Posted on

Meditation

“We could bring him back, you know…” The hoarse whisper echoed around the empty glade, and Luqa jumped, despite himself. It had been a long time since his other had made an offer.
“I don’t believe that’s actually in your power.” Luqa answered despite himself. He usually tried to ignore his passenger, but the audacity of the claim caught Luqa by surprise.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. We could get help, I’m sure the witch you met would be happy to get her claws into a saint!” Luqa sighed and closed his eyes again, ignoring the voice. Deep breath, move through the spear forms. Hear the beat of your heart in your ears.

Luqa is 8 years old, breathing heavily, tears of rage at some perceived slight cloud his vision as he stands over another child. A Sahirim monk passing by scolds him.

Luqa is 14, his heart pounding as he stabs the spear into the dummy, the Jinn chattering incessantly in his head.

Luqa is 23, his adrenaline racing, the first man he ever killed laying at his feet. The padishah was safe, but at what cost? Was this him now?

“Breath child, hear your heartbeat, listen to your body!” 8 year old Luqa looks up at the monk, not understanding. He stabs the spear into the dummy as the voice echoes in his head, drowning out the Jinn. “All time is a cycle, it continues the way you direct it into perpetuity.” Was the dead man his perpetuity? Was he destined to be a killer for all time? “The heartbeat is the purest cycle of time, with each breath and each beat, life flows through you.” Luqa focused on his breathing as he continued to stab the dummy. The Jinn would not control his life. “You can control the flow of your own time, one cycle, one heartbeat at a time” 8 year old Luqa ran home to hide behind his mother’s skirt. “Time is a circle, but it need not be the same circle” Luqa wipes the blood off of his spear. The other guards come to see the commotion, but Luqa is already resuming his patrol of the palace.

Luqa breathed out, then in again. Each cycle, new. No, he would not look back at the loss of St. Rolf the Unbroken. He would not continue to wallow in self pity for his part in Rolf’s death. But Rolf the Unbroken would live in each new breath.

“I will not be the same circle”

Posted on

Oli and Evi

“This is your new home.” Helgi swept his arm across the interior of the small one room house. Oli peeked inside without crossing the mantel. Evi hung back even further, clutching to Oli’s hand. “You’ll be safe here for now. The city is well defended.” Helgi lied. That seemed to reassure the two boys enough to cross the threshold.

“This is Ragna and Laurel, your new siblings.” The children barely looked up to acknowledge the newest additions to the family. Helgi glared, “Welcome your new brothers!” ” ‘elcome” one of them grunted. That was the best he’d get, so he moved on.

“Up there is Ormr, don’t worry, they are quite harmless as long as they’ve eaten.” The two boys took a step back at the sight of the snake. Was this place really safe they wondered? But where else could they go. Aunti had said Helgi would help them. So they stayed.

===========================================================================

Life wasn’t so bad here. They fell into a routine. There was barely any time to think about mother. Rise before dawn, start the fire for breakfast. Practice your letters with Laurel.

“Letters are the keys to knowledge. Knowledge is the key to power. Do you want to be weak or strong?” Helgi would ask.

“Strong” they dutifully replied.

That was always the right answer. But that always meant more work. After lunch it was time to learn to fight with Ragna. They started with boxing. Helgi said they could use a knife when they proved they were ready.

“If the raiders come again what do we do?”

“Fight them!” Oli said.

“No” Helgi admonished. “Are you stronger then a raider? What’s your advantage? What’s your escape plan when the deed is done, there will be more raiders on the way.”

“Then we just run away again?” Oli barely whispered.

Helgi nodded. “Fight when your strong, flee when you’re weak. That’s how you survive. That’s how you win.”

Oli gritted his teeth and renewed his attack on Ragna’s bag of hay. “That’s how you win”, he repeated to himself. “That’s how you win.”

Posted on

The Hungry Tree

I heard you wanted to know about the tree.

So be it.

Knut and I were sent up the last night of the forum.

There was a report only one prisoner was there where four should still be.

It was late. Muddy paths, we were just about to go to sleep when the messenger found us.

We could hear sobbing in the distance. Slowly growing louder and louder.

It was but one voice.

She stood alone chained to the tree. Surrounded by a field of…

Parts.

She begged us to take her. Anywhere. She would do no wrong again.

