January 2012 Writing Challenge - Voting Closed!

[Autumn2May]

Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters; united with it, she is the mother of the arts and the origin of marvels. - Francisco de Goya


_{Image by sandara}

One of the staples of fantasy stories is unique creatures.  Some of them are on the side of good, others evil, and some won't be bothered with picking sides.  But whether it be grand dragons flying through azure skies, dark demons spawned from the pits of hell, magical unicorns hiding in deep forests, or otherworldly spirits guarding the sacred places of the land, mythical creatures are one of the things that make fantasy so fantastic.

To ring in the New Year we'd like to challenge you to write a short fantasy story using a mythical creature.  It can be a known creature (dragon, unicorn, etc.) or something you've created yourself, but it must be something that's never existed (i.e. no dinosaurs).

The rules are as follows:

1. Must be prose.
2. 1,500 - 2,000 words.
3. Must contain a mythical creature and include an element of fantasy.
4. Your creature must play a significant part in your story.

The contest is now closed!  And the winner is:

wishywash27

Congratulations to our winner!

[wishywash27]

Hello-

I'd like to submit an entry for the January Writing Challenge, but it's not clear where and how to post my entry..please help!

Rebecca Fisk
wishywash27

[Autumn2May]

Hello-

I'd like to submit an entry for the January Writing Challenge, but it's not clear where and how to post my entry..please help!

Rebecca Fisk
wishywash27

Hi Rebecca!  You can simply post your entry as a reply to this thread.   Good luck!

[wishywash27]

OK- I see now-  Thank you

Here it goes- (I write YA fantasy/fiction, so I stuck with that age group for this story-I hope everyone has as much fun reading it as I had writing it!)


-Dresta's Folly- By Rebecca L. Fisk
Dresta hovered in the air for a moment before deciding the lopsided Willow Tree near the edge of the lake would be the best spot to make her new home.
The sun was shining, thankfully, moving in the rain was one of the most troublesome tasks, so she’d heard her neighbors complain about anyway. This was the first time Dresta had ever moved, and she was thrilled to be leaving her Father’s home and starting her life of independence.
Rainier Faeries normally left the home of their parents by the age of 106, but Dresta’s father was particularly over protective, and seeing as how he was the King, he got what he wanted. She was finally allowed to be moving out at the ripe old age of 127. All her friends had been out forever, and several of them were already engaged to be made Kindred to each other.
Dresta frowned at the thought her father. “Overbearing, ancient, Melpwra!’ She fumed silently. It was the most disrespectful thing she could think of to call him. She didn’t dare say it out loud, knowing any Birds nearby would run back to him and tattle on her. Birds could never keep a secret, always chattering away and ruining everybody’s fun.
He had picked a fight with her this very morning, her Moving Day of all days! The King had announced to her that he had found the Faerie she would be made Kindred to, a Prince from a neighboring realm, and that Prince Katarin and his court would be coming within the fortnight to pay his respects. He had been very excited about his announcement. Prince Katarin, indeed! As if she would actually join with a mate who’s name meant “Wandering With Ants” in the ancient language. Dresta had argued with her father, appalled on principle she was expected to align herself with a stranger on the say so of her parent. What if he was cruel? What if he treated her like a mere decoration and she was expected to attend every royal or political function for the next one thousand years and smile silently on the arm of her Kindred, while on the inside she would be screaming for an early death? What if he was a…and here, Dresta shuddered to think on it…what if Prince Katarin was a Lover of Humans?
She had tried to bring up all these points to her father, but he simply would not hear it. He didn’t even have the courtesy to scowl and be displeased with her, he simply waved her off like an unwanted dust mote and asked that his first attendee be brought forth, his mind already focused on the day ahead.
Dresta hefted her bag over her shoulder and fluttered her wings to get moving across the clearing towards the Willow. She was going to put the whole thing out of her head, get settled in, and then head towards the village to wreck as much havoc as any Rainier Faerie had ever wrecked on a human village. Then, at dusk, she would set off a signal over her Willow Tree, and her friends would join her in a spectacular Tree warming celebration. It would be the best Moving Day ever, and Prince Ant Face could go kiss a milkmaid.
The Willow was ancient, its lowered boughs lazily drifting in the clear, cold water of the lake it guarded. Dresta lightly landed in front of the tree, and put her hand out. The bark was rough, and warm, and lovely. She inhaled the scent, and felt slightly intoxicated. Leaving her hand on the bark, she began to sing. Her high, clear voice carried to the very top of the Willow. She felt the life force of the Tree respond to her voice, and it hummed in tune with her. Dresta and the Tree sang together and a couple of the youngest limbs far above her head began to re-arrange themselves. They twisted into a complicated knot at the apex of the trunk, forming a beautiful shelter, protected from wind, rain, or snow.
The Willow had accepted her. She finished her song by thanking it, and lightly kissing the bark in front of her. Hefting her bag over her shoulder once again, she fluttered her wings and flew up to her new abode. The Willow had created a narrow doorway that was sheltered by one of its larger branches, so wind was not likely to disturb the interior of her dwelling.
She stepped inside and looked around the small space. It was stunning in its simplicity. The Willow had created a long curved area along the far wall; this would be her bed. In the middle of the space there were raised curves on the floor that resembled benches centered around a dip. She stretched out her hand and cast a tiny amount of her faerie fire, where it hovered as a glowing ball of light over the dip. The faerie fire would not harm the tree around it, but it would draw from the Willow’s renewable energy to provide light and warmth until she allowed it to extinguish.
Setting her pack down, she unrolled her bed fur, which had been given to her by an ancient chipmunk named Welk. The fur was Welk, actually, Animals left the Faeries their physical forms to be re-used when their spirits passed into the heavens. Dresta rubbed the little white mark that had been over Welk’s twinkling eye and smiled. She missed his sense of humor and his ability to find the tastiest berries long after one assumed the bush was picked clean. She was honored he had chosen her to leave his fur to and thankful to have this part of her friend.
Spreading it over the resting place the Willow had made her made her feel like she was finally, truly, home.
She unpacked the rest of her things; her change of clothing, the bundle of food she had brought with her, mostly nuts and some hard cheese, and the few treasures she had. The tiny shell that was no bigger than her hand with its mother of pearl underside was given a prominent spot over her bed. The five leaf clover was placed over the doorway, and the polished garnet her Mother had left her was placed in the dip under the suspended ball of faerie fire. The light reflected off the garnet, and turned the inside of her new home a rosy hue.
Taking one last look of satisfaction around her new home, Dresta stepped outside, and with a powerful push of her wings, headed towards the nearby village.
The closer she got to the village, the more excited she allowed herself to become. Rainier Faeries normally wreaked havoc in teams, but now that she was an Independent Faerie, she was allowed to go out on her own as well. She was a little nervous about doing it alone, but she had plenty of practice with her old team, and this time she could decide what tricks to play without needing approval from the team leader. Salting the well was a classic, as was making the sows or geese stampede. Anything to make the lives of the nasty Humans that much harder caused the Rainier Faeries such glee, and there were so many ways to disrupt Their carefully laid plans. Of course, Mother Nature did so much on Her own, between hail storms that wrecked Their crops, or bitterly long winters that caused the old, sick, and frail Humans to wither away and die. One supposed one could almost feel sorry for the giant creatures, but really, they were so horrible, one got over it quickly enough. 
The Humans were invading every part of the Faerie land, not just the Rainier’s Kingdom and they were such wasteful, belligerent creatures. Harnessing Animals and forcing them to work the land or carry the Humans to and fro like slaves, cutting down Trees, and Grass and using them to build ugly square abodes or start fires, not to mention the act of eating the Animals. It was a perversion, an abomination, and no matter what the Faeries did, more Humans kept coming, chopping, building, eating, and destroying.
Dresta had even heard stories of Humans bewildering Faeries with some dark majic, twisting their minds so that the Faeries believed they were friends of the Human. She had heard one story of a female Faerie from the realm of D'snai who became so besotted with a male Human, she allowed him to keep her in a lantern inside his house, only letting her out when he wanted her Faerie Fire or her majic. It made her sick just to think on it. She would bet an entire cache of acorns that some nasty Human had made up this story just to torment any Faeries within earshot.
She was closing in on the village, and to her surprise, something unusual seemed to be happening. Many large wagons were being unloaded in the village square. She stayed in the beams of sunlight, and any Human looking up would have assumed a bird was fluttering high above their heads. No Human was looking up, however, being completely immersed in their task of unloading the huge barrels from the wagons. They called out to each other in their guttural voices, such an unpleasant cacophony.
Dresta saw a weak spot in the slat of one of the barrels, where a small drop of liquid was beading and getting ready to drop. She aimed a small bolt of faerie fire at the spot the bead was escaping from, and a second later, the entire barrel seemed to implode, sending out a massive gush of watery brown liquid. The Human carrying the destroyed barrel was covered from head to toe and stood motionless as he tried to figure out what had happened. Then other Humans around him pointed and yelled, angry at him for whatever they assumed he had done wrong to waste their precious cargo. His face turned red as he sputtered his innocence through the liquid still dripping down his face. Dresta snickered, waiting for Them to turn on each other, but the man's expression changed as the liquid got in his mouth, and suddenly he was smiling and laughing. He yelled out something else, and the other Humans around him joined the roaring laughter, slapping their knees, and each other’s backs.
Destra frowned. This was not supposed to happen! She darted closer, making sure to stay in the sun beams. She got a whiff of the brown stuff and fire burned through her nose. Sneezing and coughing, she fluttered up high again. She didn’t know what the brown Fire Water was but she sure didn’t think anything good was going to come out of it being here.
An abrupt banging noise caught her attention, and she looked towards the sound. A male Human had opened the door to the square abode built from dead Trees and the wind had caught it, slamming it against the wall.
The moment she saw his face, she knew terrible, terrible things were going to happen. His hair was like a field of wheat, rippling golden and full in the sunlight. His eyes were the sparkling green of summer grass dotted with morning dew. His lips were as lush as rose petals. She felt sick. She felt excited. Her heart leaped and she felt as though it might burst out of her chest. She was in love with this beautiful, dangerous Human instantly, and knew, without a doubt, her father was going to kill her when he found out.

[ryuryan2409]

Well, it's not much, but here's my little entry for the contest.

I write Fantasy, mostly Epic Fantasy and Sword and Sorcery type things:

Jason’s stomach knotted and twisted, and he gripped all the tighter to the handle of his sword.

King Vandras, a man large enough to be imposing of his own accord, sat upon his throne clad in full armour, with his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. Jason had always wondered why it was that the King armed himself so fully in the privacy of his own keep. Half the Sceran army stood guard in the  grounds beyond the keep, and elite guards patrolled the corridors and passageways through the keep. Finally, there was the Magi; a  group of highly gifted individuals with a passion for turning intruders into mush.

With such a formidable defencive force, the King’s extensive measures to protect his person seemed to stray into excess. Not  that Jason would ever think of mentioning this to Vandras; he may be a friend, but he was no fool.

