Welcome - I'm a humble writeblr who dabbles in short stories, poetry, fantasy novels and whodunnits (too many WIPs, not enough P). I'd love to hear from like-minded people, so feel free to introduce yourself!
I've been here for aeons and never actually made one of these when I started out... but as a bunch of new people just stumbled across my blog, I figured the second best time would be now!
poetry - every April I challenge myself to write one poem per day, which I have now done successfully (well, you be the judge) for four years running. these can all be found here.
short stories - I write a lot of short original fiction (some might say too much) which can be found here. at the moment I am sharing a new short story here every week, but that might slow a bit if I can force myself to focus on my actual WIP.
novels - I talk a lot about my tropical fantasy epic Archipelago (here), which features a day in the life of forty-four protagonists on a volcanic island chain stalked by komodo dragons and terror birds.
I am less open about my two previous fantasy novels in my Legacy series (four planned, each beginning with the death of a monarch and exploring what they leave behind), which are split over periods of thousands of years and set in a world where time is distorted due to magical fields around each pole. no, I don't make it easy on myself.
I recently finished a detective novel, Going Quietly, featuring disabled ex-cop Nathan Warner and his new assistant Cass Moreno as they work to find justice for a supposed suicide, work through their own mental health issues and secretive pasts, and maybe make some friends along the way.
I am now working on Swansong, a Regency era ghost story.
bad art - I also doodle, mostly pictures of animals, which can be found here.
when I find the time, I also like to participate in tag games and other writeblr community things, so do feel free to tag me in and introduce yourselves!
It was crowded at the front of the wagon. Carys wasn't in much of a position to complain, being the new recruit and all, but she also wasn't in much of a position for anything else. Their crew seemed to have outgrown this cart. Hywel wasn't exactly a large man, and even Geraint was taller than he was broad, but she still felt wedged in a tight the gap between them, her arms pinned by her side, feeling every twitch of Geraint's muscles as her worked the reins. She flexed her own fingers, making sure to keep the blood flow going. They'd engaged her as a thief, and it would be a poor showing if her hands were numb by the time they arrived.
"Are you sure I can't sit in the back?"
"No." Geraint's eyes didn't flicker from the road. "I mean, yes, I'm sure. Sit tight. We're almost there."
Carys sat tight, as if she had any other choice. She'd only known their valiant leader a few weeks, but Geraint had seemed oddly touchy about the cargo on the cart behind them, hidden away under a canvas sheet. Hywel had tried to take a look when he'd arrived, and he'd been warned to keep away in no uncertain terms. It was vital to their next job, apparently, and sensitive to light. That was all they'd been told. Not for touching, or peeking, or sitting next to. Something to be left alone, whilst they all packed in like sardines.
Hywel guessed it was some sort of device, like a keepaway, that Geraint had somehow procured. A secret weapon that would make this next heist easier. Carys wondered if that was true, or if it was just something he didn't trust them around; too valuable to even tell them about, in case that gave them any ideas. If he was transporting spoils from a previous haul, she could understand him being jealous of his share. There was some degree of honour amongst thieves, but also a whole lot of thieving.
They heard the Workhouse before they saw it: a clanking, clanging cacophony. It was the opposite of music; an orchestra of instruments assembled just to create discord. But then they saw it, and that was no different. Four pillars of black smoke, exuding from four pillars of soot-coated stone. A blight on the landscape miles high, and a distortion just as far in each direction. Muscles had to work make the noise. Something had to burn to make the smoke. It had been quiet in the villages they'd passed, drained in service to this accumulated noise.
"That's our target?" Hywel asked. His eyes were furtive things, forever scuttling and scurrying around a room, as black as beetles and twice as skittish.
"Yes. The infamous Pen'roath Workhouse." Geraint grimaced. "You've heard the stories, right? Inhumane conditions. No escape. Lord Pen'roath rounds up the homeless, and sets them to work until they break. He calls it cleaning up the streets, but he's the one who put them out of work in the first place."
"What do you mean?" Carys asked.
"You know keepaway charms?"
"Of course." They were small stone trinkets popular with travelling caravans. They were supposed to be able to deter crossbow bolts, make arrows think twice, and even sap the power from a sword-thrust. It was something in their reaction to the metal. For the wearer, they were like a set of invisible armour. They were even said to twitch at the movement of metal nearby, providing early warning of intruders or bandits in the forest.
"They can only be made around here, from Pen'roath stone. Time was they were all lovingly handcrafted by the locals, and traded to travellers in exchange for things they could only get from elsewhere. Then Lord Pen'roath put up this Workhouse, and now they're mass-produced at scale. Dozens of families out of business. Then he takes the credit for giving them work."
"Right." Carys said. "So we're going to rob him?"
"Exactly. A victimless crime." She'd heard that Geraint had a thing about that. Only taking from them who deserve it. It sounded dangerous to her.
