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[thefourofcups]

SAMPLE: ANOTHER’S ARM

And finally, we’ll top it off with something a little more grounded. This modern crime piece was written as a side project for character-building, and this piece in-particular is one I am happy with. 

ANOTHER’S ARM

As he left the bar, Avery caught himself in the window. Slip-on shoes, slim fit chinos, and a Christmas jumper. He looked ridiculous. But clearly, not ridiculous enough for this fine gentleman to turn him down. To be fair, he’d been a bit more of a challenge than most, and Avery’s pockets were much lighter after their six rounds of drinks. But as they staggered out into the street, he knew it was going to be worth it. From the bruise over his eye, to the stories he’d spun over the last few hours, it was obvious this guy had his fair share of enemies. All the better for him, of course. Jobs like this fetched a prettier price than most, and he was happy to collect. His friend for the evening had a few redeeming qualities, at least. The casual suit and converse combo was something he’d appreciated the moment he’d seen him, and his taste in films was something special. The Road, Reservoir Dogs, and, naturally, The Silence of the Lambs. Thinking on it, Avery almost felt bad about this. And it had been a while since he’d thought about anything. In fact, who was this man, to make him think? What gave him the right? Just like that, the thoughts were gone, and he let the door close behind them, shutting them out in the world. “You got a car?” The man had been speaking since they’d stood from their table, but to Avery, it was the first thing he’d said. “Just round the corner,” he answered. He smiled. He thought he’d like that. He was right. So he kept smiling, and they made their way through a poor excuse for rainfall. Each step seemed to bring this man closer to him, and before long, Avery found another’s arm slung over his shoulder. He thought he should speak now, so he did. “You’re drunk,” he said. All that did was make the man laugh. Avery supposed that was good enough. In the end, this wasn’t going to be the part he’d remember. They walked almost to the end before the suited man tripped over some non-existent obstacle. Avery decided to laugh, and helped him to his feet. They looked each other in the eyes then. A good thing too; he’d almost forgotten what his new friend looked like. It was as good a time for a double-check as any. Fluffy brown hair – check. Brown-green eyes – check. A beard you only expect to see on a fifteen year old – check. Well, that settled it. This was his guy. Silently, Avery said goodbye. He rushed him when more people left the bar. His job wasn’t a spectator sport. They were in the car quickly, then. His new best friend seemed impressed. “Damn,” he groaned, in an adorable attempt to sound enticing. “This is fucking nice, man. Chevrolet?” Avery didn’t answer. Still, he was pleased at least someone liked this thing. His red El Camino didn’t exactly fit with his wealth, and in the end, that was the point. The man must have imagined a reply, because he didn’t shut up. “Yeah, I thought so. I have an eye for that shit.” He seemed content to talk to himself. Avery let him, for however long the journey took. Before then, he was annoyed. Count down from ten, he decided. Just like he always did. Ten, nine eight… …three, two, one. He might have made more than one count, but at least they were here. The suit kept talking, even when Avery pulled him from the car, and the two of them staggered toward a single light in an empty building. Windows were smashed, doors missing, but one room here was his. “We’re almost there, mate,” he cut in, as the suit trailed off from his rant about some show or another. They were in, now. The hard part was over, and his catch took a look around. A red armchair, a red blanket, red walls. “This is pretty fuckin’ dirty, man.” He laughed, and made a sound not dissimilar to a pig. “I can’t wait.” He smiled, and Avery smiled too. “Oh, you’ve got nothing on me,” he replied, and like that his jumper was on the floor. It was cold, but he reckoned it’d be warmer soon. “Your turn.” The jacket came off. The man sat down. Avery didn’t. “How about some music?” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer. The rest was routine. He didn’t even have to listen to him. The conversation played out in his head. “Is that Ted Nugent?” “Yes, it is!” “Is that a tennis racket?” “Yes! IT IS!” The first hit was good – a strong backhand, that sent a flurry of blood and teeth flying. The second came down on his falling head like a guillotine. The third cracked his skull, and then he lost count. The body lay in the same place as many had before, and Avery let the crimson pool around his feet. Disposal was always easiest. A saw and acid from behind the chair, and the hard part was over. Back, forth, back, forth. Each motion brought him closer to escape. And before long, he found another’s arm slung over his shoulder.

