Singing in the Rain
Voting and Critique
It's TIME TO V-V-V-VOTE!
I encourage everyone that cares about the Contests(and if you don't already, I encourage you to begin now) to read through all of the wonderful entries submitted in the past two weeks, and cast their vote for their favorite! The submission with the most votes will be posted in a stickied "Trophy Case" thread where it will be displayed for all to see, and its author added to the list of Meritorious Writers at the very top!
Of course, this thread is also for critiquing. Note I said critiquing, not shitslinging. Constructive criticism only, please. Feel free to go through any one or all of the entries and give your two cents in helping your fellow writers improve! Those that have entered this contest are absolutely allowed to critique each others' works, contestants can absolutely vote, though not for their own, obviously.
Needless to say, using multiple accounts to vote more than once is NOT ALLOWED, and if an author uses alts to vote for their own work, they will be disqualified on the spot and disbarred from entering any future Contests.
Please vote based on the merits of the work, not for the sake of a clique or just because the author happens to be your friend. And mostly certainly do not attempt to have an author falsely disqualified because you don't happen to like them, because I'll fucking find out and it won't be pretty.
"Huh, so it begins again," a certain man said aloud to no one as he stood on the sidewalk and glanced up at the sky. The gentle blue was being rapidly hidden by grey and black clouds, signalling the start of yet another rain storm. For you see, it was always raining here. The Sunless City, some called it. Statistically, it was very much like any other modern city; dense buildings, costly housing, and terrible traffic at certain hours of the day. It would have been a decent enough place to live if not for the weather. Some liked the rain. Some did not. Almost none liked it for at least three hundred days every year. Take into account the lightning strikes and occasionally power outages, it was not a very happy place to live, and more than a few struggled with retaining happiness.
The man on the sidewalk was not one such person. He saw past the clouds to the cheery sun that was still glowing overhead, and anyone within earshot would invariable hear a "silver lining" to whatever situations and storms had come on that particular day. Not a single thing had happened in his life that he had not found a way to look over or around to it eventually dissipating.
He was not a particularly fortunate man at that. He was merely a blue-collar worker with a simple job, one that he had retained for going on forty years. He lived alone in a small house with just enough income to pay the rent and feed himself, yet he managed to stay positive. This was a trait that had followed him from the womb, since his name was, of all things, Bartholomew Goodheart.
Anyway, dear Bartholomew had been on a morning stroll to enjoy a rare sunny day. There were still puddles and dripping eaves, but at least the glinting rays gave the water a lovely golden shimmer. He had glanced up at the bright blue expanse with a twinkle in his eye and had given it a proper smile.
"Huh, a good bit of sun in the city. Pleasant change, it is," he said in his strange form of speak. As usual, a passerby gave him a strange look for a moment before continuing on their way, phone pressed to ear as they engaged in a bitter conversation. Bartholomew watched them pass, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah well, there's a silver lining. At least the man is being productive. More so than myself, I should say."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the clouds began to return to their place. The man audibly grumbled as he attempted to open an umbrella without hanging up his phone.
"Ah well, at least ye have an umbrella," Bartholomew called to him, showing the man his empty hands. All he had was a brown leather jacket and ragged pants, as he had left his own umbrella at home. The other fellow rolled his in a most rude manner and scurried away. The first of many raindrops splattered the shoulder of his jacket as he began to walk back across town. He had traveled some distance, you see, and was not within running distance of his place of residence, and so he did not bother. He hummed a tune that was almost impossible to hear, now that the rain was in full force.
"Ah well, at least there's no lightning," he said.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a brilliant bolt of electricity flashed across the sky, soon accompanied by a deep roar of thunder.
"Ah well, at least it's air-lightning," he said.
A moment later, a similar bolt flickered through the sky, drawn to a rod on a nearby building. It crackled loudly, causing him to wince ever so slightly.
"Ah well, at least we have the lightning-poles to keep it away from the ground," he said, increasing his pace.
To his surprise, a third bolt of lightning tore its way through the air and hit a nearby street lamp, causing the bulb to for a fraction of a second glow brightly before bursting into a shower of glass fragments.
"Ah well," Bartholomew said after a long pause, making a turn and heading into the last straight towards his residence. "At least I'm within eye-shot of home and heat."
He jumped as a car zoomed by him, swerving across the road and, to no one's surprise but his own, crashed directly into his house. A large portion of the car was now occupying his living room. The engine came to an abrupt halt and, with a grunt, the driver shoved the door open and climbed out, apparently unharmed. Bartholomew nodded at him in approval.
"Ah well, at least the driver's not hurt."
The driver looked down at his stomach, turned very pale, and collapsed dead on the pavement. Bartholomew stood still for a moment, then shrugged.
"Ah well, at least the car can be towed. Shan't be an easy repair but it's only a building after all."
A quiet crackle came from the vehicle as a loose wire in Bartholomew's home sparked, making contact with the gaseous fumes that had been spilling into his house from the now empty tank beneath the car. With a brilliant glow that would make the sun ever so slightly jealous, the house erupted in flames.
At this point, one would likely stop pressing their fate and perhaps seek shelter elsewhere. Bartholomew Goodheart was no such man. Absolutely refusing to turn aside his stance from five or six consecutive coincidences, he spoke again:
"Ah well, at least I've got a little money in me pocket."
"Oh?" a harsh voice said beside him. He turned and found himself facing a man in a hoodie who had just emerged from a nearby alleyway. He had covered half his face with a scarf and was wielding a rather large pistol that was aimed in the direction of Mr. Goodsoul's head.
"Hand it over. Now."
Bartholomew raised his hands in surrender, then slowly removed his wallet and tossed it to the man, who scooped it up and shoved it into a pocket. He turned to retreat into the alley as a voice called to him.
"Ah well, at least I've got good health."
The robber turned back around in surprise, still waving the gun haphazardly. He was a rather inexperienced sort of robber and, as a result, did not have the safety engaged. He shot Bartholomew in the leg, causing him to collapse to the ground in a poorly-placed puddle. Wincing in pain and grabbing the injured limb, Bartholomew searched his mind for a good thing to find about this situation. He admitted that he was running short on them by now. The robber was still standing nearby in shock, seemingly unsure of whether he should run or call for help before his victim bled to death. Bartholomew caught sight of him and forced a smile.
