning bugs, but not brightly enough for me to see consistently. I lift my hand in front of my face, but can’t even make out my fingers. There’s a smell here, like old hatred and decaying plants. It overwhelms and stifles me, almost oppressive.

“Sar’Neal?” I ask the darkness. It swallows the sound greedily, drinking it down and giving nothing back.

For a few moments, I am left entirely in silence. Then a shout echoes through the dark, bounces behind me, and disappears into nothing. “Tam!”

My heart goes cold. It sounds like Sar’Neal’s voice. And it sounds like he’s in trouble.

I hesitate, staring into the blackness a moment. I could trip and fall. I could stumble into a pit. I could be struck by any number of traps. Intuition is useless in the dark.

I take a few steps forward, trying to edge along the wall of the hallway, feeling the earth under my shoe’d feet give way into a yawning pit not even a span from where I started. I gulp, grip the wall, and slide around the edge of that terrible gap. With each shuffling step  I’m sure I’ll fall in, sure that at any moment the wall will be too wide, or turn into an overhang instead of a flat surface and push me right off, sure the whole world is spinning. I simply can’t see- only the occasional mad flicker of light shows where my feet are, or where the hole in the earth is.

After an eternity of hell, edging one foot after the other, I reach the other side and plant my feet carefully, one after the other, down the hall. It’s then that I hear Sar’Neal’s cry again. It seems nowhere as deep as I remember it. There’s something almost- musical to it that I don’t quite understand.

Intuition be damned, I run down the hallway. I can’t see at all– until I remember the sword in its sheath, and I stop, leaning against the wall to try to catch my breath. I fumble for it, find the hilt, and draw it out awkwardly. As soon as it’s free of the scabbard, it flares into brilliance, and the hallway is filled with light.

I recoil from the wall. The ‘earth’ I’d been touching is dried blood, and the floor is soil and bone. Shaking and shivering, and somehow feeling more vulnerable than ever, even with the light to see by, I hear a scream echo down the hall from Sar’Neal. Outrage. Pain.

My legs are shaking, and now my conscience screams at me to flee, even as every other part of me urges me forward.

I make my way down the hall again, shutting down my conscience’s fears, even as it whispers that anything strong enough to hurt Sar’Neal could certainly deal with a stupid barmaid with delusions of heroism.

I grit my teeth and run to drown it out, sword in hand. I know I’m holding it wrong and don’t care. Its glimmering edge is being used as nothing more than a light source for now. It seems to take too long, even running. Twice I stop, panting, gasping for breath and walking for a while before I run again. I try to pace myself, but for some reason it’s difficult. Thoughts of Sar’Neal in pain put an ache in my chest and a terrible, frantic rhythm in my heart.

Then, without warning, I burst through a veil and into another room. I have no time to gather myself.

Immediately a woman, nude to the waist with fire-red hair and long, sharp talons in place of fingers, turns to me and locks her gaze with mine. My feet freeze in place. Goddess forgive me but I can hardly move a muscle. It’s like every part of my body is frozen solid. The cold is merciless, seeping into my heart, slowing me down to a standstill. Without even thinking I drop my hand into the pouch. Slowed by the invisible winter raging through my body, I manage to grasp the ring and slowly, so slowly, curl my hand around it.

I’m not sure what my subconscious expected to happen, but even though I can feel the strange metal in my hand, it doesn’t do anything unexpected. Frigid and shivering uncontrollably, I struggle against the magic’s influence as the woman, several spans away, approaches me. Dimly I note someone chained to the far wall, and with a sick shock I realize that it’s Sar’Neal. There are no signs of a struggle.

As the talon’d woman stalks closer to me, I realize that I can move the hand wrapped around the sword’s hilt still. Intuition begs me to keep my hand still, but I can’t help but roll my wrist once experimentally. I must pray for her not to notice- and I pray too loudly, because when she reaches me, her hand snakes out and, grasping my wrist, bends it. She bends it down until my fingers scream in sympathetic agony, until I can feel the tendons threatening to snap and the bones grinding in my arm. One by one, my fingers lose their grip on the useless sword, and it drops and slaps into the dirt.

Its influence was all that was keeping her magic from affecting my hand, too. Now most of my body is frozen. I can barely move anything except my eyes. My whole body feels either sluggish or like cold, dead stone.

My hand though, hurts terribly after she lets go of it. I wonder if she broke it.

With a disdainful sniff, she disregards me at first, looking me up and down and shaking her head.  She seems like she is about to turn away when her eyes settle between my breasts, where the fertility charm rests. They narrow, and she reaches out and tweaks the charm away from me, snapping it right off its chain and giving me a cruel smile. Her features are far from perfect, but she has a fey grace to her that the cheap copper of my necklace won’t burn. A sure terror grips me, irrational and unchecked.

“Do you know who I am?” she asks, and for a moment the cliché is enough to make me want to puke. It’s quickly overwhelmed by terror as her hand drifts up and rests against my throat.

“The Lady,” I whisper. I don’t know why I bother. I doubt screaming would even make her flinch.

“So at least you knew whose visage you wore at your throat. Yet here you are, stumbling into my lair, trampling on my rings and evading my pitfalls and traps, braving bone and blood– and for what? That?

A flick of her elegant wrist indicates Sar’Neal where he lies chained against the wall. He lifts his head and stares at me. Perhaps he’s wondering how I could be affected by the Lady. Of course, he’d meant me as nothing more than a distraction. More likely he thought that, after I’d been gone and trapped in the faerie circle, I’d gone back to the Inn rather than accompany him. More likely he’s shocked that I followed him here.

“You don’t even know it,” she purrs. “Yet here you are trying to rescue it. Cute.”

I’m about to answer, but she interrupts me. “And what’s this? Another weapon, maybe? One it gifted to you?”

The Lady reaches into the pouch at my side. Her fingers clasp mine. I keep a rigid grip on the ring– not that I have much choice, frozen as I feel– because there is no way in hell she is taking this from me too. As she digs her fingers into mine and pries them away one by one, I can’t help but let out a whimper as hot pain runs up my wrist. “Stop-” I hiss. “t-that’s mine-“

As soon as her fingers touch it, however, she yelps and pulls her hand away. Suddenly, I can feel my hand. And I can feel the warmth of the ring, and my intuition screams that I must- no, I need to put it on. The Lady takes a step back– it’s not fear in her eyes, but rage. Something in her image ripples.

It ripples and breaks, and for one still second, I see her for how she really is, and I wonder how I could have been frightened of her at all.

Somehow I manage to get my warming digits to pull the ring onto my index finger. Heat runs through me, surrounds me like a cloud, warming my veins, filling me with fire. Before I can think, my hand is out of the pouch and I’m ducking down, grabbing the dropped sword by the hilt, holding it out in front of me. Before I know it, I’m baring my teeth in a grin.

I don’t know what this feeling is. It must be the ring. I can’t think of any other explanation. To my own astonishment as much as the Lady’s, my feet move of their own accord, and I feel my body settle into something that’s either in preparation for an awkward dance step, or a fight. If my only dance partner available is the Lady, I think I might prefer the fight.

“Where did you find that, girl?” the Lady snaps into the still air. Her eyes are fixed on the ring on my finger, but after a few moments they find mine and glare at me steadily.

“My name is Tamara,” I hear myself whisper. “This? It was just lying around.”

I stare the faerie queen down. Her green eyes stare me down. That red hair frames a face twisted cruelly, but emotion leaves it like a passing storm. Her eyes narrow. “You can have the charm back, if that’s what you’re after. I was only borrowing it anyway.”

My eyes flit from the Lady to Sar’Neal and back. I bare my teeth again, the grin back without humor, without thinking. “I don’t give a damn about some stupid charm.”

She doesn’t get it, and never will. Since when have faeries felt anything but greed? “You want gold, then? Some trinket?”

I shake my head. A small part of me is acutely aware of how plain I am in comparison to her. Of how graceful she is.

But… then I remember the way that image had wavered when she’d touched the ring, how it had wavered and shattered and broken into a million pieces for a second, leaving an old woman, frightened, those pointed ears and that wrinkled face.

“I wish three things,” I say slowly.

“Name them,” the Lady snaps. “While still that ring bears power.”

“Sar’Neal is to be released to me, unharmed, with all of his possessions.”

“Done,” the Lady replies instantly. Her eyes are still narrowed and sharp, like arrows as they bore into me. I don’t even feel them. Whatever spirit has possessed me is one I would pray to if I had the voice.

“Secondly, the two of us are to be returned to the surface the moment this deal is struck, likewise unharmed and in the same time we entered here. I don’t care to jaunt about for years and years, thank you very much.”

The Lady gazes at me impassively for a moment. “Done,” she says, after thinking it over. “One more, girl. You should make it good.”

“Third, you and your kind are to leave within a hand’s span of days and never to return. This shack is to be abandoned. Find another portal to rule. This area is mine.”

The queen of faeries grits her teeth, and when she speaks her words are a musical snarl. “Done! Are you quite through?”

I think for a moment, wondering if I am. I stare at the ring, then look up at the Lady and nod.

“Then begone with you. The deal is struck. Take your inhuman lover and leave.” The Lady turns, and my world flashes, spins, and vanishes around me with a dull ‘thump’.

I regain my senses to find Sar’Neal already awake and clothed. I can feel grass underneath me, so I assume that I’m out of that chamber under the earth. The Lady kept her word.

I push myself up, sitting up shakily. Sar’Neal catches sight of me awake and comes to sit down next to me.

The sword is still in my grip. I still feel like I know how to use it, too. I let go of it suddenly, let it drop to the grass.

Sar’Neal stares at me, frowning. He reaches over and grips my hand, then lifts it to his lips to kiss it.

His lips are soft and warm against my skin. I’m shaking. I know I’m shaking, and I hate myself for it.

“Who are you?” I whisper. “Why did you lie to me?”

He hears me, somehow. “I am Sar’Neal. I told you that already,” He says quietly. “You are Tamara, and you are incredibly brave.”

“Don’t give me that,” I hear myself snap. “If I’d known we were attacking the Lady, I wouldn’t have even gone. Are you insane? Now she has a grudge against me– she knows who I am because this damn ring made me tell her my name-“

My body is trembling, as if the chill never left it. “Do you understand? The faeries could hurt Joesa or burn down the Inn now. She’s the queen. She can do what she wants. Joesa is all the family I have left– if he dies…”

Sar’Neal’s eyes catch mine again. Piercing blue washes over brown. He squeezes my hand. “I won’t let that happen. And neither will you.”

I open my mouth to speak, and he sets a finger against my lips.

“Show me that ring.”

I bring my left hand up and offer it out. The ring that had been my damnation and salvation at once shines in the evening glow of the sun.

“Do you know what this is made from, Tam?” Sar’Neal asks, his voice low. I shake my head.

His finger brushes the metal, and it is then that I see it. His- no. Her ears. Pointed. Her smooth face, the scar that wavers and disappears. Her armor replaced by leather and furs. How could anyone mistake her body for a man’s? Her full breasts are barely hidden– and why should she when she can project such an illusion?

Her skin is fair and paler than any I’ve ever seen. Free of blemishes. It almost seems alien, but I know it to be fey.

I feel sick to my stomach and fascinated both at once, and the emotions rage within me. What had the Queen said? She’d called Sar’Neal an ‘it’.

All this flashes as the glamour fades. Sar’Neal does not let it rise again. Instead, she squeezes my hand and does not meet my eyes. “Do you know now?”

“Starshine steel,” I murmur quietly. “Metal from the heavens.”

“Yes,” she says. She stands, then, turns and moves towards her beautiful horse. “Come. We can go back to your Inn now.”

I catch her by the shoulder. “No,” I breathe. “No.”

As she turns to face me, I throw my arms around her shoulders and pull her into a kiss, closing my eyes and mashing my lips against hers as fiercely as I can manage. I curl my fingers against her back and press my body to hers, heart pounding in my chest. Her legs are partially crossed and it is my desire to see them open.

At first I feel her stiffen. She keeps her arms at her sides and won’t hold me.  As I draw back from the kiss, though, she chases me as my eyes open again. Her lips find mine again, then kiss my cheek, my neck. Fire runs in my heart and pushes through my veins. Every touch is a tingle, every breath she spends on my skin a starburst of sensation.

I find a gasp parting my lips, find her hands on my back– and on my hips. For a moment, I stand there, dumbstruck- for as she presses close in return, as she pushes at me insistently, I feel something rigid standing erect against my thigh. I’m about to look down when she cups my chin and guides my eyes back to hers again.

“Later,” Sar’Neal whispers, her voice like sweet nectar. “For now, feel.”

She draws me down into the grass with her. For a time beyond time, love is all we are.

I lie with her under the stars, in the grass near the shack. We are both naked, but neither of us care. I look at her, at her body, elfin and odd, seeming to shimmer in the starlight, like the ring that catches the light from those beads of fire in the sky and reflects it as if it were burning on its own. The ring on my finger.

Her hair is brown and wavy and long, but her ears are pointed, and her body is lithe and strong. I’d worried a bit about becoming pregnant, at first, but the worry was overtaken by desire quite quickly. I feel that burn still, a smolder in my belly, but now that worry takes me again. If she were to leave, would I be left to care for the child alone? Will there be a child at all? Is that possible?

I wonder too, idly, if she is of elven or gnomish or human kind. I voice these thoughts to the open air, for her to hear.

“I am of both elf and human worlds,” she says softly. “That is why your ring does not burn. That is why I may love, as well, for I have half a soul.”

“You are more than half a soul,” I reply quietly, and I roll over to prove it to her, roll over on my belly and brush my hand down between her breasts and to her thigh, tracing a circle there once. “You are two souls, two people, man, as I saw you then, woman, as I see you now.”

“But not just woman,” Sar’Neal whispers. “Not just.”

“No,” I agree quietly. “More than that.”

“No more than you, though,” she teases, turning over to meet me now, trailing a finger across my cheek in such a way that I shiver. “Brave Tamara.”

I feel a blush creeping up through my body. Of all times it could be, I’m glad it is night. Then, even in the darkness, I notice Sar’Neal’s ear flick. A moment later, I perceive voices on the edge of hearing. Their musicality seems plain to me, and they are familiar- like Sar’Neal. Unlike her, they are not aware I am here.

“She said the Inn is just up the road,” one says.

The other voice answers cheerfully. “I can’t wait to play with the maid. I’ll take the ring off first, I think, and have some fun with her feet so she can’t run away.”

“And then?”

“I may leave her there after and kill that half-breed in front of her. Do you think that’s enough?”

“You’re joking, yes?”


Laughter follows, like the whisper of wind through trees and tinkling silver.

Then the voices move on down the road. Audible the entire way is the sound of horses’ hooves, unshod and unfettered by the clink of saddle or harness. We remain silent, my half-fey lover and I, still in the grass as the hoofbeats fade. Neither of us dare to breathe.

My heart freezes in my chest, and my gaze meets Sar’Neal’s. “Joesa,” I whisper. “He’ll be killed!”

Sar’Neal is white with rage, but her voice is calm. “Didn’t you hear what they said? They will play with him first. We have time to think, and we should. We heard hoofbeats, but elven horses do not make noise. Only two were talking, and they were talking loudly. We need to think about this before we act. It may well be a trap.”

“We cannot do nothing,” I say, because it must be said. “Trap or not, we must go.”

“Yes,” Sar’Neal agrees. “We must go.”

We wait but a moment before we rise to our feet. We dress, together, one helping the other, me refitting the shining silver blade at my side. Her struggling into her armor’d leather and fur with my aid.

As I draw back, she dons her glamor again, the illusion covering her body in plate. This time, however, she does not hide her elfin features, but wears them proudly. She does not change her voice, either.

Sar’Neal moves towards her horse, mounts her, and then pulls me up in front of her again. I cling with my thighs and the mare snorts once, then settles. My half-fey love urges her into a trot, then a canter, then a gallop. Back towards the Inn.

“Those hoofbeats we heard– they were from human horses?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

“It means that it is not merely one or two elves. It means they brought human servants as well. It may be that they have enthralled a few rogues or villains to assist them,” Sar’Neal replies. “If that is the case, there will be more than a small fight when we arrive. We are likely to be outnumbered.”

I frown. With but a sword between us, I’m not sure what we can do. If it concerns Sar’Neal, she doesn’t show it. I can’t see her face, but her breathing is as steady as ever, and her arms around me are firm, her grip on the reins determined.

“A glamour is what makes an elf dangerous,” Sar’Neal whispers in my ear. “Without it, they are as weak as their forms would suggest. Break their glamours and I know we will win, dear Tamara. We will save Joesa and the Inn.”

Brave words that fill me with something like hope.

We gallop up to the door of the Inn. It hangs off its hinges, and voices ring out from inside. Laughter, too, and an old, calm voice that I immediately recognize as Joe’s.

We dismount from the mare, who tosses her head. I meet her eyes for a moment, and see silver light within them mirroring my anxiousness.

I take a deep breath. We approach the Inn, keeping as quiet as we can. Sar’Neal makes no noise at all with her every step. By comparison I feel clumsy and hideously loud– but the elves are too intent to hear us. Joesa’s calm, quiet voice says something, drowned out by the laughter of the faeries within.

“Break his fingers,” comes a sylvan command.

“Do what you want. Tam is safe, and that’s what matters,” I hear Joe say.

“We’ll see.”

Sar’Neal and I are on opposite sides of the doorway. I watch her lean over just a bit and look inside. Then she looks across at me, and for a few heartbeats, there’s nothing. I wonder what she’s waiting for, my heart pounding a terrible rhythm.  Then, as there’s a crack and a cry of pain from within, she nods at me and runs inside the Inn, dropping pretense.

I feel my heart freeze, but I run into the Inn as well, a mere second behind her.

I step through the doorway.

Sar’Neal runs a man through with a blade, short and dark. He’s human, and blood drips down his chin from his mouth as he falls, folding around the dagger in his heart as my love backs away. Two other men rush her. I recognize them as regular patrons, but to my vision they shine silver. My eyes dart around for Joesa, and I see a blonde haired man holding him with an arm around his neck, staring at me wide-eyed. An elf standing by the man, nocks an arrow to a bowstring that shines gold. The other elf, however, steps in front of me, blocking my view of Sar’Neal.

The elf wields an axe in one hand. To my eyes it flashes between stone and cold metal, the image flickering as it brings it up and around towards me.

Raw fire flashes through me, unfamiliar and– right, somehow. The ring empowers my hand. I draw the silver blade faster than a blink. The elf’s hand comes down, and mine rises. I grasp its hand with my outstretched bare one, gripping his wrist. There’s a noise like crashing glass and the faerie screams, its visage rippling- before an imposing figure with proud pointed ears and metal armor impenetrable, now it is armored only in furs and leather. Without thinking, I know what to do. I don’t hesitate a second, and the truesilver blade passes through the elf’s middle and cuts its heart in half as I slide it up and then out.

I release the faerie’s hand. The creature falls in a heap as I draw my sword out and away. I stand there, struck dumb for a moment, the hilt shaking in my grip. It feels like I’m holding a firebrand by the tip.

Another man, who had been standing by the doorway before, lifts a club behind me. I can feel him there, and I round on him. The silvery influence covers him as well. As he swings the cudgel down towards me, I step aside and forward, slam my palm into his ribs, the ring pressed against his clothing. It doesn’t stagger him much, just makes him reel a moment. I watch the silvery magic crack and shatter.

I feel the sword lift and chop down on the arm with the cudgel as he lifts it again. Searing heat burns through my arm and waves of sickness spread from my belly up to my throat, filling it with bile as the floor is splashed with red.

The burn leaves me weak, and I hear a twang from across the room, look up in time to see an arrow, glowing bright, burn through Sar’Neal and smash into my chest, sticking there. I reach up automatically and grasp the shaft. I fall to my knees. Blood is welling up between my fingers. The glow around the arrow is gone, but the shaft remains between my breasts. It is no illusion.

The world darkens in my vision, in and then out of focus. I hear nothing. My arms are heavy.

Then pain, like lightning, like fire of a different sort, thunders through me. It stabs through lungs and heart in a hot, aching wave. I can’t breathe. Even trying is like pulling in nothing, like drinking from a dry cup. There’s nothing to pull in and my sight dims. All there is- the floor and me. Feathers are coarse against my fingers. I need to pull the arrow out. Tugging blinds me with pain, whiteness on black. I can’t breathe.

The sword slips from nerveless fingers.

I can’t breathe.

A snapping noise, a roaring in my ears and a cough bring me back, a painful, shattering cough. My lung burns and stings and screams as I draw in air, and blood flecks my lips, I’m sure. Something is being wrapped around my chest, someone is wrapping something around my chest with deft, elfin hands. The stench of the dead and vomit assaults my nostrils. I cough again helplessly, and those arms hold me through it, clapping me on the back lightly. Blood and bile both are expelled.

Sar’Neal rubs at my back gently as the fit passes, and then she cries.

She cries for a long time. Her hands are stained with blood– some of it silvery and sylvan, some of it definitely human. Some of it is even mine, I know. An arrow shaft lies next to me.

“I’m here,” I whisper weakly. “I’m here now, okay? Don’t cry.” I’ve never been that good at soothing anyone. I wrap my arms around her, wincing a little. Breathing is a chore.

But I can breathe.

“It’s Joesa,” she whimpers. “I did everything I could, Tam. Everything, but when you went down, the elf shot him– shot him through the man who held him– I couldn’t do anything to help… I’m so sorry….”

A sort of numbness passes through me a moment, but I shake my head, half-smiling, even as tears form in my eyes. We’re in the Inn’s topmost room. “He died, right?”

She nods, and I struggle to gather my thoughts. Oddly enough, I’d known it would happen. I’d known it when I’d first given my name to the Queen of Elves.

Known and ignored it. Known and hoped it wouldn’t happen.

Later in the day, when the sun is starting to set and I can move, we bear the stench of the recent dead and move to bury them. The elves Sar’Neal wishes we could leave to rot, but I won’t have it in the Inn. It’s my responsibility now, after all.

After I’d gone down, Sar’Neal had killed the last elf. No humans but the one I’d injured with my blade survived, and the irony is lost to tragedy. Three innocent lives were lost– the one I’d injured was a mercenary, not under the elves’ direct influence, which is why he had attacked me even after it had been shattered.

We speculate together, Sar’Neal and I, on what the ring’s actual effects are. Being made of starshine steel allows it to dispel sylvan illusion. What grants me my fighting ability, however, is likely nothing short of witchcraft. I find myself praying I never need to use it again, though I know otherwise. Taking even the elf’s life had been sickeningly easy. Sar’Neal shrugs helplessly when I tell her that.

“All things die, Tam,” she says quietly, voice choked with tears. We stand in front of Joesa’s grave, wooden and poor as we’d always been, as I’m sure he’d like it. Joesa had always been simple.

I don’t mean to cry, but the tears come quickly and flow hot. There’s so much I wanted to tell him. I’d wanted to show him Sar’Neal, too. Now that chance is gone. Sar’Neal hadn’t even had a chance to know him properly. She cries more for my loss than for her own.

