Writing Wrong

This is a writing blog where I will be posting mostly short fiction, but occasionally other works. I may also post works in progress, or posts detailing any headway I've made on more long-term projects. Feel free to offer constructive criticism and recommend me to people. Thanks.

[writing-wrong-blog]

More stuff:

Adanna was silent for a few long moments, and then said, “I understand what a risk it is for you to harbor me here. If my story ends well, you will be a chief reason why – and know that there is scarce a greater honor among my people.” There was something about her eyes when she looked at him. He was so unused to direct eye contact. Her eyes were not the striking blue of some Falrivans, a blue that seemed to either pierce into your soul, or else repel your gaze with frosty superiority. They were a deep brown that reminded him of the soft furs that his mother used to keep him warm in the winter season.

“Thank you,” he said. He could not believe that only this morning he had been afraid of her. But still, he had to ask. “Why are you wanted by the king’s order?”  

Even as she arched an eyebrow in surprise, she did not stop looking at his face. “Do you believe I am a criminal, Gin?”

“I don’t want to,” he admitted. “But wanting and what is real…you know. You are older than me.”

“I will tell you my story, Gin,” Adanna said. “And then you can judge me for yourself.” She cleared her throat softly and began. “I am a diplomat of Alvalis. I came here with my partner and lover Isaac, for all envoys of my country do so.”

“Why?” Gin asked.

“It is another story. Suffice it to say for now, that it is believed that together, Alvali diplomats represent the passionate heart and the rational mind of Alvalis itself,” Adanna explained. “We came here to ask for fairer treatment of our people, who work in conditions not fit for animals, and who are paid so little for recompense. I have seen my countrymen have to choose between medicine for their children and food for their families. We believed that unjust.”

“When we met with the king, our words failed to move him. We planned to see him again, and in some way persuade him to acquiesce.” She paused to drink. Gin leaned forward impatiently.

“Unfortunately, the king was poisoned that night, and we were accused of the crime. We did not go quietly – Isaac and I caused much pain as we ran. In the end, I escaped by leaping from the cliff on which the castle is built, thinking Isaac was behind me. Now, I believe he is captured, else there would be criers screaming for his head as well.” She leaned back, closing her eyes. “So Gin, am I a criminal?”

“Yes,” he said.

Her eyes did not open or even flicker, but he could sense her shock. It was not the answer she expected. “And your reasoning?” she asked.

“Even if you are not guilty of poisoning the king, you are guilty of evading capture by the lawful authorities,” Gin said. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

Here's today's production:

Gin’s father was not a large man – he was of average height among Thulians and was short compared to the average Falrivan. He was built like a cat, all sinew and lean muscle, and there was something about the way he observed the world around him that said in no uncertain terms that he was a predator, and the rest of the world was his prey. He approached the table and sat down, inspecting the roll of bread set in front of him critically. “What is this?” he asked. His voice was hoarse with sleep.

“I woke too late to cook,” Gin lied. “So I went to the market to see what I could get.”

Gin’s father picked up the cheese and gave it a distrusting sniff, then set it down. “Come here,” he beckoned Gin closer. Then, he picked up a thin piece of wood that hung from a hook on the wall. “Turn around.” Gin turned around resolutely. The first strike was always the worst, and his father always aimed for the back of his thighs. The thin switch whistled as it moved through the air, and Gin knew there would be red stripes across his legs later. Walking for the rest of the day would also be more of a chore. At eleven years of age, Gin had learned to hold back his cries of pain, but he could do nothing to stop his eyes from moistening. Similarly, his father did not appear angry while hitting him – only resolute.

After he had struck five times, Gin’s father stopped. “Do you know why you received this punishment? Because you broke your word. It is good you tried to correct your mistake. That is the mark of a man.” Gin said nothing. Five strokes was easy. His father had been lenient this time.

The day then passed as if nothing had happened: people showed up complaining of mostly minor ailments, to which either Gin or his father responded with scrupulously honest prices and advice. When dinner was over, Gin cleaned up and brought a bowl of leftover food up to his room. He handed it wordlessly over to the woman, who ate ravenously. She hasn’t eaten in days, he thought.

Once she finished, she set the bowl aside and stared at him for a long time. “What is your name?” she asked finally.

“Gin.”

“Thank you again, Gin. I am called Adanna,” she replied. Adanna was already looking much better. She had evidently used the sponge and water from earlier to fully clean herself, and though her hair was wild and tangled, she was obviously beautiful. A few minutes of silence passed, but they did not seem awkward. There was something calming about her presence. The way she looked at him was almost the way he imagined a sister would look at him, and the way she sat with her hands in her lap and her shoulders slightly hunched was equally endearing.

“I intend to heal quickly, Gin. I do not want to cause you undue trouble,” she said. Though her voice was lowered, Gin could sense trepidation. “Are you happy here? I heard what happened to you this morning.”

[writing-wrong-blog]

Today's word vomit :)

“I will die if you do not help me,” the woman said. Her voice, while still weak, was strangely clear, as if she was no longer suffering any pain.

The risk of taking her in was great. If he were found out, he might have his tongue cut out, or worse. His family might suffer similar consequences if they supported his mercy, or he would be likely beaten if his father found out and disagreed with his actions. Gin took another step back towards the door, acutely aware of the woman’s eyes watching him. She had been in his dream. The one that his mother had told him was important. Perhaps by turning her away, he was tempting fate, defying destiny. There were all kinds of stories about people that had tried to fight their fate and lost.

Gin made his decision. Gesturing at her to follow him quickly and quietly, he held the door open for her and guided her up the steps to his room, where he pointed at his cot. Then, he went back down the stairs to retrieve clean bandages, a stiff piece of wood, and a bucket of water and a sponge. Upon returning to his room, he found the woman had passed out, though whether from exhaustion or pain, he could not tell.

First, he cleaned the area around the wound with the sponge and water, taking care not to disturb the bit of bone that was poking through. Gin guessed that the break had probably been caused by a great blunted blow to the back of her leg, judging by the amount of bruising on the back of her thigh. Next was the most difficult part. He took the piece of wood (which he had originally thought to use as a splint, though now it could serve a second purpose) and wedged it between her teeth. Then, feeling delicately around the broken area, he bracingly pushed the bone into place. The woman jerked awake, her eyes wide with pain, though she did not flail or lash out. Instead, she watched calmly as Gin removed the wood from her mouth and used it to straighten her leg as he wrapped bandages around it.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he finished.

Gin shook his head with embarrassment. Broken bones were relatively easy unless they were infected. Any layman could see what the problem was and hazard a guess as to how to fix it. It was the illnesses that worked beneath the surface of the skin which were truly difficult for a healer to heal, and it was with those illnesses that a healer deserved praise.

