The rogue and paladin descend, the latter’s heavy steel footfalls clanking on the ladder rungs.
The Vagabond by Remedios Varo,1958. Oil on canvas.
At the bottom of the ladder, the mouth of a tunnel, carved from earth. They follow it for a short distance, the orange light blooming brighter and the sound of of wild violin music echoing against the tunnel walls.
After several minutes’ walk, the earthen tunnel gives way to quarried stone — one of the many ruins that the city is built upon. Strange bulbous mushrooms glow with bioluminescent glee, the source of the orange light.
The two adventurers pass several others as they come closer to the source of the music. Foul-complected thieves, wispy whores with glittering knives, and several cutpurses barely old enough to be away from their mother’s apron strings. Many accost the pair, but turn aside when Corben flashes the sign of Visiting practitioner.
At last the flood of traffic leads them to a vast cavern, hundreds of feet high. Stone houses fallen into ruin fill the space, but centrally located is a tall dome, surrounded by mighty columns. The music is coming from there.
A blind man stood in the center of the ruined dome, tall spindly frame whirling like a maddened scarecrow. His eyes were tightly bound with a strip of white linen, and his hands moved feverishly on the fiddle. He ducked and bobbed around the roaring fire, never once touching the flames.
Three dozen people stand around, watching the performance with varying levels of attention. Two men and a half-orc are busily occupied, sharing the attentions of a battered looking whore. A brace of thieves loll in the puddles of a ruptured cask of wine. No one immediately pays any attention to Corben or Haskeer.
The blind man stops dancing abruptly, one leg still outstretched. A discordant note hung on the fiddle.
Without turning, he spoke.
“Who the fuck are you, and what’s your business in Oregano’s Court?”
His grisly court obligingly tittered and brayed.
Oregano tapped his jutting chin with the bow of his violin.
“What business do you have here in my city? And don’t lie to me boy, I can hear your heartbeat and smell the sweat on you. I’ll know if you speak falsehood.”
Because the steel is sharp, and the laws are cloudy.
Because the pits are dark, and torches gutter.
Because there is no need for explanation, or justification
Because you can have a purple goblin sucker-punch a dragon, a noble minotaur strumming a lute made of stolen moonbeams, and a half-elven, half-DARK ELVEN maiden break your heart from the back of a crimson unicorn.
Literally break your heart – she cast a spell that crystallized it into Soul Ice, and her gauntlets are enchanted by a fire daemon.
Because, because, because….
[This was a comment I made on a thread asking to justify genre fiction. Comments, rebuttals, and counterspells welcome.]
Three women dance. Their dresses spin and twirl. They move around the room, and their beauty cuts. Every eye in the dance hall is upon them.
One by one, partners leap out to join the women, sharing a moment of the dance. The women seem to be
Hellen Jo
sisters, dark of eye and light of hair.
Suddenly, the music stops.
The dancers stumble and cease. Their partners leave the dance floor, turning their backs to the sisters.
A gleaming knight strides forward with three veils. One by one, he covers the face of each dancer. The sisters stand, heads bowed and do not move.
The knight claps his iron hands, and it is the peal of a bell.
The other people move across the dance floor, carefully stepping around the veiled sisters. The knight nods in satisfaction, then strides away.
The old gnome dashes through the throng of people, and pulls the veil from the first sister.
Ananda smiles down at him, her spectacles shining. The white ribbons threaded through the piercings along her brow — shining like silk worms in her long dark hair.
“Ah, at last you’ve reached out to me — what took you so long, Carbunkle?”
He never talks about it — and my guardian, Alvin, never talks about it, but I know it’s true.
That’s what keeps him so busy — why he can’t live with me and Alvin. The monsters he fights would chew
us up! I asked my Uncle Jonas if I could help him fight the monsters. He laughed and said I wasn’t quite ready for the Big Monsters — but I could probably handle the Purple Wumpus.
Yun Byoung Chul PENE MENN
The Purple Wumpus is a tiny little monster that hides behind your head, and no matter how fast you turn he stays right behind you! Uncle Jonas loves to point behind me and tell me all of the silly things that the Purple Wumpus is doing. Like singing a song and standing on its head – or brushing my hair for me when I’m too busy – or one time the Purple Wumpus stole a bunch of cookies from the kitchen! Uncle Jonas reached behind my head, and snatched them right away from that little monster. I asked if Alvin would be mad, and my uncle said that WE hadn’t stolen the cookies, so how could he be mad?
I wasn’t sure — and thought about it for a long time — but Uncle had already eaten three cookies, so I decided it was probably all right.
I asked Alvin one time why Uncle never slept when he visited. I could see the light under his door on every time I woke up. Alvin said that Uncle Jonas was a very busy man, and he always had lots of work to do.
I asked my Uncle if I could help him with his work, so he could take a nap. He just gave me a big hug, and told me that he had to stay up late to keep the Purple Wumpus from causing mischief like stealing all of my toys or running around tipping over all the crockery in the pantry. I asked him if we could take turns — he said it was a job for grownups, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it for a long, long time.