"The keepaways seem like they keep folk safe," she said. "I know we're one step from bandits ourselves, but I don't want to be ambushed on the road. Isn't it good, that more of them are being made? If the families couldn't keep up with demand?"
Geraint gave her a cold look. "Lord Pen'roath is stealing people's livelihoods. That's one step from banditry for you. The strong taking from the weak. That's who we're protecting. Not just the travellers they trade with, but the charm-makers themselves. No stone can protect them from a man like that. But we can hurt him in return."
"That's not necessarily the demand, either." Hywel stepped in. "I heard some say that the charm could be reversed, to attract rather than repel, creating a bolt that arced towards it target. I've half a thought that's what Lord Pen'roath hopes to manufacture in bulk."
Carys fell into a respectful silence. The question had been a misstep, and she wasn't so foolish as to press the issue. She was new to the crew, and had to show deference to her elders. For now. One day, Geraint might tolerate her questioning his principles. But today they had a job to do, and he was the one who'd planned it. The skills she'd been hired for hadn't included ethical debate. She had to keep her questions on the job.
"Is it the keepaways we're taking?" She tried a change of subject, once the silence had stretched long enough.
"Gold, hopefully." Geraint did not bear any anger in his voice. "I'm not sure there will be any wages, the workers only paid in room and board, but I heard a most delicious rumour that Lord Pen'roath uses the building as a stronghouse for his treasure. He doesn't like to keep it all in one place, or so I'm told, and there are only so many places as well fortified as this. So I'm mostly here for that. But yes, I'm sure a few charms won't do us any harm."
He drew the wagon alongside the Workhouse. It was a towering edifice of grey stone, its smokestacks so tall that Carys could no longer see their tops, lost in the clouds of their own creation. But the doorway was tiny; she and Hywel might be able to slip below the lintel, but Geraint would need to stoop. She wondered if that was an intentional humiliation, or just a way to minimise vulnerabilities, from within or without. There were no windows.
"It's certainly well fortified," she agreed. The door made up for its short stature in armament, and wore the metal studs of an Iron Company archer, together with further metal banding, as if prepared for a battering ram. She could see why people might wonder what Lord Pen'roath kept inside. She risked a peek in the gap to the frame and say the shadows of three thick bolts above a drop bar. Nothing she could pick, battering ram or not. "So what's your plan now?"
Geraint nodded over his shoulder, and they followed him to the back of the wagon. Carys wondered what other siege engine he had brought with them, and had begun to wonder if he had sprung for explosives, so she was surprised when he pulled open the tent to reveal a pale, corpulent man in what seemed to be his nightclothes.
"We have a Miser," he said, with no small satisfaction.
"Where in the world did you find him?" Hywel asked.
Geraint grinned. "The inn at the crossroads. The Moon Under Water? I felt him through the wall. They had him hired as security: keeping an eye on the place, averting any trouble, you know. Like a human keepaway."
"And he agreed to come with you?"
"I said I'd give him a cut."
"Is it wise, to threaten a Miser?" Hywel eyed the man fearfully
"I mean that I'd cut him in. An equal share. They were paying him one song a day. Plus room and board, almost like Lord Pen'roath does here. That's downright miserly itself."
"Sorry," Carys interjected, "but what's a Miser?"
"You haven't heard of Misery?" Hywel asked. "It's... well, you really haven't heard of it?"
"It's the conservation of energy," Geraint explained. "A sort of restlessness. You know if you spent the day in bed, you would almost start to shake with all of the pent up energy you haven't used?"
"I... guess." Carys refused to meet his eyes. For some reason, the prospect was making her blush.
"Restlessness is contagious. If you're sitting next to someone who is twitching with boredom, you can sort of feel it, and it makes you antsy too. The more restless they are, the more it spreads outwards. You can almost hear it humming. That's what I meant about the inn. Misers conserve their energy as much as possible, so that it overflows and starts to spill into the world around them."
"Thrumming would work better," Hywel said, trying to regain a foot in the explanation. "If we're comparing it to vibration."
"So it would."
"How does this help us?" Carys asked. "He's going to make the door so restless it walks away?"
"Something like that."
"Really?"
"Well, not exactly. Misery is just unused energy, desperate to be channelled in one sense or another. The most skilled Misers can direct it in any number of different ways. Our man here was lying abed in the inn for days, trembling with unused potential, and I think he was using that energy to reach out and sense what was happening downstairs. I think he could have focused and caused a concerted blast of energy if he needed; to knock a brawler off their feet, for instance. Or to detain a thief."
"Oh, great."
Geraint turned to the man in the wagon. "We're trying to get through this door. Can you force the lock?"
"Locks," Carys said.
"Can you force the locks?"
The doughy man flicked his eyes; a tiny motion she would have had to be watching for.
"Is that it done?" Hywel asked.
"That's a nod," Geraint said. "Stand back."
