Monday, August 22, 2011
Faery Devilry
He ducked inside the dank room through the curtain of putrid rags that served as a door to the hut. Kade stood motionless and silent, respectfully allowing the woman of the well to speak first. She looked over him, criticizing him, with two dark eyes in a web of wrinkles,“Ach, thar ye be lad.” He nodded, “aye.” She stirred the boiling dye in the pot with a mottled ladle. “Thar be the hatchet.” Kade reached out and took it, accidentally brushing against her dress. He hefted it up onto his shoulder and noticed how suddenly motionless she had become. “Kade...come here, to me...” Her voice had changed immensely, gone was the thick accent, and gone was the raspy, aged tone. He lowered the hatchet threateningly. The old woman turned toward him, she reached out with knobbly grasping hands, her eyes had come alight with greed, “come here!” Kade’s chest heaved as she came closer, he feared her, and did not know why the deep-set dread had washed over him, leaving him lightheaded and sick. “No.” The single word resounded in the little hut, the pots and pans hanging on the walls swayed, and she stopped shuffling towards him, as he had hardly noticed her doing. The woman had suddenly gone back to normal and berated him, “Why are ye jes standin’ thar lad?! Di nae waste my time!” Kade hefted the axe back onto his shoulder, “Aye, where do ye want me tae chop your wood?” “In the Silvae.” Kade blinked, somehow this seemed wrong to him. He had always, and until now, successfully, avoided cutting down trees in the Silvae. “Aye.”
He ducked out of the hut and straightened himself. He glanced up and down the dirt road, meager huts lined the road, street urchins played in the bushes alongside it, further along was the main town, where the blacksmith, and all the craftsmen and farmers lived. But here, lining the dirty road, was where the fieldworkers, the beggars, the bond-servants, and other non-landowning churls lived. Kade pushed away the nagging feeling of injustice and walked quietly across the road to the other side.
Mammoth trees leaned over him, their dark shapes silhouetted against the overcast sky. He heaved a sigh of contentment, this was where he felt truly safe and at home, here, in the forest. Kade walked silently through the behemoth trees, the giant monarchs of the forest, smaller trees grew around them. The density of the forest gradually thickened until Kade literally had to crawl on his belly at times. He had natural flexibility, Kade was skinny, but somehow seemed graceful and purposeful in his movements so that he moved noiselessly and easily through the complex web of trees, vines and branches, as if he were part of the gnarled and intertwined forest.
The deeper Kade went into the Silvae, the more troubled he became. Finding a suitable tree he lifted the axe. Despite all his efforts, he could not bring himself to strike, even one blow. His breathing became irregular, and a rushing sound filled his ears, a cold sweat broke over him and his hands trembled, even holding up the accustomed weight of the hatchet was a trial. Finally he dropped the axe, picked it up, and walked away towards the outer edge of the forest, where it felt safe to chop trees down, hoping desperately that the woman would not somehow know that the wood did not come from the forest.
Kade ducked back into the hut, the woman was no longer stirring dye, but had now pinned the pieces of colored cloth to cord that crisscrossed around the ceiling of the hut. He stood quietly with the wood, after a minute of her silence, Kade walked back out of the hut to place the logs in the wood-box. He was ducking back out when her voice stopped him, “Lad...let me see them logs.” He turned back and handed her a piece. The woman scrutinized the wood, feeling it’s grain and lifting it to feel the weight, finally she muttered a series of nonsensical words, licked her finger, and placed a drop of sap on it. She stared at it quietly. “This wood did nae come from the silvae lad.” Kade stood quietly. “Prove it” The woman smirked, “Thar be no need to when both o’ us know whar it come from.” Kade frowned, “But you don’t.” The woman dropped the wood and grabbed his arm in her brown, claw-like hand, “Why couldn’t you lad?” The piercing eyes delved into him, and yet he couldn't look away. “I see how it be...” She let go and furrowed her brow, closing her eyes, “Then ye can nae work for meh.” Kade clenched his teeth, “Why not?” The woman answered without looking at him, “If I were a normal old woman I’d ‘ave said tis because you lack truthfulness, but I ain’t.” She took a deep breath, “I can nae have ye in my house. Go.”