From his tiny window, Gin could see that the town was definitely beginning to wake up, and he still had to prepare breakfast for his family. There was no time – they would be awake in a matter of minutes. He quickly covered the woman with a blanket, and then checked his secret hiding place for money. The knothole held ten copper pieces. Enough for a fairly meager breakfast. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

Revitalization (I hope)

So in an effort to actually write and update after 2 months of not doing so, I'm basically just going to post whatever I've written during the day, even if it's just like, 2 sentences. Below is the beginning of the second chapter of my fantasy novel, which I have decided will have multiple narrators. Work in progress as usual, so constructive criticism is always appreciated.

Gin rolled off his cot and got dressed in one of the many nondescript gray tunics that were his by virtue of his position. He had no mirror, so he neither noticed that he had put his tunic on backward, nor that his hair was sticking up oddly on both sides, giving him an uncanny resemblance to a horned owl. That being done, he tiptoed down the steps so as not to wake those still sleeping. The first floor of his home was almost completely dominated by the herbalist shop where he was apprenticed. Here, he ensured that all the little drawers were full of herbs as they were supposed to be, the working areas were clean, and most importantly, that the key to the strongbox that contained the day’s earnings was hidden away in its proper place.

With all preliminary duties finished with time to spare, Gin stepped outside for a breath of the cool morning air that he so loved. He breathed in deeply, eyes closed contentedly. It was in this state that he slowly became aware of an odd sound, out of place so early in the morning when only birds are singing and crickets chirping. The sound was twofold; there was a muffled thump followed by an elongated scrape. Meaningless to most, but Gin recognized it as the sound of a cripple dragging his lame leg behind him as he went. Such men visited the herbalist’s shop occasionally, whenever they had the money for herbs that would dull their pain (and incidentally, their minds) for a few blessed hours. Strange that one would come to the shop so early.

Gin’s eyes fluttered open, and instead of one of the mangy old men he had expected, saw a woman shuffling towards him, leaning heavily on a staff. It was clear that her left leg was broken, having been hastily wrapped in fabric that looked to be torn from her dirt-covered blouse. She had skin the color of umber, and her hair had a texture that Gin had never before seen. She was the woman from his dream. He was suddenly filled with a fear so intense that he almost vomited.

“Boy…” the woman whispered. She sounded weak. The posters had come up a week ago. Who  knew how long she had traveled like this. The smell coming off her was some indication, but still. “Please…is there a healer in this town?”

Gin took a step back towards the door. “I’m sorry, I…you’re wanted. I can’t. It’s too dangerous.” The fear had abated enough to allow him to speak, but his voice was high and girlish. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

Nonfiction is not really my forte. Sorry in advance :P

  Why am I not sick of rice after years of eating it every day? It doesn’t taste like anything, not really. It’s only when spices or entrées are added that it really becomes a meal. It’s not a particularly good source of any nutrients – it’s pretty much empty calories, even if you are eating brown rice. The answer is simple; people of my heritage have been eating it in much the same way for thousands of years, and have developed great tasting cuisine to go along with it. Unfortunately, not everyone has access to that variety of food, especially in poorer, developing countries. The cultural use of rice as a staple remains. “Tell me what you eat, and I shall tell you what you are,” said Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin. And those poor people are just like the rice they eat: lacking in practical nutrition.

  But what else could they be? Sequencing genomes has become technically easy, and it becomes easier and cheaper to do so every year. Nearly 200 plants and animals have been sequenced already, and so have thousands of bacteria. Genetic engineering takes a single, target gene and inserts it into the genome of the recipient organism. Does that change the recipient organism enough so that its original descriptive term is no longer enough? Is a tomato that’s been given the gene of a fish to be able to grow in cold temperatures no longer a tomato, but now something altogether different…a fishmato? Less-than-clever portmanteau of the words fish and tomato aside, what does that make us humans who eat it?

  Maybe things are murkier when it comes to that kind of genetic engineering. Golden rice is a type of rice that has been genetically engineered to synthesize beta-carotene. Before it is made golden, rice plants already possess the gene that allows them to produce beta-carotene. Genetic engineers only turn the gene on, which results in the rice’s golden color and its more nutritional value. Many people argue that doing such things is “playing God” and not natural, but in so complaining they forget that humans have been genetically modifying food for thousands of years. The ancient Mayans domesticated maize into the large corn cobs we have today, and carrots were originally white or purple in Europe (and now orange due to selective farming methods). As for the “natural” concern, one could counter by stating that most if not all of today’s food crops would not be able to grow in the wild without human aid.

  Still, like virtually all food that has been genetically modified in the “modern” way, golden rice has undergone a lot of criticism. As a person who has a personal connection to eating white rice, I too have my reservations. I don’t fear for my health; there has been no empirical evidence to suggest that consuming food from genetically modified crops leads to long-term health problems. The only possible health issue is that of allergens, and that is easily remedied. I don’t even fear that it won’t have the same cultural feel. After all, white rice is frequently colored yellow through the use of saffron, and many varieties of fried rice also end up having yellow grains. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

This is a piece I wrote about a hiking/scrambling trip I took at Helvellyn this past summer. Hope you like it!

Climbing Helvellyn is probably the closest I have ever come to death, though I don’t believe I was ever truly terrified. But I was always aware that it could happen, at any time, even when I was half-crouched to keep balance. I never wavered, not even once, in spite of my acrophobia. Instead I was curiously exhilarated, unusually mindful of my own mortality, yet curiously unconcerned. Perhaps it was because of the scenery. I wasn’t surrounded by clearly deadly natural things like lava or quicksand pits or human flesh-eating what-have-yous. Instead, all danger was hidden artfully in scenery that was just as Wordsworth described it, though strangely, I don’t believe I saw a single daffodil on my way up.

                That was hardly a deterrent, as what I did see was far more breathtaking than daffodils. Helvellyn is a mountain in the English Lake District. At a little over 3000 feet above sea level, it is the third highest peak in both the Lake District and England. Much like the Thames, on a global scale it is rather unremarkable (the Thames wouldn’t even rank amongst the United States’ 100 largest rivers), but it is magnificent in its own way, like some place out of a Tolkien fantasy.  At the foot of the summit is Red Tarn, so named not because its water is red, but because the screes (fancy technical term for what amounts to gravel at the base of mountain-esque geography) nearby have a reddish color. It is here that the majority of visitors stop to camp, take pictures, and call it a day. After all, the landscape is fantastically dramatic. Two arêtes lead off the summit, Striding Edge and Swirral Edge. For those unfamiliar, an arête is a thin, knife-like, ridge of rock that is generally best traversed single-file, keeping balance while slowly but surely moving forward, or at least up when forward is not possible. The arêtes almost complete a circle around the tarn, and standing there you get a very specific view of the sky, like the proverbial frog in a well. It is here that you make a decision as to which path you take up to the summit.