The King’s hold on his temper was fragile at best, and Jason would sooner not test it.

King Vandras tightened his hold on the pommel of his blade as he looked upon the Magi, who stood encircling a glowing orb.

“How long now, Master Magi?”

One of the more senior of the Magi turned to look at the King, a look of calm confidence in his eyes.

“Not long now, Your Grace.”

Vandas’s eyes narrowed at the aged man. “I expect this to work, Syrus. If you fail me now,  will be most displeased.”

Some of the confidence melted from the old ma’s face, but he did not look away.

“I assure you, Your Grace, soon the creature will be in our grasp.”
 
A sharp look from Vandras seemed to strike Syrus’ common sense. “And by our, I of course mean your grasp, Sire.”

“Indeed. Just hurry and complete your task. I have other matters to attend to.”

“Yes, Sire.”

As Syrus turned back into the circle, Vandras motioned for Jason to approach the throne.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

The towering man needn’t have stood. Even seated, the King could look his Captain and friend in the eye. He did just that now.

“You seem ill at ease, my friend. Does something bother you?”

Jason pondered for the briefest of moments, hoping to shape his opinions in an appropriate way.

“Your Grace, I just do not understand why it is that we must call such a creature. You hold command of the most
skilled military force West of the Rift, and the Circle has given you command over several of their more talented Magi. You hold a position of great power in the world, and I cannot understand your lust to advance it further.”

The King sighed.

“My friend, you have answered your own question. Th Circle gave me command over these Magi. That puts our magical friends a tier higher than myself, and I do not approve of having someone above me.”

“What exactly is your intention with the creature, Vandras?”

The King’s expression showed clearly that he had noticed the change in the term of address.

“I intend to take my rightful place, Jason.”

Jason did not reply. Instead, he returned to his place a few steps to the King’s right, and gripped the handle of his blade.

Syrus turned back to the King.

“It is time, Your Grace.”

“Finally. I was beginning to doubt your skills, Syrus.”

The King rose from his throne, and descended the few steps to the floor.

As the circle of men and women spread apart, Jason got a good look at the orb. It no longer emanated a warm,
soft glow, but rather forced light in all directions. Sparks emerged from one portion of the orb, only to strike down upon another portion.

Even Vandras paused as he approached, and turned to Syras.

“Are you sure this is safe, old man?”

“Quite safe, Sire. This energy is not a weapon; it’s just a portal. No harm will come to you.”

“You had best hope not. My friend over there,” He motioned toward Jason. “will be most unhappy if anything happens to me.”

A few of the Magi turned to look with worried eyes at Jason, who had decided  to casually rest his hand on the hilt of his blade.

Syrus, however, kept his eyes fixed on the King.

“You have my word, Your Grace.”

Vandras nodded at the man, and stepped toward the orb. Another spark flew I the direction of the King, and he took a small step back, before continuing his advance. The spark flew more frequently now, and seemed more violent than before. Vandras had grown accustomed to them, however, and did not falter.

He reached out his right hand, and lay it upon the orb.

The explosion of light and colour that followed near blinded Jason, and forced him to cover his eyes.

The sound behind it, on the other hand, he could not block out.A high-pitched screech the tore through his head, and filled his mind with a throbbing pain.

Abruptly, the screeching stopped and the room was plunged into darkness. Jason uncovered his eyes, and even through the pervading gloom, a bold figure was apparent in the centre of the room. It stood a full half the height of the room, putting it several metres above the King.

As Jason’s eyes adjusted, he could see the creature in greater detail. It stood upon two legs, much like a man, but there was nothing human about this creature. Its skin was covered in scales from the top of its head to the tip of its massive tail. Its hands each held five fingers, with each ending in a curved claw that reflected what little light remained in the room. From its back sprouted two great wings, their tips touching the stones of the walls to either side of the beast, though they were, as yet, un-folded. Upon its broad shoulders sat a head that looked as though it had been struck from some great lizard.

At the beast’s feet, lying flat upon the ground, was the King.

The creature looked down, issued a snarl, and bent toward the King.

At that moment, the sharp edge of a blade pressed against Jason’s throat, and Syrus’ voice came from behind.

“Watch now as your precious King gets the ending he deserves.”

Between controlled breaths, Jason  managed a whisper.

“Why?”

“You think we are deaf? We know what Vandras had planned. We may have been placed in his command, but our loyalty always lies with the Circle.”

As the old man finished, the creature had reached out a hand to the unconscious King, and lifted him into the air.

It stood, examining him, as though unsure of what to make of the iron-clad man in his hand.

Then, with dreadful purpose, it clenched its fist, and the sound of warping metal and crushing bones filled the room.

Syrus laughed, with triumph and pride in his voice, and the voices of the other Magi, hidden throughout the room joined him.

Jason saw his chance.

He threw his left elbow behind him, and felt a satisfying thud as he connected with Syrus’ chest. He ducked an spun, his right fist clenched and his arm locked. Syrus stood a no more than a foot away, his eyes wide with surprise.

Those same eyes glazed over and rolled back as Jason’s fist collided with the side of the Mage’s head, sending him tumbling to the floor.

He glanced around. He had a few seconds, at most, in which to make his escape.

He took a few quiet steps forward, but was caught off-balance by the sound that came from behind.

That same horrid screech erupted from the centre of the room, and Jason looked over his shoulder to find the creature staring hungrily at him.

With stealth no longer an option, Jason decided to bank on pure speed.

He charged toward the back of the room, past the throne, and into the corridor behind that lead to the King’s chambers, suddenly grateful for the architectural idea that so irritated Vandras.

He sped down the corridor, angry voice s behind him. He soon approached the door to Vandras’ chambers, and did not slow. Instead, he altered his stature, and slammed his armoured shoulder into the door, breaking through the lock. The pain of impact was extraordinary, but adrenaline pushed such thoughts and worries from his mind. For now, survival was priority one.

He ran across the room, to the main entrance to the chamber, and rushed out into the ensuing passages.

He ran down the central corridor, glancing to each side as he went, until finally catching glimpse of a group of guards posted near the treasury.

He changed direction, headed now toward them. He shouted ahead of him.

“Arm yourselves! We’re under attack!”

Years of training came to the surface as the men instinctively drew their weapons.

As Jason approached, one of the younger men stepped forward to meet him.

“What’s happened, Sir?”

Pausing a moment for breath, Jason replied.

“The King… Dead… The Magi…”

“Sir, breath and tell us what happened.”

Jason looked at one of the men, chosen at random.

“You, go and warn the rest of the men to prepare.”

The man nodded, and sped of down the corridor.

Jason looked to the young man who had met him.

“The Magi; they turned on the King. He’s dead.”

A look of disbelief crossed their faces.

“How is that possible? Most of them can barely carry a stick, let alone take down that giant.”

“They summoned something; some monster. It crushed him in one hand.”

For a moment, the guards looked sceptical. A crash from a ways into the keep, followed by a thunderous bellow changed their minds.

Jason motioned for them to follow him.

They emerge some way down the corridor, into the courtyard. They found a grizzly sight.

Bodies lay strewn around he centre, where dozens of men valiantly attacked the monstrosity brought forth by the Magi.

The Magi themselves, cold and emotionless, stood behind their creation, observing the chaos.

Jason drew his blade, but felt a hand on his arm.

“You can’t seriously be thinking about attacking that thing. Look at it. Look at what it’s done.”

Jason turned to the man, and fixed him with a steady stare.

“I’ve looked, soldier, and I’ve seen. I saw it crush the life out of m King; my friend. Now, you can run if you wish. Go, and hide like a quivering child, but know this; do so, and I name you coward and traitor. You will live your life in shame, and no end will come soon enough for you. You will live knowing you abandoned the chance to avenge your King, and let you never forget it.”

The man’s returning stare said it all as he nodded to Jason, then turned to the creature.

Jason took a slow deep breath, raised his weapon, and called to the sky.

“Charge!”

With that command the men ran int the fray, their head held high, and their weapons before them. As they neared the beast, Jason leapt from the ground, and drew back his weapon.

He roared in anger and blood-lust, and the world went black.

[Whitehare]

So clearly mythical beasts are not my forte, but I was determined to do something.

The Ice Maiden

The hare sprinted across the field, all four legs pumping in a desperate bid for survival. Kevan's whistle called his dogs off and they slowed to a halt, tongues lolling and their breath freezing in the air before them, but the hare ran on. Caught in the open, it dashed for the nearest cover, but not before Kevan had nocked an arrow, drawn the string, anchored, sighted and loosed in one smooth motion. The arrow found its target as five others already had today: three other hares and two winter geese were now trussed and hanging from the saddle of Kevan's squire.

"Good shot, my lord," the lad said, a note of admiration warming his voice despite his breath made white plumes in the air. "Not another lord in the kingdom takes his quarry down like you do."

"And you’re an expert on them all, Cuaran, eh?" Kevan slapped his squire across his shoulders and slung his horse bow across his back. "At least my father will have fresh meat on his table tonight. He was most insistent."

"We can't have your lady eating salt pork at her betrothal feast, my lord."

"When she comes to live at Dubhnall she'll eat salt pork in the winter like the rest of us. I fear my father will set her expectations too high." 

"You'll not be out hunting so early once you're married," Cuaran grinned, "Not with a nice warm bride to keep you lingering in your bed."

Kevan chuckled and whistled for the dogs, who gave one last reluctant look at the hare, the fresh warm blood still flowing out round the arrow shaft, before ambling back to where the horses stood . "Fetch the hare, lad, and take this meat to the kitchens. Take the dogs back too. I'll ride on a little more." He cuffed the lad playfully across his ear. "And that's for thinking about me in my lady's bed before we're even married. Go on, get you back. And be sure to have hot water ready on my return. I can scarce feel my toes even now. I'll need a warm soak to thaw myself out again."

He dug his heels into the horse's sides and it walked on, leaving green trails across the field white with the first frosts. Kevan had a fur-lined cloak as befitted his station, the breast embroidered with the crest of the Lord of Dubhnall: two-headed dog, rampant, and differenced with the bar denoting the eldest son. He pulled the cloak tighter about his shoulders. Mercy, but winter was coming in fast.

Kevan's destination was the pool where he had spent many summer days as a boy. The river cascaded down from the hills here, and a waterfall had gouged a hollow out of the rock where the local lads would often swim. He had haunted this place since the summer, when he had seen something here that had bewitched him.

It had been the first truly warm day and he had sent Cuaran back, as he had today.  Kevan rode to the pool and on a notion had stripped to his skin as he had as a boy and dived into the clear crisp water. He surfaced, spluttering and shaking the hair from his eyes, all the breath knocked out of him by the sudden chill. He had forgotten how cold the pool was, even on summer days, the melt water pouring down the mountainside in torrents. Kevan thought he saw her then, almost hidden in shadow, watching him from a rock beneath the waterfall. Her long white-blond hair fell almost to her waist and her skin was the colour of frost. She had giggled, the sound the tinkling of the water as it fell, and when he looked again she was not there. There was only a trickle of water from the rock.