But my half-fey lover is right all the same. All things do die, and though Joe is dead, I know he isn’t gone. He’s next to the Inn, where I know he’d have wanted to be for the rest of his days. The tears come until they can’t anymore, and I leave it at that.

The Inn is mine to care for, and I resolve to leave it standing, painful as it is to remember. But I don’t think I could stay here if I wanted to anymore. The Queen will not stop hunting me, or sending her allies to find me. To protect the townsfolk, I know I will need to leave. Let them sort out who owns it, and may it bring better fortune on them than was granted poor Joesa.

As to where I’ll go, I think that’s something I can decide with Sar’Neal. Perhaps there’s a place where the Lady won’t find us, and perhaps there isn’t. Whether there is or not, we’ll search.

If and when she finds us, we’ll fight against her, for we are silver and steel.

Silver and steel, and united we’ll stand.

As one.


©2012 Sam Oliver (Eris)

Three Hearts: Chapter Four

A Change rite always ends with a full transfer from boy form to girl form or the other way around. Never had it been done alone, never had anyone excepting Mesdan attempted and made the decision to change all on their own. Generally it was to be for the good of a particular village, or area. There were plenty of his… type… scattered throughout the villages, but never had they changed on their own before. There also had not been a full change in years and years. To do so would require a very specific knife, of a glass Mesdan just happened to find and hone years back.

The idea of one freely changing back between forms is nearly heretical. Even for Outsiders, the concept of it is simply impossible.

So it is that, when Danni takes over as Mesdan falls and Mesdan’s body changes, Sojourn is so shocked that he loses hold of her hair.

Danni shifts into place with effortless, fluid  grace, dancing back away from Sojourn and the three slavers. One of them- with his skull-patterned shirt- raises what Danni instantly recognizes as a weapon, thought it appears as nothing more than a metal stick. The earth’s knowledge flows into her feet and then swirls up through the rest of her body, and the memory of Kesta being shot with it, a mere cycle ago, screams for her attention. The blast from it is light-fast, and invisible. The only warning she’ll have is a glow.

According to this memory, she won’t have any time to act.

Danni doesn’t act, just reacts, shifting her body to the side quick as a blink. She isn’t quick enough, though. The heat of the ray as it is fired is simultaneous with a crackling hiss and a streak of burning pain along her side.

Impassively, face as cold as Sojourn’s had been, she ducks behind Kesta’s traitorous brother as the masked outsider holding the weapon– which is long and thick with a silvered tip– sweeps it towards her. Brush on the ground catches flame, smoking as that invisible magic catches it. The traitor who had held her hair seconds before is still too stunned to move. He only starts to turn his head as she darts behind his legs.

Sojourn barely has time to yell as Danni slams her thin shoulder against the back of his knees, forcing them to bend. The beam strikes him full in the chest; Danni can hear it burning through skin and hissing at his bones, can hear some of his blood flash into steam.

Danni rolls away from Sojourn’s falling body, rises. As she runs for the cover of the trees, she hears a shout from one of the outsiders, unintelligible. A brief argument ensues, two sentences from the voice of the brightly-dressed outsider that come too fast to understand. The skull-shirted one’s voice rebuffs it with a single word she can certainly understand: “No.”

A lance of searing agony cuts along her leg and topples her over onto her hands and knees. She twists onto her back, brings up a hand, barely thinking. Before the weapon can turn on her again and focus her into ash, she gathers mana from around her and, without an incantation, without a word, hurls it into a barrier before her, a desperate shield made of desperate energy. The grass around her lends its life to the spell, turning grey and dead, drying and withering away in a moment.

The beam sweeps towards her, visible only as a ripple cutting through the afternoon air.

The heat blast crackles when it strikes her hasty mana shield. She can’t tell whether it begins to burn through it or not, but it doesn’t sound like her shield will last long.

She tries to stand, to duck behind trees, to leave her barrier as cover for her escape, but her leg will not move. She can’t move at all except in a crawl.

At any moment her shield could give way.

She hurls it at the outsiders.

The field of mana, visible only as a blue sheen in the air, sweeps away from her and washes forward like a wave, flattening grass before it, sending Sojourn tumbling aside, crashing towards the skull-shirted outsider directly. He stands his ground, though, either unaware of the danger or unafraid of it.

Whether because his mask drains it away or because of sheer bad luck, Danni watches her barrier disappear. She still isn’t in cover- the trees remain yards away, yards that feel like miles.

For a moment, the skull-shirted outsider just stares at her from behind that impassive mask. He doesn’t fire his weapon.

Suddenly, with the trickle of blood slipping down her chest, Danni realizes what he’s staring at. Her bandages have come undone, exposing her ebon-skinned breasts.

After she follows his gaze, she can’t help but stare as well. What in the heart of mana?

There’s a thunk, quickly followed by another, then another.

Danni looks up in time to see every single outsider drop to the ground facefirst, in time to wonder at Thaneen stepping over their motionless bodies.

He rushes to her, then stops a few feet from her, the wooden cudgel held loosely in one fist, dangling by his side as he stares at her, at her chest, then at her face. Thanee always was easy to read.

“Danni?” He asks in disbelief. “What has happened?”

“I… don’t know,” Danni answers cautiously, truthfully. “Honestly I haven’t the faintest. Ah…”

She shudders, dropping a hand down to her leg, to the cracked, burned skin on the back of her right leg, breath hissing between her teeth. The pain is excruciating.

Thaneen forgets himself, dropping his cudgel and kneeling down next to her, lifting her foot up onto his lap and away from the roughness of the forest floor

“Where did you…? Oh. Are you well, Danni? Are you going to stay conscious?”

She nods once, hugging her chest and feeling terribly vulnerable. “Yes.”

“You’re a witch now.” It isn’t a question. “Does the earth remember what happened here?”

Again, Danni nods.

“What happened?” Thanee asks quietly. One finger traces the charred skin on the back of her leg, sending a line of white pain from thigh to her spine and making her tremble.


“Why is Sojourn dead? Who are these people, these outsiders? Why is Kesta over there, barely alive, and where is the rest of the village? What’s going on?”

His finger presses at her wound, digging in too hard,

“Ah- OW- Thanee, stop! Stop, and I’ll tell you!” Danni snaps sharply. “You’re acting like a child!”

Thaneen blinks, then pulls his finger away, curling it into a fist, ivory knuckles gone paler than usual. His face is white as well, his mouth set in a tight line.

“I just don’t understand,” he whispers. “The whole village- empty. Everyone is gone but me, you and Kesta, and Kesta might die soon. I went out to the shrine earlier in the morning, then out to hunt- when I come back I find all the huts deserted, all the houses empty. I see Sojourn dead on the ground and three men near you, watch you put up the shield. I sneak around and- I kill those people, those Outsiders.”

“Than,” Danni says softly. “I understand. They came here to take us. Slavers.”

He nods, then turns his face away so she won’t see his tears. “We need to stop them. For Sojourn and Kesta’s sake.”

Danni’s heart hardens at Sojourn’s name, but she shoves it aside. The man had lived among them for a long time.  Now that he is dead, she doesn’t feel that it would be respectful to the memory of who he was to claim he had died doing anything other than defending the village. She isn’t sure if Kesta knows that his adopted brother betrayed him, but she is certain that if he doesn’t, he doesn’t need to know now.

“Well don’t run off before I’ve a chance to heal Kesta,” Danni replies. “And don’t mourn him before I give it a shot.”

“I have some questions about that, actually,” Thaneen starts, but Danni cuts him off.

“Save them,” she snaps. “I’ll need to concentrate. Can you get me to Kesta? I can’t move, my leg isn’t working.”


Thanee pulls her up into his arms, lifting her easily. She weighs as little as a child, as Danni, is easy to lift. He carries her to where Kesta lies and sets her down beside him.

“Thanks,” she says absently, and gets to work, leaning over her friend.

Kesta is bleeding sluggishly from a mass of cracked and blackened skin.  It must have been his chest at one point. It would have made Mesdan sick to his stomach, but as Danni she feels only a hollow regret. She could have stopped this if she hadn’t been busy trying to become a shaman. She should have been here to protect the village. Whatever magic reversed her Change rite must truly wish to torture her; barely an hour earlier and she could have fought off the outsiders as they came.

Now, however…

“Can you heal him?” Thaneen asks.

Danni looks up at him. “As a witch? No. As a shaman? Yes.”

Thanee folds his arms. “We don’t have time for you to undergo another Change rite, Danni. If you can’t do this thing, the rest of the villagers will be lost. Only Kesta knows what happened. Your link to the earth is powerful, but not powerful enough to find what happened hours ago.”

“You think I don’t know any of that?” Danni snaps. “Hush for a moment. I’m trying to think.”

Change rite or not, reversed or not, she should still have that connection to the shaman side of her heart. She reaches inside of herself…

A cough from Kesta breaks her concentration. She jerks awake again, staring at him. He isn’t coughing up blood, and she supposes that must be a good thing. When he tries to sit up, though, he winces and groans, sliding back down again, gasping for breath.

His eyes focus again, finding first Thaneen, then Danni. His breathing steadies somewhat after a while.

“You went through the Change rite. You shouldn’t look like that,” he observes. “What happened?”

“That,” Thaneen says, “is what I want to know.”

Danni bites her lip and turns her head. Long black hair falls around her shoulders in a manner too familiar for comfort. She’d had a sneaking suspicion– for a while now– that she knew exactly what had happened. The knife’s magic had been severed somehow. When Sojourn had gripped Mesdan’s short hair, he’d done something…

It’s odd, all of Mesdan’s aches and little cramps from sitting in one position seem to hurt Danni as well now. She feels a separate person from the man she’d chosen to become– it’s obvious, though, that they share a body. She stares down at herself, as if to reaffirm it in her mind. Yes, her breasts, her body, her dark skin.

She hadn’t missed it. She feels as if she never left it, as if Mesdan and his hopes and dreams were simply that– hopes and dreams.

Something warm and liquid is trickling down her chest and over her belly. She’d almost forgotten that she was bleeding.

The cuts on her chest also reopened, from Mesdan’s shaman magic earlier. They aren’t bad and it’s not urgent, but she takes the time to rebind her bandages. When she’s finished with that, though, Danni feels no closer to figuring out what went wrong.

She becomes aware of something else, suddenly, something unrelated to any of the disastrous things that have happened. It overwhelms all attempts at rational thought.

Kesta and Thaneen are staring at her expectantly. Her stomach growls.

“I’m really hungry,” she says quietly. “Before we do anything else, I’d like something to eat.”

Kesta forces a smile. “Fine. No use thinking on an empty stomach. Truth be told, I’m hungry too.”

“You’re both in luck,” Thaneen murmurs hollowly. “My hunting trip was a success.”





©2012 Sam Oliver (Eris)


So here it is finally, the next chapter. One whole week after the third one was delivered! Crazy! Why, back in Demimind’s day I used to be getting like two whole chapters out a week! What is this madness? I’ll never get a story done with just one a week!

Pssh, it’s alright. If I’m lazy it gives folks a chance to catch up. No big hurry. I need to get all the writing this though, if I want a schedule of tuesday to continue.  Can’t be lazing about on Chapter Four. Gotta speed it up now in order to get Chapter Five out too. This is the last buffer’d page. Everything else will be fresh. And hey! A chapter where the main character DOESN’T fall unconscious! And it’s not really a cliffhanger, either. What the heck is wrong with me?

Anyway, enjoy.


Three Hearts: Chapter Three

Chapter: Initiation (3)

The landscape of Mesdan’s mind is fiery, an immense plain of verdant greenery now reduced to ashes by a rolling wave of liquid rock. In the distance, the red haze signals the fire’s rapid approach. Mesdan stands on the plain, gasping for lost breath. There’s still that awful nauseous feeling in his stomach. If anything it feels stronger here, where the scent of burning grass is mingled with the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh. Beside him, a girl, standing there with black skin like his and long, black hair, a girl with a thin, child-like body and soft blue eyes stares at him. Behind her there is a taller girl, more- more adult-like, more filled out with longer hair, closer to what he’d had before the Change rite. Her eyes are hard. He recognizes both of them, of course.

“Mesdan,” Danni says sharply, nodding to him from behind Dessdan. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Of course,” he replies shortly. “Where is the one I must fight?”

“Idiot,” Danni snaps. “Patience is required to be a shaman, as well as insight. Have you neither?”

“The monster is that way,” Dessdan whispers quietly, pointing towards the red haze on the horizon, towards the approaching wall of flame. “Be careful, Mesdan.”

“Thank you,” Mesdan says simply. He starts off through long grasses and sand, over the burning plains holding his fate.

It is a long and painful eternity that passes as he pushes onward.

The plain seems to go on forever. When he finally approaches the fire, when he can feel the heat of it on his skin and the sand between his toes, he watches the colors dance along the edges of the flame and understands.

There, standing before it, strolling leisurely towards him, is himself. 

No. It is as if he were a shaman all along. It is as if he had never been a witch. That is who stands before him, the version of him who is, was, and always will be a man. The man before him is tall, built quite strong, with flecks of grey in his close-cut hair, though Mesdan knows he is young in truth. His body is weathered and hard, like old earth, and his eyes would be soft and warm were they not filled with disgust.

In an instant, he attacks, while Thaneen and Kesta, both standing behind him, watch with folded arms. The two appeared near silently, but Mesdan can’t be surprised. After all, if this is to be his initiation, his worst fears would be brought before him.

Fears of a better him, fears of a real him, instead of the fake status brought by a Change rite. The bandages feel tight around his chest as the other-Mesdan strikes.

Mesdan is borne to the ground as other-him strikes him, knocking the air from his lungs  with a gasp. The other-him raises a hand like leather, curls fingers into a fist, and brings it down in one fluid movement, jabbing Mesdan in the gut.

Again. His ribs, his arms as Mesdan raises them to protect themself– a blow catches him on the cheek, the shoulder, the stomach. His shaman-self is strong. Too strong to fight back against properly. Pain explodes along his temple and blossoms against his chest as ribs crack. 

“Ah-!” He hears himself gasp. A strike to his chest makes his head spin, the pain, red hot and swollen, spreads in waves along his chest and back as the beating continues. A strike to the throat leaves him breathless, coughing.

Still, he does not fight back. He says not a word in response.

I am an abomination, he thinks. I deserve this.

He feels no emotion now, as his ideal double smashes him in the ribs, arms and head over and over. Nothing, and it’s alien, this feeling of emptiness. It’s as if the mere presence of this impostor is draining his energy. It’s as if with every blow, his own helplessness is vindicated and he just doesn’t care.

“Your weakness is going to get you killed!” Kesta is shouting.

“You are nothing,” his shaman-self snarls. “You are worthless, less than dirt, an abomination, a natural reject. Half-man! Half-woman! What are you but a freak?”

The weight of his shaman-self is crushing his ribs. Mesdan stares up at the face of his dream, of his idealized self, of the person he could have been if he had only been born a man, and finally a shock of anger wipes away all traces of his own apathy, of his unwillingness to fight back. A very real flush of rage forces his weak boy’s body to move. Too long as a girl has made his hands weak, his reliance on mana outside his own body has caused entropy to grasp at his muscles, but he closes fingers into fists and, summoning a burst of energy, pushes back up, struggles, blocks a blow from his other-self. He can’t breathe.

There is no mana in his mind. Nothing to draw on to fight back. The ambience of his mind is not something he can drain in order to cast a spell or incantation to reduce his shaman-self to ash. All he has is his body. His weak witch body.

His weak witch body with her sharp, sharp teeth.

He sinks them into his other-self’s arm as it comes down again, grabbing hold of it and wrenching it to his mouth.

His teeth dig deep enough to draw blood, and his shaman-self yells, smashing a fist into Mesdan’s temple and knocking him senseless. Blood coats his tongue, his and his. Dizzied, seeing stars, he rolls in vain, struggling as his shaman-self grabs his own arm and shouts something foul.

Half-man? Half-woman? Anyone who is at all a man or woman from birth cannot undergo a Change rite! When has Mesdan ever regretted being the way he is? Such words from something, anything like what he sees above him, on him now, anything that looks like what he once wanted to be– they are poisonous, bitter, toxic. He can’t believe they come from something shaped like his mouth.

His cracked ribs flare in agony as his other-self bears down on him again with his good arm, but Mesdan grabs the first blow as it hisses through the air towards his face. He feels bones grate with the effort. His shaman-self is still very strong.

“You don’t scare me!” Mesdan snaps. “You aren’t who I want to be anymore! Anyone as awful as you is nothing more than a nightmare!”

The world flashes red, stars dart in and out of Mesdan’s vision. His heart pounds and his eyes flutter as vision blurs, as the pain rises to a roar. But it isn’t new. It’s the pressure on his heart, it’s the fire already in his ribs. His double is staring down at him.

As he sees himself through his double vision, he watches his shaman-self smile.

“Good,” is all he says. “Then if you so swear to heal those who hurt and to guard the villagers from spirits and their inner selves and demons, I pronounce this initiation-“

“-complete,” Sojourn’s voice finishes.

His eyes are the first thing Mesdan sees as he comes back to consciousness. Sojourn looks tired. Mesdan feels tired, all over, aching and horribly stiff. Sojourn rises and reaches down to Mesdan where he sits. The new shaman smiles as he clasps Sojourn’s leather’d hand.

Sojourn is Kesta’s brother– well, adopted brother– and his tan skin feels warm against Mesdan’s hand as he lets Sojourn pull him upright, to his feet.

Mesdan notices the light next. It must be midday. No one is cheering, but he can feel the sun beating down on him and that itself is encouraging. He’s alive. Not only did he survive, now he is shaman. The two go hand in hand.

His ribs feel raw. The wound on his chest feels ready to split open again. Did he use mana while he was unconscious? Was it real? His skin must be covered in bruises.

The dream shell feels heavy in his hands.

Mesdan nearly drops it. He stumbles, nearly drops to the forest floor, nearly collapses face first onto the ground. He feels queasy, every part of him feels sick. Sojourn doesn’t move to catch him, and Mesdan falls to the ground, hands out to catch his fall. They nearly collapse when they strike the earth, nearly can’t support his wait.

He coughs, feels another wave of nauseating pain writhe through his guts, and empties his stomach on the ground. Sojourn is stepping back, an impassive look on his face.

“Sojourn-” Mesdan starts, staring up at him. Then he notices that he doesn’t seem to be in the same part of the forest he started. The people aren’t cheering because they don’t look like his people, his villagers.

The other shaman stares at him. His hand had been warm, but his face is cold.

“Well?” He asks, turning to the people. “I brought you a mana-user.”

Mesdan stares at them. There are three in total. All of them are dressed in the clothes of the rich, jeans and nearly new t-shirts. One of them has a strange device around his neck and the dyes that cover his shirt seem strange, patterned oddly. He lifts the device, aims it at Mesdan. Then he says something, and it’s in the language of Mesdan’s people- just twisted a little. The words can be made out, but no sense can be drawn from them.

“Cam er ah, flash foe toe.”

A second, no two seconds later, there is a blinding burst of light right in Mesdan’s eyes, offsetting the natural gloom of the jungle and burning the outlines of the three people into his memory.

They are human, there can be no doubt of that. They wear odd masks and have long heavy boots on their feet, but they must be human. He cannot see the color of their skin or eyes or hair- the masks are thorough.

“Who is she?” one asks. Its use of Mesdan’s language is slightly flawed. On its shirt, an immense skull pattern, stylized and embellished to a magnificent degree, stares back at Mesdan.

“Her name is Danni,” Sojourn replies. “I will give her to you for ten shells.”

“Steeper than usual,” the skull-shirted one comments. “But I have the shells.”

Mesdan struggles to stand. When he reaches his feet, however, he finds himself  on his back, staring up at the sky, at Sojourn’s cold eyes and outstretched fist. His chest is in blinding agony now. It feels like the blow cracked some of his ribs. He didn’t even see the shaman move.

The third person, whose face is hidden by that mask, and whose business shirt seems to be much crisper than the others, says something Mesdan can’t make out. From the way those masks occasionally turn to regard him, a chill feeling sinks into his spine and settles there.

It occurs to him. They’re talking about selling him. Her. Selling Danni? And with her, he will go. His mind spins in his head, pain arcing through his insides again.

He isn’t Danni any longer, though she lives in his head. How can they sell someone who doesn’t exist except in Mesdan’s mind?

Why would Sojourn betray him so?

The iron tang of blood reaches his nose. This time Mesdan rolls over onto his belly to look around. He is a few feet off of the path leading through the main village. Before him he can see Eliss’s cabin.

The door to Eliss’s old cabin is open. The smell of dried blood is wafting out of it. Slumped against the bloodied door frame, a very familiar face is softened further in  repose. His chest is burned terribly, the skin bubbled and cracked around his ribs. It smells of burnt skin and charred hope.


He’s breathing, but shallowly. If Mesdan can’t get to him to help him, he could die…

A hand is suddenly in Mesdan’s hair. His short, black, hair. It squeezes, grabs hold close to the base of his skull, and yanks him upright. For his part, Mesdan tries a kick, which Sojourn, still hanging on, sidesteps.

The pain in his skull intensifies, and spots dance before Mesdan’s vision. It swims and sways and his eyes blur with sudden tears.

“Sojourn-” Mesdan whispers weakly. “What are you doing?”

“As the Outsiders say: Making moh knee. It’s a simple enough plan.”

“So this is how you repay your brother and the others?” Mesdan snaps,.

Sojourn shakes him by his hair and snarls right back. “My ‘brother’ is a fool for taking me in. Five years I spend waiting for a raid, waiting for a chance to go back. Now that I have it, not even a so-called ‘brother’ will stop me from returning to the people I know.”

As pain flashes through Mesdan like fire, his mind finally gives in, and he blacks out completely…

…forcing Danni to the forefront.

The Shifting Flames – 1

Silver-Fur-Shining crouches on the plain, her tail and body set low in the tall grasses, looking for all the world like an immense cat ready to pounce, rather than any wolf. She is far too large for any regular wolf, as well, nearly twice the size of a well fed horse. Her wolf pack is a hundred yards distant, herding an immense scaled creature with armor-like hide and flames for its breath. Its name is lost to Silver-Fur-Shining, but she is certain that it is not like the winged creature which took her home from her so long ago. While the monster’s breath is as flame, its form is more bull-like, albeit an especially large one. Rather than hooves, it has long scaled talons for feet, and its tail bears a spitting serpent’s head.

Normal wolves would never be so foolish as to try to take such a creature down. In fact, though Silver’s pack is made entirely of large, powerful dire wolves, they would not be able to kill such a creature under normal circumstances, though they hurt it by raking its metallic scales and nipping at its tail, which already has fallen limp, whether from exhaustion or damage.  The wolves had taken several injuries from those claws and its tail.

She settles back again, panting slightly from the heat. It’s midday on the plains. Padding from behind her marks the arrival of Silver’s mate, Claw-Scars-Many. Claw settles down next to her almost lazily.

