Nightgale Blog Challenge: The Unfinished Tale

Fourth and last entry to Nightgale blog challenge. Thank you Glitterlady and other participants for the great stories. David A. Ludwig has written a summary of the challenge, read it here.

Emma sought the words her father would have chosen. Did the dragon’s scales glint or gleam as it shifted atop its mound of treasure? No, he would have first described the gold, rubies, and magical relics strewn into a pile and then revealed the dragon lying atop the fortune.

The words were right, now she had to write them down. She held up one of her father’s pages, studied the form of the letters. How the top of t’s curved, how the i’s were a little slanted and how the ink stains became more frequent when the pace of the story grew faster.

Like a muse, the memory of her father guided her hand. She worked throughout the night, studying the pages her father had written before death had claimed him. When her work was done she snuck back into her father’s study and hid the papers below a cupboard. As if they’d fallen there.

Come morning, she pretended to find them. She held her breath for a moment; she would have to sound surprised and elated at the “discovery”, otherwise they would see through her ruse.

“Mama! Lil’ brother!” Emma held one of the papers in her hand. “Come see what I found!”

“I’m not little!”

“I found some papers. The letters look like dad’s handwriting. ” She swallowed; mother had furrowed her brow. “And they pick up where father’s story left off.”

“Mama, read it to me!” Her brother bounced up and down, brown locks mimicking the movement. He’d believed the lie. Not much else mattered. “I want to know what happens next!”

“You’ll have to sit down and listen.” Mother had a knowing smile on her face as she walked in to the den holding the papers and began reading her daughter’s words.

Emma smiled; father hadn’t told her the ending of the story, but it had been clear to her. The beggar boy would outwit the dragon, not slay it, and return to his family a rich young man. Her little brother liked simple, happy endings. They made him smile when nothing else could.

Nigthgale Blog Challenge: A Final Gift

My third entry to Glitterlady's Nightgale blog challenge. Takes place in Verannia.

The earth mage plodded through the woods, fingers touching rough bark of a pine and naked limb of a birch as he walked past his old friends. Snow crunched beneath his feet and clung to his boots.

Weariness forced him to sit under a pine. The tree was old, wounded by the years and twisted by the wind. The mage studied the signs of great age with mild envy; he had lost the opportunity to grow old.

He had healed the ill and lifted the spirits of those in need for ten years now. But when the plague had come to North, he had spread himself too thin trying to help everyone, and caught the damn disease himself. It was a mistake and he had to pay the price, but he refused to die behind closed doors, surrounded by sorrow and decay.

He would die in the pure snow; his body would feed the earth and the trees which stood sentry between his home and the Ice Barrens. Gently he touched the scaly bark of the pine. Perhaps he could help the tree survive a little longer.

He reached outwards, grasped the threads of life flowing beneath the smooth bark, and began binding his body to the trunk. The predators would have to find something else to eat; besides, his diseased flesh might sicken the animals.

Tears appeared along the surface of the tree, resin seeped down onto his shoulders. The golden resin flowed down along his body until it touched the ground, where it hardened. More resin covered him, reaching up to his neck. The mage sighed out his last breath as he left the world behind. But a part of him would stay in this world, feeding the old tree.

Nighgale Blog Challenge: The Sacrifice

This is my second entry to Glitterlady's Nightgale blog challenge. I'm sorry it's late, I had a busy week and hit a wall with the story.

PROMPT:

Immortality comes to you, you do not go to Immortality.

The sacrifice had ceased screaming. Blood from the tear on his throat trickled down the sides of the stone altar, dripping on to the white flowers laid around the slab. Gibbet smiled; the first victim had been hard, but the time he got to the tenth he’d gotten used to the pleading and the threats. All a part of his quest for immortality.

The deity of life had ignored his request for years, but he could not ignore the death knells of his followers for long.

The dead man’s hand twitched and Gibbet quickly stepped back. Was it time?

Slowly the corpse’s hand rose to the gaping wound on his throat. Pinching the wound close, the man sat up and stared Gibbet in the eyes.

”Stop killing my followers!” The corpse’s face was beetroot red from anger. “I’m busy enough as it is without having to resurrect them.”

Good, he had the deity’s attention now. “Give me what I prayed for and the slaughter will end.”

