Cliff Palace

This piece was commissioned by a friend at work for use during a D&D campaign. I'm rather proud of it, actually. :) Friend has expressed interest in future pieces as well, and I'm excited to actually get to write for actual monies. 

- - -

The air is chill and damp, smelling of rain. Above you on the mountain slope, a sheer, rugged cliff face towers. At the base, a natural hollow is filled by a lopsided stump of a house like a lone, broken tooth in a dead grey gum.

Hardly a sound comes to you, even as you move toward the house - or is it a house? It looks small in comparison to the cliff, but as you get closer you realize the building is massive, built to giant proportions. Crumbly, grey-green moss is eating away at the warped facade, but portions of the stone door frame have been rubbed clean on the right-hand side. The door itself is reduced to large splinters, barely holding together with ragged flags of wiry hair clinging bravely to sharp tips. Thunder rumbles ominously overhead - there's no other shelter nearby and it seems likely if you don't go inside, you'll get soaked.

Nothing is moving on the other side of the demolished door, but the biting, eye-watering scent of rotting meat wafts out to greet you. Just inside the threshold, bare rock is exposed to the debris of many seasons, chaff and dirt blown through the open door on spring and autumn winds. A strip of the floor is clear of this evidence of neglect, as though something large was recently dragged through the door.

Will you go inside?

Possible Prologue?

So, to explain - this is the 2nd or 3rd draft of an prologue that I'm not sure I'm going to use for the purpose I intended. After some overhauling, poking holes, filling holes, and setting development, the novel for this year's NaNoWriMo has slid sideways out of the setting/plot that would have used this prologue. I might use it another time, but not for this novel. 

---

Space is a song yet to be sung,

Light is a story, awaiting a tongue.

You who have walked where I've never dwelled,

Shall hear as I tell you all I've beheld.

Who am I to tell you what no mortal ear

Would ever, could ever, be fit to hear?

I am a Star, and what I have seen

Is stuff of your dreaming, and all that can mean.

And so, here's my challenge; if you so dare

To write down this story and its wonder share.

Remember this tale and believe, my dear youth,

For all I shall tell you from here on is truth.

So says the star, barely audible over birdsong outside the window on a chill, early autumn morning.

​My morning meal is cold as I write this, and I must use short-hand simply to keep up with what the star whispers in my ear. Either I am going insane or this is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. A scribe with little work, great aspirations, and rather empty coffers, I am not one to turn down inspiration when it gift-wraps itself for me. The morning sun has cleared the horizon now and the star is quiet again. I can only pray that when I break my morning fast tomorrow before dawn the star will deign to continue its tale.

You may not believe what I've written here. I hardly believe it myself. Perhaps when we have heard more, we will believe.

Perhaps not.

Please find enclosed the first chapters of what promises to be a tale for the ages, for no tale yet was told by a star.

No tale heard by men, that is.

Unexpected Hiatus

I took a look at my blog and realized that I somehow missed scheduling posts for October. Then I remembered beginning the process of sending off short stories to magazines for publishing and then writing the outline for this year's NaNo novel and commissions and things...

So, yeah.

No real reasons here. Only excuses and explanations. But I have something to make it up to you. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to back-post the last two weeks (because I don't like gaps in my history - it's like retroactive guilt) and schedule posts for the next month and a half (because NaNoWriMo happens next month, and I doubt I'll remember ANYTHING).

Thanks for your patience, guys. I'm on this.

Dreamwalker and Seer

You might remember Jhett from another of the stories posted here - he's a personal favorite of mine, because he's so adaptable to different settings. In this case, I've paired him with another character that was developed more recently (you'll see her again later on, I'm sure) to see what would happen. More on the character mash-ups later. I have ideas about this.

*Back-posted on Oct. 18.

---

The girl woke to complete darkness. She could still see the wounded, bleeding man before her eyes, reaching for her, pleading for help - but his wounds were so gruesome that she couldn't choke back the rising panic in her throat. She screamed. It was a short, muffled sound, but it was loud in her ears. Ester clapped her hands over her mouth, heart pounding. She could hear someone moving nearby, felt the curtain sway, then grow tight at her side as someone fell against it, the curtain rod overhead creaking slightly with the strain. Her mind was still filled with the image of the man from her dream, and it was a struggle not to scream again. What came out was a sort of whimper.