Kade stumbled out of the ramshackle hut, confused. He ground his teeth, brow furrowed, it had been rumored that the woman of the well was insane. He had not believed it until now. There was no other explanation for her behavior, but nevertheless, he would pay for her insanity. Taking a deep breath to compose himself and his spinning mind, he jumped out of the ditch alongside the road where the hovel was, and walked down it, mingling inconspicuously with the rest of the crowd. Kade could walk through a crowd with the same ease that he could make his way through the Silvae. As he neared the center of town his sharp blue eyes saw every detail of the crowded scene. The stalls of different goods lined the town square, they cried out in loud shrill voices, urging customers that their goods were superior to others. In the center of the town square, towering over the scene like a dark omen was the gallows, the rope noose hung down, swaying slightly in the breeze. Kade shuddered, next to the gallows was a large bared cage, inside the cage were the stocks for criminals guilty of large offense, outside the cage were stocks for criminals held for common offenses. The sound of the church bells ringing boomed over the bustling square, a respectful silence fell over the area, and Kade slipped away as three prisoners were lead to the platform, the only thing he took the time to notice, was that one of them, was a girl. Women rarely committed crimes, they were all well subdued within the home.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Devon 6
Devon pulled off her vest and sighed, the stress of the week rolling off her like water off a duck’s back. She tumbled onto her cot and fell fast asleep. A few minutes later the lock on the door slid open silently and Damien stood there, his silhouette outlined ever so faintly by the soft gray light that filtered through the vents into the tunnel. He was tired, her traps had put him to the test, but he had survived, and there was no way that he was going to walk into another, he had been working on the lock alone for the last five minutes. Damien scanned the room, and scanned it again, using different key words, and eventually a full scan to check for anything that could possibly be there, but to his immense surprise and gratification, the girl was too smug and full of herself to believe that anyone could get through her traps. Damien grinned despite himself, he wasn’t just anyone. He leaned quietly over her sleeping form and ever so gingerly laid a soft swab of fabric over her eye and cheek, he waited a few minutes before he was sure the numbing substance on the swab had done its work, and then he pried her eye open and pulled out the lens. The light was far too dim to examine it now, so he put it in a minuscule pouch that was attached to his belt. He then looked around to see what other damage he could inflict before leaving. Damien made a note to get a symbol sometime, they were impractical, but he could afford to be impractical. It would be so fun to spray paint something onto her wall. Suddenly he stiffened and crouched down, rendering himself nearly invisible in the shadow of her cot. A slight girl prowled in, her soft leather boots making less than no sound on the metal ground. She made a slightly disgruntled guttural sound in her throat, Damien couldn’t decide whether it signified confusion or contempt. The girl crept forward even further and unsheathed a small knife, Damien quickly noticed the liquid covering it--poison. Without thinking, he stood up and kicked the girl in the gut, she fell to the ground, her blade clanging on the floor. Devon half sat up, but Damien picked her up and jumped over the still-prone girl, who jumped up, wielding a gun. Damien laid his palm flat and shot at her a few times. The girl dodged them with stunning flexibility and he shut the door, and ran. The door was burst from its hinges and the girl made a last attempt, a wild shot, but it hit its mark. The struggling Devon, trying to get out of his grip, gasped and immediately stopped struggling and instead lay limp and gasping for breath. Another girl, who looked exactly the same as the first, for all he could see, popped up in front of him, wielding another gun, he dodged the shots and went the only other available direction--up, into the heavily guarded transition room.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Devon 5
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Devon 4
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Devon 3
And what is that mission?” A mischievous voice asked from next to her. Devon looked to her left, there was a skinny boy, maybe her age, with light blue eyes, almost gray looking, his mouth was twisted into a smug, daring look. Daring her to ask him how she had known her thoughts. Devon dismissed it, most likely some sort of magic trick or percentage…eight-five percent of all people leaning on walls are thinking about what their mission is. She gave him a sideways glance again, she would admit, he had been clever to know. “That, little boy,” she said condescendingly, “is none of your business.” Anger flared up in those eyes, but it was minimal, more akin to frustration. “well well...” He muttered, after she was gone, “you had your chance.” And he left. Devon heard what he said, and it troubled her slightly, but she brushed it aside. There was no need to coddle the vanity of a half grown whelp of a boy.
A bored genius with nothing to do is extremely dangerous. Damien was bored. The fact that he was bored caused great danger to many individuals. When Damien got bored, Damien got dangerous. During his last bought of boredom he had successfully robbed a fortune off a local bank, with that fortune, he had invented a small gun, only three and a half inches long that fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. It was no ordinary gun, it was perfectly silent, and was one of the most powerful guns in the world, he had used it to get revenge on several of his enemies. Damien was bored. No one would or could stand up to him, and it was tiring him. A girl on the other side of the alley opened a door that shouldn’t be there, hadn’t been there. The door didn’t have a handle. She stood there silently, Damien sidled up next to her, suddenly he knew what she was thinking, “she had a mission”he grinned cockily “and that is?” She turned her head and looked at him, uninterested, “That, little boy is none of your business.” Damien became angry, it had been a long time since anyone had dared to treat him condescendingly. That stupid girl would pay. She walked away purposefully. Damien snorted, “well well…you had your chance..Little girl.”