[thefourofcups]

SAMPLE: MOSS AND APPLES

Just quickly popping back to fantasy with this fourth sample - a piece of writing I put together for my LARP character Jaromierz, and his introduction to the world of Polish festival LARP ‘Rovnarog’!

MOSS AND APPLES

Daylight had just begun to fall on Aenthil, as the forest came to life, waking anew. The sounds of tweeting birds and howling wolves. The smell of wet grass and animal dung. The sharp chill that hung in the air, its harsh bite coupling with the insistent tug of the wind. Most would have thought it serene – would have, were the landscape not invaded by all things human. A man had lived here. And with the man came people. And with the people came conflict. And with conflict came retaliation. Until here, they were, standing bitter at the foot of a burning lodge, lips twisted in false triumph. A hundred feet away, Jaromierz did the only thing he knew. He hid, and he ran. Singed boots beat against soggy ground, the man’s feet leaving inch-deep hovels in the mud behind him. He was not concerned with leaving a trail. The coming rain would solve that well enough. Besides, he knew, people were a fickle sort – especially those of bluer blood. It wouldn’t be long before they gave up this little hunt and chose an ignorant victory over a conscious defeat. It was somewhere in the middle of that though that Jaromierz counted his five-hundredth step, and came to a halt. It hadn’t taken long – maybe a minute or two at most. So now he stood panting at the foot of a monstrous tree, its body hollowed out by some act of the gods. You’ve bought yourself a rest, he told himself, squeezing past bark and wet moss, and into his dank little haven. His hand darted out right and found the bag with ease. He let out a sigh of relief, sinking down to the ground and resting a hand on his knee. He couldn’t see himself in the light, but he didn’t have to. Jaromierz was a myriad of green and brown, wrapped up in a shroud of black when the day grew cold. Though right now, he imagined brown would be all the eye could see. Brown boots, brown trousers and brown hair, all painted over with a coat of dirt and crimson, courtesy of this morning jog. He brought the fingers of his left hand up to his face. It came away bloody, and soon he found himself thinking of home. It was an odd thing, knowing that not an hour ago, he was stood in a lodge, fire crackling as he skinned a freshly killed deer. What came next… he could only remember that as one might remember a dream. He could only recall the end – stood there, bastard sword in hand, blood falling from the steel and soaking into the floorboards. And before him, two corpses – a man and a woman – the blacks and purples of their garb now entirely dark with open wounds. The man’s throat had been cut clean, catching only the tip of the blade. The woman was tall – taller than the man, even – with calloused fingers typical of her profession. Snares and hunting knives hung from her belt, and continued up to her neck. He hadn’t seen her head. At least, not for very long. She had been blonde, maybe. Or was she brunette, like himself? He didn’t remember, or care. He’d buried them behind the lodge, a good thousand paces or so into the wild. He’d said a prayer. Yes, he remembered trying, at least. He’d never been one for ceremony, even in the company of druids, but he’d imagined the effort was enough. It hadn’t been until today – four days later – that the second group had arrived. Twenty men, or thereabouts, fire in their hands and death in their heads, making their way to the lodge. He’d escaped – barely – and run into the wild, toward his contingency. And now, here he was. The next few hours went like any other. Jaromierz even slept for a moment, visited by dreams of old friends. When he woke, he opened his mouth to speak. “Sora,” he said. It shut quickly. Wiping himself down, he pushed himself to his feet, and into the light. It didn’t take him long to discern it was noon. The sun hid behind grey clouds, but Jaromierz knew it was at its zenith. The rain remained, like an uninvited guest outstaying their welcome, making ripples in a small pond a few paces away. He made his way to the body of water, dunking his hands beneath the surface and scrubbing them clean. He brought them back up to his face, rubbing until he felt the layer of shit and blood peel and melt from his skin. His gaze went downwards just as the ripples settled; meeting the cold green eyes of a young man of… twenty-four? Twenty-five? It had to be the latter. It had been at least four years since… he had to be twenty-five. A beard clung to his jaw – not too long, not like before. Merely thick enough to keep out the bite of winter. His hair fell to the back of his neck, matted with dirt. He ran his hands through it, before scrubbing at his head with animalistic fervour. Flakes of dried mud fell from out of sight, and into the water below. Jaromierz laughed – more of a sharp breath than anything. No matter how many years passed, there was always a boy looking back at him. He washed for what felt like years, before finally standing from the pool. His sword hand rested on the hilt of his weapon, his right carrying the bag. And with that, he set off. West, he decided. Couldn’t hurt to be even further from Laro. From father. That word felt odd to say, even for the voice in his head. Father. It had never had any meaning for him – at least none that mattered. The man who held that title was little more than another old man to Jaromierz. A bitter scribe, designing the life of his son every chance he could get. That was how he remembered him – that was his legacy. A tactician of life, who couldn’t even stop a thirteen year old boy from running into the woods. He hiked for an hour, maybe two, before his thoughts turned to his adolescence. The first three years or so had been difficult. Building a home from nothing, living off of the dregs that the world offered him, all the while making sure that the gods didn’t just kick him off into whichever next life they fancied for him; or worse – Laro. If he closed his eyes and really tried, Jaromierz could see that boy of fourteen, crying himself to sleep in the ruins of an old cabin, wrapped in the shoddily removed skin of a slaughtered dog as the snows slowly buried him. He shrugged to himself. This time will be different, he said. You are not that child any longer. You will recover from this. A squirrel darted down a tree alongside him. His hatchet was through its neck before it made another step. You will survive. He took a bite. The texture made him gag, but he ate regardless. Survive.