“Anxious, little girl?” he asks lightly. The old wolf’s fur is streaked near white with age.When he had first found her he had been old. Forty seasons later he is older still.

“No more than I should be, dear one,” she answers quietly. Then, “Are you prepared?”

“You know what I think of your chase after these monsters,” Claw replies in a soft growl. “But this beast has killed too many of our pack for me not to be ready.”

Claw is nearly twice as small as Silver-Fur-Shining. It hadn’t always been that way. Silver is the largest of any wolf in the pack, the largest any dire wolf has ever been, according to Claw, but she doesn’t mind.

Nor could she help it if she did.

Of all the things she gave up to enter this pack, she is sure that the memories of her human life had been some of the hardest to let go.  The others were either easily dropped, or the pain had been negligible. She’d been treated like a child until, by dire wolf standards, she was a child no more. It hadn’t been easy- at least, at first, as the runt of her pack. She remembers that she’d been the only pup in the pack for five whole seasons after she first was accepted. Gradually though, things changed. She had grown. She had become stronger.

The few wolves who still remembered that she was a shapeshifter had either left the pack or died seasons before she mated with Claw.

The tale had not been perpetuated, so only Claw was around to remember the truth.
Then, she’d stayed on with Claw-Scars-Many, risen to pack leader after beating him in a contest of strength, and let him stay with her for advice.

Her pack now consists mostly of her children, whether by Claw or by other foreign dalliances. She cares for them all dearly, and is proud of their work here, in a vague sort of way. She feels, however, a certain emptiness in her heart, even as her big moment slowly stampedes closer, even as the great scaled bull comes within twenty five yards and Claw coils like a spring. The woman-wolf pushes it aside, however. She’ll need all her focus for this moment.

Silver ducks down further, staring up as it tramples down grass. She waits for her moment as the beast finally stands before her on those scaled legs and rears back a little, horse-like. Its head is turned away from her and its neck is exposed. Claw, however, is the one to move first. He darts underneath the creature and rakes sharp iron claws along its soft underbelly. The thing bellows, kicking out with one leg, twisting and turning, and presenting Silver with its back.

As Claw-Scars-Many jumps away, Silver leaps up atop the creature’s exposed flank, digs her claws in and closes her massive jaws on the beast’s metallic neck, snapping them shut and feeling her teeth scrape and then puncture right through its scaled hide, warm, copper blood splashing her fur, staining her teeth greenish blue. It smells good, filling her nose with a colorful splash of metal and honey.  The taste, however, is just a little too sweet for her.

She’d gag if she could, but instead she bites down harder and wrenches to the side sharply, tearing the metal scales and snapping the iron bones making up the monster’s spine. It breathes a single jet of flame from its nostrils, kicking out, bucking weakly before its blazing red eyes darken and it collapses with Silver’s weight bearing it down.

Silver steps off of its massive corpse, more than a little pleased with herself, for all the loss this monster brought. Her plan had worked fairly well, considering the prey they’d decided to try to take. It would be prudent for her to have the pack move to the kill rather than to try to move the kill itself.

“The scales are tough,” Claw observes from her side. “Like metal. How does it taste?”

Silver licks her muzzle, sits back on her haunches and stares Claw-Scars-Many down. He holds her gaze for a few long moments, then turns away.

Finally, Silver answers him. “Too sweet, for me, though the meat is good. Divide it up amongst our hunters. Make sure you get first pick, my love.”

Something is eating at her heart right now, some unfamiliar feeling. With the killing done, she feels she can focus on it. Whatever it is is ruining her appetite.

The woman-wolf pads away to find a place to be alone, curling up near the edge of a tall, tall tree, crouched in its shade. When she feels she must be completely alone, she lets herself relax. For a time, she can let her thoughts run free.

She can’t remember the name she had as a human. She only vaguely remembers how old she was then. She remembers, to some extent, being small. But then, compared with Claw-Scars-Many, as a human she would have always been small.

Her memories of being a pup are blurred. She had taken wolf shape at a time where her body could accept meat and drink and walk on its own. From the very start she had been allowed to eat portions of any kill brought back- so long as the adults ate first.

Silver closes her eyes a moment. Dreams had haunted her every night for as far back as she could remember. Claw couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. Dreams of winged monsters. Dreams of fire breathing, scaled creatures flying across the sky, eclipsing the moon. Dreams of dragons.

Their scales fill her mind when she sleeps. Even thinking about them in her off time gives her an odd thrill. How she longs to be meet one of them. How she wishes she could find one of them, speak to its shape. Grace, power and beauty mixed as one. She doesn’t remember where she saw them first, to make her dream this way, but that doesn’t matter.

“Pack leader,” a voice calls in a soft growl. Her eyes snap open. One of her children, Chase-The-Wind, approaches her, padding over quietly. Everything about his snow-white form is nervous, his tail between his legs, his eyes downcast. “Shadow-With-Teeth is issuing an open challenge for leadership. He came here with his whole pack.”

Silver-Fur-Shining rises to her four paws, stretches out slowly. “Thank you. I’ll take his challenge now.”

She knows Chase is curious. Normally she’d wait a few days after a kill before accepting any challenge. Something preoccupies her, however. She wishes only to get the fight over and done with so she might continue alone with her thoughts.

To that end, she is surprised to see Shadow-With-Teeth muzzle to muzzle with Claw-Scars-Many. The two are snarling and snapping at one another. The words are hard to make out, but she gets the gist of it.

“You think that Silver-Fur-Shining is weak? You dare step here in my pack, issue formal challenge to the leader and pretend not to know who she is?” Claw-Scars-Many growls sharply. “Were she here-”

“Where is she then, if she is as strong as you boast?” Shadow-With-Teeth snaps. “Is she too craven to accept my challenge?”

Claw stares him down, and the two are so intent that it isn’t until Silver physically steps between them that they take note of her. Claw abruptly sits back on his haunches and does not meet her eyes. Shadow stares her down defiantly, of course, but she can read fear in his gaze, even if the wind does not bring her his scent.

“I accept your challenge,” Silver says quietly. “And I have no fear.”

“The terms?” Shadow asks. His stance is tense and his eyes never leave hers.

“If you lose, you and your pack fall under my command,” Silver replies evenly.

“If you lose, you will be my mate and your pups will be the strongest of any ever known,” Shadow growls. “We will hunt on the plains until the stars burn out.”

Silver almost lets go with a wolfish grin after that, but represses it. “You won’t win.”

They begin to circle.  The wolves surrounding them scatter, both packs looking on. Silver eyes her opponent warily. His steps mark him for an experienced fighter. He is remarkably large for a dire wolf, nearly as large as Silver is, and it makes her uneasy. His fur is somewhat matted and scarred in places, and black as shadows ought to be.

They wait, each watching the other. Tension gathers in Silver’s heart. He should move. She knows he’ll strike first. They always do. Impatient.

He does. In a flash, he strikes, moving like lightning. His breath fills her nostrils as his teeth snap down, as she nimbly ducks away from those razor fangs. She launches herself forward, driving her shoulder towards his throat. He bunches his legs and jumps, though, taking it to the chest instead, letting himself get bowled over. She doesn’t chase him down, but backs away, eying him, still wary. A less experienced wolf would have tried to pin him, and a less experienced wolf would have lost a paw. Never underestimate your opponent.

Shadow rolls back onto his paws again, rising slowly and glaring at her from burning red eyes. A red that captures her for a moment, holds her for far, far too long…

The moment fades as he moves, and she steps to the side, avoiding a charge and smashing into his side with her shoulder.  She tumbles after him this time, rolling on top, pinning his form down, teeth pausing at his throat, staring down at him. Her eyes meet his again, locked as she is like this. Something about him feels strange. Feels… familiar…

He gives a little whine and a whimper in submission, and she lets up, easing away, eying him warily.

It’s good that she does, for he rolls back to his paws and swipes for her the moment she lets him free. Iron-hard claws draw three red hot lines along her muzzle, and her blood runs blue as the sky. He’d moved faster than lightning. He’d been less than a blur.

The blow stuns her a moment, and in a flash his teeth are in pause like hers were, a mere moment from piercing Silver’s throat. A growl, soft and threatening escapes past her bare teeth as her blood soaks the fur of her muzzle.

“Trickery,” she snaps. “What manner of wolf are you?”

Those razor’d teeth graze her neck through her fur, though. Hating herself for it, Silver whimpers in submission without further complaint. To her shock and shame, those teeth nip one of her ears before they draw away, neatly puncturing it. Without the threat of his jaws around her neck, Silver shakes her head to clear it, and storms away, leaving her mate with her victorious rival and trying very hard not to think about what it means that she lost.

To her further surprise, Shadow doesn’t follow her.

When Claw finds her later, she crouches under her tree with Chase-The-Wind, who is busily licking away the dried and drying blood from the wound on her muzzle, cleaning her as if she were a pup and Chase were a mother. Of all his children, Claw likes Chase the best.

He isn’t Silver’s favorite– the girl-wolf doesn’t pick favorites– but he comes pretty close.

You just ran off to sulk? is what Claw thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud because he isn’t feeling cruel. Of course, he doesn’t need to say it. It’s implied in every muscle in his body.

“Come to mock me, Claw?” Silver asks, without looking at him. “Come to taunt me for my mistake?”

“No,” he replies, staring at her steadily. “I have not.”

“Then why are you here?” she snarls. “Perhaps you wanted one last roll before I become beholden to Shadow-With-Teeth?”

“If you had not run away like a stung pup, you’d realize that you won as well,” Claw says lightly. “A point that, if argued between packs, I’m sure you would win. You always tell me that I have trouble with my temper.”

“You do.”

Claw ignores that. “You are letting your anger cloud your mind. We are more than giant wolves– you have helped me see that over the seasons, little one, whether you know it or not. I suggest you act like it.”

Silver-Fur-Shining shakes her head, but it’s only to push Chase-The-Wind away. She stretches and stands, chest heaving in an immense sigh. “Fine.”

Chase stands with her, but Claw pads over to him and leads him away. “Let her deal with this on her own,” he growls softly. “This is something your mother must do.”

Silver arrives at the clearing- a place of dirt and grass- where her pack has dragged their kill. No one meets her eyes. Her children all seem downcast– as well they should be, to witness their mother lose. It wrenches at her heart to see them like this, but she shoves that aside, instead stalking past them to where Shadow-With-Teeth sits alone. A leg from the massive scaled monster lies unworried or touched next to him. He meets her eyes fearlessly, tauntingly, with his own crimson ones.

Silver restrains the snarl and snap that try to curl her lips back from her teeth. He dares to challenge her authority?

But she lost.

“Eager to start?” he growls quietly. “You should wait for me to call you, little girl.”

The words from Claw would earn the old fool a playful cuff. Those words from Shadow earn him a growl from somewhere deep in Silver’s throat. Anger rises in her heart, but something in Shadow’s eyes forces it back down again. He’s being careful in his words. He’s choosing them very deliberately. He hasn’t shown true anger yet, not during the fight, not now. Every move he makes seems to be and have been calculated.

Silver stops when she is no more than a few yards away from him, settling back on her haunches. She cleans herself in front of him, ignoring him completely and forcing her rage back, instead giving herself time to think. This wolf is much more dangerous than he would seem at first. In a head-on fight he is also craftier. She isn’t sure if she has the energy to fight him now. He is devilishly intelligent, that much is for certain. She vastly underestimated him.

Shadow waits silently, watching her intently. Though his body seems eager and his eyes are filled with malice, his scent remains calm. She realizes it had been calm the entire fight, in the brief moments she had been able to catch it.

She finishes cleaning her fur. She slowly raises her eyes to his and does not look away. “I have not come here to mate with you, Shadow-With-Teeth. I have come here to talk.”

His eyes laugh at her. For all that she keeps her steely demeanor, Silver feels her heart sink.

It may be and may end as a hundred different things, but she is certain that this is not going to be easy.





©2012 Sam Oliver (Eris)


Here it is, part one. Next up should be the long awaited chapter three of Three Hearts, or maybe some poetry or maybe both. Time to get back in gear- and yes, there will be a page devoted to this serial short. Promise.



The Shifting Flames – 0

She holds herself. Her hands are red and cracked, her eyes are downcast, her mouth set in a line. Fingers curl against her skin as ashes blow around her feet. Dead ashes. Cold ashes.The fingers are hers.

The ashes are hers. Of hope, of dreams, of a life that now means nothing. Has meant nothing. She stares at her fingernails, caked with grey. All of it had been for nothing. The life here with this family had been for nothing. There is nothing to rebuild, not even the shadow of a glimmer of hope. The girl knows that there is nothing left here.

Feet help her rise, her hands pull at nothing, as much a stretch as a need for aid in standing. Her muscles ache from kneeling there for so long.

Before her, smoke hisses and sways in the breeze. Around her, shades of people she once knew flit here and there, carrying buckets both empty and full, fighting for life and limb amidst the smoking sand that had once been her home. She has no name.

The villagers around her do not see her, do not touch her, do not think of her as they rush by. Many children are sitting as she did, near the grasses or in the ashes of their old houses, staring numbly at nothing. She is but another broken child, like a doll worn and finally torn from overuse or mistreatment. She is of no use to the village, being barren and small and frail besides.

The day goes by and the blaze is fought down to nothing, the flames eventually burning down to cinders, and the cinders cool in the coming night. Still the girl stands there, in her rags and tatters and the singed remains of a dress that might have been pretty before it was coated in the ashes of the dead. The grey remains cling everywhere, her body painted with them.

She stares into the darkness as it falls, the night moonless, the stars eclipsed by clouds. Her stomach rumbles and her head pounds. Her lungs are weak, and she coughs with near every breath in, from the smoke.

The girl isn’t sad that her old family is dead. She doesn’t mourn the loss of her house. That she has nowhere to stay is of no consequence to her. She looks at the ashes that remain of her old home and in her mind, thoughts race.

They are focused on but one thing, as the smell of charred flesh is finally swept away on the night wind, a wind that chills her legs and arms and sends gooseflesh down her back. She is thinking of the dragon.

After a time, how long if asked she could not say, a pack of wolves comes forward from the grass of the plain surrounding the village. Those humans left without homes flee for the remaining standing houses, hoping for shelter, and these wolves– which are wild ones, dire ones, each the size of a horse– chase them down. Methodically they pick the old or the weak of the survivors out from the rest, herding them away from the safe shadow of the dwellings.

The girl does not look up as their screams echo into the night. Mercifully for the families locked in their houses, they do not last long.

The girl does not turn around until the pack leader approaches her from behind. A wolfish muzzle nudges her front, and razor teeth bared in a snarl meet her eyes as she finally snaps free from her near trance. Hot breath against her face does not make her tremble.
Instead, the girl reaches up and strokes the jaws of the alpha wolf, who stares down at her. The wolf speaks first.

“Why do you choose such a weak and vulnerable shape, shifter?” his voice is kept soft, but the threat of a growl is palpable in the air in each pause.

The girl simply smiles, and shrugs, a human habit. “I know of no other.”
“I could show you a shape. We would roll together in grass, feel the plains beneath our paws. The scent of the stars would be within your grasp, and you would learn what a true soul is like,” the dire wolf whispers. “Come with me, shifter. Learn to be free.”

The words are not apparent from lips alone. All of the creature’s body shows it, in the tensing of its muscles, in its stance and the way its tail slowly sweeps, side to side, the way its silver-green eyes stare into hers.

“No freedom comes without cost. To take your shape is to lose a part of me, great wolf,” the girl replies. “Should I give up such a thing and offer you myself for no gain of my own?”
“The gain is your life, shifter,” the wolf snaps, jaws closing bare inches from the girl’s hand. She yanks it away, but stands her ground. “If you do not come with me, you will remain a human, and prey.”

The girl folds her arms, and feels her heart rise and fall with the deep breath she takes. For her apparent eleven years, she seems far older in that moment, and far more tired than she should be.

“There is a catch, is there not?” she asks sharply. “If I go with you, if you share your form there is always a price. What do you wish of me?”

The alpha wolf’s stance denotes anger, then, hackles rising. “Do you want to die, little human? What price would not be worth life?”

“We all die sooner or later,” the girl answers calmly. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so when you first drew in my scent. Something about me piques your interest. What is it?”

The alpha wolf snarls, then rises and lashes out, knocking her back into the ashes of her home, throwing her right off her feet and forcing the wind from her lungs, sending searing tracks across her chest. Stabbing, overwhelmingly sharp pain indicates that the blow may have cracked her ribs. A sharp, cold fear runs through her now, as she stares up at the monstrous wolf standing above her. Will he kill her now? Despite her brave words, she isn’t sure she is ready to die.

“No price will be taken now,” he growls. “When you are older.”

Ah, the girl thinks wryly. That explains it, then.

A haze of pain hangs over her every movement. It makes it hard to think, breathe and speak. “Come here then, pack leader,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I’ve made my choice.”

She reaches up as he approaches her and settles next to her, in the ashes of her former home. The cold night air clings to her skin and as she buries a hand in the wolf’s fur, she buries her mind inside of herself.

Frayed memory greets her as she drifts in the vast, galactic expanse of her own ego, rolling, twisting to look at shimmering stars of vague wants, recollections of some of her earliest forms that are locked away from her and unlabeled, forgotten. As her spiritual form floats in that space, she realizes she can feel the dire wolf’s jaws closed on her physical body’s hand, the teeth but a moment’s pressure from wrenching it away from her.

Even now he’s being cautious, the girl notes silently. As he should be, of things he doesn’t understand.

She rises in her mind, buoyed upward on willpower alone, rising up through the galaxy of forms spiraling to either side of her, unused, untouched. Finally she reaches the surface, the ceiling, where she can see the specific spiritual signature of the dire wolf she clings to.

She rocks herself around it, a bead of light, dark and crimson red hanging in space, in her own head. The girl reaches out, takes it in one hand, and pulls it against herself. The sucking emptiness where it used to be demands something from her, and, helpless to refuse it, some of her essence, her glowing, radiant mind, parts from her soundlessly.

Searing ghost-pain rolls down her body the moment that piece of her leaves, and in the ashes, clinging to the alpha wolf’s fur, she hears herself whimper.

With a new bead hanging there, proclaiming itself to be the essence of her old form, she absorbs the mental bead of light, that dire wolf spirit, into herself and begins to change.
Her spine curves. Her arms turn to forelimbs, the whole structure of her body changes, from head to foot, toes shrinking, the littlest ones disappearing altogether. They form great paws, tipped with iron-sharp claws. Her face lengthens, twists and changes to form a long canine muzzle, teeth sharpening, lengthening, some of them disappearing, mostly specialized for rending meat. Her stomach grows, its emptiness more acute, her whole body grows out, fur covering every inch of her skin, the dress torn to pieces. The cuts on her chest turn tiny in comparison with her new size, her breasts shrink and disappear, growing out along where her human belly had been as two rows of little teats.

The alpha wolf slinks back, withdrawing his mouth from her forepaw as she finishes changing, watching the girl become wolf-like with a passive expression.

Ludicrously, her first instinct when the transformation is over is to find more clothes. She feels exposed. Her bones are hard as any metal now, though, and her skin has become more like hide, and rough to the touch. The fur warms her up, and she shakes herself, sitting back on her haunches, eyes downcast as the alpha stands. He towers over her still. Though she is much larger than any normal wolf, she is still young by dire wolf standards.
Many dire wolves could live as long as two hundred seasons. She is still but a child. A pup.
The pack leader’s stance is somewhat disappointed, but the girl-wolf is sure he didn’t expect much else, for it is also resigned.

“Come with us now, shifter,” he says quietly. “There is nothing in the ashes of this human den. Not for you, and not for the pack.”

The girl-wolf does not argue. He is her leader now. While she is slightly unsure, her body knows what it must do, so she lets it follow the pack leader away onto the plains, planting new paw-feet unsteadily, one after the other, until she is lost in the night.





©2012 Eris (Sam Oliver)


So basically I’ve been kicking around this story along with Mesdan’s Three Hearts. It’s shorter- more a serial short rather than a serial novel. I’ll finish it eventually, this is just part ‘zero’ as I like to call it. I thought I’d share, because I do so love to write. I should be getting more of that done soon.

Three Hearts: Chapter Two

Chapter: Shadowed Ground (2)


The whole village plans to be gathered to see it. It is to take place in a small patch of ceremonial ground, twenty feet off the beaten path that runs through the village and surrounded by trees and vines of all shapes, sizes and purposes. People have already started to prepare, but Mesdan is not with them.

Mesdan is in Kesta’s quarters, with Eliss.

It’s just beyond second twilight, with neither moon nor sun in the sky. Eliss’s family– which consists almost entirely of brothers now, those who had been away hunting when the shapeshifter struck, on month-long excursions– is either missing or dead. Eliss is arguing with Mesdan, scribbling with charcoal on a long, dry leaf.

Her throat has healed, yes, but she still cannot speak. Kesta worries that perhaps she never will again, but neither he nor Mesdan wishes to tell Eliss that. She rests on Kesta’s bedroll, surrounded by gifts of stone or spice, condolences on her family and blessings for her survival.

Let me watch!”

Even the way she writes now is furious, scrawled angrily rather than written with care. It isn’t so much a want as a demand.

She hands him the leaf, fuming. Her whole body is weak from her ordeal. The fates only know when she’ll recover, Mesdan thinks. But she will recover. Even if it means missing out on my initiation.

“You’re still weak,” Mesdan observes. “You know how grueling the initiation is. I will not allow you to be present, let alone stand– rather, lie– vigil and wait for me to return.”

Elissa scrawls something on the leaf as he hands it back to her. Her writing is agitated and shaky.

“If you were a man you would let me do as I please.”  

Mesdan reads it, sighs, and shakes his head wordlessly. Eliss herself knows it isn’t true. What can he say to that? Besides that he is a man. He’s gone through the Change rite and everything.

He slips the leaf back to her when she reaches out for it. It seems she might already regret those words, but no amount of rubbing them out will rub them from Mesdan’s mind now. Eliss doesn’t consider him a true man. The knowledge makes him burn.

“It’s selfish! Let me watch! You didn’t let me watch the witch one either!”

Mesdan arches an eyebrow quizzically as he reads her latest message. “I wasn’t even here for that, Eliss. You’re being too impulsive-”

And that isn’t fair. Mesdan regrets the words as soon as they come out, and bites back the rest of the sentence. He turns away, handing the leaf to her and heaving another sigh.


The next reply is written carefully and she places it against his half-curled fingertips with a certain delicate hopefulness he finds heartbreaking. It hurts even to read it. As a shaman, his duty should be to keep the villagers happy and to defend their souls. As a witch, his duty should be to keep the villagers safe and protect their bodies. Mesdan is being torn to pieces between the two– or at the least stretched. But this is to be his shaman initiation, after all.

Eliss is his friend. He wrestles for a moment, with himself, with his witch training.

“Fine,” Mesdan says quietly. “But Kesta won’t be able to watch you. He’ll be busy administering initiation.”

“Actually,” Kesta interjects from directly behind Mesdan’s left ear. “That’s not true. I’ll be watching over Eliss.”

