This is our first post. We simply wish to present our meager offerings for your perusal, these offerings being the stories we have written. We will post at (hopefully) regular intervals, probably in no reasonable order, though you might be lucky sometimes. This is the first part of the longest project I've ever managed to stay on track with. Enjoy!
The stone house was illuminated by the almost setting sun, softening the edges into blurred flame, with the windows dark around a single, tall candle, a flame topping each. These would be lit every night as the sun began to disappear, and in the morning, the wilted stubs and melted wax would be collected to recycle into new candles. Many children lived in this house. The owner and ever present factor, a man Called Father, finding that the discarded, hurt, lonely and ignored had a way of finding their way to it. Orphans, runaways, even grownups, came and went, in their time. Each who came was never forced to reveal their Name, but was given or took a Call, which was a simple means of identifying oneself. They might chose to tell Father their current Call, or one of their own making, or else he would give them one himself, which they kept until they chose a new one or departed. Names were what your parents gave you at birth or christening, and the Names were Power. Should the wrong person know your name, you were their slave and would do whatever they wished of you. Calls were simply non-names that you took at will, or they were given to you when you went to a new family. Your own name, however, was never forgotten, nor should it be, for if you forgot your name, you would lose yourself, become a new creature. Some people made themselves forget, then renamed themselves, creating a new life. All here had their Calls, chosen or given, and names were encumbering, unnecessary things. No one here had a name. They were whoever they wanted to be, spending however much time as they needed under the gentle care of Father, until they wished to leave. No one stayed forever.
There was only one left awake now, all else quiet. The other children had gone to sleep already, departed to their beds to visit a well loved friend, known as Sleep. The one left was a girl, about thirteen, with long, white blonde hair, reaching to the bottom of her ribcage, though it was now tied back in a single silky plume the color of corn silks. She was determined to stay up this time. No one ever said in this house, “Go to bed,” or “Put that away.” Those words were never spoken, nor implied. This girl, Called Child, was set on playing as late as she could, uninfluenced by other’s suggestions or peer pressure. Child pushed at her wispy bangs. She wasn’t tired, she told herself determinedly, biting her lip. She couldn’t be.................
A heavy yawn interrupted her train of thought, and she shook her head, fighting to clamp her mouth shut. “Child,” the gentle father said. Child looked up to see Father, standing before her. He wore his ever present robes of deepest, softest grey, made of material softer than fawn’s down. She stood slowly, dipping her head in respect. "I'm not tired, Father,” she said, before he could speak again. Another yawn. "Come, Child,” Father said, turning and leading her to the dormitories. She could see her friends, Waif and Wander, twins as identical as dandelion seeds, cuddled together, head to foot, like YinYang, on their shared bed. Bird, a little girl only three years old, but with a voice as high and pure as the avian she was Called for, was curled under her blankets like a cat, and Daughter, the oldest of them all at fourteen, was leaning against the wall behind her bed, her ankles crossed, playing with a small toy. There were only a few boys who slept in a different room, Called Fluff, Cur, and Laugh, with an older boy they sometimes were told about Called Runaway. He’d grown and left years before Child and her friends had come to Father’s house, known as Ca’ana, but he was somewhat a legend among the children here. Child rubbed tiredly at her eyes, and didn’t protest as Father lead her towards her own bed. Cousin, one of Child’s closest friends, was asleep in the bed next to hers, sprawled out and mouth gaping open. Cousin snored sometimes, but Child didn’t mind. Father tucked her gently into her bed, pulling the overs up over her slender shoulders. “I don’t want to sleep father,” she said drowsily, as he kissed her forehead. “Oh Child,” he said gently. “There are many things people dislike doing, but as you grow, you will discover that Sleep is a thing who is rarely honored enough, and her state is longed for by the busy.” Father stroked her hair away from her face. “The simple truth, Child, is that You have to Sleep to Dream, and dreams are far too often lost or ignored in this world in which we live. Dream, Child, and make the world a better place for it.” Child closed her eyes, and was asleep before Father moved away from her bed.
It was a small town, dirty, rundown, slightly seedy, and far from civilized, but he liked it. The he in question was about seventeen, with tangled dark hair that fell into his strong, dark-brown eyes in a quiet sort of carelessness. He was tanned from his days spent in the outdoors, with a healthy kind of strength to him that spoke of no lack of physical exercise, with a grace like a panther. He wore plain, nondescript dark clothes, and his boots were light, though incredibly strong. Dryad made, and elf materials. These were a rare combination, for the cousin races rarely tolerated each other. It had taken him, a strange, half human, half everything else, for all he knew, to bring the two together for long enough to get him his boots. He carried no bow, for such a weapon was conspicuous in this place, and standing out was not something one wanted to do. Instead, he favored Knives, the longest barely a foot long, tucked into a hip sheath and strapped to his leg. The Druids had given him chain mail, made of lightest, finest sky metal, light as it’s name and stronger than a dragon. This it was that hid his weapons, for he wore it constantly in this dangerous town. Seventeen years had passed, but so much more life than was ever customary for one of his age. At his side was another rare creature. Yet another half breed, from the elf’s lithe dogs, whip thin and strong, and the dryad’s small, though husky, wolves. So it was that this one’s coat was shorter than that of a wolf, the bones and blood stronger than that of a dog, and the devotion to her master the combination of a mated wolf and adoring canine, leaving her perfectly devoted to her only owner. Her Call was Grym, after the father reaper himself. No one knew the actual name or original call of the man who owned the wulf-dog, but to most, he was known as Nhyte, a Call he’d worked for himself, having always liked the time of darkness and calm. His Call was the only thing calm in his life, as he was a jack of all trades, mainly a light-footed thief, but performing as many jobs as he was paid for. Now he was at rest in the area where he waited for business, reclining under a half slung canopy, rather than a vision obscuring tent, and Grym lay obediently next to him. Nhyte was running his hand through her short, heavy fur, staring out into the night, all his senses alert. Grym loved him, as deeply as any mate, their bond going beyond what a normal, low minded dog’s adoration, but different than that of a mated pair of wolves. In a wolf’s mind, there has to be an alpha wolf, and while this was undisputedly Nhyte, from the dog’s view, the wolf mixture allowed them to be equals. There was a respect between them that no human could gain of either. leaned back against his battered, lumpy bag, another faithful companion.
He allowed his mind to wander, back to when he’d been only nine, scrawny and underfed, stealing from a large, stone house. Somehow, though, when he’d gone to leave through the same window he’d come through, he’d been stopped by a tall, aged man. “You don’t have to steal from me, child,” had been the first words spoken to the boy that weren’t in anger. Nhyte had been so fascinated by these words that he’d stayed the many years, until he’d turned fifteen and was considered grown. Then he’d left, his heels itching for adventure. Such he’d found, and was happy with his life. “Well Grym,” he said, sighing contentedly as he ruffled the fur on her head. “I’d say life is good. What do you think?” Grym sighed also, sprawling onto her back, begging for more pets. Nhyte smiled, his mind going back to when he’d been a child, known by the simpler Call of Runaway. Grym sighed beneath his hands, and the night was spent in peaceful slumber. To all appearances, he was completely at peace, but should anyone come too near, Grym would leap to her feet an Nhyte's blade would be at your throat before your third footfall.
Please comment with your input!
Mercury Lee.
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