The sun was setting when he finally stopped. He sat at the edge of the woods, tent set up, soup boiling, running a whetstone along his blade as it rested in his lap. For a moment, he turned his head right, as though to speak to someone. He stopped halfway through, cursing himself. Why do you think of her? He asked, his mind’s voice growling. Even now? “Sora,” he said, to no-one in particular. He smiled. “Sora.” The name felt bitter on his tongue, like a bad taste that never went away. Suddenly he had a hunger. He peered over the soup as it boiled, filled with roots and a sprinkling of meat. Done, he decided. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out two bowls. He stopped. He put one back. It was then that the wind gave its bellowing reply. Soooooorrrraaaaaaaaa, it howled, its words sending hot coals and embers drifting from the fire, catching the tent before Jaromierz even thought to move. Flames began to grow, licking their way up the canvas as he stomped with what little strength he had left. The blaze was lessened, but persistent, as he pulled his cloak from his back and flung it over the tent, stomping all the while. Slowly, fighting its demise, the light dimmed in the camp, returning to its former warm glow. Alas, it was too late. What was to be his home for the year had just been reduced to black cinders and a couple of twigs, leaving a blanket of canvas laid in the ruin. Jaromierz could feel himself sinking. Slowly, he went to one knee, then two, and then his face found its way down to his hands. His fists clenched, and nails scratched the forehead. He began to bleed. He knelt there for what felt like hours, thinking, trying to summon something, anything; any way out of this disaster. And there she came, invading his mind like a demon. “Jaromierz.” Her voice had been soft that day – more than usual. No formality. No aura of unsettlement. Not even that lilt to her words that made the simplest phrase sound like a threat. There was Sora, and only Sora. She’d carried on, unhindered by his silence. “I… I know… you’ll probably never leave this place… but…” There had been a breath after that – a long one. Jaromierz paused. He didn’t know why he remembered that. “…if you… if you ever find yourself needing to find me, I… I promise you, you will always have a place in my home.” This is your home, he’d wanted to say. But he didn’t. Instead, he did the same as any hunter. He watched. Watched, and waited, as she disappeared into the trees. Rubbing at his eyes, Jaromierz rolled up his things. The soup was emptied, the fire put out, the mug put away. He sheathed his blade and pocketed the whetstone. Peering out for a few hundred metres, he could see the edge. He could see the world. Taking a breath, he stepped forward, and into the open sky.