Carys was again not sure what to expect. The last minute had not doubt her much on the limitations of magic. Would the door be blasted from its hinges? Would there simply cease to be a door at all? Perhaps the Miser represented an explosive after all. They all moved to stand on the other side of the wagon, just in case, but the Miser only frowned and closed his eyes, as if trying to remember someone's name, and they heard a muffled thump behind the door.
"Is that it done?" Hywel asked again.
Geraint nodded; with his head, not just his eyes. "Subtle enough, but someone inside might still have heard that. We'll have to move quickly."
They skirted the wagon again, and Hywel went to ready the horses whilst Carys raced Geraint to test the door. She was quicker, and turned the black iron handle as soon as she could reach it, before any doubts could set in. Once a lock was picked, it was usually better to slip in and out faster than her thoughts could catch up. She put her shoulder to the wood, but it wouldn't budge.
"What now?" She looked at Geraint for answers, knowing that her eyes must be as wide and wild as a hare's. He was maddeningly calm.
"Try opening it outwards."
"Oh." She pulled at the door harder than she needed to. It came smoothly. "Right."
They headed in - or tried to. Carys made it a few steps beyond the threshold before her feet started to feel sluggish, and a few more before they ceased to move at all. She turned her upper body to look back at Geraint, as if she was also somehow pushing the wrong way here, but only made it halfway before her torso as well.
"What is it?" she asked. Her mouth still moved, at least. "Is this a keepaway? A ward to keep us out?"
"I don't know." Geraint was caught mid-stoop. For the first time since she'd met him, there was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes.
"I do." A new voice to her right, accompanied by footsteps. Carys could not see him, other than the movement of shadows in her peripheral vision, but guessed a man was approaching. Several men, by the clatter of their boots.
"Lord Pen'roath." Geraint answered her. He no longer looked uncertain. Now, he was simply afraid.
"Indeed." The man continued to approach, entering Cary's field of vision like a cloud over the moon. He was a tall man, but thin, and pushed past her like she wasn't there. He gave her a cursory glance, then dismissed her just the same. "I doubt that we have had the pleasure."
"Hywel!" Geraint called out, although he couldn't turn to face the door. "Flee! Save yourself!"
"Alas, he cannot." Lord Pen'roath gave a thin smile. He was inspecting Geraint now. Leaning over him, so that he seemed to be bowing. "Well done, Madoc. Fresh bodies to be put to work. The mill always hungers for its grist."
"The Miser." Carys breathed the realisation. She was aware of the other men behind him. Behind her. "He was your creature. A plant. The only way for us to get in. But able to keep us here as well."
"There was never any treasure here, was there?" Geraint was one step ahead of her, one step behind. "You spread those rumours. To lure people in. To create more criminals, more debt bondage, slaves who brought themselves to your door. It was only bait for your trap."
"Yes." Lord Pen'roath spoke softly. He reached out a hand and tilted Geraint's head to one side, like a man assessing a horse. Carys could see Geraint fighting it, and then a twitch as he tried to raise his own hands, no doubt to do something a little more forceful.
"No, Madoc." Lord Pen'roath raised his voice, waving vaguely through the open door. "My men will take them from here. It wouldn't do to break his broad, strong back. Not yet."
#neat magic!#the cramped ride reminds me of my first job after high school#we had work vans that had 2 seats but occasionally we'd have a third person on a job#the solution? a folding chair in-between the two real chairs#super safe with plenty of room. (lies)
Thanks - it's been a while since I came up with a magic system, and I think this (simple) one has enough unexplored potential to appear again at some point.
(I've definitely been in vehicles where we convinced ourselves we didn't all need proper seats with belts, as long as we promised to grab hold of each other real quick if we crashed. Or that if you squished enough people into the back seat they'd be so crammed in it would actually be safer.)
i think the near-extinction of people making fun, deep and/or unique interactive text-based browser games, projects and stories is catastrophic to the internet. i'm talking pre-itch.io era, nothing against it.
there are a lot of fun ones listed here and here but for the most part, they were made years ago and are now a dying breed. i get why. there's no money in it. factoring in the cost of web hosting and servers, it probably costs money. it's just sad that it's a dying art form.
anyway, here's some of my favorite browser-based interactive projects and games, if you're into that kind of thing. 90% of them are on the lists that i linked above.