Mesdan stops himself whirling around through sheer will alone, stops the witch response bursting from him, and pulls his calm together as only a shaman should. “Oh.”

He forces himself to turn his head slowly.

Kesta smiles at him apologetically. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mesdan replies dully. “I expected it.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Mesdan glances up to find Thaneen staring back at him. The freckled, pale white skin is recognizable all throughout the village– and the short, bright red hair is easily the most conspicuous. Thanee is one of– well, had been one of– Danni’s best friends. Mesdan, however, having just completed his rite, turns his head, hot shame creeps from somewhere down near his chest all the way up to his cheeks. He feels nearly naked– and really, he is.

“Than–” Mesdan starts, and for a split second it’s like the Change rite meant nothing. Thanee bowls his sentence right over.

“I was okay with the Change rite, you know that, it’s just– aren’t you still feeling– weak from that? Wouldn’t it make sense to give it time?”

Mesdan gazes at Thanee steadily, meeting the boy’s eyes. “Yes. It would make sense. But this village can’t survive another month without another Shaman to watch over it. When Feskun fell to the charm of the Queen, I knew that I needed to take the Change rite and take his place. I have taken the Change rite– though I know it hurts you to see me this way. Now I have only to become Shaman through this initiation.”

Thanee puts a hand on Mesdan’s shoulder, and for a moment Mesdan feels a horrible wrenching indecision. It vanishes as Thanee’s next words fall out in a rush.

“If you do this, Danni-”

“My name is Mesdan,” he replies quietly. “Or does the rite mean nothing to you either? How many times must I say it? I’m different. I’m not a witch anymore. I’m a shaman. I took the rite. I’ve diverged from that path and there’s no telling when I will return. This village needs no witch. I will be a shaman.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to gather his wits again. He doesn’t shrug Thaneen’s hand away, but he doesn’t move to accept the gesture either. After a few more moments, Thanee drops his hand and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I meant no offense. I’m just not used to it yet, I guess.” He pauses, then shakes his head ruefully. “I never wanted to share you with anyone. Now I suppose I don’t need to worry about that, at least.”

Mesdan smiles weakly. Always right to the point, with Thanee. “Yeah. You can have me all you want once I’m shaman. I promise you won’t have to share at all. At least wait until I’m healed up though.”

Thanee punches his shoulder playfully. It still makes Mesdan wince. Seeing his expression Thaneen leans in close, enough that his forehead nearly touches Mesdan’s. “A tough man like you? You’ll be ready by tomorrow’s end,” he whispers. “Just wait and see.”

Mesdan feels acutely aware of how close Thanee’s fingers are to his hips and for a moment, he is literally left speechless. The closeness of his freckled friend takes him by surprise, and the heat between them is something to be savored in the chilling air. Mesdan’s eyes wander, taking in the curve of Thanee’s shoulder, the familiar fang-shaped birthmark on his right cheek, those warm brown eyes and the sturdy– though a little thin– frame. He’s close enough to kiss.

He comes back to himself. “Than-”

“Right,” his friend replies, voice choked, pulling back. He turns away, hiding his face. Mesdan catches a glimpse of Thaneen’s reddening cheeks before the boy stalks off and leans against a tree. Mesdan takes a calming breath, lets his heartbeat return to normal, and forces his attention back to his work.

Creating dream shells is hard enough without worrying about feelings for Thanee, or the reciprocation of those feelings BY Thanee. Mesdan can’t afford to split his attention now.

He rethreads the bone needle, and tries again. He’d been doing pretty well before Thanee had interrupted him. He retraces the heart-weave, taking another calming breath. When he finishes tracing out the intricate semi-circle triple pattern and the helix down the middle for support, he takes the shell fiber from the hole in the needle and, very carefully, snaps the needle in two. By the time he looks up, Thaneen is gone. He probably slipped away to find his relatives in the crowd of villagers gathering.

The shaman initiate glances back down at his dream shell and sighs heavily. His newest work, his grand pattern, spread right across the heart-weave, is Thaneen’s name in witch-rote. Well.

Mesdan makes a face, drops the old dream shell and picks up new fiber and a new bone needle. Closing his eyes and trying very hard not to think of Thanee again, he starts over.

Midnight comes far too fast for Mesdan’s comfort. The moon, rising into the sky through the forest canopy, shines down like a second sun. It won’t last. A shamanic initiation will require complete darkness. Kesta himself had spoken with the sky and asked it to cover the moon for the night. Mesdan shivers a little. The light is a comfort. Especially knowing that he will spend the remainder of the night- and the next- alone, outside, and in total blackness.

He can’t remember a time in his life when he’s enjoyed being in the dark. Not a single time. The darkness hides monsters, demons and otherwise. To enjoy it would go against every ounce of his witch training. To enjoy it would go against his very nature. Still, it seems a nonissue compared to the immense task before him. Initiation for shamanhood would require many things of Mesdan, things he isn’t sure even now he’s ready for. His dream shell is complete and he has the support of Kesta, Thaneen and Eliss to count on, but he still knows that it will be dreadfully difficult. With that knowledge haunting him, he tries his best to find his center now. He doesn’t know and won’t be told who will administer the initiation. Kesta only tells him things like that because the two of them are close. Much closer than they should be, to be frank. Thaneen would be jealous if he knew. But there are some things Thaneen can never understand.

Some things Thaneen shouldn’t understand. Mesdan’s relationship with Kesta is one such thing.

The crowd around him– the entire village, really– isn’t murmuring or talking at all. They simply stand and wait. At a witch’s initiation, jeers and catcalls are relatively commonplace– whistles of appreciation, perhaps, things meant to test the discipline of the girl who is to become a witch. Test it as hard as can be. This is necessary. In order to hunt monsters, one must make their heart like stone. In order to defend the bodies of those around them with the mana and the life-force of the air, the moon, the stars and the earth, one must have iron discipline lest they fall to that power and become like the creatures they seek to destroy.

Whole villages could be annihilated by rogue witches. Their power could level all but the strongest of log cabins and turn brave warriors to nothing but ash and dust as easily as it could do the same to a monster.

His thoughts drift back to the present. It’s growing darker now. A glance at the sky tells the tale of a forgotten and forlorn moon, and of a lone cloud as black as the darkest soil sweeping across the sky and hovering there maliciously over it, under it, sending the whole of the jungle into shadow.

No words still. He is alone with his thoughts, and in the darkness. Alone, though as a shaman he can feel the presence of the crowd nearby. It hasn’t begun then. Surely it would soon.

Mesdan closes his eyes. It’s meaningless. He can’t tell the difference between the black of the back of his lids and the light of opening his eyes. There is no difference. It’s shadow, shadow and shadow all around him. He can’t let it set in that he truly IS alone, that despite being able to feel the crowd out there, they cannot and will not lift a finger to help him during this initiation. He is to face this trial alone. His ordeal is all alone.

While he waits for his first test to start, he can feel the panic start to gnaw at him. To distract himself, he lets his mind wander again.

When he had been a her, before the Change rite, he remembers going through the witch initiation as Danni. The dream shell in his hands chimes. He opens his eyes, looks down at the hypnotic, glowing weave of it sitting in his fingers, and is swallowed up by the past.




“A slip of a girl cannot undergo witch training, Dessdan,” Ginna snaps. “If you grow to become strong, return to me, but not before you are truly ready.”

Danni flushes red from where she lies. As Ginna withdraws, she pulls the shell blade from Danni’s neck. Danni hates it when Ginna calls her Dessdan. It’s a girl’s name, not a witch’s, and no matter what anyone says Danni will become a witch.

“I am not a slip of a girl!” Danni hisses, her eyes stinging with tears, stupid, weak tears. “I’ll prove how strong I am.”

Ginna arches an eyebrow, but says nothing as Danni pulls herself to her feet and glares at the old witch defiantly. For a time, silence is all that passes between them, then:

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, little girl, but if you truly wish to show me how strong you are, seek out the eldest shaman in the village and defeat him. I care not whether it is with skill, magic or the strength of your scrawny arms. Find him, challenge him, and defeat him. Then I shall let you train under me.”

Ginna doesn’t seem to find this a likely possibility at all.

When Danni reaches the shaman’s hut, she expects him to be outside, working in the garden. He isn’t, but a familiar face is there to greet her. The eldest shaman in the village is named Wesdal.  The shaman’s hut is secluded and while he doesn’t often get visitors, he walks down the path every day. His apprentice, Keeta, looks up and smiles as Danni approaches down the worn path.

“Good eve, Dessdan-” He starts.

“It’s Danni,” she snaps, irritable already. A witch doesn’t have much use for manners. Still, she shakes her head apologetically before she continues. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. Can you go get Wesdal for me?”

Keeta just smiles at her apology, then seems to brighten up even further at her request, nodding and turning to enter the hut.

She hadn’t meant to be rude to him. Of course, Keeta would never say it, but she’s sure that he doesn’t like her very much.

She likes him well enough. Keeta is a little weird, but then again, so is Danni, so she doesn’t mind. His eyes don’t wander the way other boys’ do. Danni isn’t sure what to make of that, but it does seem strange to her that he never… well, looks at her. He must just not like her very much. She simply can’t imagine any other reason.

“So, here to challenge me?”

Wesdal’s warm voice breaks her out of her daze. He’s a tall, thick built man with soft amber eyes and weathered features, like old stone. He isn’t old, really, but all shamans get like that. Wrinkly and dry before their time. She stares up at him blankly a moment before the sharp part of her mind smacks her out of it again.

“Oh!” she almost yelps, snapping alert. “Yes! Ginna won’t let me train under her until I defeat you.” Danni pauses a moment, then stares at her feet. “I don’t think she wants me to be a witch at all.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Keeta whispers.

Danni isn’t listening, though. She raises her head and meets Wesdal’s expectant eyes with her own hard, blue pair.

“Fight me.”

Her words are like iron.




Mesdan shakes himself awake and alert again, drawing his eyes up and away from the dream shell. Darkness has surrounded him completely. The glow of the shell shimmers for a few more seconds and then fades away. His heart begins to pound and Mesdan becomes terribly aware of how alone he is in the darkness. It takes a few deep, calming breaths to remember his purpose here.

The past is the past. The present is the present. This is not the witch initiation. His foes will be beatable.

This time. Now that he knows more.

“Danni.” A voice calls from the darkness. “You must learn to face your fear, or you will never be able to protect your village.”

He can’t place the villager’s voice. He nods anyway, sure that whoever it is can’t see him. Mesdan wonders whether or not there’s anything really there, or if it’s simply the dream shell’s hypnotic influence plaguing him still. His whole body aches from his ordeal the night before.

The dark around him grows more so, swirling in like a velvet caress. Its chill touch makes his ebon skin break out in a sweat. He wills his body to move, to pull itself up, to push away from his seat on the ground. It doesn’t listen. With a shock, Mesdan realizes that he’s completely paralyzed.

A nightmarish haze hangs on his heart, on his hair, all over his aching body. It clings to him, dirtying him. He feels filthy, profaned, like his mind is being sullied somehow by this invasive presence. It seeps into him, into his self, and shakes him to his heart, to the core of his soul. He can feel it eating away at him.

“Lost yourself so easily, little girl?”

Ginna’s voice is so cold it chills him to the bone. It echoes at him out of the dark.

“You have no right to claim shamanhood. Do you mean to betray your oaths as a witch?” the voice mocks. “What sort of vows were they, to be broken like this?”

The words have literal bite to them. He can feel the marks they leave on his bare skin, on arms. This is, after all, shaman initiation. He was stupid to believe the foe he must face would be a physical one.

He would cry out at the pain, but his mouth won’t move. His whole body is still.

Yet apprentice shaman must survive this test! He can scarcely believe it- the pain of this first obstacle alone is excruciating. Without incantation, though, with barely any movement at all needed, a shaman could heal or hinder with a thought, with the sheer force of their own mana, their own spirit.

He hesitates a moment more, trying to gather himself as the haze penetrates deeper into his mind and the sick feeling in his belly grows riotous. It builds to a point, then sinks back down. His heart throbs in his chest and he feels a convulsion shudder through him. If this keeps up, he’s certain he’ll die.

Mesdan forces his mind inwards. Around him, the silence deepens. As he dives deep into his own psyche, his heartbeat slows and his body relaxes.

A few moments later, and the darkness swallows him completely, devouring his motionless body as surely as night follows day.



©2012 Sam Oliver [Eris]

Cliffhanger. Split the original chapter 2 up into 2 chapters instead- chapters two and three-  to make it more sane. Finals week is NEXT week, but it’s nowhere near as hectic as this one, sooooooo…. I can get a regular schedule by next week instead????

Was that enough question marks??????


<3s to all,


Three Hearts: Introduction and Prologue

Three Hearts

A novel in serial by Sam Oliver [Eris]


This has been a long time coming. I didn’t hit an idea for it until a while back- not too long ago, but long enough that I wasn’t even sure if it was going to come at all. Until now. I have a new novel, a new world, and a new adventure stirring in my mind, and this is how I mean to express it. The characters will live and breathe and die. They’ll grow and have fantastic journeys. Now, normally I’d be inclined to just babble on and on and on- but I think I’ve said enough already.

This is my new work of art, my new work in progress. All I can say now is this:




The forest nearby is quiet. Far too quiet, a thick and expectant silence that seems to swallow the heartbeats of those within it. Even the night wind brushing the leaves makes only the faintest rustling. The moon that rises in the air is waxed full and cold, a blue nimbus surrounding it, a fog that seems to shift and spark in the wind. After a time, a long, dark finger of cloud overtakes it and smothers it completely, and the world below is plunged into absolute darkness.

A darkness pierced by a small globe of light, moving swiftly down by the immense rocks, the hand of stone that rises up to kiss the sky. The light pulses with power, with an element of magic, of mana, that rises around the source in a determined shield against the darkness and the silence.

There is a pause and a loud thump, an intake of breath, sharp and pained. The globe falters and then shatters into sparks.  Dropping lower, we make out still nothing in the dark of the hidden moon. We hear, however, heavy, ragged breathing.

Then the moon comes back and floods the jagged stones with silvery, fragile light. There, picking itself up, is a small figure with darkened skin and hair wrapped tight in a long braid. It dances past the shadows of the immense monoliths beside it, right up to the edge of the cliff, careless of stones dislodged by its passage, careless even as the tiny rocks chip away, worn near smooth with age, and fall into the black depths, the rolling tide below.

The girl– for as the moonlight floods down, we see the curved hips and the long hair, the supple body and the teasing flash of bare dark skin near its chest– is swaying on her feet now. Blood drips down her legs, shocking crimson splashing the stones near her feet in drops, in starbursts of red. Around her chest and around her waist, bandages, bindings cover her near completely, hiding skin, hiding whatever wounds drip that blood.

We see and don’t understand the change in her heart, in her stance as she straightens. We see but don’t understand the the set of her mouth and the determined grip she has on something by her side. It is drawn into view.

A thin blade with no hilt, a shining stone edge. The girl reaches up, grips her braid in one hand and the knife in the other, drawing her head back and away. The knife edge is given no resistance, and she makes not a sound as it cuts.

A moment passes. Another. A change comes over the breathing of the girl.

A long black braid glistens, hangs in the air, casting eerie moon shadows over the roughened stone at the cliff’s edge. In another moment, it falls from ebon fingers, slipping down into the silent, hungry waves. A knife plummets down to land in the water as well, vanishing from sight.

A tall, dark-skinned boy stands at the rocks now, his black hair ragged and short, and for a moment it seems as though he will leap into the waves to follow after hair and knife both. The moment seems to stretch into minutes as he watches the water slowly crashing against jagged glass spikes below.

The boy lingers there until dawn breaks, then turns and, moving stiffly, returns to the stand of trees to disappear into the forest. Silence follows him.


©2012 Sam Oliver [Eris]

Poem: On My Own

On My Own

A freely structured poem story by Sam Oliver [Eris]


Like the lines all dancing down

Through the black

Through the rain


Like the fires raining stark

On the grasses

On the plains


Like the lightning strikes the earth

All the soldiers

All the men


From these walls they do defend

Like the guardians

Of their hearts.


Yet while they fight I sit and wait

As the war now nears my gate.


I’m the one who stands

On he/r own

On he/r own.

I’m the one who stands

On he/r own.


Like a rhythm in the heart

Forever after

Forever now


Like a drumbeat in the dark

Somehow silent

Somehow mine


Like the world with its light

Growing flowers

Growing trees


Like the sky, a dancing night

High above

High below


Descend now angels, hear them sing

Of the souls

Of the songs


Below them shouts of hope do ring

From the soldiers

From the darkness


Hope that’s thwarted by heaven’s hand

The angels flight now does demand

A price for splendor we observe

Warriors’ lives spent from our reserves

Silence falls like hammer silver

While I wait inside my room

Blessed winter comes too swiftly

For the soldiers and their doom.


The men who fought for me now die

In the hundreds, in the thousands

Watch them flee while I deny

This isn’t real

This isn’t mine


In the quiet I am broken

But I stand-

On my own

And I stand

On my own.


Stone-shod window with its claws

Like a demon without laws

See the fires flung through fear

Hear the astral spirits cheer

For the victory of my foe

For the coming dark and row

They’ve had with me and mine so long

I know that even if I’m strong

I will die

Where I stand

On my own- now




©2012 Sam Oliver [Eris]





Just a poem that I wrote. Good to cut these darker feelings off, yes? Probably. I’m sure it’s absolutely chock full of meaning. It certainly meant a lot to me as I wrote it, even if the end result feels a little thick. Perhaps I could’ve confined myself to some form or rule or something, but sometimes I feel like I’d rather just tell a story. Grim as it is.  walp. enjoy as always. Comments, critiques, etc? Drop me one as a reply. I’m always up for hearing thoughts and I usually try to get back to them.

Er. Not to be a downer or anything. Poetry is, after all, a raw expression of feeling and emotion. Maybe I ought to do something about how totes depressing my poetry can end up being :3?

Then again, maybe not.



Short Story: Black Feathers, White Heart

Black Feathers, White Heart 

A short story by Sam Oliver [Eris]

The grass is as cloud underfoot, parting like soft silk. The woman in the trees knows that it’s wrong, though, as she takes steady aim. She knows even as her finger clutches the trigger of her crossbow, knows as the bolt flies.

It’s a trap.

There’s a thrum, and a shout, a boy’s cry of pain. A cry for aid.

The trees around the woman shake with a soft breeze as men step from behind them. The sentry, fist clenched around the bolt in his shoulder– and still a hundred yards distant– is probably doing his best not to scream. The markswoman, for her part, takes one step away and feels the point of a spear against her back. How had she missed so many of them? What black fortune led her here?

Her hands shake as she puts down the crossbow, her lips pursed, locked tight, the bolt she’d had ready dropping from nerveless fingers to join the wooden stock on the ground. Still, no one will approach her. They eye her warily from a distance, not a man among them prepared to take that first step towards her, for all their threatening posturing. If anything, they seem solemn as she raises her arms above her head, so slowly.

Karen of the Black Feathers doesn’t hiss, snarl or shout as, finally, one of the men steps forward and, slowly, as if barely daring to believe it, reaches out to touch her hair.

Her red, silken hair, which is dirty now after but two weeks on her own with no hold to rest in. Karen’s stone gaze falls on the man’s own as his plated fingers brush a few strands from her face. She can see him behind his visored helmet. His piercing blue eyes seem sad.

A number of the men surrounding her seem impatient. Truth be told, Karen herself is impatient. If this is to be her grand defeat and her ultimate humiliation, why in the gods’ good graces would any of them hesitate?

She looks the man over, taking special note of the centurion’s insignia on his breastplate– carved into a falcon’s head. His plate armor is expertly crafted– and to Karen, seems like it might even be dwarven work. There’s no way to know without asking, though, and she’s reluctant to so much as open her mouth with these men around. He has a sword at his hip, and it too is a masterpiece of steel, with a talon-style pommel and a silver-gilt hilt. The pommel itself has a single talon extending down and out, with a sharp tip. It glows faintly, and seems much too thin for a broad blade. Perhaps a longsword- albeit a thin one.

The man runs gentle fingers through Karen’s hair one last time and then simply stares at her for a while with that intent, unwavering gaze. It goes on far too long before one of his subordinates coughs and breaks the spell.

“Centurion Alpha?” The man– no, boy, freckle-faced and younger than anyone in the army has a right to be–, asks quietly. There’s a bolt in his shoulder, with her black fletching. How is he still standing?

The captain gives a start, and turns to face him. “Yes. Ah, thank you, Mark. I’d rather lost myself for a moment there. Bind her and take her along with us.”

“Centurion,” The boy replies, and he seems strangely grateful for the order. Karen had assumed they would get the barbaric ceremony over and done with, but evidently they would be saving her for later. She grits her teeth, but allows the men to step forward and bind her. With a half-dozen spearpoints on her at once, she hardly feels confident enough to do anything about it.

The ropes chafe as they are drawn tight around her wrists. Her thumbs, should she be a witch, are covered, and in keeping with tradition, a hood is drawn over her face.

No sooner has the world gone dark then light floods her senses again. She catches sight of the Centurion tossing the hood away, his gauntlet catching the sun.

“I want her to be able to see. Take her weapon, and those blasted bolts, though. Can’t have her somehow shooting us in our backs, now can we?”

Karen is mildly surprised at that, but the Centurion calls for a march a moment later, and, with a spearpoint lightly jabbing her in the back, she hardly feels like she can afford to stand around and daydream. She stumbles a little, then manages to find her feet, trudging forward with the rest of the column. It’s a tightly packed one. The forest widens out further in, of course, but for now it’s far too close for the column to march in much order.

Her feet lift themselves and set themselves down again, sure now, even if the rest of her body is not. Her feet always seem to know where they want to go.

She wonders why the Centurion would let her keep her sight. As a crossbowwoman her eyes would be her best asset, and as a prisoner, even if she were to be executed it would be folly not to have her eyes put out, for a rescue could come at any moment– and if they lost her, she would again be another enemy for them to worry about. With her reputation, it’s amazing to Karen that she hasn’t been mutilated already. Unless, of course, the Centurion was just saving that for when he had a chance to get her alone.

Karen hadn’t pegged the leader for the ‘I-want-her-for-myself’ type before. She does so now. She isn’t sure whether she should sigh in relief or not, but after a moment decides against it. After all, the man could be a monster, for all she knows.

It wouldn’t do to tempt Fate. The bastards at the tower in Hellhaven had warned her before. This is where listening to them had gotten her so far.

“You cannot escape your Fate,” The Archmage had said. “There is nothing in the world that will allow you to avoid what is to come.”

She’d not believed him at first. Slowly then, as things had started falling into place– from the wolves howling at dawn to the lone sentry surviving her first shot and shouting out an alarm– she’d come to realize that the fat, smug cretin had been right. She’d played right into Fate’s hands without even trying.

Her feet snap twigs, iron soled boots digging into the dirt. No real point in stealth now, of course.

