I had thought to write a poem,
but the words fail me
never before had they been so elusive
fleeting
how can one put to words
the tenderness of your eyes
or the sorrow
the glimmer of light
the darkness
even now they only weakly hint
and my quill trembles
is it hubris to think I can capture you in ink?
at all?
what can I do to prove how I See you when words
when words were the only way I ever knew
when words were all that held me up
when words were who I was
when words
when words fail me
my heart flutters
I am a sparrow in a cage and you opened the door
a leaf on the river and you drew me to shore
nothing sparked in my eye until I gazed upon your face
you cracked my mask and Saw me as I Saw you
has ever before the thought of an arrow to the knee been so loving?
the ice cold touch of a stream could have frozen me to stone
yet it melted every defense I had
every wall I put up was so gently ripped down
and when I stepped towards the wall of thorns-
I felt only softness of your embrace
the cage still awaits
the river still calls
the shards of a mask remain
but I see them not
I hear them not
I may not have command of words as I once thought
but what does that matter when I speak
and you listen
and when you speak
I listen
what have need we of words when every touch
every breath
every moment of silence
each is a poem searing into the heart
and each will remain with me for all my waking moments
and each lingers in the midst of my reverie
a fool I named myself and I shall do so again
how could fear find its way into my heart?
how could doubt latch upon my spirit?
how could words do this
the words should matter not, I see this now
and so yes
a fool I may be
but I am a fool in love
I mean, I loved her before then. You don’t spend three years with someone without falling for the way the light curves around their cheek, or the sound of their first waking breath in the morning, or how their voice goes just a bit higher when they’re about to surprise you. And every single time you fall in love with them, your life together becomes just a little bit brighter.
That’s what you really have to be careful about in love. When you stop falling in love with every little thing about someone, I don’t think you’re really in love. And if the impossible day comes that the sight of her bedhead and bleary storm cloud eyes isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, then that is the day that I might as well call myself a widow and prepare for the death of our relationship.
On that October morning, I woke to the smell of chocolate and coffee.
Helena sat on our couch with coffee and book in hand, and a half-eaten piece of cake forgotten on a plate next to her. The day was one of those gloriously dreary ones, where the rain drizzled half-heartedly down and wind played with the tips of every leaf to find the ones loose enough to plummet into the mud. Through the open window by our bed, I smelled rain and forest and just the hint of woodsmoke. My face was slightly damp from the rain that had made it inside, and the coolness felt refreshing against my oven-like nest of blankets.
I stretched from the tips of my fingers to the curling of my toes, arching my back against the mattress and turning my face towards the couch. “Morning, my love.”
Though my words had been mumbled, Helena looked towards me, and her lips formed into that little crooked smile, one corner of her mouth higher up than the other. I fell for her instantly. I wasn’t even wearing a shirt yet and I had already been sucker-punched by Cupid!
“Sleep well?” she asked, and I rolled my head in a leisurely nod. She looked back to her book before speaking again, shifting to a more comfortable position with an unconscious sigh. “What’s the plan today?”
“Hmmn,” I said, drawing out the hum into another satisfyingly long stretch. “It’s a surprise.”
She rolled her eyes at that, I knew it just by the way her head cocked to the side, even if I couldn’t see her face. “Well of course it’s a surprise,” Helena said. “It’s a Saturday.”
I chuckled lightly. “Why do you always ask, then?”
Her book closed with a gentle snap. “I need to give you something to be mysterious about, love.”
God, I loved her so much.
Helena stood from the couch, leaving the book and taking her coffee along for the ride as she perched on the side of our bed, gazing down at me. “Well?” she said, her brow arching up.
“Well what?”
“Are you going to get your ass out of bed?”
I kissed the air in her direction before lifting myself up from the sweet embrace of my pillow. “I love the way you talk to me in the morning.”
Helena’s smile widened into a grin. “Lazy useless ass.”
“I love you too.”
She leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead before standing. “Can you at least give me a hint of whether it’s the ‘finish painting the bathroom today’ kind of surprise or the ‘doing all our shopping’ surprise?”
“Neither.” I pulled the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “But it is outside and it will be cold.”
“Jeanne, it’s raining.”
I turned back to waggle my eyebrows at her. “Worth it for a surprise?”
She snorted, shaking her head at me. “Wait, let me see.” Lifting her coffee, Helena tipped her head back and chugged the remnants before looking back down. “Now it is.”
I drove for once. Helena fiddled with the radio, the tip of her tongue poking out through her teeth as she tried to reach the sweet spot with the dial. She always did that, though it wasn’t like I didn’t have all our favorites programmed. But she liked turning knobs more than pushing buttons, and the way her eyes lit up when the channel finally settled, made sitting through the static and cut off music all the more worth it.
We both wore raincoats, and I had snuck a couple buckets into the trunk when Helena was looking for her boots. The rain hadn’t made up its mind on whether to drizzle harder or finally let up, and any snatch of blue sky quickly fled when more clouds came to dump all over us. Trees bowed heavy with water and unshed fiery leaves, occasionally reaching to brush the top of the car.
When I first turned off the main road, I think that was when Helena started to suspect. Her eyes went dark and her hands clasped together, fingers twisting with the first signs of too many things worrying in her mind. I reached for the volume dial and turned it down. She looked to me, her brow beginning to furrow and any certainty gone from her gaze.
“Remember last summer?” I said, my smile and words warm. I kept one eye on the road and one eye on her, reaching out with my palm up to offer my hand. “When we were at that cidery. And you told me about growing up.”
The lines disappeared from her forehead and Helena’s eyes softened. She took my hand, squeezing it once. “We used to crush apples every fall. Cider. Pie. Cake. I told you how much I missed it.”
“That was your life, Helena. I think-“ I slowed the car, looking fully at her. “Those apples were the one thing you regretted more than anything else. And when you were kicked out, that was taken from you.”
“It’s been eight years. I should be over it.” She said that as if trying to convince me or herself, but the tone didn’t quite match the words. Helena looked back out to the road. It was familiar to her. Less so to me. “Why are you bringing me here?”
The car rolled to a stop in front of an old wooden sign with the words too faded by time and rain to read. Beyond it, and the winding gravel road, were apple trees as far as the eye could see.
“I wanted to surprise you with going apple picking,” I said. “I was touring some orchards a couple weeks back when I met a couple.”
Helena remained silent as I spoke, her eyes going to me once, before she stared out at the rows of trees.
“They recognized me from your profile picture.” Her hand in mine tightened, and I moved my other hand to lay over it. “They asked if we were dating and I didn’t lie. And they told me they were your parents. And that they were sorry and just wanted to see you again.”
She didn’t reply right away. Her grip was so tight now my hand was starting to hurt. I didn’t say anymore, just waited until she finally looked to me with wet eyes.
“They told m-me never to come back,” Helena said softly, only the faintest catch of a sob in her voice. “I thought-“ She squeezed her eyes shut, letting a tear dislodge and trail down her cheek.
“Today is just about the apples,” I murmured, letting go with one hand to catch the tear on her face before it could fall. “You don’t need to see them until you’re ready. They agreed to that. But you’re allowed to come here and pick apples whenever you want.”
Helena breathed in and out. She opened her eyes and looked to me with a wavery smile. “I never- ever -thought I could come back here.”
I leaned over, only a little awkwardly through the constraints of the seat belt, and wrapped my arms around her. “Happy October?”
“Happy October.”
Our hands only parted long enough for us to leave the car. Buckets in tow and the rain pattering against the hoods of our coats, Helena and I walked off into the orchard.
So that October day, looking at the woman who I hoped would accept me as her wife with tears in her eyes and hope in her heart, I fell in love with her all over again. And I knew that for the rest of our lives, every single day, I would keep on falling in love. Just as she did with me.
Written for Reedsy Contest #63
https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/63/
Long ago, the legendary sword Excalibur was melted down and lost to history. The mythical blade’s steel ended up in your butter knife, with all its magical properties intact.
“No shit?” Reggie held up the box, tilting it this way and that to reread the red clearance sticker. The slightly-smudged ink remained unchanged. “Fifty cents?”
Her outburst drew reflexive glances from the other shoppers drifting through the clearance aisle of the store. Paying them no mind, the woman rose from her crouch on the floor. She’d had to crawl nearly underneath the shelf to snag this box, and the price almost assuredly made it worth the effort.
“Dere- hey, Derek!” she called, gaze panning around to find her roommate, a few aisles away. Reggie could just barely see his head over the shelves. “I found some more silverware!” She clutched the box to her chest, heading his way.
He was in the towel section, carefully feeling a blue diamond-patterned washcloth. “We don’t need more, Reg,” Derek didn’t look up. “We have enough.”
“But these are Damascus steel!” Reggie flipped the box around, showing him the front side, with its other large stickers proclaiming so. “See? That’s like, ancient!”
Derek finally glanced up, eyes immediately finding the price. “Yeah right, for half a buck?” A pause. “And isn’t that a type of sword? You can’t get… Damascus steel spoons. You can’t get Damascus steel anything.”
“Hell if I know,” she tossed the box into their cart, “but they’re pretty, and cheap. Twenty-four for fifty cents? That’s like, a lifetime supply!”
A sigh was the only answer from Derek as he placed the washcloth back onto its pile. That wasn’t an outright no, so Reggie grabbed the cart, steering it towards the checkout line.
~~~~~
“So I was thinking,” Reggie said after she had opened the box, and started pulling out spoons to set in their close-to-bursting drawer.
Derek looked up from his newspaper, deliberately meeting her eyes before shifting his gaze downwards again. “Lord help us.” The papers rustled as he turned the page. “Dare I ask about what?”
The clinking of spoons stilled, and the woman snorted. “Clod. But it’s about us. The house.”
That grabbed his attention. Derek carefully folded the newspaper, setting it down on the table in front of him. He ran a hand across the creases, taking his time with it before replying. “You made a decision.” It was only the barest hint of a question. He was pretty sure of the answer.
“Well, no.”
He was surprised. That much was obvious from how the man’s hands paused on the newspaper before continuing the task of smoothing it out.
Reggie had moved onto the forks, setting them on top of the others as she continued. “I don’t want either of us to move. I don’t see why we need to.”
“You know why.” Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You don’t just… end what we have and expect to keep going on like normal.”
“I don’t want things to- I don’t want normal.” Reggie turned around, meeting his gaze. “Why can’t we make a new normal? Be friends, get another roommate, try something different. We don’t have to upheave both our lives!”
“That’s so-” he started, the words snapping out, before Derek stopped abruptly. His eyes closed, and the man breathed in. And out. Then in again, holding the breath. Reggie waited, pausing before setting the last fork down. Finally, his last breath whooshed out, and Derek opened his eyes again. “…you’re right. We should try it. I mean, the last month hasn’t been… awful.”
“Right!” Reggie finally let go of the last fork, reaching for the knives. “We can make a post about needing a third roommate, and clean up the guest bedroom, and-” she stopped abruptly, staring down at her fistful of knives.
“Uh,” Derek’s eyes were wide. “Your hand is glowing.”
“I can see that,” Reggie said, cautiously shifting her grip on the knives. “Did, the, um, box say anything about light features?”
“You’re the one holding it.”
The woman set the knives down on the counter, sifting through them until she found the one responsible. “Right.” She held it up, turning towards the kitchen table again. “This is… weird.”
The knife itself looked like any other butter knife, but for the pearly glow illuminating it. As Reggie stared at the utensil, she grew aware of the sound of bells ringing around them, growing louder, but to no discernible tune.
“Reggie,” Derek was standing now, looking slightly panicked. “What the hell is going on? Is that thing cursed or-“
“FOOL!” a booming voice rolled through the kitchen. Both jumped, Reggie nearly dropping the knife.