Both do offer their fair share of danger, but it is Striding Edge that is somewhat infamous for actually having people fall off it and plummet down to messy deaths, so naturally, it was Striding Edge that my exceedingly British guide opted to take. It occurred to me as we climbed up Helvellyn’s slopes that going free-form rock climbing and calling it a hike was very British. It was as British as putting on a sweater vest and nice shoes to play cricket. Appropriate, if nothing else. The sky was azure with surprisingly non-threatening clouds, the hills summer green, peppered with curious sheep that exclaimed loudly if you got too close. Had a person simply been dropped in the middle of it, I think it likely that they would have been able to surmise they were in the English countryside.

The amount of confidence the guide had in my ability was both flattering and encouraging. Slipping and falling was prohibited, he said rather jovially, as doing so often resulted in serious injury or death. The arête was beautiful in its own way, like the point of a tiger’s tooth is beautiful, or the curve of a cobra’s fang. Somehow, bits of green were interspersed all across the cold, gray rock, and the aforementioned sheep were more or less still ubiquitous. It was like seeing trees in a city. How could there be a place for life in a place that got so cold and so wet? And yet it was there, nevertheless, carrying on. Might as well airdrop in a blanket of tea and crumpets, I thought.

Reaching the summit was the most religious experience I have ever experienced, growing up in an irreligious household. The British sun, usually fickle, saw fit to illuminate the world around me. The hills were laid out in great swathes of green and gray, and the shreds of cloud overhead scrawled patterns of darkness in the little valleys, like massive inkblot tests for God. Not being God, I saw nothing in them besides an inherent kind of beauty, almost specially laid out for those who dared to make the climb. “See here!” one pattern seemed to say. “Look at how much brighter the other side looks with me here.”

“Look how the sheep move to somewhere lighter,” another pattern said.

I am not a person that is often moved by occurrences in the real world. Real events are hindered in their emotional depth by being real and common, by being (usually) easily accessible and without a clever author to put it all together into a meaningful message. Fiction is where I generally rest my cap. But here at the top of Helvellyn, I saw the way the light kept the grass alive for the sheep to live, and how it kept the tarn just warm enough for the brown trout and schelly that swam beneath its glassy surface. There was so much bounty to be had from this spot of nature – food, clothing, water – but in the end, poets and hikers and even a sheltered suburbanite chose the best bounty it could offer: its aesthetics. I found myself hoping that people like me, and people like politicians and CEOs would have the opportunity to experience a moment like this, and find something worth saving in something pretty. And hopefully, that something isn’t gold or precious gems.  

[writing-wrong-blog]

This is another nonfiction piece I've been working on, but I'm concerned that the connections I'm making aren't strong enough, and I feel like the ending is pretty weak. Any comments or advice are much appreciated.

The water, now or then, probably had no more medicinal properties than the average homeopathic solution, but even so, water – all water – is essential to life. The most abundant compound on the planet Earth is water. In grade school, we are taught that 75% of the Earth’s surface is covered in water, and that around 60% of the human body is composed of water. It is not a difficult concept to imagine, especially if one has seen the shore before, and how the ocean stretches out into the infinite distance. It becomes more difficult standing by the shrunken springs, now swollen with runoff from the recent snow.

But that spring mattered to the natives that lived here. It was their medicine, and it was their connection to the earth. In a way, the spring permeates the lifestyle of people like me. Individuals like me use around 200-300 liters of water a day – it goes into the ice cubes in our Long Island Iced Teas and the hot steam of our showers. It is all used without a second thought, with barely a modicum of effort.

By contrast, in Africa and Asia, women walk an average of six kilometers to access their water source. In rural Sub-Saharan Africa, millions share their water sources with animals or use unsafe wells that are breeding grounds for disease. For the near billion who live more than a kilometer from their unsafe water source, their water use is five liters a day. Their water is only for survival.

The springs today are probably much smaller than they used to be. There are sluiceways near a square rock foundation surrounding the pool of water that feeds the slowly trickling stream. It means littler now than it used to, but it’s good to know that it lasted. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

The Market and the Maple Tree

This is a piece I wrote for my Nature Writing Workshop class this semester. It's nonfiction, which is relatively new to me in terms of writing it, but I think this one is worth posting here.

The air around the sugar maple tree is cold. Without its leaves, which long since fallen, I cannot bring myself to see it as worth as my being discomforted. At this moment, I can think of no intrinsic aesthetic value that it has, bare and ugly as it is without its foliage. Its bark is a mottled gray-brown, marred here and there by spots of greenish-blue lichen. It’s not even one tree out of a forest of others: it stands alone, unguarded and unimpressive.

  But what if it was part of a forest? What then? Well…then the tree would have something worthwhile to take. There is a demand after all, and why shouldn’t this tree be the supply? It and its brethren would go for around $400 a ton (of wood pulp) in the timber market. The price of timber is going back up as the housing market slowly recovers. And as I am standing here now, $400 a ton sounds great compared to a leafless tree in the middle of nowhere. There could be loggers here now, bringing the tree down, hacking off its superfluous branches and carting it away to be stripped of its bark and pulped. The sound of their machines would be near deafening; the scream of the saws, the sputtering of the engines, and the shouts of the loggers themselves. Would black smoke smear the sky?

  As a squirrel runs up the side of its split double trunk, I am forced to wonder if other creatures besides humans benefit or could potentially benefit from this tree. Is it the squirrel’s home? I cannot know for sure. All it does is cling to the tree’s side, either unaware or uncaring of the fact that I am watching it. That I am trying to decide whether or not, even if the tree is its home, I should take it for my own financial gain. Why shouldn’t I? Everything that the tree provides now could be provided by the profits of its felling. And in the grand scheme of life, one relatively small tree makes little difference, little impact.

  Of course it would be a one-time deal if I took it all now. Even from a purely economic perspective, forests need to be allowed to replenish themselves if profit is to be made for a theoretically infinite period of time. In short, ecological concerns need to be addressed alongside economic ones. What does that mean? I need to be concerned about both tree species diversity and tree size diversity. Some trees are no good for building or paper. What if this tree was like that? Is there value in a tree that brings nothing to humans besides aesthetic pleasure?

  Logically, I should take the tree and ensure conditions are ripe for others to take its place. In taking it, I lose nothing and gain something, and if it is replaced, I can repeat the process. Do I have the right? Can I fill the air with woodchips and smoke, and dot the landscape with the stumps of trees that were? Yes. I can, so long as I have the license to. Isn’t that what trees are here for? They provide only a miniscule amount of oxygen, and shade is not necessary when air conditioning exists. Isn’t it better for them to provide profit?

  The air around the sugar maple tree is cold. I reach into my pocket and feel the clink of metal sliding between my fingertips. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

Just submitted my short story "Bruises" to the Kenyon Review Short Fiction contest. I know it's a long shot, but hey, who knows?

[writing-wrong-blog]

I've been really swamped with work at uni lately (midterm season), so I'm sorry I'm a bit late with my weekly update. I promise I will have something up by the end of the weekend at the latest. A sneak preview of Chapter 2 of my novel, maybe. Or something else. Thanks for bearing with me :)

[writing-wrong-blog]

This is my first draft of the first chapter of that fantasy novel I work on and off on. As always, feel free to comment/reblog and so on.