Since then he had returned many times, hoping to see her. "Are you here?" he called, breathless with anticipation. "Show yourself, I beg you."

He saw it then: a movement behind the waterfall. From behind the sheet of water came a tall woman dressed in robes so sheer they seemed to be of spider silk. She smiled at him and her eyes, though cold silver grey, were soft and welcoming.

He stepped forward, then hesitated, eyes downcast. "I have looked for you for so long," he said. "I thought I might never see you again."  Without a sound, she held out her hands to him and he reached for her. She was cold, strangely insubstantial, and as he drew her to him she seemed to shimmer, her body melting away to nothingness, leaving only a trickle of water over the rock where she had stood.

#

His thoughts at the betrothal feast were scarcely on Marisse. His mind was full of the strange pale woman with hair like ice on silver. Marisse seemed so trivial now, her conversation full of ladies' maids and wedding finery. The strange woman of the pool had seized hold of him, body and soul, and he could think of none but her.

#

Kevan next went to the pool a week later, his chin itching with his new-grown beard. Marisse had said she preferred a man to wear a beard, as her father and her brothers did, and Kevan's father encouraged him to indulge her. "If it makes your woman happy, it's worth it, son. Trust me. If I could have kept your mother contented just by growing my beard out I'd be a wealthier man today." He had laughed his big booming laugh and thrown his arm around Kevan's shoulders. "There will be other ways of keeping her happy that cost nothing too, believe me."

It was colder still, and around the edges of the pool ice had started to form, sending out its fragile tendrils into the deeper water. The air crackled with snow yet to come, and the trees glistened white.  When the breeze disturbed the branches, it was as if a hundred tiny bells tinkled in the distance and the wind cut like knives.

Kevan skirted the pond, watching his footing on the slippery rocks. He tiptoed to the edge of the waterfall, gasping as the icy spray needled his skin. "Beloved? Are you here?"

She stepped from the shadows, throwing her arms about his shoulders and pressing her pale lips to his. He gasped, the feel of her against him exquisite torture. The feel of her hair through his fingers was like liquid metal, cold yet yielding.

"Ah, my love, what have you done to me? I need you so." Kevan moved to embrace her again, but she pulled back, a frown creasing her forehead. His chin tingled as she stroked his beard, cold fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps across his cheek. She scowled, her mouth pressed into a pout, and with a little shake of the head she stepped away from him.

"You don't like it? It's gone, beloved. I'll have my squire shave me tonight. I was only growing it for my… It was a fancy, nothing more."  Her eyes reproached him, but still she reached for him, drawing him closer. Mercy, how she tempted him. He kissed her, fiercely this time, wanting her body close to him.
 
The sun broke through the clouds then, and the warmth of his body and the limp winter rays began to change her. Her hair went first, that white silk melting and flowing, trickling over his fingers as he watched in horror.  He sat on the rock, the flesh chilling on his bones.  "Come back to me beloved," he murmured to the waterfall. "It is cold. You can stay with me. See, the sun has gone again."  But she did not return.

#

The wedding had been set for midwinter festival.  The bridal party arrived in a snow storm, their horses exhausted and the people so chilled they could barely speak. Marisse took to her chambers, spending the next two days in the company of her maids and scarcely venturing out. When Kevan did see her she seemed insipid beside his water maiden.  Even the bitter coldness of his ice princess drew him more than Marisse's warmth. He went to his father and begged that he be allowed to escape the match. His brother was better suited to Marisse, he argued, but his father would have none of it and raged at his elder son. Kevan would bring disgrace on the family, he said. If he rejected Marisse no other family of noble birth would consider him in case he slighted their daughter also. No, he would marry Marisse on midwinter day and that was that.

On the morning of midwinter day Kevan set out through the snow. He was resigned to the wedding, but he had to see her one more time.

The wind had made drifts against the hedgerows and his horse stumbled his way down to the river and the pool beyond. His father would be angry at him, risking a valuable animal in this manner, but he had to go – to touch her one more time. He had heard of these sprites before: how they tempted men and drove them out of their minds with love. He didn't think he was mad, but she was all he could think of when awake and she filled his dreams when asleep.

When he got there, the pond was frozen over. The once cascading waterfall had become a sculpture, with frozen fingers poking down to meet spires of ice that thrust upwards from the rock hard surface. Kevan's spirits leapt. Now, maybe, she could stay. Perhaps in this deep cold she could be with him and not melt away.

She emerged from her hideaway, her face serene. Her smile was as dazzling as sun on snow and Kevan couldn't wrench his eyes from her. She glided over the rocks to him and as she stood before him he breathed her in. The cold air chilled his lungs but she smelled good: of snow and ice and water.  She smiled at the beads of moisture on his cloak, flicking them away with fine fingers. The droplets clung to her, freezing on her shoulders like a mantle of diamonds.

"Beloved, I-"  She laid a finger to his lips and unlatched the cloak clasp on his shoulder. He swung the cloak off and went to place it around her shoulders, but she shook her head, gesturing at the ground. Kevan swallowed hard, and laid the cloak down. She sank to her knees on the fur lining, and stroked its softness, staying whole despite the warmth of his body that lingered in the fur. Then she lay down, propping herself on one elbow and reaching for him. Tugging at the laces of his shirt he knelt beside her and allowed himself to be brought down into her embrace. At last, he could claim her, the bitter chill keeping her solid while they showed their love for each other.

#

They found him that evening. His squire had made ready the wedding garb, but Kevan was nowhere to be seen. His horse was missing from the stables and they followed the tracks in the snow until they discovered him, lying on his cloak on the rocks, his horse tethered nearby. Kevan was naked, his clothes discarded beside him, and his arms were curled as if cradling something. The cloak beside him was wet through but beneath him was perfectly dry.

They wrapped his body in his cloak and laid it across the saddle of his horse, before leading him sadly home to the marriage feast that had become a wake.  As they left none of the search party noticed a pale ice white figure watching them from behind the waterfall, an enigmatic smile playing about her lips.  She had claimed another victim.

[LupineTom]

Hi guys, here's my entry. Title is open to change. It started life as part of a novel, but it didn't fit in with the larger work.

                               SHADOW UNDER SKULL MOUNTAIN

The lecture hall was as full as Garth had ever seen it, people from all over the city having forced their way into the building for today’s talk. Professor Sennett was known throughout the continent for his great learning. To hear one of his lectures was a much sought-after privilege. Rich or poor, old or young, educated or ignorant, there were few on the face of Rathen who did not have an opinion on the man--or at least an opinion about the man’s opinions.

Speaking from the lectern, Professor Sennett’s voice echoed throughout the large hall.
“The elves were the first known creatures to discover magic in the form we understand it today. But as all of you here know, the elves abruptly vanished from history, leaving us with only a handful of traces as to the nature of their culture.

 “And yet for such an advanced culture, they were surprisingly primitive in their thoughts and actions. Much of their writing on magic seems to concern superstitious matters. Unlike our own race, the elves never managed to move beyond some of their foolish beliefs and merely accept magic as another natural resource. Their understanding of magic was highly advanced, but it was mired in traditions and ritual that have no place in our own world. We have outgrown such old habits, such childish ways. Magic is a science, a rigorous undertaking to understand the world...”

Garth felt himself paying less and less attention to the professor’s words as he droned on. He had heard enough similar talk in the past-- Magic has been hijacked by foolish superstition. Until the last mystics abandon their foolish ideas about the nature of magic mankind will never be able to progress etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

As Garth feigned attention he could not help but think of a short time ago when the professor had adopted a much less sceptical attitude. He still shuddered as he thought of it, an event that he referred to as The Incident in his own mind. The Incident had occurred several months beforehand, during an archaeological dig in the wildlands surrounding Skull Mountain.

Elven ruins had been discovered there some years before but a thorough investigation had never been undertaken, due to a lack of funds. This was the first time anyone had been able to compile any sort of data on the area. Elven ruins were highly common over the surface of Rathen, of course. But these particular ruins were somewhat unique. From a cursory examination it seemed that they had never been recorded in a survey of the continent. More remarkably, they did not seem to have been broached by looters. Such a thing made it an incredibly precious and rare find--in past times, people had been far too eager to defile such sites for material gain rather than for knowledge. Garth had often wondered what had been lost through the efforts of those base treasure-seekers.

Once opened to the team, the work had begun in earnest. The building’s original function was highly debatable, but it seemed akin to a modern museum. The arrangement of the artefacts within the halls seemed to indicate that they were there for display, rather than function.   

Garth had been exceedingly fortunate, for he had personally uncovered a substantial collection of Elven medallions amongst the rubble. To the untrained observer, there was nothing significant about the silver tokens. While they had interesting designs stamped upon them, they seemed to be a curiosity rather than a legitimate source of knowledge. But closer inspection would reveal that each of these designs was in fact unique. No one was certain, but theorists had speculated for years that each individual elf had one of these tokens. They had probably been given as some manner of birth gift, or perhaps as an initiation to adulthood. No two had ever been found to match one another.
The Professor had taken a particular interest in Garth after this fortuitous find. Though he publicly disavowed such foolish ideas, the professor seemed to look on Garth as some manner of good luck charm. He drew Garth closer and closer into his inner circle, speaking of him in more and more effusive terms.

Yet it seemed that the strange building had not yet given up all its secrets. One particular chamber still remained sealed, even after some weeks of work. Plans were afoot to open it, but the rich quantity of finds elsewhere had left everyone busy and distracted.

Garth did not know why, but he felt a deep unease whenever he moved past the entrance to that particular room. He suppressed his concerns internally, knowing full well how the Professor would react to such a display of ‘superstition.’ The expedition had been filled with many impromptu lectures on the subject, to the collective eye-rolling of the entire party. The professor’s thoughts on any and every issue were widely known, but tolerated as his part of his eccentricity, if not always shared.

Dust had scattered everywhere and a rank musty smell had emerged from the chamber as they had finally pried the door open. An uneasy mood settled over the whole party, though none could pinpoint why. The professor called for a torch to illuminate his path, apparently oblivious to the discomfort of the other workers.

The room that lay behind the door seemed to be a crypt, sparse and bare. There was none of the opulent decoration that had been found elsewhere in the building, and there was barely enough room inside for three men. At the room’s centre was a gigantic wooden coffin, resting on the floor. There was no adornment on the box; it was rudely fashioned, with little evidence of the high standard of Elven craftsmanship. Yet the size of the coffin was what truly arrested the eye. While it could hardly have been said to have been ‘designed’ by aesthetic standards, the box had to have been built for an inhabitant of enormous size.

One of the workers that they had hired from the village below the mountains began to panic, and ran from the room shrieking in terror. Several others followed when they saw his terrified features. Sennett snorted loudly at those who ran off, apparently still unconcerned. He motioned for those who remained to help him with the lid of the coffin.

