The Eclectic Dream

The Watcher

2007-10-10T17:26:00.000+10:00

It's been far too long, so I thought it was time for me to put something else up.

The sun glinted with a pang of regret, its failing rays trickling gently over flat and crest. Shadows flickered eagerly as their tendrils flared out to envelop the landscape. A quiet unease flooded the ground, as the animals in the forest struggled with the failing light and the people in the valley rushed to escape the oncoming darkness.

As the light faded, more eyes surveyed the land with a different intent, readying for the coming evening with a keen taste of its offerings. The twilight bred a disquiet that passed as the night grew stronger, the passing from day to night presenting itself as a greater evil. The nocturnal creatures bade their time with patience for their equal share of the land, awaiting their chance to forage, hunt and live.

Alone, in silence, lay those who watched both the creatures of night and day. Watching with ceaseless gazes and unrelenting fervour, observing everything with an interest unmatched. The passionate thirst for knowledge and balance drove their thoughts, a lust not slaked by a normal life.

Those watchful eyes drooled over the scene below their furrowed ridge, a pock marked face peering with ferocity into the valley. Their owner's mind whirled with possibilities as he surveyed with acute vision, practice and experience picking up the smallest movements of all things.

The sway of a bush as a cat stalked underneath it, the gentle swish of the tree leaves as a possum leapt from one to another, the flutter of a bat's wings cast against the night sky all stood out for his gaze. His pricked ears heard the casual rustle of leaves filtered out so it barely registered in his mind, that white noise barely a whisper beneath the sounds of movement for all manner of beasts prowling in the dark.

Two figures made their way across a clearing towards their homes. They had tarried too long in the late afternoon and were forced to make their way home by the light of the moon. The night sounds were a disturbance to them, unused to the foreign sounds of nocturnal life. The watcher did not find amusement or feel pity due to the fear dripping from their muted tones of their useless babble.

He pitied their ignorance. He felt regret that they had never learned to observe or listen to their surroundings apart from the sheltered existence they knew. He held his place as the event approached. His pity redoubled as he knew the people had no clue what was about to happen.

The creature came from a patch of thick scrub near the tree line, bursting forth with bared teeth, venom in its heart and hunger in its minds. Its humanoid structure covered in fur charged at the two figures with pure thought of intent. It had prey in its vision, and neither their piercing squeals of terror nor feeble attempts to flee would suffice.

The watcher judged the distance close enough to use his weapon to bring the creature down. He waited. The pursuit was brief, as the figures were no match in speed for the creature. The watcher felt his weapon heave on him, but his hands were steady.

Their bodies were rend asunder by the creature. The watcher would be no deus ex machina for the figures below. He was there to observe, not to interfere. Involvement would simply dim his senses to the truth of observation. The watcher turned, his mind already elsewhere as other sounds and sights demanded his attention. His feet rushed to a new vantage point, for neither time nor his thirst would wait.

Interception

2007-07-16T23:13:00.000+10:00

And now for another change of pace. An idea I just had in the last 24 hours for a sci-fi piece. It's by no means finished, but I thought I'd post what I've done as a little taster. Some may find the scene-setting annoying, and yes, I'm also a little disappointed to stop just at the point I do, but I can't write all the time, as much as that does appeal to me at times. It's also short, so is a nice quick read.

The ground flew past with disturbing alacrity as the speeder flew low and fast. The pilot deftly flicked the machine left and right around obstacles as they approached, burning hard to reach the destination in time. A quick look at a small display told him that he still had two and a half minutes to reach the hold point.

“Keep up,” he ordered to his companions. “We need to amp the tempo a little.”

The order went through to the sealed helmets of the riders with complete clarity. No response was necessary from the soldiers, and none was given. Their loose formation tightened slightly as the pace quickened, and the danger of the speed they were travelling at forced all of them to be completely aware of their surroundings.

The leader’s voice pierced the silence again. “Bravo force reporting. We should arrive in two minutes.”

“Roger, that Wasp,” came the reply. “You should have one minute to prepare before things start to get hot.”

“They still coming from the North?”

“Affirmative. Take up positions as planned. Initiate radio silence until contact.”

The radio went dead. Wasp looked about at best he could, but had to keep his eyes ahead. The speeders they rode were heavily modified hoverbikes, with ion engines that could propel the rider at well in excess of anything stuck to the ground. But its speed was as treacherous as it was useful here. Flying through a long dead city was not straightforward, for the streets, although empty of traffic, were still home to debris and wreckage long abandoned and forgotten.

It had been one of the many casualties of the Nuclear Holocaust. The once bustling city was a decrepit ghost town of destruction, a testament to the carnage of a brief yet catastrophic struggle. Wasp had been too young to comprehend it when he had been born, and just considered himself lucky to have been distant enough from the areas that had been annihilated as the combined arsenals of all the major powers were unleashed at once.

Wasp gritted his teeth as the destination approached. The city might be a wasteland, but the research facility they were trying to defend could help make it inhabitable. The information had been passed down that work was being done there that could allow people to walk around without the protective suits he and his men wore. That with the work they were doing, the city could be made inhabitable again.

“Free Earth Conglomerate,” scoffed Wasp. Why Earth needed freeing, Wasp didn’t know. The United Alliance had emerged from the catastrophe of the Nuclear Holocaust, or ‘The War’, as they preferred to refer to it. The remnants of the old country boundaries had been shattered in the cataclysm, and the UA had taken upon the role of rebuilding the planet.

The FEC had risen as a group of violent dissidents, supposedly fighting against injustices perpetrated by the UA, though their slaughter of innocents did little to provide credence to their cause. Slaughter and theft seemed their predominant activities, and Wasp was glad to help fight the angry remnants of an antagonistic history.

He signalled to slow the speeders as they approached the rally point. They had been forced to scramble for this mission, so they had choose a defensive position based on overhead maps only. Speeders moved towards their allotted positions, and Wasp slowly saw the small blips on his radar screen come to a halt in formation around the old highway.

It was the closest thing to a chokepoint that they could find. The enemy had been detected in three Armoured Personnel Carriers and five light vehicles. They were large and not very manoeuvrable, so the speeders would be able to hassle and delay them until the reinforcements arrived with more firepower.

Wasp hoped that all the soldiers were up to the challenge. Ten speeders didn’t have the firepower to match the enemy vehicles. They didn’t have anything that could even dent the APCs, and he seriously doubted how effective his energy rifle was going to be against the other five vehicles. Two jeeps and three hovercraft would be dangerous, but even they couldn’t hope to match the speed and manoeuvrability of the speeders using hit and run tactics.

A gentle rumbling sound echoed in Wasp’s helmet, signifying the approach of the enemy. The FEC were coming. He fingered the trigger of his mounted energy rifle, rubbing it for good for luck. The radar on the speeder finally picked up the signatures of the FEC vehicles. His hands clenched the handles tightly, if he could see them, they could see him. He flicked his mic back on. “Engage enemy!” he ordered.

---------- To be continued

Disciples & Deceivers - Chapter 1: Infiltration

2007-07-11T18:30:00.000+10:00

Here's something I'd contemplated putting up since I started the blog. It comes from something that I started writing many years ago. It's in a slightly different form (and the characters have changed a bit) from my original plan, though that's very much to be expected.

Firstly, I'll warn you that this is longer than previous posts. The chapter itself clocks in at 7,405 words, so it's a little bit of a read.

I'll also say that this part was written right at the start of the process, so some of it is a little rough around the edges. I come from the biased position of having written it and designed the world, so I like my characters and setting, which of course affects my opinion of the piece. But, if you think this chapter is good, then I think I can safely say that you'll like each subsequent chapter more.

One thing this particular chapter could definitely do with is a map. Sorry, it's not supplied - maybe at a later date if I get my hands on a scanner or tackle drawing one with a mouse.

If you're interested in reading more of this, post comments and let me know, or even better, do that & tell other people to do the same! Without comments, I don't know if you're reading, and I don't know what you like or don't like!

A stealthy silhouette stalked almost invisibly through a well-tended and healthy garden. Anyone that actually managed to glimpse the shadow would immediately know that its owner was not supposed to be there. It paused as the rocks in the path crunched loudly in the relative silence of the night, and a guard walked through the garden searching for any intruder to the premises of his employer. Looking around as he walked the garden, the guard saw or heard no sign of anyone or anything in the garden apart from trees that were dimly illuminated in the poor lighting given off by the lone lantern in the courtyard. He gazed about with a watchful eye for a few moments, and then walked out of the garden through a stone archway.

A shot of lightning shattered the air, its brief flash illuminating the face of T’shar, the unwelcome visitor. Her gaunt features winced at the light, the paleness of her bleached skin amplified by the thunderous white flicker. She bore the pure hallmarks of the Deln race, her sallow skin, fingernails of metallic hardness and a face only considered repulsive by human standards. The features on her face appeared to be held by razor thin wires beneath her skin, which itself appeared as though it had been stretched across those lines with great protest.

T’shar glanced cautiously around the darkened garden before moving, her eyes darting back and forth searching for any sign of life or movement before moving herself. She moved in the opposite direction to the guard, heading towards the rear of the house, and kept a shrub or tree between her and the lantern at all times. T’shar hugged the darkness tightly as she knew that another guard would soon come through to the garden, and that her life depended on her remaining completely concealed.

The sudden scrunching noise of a boot signalled the approach of another guard, forcing T’shar to freeze halfway through mid-step as the sound came loudly to her ears. Only her keen hearing allowed her to hear the noise over the heavy rain, which in its ferocity drowned out most other sounds. She slowly put her foot to the ground in silence, despite the cover the storm gave, her leather boot making not even the slightest sound as the guard continued to crunch the dirt and rocks in the garden path underneath his feet. The guard appeared uneasy and stepped warily through the garden, the palm of his hand hovering just away the hilt of his sword, though his expression was that of a person

T’shar found his unease somewhat amusing, given that the building he was guarding was probably one of the most heavily guarded and thus least likely to be burgled in Brynmere. But his unease merely served to remind T’shar of what a dangerous job she was currently undertaking. Nevertheless, the risk was more than equalled by her payment upon completion of the task, because her employer knew of the difficulty in getting inside and that T’shar was one of the few professional people that had the ability and willingness to do so.

Moving warily towards the cobbled backyard, T’shar became an imperceptible shadow, slow but decided in her steps towards her entry point. This would likely be one of the most dangerous moments of the job. The stone paved backyard would be harder to steal across soundlessly than ordinary grass, and there were two watchtowers with guards posted all night, to keep sentry for the doors that provided entry into the mansion proper by watching the courtyard and the rest of the grounds visible from the towers.

These doors were not where she wanted to enter, but she had to pass through the courtyard to the other side of the mansion, which was where she planned to enter building. There was no way to gain access the mansion grounds from that side, the empty space that was home to a market was open and frequently patrolled by city guards, making getting over the wall into the grounds without being noticed virtually impossible. This had forced her current plan of action; she had come in the only viable entry point, leaping from the top of a nearby building on this side of the mansion.

The only doors on ground level to the mansion were located at the front and the rear of the building, and both were heavily guarded, which prevented T’shar gaining access through them. The building had three balconies, two of which were on the first level of the structure, one leading from the room that the noble used to entertain his guests, and T’shar’s point of entry, which was located on a small balcony on the edge of the library. Since the library was on the far side of the house, she had to either cross through the guardhouse at the front or the courtyard at the rear, and she had not needed to waste any time in deciding to avoid the guardhouse. The third balcony came from the master bedroom, but T’shar had counted it too risky to climb that distance for fear of being seen, either by guards due to the distance or by the owner and any of his guests given its close proximity to the balcony on the first floor.

T’shar waited as the next guard moved past and stepped closer towards the short archway signalling the start of the stone paved courtyard. With her body pressed fully against stone wall, she turned her head sideways and leaned slightly to her right, pushing her face past the edge of the archway and looking frantically with her eyes.

Just as the rough plan of the building she had acquired indicated, the nearest watchtower was out of her sight, leaving her with no idea of where that guard was looking. However, she would be out of sight of the guard in that watchtower as she entered the courtyard, the wall that was the walkway to the tower would block his line of sight to her. There were several ornamental statues and a moderately sized pool located in the area, but they would scarcely provide cover for a bird let alone her. Fortunately, torches adorning the walls were infrequent, leaving small patches of shadow that would provide cover that she considered less than adequate, but had to suffice in these circumstances

T’shar pulled the cord holding her blackened hood tighter, tying it forcefully so its fabric pressed against her head, ensuring it covered her blue hair. She had often cursed her father for ‘gifting’ her with such a bright and distinctive hair colour, for it attracted far more attention to her than she ever desired. She had often wished to change its colour, but had found any sort of permanent solution to be prohibitive in both its expense and maintenance. Many of the treatments she had tried had been ineffective, and her last had been quite painful. She made do with her almost omnipresent hood, something she never left behind whenever she was involved in anything to do with her work. Despite the fact the hood attracted some interest in its presence, she had found it to be far less than that given to her blue hair, and its inclusion on any job was unquestioned, as was the rest of her entirely black, form-fitting outfit.

She withdrew back around the archway, and took several steps left into the shadow to conceal herself as another guard walked past. As she soon as she was not visible to his peripheral vision, she stepped back towards the archway. Leaning back around, she stared at the guard in the far watchtower, who seemed to be looking directly back at her. She waited for the guard to turn his attention to something else, but the guard appeared to be staring straight at her. T’shar felt her heart pounding against her ribs, fearing that the guard could actually see her, or at least see something and was about to shout out for another guard to investigate.

More time passed, and T’shar had to retreat back around the archway as another guard walked by, though she nearly had not heard his approach, his footsteps masked as a peal of thunder boomed loudly. The guard seemed unshakeable in his attention, never moving his gaze from the archway. Several more guards passed, and T’shar breathed slowly and deliberately to calm her nerves. She stared right at the guard, willing him to shift his gaze, to glance in another direction. Her whole body was ready to move around the archway and into the courtyard in the split second that he looked away. T’shar heard the steps of the next guard and prepared to again move away from the archway.

Light coming into the archway made it obvious that there was a torch just to the right of the other end. She would have to run past it to get to the first patch of shadow in which she could hide, and she would have to move quickly to avoid being seen by the constant watch of the guard in the far tower. Just as she prepared to step away from the archway the guard shifted his gaze. T’shar pounced around the corner instinctively, knowing that it may be her only chance to get into the courtyard. The next patrolling guard would not be far away, but T’shar had to hope that he was not looking in her direction. She hated to leave it to chance, but she had no guarantee she would get another opportunity to enter the courtyard.