A Better World - create an alternate history timeline
Alter Ego - abandonware birth-to-death life simulator game
Seedship - text-based game about colonizing a new planet
Sandboxels or ThisIsSand - free-falling sand physics games
Little Alchemy 2 - combine various elements to make new ones
Infinite Craft - kind of the same as Little Alchemy
Written Realms - more text adventure games with a user interface
The Cafe & Diner - mystery game
The New Campaign Trail - US presidential campaign game
Money Simulator - simulate financial decisions
Genesis - text-based adventure/fantasy game
Level 13 - text-based science fiction adventure game
Miniconomy - player driven economy game
Checkbox Olympics - games involving clicking checkboxes
BrantSteele.net - game show and Hunger Games simulators
Murder Games - fight to the death simulator by Orteil
Cookie Clicker - different but felt weird not including it. by Orteil.
if you're ever thinking about making a niche project that only a select number of individuals will be nerdy enough to enjoy, keep in mind i've been playing some of these games off and on for 20~ years (Alter Ego, for example). quite literally a lifetime of replayability.
since this post blew up, i've been wanting to do an addition with all of the recommendations from the comments and tags. but there's a lot of them. some people might be crazy enough to sit down and seriously put them all in one post with descriptions. those people are honestly sick in the head.
anyway, here's all of the recommendations from the reblogs. not all of them are text-based, but it's a great mixture of styles. also don't forget the links in the second paragraph of the OP which will take you to FMHY where there are a bunch more games listed.
Games
A Dark Room - text-based science fiction role-playing game.
corru.observer - science fiction adventure web game.
Improbable Island - old-school text adventure game.
Candy Box 2 - incremental clicker game that evolves into RPG.
Arcanum - open source wizard clicker game.
sandspiel, Powder Game, Powder Game 2, The Powder Toy - more sand physics games.
Orb.Farm - fishtank simulator.
Façade - experimental game with a real-time interactive narrative where you try to fix a failing marriage.
The Catacombs of Solaris - trippy art game.
Yume Nikki Online - online version of the surreal classic plus fangames.
The Barncle Goose Experiment - combine element/alchemy game based on antique theories of abiogenesis.
Fallen London - free-to-play text-based open world RPG.
Nested - very unique text-based universe expanding game. described as possibly @orteil42's favorite thing he's ever made.
The Process of Elimination - interactive web novel (by @hypertextdog)
Discworld MUD - multiplayer, text-based, online game (a MUD, or text MMORPG) based on the Discworld books.
Horse Master - surreal text game about training a horse.
EYEZMAZE - flash (RIP) or HTML5-based puzzle games.
You Are Jeff Bezos - text game. spend Jeff Bezos' fortune.
The Password Game - challenging puzzle game where you have to meet password requirements (by neal)
Universal Paperclips - incremental paperclip making game.
Half-Earth - planetary disaster planning game where you try to save the world using socialism.
ChooseYourStory - community-driven website centered on CYOA style story games.
PhD Simulator - random event based text game. make your choice each month and see if you can graduate on time.
Dungeon Crawl Stone Soup - open source roguelike.
Cataclysm: Dark Days Ahead - turn-based survival roguelike set in the modern day.
Nethack - open source roguelike originally released in 1987.
Kingdom of Loathing - browser-based community MMORPG.
PokeRogue - browser-based Pokemon roguelike
Tools
Text Game Builder - works in your browser, with just a little bit of Python (by @grumpygandalf)
Twine - great (free!) tool for making text-based games quickly.
Ink - scripting language for interactive fiction (also free)
Flashpoint Archive - a community effort to preserve games and animations from the web.
PICO-8 - fantasy console for making, sharing and playing tiny games and other computer programs.
Non-Games
Library of Babel - interactive illustration which attempts to simulate what it might be like to browse The Library of Babel.
Superbad - technically not a game, sprawling website full of secrets.
17776 - serialized speculative fiction multimedia narrative about football in the far-future. beautiful, creative, legendary. created by Jon Bois, a legend and one of my favorite writers of all time.
Choice of Games - text-based, choose-your-own-adventure games (interactive fiction). some free-to-play, others can be bought like an ebook.
The Deep Sea - scroll to the bottom of the ocean. encounter the humble squid and his friends (by neal)
Space Elevator - like The Deep Sea, but up instead of down. you can equip your avatar with a scarf (by neal)
Internet Artifacts - an interactive history of the early internet (by neal)
If The Moon Were Only One Pixel - scroll through an accurately scaled model of the universe.
r/incremental_games - reddit community for incremental games.
r/WebGames - reddit community for web games in general.
thank you to everyone who contributed and the creators. please be sure to show them some love where possible.
j.r.r. tolkien, lord of the rings / holly warburton / the chronicles of narnia: prince caspian (2008) / @fairycosmos / lady bird (2017) / derry girls (2018-2022) / @ashstfu / christopher robin (2018) / @tesho-travels / one day (2024) / jonathan larson / his dark materials (2019-2022) / carol mavor, blue mythologies / emily brontë, wuthering heights / little women (2019) / richard siken, snow and dirty rain
The problem with writing a classic Gothic novel with all the trimmings (or any novel which sits squarely in the conventions of its genre) is that everyone already knows the story, so you've got to tell it really well.