Seeing the world he’d once been a part of seemed to jog his memory, if only slightly. Setting out on foot, he watched the sun circle him overhead, and continue on to noon. He passed a village, crossed two rivers and a third, before following it north to Askaron. It was there he stopped, yet only for a moment, marvelling at the absurdity of civilisation. Houses alongside one another, with floors one above the other. And the people. Gods, he hadn’t thought he’d see so many in his lifetime, let alone at once. He allowed himself a smile, before he caught himself yawning and moved onward. For such a prolific town for trade, Jaromierz was disappointed to learn that a bundle of squirrels was not ample payment for seemingly any tavern owner. However, one such owner had the kindness to direct him to Dorugh-Dur, telling him of the river to cross, and the trek northwards through the mountains. He gave him a squirrel for his trouble, and went on his way. With each hour that passed him by, he felt his steps grow fainter, felt his eyelids grow heavier. Every second of darkness, sleep beckoned to him, and every second he refused. He didn’t stop walking for two days, where, exhausted, bruised and filthy, the ranger stood at the open gates of Dorugh-Dur. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. He could see the keep, mere minutes away. He breathed, and shook, and gritted his teeth. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. Step, step, step, step. He staggered down the road like a dying man, hitting the foot of the hill and nearly falling. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. The guards saw him long before he reached them. They were saying something he could not hear, but he understood well enough. He was likely quite the sight. He heard one laugh – or choke perhaps. The noise was similar enough. Jaromierz took a deep breath, extending his hand in offering, and called out her name… But they did not listen to his words. They stared at his bare arm, bruised and bloody from travel, with runes tattooed into the digits of his dirty fingers. Without another word, they took him by the arm – soft, like a child – and he was moving. It wasn’t long before they stopped, and one of them spoke out. “Lady Sora,” he began, and Jaromierz took a step, near blind with tiredness. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. A figure stood before him, saying something or another that he wasn’t hearing. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. He moved forward. He could see and hear more of her now. His gaze went upward. Dark boots. Brown trousers. Red tunic. Leather waistcoat- He stopped. Blonde hair… He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. And there she was. Taller than before, was the first thing he noticed. Then came her green eyes, more piercing, more cold than before. Her face, bearing a new, large scar, running from her nose to beneath her neckline. And then, last of all, his mind’s voice spoke, and with it came the largest change of all. He smiled. She’s a woman. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. She moved forward. “Jaromierz…” He swayed, and smiled. “Doe.” He shut his eyes.

[thefourofcups]

SAMPLE: SAVING THE DEAD ONES

In comes the third sample piece. I’m drifting away from fantasy with this one, and instead venturing to dystopian sci-fi. I have to display proficiency in more than one genre, haven’t I?