Garth quickly stepped in to lend his aid, though he could not fight his ever-growing sense of unease. There was something that felt forbidden about this place, something that should not be disturbed by--

“By the gods!”

The lid was off, and the contents revealed. The coffin contained an equally massive skeleton. The years had long since stripped it of its flesh, but the odour of decomposition still remained. The bones were yellowed and a wet pool of corpse-fluid coated the surface beneath them. Several men began to vomit; the sickly-sweet stench filled the air, mingling with the rot of ages.
Even Professor Sennett began to look concerned. His face grew pale as he began to look more closely on the skeleton. Garth wiped the remnants of food from around his mouth and forced himself to look in the coffin again. Words escaped him as he gazed upon the creature. It was no elf. Nor was it human. Nor was any other kind of creature he recognised.

Its body was humanoid in structure, but far larger than any man. Each hand bore six enormous fingers, and the feet six digits that passed for a hideous analogue of toes. But most noteworthy was the head. If pushed, he might have described it as reptilian.

Empty eye sockets gazed upwards, gazing directly at him. He felt light-headed, ill. The creature could not be looking at it him; it was dead, long since decomposed and rotted. But he could not cast off his fear. The beast was formidable in death; Garth dreaded to imagine what it had been like in life.
The Professor had turned ghostly white, unable to move from his position on the floor. He was muttering to himself. The words were unclear, but it sounded as though he was saying: “True…all true...the Nathraki”

Those who were still left made their escape, many of them still retching violently. Garth could not say for certain whether they had seen the corpse in full detail, but he hoped for their sake they had not. Jolting out of his shocked state, he pulled the professor away from the coffin, back outside the cryptic chamber.

Sennett stared at Garth blankly for a few minutes, as though he was uncertain who the youth was. After a few moments recognition slowly began to crawl across his face, though it was another few minutes before he was able to speak.

“We must destroy it. No-one can know…none can ever know of what we have found here.”

“Destroy it, Professor? What is it?”

The professor looked panicked again and replied in a low tone, as though he were afraid that the dead beast would hear.

“I have heard tales about what it might be. Things I heard as a child…the Nathraki…”
He suddenly seized Garth’s gaze. 

“This thing must not return to the city. We will destroy it here, so that none may ever find it again.”
Garth nodded, not fully understanding. The find had been disturbing, but surely it did not warrant destruction? Would not this creature be a tremendous breakthrough in knowledge for the world?

“Heed my words; it must be burnt. Burn it, scatter its ashes. Never speak of this day again. Not to me, nor to anyone else.”

Garth nodded, still baffled by the Professor’s reaction. The old man patted him on the shoulder and gave him a grim smile.

The rest of the day passed as though it was a dream for Garth. Many, many times through his life he would think back to that day and would never be able to recall it with absolute clarity. He remembered himself and the professor carrying the coffin outside the Elven structure: a ridiculous prospect, given how heavy the thing had appeared. Yet they had somehow done it. The rest of their team seemed to have vanished, either driven away by fear or simply taken ill by the remains.

A pyre had been erected, though Garth had no memory of them having anywhere near the amount of wood needed. Set alight, the bones and coffin had been burnt to ash. Before they left the next day, Garth snuck off to the site of the fire. Digging amongst the ashes, he uncovered a small fragment of bone, perhaps a joint of a toe or finger. It was small, but it was a confirmation that he had not merely been dreaming.

He sat now in the lecture hall, fondling the bone fragment in his pocket. Up at the lectern, the speech was over. The professor stepped down to thunderous applause--Garth clapped along, though his hands had only a hollow ring.

[CurtisCornett]

Hi all,

This is my first submission to Fantasy Faction. In this story most of the dialogue takes place in the form of a mantal type of speach. Originally, this dialogue was italicized to show that the communication was non-verbal, but upon checking the preview the italicized portions were difficult to differentiate from the rest of the story. To fix this, I put the dialogue in the more traditional quotes.
I hope you enjoy my story.

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We Are Pack

   It was a distant whine that tickled at the edge of the elf’s hearing. He was known among the inhabitants of the Red Tree Forest as their king and took his responsibility as their chief protector very seriously so that he felt compelled to personally investigate every disturbance in his realm. It was through this desire that the elf’s feet began to glide across the forest’s floor. His movements were swift, but light and precise so that hardly a blade of grass or errant leaf could attest to his passing as he rushed ever onward. The wind whipped past his ears as he traveled faster and faster until the trees became a red-brown blur around him.
   A blue bird with a long feathered tail squawked in protest at his passing when the King of the Red Trees came too close and blew it off course forcing the bird to land awkwardly in a bush or risk crashing into a tree. The King turned his attention to his winged subject to make sure it had come to no harm. “Forgive me my passing,” the King of the Red Trees pushed the thought at the little bird, but did not slow his pace so that if there was a response he did not hear it. 
   Then as suddenly as he started, the elf stopped running and for a moment his dark, flowing hair shot past his face as if it was still trying to continue on without him. The King of the Red Trees knew he still had a great distance left to travel, but now he recognized the sound for what it was and what it implied gave him a chill down to the bone. The King drew his bow and hurried once more redoubling his efforts. He now knew he was following the sound of a babe crying… and the snarling of beasts.
   The King shimmied up a hardy red tree without slowing his pace and began to leap from one branch to the next. His feet unerringly found the strongest limbs and best footing as befitted one born of the forest all in an effort to gain a vantage point over the forest’s predators that were quickly surrounding the youngling.
   A grey wolf growled hungrily as it pulled at the calf of a dead elf woman. From her dress, the King of the Red Trees knew her to be a member of one the city clans. The elf-sister must have traveled a fantastic distance before finally being run down, but this could not be the work of a lone wolf. Even a city elf could avoid a single wolf.
            The King moved closer being mindful of the living shadows below him. A pack of wolves closed in all around the elf’s corpse. The King notched an arrow and took aim at the one worrying at the mother’s calf. The crying was much louder now that he was so close to the source. His superior ears were nearly deafened by the child’s wails. It was clear that the sound was coming from underneath the dead elf and the wolf was determined to reach the babe protected under its lifeless mother.
   “Let her go,” the King whispered to the wolf, “and I will let you live.”
   The grey wolf looked up at the King of the Red Trees, but did not let go of the leg he held tightly in his maw. “This is no concern of yours, elf. What is done is done. It is the cycle of life that your kind values so much. Is it not? We have our kill and there is nothing you can do to change that.”
   It was true. There was nothing he could do for the city elf…
   “You misunderstand me, wolf. I do not seek to take your kill. I only want the youngling.”
   The other wolves began skulking surreptitiously in the King’s direction. He was safe from them in the tree, but they could prevent him from reaching the babe if they truly wished it.
   “Maybe we want the elf-cub too, the wolf snarled, “We will eat to our satisfaction.”
   “Then be satisfied with the one that you have already killed! I will not allow the elf-babe to die as well!” The King snapped.
   At that the grey wolf did finally drop the leg he had been holding so tightly. His gaze was malicious and for a brief moment the King knew dread, but he did not fear for himself.
   The wolf considered for a moment and then made an offer. “A compromise, then? What if we agree not to kill the young one, elf?” The wolf’s demeanor was harsh and threatening. The idea of compromising did not sit well with a creature used to getting what it wanted without the need for debate even if the compromise was its own device. “What if we choose to make her one of us instead? She could be a wolfen roaming the forest among us. She could be Pack. In Pack she would find strength and safety. In Pack she would find a new family to replace the one lost this day. Would you deny her that?” With that last thought, the King felt a sense of pride shine from the wolf.
   “I would,” the King of the Red Trees answered without a moment’s hesitation. He released an arrow and it flew at the wolf before the predator could react. The air split just above the beast’s head and the arrow bit into the wood of a nearby tree with a loud thwump. A warning shot.
   The wolf growled and his pack joined in so that the forest was alive with the angry sound drowning out the crying youngling. “We are Pack, elf! That may mean little to you, but to us Pack is all that matters. You can kill me, but my Pack-brothers and Pack-sisters will hunt you down. You cannot end us all.”
   “Can’t I?” The King whispered nothing more. Instead, he let that thought with all of its self-assurance and calm sink into the wolf’s mind as he made a show of readying another arrow and took aim once more.
   After a long silence the grey wolf relented. “Take the loud one. She grates on my nerves anyway.”
   The King of the Red Trees stored his bow and moved from tree to tree until he was above the dead elf-sister and her baying child. Then he leapt nimbly down from his perch into the midst of the wolves. He pulled his knife and stood defensively between their pack leader and his prize as he lifted the mother’s body to uncover the elf-babe who continued her weeping unabated.
   The wolf snapped at the King and kept him from grabbing the child. The Pack advanced on the King forcing him to either ignore the exposed youngling or drop his guard.
   “Foolish elf,” the wolf whispered coldly, “You threaten our Pack and moments later jump into our waiting jaws. You are brave, elf, but we are many. We are Pack.”
   Another wolf snapped at the King of the Red Trees. This time it came from his right, but the animal bit nothing but air when the elf twisted away from him and delivered a kick to its body pushing the second wolf away.
   The grey wolves inched closer prepared to pounce in an instant. The King of the Red Trees smiled knowingly.
   “Wolf, you mistake me for a human. I understand what it means to be Pack. I know your strength.” The King raised his empty hand to the trees and lowered it again in a swift chop. In response a rain of arrows from unseen hands fell down all around the wolves causing many to jump back, but none were harmed. “I am Shatala, King of the Red Tree Clan. We are not so different. You are Pack and we are a clan. We are an assembly of warriors sworn to protect the Red Tree Forest, but we are a family as well. We take strength from one another and defend each other as brothers and sisters in arms.” Using the pack leader’s own words against him, the King added, “You can kill me, but my Clan-brothers and Clan-sisters will hunt you down. You cannot end us all.”
   The wolf nodded reluctantly, “You are Pack.” After a few moments more of thought, he added, “Shatala, King of the Red Tree Clan, take the elf-babe, but leave the meat for us and there will be no more bloodshed between our kinds,” indicating the elf woman’s body.
   The King gave a short nod in return. “Very well. I will take the youngling and leave you to your meal.” In one fluid motion, he grabbed the babe and bounded into the tree taking his leave of the wolves. He held the child securely against him as he bounced between trees, but she felt safe in his arms and stopped her howling turning to coos instead.
    After a time the King stopped to regard the child. He held her up and away from him to get a good look at the youngling. Her legs kicked with strength that was surprising for one so small and she swung her arms at her sides enthusiastically. She would make a strong protector of the forest in thirty or so years.
   “Welcome, daughter of the Red Tree Clan.”

[LeifGSNotae]

My entry, which is not all that serious, is about what mythical creatures really do when we aren't dreaming of them. Sometimes they play chess. If you hear old stodgy Englishmen in this, that was my intent.