Funnily enough, Karen had found over the years that sentries paid less attention to snapping twigs and the like if they were near constant. To move in a way that suggested a small, meatless animal was difficult, but she had prided herself in her ability to make her footsteps fall in such a way, and in her ability to move like one.

She wonders idly about fate, as she’s marched forward, staring straight ahead but not really seeing it.

Would she be in this predicament still if not for her bloodlust? She’d been prepared to kill the sentry– was this some form of divine retribution for her life of killing?

Perhaps. Karen had wanted to believe that Fate did not apply to her. Now…

She stares at the back of the soldier in front of her. Without her crossbow or bolts, what can she do? She is entirely at the mercy of the men around her.

Will any of her contacts miss her?

Probably they’ll miss her skill. No one cares about another broken little woman pretending to be a soldier.

Hours of trudging through the forest pass. The sun starts to fall in the shaded sky. Karen is more than a little perturbed. They should have reached the camp by now. She isn’t exactly impatient to be tortured, raped, and killed, of course, but she feels as though something at least is wrong. The Centurion’s face, however, is metal, and tells her nothing. Even though he rides beside her, everything in his manner is composed. She’d killed so many of his men before. Surely he felt something.

There’s a collective sigh of relief that even sweeps up through Karen when they finally reach a clearing. Not just any clearing, however, but a plains clearing- near devoid of trees- and one that the Centurion seems to decide would be a good place to stop in.

He calls for a halt, raising a hand. “Everyone, rejoice! Not only did we defeat the Eight’s own mercenary dogs, we’ve captured the queen bitch of the lot!”

The soldiers around her cheer and laugh, and someone’s mailed palm slaps against her leather clad rear with enough force to make her eyes water. She doesn’t say a damn thing though, just stares ahead.

“Set up camp, boys, that’s far enough for the day,” the Centurion says quietly- but everyone seems to hear him. “Leave the bitch where she is. I’ll deal with her later.”

Karen doesn’t give him the satisfaction watching her squirm. She stays perfectly still, her face a stone mask.

The tents are up, it’s dark out now- but for the moons, hanging in the sky, both full and bright like lanterns- and though no one is watching her anymore, she can’t sit and can’t move. She’d been tied to a stake for the night, ludicrously, they had chained her to it even though her hands and feet had already been bound. Even if she could get her hands free she would have a chain tying her to the damn stake.

Her legs ache with the effort of keeping her upright.

She grits her teeth. No one had so much as looked at her funny for the entire day. What had the Archmage said? Something about despairing in the dark?

When would he come for her, then? Would the Centurion cut her free first? Would she have a chance to run?

Karen of the Black Feathers twists her slim hands in the ropes. She isn’t sure how much more of this waiting she can take. If the Centurion was saving her for himself, he was taking too damn long about it. The mere anticipation of that man trying for her seems so much worse a prospect to deal with. Her hands and feet are numb and her eyes ache from the effort of keeping awake for so long.

A voice chills her blood.

“What have we here?”

She can’t turn, but she can feel an immense presence behind her, and she could recognize that voice anywhere. The Azrae Legate’s tone is making her legs shake, and only one voice in the world could possibly do that to her.

An immense scaled hand reaches around and draws a clawed finger up along her armored belly. She can feel the heat of the creature’s scales behind her, can hear its demonic heart beating.

“If it isn’t the third incarnation of Angus Traveler,” The monster’s voice whispers in her ear, and it echoes around the camp. No soldier seems to pay it any mind. No one even looks up. She struggles against the ropes and the chains, shivering uncontrollably. If the demon had a name other than Legate, she never learned it.

As to what it might be going on about, she hasn’t the faintest.

“Thy blood has yet to pay its due, Traveler. Shall I take it now?”

That scaled finger’s claw slowly starts cutting through the leather armoring her body, and Karen, helpless to stop it, still makes no sound. She isn’t sure she could if she tried. Her stake lies outside of the Centurion’s tent. She’d been watching it for as long as she’d been here, and there hadn’t been a movement, not a stir from within.

The beast’s claw draws an x on the leather, cutting it apart, and, still leaning over the stake from behind, takes a flap of leather- the tip of the claw cutting through the tunic underneath and grazing her skin, drawing blood- between two claws and slowly peels it away.

Karen stays silent, not daring to try to move.  Cool night air touches her partly exposed belly.

This isn’t happening.

Karen of the Black Feathers curls her toes as the monster Legate grips another flap of her armor, this time the tip of its claw tearing little more of her skin away with the leather, and whether it’s on purpose or not doesn’t matter- she can’t help but yelp.

A soldier- who had been standing guard by the Centurion’s tent- seems to notice her for the first time, blinks, then shouts suddenly, standing upright. She recognizes him. He’s the sentry she shot!

He runs over to her, to the stake, and in one smooth movement, cuts through her wrist and ankle bonds. All the while, the fool shouts the same thing.

“Centurion! Centurion! He’s here! He’s here!

Karen feels the demon draw back a moment, hears its intake of foul air, hears it let it out in a soft, menacing hiss. “What-”

Karen pulls away from the stake, numb feet and wrists stinging as they are released, not supporting her weight, dumping her on the ground. The sentry runs to the stake and fumbles with the padlock. Karen, watches, dumbstruck, as the boy reaches into his pack with his good arm and pulls loose a key, then, shaking, glancing back at Karen, he fits the key to the lock- just as the demon Legate rears up and back, one clawed hand drawn up and away, a hideous snarl on its lips.

“Look out!”

Karen can’t believe the words come from her mouth. She can’t believe she gets up- with the chain around her neck still attached- and dives, catching the sentry about the waist and bearing him down. He stares up at her as she shields him, and feels the demon’s hand come to a halt in midswipe. She can hear the Legate chuckle, then, and turn towards the Centurion’s tent.

“Centurion? A mortal leader for mortal men.”

It takes a step towards the canvas, one earthshattering step, leaving Karen on top of the sentry, who stares up at her in terror.

“Miss! I’m not trying to hurt you!” the boy shouts. “Get off, Miss! I’m letting you go! I need to warn the Centurion!”

“You idiot!” Karen snarls, surprised at herself. “The Centurion is-”

The tent explodes outward in an immense fireball, lifted a good twenty feet into the air on currents of heat and raining down in a cloud of embers.

“Dead,” She finishes, rolling off of the sentry, scrambling to her feet as the demon turns to her. The ground sways in her vision, and around the demon the air shimmers with heat.

“Now… Where were we?” The Azrae Legate asks, in a voice like thunder.

The sentry is standing next to her, wincing, rubbing his shoulder, staring in disbelief at the Centurion’s tent- or rather, where it had once stood.

“Where did he go?” The boy whispers to himself. “He said he was preparing…”

The monster stares the pair of them down, and then grins a slow, horrible grin, jagged teeth all flames. An insidiously sweet scent reaches Karen’s nostrils- like cinnamon and spice, carried to her on the breeze. That something so monstrous could smell so- good- is a disconnect, and to her, makes it all the more terrifying. There’s something alien about the way the beast stands.

Its form is like that of an immense scaled bull on two enormous legs, with taloned feet and hands- but the talons extend from the ankle, then, and it also has a hoof to go with it. Its hands are huge, four fingered things, shaped like a dragon’s with claws at least as large. Two curved horns curl down from its temples, a third spiraling outward from the center of its forehead, and it has two deep, predatory eyes that burn red. The black scales covering its body are grotesquely misshapen, twisting this way and that with no discernible pattern. No wings, like legends of old portray. At its side- for the creature somehow has armor that is fitted to it- it bears a deadly blade blacker than utterdark, of an unearthly steel. The armor itself is of an unnatural shape, black and pounded from darkness itself.

“Miss? You can see it!” The sentry hisses.

“What?” Karen asks, shaking on her feet, unable to pull her eyes away from the creature before her.

“The demon!” The boy replies sharply. “You can see it! You’re shaking all over- you must be able to see it!”

“Of course I can see it!” Karen snaps. “Are you blind, man, it’s right in front of us!”

The boy stares at her a moment, and then bolts, dashing away so quickly she barely has time to react. “H-hey!”

The demon is taking its time. It stalks towards her slowly, almost… cautiously.

“Thy line ends here, Angus Traveler. With this incarnation,” The Legate hisses softly. “No trick can save you. This camp of humans was a valiant attempt, but one that will prove worthless in the end.”

It takes another earthshaking step towards Karen.

She backs to the end of her chain, nearly stumbles and chokes herself. She can feel blood dripping down her belly, soaking the cloth of her tunic. The wounds ache and burn dully in the night air.

The Archmage had told her that she would kill a demon before the year was out, and that it would take something precious from her. Something far more precious than gold. That she would find herself. Fat old bastard. Perhaps he had been right about the demon, but Karen can see no way out of this.

What makes this different from your Fate before? A voice whispers in her mind. Just accept it. Get it over with. Obviously he was wrong- how can you survive this?

Karen narrows her eyes and shoves the thought aside. With her hands free, at the very least now that she isn’t being watched she can defend herself.

Still shaking, she reaches down into her boot and tugs the knife free from its sheath. The soldiers hadn’t taken it from her- had they even found it?

The demon laughs at her tiny weapon, advancing on her slowly- and still, strangely, with caution. It could incinerate her just like it did the tent. It could have clawed her to pieces any number of times. What is it doing?

She slips her hand down to the pommel of the knife. It’s a long, plain thing, an inch or so short of a dagger, meant more for throwing than for fighting. It doesn’t have the balance of a fighting weapon. Its steel is sharp, though. She contemplates flipping it up into her fingers for one shot as the demon approaches. She’s sure it wouldn’t do more than make the creature furious.

Then, without warning, there’s a flash of light strong enough to draw a yelp from her lips. She backs away, eyes stinging, screwed shut against what feels like a sunflare directly in front of her eyes. After the dark of night it hurts, like needles jabbing at her pupils, even behind closed lids. When she dares open them again, the Centurion stands before her- in his steel and leather armor, with his helmeted face covered and his sword unsheathed. Once free from his scabbard it appears to shimmer with golden light, like a piece of legend, like a piece of the heavens themselves made into the shape of a blade.

Runes flare on its lightwrought edge. They seem to sing at her, in a tune only she can hear.

As the Azrae’s bare hand clenches into a fist and thunders down, the sword seems impossibly small and fragile, thin light gossamer. It’ll shatter, or be torn away in an instant. Karen is sure of that. What could stand against the power of the Legate?

The Centurion, however, doesn’t parry as Karen had expected. Instead, moving faster than she can credit, he dashes forward, ducking under the earthshattering blow and flicking the tip up. The demon jerks to the side at the last moment, but the tip still taps and then slides through the monster’s side. The Centurion withdraws, fast as lightning, ducking away as the Legate roars and swipes for him.  A gout of steaming blood follows the blade away, drips down over foul scales, soaks the grass at its hooves. The Centurion’s sword, however, is free of the creature’s fluid. Even so, the Centurion flicks it, as though out of habit- and water flies from the tip.

But it isn’t water. It’s something else, something silvery and at once not, a corroded liquid metal that dissolves in midair. Suddenly the camp is alive again.

Soldiers rise to their feet in shock, spears raised, spell broken. A few draw swords, one or two ready javelins. No one is running. Karen just stands. Stands, chained as she is, and stares.

“Threadcutter blade,” She whispers in sudden realization. Whatever dark magic had kept the demon from the legion’s sight is now gone. The sword had sliced through magic as easily as a knife through parchment.

The stream of blood hisses and stops, the wound- a dark, but clean cut- sealing itself. The Azrae Legate snarls at the Centurion, raises one scaled hand, fire gathering in its palm. Karen shouts a warning at the Centurion, but she needn’t have bothered. The demon’s target is the poor javelin thrower, not his leader.

The demon sweeps its hand forth, fire flickering black and red. The Centurion steps between it and its intended target, and, with a deft flick of that gossamer light-blade, cuts the ball of flame in half. It dissipates almost immediately, but not before embers of the foul fire touch the man’s steel-clad arms and legs.

She hadn’t heard the Centurion make a sound before this, and even now, she can only hear him groan, watch him sink to his knees, blade sliding into the dirt. The Azrae Legate roars in triumph, starting for him with arm outstretched and sickle claws reaching, taking two steps, bearing down over the fallen man.

The Centurion’s blade flicks up and out, taking a pair of the demon’s scaled fingers off at the base knuckle. The demon Legate bellows, taking a cautious step back, clutching at its hand.

The Centurion’s armor is corroding away under the influence of the baleful flame flicking on his limbs, but he’s taken a defensive stance, light blade held in a loose ready position, even from his knees he seems prepared to fight to defend- her. Karen.


The stumps of the demon’s fingers are healing slowly, dripping as its severed digits twitch on the ground. The creature’s blood is turning the grass black.

Karen looks around for a weapon. If she hesitates, the demon will go for the rest of the soldiery, then come back to finish him. Or worse, hurl more flame….

She can’t find anything. There is nothing nearby, nothing on the ground. Not a rock, not a spent arrow or javelin.

The demon snorts, as if in disgust, gathers those dark flames in its uninjured hand, drawing its arm back…

A silvertipped javelin streaks through the air and drives itself into the creature’s chest, digging in, sliding through scales and sticking there.

The Azrae Legate rocks on its feet a bare moment, then howls in rage, stumbling away from both Centurion and stake.  A spearman- no, two- run up to the fallen Centurion, one patting the awful flickering flame away from his arms, the other, from his legs, both lifting him under the arms and dragging him away from the creature- she can hear him protesting.

“No- not me, you fools! Free- Karen! This creature is too- strong for any one of us. Take Karen to the castle- if anything happens to her- Light and ruin, where did that blasted sentry go? He was supposed to have done this already! Let me go you idiots-!”

A thunderous voice, the Legate’s, surely, shakes the clearing and darkens the skies. “Insolent filth! Such mortal trash! This will not go unpunished! The host of Azrae will hear of your affront, and-”

Something rather more insistent nags at her. Karen feels the steel butt of her crossbow nudging her hand. A black feathered bolt is set in her other palm. She half-turns, and her eyes meet those of the boy from earlier. By the eerily bright light from the Centurion’s unsheathed blade, his face is alive, but pale.

“Traveler be praised,” the sentry whispers. “Don’t lose the hope the Centurion had in you. Maybe he forgot, but I haven’t, Angus.”

She hasn’t the faintest what the boy might mean, but it doesn’t matter to her at all. She shoves him back, taking both bolt and crossbow as the Legate continues on.

“-tear the meat from your bones, mark my words! Now, taste the true wrath of the Azrae!”

With that, the demon Legate stretches up one hand and, with loud roar, cuts a hole in the air- a tiny slice that expands rapidly into a flaming, hellish gate.

A horde of horrible little humanoids leaps forth, brandishing small, sharp weapons like jagged daggers, clubs and small spears. They hiss, red skinned maws open to reveal sharp fangs, hands curled into claws and tails that flick with spade tips.

Shouts travel up the assembled soldiers, of fear or determination. One or two bolt outright, but as the line of spears closes and the Centurion is dragged away from the field of battle, Karen is still behind the monstrous demon. She watches it rear back and roar again as its horde of Azrae imps charge towards the assembled soldiery.

Karen pushes the crossbow against the dirt and cocks the string back one handed. Screams, human and demon, sound. The Legate seems completely distracted.

She grits her teeth, sets the bolt to the string, and suddenly, in that single moment, everything falls into place. The world seems to slow, her heart sounds a ponderous drumbeat in her chest. She can feel the air sliding past her teeth, can feel the wind around her caressing her skin, every hair as it’s brushed back by its passage. She can feel muscles tensing in her body, nerves blazing as she brings the crossbow up to a ready position, cradling it up near her eye. Her finger is on the trigger as she sights down the quarrel to her target. The Legate is roaring, his voice like slow thunder, echoing over- and over.

Wildfire runs in her veins, filling her to the brim. Karen feels a sudden fierce, overwhelming joy, at once alien and known to her, at once hers and other. Her toes curl with it, her eyes flutter shut for a moment, and the moment is hers. She can still see the Legate, can see it clear as day in her mind’s eye, in the blackness behind her lids, can see the back of its skull, its horns raised to pierce the sky.

I am the Traveler.

I am the Traveler.

This is my journey.

Victory is my destination.

Karen of the Black Feathers, her spirit ablaze, pulls the trigger, lets go of a breath held an eternity.

The crossbow jerks in her hands, light as a feather. The bolt leaves the strings, and it seems, in this moment of timelessness, that it hangs in the air. And it does, hovering there.

The head, Karen whispers to herself. Put this bolt between his eyes. Silence him forever.

For an aeon it stays there. And in an instant, time flows back, at once, time returns.

A thunderclap sounds, there’s a blur and a tiny explosion just in front of the crossbow. Karen staggers back, shielding her eyes from the flash and the heat.

A trail of dark smoke rises hazily between her and her target, the Legate, who sways for a moment, and then collapses, a puppet without a puppeteer, losing balance and collapsing, flailing uselessly only a moment before falling on its back.

All who had been fighting before turn to face the fallen Legate, whose titanic form had seemed unbreakable. Soldiers and demons alike stop fighting to stare as the giant falls. At the center of the Azrae leader’s forehead, a small, pointed, shiny object, shimmering wetly in the open air protrudes directly between both of the monster’s eyes.

The demonic host, with its leader dead, scatters to the four winds, some taking off, some running right onto the swords of waiting spearmen, others running past Karen. She doesn’t make a move to stop them, unable to believe it herself. What had just happened was nothing short of magecraft. She stares at her crossbow dubiously. An imp screams right next to her, moments before a javelin cast in silver erupts from its chest.

The tip of Karen’s crossbow is red hot with heat- and the wood haft of it hisses as it cools. With one shot, she had ended a demon whose flesh was more than a match for ordinary steel. Her bolt had broken the laws of nature to reach her target.

She shivers slightly, but not from cold, from tension, from fear and worry released in a breath, and from the trials she is certain will still come. The chain, after all, is still heavy around her neck.

The sentry approaches her and twists the key in the lock to her chain. It falls free, but the iron collar remains attached, and the sentry makes no move to cut that free. Karen is still too stunned to react to this newfound freedom. Surely she should be running by now.

She finds she simply doesn’t have the energy. After being tied up for so long, with the sun gone and night falling about her, she can’t find the strength to stand much longer, let alone attempt escape. She rocks on her heels, then collapses to her knees, fists clenched, eyes clamped shut. The joy won’t let go of her.

Her face is wet with tears she barely recognizes, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. All the tension burning in her nerves is released at once, and she’s left a sobbing wreck. She feels as though she hasn’t cried in an age, in an eternity, and that it must all be rushing through her at once now.

Trying to gather herself is impossible.

After a time, however, a hand on her shoulder makes her look up. A man stands there- the Centurion!-, bald without his helmet, gazing down with a mixture of sorrow and pity, blue eyed gaze piercing her through. She stares back, breathing heavy, arms weak as though she hasn’t slept in months.

With the sword sheathed and the Azrae gone, the only light is from the full, bright moons and the stars above, burning in the black sky. It’s enough.

“I’m sorry,” the Centurion says flatly. “While we needed you to kill the Legate, your crimes to my people are still unforgivable. Your execution has been mandated by the Emperor.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to change it,” Karen replies weakly. “Nor would I expect you to if I did.”

The sentry, standing nearby her, doesn’t say anything. The boy’s eyes are blank, and his expression is completely emotionless. To see it in someone so young is disheartening. Karen feels like she should apologize, but she can’t bring the words from her lips. She’s simply too tired. She bows her head and waits for the killing stroke.

The Centurion cuffs her shoulder lightly. “Not here, and not now,” He says, his voice rough with emotion. “Not this day, not the next.”

Karen raises her head and stares up at him, cradling her crossbow.

“When?” She asks. All the strength has run from her.

“When the Emperor finds us and convicts us,” the Centurion says, cracking half a smile. “For sheltering you.”

Karen sits there in stark shock, then slowly smiles back, reaching out  to take his hand. He pulls her up to her feet, demonstrating strength she doesn’t quite understand, but fully expected after watching him fight the Azrae leader. Her legs quake under her. The sentry is grinning wide as can be, and the entire camp of soldiers is gathering about, spears lowered, swords sheathed. The Legate’s corpse smolders.

Karen of the Black Feathers frowns, eyeing melted armor plates and red, swollen skin laid bare by the Legate’s dark flames. Her gaze hovers on every little detail of the Centurion’s armor, and the rough, wild features of an otherwise calm face- from the scars, small white lines on tanned skin- to the clean-shaven chin and his sad smile. But he still stands, despite the pain in his limbs. Truly the man must have inhuman endurance.

“Where to now, Traveler?” the Centurion asks quietly.

“I’m not this- Traveler- that you seem to know,” Karen says haltingly, doubtfully. “But I do follow my heart. My heart says I should be gone as soon as possible…”

The Centurion shrugs and smiles, eyes hiding his pain, but not from Karen’s sharp sight. “We could help you go wherever you need.”

“If you can keep up,” Karen replies lightly. “I’m not sure how I feel about traveling with those who once did everything in their power to tie me up.”

In fairness, she had killed several of their men. She doesn’t really mean it- mostly she finds that she just wants to see how far he will go, and realizes that she actually feels guilty about it as well. Karen is about to take it back when she sees Centurion Alpha’s expression.

“Karen of the Black Feathers, we are indebted to you- no, that’s wrong. I am indebted to you,” the Centurion whispers, voice choked. “If you do not wish to take advantage of our hospitality, if truly you wish to run, then that is how you are. I swear to you now that I will not follow.”

He reaches up and, gripping the iron around Karen’s neck, snapping the metal with a groan and a crack. The jolt isn’t as shocking as the iron shattering under his grip. A strength unnatural- and she feels a kinship, at that. A hunger to learn more, tempered by natural cynicism. Even now, though, she feels the shell begin to crack.

“Go, if that’s what you wish,” the Centurion says thickly, not meeting her eyes any longer.

“You’re smitten,” Karen says, surprised at the levelness in her voice.

“The Legate slew my family- my brothers, sisters, my mother and my father,” the Centurion replies, and a whisper of rage threads through his voice now. The sword, sheathed at his belt, hisses and crackles. There’s a brief scent of ozone in the air. “You have done what years of searching could not. I knew the Azrae wanted something from you. That you could draw the Legate. The Emperor’s command- that, as I’ve told my soldiers time and time again- has been nothing but a cover.”

Karen somehow still feels the tightness in her heart. It softens at the mention of his family, and she draws in a breath. The shell cracks further. “I don’t know what the Azrae want with me, and I’m sorry for the loss of your family. But they might continue to attack me if I journey with you. I would not subject you to that danger.”

The soldiers who surround her murmur amongst one another at this. Several look around apprehensively, as if worried the demons might approach from a flank or appear from thin air. The sentry, however, gives her a grin, and the Centurion shakes his head.

“That will not be a problem. The Azrae took from me my entire family. Let them come and be defeated, it would be no worse than the Emperor’s law to die by their claws.”

Karen pauses, thinking for a while. Finally she nods as though satisfied. But another question nags at her.