"Ah well," he said weakly. "At least I've only been shot once."
The robber shot him again for, at this point, no real reason. Somewhere deep inside Bartholomew, an organ exploded.
Aware that he likely only had minutes to live, the poor man uttered one final positive observation. One that absolutely could not be altered. One that was so conclusive that it was at this point in history no more than a joke.
"Ah well...at least...Hitler is dead."
The robber paused, then lowered his gun and removed his hood and scarf. Bartholomew's eyes widened in shock as he saw a familiar cut of hair and mustache, one that had not been seen for many years. The man grinned an evil grin, staring him down with dark, sinister eyes. He said the last word Bartholomew Goodheart would ever hear:
"NEIN!"
The man on the sidewalk was not one such person. He saw past the clouds to the cheery sun that was still glowing overhead, and anyone within earshot would invariable hear a "silver lining" to whatever situations and storms had come on that particular day. Not a single thing had happened in his life that he had not found a way to look over or around to it eventually dissipating.
He was not a particularly fortunate man at that. He was merely a blue-collar worker with a simple job, one that he had retained for going on forty years. He lived alone in a small house with just enough income to pay the rent and feed himself, yet he managed to stay positive. This was a trait that had followed him from the womb, since his name was, of all things, Bartholomew Goodheart.
Anyway, dear Bartholomew had been on a morning stroll to enjoy a rare sunny day. There were still puddles and dripping eaves, but at least the glinting rays gave the water a lovely golden shimmer. He had glanced up at the bright blue expanse with a twinkle in his eye and had given it a proper smile.
"Huh, a good bit of sun in the city. Pleasant change, it is," he said in his strange form of speak. As usual, a passerby gave him a strange look for a moment before continuing on their way, phone pressed to ear as they engaged in a bitter conversation. Bartholomew watched them pass, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah well, there's a silver lining. At least the man is being productive. More so than myself, I should say."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the clouds began to return to their place. The man audibly grumbled as he attempted to open an umbrella without hanging up his phone.
"Ah well, at least ye have an umbrella," Bartholomew called to him, showing the man his empty hands. All he had was a brown leather jacket and ragged pants, as he had left his own umbrella at home. The other fellow rolled his in a most rude manner and scurried away. The first of many raindrops splattered the shoulder of his jacket as he began to walk back across town. He had traveled some distance, you see, and was not within running distance of his place of residence, and so he did not bother. He hummed a tune that was almost impossible to hear, now that the rain was in full force.
"Ah well, at least there's no lightning," he said.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a brilliant bolt of electricity flashed across the sky, soon accompanied by a deep roar of thunder.
"Ah well, at least it's air-lightning," he said.
A moment later, a similar bolt flickered through the sky, drawn to a rod on a nearby building. It crackled loudly, causing him to wince ever so slightly.
"Ah well, at least we have the lightning-poles to keep it away from the ground," he said, increasing his pace.
To his surprise, a third bolt of lightning tore its way through the air and hit a nearby street lamp, causing the bulb to for a fraction of a second glow brightly before bursting into a shower of glass fragments.
"Ah well," Bartholomew said after a long pause, making a turn and heading into the last straight towards his residence. "At least I'm within eye-shot of home and heat."
He jumped as a car zoomed by him, swerving across the road and, to no one's surprise but his own, crashed directly into his house. A large portion of the car was now occupying his living room. The engine came to an abrupt halt and, with a grunt, the driver shoved the door open and climbed out, apparently unharmed. Bartholomew nodded at him in approval.
"Ah well, at least the driver's not hurt."
The driver looked down at his stomach, turned very pale, and collapsed dead on the pavement. Bartholomew stood still for a moment, then shrugged.
"Ah well, at least the car can be towed. Shan't be an easy repair but it's only a building after all."
A quiet crackle came from the vehicle as a loose wire in Bartholomew's home sparked, making contact with the gaseous fumes that had been spilling into his house from the now empty tank beneath the car. With a brilliant glow that would make the sun ever so slightly jealous, the house erupted in flames.
At this point, one would likely stop pressing their fate and perhaps seek shelter elsewhere. Bartholomew Goodheart was no such man. Absolutely refusing to turn aside his stance from five or six consecutive coincidences, he spoke again:
"Ah well, at least I've got a little money in me pocket."
"Oh?" a harsh voice said beside him. He turned and found himself facing a man in a hoodie who had just emerged from a nearby alleyway. He had covered half his face with a scarf and was wielding a rather large pistol that was aimed in the direction of Mr. Goodsoul's head.
"Hand it over. Now."
Bartholomew raised his hands in surrender, then slowly removed his wallet and tossed it to the man, who scooped it up and shoved it into a pocket. He turned to retreat into the alley as a voice called to him.
"Ah well, at least I've got good health."
The robber turned back around in surprise, still waving the gun haphazardly. He was a rather inexperienced sort of robber and, as a result, did not have the safety engaged. He shot Bartholomew in the leg, causing him to collapse to the ground in a poorly-placed puddle. Wincing in pain and grabbing the injured limb, Bartholomew searched his mind for a good thing to find about this situation. He admitted that he was running short on them by now. The robber was still standing nearby in shock, seemingly unsure of whether he should run or call for help before his victim bled to death. Bartholomew caught sight of him and forced a smile.
"Ah well," he said weakly. "At least I've only been shot once."
The robber shot him again for, at this point, no real reason. Somewhere deep inside Bartholomew, an organ exploded.
Aware that he likely only had minutes to live, the poor man uttered one final positive observation. One that absolutely could not be altered. One that was so conclusive that it was at this point in history no more than a joke.
"Ah well...at least...Hitler is dead."
The robber paused, then lowered his gun and removed his hood and scarf. Bartholomew's eyes widened in shock as he saw a familiar cut of hair and mustache, one that had not been seen for many years. The man grinned an evil grin, staring him down with dark, sinister eyes. He said the last word Bartholomew Goodheart would ever hear:
"NEIN!"
by @Mattchstick
Everyone who saw the grey sky knew it would start to rain sooner or later. While it had been a light grey that morning, the colour had slowly turned into a dark grey that made people wonder why it wasn’t raining yet.
Watching the clouds didn’t change anything about their fate, so the people working the land paid no more attention to it. If it would rain, it would rain. If not, they would stay dry, but no-one expected to stay dry.