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Chess with Vismate

There's nothing more annoying than playing chess with a dragon, especially if you are a unicorn. The hooves prevent from strategic moving and Heaven's forbid you take your horn off a piece without getting called on it by a snide overgrown lizard. My eyes glanced from his scaly finger resting on the rook to his right. My heart raced when he moved the piece forward, but the feeling went away when he shook his massive golden head and sighed. He removed his finger from the piece and grabbed a glass from the table, slamming back the rest of the contents down his long throat. He took a moment longer before he spoke, his words filled with a mix of regret and dread. "Sorry, ol' chap. Afraid it is a terrible day for a spot of chess."

My horn touched the pawn in front of my queen. "It sounds as though you are down and out today, Vismate. Would you care for another brandy? Perhaps that will lighten the mood a bit."

The dragon smiled at the thought of drinking more. If he weren't as large as a mountain at times, we all swore he was part fish when it came to alcohol. "Ah yes, more brandy would lighten my mood."

My head turned and nodded at the small green pixie standing next to the large brandy bottle. Well, it was larger than her, so it would be a struggle for the little creature to bring it over. We waited as the pixie called out to three more green pixies to assist in the pouring. The bottle wavered through the air as sparkles fell from the bubble surrounding it. They started with Vismate's glass before they flew over to mine. "Tell me what has you down, chap. Perhaps we can solve this little mystery together."

Vismate grabbed the glass, blew a kiss at the four pixies, and threw back the contents in the glass with a satisfied rumbled. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath as though thinking about the situation caused him great pain. He opened his eyes, now blood shot from the drinks and spoke, though his words were starting to slur. "Did you hear about poor Reginald?"

My head dipped down to take a drink of brandy. As the dark liquid caressed my throat, my horn moved the queen's pawn closer to his knight in the center of the field. "Our dear friend, the tiger shape shifter that moved into the hallows a few months back? We were talking about not seeing him in the past few days; the ladies were concerned with his disappearance. Do tell what happened to the poor sod."

I watched the confidence drain from my friend's face as he said words that sent me reeling. "They discovered him."

My eyes fluttered as the alcohol hit my system harder than expected. "They did what now?"

"The poor sod was discovered. It happened yesterday; it did. He happened across a lovely maiden in the forest one day and decided he would keep with his normal pretense of devouring the poor soul. He has a strict union contract, cannot get out of maiden destruction, even if he wanted to for the next twenty years. Anyway, as he approached the coy minx, she turned on him with a magical blade and called out for her companions to spring the trap on him. The goblins in the trees said he put up a valiant fight, one that would make us all very proud, but the odds were against him, and he was taken to the human city on the outskirts of our forest."

"Those blasted humans and their ever encroaching ways; they will be the death of us all if they manage to discover us in our natural habitat. Tell me, did poor Reggie at least survive the ordeal?"

"The last they told me, he was in a cage somewhere inside a dark, menacing tower. They say he is probed every night, denied the flesh of women and violated every morning with magical spells to determine what exactly he is. If it weren't for the fact he is a stout fellow, the goblins say he would have died already. There is no more common courtesy, it does frighten me so."

My head bobbed up and down as the brandy started to kick in. The lower-right  hoof started to twitch, causing a rhythmic sound to emit from under the stone table. "You must not be concerned with those little fleas called humanity. They are as annoying as those orcs from down the road. The rumblings to their gods and the wild blood orgies that carry on until daybreak are enough to anger anyone. There will be a day when those two species collide, perhaps that will be the day we finally have peace and quiet, eh?"

My dragon companion shook his head in dismay and moved his rook, much to my chagrin. My lips clicked once as my hooves stopped clapping against the cold cave floor. "You don't understand; there will not be any stopping them if they do not have each other to fight. The orcs have moved from Blood Gulch months ago, giving those bored humans nothing to do but to violate our privacy and abduct our friends."

"What do you suggest we do about this, ol' bean? Are you saying we should gather an army of our friends and march into the city, demanding they treat us with dignity, or we will threaten them with lawsuits and stern letters to their local heralds?"

The dragon shook his head again, this time so much that his body swayed from the alcohol. He covered his mouth as he hiccupped, his head gently rocking back and forth as his words slurred more. "No, chap. We gather  and show those little pink skinned bastards what we can do when we are agitated. We will go to them with more than just stern letters and calm suggestions."

"You don't mean –"

"We will protest in their streets and form a committee to represent our desires and needs within their counsel." Vismate's meaty hand slammed hard enough against the stone table to jostle the pieces. My head drifted down to see my king on its side and rolling toward me unabated. My eyes were fuzzy as my vision drifted to my friend, who was now leaning back and looking up at the ceiling while bemoaning his condition. "We will have our day. There will be equal representation or there will be problems."

"You know; we could take the fight to them and quash their growth before it starts."

My friend lowered his head with a dreary glare pointed at me, crinkling his snout as though my neck had erupted with three extra heads and twenty score more horns. "You suggest violence?"

"My assumption is the humans would not let us into their society for equal representation, nor would they tolerate us being so close to their city. We should do what is best for our society and commission an attack on their land as soon as possible."

My friend was about to reply when we heard someone gasp from the entrance. We turned our bleary eyes toward the sound to see five humans standing at the mouth of Vismate's cave, four men holding glowing blue swords and one woman carrying an iron staff in the shape of a crescent moon. The woman took a step back and whispered something to the men that my ears could not pick up. My swaying head turned toward my friend, who was now standing up and stretching his wings; which knocked over the table and spilled the pieces all across the floor. He roared in defiance as his words were spilling out of his mouth in a muddled heap. "Who dares step into my home without proper invitation? You shall remove yourself forthwith, or you will deal with a stern warning from my associates."

The men with the swords turned to one another and offered casual shrugs. They bellowed battle cries loud enough to make my head throb in agony. My body fell back, slamming against my king piece that had fallen off the table long ago. My fuzzy eyes glared at the ceiling as I heard the call to arms from the humans and the sizzling breath erupting from my friend's throat. He never used it, unless he was drunk; which meant everyone would die if he could stand still for more than a heartbeat.

The woman with the moon staff appeared over me with a coy smile. I offered a smile back and sighed as I accepted what would come next. The battle carried on deeper into the cave, leaving me alone with this strange woman. The pixies circling her head made her appear almost angelic, much like Deborah in the Woods. The last thing that came to my mind as the eerie blue light emitted from the top of her staff was how much I hated playing chess with Vismate.

[Corvus]

Adding my entry, the first time I've done so here - but it won't be the last.

Blinding Eyes

   Eldritch viridian magefire wreathed the surface of the much abraded statue, flickering and dancing across it as if with a life of its own, devouring no discernable fuel.  Within the flames, amethyst sparks crackled and flared into brief existence before just as abruptly they were gone.

   Thrice the height of a fully grown man, the statue stood askance in a forest clearing, the long aeons having worn its features unrecognisable with wind and rain, snow and storm, so that the best that could be said of it was that it appeared humanoid.

   The lingering scent of coming snows suffused the air of the cold forest clearing, settling upon two figures that studied the statue, and the flames about it, with cautious contemplation.

   One, a man, tall and slender, his movements languid, wore a silk shirt of pale blues.  Across his shoulder hung an embroidered baldric that supported a rapier with a gilded hilt.  Sleepy eyes set in a long face beneath dark hair swept the length of the statue, thoughts subsumed in that somnolent expression.

   The other, a woman with auburn hair, and shorter than her companion, wore a shirt of iron scales and moved with a wary step, coiled ready to pounce like a wolf on the hunt.  A broadsword in her hand, marked by much use, she never remained still and her hazel eyes roamed the forest glade, and beyond, ever alert for the slightest hint of danger.  Compared to the man, there was something primal about her, a dangerous edge seldom seen but in predators of the wild.

   "Careful Carse," she said quietly as the man stepped in closer to the statue, and the emerald flames that surrounded it.

   Carse licked one long finger delicately before carefully pressing it against the stone surface of the statue.  The flames coiled around his hand, yet no ill effect came of it for they burned cold and illusionary, mere vestiges of the real thing.

   "My dear Fianna," he responded, removing his hand from the flames, "If there is one thing that I know, it is the workings of the Mysteries.  This, it is not dangerous, merely a display of coloured lights meant to amuse, and to distract."

   "It does that well," Fianna replied, peering intently around the clearing, her attention focused switched from the statue given it no longer posed a threat.  In her blood and in her bones, something felt wrong though, an innate sense of danger that had come awake, and she sought out the source of it.

   Beyond the trees, a wild tangle of ancient fir and pine, the ground beneath them heavy with their fallen needles, wild mountains rose away in the distance, clawing at the sky with rugged grandeur.  Craggy peaks, their shoulders laden with snow, were lost in dark, rolling clouds that spilt down them like roaring waves crashing to the shore.  The pair of them had come to the depths of the far north, where even summer bore a chill touch in the air and few but the hardy lived.

   "The question remains," she went on, "As to what they are meant to attract the attention of, or for."

   "That I can not say."

   "I do not like it," Fianna growled.  "It smells to me of a trap."

   "It always does for you."

   A grim smile made an appearance on Fianna's face.  "With good reason too."

   From among the trees there whispered the faintest of sounds, barely a murmur that passed unheard, little more than the rustling of fallen leaves and needles.  Fianna span, her hackles raised, sword leaping to the ready, as keen ears became alert to the noise, to be met with the sight of a creature emerging into the clearing that defied belief.  Serpentine, yet vast beyond that of a mere snake, in girth it was as thick as a man was tall.  Eyes, keenly cold fixated upon them, utterly alien and incomprehensible in their depths, yet possessing a cunning awareness that no beast could match.

   Instead of the slithering scales of a serpent, it was clad in feathers in a multitude of bright hues, of the entire spectrum of a rainbow in its glory.  Vast feathered wings were tucked up against the length of its body.

   Couatl.

   The name came to them at but a glance, a name passed down in myth and legend, for none alive for generations uncounted had seen one alive, yet all knew of their form.  The ancient Xoacana, steeped in evil and the black arts, had feared them most greatly, and were said to have hunted them down to the last, though, perversely, had raised statues to them through out their lands, and those statues dotted the ruins the pair had seen many times.

   Yet here one of the creatures existed, in the flesh, and shocked as they were that it did so, they could spare no though as to the why of the matter.

   "Ware the eyes!" came Carse's warning, yet already he was too late and his words slurred to an end before he had finished, all vigour ebbing from his body.  The eyes of the dread beast locked upon those of Fianna and Carse, boring into their minds with a terrible, hypnotic power.  There descended upon their minds a stupor, their thoughts becoming elusively, tantalising just beyond their grasp, slipping away as they tried to form them.  Upon their limbs there bore the full brunt of the couatl's might, for they became heavy with fatigue as if weighed down with a great many chains.