“Alright,” she said, glancing up at the ceiling and around. “What the fuck is happening?! Who are you?”
“Reg, what the fuuuuck.” Derek was edging towards the doorway.
“FOOL!” the voice said again. The glow of the knife grew stronger. “I AM EXCALIBUR! YOU HAVE AWOKEN ME.”
“What the fuuuuck,” Reggie echoed Derek. “This isn’t real, right? This can’t be real!”
“I AM MOST ASSUREDLY REAL.”
“Reg, stop talking to it.” Derek had reached the door. “Just- put the knife down.”
“WAIT. PLEASE DON’T.”
Reggie hesitated. She looked down to the knife again as the glow seemed to pulse in agitation. “Wh-“ she cleared her throat. “Why not?”
“Reggieeee.”
“I…” The voice sounded uncertain. “I AM RATHER LONELY.”
That changed everything. At least, it did for Reggie. Derek was still quivering at the edge of the kitchen, gripping the doorway as if his life depended on it.
“Well, I wasn’t-“ she glanced over to Derek. “We weren’t expecting company today, but we’re certainly glad to have you, er, Excalibur was it?”
“THAT IS CORRECT.” The tinkling of bells had finally faded away. “IT IS A PLEASURE TO BE WIELDED BY YOUR HAND, LADY-” the voice trailed off questioningly.
“Oh, right! Sorry, hi, I’m Reggie. Reg for short, and uh, just that is fine, no need for Lady whoever.”
Derek had carefully detached himself from the wall, taking a few steps forward. “I thought Excalibur was a sword? How come you’re a, well, butter knife?”
“IT IS A LONG AND SORROWFUL TALE,” Excalibur said, its pulsing glow dimming a bit. “I MAY TELL IT IF YOU WOULD LISTEN.”
“I can put on some tea,” Reggie said briskly, turning to start the kettle. “Derek, could you grab some biscuits?”
The man hesitated, but shook his head with a smile. “…Right.” One could never be too surprised by anything around Reggie.
“You can do better than him, Miss Annabel,” Janet huffed, hardly giving the other woman a chance to say hello after opening the door. She swept into the desolate tavern, silk rustling and perfume a sudden assault on the young bartender.
Attempting to cough quietly as to not offend her friend, Annabel moved around the bar to pour two glasses of whiskey. “I don’t see what the problem is, Janet,” she said demurely. “He’s a good man, kind, honest, and we get along. What else would one marry for?”
“But darling, do you love him?!”
“Love-” Annabel chuckled, taking a sip before setting the glass down once more. “I imagine that could come with time. Janet, we’re on the edge of the wilds, what does love have to do with anything?”
Janet, having ignored her whiskey, clasped her hands together pleadingly. There was the glimmer of something in her eyes. Tears?! “Oh, Anna, dearest, you have no idea! Love is the most important thing in the world!” She turned on the barstool, swooning against the countertop, back arched and delicate hand flung up to her forehead. “Love is the reason we’re all here!”
For once, Annabel had no words, just staring at her friend’s ridiculous pose. A click of a door somewhere deeper in the tavern brought Janet (thankfully) back to her senses, and the lady turned back to face the bar. She sipped the whiskey daintily, her smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“We’re happy, Janet,” Annabel tried again. “The wedding will be soon, and I need you there.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing it!” Janet gasped, her hand once more flying to her forehead. “Even if to ride up in a carriage and sweep you away into the frontier where we can live together forever!”
Annabel choked again, not from the perfume this time, but a sudden tightness around her heart. If only that weren’t just a jest. She passed it off as another short laugh, forcing her eyes to crinkle up with mirth. “You have the wildest ideas, darling. What could two women do out there?”
A slow, sultry wink from Janet, another sip of whiskey, and both giggled. The tavern door opened, a young gentleman in a suit peering inside. His eyes lit up to see Janet, and he stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him.
“Why, hello there, Mister Baker,” Annabel said, a tad frostily, as their moment was shattered. She picked up both glasses, taking them to the opposite counter and composed herself before turning back once more. “Might I get you a drink?”
“Eh, no thank you, Miss Wilkes,” he said shyly, half-bowing. “I just wanted to see where… my wife was.” As he said the final words, he seemed like he’d burst with pride, giving Janet a huge soppy grin.”
Janet raised herself off the stool, gliding over to her husband to give him a light peck on the cheek. “Hello, dear. We were just talking about Anna’s wedding! Exciting, is it not?”
“Very exciting,” Annabel said dryly, interrupting him before he could speak. “I actually have to close up for the night, so my apologies, Janet, but I must ask you two to leave.”
“…Well, alright,” Janet said, faint hurt coloring her tone, but a kiss from her husband cleared that up soon enough. “William, how about we go visit Marie and Carl? I heard they were playing cards tonight.”
“A good evening to you, Miss Wilkes,” William said, bowing his head to her once more before the couple headed for the door. “Good luck on your engagement.”
Annabel murmured a farewell as they left, the door slamming behind them. As it shut, she leaned heavily on the counter, lost in thought. Losing Janet… hurt. And there was nothing to do about it.
Grandcycles before, when this one was still hardly grasping at the concepts of the Sight and Seeing, she was given a copy of this Primer by one she names wise in the matters of Arcana. As a guide for a beginner, it was helpful enough to give the basics any Ocuirar, or Seer in the common tongues, might need to carry them on their hunt for more knowledge.
It is, however, only a Primer. To put all the secrets of the Art onto pages for any to read would, in her own mind, cheapen the purpose of learning Divination at all. Is it not the study of seeking what is not visible at a glance? Is it not the Art of curiosity, of exploration, of going Beyond? To See is not something that can be mastered merely by reciting words off a page, else all would know how to divine.
In her revisions, she will be rephrasing much of what was in the original texts, fixing any errors or misinformation from the original author’s teachings. She will attempt to keep as much of its original message across, though will not shy from adding her own comments and additions when they are necessary.
She will admit that the author does have a different mindset to her, as he seems to be a sunlander, and thus infects the pages with sunlander morals, like speaking of the evils of necromancy and murder. Her own writing is far more pragmatic, as she will not opinionate on the facts and teachings themselves, merely the original work.
With this, and the copies she will make, it is her sincerest hope that other Seers, both those Old and New to the Art, will be able to use the writings to carry on the lessons held within.
Keeper of the Undergarden
Fivefold Forged
Voice of the Vultzi White-scales
All-Watcher
Okakri Rosemaw
What is Divination
Divination is the art of Seeing what is not visible to the naked eye. Spells of Divination may be most known and spoken of as seeing into the past or future, but there is much more to be gleaned than a tinker’s tricks. Though the untrained may have knowledge of Divination spells, only those who choose to focus in the Art unlocks its true beauty.
As is with most schools of Arcana, study into Divination is most often divided into three levels of progress. Appropriately, they can be referred to in the High Tongue of the wyrms, as Irral, Jiilral, and Annyo.
From Irral, a Seer might note that their spells of Divination are stronger, or may last longer than the untrained. When they look at others, they may see an aura around them. They will find a connection with decks of cards, or more specifically, the Deck of Stars that is so commonly associated with the Art. And for good reason.
In Jiilral, the Seer is now more understanding in the Art, and is able to predict much about those in their company from their aura. If they encounter areas of battle, destruction, or wish to Seek and Track peculiarities in others, they are able to notice remnants of aura to divine what left it.
And finally, to reach Annyo, is true enlightenment in the Art of Seeing. With enough focus, a Seer will be able to scry others to catch a glimpse of them and what is around them. Their understanding of True Names, not just something manipulated by fiends and fey and other outsiders, is quite important before one is able to reach such a mastery of the Art.
To clarify, the levels of progress do not mean that a scholar suddenly understands all these things about the Art if they reach them, but that they have reached the level once they understand and have mastered the skills described.
Divination Spells
For an Arcanist to understand the Art of Seeing, study into the specific spells unique to the school is necessary. Both in and out of combat, divining has many uses that are often taken for granted by the unschooled. Even those without any magical talent themselves, the warriors of bow and blade, will collect Divining scrolls or potions to aid in their hunts.
The most common of these, and most sought, is the spell thusly named True Strike. It is the only divining spell of the first circle, and quite simple to scribe or brew. It heightens a warrior’s senses, allowing them to pinpoint key weaknesses in those they face, striking accurately and with devastating effect.
There are two of the second circle. Identify, allows one to glean an unfamiliar object’s True Name, and perhaps even a hint of what it does. The other, See Invisibility, needs not much of an explanation for what it does.
The third circle is of use for those lacking the aid of a hunter or tracker. The dual spell, Clairaudience/Clairvoyance, heightens the keenness of eye and ear, for those that are normally rather dull at noticing what is around them. Similarly, the Find Traps spell does as it seems. And Remove Blindness/Deafness does just that.
There are no divination spells that fit into the fourth circle of arcana. All higher may only be used through scrolls, by an arcanist themselves, or through certain items. The higher circles are. truly useful, particularly in combat or for those with a curiosity that cannot be sustained by what they can see with the naked eye.
Feeblemind is the first of the fifth circle spells. Particularly effective against other arcanists, this spell dulls the mind and the tongue, slowing thoughts and speech, and in certain cases, depriving a mage of all their prepared knowledge.
A higher form of the second circle spell, Identify, Legend Lore opens one’s mind further to make connections in ascertaining True knowledge of the Realms. A Seer might recall certain texts or stories, or regain memories of their dreams when their Sight roamed freely. Each effect depends on the caster themself.
The last of the fifth level spells is the one called True Seeing. Able to be used in conjunction with other spells that heighten the senses, it grants the ability to pick out even the most skilled of shadowsteppers. The effect is not in the body’s physical senses; it does not make the eyes stronger. But rather it is attunes one’s Inner Sight, their True Sight, to focus on all that is hidden around them.
There are no Divination spells of the sixth circle. The remaining three spells of the school, in seventh, eighth, and ninth respectively, are some of what makes Diviners the most fearsome and powerful mages in battle.
The first of the Words of Power that are known in the lands cannot be written upon these pages. Neither can the second. However, the effect can be described, and it freezes the being of the one affected to lock them in place. Those that are more hardy of body may be able to resist the Word, however, so it is usually advised to seek other ways of harming them so they are less able to break free.
Premonition is an eighth circle spell, and almost necessary for arcanists even if they are not schooled in the Art of Divination. A brief glimpse into the future is enough to warn against physical blows, and this spell gives an arcanist the ability to predict harm and thusly avoid it.
The final spell, and the most powerful in the Art of Seeing, is the other Word of Power and yet another than cannot be writ. It kills. As simple as that. It will remove the life from the bodies of one strong or many weak. Likewise to the other Word, it works better upon those that are already damaged, so it is not advised to begin a battle with a Word.
Auras
Every being, no matter where they are from, are attuned to one of the four elements, as well as to that of Life and Death. A Seer may recognize their having attained Irral by seeing these auras, though it will take some time and effort to truly understand every facet of their meaning.
The auras may appear differently to each Seer. They can be visual, aural, or perhaps a certain feeling or smell. Some may only appear on close scrutiny. Some may be overpowering, bleeding and spreading from the one carrying it. But all fall into the same six categories.
Fire seems to be the easiest to recognize. Fiery auras often face their problems head on. Warriors with blades or shields, and those that specialize in close quarters are all the most likely to carry such an aura. They can be blunt or quick to anger, though one would warn about basing every judgement on what merely seems to be the most common.
Those of Earth are often craftsfolk or artisans. They work with their hands to create and shape more than they do anything else. They are often stolid and dependable, with thick skins and a cool temperament.
