Monthly Short Story Winner: Storms

Some of you may not know this, but along with Fantasy-Faction being an awesome site for readers of fantasy, we also house a growing collection of published and aspiring authors. Okay that’s sounds a bit odd. What I mean is many of our members are fantasy writers as well as fantasy readers. And as a struggling writer myself, I would like to introduce you to an ongoing feature from the Writer’s Corner section of our forums.

Every month we hold a fantasy writing challenge. It’s a short story contest, whose theme changes monthly. All are invited to enter and the only requirement is that you are a member of our free forums. Once the contest ends, all members of the forum vote on their favorite story. The winner is then published in our Winner’s Circle thread. The winner’s story will also be published in article format here on the main site, along with the announcement for next month’s challenge.

In June our theme was storms

Summer is a time of extreme weather. High heat and massive thunderstorms bringing rain, hail, tornados, and sometimes even morphing into hurricanes! In the world of fantasy the weather can be a malevolent force manipulated by the powers of evil, used by the gods to smite their enemies, or simply a wild card controlled by none and feared by all.

June’s challenge is to write a short story or scene that involves a storm. It could be a thunderstorm, a rainstorm, a hurricane, or maybe in your universe it rains frogs, whatever floats your boat.

The rules are as follows:

1. Must be prose.
2. 1,500 – 2,000 words.
3. Must include a storm and some element of fantasy.

And the winner of June’s challenge is Shanothaine with 42.9% of the vote! You can read Shanothaine’s story, “Imarin of Starfall”, at the end of this article. You can see all June’s entries here.

July’s theme was freedom

Freedom means a lot of things to a lot of people. In fantasy it can mean peace for an oppressed kingdom, equality for a downtrodden race, or even the ability for a single man or woman to find their own path in life.

July’s challenge is to write a short fantasy story or scene that involves freedom.

The rules are as follows:

1. Must be prose.
2. 1,500 – 2,000 words.
3. Must include the theme of freedom and some element of fantasy.

You can vote for July’s winner here.

Voting ends on August 29th. Check back next month to see who wins!

August’s Writing Competition

If you are also an aspiring writer, or even an old pro, you can join this month’s writing challenge and pit your skills against your fellow fantasy lovers. For August our theme is water.

Without water nothing on Earth would survive. But not only is water essential for our body’s well being, it can also nourish our souls. Whether it’s a mirror like oasis, a babbling brook, or the powerful crash of an ocean wave; water has a magic all its own.

This month’s challenge is to write a short fantasy story or scene that involves water.

The rules are as follows:

1. Must be prose.
2. 1,500 – 2,000 words.
3. Must include water as a major element or theme in addition to some element of fantasy.

If you’re interested, you can enter here.

Good luck to all entrants! And check back next month for more Writing Challenge fun!

Now please enjoy a stormy short story!

– – –

“Imarin of Starfall”
by Shanothaine

A crystalline flake drifted down in front of her face. Slowly, she pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter around her body. A strand of carmine hair was swept out from under her cape, lashing through the wind.

“Not long now,” she whispered.

Her emerald eyes were focused on the eastern horizon. The setting sun would soon cast its last waves of orange over the fields, illuminating the land with its last breath. A thin sheet of snow had ensnared the plain – a sign that winter would be early this year.

She stood alone on one of the many hillocks strewn across the Errian Wake – a plain stretching for miles in all directions, from the Thallusian shores to the Birithron kingdom. Yet she was unperturbed by the vastness of the area; her quarry would not escape her. She had been on their trail for three days – she had caught their scent in Vinrem and followed them south.

A wind caught up behind her, blowing about her brown robe. The copse of birch trees around her provided little shelter from the gust – they had long since shed their leaves in sacrifice to the gods. She touched one of them, allowing the cold of the trunk to course through her fingers. With her other hand, she clutched the silver pendant shaped as a tree dangling around her neck. Her emerald eyes closed in reverence.

“Great mother, give me strength.” Her words escaped as puffs of steam, the cold quickly settling as the last attempts of sunlight vanished.

Her eyes shot open, an unearthly light glaring from them. On the horizon, she saw them – three travellers, bent under the force of a stray wind, their cloaks huddled tight around them. They were at least three miles away; no bigger than the nail of her thumb from where she was standing.

It mattered not.

Slowly, she reached behind her back, her hand coiling around the familiar shape of her bow. She was in no hurry – they had no idea she was even following them. The slender weapon was long and slightly curved, in the way of the Lindel grovemasters, and adorned with an intricate silver filigree. As she brought up the bow, her right hand reached for one of the swan feather arrows in her quiver. She strung it, the bow effortlessly responding to her pull.

She could feel the muscles in her arms tense, a cloud of anticipation building up inside her. The delicate tattoos that covered her bow arm remained still as the skin pulled tight. Her eyes were fixed on her prey, moving slowly against the wind.

“Athura lethian,” she whispered. The tattoos on her arm began moving – an undulating wave of designs and images creeping, weaving, hissing. The sibilant noise emanating from them drowned out all sound. A feint light coursed through them – the same silvery light that now beamed from her eyes and pulsed from the bow’s filigree. Her markspell was cast.

The arrow left its perch, leaving a shimmer of silver dust in its wake. It would not miss – Imarin never missed.

Steadily, Imarin lay down her bow, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the arrow. It moved with ferocity, cutting the air with its platinum tip. With the flick of a finger, she undid the clasp keeping her cloak around her body. As it fell, plumes of snow danced about it.