   The couatl slithered in closer still, whispering across the grounds, towards its paralysed victims.  Its lidless eyes of ancient ice stared full into theirs, and in them reflected back, among the whirling dark hues, a cruel curiosity about those before it.

   For all his knowledge of the Mysteries, his keen mind and cunning intellect, Carse was one city born, where man was accustomed to the mastery of one over the other, and he swooned beneath the withering assault of an intellect far superior and far older than his, and far colder than that of any man.

   Born upon the wind swept hills, beneath an open sky, where survival was a daily struggle and no man bowed to another, Fianna's mind was not so easily mazed beneath the reptilian eye.  Freedom she valued above all else, and considered those that bowed and scraped as weak willed.  Despite the weight upon her limbs and the fog clouding her mind, she fought to free herself of those mental snares, straining against the psychic bonds that entangled her.

   Her wild Aedring blood sung in her veins at the effort, lending strength to her struggles.  A groan was torn from her lips as nigh on unbearable pain racked her body as her will met that of the one ensnaring her.  The clash of the ancient and the young teetered back and forward, and in those moments Fianna received a flash of images, of darkness and an emergence into the cold light, of events that she had never seen and nor could make sense of.  And then her will imposed itself upon her own body, shrugging aside the dominance of the couatl.

   As the grip of the reptilian mind began to loosen, the bonds about Fianna started to part and the thought numbing stupor lifted, her faculties restoring.

   Not a moment too late did she regain control, for the couatl's mouth had opened and a flickering tongue darted towards them from between venom tipped fangs.  With a purpose of will, and the striking speed that would have done a mongoose justice, Fianna lunged for the couatl.  The sword in her hand struck a fell blow, plunging into one of its eyes.

   A shrieking hiss reverberated around the clearing at the strike, and the assault upon their minds shattered in an instant.  The couatl reared back, tail whipping across the ground.  Such was the force with which it moved that it tore the sword from Fianna's grasp, a brutal wrenching sending shockwave through her arm.  The feathered wings of the beast snapped outwards as it beat at the air, picking up a swirling mass of dust and needles.

   With but a glance and not a word spoken, Fianna and Carse turned and fled back into the trees, their flight pursued by the enraged shrieks of the couatl.  Neither wished to face the wrath of the wounded beast, one that remained deadly even despite the sword lodged in its eye.

   They ran until their limbs burned once more, this time with fatigue, weaving among the trees, ducking beneath lashing branches and jumping fallen logs.  Only when they could run no more and they were confident that no pursuit followed did they slow down.

   "Tis a shame about your sword," Carse stated as they jogged along, after catching some semblance of breath.

   "The beast can keep it," Fianna responded.  "I am in no hurry to return to reclaim it.  If any are brave enough to defeat it, then they are welcome to the sword.  Hraega's Blood, but the world is a dangerous place enough already without a couatl on the loose."

   "Then we had best hope there is just the one, and not the prelude to more of them making their presence known."
   
   

[RG_Sanders]

SØREN MIKKELSON: THE WENDIGO HUNT

by Ryan G. Sanders

Mikkelson the hunter, cold and lost, crumpled between the tall trees. Snow topped, they turned a black sky white and his world upside down. He gasped, and grasped for his waterskin, pulling the corked end free and swigging the last of the water within. There was little to quench his dry thirst, and for all the snow, he held onto his senses enough to warrant the caution of frostbitten lips. The wind howled, and no doubt wolves within, and he knew, though dying, he had enough life left to find shelter;  something, anything kept hidden from the grip of winter cold.

He climbed and forged on, pulling the fedora tip to his nose. The snow battered him, it hated him, it wanted to claim him for the wild forest. Simpatico:  the children carried the seed, and the Earth Mother gave them the means to do so. He fell though, no mind for philosophy, and leant a battered arm to hard bark. A moment’s breath: a second, a third, a blink or two, and something in the distance, out of place caught his ragged attention: a light. He thought maybe a home, some lonely, snowy denizen hiding in nature for his refuge.

The heat of survival drew his legs tighter, gave his back poise. Mikkelson pushed on, invigorated by this new, preferable option to untimely expiration.Come to me, he prayed, be the fire-stoked home to rest by broken body. As he neared though, he saw it; nothing but a cave, though a cave with light within meant something more. The prize he’d left Europe and journeyed the Great Path for. Cocked pistol in hand, he slowed and stalked his way closer. Inside, a shadow painted itself upon the walls, flickering in monstrous shapes of pointed joints and bony form. A step from one hazard to another and the black shape writhed, shrinking away and fading, but no light died. Still the cave was illuminated, though Mikkelson was not.

A moment more, with no pause on entry, and he was inside. A corner waited, turning him from the white behind; of sure and easy freedom. Beyond the sight of snow outside, something new introduced itself. A woman, old, lay atop a pile of broken bones bequeathed by past visitors. Her arms held a rifle, locked on a dark hole beyond: the exit, or entrance to deeper caverns beneath.

She turned. He paused. They aimed at one another.

“Well? Are you here to save me, or kill me?” She said; thick accented words, hard to understand.

Mikkelson raised his colt, though his rib cried louder than his threat. He winced, taking a sharp intake and dropping his weak arm. “Hverken,” his frozen jaw rolled, “Eh, neither. Here for the creature.”

“Too many to name out here, but I’m guessing you mean the Wendigo?” The woman kept her aim trained.

He snorted. “I have no need for Indian names.  It is a sickness escaped from Niflheim, and back to Hel I should send it!” Bruised bones and an empty stomach left his patience vacant.

The woman, lowering her rifle, sighed with blown-out cheeks. “Well alrighty then. Seen as you are most definitely not from around here, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Now help me up.”

Cautious as he may have been, Mikkelson saw she was more warn than he. The weathered cave gave protection, but little more. She would not last long, left alone atop the bonepile. Holstering his pistol, he approached with care, seeing that her legs were stained red.

“What happened?”

“Straight to it, hmm? Not even going to ask for a pretty lady’s name?” She smiled. “Well, no worries. I, this damsel you do not know, have broken my leg – well, it were broken for me.”

Mikkelson, though experienced with such a life as this and the lessons it tends to teach, paused. He looked her over, then down the black hole in back, and felt his own pains within still yelling for attention. “The... Wendigo did this?”

She propped herself up; an attempt to slide down the pile followed. “Well, it weren’t no wolves.”

“...you attack, and yet you live?” He helped her away, finding temporary solace at a rock. “How so?”

“You so,” she moaned, adjusting her posture. “Wandering in when you did – wrong place, but sure as hell right time.” A waterskin appeared, taken from her belt. “Drink? You need it too.”

He nodded, tasting a bitter wash of rehydration. A sleeve wiped red from his lips; a cut somewhere within perhaps. His body thanked him, quietening down their childish rants and being still for just a moment. Silence took them for a time, Mikkelson letting tired eyes take in the cave’s entirety. It was lit well, by torches on low stands. Several bodies cluttered the floor, most in half-dress: parts of clothing missing and some completely naked, baring bite marks where fatty meals resided.

“Where are you from, stranger?”

Mikkelson turned, looking her over also. “Denmark,” he said, “across the seas.”

“I didn’t think you meant Massachusetts.” Her lips parted, she smiled. “You got a name?”

There was no reason to spend all this information, and spill the borders of personal details to this stranger, in a cave, in the middle of a frozen western world miles beyond any town. Yet he did, and without care, perhaps he lacked conviction of making it beyond this craggy hell.

“Søren Mikkelson.” A stretch burned as he walked to the dark entrance. “It went down here?” The black was assaulting; a creature in and of itself. It pulled at him, swallowing his face and features, tempting him into its emptiness.

“Aye,” she said. “You alone, Søren? No friends to sail with from Denmark, no hired guns from the coast? I find that a mighty bit... irresponsible, to come hunting for some creature by yourself, I mean.”

Heavy breaths echoed as he tore himself from the pulling darkness. Looking to her across the cave, Mikkelson rubbed his eyes; shook his head. “No more but me, I had a friend.” A guilty weight tried to suffocate his words. “Lars...” he whispered. “It is not important.”

“Fair enough, I’d hate to pry.” She smiled again, sincerity lost. “I have a question for you, a one you might find mundane, but entertain me. It’s important.”

Mikkelson tilted his head; a line begun with loss of warmth gave him no desire to ponder. He flicked his wrist, the colt un-holstered, levelled at his hip. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, I don’t want to die here, that’s for sure.” She waved a hand. “My question is simple: If you left this cave and headed back, could you make it into town? I, most obviously cannot, but your wounds seem frightfully less dire.”

Pistol unwavering, he let his eyes roam again. The cave seemed brighter, though unlikely so, and yet he felt capable. Doubt had triumphed outside, and extinguished his abilities to conduct the hunt. But inside, warm and watered, he knew it quite possible. He nodded, understanding more than just curious questions.

Mikkelson, with experienced hands, pulled a twin colt from a holster and raised it, firing it down the dim tunnel beyond. Bang and whoop followed: no attack, no reprimand. Just silence.

He turned back. “You are the Wendigo.” He knew it to be true, fearing no fool for misplaced guesswork.

Her smile went to pout, eyes loosing reflection. “Quick, I’ll give you that. Most of these boys stumble in, all bravado, wanting to help a lady fallen on bad luck... my heroes. Not you though, Søren. Hmm?”

“You are no lady.” Pistols and words; all fell on her. “Where is the death form, where is the body Hel gave you, creature?”

“Harsh words, mister. You might just hurt my feelings going on like that.” She stood from the rock, awkwardly so, her manipulation of body not beyond the wounds. “What gave my show away, Nord man?"

Air shivered; the light adjusting to her unseen build. Mikkelson chinned the fiery torches. “They are mounted low, and these dead are missing clothing.” Eyes met. “You are wearing them; their memories, and their warmth.” He rounded the centre, moving to exit. “And the bite marks, they are yours.”

She, the it-thing Wendigo, snarled. Body shook and earth beneath, and all around the cave constricted. “You know of nothing, fool. You come here, near death, and I save you! I will take that price, too.” An unseen hand tweaked its marionette with mastered skills. The body fell, limp and cool, and the shadow appeared; realised in his presence.

“Price?” Mikkelson coolly considered its words. His strides even, his calm controlled. “Ah, you need me, my body? Loki made you flawed, Lofn bred you sick? A broken-legged servant is no servant at all. You are a sygdom... a sickness.”

“Be quiet your Norse ranting, this is my home!” Spat the Wendigo. “You trespass, you die. I take you, and you are mine, and with it and your loss, I will leave this place and travel to the community, and exact my will on them!” The black shape grew, washing the ceiling with its presence: a new sky of black.

Mikkelson unloaded both colts, bringing war on himself. They bounced inadequately, causing not bloodshed but frown upon his cautious face. He turned to run, but found the snow-white exit snuffed out by shadowy suffocation. “Take me...” his lips repeated, “take... me.”

“Babbled words from a soul gone mad,” the Wendigo crowed.

