Here are the character sheets for the cast of “When Your Song is Over and Done.”
One month after the Saviors of Vostel rescued the world from certain devastation, the bard Alain bought a house in a small fishing village called Denmore. It was as far as he could get from Mount Spirag and the site of their last stand.
He was one of the great Saviors, the intrepid band of adventurers who managed to scrawl their names in history by banishing the Betrayer once and for all. But Alain took no great pleasure in his earned bragging rights. He was a performer, yes, but his act was over. The curtain had closed and the stage was swept of roses. There was nothing left to do but live.
No one told him that that would be the hardest part.
Link to the Story
[Tag List and Blog Info under the cut!]
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Apologies for the late post! Life is happening and making everything a bit jumbly.
If you follow the link below (desktop only) it will take you to the full story, where I’ve added the second part to the first. This is how I’ll do it for this page.
The full text is under the cut, as well, for the ease of you lovely mobile users. 💜
PART 2
WC: 980
Genre: Fantasy, Adventure, Drama, #feels
CW: brief mentions of past violence, angst, D&D-typical combat, grief, mention of past death, longing, brief mention of alcohol use, loneliness, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known
Link to the playlist
LINK TO STORY
Link to Part 1
[Part 2:]
Alain didn’t want any pomp and circumstance for himself. Gennon and Kelfir were the only two of the Saviors to enjoy the Victory Tour they took around the country, visiting every capital and collecting laurels from their sovereigns. Lennal had left as soon as the portal closed behind them, locking the Betrayer away once and for all and leaving him at the will of his angered patron. She’d had enough of heroes and kings. All she wanted now, she had said, was to return to her people and heal the damage done by the demons the Betrayer had freed from the dark realms. Gennon had been appointed captain of the guard in the Elven capital of Asho Lenora. Last Alain heard, the man had changed the uniform colors to silver and cobalt, the same shades as his own heraldry. Kelfir, always the odd one, their little sneak thief, volunteered to run the country's largest orphanage. She absolutely refused to accept payment. In her eyes, it was the least she could do.
Every night he told the people of Denmore stories of his fellow Saviors, his friends. For weeks, he filled their nights with fireballs shot from parapets, dragons’ roars and tearing talons, Hill Giants’ clubs clashing against Gennon’s shield, Kelfir’s sharp wit freeing them from bring doomed to prison, and Lennal’s glowing eyes and hands, gifts from her goddess, heralding them through storm after storm. He rarely sang his own praises; whenever someone asked, he told them that he was there for moral support.
What he didn’t say was that one night, when he and Kelfir shared watch duty, she had cried into his shoulder and mourned the family she never had, since the next day she might be killed without ever having had the chance to find one for herself. He didn’t say that one afternoon, after they had lifted the curse from a tiny village on the northern edge of the great forest, Lennal raged and screamed her sorrows in the snowy woods all alone, her divine gift carving gashes into trees, small avalanches hurtling from their branches, because she could not save the only person to die from the affliction. He did not say that he was the one to find her sitting in the snow, her glowing eyes nearly as blinding as the sun shining from the white blanket beneath her, and the one to hold her until she felt whole enough to return to the inn where they had set up shop those few weeks they’d spent hunting for a cure. He did not say that Gennon had looked him in the eye and asked if he was worthy of his mantle, if his family would ever forgive him for leaving them, if the cause they thought they were fighting for was reason enough to risk their lives, especially to save so many people who may not deserve forgiveness. He did not say that Gennon rarely voiced these fears, or that Alain could tell by the set of his shoulders and the way he wouldn’t look them in the eye that he was terrified of moving forward. He could see just as easily that Gennon was the bravest of them all. He did not exaggerate his strength in his songs.
The people of Denmore would not know the true story of their adventure. But they would know a good one, one they could sing to their children after he himself was long gone. It was the least he could do, these days.
To be frank, Alain had never expected to live long enough to have a home again. He'd had a bet going with Gennon: first to bite the dust owed the other twenty gold pieces. Technically, Gennon was the first to die, but Lennal had swiftly snatched his soul back from the Hells. He said it didn't count because he didn’t stay dead. Kelfir backed him up with a sly grin and Lennal had thrown her hands in the air and walked off in a huff. No one ever thanked the healer. And when they did, after all was said and done, she realized she’d never wanted it in the first place. A beating heart is thanks enough, she had told him one night, leaning sideways out of her chair, two bottles of vintage rolling empty on the table before them. Alain regretted not speaking with her more during their shared watches all those years ago. He may never get another chance to see what was under that tree bark shield she put up around herself.