The same counted for the man walking over the earthen path. The only precaution he had taken was putting his lute on his back and make sure his cloak fully covered it. The instrument was his most valuable possession and he needed it to perform. Songs sounded better when there was music accompanying the words and if, for whatever reason, he couldn’t sing he could still play his lute.
Mikhal, the travelling bard, continued down the path. There were some trees alongside of it, they didn’t seem like they would really shelter him from heavy rain. So far it had remained dry and he was well on his way to the next city, but it wouldn’t hurt to look for possible shelter. With clouds as dark as these in the sky, it would be a miracle if he would stay dry.
Soon the first drops fell from the sky. He barely noticed it at first, he saw the drops of water before he felt them. The hat on his head shielded him from the rain, at least for a bit.
With every step he took, the drops followed each other to the earth in an increased speed. The thick cloak did a decent job keeping his body dry and his hat kept his head warm, but Mikhal had to admit this was one of the downsides of a travelling existence. Being cold and wet was something no-one wanted, himself included. The curled hair sticking out of his hat soon collected so much weather it smoothed out the curls and stuck the hair to his skin.
He stopped for a moment and watched the farmers work their field, he didn’t doubt they were complaining about the weather, but they would get their job done regardless. Another thought crossed his mind: if there were farmers there, there had to be farm around here too. Maybe he could find shelter and a fire there. Not all farmers were keen on strangers, but most offered hospitality to travellers.
As he walked down the path, looking for the farmhouse, he hummed a few tones. And a moment later he started to sing.
He stopped and decided to make something more suitable for this weather, but using the same melody.
He chuckled to himself, there was certainly a song in there. A very promising start. Something about an old knight with old equipment going from village to village to see if there were any monsters to fight. And of course, he walked through rain.
Well, that wasn’t perfect, but the song didn’t have to be completed now. He tried to come up with a good word that rhymed with land and that could be used in the song, when he noticed someone down the path. A woman with long, white hair stood next to a beautiful white horse. She had her hand on it’s flank, and the moment he focused on the hand he figured that rhymed.
Not perfect, but it was a work in progress. He walked towards her and nodded politely, it surprised him how young she looked. Most women he had seen with such white hair were old, many women didn’t even reach the age that would turn their hair white. If he had to guess she was in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Good day to you,” he said. “Looking for a shelter as well?”
The woman looked up at the clouds with a vague smile. “No,” she replied, “I like this weather.”
“Surely you must be cold,” Mikhal commented, looking at her clothes. The light-blue dress seemed to be of a light fabric, it was wet and obviously wouldn’t protect her against the rain.
“I’m fine.” The woman looked at him. “What brings you on the road today?”
If he had to guess he’d say came from somewhere in the northern regions, her accent gave that away. That could explain why the cold didn’t bother her that much. “I’m travelling to the next city,” he explained. “If I would have found a shelter I would sit the rain out, but alas, that is not the case.” He bowed to her. “I am Mikhal, a bard.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mikhal. My name is Meria.”
Mikhal smiled and looked from her to her horse, he walked a bit closer so he could pet it. His fingers touched the white fur on the snout and the horse seemed to enjoy that. “A tame horse,” he said. “And a beautiful one too.”
“I do suggest you’re careful with Bäckahäst.”
As soon as he heard that name he pulled his hand back as if he had burned it and he stared at the white horse. He knew that name, there were stories about a creature called Bäckahäst, sometimes also called Kelpie or Ceffyl Dŵr, depending on where the story originated. A water spirit in the shape of a beautiful, white horse and the person foolish enough to try and ride it, because it seemed so tame, would notice their legs got stuck on the back. Then the water horse would run into a body of water, drowning their victim and eat that person.
“You travel with one?” Mikhal asked, astonishment visible on his face.
“Well, he noticed he couldn’t drown me,” Meria said with an amused tone in her voice, looking at the horse who nodded once, much to Mikhal’s surprise. “And after we talked I asked him if he wanted to travel with me and he did.”
“You talked… can they speak?”
Meria shook her head. “No, they understand the human tongue, but don’t speak it. Some of the older ones may develop a sort of telepathy. Only a few master the ability to transform themselves into a human and in that shape they can talk, but in their original shape they can’t. This one doesn’t transform nor does it have telepathy, but I can sense the thoughts of the sentient, intelligent water creatures.”
“And you can’t drown.”
Instead of answering, Meria looked at him. Mikhal wasn’t sure why she was looking at him when he suddenly noticed he didn’t feel the rain anymore. He saw the rain, it fell all around him, but it didn’t touch him.
“I can control water,” she explained, releasing her control over the falling raindrops and Mikhal once again got rained upon.
“Why don’t you keep yourself dry then?” he asked.
“Because I like water.” She turned to her companion, who didn’t seem bothered by the rain either. But why would it be? It was a water horse. “We are trying to find a lake,” she said, “there should be one somewhere in this area. I must pick someone up. It’s been crying out to me in my dreams.”
It was raining and from where they stood he could see a farmhouse. But this sounded more important than finding shelter. He would gladly accept the rain if it would help someone. So Mikhal decided to offer his assistance. “I know where one big lake is,” he told her. “It’s not far from here. I can take you there if you like.”
Meria turned her attention to him again and smiled. “I would like that.”
“I might turn this adventure into a song though,” he warned her with a grin.
“I’m okay with that,” Meria said. “Please lead the way, bard.”
Mikhal nodded and started walking. Despite the rain, this day couldn’t be any better. He had considered staying at the previous village when he had seen the sky, he had known it would start to rain sooner or later. Still, he had decided to try and cover as much distance as he could and seek shelter when he needed it to. And now he had met a water sorcerer, a water horse and the prospect of another creature hiding in a lake. How many people could say the same? And it might even give him some new songs. Not fearing the possible rain then and facing the rain now seemed like a good decision.
They walked alongside each other, Bäckahäst trailed behind them. He seemed to graze from the grass growing on both sides of the road, but Mikhal knew these creatures were carnivores.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Meria said and she waited for Mikhal to look at her. “You’re wondering why he’s eating grass.”
“That’s true,” Mikhal admitted.
“He’s probably looking for bugs.” She looked at her white companion. “You can fish when we reach the lake.”
Bäckahäst neighed and Mikhal was almost certain it sounded like it was pouting.