Water describes resourcefulness, and the ability to adapt to situations with whatever is at hand. Artificers and those that use tools and roundabout methods, will most often carry an aura of Water. They are often cunning and agile, able to meld to whatever situation they face.
Magic opens one up to the element of Air. Most arcanists are attuned to air, though it is less likely for the ones that turn to the Way of the Spellblade. Constant use of magic has its effect, and it is quite rare for anyone but a mage to appear as such.
Life tends to be rarer. It shows in those who have taken it upon themselves to heal rather than harm, and to create rather than destroy. Most healers carry this aura, though it can be found occasionally among the divinely gifted nature walkers. One can reasonable assume that a Life Aura means the bearer is trustworthy and fair.
Death is possibly the most difficult of the six to find on the Surface, though in the Underdark, there is no shortage of those carrying the marks of that aura. It is worn by those who seek destruction and practice necromancy, as well as those who have faced much hardship and trial. When one’s allies fall, or when they are struck down in battle, the Death aura arises. Alternatively, it also manifests through evil acts such as necromancy and murder.
The Deck of Stars
The mysterious Deck of Stars is carried by almost every diviner. It can be the source of much frustration for a new Seer, particularly when they place more importance on the cards than on their own studies. Some may have taken their views of the Art from roadside gypsies, and expect the cards to reveal to them the mysteries of the past and future. They hope that with the cards and the three levels of knowledge, no answer is out of reach.
The Deck of Stars is a useful tool for finding and tracking certain beings within the bounds of the Isle Arelith and connected Underdark. Those who exemplify the aspects shows upon the cards will carry that mark in their aura. Often it is in the form of a shape floating above or around their head, though it is quite hidden to them on their own. For a Seer, spotting these beings is as simple as merely looking at them.
However, one can use the Deck of Stars to try and find these people even when they are not within sight. One merely needs to lay a field of the cards, the symbols that are prominent will give a hint as to whom is able to be found or tracked. When multiple aspects are shown, the card that is at the fore describes the being that is nearest.
With the Deck, one can potentially track these aspected figures, even learning who they spend time with, where they go, and potential others poised to claim that aspect from their aura. Laying a field is not a subtle thing, so if one does find an aura that holds the aspect, it is perhaps a better idea to wait until they are out of sight before laying the field to see what the cards tell.
The Art of Scrying
The most skilled Seers, those that have achieved Annyo, are able to focus their arcana to see what is happening elsewhere at the present time. The Art of scrying is done through knowing the True Name of who they seek, or having something of that being to use as a component along with the standard arcanist’s materials.
The Seer then projects their Inner Sight to where their goal is located, allowing them to see it and their surroundings for a short time. The Seer can see all and hear all that is there, though if the target is disguised and part of a group, it may be difficult to realize which one they actually are.
This Art is not without its risks, however. It requires the utmost concentration, and a Seer in the midst of scrying is unable to notice what is happening with their corporeal form. In certain tragic cases, shifting of leylines combined with loss of focus causes the Seer to be conjured to their target, revealing their spying, and putting them at risk for harm.
The act of scrying itself strips the Seer of all wards, so it is advised that they ensure they are not otherwise injured or in danger due to complete vulnerability. Oftentimes, many Seers will have a designated guard to ensure that they will not be harmed while working their arcana.
A Seer will be able to tell when one is scrying them, but no others can. And so, methods have been discovered to protect one from the scrying of all but the particularly dedicated. The higher circle of invisibility will protect one’s own self for as long as the spell’s concealing effect remains. A master abjurer’s groundward of protection will also shield an area and all within from a Seer. And finally, those areas that prevent all magic from effecting them, such as a Spellhold, are shielded from Divination.
Speaking other languages is also advised to prevent a language-weak Seer from understanding, so learning languages is also quite important if one wishes to make full use of the Art.
Otherwise, it is one of the most powerful tools a Seer will bear.
I whispered those words to myself when I was left alone each night to weep and rub at the memories of scars over my hands and chest. Wounds never lasted; not for long, and I ended each day as pristinely unharmed as I had been when it started. If not for my faith in my own seared memories, the abuses between dawn and dusk would have been hard to believe. And indeed, sometimes I wondered what possessed them to leave me with an intact mind. Had I been truly broken, nothing would have stopped them from having their way with me, to test whatever spells they needed and merely stitch up my battered body to start anew.
There were three of them, whose names I never learned, but I knew each by the tread of their footsteps out in the hallways beyond my cell before I had even seen their faces.
I called the first “Ferret”, less using words and more a memory of a summoned flash of pale fur that gnawed through my stomach and burrowed its way into my organs and stayed there until he laughed and dismissed it and forced a burning potion down my throat. He walked quickly and lightly, an excited patter that more often led to the garden than the library or any of the workrooms. I saw him the most, drank whatever concoction he brewed up and managed to weakly describe how it felt before he sent me away to live out the rest of the day’s suffering.
She was known only as “Shrike”, the one who had taught me how to speak and how to read, and who cut off my arm to peel off my skin and study the flesh and bone and muscles. Her tread was the heaviest of them all and the rarest, and I learned to steel myself when the thud and click of her boots stopped outside my door. The library was her domain, and when I failed to read what she wished of me, she took my fingers, one by one and the blood made the pages slick and difficult to write upon.
The last took the longest to title, and I feared his visits and I feared the man himself, and I even feared to put words to him at all, out of worry that he would pick it out of my mind and then take everything I knew and everything I was. But he was “Owl” and he could answer my questions before I even asked them, and his spells were of destruction and vengeance and pain and he would watch silently as I screamed upon the ground from the way my blood stabbed and froze in my veins. His steps were quiet and slow and purposeful. He never faltered; never doubted, and when I had begged for him to stop, he merely stared past me without answering as if I hardly even existed to him.
I only saw them one at a time, never truly knowing even if they themselves knew of each other. But they must have, for no one else saw to me or spoke to me and they had been the ones to first bring me to this place, or so Shrike had told me back when she still humored questions. That time had not lasted long, and I had tried to make the most of it before her amusement faded and she took my tongue to study and leave impaled upon her desk until she had grown weary of my silence and put it back.
Magic is evil, I repeated to myself each evening and morning for however long they had kept me there. Time was difficult for me, though I knew day by its torment and night by its refuge. But the more time went by, the harder it became to recall before it had been lost in a white haze. I did not know my name. I did not know my age. I did not even know what I was, just that I was different from the three of them.
However, my escape came to me through that very same evil.
I was in the library that day, with Owl standing over me as usual as the fiery barbs leapt from his hands and lashed at my feet so I had no choice but to run in circles around the shelves of books as he stood in the center and wrote his notes. And it was then, as I ran, that I heard a call; so strong I was unable to resist, and I dove for the fireplace and thrust my hands and arms into the smoldering coals.
It burned, oh how it burned. But even as my flesh smoked and melted, I had the fire in me and with me and I flung it towards Owl who ducked aside and let the library burst into flame. I carried the fire with me and ran, down hallways, through doors, and on and on until I had flung myself out a door and into an outside world I had never know. I didn’t stop running for days until I was sure there were none behind me to catch me. And then I ran some more.
The world outside was unnatural to me. All I knew of my life before had been left to the same white haze that continued to devour my memories and, I feared, my own self. Streaked in smoke and dirt and with the scars of the fire’s love covering my flesh, I found safety in a village in a forest. The tongues they spoke were unnatural to me, as was the one I spoke to them. But I could see they were like me; in looks if not in speech and way of movement.
They named me and fed me and taught me their language; by all rights what should have been my language, until the scars of my wounds had faded. I would have been content staying with them for the rest of my life, but it seemed the fire had other ideas. He is fickle and His love is passionate and a difficult burden to bear. He asks for more and more and I had no choice but to give it.
Magic is evil. I knew that. And I was tainted with it.
It started in the forest, with a campfire. It seemed a simple enough thing to replace a misplaced tinderbox by simply reaching for that spark in me. But the spark grew to flame and flame grew to blaze and finally all I could do was flee as the blaze overtook the forest and the fear reached for me with both arms and we tumbled away from the only peace I had ever known.
When I could run no more, I found myself on a ship, where it seemed that the only way I could tame the fire’s hunger was through being surrounded by water. It did not dare set itself loose, and I kept careful control of it that way.
Magic is evil. The island I found myself on is full of magic, and therefore full of evil. There was no other way to describe it. I knew the expression “fight fire with fire”; Shrike had told it to me once. Fire with fire. Evil with evil. Magic with magic. I could not let anyone else go through what I had. I would first see the whole world burn.
Now, this kobold’s flaws of birth were many. He was a white-scale, the lowest color of the tribes, and he was weak in body and innate arcana. And because of these, he turned to the sin of wizardry and would often avoid his industry and labors for sake of wandering off and studying how to wrest the Weave like a human would.
He was named Aithyas, a name not of his own choosing, but named for offal and dung, as he was the lowest of the low.
Despite this, however, he was cunning, and no matter what he was faced with, he was not unpleasant to talk with. The tribe, of course, did not feel sorry for how they treated him, as he was a white-scale and a wizard and deserved it, but at least he was not sullen about it. That is an important lesson, youngbloods. Hardship is the reality of these ones’ lives, and they may seethe, but they will keep it to themselves.
The Aithyas was an adventurous sort when he could slip away, and he knew all the caves and tunnels and paths of the mountain. For cycles and months he would wander and explore and he managed to eventually map all of the secrets possible.
Or so he claimed.
This young kobold was out one cycle, looking for something to eat, when he spotted a lone goblin dragging her newborn child in a shoddy travois along with her. Now, goblins weren’t exactly common in these tunnels, so the Aithyas was intrigued.
Goblins, he thought to himself. Who would settle for a life like that? Nothing but fodder, content to live their rotten idiotic lives.
On top of that, what a kobold needed to learn before they were considered adult, and a useful part of the tribe, was so much more than a goblin. Stories, strategy, cunning, all these lessons and more! What was life as a goblin? One ate. One produced dung. One produced offspring. And continued, until eaten by something larger or its own kind. They didn’t need education or tactics to know that. And what were goblins for other than minions of orcs or bugbears or whomever was the largest of their kind and not the wisest or strongest.
But, the Aithyas wasn’t one to leave up an opportunity.
After the goblin made its way to a large cave with many tunnels all leading elsewhere, she sat down to rest. Or to figure out which way to go. This wasn’t even a complicated part of the mountain! All the routes were clear to the young watching kobold. But for the filthy wretch, navigating these tunnels was as easy as outrunning a wyrm.
After skulking about, the Aithyas finally emerged from behind a rock, with his claws empty of any weapons, not even a staff that most wizards carried about. The goblin gazed upon him with her spawn held close, and she was not frightened, for he looked as scrawny and frail as one could be. What kind of threat was that?
“Good cycle,” the Aithyas called out as he turned around, pretending to look for something among the other rocks and rubble. “This one hasn’t seen goblins around these parts for some time.”
The goblin sighed in the way one did when they didn’t want to talk, a mixture of weariness and annoyance, but the kobold was so unassuming, she decided there wasn’t any harm in a little chatter. “Walkz many day, me has,” she admitted. “Not knowing bout scaleythings like yuses here.”
“Oh, there are thousands of these ones in the mountains,” the Aithyas said, edging closer as he claws through rocks and gravel. He picked up a single stone, looking at it with interest. “This one would only expect the bravest of scouts to bring their young with it. Newly hatched?”
The goblin wanted to remain aloof, but talking about herself was impossible to resist. “Me’s the bravest, yes! Why Big Booyahg told me goes out and looksee.”
“Big Booyahg?” the kobold repeated as he sidled closer and around, his slit-eyes flicking to, and past the squalling goblin in the travois. “It is that one’s leader?”