She… oh she made my heart ache. I know fear. I use it when I need to but she was beyond the pale.

Eventually we got her talking and like a flood it just came out.

Of the people who were “imprisoned” there, she was the only one left.

The tree ate the rest.

/Sigurd takes a drink from a bottle/

As we stepped away from the tree with the girl in manacles a voice spoke out.

“Kanut, where are you going Kanut”

I froze. It was not I speaking. Kanut looked at me. As if to ask what I had said.

And again.

“Did you bring this large one for me”

We were looking at each other. Neither of us spoke those words.

The poor girl just started screaming. I took her several paces away as Kanut spun looking for the voice.

/Sigurd sighs/

I’ll spare you the details. Mostly I do not want to relive that conversation.

That tree. He? Is. Was?… the first man to starve chained to the tree.

We thought people had been set to watch over the prisoners.

No.

The first to starve opened his eyes and found food. Chained to him. He was trapped where he had starved to death.

And he began to eat.

And eat.

And.

/Sigurd Drinks/

The poor girl. She was there for the whole time. Drinking what she could.

Eating what she could.

The Tree… leaves quiet a mess.

It’s hungry. It..

He starved. Chained to a tree.

I almost feel sorry for that…

/Sigurd raises a hand pointing at the hill in the distance/

So.

Now you know…

I will leave you to your meal.

Posted on

Words Spoken We Fear

“Sigurd, That’s the third man this week. If you keep this up HE will notice.”

Stripping the cloak from the still warm body Sigurd quickly rifled the former thrall for anything of value. A Spare ration, boots in decent shape, serviceable knife. Sigurd continued taking anything that would go unnoticed from the body, not hearing the man who worried by his side.

“Do you even care that he’s dead”

Standing, Sigurd motioned to a young boy barely old enough to stand to arms. “Come here Nefstien, this man chose to act like a beast rather than a man. He has no need for these any more.” Sigurd spoke, while holding a neatly rolled bundle out towards a pair of eyes watching from a nearby tent.

“The dead feel no cold, tread no ground, and cut no meat. Take these.” Forcing the bundle into the child’s hands Sigurd began to walk towards the cook fire. “Kalder has made as many orphans in this camp as our Branded has. If he wishes to act as our Branded I shall treat him as such.”

——————————————————————————————————————————-

“Beneath the Sun and the Old Gods Eyes you have been found wanting. Beaten by a thrall with nothing more than a knife.”

“You who would send others to fight battles you would not face. Coward”

“You who would Claim deeds not your own. Liar”

“You who would kill his own brother, Murderer.”

“You who would take, and never share. Thief”

“On this day I could take your life. Hear my words and Obey”

“Your presence is disgusting. Never let the Sun see your shame.”

“You are dirt. Never take your eyes from the ground.”

“You are a Leach. Never rest for the day till you’ve brought food to the camp.”

“You will know hunger. Never eat until all others have fed”

“You are a beast not a man, and beasts have no names. Leave cur, before I take your life as I have taken your name.”
——————————————————————————————————————————-
“He’ll kill you one day you know that Sigurd.” Orm muttered as the cook fire spit and timber settled. “You should have taken his life and been done with it.

Sigurd answered in a tiered monotone.“ Dead men bring nothing but more death. Until the day that beast regains enough honor to be a man, he will at least bring food to the camp and learn what it’s like to live as those he tried to rule.”

Finished eating Sigurd stood. “Now that the last of the would be rimelanders has been taken care of, we can see to what comes next. Skard, pass word among all who we trust. Just before First light at the First birds song. We take our freedom for ourselves.”

Walking away from the three orphans Sigurd spoke, almost to himself. “I have no honor, so I work through the night. I am a coward, so I strike while they sleep, I am a thief. I shall take their life’s. I would be a leader. I have but one choice.”

Pausing before the first Jarl’s tent.

“For Nef, Orm, Skard.”

Sigurd stepped inside, dagger hidden but ready.