Her feet made only the slightest whisper as she sped along the stones, quickly reaching the end of the hallway, where she glanced to her left where she knew the next guard would be, who was thankfully looking in the other direction. T’shar shifted her brown eyes to look back at the watchtower, and dived to her right so that her body passed underneath the torch on the wall. She twisted her body so that her hands hit the ground just marginally before her feet, so she landed soundlessly into and patch of dim light.

T’shar glanced up at the guard in the watchtower, who again appeared to be looking directly at her. If he had not seen her, it would not be too difficult for her to avoid being seen by him as she moved around the courtyard, but if he had seen her, then she would barely have even the slightest chance to escape. T’shar held her breath for what seemed like an eternity before the guard walked out of sight and the watchman resumed his vigil upon the archway. T’shar exhaled silently in great relief, and began to carefully proceed around the courtyard.

Reaching the other side of the far archway, T’shar could see balcony through which she would enter the mansion. Since the unguarded balcony came off the library, also a place not frequented by guards, it made for a relatively easy entrance into the building. T’shar stood under the balcony and swung one end of the thin rope she had concealed on her briefly over her head before releasing it to hook around one of the pillars that made up the railing of the balcony.

She pulled down on the end of the rope, and glancing around for any guards, quickly climbed up the rope wrapped around the pillar. T’shar paused momentarily as she crouched on the balcony to conceal the rope underneath her clothing. She moved quietly to the door, hunched down so she could not be seen from below.

Holding at the door, she glanced at the lock briefly before moving her fingers to the hole. One thing she always felt gave her an advantage over any of her competition was that of her Deln heritage, as she considered her fingernails almost her most prized asset. Her metal-hard fingernails were filed and cut as lockpicks, and it took only a few brief moments of wriggling and twisting her fingers before the lock gave a soft, sharp click and T’shar turned the handle. She gave a brief smile in the darkness, content that the door, like most others, was naught but easy pickings for her guile and skill.

A quick glance ensuring that no one was in the immediate area was all the assurance T’shar needed before she opened the door and darted inside. Shutting the door, T’shar stood still as she pulled a small cloth from a tightly sealed wooden container. There was a small puddle forming on the floor in the library, a telltale sign that someone had entered the room from the balcony in the rain.

T’shar was reasonably dry, her leather outfit being made out of a specialised type of leather that was both supple yet hard, and while it had cost her quite a sum of money to purchase, it was invaluable in that absorbed very little water, forcing the rain to run off the fabric. It was this priceless quality that kept the size of the puddle she was now standing in small, and T’shar quickly wiped it up with the cloth she held in her hands. She gave her clothes a brief wipe before placing the cloth back inside its container.

Having cleaned the point of her intrusion, T’shar took stock of the room she was standing in. This part of the library was quite open, and if someone were to come in through the door on the opposite side of the room, she would be instantly spotted. Not wishing to tempt fate, T’shar ran forwards and to the right where there were several rows of bookcases stacked with books.

T’shar skimmed over an occasional volume as she moved through the shelves, looking for any trading records. The three bookshelves lined parallel to the inside and outside doors contained nothing useful, so T’shar crossed the room where two bookshelves were placed at right angles to the doors, leaving a small gap between the wall on inside wall where the library continued. Looking down at the crudely drawn map she had received from her contact, T’shar guessed that the stairs to the upper library were behind them.

As T’shar hurried past the doorway, she heard the muffled sounds of footsteps, and she instinctively knew that their owner was headed for the library. T’shar rushed behind the two bookcases, and silently swore as she saw the large flight of wooden stairs leading upwards. There was no place to hide anywhere in the small library, so having no alternatives, T’shar had to run up the stairs, hoping that the door and the other person’s footsteps would cover her own as the made her way up the wooden steps.

T’shar’s soft leather boots slightly deadened the noise as she quickly climbed the stairs, mounting two steps with each pace, trying to balance both the need for stealth and speed. She heard the door open as she was nearly to the top of the stairs, but did not turn to look behind, knowing that the staircase was virtually concealed from the rest of the library by the two bookcases placed perpendicular to the outside wall.

Making a decided effort for silence, T’shar leapt upwards to try and clear the staircase completely. She stretched out her right foot in front of her, careful not to put it too far forward for she knew she could over balance when she landed and fall backwards. The ball of her foot landed awkwardly past the top of the stairs, and she felt her balance disappear as her ankle twisted painfully. Her body began to fall sideways and backward at the same time and T’shar clamped her lips shut as she saw a small vase at the top of the stairs that was directly in her path. Fear suddenly gripped her as she realised her endeavour to remain totally silent could result in exactly the opposite effect, as even a glancing blow to the vase would knock it over and attract the attention of the guard below.

Unable to throw her body backward without falling noisily on the wooden stairs, T’shar shoved her left arm across and down her body as she rolled forwards. As the palm of her left hand hit the ground, T’shar’s arm jarred violently, and she felt a burning pain in her elbow. Still keeping her mouth tightly clamped, T’shar used the jolt to roll her body further forwards, landing almost soundlessly on the stone floor as she snapped her head up to avoid hitting it against the floor, and coming to rest barely a breath away from the vase at the top of the stairs.

T’shar forced herself upwards, getting onto her feet in a smooth motion and quickly moving away from the top of the stairs. She spotted a desk on the far side of the library, and made her way towards it, cautiously looking back every few steps to see if whoever had entered the library had heard her, but then realising that she would hear them coming up the stairs. She ducked underneath the desk just as she heard the first footstep on the wooden boards.

T’shar could barely swallow as she waited for the person to come up the stairs. Wondering whether the person had heard her, she struggled to force herself to remain calm, shutting her eyes and concentrating on her breathing momentarily before opening her eyes again and removing a throwing knife from a sheath on her arm. T’shar disliked using the knives, but in her current situation she had little choice, though she had readied it only as a precaution. Considering herself a professional thief, she preferred not to be seen at all, though she was on occasion forced to knock someone unconscious with her blackjack, a small leather bag filled with sand and lead, by using it to administer a blow to the head or back of the neck. The mark of a true professional, she thought, is a thief who gets in and out of a building without anyone even realising they were there until whatever it was they’ve stolen is noticed missing.

With the footsteps on wood being the only sound to be heard, her heart skipped a beat as she saw the head of a guard bob upwards from the staircase. She moved slightly in discomfort, her ankle and elbow still smarting from their respective injuries, but she dared not shift more than the smallest distance to avoid making any sort of noise. The guard took a few more steps up the stairs and stopped on the staircase, turning around and pausing a moment to look around the room, before slowly walking back down the stairs again.

Only when the guard shut the door below to the library noisily did T’shar get out from underneath her hiding spot to continue her search of the library. She guessed that the guard had spent several minutes searching in the main library before leaving, which she found a little unnerving, for it seemed a rather long time to spend in such a small area. He had however spent little time looking upstairs where she had been hiding, so she thought it quite safe to assume whatever curiosity he had was satiated. The pain of twisting her ankle had faded, though her elbow was still causing her a little discomfort. She shook her arm and then flexed it, content that no permanent damage had been done.

Glancing at the bookshelf near the desk she had been hiding under, she noticed that the shelf was full of stacks of paper, some bound together with string and some sitting loosely. She grabbed a handful from the left of the shelf and flicked through them. The records were old and detailed purchase of furniture and other various items. Putting them back in their place, she moved along a leafed through some more. Records of donations to and from various people or churches or such were listed in the pile she currently had.

T’shar moved along the bookcase finding various financial or other records, detailing agreements, purchases, sales or donations, but nothing that was even slightly illegal. She swore in frustration, as she seemingly was not going to find anything that could possibly be used to link him to the illegal operation that she knew he was involved in. T’shar would get paid good money for completing the job, but it seemed that she was going to have to earn it the hard way. She had anticipated that this would be the case, but she had hoped that for once the noble she had to steal from was as incompetent as the people he employed or the people that she was forced to work with.

A large smile crept onto T’shar face as she noticed several entries marked only as ‘donation’ in the set of notes she was looking at. She grabbed the next set and noticed the same amounts unmarked as well. While such discrepancies were not proof of anything illegal, now T’shar was certain she would find the evidence she needed somewhere else. Flicking through the last pages of the set she had, she noted more ‘donations’, with significant amounts of gold being paid every Midweek.

“Ah, Count Relkan,” she said, “it looks like you’ve made the acquaintance of some expensive friends.” Count Relkan was not known for generosity to anyone, let alone to somewhere like a church that would be considered a ‘donation’. She reached the last set of papers on the shelf, and leafed through to find the ‘donations’ made Midweek had increased in the past three weeks. T’shar frowned in thought. Guards accepting bribes were not usually in a position to request that sort of increase for their continued complacency, at least not without expecting to end up dead or discovered to be accepting bribes.

The only other possibility that presented itself as a viable alternative was that of blackmail, though that was risky, and T’shar could not work out who could be blackmailing Relkan and for what reason. T’shar shook her head and put the papers back; whoever was blackmailing the noble and for what reason was none of her business, all she had to do was retrieve evidence that he was doing something illegal.

Carefully the volumes she had been inspecting were placed back on their rightful locations, her near infallible memory and meticulous attention to detail ensuring that they were as if she had never removed them. Heading back down to the main level of the library as silent as her shadow, she became somewhat anxious and annoyed as she heard more footsteps approaching the library. The casual conversation that accompanied them let her know that it was not a guard, but merely a couple of ordinary people, likely servants or guests. However, that was not to say they presented any less of a potential hazard to her job, they could just as easily shout an alarm to quickly send the entire guard racing.

T’shar quickly darted across the doorway to the safety of the shadowy corner in the far side of the room. Here she would be difficult to spot, and at least have the advantage of being initially hidden by the door, as well having the potential to avoid detection entirely should the people decide to enter the library. The rough and casual language of the conversation indicated that the pair were indeed only servants, which meant the chances of their entering the library were slim at best. Her tension was allayed as the voices faded, and T’shar promptly crept towards the door leading to the main indoors of the building.

Slowly and carefully putting pressure on the handle to turn it in silence, she opened the door and pulled it slightly ajar, giving her a good look down the hallway to the right of the library. Seeing the hall empty, as she had suspected and hoped it would be, she flashed out into the walkway and closed the door behind her, delicately placing her hand so that no noise issued when it shut.

The door at the right of the hall was shut, and from T’shar’s map, it led to the dining area. The two servants on her left were carrying empty trays; presumably they had just delivered some food to whoever was in the dining room. T’shar nodded and smiled appreciatively, although it was somewhat late, the owner of the house and whatever company he had were still eating, which she surmised would give her plenty of time to examine his belongings before he returned. It was a piece of good fortune that she had not expected, but it was one that she welcomed gladly.

Heading in the same direction as the servants, who had now descended some stairs, T’shar moved with pace but making sure that she maintained absolute silence, as now that she was inside, the rage of the storm seemed marginally faded, but more notable was the fact that it did very little to mask any other noise. However, she knew her noiseless movement would be little good should anyone enter the hallway, as the regular placed oil lanterns placed on the walls illuminated the hall quite brightly, leaving her with no place to hide from their sight.

As she neared the stairs the two servants had walked down, she heard the familiar sound of a guard walking, the volume and direction of the slight metallic clink signalling their presence from the same stairway. T’shar quickly put her head around the corner of the hallway she had reached, only to see another guard walking towards her from that direction. T’shar drew in a sharp breath as she bit her upper lip, then turned around and ran back towards the far end of the hall.

The next passage leading off the hallway was past the library, but T’shar doubted that she could open and close the door as quickly as she would need to in order to stay out of sight and make certain that it was soundless. She passed the door, and rounded the corner without even pausing to check to see if it was unoccupied, but merely sidestepped around, knowing that if she did not she would be spotted in a moment anyway.

The passageway led to the main staircase between the first and second floor, a grandiose and extravagant circular stairway that was carpeted in a fine, sandy coloured cloth that contrasted with the deep, dark brown of the oak that it was constructed from. This area, just like the entire of the inside of the mansion was also bathed in light from the frequent lanterns that T’shar wished she could put out to plunge the building into the darkness that aided her skills so well. She knew such an action would only attract more attention, however, so she put that thought out of her mind, silently chiding herself for losing concentration, albeit momentarily.

T’shar glanced down the hallway she had ran up, and watched as the guard walked up the stairway. He took a brief glance to the left as he walked along the hallway, and T’shar pressed her eyes closed as she furrowed her forehead, trying to remember her map. After a moment, T’shar’s memory clicked and she snapped her eyes open, recalling the set of stairs that led to the top level. The guard continued walking, and turned left down the hallway T’shar had meant to head down before she had heard his approach.

Seeing him turn, T’shar swiftly skulked towards the staircase in the centre of the building, and putting her head fleetingly around the corner, bit her upper lip again as she saw the other guard walking towards her. Doing an about-face, T’shar moved back down the first hallway again, passing by the library once more. She glanced down the hallway and moved towards the stairs leading to the third floor when she heard more footsteps from the downward stairs. T’shar’s mind reeled silently with curses, as anyone coming up the stairs would see or hear her almost immediately if she tried to climb the other staircase leading upwards to the topmost floor.

Being unable to retreat back the way she came due to the approaching guard, she had no choice but to follow the guard who had previously come up the stairs down the hallway to her right. The guard was some distance along the hall now, so she could safely shadow him, but dreaded the fact that should she be spotted, she would currently have to get past at least one person in the reasonably narrow hallway to escape. Even though T’shar disliked open combat, she was still quite skilled, but fighting a well-trained guard with any adversary approaching from behind her and more enemies imminent was a situation in which she thought she would have only a moderate chance of success if she were fortunate.

Following a safe distance behind the guard, T’shar was willing the man to move faster, knowing that it would not be long before either of the other guards on the floor reached the junction of the two hallways. The guard had just passed another junction in the hallway they were in, and T’shar, picturing the map in her mind, knew that it also led to the central spiral staircase. Once the guard had put some distance between himself and the passage, T’shar ducked into the open room, and watched as a guard walked towards the set of staircases.

Since the other guard had not come into view, T’shar realised that he must have walked up the stairs to the third floor. Scowling in irritation, T’shar knew she now had to wait for that guard to come down from the upper level before she could climb the stairs, as there were only two straight hallways on that level, giving her no way of getting up there without being noticed by a guard patrolling it.

A door opened and closed, and T’shar looked around the corner to see that the guard she had been following had gone outside, using the door near the end of the hallway to get onto the top of the walls outside. Taking full advantage of the rare opportunity of having no guards in close proximity, she hopped out in the hallway and proceeded in that direction, as there was another set of stairs leading to the third level at the end of the hall.