The man’s mouth twisted as the deity considered. “Eternal youth is only for the High Priests.”

Gibbet’s mind wandered to the painting he had walked past every morning. Men like him being ripped apart by monsters, drowning in waste, subjected to horrors beyond his imagination. He’d committed murder several times. It was either immortality or the Underworld for him.

“I will continue killing your followers until you strike me down.”

The deity arched an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t I do that right now?”

Gibbet hid his fear in false scoff, “What kind of deity of life would you be?”

“Hmm… you are correct. I cannot kill.” The deity lifted the man’s free hand to rub his chin. “Ah, if you will stop slaughtering my followers, then yes, I shall grant you immortality.”

The deity set the dead man’s hand atop his head and muttered in a low voice. For a moment Gibbet feared the deity would twist his head, snapping his neck, but the god of life couldn’t kill.

He felt the deity’s voice more than heard it. The words settled on him and slipped beneath. He could feel a change, something fundamental leaving his body.

“You’re now an immortal, bastard.” The deity spat the words.

Gibbet smiled as he bowed his head. “I will never grow old, I am forever young.”

The deity burst into laughter. “Forever young? Hah! No, you will rot, but you will not die. I was impressed with you, working and praying diligently. I would have answered your prayers and given you eternal youth, but you strayed from the righteous path.”

All expression faded from the man’s face. His hand fell from his throat; the deep wound had knitted shut, leaving behind only a thin scar. The priest’s eyelids slid down, then shot open widen.

“You slit my throat!” The man shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Gibbet, who just stared at him blankly. This had gone all wrong. Perhaps the god of death would grant him real immortality or at least take back his brother’s curse.

Character Anger Management

When I saw the prompt on Timony's blog, I immeadiately thought of Auburn, one of my characters :)

Auburn lifted her head from the table, mouth hanging slightly ajar as she stared at the odd man. So he was going to teach her how to resist the urge to threaten the other characters.

“Welcome to the Character Anger Management class of 2012. I’m Bert, your instructor. I’ve written many stories with placid characters and with my help you too can become calm and collected.”

It was her writer’s fault. She’d talked about how people made a resolution for every New Year. Hers could be to tone down the anger, since the other characters were afraid of her. No one had outright complained, though, likely because they were too scared to do that.

Auburn’s eyes wandered up and down his odd attire. “What the hell are you wearing? I’ve seen my writer in weird clothes, but…”

Bert frowned. “They’re called jeans. And where’d you learn the word ‘hell’? Aren’t you from a fantasy world?”

“My writer uses the word all the time. Oh, and ‘for the love of all that is good’ and ‘perkele’, although I don’t know what that means.” Her brow creased as she sought other words her writer used to describe her and other unruly characters. “Well, too many to list.”

“Uh, huh... Well, let’s get to know each other, shall we?” He nodded to a thing of muscle and horns. ”You can start.”

“You annoy me, I rip tongue out!” The ogre lifted a club above his head.

“If anyone annoys me, I will rip their tongue out, clean the window with it and insert it in their—” She fell quiet. Everyone stared at her. Even the ogre was giving her a wary glance. Didn’t they recognize creative threating when they heard it? “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The instructor’s mouth hung open, his pen dropped to the floor and rolled to the far end of the room. Silence fell again.

“Overkill.” The ogre muttered.

“Ahem, we’re trying to learn not to use such language.” He walked over to pick up the pen.

Auburn shrugged. “Well, I haven’t learned yet.”

“I see…” Bert gnawed the end of the pen. “Moving on, we’ll now discuss what pushes our buttons.”

“When people interrupt or try outdo me!” The ogre growled.

“Don’t blame others if you can’t come up with better threats than ‘rip’ or ‘tear’.” Auburn snorted as she brushed a curl of hair of her face. The corners of her mouth began to tug upwards, next to the ogre sat a rather handsome pale young man with dark hair. “Hello there.”

The man smiled revealing sharp fangs.

“Look at me when talking to me!” The ogre stood up, his club lifted high.

“No longing gazes here. I’m sure your writers have plans for you—” Bert’s word and possibly life was cut short by the ogre’s club.

“You interrupt me!”