Chapter 1: Adanna

The light of the autumn sun spilled in from the window and revealed motes of suspended dust in the corners of the bedchamber. The room had either not been cleaned in some time, or else the servants had been lax in their duties. The young woman occupying the room did not seem to mind. Her face did not crease with disgust when her bare feet touched the floor, nor did she hesitate to put her hands to the ground to begin her habitual morning routine. Her exertion made more apparent the lean muscle beneath her sepia colored skin, and her sweat gave it a healthy shine. Adanna Cayl was a woman of the Rook.

She rose quickly at the sound of her door opening. It was the servant girl that had been assigned to her for her use during her stay. “Milady,” the servant girl curtsied. “Breakfast will be served in the hall soon. Do you need me to help you wash?”

Adanna nodded. “A bucket of water, soap and a sponge will do,” she said. “I have no time for a…bath.” The Falrivan practice of soaking in water was repugnant to her. Was not one simply soaking in one’s own filth? And furthermore, the amount of water necessary for one to take seemed excessive and wasteful.

“As m’lady desires.” The servant girl had grown used to Adanna’s morning habits, and had had the foresight to being the necessary bathing materials with her. She set them down at Adanna’s feet. “Shall I help you bathe, milady?” she asked politely.

“It is no trouble,” said Adanna. “I will bathe myself.” As she dragged the damp and soapy sponge across her skin, the ambassador from the Rook wondered what would come to pass in the next hour. Would the newly crowned king be as sympathetic to her cause? She doubted that. From what she knew of Falrivan history and her brief journey through their lands, Adanna thought them a stubborn people at their best. Still…the king had surprised many by handling these meetings personally. Perhaps the gods were at last smiling upon their creation.

After bathing, Adanna dressed herself in a conservatively cut blouse over a boiled leather jerkin and breeches over soft leather boots. The leather would not hold against anything well-sharpened, but luck favors the prepared, she thought. Adanna also knew her clothing would impress upon those she was to treat with that she was no delicate flower to be refused respect under the guise of courteous chivalry.

Adanna stopped only to eat a hunk of buttered bread and a somewhat soft apple before she made her way to the king’s council room. The waiting room for the council was filled with all manner of petitioners. There were nobles and rich merchants looking for lowered taxes, commoners hoping for a spot of mercy, and even a Thulen ambassador in the corner. Adanna seated herself beside the Thulen ambassador, who gave her a polite bow of his head before gazing serenely in front of him.

Adanna looked around the room without enthusiasm. The innards of the Falrivan castle were like those of a man. The hallways were often dark. They wound about the castle with neither rhyme nor reason. The stone often felt peculiarly moist.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Adanna felt a pang of homesickness. The Alvali had castles too, but the stone was warm and golden or crimson in color. The sun was merciless, but the stone kept its tenants cool. The Rook was a place of rest and respite as much as it was a military and political stronghold. And its inhabitants were so much more vibrant than their Falrivan counterparts. Where Alvali seasoned their meals with peppers of all shades, the Falrivans were happy with a pinch of salt in their boiled potatoes. Where the Alvali danced with graceful leaps and acrobatics, the Falrivans danced in careful steps, never a hand or foot out of place. And somehow, they were convinced of their cultural superiority. True enough, Falrive’s central location had gold flowing into its coffers regularly. And true, many people from nations around the world emigrated to Falrive to raise their lots in life. Even so, the gold had gone to their heads, she thought. The Falrivans were found of making sweeping generalizations like, “The Thulen men are hardworking but craven,” “The Shif lack conscience,” and “Alvali women wish to be men.” And those were the least offensive of the words she had overheard in the Falrivan streets and halls. Her nose wrinkled at the thought, and then she laughed at her own irony, drawing the confused glance of the young man seated across from her. He looked familiar, but Adanna could not think of where she had seen him.

He looked a few years her junior. The tone of his skin hinted at time spent outdoors, his garb gave no sign of his profession. He lacked the burn scars of a smith, the spots of clay or dirt that might mark a potter or builder. He was a merchant’s son, perhaps, who hawked their wares outside. His hair was short, but not as short as a soldier’s, and it was a healthy chestnut brown, flecked with gold from the sun. His eyes were a wide-eyed and energetic gray, earnest in their obvious interest. His chin and jawline were well-defined, and his face was quite handsome; there was just enough effeminate softness to make him pretty, and his nose was just crooked enough to be appealing. Adanna might have been interested if he were a person of note and not quite so naïve looking.

“Something on my face m’lady?” he asked cheerfully. She had to give him credit – most of the Falrivan men in the castle had learned to be intimidated by her (though they were loath to admit it). She would have thought that that she had been here long enough for this news to reach him. After all, she was the only woman in the room.

“Not at all,” she replied, her tone ambiguously warm. “Only that you carry yourself with such…confident bounce.”

“Thank you, m’lady.” His cheeks did not flush with embarrassment, he did not blink rapidly in offense, and he did not bite his lip in irritation. “Good luck with the Council, m’lady.”

There was something about his self-assurance that pricked at her brain; her training as a diplomat was giving her pause. But there was little time to dwell on him now. Her name had just been called, and she rose to respond. The king’s council room was not so much a room as a hall. It was spacious enough to fill with at least two hundred men, and it was adorned with both large windows and an enormous hearth for light and warm. There were additional ornate candleholders embedded in the walls and columns. The hall was arranged so that the king could sit on his throne at the end of the hall while petitioners, ambassadors and the like could speak to him from the expansive floor below the dais.

The king sat flanked by his three closest advisors, all of whom Adanna had met previously. Farthest to the left was Lord Edgen, a rotund man whose deep red robes with bronze trim gave him the unfortunate appearance of a soft, rotten apple. Next was Lord Reese, a man whose height and extraordinary narrowness had earned him the nickname “The Skeleton.” Lord Heber stood at the king’s right side. He was an unremarkable man who would not look out of place even in Alvalis.

And then, there was the king. Having never seen him before, Adanna was quick to appraise him. He was young – no boy king, but she doubted he had seen more than thirty summers in his life. He had dark brown hair that shone with health, matched by just the right amount of stubble to make him handsome. He had regal blue eyes that were all the more impressive beneath his sapphire studded crown. The king’s build was athletic – as much for dexterity as it was for brute strength. His clothing was surprisingly simple; it implied that the king intended to impress his audience without the aid of wealth.

Edgen left the dais to usher her to within ten feet of the king, then went back to his own seat. “You have the privilege of addressing the most supreme monarch in the history of Falrive, King Aron,” he said obsequiously. “That Alvalis would send a woman is already distressing, but let it not be said that-”

The king silenced him with a wave of his hand, and gestured at her to speak. His lips twitched up at their corners; he seemed bemused by Edgen’s words.

“Your Majesty, Alvalis offers its condolences for the death of your father,” Adanna said. “And we grieve that we must trouble you so soon after his passing. Please know that I do not come without just cause.” She spoke clearly and carefully, keeping both her words and her tone neutral. Adanna knew nothing of the new king, and it was paramount she did nothing to offend him.

