Just because one of your chicken eggs hatched a fire breathing dragon people think you’re evil. But you’re still just a regular farmer trying to make a living while dealing with an overprotective dragon, heroes that want to kill you and fanatics who want to worship you as the new Demon Lord.
The thing you need to know about all of this, the thing that got me into all this trouble in the first place, is that chickens will sit on anything when they get broody enough. Anything. Duck eggs, goose eggs, turkey eggs, lizard eggs, egg shaped rocks, anything. Chickens aren’t smart. If it looks vaguely like an egg, they’ll plant their feathery arses on it and wait.
I noticed that there was a bigger egg under one of the broody chickens, when I checked. Of course I noticed, it was twice the size of the others. But I have geese. I figured it was a goose egg she’d found and stolen. It was about the right size, and I didn’t take it out to check the colour because that particular chicken gets very protective of her eggs. I’ve already got a scar on one hand from trying to get eggs away from her. I didn’t want a matched set.
That was a decision I regretted the moment I went out to feed the chickens and found a little blue-and-silver dragonet’s head poking out from under a very confused-looking chicken. The poor thing kept shifting around and looking under herself in a bewildered way, like she didn’t know what to do next. This particular chicken is a good mother, and she’s raised clutches of ducks and geese without any trouble – she’s even resigned to some of her children swimming – but this was too much. She didn’t object when I carefully reached in and fished out the little dragon.
It was so tiny, then. It fitted in my hand, with its little head peeking out one side and its tail looping around my wrist. Cute, too, with its big eyes and little snout turned up towards me.
That was when I made my second mistake. I decided to feed it before releasing it. Dragons are innately wild creatures, everyone knows that. They can’t be tamed. People have tried. The eggs are abandoned as soon as they are laid, and the dragonets hatch able to hunt, so they don’t even bond with their mothers. So just feeding it a little shouldn’t have been a big deal. It should have gobbled the meat and fled as soon as I loosened my grip on it and it saw the open sky.
It didn’t. As soon as I’d fed it, it fluttered up to a sunny window ledge and went to sleep. I went about my work, figuring that it’d leave in its own time.
By noon, it was sitting on my boot, squeaking pathetically. I wondered if maybe it was confused by the farmyard – they usually hatch in mountains, if the stories are right – so I took it back to the farmhouse with me and fed it again when I ate, then took some time away from the fences I should have been mending to walk it up to the hills. I found it some nice rocks, with plenty of lizards and beetles and suitable prey for something that size. It pounced on a beetle almost as soon as I put it down, and when I left it was crunching happily.
I hadn’t walked a quarter of the way back before something hit the back of my boot. The little dragon was holding on with all four claws, and when I looked down it squeaked pathetically. If possible, its eyes got even rounder.
Listen, you don’t make it as a farmer if you just let orphaned baby animals die. We hand-raise calves and lambs and ponies, set chickens to sit on abandoned eggs, or put them under the kitchen stove or by a fireplace. You don’t make a success of farming if you don’t value every animal. A good shepherd will spend all night looking for one lost sheep. So despite what was said later, it wasn’t just sentiment that made me sigh and pick up the little thing and carry it back to the farm. I am a good farmer. I don’t let orphaned babies die just because they’re a little work.
A/N: This is an old draft, not necessarily ultra-cannon, call it half-baked
A lone wanderer once set out from the village of Eyelet into the forest of birch trees to the west. The wore a pointed green hat and had a long cloak wrapped around their shoulders. As they walked red embers hopped from their hands and floated away on the wind
"Yes Flame, you may dance again," the wanderer spoke as if talking to a dear friend.
A moment after they had spoke hundreds of embers broke free from their figure and began swirling around them. The embers that were called Flame made intricate patterns in the air behind the wanderer and whispered excitedly in their ear about all the things the two had seen in the village.
Near two hours passed while the wanderer discussed with Flame, though it was mostly chuckled agreement from the wanderers side. The two were then deep in the woods but something caused the wanderer to slow his steps, Flame faded to a smoldering beneath their cloak.
In the middle of the road stood a staff, slightly taller than a man, balanced on its end. The staff stood alone. The wanderer leaned to the side as if to look past the staff and because they were very wise they knew what to look for as they did so.