Imarin’s body tensed at the shock of the cold, adjusting to the wind. Her fine leather armour proved to be less resistant to the imminent winter than she had anticipated. Her long, red hair danced wildly about her tanned body; the tattoos, restricted to her left arm, continued moving.

All the while, her eyes were fixed on the arrow.

Blood. Even from here, she could see it staining the white snow. The moment it spilled, Imarin leapt forward. She ran, her body flowing like a violent river across the plains.

Closer. Closer.

The traveller hit by the arrow was already dead; Imarin’s single shot had ripped through his jugular. She saw his companions kneel next to him, horrified. They would soon see her – but not until it was too late.

Closer. Closer.

She could smell their fear now, it was almost sickening. While still running, she drew her dual thrimm; long, beautiful, curved blades of silver with elegant ivory hilts. Her hands grasped them with admiration – she could feel the sensation, the reward, they would give her as she killed her quarry.

But for a moment, she lapsed – she let her thoughts wander. She saw one of her targets get up with an orb dangling from a chain in his hand and heard him cast his spell. In an instant, her quarry was engulfed in mist. She stopped in her tracks, crouching.

“Blood of Tiral,” she cursed under her breath. “This was not part of the deal.”

The orb had been a Stormsphere, which could only mean one thing. At least one of the two remaining targets was an Aellomancer – a storm mage. Imarin couldn’t risk entering the mist unprepared; for all she knew, it was a haze of blades sharpened to kill her instantly.

The Aellomancers were an order of great repute, and great power. Their magic allowed them not only to control the weather, but to change its very essence. This would be an interesting encounter, to say the least.

But by no means was Imarin not fit for a fight. She was, after all, the greatest of the Orlis Hunters – but never before had she faced an Aellomancer. After sheathing her thrimm, she softly put her left palm on the cold ground.

“Iru vallan ramalië,” her voice was barely a whisper. Behind her, two dark shapes formed, approaching her slowly. They gave low growls as their yellow eyes looked past her, glaring into the unnatural mist.

“Do not let them escape. One has a Stormsphere – I will deal with him. Kill the other.” Imarin’s voice was soft, yet resonated with authority. The creatures darted to the mist, their feline bodies lithely carrying them.

Imarin watched diligently – the Talari wildcats she summoned would trigger any initial defences, allowing her to slip through. If the mist was dangerous, there would be an opening around her targets – much like the eye of a storm.

It grew exceedingly cold, and clouds packed above. Thunder drummed in the distance.

The wildcats made it through the mist – as her own creations she could sense their lifeforce and see what they saw if she so chose. Imarin ran to them, in the middle of the mist.

The clearing was empty – only blood stained the snow. For a moment she stood, then –

“Trap!” her voice was muffled by the mist, yet the wildcats heard her.

Imarin leapt into the air with inhuman agility, her body rising high above the cloud of confusion – and below her she saw flares of blue light crashing into the clearing. The wildcats were dead.

Her leap propelled her away from the mist. It will take more than a mere lightning spell to dispose of me, Aellomancer, she thought as she landed in the snow. She scanned the surrounding fields for her quarry, her eyes flitting with great speed.

“Running so soon,” she half-laughed as she saw them. The chase was Imarin’s favourite part.

Circumventing the mist, which began to disperse, she set after them. The sound of their feet crunching through the snow, their heavy breathing, their anxiety; all of it flooded through Imarin, her senses alighting with glee. As she ran, a smile drew across her face.

As they ran, the Aellomancer turned and continued moving backwards – a windflight charm, doubtlessly. Imarin saw two balls of light form in his palms and rush towards her, she easily dodged them. What she failed to observe was a third bolt, which connected with her right shoulder and sent her reeling backwards.

She hit the ground hard. She looked at her shoulder, only to find most of it missing. Her arm was hanging by a few tendons. Luckily there was no blood – the Aellomancer’s spell had seared the wound shut, even as it cut through her flesh and bone.

Imarin gave a gasp as the pain started growing. She had only one option now.

“Pallas. Tamor. Uroth. Ishtian. Adara.” As she spoke these words, these ancient names of power, her tattoos started moving violently. Five of the images crept down her arm, pressing into each of her fingers. Imarin watched as they edged to the fingertips, she watched in agony as they tore through her skin, birthing themselves.

One of the five creatures, nothing more than a flaring orb of light, immediately charged into her wound. Imarin could feel the pain subsiding – she saw the flesh regrow.

“Thank you, Adara,” she whispered. It almost brought her to tears to call on these, her most intimate of spells, for they could not be recrafted. They died as she used them – already there were patches of naked skin on her tattooed arm.

“The bastard used black lightning on me,” she cursed as she got up. “No more games – they die now.”

The other four creatures had grown to Imarin’s size; they were lithe, beautiful creatures shaped like men, but their eyes betrayed their ethereal nature. Something dark dwelt within them. Without a word, three of them turned and sprinted in the direction of Imarin’s prey; one came over to her and kissed her passionately.

As it did so, its powerful body pressing against hers, it started to glow. The kiss continued, Imarin drinking its energy until it collapsed a husk of ash on the white snow. As she looked up, her eyes shone like diamonds.

“Rain down your storm, Aellomancer. It shall be your last.”

– – –

Congratulations again to Shanothaine! If you’d like to enter our monthly writing contest, check out our forum for more information. Happy writing!

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