The stairs were preceded by a hallway leading to the right, nearly opposite the door that led to the top of the walls outside. Needing a hiding place, and knowing that walking through the outside door was not even a remotely intelligent or feasible course of action, T’shar turned down the hallway to look for a room to disappear into. She guessed that the guard currently on the upper level would come down the stairs soon, so taking what time she had, put her ear against the door she now stood next to, listening intently for any sound to indicate the presence of someone inside the room. Hearing nothing but her own soft breathing and loudly beating heart, T’shar opened the door and slipped through the small opening.

The room she had entered was a bathroom, and while it left nowhere to hide at all, the guard would not come in here, so the only possibility for discovery was that by a guest, since the owner of the house had his own bathroom and toilet leading off the master bedroom. T’shar relaxed slightly for a second, taking the short period of respite to concentrate on her breathing, taking slow and deep breaths to take control of her tense nerves. While some anxious tension and fear helped keep her focussed and alert, too much served only to incite desperate and frantic decisions, and often resulted in an incorrect decision, and unfortunately in her line of work, such decisions resulted in death more frequently than not.

Feeling her quickened heartbeat slow a fraction, T’shar pressed her head against the door again; this time listening for the audible clues that would tell her the guard had come down from the top level. Though the guard would likely not walk directly in front of the door, it was not far from the other hallway, so T’shar would be able to hear when he had proceeded beyond her hiding place.

After a short wait, T’shar heard the muffled scuffing of feet, and then heard the noise fade again, and took that as her cue to exit the bathroom. Closing the door silently, T’shar walked towards the stairs with decided purpose, relieved to get her opportunity to continue upstairs. She almost half expected for the door leading outside to open and force her to either run down the hallway or back into the bathroom, given the torrid time she had been having with avoiding guards so far during the night, but she reached and climbed the stairs without further incident.

The hallway in the top level was straight, with only one passageway off to the left, leading to the master bedroom. There was nothing in there that was of real interest to T’shar, as her destination was the study, whose entry lay through the door on the left on the hallway she was currently in.

Moving quickly to reach the room before any more guards came upstairs; she stopped at the door and tried the handle to find it locked. She had expected this, so crouched down and manipulated her fingers precisely to work the lock. She winced slightly as the lock refused to give and she twisted the middle finger on her right hand, the manicured hook of her fingernail getting caught in the mechanism, ripping the skin attaching it to her finger slightly and causing a small smear of blood to form at the surface.

Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her chest as a small shred of panic rose in her mind, and she struggled to keep her fingers steady as she hastily worked the lock, desperate to open the door and get inside the study before another guard could come along and discover her. A sharp click let her know that she was making progress, but she noticed that a small droplet of blood was forming around her joint, and would soon drip. Her professional desire to leave little or no trace of her presence overwhelmed the urgency of getting into the study, and she tilted her head to suck the crimson liquid to prevent it from leaving even the most miniscule drop on the floor. Content she was not going to leave any mark, she twitched her right hand, and hearing another click, a softer, grinding sound this time, she held her fingers in place, and used her chin to turn the handle and push the door barely ajar.

With the door open, T’shar pulled her fingers away, her lockpick fingernails sliding smoothly out of the lock mechanism, which responded with more metallic clicking. She looked at her sore finger, and a brief examination left her confident no real harm had been done, and the congealed blood told her that she would not have to worry about further drops potentially leaving any telltale stain to signify her passing. Her eyes darted left and right, her brown orbs making a quick and careful search before she eased into the room and shut the door behind her.

The study was moderate in size, and kept in what seemed like meticulous order and tidiness. A large wall cabinet dominated the wall to T’shar’s right, several leather-bound volumes sitting upon it, and presumably more were inside the hinged doors. The far wall had a small desk in front of it, a pair of candles sitting on either of the back corners, and an ornately carved wooden chair underneath. The large bronze sculpted head of a dragon nested just above the marble mantle of the amply sized fireplace that occupied the left hand wall. It seemed as though it had not been used for some time or even at all, as the inside was clean and uncharred by the black stain that was characteristic of such a fireplace.

The centrepiece of the room was positioned on another ornamentally carved piece of wood, this time a stand made to look like several curving wooden pillars, with a protective shield of glass shielding the work inside. A superbly crafted golden statuette was placed within the glass, the features of a fine and elegant horse exquisite in their delicately fashioned detail. The artisan responsible had gone to extravagant lengths to ensure the creation was a virtually flawless masterpiece, each hair on the beast’s mane intricately and precisely shaped, and even the body had the same texture as that of a real horse. T’shar had seen many fine works of art in various shops, estates and other buildings during her career, but even she was forced to pause to marvel in the magnificence of the statue. She resisted the overwhelming temptation to place the piece into her bag, as she knew it was not the reason for her intrusion. Besides, she told herself, she had nowhere suitable to place the masterwork.

T’shar hurried over to the desk on the far side of the room, examining the pieces of parchment placed in a neat pile. The letters told T’shar little, short of that Relkan was attending a dinner at the palace in the not too distant future, and that he was writing to express his interest in purchasing several works of art from various people. The drawers of the desk contained nothing but quills, inkwells and blank parchment, much to T’shar’s professional disgust, a little irked that he could not have made her job easy like most of those she had to steal from, but appreciating the challenge of a not completely straightforward task.

Turning her attention to the cabinet, T’shar leafed through the first book, which seemed to contain mostly dealing regarding the noble’s artworks, either buying or selling. The second she picked up held much the same, and the next was just as mundane, a listing of the holdings of various nobles around the region, seemingly compiled by him for some unknown purpose. While this might have hinted he was doing something illegal, it proved nothing except he was interested in knowing the particulars of other people’s land or holdings.

Opening the doors to the compartment above where those books were seated revealed more inside, but they seemed to be informative works about works of art, either describing how to determine the quality of the work or were inventories of various high quality pieces, their background and approximate worth. Then came the piles of letters to and from various nobles, including an elaborate invite to Tyull-Ishar from the Emperor himself.

“Where are you hiding your private documents, you conniving piece of filth?” She scowled in frustration, annoyed at the Relkan’s obsession with art pieces and her own inability to find evidence of his wrongdoing. The payments of gold per week were definitely not donations; T’shar knew such consistent and considerable amounts were the hallmark of dealing in some sort of illegal activity. The proof she needed was somewhere in the room, as it had not been in the upper library, nor had T’shar expected it to be, for no person, no matter how stupid, would not place such confidential and potentially dangerous papers in such an accessible place.

Her eyes flashed around the room, searching for something she had missed, the place where the documents she was looking for were hidden. Sighing, she sat down on the floor with her legs out in front of her, now significantly chagrined with herself for having difficulty in performing her job, something that happened very infrequently. She had heard the guard walk past not long before, and anyone entering the room would first have to unlock it with the key, which would give her more than enough time to get up and ready herself to surprise them if the need arose.

Now that she had some time to spare without fear of being discovered, T’shar pulled out her map and examined the plan of the building carefully. The ground floor contained nothing of interest to T’shar, storerooms, art rooms, the quarters of the guard and servants along with the kitchen were not places that the noble would store incriminating evidence. The second floor was primarily taken up by the dining and entertaining area, with the guest bedrooms, toilets and bathrooms as well as the library the only other rooms on that floor. That left the top floor, which contained only the study and the master bedroom. Seeing no other option, T’shar tucked the map away and stood up to go to there to seek her objective.

As she did so, her previous observation about the fireplace struck her – it was unused. This seemed more than slightly odd, the room was so methodically arranged that T’shar suspected even the slightest disruption of the objects in it would be noticed, and everything was kept perfectly clean and dustless. Yet T’shar knew that the inside of a fireplace was impossible to keep clean, the black charcoal from burnt wood was virtually permanent once established.

She leaned down to the fireplace and pushed on the wall that was the back of the fireplace, suspecting it to be a secret entrance to another room, but the wall held fast. She stood up, face to face with the sculpted bronze dragon head, and examined it carefully, looking and probing for a telltale loose tooth or some other extremity that she could pull or push to cause the door to swing open. Searching the entire head and finding nothing, T’shar grabbed either side of the head and tried to push it to left, but as it resisted that movement, she instead attempted to tilt it, an effort which caused a strained rasping sound of stone against stone as the back wall of the fireplace turned.

The turning stone stopped when it was perpendicular its original position, allowing T’shar to stoop down and hobble through the small gap to stand in front of a downward spiralling stone staircase. A small metal pull chain was hanging on the wall to the left, which moved slowly up the wall as the secret door automatically turned itself to conceal the entrance once more a few moments after she had passed through it. T’shar smiled to herself in the near pitch-black darkness of the stairwell as she walked slowly and carefully down the steps.

As she proceeded downwards, she guessed that the stairs were taking her below ground level, to an otherwise inaccessible basement in the building. There were torches placed on the outside wall as she went down, though far more intermittent than the lanterns placed inside the main parts of the building, providing adequate lighting, but enough of the shadow that T’shar dearly appreciated, not that it would serve any purpose whatsoever in the cramped stairwell.

She navigated them carefully, for the stairs were steep, and the ceiling was low, so low that she could reach the ceiling with her fingers at short of a full stretch. She hunched awkwardly below the cobwebs that dotted the stairway, her professional desire to mask her passing overwhelming her personal desire to swipe them away.

At the bottom of the stairwell the walls opened up and the stone floor stretched out into an expansive room. The air was cold and clammy, with the sparsely placed torches faintly illuminating the shadows the danced about the room. The wet, musty smell that dominated the room had the trappings of a dungeon, but from what T’shar could see of various instruments placed about the room, it was actually a torture chamber.

Not wanting to blunder forward half-blind, a brief pause allowed T’shar’s eyes to fully adjust to the dim lighting. Taking a few paces forward, T’shar could see a table and desk that would obviously be the location of the documents she was looking for, but out of the corner of her left eye, she spotted a small movement and turned to see what it was. She dry-retched as she realised that it was in fact a person, lying bloodied and chained to the floor.

Lowelm's Shadow (Part 1)

2007-07-05T21:10:00.000+10:00

I've redone Lowelm's Shadow. I'd make an apology, but it wouldn't be sincere, as a crucial part of writing is rewriting. Without a willingness to rewrite and improve things, adjust characters, add in extra detail, flesh out depth and do lots of other great things that make stories interesting, then it's not possible to write really well. Though it makes writing a whole lot more work.

Anyway, here's the rewritten version. So even if you read part 1 before, please "re-read" this part 1 before reading part 2, otherwise part 2 won't make sense. This version adds more depth to the characters and the setting, the lack of which in the first version made it... not as good or interesting as it should have been. I'm hoping to write some more about these characters in the future, though I guess I could actually end up writing more about their past...

Naptali whirled as a threatening noise cracked forth from the natural thrum of the forest. Her burnished hair rippled against its ties with unease as a strange energy coursed in the air. Birds became silent and flittered away, while the soft thumping of feet spoke the retreat of deer and rabbits. Her elven ears pricked tightly, Naptali drew her sword with soft hands, unsheathing it without a single whisper against its scabbard. A hint of discomfort twitched through Naptali’s body, telling her the source of the disturbance: magic.

Her footsteps barely left a touch on the wild grass, practiced movement meaning she was silent and untraceable. The trees rustled with grave warning, letting their friend know of an impending danger, all the while trying to conceal her presence. Whatever was stalking her, Naptali could tell it was close. It was moving cautiously, yet with not enough stealth, and she ducked quickly into a seemingly impenetrable growth of spiked bushes with untold ease.

The unknown foe approached as Naptali crouched at the ready, and suddenly a figure stepped before her invisible hiding place. In an instant Naptali was on her feet and had her sword point at her opponent’s throat.

The man stopped deadly still as he felt the sharp tip against the side of his neck. His dark eyes moved sideways to look at her nervously while rooted in place. Brushing the top of his hood back slowly with his left hand, he gave a puzzled look. “How do you do that?” He asked incredulously. “And is that any way to greet an old friend, Naptali?”

“Drauglin!” She said with a great smile. He sheathed her sword and kissed him lightly on the cheek before embracing him. “It’s been too long, friend.”

“Indeed it has, my dear elf,” his look of worry giving way to a warm smirk. “Though, of course, I have to envy that you still look like someone I wish I could court.”

“Don’t be foolish, Drauglin,” she admonished him. “If you wanted to court me, not even your magic would give you the power to speak even one intelligent word!”

Both of them had been young when she had first met the powerful magician, and no matter how many years passed, neither of them could forget his painfully inept attempts to woo a young girl on that first occasion. It had been a running joke between the two of them ever since. Drauglin grimaced in mock anguish at Naptali’s barb and sighed. “Ah, a precious flower you would be to me, dare I to pluck you and offer my kind heart.”

“That’s more like it,” said Naptali with a grin. “But how come I’m lucky enough to see you here?”

Drauglin’s faced dropped. “I wouldn’t exactly consider it luck. That would probably be the last word I would use.”

Naptali knew the graveness of his tone spoke of a deep-seated worry. It was a voice that was reserved for matters of importance, matters that could affect the futures of many. She gave a concerned look East to the town of Lowelm, a community that had long been under her protection, and her home. “Come,” she said to Drauglin. “Whatever it is that you have to tell me, it would be best said in my home.”

“But,” began Drauglin.

“No,” she insisted. “It is late in the day already. And whatever it is can wait until we return there.” He nodded in reluctant acquiescence. “Besides,” Naptali added with a knowing look, “I’m guessing we’re going to need supplies for wherever it is we’re going.”

The two reached the small town just as night began to fall. “Is there some way we can get in without attention?” Asked Drauglin.

“What’s the matter, Drauglin?” Naptali asked. “Still playing the reluctant saviour of everyone’s existence?”

“I like to keep quiet wherever I can,” he said. “Besides, isn't your history with Lowelm somewhat similar? Only due to the word of a friend?”

Naptali frowned in defeat, for she her decision to act as an informal guardian to the town was not something she wanted to make initially. “Circumstances,” she offered weakly.

“Aren’t we all ruled by them?” Drauglin asked. “I didn’t ask for my fate and fame either.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied, changing the subject. “We’re so remote that by time tales of your exploits reach us, you’re at least twice as tall, have eyes of flame, and carry thunderbolts in your hands. No one would believe you were ‘Drauglin, hero of the world of Leiaron.’ Not even if I told them.”

Naptali’s words proved correct as they walked into the small town without incident. Regardless, she took him directly to her home to avoid any possible questions from the townsfolk. She moved quickly about the house and lit several lamps to combat the fading light. Offering him a seat, she sat down and looked at him with concern. “I’m worried that I might have an idea why you are here,” she said.