"Something invisible is just on top of that stick," they mumbled "you may call it a staff if you wish," they continued as Flame whispered in their ear again. Where most would have been frightened this wanderer remained calm for they knew Flame would shield them from anything meaning to harm them. They avoided thinking of the limits to Flame's might and instead took a few careful steps towards the staff.
As they did so they noted again the faintest of a shimmering in the air above the staff and were reassured that whatever the invisible thing was it had not moved. Once within a few steps of the staff the wanderer waved his hand and Flame rose from their cloak to form a ring of embers around their torso so that it was ready. Then the wanderer spoke the Old word for seeing and it tore at their throat and stole their breath for a precious moment. Once the moment had passed however, a figure became visible on top of the staff.
It was a thin figure, hunched over and balancing on the staff. The pad of one of its feet was on the small top of the staff, its other foot was placed on the first. Its entire body was curled in on itself so that it were looking down and it had a large hood that covered its head in full. From many points in its clothing straw stuck out.
The wanderer was shocked with what they saw because even someone as wise as them did not know what this figure was. As the figure remained entirely still worry grew in the wanderer, was it waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting traveler or was it something well-meaning. Flame felt this worry and swirled quicker in its ring around them to offer reassurance. Emboldened, the wanderer spoke to the figure.
"Greetings to you on the stick!" they said, projecting their voice so they were sure to be heard. The figure did not move.
Now with their heart beating quickly in their chest the wanderer stepped forward, sure that could they only view the figures face they would know what it were. Before fully walking underneath the figure they spoke again, hoping to receive an answer so they could stop walking.
"I see you," they said simply. The figure did not move.
The wanderer sucked in a deep breath and moved further towards the figure, looking up towards whatever was hidden under its hood. A face became visible, but the traveler did not recognize what they saw. It had a young face set in a sorrowful expression but where its eyes and eyebrows should have been there was only smooth skin. The wanderer only just managed not to swear as Flame swirled yet quicker around them in response to their panic.
Quickly stepping back the wanderer though of what this figure could be. Not coming up with any good guesses they instead gathered a stick the length of an underarm from the woods and threw it at the staff. As the staff tilted to one side the figure moved for the first time, shifting to stop the tilt before it could fully loose balance and then recentered itself. The way it had moved, like it weighed too little for a human of the same size, reminded the wanderer of figures they had seen before and an idea sprang to their head of what it may be.
"Did you use to be a dancer?" the wanderer asked the figure, the figure moved.
It snapped its head up to point it towards the wanderer, had it had eyes they would have said it looked at them. Before the wanderer could consider what they would say they had called for Flame and it had created a blazing wall of fire between the traveler and the figure. The motion of the figure caused the staff to shift again but this time the figure stepped off of it and fell to the ground, landing softly in a crouch. It looked to the wanderer again, and its posture betrayed a deep sadness.
"Do they not have eyes under the masks? The dancers," the figure winced backwards as the dancers were mentioned. It grabbed the staff which had still been standing, gave the wanderer one last look and moved crouched into the forest where it quickly disapeared.
The wanderer stood quiet for most of a minute before they spoke. "I believe it as alright Flame" they said and the fire died immediately as the embers flew back to circle the wanderers torso again.
"Can you see, child, the way the light is growing amber? The way the bark looks almost flowing in the honeyed light? Can you hear the steps of the little creatures nesting in the branches as the day draws near its end? It is now, while the light is so very golden, that the barrier between is thinnest.
"Old power comes just within reach, whispered from the bark and the root and the rustling leaves. Think not yourself its master, for nobody is, the power flows as it wishes. But guide it nonetheless, aware that it may not follow your tender touch this day as it did the day before."
The crinkled old woman spoke with a thin voice, she was not long for this world. She smiled despite this, for she knew that death is only the end if you think the story is about you. She looked knowingly to the child as they guided a misty golden flow around themselves.
"If you can, always try to hear the narrator, child. The story is all the more beautiful from the outside" she said and looked towards the setting sun. She read the movement of the clouds and the air and knew, that she had three more days to say her goodbyes.
A/N: This is a very old draft, but I figured it might as well get posted, call it half-baked
He drew both his swords, straight blades the length of his forearms made of pale white metal without crossguards. He walked past the corner with his blades relaxed at his sides as if he wasn't currently inside an enemy castle. The corridor was empty, lamps burning on the walls and a carpet underfoot masking his steps somewhat. His eyes fell on a closed wooden door to his left and he did as he had been trained; "follow your hunches, for they are sent by the fates".