One of the rods I make for my own back is that I seem to love giving my characters periods of boredom and loneliness, and then feel compelled to show that to the reader. I can't just say 'they sat and stared at the wall for three days and went out of their mind'. I need to sell that to the reader. I need to narrate the whole thing, so that the reader will also be restless, so that they understand where the character is then coming from. Enjoy your long hours of solitude.
In this case my novels qualify as horror performance art (no one read the book I spent years working really hard on etc.) but unfortunately you lose that if you actually go to read them. They can only be enjoyed from afar.
me, whispering to the ao3 page of an author who wrote one life altering banger and nothing else: I hope your pillow is cool and your skin is clear and you find money in a forgotten jeans pocket
In A Study in Scarlet, Watson mentions that when he served in Afghanistan he had an orderly named Murray who rescued him after he was shot in the Battle of Maiwan.
And I really do like the idea that this Murray could be somehow related to Mina Murray, that would be a very fun way to connect Dracula and Sherlock that I don’t think I’ve seen before. Unfortunately I don’t know how well it fits timeline-wise to either story, and also Mina having a family would make some scenes in Dracula really weird.
Like she says, “I never knew either father or mother,” so it’s possible that she had an older sibling/cousin/aunt/uncle that could be Watson’s Murray, but if you were going monster hunting and you had an older sibling/cousin/aunt/uncle who was a military trained medical professional, I assume you’d tell them
Jef squinted at the tomb. They'd come at midnight, as was traditional for grave-robbing, but it didn't half make it difficult to see. She'd had a lot of long nights lately, and it was hard to keep her eyes open as it was. She turned and squinted twice as hard at Idsam instead.
"What makes you think it's in there?"
"The chest belonged to Sah Yessaj, right?" he gestured to the likeness of the old Sah carved into the stone, then to the pack at his side. "It figures that he'd have kept the key close at hand."
"But why would they bury it with him?" Jef asked, eyeing the entrance with suspicion. "What if they needed to open it? His descendants, I mean."
"Perhaps they didn't know. As I say, he might have kept it close. Or he might have left orders. The chest is supposed to contain a powerful magic, right? A later Sah might have even sent it away themselves. They could come and get it if they needed to open the chest, if the city was in danger, but otherwise... sometimes it's better to keep temptation at arm's length."
"Or keep the key hidden from thieves," she wondered.
"That too." He smiled a crooked smile. "In the unlikely event that some rogues snatches the chest, they wouldn't be able to open it."
"You're sure you couldn't pick it?"
"I tried everything I know. But it's all part of the legend, isn't it? The chest could only be opened by Sah Yessaj's magic key, cut from the same enchantment."
"I still think I could have had a go." She fingered the hilt of her sword. "My lockpicks are a little less delicate, but they do the job. This wouldn't be the first man's chest I've managed to open."
"I tried that too," he admitted. "Not a scratch. That's magic for you. It's said that, with the chest being so important, Yessaj warded it to be impregnable without the key... but that meant the key became equally important, and that's good news for us."
"How can that be good news?"
"Because it means we know it's still around. According to the stories, he also enchanted the key so that it could never be destroyed, or lost. Supposedly it could also never leave the city, so that the chest could never be used by our enemies. In all directions, apparently."
"So, what... if you threw it in the sea, it would hang suspended until scooped up in some fishing net?"
Idsam nodded. "And if you baited a bird to take it, would tear from their grip come a certain height. So we know more recent Sahs can't have taken drastic measures to remove temptation, or the threat of theft. Leaving the key in a tomb is about as far as they could go."
"So we know the key exists. Great, but that feels like scraping the barrel for good news. The city's still a big place, and it doesn't really help us find it."
Jef continued to view the tomb with suspicion, as if it was the thief accused of wasting her time. She could be asleep right now. Or, more likely, doing something stupid. But she had to admit that it did seem a likely hiding place. Other than the connection to Yessaj, the honourable Sahs would assume that reverence to the city's legendary leader, and to burial sites more generally, would deter most thieves. But most thieves wouldn't have broken into the palace in the first place.
Idsam drew the chest from his pack. It was small, no larger than a hand span on each side, and he handled it as if it didn't weight much either. Jef couldn't see much more in the dark, but it was instantly recognisable. They'd spent the last few months obsessing over how to steal it, and the last few nights panicking over what to do next, with the city guard now obsessing over how to get it back.
"Should you have that out in the open?" She looked around, although she could barely see it a few feet away.
"It's gone warm. Touch it."
She did, with the hesitation she'd used to take it in the first place: cautious of booby-traps or other enchantments. But Idsam was right. The oddly textured wood of the chest, which felt like it had been grown in that shape rather than cut, held the gentle heat of a tree trunk in sunlight, or a horse's flank, or a coffee which was ready to drink.
"What does it mean?"
"This is why I'm confident," he said. Jef had never known him not confident, but she let that one slide. "It's what I meant about the key never being lost. I think there's some enchantment linking the two. When the chest is close enough, it grows hotter, as if in anticipation of opening. Maybe that's another reason they keep them apart."