Posted on

Rolf Character Writing 6/23/2022

Rolf sat down to rest next to the creek, staying alert for any noise in the nearby brush. He didn’t have any extra gear to lay out as he didn’t carry excess. Just like every night, tonight there was no fire. He couldn’t risk being spotted by a large force of Rimelanders. In his head he replayed the terrain he had already crossed. Being used to this land had it’s advantages and he knew where he was going without a map.
Being far from “home” didn’t bother him. It’s not like he really had any one place he considered a home. The forest was close enough, for it lacked the complications that arose from people. He was making the attempt to be near people more often and was finding it to his liking, but being alone again was good for him.
The sun had set recently but Rolf figured he could press on for a few hours after dark so he stood back up and set off again.

Posted on

Out with the tide

It was barely light out. Faile had packed a bag, climbed out a window cat-quiet, and headed for the docks- but she’d made a detour. Call it sentimental. Down a back alley, up Pearl Lane, and…there. Her house, or it had been. A notice on the door proclaimed it repossessed.

She was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor while her mother repaired a sail.
“Amma?”
“Yes, petal?”
“Where’s da?”
She traced shapes in the ashes of the hearth with chubby child’s fingers. Her mother paused mid-stitch.
“You know how I told you sometimes things go back out with the tide? Your da did that. But I ain’t mad for it, we both decided it was right.”
“Oh…did he love us?”
“Yes he did, flower. But sometimes love ain’t enough and you have to go out with the tide. It’s not your fault.”
“Oh…”
“He’s better off on his own. Just like we are, yeah?”

Faile tore the notice down, ground it into the mud under her sandal.

“How old is the girl?”
“Ten.”
“Old enough to work. Come here, little one.”
The big man, the one that smelled like rot, took her hand.
“I’m a close friend of your ma, and I need a special job done. Can’t just be anyone, and your ma tells me you’re a quick and clever sort. Can you help me?”
Faile looked at her mother, anxious, twisting her hem between her fingers. Her mother was never anxious. Something was wrong.
“Yessir, what d’you need?”
He smiled, she saw jeweled teeth.
“That’s what I like to hear. Basia, your girl is smart.”
Her mother didn’t say anything, wouldn’t look at her. Not even after she’d come back spattered with blood, carrying a paring knife and a heavy sack of coins. She’d thrown up, washed her face in the basin, and curled up by the fire, dreaming of serpents carrying her out to sea. Ten. Ten.

The lock was old, it crumbled in her hand. She slipped into the house- a room, really. They’d barely gotten by, even with the neighbors’ help.

Her mother’s illness had run its course, finally. She couldn’t focus on the body, her eyes automatically went to the wooden lion her mother had nailed to the wall just above the hearth. Her ears were ringing. She’d seen bodies before but this was different- she had to prepare it. Should she be crying right now? Where were the tears? Did she even have time to cry before she went next door to ask Ma Tallett for help? Wait, wait…Faile fumbled in her pocket, produced a coin. Placed it carefully under the dead tongue- da had said you have to pay for the crossing but she didn’t know if it was some outrageous bit of folk nonsense or some old truth- closed the mouth. Closed the eyes. Washed her hands raw in the basin by the grimy window. Then she went next door.

The service was short- the other women in the neighborhood covered the cold, pale thing on the bed in flowers and wept over her while a priest sang something slightly off-key. Then the body that wasn’t mother anymore was wrapped in sheets. Taken away to be buried. She couldn’t bring herself to follow. The women sighed and patted her hand, they just assumed she was grieving. So young, they said, on her own without her ma and da. What will become of her, of the house. So young.

Everyone trailed out, with varying degrees of pity.

And then it was just her in that house of silence, her and that fucking wooden lion and a pitiful little dent in the narrow bed.

Faile looked at the room one last time. The flaking paint on the walls. The filthy, cracked window. It had felt like a palace when she was a child, something marvelous where she could roam uncontested. Her domain. It had been cleared of furniture. Of any signs of life. And now, in the grey, wet dawn it looked like a crypt. A memorial to the family that wasn’t. A monument to her mother’s shortcomings and Vos’s endless greed. And she was cutting it loose, letting it drift away from her on the tide. Somewhere, a bell rang.

Time to go. She shouldered her bag, closed the door. And didn’t look back, not until the ship was leaving the harbor and the city was a colorful smear on the horizon.

Seven. Ten. Sixteen. Twenty-eight.