“I know full well the reputation of the Alvali,” said Aron. “And I have little doubt that the Alvali would not have sent an emissary needlessly. That is why I believe that Alvalis will be an invaluable ally to me in what I wish to accomplish during my reign.”

“I am sure we will be everything you expect.” More perfunctorily vague courtesy. Adanna kept her face and eyes as neutral as her words.

“Indeed. Before we begin in earnest, allow me to ask you this. What power do you hold for Alvalis?”

“I have the power to ruin us in your eyes, your majesty. I am entrusted with that power.”

“Ha! So I assume that all agreements we come to will be honored?”

“As long as I am not coerced into those agreements, my king.”

“Of course. Then what does Alvalis beg of me?”

“We ask that you honor your father’s recent decision to allow us to rule ourselves without Falrivan oversight.” This was it; Adanna had been forced to play her hand earlier than she would have liked.

The king was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he sighed and said, “I am afraid my father and I differed in our opinions on that matter. I believe we are stronger as a whole, united power. However, I am not wholly unreasonable. All your leaders shall remain in power; they will simply answer to me.” He observed her again for another long moment, and then spoke again. “I sense my response is not what you had hoped for. Perhaps if I make my full intentions clear, you will be more pleased?” The king stood and gestured. “Bring it in.”

His councilors rose as one and came back bearing a table, on top of which was a small and rather plain leather-bound box. From it, the king drew a thin scroll that was cracked with age. He spread it out over the table, and then beckoned at Adanna to approach. She stepped up to the dais and looked down.  It was a map, but it was of no region that she was familiar with.

“I do not recognize these lands,” she admitted. Her pride as a diplomat chafed at those words, but it could not be helped. Better to admit ignorance now than have it revealed later on.

“Look closer.” Edgen’s voice was unpleasantly nasal. “Does that section over there resemble anything familiar to you?”

Adanna looked at where he was pointing. Near the edge of the map, there was a string of mountains and cave entrances that went on for miles. “Is that…?”

“Yes it is, dear lady. We have been extraordinarily fortunate. The fact of the matter is this; this map is of the lands to which Cyrnic Ossilin fled with his apostate mages at the end of the Second Era.” Edgen explained unnecessarily. “And-”

“Thank you, Lord Edgen,” King Aron said softly. Edgen stopped speaking with a choking sound Adanna found extremely satisfying. Aron met her gaze with a hint of manic optimism in his eye. “Have you guessed, ambassador of the Rook? We are going to war.”

[writing-wrong-blog]

Bruises

This is a piece of short fiction that I wrote. It's something of a memoir, but not from my perspective. It's from my mother's. Some parts of it really happened, others were embellished. Please give me any feedback you can, this story is especially important to me.

In 1960, I am born the fourth daughter of seven children, soon to be eight. I live with my siblings and my eleven half-siblings in a home that is too small for my father and my mother and my second mother, let alone all of us children. Our home is built out of sun-bleached plywood and metal, with coconut leaves for a roof. It keeps out little of the heat of the equatorial sun, and I sleep with a fan inches from my head. The nights are better for me than for my younger sister, who sleeps above me, and has no fan up there where the hot air gathers. Still, other children play outside in the wobbly heat, throwing bruised brown fruit that has fallen from the trees at each other. I don’t join in, but I get hit anyway, splattered with multicolored juices. It is a fun game with another purpose; I have something sweet to eat that night. And hot as it is, I can pretend that the bruised, mushy fruit is store-bought and cold. I could never have imagined people wanted to vacation in this weather, the sun always high overhead, the air always thick with moisture.

I go to a school where the teachers scold us in clipped British English. Sometimes they can’t tell us apart, though I think that when they are red-faced and screaming, they all look and sound the same. Don’t they know that maths is no use when you have no money to count? What use is English when the vendors who sell mangoes at the market don’t speak it? My younger sister does not talk back, but I am not her, and I do. They paddle your hands if you are a girl and your bottom if you are a boy. They leave thin red bruises on the palms of my hands. But we get to laugh last when they turn red all over and burn in the sun.

My mother works for weeks without seeing us, and at first I cry when she comes back because I don’t know her. She doesn’t make enough money to feed us all, so we catch small fish from the river and insects from the grass. To forget we’re hungry, we play games with sticks and stones, and we have scavenger hunts for scrap metal. If you find the most, you win, and get to sell all of it for a few extra bites of food. At the end of the games, there are always bruises on my arms from my father, and I see them on my brothers and sisters and mother. I remember the two times my mother miscarried, and the bruises that came after.

My eldest brother, over 10 years older than me, learned why maths is important and he flies away from us so he can have his own house, and a wife, and a job where your spouse cannot come and collect your pay for you. When he leaves, I kick his pillow until I miss and bruise my toe on the wall. I wonder what’s so special about a place so far from the sun.

The cold and dry air is the first thing I notice; it is the opposite of where I come from. And even though I slip on the ice and bruise my hip, I laugh because this bruise is accidental. I have never been halfway around the world before. My brother’s apartment isn’t big enough for my sister and me to join him, so we stay in a hotel. We don’t know about the complimentary breakfast in the hotel, so we stay in our room and eat bread that we smuggled in. We wash it down with the free peanuts we kept from the plane ride. How rich everyone must be if they can afford to give away food for free, I think. And how strange it is that the British were also here, and things turned out so differently.

Summers here remind me of home, though not nearly as hot or humid. It is a dry heat, but even though it is not the heat of home, it warms me just the same. My boyfriend pretends to chase me around a football field, and I think I must be very beautiful. After all, he pays so much attention to me that he doesn’t see the goalpost in time. The bruise that comes after is small and blue with purple petals blooming around the edges.

When we kiss at our wedding, I kiss so hard that I’m afraid I’ll bruise. Not everyone I’d want to be there is, but everyone who is tells me I am beautiful, and I believe it.

No one told me giving birth was this difficult, but I won’t have a C-section. My mother didn’t for all nine of her kids, and my second mother didn’t for her eleven, so I will not either. I laugh at my husband because he wants our future son to be a doctor, and yet he can’t stand to stay in the room with me and see the blood. He goes pale, and I think about how much more nicely contrasted that flowery bruise would be on his forehead now.

My mother-in-law threatens to kill herself if my husband does not take her advice over mine. It works, and he spends all his free time with his parents. I have not held a job in years, and I have two young sons at home. They shove and punch and sometimes even bite each other. Sometimes one or both say they hate me and their father. I am told this is normal and boys will be boys, but someone has to care for the bruises. I know a thing or two about that.

When they go off to university, the hugs they give are soft and light enough to bruise my heart. I cry because they seem so eager to leave. But later when I think on them, I smile, because I sent them off with summer and mangoes. And I know that they will be alright, because they lived in the land of sun and fruit and bruises.