Father Ailon walked over to the door, raised his foot and kicked harshly next to the handle. It swung open from the force and revealed a room with a bunk bed on the far side.
'Klonk', something impacted over his heart, stopped by the plate. A man inside with a crossbow. Ailon charged. The man threw his weapon at Ailon and drew a dagger. Ailon knocked it aside with his right hand and ducked to the left, then swiped up and to the right. The other man was moving towards Ailon but was forced to dodge back, hitting the bed. Before the man could recover Ailon chopped harshly back down and to the left, cutting deep into the man's chest. The blade stopped at the man's sternum, from where Ailon ripped it free to the side. As the blade touched blood it exploded into stark white flames. The man fell over, upper body flopping strangely.
Father Ailon looked around the rest of the room. It had two bunk beds, personal chests and a table but was empty of other people. He turned and stalked further down the corridor, the work of the clergy had to be done.
Excerpt from "a basic grasp on Etheria and Tharim"
A/N: This is a very old draft, but I figured it might as well get posted, call it half-baked
Transcribed by brother Esperon of the true fate, originally authored by Sagititrus - the living spear
"
Etheria is the stone foundation on which our realm is built. In Etheria is where every law of being is written, first by the fates as it is where they reside. Originally Etheria was fully inaccessible to mortals, this was until the first wizard king—Zaurin—was blessed by the fates. Which precise fate it was is not known, but whichever it was gave him a door into Etheria. The first ever Tharim. This Tharim was a word, that when held in his mind let a part of him walk within Etheria, and so he did. He tread a path and as he was a wise man he knit new knots in Etheria, as such he changed our realm in turn.
The first wizard king knit powerful and destructive knots in Etheria, and stood unchallenged in power for some time. Eventually however, his Tharim would let him tread no further, and his knots were set tight. He could still walk his path as he pleased, but he was not content with this, having grown accustomed to the freedom of making new knots.
In his desperation he shared his Tharim with his advisor, who was also wise. The first wizard king saw that with only slight guidance this advisor could tread his path just the same as he could, and use his knots without his control. This frightened and frustrated him greatly, he still could not tread further into Etheria and he also began fearing that his advisor would turn on him. In time he grew paranoid.
The fall of the first wizard king is written of elsewhere and shall not be rewritten here, but the creation and tying of the first Tharim need be understood.
More Tharim were given to mortals throughout history, some of which were shared and are in widespread use today. Others were kept secret by their wizards and have as such been lost to time. Others yet are tightly guarded secrets among a select few, these are powerful Tharim and those who know them should be feared. Some Tharim have had those with their knowledge hunted down and executed so as to remove the Tharim from use. As is evident, Tharim carry no small importance.
Those who walk on already tied paths are given the name of mages, such individuals are no rarity but should not be overlooked. One cannot know what Tharim a mage wields and underestimating an opponent may spell one's untimely end.
Those who have tied their own knots in Etheria are called wizards. Some of these carry tied Tharim of their own design. Others carry yet untied Tharim which paths can still be thread further into Etheria. These untied Tharim are seldom shared since anyone who knows an untied Tharim may tie knots into it.
As most know the first Tharim lost its initial power a long time ago, the laughing fate closed that entrance into Etheria in response to the first wizard king's twisted ways. In doing so he enabled warding against other Tharim using the now-blocked Tharim of the first wizard king. The details of this technique are discussed later in this tome.
A loud thud caused Josie to stir from her deep focus, straightening her back for the first time in what must have been hours. She discarded the chisel on her workbench and turned towards the stairs. Soon enough a cloaked man came stumbling down it much faster than his feet were really willing to carry him, he fell onto a nearby chair and looked to Josie. She couldn't help but smile at the reckless joy in his eyes.
"Well? Did you get it?" she asked after a few seconds of the man catching his breath.
"Did I ever? They fully bought it Josie, hold on..." he spoke quickly before reaching into his inner coat-pocket and presenting a piece of paper in her direction.
Josie scoffed and walked over, snatching the paper from his hand before folding it open and reading through it. "A year's funding is herby granted to the ~Institute of Umbral Studies~ by whoever..." she read, emphasizing the title with a posh drawl. "We're an institute now?" she asked bemused.