“And your men?” Karen asks quietly. “What do they think of it?”

“They all left the Emperor’s service willingly. I told them my plan from the beginning. None will leave that will be missed,” The Centurion replies firmly. “I will not force men to stay and travel with us, but I will shed no tears if the few who do not have the courage to proceed leave us. Anything else, Traveler?”

“You’ve thought of everything,” Karen admits ruefully. “I can’t think up any real reason for you not to come along. But don’t call me Traveler. Just Karen will do.”

“As you wish, Karen.”

She stands there a while, glancing around, taking in the people around her, the plain and the forest she’d left behind. Off in the distance she can see the mountains, and she knows that through them, a pass leads away from the Empire. She takes a deep, deep breath, steadying herself. She knows where she needs to go.

Her eyes find the boy, the sentry. She doesn’t even know the names of the soldiers around her, or understand their hopeful, hungry expressions, as though her words, her movements and actions are those of some legend.

There’s a warmth in the boy’s brown eyes though, as he murmurs something. The wind blows through the clearing as the word echoes in her mind, echoes among the soldiery surrounding her, just once. Just once, she feels she can forgive them for it.


“Well,” Karen murmurs quietly, to no one, to everyone. The soldiers around her straighten and stand, the Centurion looks at her expectantly. She feels a brimming fire gathering in her again, and her limbs feel light as feathers. Perhaps it doesn’t matter right now. What are names, after all? They can be learned and forgotten.

She shifts in her leather armor, frowning for a moment as the torn material twists oddly around her belly, but deciding that it can wait.

“Let’s travel,” she says softly. To her, her words seem to echo around the clearing.

Her grin is as bright as the stars, a flicker of the fire from before, and as her heart leaps into the air, her feet set themselves down one after the other as she leads the soldiers away into the new night. The grass is like soft silk cloud, and the cool air feels familiar around her, with her.

Like home.

©2012 Sam Oliver [Eris]

Demimind: Chapter 29

Extra short. But in a reasonable fashion, and a reasonable timeframe after the last. Almost done with chapter 30. Let’s try to at least get a chapter out a week, hm?



(29) Resolution

“Silk-” Winter starts quietly. There’s so much she wants to say now she could burst. The overwhelming feelings are turning her legs to jelly.

“You are a child,” her old friend replies sternly. “You meddle with powers you don’t even know how to control.

Winter says nothing to that, holding still and letting the Spider Queen talk. It takes everything she has to bite her tongue, and hold her words back.

“I can tell you what you need to know, in return for something.”

“What do I need to give you?” Winter asks immediately. “I’ll do it. I don’t care what it is- I owe Jane this. I can’t leave her-… I can’t…”

“Do you promise to agree to the terms no matter what they are?” Silk asks softly, her voice suddenly tender. “You may not like them once you hear them.”

“I’d give anything!” Winter says fiercely. “Just name them!”

Idiot, Summer hisses. Do you really mean that?

Winter, for her part, ignores her mind-mate. Of course she means it. This is Silky she’s dealing with, not some dangerous stranger.

“Bear my eggs before you reincarnate,” Silk whispers. “That is all.”

Before Winter can find her wits again and answer, her old friend changes the subject. Winter feels her heart sink, freeze in her chest before her friend even speaks. Silk’s arms are loose around her now, as if in sympathy.

“No matter how hard you try, you cannot bring Jane back now,” Silk begins slowly. “She is out of your reach.”

Winter struggles in vain, staring at the broken, battered body of her Servant, days and days dead.

“But- you-”

“I told you I would tell you what you need to know, Winter,” Silk replies solemnly. “And I’m telling you right now that what you wish is utterly impossible. The dead, once led from the Cycle, cannot find their way back again when they eventually return. Without a doubt, Jane and Goliath are already finding their paths to the shells they will next take.”

“T-that trade is unfair,” Winter whispers weakly, feeling the power fading from her, and cold despair taking its place. “Y-you tricked me.”

“Winter, I am not done talking yet,” Silk says mildly, voice soft. “There are a few things that I must tell you regarding your brothers and your sister…”

“I already know Spring is insane,” Winter snaps. “What else could there be?”

Silk seems to hesitate far too long. Silence.

“You didn’t know, did you,” Winter whispers. “You damn well had no idea.”

“Spring’s stability has never been without question,” Silk starts slowly, haltingly. “But why-”

“He threatened to kill me. He wants the illmetal bead so he can erase Fall from existence and break the Cycle of the Seasons or something,” Winter interjects bitterly. “He’s obviously gone batshit.”

Well duh, Summer snipes. Seriously, what part of his total mental breakdown didn’t you expect?

Silk loosens her clawed grip further. “That’s why you wanted Jane to come back…”

“I owe her,” Winter corrects. “She saved me. It’s a debt, and she’s a friend.”

“Servants that die are reincarnated unless they are called back within hours of their deaths, Winter. They aren’t like humans or animals, whose fragile souls break apart. They are like you, Winter, and they are like me. We are guardians of this place, its custodians and watchers. And a Servant, once killed, will come back in time on its own. Not in your life perhaps, but in your successor’s life.”

“I won’t see her again,” Winter says flatly. “And I can’t pay her back.”

“You don’t need to pay her, Winter. That balance was reset the first time. Or have you forgotten already what you did for her?”

“It’s not right!” Winter snaps, shrugging herself free from Silk’s grip and whirling on her friend. “Don’t you understand that?”

Silk’s stance, loose before, hardens, as well as her face. Those eyes are steel, and under their unwavering gaze, Winter’s legs shake.

“And would killing yourself make that better?” Ever-Widowed snarls. Her voice is dripping with fury. “Tell me, Winter-Long-Frost, did you really expect that by sacrificing yourself you could bring your friend back? Would you really pay any price?”

“What are you-” Winter starts, but Summer interrupts her.

She’s saying that you’d kill yourself, you dope! Life for life, right? Did you think you were an exception to the rules?

“No,” Winter says under her breath. “I never knew the rules.” The rage is fading. She takes a deep breath, letting the chilling feeling of her power spread all over her again and replace the anger with cold.

“But what do I do?” She asks out loud.

Her legs tremble, and the world around her spins.

“Who can I trust?” She whispers, almost to herself, almost too quiet for anyone but Summer to hear.

“Trust in yourself,” Silk says quietly. “Trust in your sister. Trust in Autumn and his ability to pull himself back from the brink.”

Oh come on. Whoever he was he isn’t that man anymore. 


“No. There is no ‘but’. Autumn is your brother- he shares your tenacity and force of personality. Spring is a slippery snake, but worse than that, he is set. He believes without a doubt that Autumn cannot be saved, and in giving up hope, he will only perpetuate this broken Cycle instead of shatter it, as he seems to intend.”

“How can you know?” Winter whispers weakly.

“I’ve lived a long time, Winter of the Seasons,” Ever-Widowed replies gently. “Trust me.”

Winter sags, biting her lip. Then a part of her hardens. She straightens. “I have to stop him. I have to stop both of them. I have to get back my sister’s child.”

Finally, something we agree on.

She takes a deep, deep breath, steadying herself.

Silk looks at her carefully, then nods, as if she’s made up her mind. “Good. Stronger than before. Are you done running?”

“I hardly think I can stop either of my wayward brothers by standing here,” Winter says grimly.

Her love reaches out and pulls Winter close, six arms locked around her for a few moments.

Silk’s skin is smooth, free of wrinkles, and comfortably chilly. Her hands are chitinous and hard, but gentle where they touch Winter’s bare arms, legs and back.

“You’re a mess, but your will is enough, Winter,” Silk says softly. “There’s so much for you to learn yet. Come back when you are done, and we can talk.”

“You act so sure,” Winter whispers, burying her face against the Spider Queen’s neck. “I might not come back.”

“So much drama,” Silk snips, her voice almost playful. “Relax, Winter-Long-Frost. You’ll come back. After all…”

She whispers something, a clicking, a chittering that Summer doesn’t understand. Winter nods, though, smiling tentatively. She leans up on the tips of her toes and gives Silk a quick, tender kiss, and then steps away, unsure.

Silk, for her part, smiles back. There’s something sad in her eyes, though, and Summer feels as though something is wrong as Winter turns away.

Something is very wrong.

What did she say? Summer asks.

Winter doesn’t answer.

She walks to the edge of the cavern, to the great stone doors that had shut her in with Jane so long ago. Her hands touch the stone warily. “Do you remember how to cast that gate spell you used- the one that took us here?”

Yeah. Where do you need to go? I’ve got enough juice in me for one more jump. And you haven’t answered me.

“It’s nothing you’d understand,” Winter replies quietly. “And we need to go to Spring’s shrine again.”

What do you- oh, no. Thomas!


Summer uses Winter’s arms, as her sister gives her control. She reaches out and draws a shimmering trail in the air before her, focusing her own energy in Winter’s fingers.

“That b-burns,” Winter stammers, startled.

Yeah, is all Summer replies. The line splits apart down the middle, showing a scintillating abyss. I dunno what this will feel like for you…. It’s a bit hot for me, so… just prepare yourself.

Without hesitation, Winter strides through the gate. There’s a gasp, and then she’s gone.

The world is blindingly hot, when she returns. Her entire body is covered in sweat, and the power inside of her feels suppressed, as if the heat is simply too much for it to compete with.

Her skin feels like one giant blister.

She reacts, pushing her power outward like a shield, sheathing herself in the chill as fast as she can, swaying on the spot, wondering if maybe she took a wrong turn somewhere in the gate, or if Summer’s formulae had been off.

A searing hot coal drops down from above, and as she takes in her bearings, it explodes in front of her from the contrast in hot and cold, bursting into steam and smoke.

Where is she? Did Summer’s gate spell go wrong? She looks around at the lacquered wood, at the hungry flames.

No. She’s in the right place.

The shrine is on fire.

It’s a roaring all around her, the wood, the mighty oak, is going up in flames, orange and red and yellow licking all about her. Her skin feels cooked.

Winter! You have to get out of here! This much heat will make you faint!

“Not without Thomas or the girl,” she whispers, looking around her desperately, choking, gagging on the smoke. Where would they be?

Where would he hide them?

She floods the area around her with cold, forming a clear sphere- the smoke around her drops to the floor, suddenly unable to rise, and the boards under her creak and hiss, threatening to crack and give way under her. The stress of sudden cold after being red hot is almost too much.

Finally she can see, and the inferno near her is parted. But all around her, it leaps on, flickering, dancing. It looks hot, it looks as though she should be dead.

She can feel it through the cold around her.

You can feel them, can’t you? You can feel their life-force.

Winter isn’t sure what she feels, at first. As she stands there, though, in the midst of the flames and the terrible heat trying to feast on her, battering at her sheltered, personal tundra, she realizes that she can feel them. She can almost taste them. The girl, dirty and scared, Thomas, determined and… hurt… ? And… terrified.

They aren’t in the Shrine. She can feel them outside of it.

Trap, Summer says, as Winter strides through the blaze.  But who…?

Winter knows the answer. She strides out of the Shrine, heart pounding.

Her answer stares her in the face as she pushes open the briefly burning front door. It’s dark, darker than natural, and oppressively so.

Standing in the courtyard, eyes triumphant, is none other than Fall. At His feet lies the urchin girl. Standing before her fallen form is Thomas- hopeless, helpless. In Falls hands sleeps Summer’s child.

Unyielding Blue

Unyielding Blue

A short story by Sam Oliver


Weightlessness, a warmth, a queer floating feeling, as if enveloped by cloud- if clouds could be warm. A bubble surrounds her, and at its edges there are hundreds of other bubbles, floating, transparent, all visible before her eyes. Deep blue eyes with red pupils, half-open, half-closed, barely looking out at anything at all. Engrossed with something, with nothing, pleased to be here, pleased to be gone.

Something is eating at her awareness, some small, dangerous thing, something she can’t quite credit with existence. Her arms and legs float beside her, drifting. She turns, sculling with her hands, twisting around in her timeless bubble, in the warmth. Is she upside down now?

She stares out beyond the film of her bubble, of her life, gazing down on upon rows and rows of bubbles just like hers, transparent, showing things, green things, red things, yellow and white things. Blurry through the film, but nevertheless there.

And next to her bubble, something blue, like her eyes, something safe and separate from her.

Time passes, and there is nothing but the warmth. A flicker in her eyes, something changes. She blinks, eyelids fluttering, open, then panic. She flips herself, panic slowly fading to wonder, gazing out at the bubbles, really staring at them.

Green slowly forms in her vision, becoming trees. White becomes cloud. Yellow becomes sun or fire and flickers hazily, grey forming smoke. Smoke which she breathes in, chokes on. She coughs, and the bubble around her begins to crack.

For a moment she doesn’t believe that it’s real that it happened, and then, as her eyes open fully and everything dissolves, she really doesn’t believe that it’s real.

Wind is streaming past her.

She is falling. She doesn’t know why she isn’t screaming. Instead, she’s laughing, even as she tips, even as her eyes fall on the ground rushing up to meet her, even as she slams into the ground face first and her skull knocks against stone. Cracks spiderweb through it. The force of the blow seems to shatter every bone in her body- she can feel the tortured twang of nerves set aflame by her impact.

For an eon she lies there, facedown, flat, unwilling or unable to roll over to get more comfortable, doing nothing but lying there, breathing unevenly through bruised lungs and cracked ribs. Each breath sets her body aflame. But there’s a… a fierce joy in her, so great that it makes her want to burst out laughing.

Her hands- blackened hands, brown hands, skin like charcoal- press down on the ground, push her up to her knees. Her eyes, wide and aching from harsh light after being closed for so long, turn to the ground around her, marveling at every detail in the cracked stone surrounding her, and at the bruised and broken skin on her body. Her mind loves the pain- and why? A word comes to her- perverted? Is she some twisted creature, to love this agony?


She stretches out from her knees, then slowly rises to her feet on numbed legs. Her hands clench. Unclench. She throws her head back, gasping, smiling helplessly, happily- and at nothing, at the grey smoke surrounding her like mist, at the basalt beneath her feet. Her breath comes deep and deliberate, the stabbing pain welcomed. And another word comes to her mind, on the tail end of a thought so powerful it causes her skin to tingle all over. She shouts it, the word, a word in a language she hasn’t used in ages escaping all at once.


She spreads her fingers, standing up straight and reaches up for the sky, grinning. Every part of her aches, but her mouth forms the word again, whispers it. “Alive. I am alive.”

The euphoria lingers for a time, buoying her up despite her aches and pains. Then a cold wind blows and brushes her body, washing over her all at once and making her gasp with the suddenness of it. Without quite realizing why, she turns, and immediately her happiness is replaced with a sudden, cold fear.

The girl feels alone and she doesn’t have a name. To her the latter matters more, and she finds herself hoping one might solve the other. Without any real direction to travel in, she walks off, stumbling slightly, trying to find her balance once, and then twice.

Her feet trip on stones hidden in the rock, but as time passes she can find her way easily, one foot in front of the other. It seems as if forever goes by as she walks. Finally though, her feet take her to a part in the grey smoke, to a place where it suddenly stops and, not five feet from her, blue begins.

As the smoke hisses away from her and her heart thumps in her chest, she spreads her hands, and the grey mist around her rises.

To reveal a curtain, a wall of unending clear blue- an incredible, shining crystal wall of- water. Fear vanishes, replaced by awe- the wall stretches on into the sky. Every part of her screams that she should run, but the water simply stays there as if there is- some barrier that prevents it from crashing down on her. She can see it flat against something- the wall of water is pressing up against something it cannot pass- the wall before her, the blue rising into the heavens can’t fall on her.

For a time she simply stands there, gazing into the depths of blue, her heart skipping beats, then slowly calming down as she eyes it, as she gets used to the idea of it. She lets out an nervous laugh, a relieved sigh.

She works up her courage slowly, but eventually begins to walk along the wall- for it seems to stretch on into the horizon.

She reaches an ebon hand out to touch the wall as she walks, tentatively, and gives a pleased, wondering gasp as her fingers slide through something with the consistency of glue, and then on into the water. It’s cool- pleasantly so against the aches of her hand and wrist.

She leans forward, pushing her hand through the invisible barrier and into the water, up to her arm…

But as she does, she looks down into a murky shadow, a blotchy patch of darkness down below her, over the edge- edge?

The basalt here drops off completely beyond the invisible barrier, leading into nothing but blackness and oblivion. The girl shudders and pulls her hand back from the water. And no sooner do her fingers pass the barrier between water and smoky air something enormous darts up from the black, a blurry shape all dark grey, with white ivory teeth flashing at her in a savage, saurian grin.

The shape brings memory to her lips and lets it out in a stutter. She stumbles back away from the invisible wall, catching herself on her hands.

“D-dragon,” She breathes, to no one, to nothing.

Its mouth opens further, a long scaled snout, sinuous, lithely scaled, its tail stretching down into the depths, its eyes flashing at her, cold, cold blue in the clear water, making her shiver. And then it speaks.

The words are in her head.

“Little demon girl, you are lost and alone.”

For a moment, she doesn’t understand that it addresses her, and of all the questions she has, her first feels stupid the moment it leaves her mouth.


“You have horns and cloven hooves, a long charcoal tail and burning red pupils, girl.”

Its tone hurts her ears- its voice is loud in her mind and echoes around her head. And for the first time, she also can feel her tail. Her toes, which she’d thought were rather hard, are shaped into hooves, and her hand, trembling slightly, reaches up- she can feel horns, one above and behind each ear, curling around under them and ending in points. It seems odd to associate them with herself.

“Who are you?” She asks quietly, her voice trembling.

“My name is Ashrinael. I am the Lady of True Depth, the realm you attempted to enter.”

“Who am I?” the girl asks, then, pushing herself up onto her knees and gazing at the creature curiously- now that it doesn’t seem about to snap her up. “What do you want of me?”

“I have waited for someone to indebt themselves to me for a time- few brave the depths anymore. I have… a task which need be done, that I myself cannot do.”

The girl nods slowly. She doesn’t quite understand, but she feels a tingling in her limbs. Her gaze wanders up to the massive expanse of blue rising above her.

“What do you require of me?” She asks quietly. “And what might I take in return?”

“Daring to assume you are allowed to ask a favor in return. You are faster than the others. But that is not important- you will be rewarded. I shall give you a name as payment before you start your task.”

“Done,” the girl says quickly. She suddenly doesn’t care what the task is- she’s felt a, a burning need for a name for a time now. Since she dropped.

“I will take you to what need be done, girl. Are you brave enough to enter the water?”

The nameless demon stands, walking to the edge of the barrier, hesitating. “How will I breathe?”

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” She lies, the word slipping out sharp. Her whole body hurts still from her fall. “Of course not.”

“Then come, little demon.”

The girl takes a deep breath, lungs stinging, ribs aching, and presses beyond the barrier into the cold.

The water presses all around her like a vice- and a current tugs at her a mere foot away from the barrier. She struggles in it for a moment, panics when she realizes she can’t swim, and begins to sink for a few awful seconds. A blue blur arcs through the water, sending a barrage of bubbles into her face, and then something long and sinuous wraps around her wrist. There is a brief tugging sensation, and then, abruptly, blurred, fast movement with water sliding around her, over her, drenched, towed behind an immense blurry shape, so fast that the water streaming around her forces her eyes shut.

Her mouth opens and she tastes saltwater, loses air, feels it hissing past her in a stream of bubbles, and with nothing to cling to, she’s helpless to steady herself and stop its escape.

It goes on. Her lungs ache to draw air in.

Presently, it stops, and she dares open her eyes. For a time now she realizes that she’s felt nothing around her, no water. Just cool- then freezing, the wind taking the heat from her bones. And there is much wind here.

She spits out her mouthful of salt water, coughs reflexively, feels it dripping down her chin. Her lungs have stopped aching, and she realizes that she no longer feels the need to breathe either. She lets the breath out again in a rush, but this time doesn’t draw in any air to replace what remains. Her lungs and her chest feel empty.

Her vision, blurry with salt, clears, and her heart pounds at what she sees. The wind isn’t all that is cold here. She kneels on a plain of pure ice that stretches out, obscured by heavy snow mist. Something wrapped around her waist- blue and comparatively warm- drags at her attention, and she hears the Lady of True Depth speaking in her mind again.

“This is as far as I take you, Emberais. That is your new name- take good care of it.”

The tail unwraps from around her waist- it is long, tipped with a spade- and where it had gripped there are the marks of scales on her charcoal skin. As the last of it unravels from her, the voice speaks again before she can voice an answer.

“Wings for the dead, breath for the dying, souls for the soulless- you are not the only hope, but you are a hope, Emberais. You must create an imbalance in order to restore it.”

Then the tail disappears, sliding into a pool of water- she must have been pushed through it!

The ice surrounding it is warmer than it should be, so she lingers near it while she tries to get her bearings.

Just like the smoke, though, the snow surrounds her on all sides, and there is no way for her to understand where she is. Was she pulled up or was she pulled down? It seems a bit irrelevant, but she’s curious.

She can feel her limbs warming on the ice, and the sheer contradiction of it makes her smile through the chill of the snow on her arms and legs. Ice should be cold.

She doesn’t know why she knows that.

Emberais, as she is now called, stands. She flexes her fingers, stretches out on her hooves, wobbling a little, unused to the way they stick to the ice. Her eyes still burn from the salt, but no matter how she stares into the snow she can’t see anything. Still, she isn’t breathing. She should probably be dead, but she doesn’t want to let that stop her. She owes a favor for being taken here and being given a name.

Everything else can wait until after she finishes this favor, whatever it is. She steels herself, gathering her strength, staring out into the snow until her eyes sting. She takes a deep breath, out of habit, and steps out into the white mist.

A time passes. She doesn’t know how long. The dragon’s words are ringing in her head nonsensically, in bits and pieces.

Wings for the dead. Souls for the dying, breath. Breath for the dead? Wings for the dead, breath for the dying, souls for the soulless. Souls…

Eventually, she comes across an immense rock structure- it fades into view slowly, as she approaches, barely more than a hill of snow in the mist until it becomes apparent that it is open, and that inside it is warm. She is cold- Emberais can feel her frozen hooves ache in sympathy for the difference in temperature. Already she can feel her fingers melting away.


She looks down at her hands and gasps- her fingers have curved into wicked talons!

She stares at them for a few moments, then carefully steps into the cavern, and the heat. Steam rises up around her- she’s beginning to understand the pattern. First smoke, then snow mist, now steam.

It feels good, soothing away the ache of the boneshattering cold. It feels incredibly good, in fact, and it’s only when she looks down that she realizes the steam here is near solid, swirling around her, caressing charcoal skin, along tail and her arms, shoulders and calves with an almost impish purpose.

To her further shock, it forms a shape in the air- a pair of glowing green eyes and a mocking smile.

Outrage boils in her blood. She can feel it pushing the last remnants of frost away, and set a sick tinge to the pleasing touch of the steam.

“Stop,” She says quietly. The eyes, staring at her still, do not budge. Her heart- had she ever felt it before?- is not beating, but there is a tingling, an undeniable sense of power in her blood, urging her on. “You have no right.”