"Ester, it's me. It's okay. It was only a dream." Jhett sounded half asleep. His words were slurred and she could tell by the difficulty he was having with getting up that he was tangled in the curtain.

"Jhett." Her voice broke with relief. Not the man from her dream. It was Jhett, and Jhett was safe. In a minute, having flailed about until the curtain was out of the way, Jhett took a seat beside her on the sleeping furs and put an arm around her.

"It was just a dream," he repeated soothingly, which she found somewhat ironic. She swallowed a hysterical laugh and pressed her face against the curve of his arm.

"Nothing is 'just' a dream. You're not 'just' a person and I'm not 'just' a girl, any more than Quinn is 'just' a dragon." Ester felt herself beginning to shake a little. It was too vivid to be "just" a dream, but she didn't want it to be a vision. She didn't want people to get hurt like that. "Tell me a story?" she asked, still shaking, even as she tried to calm herself down.

"You know I'm no good at telling stories. You just go back to sleep and I'll help you dream something nice."

Ester hesitated. "Are you sure? I think it'll come back if I go back to sleep now..."

"Go ahead. I'm a dreamwalker, remember? And if I'm right here, I can slip right in, no problem."

She still wasn't convinced. "If I go back to sleep now, he'll come back-"

"Who?"

"The man in my dream. He was hurt, and I couldn't help him."

"I can take care of him. Don't worry." He was rubbing her back, and slowly, she relaxed under his confident tone and gentle touch. "You just sleep now. I've got you."

It was hard to tell when they had shifted from sitting to lying down, or when drowsiness turned to sleep. Ester didn't try to fight it - at least, not has hard as she could have - and it seemed only a short time later that she was facing the injured man again. The space around her was dark, but she could see his face as clearly as if there were a lantern shining full on him, the light reflecting off the blood.

But then Jhett was beside her, hand extended. "Water. We'll need to wash him off first." There was a heavy water skin hanging from her belt. Ester passed it to him, admiring the rich brown of the leather, the coarse visual texture of the cork. She watched as Jhett bent over the man, cleaned the blood from his face, and, ripping a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt, bound his wounds tightly. A man in a pale green uniform approached swiftly, his face haggard, but smiling.

"Thank the gods this mess is nearly over," he commented aloud to the three of them, and knelt to examine Jhett's work. "It's rough, but it'll hold until we can get him to a clinic." Jhett retreated a little and wrapped an arm around Ester's shoulders as a low-slung dragon wearing a pale green banner between his horns and matching harness. The dragon, too, looked tired, his legs spattered with mud and grime, his wings drooping somewhat.

"Can you carry this one, Mok?" The man in the uniform looked at the dragon with touching concern, but the dragon nodded firmly.

"One more, ten more - twenty more, if that's what it takes. At least now the treaty's been signed, folk will stop getting hurt." There was a measure of relief in that statement, mixed in equal parts with exhaustion.

"You two have done good work. Now evac with the rest of the civs, and let us do our work." The uniformed man heaved his patient up onto the dragon's back and strapped him into the harness. It was an unmistakable dismissal, and Ester was more than ready to take it, though her gaze lingered on the dragon, who was now striding purposefully away, his sinuous tail swaying through the air like a snake. Something about that had to do with Jhett... but she couldn't think what.

"Come on, Ester. Let's go." His arm tightened around her and she glanced into his face. He was smiling and confident.

The hiss of steam in the distance told her a train was pulling into the station. She knew without needing to ask that they were going to get on that train, and it was going to take them away from this place.

"Okay. I trust you." His hand was warm as she held it between her own.

The train whistle blew. Jhett guided her toward the sound. "I'll do whatever I need to keep you safe." His promise was quiet, but her ears were keen.

"Thank you, Jhett."

"No worries. That's why I'm here."

It's Not Love

This is another of the short stories I wrote for that flash fiction contest back in August/September. Of course, as soon as the submissions were closed, I came up with several complete stories that were better than the one I submitted. *sighs* Oh well. Such is life.