I can’t wait until I’m grown up, so I can go on adventures with my Uncle Jonas! Watch out Purple Wumpus — I’m getting faster every day!
[This is from a scene where various characters were telling stories around a campfire — Talitha is nine and awesome.]
Quill Wielder thinks I’m awesome. That’s what this boils down to. Thank you so much for the appreciation and support, QW. You are also shiny and made of moonbeams. Go over to her blog now. It’s a moral imperative.
The Award: The Liebster Blog Award is given to up coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers.
Liebster is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest,dearest, beloved, lovely, kindly, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome.
The rules for the Liebster Blog Award are:
Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog.
Link back to the blogger who awarded you.
Copy & paste the blog award on your blog
Reveal your 5 blog picks.
Let them know you choose them by leaving a comment on their blog.
I’m a total WordPress neophyte, and I’m not totally sure how to figure out how many followers another blog has, unless it’s explicitly listed on their homepage. So, if you’re a WP rockstar and have 5 bajillion followers, and I missed it – I apologize for giving you this crayon scrawled award. You can throw it away after I leave. [sniffle]
So here they are:
The Jargon Journalist– A news focused blog, written by a serious dork. Well written articles and video production. Chelsea’s also pretty funny.
Drawceraptor – Jeff’s art is freaking great. Subject matter is reasonably nerdy — but the technique and aesthetics are top notch.
H.N. Sieverding – I am completely in awe of the amount of content that H.N. has on display here. Really inspiring for me, just starting out writing my own stuff seriously. Great feedback, and a ray of sunshine.
Robotic Rhetoric – Weird kid from the UK who makes me laugh. Very solid writer – though some of his more angsty posts remind me of my misspent youth.
The Death of Glitter – This blog is infinitely more hip, stylish, well-written, insightful and clever than I will ever manage. I just wish CookieGeisha posted more.
Congratulations to all of you, consider yourself hearted. Intensely hearted.
“Something there is to a task done well, a true task, a right task. The door-knob turns, and knows that is is doing exactly what it was made for.”
“Are you drunk?” Simon asked, waggling his empty wooden tankard.
Merridew glared across the table, bushy white eyebrows standing at attention. The elderly Yad-Elf
Artist Unknown
gripped a silver gravy-boat, clearly intended to sail the seas of a king’s banquet table. It was mostly empty, Merridew corrected this – refilling from a dark brown keg that kept the third chair occupied. He took a quick swallow from the business end of the container, all while continuing to glare at the gray-coated rogue sitting across from him.
“Cause you sound drunk. You’re talking about doorknobs. Knobs on doors – the little turny things.” Simon continued.
“That is not my point at all, you besotted simpleton. This is why I despise drinking with humans.” the elf said.
“I’m drunk. See? I said it. Feels good to say it. It is totally fine for you to admit that you’re drunk.” the rogue held his tankard to the keg, hand wavering.
Merridew sat the gravy-boat down, and massaged his temples with long, knobby fingers.
“I’m just saying that doorknobs have a clear purpose. A design suited for one action — and I was musing –”
Simon burped.
“– MUSING that it has to be a nice feeling. Knowing that what you’re doing is exactly what you’re supposed to be doing.” Merridew pointed across the table accusingly
The rogue chuckled, and sipped from his newly filled tankard. He managed to look contrite, and nodded seriously at the elf’s expression.
The old wood elf sighed, and spread his fingers across the top of the gravy-boat. He stared down through the spaces between, watching the foam settle on the dark amber liquid.
“There’s been a few times, I’ve felt it myself. The door-knob turn in my heart.”
Simon continued to nod seriously, and made a twisting gesture with his free hand. His serious expression was marred by the slurping noise as he gulped down ale.
“Door-knob. Got it.” Simon slammed the empty tankard down.
“I hate you.” Merridew said.
The old elf stood, and walked over to the closest door. He poured a generous serving of ale onto the pitted brass doorknob. Then he kept pouring until the gravy-boat was empty. He solemnly hung the empty silver bowl on the knob.
Simon rubbed his face and snorted.
“I’ll get a mop, old man. Unless you want to baptize the lamps?”
Merridew did not reply. He wrapped his long fingers around the brass knob and turned it swiftly.
Once. Twice. A third time.
The old elf smiled, his fingertips resting on the brass.
That’s kind of awesome – I wonder who those six people are. Did they like it? Are we best friends now? AM I INVITED TO THEIR BIRTHDAY PARTY?!?
I know this is silly, getting excited about something like that — especially because that story is right over there under the Microfiction tab — but it jazzes me up. TO THE MAX.
Well, maybe not to the max — but in the near vicinity of the max.