Posted on

Demon of the Rime

This place is more cold and desolate than you could have warned me. I haven’t seen any living foliage other than towering evergreen trees in nearly five months. Snow covers every inch of this hellscape and continues to fall during the nights. Our force has slowly waded our way through spring snow towards the Rime clan front lines, though where they have gone since the initial report has yet to be confirmed. We number nearly forty fire mages accompanying a larger force of troops. I must say, our numbers should easily overwhelm a nomadic force of Njords.

We rose before dawn to signs of a smoking fire over the ridge. Our quarry had been found, and we readied our formations to march upon our enemy.

Even in my months here I have never acclimated to the way my feet drag through the snow on a march. The cold numbs the pain of my thighs dragging me forward up the slope. At the crest of the hill I could finally see them, maybe 200 men around an intentionally dying fire. My breathe slowed as my eyes fell upon him, a creature of immense size towering above his men. His eyes shown red through his skull covered face, large bony spikes protruding from his shoulders. Murmurs among the men started; we had found a Rime clan demon.

Our troops clashed upon the open snow quickly stained red by the carnage of battle. This demon crushed men before us, cleaving them in two with an unnatural ease. My ears rang as my unit repeatedly cast on our enemy. His men slowly fell before us, but as did ours in even greater numbers slowly dwindling to nothing.

He stood there before what was left of us, alone. I could sense it, this impending despair and recognition of our desperation to live.

‘Deflagrate Ignis et Auctorita Luminos Dextera ex Anima Solarius Praepotentia’

Unflinching, his skin crackles and burns away slowly.

‘Deflagrate Ignis et Auctorita Luminos Dextera ex Anima Solarius Praepotentia’

The wind rips through the battlefield, crackling with the scent of burnt air. I wipe away at my eyes, my sleeves stained with bloody tears.

He crushes Alexi’s skull in his hand and his body falls limp to the ground.

‘Deflagrate Ignis et Auctorita Luminos Dextera ex Anima Solarius Praepotentia. Deflagrate Ignis et Auctorita Luminos Dextera ex Anima Solarius Praepotentia. Deflagrate Ignis et Auctorita Luminos Dextera ex Anima Solarius…..

His hands closed around my throat as he heaves my body off the ground.

Praepotentia.
An inferno engulfs us both. Screams of agony rise as flesh melts away from bone. And then, there is only silence.

Posted on

Do You Like Honey Tarts?

“Miss Clodagh, what is for dessert at the dinner party?” Rosomon asked in excitement as she watched the woman’s gnarled hands knead dough. She and the other staff had been preparing all week. A guest would be visiting, and the entire estate was in a tizzy.

“‘Tis a secret, little Rose.”

Rosomon’s eyes lit up at the nickname, “Mother said not to call me that…”

“Hah!” The woman laughed, “And do you always do what the Lady says?”

The girl’s lips broke into a full smile, knowing full well that she did not.

“Ach, I won’t be telling ye,” she insisted. Looking at the girl a moment she said, “But I will give ye a hint on somethin’ else.” Clodagh set the dough aside to rise again then turned to pull a quill and parchment from a drawer. Rosomon watched her curiously, wondering what sort of hint it would be.

Clodagh returned and handed her a paper, “Here ye are.”

Rosomon looked at the paper:

Hares & Boars
Nuts & Berries
Ye’ll Not Know
What We’re Makin
Til You Figure
Out The Writin

Her eyebrows furrowed, “This is not a hint!”

“Ah, everythin in this life is a hint – ye just need t’ solve the puzzle.” With that, the woman turned back to her craft.

Rosomon hopped off the counter and moved to a stool in the corner as another cook came in to assist Clodagh. She stared at the poem, rereading it over and over. Eventually she went through the side door into the garden. As she paced she noticed the misplaced punctuation makes. At first he had thought them ink droplets, but now they began to seem intentional. Dots, letters, dots, letters – her mind worked to make the connection. How could dots give her a hint?

“Ah ha!” Rosomon ran back into the kitchens to find Clodagh alone again. “Honey Tart!”

She turned to look at the girl, excited eyes and breathing heavily as if she had just run across an entire field. “Aye.” With that, she moved to an oven to pull out a tray. Dishing out the fresh pastries onto a plate before moving back to the girl still standing in the doorway, she bent to kiss the child’s head, “Happy Birthday, little Rose.”

The girl hugged her again for a minute.

“Now, get goin – I’ve got a lot to do and not a lot of time,” Clodagh shoos her out.