Drauglin appraised her cautiously. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything,” she replied. “Not for certain. I just know that I felt something about a week ago. It was big.”

“Magical?” He exhaled pointedly as Naptali nodded. “Your ability to sense magic has always been strange to me.”

Her face cracked in frustration. “Drauglin, my ancestors were mages for as long as I know.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you will have the gift.”

Her voice developed a hint of dejection. “Thanks, Drauglin, that really appeases me at being so pathetic that not only am I not a magician, but I also get sick from magic.”

“It doesn’t make you a failure, Naptali.”

“I don’t want to discuss this,” she said curtly. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“It was a release of magical energy,” Drauglin explained. “Or rather, being violently dissipated. Near the old ruins to the south.”

“I’d often thought to ask you about those,” said Naptali. “Though I suppose you probably would have dodged the question.”

Drauglin smiled. “Possibly, but generally I’m evasive for your own good. But in this case, until recently I wouldn’t have been able answer you. It was only because of that something that I found out what was there. Many things are forgotten and become secrets for a reason.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “What kind of reason?”

“Because they’re dangerous for people to know.” Drauglin’s voice had reassumed that flat, serious tone. “But sometimes they must be remembered. So that something can be done about them.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Naptali growled. “What’s this secret?”

“To be honest?” Drauglin paused. He ran a hand slowly back through his cropped, greying hair and sighed. “I don’t know. All I know is that something is there. And it’s nothing good.”

“You’ve got to give me more than that, Drauglin!” She exclaimed.

“I wish I could,” he said. “But I don’t know what it is. I just know that there’s a lot of magical energy being disturbed. And there’s some kind of underground complex.”

“How do you know all this?” Naptali asked, her face hard.

“I felt that disturbance too. From a lot further away.” His eyes were flooded with concern. “I found the entrance yesterday. I walked only a short distance inside before I saw a corpse. The injuries must’ve come from magic.”

“I understand,” she said flatly. “We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll ready my weapons and get supplies.”

“That’s it?” Drauglin asked.

“What else is there to say?” she replied. “I’ll make sure the town is prepared in case we don’t return.”

“You have a very bleak outlook at times, did you know that, Naptali?”

It was Naptali’s turn to answer with a dark tone. “Not all of us have magic to alter our destiny.”

She was glad Drauglin knew her well enough to answer only with silence.

They woke early the next day. They ate a full breakfast in a wisp of sunlight, and set off before it was fully risen. Both carried a small pack of food supplies, and Naptali carried her sword and bow. She had offered Drauglin a lightweight weapon, but he produced an ornate dagger and refused.

“No offence, Naptali, but if I have to use this, I doubt whatever you can offer will protect me more.” Her simple shrug was the only natural reply.

The hours of walking passed with light conversation, with both recounting events since they had last met. Drauglin shadowed Naptali, for her natural affinity with the forest produced an easy path for him to follow. Across the light scrub she found flat ground, through the trees she made a straight path, and in dense brush she trod an invisible track through seemingly impenetrable vegetation.

“Naptali, I think you have your own kind of magic in weaving through this forest,” Drauglin commented. She stared back with a blank expression, an icy disposition lurking beneath the surface.

“Sorry,” he apologised.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, though her voice made it clear she did.

A few moments later, Naptali came to an abrupt halt. Drauglin, with his head still partially down to avoid her gaze, bumped into her back. She gave a short curse as she grabbed onto a sapling. Her body teetered forward over the steep bank of a river, the small tree stretching painfully under her weight. Drauglin recovered quickly from his surprise and grabbed her free arm, tugging her back from the edge.

“Thank you,” she said. “Though it helps if you look where you’re going.”

He gave her a sheepish expression, and then looked at the river. “I don’t remember this.”

Naptali looked at him quizzically. “I’m not sure how you missed it,” she said. “It’s virtually impossible to cover this territory without crossing it.” She looked left and right in vague annoyance. “But I thought it narrowed enough that we could leap it somewhere around here.”

“Why don’t we just wade through?” Drauglin asked.

Naptali scanned the river for a moment then pointed a finger at the water. Drauglin followed her motion to a patch of shade. Just as he was about to speak, a bird dived down and skimmed the surface of the smooth river. In an instant, the dark patch darted forth and a mouth filled with teeth emerged from the surface. A flash of those stained daggers enveloped the hapless bird and disappeared like a nightmare beneath the impenetrable murk.

“Good answer,” said Drauglin.

“Come on.” Naptali motioned for him to follow her.

“No,” he said. “My turn to find the path.” He signalled for her to come to him. “Take my hand.”

“What?” She asked. “Why?” She grimaced as her hand clasped his. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” he answered.

Naptali felt her stomach churn as Drauglin’s eyes gave a brief look of concentration. Time felt as though it were slowed down and the air crackled with a silent sound that Naptali knew was magic. She almost felt compelled to shut her eyes, but she kept them open and saw the colours of the scenery warp into a green mud. As the blur cleared, Naptali saw they were on the opposite side of the bank.

“Next time I won’t ask,” she said. “Though it still doesn’t solve the problem that I’m now not sure exactly where we are.”

“That’s not a problem either,” said Drauglin. “I know where we need to go.” He concentrated for a moment, and Naptali felt the distinct unease of magic pulse through her. “It’s that way.” Drauglin pointed a finger slightly to their left. “And it’s not very far away.” Naptali shook off the unnatural feeling of Drauglin’s spell and started moving in the direction that he had pointed.

The sun had already passed its peak and they had still not eaten since morning, so a trace of hunger lingered in Naptali’s stomach. She had a vague desire to stop and eat, but black clouds loomed with malice, so grabbed an apple from her pack and ate as they moved. She felt an uncomfortable itch on her skin for an instant, and turned back to see Drauglin with a peeled orange in his hand. “Can’t you use your hands like normal people?” She asked.

Naptali had almost finished her apple when they came to the clearing. The forest suddenly gave way to erratic grassland dotted with the remnants of buildings. The ruins were an oddity amongst the substantial foliage, for they marked an otherwise interrupted wilderness. There was something amiss in its presence, its silence dissonant against the typical murmur of the forest.

Naptali felt a chill rush through her body involuntarily, and looked at Drauglin accusingly.

“That wasn’t me,” he said worriedly. “I’m not sure where it came from.” His eyes glazed in concentration for an instant. “There’s nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” Naptali asked.

“I can’t feel or see anything,” Drauglin replied. “There’s nothing around here that…” He suddenly looked at Naptali in shock as they both felt a massive surge of energy.

“What was that?” she exclaimed.

“We need to get to that complex. It’s coming from inside.” Drauglin’s tone was severe.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Naptali.

“I’ll give you the answer when I know it,” he replied. “Follow me.”

They moved with measured urgency, eager to find the source of the disturbance, but also wary of its possible danger. Drauglin led with the confidence of conviction, his normally troubled step finding easy purchase on the undulating terrain. His steps travelled in a near straight line, his faultless memory taking them directly to a near invisible arrangement of stones near the edge of the clearing. “Here,” he said.

Naptali looked around, confused. “I don’t see anything.”

“Not yet,” Drauglin replied. A soft whisper parted his lips as his hand made a small circular motion at the stones embedded in the ground. Three pale flashes of light sprung forth from his hand and danced around the rocks. Their spirals lasted momentarily, then burnt out into nothingness.

Naptali stood bewildered for an instant, before her expression turned to one of amazement as the ground began to shimmer and fade before her eyes. The grass disappeared to show a small staircase of stone leading into darkness underground.

“A concealed entrance?” She asked incredulously.

“The mark of a secret that’s supposed to be forgotten,” Drauglin said.

Naptali gave him an admonishing look. “Not everything can be fixed by hiding it.”

“Then we can determine which one of the two this is.” He motioned for her to go down. “Quickly, let’s move.”

Naptali moved down the steps fast, but her pace slowed as the darkness grew. Her eyes flickered to see the floor, but her vision failed, and she stopped in a momentary panic. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the absence of light as wave of fear rushed over her, gripping her sword hilt so hard that her fingers ached.

In an instant, the magician appeared by her side. “Damn you, Drauglin,” she hissed angrily. “You know I can’t stand the dark.”

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I can help.” He shook his hand forcefully, and an artificial light suddenly sprung up around them. Naptali shuddered at the slight pain that it also sparked in her head, but was relieved at the light.

“Good.” She resumed walking, her mood as dark as the receding shadow.

There were only a few more steps before they reached the bottom of the staircase, and Naptali froze as she saw the entrance hall. She saw the corpse Drauglin had referred to and shivered in revulsion. The body appeared as though it had been melted in place. The head was a lump of boiled flesh, and the rest of the body looked red with heat, yet unmarked by any effect of burns.

“What in the hells can do that?” Naptali asked.

“I don’t know,” said Drauglin. They approached the corpse warily, as though it still held some form of unknown danger. “It just doesn’t look like anything natural.”

Naptali inspected the corpse. There were no signs of a struggle, no burn marks, nor anything to indicate what could have possibly caused it. “Drauglin, why do you need me here?” Naptali asked. “What can I possibly do against whatever caused that?”

“Plenty,” said Drauglin. “Sometimes, the worst way to fight magic is with more magic.”

“Right.” Naptali made her displeasure apparent. “Of course, that's not a problem for me, is it?” She paused. “And why aren’t other people here?”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Naptali. You know how isolated Lowelm is. And even if someone else had felt it, we probably wouldn’t want them here.”

“Of course,” she said. “Because I want to be without help when we’re up against something that can do that!” She pointed at the corpse.

“Mages have an overly active survival instinct, Naptali. Investigating magical anomalies isn’t safe. The only people that might be heading in our direction, we don’t want to meet. And I’d say they don’t want to meet us.”

“Then let’s find out what’s going on before they arrive,” said Naptali.

---------- Read the previous post for part 2

Lowelm's Shadow (Part 2)

2007-07-05T21:07:00.000+10:00

If you're reading this without having read the redone version of part 1, go forward and read that first. The story has been reworked, so part 1 is different from before.

They moved through the stone passages carefully, the cold silence interrupted only by their sound of their feet against the floor. Naptali held close to Drauglin, making sure she was not separated from the magical light that surrounded him. They moved through a series of interconnected chambers, each of them square and empty. The featureless void was disturbing, for the underground secret seemed home to nothing but stale air.

They made their way along a downward sloping tunnel, which eventually opened up to an octagonal room with a passage leading from each face. A large circular dais dominated this central room, flanked by eight pedestals, one for each corner of the room. A turquoise glow filled the room, acting as the visible partner for the embrace of icy air within.

Naptali shivered involuntarily. “Why is it so cold in here?”

Drauglin looked around for a few moments in silence. He walked around, inspecting the floor. “This was once used as a summoning chamber. There are still faint marks on the stone from it. The coldness is artificial, either for the summoning, or because of it. I don’t know which.” He looked at her. “Come. We need to look at these ante-chambers.”

“You might want to start with this one,” said Naptali, the distress audible in her voice.

Drauglin turned and peered to see that the small room Naptali had entered had lit up, exposing three dead bodies. One had been charred so badly it was only a blackened skeleton, another lying with a broken neck, a look of sheer horror upon the perfectly preserved face. The last was the most disturbing, for it was simply missing the top half of its body. It was as though its head and upper torso had simply disappeared.

“They killed each other with magic,” said Drauglin.

“But who was victorious?” Naptali asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “But I think we’re going to find out. Let’s look at the other rooms.”

They moved with a sense of urgency between the rooms. “Alchemical lab,” said Drauglin of the first. It was monopolised by a large table, with shelves on the walls holding all manner of glass apparatus. “Reagent room.” It appeared like a ramshackle arrangement of drawers, cupboards and chests. The fourth passage was a staircase, leading down an indeterminable distance deeper below. “We’ll look there later,” said Drauglin.

The next room was empty, followed by a chamber with small platforms that Drauglin explained were used for practicing spells. The last contained three bookshelves packed with heavy tomes. Two had been pulled out and lay on the small desk. Drauglin moved forward and looked at them. “Here,” he said. “Look at this.”

She looked at him frostily. “You know I never learned to read.”

“Sorry,” Drauglin replied. “They’re on summoning. This one appears to be some sort of journal.”

“Read them, then tell me,” Naptali said.

She waited silently as Drauglin read, a soft mutter occasionally escaping his lips as he flicked through the old pages. “It’s not clear,” he said softly.

“What?”

He looked at her frustrated. “The notes indicate they were trying to summon extraplanar creatures, but…”

“What’s an extraplanar creature?” asked Naptali.

“They don’t really exist. Or at least, not in a ‘solid’ sense like things that we know. They have to be forced into a corporeal form as they are summoned.”

“Next question,” she said. “Why?”

Drauglin smiled. “That’s easy. Power. The more difficult questions are ‘whom’ and when.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at these tomes,” he said. “You can see the fingermarks that have taken away the dust. At least on these two.” He turned to the bookshelf on his left and pulled a book from it. A plume of dust shot forth to accompany it. Once they stopped coughing, he spoke. “None of the other books have been touched. The dust alone says that they’ve been here for a long time. The almost unintelligible language means that they were also written then. But those dead magicians we saw, they didn’t write these. They only died recently.”

Naptali gave him a quizzical look. “What you’re saying is that those magicians did something to cause the disturbance and get themselves killed?”

“Exactly!” Drauglin said, clapping his hands together. “The worrying thing is, I’m not sure exactly what they disturbed. But it was nothing good.” Naptali gazed at him attentively, so he continued. “Whatever was originally summoned was too powerful for the summoners. The diary notes that there was a group of magicians, and several of them died trying to control it. The last entry indicates only that the author trapped ‘the beast’ permanently in a cage of magic.”

“Down the stairs?”

Drauglin nodded. “But I need to look in the reagent room first. The diary mentioned the use of crystals to drain its power. I have no idea what might be down those stairs, but I don’t want to go without those crystals.”

“Take all the time you need, Drauglin.” Naptali said. “I don’t like my chances at being able to hit something with my sword if it doesn’t have a body.”

Drauglin looked through the drawers carefully, and began pulling out long amber and violet crystals. “I think these are what we need,” he said. “They can store magical energy, and nothing else in here is remotely useful. At least, not anymore.” He picked up an unidentifiable ball that crumbled to dust between his fingers. Eventually, a total of eight crystals went into his small pack.

“Is that enough?” Naptali asked.

“It will have to be,” he replied.

“Then let’s go.” She walked towards the stairs calmly despite her terror of the unknown horror below.