"Like the game we played as children?"
"I wonder if there's even a mechanism," he continued, ignoring her. "Or if it just works on proximity, when the key is actually inserted into the lock. That would explain why I wasn't able to force it."
"Fine, whatever, you've convinced me." Jef didn't like all this standing out in the open. It made her uncomfortable. She would be much more relaxed once they got into the tomb. "Speaking of forcing entry, do you fancy having another go?"
"There's no lock here either," Idsam said. "You just push the stone aside. I figured that was more of a job for you."
Jef rolled her eyes, hoping he could still see the whites in the dark, and stepped up to the vaulted entrance. The door was indeed just a slab of stone. She used her least favourite knife to clear the dust around the edges, then as a lever to see if it would move, and then really put her back into it. The stone moved exactly as promised, and without the horrific grinding sound she'd expected. She only swore from the exertion once, and then again when Idsam shushed her.
"Sorry," he said. "I just don't want to draw any attention."
"Really?" Jef eyed her handiwork. She hadn't moved the stone all the way across, but left a gap for them to squeeze through. Oddly, the tomb seemed to be lighter on the inside, as if the moonlight had found something to reflect on. That was unhelpful. "I'm not closing that behind us, by the way. These things aren't build to get out of. I've tried to keep it mostly shut, but if anybody does walk past there's a good chance they'll see."
"Fair enough. We'll just have to be quick."
She took that cue to slip inside, relying on him to follow down the passageway. The inside of the tomb was also vaulted, with a tremendous arched ceiling that seemed to reach higher than it had outside. Whoever had built this had loved an arch. There was a stone casket in the middle of the room, and Jef hoped that they wouldn't have to see what picture of decay remained inside, even if to give her back a break from opening it. But she knew that they had other things to worry about.
There was a clink from behind her, as Idsam kicked the key she'd deftly stepped over. "Was that what I think it was?"
"And the rest," she whispered back, suddenly conscious of what would happen if they were found here. How easy it would be to seal them in. The chest had been free of booby traps, but this tomb would serve as a trap in itself, with the key as the bait that had lured them in. And that wasn't even the worst of it. "Where do you want to start?"
The tomb was filled, wall-to-wall, with identical wooden keys.
#hehehe nice#love the whetting of appetite for the world in this#hints at the world#plus the opening of chests was a good line#<3
Thank you! I'm trying to interconnect a few of my short stories this time around so perhaps we will return to this city at some point. At the moment I feel like I have been very vague in alluding to things, so it would be easy to set another story or two nearby to flesh them out a bit more.
I have to confess I really struggled to avoid innuendo in this one. Not only the chests, but the whole lock-and-key shebang (see, even now I am choosing questionable words). When I wrote 'like the game we played as children' about getting warm in proximity I had to stop myself adding 'or the games we play as adults'. Anyway.
It was crowded at the front of the wagon. Carys wasn't in much of a position to complain, being the new recruit and all, but she also wasn't in much of a position for anything else. Their crew seemed to have outgrown this cart. Hywel wasn't exactly a large man, and even Geraint was taller than he was broad, but she still felt wedged in a tight the gap between them, her arms pinned by her side, feeling every twitch of Geraint's muscles as her worked the reins. She flexed her own fingers, making sure to keep the blood flow going. They'd engaged her as a thief, and it would be a poor showing if her hands were numb by the time they arrived.
"Are you sure I can't sit in the back?"
"No." Geraint's eyes didn't flicker from the road. "I mean, yes, I'm sure. Sit tight. We're almost there."
Carys sat tight, as if she had any other choice. She'd only known their valiant leader a few weeks, but Geraint had seemed oddly touchy about the cargo on the cart behind them, hidden away under a canvas sheet. Hywel had tried to take a look when he'd arrived, and he'd been warned to keep away in no uncertain terms. It was vital to their next job, apparently, and sensitive to light. That was all they'd been told. Not for touching, or peeking, or sitting next to. Something to be left alone, whilst they all packed in like sardines.
Hywel guessed it was some sort of device, like a keepaway, that Geraint had somehow procured. A secret weapon that would make this next heist easier. Carys wondered if that was true, or if it was just something he didn't trust them around; too valuable to even tell them about, in case that gave them any ideas. If he was transporting spoils from a previous haul, she could understand him being jealous of his share. There was some degree of honour amongst thieves, but also a whole lot of thieving.
They heard the Workhouse before they saw it: a clanking, clanging cacophony. It was the opposite of music; an orchestra of instruments assembled just to create discord. But then they saw it, and that was no different. Four pillars of black smoke, exuding from four pillars of soot-coated stone. A blight on the landscape miles high, and a distortion just as far in each direction. Muscles had to work make the noise. Something had to burn to make the smoke. It had been quiet in the villages they'd passed, drained in service to this accumulated noise.