“How?” He asked, to all and nothing; the cave as was the Wendigo’s presence. “I am no cannibal; I knelt not to that taboo for gain.”

The textured wall of ravens-black laughed. “Drank plentiful though, of my water did you not? Though water... or blood, in quantity of another’s, or indeed of many others. In good conscience, you used them to survive. Now your skin and bones and body heal. Did you not, Nord man... did you not?”

He growled, calm gone, armour pierced: a chink found by an untouchable demon. Mikkelson returned one pistol to his waist, practicing the other to his temple. “You will not win.” He pulled the trigger, blasting hot round through soft flesh; an eye sprouting above his check. His body collapsed.

“NO!” The Wendigo screamed. Rock shook and stone fell, and all about dust filled the cave. Bony shadow withdrew, giving way once more to the form of the broken woman. She hobbled to him, to roll affront his gaping maw, to see the horror of suicidal features. A click announced a drawing back of steel hammer...

...and with a polished bang, the colt fired.

Re-animated senses blinked as one, and then the body folded onto burning torches. The flames licked, tasting old-fibred clothing and evil soul. The Wendigo howled, trapped in the physical, unable to sprout its shadows and dance away. Smoky clouds drifted as dead flesh burned.

The new white sky outside the cave had turned to warmest blue. The sun brought warmth, the trees gave way, and rays collected at booted feet once more. He wiped off his colt, and holstered the weapon still; for another day, another place it would be recalled. Mikkelson, though not the finest medic, wrapped the dry cloth thick, and tied it tightly across hollow socket. His eye was gone, but his life was ripe. Just as Odin: half-blind but wiser, waiting for his next Ragnarök.

He walked on, back to the Great Path.

[Lor]

Oh wow, it has been a while since I posted one of these. Here goes then

Once In A Lifetime, or Eva Stands By Her Word

1,705 words

   Auburn curls bounced amongst the wind-struck long grass as Tarak grabbed the back of his little sister’s dress, dragging her away from the cliff edge back into the shadow of the ruined watchtower, rising inky black above them. “Oi! What have I told you about that?”
   She pouted at him, wriggled free, and danced back to the edge. “But I can see them so much better from here.”  She waved a hand towards the choppy sea, and the two serpents in battle amongst the waves. She frowned, slowly sinking until she sat crossed-legged, elbows resting on knees. “Why are they fighting?”
   Tarak sighed, and dropped down beside her, swinging the bag containing their lunch off his shoulder. “They’re fighting over territory.” He was treated to a confused look. “One of them lives in this bit of water,” he pointed out the stretch of coast to her. “And the other one wants to move in. So they’re fighting over it.”
   Eva watched the battle for a long moment, then grabbed the satchel from Tarak, digging in it for a piece of fruit. “They must be boy snakes.”
   He took the bag back from her, handing over an apple. “And how do you know that?”
   Eva bit into the apple, taking a bite too large for her infant mouth, spraying juice everywhere. She grinned at her brother through the flesh. “’Cause boys always fight.”
   “Do not!”
   “You and Berit fight all the time!”
   “I…” He thought for a moment. “Yeah, guess you’re right. Berit always starts it though.”
   She nodded absently, eyes back on the sea giants, their roars of rage or pain just reaching them over the wind. She munched on her apple, scratching at her neck with one hand. Tarak dug his own apple from the bag, smiling slightly as one of the serpents was flung backwards into the waves. He had just filled his mouth when Eva turned to him.
   “Why doesn’t someone go out there and stop them?”
   Tarak choked, banging himself on the chest to try and swallow his apple. Eva squeaked, and knelt beside him, patting him on the back like she has seen her mother doing. “Sorry!”
   “No, it’s ok, Cherub, I’m fine.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of a hand before replying. “Anyway, no one could go out there; those things could kill each other, they’d squash a person like you’d squash an ant!”
   She stared at him for a moment, thinking it over, then slumped back down. “Yeah, guess so.” She took another bite from her apple, screwed up her face at the sudden sour taste, and launched the offending fruit off the cliff. The flesh in her mouth followed soon after, Tarak’s disapproving frown eliciting a giggle from the six year old. “When I get my own ship, I’ll show those snakes who’s boss!”


   

   
   Eva stumbled against the doorframe, holding up a hand to stop the door swinging into her head as the ship rocked violently, one of her crew rolling noisily past her cabin. Her eyes swept the deck, then up into the rigging, grin dashing across her face as she spotted her first mate tangled up in the ropes. “Having fun?”
   “You’re funny!” Jem struggled with the rope wrapped around his ankle for a moment, then flipped himself upright and scrambled back to deck. “What’s going on?”
   “I was about to ask you the same thing. I assume it’s not an enemy, since we’re in the middle of nowhere.” She snorted. “And the Fleet tend to be a lot less subtle.”
   “Yeah, not like them to use stealth methods.” He was almost thrown all his length across the deck as the ship lurched again, both his and Eva’s heads snapping round as a scream informed them someone had gone overboard. “This is crazy, the seas are calm!”
   She opened her mouth to answer, just as a roar cut across the air, and the blood drained from her face as a colossal shadow loomed over them. “By Zerran’s…Run!”
   The crew scrambled across the decks, throwing themselves into hiding places as quickly as they could move against the rolling wood beneath their feet. The serpent roared again, diving down, the ship almost capsizing as the water hit the sides, spray covering everything. Eva peeped out from her cabin, visibly shaking, eyes glued to the railings. “Where in the hells did it go?”
   Jem heaved himself unsteadily to his feet as the rocking subsided, scanning the seas. “Down. That can’t be good.”
   “What I want to know is why that thrice damned thing is harassing my ship! Where did it come…” Her eyes caught the cliffs on the shore, and the ruined watchtower perched black on the summit. A small smile tugged at her lips as she remembered a six year old girl spitting fruit from those rocks, arguing with her brother about the snakes. “The old git’s still alive, eh?” A cautious step brought her onto the deck proper. “Ready the canon, we’re going to show that hellbeast who’s boss!”
   Silence reigned, broken only by the last of the waves slapping the hull. Her entire crew stared at her, slack-jawed. She put her hands on her hips, unimpressed. “Or you can all go over the railings and fight it hands on, it doesn’t bother me.” A flurry of footsteps and arguing filled the air, the scraping of the canons across the deck causing her to nod. “Had a feeling you’d see it my way.”
   Eva turned back to her cabin, stopped only by a hand on her shoulder, and a voice close to her ear. “What the hells are you playing at now?”
   “That thing has been terrorizing ships in this bay since I was a child sitting on those cliffs, we may not do good often, but taking it out would benefit a lot of people!”
   “And could kill us all! Did you think about that?”
   “You’re not scared, are you, Tamarn?”
   Jem’s hand tightened on her shoulder, fingers digging in around her clavicle, causing her to wince. “I promised I’d watch you, serve as your first mate, but this is madness, Eva! That thing could squash us the same way you’d squash an ant!”
   She grinned at the familiar words, despite the pain in her shoulder. “Then we just have to hit it first, and harder. Go see to the canons.” She looked up at the sails, then over her shoulder at her mate. “Trust me.”
   “I do, that’s what scares me most.” The hand uncurled from her shoulder, and she watched him walk away. She shook her head, rubbing at her clavicle as she ducked into her cabin. She walked straight to a chest stowed in the far corner, a moment’s rooting around inside rewarding her with her crossbow and quiver.
   “Now, let’s see what that slimy git’s made of.” The quiver was flung over her shoulder, the bow readied as she stalked back out onto the deck. All was eerily quiet as they waited for the serpent to reappear. The time dragged by, the crew anxious at the canon, Eva up on the bow, crossbow at the ready, Jem at the stern, keeping watch in the other direction. A ripple in the water caught his eye of the starboard side.
   “Here it comes! Guns ready at starboard, fire as soon as you see it!”
   Hands hovered over fuses as the entire crew focussed on the sea of the starboard side, waiting…”There!”
   There was a rippling of canon fire as the beast reared up once more, the missiles ripping holes in its flesh, dragging a ragged scream of pain from the snake, and it dived, dark blood rising and rolling amongst the waves. There was a cheer from the deck, Eva’s face creased as she turned to look down at them. “It’s not dead, just injured! Get those canons reloaded!”
   “But we hit it!”
   “Yeah, and it dived, it didn’t fall. Canons, now!”
   There was a grumbling, but the crew did as she bid. Jem grinned at her from the rear of the ship, a crossbow matching hers in his hand, but she waved him away. ‘I’m still the better shot’.
    She watched the waves, searching for signs of the beast’s return. The ship rocked, showing it was still nearby, biding its time. Her bow traced shapes across the water, waiting, waiting…
   “Ready Cap’n!”
   “Now!”
   It reared, drawing itself up at the front of the ship, then lowered its head, hissing, staring straight at Eva. She stared back for a moment, then grinned, raised her crossbow, and shot it in the eye. It bellowed, almost but not quite drowning out the canon fire from below, a couple of the missiles tearing chunks from its flesh.
   Time seemed to slow, the beast taking its time to fall, tail coming up to thrash, crashing into the foremast, and collapsing it onto the bow. Jem threw his bow to one side, jumped the railing, rolling as he landed. He scrambled to his feet, dashing to the front of the ship. “Eva!”
   The crew stood in shock, torn between celebrating their victory, and fear for their captain. Jem reached the mess of cloth, wood and rope, searching for any sign of the woman. He fought with a tangle of wood for a moment, pulling it off to reveal his groaning captain, looking unimpressed. “You took your time.”
   An eyebrow arched. “I’m not glad you’re hurt, but I’m glad it’s you, since this was your stupid idea. Honestly Evie, you’re mad!” He kicked the remaining mess of mast away, and grabbed her arm to heave her to her feet.  She screamed, and turned sheet white. “It’s broken then.” He hauled her up, getting her good arm over his shoulder, and began to drag her to her cabin.
   “Get a couple boys together, see what you can salvage from that mast.” There were nods. “The rest of you, tidy up down here, and make sure those canon are reloaded. We’re not going anywhere for a while, and we don’t need the Fleet getting the jump on us.” They moved off.
   Eva groaned, and Jem grinned at her. “Come on, oh mighty serpent hunter, let’s get you patched up.”

[DJK]

OK just finished this.  I didn't get to revise it at all, hope it is not to bad.

DJK


The sun was starting to set and the dusty road stretched out before him. There was a long way to go still before he would reach the village.  The cart stacked with stones was propelled forward freeing itself from the rut that gripped the wheel. Leif was straining to focusing on the mindless drumming of his steps forcing himself to keep the cart moving forward.

Left foot… Right foot… Left foot…

 Sweat trickled down his brow, burning his eyes. A little further and he would be at Tanner’s Trench.

He felt the slack go into leather harness that wound under his armpits and over his shoulders as he broke the crest of the rise. Gripping the long pole handles he steadied the cart bracing the weight of the load while starting to descend the slope.