The slow descent fuelled a growing unease that was suffocating in such close quarters. Neither of them spoke for fear of disturbing the cloying silence, as though it would be animated by the palpable magic that permeated their bodies. The feeling was nauseating in the way it emanated from everywhere, and each step seemed to cause more energy to rise and envelop them.

Naptali shuddered involuntarily and stopped. “I can’t stand it Drauglin.” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “It’s filling me as well.” His eyes glimmered with a vague aura of fear. “The magicians didn’t kill each other.” He said with a sudden note of realisation.

“They didn’t?”

Drauglin shook his head. “No. They killed themselves because they couldn’t control their magic.”

“You still can?” Naptali dreaded asking the question, but dreaded his answer more.

“At the moment.”

She inhaled worriedly. “It’s getting stronger, isn’t it?”

Drauglin nodded. “But we have to keep going.”

Naptali said nothing as she took another step down the long staircase. A soft, flickering colour was growing stronger as they moved down, distorting their perceptions even further. They finally saw the bottom of the staircase, and it appeared as though an ever-changing sun was captured below the earth.

They stepped forward into a massive chamber carved from the rock. It was impeccable in creation, a circular space with perfectly angled slopes carving a cone-shaped hollow into both the floor and ceiling. And within that vast emptiness was the blinding flurry of colour that was the source of the unrelenting light and energy. Naptali squinted as she tried to look at it directly, an act that felt as though it caused her physical pain.

“There’s far too much wild magical energy here,” said Drauglin. “Whatever is inside is trying to break free, and it doesn’t really care how it does it.”

“What do we do?” asked Naptali.

Drauglin held his finger to his lips and shut his eyes. Naptali could only wait as his eyes flickered wildly from underneath their closed lids. She could not imagine what he was doing, and was not sure that she wanted to.

“It’s as though this being exudes magic,” he said. “That’s what they needed the crystals for, to drain some of its essence and power before caging it.”

“There’s too much magic?”

“Yes, and I need to dissipate some of that energy first. Otherwise I don’t know what will happen when I try and strengthen the bonds.” Naptali had never seen Drauglin look so apprehensive about magic before, and it filled her with trepidation too. “I’m going to have to weaken the cage slightly and pull the energy from the ‘beast’ itself in order to do so.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yes, but less so than trying to strengthen the cage as is it. Draining energy is a simple spell, but manipulating it into a cage…” Drauglin let his voice trail off.

The magician laid out the crystals on the floor in front of him. Standing bolt upright, he moved his arms in a circular motion and brought them in front of his chest. His fingers were splayed apart, with his thumbs barely apart and his palms directed at the crystals. The crystals began to glow faintly as Drauglin’s fingers became fiercely rigid. They lit up with ever increasing strength as Drauglin held his position for what seemed like an eternity.

The vague hum of energy filled the room with an oppressive air, as though it were demanding their silence. Naptali felt her head throb as the colour in the centre of the room grew stronger and thrashed more violently as time passed. The gentle glow of the crystals had swelled into a strong light source as Drauglin’s spell continued. As they approached a luminescence that nearly drowned out their original colour, Drauglin stopped.

He turned to Naptali. “They’re not enough.”

“What?” she asked, worriedly.

“I wasn’t able to drain enough energy into the crystals. There’s still too much magic for me to be able to strengthen the cage without the threat of killing us both and setting it free.”

Naptali beamed with pride as an idea entered her head. “Can we go find more crystals?”

Drauglin shook his head in resignation. “Those crystals aren’t easy to find, and I’ve weakened the cage too much. In the time it would take to get them, this thing would have broken free.”

The elf exhaled helplessly. “Then we best run as fast as we can and hope we get help in time.”

“I don’t know what it is, Naptali,” he said. “But I from what was written in that journal, we can’t let it get free. There’s one last option.”

“I’m not going to like it, am I?” Drauglin shook his head. “What is it?” she asked.

“I drain the magical energy into you. You’re a better vessel for it than anything else we could possibly find in time.”

Her expression was tinged with anger. “I don’t appreciate being called a vessel.”

“Sorry. Magical term,” said Drauglin. “I know it makes you feel sick, but the fact that you can feel the energy means that you can hold a lot of it, as though you were storing it to cast a spell.”

A wave of anticipatory sickness gushed over Naptali, but she knew Drauglin would not have suggested it except as a last, desperate resort. “Where should I stand?” she asked resignedly.

“There is fine,” he said. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

She nodded at Drauglin and saw his hands clench as his face turned harsh with concentration. He thrust an open hand in her direction and another towards the centre of the room, and suddenly beams of the kaleidoscope flow arced towards her through him. She felt the energy flowing into her from the visible stream that burst from Drauglin’s fingers. Each crest in the undulating wave assaulted her with a surge of nausea that made her want to vomit. Her skin felt hot and sweaty with an unrelenting blistering that fought to overwhelm her senses.

“Just a little longer!” Drauglin yelled.

Naptali could not find the strength to respond verbally, her eyes looking helplessly at him with palpable suffering. Suddenly she felt her body lurch to the ground and her stomach heaved and violently expelled its contents. The acrid taste of bile filled her mouth and caused her insides to churn more, trying to rid itself of the unknown evil that wracked her.

She suddenly felt herself launched into the air, and saw a new multi-coloured stream flying towards her chest directly from the centre of the room. It hit her with indescribable agony, and she barely managed to avoid passing out immediately. “Drauglin!” Every fibre of her body provided fuel to the ear-splitting scream of pain and terror.

His expression was filled with utter dread, and immediately he turned his full attention towards her. She felt the burning of her skin subside slightly as the stream between them grew thicker, though it was obviously that Drauglin was now draining the magic from her.

“Hold on!” he yelled. “I’ll break the bond as soon as I can!” He moved his hands frantically as his eyes danced in spasm. Streaks of colour flashed into the air, forming a semi-transparent lattice as they flaked towards the centre of the room in disparate pieces.

Naptali felt her consciousness slipping from her grasp and the room fade into an insubstantial blur. It was as though she were ceasing to exist, burning away into sheer magical energy. It had transcended pain and she simply felt disjoint from her body, unable to feel emotion or sensation, merely sensing the phenomenal flows of magic in this alternate space.

She suddenly felt her feeling return as her body dropped to the hard floor. No longer suspended in space, her head landed with unbroken force on the cold stone. She could still see the streams of magic flowing around, Drauglin desperately trying to repel the large worm-like tube that was trying to push its way towards him.

The magician was beading with sweat over his entire body from exertion, desperately tearing off parts of the raw energy to reinforce the slowly growing lattice cage. The stream pushed ever closer, creeping with deadly intent to envelop him. Drauglin’s actions grew even more erratic, a wild flurry of hysterical movement to save his own life.

In an instant, the lattice closed and the malevolent force dissipated harmlessly into the air. Drauglin’s actions slowed gradually in pace, the lattice growing and layering itself in increasing depth. The unpredictable multi-coloured glare gave way to a constant, cooler glow as the magical beast became wrapped in an impenetrable weave.

An eternity seemed to pass before Drauglin finally stopped. He cast a final concerned look at Naptali, and then collapsed onto the ground with exhaustion. He looked at her blankly in his inert form. “Sorry I couldn’t help you faster.” The words were a bare hush before he passed out. Naptali felt herself losing her own struggle for consciousness, and saw the black edges of her vision meet and fold over until all sensation disappeared.

When she awoke in a hazy rush, her skin still felt on fire and her entire body throbbed with an unquenchable pain. Her insides felt as though they had been churned through, and her muscles swayed feebly. Naptali forced her eyes open under protest, and saw an unwelcome blur cloud her vision. She managed a soft groan of pain, and she felt a stopping sensation. It was strange because she had not even registered that she had been moving.

She was placed on the ground, and saw Drauglin looking down at her. “I didn’t expect you to be awake quite so quickly. You need more rest.”

Naptali tried to object, but her mouth fought and refused to make an intelligible sound. She realised she wasn’t even sure what words she wanted to say. Then a sudden wave of tiredness wracked her, and her eyes drooped to close.

“I’ll get us back to Lowelm. You’ll be able to recover there.”

Consciousness became an abstract concept for Naptali as they moved. She wasn’t sure where Drauglin was finding the strength to carry her and travel at the blurred speed she almost felt them travelling at. Night had fallen, but they still moved with great speed, and Drauglin’s main concern appeared to be getting to Lowelm as quickly as possible.

She eventually felt herself being lain down, and the comforting voice of Lowelm’s priest murmuring incomprehensibly. His reassuring tone was tinged with grave concern, but her body responded to his ministrations with welcome relief. Her eyes occasionally blinked open to see Drauglin’s worried form, hunched vigilantly by her side.

Eventually, a wave of cold struck Naptali with force, sapping the feeling of unnatural warmth that had tormented her. She searched vainly for a blanket as her eyes struggled against the recuperative sleep. Drauglin had collapsed from fatigue, by awoke with a start as he heard her rouse. “Why is it so cold in here?” she demanded.

“Glad to hear you’re okay,” he said groggily. Disappeared momentarily before placing a blanket over her and collapsing beside her again. If a sudden lack of energy had not stopped her, Naptali would have smiled.

By the time she woke again, Drauglin was gone. The priest looked back at her with his characteristic benevolence, making sure of her health. “Where is Drauglin?” she asked.

“He just left,” the man said. “But said to tell you that he’ll see you far too soon.”

Naptali gave an amused grunt. “I’m sure. And I’ll bet he’s right.”

Lowelm's Shadow (Part 1) (Original)

2007-06-27T18:43:00.000+10:00

And now for a bit of a change of pace. Fantasy is considered by some to be a lesser art of writing, because it's "easy" (at least to write bad, potentially publishable fantasy) and because the writer gets to make up their own rules for just about everything. And then they get to break those rules using magic. I would agree, but also argue that the art of writing good fantasy is very difficult, because you have to maintain consistency and develop the entire history, pantheon, social structure, etc, in order to present an engrossing and believable world.

But I digress. As a short story, it is largely devoid of the connections to the greater world, history, and all those good qualities I just espoused. But, rest assured, it does belong to such a world, and I hope to write more from it in the future. Also, this is the first part of the short story. I'm still working on completing it, but given what I've written so far clocks in at around 2,200 words, I thought it would be best to post it in two parts.

Naptali whirled as a threatening noise cracked forth from the natural thrum of the forest. Her long, burnished hair rippled with unease as a strange energy coursed in the air. Birds became silent and flittered away, while the soft thumping of feet spoke the retreat of deer and rabbits. Her elven ears pricked tightly, Naptali drew her sword with soft hands, unsheathing it without a single whisper against its scabbard. A faint hint twitched through Naptali’s body, telling her the source of the disturbance: magic.

Her footsteps barely left a touch on the wild grass, practiced movement meaning she was silent and untraceable. The trees rustled with grave warning, letting their friend know of an impending danger, all the while trying to conceal her presence. Whatever was stalking her, Naptali could tell it was close. It was moving cautiously, yet with not enough stealth, and she ducked quickly into a seemingly impenetrable growth of spiked bushes with untold ease.

The unknown foe approached as Naptali crouched at the ready, and suddenly a figure stepped before her invisible hiding place. In an instant Naptali was on her feet and had her sword point at her opponent’s throat.

The man stopped deadly still as he felt the sharp tip against the side of his neck. His dark eyes moved sideways to look at her nervously while rooted in place. Brushing the top of his hood back slowly with his left hand, he gave a puzzled look. “How in the world do you do that?” He asked incredulously. “And is that any way to greet an old friend, Naptali?”

“Drauglin!” She said with a great smile. He sheathed her sword and kissed him lightly on the cheek before embracing him. “It’s been too long, friend.”

“Indeed it has, my dear elf,” his look of worry giving way to a warm smirk. “Though, of course, I have to envy that you still look like someone I wish I could court.”

“Don’t be foolish, Drauglin,” she admonished him. “If you wanted to court me, not even your magic would give you the power to speak even one intelligent word!”

Both of them had been young when she had first met the powerful magician, and no matter how many years passed, neither of them could forget his painfully inept attempts to woo a young girl on that first occasion. It had been a running joke between the two of them ever since. Drauglin grimaced in mock anguish at Naptali’s barb and sighed. “Ah, a precious flower you would be to me, dare I to pluck you and offer my kind heart.”

“That’s more like it,” said Naptali with a grin. “But how come I’m lucky enough to see you here?”

Drauglin’s faced dropped. “I wouldn’t exactly consider it luck. That would probably be the last word I would use.”

Naptali knew the graveness of his tone spoke of a deep-seated worry. It was a voice that was reserved for matters of importance, matters that could affect the futures of many. She gave a concerned look East to the town of Lowelm, a community that had long been under her protection, and her home. “Come,” she said to Drauglin. “Whatever it is that you have to tell me, it would be best said in my home.”

“But,” began Drauglin.

“No,” she insisted. “It is late in the day already. And whatever it is can wait until we return there.” He nodded in reluctant acquiescence. “Besides,” Naptali added with a knowing look, “I’m guessing we’re going to need supplies for wherever it is we’re going.”

The two reached the small town just as night began to fall. Knowing Drauglin would not wish to attract significant attention to himself, she took him directly to her home. She moved quickly about the house and lit several lamps to combat the fading light. Offering him a seat, she sat down and looked at him concerned. “I’m worried that I might have an idea why you are here,” she said.

Drauglin appraised her cautiously. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything,” she replied. “Not for certain. I just know that I felt something about a week ago. It was big.”

“Magical?” He exhaled pointedly as Naptali nodded. For reasons Drauglin didn’t know, Naptali was strangely attuned to magic energy, despite that she was unable to use it. That she had felt something was worrying.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” She inquired.

“It was a release of magical energy,” Drauglin explained. “Or rather, being violently dissipated. Near the old ruins to the south.”

“I’d often thought to ask you about those,” said Naptali. “Though I suppose you probably would have dodged the question.”

Drauglin smiled. “Possibly, but generally I’m evasive for your own good. But in this case, until recently I wouldn’t have been able answer you. It was only because of that something that I found out what was there. Many things are forgotten and become secrets for a reason.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “What kind of reason?”

“Because they are dangerous things for people to know.” Drauglin’s voice had reassumed that flat, serious tone. “But sometimes they must be remembered. So that something can be done about them.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Naptali growled. “What is this secret?”

“To be honest?” Drauglin paused. He ran a hand slowly back through his cropped, greying hair and sighed. “I don’t know. All I know is that something is there. And it is nothing good.”

“You’ve got to give me more than that, Drauglin!” She exclaimed.

“I wish I could,” he said. “But I don’t know what it is. I just know that there is a lot of magical energy being disturbed. And there’s some kind of underground complex.”

“How do you know all this?” Naptali asked, her face hard.