[writing-wrong-blog]

This is a short memoir that I wrote for this fiction writing workshop that I'm taking this semester. I hope you all like it.

Nothing to say (alt. title: Regret)

My grandfather’s Romanized name is Min Jow Wong, but I call him Yeye. He’s an immigrant from Hong Kong, and he is 97 years old, though his official ID says he’s only 95. He’s quite short now, no more than 5’4”, and he speaks only Cantonese and Mandarin, and a few English phrases he’s picked up over his lifetime. He lives in an apartment close to Seneca University in Toronto, Canada, and for the first time in his life, he walks with a cane.

My Chinese name is Hou Yin. I was born in Canada, and in the second grade, I moved to the U.S. I go by Jason, because when I first moved here, I thought it would be easier to make friends if my name was unremarkable. There are far more people of Asian descent where I lived in Canada than where I live now. Despite my parents speaking Chinese at home, I never became fluent, instead opting to focus my attention on English. Though they tried their best to teach me over the years, I never became more than conversationally proficient at either Mandarin or Cantonese.

I had many strained conversations with him. He would ask, “Lei hai hok hao hok dou meh? Hok dou hou ma? (What did you learn in school? Are you learning well?)” and I would answer in excruciatingly fractured Cantonese, “Hok dou di yingmun…hok duk hou. (I’m studying English…I’m doing well.)” It was frustratingly slow. And although I was not lying to Yeye, that I had to skip over parts of my life that I would have liked to tell him because I didn’t know how to say them felt like lies of omission.

When we came to visit, or when we talked over the phone, Yeye would often ask, “Lei yow meh yeh tong ngo gong? (What do you have to tell me?)”

I would answer, “Ngo mo yeh gong. (I have nothing to say.)” This was always a lie; there was always something to say, only, I did not know how to say it, and it seemed too much trouble and aggravation to have my father translate. I hated to hear myself stumble over the unfamiliar tones and words, and mix up the foreign grammar. So we barely spoke, and we barely knew each other.

Last year, and the year before, Yeye suffered from a pseudo-stroke, a blood clot that hospitalized him both times. After the second, my family drove the 500 miles up to Canada to see him in the hospital. The hospital smelled sterile and lifeless, but the walls were painted a warm cantaloupe in his ward. I remember how curiously small he looked in his bed, his skin hanging from his tiny frame.

He looked up as we surrounded him, hands outstretched to touch him, to reassure ourselves that he was warm. When he spoke to me, he said, “Wei Hou Yin. Lei yow mo yeh tong ngo gong? (Hello, Hou Yin. What do you have to tell me?)”

I said, “Ngo mm ji dou dim gong. (I don’t know how to say it.)” I hope that was enough, and I hope the fractured Cantonese wishes of health that followed made him happy. I had nothing else to say. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

OK, so I read over that first bit of the worldbuilding story, and I decided I didn't like where it was going so I decided to rewrite it somewhat differently in terms of what happens and other things. Below is the whole thing in its entirety. No promises, but I think my next thing will be written in a less...historical sense. Like always, any feedback is welcome.

Adanna, First Woman of the Rookshield

Ask any common peasant of Falrive what the most unnatural thing about the Alvali is, and more often than not they will answer, “The women” or more likely, “The wenches.” Alas, it is unfortunate that so many are ignorant of the history behind the Rook’s permission of women as soldiers.

For near all the Ages of Civilization, the Alvali like all peoples of Escilon did not allow their women to join the ranks of their soldiers. Women could be farmers, merchants, and teachers, even members of the priesthood and magi – but never soldiers. It was not necessity that sparked the Rook’s change in policy. They did not need more soldiers.

It was two women who changed that for the ages to come.

The first was Adaeze, the queen of Alvalis, beloved by both her husband and her people. She had just given birth to a son, the heir to the throne. The second was her faithful and beautiful handmaiden, Adanna.

The king of Alvalis was thought a fair but unyielding ruler. He made time to hear the grievances of the common folk from their own lips, but seldom forgave what he saw as their own mistakes. At one such hearing, a lame man asked the king for mercy for his son, a convicted thief. Without his son, the man would not be able to keep his farm, his livelihood. With cold justice in his eyes, the king denied the man’s request. The man begged twice more, but twice again the king denied him.

At the third denial, the man cursed the king, and promised that soon he would soon regret his decision. “One does not so easily deny a magus,” he whispered.

The night the man left, Adaeze fell ill. Her body burned with fever, and she could eat only a pittance of the blandest porridge. Where her skin had been black and lustrous with health, it was now shiny with sickly sweat. Where her hair had bounced in tight curls from her head with life, it now hung like gray lichen over a cave mouth. The king sent for the best healers in the land, but none succeeded, not even those that were magi themselves.

“The illness is not a natural one,” they told the king. “Tis a spell that makes her ill. To end it, you must find the magus who cast it upon her – else we fear she will soon die.”

Rumor spread that her sick chamber smelled of death itself, and Alvalis steeled itself for the worst.

Desperate to save his wife, the king offered a generous title and lands to any who could bring to him the lame magus. Many lame men were brought before him, but none was the magus he sought. And then, a month into her illness, a message came from one of the king’s most trusted vassals. The magus in question had fled from the vassal’s lands soon after the hearing, taking his convicted son with him.

“Where!?” demanded the king. “Where has the coward fled?!”

The messenger’s response chilled even the king’s heart. “He fled…to the Barrens, my lord.”

The Barrens…it is said even the bravest cannot long live there. It is untamed and wild, yes, without food or water for miles…but also so much more. It is thought that it was deep within the Barrens that the first demons were summoned. And rumors of the Barrens always flew – rumors of the dark things the magi had left behind.

At first, many brave warriors ventured out in hopes of winning their fortunes. Few came back, and those that did died within days of returning. Soon the flood of courageous volunteers dwindled down to a trickle, and then none at all. The king despaired.

Adanna despaired along with her king. She slept in the queen’s room. She wiped sweat from the queen’s body. She prayed at all hours for her queen’s recovery. But still, her efforts were for naught. The queen, her beloved Adaeze, breathed shallower with every passing day.

It is thought that it was Adanna’s intense devotion to her queen that led her to the Barrens. She slipped from the castle one night, her hair shorn short and her breasts hidden in stolen armor. She was a squire whose voice had yet to change. Along the road she met good and bad folk alike. The former gave her food and direction, and the latter gave her practice at wielding her stolen blade.

When she came upon the Barrens, Adanna prayed to the gods above. How unmerciful they must have seemed, for the Barrens was cold and hard, and it sapped all her strength. The few spots of green in the Barrens taunted her with the thought of fire or shelter, but the spark could never catch in the biting cold, and the prickly bushes cherished the frigid rain when it came. It tempted her too. Poisonous weeds seemed half the growth there, and Adanna wondered how warm and blissful the last sleep must be. But for love of her queen, she pressed on.