“My writer was paying for this!” Auburn pulled her dress over her head as she changed. Coppery fur covered her body and fingers sharpened into claws as a shriek of fury escaped her maw.

She dodged the ogre’s clumsy swing easily. Her jump landed her atop the beast’s head, her claws scratched futilely the thick skin. The eyes would be vulnerable.

“Stop it!” She heard Bert shout, but it was too late. The rush of battle sang in her blood, nothing could stop her.

“Why is my character bound like Hannibal Lecter?” Emilia’s mouth gaped as Auburn was rolled in. The shapeshifter rolled her eyes. “I know she has a foul mouth, but a muzzle?”

“Your character started a fight with an ogre and almost killed the poor monster. Then she tried to… passionately kiss a vampire. When he tried to bite her, she knocked his teeth out. You’re lucky they have surgery for that nowadays and that the ogre lives,” he drew a deep breath,” otherwise you’d be in deep trouble, missy. Goodbye!”

“Sorry Auburn, I had a chat with my boyfriend and turns out you’re his favourite character.” She pushed her smudgy glasses back up her nose. “It got me thinking, maybe other people will like you too, and if you did tone down your temper you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

“Mmh.”

“I’ll let you go when we’re back in Verannia.” She gnawed her lower lip for a moment before adding, “I don’t want you attacking any characters on the way there.”

“Mmh!” Auburn’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And please don’t attack me when I release you?”

“Mmmh…”

“Thank you, Auburn.” Emilia grabbed the handles and began rolling her back into the story.

Nightgale Blog Challenge: Hemlock

Glitterlady has challenged us to write four stories on the subject of immortality. This is my first entry to the challenge.

When I look in the mirror I do not see my face, but a mask moulded by life and set upon my true visage. I wish the mirror was just playing a cruel joke on me, but I know it shows what others see. I lift a cloth to cover the mirror, but the peace it brings will only last for a moment.

The drawer slides open easily. Inside it in a brown bag is my escape: a phial, so small as to seem innocent. Poison is a woman’s choice; it preserves what’s left of beauty, while other means of death would maim it.

I’ll be found next to my mirror, dressed in my finest, my hair brushed, my makeup hiding the little time-carved marks on my skin. They will remember me as I am now, beautiful. Old age will never tarnish memories of me.

The stopper frees a sharp smell that wafts through the air. I lift the phial to my lips and swallow the foul liquid.

Immortality may come with a price, but I will gladly pay it in full.

I will never grow old.

#DivineHell Extra

Cerberus ran along the empty streets, dodging packs of party goers and the odd passed out person. The huge hellhound stopped to sniff the air, he was near. The right head turned to go right, the left wanted to go left, and the middle wanted to go straight ahead.

After minutes of growling, biting and snarling, Cerberus raced onwards. Petty squabbling would have to wait. The grey asphalt flew beneath the hellhound as it closed in on the target.

A tall form, wrapped in a black cloak turned to face the hound. Cerberus stopped before him, scaly tail wagging.

“What is it lad… lads?” The Grim Reaper knelt down before the hound. “Did little Timmy fall into a well again?”

The middle and left head growled while the right head slapped its paw into its forehead.

“Come to think of it, Timmy never did fall into a well.” Grim patted the middle head of the hellhound. “What is it lads, tell me.”

Cerberus lifted its paws to the side of its head, forming makeshift horns.

“Lucifer, something’s up with him. Is he in trouble again?”

The three heads nodded up and down in unison. The hound stopped to think for a moment, then drew its legs against itself and laid down on the pavement.

“Lucifer is dead?” The bony jaw dropped.

“Arf!” The three heads bared their teeth.

Grim’s bony hand jammed his jaw back up. “Not dead, I take it. Hell would be in an uproar without its leader… bound?”

“Woof!” The scaly tail thumped up and down, sending up a puff of dust.

“Bound, probably in a confined place like a closet. But why?” Grim fell silent for a moment. He lifted a finger up towards the dark sky. “Did God try to order Lucifer to be kinder to the damned?”

“Woof!”

“Reapers are neutral, we don’t mess with God or Lucifer.” The black hood fell off as Grim shook his head. He lifted his hands up in protest. “It’s their issue, find someone else.”