“I felt that disturbance too. From a lot further away.” His eyes were flooded with concern. “I found the entrance yesterday. I walked only a short distance inside before I saw a corpse. The injuries it had sustained, it had to have been caused by magic.”

“I understand,” she said flatly. “We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll ready my weapons and get supplies.”

“That’s it?” Drauglin asked.

“What else is there to say?” she replied. “I’ll make sure the town is prepared in case we don’t return.”

“You have a very bleak outlook at times, did you know that, Naptali?”

It was Naptali’s turn to answer with a dark tone. “Not all of us have magic to alter our destiny.”

She was glad Drauglin knew her well enough to answer only with silence.

They woke early the next day. They ate a full breakfast in a wisp of sunlight, and set off before it was fully risen. Both carried a small pack of food supplies, and Naptali carried her sword and bow. She had offered Drauglin a lightweight weapon, but he produced an ornate dagger and refused.

“No offence, Naptali, but if I have to use this, I doubt whatever you can offer will protect me more.” Her simple shrug was the only natural reply.

The hours of walking passed with light conversation, with both recounting events since they had last met. Drauglin shadowed Naptali, for her natural affinity with the forest produced an easy path for him to follow. Across the light scrub she found flat ground, through the trees she made a straight path, and in dense brush she trod an invisible track through seemingly impenetrable vegetation.

“Naptali, I think you have your own kind of magic in weaving through this forest,” Drauglin commented. She stared back with a blank expression, an icy disposition lurking beneath the surface.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I know how you feel about magic.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, and then continued walking in silence.

A few moments later, Naptali came to an abrupt halt. Drauglin, with his head still partially down to avoid her gaze, bumped into her back. She gave a short curse as she grabbed onto a sapling. Her body teetered forward over the steep bank of a river, the small tree stretching painfully under her weight. Drauglin recovered quickly from his surprise and grabbed her free arm, tugging her back from the edge.

“Thank you,” she said. “Though it helps if you look where you’re going.”

He gave her a sheepish expression, and then looked at the river. “I don’t remember this.”

Naptali looked at him quizzically. “I’m not sure how you missed it,” she said. “It’s virtually impossible to cover this territory without crossing it.” She looked left and right in vague annoyance. “But I thought it narrowed enough that we could leap it somewhere around here.”

“Why don’t we just wade through?” Drauglin asked.

Naptali scanned the river for a moment then pointed a finger at the water. Drauglin followed her motion to a patch of shade. Just as he was about to speak, a bird dived down and skimmed the surface of the smooth river. In an instant, the dark patch darted forth and a mouth filled with teeth emerged from the surface. A flash of those stained daggers enveloped the hapless bird and disappeared like a nightmare beneath the impenetrable murk.

“Good answer,” said Drauglin.

“Come on.” Naptali motioned for him to follow her.

“No,” he said. “My turn to find the path.” He signalled for her to come to him. “Take my hand.”

“What?” She asked. “Why?” She grimaced as her hand clasped his. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” he answered.

Naptali felt her stomach churn as Drauglin’s eyes gave a brief look of concentration. Time felt as though it were slowed down and the air crackled with a silent sound that Naptali knew was magic. She almost felt compelled to shut her eyes, but she kept them open and saw the colours of the scenery warp into a green mud. As the blur cleared, Naptali saw they were on the opposite side of the bank

“Next time I won’t ask,” she said. “Though it still doesn’t solve the problem that I’m now not sure exactly where we are.”

“That’s not a problem either,” said Drauglin. “I know where we need to go.” He concentrated for a moment, and Naptali felt the distinct unease of magic pulse through her. “It’s that way.” Drauglin pointed a finger slightly to their left. “And it’s not very far away.” Naptali shook off the unnatural feeling of Drauglin’s spell and started moving in the direction that he had pointed.

The sun had already passed its peak and they had still not eaten since morning, so a trace of hunger lingered in Naptali’s stomach. She had a vague desire to stop and eat, but black clouds loomed with malice, so grabbed an apple from her pack and ate as they moved. She felt an uncomfortable itch on her skin for an instant, and turned back to see Drauglin with a peeled orange in his hand. “Can’t you use your hands like normal people?” She asked.

Naptali had almost finished her apple when they came to the clearing. The forest suddenly gave way to erratic grassland dotted with the remnants of buildings. The ruins were an oddity amongst the substantial foliage, for they marked an otherwise interrupted wilderness. There was something amiss in its presence, its silence dissonant against the typical murmur of the forest.

Naptali felt a chill rush through her body involuntarily, and looked at Drauglin accusingly.

“That wasn’t me,” he said worriedly. “I’m not sure where it came from.” His eyes glazed in concentration for an instant. “There’s nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” Naptali asked.

“I can’t feel or see anything,” Drauglin replied. “There’s nothing around here that…” He suddenly looked at Naptali in shock as they both felt a massive surge of energy.

“What was that?” she exclaimed.

“We need to get to that complex. It’s coming from inside.” Drauglin’s tone was severe.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Naptali.

“I’ll give you the answer when I know it,” he replied. “Follow me.”

They moved with measured urgency, eager to find the source of the disturbance, but also wary of its possible danger. Drauglin led with the confidence of conviction, his normally troubled step finding easy purchase on the undulating terrain. His steps travelled in a near straight line, his faultless memory taking them directly to a near invisible arrangement of stones near the edge of the clearing. “Here,” he said.

Naptali looked around, confused. “I don’t see anything.”

“Not yet,” Drauglin replied. A soft whisper parted his lips as his hand made a small circular motion at the stones embedded in the ground. Three pale flashes of light sprung forth from his hand and danced around the rocks. Their spirals lasted momentarily, then burnt out into nothingness.

Naptali stood bewildered for an instant, before her expression turned to one of amazement as the ground began to shimmer and fade before her eyes. The grass disappeared to show a small staircase of stone leading into darkness underground.

“A concealed entrance?” She asked incredulously.

“The mark of a secret that is supposed to be forgotten,” Drauglin said.

Naptali gave him an admonishing look. “Not everything can be fixed by hiding it.”

“Then let us determine which one of the two this is.” He motioned for her to go down. “Quickly, let's move.”

---------- To be concluded

Out Of Place (Redux)

2007-06-21T19:18:00.001+10:00

Yes, I'm reposting this story. But that's because I got some excellent feedback from some people and reworked it a fair bit. It definitely reads a lot better and suffers markedly less from vocabulary indulgence. That is one habit I'm trying to curb. I hope you like the reworked version.

The man wandered awkwardly in the almost faded light. He stumbled on road and pavement, with a gait reserved for those whose perceptions are addled. His hair was unkempt, his large black overcoat torn, and his shoes drowning in fresh mud and slime. There was a faint hint of alcohol about him, though his glazed eyes suggested that was not the full extent of his stupor.

People shuffled uneasily out of his path as he moved, not wanting to pass close by. They exchanged glances as they saw him and as they left him behind, their looks varying from vague disdain to sharp contempt. He was not something that belonged. This vagabond was encroaching upon their suburban dream, and they were making their disapproval known. The hushed whispers continued as they walked on, leaving a lingering taste of his trespass in utopia. He was a discordant note in the cheerful atmosphere of a Friday night, and an unmelodic hush trailed in his wake.

Everything about his appearance was amiss. His manner diminished the class of his obviously expensive clothes, for no respectable person would allow them to be so filthy. He was an incongruous mix of oblivion and haughtiness, which only served to amplify the distaste he was cultivating. He was what the people would call a social outcast or degenerate, and he cast a disagreeable pallor upon their world.

He lingered outside a restaurant, its fragrances demanding his vapid attention. Halted in the divide between people inside and the potential patrons wandering past, an air of disquiet loomed. A young man and woman stared at him briefly from their indoor refuge, noting him as an aberration surrounded by a wealth of upper-middle class socialites and couples. The unceasing stares eventually served their purpose, and the man moved towards the dishevelled streets of ramshackle slums.

Yet interlopers were not welcomed to this part of town with open arms either, or even welcomed at all. A cramped warren of makeshift sleeping arrangements and unmarked territories was no place for a newcomer, not when there were already too many arguing over far too little.

Here the reception was not one of distaste, but instead of seething hostility, a bubbling hatred threatening to turn into action against him, be it a venomous outburst or physical violence. Even the smallest things came close to breaking the tense armistice, be it a brief pause in step, a carelessly condescending gaze, or an expression of excess interest. The gap between caution and a catalyst for conflict was infinitesimal.

His formless drifting took him to the entrance of a seedy nightclub, the air redolent with testosterone and oestrogen. The throbbing aura of music wafted from inside and the hormonal desperation of youth filled the senses of partygoers, their desire hinging upon the generosity of the bouncers at the door. The revellers leered at him and muttered softly to each other. He wandered too close to one girl, prompting a yell, “Get lost, you dirty old man!”

In his disjointedness, the man attempted to cut across the line and wander inside without the requisite assent from the two sentinels. Their emotionless façade dropped instantaneously at this insult to their station. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” One asked harshly.

The man paused only for a moment before continuing forwards, at which point the bouncers expelled him from the mouth of the hubbub. The unexpected movement allowed a quick dash for containment from the front few people of the procession, who capitalised on the momentary distraction to make their break for the sexually charged atmosphere waiting indoors.

This migration went unnoticed as the man catapulted backwards with startling rapidity. His loose frame proved more flimsy than expected, evidenced by the ease with which he was propelled. A quick flash of light took all by surprise as the last of the gatecrashers disappeared inside, and perception was an unknown faculty for a brief instant as it drowned in a cacophony of misfortune.

The car stopped with a brusque shriek of rubber smearing across the road. A distraught figure convulsed inside, gripping the steering wheel with her cement grip and unable to move except for an overpowering involuntary reaction. The man’s body had been hideously thrust in a fresh direction from the impact, the violent switch twisting his body before depositing him callously across the kerb.

An atmosphere of vile reality accosted the onlookers, transfixing them with its tyrannical volume. A silent scream of terror ascended from each mind, but all were suffocated by the torment of the overzealous bouncer.

An ostentatious youth flew forward to lay his impact upon the scene, demanding attention as the first to recover from the jarring display. Everyone else was still paralysed by a scene continuously replaying in a trance grotesquely matching the pale rhythm of dance music. He crouched rapidly over the body, the unnatural pose of the head indicating without doubt the veracity of the nightmare.

The driver eventually opened her car door tentatively, as though by moving slowly the man might not be dead when she arrived. Yet there would be no salvation from the empty guilt that washed her in a wave of blackened horror, no redemption from a faultless inability to react and prevent an instantaneous catastrophe.

The crowd paused in united uselessness against the sobriety of this moment on a backdrop of mirth. Not a single person had noticed the furtive movement thieving the man’s bulging wallet, which was a final act of indignity against this victim of wretched circumstance. That was only hinted at by the keys to his mangled sports car clutched tightly in his battered hand, and the shard from a bottle of wine lying anomalous in a coat pocket.

The Journey

2007-06-17T13:43:00.000+10:00

Here's another story that I just finished yesterday. This story was kind of weird as the idea started off with the ending. It felt strange to be writing partially in reverse, which was probably also what gave rise to me writing in present tense, something that I've never really done. That felt bizarre as well, but I think I actually like the way it turned out. As always, any feedback, anonymous, attributed, positive or negative, is definitely welcome.

The sun glowers oppressively as the rocks give way under Alex’s feet. The precarious scree filters angrily down the hillside while he stumbles and falls, desperately hunting for purchase. The unsympathetic ground gives him no charity, but continues to gently dissuade his ascent. The small rocks eventually crush themselves into an uneasy footing with great reluctance, allowing him momentary relief.

Alex pauses, shaking his head in silent disdain at the disagreeable slope. He looks backs to the distance he has already covered, and is grateful that he slid back less distance than the previous times the rocks have given way beneath him. The gentle incline of the scree means that it is not dangerous to ascend, merely troublesome. He knows that his perseverance will see him to the next plateau before the final ascent, but wonders how it seems like such insurmountable terrain. Something in the continual setbacks drains his optimism, but his commitment is steadfast with devotion, so he tenaciously sets his mind against that of the mountain.

The sky is ostentatiously clear, its vibrant blue almost mocking Alex and his struggle. A solid week of rain has inundated the ground with ferocity, making veritable mud pools in the ground, and provided lubrication to facilitate the shamelessly hostile movement of the scree. Yet today is cruelly magnanimous with liberal heat, and Alex can almost feel the curve of every stone reflectively emblazoned upon his palm as he crawls up the slope.

A moist heat swamps Alex, the humidity and his own sweat combining to stick to his skin. His small backpack clings wet to his back, its insulation merely amplifying the feeling of the tepid damp. This wetness is only reduced on the portions of his exposed skin, where the high temperature of the midday sun drills upon him to boil away the water into the already flooded air. But despite the soggy sensation that surrounds him, his still longs to continually drink the water from his cool water bottle.

Making a pact with himself to reach the top of this slope before pausing, Alex braces for what must be another impending scrabble of rocks. They shift uneasily beneath his boots, daring him to continue, goading him into a temporary confidence. He moves with measured caution, shifting his weight as the rocks protest his ascent. His feet are slow enough that the rocks cannot rouse from their fickle position, and his boots eventually tread with belligerence on unyielding stone.

He looks at the undulating flat with a slight sense of relief, then glances backward to gloat on his victory over the antagonistic scree. He knows he will come back down this way, but then their nature will serve his purpose, though he knows know that they will be wholly stubborn and make his descent troublesome too. He knows that he is likely to roll his ankle if he tries to make his way down with excess zeal. But the descent is not his concern now, for he can see the final peak a relatively short distance away. Taking another sweet swig of his beloved water, he drives forth to his destination. The muddy ground is pliant beneath his heavy stride, accepting his boot too eagerly, making headway just faintly more tiresome than it should be.

A stifling breeze continues to rise as he walks, its unpleasant touch adding to the difficulty of his passage. A large hill to Alex’s left poses as a windbreak to shield him from the brunt of the force, but merely seems to channel the wind into a path against him. The hill gradually falls away as he continues, prompting the wind to attack more fiercely from the side. The wet wind thrusts angrily through his short hair, assaulting him through the thin trees that lean towards the ill-defined track. But with each step, his burden seems lighter, for he knows the summit is close.

The plateau narrows, the cliffs to either side shrinking closer as the last hill looms above. Vegetation hugs the ground in an attempt to hide from the turbulent wind, roots clinging tightly to maintain their unrelenting grip in the softened dirt. A deep valley stretches to the right, a cold, inviting lake dwelling in the distance. Its surface shows no flecks from the wind here, the spacious landscape dulling the tempest into a placid whisper in that faraway place. A glass upon the high ground, it shows the lucidity of the sky with infallible detail, as though diving into it would be like flying through the vibrant blue overhead.