SAVING THE DEAD ONES 

“I wasn’t always a captain, believe it or not.” Abruptly, he stood, made his way to the drinks cabinet, and poured two whiskeys with a shaking hand. Sighing, he sat, placing the second glass on Sky’s side of the table. She furrowed her brow. She didn’t touch it. Alas, he didn’t seem to care, and continued unhindered. “I remember when I was like you. All through the Program, all through police service – all the way up to seven years ago. I think…” He stopped – took a drink. Swallowing, he finished. “I think we would’ve liked each other. “Because we’d both see the world as we believed it. As we wanted it to be. Idealism – it’s admirable, but it doesn’t survive reality. When you finally step out there…” He waved a hand to the emptiness through the window. “…and that first bullet whizzes past your head, and into someone else’s… then, you understand.” He drank again, then twice. Three times. Feeling goosebumps on her skin, Sky broke the silence. “Understand what?” she asked. He laughed – as though the answer was obvious. He set the glass down, and leaned forward in his chair. “I was a lance corporal,” he said, “when the war took me away. A letter, a hurried goodbye to my family, and off I went. Halfway to Uvillig – alone. No friends for a good few miles, except for one girl. My sergeant. Durvey, was her name. Jessica Durvey.” He went on. “I went there as her corporal,” he told Sky, “and her corporal I remained, until a Druid and his shotgun saw fit to give me a promotion. Blew her head apart, right… right in front of me. Nothing we could do – nobody’s fault. But just like that, there I was. A sergeant, at twenty-three, with the lives of six men and women in my hands. And people came and went to fill the space we had – temporary transfers, mostly. And we got our fair share of characters. But there was this one guy, this… one… person – this one, stupid prick – that I will never forget. Marc. He looked like your friend James, only… think of a James that drinks a shot of whiskey with his cereal in the morning.” He let out a chuckle – more of a hollow breath than anything – his eye regarding Sky with cold precision. “Anyway,” he went on, “loud guy. Always something to say – some comment, some joke. Funny guy, I’ll give him that. He joined our squad about a week after we lost Jess, and we all… carried on, I suppose. “So we get back to patrolling, and every day, we’d move a little further up the road. And every day, we’d be shot at by the same asshole hiding in a bush, half a mile away. And this wasn’t the kind of person to scare me, either. This guy was just frustrating. Always just too far away for us to make a move on him. There was nothing we could do, but sit behind some rocks, fire off a shot or two, wait for the cavalry to come chase him away, and then back out we went; back to fight him the next morning.  And it went on like that for a bit. Me trying to keep my glorified college class alive – Marc favouring the sound of his own voice to the orders I gave him. And we were getting by. Despite him. “…but one day… the main force is at a stand-still, and it’s just us scouting ahead. And we go down the road a ways, and it’s the usual shit. Hoping bullets can’t get through sheet metal – that kind of thing. Only that time… this pathetic vermin… gets himself stuck under a truck. And a shot catches him in the leg. “And he’s crying, swearing to no-one in particular, telling us over and over that we need to help him; practically praying it aloud. And he’s way out in the open; anyone heading towards that truck is a prime target for that prick in the woods. And I tell him to shut up, but he won’t stop screaming. So I make a call.” ‘Melting’ was the only word to describe Drapsmann’s devolution, his expression fading from hardened to pained. Almost grieving. “We lost four men before we got him out,” he said. “Good men – better, men. Friends. People I’d have died for.” “But you saved him?” she cut in, almost too hopefully. The breath came again, coupled with a crack in his voice. “Obviously,” he answered, his face contorting in a mocking smile. “Had to try, right? Anyway, we patch up his leg, get back to the bunker, and he hasn’t said a word. And as soon as we get inside, he starts limping off to the corner, like… like a kid caught stealing from the bread bin. “So I grab him by the scruff of his neck, and I slam him so hard against the wall I think I’ve cracked his skull, and I tell him ‘I swear down, if you endanger my people again, I will this, and that, and blah, blah, fucking blah.’ And he does something he hasn’t done his whole life. He listens. “But, two days later, he died. Obviously. Got put in two places by a roadside bomb. When I got to him, he was screaming so loud, I couldn’t hear the gunfire. “And while I looked down at him there – crying, laid in a mangled pile of himself, bleeding into the dirt – that, was the moment. That, was when I understood. “I sacrificed four living men… all to save a dead one. Somehow, I know; I won’t do that again.” He stood, and opened the door. An icy chill broke into the room, but Sky was already freezing. “There’s no saving the dead ones, Sky,” he said. And with that, he was gone, disappeared into cold blackness. She sat there for the longest time, unable to move, unable to do anything. She looked to the empty chair before her, and out to the autumn night. The sky wept, and puddles formed at her door. The patter of the rain was almost rhythmic, beating out an anthem to a doomed youth. She could hear it in the rain. In the wind. Singing. The world was singing, and Sky was afraid.