“There’s no body of water here, even if you found someone foolish enough to try and ride you, where would you drown your victim?”
Bäckahäst seemed to sulk now.
“Are you okay with him eating people?” Mikhal asked.
Meria shrugged. “My mother was fond of mice, she loved them, although I don’t know why. Yet she never faulted the cat for eating them. Bäckahäst likes the taste of humans and if he eats one he doesn’t need to eat for a while.”
“But mice aren’t people,” Mikhal protested, “we mourn our deceased. Someone’s death doesn’t just effect that person, but everyone around them.”
“Maybe so, but I can’t change him. If he will find someone foolish enough to ride him, it will be his next meal. And he can hunt and eat fish in the lake, but I guess it’s not as nourishing as a human is.”
A silence fell between them, the thought of being considered good food to something made him shudder and Mikhal didn’t want to think about death or torn-apart, grieving families, or tasting good to other creatures. Although he had to admit that no-one liked it when a wolf killed and ate a man, but no-one faulted the creature for following its instinct.
To bring their conversation to a more light-hearted topic he started talking about his stay at the previous village, where he had found a meal and a place to sleep, but with no prospect of earning a decent coin he had decided to continue to the next city. He told her that he travelled from city to city and performed everywhere he stopped.
The three of them continued to walk, the rain turned into a light rain, and then it stopped. The now empty grey clouds lingered in the sky, but soon the sun peeked through the clouds and send her warm rays of light to the earth. Mikhal let out a pleased sigh when he felt the sun on his face.
“I needed that,” he said. “The warm sun. I hope it will remain sunny the rest of the day.”
He looked at the flowers on the side of the road, during the rain they had closed their petals, but now they opened again, showing their lovely shades of orange and yellow.
There was a wonderful smell in the air, a scent of freshness. Maybe walking in the rain wasn’t all that fun, but that moment when the rain stopped, when the sun shone again and started to heat up the wet plants, that made him happy. He started whistling a cheerful tune and Meria smiled as she listened to it.
Suddenly Mikhal stopped and pointed to a narrow path that lead into a forest, it seemed more like an animal trail than an actual path, a bit larger perhaps because the local farmers used to go to the lake. They couldn’t walk alongside each other anymore, Mikhal lead the way, followed by Meria and Bäckahäst followed her.
As they walked over the path Mikhal continued his whistling, the sun had lifted his spirit and during his travel he often played some music, sang a song or whistled a tune. Especially when he was alone and had no-one to talk to.
The forest was full of life, the birds seemed as happy as the bard that the sun was back, because they sang their own song. The bard even stopped whistling to listen to what they had to sing.
When they reached a small stream Mikhal stopped and looked at a bush with berries growing close to it. “This is a good place to rest for a moment,” he said as he turned to Meria. “The lake isn’t that far away, but these berries are delicious and the water is clean.”
“I’m fine with that,” Meria said, “but there’s nothing here for Bäckahäst.”
Mikhal pointed to where they were heading. “If your companion is hungry, the lake is down this path, he can’t get lost. He can fish while we take a break here.” He just hoped no-one would be fishing there now, but with the past rain the odds of that were low.
The water horse took off and ran towards the lake and Mikhal and Meria took a small break in which they drank water, ate berries and told each other where they came from.
As the settled down, tasted the berries and drank fresh water, they talked about where they were from. It turned out Mikhal was right: Meria did come from the northern regions, known for its many lakes, plains and swamps, and lack of trees. Mikhal told her that he grew up in an inn that his parents run, but that he wanted to travel and perform and that it was the best decision he had ever made. He was happy, he had food and shelter most of the time and he had met a lot of interesting people, current company included.
After the break they went to the lake. The big lake was surrounded by forest on all sides, but it had a small, sandy beach around it.
At first there was no sign of the water horse, but he soon emerged from the water and joined them.
“What did he eat?” Mikhal asked.
There was a moment of silence. “Fish,” Meria finally said without looking at him.
While Mikhal wasn’t convinced it really was fish, he decided to believe that. He’d rather not think about what else it could have been. “So, we’re here. Where is the one you need to pick up?”
Meria walked to the edge of the lake and stepped into the water. She looked out over the lake with a distant look in her eyes. It wasn’t long before a small, blue, lizard-like head emerged from the water and it came toward Meria. She bent down and lifted a small water-dragon from the lake. The dragon had wings on its back and fins alongside its small body.
“I thought water dragons had wings and legs,” Mikhal said.
“The river-dragons, yes,” Meria said. “They live near the water, not in, so they don’t need fins. The sea-dragons live under water and have no wings or legs, but of course they do have fins." She looked at the small, blue creature in her arms. "This is a hybrid, her mother is a river-dragon and her father is a sea-dragon. Her mother got captured, but she managed to hide her child in this lake first. She was alone, so she called for help.” She smiled lovingly at the small hybrid. “I came as fast as I could when she reached out to me in my dreams. I need to take her to the sea first, then I will see if I can find her mother.”
Mikhal listened to the explanation in silence and he looked at the dragon. It was adorable, but he could tell by the way she snuggled into Meria that she had been lonely: she welcomed the company. “Do you think it will be dangerous?” he asked.
“It could be. A hybrid like her is rare.”
Mikhal nodded and looked towards the east. “I have no plans, if you want my company I’d love to travel with you, but I’m close to useless in battle. I do know a man who lives roughly a days-travel from here. He’s a mercenary and while he’s not fond of dragons, he is one of the best swordsmen I know. If you have money with you, you can try to hire him. It’s only a small detour from the way to the sea.”
“Do you trust this mercenary?”
“I do,” Mikhal said with a nod. While he did trust him, whether or not the man would want to come along with dragons involved remained the question, but they wouldn’t know unless the asked.
“Let’s go meet him then.” Meria decided and she looked at Mikhal. “But that city you were travelling to?”
“That was just a good place to make some money, but there are more cities that we’ll visit on our way to the sea.”
Meria nodded. “I would like your company, bard. I don’t know these regions that well.”
“That’s settled then!” He gestured to the east with his arm. “This way.”
And so the bard and the sorceress started their travel to pick up a swordsman and bring a small water-dragon to the sea. Needless to say, it was quite an adventure, but that is a story for another time.
Watching the clouds didn’t change anything about their fate, so the people working the land paid no more attention to it. If it would rain, it would rain. If not, they would stay dry, but no-one expected to stay dry.