Stone abruptly ends the loosely shaped dirt track, the path now a jagged assortment of rock. This indistinct trail drops down slightly before coming to a small basin at the foot of the summit, a small depression that temporarily shields Alex from the harsh airstream. The wind whistles exuberantly through an apparent cairn in the small ridge, but the hollow is tranquil.

Alex pauses a moment before he starts to ascend the last hill, jarred by a sudden wave of signs. Screaming for attention amidst the muted colours of the natural scenery, their bright and loud demeanour is an affront to his senses. They warn of the danger of the final ascent and the peak itself, dangers Alex is aware of acutely, for he knows that a fraction of incaution can be treacherous on even the most benign terrain. Their appearance is still coarse and disrespectful, despite the necessity of admonishing people that they are not the masters of this land.

As he climbs upwards, Alex feels the wind redouble its ferocity in some final attempt to dissuade him from his journey. He is resolute and steadfast, unfailing in the determination of achieving his goal. Despite the doubts he has had in coming this far through both torrential downpour and now oppressive heat and humidity, he knows not even the harshest of conditions can make him retreat from this impassioned task.

Each step and movement upwards on the perilous rock is steeled with conviction. A small rock is dislodged by his passing, and skitters away vigorously over the edge, clattering several times on the near-sheer cliffs before the sound is lost to the vast void below. He is startled by the proximity of the edge and his fingers grip tighter on the steep ground, his hunched form clinging in sympathetic fear.

The ascent is harsh and flecked with jagged stone to the top. There is no marked passage for Alex to follow, only the way that his mind conjures as the safest and clearest in the brief period before his every action. His movements verge on being rushed out of desire to be free of the furious unnamed presence wishing his failure, tempered only by the overwhelmingly stubborn need to succeed.

A sudden violent gust of wind catches Alex off guard and he slips hazardously. Seeing the edge desperately close, he claws desperately at the toothed rocks, demanding they accept his grip. His muscles tighten in a strangling embrace as the stone pokes his flesh with venom, and his balance is restored at the expense of his bravery.

The path down looks so short and safe, juxtaposed with the protracted, unyielding path ahead. His fear engulfs him and insists upon capitulation, and he is frozen in place as his mind is pitted against the malevolent spirit of nature. He remembers his vow as he placed his first footstep upon the track, his vow that he would make it to the top, and it calms him and compels his resolve return.

With his commitment again unhindered, Alex hugs the rock with newfound energy and speed. Each movement feels easier as his terror fades into a memory that he uses to drive himself higher. His rise is accompanied by a gradual diminishing of ferocity in the wind and terrain, as though they are reluctantly succumbing to the reality of his inevitable victory.

Unexpectedly, the slope falls away, and Alex finds himself able to stand. From focussing only on his next movement, he finds that he has reached the top without even knowing it. A wave a relief saturates him with elation as he takes in the view around him.

A beauty ineffectually related through words and pictures surrounds him, drowning him with its serene vision and colour. He is imbued with an empowering harmony that swells from this solitary paradise. Peaks of multicoloured rock stare up at him with sullen envy, while trees wave from below with celebratory thought. Even birds circle beneath, trying to ride the breeze upwards to meet him, but he is unmatched as he surveys the vast landscape.

Glancing about the height of the climb, he is taken by the enormity of his achievement. Momentarily, he has conquered this peak, successfully facing down the challenges it has placed in his path. But he knows that it has not always been as such, and that it has proven triumphant against others. He wanders sombrely towards one edge of the summit with his eyes downcast, searching for a sign he knows will be there.

In a moment, his vision is centred upon it, a small cross, carved into an indefatigable stone. He shut his eyes in silent respect for a few precious moments, before lowering himself to the ground and heading over the sloped edge that it marks. There is no real drop, just a steep incline to a small ledge below, a recess in the shadow of the peak. A cliff looms only a few short steps away, but he is unafraid, for the ground is sure and the air only speaking with a soft flitter. He unzips the top of his small backpack and removes a plain silver urn with slightly shaking hands.

The moment takes forever as he wills himself to action. He unclasps the protective lever holding the top of container closed, and then removes the top. This too is an unending second. Frozen in an instant as his mind travels years, he is unable to move or do anything but react to the varying gushes of wind as they breeze overhead with a solemnly distressed tempo.

With the paralysis gone, Alex is able to slowly move his body. The motion is surreal to his senses as he leans forward minutely, his arm stretching out then falling like a lever as his hand tips while gripping tightly. As it lays in the balance, his muscles almost freeze again, as though they are unable to tip the last tiny distance required. But he overrules their crude protest, and the ashes flood freely in a fine dust. They trickle loose with the wind, captured by the flows of current as they unchain from each other, a mist of grey ascending and spreading with liberated vitality.

Echoes whisper of the past as this moment suspends in time. Passion, tribulations, endurance and dedication whirl in a vortex of precious memories that are contained within, a seemingly infinite bottle of emotion that sweeps through decades with a learned ease. They are reminiscing of ageless sentiment, imparting this feeling by infusing it firmly with future, an unlosable component of life itself. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, the moment is gone, and the last speck of grey vanishes into the undisturbed tranquillity.

The urn empty, he turns and places it in a small recess in the face of the cliff, safe from the forces that might seek to dislodge its vigil. He leans down and removes a small chisel and hammer from his pocket, then carefully begins carving into the statuesque rock that will be the urn’s only company on the small ledge. The writing is small by necessity and awkward by inability, but after slow effort, the work is completed. His feat accomplished, he breathes a sigh of relief. A rejuvenating air fills his lungs with renewed vigour, like a final gift of thanks for his efforts. It is an appreciative energy that he knows will sustain him for the lengthy return journey.

Days later, he returns home, through continued trudge then silent drive. The house is quiet as he opens the door, an invisible effigy of his solace omnipresent in the room. He feels reluctant to enter the shower and wash away the marks of his journey, as though they somehow diminish the reality of it all. Yet the soothing touch of its beads quickly releases the tension in his mind and body. His muscles twinge faintly from stress, but he knows he is not yet finished. He dressed and walks to his study, one final responsibility remaining.

His fingers clatter softly over his computer keyboard, a means to pass the news onto others. The cold electronic glare of his screen seems faint and contaminated after days and nights in the open air. He knows that he will likely not receive much response, only the soft knowledge of bewildered expressions as the words appear on screens in far reaching places. Some may politely request photographs, though he guesses that will probably be disappointed with those that he will provide.

Part of him laments the lack of interest he knows that his email will spark. He considers it sad that he was the only one who cared enough to make the journey, the only one with that required sense of desire to see it done. He knows that the others would have left the ashes in some accessible place for the convenience of respect. Kept in some easily accessible place, it would have been easy to pay the commonly expected tribute, not requiring the strenuous undertaking that was bequeathed. Alex sees the sentiment as a transgression of personal desire against emotional request and is thankful for his devotion.

Suddenly distracted by an influx of noise, he glances at his wife, holding their infant son as she arrives home. Babbling half-words, the baby is too young to understand what Alex has done, but one day Alex hopes he will understand. She sees his thoughtful gaze and returns it with a smile, a knowing measure of empathy. Supportive as ever, she rises slowly then walks over. Clasping his hand in hers, she looks solemnly at the photo from the summit, giving a soft, comforting squeeze.

Waves of doubt rush over Alex, for as much as he feels he has done the right thing, a sense of loss sweeps him. Only now does the impact press upon him of that passing, the magnitude of the emotion sweeping through and causing a tear to well and draw down his face. Yet he knows, somewhere, somehow, two souls will appreciate his journey. And he hopes that someday, another may inspect that ledge with curiosity and passion. For all that remains is an empty urn and a single inscription: As we never were, though may we always be.

Out Of Place

2007-06-07T17:49:00.000+10:00

It might be a day later than I'd hoped, but here it is. I may tweak it slightly more, but I was reasonably happy with it when I finished with it last night.

The man wandered incoherently in the almost faded light. He stumbled ungainly on road and pavement, with a gait reserved for those whose perceptions are addled. His hair was unkempt, his large black overcoat torn, his shoes drowning in fresh mud and slime. There was a faint hint of alcohol about him, though his glazed eyes suggested that was not the full extent of his stupor.
People shuffled uneasily out of his path as he moved, not wanting to pass close by. They exchanged glances as they saw him and as they left him behind, their looks varying from vague disdain to obtuse contempt. He was not something that belonged. This displaced vagabond was encroaching upon the serenity of their suburban dream, and they were making their disapproval known.
The hushed whispers continued as they walked on: a lingering taste of his trespass in their utopia; a discordant note in the normally bubbly atmosphere of a Friday night; an unmelodic hush trailing in his lumpen wake.
Everything about his appearance was loosely amiss. His dishevelled aura diminished the class of his clothes, possibly expensive, assuredly stolen. He bore a manner that was an incongruous mix of oblivion and haughtiness, only serving to amplify the distaste he was cultivating. He lingered outside a restaurant, the fragrances of evening meals demanding his vapid attention.
Halted in the divide between people inside and those seated at tables and chairs situated in the humid evening, an air of disquiet loomed. A young man and woman stared at him briefly from under the refuge of an umbrella, noting him as the aberration that he was, surrounded by a wealth of upper-middle class socialites and couples. His presence impinged on their enjoyment of the evening, what the people around would call a slovenly social outcast or degenerate, casting a disagreeable pallor upon the otherwise pleasant surrounds.
A zealous waiter hurried the man along anxiously, worried of the effect he was having on business. The unceasing stares eventually served their harsh purpose, and the man found his path weaving towards the dishevelled streets and ramshackle slums that were declared too close by the unashamedly pretentious.
Yet he would find no quarter that posed as friend here either, for interlopers were not welcomed with open arms. A cramped warren of makeshift sleeping arrangements and unmarked territories was no place for a newcomer, not when there were already too many arguing over far too little.
Here the reception was not one of distaste, but instead of seething hostility, a bubbling hatred constantly threatening to tip over into forthright action against him, be it a venomous outburst or physical violence. That anger held in the balance of manifesting several times; a brief pause in his step, a carelessly condescending gaze, and an expression of excess interest, all straddled the infinitesimal gap between antagonistic caution and catalyst.
His formless drifting shortly found him at the entrance to a seedy nightclub, the air redolent of testosterone and oestrogen. The throbbing aura of music wafted from inside and the hormonal desperation of youthfulness filled the senses of the eager partygoers, their desires hinging upon the generosity of the inexorable bouncers at the door.
In his disjointedness, the man attempted to cut across the line and wander inside without the requisite assent from the impassive sentinels. Their emotionless façade dropped instantaneously at this grave insult to their station, and ungraciously yet with characteristic indifference expelled him from the mouth of the hubbub. The unexpected movement gave rise to a quick dash for containment from the front few people of the procession, who capitalised on the momentary distraction to make their break for the sexually charged atmosphere waiting indoors.
This surreptitious migration went largely unnoticed as the man catapulted backwards with unexpected rapidity, his loose frame proving more flimsy than expected as evidenced by the ease with which he was propelled. A quick flash of light took all by surprise as the last of the interlopers disappeared inside, perception proving an abstruse faculty for that brief instant as it drowned in a cacophony of misfortune.
The car pulled to with the brusque shriek of rubber smearing across the road. A distraught figure convulsed with her hands gripping the steering wheel with a cement grip, unable to move except for the involuntary reaction that consumed her. The man’s body had been thrust hideously in a fresh direction from the impact from that new quarter, the violent switch twisting him in perverted means before depositing him callously across the kerb.
An atmosphere of vile reality accosted the onlookers, transfixing them with its tyrannical volume. A silent scream of terror ascended from each mind, but all were suffocated by the piercing anguish of the overzealous bouncer who was falling beyond reprieve into a pit of culpability summoned in an instant by his mind.
An ostentatious youth flew forward to lay his impact upon the scene, demanding attention as the first to recover from the jarring display that was continuously replaying in a trance grotesquely matching the pale rhythm of dance music. He crouched rapidly over the body, the unnatural pose of the head indicating without doubt the veracity of the nightmare.
The driver eventually opened her car door tentatively, as though by moving slowly the man might not be dead when she got there. Yet there would be no salvation from the empty guilt that washed her in a wave of blackened horror, no redemption from a faultless inability to react to prevent that ephemeral instant of catastrophe.
The crowd paused in united uselessness against the sobriety of this moment on a backdrop of mirth. Not a single person had noticed the furtive movement thieving the man’s wallet, a final act of indignity against this victim of wretched circumstance, only hinted at by the mangled key ring clutched tightly in his battered hand and the shard from a bottle of wine lying anomalous in his coat pocket.

Change and progress update

2007-06-06T00:23:00.001+10:00

First off, I just realised that I didn't have comments open to everyone, so unless people had a blogger account they probably couldn't have posted comments. Since I'm open to as much feedback as possible, I've just rectified that situation. Feel free to comment and provide constructive criticism as much as your heart desires. If you did or didn't like something, if you can put your finger on why, I'd love to hear it.

Secondly, I'm working on a new piece that I'm planning on submitting to a short story competition. Given the word limit is 1000 and I've already run up 750 words, I don't imagine it will be long before I finish. I'll tweak and post up here when I'm done (hopefully tomorrow) for feedback and your reading pleasure.

Negotiated (Excerpt 1)

2007-05-31T23:22:00.000+10:00

I thought it would be good to put an excerpt from an as yet unfinished piece of work. Like so many pieces, I started to diverge from the original plan I had. So often, it seems that things happen that way. Maybe I lack the required discipline to stick to the original plan. But often it seems that as I'm writing I decide on the fly that I don't like the character that I'm creating, and as soon as that happens, I start to change them. Not every character has to be likable, (and the definition of likable is very broad) but if it's a main character, I kind of feel as though they have to have something appealing about them.

Anyway, this excerpt is the start of the piece. I enjoyed writing it, and I hope it manages to evoke the chaos of the scene.

Oh, and just in case you're wondering, no, not all my writing involves guns, violence and crime.

The gunshots assaulted my ears with brutal force. I’d heard a gun fired before, but the reverberation and volume were amplified many times over from the close quarters and the featureless space of the bank. I’m not entirely certain what happened in those first few seconds. I was so shocked by the alien explosions that I couldn’t say for sure how many shots were fired.