1. Every action has a consequence.
2. The unexplored world will not announce itself.
3. The beautiful moment succeeds.
4. Whimsy is a precious flower. Plant liberally.
5. Obstacles are rarely insurmountable.
6. People are not just signposts.
7. The journey is the largest tree in the garden, but the rain falls everywhere.
8. Glory is bought with blood.
9. Dull questions breed dull answers.
10. A single twig announces the tiger.
Over the past year of Lodestar, I’ve tried to establish a simple rubric for most of my storytelling decisions. And because I’m an incredibly pompous sort, I codified them into these ten dictum.
Thoughts? What rules – unspoken or otherwise – guide your writing?
My blog is going to be a little sparse this week. The show I’m directing opens on Friday, and it’s going to absorb every scrap of creative and physical energy very quickly. It has become an event horizon — I cannot imagine anything that occurs after 12/2.
I’m hoping to have some downtime to post, but if not, I’ll get back into the swing of things next week.
There is a moment of stillness. Then abruptly the masks of Blue, Yellow, White and Red begin to laugh. Master Tumm makes no move, and the Black necromancer, Song, is still as always. Master Graham places his palms flat on the marble table and says nothing.
” Would you like us to come check in your closet for the Gray Beast, or hold your hand when night falls?
Mercy by Peter Mohrbacher
Such a ridiculous…” the Bloodburner begins.
“Silence.” the Grand Wizard says quietly. For a dragon.
The masked faces of the Council all turn to regard their leader. The dragon keeps his blind eyes on the crew of the Lodestar.
“The Council is adjourned – leave me with these adventurers.”
The Red Master Vayton sputters slightly, then nods his head briskly. The rest of the council genuflect slightly as well, and stiffly make their exit from the chamber. Footfalls on marble, then the shutting of seven doors.
The gray-cloaked figure at the side of the room steps forward slightly, and makes an inquiring gesture, right palm open and up.
” You as well, Sideways.” says the steel dragon.
The cowl shrugs, as the figure turns — barbed tail swishing under the hem of his cloak. He walks through the nearest wall without slowing, as if the marble was made of air.
The Grand Wizard’s neck drooped slightly, and his bobbed slightly towards the floor. The crew can see the weariness in this old creature’s posture. He speaks, quietly.
“Come closer. ” the dragon breathed.
A few cautious steps, just at the edge of the steel dragon’s dais.
“Do you know the story of the founding of Valeria?”
Before Carbunkle has time to shoot his hand up, the dragon continues.
Artist: toshim
” Valeria was my beloved mate, oh so many years ago. We stood together against a mighty evil, but in the last battle she fell — like a comet from the heavens. It was my fault.” the Grand Wizard sighed, an ironworks fume.
” She died because of a lie. Because of me keeping knowledge to myself, and believing that I knew best how to shield her from the harsh truths of the world. Her passing carved a deep gouge into the earth, that filled with a fresh sea – a sea of blue. Where her bones came to rest, I came and wept. A tear for each lie, and I grieved for my arrogance, and the loss of the fair Valeria.”
The dragon blinked, slowly.
“There I swore to share my knowledge with all who sought it. Over time the wise of each race sought me out, and I instructed them in the Art. They were the first wizards, and this marvelous city grew out of the bones of my beloved.” the Grand Wizard stretched his mighty arms, as if to encompass the entire city.
“This is a small secret. The Council knows, and some learned men throughout the world have pieced together this truth from relics, old songs, and the fragments of a lost age. I give it to you freely, so that you may understand what you ask, and how I must respond.” the dragon laid its head down on the dais for a moment, and closed its eyes as if thinking. A few heartbeats pass, until its blind eyes open.
“I have offered you a boon, and I will not renege. Not here, so near the grave of my beloved. The knowledge you ask is dangerous, and costly. I will not tell you all, as I would not teach a child spells of flame and death. My boon shall be the beginning of the path, you must find your own way after that.
The Umbral Plane is a dark mirror to our own reality, it overlaps and permeates the Material Plane
Artist: Thomas Scholes
—separated by a thin band of energy, some call the Spirit World, or Astral Plane. One must pass through the Spirit World to enter into the Shadow Plane, and vice versa. These “shadows” that you have encountered are emanations, using shapes they find in the Spirit World to temporarily visit our dimension.”
The Grand Wizard shifted slightly, steel scales ringing on the marble floor. He stretched his ancient wings, and stood on his hind legs, stretching.
“All this is within the realm of mortal knowledge – not all believe it to be true, but still the wise have assembled the scattered puzzle pieces. What I tell you now is not known, to any but the oldest of dragons and gods.
When my beloved fell from the heavens, there was no Plane of Shadow. Not then, and not for a great time after. ”
The Grand Wizard flapped his wings, and began to rise from the floor. The old blind dragon sings, as it ascends.
the Shadow is mirror
the Mirror is power
Songs of the Lost
shine on Dark Hour
the Key and the Shield
throw wide the One Gate
the Price of the Beast
if Hero come too Late
The Grand Wizard is gone. The crew of the Lodestar are left alone in an empty room, with nothing but marble and questions.
spell-sword.com 