"That's our target?" Hywel asked. His eyes were furtive things, forever scuttling and scurrying around a room, as black as beetles and twice as skittish.
"Yes. The infamous Pen'roath Workhouse." Geraint grimaced. "You've heard the stories, right? Inhumane conditions. No escape. Lord Pen'roath rounds up the homeless, and sets them to work until they break. He calls it cleaning up the streets, but he's the one who put them out of work in the first place."
"What do you mean?" Carys asked.
"You know keepaway charms?"
"Of course." They were small stone trinkets popular with travelling caravans. They were supposed to be able to deter crossbow bolts, make arrows think twice, and even sap the power from a sword-thrust. It was something in their reaction to the metal. For the wearer, they were like a set of invisible armour. They were even said to twitch at the movement of metal nearby, providing early warning of intruders or bandits in the forest.
"They can only be made around here, from Pen'roath stone. Time was they were all lovingly handcrafted by the locals, and traded to travellers in exchange for things they could only get from elsewhere. Then Lord Pen'roath put up this Workhouse, and now they're mass-produced at scale. Dozens of families out of business. Then he takes the credit for giving them work."
"Right." Carys said. "So we're going to rob him?"
"Exactly. A victimless crime." She'd heard that Geraint had a thing about that. Only taking from them who deserve it. It sounded dangerous to her.
"The keepaways seem like they keep folk safe," she said. "I know we're one step from bandits ourselves, but I don't want to be ambushed on the road. Isn't it good, that more of them are being made? If the families couldn't keep up with demand?"
Geraint gave her a cold look. "Lord Pen'roath is stealing people's livelihoods. That's one step from banditry for you. The strong taking from the weak. That's who we're protecting. Not just the travellers they trade with, but the charm-makers themselves. No stone can protect them from a man like that. But we can hurt him in return."
"That's not necessarily the demand, either." Hywel stepped in. "I heard some say that the charm could be reversed, to attract rather than repel, creating a bolt that arced towards it target. I've half a thought that's what Lord Pen'roath hopes to manufacture in bulk."
Carys fell into a respectful silence. The question had been a misstep, and she wasn't so foolish as to press the issue. She was new to the crew, and had to show deference to her elders. For now. One day, Geraint might tolerate her questioning his principles. But today they had a job to do, and he was the one who'd planned it. The skills she'd been hired for hadn't included ethical debate. She had to keep her questions on the job.
"Is it the keepaways we're taking?" She tried a change of subject, once the silence had stretched long enough.
"Gold, hopefully." Geraint did not bear any anger in his voice. "I'm not sure there will be any wages, the workers only paid in room and board, but I heard a most delicious rumour that Lord Pen'roath uses the building as a stronghouse for his treasure. He doesn't like to keep it all in one place, or so I'm told, and there are only so many places as well fortified as this. So I'm mostly here for that. But yes, I'm sure a few charms won't do us any harm."
He drew the wagon alongside the Workhouse. It was a towering edifice of grey stone, its smokestacks so tall that Carys could no longer see their tops, lost in the clouds of their own creation. But the doorway was tiny; she and Hywel might be able to slip below the lintel, but Geraint would need to stoop. She wondered if that was an intentional humiliation, or just a way to minimise vulnerabilities, from within or without. There were no windows.
"It's certainly well fortified," she agreed. The door made up for its short stature in armament, and wore the metal studs of an Iron Company archer, together with further metal banding, as if prepared for a battering ram. She could see why people might wonder what Lord Pen'roath kept inside. She risked a peek in the gap to the frame and say the shadows of three thick bolts above a drop bar. Nothing she could pick, battering ram or not. "So what's your plan now?"
Geraint nodded over his shoulder, and they followed him to the back of the wagon. Carys wondered what other siege engine he had brought with them, and had begun to wonder if he had sprung for explosives, so she was surprised when he pulled open the tent to reveal a pale, corpulent man in what seemed to be his nightclothes.
"We have a Miser," he said, with no small satisfaction.
"Where in the world did you find him?" Hywel asked.
Geraint grinned. "The inn at the crossroads. The Moon Under Water? I felt him through the wall. They had him hired as security: keeping an eye on the place, averting any trouble, you know. Like a human keepaway."
"And he agreed to come with you?"
"I said I'd give him a cut."
"Is it wise, to threaten a Miser?" Hywel eyed the man fearfully
"I mean that I'd cut him in. An equal share. They were paying him one song a day. Plus room and board, almost like Lord Pen'roath does here. That's downright miserly itself."
"Sorry," Carys interjected, "but what's a Miser?"
"You haven't heard of Misery?" Hywel asked. "It's... well, you really haven't heard of it?"
"It's the conservation of energy," Geraint explained. "A sort of restlessness. You know if you spent the day in bed, you would almost start to shake with all of the pent up energy you haven't used?"