Rosomon takes the plate runs back out of the door. She ran across the bailey, hoping to find a cozy place to enjoy the tarts. Not looking where she was going, Rosomon ran into a pair of legs. She followed them up to see a tall man covered by a dark fur mantle. Everything he wore was dark, except for the grey peppered at his temples. His hair was pulled back, and she could not tell how long it was.

“Pardon me,” she said with a smile, still excited about her treat and solving the puzzle.

The man looked down at her curiously but did not look away. She was small, but he thought she may be older than he had initially thought. Flying through the bailey without a care as she had, the man figured she was probably not as demur as her father would have liked.

“Do you like honey tarts?” she queried.

“Pardon?” he replied in a deep voice.

“Honey tarts – do you like them?”

“Indeed – who would not?”

The girl held up her plate to him and said very seriously, “As an apology, sir, I would split them with you. I can assure you, they will be the best you have had.”

His lip tweaked. Sir? What an interesting child. “Apology accepted,” he said as he reached to grab his tart.

She watched him expectantly as he took the first bite, “Well?”

He simply nodded to her.

“Are you visiting? I can show you around.”

“I am, but exploring will have to wait. Can you direct me to the Baron?”

He watched the girl deflate a little, “Of course.” She grabbed his hand and started pulling him along. “Mr. Hayworth, will you please stable this man’s horse?” She did not notice to look in the man’s eyes as he froze watching them pass. “I am Rosomon, by the way.”

They ascended the steps. He opened the door for her, “It is a pleasure, Rosomon. I’m – “

The Baron’s hurried footsteps sounded through the entry. “Count!”

Posted on

Ribbons & Dresses

Port Melandir
~
“Nana!” Rosomon exclaimed as she ran into Lady Faulkner’s arms.

“Ah, my little Rosomon,” she said, holding the girl tightly. “What have you been up to of late?”

The girl’s nose scrunched as she looked at her grandmother, “Studying, mostly.”

The older woman laughed, “Ah, well best not show your father this, then.” She pulled a wrapped gift from a nearby shelf.

“Thank you,” the girl said before running off to the other side of the sitting room to show Maegi her gift.

“Mother,” Isamina chastised.

“Oh hush now, girl, neither you nor that husband of yours is going to prevent me from spoiling my grandchild.” Sitting down primly on the settee she continued, “I still cannot believe, after all these years, that you were able to convince your father marry you off to that man.”

“Love, mother. Love is how I convinced him.”

She harrumphed, “Money is more like it.”

“Have you heard of this day’s Parliament yet?” Isamina attempted to change the topic.

“Nay,” she said. “But I suspect we will at the Gale’s party tonight. Hah! We are not even in North Pass and they were able to put together an event!”

She looked over at her granddaughter who was in the middle of sorting the gifts and heard her say softly, “Look at this ribbon, Maegi! Here, it matched your eyes!”

~

Rosomon looked around the room crowded with imposing, well-dressed figures.

She felt a hand at her back. “Don’t wander off tonight,” came her father’s voice. They made their way to Viscount Gerald and his family. “Gerald, I was pleased to see you did not yield to Lord Bradford’s demands this time.”

“The man simply does not know when enough is enough,” he replied.

As the men talked, their wives caught up on the day’s ventures. Lady Peronell had found a lovely shop by the harbor with all of the latest imports from Hestralia.

Rosomon’s mind drifted off her gaze wandered. She spotted several other children around, most her age or older. She saw one girl with long brown hair and a pretty red dress. She looked down at hers – her family’s colors – and wondered why none of her dresses were red.

“There you are,” she turned at the familiar voice. “Kirk, you remember Rosomon,” Gunter told him.

“Of course, how could I forget your little thing.”

Gunter chuckled. “How have your lessons been going?”

“Very well. I have been studying the history of Rogalia.” She did not mention that she was mostly learning about where everything was located and other basics.

“Oh? Seems a heavy topic for a girl, especially one so young. What are you now, five?”

“Nearly seven,” Rosomon straightened. “Pardon me.” She turned around and walked a table with an assortment of treats on it with Maegi in toe.

“Those boys do not seem very nice.”

Rosomon looked up to see the girl in the red dress. “You are not entirely wrong,” she said, glancing behind her.

“I am Lady Alexandra Gale,” the other girl said.