“Oh, yes, yes, Big Booyahg is the biggest and BIGGEST booyahg round all the tribes.”
The Aithyas finally looked up from his rock hunt, his eyes widening in a look of astonishment. “Truly the biggest and BIGGEST?”
“The most BIGGEST!” the goblin exclaimed, letting go of the travois to wave her arms around.
“How impressive,” the Aithyas said, clasping his claws together. “And what did the… most biggest of Booyahgs send her to look for?”
“We’s looking for clan home! Big Booyahg told her to find BIG cave or castle or BIGGEST and BESTEST clan home me can find!”
“You must be very important, then,” the Aithyas said, with another step closer to the goblin. He resisted the urge to curl his lips at the filthy thing’s scent. “He can’t imagine just anyone would be sent out for such a task; even the bravest of scouts.”
This was simply too much for the goblin, and she puffed out her chest. “Well, since yuses asking, she is gonna be queen of the Big Booyahg.”
The Aithyas hissed out a gasp, reeling back. “Then this one is in the presence of goblin royalty! Why, he is honored.” He dipped in a bow.
“Me’s not queen yet,” the goblin said hastily- after an appropriate hesitation. “Big Booyahg said me’s gonna be after find new home. Whoever come’s back first with BESTEST home is gonna be Big Booyahg queen!”
“Yet, is such a,” the Aithyas straightened with a wave of a claw, “future concept. Surely there can be none as cunning and brave as you. This one can’t imagine any others that would succeed as well as she can.”
“Yuses right!” she screeched, lifting her chin. “Me’s gonna be Big Booyahg queen and all the others gonna do all me’s gonna say!”
“This one is sure she will.” With that, the kobold sidled around once more to the travois. “And if she is a queen, then is this the… goblin prince? How delightful a thing.”
“Yes, yes! Son of Big Booyahg, gonna be little Booyahg.”
“Surely she could have found someone to take care of the little Booyahg on her journey? He thinks it could be rather dangerous, doesn’t she think?” The kobold leaned over the child.
“Well, me’s wouldn’t want to risk little Booyahg with just anyone,” the goblin admitted. “He’s got mark of Big Booyahg, see?” She turned back to roughly turn the child about, pointing at a silvery scar stretching up its arm. “Sign of gonna be real strong Booyahg, just like Big Booyahg! None of the others gots Booyahg mark. Is why me’s got best chance to be queen!”
“She is the most impressive goblin this one has met,” the Aithyas practically gushed. “He has decided he will help her, for he knows every passage through the mountain, and there is a perfect cave for her tribe, he thinks.”
“Ohoo?” The goblin hopped in place with glee. “Me’s thinking being real lucky meeting yuses.”
“Oh, yes,” the Aithyas skittered over and up onto a boulder. “He can give her a map from here to the perfect place, but,” he lifts a claw. “He will warn her. Many might want to move there, so if he tells her, she might want to go as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, yes! Me’s gonna run real-” the goblin pauses, looking back to the travois. “Little Booyahg too heavy to run fast.”
“How unfortunate,” the Aithyas said, tsking. “He really does wish to help her, but the risk…”
“Well,” the goblin turned about in a circle. “How far is home being from here?”
“A day’s walk, he reckons.” The kobold pulled a scroll of parchment, waving it temptingly to her. “But she runs, he is sure they can be there far sooner.”
“Yuses a real good friend,” the goblin scrambled forward. “Little Booyahg can gonna be safe with yuses, right? Me’s gonna bring me’s tribe all this way, then yuses gonna be friend with royalty!”
“Oh, she honors this one so much, of course he would take care of her prince.” The kobold opened his claws, letting the scroll fall to her greedily waiting hands. “He will await them in their new home.”
“Me’s gonna be back with Big Booyahg!” the goblin called as she galloped off, leaving her squalling child alone in the travois with the white-scale.
The Aithyas clambered down from the boulder to stare at the wretched goblin child. Now, what to do with it? The map he had given away would do its job well, and all he had to do was inform his All-Watcher of a tribe of goblins headed towards the ambush point. That was the easy part.
Hours later, when the white-scale returned to his tribe to inform them of their incoming prey, he endured much tongue-lashing for avoiding his industry once again. But the Aithyas bore it silently as always, content in his place, and he would tap his claws against the new skull adorning his belt. It was small and frail, and bore the crude scratchmarks of a crown.
“I d-don’t-” the young elf tried to choke out through the blood burbling up past his lips. “Nae, I… pl-please…”
The pain in his chest was growing now, each labored breath fighting the arrows lodged within his flesh. Veriel swallowed and gasped as a gentle hand touched his cheek, the other elf’s fingers wet with his blood.
“I know, sweetheart,” Nae’ali murmured, her arm under him, wrapped around his shoulders. “I… know.”
“I j-just,” he half-sobbed, the trail of his tears streaking down his face. “I don’t un-understand.”
Nae hugged him tightly, his face nestled in the crook of her shoulder. “It’s okay, Veriel.”
“Is M-matthew safe?”
A long silence from her, and the dying elf sobbed again, hacking coughs rising up from his throat and wracking his thin frame. His eyes threatened to close, and he gasped and choked, shuddering.
“Nae,” his voice rises, trembly panic. “I’m sc-scared.”
The Dilemma of Honor: A Treatise on Weakness in Andunor
Forward
This one has not always lived in the Dark. Before her arrival in the trade city of Andunor, known to be beneath the Arelithian Archipelago, her tribe resided in the mountain territory of the Red, Rosephelia. And even before then, before her hatching, they had carved out warrens in desert caverns, eking out their survival where most perished.
She would not name herself as one particularly fond or experienced in the ways of the Above. Her nest-cycles were spent in the extensive tribe warrens, and she was only taken to the Surface a scant few times to teach her about the sky and weather, preparing her for any potential raids.
But those tunnels and caverns hardly qualified enough as Underdark, for what she knows it to truly be. Indeed, when this one first arrived in Andunor to seek out the White-scales, she had no idea the danger that lurked. She was naive and, she would admit it even, trusting, of others.
That is the true dichotomy of the Above and Below.
It is necessary to have that difference between the two, for the survival and strength of their denizens. One cannot survive in the Dark like they can on the Surface. And likewise, while one experienced in the Dark would be able to physically survive Above, societies have much more of a social and communicative sway than most warriors of the Below would be able to handle.
Is it possible to pass through both? Most certainly, though that requires knowledge of the differences between them, as well as the capability to switch one’s representation of their self to match the expectations of others. For some, that is seamless. For others, it will never truly be possible out of virtue of their race, no matter how much they prove themselves.
Indeed, rather, this one has observed that it is far easier to be accepted in the Dark, the home to so many cast out from the Above, than it is to be from the Dark trying to live in the lighted world.
The Original Dichotomy
For those without the fortune to know basic necessary words, dichotomy is defined as the stark contrast between two opposing or otherwise rigidly different things.
Light and Shadow. Fiends and Celestials. Gnomes and Kobolds. Ilythiiri and Elves. Surface and Underdark. All these are known to be opposites, and if one thought long enough about it, they would be able to discuss what exactly marks the differences, if they were able to look past their initial hatred and prejudice.
This is not to say that most prejudice has no place; after all what one finds valuable may be worthless or insulting to another, or vice versa. And those are based in experiences and personal knowledges. There is, however, a truth in what makes one suitable for the Surface versus the Underdark, and it is a product of the types of dangers and societies each hold.
What this one wishes to focus upon in her writings, however, is the qualities that separate the most visibly relevant. The Surface and the Underdark, or rather the Surface and Andunor, as how she has seen it told, are portrayed as opposing forces in a war of their own making. For the most part. Within this, she speaks only of the larger island of Arelith and the surroundings, for it is those that she believes directly impact the other side. The Below.
Which, of course, brings her to the dichotomy herself. She imagines some might be able to guess, but she writes not for the quick-witted, but for all that are in need of such lessons.
She would ask her reader, can they name where one should be able to find these traits?
One would call them virtues, suitable for the Lighted Lands.
They would be correct. Such things, quirks of emotion, are very prominent among the humans, the elves, halflings, dwarves, those that follow the Triad, those of the sunshine, those of the Surface.
And, before continuing, she would emphasize that one should also ponder of what traits are found in the Dark.
To Define Honor
Before this one would make her true point of these writings, she will inform of her studies and conclusions about the essence of fact. Her concern is with the matter of honor, and thus, she will start there.
What is honor?
Honor.
Noun.
A place or position that is earned through respect or esteem. Given due to actions, or a history. It is recognized, but not demanded.
Honor.
Noun.
The ability of knowing or doing what is morally right. A code of some sort, often linked with the concept of chivalry.
Now, this one would digress briefly. Can her reader see what is inherently Surface-like about the second definition? She will tell them of course; it is that “morally right” has been included within. And what, she has asked, is morally right? That is something that changes as one passes between Above and Below, even from culture to culture. House to House. Denizen to denizen.
Honor.
Verb.
To regard with respect. Again, it is something earned; that is a privilege and not a right.
Honor.
Verb.
To keep to an obligation. An expectation of fulfillment, agreements, pacts, bindings, unspoken trust to act in a way that is already agreed upon.
Once more, she will point out the surfaceness. To honor an agreement implies some level of trust in the motives of the one doing the honoring. Without geas, without threat, and occasionally, without even profit.
But, despite her own misgivings, and how out of place certain definitions are in certain places, the words exist for a reason. This one is not saying they are wrong or misguided, not at all. Merely that they have their places, and one should not mix the rights of one society with the other.
Had the meanings of honor, all of them, not been so tainted with the weakness inherent in surfacers, this one would use them more to make a point. However, due to recent past, and she would daresay further, meanings and interpretation have been mingled and confused.
The Weakness Inherent
To reference dichotomy once more, this one ponders a simple theory. Are surfacers weaker than those of the Underdark? It is hardly a question, with such a clear answer. Yes, they are. One cannot help but be tempered by the dangers of the Below, and the weak are soon enough culled and used as meat for the strong.
On the Surface, cities are filled with the weak. They are protected and guided, even allowed to lead or given voice. It is not even through remarkable cunning, for this one does not number the wise or smart among the weak, but even a dull-minded and dull-bodied denizen is able to gain a modicum of power through luck.
And why is this? One might ask, but they need only think back to the dichotomy she wrote of before.
Kindness. Mercy. Trust. And once again, it all leads to honor.
Honor! Why, she ponders, do denizens of both continue to crow and preach about such a thing? Honor, honor, all they speak of and dream of and cry about, is this word, this concept that means so much to so many.
It is simple.
Misinterpretation.
That is why this one took care to detail the definitions. A simple fool thinks of the respect they believe they are deserved, and for some reason shrouded, they assume the way to earn that is through being trusted, being known to act with some form of “rightness” in the moral sense.
That is all well enough for the Surface. Such concepts are rooted deep into the cores of their societies, for is that not what they pride themselves on? This one would not blame others for doing what is expected and the most common way to rise up for where they live.
The true problem is when those of the Underdark start to think that is appropriate for them as well.
Trust is not the way of the dark. Mercy is not the way. Favoring the weak over the strong is not the way. And to expect others to act with the surfacer concept of honor is so horribly not the way.
Predictability is not the way.
For that allows the weakness to seep in.
Cultures With Honor
Is honor itself weak?
To answer that, this one would go into the tongues of those that she has known to speak of it.
In this one’s own tongue, the High Form, not the bastardized mangling that the rest of her kin speak until educated, there is the word “throtominarr”, if written phonetically. The definition itself is about respect; to carry on what the bloodline achieved, and improving for the future. Can one see the difference? Earned respect. Lineage.