"I... guess." Carys refused to meet his eyes. For some reason, the prospect was making her blush.
"Restlessness is contagious. If you're sitting next to someone who is twitching with boredom, you can sort of feel it, and it makes you antsy too. The more restless they are, the more it spreads outwards. You can almost hear it humming. That's what I meant about the inn. Misers conserve their energy as much as possible, so that it overflows and starts to spill into the world around them."
"Thrumming would work better," Hywel said, trying to regain a foot in the explanation. "If we're comparing it to vibration."
"So it would."
"How does this help us?" Carys asked. "He's going to make the door so restless it walks away?"
"Something like that."
"Really?"
"Well, not exactly. Misery is just unused energy, desperate to be channelled in one sense or another. The most skilled Misers can direct it in any number of different ways. Our man here was lying abed in the inn for days, trembling with unused potential, and I think he was using that energy to reach out and sense what was happening downstairs. I think he could have focused and caused a concerted blast of energy if he needed; to knock a brawler off their feet, for instance. Or to detain a thief."
"Oh, great."
Geraint turned to the man in the wagon. "We're trying to get through this door. Can you force the lock?"
"Locks," Carys said.
"Can you force the locks?"
The doughy man flicked his eyes; a tiny motion she would have had to be watching for.
"Is that it done?" Hywel asked.
"That's a nod," Geraint said. "Stand back."
Carys was again not sure what to expect. The last minute had not doubt her much on the limitations of magic. Would the door be blasted from its hinges? Would there simply cease to be a door at all? Perhaps the Miser represented an explosive after all. They all moved to stand on the other side of the wagon, just in case, but the Miser only frowned and closed his eyes, as if trying to remember someone's name, and they heard a muffled thump behind the door.
"Is that it done?" Hywel asked again.
Geraint nodded; with his head, not just his eyes. "Subtle enough, but someone inside might still have heard that. We'll have to move quickly."
They skirted the wagon again, and Hywel went to ready the horses whilst Carys raced Geraint to test the door. She was quicker, and turned the black iron handle as soon as she could reach it, before any doubts could set in. Once a lock was picked, it was usually better to slip in and out faster than her thoughts could catch up. She put her shoulder to the wood, but it wouldn't budge.
"What now?" She looked at Geraint for answers, knowing that her eyes must be as wide and wild as a hare's. He was maddeningly calm.
"Try opening it outwards."
"Oh." She pulled at the door harder than she needed to. It came smoothly. "Right."
They headed in - or tried to. Carys made it a few steps beyond the threshold before her feet started to feel sluggish, and a few more before they ceased to move at all. She turned her upper body to look back at Geraint, as if she was also somehow pushing the wrong way here, but only made it halfway before her torso as well.
"What is it?" she asked. Her mouth still moved, at least. "Is this a keepaway? A ward to keep us out?"
"I don't know." Geraint was caught mid-stoop. For the first time since she'd met him, there was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes.
"I do." A new voice to her right, accompanied by footsteps. Carys could not see him, other than the movement of shadows in her peripheral vision, but guessed a man was approaching. Several men, by the clatter of their boots.
"Lord Pen'roath." Geraint answered her. He no longer looked uncertain. Now, he was simply afraid.
"Indeed." The man continued to approach, entering Cary's field of vision like a cloud over the moon. He was a tall man, but thin, and pushed past her like she wasn't there. He gave her a cursory glance, then dismissed her just the same. "I doubt that we have had the pleasure."
"Hywel!" Geraint called out, although he couldn't turn to face the door. "Flee! Save yourself!"
"Alas, he cannot." Lord Pen'roath gave a thin smile. He was inspecting Geraint now. Leaning over him, so that he seemed to be bowing. "Well done, Madoc. Fresh bodies to be put to work. The mill always hungers for its grist."
"The Miser." Carys breathed the realisation. She was aware of the other men behind him. Behind her. "He was your creature. A plant. The only way for us to get in. But able to keep us here as well."
"There was never any treasure here, was there?" Geraint was one step ahead of her, one step behind. "You spread those rumours. To lure people in. To create more criminals, more debt bondage, slaves who brought themselves to your door. It was only bait for your trap."
"Yes." Lord Pen'roath spoke softly. He reached out a hand and tilted Geraint's head to one side, like a man assessing a horse. Carys could see Geraint fighting it, and then a twitch as he tried to raise his own hands, no doubt to do something a little more forceful.
"No, Madoc." Lord Pen'roath raised his voice, waving vaguely through the open door. "My men will take them from here. It wouldn't do to break his broad, strong back. Not yet."
"If you accept any food from the fae, they shall never let you go" is a human belief. The fair folk stand by the principle that if you feed 'em, you gotta keep 'em. If wildlife learns to rely on you for food, you have already fucked up, and you can't just stop feeding them cold turkey. That human is your responsibility now. Because you left your peach cobbler unsupervised.