“A pleasure to meet you, I am Lady Rosomon,” she replied. She paused for a moment, but could not hold back, “I love your dress!”

Posted on

The End is Red

Rosomon, all of six years old, started her day as she had for nearly three years, sitting in the solar, focusing intently on the paper before her.

A A A a a a B B B…

At least, she tried to focus. The window kept drawing her attention. It was a beautiful, sunny day. She wanted to go outside and run around – maybe find someone to play with.

Sighing, she turned back to the letters and numbers before her. No fun was to be had here. Still, she wrote and wrote, methodically dipping her quill in the ink before returning it to the parchment.

“Morning!” A hand that was suddenly on her shoulder startled her, and the quill scratched across the paper leaving a large line. She knew she would have to start over, as her father would never accept such a thing.

She straightened address the older boy before her, “Good morning, Gunter. You startled me.” She looked pointedly at the mark on her paper.

“No matter – you can write just fine, so do it again.”

“Indeed, I certainly shall.” She pulled a blank sheet before her and picked up the quill.

A A A a a a B B B…

“You will never believe what I did today,” he said prodingly.

H H H h h h…

“Oh?” she replied without looking up.

M M M m m m…

“Yes…” Gunter went on to tell his story.

Z Z…

“Rosomon!” He grabbed her wrist to jerk her to face him, causing a mark to mar this paper as well. “Were you listening to a word I said?”

“You bested Marcus Olson at swordplay. Then the two of you went to the lake and found a boy catching frogs… and you threw stones at him,” she finished disapprovingly.

He pulled back to look at her a moment. “That’s right. ‘Bested’ is stating it lightly, though. I doubt he will even have the courage to challenge me again.”

Silence grew for a moment. “Ah! I nearly forgot! I have a gift for you,” he said proudly.

Her head canted to the side. “Truly?”

“I do.” Gunter took a step back to stand tall before her. He reached behind him, then bowed with a dramatic flourish. “My Lady,” he said holding a large rose in full bloom before her.

Her eyes lit up. “It is beautiful!”

“Of course – it is the first of the season.” He straightened and said kindly, “And it is for you.”

She smiled at him as he held it up to her. It was fragrant, and the petals looked soft to the touch. Gunter looked at her expectantly, so she reached her small hand to take the rose.

“Ouch!” She exclaimed as her hand closed around the stem.

A laugh cut through the air.

When she made to let go of the flower, his hands came up to caress hers. The move looked kind, but it exerted pressure to keep her hand closed around the stem and thorns. “Now, Rosomon, you do not want to drop your present.”

Her chin trembled and she felt tears behind her eyes, but Rosomon refused to cry. “Let go,” she said.

Gunter looked at her curiously, “Why would I do that?” The pressure increased slightly.

Knowing it would cut her hand more, Rosomon tore herself free of his grip. With one last glare she moved to leave the room.

“What? You don’t like it? Is it not enough? I can get you more!” He laughed behind her. “Come back.” When she did not follow his bidding, he stormed after her. “Rosomon. Come back. Agh! It was a joke!”

Finally reaching the door, she rounded on him, “There is nothing funny about using thorns or stones to hurt people!”

He froze, aghast, but before he could speak she was out the door. “You are no fun,” echoed after her.

Rosomon’s steps grew more hurried. She did not bother going to her parents – she would find no comfort there. So, instead of the rooms, she headed to the door leading to the garden. It was there she found her solace.

Bent over pulling carrots from the soft soil was Clodagh. The old Dunnick woman was always there for her.

Clodagh turned when she heard footsteps racing toward her; she barely had time to catch the child that flew into her arms.

“Miss Clodagh,” came a tearful voice, slightly muffled from her skirts.

“What ‘tis it then, little lady?” Clodagh stroked the girl’s soft curls.

She held up her hand, realizing that the rose was still clutched in it and little streams of blood trickled down her wrist.

“Ach! Whatever happened?” she asked, pulling Rosomon to a bucket of clean water nearby. She took the flower and set it aside, then began cleaning the cuts that looked too big on the girl’s little hand.

“Gunter played a trick,” she sniffed. Clodagh could see the girl was near tears but trying to keep them at bay.

“Hold fast, Rosomon,” she said encouragingly. “Life is uncertain. One day you get a rose, the next you feel the thorns – but the end result is red.”