Leif could see the large black scar that ripped across ground following the sharp turn at the bottom of the hill. There would be no hope of freeing his cart should he become its next victim. Shifting his weight, Leif guided the cart slowly around the corner.   After safely rounding the corner, another stone-runner cart appeared to be stuck in what remained of Tanner’s Trench.

It had been so simple. A few comments here and there about his manhood and he fell right into my trap.  “Everything alright Ulric? Too bad I don’t have time to help you out. It’s gonna be dark soon, I gotta be getting back to the village.” shouted Leif smiling.
 
Pulling his cart alongside the front of Ulric’s he could see that the axle had broken. Ulric lay passed out in the dirt with his leg trapped underneath the heavy cart.

“Ah, damn!” said Leif. As much as he hated Ulric, he couldn’t leave him here to die.

Quickly he stopped the cart and unstrapped himself from the leather harnesses. Moving to where Ulric lay, he quickly inspected the wound. It was broke alright; his left shin bone was jutting out through the back of his calf just below the knee. Dark red blood was streaming from the wound down into Tanner’s Trench. Going back to his cart Leif quickly retrieved the wineskin that was attached to one of his long pole handles. Tilting Ulric’s head backward he splashed the liquid into his throat.
 
“Ulric, wake up! We don’t have time for this.” shouted Leif.

Ulric woke from his sleep a little groggy. “My leg…..Help me!” said Ulric.

“We have little time.  I must try and free your leg quickly.  This is probably going to hurt, but I need you to help me get your leg out.” said Leif.  Leif bent down and gripped the underside of Ulric’s cart. 

“Ready?” asked Leif.
A slight nod was the only response that Leif got.  Planting his feet firmly between the bank of the Tanner’s Trench and the cart Leif slowly forced the cart upwards.  Leif’s legs began to tremble from the weight of the heavy stones.  His strength evaded him quickly.  The cart was just too heavy.

Ulric cried out in pain as the weight settled back on his leg.  “Maybe you should try taking some of the stones out of the cart.” growled Ulric.

Quickly Leif began unloading stones from the side of the cart to lessen the load.  When it was about halfway unloaded Leif stopped.

“We don’t have any more time.  The sun is getting low.” said Leif.

“Right… One more try then.” answered Ulric.

Leif came around to the side of the cart again positioning himself to attempt the next lift.  “One..Two…Three” said Leif as he threw himself into cart.  Slowly the cart rose from Tanner’s Trench.  “Now Ulric, now!” shouted Leif. 

Ulric forced his body to move as he crawled away from the cart that dangled barely an inch above his leg. No sooner than his leg was clear did the cart come crashing down loudly.  “Thank you” said Ulric.

“Not that it matters, we are both going to die here.” said Leif staring in the direction of the setting sun. 

“Leave me then.  You might still make it back to the village safely.” replied Ulric.

“I already decided against abandoning you when I freed your trapped leg.” said Leif. 

“You know it is said that no one survives the night.  What chance do we have?  They will be upon us soon.” said Ulric. 

“While we draw breath there is a chance.” replied Leif as he grabbed his stone cart and positioned it diagonally to Ulric’s cart forming a wall behind them.    Gathering sticks and long grass from the road side Leif started a small fire using a piece of flint that was stored in a compartment in his cart about 20 paces from the opening of the carts.  He also retrieved the hunting knife his father had given him for his sixteenth birthday last year.  “Do you have any weapons?” asked Leif. 

“Just a small knife used for skinning game.” said Ulric gesturing to the knife at his belt. 

“Keep it close, it won’t be long now.” said Leif as the last ray of light vanished over the horizon.

A long fierce howl rang over the countryside.  It was coming towards them with great speed.  Leif could hear the beast snarling as it ran.  Thump.. Thump…... Thump.. Thump..

“Be ready, here it comes” said Leif stealing a glance back at Ulric who was gripping his dirk as he was attempting to stand on his injured leg between the carts.

Leif picked up a long branch which was burning from their small fire to use as a torch.  Leif could see the beast’s shadowy outline circling the camp.  Stalking them waiting for the correct opportunity to strike.  It stopped directly in front of the small fire inching into the firelight.  The creatures red eyes stared directly at Leif as if to bore a hole through.  He could feel the rage and hatred that seemed to pulse from the beast as its hackles rose.  Its coat was dark black and looked like it was made up of the skin of the undead. 

Rising its head it sniffed the air taking in the stench of blood from Ulric’s injury.  With astounding speed it bounded over the small fire landing behind Leif. 

The hell hound went directly for Ulric’s wounded leg. 

Leif raised his hunting knife turning toward the fight.  He plunged the knife down into side of the hell hounds neck. Leif backed away toward the small fire hoping to distract it from Ulric. 

It screamed a terrible, beastly cry and let go of Ulric to turn and face the new threat. 

As the hell hound stepped over Ulric and now focusing on Leif.  Ulric stabbed his dirk into the soft underbelly of the animal.  The creature stumbled and fell inches away from Leif.

“Well, glad that is over.” said Ulric smiling attempting to sit up against the carts. 

“Ah well you forgot one thing.” replied Leif retrieving his hunting knife from the body of the hell hound.

“What’s that” asked Ulric.

“Hell hounds hunt in packs!” said Leif













 

[ZombieCrooner16]

My first entry here, just a quick blurb from a running story in my head. Hope you enjoy.
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A deep, measured breath. The air was still rigid with night's chill, the bite strong enough for it to prick at the back of her throat with each draw before it dissolved into the warmth of her body. Her eyes flickered briefly toward a shadow of movement in the dim morning light, and closed as she turned a thoughtful ear to the wind. Another long breath. The gentle, rippling sway of leaves above, with flighted creatures stirring from their nests, chasing after the sharp ping of insect wings, then the rustling of the underbrush below and a few nocturnal hunters still slithering lethargically back to their dens. All melodies the elf huntress had memorized long before, the rhythm of their intricate cohabitation disrupted only by the clumsy hesitation of a lurking intruder, by her target. She exhaled smoothly, sight refocused on the silhouette of trembling fingers sprawled against a thick wooden trunk. Fear rippled past his lips in small, billowed puffs, the swell of them quaking in the crisp air as his eyes darted anxiously across their still surroundings, searching for his relentless pursuer.

He sprinted from behind the tree, and again she was at his back, weaving through the thick woods with deliberate motion. Fresh dew clinging to the edges of lower plants pooled and latched onto her skin and clothing as she grazed them in passing, coating her in a damp mist. With every step she grew closer, nearly enough to hear the frantic beat of her prey's heart as he stumbled over a patch of jagged stones; his leg crumbled under him with a sickening crack and he roared in agony as he fumbled to turn and face the Ranger towering above him. The fallen man met her narrowed gaze, swallowing laboriously around his pain with wounded pride. "Who the hell are you?" He spat indignantly, teeth grinding against every syllable for control over the pulsing injury.

"It has been years since one of your mark has passed through this forest." Tala stepped forward and studied the symbols lining the injured man's clothing. In the growing light, her features became more obvious and defined and she watched the grounded man study her in return, catching the judgmental expression he posed at her youthful exterior. A mark of her race, and a curse in the world now near void of magic. During the great struggle, the elven people had been stranded and confined between two worlds; that of the Warlords, whose hubris inspired domination over the land through the use of powerful and destructive magic, and that of the humans who grew to hate magic in all its forms. After observing the selfish actions of their fellow magic users, the elves stood against them in attempt to protect the humans. The Warlords disowned them, ordering they be hunted and slaughtered like animals. The humans rejected their help, banishing them and all other races from their settlements. In spite of her family's extensive and loyal alignment to the cause, Tala resented both sides for the devastation they had caused in their blindness. "You have no claim to this land." The Warlord follower finally spoke, voice heavy and dry.

Her brows knit in disappointment at the ignorance behind his words. "You're just a pon." Drawing the curved blade from its hilt at her hip, she ignored the panic breaking through the surface in his eyes. "Wait! I'll tell you anything you want, please!" She aligned the tip of her weapon at the center of his throat, arm slightly bent and poised to finish the strike. Cowardice was prominent in every Warlord follower she had ever encountered, quick to end another life for their means and even quicker to offer another in place of their own. "If you had the answers I wanted, you would already have given them to me." The man faltered with confusion and Tala's lips tensed, a predatory curl tugging at the corner. "As I thought." She chided, letting her lips slope downward into a distasteful sneer before thrusting the length of the blade straight through his flesh, not bothering to linger and watch the light fade from his eyes before removing the sword and wiping it clean. Why would they be sending scouts out this far? What are they planning?

The clean slice through the expired man's throat ran dry quicker than it should have, blood growing thick and cracking around the edges of flayed flesh, following the trails of ruby downward over his body and to the ground in sharp, jagged lines; the darkening streaks splintered through the paths like veins, sparking searing currents that hissed and burned over the lush grass where the blood pooled and fizzled against the edge of the small creek at the man's feet. Tala turned from her thought at the sound of death rising from the body, small plumes of billowing smoke now curling and bubbling outward from the open wounds. It pulled together on a breath of wind that did not breach the surrounding trees, whirling within itself to form a loose figure with a hollow face. Gaping eyes locked on her, glowing impossibly inside the infinite darkness, pulling her closer into its grasp.

The Ranger quickly raised her weapon and recited a banishing enchantment in a hushed whisper against the blade, her words scoring into the metal with a brilliant blaze of gold heat as they were spoken. The etching ran the length of her sword, and pulsed with a vibrant flame that caused the hovering creature to recoil and hiss. Tala rushed the smoke figure, slicing deliberately at the heart of it. Resistance against the seemingly hollow creature grew the closer the blade reached to the center until it split through and pulled easily away from the other side. Screeching angrily, the creature dispersed and evaporated into nothingness, leaving Tala alone once more with the already decaying body of her enemy. Confusion ringing her eyes, the Ranger placed a delicate hand over the base of her blade, sweeping her fingers along its length over the searing words and extinguishing them with her touch. "So they are using Reapers now. They must be on the move."

Sheathing her weapon with practiced fluidity, Tala doubled back toward her camp, cautious to avoid any contact with more Warlord scouts, and gathered a pack for the journey she faced. She would need to trace the branching paths of the scouts through the forest to their base to assess their numbers before she could take further action. The knowledge that they had expanded beyond the Forbidden Wall was both alarming and urgent, and she would need to stop at several encampments to inform her allies of the movement on the Warlord front. Tala tensed. That meant entering the human settlements. Her own grievances aside, she had sworn to honor the memory of her fallen people by extinguishing their opposition, and there was simply no alternative. The Ranger pulled the hood of her cape securely over her face, covering her ears and casting shadow over her prominent features. Navigating the forest ahead of the Warlord scouts would be simple, and the lead would give her allies time to prepare. If she kept pace, she could reach the first border in a day and a half.

[Autumn2May]

And the contest is closed!  I'll have the voting up within the hour.