[thefourofcups]

SAMPLE: THE KINGMAKER

Sample piece Number Two!

THE KINGMAKER - PROLOGUE

“Folk often ask for the key to colonial survival, and while there is no single course of action to ensure safety among the Isles, the greatest gift one can hope for is the gentle ease of friendship. Being alone has its appeal to the common man. However, the lone wolf hunts, fights, and dies as he lives. In total isolation; in absence of any connection.” - Huntmaster Dala, ‘The Erastilian Rangers – A Manifesto’

The road into the Old Hills remained bare this morning. A shame. Orgrinn had wanted snow. Spurring his carriage further into the woods, the Dwarven merchant chuckled at the thought. Typical of the Nineteen, he mused. Can’t even give me a bit of snowfall in a Pelorian autumn, no matter how nicely I ask. Shrugging, he threw the Gods to the back of his mind for the thousandth time. More immediate folk required his attention. There were four of them, to be more precise. Well, five if you counted the weasel. Looking over to his right, he saw the thing scrabbling around in his passenger’s lap. That was, unfortunately, not the strangest thing to be seen in that seat. Trying not to furrow his brow too openly, Orgrinn surveyed the dark-skinned, purple-haired gnome sat beside him. Vibrant robes adorned his body, and the ends of tattoos could be seen on his bare palms. Occasionally, the Dwarf swore he could have seen them glow, yet always out of the corner of his eye. Contrary to his expectations, the boy had been amicable for the journey, and made for some interesting – if not slightly baffling – conversation over the last few days. For now, however, “Mallow” as he claimed himself to be named, was silent, his eyes wandering to the sky as if he’d never seen clouds before. Orgrinn made sure the horses were on course, and chanced a look over his shoulder, peering through a parting in his wagon’s cover. Two people sat within – a Human man of quite some age and many, many scars, and an Elven woman sporting a blonde, short head of hair, and an aesthetic far more pleasing to the eye. An Everician bastard sword sat between them, and the woman’s dark steel longsword sat across her lap. The pair were whispering to one another. About what, Orgrinn didn’t care. The woman – Naia was her name – had been very clear with her request. “A few hundred gold, a couple of days on the road, and once we part, we have never met. Understood?” The Elf didn’t seem like the kind you wanted to anger. Something sinister sat about her. Add to that the exorbitant fee she’d offered, and he wasn’t about to argue. And so, keeping his promise, he hummed to himself a lullaby, and looked beyond them to the road itself. For out behind them, walking stoically along, was a Dwarf. Orgrinn often took comfort in the presence of one of his own kind. Luthdirians were, of course, a dying breed, and had been for millennia. This one, however… something about him felt wrong, set the merchant’s stomach to churning. Whether it be his hair – a fiery red mess that seemed to shine through even the darkest clumps of dirt matted into it – his ancient Dervundirian waraxe, or the fact that he trailed behind his comrades like an attack dog, Orgrinn did not know. Perhaps it was all three. Regardless of the reason, there was no denying that something about “Voltokar” terrified the merchant. Soon, he realised he was staring. And so, he turned his attention back to the road, gave the reigns another shake, and spurred the horses onward. All was silent for a time. But as the sun shall rise in the east, so too was it inevitable what happened next. Mallow Spinoza started talking again. “Are we there yet?” he asked, his Hammerfast accent contrasting greatly with his darker-skinned, Kaeperian appearance. Orgrinn sighed. “No, sir.” From behind, a female voice breathed to the boy. “Mallow, sweetheart, look around you. Does it look at all like we’re there?” The Gnome surveyed the road, the trees, the empty wilderness. “Fair point,” he concluded. “So, are we nearly there yet?” The merchant opened his mouth to speak, but the woman, thankfully, noticed his impatience. “It’s alright, Orgrinn,” she assured him. “You keep your eyes on the road. I’ll do the talking.” “Don’t need to ask me twice.” There was laughter – two people. A soft, lilted giggle from the right, and what was essentially a cough from the left. “Thanks a lot,” came the voice of the second – a thick, deep tone that sounded like moving rubble. “Dunno how long I’ve been expecting him to talk in my direction. It's fuckin’ terrifying.” The first laugh rang out once more. The air filled with a wonderful sound, and a flock of birds took flight. “Harrisen, darling; let’s not be harsh on the boy for his boredom. This is his first journey out, after all. I’m sure you can remember the childlike wonder of exploration, back when you were a young boy.” There was a pause. “Probably,” she added. A sharp exhale and a swig from a bottle later, and the wagon fell silent for the thousandth time.