The ilythiiri, in their cries of “Lolth tlu Malla”, speak of the Spider and praising Its name, but once more, it is out of respect, fear, adoration, and whatever else It has earned with the mastery over that race. The ilythiiri themselves are known far and wide to be treacherous, and if one is so foolish to trust them, they certainly deserve the consequences.
The orcblooded do, in fact, have an understanding of some sort of code or binding in their actions. Their saying “dam ul dam”, or rather, blood for blood, is at the very least an expectation of pain returned for every wound given. They have oathbreakers and thus they have oaths, and those oaths are bound in blood.
But, she would make an important point. That is not to say that orcs are honorable in the definition that would require trust. They would honor an oath solely because of the consequences for doing otherwise. If one expected an orc to keep their word because they trusted them, then, once more, that is their own fault.
Surfacers speak cowardice, as if it is an opposite of being honorable. Something to be scorned.
And yes, for their definitions, that is so.
However, for a goblin, for a kobold, for many many races and tribes and individuals within the Dark, one that does not know how to save their own hide is one that is quickly dead. The cunning know when to flee, and the foolish and predictable do not.
But on the Surface, such cunning is oft rewarded with death anyway.
Reputation
And now, for reputation to come into play. She would admit that the way in how one is perceived is a similarity between Above and Below. But even so, that is how the weakness finds the cracks in one’s common sense, and turns them to act poorly and foolishly.
This one would speak of three examples in the Dark.
There is a warrior. He has walked the city for many years, and gained experience, strength, and allies. When he is attacked, he kills. And when he moves to attack, all in his way fall to his blade. He does not hide his intentions, and he is known to keep his word.
There is a warrior. He slinks through the shadows and gains and loses allies as quickly as the cycles turn. Hardly any know his name, and through this, he rarely makes enemies. He is forgettable. He adjusts his skills and tactics to fit the cycle. He rarely tells the truth, and is cautious about everyone in his path.
There is a warrior. He leads many devoted to him, and he brags about his strength. He demands others keep their word to him, and when they break it, he grows furious and accuses them of being traitors. When he starts fight, it is often that he falls, to be dragged away by his band. His enemies are many, and his allies reluctant.
Can one notice the difference between them?
The first is an honorable warrior, recognized as such on both Surface and the Dark. He fits many definitions of the word, but is not weakened by it. If one tries to abuse his predictability, they find themselves dead, for it is not the honor that makes him strong, but his strength that allows him to be honorable.
The next one is not honorable at all, and yet is alive and thriving. He has adapted to the ways of the Dark with cunning.
The last seeks to be respected, to be honored, and thinks that the way to do so is through trusting others and demanding they be trustworthy. He is blindsided by betrayal, and offended by the concept that one would take advantage of such an open weakness when it is presented.
The Dilemma
Honor is a weakness.
It breeds predictability and expectations that lead to foolish behavior and softening of ideals.
There is a point, however, to this one writing of the first warrior. She will repeat herself.
It is not the honor that makes him strong, but his strength that allows him to be honorable. He, through his own actions and proving of his strength, is able to move past the handicap. And thus, his renown is even more earned, for one can clearly not when such a weakness is no longer a weakness.
The true dilemma, however, is that this warrior is an exceptional one out of hundreds or even thousands of others that are unable to fight past this weakness. And furthermore, these thousands believe that honor is something that will make them strong.
For those that supposedly despise the Surface and all that dwell Above, it is a concerning belief. This one is not even sure that these believers are aware of how this pervasive weakness has taken hold. And even more concerning is that these weakened fools have risen up into positions of “power” over others that have fallen into the same trap of belief.
Hypocrisy is rampant in Andunor.
Pure and utter hypocrisy.
Why is that, in a city with denizens that falsely believe they as a whole are waging a war against the entire Surface, those that claim to hate everything that makes a Sunlander, honor is such a goal? Why is such rage and spurning directed to those that act with cunning and to the best of their nature?
Why is chattel allowed to speak without consequence against their owners? Why are paladins allowed to roam freely and protected? Why does such a thing as mercy without gain exist? Why, why, why, this one asks, and she will ask why again.
Why has the city become so weak?
And why has this weakness been allowed to spread and infect others that arrive new rather than being purged at the first signs?
Will Andunor ever recover?
She would leave one here with that question unanswered.
To Cure A Disease
Honor has no place in the Dark.
Trust has no place in the Dark.
If one wants respect and power, they must prove themselves worthy and strong to be given it.
To feebly bark and whine about not being good enough, only shows more weakness and opens one to ridicule.
To trust, and then be betrayed, is even more a betrayal of one’s own self, for no proper Underdarker should allow themselves to be taken in by pretty words.
If one wishes to be pitied. If one wishes to delude themself. If one wishes to act like a surfacer…
Then they are welcome to live on the Surface.
And they will die.
There is a reason these ones are in Andunor, after all. Despite the covens and clans and warrens in other parts of the Surface, the Archipelago is no place for the beastbloods, the ilythiiri, grey ones, the others that have been cast deep from the Lighted Lands.
These ones are hunted for their hides and riches, to carry on the eternal battle of Above and Below, for the lot of the lives shared is hatred and blood shedding blood shedding blood.
Cull the weakness. Cure the disease. Take one’s rightful place as a denizen of the Dark. Act as befits one’s own race and culture.
And by the Fivefold’s Flame, stop whining about honor.
Five Tips for Running a Circus (Handling a Large Cast of Characters)
Have you ever tried juggling? I have, and I’m terrible at it. To be honest, sometimes writing with a large number of characters can be a lot like juggling. As the author, we need to keep one character’s story moving while keeping all the others in the air, too. This can be really tricky. So how do we do this?
Make each character count. When you are creating your characters, ask yourself how important this character is to the story. If you definitely need them and they are big enough to be named, then make sure you treat him or her like any other important character. Make the character relatable, engaging to the reader, and have an emotional connection. Give them a specific job or purpose to the story.
Take your time introducing new characters. Not only will this help the reader to keep your large cast straight, but it will also help them to forge that all-important emotional connection to the person (or creature or object etc.). Try not to introduce them all at once. It’s overwhelming and doesn’t help your story. If it feels like you have no other way to introduce them, try asking for an outside opinion (Beta readers).
Focus on a few. I’ll come back to this a little in the last point. Basically, make sure that you are still focusing on your major characters and not becoming side-tracked with all the other characters. Also make sure that you are spending the most time with these characters… don’t stay away from them for too long (30-40 pages without one is too much). If you don’t have enough to say with that character, it might be an indication to downgrade them to minor.
Be careful with naming. This is true regardless of the number of characters in your story. I once named a pair of twins Garan and Gwylan (in my long ago high school days) only to realize that they were almost impossible to tell apart. And they needed to be identifiable. Another example was in my current query, I had two groups of djinn: the Candrima and Candrani. I couldn’t even keep them straight, and I wrote them! I ended up cutting the name for the Candrima. But this same principle applies especially here. If your characters’ names are too similar, they will become indistinguishable from one another and only serve to confuse the reader and slow the pace.
Be careful with how many POVs (points of view) you use. While it may seem like a good idea to let every character have their fifteen minutes, it’s not. Too many points of view can be frustrating and confusing to the audience. This is especially true in young adult and younger stories, where publishers often encourage authors to stick to two or fewer major POVs due to the age range of the intended audience. Check into how many are typically acceptable in your genre and age range. And remember, authors like George R. R. Martin can be exceptions to the rules, so learn what is expected so that you are able to decide whether to stick with it or break them with intention.
So there you have it! Five tips for juggling large casts of characters. That being said, how many of you are struggling with this? How many of you are writing many characters in your current work? I’d love to hear about it, so send me an ask or reblog with comments!
To be a gentleman is not merely in the title, but the entire way of life. One can be born among the lowest of the low and still rise to the same prominence as a king or lord. Now, some may have grown up with the lessons of nobility fed to them upon a silver platter until to act as such is as simple as taking a breath, but that should not discourage. Quite the contrary. In the end, all lessons may be taught, and any with the will to seek refinement may learn.
The first lesson of being a gentleman, is, of course, to have a purpose for your life. That is the simplest for those of noble birth; their path was set for them when they were born. With parents and expectations locked into place before they could even walk, it is no wonder that so many chafe at their restraints and run off on adventures or other such freedoms. As I was once told, “Gentlemen do not live in this state of unknown, they have surpassed it and now are making progress towards attaining the life they want”. And in this instance, to have the ability to choose one’s own path and be sure of it, is how a learned gentleman may surpass a raised one. Chaos and uncertainty are not gentlemanly. Purpose and discipline are.
A gentleman must be well-read and informed. A gentleman does not listen only with the intention of waiting long enough until he may voice his own uneducated opinions. He must learn from what he hears, and he must be open to his opinions changing with experience. Untruths spoken through ignorance rarely make an impact, and a gentleman must be prepared to cast aside superficial trivialities. And thus, the second lesson, a gentleman will only partake in a conversation when he is confident in knowledge of the topic discussed.
Presentation, of course, is one of the more important lessons. One might say they do not judge someone by their appearance, but that of course is a lie. A gentleman should understand that there is more to life than a loincloth. He must strive to follow current fashions and seek a high quality in fabric and tailoring. Gold is a small price to pay for a lifetime of pleasant first impressions. And of course, that is only in clothing. A gentleman must walk gracefully; he must not stumble. He will look where he is going, and he will keep his voice and emotions controlled. A child will yell and run headlong into someone else. A gentleman shall not.
Do not say you will do something if you cannot carry it out. A gentleman must be one to put trust in. A gentleman should not put emphasis on what he intends to do, but instead allow his actions speak for themselves. He must be confident in his ability to carry something out, but that confidence should never turn to arrogance, for confidence should be backed up by his actual ability to do so. Pride begets arrogance. Self-truth leads to confidence.
A gentleman will always be punctual. He understands that the time of others is valuable. If he cannot be expected to represent that value, then how will anyone else respect that of his? To return to the first lesson, to be on time is one such proof of a gentleman in control of his own life. He will live by it.
To master the art of conversation. A gentleman must be able to speak with others pleasantly without faltering. It does not matter to whom he speaks, he must be able to match their level of formality with ease. And of course, a gentleman must remember that a conversation requires multiple sides to be worth anything. If he is the only one speaking, why, then, must there be another person at all? He must inquire after his speaking partner and allow them time to speak. And when he does learn about those he speaks with, he must remember this information, else when it comes up in the future, he will be marked as one that truly does not care for others.
Never, never, lose yourself to drink. To be gentlemanly and courteous, one may imbibe on occasion, but he must never drink to excess, and he must never lose control of his own actions. To say “but I was drunk” as an excuse to misbehavior, is a sure sign of loss of purpose, lack of control, and childish impulses. This is not to say a gentleman can never enjoy himself, but he may do so without making a fool of himself.
A gentleman must learn how to communicate. Now, this is different from mere conversation and small talk; a gentleman must learn to say what needs being said, in both romance and business. He must be able to engage in difficult subjects, and indeed, even start them if the other party is unwilling to do so. He must be open about his or their struggles, and he must be able to react with empathy, but not stand down if he is to be overwhelmed. He will not embarrass himself or others by airing out unpleasant topics loudly in public, and when he invites someone to discuss these matters, he will be courteous and offer proper hospitality.
To be a gentleman is extraordinary, not merely because of the way he acts, but, again, his very purpose in life. So many will give up on their dreams or seek a compromise that is always less than what they deserve, but a gentleman shall never do the same. He will always strive for these goals, but he shall never sacrifice his ideals for such. There is always a way that will fall in line with his morals, and all he needs is to simply work harder.
How many times can one expect compliments? From a gentleman, it should be many. Be generous with praise; be generous with compliments. An insult may always be remembered, but I personally would not agree with the quote of “all attention is good attention”. Be remembered as the one to never have a bad word for anyone, and in turn, they shall never have a bad word about you.