Soon the Barrens tired of its game. It sent beasts of shadow at her. Crows with four wings to peck at her face, and then shadowy snakes whose venom froze but did not kill. Then came wolves and wildcats with far too many teeth and far too many claws. Still, Adanna prevailed. And so the Barrens released its final, most dangerous weapon…the magus himself.

Against his magic, Adanna was ill-prepared. He smote her in body, with flame and earth and lightning, but still she came. He smote her in spirit, with fear and pain and loss, but still she did not falter. She might then have died, had not the magus’s son stayed his hand. The son, his name forgotten, thought her beautiful – and having none but his father’s company, he wished another. If naught else, the magus loved his son, and so could not deny him this. Thinking her broken, he let him have her.

The son nursed Adanna back to health, until her sepia skin was whole and unbroken, until her eyes were no longer closed in discomfort. He washed her and fed her, and when her lips were warm, he kissed her. And when her mind returned, Adanna saw his mercy and his love for what it was, its good and its bad. She spared him for it.

She poisoned the magus, slipped in his food a weed that grew in the Barrens. It made him weak, and in that weakness, she bound and gagged him, then dragged him from the Barrens.

It was the night of the little prince’s first birthday when a shorter-than-average man in armor dragged the lame magus into the hall of the king. The room was crowded with guests, both highborn and low, all in shock at the intrusion. He drew a dagger and placed it at the magus’s throat, then removed the gag. “You will undo the curse upon the queen,” he commanded, his voice high with anger.

Seeing all was lost, the magus acquiesced, and collapsed, his life spent. The king rejoiced, and in his joy had chests of gold and jewels laid at the feet of the man who saved his wife. “For you, ser, no reward is too great!” the king proclaimed. “Name your reward.”

The man fell to a knee. “I have no need of gold nor titles, my king,” he replied. “I only ask that I continue to be able to protect my queen…as a member of the Rookshield.”

“Done!” said the king. “Though you shall have gold and titles as well. No unmask yourself, ser knight – let me know the man who has given me back my life!”

The helm was removed, and it fell to the floor, clanking loudly in the brief silence that followed. All waited for the king to speak, for the man was no man. It was Adanna. And then, wild shouting. The lowborn clamored for her, their voices singing her praises. Many of the highborn did as well, though those that were warriors called her weak by virtue of her sex, and worse.

“Loyalty should know only reward,” said the king after the shouting died down. “And I decree that you shall want for nothing material. But…you are a woman. It is tradition that women do not fight. I cannot grant you what you wish.”

Adanna lifted her chin in stony defiance. “The truth is before your eyes, my king. And my king has nothing to offer me. I decline your reward.”

The king sat silent. The Rookshield commander did not. “Know your place, woman!” he screamed, and drove a dagger into her back.

It was 20 years later when the little prince became king that Adanna was declared the first woman of the Rookshield. And that, student of history, is why women fight in the Alvali army. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

Here's the first bit of a worldbuilding short story I wrote for my fantasy novel. I hope it catches your interest and leaves you in suspense and whatnot.

Romana, First Woman of the Rooksguard

Ask any common peasant of Falrive what the most unnatural thing about the Alvalis is, and more often than not they will answer, “The women” or more likely, “The wenches.” Alas, it is unfortunate that so many are ignorant of the history behind the Rook’s permission of women as soldiers.

For near all the Ages of Civilization, the Alvalis like all peoples of Escilon did not allow their women to join the ranks of their soldiers. Women could be farmers, merchants, teachers, even members of the priesthood – but never soldiers. It was not necessity that sparked the Rook’s change in policy. They did not need more soldiers.

It was two women who changed that for the ages to come.

The first was Hera, the queen of Alvalis, beloved by both her husband and her people. The second was her faithful handmaiden, Romana.

After the birth of her son, Hera fell ill. Her body burned with fever, and she could eat only a pittance of the blandest porridge. Where her skin had been dark and lustrous with health, it was now shiny with sickly sweat. Where her hair had bounced in tight curls from her head with life, it now hung like gray lichen over a cave mouth. The king sent for the best healers in the land, but none succeeded.

Rumor spread that her sick chamber smelled of death itself, and Alvalis steeled itself for the worst.

Desperate to save his wife, the king offered a generous title and lands to any who could bring the only cure that was sure to work. The cure he sought was an herb that grew only at the foot of the Helm of the World, half a continent away. Though many knew of its existence, few ever ventured to use it, for the path there was arduous. The land was untamed and wild. And rumors always flew – rumors of dark things the magi had left behind. 

[writing-wrong-blog]

"Final" Draft

In the read more is the "final" draft of that prologue I've been working on - I've actually decided that it's a bit too short to be a prologue by itself, so I think in its final final form I'll have it being told as a tale of history by a schoolmaster or something like that. Enjoy!

The Second Age of Civilization: The Rise and Fall of Magic

And lo, by the First Age’s end, the peoples of Escilon were no longer the savages first wrought by the gods. In their wisdom and benevolence, the gods gifted the people with virtues of prosperity; the skills of the smith, the potter, the fletcher, the farmer and all other manner of craft. And it was through these that the peoples gained the freedom to ponder less how they were to survive, and instead, learn more of the mysteries of the world, and indeed, make fully known the gods’ creation. It was this freedom that gave birth to the first magi.

And so it was that the first magi reveled in the discovery of this new facet of life, and eagerly delved into the task of unraveling its secrets. The magic to better the crafts of mundane artisans came first, with metal so strong it could only be forged once to never be broken again, ceramics that could not shatter, arrows that flew true e’en against the wind, and buildings that could stand against the elements for decades without need of upkeep. The peoples rejoiced, for in this magic there was only good fortune.

Their success over things mundane emboldened the mages to seek further knowledge of the world’s bounty. They turned to the study of the great forces of nature and gained dominion over them. They learned to summon tempests leagues from the sea, spark fire that fed on solid stone and cause the earth to tear itself apart. For a time, this knowledge was enough. The magi built academies for people with a talent for their art, and taught them how to use their powers wisely and for the greater good of all. The peoples of Escilon prospered more than they could have e’er hoped.

It was a peace that would not endure.

In a few decades time, a new sect of magi formed in secret from the knowledge of the rulers of Escilon. This sect turned to the study of things not of this mortal realm. They started with the dead – and so the first necromancers perverted the soil of Escilon. Their vile craft taught them not only how to commune with the spirits of those long since dead, but also to give a semblance of life to the remains of the dead, with the most powerful necromancers’ work scarcely discernible from true life.