[thefourofcups]

SAMPLE: THE DISTANT LIGHT OF PASSING SHIPS

Well, here we go. The first of a few sample pieces, written by yours truly. I hope these cast me in a decent light. 

THE DISTANT LIGHT OF PASSING SHIPS

The day was still young on the coast of Mnavit’iel. A dark veil hung over the air, covering all who dared venture outside in an oily black darkness that threatened to swallow them whole. The Clifftop Palace stood far above – a colossal structure of bedrock and solid brick, with modest pinpricks of light emitting from its plentiful halls. Waves lapped lazily against the shoreline, licking at the golden-grey sands of Aerenal. And firmly planted on the beach, idly watching the merchant vessels depart southward, was a girl. Beautiful, Elven, and of golden blonde hair. Caithearis aen Rinae’Sirean had endured yet another nightmare. Breathing slowly and deliberately, the young woman sat naked but for the thick woollen blanket wrapped around her, paying no heed to the eager bite of an Aerenali winter. Moonlight beamed down upon her, comforting her in the same way one might be calmed by a kiss. Here, she felt content. Here, she was safe. She was certain that all around her was genuine. There were no lies here – no tricks of the mind. There was simply her, the sea, and the distant light of passing ships. The only signs of conscious life for potentially miles. Her guard lay abed, her servants had all ventured home, and her friend and colleague Allayna was likely dreaming of some courtesan or another. And Caithe felt… content; free to wander in her thoughts, and be lost. However, this morning was different. For as she found herself drifting into the safety of her mind, she was roused from her ritual by the clinking of glass. She squinted – listened closer… It was accompanied by footsteps. And it was growing closer. She instinctively span to face them, hand poised and ready to unleash hell upon her attacker. Turning into the dark behind her, she came to see… a young man, with dark scruffy hair, and a slender frame. She recognized him immediately, and her hand once again found the sand. “Khelvan,” she croaked, her throat dry from the last four unconscious hours. “I didn’t… why are you awake?” Looking him over, she noticed things she hadn’t at first glance. His armour remained in his room, as did the heavy darkwood crossbow he so often carried around with him. Instead, he wore a loose-fitting shirt, a brown pair of breeches, and two tattered shoes that were likely older than him. His hair was in the same dishevelled mess it had always been, and his hands were full. Clutched in a pair of calloused blacksmith’s hands were three objects; two crystalline glasses, and a jug of freshly-squeezed apple juice. “Um…” he paused, like a child caught stealing from the sweet jar. “I… I’m on duty now. Yeah, Cremia asked me to-…” Caithe looked him over once more, confused. He paused. He spoke again. “Okay, I wake up at four every morning to check if you’re sleeping alright.” Caithe didn’t need to see him to know he was blushing. “Sorry. I don’t know if that’s weird, or… sorry.” The young woman smiled. Khelvan exhaled, long and hard, like someone admiring a work of art. “Darling, you don’t have to apologise. That’s actually very sweet of you to do. Thank you.” “Um… y-you’re welcome, I guess.” He laughed – quickly, as though the action may offend her – and let it trail off into a smile. “I brought your favourite poison.” He shook the jug playfully. “Apple juice, you fuckin’ lush. Care to get absolutely smashed with me? It’s strong stuff, I warn you. Freshly squeezed.” “Khelvan, I don’t