The same counted for the man walking over the earthen path. The only precaution he had taken was putting his lute on his back and make sure his cloak fully covered it. The instrument was his most valuable possession and he needed it to perform. Songs sounded better when there was music accompanying the words and if, for whatever reason, he couldn’t sing he could still play his lute.
Mikhal, the travelling bard, continued down the path. There were some trees alongside of it, they didn’t seem like they would really shelter him from heavy rain. So far it had remained dry and he was well on his way to the next city, but it wouldn’t hurt to look for possible shelter. With clouds as dark as these in the sky, it would be a miracle if he would stay dry.
Soon the first drops fell from the sky. He barely noticed it at first, he saw the drops of water before he felt them. The hat on his head shielded him from the rain, at least for a bit.
With every step he took, the drops followed each other to the earth in an increased speed. The thick cloak did a decent job keeping his body dry and his hat kept his head warm, but Mikhal had to admit this was one of the downsides of a travelling existence. Being cold and wet was something no-one wanted, himself included. The curled hair sticking out of his hat soon collected so much weather it smoothed out the curls and stuck the hair to his skin.
He stopped for a moment and watched the farmers work their field, he didn’t doubt they were complaining about the weather, but they would get their job done regardless. Another thought crossed his mind: if there were farmers there, there had to be farm around here too. Maybe he could find shelter and a fire there. Not all farmers were keen on strangers, but most offered hospitality to travellers.
As he walked down the path, looking for the farmhouse, he hummed a few tones. And a moment later he started to sing.
“There once was a leader, a glorious man,
the wise and the fair and the noble king Han.”
the wise and the fair and the noble king Han.”
He stopped and decided to make something more suitable for this weather, but using the same melody.
“There once was a knight, wearing rusty, old chain.
Battered by battle, corroded by rain.”
Battered by battle, corroded by rain.”
He chuckled to himself, there was certainly a song in there. A very promising start. Something about an old knight with old equipment going from village to village to see if there were any monsters to fight. And of course, he walked through rain.
“Through wind and through rain he walked the land…”
Well, that wasn’t perfect, but the song didn’t have to be completed now. He tried to come up with a good word that rhymed with land and that could be used in the song, when he noticed someone down the path. A woman with long, white hair stood next to a beautiful white horse. She had her hand on it’s flank, and the moment he focused on the hand he figured that rhymed.
“Many monsters were slain by his hand…”
Not perfect, but it was a work in progress. He walked towards her and nodded politely, it surprised him how young she looked. Most women he had seen with such white hair were old, many women didn’t even reach the age that would turn their hair white. If he had to guess she was in her late twenties or early thirties.
“Good day to you,” he said. “Looking for a shelter as well?”
The woman looked up at the clouds with a vague smile. “No,” she replied, “I like this weather.”
“Surely you must be cold,” Mikhal commented, looking at her clothes. The light-blue dress seemed to be of a light fabric, it was wet and obviously wouldn’t protect her against the rain.
“I’m fine.” The woman looked at him. “What brings you on the road today?”
If he had to guess he’d say came from somewhere in the northern regions, her accent gave that away. That could explain why the cold didn’t bother her that much. “I’m travelling to the next city,” he explained. “If I would have found a shelter I would sit the rain out, but alas, that is not the case.” He bowed to her. “I am Mikhal, a bard.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mikhal. My name is Meria.”
Mikhal smiled and looked from her to her horse, he walked a bit closer so he could pet it. His fingers touched the white fur on the snout and the horse seemed to enjoy that. “A tame horse,” he said. “And a beautiful one too.”
“I do suggest you’re careful with Bäckahäst.”
As soon as he heard that name he pulled his hand back as if he had burned it and he stared at the white horse. He knew that name, there were stories about a creature called Bäckahäst, sometimes also called Kelpie or Ceffyl Dŵr, depending on where the story originated. A water spirit in the shape of a beautiful, white horse and the person foolish enough to try and ride it, because it seemed so tame, would notice their legs got stuck on the back. Then the water horse would run into a body of water, drowning their victim and eat that person.
“You travel with one?” Mikhal asked, astonishment visible on his face.
“Well, he noticed he couldn’t drown me,” Meria said with an amused tone in her voice, looking at the horse who nodded once, much to Mikhal’s surprise. “And after we talked I asked him if he wanted to travel with me and he did.”
“You talked… can they speak?”
Meria shook her head. “No, they understand the human tongue, but don’t speak it. Some of the older ones may develop a sort of telepathy. Only a few master the ability to transform themselves into a human and in that shape they can talk, but in their original shape they can’t. This one doesn’t transform nor does it have telepathy, but I can sense the thoughts of the sentient, intelligent water creatures.”
“And you can’t drown.”
Instead of answering, Meria looked at him. Mikhal wasn’t sure why she was looking at him when he suddenly noticed he didn’t feel the rain anymore. He saw the rain, it fell all around him, but it didn’t touch him.
“I can control water,” she explained, releasing her control over the falling raindrops and Mikhal once again got rained upon.
“Why don’t you keep yourself dry then?” he asked.
“Because I like water.” She turned to her companion, who didn’t seem bothered by the rain either. But why would it be? It was a water horse. “We are trying to find a lake,” she said, “there should be one somewhere in this area. I must pick someone up. It’s been crying out to me in my dreams.”
It was raining and from where they stood he could see a farmhouse. But this sounded more important than finding shelter. He would gladly accept the rain if it would help someone. So Mikhal decided to offer his assistance. “I know where one big lake is,” he told her. “It’s not far from here. I can take you there if you like.”
Meria turned her attention to him again and smiled. “I would like that.”
“I might turn this adventure into a song though,” he warned her with a grin.
“I’m okay with that,” Meria said. “Please lead the way, bard.”
Mikhal nodded and started walking. Despite the rain, this day couldn’t be any better. He had considered staying at the previous village when he had seen the sky, he had known it would start to rain sooner or later. Still, he had decided to try and cover as much distance as he could and seek shelter when he needed it to. And now he had met a water sorcerer, a water horse and the prospect of another creature hiding in a lake. How many people could say the same? And it might even give him some new songs. Not fearing the possible rain then and facing the rain now seemed like a good decision.