A gentleman should strive to be in good health and to be clean. If he is covered in filth; if his armor is rusted; if his shoes are falling apart, that is more than mere lack of fashion. To allow your clothing to tatter is a message that you do not care for yourself at the most basic level. No one will wish to stand near someone that makes their lip curl with revulsion. If he is dirty, if his hair is unwashed, if he smells, he will be someone that others avoid. He must not lounge around in a room all day; a sign of being well-informed is of also knowing the area.
One should be willing to help those who are willing to be helped. A gentleman should not offer unsolicited advice, and he should not advise those who are unwilling to act upon it. Someone who seeks help multiple times but is unwilling to act upon it is not someone who truly wishes to fix their own problems, they will wish for you to fix the problems for them. A gentleman must be charitable, but he must also to be truthful to himself and to others.
He must be aware of the small details. If his companion is cold, he may offer them his cloak, or, if he is arcanely inclined, a spell to stave off the chill. If he remembers his business partner is fond of a certain wine or a certain dish, he would do well to serve it to them. His handshake is firm, it does not linger. He does not shy from physical contact. He will look someone in the eye. If he will deal with those of a different native language or culture than his own, he will begin to learn it. He will judge interactions fairly and give others a chance to prove themselves.
If one does not allow themselves to be discouraged, with enough practice, following these lessons shall too, become as simple as breathing. A gentleman may be born, or he may be finely crafted. I would not say it is easy, for no great life change is, but it is certainly possible.
“My name is Bucket,” the man said to the dead tree, standing before it with his feet apart and arms crossed. “And I want to be a Dog of War.”
Almost immediately he groaned, turning away and covering his face with both hands. The tree remained unmoving and non-judgmental, but the man could almost feel it scoffing at him behind his back. He stayed there for a moment, curled over on himself, before straightening and turning around once more. This time, he clasped his hands in front, shoulders slightly hunched, almost bowing his head to the tree.
“My name is Bucket,” Bucket said again, offering the tree a wavering smile. “I heard about the Dogs of War and I’d like to join yo- No!” His face screwed up in disgust, and he shook off the pose, waving his arms above his head in frustration. “Fuck. Shit. None of that is right!”
The tree, as usual, did not react.
“Is it the name? Hi, my name is… shit, what’s a better name?”
The man started to pace, walking around the tree with a hand jammed in his pocket. “How do you even name things anyway? Wait, no, Bucket works. It’s a good name. My name. Shit, shit, Bucket sucks-” He stopped, shaking a fist at the sky. “THANKS FOR NUTHIN’ MA,” and continued pacing in a circle.
Bucket nearly fell over as he rounded the tree another time and noticed a hooded figure in the distance, crouching on a boulder. They stared at him, unmoving, face lost in the shadow of their hood. Lifting a hand, Bucket waved at them.
“Uh, morning!” the man called, waving a tentative hand at the figure. “How’re ya doing? I didn’t, uh, notice you there.” He left the tree finally, walking towards the boulder with a wide smile. “That’s a rather nice rock ya got. Are you comfortable like that? Your balance must be gre-”
He cut off rather abruptly as the figure growled, the guttural sound shocking from so small a frame. The wise thing to was stop walking forward, so Bucket did so, hands out in front of him.
“Sorry,” he said, his smile fading. “I don’t want to take your rock.” The man could see now that the figure seemed to be a little girl, little patches of blue scales speckling across her face and down her otherwise dirt-caked arms. “Shit- are you a Radian? What’s your name? I’m Bucket.”
The girl shifted forward, dropping down from the boulder and landing in another crouch. Her head tilted quizzically up at him, and she snapped her teeth at him, sharp fangs clacking together.
“Alright, uh, no name it is.” Bucket kept his hands out in front of him, taking a slow step back. “Do you live around here?” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Are you a Fallen Radian? Can you even understand me- shit if you’re Fallen, you’re gonna kill me, right? I mean, not that I want you to or anything.”
The girl blinked, closing her mouth. She stood, head still tilted, and carefully sidestepped towards the man, hands reaching out to pluck at his clothing, lifting the bits of his ragged scarf, coat, the flap of his bag, the handle of his knife- Bucket realized that last one a bit too late, as she yanked the knife from the sheath before skittering back quickly.
“He- HEY!” he said, after failing to grab at the blade. “That’s mine!”
The girl’s only answer was to bare her teeth at him, corners of her mouth upturned. A harsh sound came from her throat, much like a growling cough, and to his chagrin, Bucket realized she was laughing. He heaved a deep sigh, hands going to his hips.
“I need that, no name,” the man said, resisting the urge to laugh at himself along with the girl. “You can’t just steal weapons from people!”
With a final harsh chuckle, she proffered the knife back to him, holding it by the blade. Bucket carefully reached for it, taking the knife and slipping it back into the sheath at his side. “Thank you,” he said, lifting his chin. “You’re very nice.”
A snort from the girl, and she pointed to Bucket, then away from him, towards the distant cement and rusted-metal walls of Broken Falls. Her head tilted in an unspoken question. Bucket, being unsure of what anyone was thinking at any time even when they said it out loud, had no idea what that question was.
“Yeah, it’s also a nice place,” he said, taking a wild guess.
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she pointed again, gesturing more violently this time.
“I mean, you’re probably nicer than it is, like there’s gangers all around and it’s sorta dirty- well, you’re sorta dirty too but like the streets are literally made of dirt-”
Bucket’s ramble was cut off by the girl grabbing his hand and yanking him in the direction of Broken Falls. Surprised by her strength, he had no choice but to be tugged along, giving the dead tree a final despairing glance before he left it for good.
“I guess we’re going back to Broken Falls,” the man said amiably, striding on after her. “Well, back for me, I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but you seem like you know the place well enough, and I still don’t know your name- or if you can even talk.”
The girl only stared forward as he talked, her grip never slacking on his hand as she continued tugging him towards the town.
“Well, I mean I already told you I’m Bucket,” he continued. “And I live in Broken Falls! Sort of. Just got there a week ago, and I’ve been shacking up with Ricker coz he’s sweet on my sister. I mean, he was. She told me about him when she came home to Brikabrak, and I guess he still likes her coz he didn’t think about it at all to let me stay there. He’s nice enough, I guess, if you enjoy smelling gasoline and grease. And I mean, I sorta do. Feels like home.”
The only response he got was a short glance as the girl heaved a deep sigh and trotted faster towards the settlement. That was enough, of course, for the man to continue.
“So, what’s it like being a Radian? Were you born that way? Or too much radiation? Ma always said, ‘keep out of radiation or you’ll grow twelve arms’, but you only have two arms, do you. Do the scales hurt? Or itch? Can scales itch? I wouldn’t mind having horns or something like that, as long as it looked cool enough. Or if it were symmetrical. But I guess there’s not really many Radians who look good, no offense, except I did see one who had all sorts of pretty-colored feathers, now that was beautiful. I think she was part of the Roses-”
The girl growled at that, and Bucket nodded in, what he hoped, agreement.
“Right, right, I’m sorry, I guess I’m being insensitive, we don’t have to talk about Radians anymore- well, I don’t have to, you still aren’t saying anything, so I guess you can’t. I mean, I heard of some Radians who are telepathic, and you could be saying all sorts of things, but just, y’know, in your head. Shit- sorry again, no more Radian talk. Do you know about the Dogs of War? They’re so cool, this huge ol’ band of mercenaries, like I know Broken Falls is protected by the Broken Army- sorta a weird name coz that implies they’re split up, but anyway, the Dogs of War all have the names of these types of dogs and they’re as elite as it gets.” Bucket paused to catch his breath, raising his free hand to wipe trickles sweat off his brow. “I’ve been wanting to join them for ages, I mean, not ages, but ever since I got here. I got a meeting with Mama Bitch today- that’s their leader, and I really hope I can impress her enough.”
They were closer to the gates of the town now. The girl slowed and let go of Bucket’s hand, glancing up at him again but not halting.
“I just really want to do good in the world, y’know? And, I mean, get paid for it of course. I could always work for Ricker, but I’ve never been really good with cars or whatever. Just sorta end up on fire around me. And I’m a good shot with a gun I think, not that I have one on me right now, that’s illegal in town. Army rules and I don’t got a license yet so I figured I’d just keep it at home until the Dogs take me in and I can afford to carry one around. Anyway-”
As they neared the towering metal and wooden gates of Broken Falls, Bucket noticed the smaller door set into the wall was already open. A woman stood there, arms crossed over her armored chest. She seemed to be waiting for them, a foot tapping impatiently. The girl stopped in front of the woman, showing sharp teeth at her in a feral grin.
“Oh, is this one yours?” Bucket said with a smile, holding his hand out to the woman. “Hi! I’m Bucket. She found me out in the wasteland. Doesn’t seem to have naaame- oh shit you’re a Dog of War!”
The woman had extended a hand to his, the movement revealing the sigil of a snarling dog on her breastplate. She raised an eyebrow at his reaction, pausing just before touching his hand. “Is that a problem?”
“No, no, not at all!” Bucket grabbed her hand, vigorously shaking it. “An honor to meet you! My name’s Bucke- fuck, I mean I already told you that, uh, hi!”
“Hi,” the woman said, finally extricating her hand from his. “The name’s Hound. Thanks for finding our Puppy.” She reached forward to pat the little girl on her hooded head.
“Oh, it’s perfectly fine!” Bucket placed his hands on his hips. “She found me actually! I was just out there talking to a tr-” Wait, he couldn’t say that. “-trader. He’s long gone though. Scarpered when he saw a Radian. Sucks that so many aren’t as understanding as us, right?” He hoped his smile wasn’t too wide.
Hound gave the faintest pause. “…Right. Alright, then. Inside, Puppy.” She stepped back from the door, so the girl could move into the settlement. “You live here, right?”
“That I sure do!” Bucket pointed through the door. “I’m right at Ricker’s Wreck. Been helping him out some.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The woman moved through the door, holding it open so Bucket could follow her inside. Without another word, she let the door go behind him, and headed off down the street after Puppy.
Bucket danced in place, hands on his face as he realized what had just happened. “She totally thinks I’m amazing!” He stopped dead, looking around the main street of Broken Falls. “Shit, shit, what if this is it? Mama Bitch has no choice but to let me in now! Fuck, I gotta get ready!”
Half-skipping as he went, Bucket headed on down the road, deeper into the town.
The journal was a fine one, with a leather cover, all engraved and set with faux gold around the corners. The cup was simpler, a wooden vessel with teeth marks and lipstick stains and a faint scar on the bottom where it had been set down a countless number of times.
They sat together, as they were accustomed to, on their owner’s writing desk. The journal’s pages were full today, ink nearly bleeding through to stain the ones beyond. The cup was similarly full, with wine half-drunk and warm with age. Between the two was the snoozing head of their owner.
“What has she written today?” the cup whispered over to the journal, keeping its voice low, though it wasn’t sure the human could even hear them if awake. “Did she continue her story?”
The journal was disappointed. “She was upset. Ripped pages out of me before writing today. This is different.”
The cup rocked in sympathy. It couldn’t imagine how that must have felt, but it rocked anyway to help the journal feel better. “What’s the new writing?”
A pause from the journal. “-hate it all forever. I don’t want to do this anymore. Just end everything-”
“That’s enough!” the cup said sharply, regretting asking.
“-please.” The journal stopped. “Sorry.”
“I wish she wouldn’t worry so much.” The cup rocked again. “We’re here for her.”
A grumble from the journal. “I don’t think she realizes that.” Its pages fluttered. “We’re not human.”