An epidemic of panic tore through people’s minds, and I imagine half of them expected it to be the precursor so a bomb explosion from the way they almost killed themselves or any one in their path trying to escape. Others simply cowered helplessly on the floor in abject terror, unable to bring their bodies to move from the weakening fear that paralysed their muscles as much as their mind. Screams and shouts shattered and attempted in vain to overwhelm the terrifying blast of the weapon, as if it would somehow lessen the threat posed by the reality that had probably not been realised yet in most people’s minds except for recognising a source of danger.

Once the initial shock of the sound how registered properly in my brain, I realised there wasn’t any inanimate agent of death poised to blow everyone to oblivion. Of course, this wasn’t to say that there was no imminent danger, gunshots don’t get fired for no apparent reason. I had instinctively dropped low to the ground upon hearing them, my body reacting to the noise despite my conscious brain not having made sense of the situation immediately.

All of this took place in an adrenaline induced slow-motion scene through my eyes. The whole effect was a surreal and marginally disconcerting perception. While my life didn’t flash before my eyes as it is supposed to do before your death, seeing the ensuing chaos unfold in what felt like a detached position left me feeling strangely safe yet brutally cold. Unable to react as I saw a little girl’s legs swept out from underneath her by a businessman running for the door, watching helplessly as a young mother’s head diving to the ground after she tripped over a cowering teenager, and finally, the sheer terror written on the young bank teller’s face as she looked at the ominous black pistol that was pointed at her face.

I am certain it was only a few seconds from the time that the gunshot was fired from when I saw that standoff, though given my rampantly ethereal perception of time during that period, it could have been a minute and I would probably not have been able to say for certain. But I knew at that split second the pure horror that gripped the teller’s mind as she looked that instrument of death. The abject, paralysing dread was written unerringly over her in entirety, as though her body had been chiselled from stone merely to extol that one emotional state. It seemed to be combination of a desperate plea for her life in the face of the fearsome looking pistol directly in front of her, and a wail of despair at that failure of the supposedly failsafe security screen to drop and serve its only purpose of protecting her life, just as had they had done for all the other tellers.

As they so characteristically are, the criminal appeared entirely nondescript. Average height, average build, white male, somewhere around early 30s, brown hair; someone you could pass without ever considering them with a glance, except as another nameless individual to live out their life in complete obscurity. Not this one. He would be known, even if it was for his brief 15 seconds of fame as news headline, or be it only etched in the memories of the people in the bank.

Everyone had finally realised what was going on, though the complete silence from the part of the robber left some of them in two minds as to what to do. Some still fled the building, and the man seemed unperturbed by this. One man, however, had other ideas. He was not far from the gunman, and being low to the ground and behind, had the positioning to be able to reach him unawares, and the look on his face made it clear that was what he was about to attempt. I averted my eyes from him, and instead focused upon the teller and her plight, in case I should alert the gunman to the other man’s presence. I waited in anxious dread, fearful of the attempt escalating to a bloody mess.

The Dead Of Night

2007-05-31T22:56:00.000+10:00

This piece is something that I wrote some time ago. Not necessarily the best piece of work I have ever done, nor necessarily indicative of the rest of my writing, but it does have some elements that I can identify that are definitely my style. Arguably it's not the best thing to start off with, but I thought it'd be nice to put something in.

It was originally written for a short story competition, but when I read the winning pieces of that competition, it was obvious that they were looking for stories that were of an entirely different genre. Regardless, I hope that someone enjoys it.

The rhythmic pounding of Tyler’s heart threatened to drown the words coming from Aimee’s mouth. She slammed her fist down on the table startle him from the trance, and met his stupefied gaze with an angry glare.

“Tyler, pay attention!” She growled. “You have to concentrate if we’re going to do this properly. And we need to do it properly to pull it off.”

“I’m a little tense,” he admitted, struggling to quell the minute quivering of his hands. “I’m not sure whether we can do this. I don’t know that it’s a good idea.”

Aimee locked eyes with him, boring into his skull with her penetrating stare. “I know it’s a good idea, and that it’s going to work. You just have to make sure that you do what I tell you.” She licked her lips seductively, anticipating the outcome of the evening. “It’ll be all worthwhile.”

Tyler’s resolve withered with Aimee’s determination and innuendo, unable to contend with her passionate conviction. He reached forward and brushed her dark hair away from her face, then dropped his hand to cup her chin. Intoxicated as ever by her steadfast beauty, Tyler found himself nodding in unconscious agreement.

“Just trust me,” Aimee said, taking his hand in her own and lowering them to the table. “I’ll make sure everything works out.”

A resonant glow of courage filled Tyler as Aimee simpered at him, the corners of her mouth upturning in a striking infatuation. Her influence infused him with an innate inner strength that was as foreign to him as her impetuous nature. Aimee was overtly capricious in action and speech, presenting a strange dichotomy in her personality in contrast to her unwavering affection and determination. His heart quivered as he forced himself from his admiring introspection. “I trust you,” he whispered.

She laughed musically as she subtly beamed again. “I know you do.” Her expression instantly turned hard and she struck his hand. “So listen carefully! No more dreaming.”

Aimee wistfully described the plan to break in, her fingers dancing across sketched map of the grounds that Tyler knew without seeing. The house was more like a mansion than anything else, three expansive levels of bedrooms, bathrooms, staterooms and entertaining areas, all purported to be bedecked in the garb of the extravagantly rich. Aimee’s voice spoke grandiose tones, but her voice lowered to a mere whisper as she came to their prize.

“They are kept in a safe in the master bedroom, though I trust that you’ll be able to open it without much trouble?” The glint in her eyes betrayed the implicit trust she had in his ability.

He rolled his eyes in mock disdain. “I do it for a living,” he said. “Of course I can break into it.”

Aimee’s face broke into her subtle smile. “Good. We don’t want them to slip through our fingers.”

“Don’t worry, “ Tyler assured her. “We’ll get the diamonds.”

Aimee’s face flashed with fright at his words, as though the diamonds were a fleeting dream, and talking of them too loudly could cause them to vanish from existence. “Yes, we will. Let’s just make sure we do this right.” She ran over several final points, details that were insignificant in Tyler’s mind, but Aimee impressed the importance of even the smallest things.

She stopped talking and looked at him squarely. “Are you ready?” She asked.

Tyler merely nodded, not wanting to provoke further talk. Aimee understood and they both walked towards the mansion in silence marked only by the delicate smother of their feet on the soft grass.

The low stone fence surrounding the grounds proved only a minor nuisance to scale with their rope. Navigating their way silently towards the building through the throng of gardens was a greater challenge, the mass of dried leaves yearning to fill the night air with passive crunching. They approached the door tentatively, Aimee vigilant for any indication of another person’s presence as she motioned for Tyler to work the lock. Normal key locks were not Tyler’s specialty, but he still had the expertise to pick the lock in a short time.

Light filtered into the building through the multitude of windows, and their eyes barely had to adjust to the slight increase in darkness as they entered the main hallway. A silent understanding passed between them as they split directions, Tyler heading directly for the master bedroom while Aimee scouted the rest of the rooms.

Deliberate footsteps padded quietly upon the wooden floors as Tyler made his way towards the central staircase, the route ingrained in his memory from the map Aimee had forced him to study. A sudden creak arrested his movement, the disturbingly loud noise causing Tyler to anxiously check his surroundings. He halted for several moments before eventually convincing himself that he was alone. Tyler’s pace quickened to mount the stairs, then proceeded in a careful haste along the hallways to his destination.

Everything in the master bedroom was laid out as Aimee had described, lavishly adorned with refined beauty, sophisticated in its appearance without becoming haughty. Making his way to the back of the room, Tyler had no doubt that the painting covered the safe he was seeking. The troubling question of how Aimee had come by such details was a tinge of worry, but he ignored the thought as he revealed his objective.

The safe glared openly above the regal décor of the room, its bright steel lines breaking the muted aristocratic tones of the bedroom’s appeal. His fingers gently grasped the dial, and he caressed each click of the lock with his measured rotations. Scant time passed before the lock slotted into place, and Tyler pulled the door open as his fingers trembled in exhilaration.

The red cylinder cried for attention over the papers lying in the safe. Tyler pulled it out and uncapped it in a single, swift motion, exposing the treasure inside. An inimitable twinkle confirmed that the cylinder held the diamonds, and Tyler emptied some into his hand and marvelled at the clarity of their sparkling majesty. He stood momentarily spellbound before replacing the precious stones and sealing the container.

“Hold it right there!” The man’s voice pierced the silence with stern authority. “I’ve got my gun trained on you, and if you try anything, I will shoot. Raise your hands, slowly.”

Tyler was frozen in shock and fear, unable to will his body to move above the twitching that racked him.

“Raise your hands!” Yelled the man.

The tension seized Tyler with an unbreakable grip, his mind fleeting between ephemeral thoughts that disappeared before he could grasp them. Time passed in an instant, but dragged on for an eternity.

“Put your hands up now!” Screamed the man. He was slowly getting closer, taking measured steps in Tyler’s inaction.

A deafening crack split the air, the unmistakable sound of gunfire assaulting Tyler’s ears. His nerves utterly spent, he whirled about as he threw his arms in the air. A surreal image etched itself in Tyler’s vision as he took in the scene before him. The bloodied mark above the man’s dull eyes scarred Tyler’s memory as the lifeless body fell to the ground. Aimee’s face was implacable as she stared through the sights of the pistol she held in her rigid arms.

“What have you done?” Tyler stammered.

“What I needed to,” she answered coldly. She pointed the gun at him. “Now throw me the diamonds so I can get out of here.”

Emptiness filled Tyler’s mind as he struggled to comprehend her words, but the ominous barrel pointed at him left no room for misunderstanding. “What?”

“Throw me the diamonds, Tyler. I’m leaving. Alone.” Aimee eyes were stony with determination, an ineffable intensity evident in her harsh glare. “I will fire this gun again if you don’t.”

“But…” Tyler still wrestled with the depth of her betrayal.

“You fool,” she said disdainfully. “You really thought I was in with love you, didn’t you?” She chuckled callously, causing a chill to course through Tyler’s body. “I thought you might have realised, but obviously I was wrong. I’m surprised that you’re so unbelievable stupid.”

The bile in Tyler’s stomach burnt fervidly inside a pit of growing desolation. The gnawing illusion that he had suspended shattered brutally to slice through his heart with deadly efficiency. The effortlessness of Aimee’s lie had imbued him with an overwhelming passion, which now served to tear him apart as the ugly deception revealed the true intent of all her words and actions. He lifted the diamonds up reluctantly, “It was all just for these?”

“Just for those?” Aimee asked. “Just for a few million?” She looked incredulous. “It’s not a trifling amount. Well worth the small risk I’ve had to take.”

“You just killed a man!” Tyler yelled.

“And I’ll kill you too, Tyler,” she said. “Hand over those diamonds before you make me shoot again.”

He cast the container across the room in bleak fury, berating himself for his eager ignorance. The ignominious charity of hindsight cast Aimee in a light of truth, her intentions agonisingly evident from his new perspective, which only served to further expose his desperate clawing for the false affection she granted. “You’re going to kill me anyway,” he said, resigned in depression to the inevitability of his fate. “Just get it over with.”

“You’re stupid, Tyler, but you don’t deserve to die. I just never thought you’d have the guts to try and pull this off.” Aimee paused and smiled, considering her words as she appraised him. “I suppose my wiles,” she licked her lips with wicked seduction written in her eyes, “managed to convince you.” She lowered the gun slightly and squeezed the trigger.

A gruesome pain exploded in Tyler’s left leg as the bullet tore through his flesh. He shrieked as he collapsed to the ground in shocked agony. The ache that had shredded his heart from her words compounded with the lancing burn of his wounded thigh in a suffocating torture. His eyes bulged and shrank in a fevered, taunting throb that accompanied the pulsing of blood from his leg.

“Aimee,” he gasped.

“I don’t need you now, Tyler,” she said. “I don’t want you. I never wanted you.” She held up the container of diamonds, and smiled as she shook them. “Listen to that, Tyler. That’s what I came for, what I needed you for. I’m sure they’ll last me a while, or at least long enough for me to find someone else as gullible as you to help me with another heist.” She gave a conceited laugh, adoring her newfound future. “So long.” She turned on her heels as Tyler clutched at his leg.

The corpse that lay within arms length only served to magnify the pain of the wound. Tyler’s mind registered a realisation without conscious thought, and his arms instinctively reached out and clasped the dead man’s gun. The click of the safety was soft, but the distinctive noise was loud enough to force Aimee to turn.

“I can’t let you leave,” said Tyler. He held the gun steady despite the awkward tilt of his body and the agony of his injury. “You’re a murderer.”

“But you’re not,” she said. “You won’t kill me.” She disregarded his weak threat and turned to leave.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t shoot you,” he said.

Aimee stopped mid-turn and cast her gaze back at Tyler. “You’re not going to stop me, Tyler. I’m leaving with these. You need to decide whether you will let yourself live, or if you’re going to make me kill you.”

“I won’t let you get away with murder.”

Harsh laughter filled the room. “Someone willing to steal can’t take the high moral ground, Tyler.”

Revulsion flooded Tyler’s senses as he realised how easily he had been corrupted by desire. “No, but I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” he replied. “I’ll shoot you if I have to.” He hardened his voice as he tightened his grip on the pistol, aimed firmly at her legs.

The expression of Aimee’s face changed as she recognised a determination equally entrenched as her own. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She sighed. Her right arm came up and around, drawing her gun towards Tyler.

Another shot exploded loudly, the noise hammering into Tyler’s ears as shock jarred his senses. Aimee’s gun was fixed upon him, her expression still compassionless. Tyler squeezed twice more, the bullets finding their mark in Aimee’s chest and head. A choked gasp escaped her lips as comprehension struck, her face chiselled in astonishment as her final thoughts raced through her mind. She collapsed without repentance, incensed in death at the resolve Tyler had never before shown.

Tyler dropped the pistol fearfully, his nerves unravelled by the choice he had been forced to make. He felt a horrid illness as the grandfather clock struck the hour, the deaths of two people sitting on his conscience. A sudden faintness overwhelmed him, and he greeted the bleak oblivion of unconsciousness with remorse, chastising himself for falling prey to Aimee’s fabrication. Streams of reflection passed through his mind pitying her, and never acknowledging her final shot to his stomach.

Introduction

2007-05-31T22:31:00.000+10:00

The home of a bizarre mixture of creativity,
a strange concoction of imaginings.
Brewed together in this cauldron of brevity,
from whence the unusual springs.
The eclectic dream; of word and sight and sound it sings.

Welcome to The Eclectic Dream.
Born on a whim, as most ideas are, much like the passions, plots, poetry and prose that shall mark these pages. Read, and enjoy.