"He bragged about funding institutes, so yeah" the man responded as if he had been asked why he'd fed a hungry cat. He slung the deep blue coat around the chair and placed the matching tricorn in its seat. "I'll tell Ash!" he added and turned back towards the stairs.
"Maybe the cash'll fix the damn door!"
"The door's fine!" he shouted back, halfway up the stairs already.
Josie turned back towards her work with a smile on her lips.
Once on the floor above, the man —who's name was Pricket— started rushing around trying to find his regular clothes while also searching for the alcohol to get his fake mustache and eyebrows off of his face. He had just found his regular tunic when he heard steps come down the stairs to the upper floor.
Turning around the corner Ash's face split into a gleeful smile upon seeing Pricket still with his disguise. "Why hello there 'Stache!".
"His name is Leopold of Ameralth and he's just returned from meeting with ... 'Patchbeard' or whatever he's called" Pricket said, putting on the creaky voice that belonged to Leopold.
"Old 'Pold isn't one to speak with that horrendous mustache of his though is he? what'd Duke Eftenshield say?" Ash shot back, putting on a voice that Pricket recognized but couldn't place.
"We got it!" Pricket responded in his normal voice, "funding for a year!"
Ash made a gesture towards the ceiling as if he was thanking some god then turned his eyes back towards Pricket with an even wider smile. "Can we get the door fi–"
"The door is FINE" Pricket cut him off, sounding a little past fake annoyed "now help me find the alcohol or you'll be stuck with 'Pold for the rest of the night" he added and Ash helped him find it while the two kept bantering.
Flint grimaced behind his newspaper, this would never have happened in his younger years. He used to inspire awe.
He glanced up from his newspaper. Two kids were standing at the bar. Teenagers, standing out like sore thumbs in their street fashion.
"Who's asking?" he demanded.
The nearest of the two - a boy whose appearance and demeanor eclipsed the girl he was with so completely that it had to be on purpose - treated him to a cocky grin. "They say you're the one to talk to about basilisk parts."
Flint shook his head minutely. "I don't sell to children."
That clearly offended the girl, who was standing a little behind the boy, but the latter gave him an insolent smile. "We're not buying," he said. "Were selling."
Flint couldn't stop his eyebrows from raising. "And how did you come by basilisk parts?"
"Killing a basilisk," the previously silent girl replied flatly.
Flint sucked on his teeth, wondering. There was no way in hell. But he knew their type. Slick and street smart. They had no reason to lie about what they wanted from him. So they probably stole some stuff and needed to get rid of it fast.
"We can keep looking if you're not interested," the boy resumed.
Flint lowered his newspaper. "I'll humour you. What do you need sold?"
"A whole basilisk's worth," the boy said, still smiling.
He snorted. "You couldn't even lift one."
"It-" the boy began, but his companion made an annoyed sound at the back of her throat and stepped forward.
"One basilisk's worth in parts," she said impatiently. "Skin, treated. Fangs, extracted, intact. Tongue, dried. Eyes, preserved. Blood, bottled. Claws, severed at the joint. Feathers, plucked. Heart, preserved. Liver, dried. Musk glands, liquefied." She drew a breath. "We burned the flesh and buried the bones."
Flint stared at her. There were slayers who could also butcher, of course. But most of them nowadays barely knew which parts of a beast were most valuable, let alone in what form they were most sought after. He looked into her young, almost expressionless face. "Not many people around that know how to treat snakeskin and how to conserve organs."
"Well, she did the skin and I did the organs," the boy said brightly. There was a mean sort of amusement in his eyes now, as well as a deep glow of pride. The girl's expression remained neutral to mildly annoyed, except when her gaze crossed that of her companion.
So they were a package deal then, Flint mused. Not professionals - they couldn't be, far too young - but professionally trained nevertheless. What were the odds?
Flint folded his newspaper and pushed it aside. "Sit down," he nodded invitingly at the strange pair. "I can broker for you, but I don't work with people I don't know." He smiled, raising his hand to flag down the barman. And here he thought he was going to have to retire. "So let's get to know each other."
when whitman said “i contradict myself. i am large… i contain multitudes” and wilde said “what are you? to define is to limit” and sumney said “i insist upon my right to be multiple”
and when mahmoud darwish said “I am besieged by contradiction” and when lewis carroll said “I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then”
turnnoffyourmind
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