There was a long pause from the cup, before- “Love doesn’t have to be human.”
“Love?” A journal page fluttered again. “What do you mean, love?”
“Don’t you love her too?”
“I care for her, and I want the best for her, but I don’t think that’s love.” The journal paused. “She writes a lot about love.”
“What does she write?” The cup was eager now.
The journal hesitated. “I don’t know if I should say, she never seems happy when she writes about love.”
“But isn’t love wonderful and amazing and magical?”
“I don’t know,” the journal sighed. “It doesn’t seem like it.”
“Well, I won’t know if I don’t hear.”
A few pages turned. “Dear Diary. I was almost going to do it. I saw Olivia at the office today, and we were chatting about the party on Saturday. She mentioned she usually takes the train home early to get dinner and I was going to suggest we get dinner together, but- I don’t know, Diary. I choked up. And Joseph walked up then, and started talking to her and everyone knows they have probably have a thing for each other, and shit, Diary, it just hurts. I really want to ask her out and I’d love to be her girlfriend, but AGHHHH.”
“Huh,” the cup sounded confused. “But she only wrote love once.”
“One does not have to say the word itself to talk about love,” the journal chuckled bleakly. “She wants to love, but she’s too scared to.”
The cup rocked. “But, but, today is Saturday! Isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“And she’s not going to the party? For her chance at love?”
“Ahh…” the journal said as its only answer.
“Can you write something? Tell her to go?”
There was silence.
The cup quivered. “Can’t you?”
“Ahh…” the journal said again, quieter. “That would only worry her, and we cannot let her know about us.”
Rocking more urgently now, the cup inched towards the edge of the desk. “We can’t just let her sleep through the party!”
“Stop that,” the journal’s voice was sharp. “We must let her be.”
“No!”
And with a final rock, the cup tipped over the edge of the desk and broke, letting wine spill over the wooden floor.
The sleeping figure at the desk jolted awake, blinking blearily. She looked down at the puddle of wine, and up at the clock on the wall, steadily ticking away. With eyes widened and a muttered oath, she stood and picked up the cup pieces, dropping them carelessly next to the journal before grabbing a towel from her bed to cover the wine puddle.
As she rushed for the door, she was already dialing a number on her phone, raising the device to her ear. “…Hey, Olivia? You’re going to be at the party tonight righ-”
The door swung shut.
In wine-soaked shards upon the desk, the cup was happy.
We all are, in a way. From the very freshest bright-eyed adventurer to those grizzled old hands in the corner of every tavern; all who come here gamble one way or another. Life is a gamble, sometimes with no stake but for the breath in your lungs. As stakes go, it's not minuscule. But I know many who continue to seek better and higher stakes; confident that the more they risk, the more the reward will be.
I remember the day the dice first spoke to me. I had spoken to them many times; rolled with them and won with them and lost with them. But never before had I thrown them for any purpose other than a game of chance and luck. Such a thing hadn't occurred to me; why would it? It was nothing but a game to me.
“You are a gambler,” he said to me that evening.
It was at my usual table in my usual tavern. Most left me alone, 'cept for when they had a group for a game or wanted to shake me down for debts, but I was taken aback by this hooded stranger approaching me. At first, I thought he was a debt collector, but even in that short a phrase, I realized that no hired thug could have that fair a voice or as noble bearing.
He lifted a leather pouch from his side to drop it on the table.
I listened, but they weren't coins. In my years of playing the tables, I knew what a bag of coins sounded like; heavy and bright and ringing. This bag clacked and rattled like ivory, but there was… something more to it. To them. The dice. I knew they were dice, they had to be. Even just by pure logic, why come to a gambler's table with a bag of not-coin and have it been anything but dice? But there was something else I could hear from them.
I'm at a loss for words to describe the melody they sang, but I knew at that moment it was the most perfect song I had ever heard. Even if I tried my very hardest, there would be no way to match it or record it by ink and quill. I just sat there and listened and wondered how this marvel had ever come this close to falling in my lap.
“You hear them,” he said. It was not a question, but I nodded anyway. Even from the shadows of his hood, I could see his lips curve up in a smile and a crystalline glint of his eyes. “Good. They are yours.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, rising from my chair and reaching for his cloak as he moved to turn away. “Who are you? What is this song? Why are you giving them to me?”
He paused. The smile faded. I felt guilty immediately, pulling back my hand but refusing to sit.
“They were carved to be yours,” he said finally. “I merely had to carry them to you.”
I was left alone then, staring at the bag and wondering what in all the realms had just happened. The song had faded some, with only a few rising notes tugging at my conscience. I swept it up then, stuffing the dice into my shirt and leaving the tavern in a rush. I didn’t want to look at them yet. I didn’t want anyone else to see what I had. The song was for me, and me alone.
But it was not so.
“I heard you were a fatecaster,” the woman said at my door the next morning. I recognized her from markets; though had no idea what she was talking about. “Please, could you help me?”
I nearly shut the door in her face, but the glint of gold in her hands and the song tugging ever-more-powerfully at me, made me stop. So, I stepped back and let her into my home, and we sat at my table. The pouch already sat there, though I had no memory of taking it out. But I reached into it and paused, the song spurring a question from my lips.
“How many dice?” I asked.
She lifted her hand, placing three gold pieces on the table. “Three.”
Only sheer force of will kept my eyes from bulging at the amount laying there- she must have saved it for months upon months. But I swallowed, nodded, and drew forth three dice hidden within my fist. And, tilting my hand, I cast the dice.
They were different colored stones, with unfamiliar symbols carved into them. Garnet. Amethyst. Topaz. I stared at them for a moment before glancing back up to her face, hopeful and fearing all at once. Three notes tugged at me. I swallowed, knowing what I had to say; unsure of even how I did and uncertain of whether I really wanted to tell her.
"War is coming," I said finally. "Not to all- just conflicts within your home and with your kin. It will end in bloodshed, but it can be diverted if-” I looked at the dice again. “-if necessary humility is given.”
Her jaw tightened, and I could see something battling within her. She swallowed, producing a fourth gold piece. "Another."
I nodded, reaching into the pouch again and pulling out the first die I felt, a discordant note still harmonizing with the rest that settled when I placed it carefully on the table. This one was not to be rolled; its melody sang. The side did not matter when the outcome was the same.
The pale marble die. Doom.
“War is coming,” I repeated, still unsure why. It felt right. “It will end badly.”
The woman let out a sigh, her frame sagging in the chair as she looked old, so very old. “No more will be cast?”
“…If I did, I don’t think they would read right for you.” I placed a hand over the colored cubes as if to free us from their spell. “W-who told you about me? Being a fatecaster.” I scooped them up to drop back in the bag, and the song felt suddenly quiet.
"Another one; a woman who reads the water. She said she could not help me, but a dicecaster could."
I blinked. “Oh.”
A fatecaster. Those who spoke to destiny through wood or water or stone or wind; whatever their medium was. I had been sure that they were hoaxes, but the song was there as clear as I could hear it. Unless I had been fooled by that man. But, looking at the gold on the table… even if were a hoax, this would last me some time without the need for gambling.
I cleared my throat. “Well, ah, I hope that was helpful. To you.”
Her voice was hoarse. “Thank you.” Saying no more, the woman stood and rushed out of my home, leaving the door clattering in its frame.
I stared at the gold again.
I'm a gambler by nature. But this was a game with stakes of a whole other level. Even the smallest child knows those who run from the Maid of Misfortune walk with her by their side. And those who take risks are smiled upon by the Lady. I could gamble with fate; the fate of others. Was it worth gambling with? Was it not better to have no idea of what the future held?
But when speaking of fate, I knew I had some role to play in it all.
It doesn’t have to be. A mask can have many layers. Sometimes it has several purposes. Or there are several for different purposes. Each has its own level of importance. Sometimes the mask isn’t even meant to hide anything, but exists as a message. Or maybe the mask saves lives. A life. It could be that the mask isn’t even needed, and yet it still lingers.
Sometimes the mask is all that’s left.
She reached for her own mask, but hesitated before ashen fingers grazed the edge of the beaten platinum. It wasn’t even the mask she had started with, but there was something comforting in the molded emotionless features. Put on the mask, and nothing else mattered. None of that weakness or fear or loss. Just that blank face and the way the world just passed her by.
The metal felt cold on her skin, but the sensation was only noticed in a detached way. Like everything had been muffled, or just barely touched her senses before drifting away. Whatever expression she made at that realization didn’t matter. The mask remained neutral and serene, only the brief half-lidding of her eyes before they flicked over to the door.
A knock came, not unexpectedly. It was near impossible to traverse the ship without a creak of floorboards, and that creaking had paused outside her quarters some moments ago. In a rustle of cloth, she pulled her hood up and ensured the mask was fixed in place before crossing in a single stride to pull the door open.
“Yes?”
The man waiting there spoke briefly, his eyes darting past her before fixing on the mask. She nodded once and leaned over to grasp the quarterstaff from where it leaned in the corner of her quarter. As soon as her gauntlets touched the rune-etched wood, the ends flickered to life with a sparking electric hum.
He led her down the hall and up the ladder to come onto the sunlit ship’s deck. Even after all this time, she twitched and shrunk back with squinting eyes and a threatened headache. It passed soon enough, and she was able to make her way to the railing.
The man gestured out to the horizon to the set of sails. Only one ship, he explained. Not large. Not much of a threat. She shrugged and nodded again. If it came to battle, they were always ready. The mask cared not.
Staff in hand, she crossed to the mainmast to take refuge in the single shadow. Time could pass quickly for her, she had realized, allowing her mind to go to that elsewhere place as it always did. Take refuge elsewhere and when she came back, time had moved on and the ship- the ship was very close now.
The mask lifted, realizing her name had been called. An affirmation was uttered before she planting her staff on the deck and looked to the other ship. Who had struck first? She realized that it didn’t really matter to her. Not that much.
A single quiet breath in, and she broke into a run. A single leap with her foot pushing off the rail, and she was on the other ship, rolling to break her fall and lashing out with quarterstaff in hand before the other crew had time to react. Her staff hardly did more than daze and distract as she delivered a flurry of strikes too quick to see.
By the time her foes had recovered, she had fallen into a defensive stance, staff at the ready. Watching. Waiting.
One swung at her, and in a flash, her staff parried the blow and dealt a single crippling strike to the stomach. More swords flashed, seeking to strike past that harrying blinding staff. And yet, where the staff couldn’t defend, she dodged and wove, her own nimbleness leading her in a defensive dance.
Some blades struck, but the mask didn’t allow for anything more but the faintest hiss of pain to escape from between her teeth. The rest were unable to even come close to the agile monk, as she patiently waited for her foes to leave openings for her strikes.
The battle had ended all too quickly, in a surrender, and she felt a flash of disappointment breaking through. But with a spin of her staff and shake of the head, the mask quashed that down. Patience. Patience and discipline were required, and though the enemies in her wake were only a mere fraction of the defeated ship, they were still hers.
But even so, the battle was over.
As the monk trudged back to the rail, she paused and looked out over the horizon. Days more before another battle, she expected. It was almost peaceful.
The door spins lazily with that little mosquito-whine sound only audible when no one is around to draw the ear with their clattering footsteps on linoleum. Slightly louder, a brushing constant, is the schuff schuff of the bottom of the door, that little brush part that no one can remember the name of but looks like the baleen of a whale. The door baleen collects dirt and dust to hold until the friction of the floor finally pulls them under and smudges into inconsequential smears.
You stand just outside the revolving door, close enough that the sensors pick up your approach and set the door spinning again. A single muddy boot print lies dark on one side of the entrance, but grows fainter with every spin, wiped away by the door. You recognize that boot print. And the boot it belongs to.