They walked alongside each other, Bäckahäst trailed behind them. He seemed to graze from the grass growing on both sides of the road, but Mikhal knew these creatures were carnivores.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Meria said and she waited for Mikhal to look at her. “You’re wondering why he’s eating grass.”
“That’s true,” Mikhal admitted.
“He’s probably looking for bugs.” She looked at her white companion. “You can fish when we reach the lake.”
Bäckahäst neighed and Mikhal was almost certain it sounded like it was pouting.
“There’s no body of water here, even if you found someone foolish enough to try and ride you, where would you drown your victim?”
Bäckahäst seemed to sulk now.
“Are you okay with him eating people?” Mikhal asked.
Meria shrugged. “My mother was fond of mice, she loved them, although I don’t know why. Yet she never faulted the cat for eating them. Bäckahäst likes the taste of humans and if he eats one he doesn’t need to eat for a while.”
“But mice aren’t people,” Mikhal protested, “we mourn our deceased. Someone’s death doesn’t just effect that person, but everyone around them.”
“Maybe so, but I can’t change him. If he will find someone foolish enough to ride him, it will be his next meal. And he can hunt and eat fish in the lake, but I guess it’s not as nourishing as a human is.”
A silence fell between them, the thought of being considered good food to something made him shudder and Mikhal didn’t want to think about death or torn-apart, grieving families, or tasting good to other creatures. Although he had to admit that no-one liked it when a wolf killed and ate a man, but no-one faulted the creature for following its instinct.
To bring their conversation to a more light-hearted topic he started talking about his stay at the previous village, where he had found a meal and a place to sleep, but with no prospect of earning a decent coin he had decided to continue to the next city. He told her that he travelled from city to city and performed everywhere he stopped.
The three of them continued to walk, the rain turned into a light rain, and then it stopped. The now empty grey clouds lingered in the sky, but soon the sun peeked through the clouds and send her warm rays of light to the earth. Mikhal let out a pleased sigh when he felt the sun on his face.
“I needed that,” he said. “The warm sun. I hope it will remain sunny the rest of the day.”
He looked at the flowers on the side of the road, during the rain they had closed their petals, but now they opened again, showing their lovely shades of orange and yellow.
There was a wonderful smell in the air, a scent of freshness. Maybe walking in the rain wasn’t all that fun, but that moment when the rain stopped, when the sun shone again and started to heat up the wet plants, that made him happy. He started whistling a cheerful tune and Meria smiled as she listened to it.
Suddenly Mikhal stopped and pointed to a narrow path that lead into a forest, it seemed more like an animal trail than an actual path, a bit larger perhaps because the local farmers used to go to the lake. They couldn’t walk alongside each other anymore, Mikhal lead the way, followed by Meria and Bäckahäst followed her.
As they walked over the path Mikhal continued his whistling, the sun had lifted his spirit and during his travel he often played some music, sang a song or whistled a tune. Especially when he was alone and had no-one to talk to.
The forest was full of life, the birds seemed as happy as the bard that the sun was back, because they sang their own song. The bard even stopped whistling to listen to what they had to sing.
When they reached a small stream Mikhal stopped and looked at a bush with berries growing close to it. “This is a good place to rest for a moment,” he said as he turned to Meria. “The lake isn’t that far away, but these berries are delicious and the water is clean.”
“I’m fine with that,” Meria said, “but there’s nothing here for Bäckahäst.”
Mikhal pointed to where they were heading. “If your companion is hungry, the lake is down this path, he can’t get lost. He can fish while we take a break here.” He just hoped no-one would be fishing there now, but with the past rain the odds of that were low.
The water horse took off and ran towards the lake and Mikhal and Meria took a small break in which they drank water, ate berries and told each other where they came from.
As the settled down, tasted the berries and drank fresh water, they talked about where they were from. It turned out Mikhal was right: Meria did come from the northern regions, known for its many lakes, plains and swamps, and lack of trees. Mikhal told her that he grew up in an inn that his parents run, but that he wanted to travel and perform and that it was the best decision he had ever made. He was happy, he had food and shelter most of the time and he had met a lot of interesting people, current company included.
After the break they went to the lake. The big lake was surrounded by forest on all sides, but it had a small, sandy beach around it.
At first there was no sign of the water horse, but he soon emerged from the water and joined them.
“What did he eat?” Mikhal asked.
There was a moment of silence. “Fish,” Meria finally said without looking at him.
While Mikhal wasn’t convinced it really was fish, he decided to believe that. He’d rather not think about what else it could have been. “So, we’re here. Where is the one you need to pick up?”
Meria walked to the edge of the lake and stepped into the water. She looked out over the lake with a distant look in her eyes. It wasn’t long before a small, blue, lizard-like head emerged from the water and it came toward Meria. She bent down and lifted a small water-dragon from the lake. The dragon had wings on its back and fins alongside its small body.
“I thought water dragons had wings and legs,” Mikhal said.
“The river-dragons, yes,” Meria said. “They live near the water, not in, so they don’t need fins. The sea-dragons live under water and have no wings or legs, but of course they do have fins." She looked at the small, blue creature in her arms. "This is a hybrid, her mother is a river-dragon and her father is a sea-dragon. Her mother got captured, but she managed to hide her child in this lake first. She was alone, so she called for help.” She smiled lovingly at the small hybrid. “I came as fast as I could when she reached out to me in my dreams. I need to take her to the sea first, then I will see if I can find her mother.”
Mikhal listened to the explanation in silence and he looked at the dragon. It was adorable, but he could tell by the way she snuggled into Meria that she had been lonely: she welcomed the company. “Do you think it will be dangerous?” he asked.
“It could be. A hybrid like her is rare.”
Mikhal nodded and looked towards the east. “I have no plans, if you want my company I’d love to travel with you, but I’m close to useless in battle. I do know a man who lives roughly a days-travel from here. He’s a mercenary and while he’s not fond of dragons, he is one of the best swordsmen I know. If you have money with you, you can try to hire him. It’s only a small detour from the way to the sea.”
“Do you trust this mercenary?”
“I do,” Mikhal said with a nod. While he did trust him, whether or not the man would want to come along with dragons involved remained the question, but they wouldn’t know unless the asked.
“Let’s go meet him then.” Meria decided and she looked at Mikhal. “But that city you were travelling to?”