He admired her for returning to her people, though. That was the one thing he couldn’t do. Gennon had a family. They’d moved from their farm to the capital city to live in wealth and prosperity for the first time in their lives. Kelfir had a family of her own, too. The orphans she looked after saw her as their mother, just as Kelfir had seen her own caretakers when she was a lonely child searching for a place to call home. Now she could give them what she never had. She was happy.
Alain had had a family, once upon a time. But he had left, and they had gone, so he’d taken up the lute and tuned his voice and found a new home on the dusty roads stretching across the countryside. Each new inn and tavern was his playground, his workplace, and his haven, for however brief a time. One night, maybe two if he were making good coin, and then he’d be off again, browning his freshly shined boots in the dirt. It was in one of those inns that he’d met the other three, back when they only had a handful of scars between them and eyes that shone with hope for glory. The rest, as his fellow bards say, is history.
Want more original fiction? Take a gander at my original writing tag and my short stories tag!
For writing advice and observations, check out my advice tag.
Want info on my WIPs? Have a look-see at my WIP page!
Do you like the way I put words together? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi! (Link in my blog description!)
Want to be added to my original fiction tag or my WIP tags? Let me know! 😊
The full text is under the cut for the ease of you lovely mobile users. 💜
This part contains two of my absolute favorite scenes!
PART 3
WC: 767
Genre: Fantasy, Adventure, Drama, #feels
CW: brief mentions of past violence, angst, D&D-typical combat, grief, mention of past death, longing, brief mention of alcohol use, loneliness, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known
LINK TO FULL STORY
Link to Part 1
Link to Part 2
[Part 3:]
Alain was tired. Singing and telling stories all evening drained him like nothing else. Not even fending off two bullettes at once had left his bones so heavy. Following his routine was nearly a reflex by now. Wake up, dress, watch the boats depart, say hello to the Mistress, buy breakfast, wait until evening, sing his songs until his throat gave out, then fall into dreams and wait for the sun. There was little variation in his days. Sometimes Lynn, the owner of the tavern, would slide him a cup of hot honey lemon tea after one of his songs. Every few days he’d buy an apple or two and sit on the docks to watch the boats bob in the sea, timing his bites to the lapping waves. Once, a child handed him a piece of blue taffy wrapped in a torn shard of wax paper. It tasted of blueberries.
After a month of living in Denmore, of furnishing his new home and exploring the borders of his new life, he set his lute on a stand in the corner of his bedroom. It only took a few weeks for the dust to dull its scarred shine.
Without his instrument in his hand, Alain didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He sat at the tavern’s corner table and watched his new neighbors smile and laugh after a long day’s work. Some gathered around the fire and toasted to good health and new fortune. Every few nights, the whole tavern would be roused into song, old ones Alain knew by heart. It never felt right to join in. He had no part in their harmony.
So he took his walks. He watched the boats. He ate his breakfasts. He listened to strange songs and leaned his head back against the warm tavern wall. He let the air in his lungs grow thick with silence.
Was this to be his legacy?
The first time someone spoke to him like he hadn’t stared the world’s greatest villain in the face and lived was two months after he had moved in to his new home. Her name was Clarissa. She owned the fruit stand that parked in front of the fountain every third day. She asked him if he liked pears. Alain had never had one before, a fact that she had taken great delight in learning.
“Introducing a Savior of Vostel to pears,” she’d said with a chuckle, “who would have imagined?”
It was the first new thing he’d experienced in a long time.
The feeling lasted until he tossed the core into the sea.
Alain’s dreams were lit by the gentle glow of firelight. He slipped into sleep to sit beside his friends, each of whom he knew were out of reach in the waking world. But here, all sat on the same log and facing the flames to warm their soggy boots, they sang his songs together in one voice, an off-key choir with too much heart to care if they were any good. It was how they fended off the owlbears, Kelfir joked. Gennon, as usual was the loudest. He sang the wrong lyrics every time, making jokes of their enemies and messing up Alain’s careful rhymes in his booming baritone. Their laughter only encouraged him. Lennal tried to harmonize, but her sweet voice was always drowned out by the near shouts of her friends. It didn’t stop her from stealing glances at Kelfir and her ridiculous sit-down dancing. One of these days her boots are going to catch fire and really make her dance.