think even we’re that much of a pair of lightweights.” He laughed again; louder this time. The sound brought a smile to Caithe’s face. Five steps, the clinking of glass, and he was sat down beside her. The jug sloshed around in his hand, as he handed Caithe a beautifully designed crystal glass. She recognised the design; a Loranhali piece. The irony of it all made her giggle. It did not seem lost on Khelvan, who laughed along knowingly. He leaned over to her and poured into her glass. He always does mine first, she noticed. This was, of course, not just true in matters of fruit juice. The thought made her grin – giddy, like a schoolchild experiencing their first crush. Soon after, Khelvan had poured out a glass of his own, and set the jug on a nearby slab of stone. It slid for a moment, before stopping entirely. “Well,” he said to her, raising his glass aloft. “Samente.” Caithe made to drink, but stopped to arch an eyebrow in his direction. “Samente? That’s a Kaeperian toast, you know.” “I know,” Khelvan confirmed. “I figured… a Mage of the Aevir’iel, drinking from a Loranhali glass… why not go for the irony trifecta?” Caithe’s gut trembled with laughter, as both hers and the giggles of her lover echoed into the night. Somewhere overhead seagulls flew, and the pair of them drank together. The juice was sour, and it had clearly been prepared in a hurry. A few flakes of the fruit still resided within the drink, and it had clearly not been left to sit for very long. The acidic nature of it burned the walls of the mouth and set Caithe to grimacing. She coughed for a moment, before spitting out a seed that had found itself into the mix. Recovering from the assault on her senses, she smiled to herself. It was perfect. “Thank you,” she said. Khelvan let out a sigh, seemingly relieved. “Oh, thank Gozreh,” he breathed. “I was terrified you’d hate it.” There was a pause, punctuated only by the input of the ocean. “You’re, uh… this was okay, right? I’m not… I don’t want to presume anything-” “Oh, Gods, no.” She smiled, baring her teeth. As soon as her morning breath came into the air, Caithe became very self-conscious of the fact she had not brushed. She closed her mouth quickly. Khelvan did not seem to notice. “Sweetheart, this is lovely. You don’t have to worry.” A hand reached out for him, the pinkie finger extended. “Promise.” Wordlessly, the little finger of Khelvan’s calloused hands wrapped itself around hers, like sealing some ridiculous contract. The pair held themselves there for some time, before resigning to simply hold one another. They drank again, and Caithe let out a wince at the taste. Her lover gave a laugh, and that was all it took for her. She let go, resting her head atop his shoulder. It was there that they sat; still, peaceful, accompanied only by the occasional sigh of the waves, or the squawking of gulls overhead. Neither of those held much import, however. To them, the world may as well have been a five-foot cube. They would have noticed just as much – that is to say, nothing. Nothing but one another.

[thefourofcups]

And So It Begins...

Hey folks. So, I’ve decided to start accepting writing commissions from anyone who wants such a thing. You can expect a price list and other such stuff within a day or two, if you’re interested. Regardless, I’m eager to flex my literary muscles in a more public light, and I’d just like to say I’m excited to begin this gig of mine. 

Thanks to anyone who even considers me in this blog’s infantile stages. I’ll follow through with a few sample pieces so you know what you’re getting. 

Hope to hear from some of you soon!