*Backposted on Oct. 18.

---

Jack moved through his silent apartment, unbuttoning his jacket as he entered the bedroom, sliding it off his shoulders and hanging it carefully before he sat down to take off his boots. They would need to be polished again, especially if he was to see the governor at the social in two days. He had only just leaned down to take off his boots when he saw a faint sparkle from the shadow beside the leg of the bed frame. He paused a little, staring at the spot and moving his head slightly back and forth, trying to identify the source of the spark of light. It was reflecting off of something, but... what? At length, he leaned to the side and stretched to reach the spot. It was difficult, since the space was very small and his hand was... not. But he managed to squeeze his fingers into the gap and scoot the shiny thing out into the open. ​

It was a bracelet. At least, he thought it was. The chain was short and gold (maybe brass?) and the clasp was bent. He had it in his hand, curled in his palm like a tiny gold snake, before he remembered here he'd seen it. On her wrist. She had been on his bed (unwise, that) with her hair all tousled, her eyes red from crying, hugging his pillow - and the glint of gold on her wrist as she reached for him, for comfort.

The memory hit him like a 2x4 to the back of the head. He had a hard time breathing as his heart attempted to explode. It hurt to remember a time when he had been so... so close to her. Elbows on his knees, he cupped his face in both hands. The bracelet fell to the floor with a soft, tinkling clatter.

It wasn't love. It had never been. Love didn't die like that. Love didn't leave him feeling empty and hurt when she was standing there reaching out to him, trying to help. Love wouldn't do that. Love wouldn't feel like this.

But it hurt.

He had hurt her, and he hated to look of confusion and pain in her eyes.

"Are you saying you don't love me anymore?"

"I'm afraid so."

He had only said so two days ago. It felt like an eternity. ​But in his mind's eye, he saw the fire roaring up around the house - the fire he hadn't seen until it was too late. The screams of the children being held back by their father. Mommy, come out. Mommy, the house is burning. Mommy, please don't die. He felt the pain in his chest spasm, then turn to ice. He wouldn't let it happen again. If he'd been faster, if he'd been more observant, if he'd done something different. It had been so hard being away from her. All his spare time had gone into figuring out how to ask her father for her hand in marriage.

No more. He wouldn't let it happen. It all hurt too much, anyway. He didn't love her anymore, if he ever had. It hadn't been real love. It had died too quickly. It hurt too much.

Heavily, eyes aching with unshed tears, he moved over to his desk. A fresh sheet of paper. A new fountain pen.

Valerie,

I'm sorry. I don't think I can say that enough.

I hate that I hurt you. I hate seeing the look in your eyes every time I think about you.

I hate knowing that I put that look there.

It's not your fault. It never was. I didn't know what I was doing. Didn't know what I felt.

It was wonderful, what we had. I enjoyed being with you. I wanted to stay with you forever.

I see that Edmund has been walking you home from the school at night.

I hope you find someone to be happy with again. You deserve to be happy.

I can't imagine a world in which I don't care for you as much as I do right now. I want you to be happy,

and I want you to know that you will never be any less important to me than you are right now.

That will never change. Not as long as I am me.

Please smile again. Please find a reason to be happy.

The world is not right without your smile.

Yours always,

Jack

​What else could he say? Would he ever even send this one? Probably not. With a sigh, Jack folded the paper and slid it quietly into the box with the letter to her father that he would also never send. Everything hurt. Now, more than ever. He left the bracelet on the floor and made his way into the kitchen in his stocking feet. The whiskey bottle was half empty. Not a good sign. But what else could he do? He poured himself a glass and popped the cork back into place, putting it away for the night. At least it would take the edge off.

"I hope this doesn't become a habit." Jack tipped his head back, draining his glass in one go and hardly tasting the alcohol at all. Setting the empty glass on the counter, he retreated to the bedroom again and did his best to forget about everything until tomorrow, when work would start all over again. The world would keep going, whether he wanted it to or not. It was best to be ready for it. Whether he wanted to be or not.

He took off his trousers and pulled on sleeping clothes, crawling into bed without another word. But he thought about a heart-shaped face, framed with red hair, and fell asleep looking into sad, confused green eyes.