It’s only when Kelfir stands and pulls at Lennal’s arm that Alain starts to sing louder, grabbing his lute and improvising a melody that lifts Lennal to her feet. Gennon hops over to Alain’s side and leans on him, arms waving like there’s more than one musician to direct. Barefoot and smiling, Lennal takes Kelfir’s hand. She spins her into her arms and they throw their heads back and laugh at the stars.
Alain woke slowly, lips still mumbling the refrain. In the dark of the night, he could barely make out the bumps and whorls on the ceiling. The candle on his bedside table had nearly burned out, its wax dripping onto the wood like tree sap. A chill slid over the leg that stuck out from beneath his blanket. Just beyond the window draped in thick green cloth, the ocean lapped against the docks and shushed the night.
The candle dimmed to darkness. Alain closed his eyes and tried to chase the flame.
Want more original fiction? Take a gander at my original writing tag and my short stories tag!
For writing advice and observations, check out my advice tag.
Want info on my WIPs? Have a look-see at my WIP page!
Do you like the way I put words together? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi! (Link in my blog description!)
Want to be added to my original fiction tag or my WIP tags? Let me know! 😊
Sometimes, as a writer, you know that a certain story won’t be finished for a while. It might be because time gets in the way, or you have things to do that can’t wait as long as prose, or something just isn’t clicking.
In my case, it’s that I know I’m not in the right place to finish it quite yet. And that’s super okay. I’m trusting my writer brain to tell me when it needs a break, and right now it’s telling me to put this one away for a bit.
So, because I’ve been trying to will this story into existence for some time now, I’m going to post a few scenes from the beginning so you can at least see what I’m doing with it. Because I am still so incredibly proud of what I’ve done so far.
This will be a bit sequential, I’ve decided. I’ll do my best to toss out about one scene per week every Monday. These will lead up to about the halfway point in the story. Which means, by my count, there will be about 6 scenes in total.
The nice thing is that they’re all done and edited, so, thanks, past me!
As a bonus, mostly to make up for my wonkyness concerning this story, I will answer any questions you have regarding it!
Process questions, editing questions, plot development questions, character creation/development questions, short story formatting questions, inspiration questions, concept to story questions, structure questions, pacing questions, pretty much anything! Feel free to pick my brain about whatever you’d like!
Thank you all for your patience! Art is a finicky practice sometimes.
[Originals Tag List and Blog Info under the cut:]
Want more original fiction? Take a gander at my original writing tag and my short stories tag!
For writing advice and observations, check out my advice tag.
Want info on my WIPs? Have a look-see at my WIP page!
Do you like the way I put words together? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi! (Link in my blog description!)
Want to be added to my original fiction tag or my WIP tags? Let me know! 😊
the BEST line from your WIP that you can think of off the top of your head. the FIRST one that comes to mind when you think "ah shit that's a good line" (for storyteller saturday!)
Storyteller Saturday!
Putting me on the spot, I see, @writeness!
Uhhhhhhhhhhhh there’s a scene I really really like that comes to mind but the last line will have zero impact without context, so here’s a description that I love.
From WYSiOaD:
He knew no songs of Denmore, of its rows and rows of docks, of its thatched-roof houses all crumpled together in rows along the cobbled streets, of its people, smiling and happy in the wake of near disaster.
Also:
It grounded him in a life he was waiting to take root in.
Actually, most of my favorite lines are my favorite because of context. Hm.
I have at least one “OH DAMN That’s Good” line in every story! If I listed all my favorites from this WIP, I’d just end up posting it early! 😉
I should be done with this monster by the end of the week!
I’m buckling down and doing final edits right now and I’m kind of impressed by myself. Like, writing the thing earlier didn’t seem like a big deal, but reading it over again, I’m occasionally fist-pumping over some of these lines and geeking out over the emotional beats.
There’s one scene in particular that I’m so ridiculously proud of. When it’s up, see if you can guess which one it is. 😉
And the playlist for it is very good, if I do say so myself.