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Devon 2
Suddenly she stopped and surveyed the scene before her, it was a door; a wooden door without a knob. Her lens beeped and she saw that it was merely an illusion. There was a knob, it was just invisible to the naked eye. She clumsily turned the knob, if felt strange, to be invisible it was kept in a constant state of vibration. Devon gaped at the sight beyond the door. This was not her world, the streets were covered with people on odd objects with wheels, cars, she had never seen a car. She gasped and slammed the door and stood with her back to the door, panting. Slowly, she opened the door the barest of cracks, and this sight astounded her even more than the last, it was her world, just as normal as before. The roads were hard-packed earth and the decrepit buildings crowded against one-another. All the men were in the fields, the children were either working or were playing in the street, mothers stood in primeval kitchens stirring stew that wafted a hungry smell throughout the town. This was the face of the town. Just like the face of a clock, behind the ticking monotone object, was a veritable maze of cogs and other interlinking objects, take one away, and the whole would cease to exist. Devon shut the door and looked to the left and the right, a little ruddy-faced boy with shaggy hair gaped at her. She felt for the handle again, looking behind her, but there was no door now, not even a knob. The door was gone. Devon stared at it curiously for a second, then shrugged and stepped briskly through a narrow alley. She had always been a creature of purpose, and had always made sure she knew what her mission was. Devon had her mission now.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Scum
The room was white and spotless; pieces of paper covered the walls, they were stacked on white desks, tables and chairs. A queer large man sat behind huge horn-rimmed glasses on a plush swivel chair. When she entered through the ceiling he turned around slowly, “ahh…nice of you to er, drop in.” Devon frowned, what was this clown doing down here? He continued speaking lethargically, “uhh…D11-3 was it? Hm...I...never thought they should merely call you by a...Number...” Devon gaped, “you’re the creator?” “Hm? Yes.” He chuckled “Indeed I am.” She walked firmly over the seamless white floor. “Where are they?” She said through clenched teeth, tears peering through her black eyes. The man shuffled his feet, “Ahh…” Devon put her hands around his neck, slowly squeezing. “Tell me where they are. My sister and my brother.” He cringed, “Ah. My works of art, my soul. They were killed, you know that.” Devon sighed, loosening her grip, “No..they weren’t.” He chuckled suddenly, “clever, that you are. I think, possibly, that your brother escaped; but my dear, I really don’t know.” She let go of him and slumped hopelessly to the floor, staying there for a number of minutes, finally she spoke. “Tell me, who am I?” The creator looked at her keenly, “You are my creation, but more than that, you were a child. Ah…I have longed to look upon my handiwork so many times, and now here you are, more brilliant than I had ever imagined.” He sat back into his chair, “Your mother was a brilliant woman, keen and clever, witty and fun-loving, a Royal. Despite all her good qualities, she didn’t want the triplets she had been given, and so, through a long and laborious process that I cannot and will not explain, I saved you three, no bigger than freckles, and kept you in an imitation womb. I wanted you, who I considered to be my children, to have the most wonderful life I could give to you. I wanted you to be healthy and strong, long of limb and fair of face, strong of arm and keen of mind, geniuses. So I froze you in that stage of development for fifteen years, researching and learning how to give you these things I longed for you to have. My quest to genetically alter three small embryos was found out, and the Aristocrats desired to have eleven bodyguards, who were athletic and loyal. They gave me eight more embryos, and those eight, I tailored to fit their needs.” He paused, looking at her sadly, “But I could not give you three that kind of life. So I decided to give you the skills you would need to get out of this, this, prison. I gave you unreal flexibility, strength that was beyond human ability, but beyond that, your mind, it was a thing of beauty…” His voice faded away and he sat as if in a trance, staring blankly at the wall. Devon coughed slightly and he started talking again, “I loved you. You three never saw me, but I saw your every move and delighted at it, and when I heard that they had decided to kill you, seeing how brilliant you had become, I went days without sleep, wondering if all my effort to save you three would be wasted.” His eyes focused on her, “you were always the most intuitive of the three, Damien was reckless, because of his strength and skill his recklessness was often a good strategy and worked, your sister, Dulce, she was thoughtful, she would’ve made the best tactition in the world when she grew up, but…” A tear trickled out of his eye, “I watched her die myself. It was cruelty!” He said, banging his fist on the table, sending light papers flying into the air, “To lead an innocent child, but a babe into a room and just…electrocute her…as if she were an animal!” Devon closed her eyes and shuddered. “But your brother, no, I didn’t not see him killed, and he was one to act, which gives me hope. Unless…unless he died in the tunnels.” The old man coughed nervously and stood up, “but you, Devon, you were my work of art, the perfect mix of caution and recklessness…but we can talk about that later.” He tapped a small button on his jacket, which was white, and a door opened. “Go through that, don’t fear, just go!!”
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Tosh
Greetings!
Tinuviel and Mercury Lee
Beginning and Beginnings.
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.