Her voice is steady, without a tremble. She has stopped as well, staring the green eyes down, taloned hands clenched, tail flicking back and forth without her really willing it.

A voice in her mind, slick and cool where the dragon’s was overwhelming. “Why should I obey you, little half-blood?”

A taloned hand rests on her hip while she replies, eyes narrowing, still staring steadily. Something makes her say it, and she isn’t sure why it comes out, but her lips form the words before they even enter her mind. “I bring wings for the dead.”

“You’ve come to set me free?” The voice is eager, but also taken aback, as if it couldn’t fathom her purpose- the purpose that had sprung from her mouth full formed. The tendrils of steam stop toying with her.

“I suppose,” She concedes, still wondering at her own words. Is that why she is here? But how could she do such a thing?

“HAVE YOU COME TO SET ME FREE?”  The voice is unspeakably loud, and the entire cavern seems to quake, setting her aquiver, confidence shattered.

“Yes!” She replies in a shaky shout, above the rumbling of the cave. “I have come to set you free! I just- I don’t know…”

“You do not, but I will show you the way.”

“Can I trust you?” She asks, suddenly suspicious. The change had been so immediate it hurts her in her bones to try to switch from defiance to distrust. It’s moving too fast for her. “Wait-”

Her mind is set aflame. Her body- every part of her is jarred by something- something immense forcing its way into her, her head and body shaking with its passage. Her nerves are fire, boiling her blood away into steam- the steam that rises around her, dizzies her senses and rattles her bones.

She collapses to the wet floor of the cavern, panting, trying to gather her bearings and failing. Taloned fingers dig into stone with insolent ease, screeching as a razor drawn down glass.

The presence is there- slippery, cold, calculating- and dead. She can feel it resting in the back of her mind, and she feels thrice again as heavy as before, and thrice again as strong. Wondering at it, she finds- she feels– heavy wings on her back, feels her body larger and stronger than before, thick hooves now cloven and tipped with spikes that dig into the stone as her fingers had.

Her tail is longer now, charcoal still, but tipped with a red spade and with two long spines. The rest of her feels about the same.

Marveling at it, at the power as her tail flicks this way and that and she stands- struggling, spine curved slightly under the weight of wings that can’t be for anything other than ornamentation. She experiments with them, trying to fold them this way, and then that.

“What are you waiting for?” The amused, cool voice asks. “Give me wings, little demon girl.”

Emberais shivers. But she knows where she needs to go. First smoke, then water, then snow, then steam… She walks into the steam without thinking about it, and the heat dries her new, drenched wings. Slowly, the scales harden, and she can feel the strength running through them- ornamental?

No. Not a chance.

Gradually though, after what seems an eternity, she can see an end to the cave. Her wings, stiffening in the heat, fold as she stretches. Then unfold again, a dry wind blowing over her, boiling hot against her skin. It smells of spice- thyme, dried mint. Good, the voice whispers. It seems to be filled with a form of ephemeral satisfaction.

“Good?” She asks back, wonderingly. “I did nothing!”

You are the vessel.

“But what does that mean?”

You are the vessel!

Emberais sighs, hooves clacking on stone that gradually gives way into sand- pressing through another glue-like air barrier. Grinding hooves into grit.

Can you find the dying?

Emberais shrugs. “I found the dead, how much more difficult could it be to find the dying?”

And in her ears, an unholy shrieking and the screech of metal on metal is heard. Clangs, hisses, howls. The unearthly sound of combat whispers to her on the dry, dry wind. It chills her to her bones in a way the snow could never have done. But here she can see for miles, and the combat does not seem to be anywhere- just open plains of striped yellow sand for as far as the eye can see.

Impatiently, she feels her wings flicking, opening up, stretching out. Without warning, her heart jumping in her chest, they flap, reacting with her thoughts. If she could just fly.

And she does, her legs bunching under her, pushing off of the sand awkwardly, wings flapping down, fanning out- the ground drops away and she gasps, nearly squeals with a mixture of delight and stark terror. Her wings seem to know what to do even if she doesn’t, flapping once, twice, rising on a thermal. The rapidly receding ground vanishes from her mind, replaced with something else- a sort of abnormal determination, alien and foreign to her. She wants- needs- to go somewhere, and her wings are taking her there.

She doesn’t even need to think about what she is doing or where she is going. Her body makes all her decisions for her.

When it releases her, when her body is her own again, she feels herself touch down on stone, lime and rock together. Her nostrils flare, and she totters forward, then back, reeling from the smell of blood, rot and filth. It’s strong- so strong.

It makes her weak in her knees, but her hooves clack on the stone as she steps forward, staring into the sandy mist. Finally her eyes comprehend what she’s seeing, and the sight deadens her heart.

Men lie on the ground, sightless, soulless, staring above at nothing. Blood-soaked stone, cracked, hewn by blows from hammer or sword- shattered pieces of it lie scattered all around, glimmering faintly in the light of midday, in the heat of some glowing thing that scalds her back. Emberais steps forward uncertainly, kneels- with some difficulty, her hooves refusing to curl- next to one of the dead men.

Breath for the dying.

But these men are dead. She can feel them- they have no pulse, her fingers can feel no heart beating in their chests, their eyes are glazed. Yet the sounds of combat still carry to her ears. She pushes herself to her feet, standing again. She leans down, stooping to pick up a dropped hammer, but recoils, hand burning as if stung when she touches the metal handle.

Her fingers ache as she leaves it where it lies, wondering at it. Why did it hurt?

Breath for the dying!

It’s more of an urge, more of a need now. She stumbles off towards the sounds of battle, following metal on metal, treading sandy tracks in stone.

Her weaving path leads her to another clearing, stone and sand, nothing but stone and sand. Columns here, broken by some immense force. And two men, lying, glaring hatred at one another, weak and snapped hatred, but hatred all the same. Both have clapped hands to what can only be mortal wounds- the blood, the ragged, shallow breaths that pass their lips.

They freeze, though, almost in unison, turning their respective gazes to her with fear.

She walks closer, stands directly between them- they each sit with a back to a column, one with hand to chest, the other with fingers to his shoulder. Red drips down arm and belly respectively.

She can scent death on both of them, can smell it, almost taste it, and can feel the presence in her mind- the dead- yearning for them. She swallows hard, but fights down her fear and sits between the two dying men.

Words come to her, forced from her mouth by the urge in her breast.

“Two souls lie here in mortal agony, two souls. To one I give breath so that he might live, the other I’ll take as my own. Who will be a soul to the soulless, and which of you might live so the other will die?”

When the words are through, the force holds her tongue, and again she feels helpless, she is aware of her body fighting her, but helpless to stop it.

The balance must be broken before it is fixed.

“So ye are the judgement t’ be passed down on us,” The first says. She sees he has white skin, his eyes are blue and his hair as white as first snow. Wrinkles have only just begun to mar otherwise near perfect skin. His chest is a mess of red, and his hand is tense with pain. Weathered hand, veined hand, tired of battle.

Still, she doesn’t know how to- and cannot- respond to the man’s statement.

“It has the look of a devil!” The second hisses. She notices his tan-darkened flesh, the horrible broken mass of bone that used to be his shoulder and the wound on his chest also, a nasty puncture that seems to cause him immense pain with every drawn breath. His eyes are brown, and his hair is blacker than night. “Surely it is here for you, not me?”

“That no’ be my decision,” the elder one replies. “She be a valkyrie. Tis up t’ her who goes and who is left behind. Chooser o’ th’ slain, so she is. My part be over.”

“That is not so,” Emberais finds herself replying. “You must choose. What is more, you must agree.”

“Agree? To let some succubus wench of a devil decide my fate for me?” The man hisses.

“No,” Emberais replies stonily. Her voice is not her own. “You must agree with the man before you, your former enemy.”

She can say no more. She isn’t sure what she would say even if she could say something, but she does not like this feeling.

“Th’ day I let garbage like him decide wha’ our fate is t’ be is a sad, sad day indeed,” the older man grunts, laying back fully, wincing.

“Then you will stay here forever,” Emberais says quietly, and she realizes that no one forced her to say it, taking comfort from that. “You must choose.

“Who are you, demon?” The black haired one asks. Fear makes his strong voice tremble.

“My name is Emberais,” she replies warily. “Or at least, I am called Emberais. Who are you two, and what brought you to fight?”

“I be called Soulshatter, the White Hand,” the white haired man states, and for a moment he seems to regain some of his composure. “Champion o’ the Frozen Halls. My true name be yours already, aye?”

Emberais feels herself nod. And then realizes she does know his ‘true’ name- it tingles as it settles in her mind. “It is.”

“Some call me Bladebreak, the Grey Hearted,” the dark haired one says quietly. “I’ll not tell my true name to any demon.”

“You don’t need to,” Emberais says into the silence that follows. “I know of your true name already. All Carriers need to know this. Why are- were- you fighting?”

“Why? Are ye daft?” the white-haired man, Soulshatter asks sharply. “He be on th’ other side o’ me! He be th’ Champion o’ the Southland Fells.”

“That I am,” Bladebreak replies moodily. “You neglect to mention that the fight began because of your rather unchivalrous behavior.”

“If yer enemy can’t see ye and ‘e dies from ye attackin’ while he’s blind, th’ fault rests with ‘is corpse, no’ yer own. History t’ th’ victor,” Soulshatter grumbles. “None o’ tha’ “chivalry” shit. Ye know it all amounts t’ the same.”

“Craven bastard,” Bladebreak snaps. “You have no honor!”

“There is no honor in war,” Emberais says quietly, but her voice is lost as the two men fight, with words rather than blades.

Around them, the sand and wind pick up at once, blowing back and forth with each stinging volley. Emberais, caught in the middle of it, frowns at first, then as sand stings in her eyes and grit chafes at her wings, stands up and flexes them stamping a hoof, cloven points digging into the stone with a screech and a crash.

“Enough!” Emberais snarls, temper flaring. “Your arguments are both flawed. The land you knew is dead and gone! Here you are judged, and you behave like children!”

The air around her suddenly trembles with heat, the stone under her hooves smokes. “You are both near dead,” She says flatly. “You have not made any headway in centuries now!”

The knowledge comes to her- the dying’s eternal struggle with one another, the inability for them to choose- a challenge, an ordeal for warriors greater than any other.

“Before you give in and die, you must make this choice! Do you mean to run away, to postpone judgement forever?” Ember asks harshly, her eyes flashing. “If so, I will leave you to your respective fates now.”

This pointless bickering makes her angry- her angry, not the voice inside that seizes control. She had moved, had acted on her own. On memory that remains only as a blur…

Soulshatter stares at her, then stares at his feet, looking cowed. Bladebreak grumbles, but subsides, gaze falling as her piercing eyes meet his.

To her amazement, Soulshatter rises, leaning back against the column, sitting up straight and sighing heavily, raggedly. “Lass, ye strike th’ point squarely. We ‘ave been arguing for so long, be it any wonder the Fates ‘ave finally seen fit t’ send their angel?”

Bladebreak doesn’t respond, but she sees him lift his eyes, his mouth a twisted mess of emotion. He nods to Soulshatter, then shakes his head and stares at the stone again. After a time, he finds himself again and speaks. “When this- I can’t imagine being here forever. I suppose I always knew I was dead- from the moment I got this wound. I just did not think that I would ever… die. But I have been here with this abominable pain for what seems forever- I can’t remember when it happened any longer, and truth be told, I’d forgotten where I hailed from. Soulshatter has a much better memory than I.”

“Aye lad, but ye sell yerself short on combat,” Soulshatter replies, smiling a little. “Ye bested me.”

“No, I believe you bested me,” Bladebreak replies ruefully, smiling. “It should be I who gives this woman a soul.”

“Ye can’t mean tha’?” Soulshatter asks, incredulously. “She’s- well, ye know. She’s a she- er, no offense, yer angelship. Bu’ she no’ be of- her shell- ye canna expect t’ be you-!

“Souls are souls,” Bladebreak says quietly. “If mine is a price to pay for yours, then so be it. It is time to tip the balance, so to speak. It has been an honor knowing you, though I did not want to admit it. This demon- if demon she is- has… opened my eyes more with a few words than ever I could alone. I should be angry, but she is telling the truth. I owe it to her to provide wholeness now, a life debt.” He chuckles, coughs painfully and grimaces, hugging his shoulder.

“Do you find this agreeable?” Emberais asks of Soulshatter.

“Ach,” he whispers weakly. “Aye, tho’ it hurts t’ say it. I ‘ave no intention o’ becoming a woman. No offense meant, again, yer angelship, but I ‘aven’t got th’ courage t’ lose myself for ye, fer all that ye obviously be strong an’ brave. Best o’ luck t’ ye, Bladebreak of the Grey Heart.”

“Goodbye, Soulshatter, the White Hand. Good fortune until our paths cross- but truly, I hope they do not cross again,” Bladebreak says quietly.

Emberais reaches out, then, moving on instinct, and in a flash of light and a hissing, popping, crackling noise, Soulshatter disappears.

In her outstretched hand, Emberais holds a tiny figurine carved out of ice- strangely warm ice, that doesn’t melt in the intense heat. It is exquisitely detailed, a replica of Soulshatter down to the apologetic, slightly bewildered smile on his face as he’d disappeared.

“Keep it safe,” the dead whisper in her ear.

She turns to Bladebreak, who holds up his hands in weak protest, plainly horrified. “Where did you take him?”

“He is with me until he is to be reborn,” she replies, voice soft and soothing. “I have him here- see?”

She shows Bladebreak the figurine, but, far from making him relaxed, he seems to tense up further, eying her suspiciously.

“You’ve made your choice,” She reminds him.

It seems to ease his panic slightly. “I have. I am ready.”

“You are,” Emberais says quietly. She knows somehow- though she’s no longer questioning it- what to do, walking over to him, reaching down and settling her fingers against his forehead, palm flat against his skin. Black on tan.

There’s a tingling, queer cool sensation, and she closes her eyes but a moment. When she opens them again, Bladebreak is gone.

But she can feel him in her, dwelling there in a part of her, she can feel something- like an inner fire, an inner warmth that wasn’t there before. And the memory washes through her in a dazzling flood- violence, blood! Battle and glory!

Celebration in victory, a wife and children. Tragedy, deaths of the family, long, bitter struggle against the clans in the North, ice and steel leveled against friends….

She takes in a breath, stunned, and feels him- no, her- feels her own exultation at it, joy a hundred times more intense than at the pain of being alive, of being there. For the first time, now- she can feel her- her – thoughts. She can call them her own, rather than shades, half-memories. The feeling of the sand on her is uncomfortable- the wind beating at her stings like little specks of fire, her hooves grinding into the stone- it all adds into one true feeling.

Living. The pain is real.  The memories are real. She feels as if she is here above all else.

And while she can’t hear his voice, his story lingers- Bladebreak is here with her. She hadn’t realized what he was giving to her- willingly or not. Now… she could never, ever give back what he gave up.

The knowledge makes her tremble.

Are there tears on her cheeks? Salt on her lips, salt and sand.

But something still pulls at her. Even with everything completed- a soul for the soulless, breath for the dying, wings for the dead…

She has one last task to complete, and it’s one which is ingrained in her very bones. Turning, hooves biting into the stone, she sets off into the grit again, following her heart.

The cavern is near empty. A lone desk sits in the corner, and the clerk is obviously busy poring over a book. Near the northern end lies an immense pool. It’s exactly what Emberais has been looking for. Days ago, she would be thrilled to have found it. Now she is simply tired. Too tired to even experience her amplified excitement.

“Name, please,” A bored looking woman asks of her, not even looking up. Reaching over, Emberais taps the sheet of paper, forcing the woman’s eyes up to meet hers. The woman’s skin goes white, and she fumbles. “Ah- you-”

“I am here to give my regards to the Lady of True Depth,” Emberais says quietly. “Tell her I have finished what she needed done, and that I have braved the bureaucracy of seven different Planes in order to find her. Tell her I wish to receive my reward now.”

“Er- race?”

“I’m a demon,” Emberais replies smoothly. “Carrier type. They don’t tell you these things, you know,” She adds grumpily.

“I don’t, er, actually know,” The woman says, one hand tossing golden curls behind her head. “I’m not, uh, dead.”

“Neither am I,” Emberais says cheerfully. She flashes the woman behind the desk a tidy smile.

The woman gives her a strange look, but then nods. Her finger traces a burning sigil in the air, and as the strange rune disappears, there’s a near instantaneous boom that comes close to rattling the walls. Some dust floats down from the cavern ceiling, and the clerk sneezes noisily, blushing and hiding her face. “She’ll be waiting,” The woman says quietly.

“Finally,” Emberais mutters.

A week of searching- to have the end in sight should make her feel something.

She walks over to the immense pool of water and, very carefully, sits down near the edge of it.

“So, my little pawn. Come back?”

Her voice doesn’t hurt the way it used to. Emberais folds her arms and stares down into the pool. She can make out the dark shape of the Lady- of Ashrinael. It makes her apprehensive, of course, but she doesn’t tremble in fear.

“I am no one’s pawn, Lady,” Emberais answers. She isn’t sure if it’s her newfound soul that gives her this courage, or if it is her own heart which strengthens her. She had found both in her journey, so why is she angry?

It had been what she learned when she started her search. Why did it matter what she did?

Because giving a demon a soul was unprecedented. Word of mouth had spread. Because her new soul was no longer allowed to enter the Cycle. The balance had been tipped, and then broken the moment she had taken her first breath. And the orchestrator?

Swam in a pool below her.

“Yet you have done exactly as I wished!” Ashrinael hisses, excitement in that cool voice. “With any luck, now the entire system may change! It must change! You cannot fix what was not broken.”

Emberais shrugs dispassionately, even as anger churns in her stomach. “It is not my business anymore.”

“Really? And where will you go without me to protect you? Do you think that you can simply walk away?”

A sense of motion, a startling burst of speed, and the creature hisses in front of her, snarling at her, the Lady of True Depth rearing up out of the pool with claws to either side of her.

Emberais feels small and weak- all of her trembles, but a part of her roars back.

“Yes!” She shouts back, so that the word echoes in the cavern. Heat flares around her, evaporating water as it cascades down over the Lady’s scales. “I do! My life! My soul! I will do what I want, and no one can control me or manipulate that! I am not your servant, and I am not your slave! I did this task for you, but I have found myself, and I will never lose that!”

Ashrinael blinks at her, tongue flicking out, serpentlike, smiling, sinking down onto her scaled elbows and staring Emberais in the face.

“Good,” The Lady hisses softly. “Go then, daughter, and be free.”

She slips away then without another word, the flukes at the tip of her long dragon tail slapping the water as she dives. The shadow of her disappears, swallowed by the inky black of her domain.

The demon girl, still shaking, stands and regains her composure. She’s about to turn, when she realizes that she never was given her true name….

but it occurs to her that one’s true name lies with the soul they have. She knows the true name of Bladebreak, and, in knowing that, in knowing this one secret, and in being sent by Ashrinael- who is also apparently her mother- on this quest, she learned it- remembered and gained it- all on her own.

Emberais walks to the edge of the cavern and pauses for a moment, staring back at the clerk, who is reading her book, and at the silent pool of water. She doesn’t know what the truth of the matter is, but now she wants nothing more than to find out and to learn for her own sake.

With this in mind, she steps out onto the endless plain, and the wind below her accepts her wings as she takes flight- into the unyielding blue sky.

Knight in Stone


This story can be found under the black band under ‘Other Stories’. It doesn’t get its own page because I’ve decided I’m just making a link page to it (and others) rather than going through the bloody trouble of trying to set up a page for each short story, which could mean we’d run out of band and lead to awful clutter.

You can find the demimind chapters page here, if you’re new. Of course, if you just want to read this story I won’t blame you. Demimind is pretty thick stuff, and a lot longer than this one, despite the monster post.

Enjoy the story- it didn’t take all that long to write, but I certainly enjoy the characters in it!


PS: Find typos, like something, don’t like something- whatever? This site is small enough right now that I can probably get around to reading the comments and fixing bits, editing it a bit. I do appreciate feedback, so don’t be shy!

Knight in Stone

A short story by Sam Oliver


With the groan of ancient stone falling away from her limbs, a knight pulls herself upright, leaving the corpse behind her.

The sword is in its scabbard when she leaves the room. She doesn’t expect she’ll need it yet, but in these fell times it pays to be safe rather than sorry.

She feels the pain fade from her legs as she stretches her muscles. Fifty years in stone had not been kind. Whoever had woken her- the sight of the thing that had once been a woman lying in her own blood flashes again through her mind- had been desperate for aid. Her bones practically creak as she takes a few tottering steps away down the hall.

She passes a room she barely remembers- was it here before? The doorway is covered in red slickness. Some foul deed took place, and recently. She wonders at the blood from the woman- she had not bothered to check to see if she was still living, and with wounds like the ones the girl had suffered how could she be?

Still, it seems to her that there’s no way this much blood could have been from one person, and indeed when she smells the blood it has an odd scent to it. Definitely not human. Like sulfur and ammonia. Abnormal.

The knight steps through the doorway uncertainly. The trail leads here, and if she’d been called to avenge, which she most certainly had been, she should follow it to the source. She’s rewarded by a foreboding feeling, and the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. Someone is watching her.

She takes another step into the room and turns around. The darkness bothers her, so she lifts a hand. Light flares in her palm as ancient words part from her lips, shining in the gloom and illuminating, for only a second, a long, scaled tail. It slithers out of view, and the knight’s heart quickens in her chest.

“Who- what- goes there?” She asks, her voice firm, but creaking from disuse. The ancient tongue she speaks is the same as always, and the sharp way it leaves her mouth leaves a bitter taste in her mind, a memory of times that were almost certainly better than forever guarding the weak. But, it was her choice, and a choice of the type she chose, once made, is not easily unmade.

It does not answer, but in the silence that follows, she catches, on the edge of her hearing, voices approaching from the hall she left. The trail leads from this room into her chamber, connecting with the hall here, but, the voices pique her curiosity. Perhaps friends of the woman who was killed. They may help her understand better what she is required to do.

She changes direction, turning towards the voices, again entering the hall, the dilapidated stone beckoning to her as the noise of conversation- human conversation!- reaches her ears.

She continues on her way down the hall, sword occasionally scraping on the walls. She wonders at that- why such a long blade? Why could she not wield a short blade instead? But it is the avenged who can call upon her to wield whatever they will, and this woman wished her to wreak her vengeance with a longsword.

She had used many things over the ages, hadn’t she? It is only now when she is not dreaming, the rare times when vengeance required some form of extra thought that she could recall. Those times the weapons had been simple and the desires simpler, but for the life of her the knight cannot remember a time when she had wielded something quite as elegant as the blade nestled in her scabbard. It seems a family heirloom, runes dancing over its surface. She hadn’t drawn it yet, but in her dream she had seen it.