“That was just a good place to make some money, but there are more cities that we’ll visit on our way to the sea.”
Meria nodded. “I would like your company, bard. I don’t know these regions that well.”
“That’s settled then!” He gestured to the east with his arm. “This way.”
And so the bard and the sorceress started their travel to pick up a swordsman and bring a small water-dragon to the sea. Needless to say, it was quite an adventure, but that is a story for another time.
by @Calle
Sometimes it’s hard not to wonder. Back in Astrya, things were a lot more simple. I always had the mind of a businessman, or so my family had said. You’ll grow up to be rich, successful, everything you ever wanted. Money? Happiness? Keep your head down, stay out of trouble, play things smart… it’ll all be yours, I’m sure. Perhaps they were just optimistic, or maybe they actually could tell the future. Parents have that way about them, I always found; you might not think they understand, but give it time, and you’ll find out that they sure as hell do. They know things better than you ever will.
I suppose in that vein they were right. I found myself within an explosion of wealth. And when I say explosion, I don’t say it lightly - I mean an explosion. Everything I could have ever wanted, you should have seen it. Or maybe you did. Astrya was one of those countries where if you understand what you needed to do, fortune wasn’t that far away. The Luxurious Capital they call it, famed for its vast exports of spice and silk and fruit and… you get the picture. It bled money. They were right after all - I figured out what to do, worked my way into a meagre fortune, bartered my way to a plot of land, and from there… well, in my prime they called me ”The Spice King.” Pretentious, yeah, but that was me. Married my way into a Noble family, and… fuck, it was the life. Everything you could ever want… if only my parents knew just how true it was.
It was the sheltered life. I never thought I’d be able to wield a gun, or shoot straight, or work up the courage to kill. Not that the conscription system cares. See, I ran myself up some debts… got a loan from the government, and couldn’t pay it back. That’s what they do. If you can’t pay, you get drafted into the military for God knows how long. Either you die, or you keep going until you’ve completed whatever arbitrary goal they set based on whatever you owe. Desertion is grounds for execution. It was a shock, going from the feel of wine glasses and a fine ass in your hand to a metal rifle, from polished wood floors to churned and scorched mud, drenched in the stink of human life.
On the other side of the battlefield is Iathen. We used to be allies, but an assassination and coup later… and here we stand, shooting each other to fuck. I’m bedecked in a standard issue military garb - metal helmet, brown clothes and boots. I don’t know anyone here. Making friends was never my strong suit. Even if I wanted to do something else, I have no other notable skills. Apparently I’m a decent shot, who knew. I grip the rifle tightly, already caked in mud and filth, my hands coming to resemble a similar state. The air is acrid with smoke, sweat, and blood. And it’s already the seventh day. I dunno where they store the corpses, but wherever it is, I swear, I can still smell it from here.
I take the initiative and push up the field, rounding a blackened hill riddled with bullet holes and artillery shots. Whether or not I’m acclimated to the sound of explosions nearby is up for debate, but it still stands that I barely notice them any more; just dull thuds in my eardrums as I run through the mud and filth, keeping low as I approach my comrades. Not even two hundred feet in front of us is a line of soldiers, peeking, taking shots periodically, keeping our men at bay. Approaching our line, I hear a shot ring out - one of our guys. I skid up next to him, sliding through the grime, and take a blind shot to force anyone in front of us to duck down.
I don’t even get a chance to say anything. There’s another shot, and I feel his blood spatter against my face, his limp body collapsing backwards into the muck, eyes still open, even in death. If you had asked me, two years ago, “How would you react if you saw someone die?”, I couldn’t have answered you. I wouldn’t know what to say - simply hope I never have to see someone die. I can answer you now, though: I wouldn’t bat an eye. Maybe the tiniest glimpse of sympathy would grace my thoughts, but at this point, I’ve seen too many fall prey to a hail of gunfire. It isn’t worth wasting emotion on anymore. I hate myself for saying it, but even that won't change my mind - I know what I’m saying is true.
One of our men shouts to me, drawing my attention from the coin sized hole burrowed into the soldiers cranium. He nods to me. I nod back. Wordless communication… I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to it now. Five of us in total sit crouched behind a makeshift fortification of dug of mud and sand bags, a kind of forward base as it were. A catch a glimpse of one of the enemies through a hole in the cover, and with my “friends” stand and fight; line the shot up through the iron sights; feel the power as the butt digs into the shoulder; idly recognise the fear in my enemy's eyes moments before a bullet rips through his garb and sends him sprawling backwards into whatever trench or crater he was using as cover. I think that’s my fourth kill now.
Two of our guys fall against the mud in death, and the three of us drop down to avoid any retaliation, though I assume we killed them all. I barely think. At least, I try not to. My eyes meet one of my surviving comrades. There’s fear in them. Looking at them, I see it grow like a cancer, multiply in a dilation of his pupil, as a object lands behind our fortification.
“Grenade!” I hear him shout over my natural filter, keeping out the sounds of explosions. We barely have time to react, scrambling to our feet to jump away. I leap just too late, flinging myself head first into a crater to my right as the explosives goes off. The shrapnel embeds itself in my body.
Maybe seconds pass. I can’t tell. The adrenaline only lasts for so long, dilates the pain for so long. It’s soon replaced by a searing pain, and awful heat. My legs and my back flare with pain, leaking blood despite his palm pressed tightly against it. Every soldier was given basic medical training, but the idea barely even registers in my head, instead replaced with agony and fear. This is it. I’m a dead man. My corpse might not even be recovered, I’ll just be left here to rot, or burnt, or God knows what. I had a feeling I might die at some point. Conscripts didn’t come back unless they were lucky. Either you died, or you never repaid your debt. Come to think of it, either way, you keep going until you die.
“Hang on there, soldier.” a thick, heavy accent permeates my senses, tearing through my fear for just a brief second. I can’t place the voice, nor the accent, but the next second all the fear that had for the shortest of times evaporated return twice fold. This wasn’t luck - this was probably a soldier of Iathen, here to finish me off before they continue their push up our ranks. My vision blurs, but when it returns, I’m greeted by a dark skinned male, crouched over me, rummaging through a pack of supplies. Instinctively I attempt to crawl away, but the pain in my back flares up immensely, leaving me to lie aimlessly, struggling for breath against oncoming death. Despite the summer day, it feels… cold.