Cerberus pointed at itself, lifted his paws into horns again, then patted the pavement. The hellhound’s faces looked around confused, one head barked at the other as if asking for direction. The shoulders of the hound lifted up, then down.

“Minion of the devil, up here, lost and confused… Edwin?” His jaw dropped to the ground this time. Grim picked it up, brushed the dust of and jammed it back. “The young sod’s got himself mixed up in all of this? He can’t even make his way through hell, what’s he doing down there?”

Cerberus merely shrugged. Three pairs of ears lifted up and three pairs of eyes lit up. “Woof?”

“I rather like that bloke, shame if something’s happened to him.” Grim lifted his hand to his brow and shook his head. “I’m going to make a dog’s dinner out of this, but I have to do something.”

“Woof?”

“No, not food. It means I’m likely going to make things worse by intervening. Follow me, I know what to do.”

On the corner of a street populated by young party goers a young woman stood on a wooden box, waving her hands and shouting: “You’re all going to hell in a handbasket—” The street prophet fell silent as a cold blade touched her throat.

“God, I’ve got a scythe on your favourite prophet’s throat!” The Grim Reaper gritted the teeth he still had. HQ would be furious again. “Call off the oddball angel and let Lucifer do his job. I’m sure you’ve made your point.”

“I’m a favourite?” The prophet’s face brightened. “Woo hoo!”

Clad in an orange and red outfit, the angel Rowan appeared out of thin air. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists!”

One of the party goers turned his head towards the scene, but saw only the street preacher standing silent, her head oddly bent back.

“Do I get a say in this?” The street preacher looked up at The Reaper’s skeletal face. The hollow eye sockets revealed nothing of his intent.

If Grim had had flesh and muscles to move them he would have frowned. “I recall that you hijacked Hell.”

“Lucifer didn’t follow orders!” Wings unfurled behind Rowan, filling the air with a warm light.

“You can’t order a fallen angel, especially the Devil.” The Grim Reaper waved his free arm in the air. “You coerce and threaten, but you don’t hit him over the head with a holy book and shove him in a closet. That’s just wrong, man… angel.”

Rowan crossed his arms and lifted his wings higher in attempt of intimidation.

Grim stood still; he’d seen angels before while taking souls to heaven. “If Lucifer agrees to give the damned a break every century, will you leave?”

Rowan looked up, then nodded. “Upstairs agrees.” He snorted. “If the old goat bottom agrees, all’s fine.”

“Blimey, God agrees?” The scythe fell from the street preacher’s throat. Grim took a step back. “You deal with Lucifer. I have a football riot to attend to.”

The closet door opened, the sudden flash of light assaulting Edwin and Lucifer’s eyes. Rowan stepped into the opening, his arms crossed across his chest. “If you allow the damned a holiday once every decade—”

“Hundred years.” Lucifer spat the words.

“Alrighty, every hundred years, I’ll leave and not come back unless ordered to.” The angel cocked his head and lifted his brow, waiting for an answer.

“If you ever show your face here again, I will have the demons chop off your wings and use them to clean the soot of the walls,” Lucifer’s dark eyes glittered as he imagined the scene, “and play basketball with that pretty little head of yours.”

“Fine.” Rowan pulled out a small knife and sliced through the ropes binding Edwin. He gave the youngster a dark look. “Shove me against a wall again and you will have no business knocking on heaven’s door.”

“I work for him.” Edwin glanced at the fuming Lucifer. “I think I lost the chance for eternal life in the clouds when I signed.”

“Ever heard of repenting? God forgives.” Rowan placed the knife in Edwin’s hand. “I’m off.”

Edwin cut Lucifer’s ropes and got up to leave, when the Boss’s cold voice made him turn around. “Edwin, what were you doing down here?”

“Oh, nothing, just stopping by.” He swallowed hard; now was not the time to point out the fact that he didn’t get paid enough.

“I doubt that.” The Devil flexed his sore arms, clawed fingers extended towards the roof. “Now, Edwin I have a job for you. Find a way to make that angel pay for what he did.”

All colour fled Edwin’s face and his jaw dropped. He’d do it, it was his job and Lucifer had gotten him out of the Loony Bin. Even Hell was better than that.