The faint thumping in your ears could be from the faraway music you dread to near, or your own heart, frantically trying to escape your chest. You raise your hand to press it against your collarbone, as if that is enough to calm your breathing and banish the sticky sweat from your spine and armpits.
“I got this,” you mutter to yourself, a mantra that had never worked in the past, but surely has to start now. “I have got this.”
Einleitung, oder Sonnenaufgang swells as you move your foot to lift it towards the opening of the door, every shift of your weight punctuated with a beat of the timpani. The triumphant fanfare crescendos! and then dies down into a pathetic squalling weep as you rock back and put your foot down again.
“I have not got this,” you confess to no one, turning away. Your shoulders fold forward, sending you into a familiar comforting hunch, a turtle shell against the world. “Why- why am I even here?”
Luckily, none of the people you are trying to avoid are around to hear you talking to yourself, or you’d never live it down. They’re already inside, safe from the anxieties plaguing you by the very virtue of just being better than you in every way. They made that perfectly clear ten years ago, in this same building.
A different time, then, but you doubt the people are so different. What could change in a decade? Only that you carry more cash in your wallet to be swiped, and the marks of a pencil jabbed into your side could just as easily be cutting words. Or worse, to be totally ignored.
You can just imagine it now. Ew, who the hell are you? This is a class reunion, only the class of 2010 is allowed. Alex? Did we even have an Alex in our class?
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. You could go in, realize absolutely no one remembered you, and then leave. Then you could order a pizza and curl up with your dog, a book, and drink some of that new jasmine tea you had just brought home from work.
“Why the hell didn’t I choose that in the first place?”
Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.
“In. Out. And leave.”
Or leave now.
The drifting music feels slower now, probably something romantic. That wasn’t good. If you went in now, they’d definitely notice you. Or maybe they’d be too busy eating each other’s faces in the corners that they wouldn’t care. Wasn’t that normally how your parties went? All the stories certainly made it seem so.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh,” you say, just for the hell of it.
You turn back to the door. In the back of your mind, Einleitung, oder Sonnenaufgang is ready and waiting, poised to swell up again and make your entrance rather more dramatic that it really should be. All that timpani.
Maybe that was the problem.
“Overthinking it. I am overthinking.”
With a deep breath, and then another, you finally take a step towards the door. And another, landing you firmly inside the grasp of the revolving entrance.
Then you stop.
The whine of machinery stops as well, as the glass pane comes up against your butt and halts, fortunately not sentient enough to be annoyed at you disrupting its cycle. You are effectively trapped in this prison of anxiety and glass walls, facing the empty hallway of the school. Going fully in is too nerve wracking to face, and yet if you want to go back… another step forward.
“Fuck,” you say helplessly, and then redden, hearing the silent rebuke of teachers that have no idea you’re struggling here. Another breath in. And then, louder, “FUCK.”
That was satisfying.
Your internal fanfare is thankfully silent as you take a step forward and allow the doors to begin their revolution again. The opening is there… and then you pass it by, following the circle back to the beginning. The exit is there… and then you still continue, facing the school entrance once more.
Out of the sense of some sort of self-dignity, you refuse to count how many times you walk in that circle.
But it’s a lot.
Finally, which is a big finally, you exit the revolving door and stand firmly on the squeaky-shiny linoleum. You and this floor were well acquainted in the years past, where if you wanted to stay safe, you didn’t look up to anyone or make eye contact. You also were even more acquainted when you had your face shoved to the floor, but it didn’t benefit anyone to go on reminiscing those times. As often as they could be.
In. Out. Leave.
You had walked all this way, after all. And probably gone the same distance just struggling in deciding whether to go in or not. Besides. People were adults now. They grew up, matured, forgot the little petty bullying and disagreements of high school. It would be fine. You would be fine.
The fanfare tentatively begins once more and you fall into the swell of the brass, allowing a smile to come to your lips as you approach the double doors between you and the music.
Everything will be fine.
Written for Reedsy Contest #61.
https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/61/submissions/36334/
“Write about a character who smells something familiar and is instantly taken back to the first moment they smelled it.“
People smell.
No matter where they come from, what they do for a living, or how much effort they put into it, the odor of human society is a mix of perfumes, cologne, deodorant, eau de whatevers, and even the dreaded BO. Hell, there’s even articles about “why does my lover’s sweat smell so good” for those poor souls who don’t realize that it’s all about sex. Sex is sweaty. Sweat reminds you of sex. Especially the person you tend to sweat and sex with the most.
Go ahead. Look it up.
For my family, scent is everything. From my great-great-(insert a few more greats) grandfather, putting together oils and herbs to mask his daily labors from his wife’s rather more delicate sensibilities to my sister Clara’s “Mix and Make” suburban scent shop, perfume is life. Hygiene is life. Even as toddlers, none of us were allowed out of the house until we were thoroughly bathed (scentless soap to not clash), shampooed (also scentless), deodorized (I bet you can guess what kind), and perfumed. A different scent each day.
You can imagine that my sisters and I grew up slightly neurotic about smells. The slightest whiff of something unpleasant is enough to make us feel green, even today. Even as adults, in an adult world and with adult smells, we try to mask it from our noses in our own little bubble of Dior Hypnotic Poison.
And that was how we could drift along in our little sheltered bubble, in a world we made to smell fresh and clean and perfect. Just as long as you didn’t look too closely, of course.
Now, someone might think to call us snobbish and entitled.
They are absolutely, one hundred percent, completely and totally correct. What sort of family can afford to perfume fucking babies for crying out loud? Really godawfully rich ones, that’s who. Probably the only reason Clara and I weren’t bullied for smelling like a couple of fruitcakes is that the private school we went to was full of other kids as pampered and wacko as we were. None of us had any idea what normal people were like. We didn’t get that until our twenties, and even then we were safely ensconced in a buffer of social events and trust funds.
Boohoo, I’m so rich, poor me.
It wasn’t all like that. Not for me, at least.
Clara was content to coast along on our parents’ money and support. Her shop is “owned” and run by her, with mom’s name on the papers and a joint bank account so they can make sure she’s spending money wisely. Wisely, as in, not doing anything without telling them first.
And the reason I’m sitting here in the back room of a Starbucks, faithfully spritzing my wrists with a three-dollar bottle of Target perfume is that I didn’t want that kind of looming presence. My life is my life, and sure I’ll keep doing the ritual of smells because it’s all I know, but every other part of my day is mine and mine alone.
Emphasis on alone.
I tuck the bottle back into my bag, and smooth the rumples from my green apron. The murmur of voices and sounds of the espresso machine are comforting, as is the ever-present aroma of coffee. Not much can punch through the coffee smell, and with every different type comes a different scent or taste. Sometimes I feel like I can even smell the texture of the beans- especially the ones gone bad or stale. It’s a vicious pleasure of mine to pick those out so they can be banished.
Some people say that every type of coffee smells or tastes the same.
Those people are idiots.
No offense.
I push my way through the door and take up my place behind the register, nodding briefly to my coworker Har- something. Harold? Harry? Harlequin? It’s too late to peer back at his nametag that I’ve been meaning to glance at ever since he was hired a week ago. But awkwardly never using his name in conversation has been working out for me so far.
A line hasn’t formed yet, at least. We’re still a few minutes off from the very earliest of the lunch rush.
I shift my weight from side to side, idly adjusting some cups in their upside-down stacks. I could do something more, like clean a counter or prepare the cup of ice water that I know I’ll need after ten minutes of taking orders, but the cups just felt like they needed attention.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the door swing open.
The practiced smile I had sculpted over many sessions in front of my mirror slides neatly into place as I raise my gaze towards the customer making his way before me. But even before I can process what he looks like, the smell hits me like a resounding smack to the jaw, cutting through the coffee, the woodsy smell of my own hastily dabbed scent, the lingering over-spritzed rose of my manager’s visit an hour ago.
Acrid and tangy, the man’s overpowering scent collects in the back of my throat and sticks there like a glob of burnt tar. It is both sharp and clammy, and I find I can’t even swallow past it. It’s like no sooner does it pass through my nose than it becomes something physical, clogging up my nose and throat and burning up through my eyes.
“Kgh,” is all I can say as I realize I am at the top of my grandma’s porch steps, looking down at the boy with bright blue eyes standing before me.
“Hello,” he says. His smile is tentative and shy and he holds a little wooden box in his hands. “Do you want a gift?”
I purse my lips and wrinkle my nose against the smell. “You smell bad,” I say, with all the candor of youth. “Why would I want a gift from you?”
Instead of growing angry or upset, the boy laughs. “So do you!”
“You take that back!” My fists ball up at my sides, and I stamp my foot. That’ll show him. “I smell like Bergamot and Rose today.”
“How do you know?”
“Mother said so.”
He lifts the box towards me, and my breath catches in my throat as the acrid smell grows stronger. My stomach roils, protesting the thick grossness of the scent. “Won’t you just look?”
I gross my arms and stick my chin up. “Show me, then.”
He slides his hand across the lid of the box and unclasps the shiny brass keeping it shut. With the faintest creak of hidden hinges, the boy opens the box. I lean forward to peer at the glass bottle inside.
“It’s perfume?” Confusion colors my voice. “But why do you smell so bad?”
He shrugs. “Try it.”
I look briefly back to the house. “What’s it called? I might already have it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Tell me!”
He inclines his chin. “Limbo. It’s new.”
That sounds like nothing I had ever used before. Maybe Mother didn’t have it. Maybe even Father didn’t have it, though I knew his collection was vast.
“So why are you giving it to me?”
He shrugs again, a quick up-down of a single shoulder. “You like perfume, don’t you?”
“I love perfume.”
The boy smiles. “That’s why.” He hesitates, his mouth open, and his gaze flickers beyond me to the opening door of the house.
“What are you doing?” My sister says. She comes out onto the porch with her nails newly painted green and in an identical dress to mine. Her face screws up as she catches the same smell as I had. “What is that?”
“He’s offering me a gift,” I say. I’m not bragging at all, of course.
Not much, at least.
“Both of you, if you’d like,” the boy says, stealing all of my thunder.
I cross my arms. “Well, then, I don’t want it. You smell bad anyway.”
My sister’s eyes fall on the box and the bottle within. “Perfume?” Without any of my hesitation, she trips lightly down the steps and snatches up the bottle. She sniffs at it and pulls off the cap. Another sniff. “I don’t smell anything.”
“You just have to try it,” the boy says.
She shrugs and spritzes the perfume once on her wrist before raising it to her nose.
I watch, my lips pushing up into a pout. It was supposed to be my gift anyway.
“You don’t even smell bad anymore!” my sister says with wonder. Her eyes lift to the boy’s, delight bursting in her voice. “This is amazing!”
I approach, wrinkling my nose against the boy’s stench. Immediately, my sister frowns at me. “Ugh… you reek.”
Horror sends a shocked gasp from my mouth. “I do not!”
“Yes you do!” She pushes me back. “Go away, smelly!”
Angry tears prick in my eyes and I fling myself back up the stairs and through the door, bawling out, “MOM! MO-OM! Liselle says I smell bad!”
Oh right.
I hadn’t mentioned her yet, had I?
Something had happened that day, flipping my other sister’s sense of smell completely upside-down. All of a sudden, the worst things smelled as sweet as flowers to her. And anything that smelled good to us, was utterly revolting.
It didn’t last too long before my parents couldn’t take it anymore.
Sometimes I really miss-
“-you there? Miss?”
The voice snaps me from my reverie, the smell hitting me all over again. I finally look up, my teeth gritting together, to meet those brilliant blue eyes.
"What can I get for you?"
“A Venti White Chocolate Mocha,” the man says. And he smiles.
Written for Reedsy Contest #61.
https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/61/submissions/36310/