It was through their speech with the dead that the necromancers learned of the existence of demons. In these days, the clergy warned against demons: redskinned, impish creatures that tempted men and women to sin. If only that were the truth. What the necromancers found beyond the Abyss was outside mortal imagination. Only the most powerful of the mages could summon these demons with relative safety – others less potent would feel an unwelcome voice in their heads, cold tendrils of thought that whispered the way to dark and dangerous power. The weak-minded would feel only a nameless dread, a horror that made the stomach shrivel and the heart nearly stop beating as blood thickened to sludge. The demons taught their eager pupils many powers: fire that seared the spirit and left the flesh intact, profane rites to grant unholy power to mortal men, and more, darker secrets…

And yet, good came of the necromancers’ work. For through the dead they also learned of the seraphs of the Veil. The seraphs were and are beings of good, fated to eternally make war with the denizens of the Abyss. Where the demons taught arts of destruction, pestilence and discord, the seraphs imbued some few magi with immortal powers of protection, healing and courage. To be in one’s presence was to feel the weight of mortality lift from one’s shoulders.

The seraphs’ influence was not enough. Through the manipulative words and promises of demons, the magi were tricked. In their hubris and lust for power, they created numerous artifacts of great power; power that drew from demon, magi, and seraph alike. In the end, the three greatest artifacts created were the Orbs of True Magic. A possessor of even one of the Orbs could face an entire army and emerge unscathed, the army scattered.

Once created, the Orbs were given to the protection of the three greatest mages of the age. The first went to Theiros Alatar, the so-called Master of the Elements. Theiros’s power was such that he could level forests with a gesture, turn fertile lands to desert with a thought. To him, the Orb of the Sword, Eyl,was given. The second went to Endira Mauryl, the Seer beyond the Veil. Though young, the Seer’s soul was irrevocably aged, for she possessed the gift of true sight. None could deceive her, for she saw all that was, and all that ever could be. It was she who received the Orb of the Scales, Domari. The last was given to Cyrnic Ossilin, the Archmage of Death. Of his power, I dare not speak – it is best forgotten. To him, the Orb of the Shield, Vernda was entrusted.

When the rulers of the nations of Escilon learned of the Orbs’ existence, they both feared and coveted them. In secret, a cunning magus went to each of them, and pledged his loyalty and the skill to retrieve for each of them the Orbs. Through fortune or not, the Betrayer was only successful in slaying Theiros before the Seer knew of his plot, and so was only able to steal Eyl. Still, his cunning was great, for he was able to evade the direct sight of even the Seer, for try as she might, his location eluded her.

The nations of Escilon, cheated by the Betrayer, wary of the Orbs’ power, lost faith in the magi completely. It was decided by all that magecraft was to be forbidden, and any magi who possessed other, more powerful magic were to be put to death for the threat they represented to the peoples of Escilon. The clergies of the world preached that magic was a sin, a manifestation of evil against the very laws of nature.

And so, the Purification began. The academies that had taught magic to pupils both young and old were burned to the ground. Magi were tracked down and killed in public view. Only the very youngest were spared.

Well aware of the danger that the zealous fervor of the people posed, Cyrnic Ossilin perverted the power of Vernda to craft a deadly plague, one that forced a tiny sliver of a demon’s power and spirit into a human body, heedless of that body’s innate magical talent. From his foul magic, a new race of mankind magically bound to him was born: the Cull.

Pale as death and with skin that burned like a fever, the men turned Cull each possessed twice the strength of a man. Though they could be killed, wounds that could not kill outright healed in a matter of days. Cyrnic armed them with weapons forged in the Abyss itself, and released them on the armies of Escilon, to take vengeance for the fallen magi, and take Eyl and Domari for himself.

Where the Cull marched, death swiftly followed. With each victory, more Cull joined the ranks of Ossilin’s army. All was thought lost.

It was Endira who proved a savior in the end. She gazed into the future, and saw what she might do to save all humanity from perishing. Feigning loss of her mind, she traveled to the Helm of the World, where magic is most powerful. She made it known that her intention was to destroy Domari, ensuring no man might use all three Orbs to rise so far above man.

Fortune smiled, for she did not succumb to the Helm’s defenses of snow and wind as she ascended. There, on the Helm’s peak, she found the two she needed: the Betrayer, and the Archmage. All was still. “You dare not destroy it,” whispered the Betrayer. “None can resist its power – not even you.”

“You are nothing without it,” affirmed the Archmage. “Your foresight will not save you from our combined power.”

Endira, the Seer Beyond the Veil, only smiled in the face of her death. “I know the risk I take,” she murmured. “And I am glad.”

There, at the Helm of the World, the Seer raised Domari to the sky and beseeched it to restore balance to Escilon. And Domari did so. The mountaintop burst open, and pieces of the Helm rained down on all Escilon in great slabs of ice and stone. The last three great magi of the world fell instantly, and with their leader dead, the Cull fell into disarray, and the courageous warriors of Escilon wiped them from the surface of the earth.

And so, peace came to the peoples of Escilon at last, for without the power of magic in the hands of but a few, all were free to live without fear for the rest of their days.

[writing-wrong-blog]

Second part of that prologue I posted. This one is a bit longer, hope you all enjoy!

Their success over things mundane emboldened the mages to seek further knowledge of the world’s bounty. They turned to the study of the great forces of nature and gained dominion over them. They learned to summon tempests leagues from the sea, spark fire that fed on solid stone and cause the earth to tear itself apart. For a time, this knowledge was enough. The magi built academies for people with a talent for their art, and taught them how to use their powers wisely and for the greater good of all. The peoples of Escilon prospered more than they could have e’er hoped.

It was not a peace that would not endure.

 In a few decades time, a new sect of magi formed in secret from the knowledge of the rulers of Escilon. This sect turned to the study of things not of this mortal realm. They started with the dead – and so the first necromancers perverted the soil of Escilon. Their vile craft taught them not only how to commune with the spirits of those long since dead, but also to give a semblance of life to the remains of the dead, with the most powerful necromancers’ work scarcely discernible from true life.

 It was through their speech with the dead that the necromancers learned of the existence of demons. In these days, the clergy warned against demons: redskinned, impish creatures that tempted men and women to sin. If only that were the truth. What the necromancers found beyond the Abyss was outside mortal imagination. Only the most powerful of the mages could summon these demons with relative safety – others less potent would feel an unwelcome voice in their heads, cold tendrils of thought that whispered the way to dark and dangerous power. The weak-minded would feel only a nameless dread, a horror that made the stomach shrivel and the heart nearly stop beating as blood thickened to sludge. The demons taught their eager pupils many powers: fire that seared the spirit and left the flesh intact, profane rites to grant unholy power to mortal men, and more, darker secrets…

 And yet, good came of the necromancers’ work. For through the dead they also learned of the seraphs of the Veil. The seraphs were and are beings of good, fated to eternally make war with the denizens of the Abyss. Where the demons taught arts of destruction, pestilence and discord, the seraphs imbued some few magi with immortal powers of protection, healing and courage. To be in one’s presence was to feel the weight of mortality lift from one’s shoulders.

 The seraphs’ influence was not enough. Through the manipulative words and promises of demons, the magi were tricked. In their hubris and lust for power, they created numerous artifacts of great power; power that drew from demon, magi, and seraph alike. In the end, the three greatest artifacts created were the Orbs of True Magic. A possessor of even one of the Orbs could face an entire army and emerge unscathed, the army scattered.