Her steps gradually grow shorter as she comes upon the source of the voices. It is two men and a woman, one man with a sniveling voice, begging, at the hands of the man, who is stern faced, and the woman, who, to her surprise, wears full plate and carries a long, long staff with a curved blade at its top, and at her side wears a scabbard like the Knight’s own.

She pauses at the edge of the hall- for they are in a room, well lit by torches, and she is in the shadows, as yet unnoticed. She cannot understand what they are saying, and this strikes her as odd- always she could understand what the victim had been able to understand, those who needed avenging would pass their knowledge on.

It disturbs her that she had not known what these people had said. And complicates matters. She should announce herself and see if they are multi-tongued, or if they are truly strangers. Perhaps- and here lies just the faintest spark of hope- one would be a wizard and, if he were of enough power, perhaps he could undo the magics which bind her. She finds herself tiring of answering these calls.

She watches instead, standing in the shadows.

Their conversation is alien to her, but the emotions seem clear enough. The man is begging for his life by the way the tears run down his face, and the way the woman slashes her hand with every word means that she is unwilling to give it to him, though by the uncertain way she holds her polearm, she seems also unwilling to take it. The other man, stern-faced and holding himself slightly aloof, just looks to the shadows. He does not look the type to come to the sniveler’s aid, but twice his eyes brush over her. Then, they finally notice the light from her hand where it glows by her side.

He has no sword, but he lifts a short, curved metal rod and says something in that strange language, and the words are high and lilting, strange as they pass through her ears. The queer noise affects her oddly- she steps out from the hall, staring at the man uncomprehendingly. What sorcery is in his words, that he could order her so? Her feet moved without her willing it.

Then he speaks to her in her own tongue.

“Who goes there?” He calls. “Tell me thy name and I might spare thee. I am a magician of great power, thou hast trespass’d one step too many.”

“I am the Knight in Stone,” she replies haltingly. Her voice is unsteady from too many years. Her hand strays to the sword in her scabbard uncertainly. “What name do you go by?”

The avenged should have given her dormant knowledge of the attacker’s name. Without a doubt, if foe this man should be, a sign would be given in her mind.

“The name I carry is Carnilus of Trent. Is that name familiar to thee?”

“Nae,” she replies ruefully, and means it.

“For why does a wench carry a blade?”

“I could ask the same of thy companion,” The Knight in Stone responds quietly.

The man smiles briefly. He is bald. His face is weathered and old, and the rod he carries is leveled at her, as if he truly were a magician as he said. He carries no cane to aid in walking, and his voice comes out slowly. His armor appears to consist only of a long crimson robe, with an unfamiliar design upon it in hexagrams, octograms and other strange, eldritch signs.

“Knight of Stone, why have you come?” Carnilus asks cautiously. “And why as a woman?”

She shrugs her shoulders, the stone armor covering her crackling with the movement. “I am always a woman,” She replies simply. “And I am here to avenge a death.”

Carnilus of Trent eyes her warily. The woman and the man, who had stopped to watch the conversation, both suddenly seem to catch sight of her. Had they truly been so intent on their conversation that they had not seen her?

The woman’s hands both suddenly jerk on the staff, and she levels her weapon at the Knight.

The sniveler shrinks back. Why are his hands unbound?

The Knight in Stone draws her longsword. Well, if it should come to blows…

The shimmering blade draws a gasp from the woman, and Carnilus of Trent shoots her a sharp look. “Ease back thy blade, Knight, we are none of us the one ye seek. That bold beast slipped past us into the dark; we did not see where it went.”

The woman steps forward and snarls something at her, and then shouts something at Carnilus.

The old man arches an eyebrow at her, and she steps back, then turns again to the Knight. “She does not understand Eldritch. I am sorry.”

She waves a hand, stone grinding on stone for a moment. “That is fine.”

“That girl- when she ran forth into the dark, she took something of value to us. Will ye lead us to her?”

“What is thy relation to the one I must avenge?” The Knight in Stone asks carefully. Thinking is hard, so close to her true goal- this mage might be strong enough to free her!

But the grating pain of a quest unfinished forces her tongue silent about that.

“None- we were but companions, we stumbled upon her, already fleeing, and gave her what comfort we could before that thing attacked. Its blade did quick work- she was its only target, and we could do naught for her. She fled into the dark after, and we let her go.”

Something behind his words feels slippery, but she nods and shrugs her shoulders again. “I can lead ye to her. Thine words have the ring of falsehood, but if ye desire only to see the one I must avenge, I shalt do as ye ask without question. But ye shall not take from the corpse until my task is complete and my watchful eyes watch nae more.”

The woman says something to Carnilus that the Knight does not understand.

He responds with a nod, and she lifts her weapon at ease. She snaps a command at the sniveling man, who likewise nods and stands, staring at the Knight with open fear.

She turns her back on them, and stalks back the way she came slowly, making sure that they follow her. It takes a good three minutes at her pace, but she is unwilling to walk faster. Her joints ache and the armor is heavy around her shoulders.

The walls are ancient, the stone weathered as her hand, half-hidden by granite, brushes the rock.  It nearly crumbles at her touch, and to her this seems very strange. Had she been gone longer than she thought? But the people she leads seem to have garb similar to the time she left before.

She cannot remember the state of the walls from before.

She reaches the room wherein the woman lies dead, and stops short at the door, eyes narrowing. Something feels very wrong- she can tell from the air.

The body is missing, and a long line of crimson stretches from where the lady lay- drawn deep into the shadows. Her hearing, deadened by the stone around her, still seems to pick up the faint moan of someone in dreadful pain, and a purr that sounds horrible, and yet very, very familiar to her. The trail glistens in the gloom, but her magic eyes pierce the darkness.

She steps into the room, and makes no motion to stop the magician as he runs inward and kneels by the trail, plainly distraught.  Strange that he knew exactly where she lay…

A sense of foreboding falls over the Knight then, though. For a deep, dark growl echoes from the depths of the shadows around the room. The cavernous hall is large enough that it had hidden itself and its prey well, but now she feels its approach with every padding pawstep on the stone.

The Knight steps forward, rock boots faded with use grinding into the floor.

Carnilus turns to her, opens his mouth. He does not hear it? How could he not?

But all that dribbles down his lip is blood, and there is a ferocious roaring- then a sound again, like a sigh or a whisper, air being sliced clean. Two spikes, sharp and deadly, bounce off of her stone armor and land on the floor.

The padding draws closer as the magician slumps forward. Judging him to be gravely wounded, the Knight sets herself for the manticore’s charge.

Instead, there is a whooshing noise, and a hideous snarl- leathery wings bat the air, she catches a glimpse of them before it lunges down at her, volleying another pair of spikes at her with that vicious tail before swooping down, upon her already. The spikes glance away harmlessly, but the razor claws of the lion-like creature rake her, one finding a gap in her stone armor and tearing a line of white pain down her back. The weight of the creature rocks her for a moment, but she recovers quickly.

“You are not who I seek,” She says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

With one stone-gauntleted hand, she grabs its throat, and with the other, she pummels its struggling head over, and over, fist like a hammer. The blows fall hard, slow, and calm. It writhes at first, but its strength flees it quickly. When she is done, the manticore lies dead, and its thrashing tail falls still. Its head has been reduced to pulp.

“Mindless beast,” She admonishes gently. “Ye did not need to die here.”

The Knight winces as she puts a bloodied stone sheathed hand to her back where the claws of the monster had laid her open. No permanent damage- her soft inner body still remains mostly safe, though it leaks red at a rapid rate. Another scar to wear into the centuries. Still, it’s not like she has any true prospects. The Knight has no need for marriage. What use has a spirit of vengeance for matrimony, holy or otherwise?

A noise behind her makes her turn, though. She’d almost forgotten about Carnilus’s companions.

The Knight chews on her lip behind her helm. Hm.

The woman is trying not to retch. The man seems to have set his lips. She moves aside so that they might step over the corpse and go to Carnilus, who lies gasping on the floor, two foot-long black spikes driven through his back. The manticore’s surprise attack had been… rather surprising.

A shame. Maybe he had truly been strong enough to free her. She feels her heart sink back into despair, but the sting of the quest keeps her plodding towards the corner where the woman now lies. She can feel the girl’s presence- her heart is beating, which is strange enough in itself. How can she avenge a death…

She hears the woman wailing over Carnilus’s prone form. She hopes distantly that they have the sense not to try to pull the spikes out. That would cause much more damage, for they are no doubt barbed.

She reaches the fallen girl. She had been nibbled on, nothing more. A lost finger, a lost toe- what matter was it? She had somehow woken up after being slashed. The Knight in Stone blinks at that.

The girl’s body is breathing, shallowly. And now something like anger bubbles in the Knight’s chest. How is she to deal with this?

She slaps the girl across the face lightly, hoping vaguely that the shock will wake her. The Knight feels a bit guilty when she doesn’t stir- obviously she had been in great pain. Is it right for her to attempt to bring the girl back? She’s suffered enough.

Yet- part of her isn’t willing to let the girl die. Though surely it is the lack of her needing to be truly avenged yet- having not died- that is preventing the Knight from knowing the name of the one responsible, the Knight in Stone does not want the girl to die. Something compels her to help this woman live.

She turns to the warrior woman, who is glaring at the her with something like hatred.

“Can you understand me?” She asks, speaking slowly.

The woman’s reply is cloaked in venom. “Yes. I am not the fool Carnilus made me out to be. What are ye? He has- had- told us little. Can ye not help me heal Carnilus?”

“My task is to avenge the dead, not aid the living,” the Knight replies stonily. “He lied to me at any rate. Are ye not a healer? What of thine craven friend?”

“I am not craven!” the man snarls, immediately on his feet. His eyes flash with anger. “It t’would be foolish only not to be scared witless, upon having seen what I have seen! The man who lies dead here- Carnilus, his name, sorcerer, his trade- was an abomination! He killed my family. Are ye to tell me that I should not be afraid of that? It took but a finger’s stroke for each, and my father stronger, braver than me!”

“What a feat,” The woman says dryly.  “Truly, the man deserves nothing but praise.”

The one called craven shoots her a glare. Obviously he harbors towards her nothing of the terror on his face when Carnilus had been amongst the living. Perhaps he still lived, but if so, not for long. From what the Knight knew of manticore spines, they were likely venom’d. A poison would soon tear him apart from the inside.

There was no telling how long it would be, and no telling exactly when it would be, but the man would die and with no mage among them, the two of his former companions would surely be unable to do anything about it- whatever their motivations for his resurrection.

The Knight in Stone watches the pale form of Carnilus the sorcerer. She turns to the woman again.

“Who are ye?” She asks, wincing at the clumsy way her mouth formed the words. Oh, to be alive again.

“A companion,” She says flatly, in a way that, to the Knight’s ears, said ‘Lover’. The wailing had died in her heart, it seemed, leaving nothing but bare rock in its place. “I go by the name Shira.”


“Where didst thou come by that name?” The Knight asks slowly, frowning. “It seems such a long time, perhaps it will be a long time hence ere I hear it again. But please tell me how ye learned of it.”

“Are ye mad?” Shira asks, incredulous. “Where do ye think I came by it?”

“I do not know,” The Knight reproaches, in the same steady, earthy tone. “That is why I asked ye.”

“Surely ye don’t mean to suggest I stole it,” Shira says quietly.

They both stare at one another, the Knight with stone curiosity, the woman with a glare that dares her to say it.

“I see no other way ye could have come by it,” the Knight says plainly. “Ye are too young to slay monsters. Thy arm is too weak, thy thighs too thick and thy armor too thin.”

“Ye need not be a barren muscle-bound waif to win in combat,” the one called Shira snaps. “And who are ye to talk?”

“Dead,” The Knight in Stone says sharply. “I was nae warrior when I slew my first man. The stone armor protected me long before then. I am the Knight in Stone, ‘Shira’, slayer of monsters. It is my duty to avenge those who have fallen unjustly.”

This seems to infuriate the woman, but her thought is interrupted by Carnilus’s sudden scream of agony. The poison had begun its dirty work.

The noise wakes the girl the Knight is holding, and she feels a pang of guilt, suddenly, from nowhere. She moves, unsure of what exactly she will do, but determined to do something.

Her hand closes on the red robe of the fallen mage. “Are ye not a sorcerer?” She asks loudly. “Have ye nae spells that might heal ye?”

Carnilus gropes for something, anything, finally grasps at the stone paldron on the Knight’s shoulder. He raises his eyes, his expression grey as ash, his eyes already clouding.

“Are ye not a Knight?” He asks, his voice a rasping whisper just above a death rattle. Laughter, insane, horrible laughter bubbles up from his throat and flecks her armor with blood. It shakes his whole body, but his eyes now burn. “Have ye nae honor? The demon who forced this injustice to happen- is within!”

The last word is a shriek, a loud wail.

He slumps forward. But his body shakes, twisting and turning, writhing under some unseen hand’s control. Spines erupt from the robes and his head twists full circle as the bones under his flesh force his body to assume a shape not of the world of man.

Shira is screaming, the girl in the Knight’s arms stirs and moans, and the Knight in Stone takes one step backward.

When the man’s body erupts in heat, when the wave of fire washes over her and cooks the hair on her desiccated arms even within the armor, when her boots, touching the floor, cook and turn a brilliant cherry red, she knows the beast she is about to face will kill them all.

“A sorcerous death,” She whispers, backing away quickly and setting the injured girl down. “A battle on the inside that cannot be won.”

The heat from the demonic conflagration is making her skin crawl and sweat.

The Knight counts the demon’s spines as they emerge. Three. Four. Four dorsal spines. Then it is the warrior caste. It will fight her first. Perhaps giving the woman and her craven companion time to escape.

The man is shaking. He has no weapon on him, and the fiery blast had singed his clothes, burned holes in breeches and tunic, but his eyes are boring into the demonic shape coalescing before him.

It rises, bipedal, standing a full ten feet tall on craggy legs hung with burnt, tattered bits of robe, radiating flame and heat like a shroud. The warrior woman, Shira, is stepping away uncertainly, her strange blade-stick raised. The curved edge, fully a foot past the haft, seems tiny in comparison to the monster confronting her, and even two feet away it glows orange with heat.

The creature seems to gather its bearings, and confronts the woman, whose shaking posture and lax defensive position make the Knight wince.

The Knight in Stone steps forward quickly, shouldering the young monster slayer aside. The woman tumbles over in a clatter, but the Demon seems ready to accept the Knight’s unspoken challenge. Its guttural roar is felt more than heard- she can see the shape of it, an enormous humanoid with red skin, three lower legs and one long, spined tail. Its arms are huge, and while it bears no weapon, its hands are wreathed in white flame.

“What are ye doing?” Shira asks, plainly too stupid to still be afraid. “Ye should-”

“Run, idiot!” The Knight grits out. “Are ye that much of a fool? Run! Take thy companion and go!”

She squares her shoulders and stamps her feet, gritting her teeth and grinding stone boots into the stone tile floor. Here, in this place, before the altar- before her altar, the Altar of the Avenged- this demon, this monster dares to take shape? She owes it to all those who have fallen to slay this creature. And she feels sure that the sorcerer- or at least the demon inside- was responsible for the serpent-creature that struck down her newest charge. At last the foe is here, and she can feel it in her gut that it had called both manticore and lizard-creature in order to do its dirty work.

Shira grabs her craven friend and the two flee the room.

The Knight has enough time to wish that she had made them take her charge as well, and then the demon is upon her before she can even draw steel.

“Mortal!” It screams in Eldritch. “Too long have I waited to face you!”

It brings one clawed hand around in a lightning fast swipe. She takes the blow on her stone armor, letting it glance aside. The impact near breaks her shoulder, and she yelps without thinking, breath hissing between her teeth. She grinds back one step, drawing the runed longsword from its scabbard and taking up a vague fighting pose- how does one guard against a demon who can strike mighty blows with its hands?

The Knight frowns as the creature’s next cry reverberates up through her armor. The blows it rain down are much too soft. She blocks them with ease, standing her ground, the longsword practically parrying for her. Magic seems to be involved- it leaps from position to position with the slightest nudge, with even her thoughts.

The demon, whose face is shrouded and ripples in the heat haze, hisses in frustration as she meets each and every strike with cool, calculated defense.

But her armor is hot. Too hot- her skin is burning up in her stone prison. She breaks the engagement, backing away, sword down, struggling to catch her breath in the grip of stone that feels too tight and far too hot.

Sweat drips down into one eye. The armor that defends her better than any steel is naught but a liability here. And the demon’s strength is incredible, even if, with her blade, it is easily deflected. At any moment it may realize that fighting her is useless, and take advantage of her inability to give chase to go torment more people.

For some reason, the Knight finds this troubling. Her charge- had she ever seen one survive the attacks?

Something is different here, and she can’t quite place it.

The spiny tail whacks across her back, a blaze of searing heat against her spine making her yelp. She jerks forward, stone grinding, charging, sword out.

The demon had never been attacked quite like this before. It had expected its prey to be more defensive. Its misjudgment about her flexibility proves distressingly painful.

The Knight in Stone steps back, blood steaming on the blade. It isn’t demon blood, which troubles her somewhat. The severed limb, fallen and twitching on the ground, also bears more than a passing resemblance to a human’s arm.

“You argunt erif!” The demon roars, its rage forcing it to switch to a language both unfamiliar to her and painful to hear. It drives invisible spikes into her ears.

“You talk too much,” The Knight notes calmly, sweat dripping down her cheeks. Her longsword flicks again, sure and true, but the demon hops back this time, and the tip merely carves a line on its aberrant ribcage. The strike leaves her open.

The demon’s claws wrap around her throat and, one armed, it heaves her into the air, snarling. She swings wildly- though not desperately- and her blade leaves a searing ruin across its abdomen. The beast flings her- actually flings her, sending her flying across the stone hall. She hears the clatter of metal on the rock, and shortly after her vision blurs as she cracks against the floor, armor shattering under the impact. She strikes the wall afterwards, skidding and slamming against the bare stone.  Her head takes a nasty blow, though the helmet shields her somewhat, and her mind spins, struggles to make sense of the insanity.

Fragile bones, too long without use, harden again as she pushes herself up onto her knees. She can hear the clatter of the creature’s talons against the stone floor. It’s approaching her. She can hear it chuckle. Its heat is stifling, then actually painful as it stands in front of her.

Her head aches. Blood drips down through her hair. She has no weapon in her hands. She has nothing. Her fingers, clad in stone, dig into the tile, unearthing it as the monster laughs. She wrenches upward, the heavy stonework of the tile smashing into the creature’s head heavily, and it smashes into the creature’s face. It stumbles back, its remaining clawed arm up, and she takes advantage of its momentary weakness.

She drives one stone gauntlet into the beast’s belly. It’s like striking iron, but she smashes her fist into its stomach over and over, with all the strength she can muster. It grunts, crumpling, swiping at her, missing, but then rushing her, tackling her into the floor, bearing her down with weight and heat, its tail flicking and then coiling around her neck like a long, sinuous snake, squeezing

Impossibly, her hand, blistering with heat, grabs at the stump of its arm. Her fist rams into its snout. Her vision blurs and swims, her mind fuzzing over. She feels a snarl growing in her constricted throat, and it wants to burst free.

She slams her knee into the monster’s belly and pushes the demon over in the same movement, fingers digging into the stump of its arm, rolling on top of it, her thighs, belly and calves screaming in heat-agony. Her gauntlet rises and falls, like against the manticore, her fist smashing into the demon’s face again. And again.

Teeth are shattered, bones crunch. She can’t breathe, she can’t think- her heart fills her mouth and her limbs feel like lead.

But she smites the demon, that beast from the depths of hell with all her force.

It batters her with its tail, teeth snapping and clashing crookedly, unable to bite down on her fist, its grip loosening on her throat with the next hammerblow.

She sucks in air, foul with demon’s breath, brimstone and fire. Her body hums, her hair is burning and her heart pounds so hard she fears her ribs will break.

“She’s my charge,” The Knight says softly. Then again, as her fist smashes down with all her strength and the stone gauntlet crushes the demon’s skull, its bones finally breaking. The savage heat goes out like a fel candle flame, the eerie red glow fades, though her armor glows blood red and she can feel her skin burning, feel the hissing and screaming of all her nerves.

“She is my charge!” The Knight in Stone snarls. “You cannot have her, you cannot harm her anymore.”

The demon does not answer her. It lies still, its face a broken ruin, its boiling heart dead. Its tail twitches once, and then falls still as well. Its blood- a tainted human’s blood- coats her gauntlet.


Her arms, her hands, her fingers… Her whole body is shaking.

Through blinding, burning pain, the Knight in Stone rises.

She staggers to the girl where she lies. The scent of demon is thick on the Knight. She can smell it every time she draws breath. She can feel it saturating her skin, along with the sickly sweet smell of her own burnt flesh.

“Girl,” She says weakly, when she draws near. “Are ye safe?”

The girl stares at the Knight in awe, in terror. Had she watched the entire thing? In the gloom it is slightly hard to tell, so the Knight summons a light by her side again.

It all seems blurry now.

What puzzles the Knight most is that she no longer feels she need return to the Stone. The girl has been avenged, surely. The lizard creature could not have survived such wounds as it had sustained to leave the blood trail. Both the manticore and the demon who summoned it whilst in human shape were dead. The sorcerous man’s companions had nothing to do with it and therefore she need not kill them.

There is only the girl left, and, by a twisted turn of fate, she is alive.

It had never happened before, and the Knight feels lighter- and heavier- at the same time. Her heart sings- she saved someone. She had saved many people.

She would gladly go to rest in Stone now.

But instead of the pain of being parted from it for so long…. she feels only a baffled uncertainty. What should she do next?

“Are ye well?” The Knight in Stone repeats quietly. “I do not mean to bring harm to ye. I am the Knight in Stone. Ye called me to avenge ye.”

“Ye have avenged me already,” The girl whispers. She appears about to burst into tears… but no, the Knight can see she is stronger than that.

The girl smiles, and for a moment there’s a flash of red in her eyes, a spark of madness, perhaps. It troubles the Knight but a moment. Other things are on her mind.

For the first time in ages, she feels free. She has her own path to walk again-she feels not even the old compulsion to wear the armor.

Slowly, with trembling hands, she removes her helmet and tosses it aside. She slips out of the stone plate carefully, and the girl assists her- for it is no easy task. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, the Knight shivers in the cold of the cave.

The only thing she keeps is the scabbard. Though her clothes are old- ancient and fragile- they still seem serviceable after all these years. To feel the breeze, the draft, the air around her caressing her skin…

She had forgotten what it was like.

She turns to the girl and beckons once. Then she fetches the longsword and replaces it in her scabbard. The metal is reassuring.

“Can ye speak Common, girl?”

“Yes,” She responds quietly. “Yes, I can.”

“Good. Come with me to town.”

“Where are ye bound?” The girl asks. Then, “Where are we bound?”

The former Knight in Stone just shrugs helplessly. She doesn’t know where she wants to go first, but she knows for sure that she won’t stay here.

The girl, leaning on the Knight even as the Knight leans on her, walks out of the cave with her guardian, and they never once look back.