From his bag the man turns, drawing with him some tape.
“Keep still, don’t struggle.” he rips off a strip, wraps it around my leg, before approaching me. Only there do I see the medics band around his arm.
“Hah… medic, huh?”
“That’s right, gotta have someone to get you back alive.” I can’t help but laugh. I still can’t place his accent, but with it I can barely take what he says seriously; gallows humour, maybe, but I welcome it, “It looks bad, but trust me - Imma’ get you back safe, okay?”
“Your accent…” ignoring what he says, I can’t help but ask, “...where are you from?” to that, he laughs too.
“Where d’ya think? Vestal - only place get this stupid fuckin’ voice.” I look at him quizzically, as he turns back to his pack.
“Why… why are you here?” Vestal - a war torn state. Their government felt to a religious extremist group, and ever since it’s been the forefront of gruesome conflicts. Some would argue the new government is better than the dictatorship before it, but such arguments debates aren’t common place.
“Tryin’a get my family out of the shithole, that’s what. You get permanent citizenship for military service, including your family.”
“You’re a conscript..? Like me?” I say as he turns back, carrying a small syringe, smiling.
“All the more reason to get you back alive then, eh?” I can’t help but smile back, “This is Morphine, I’m gonna get you back to base - alive.” I nod, “So tell me, Mr. Conscript… what’d you do?”
I hesitate to say anything, as he slides the syringe into my arm. But that smile, and his laugh… I can’t help but find myself in company. If I’m gonna survive, I might as well have a friend.
“Debt… got a loan, couldn’t repay… already been two years…”
“A loan from the government? Musta’ been a noble or something, right?” I nod, slowly, as the drug begins to kick in.
“I fucked it up pretty badly…” I feel his arms on me as he hoists me up, and we start walking.
“So… got anyone waiting for you back at home?”
“Yeah… my wife… and son… Her dad wanted to kick me out of the family, called me a useless cunt despite all I gave them… she refused to let me go… the fuck disowned her…” I catch what looked to be a frown on his face, though I can barely see it. Yet the closer it looks, the more it seems to be a smile.
“Then you have even more reason to get back alive, right? See your wife, your son? No way can I let you die here in that case, eh?” I chuckled, a numb and semi conscious laugh.
“...and you’ve gotta get your family… no dying for you, either.”
“Heh. Yeah, you said it. What’s your name, mate? Wouldn’t mind a friend here?” a friend… wouldn’t that be nice.
“Adam… Cooke…”
“I’m A’dre. ‘S good to meet you, Adam.”
And before I knew it, I was unconscious.
I suppose in that vein they were right. I found myself within an explosion of wealth. And when I say explosion, I don’t say it lightly - I mean an explosion. Everything I could have ever wanted, you should have seen it. Or maybe you did. Astrya was one of those countries where if you understand what you needed to do, fortune wasn’t that far away. The Luxurious Capital they call it, famed for its vast exports of spice and silk and fruit and… you get the picture. It bled money. They were right after all - I figured out what to do, worked my way into a meagre fortune, bartered my way to a plot of land, and from there… well, in my prime they called me ”The Spice King.” Pretentious, yeah, but that was me. Married my way into a Noble family, and… fuck, it was the life. Everything you could ever want… if only my parents knew just how true it was.
It was the sheltered life. I never thought I’d be able to wield a gun, or shoot straight, or work up the courage to kill. Not that the conscription system cares. See, I ran myself up some debts… got a loan from the government, and couldn’t pay it back. That’s what they do. If you can’t pay, you get drafted into the military for God knows how long. Either you die, or you keep going until you’ve completed whatever arbitrary goal they set based on whatever you owe. Desertion is grounds for execution. It was a shock, going from the feel of wine glasses and a fine ass in your hand to a metal rifle, from polished wood floors to churned and scorched mud, drenched in the stink of human life.
On the other side of the battlefield is Iathen. We used to be allies, but an assassination and coup later… and here we stand, shooting each other to fuck. I’m bedecked in a standard issue military garb - metal helmet, brown clothes and boots. I don’t know anyone here. Making friends was never my strong suit. Even if I wanted to do something else, I have no other notable skills. Apparently I’m a decent shot, who knew. I grip the rifle tightly, already caked in mud and filth, my hands coming to resemble a similar state. The air is acrid with smoke, sweat, and blood. And it’s already the seventh day. I dunno where they store the corpses, but wherever it is, I swear, I can still smell it from here.
I take the initiative and push up the field, rounding a blackened hill riddled with bullet holes and artillery shots. Whether or not I’m acclimated to the sound of explosions nearby is up for debate, but it still stands that I barely notice them any more; just dull thuds in my eardrums as I run through the mud and filth, keeping low as I approach my comrades. Not even two hundred feet in front of us is a line of soldiers, peeking, taking shots periodically, keeping our men at bay. Approaching our line, I hear a shot ring out - one of our guys. I skid up next to him, sliding through the grime, and take a blind shot to force anyone in front of us to duck down.
I don’t even get a chance to say anything. There’s another shot, and I feel his blood spatter against my face, his limp body collapsing backwards into the muck, eyes still open, even in death. If you had asked me, two years ago, “How would you react if you saw someone die?”, I couldn’t have answered you. I wouldn’t know what to say - simply hope I never have to see someone die. I can answer you now, though: I wouldn’t bat an eye. Maybe the tiniest glimpse of sympathy would grace my thoughts, but at this point, I’ve seen too many fall prey to a hail of gunfire. It isn’t worth wasting emotion on anymore. I hate myself for saying it, but even that won't change my mind - I know what I’m saying is true.
One of our men shouts to me, drawing my attention from the coin sized hole burrowed into the soldiers cranium. He nods to me. I nod back. Wordless communication… I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to it now. Five of us in total sit crouched behind a makeshift fortification of dug of mud and sand bags, a kind of forward base as it were. A catch a glimpse of one of the enemies through a hole in the cover, and with my “friends” stand and fight; line the shot up through the iron sights; feel the power as the butt digs into the shoulder; idly recognise the fear in my enemy's eyes moments before a bullet rips through his garb and sends him sprawling backwards into whatever trench or crater he was using as cover. I think that’s my fourth kill now.
Two of our guys fall against the mud in death, and the three of us drop down to avoid any retaliation, though I assume we killed them all. I barely think. At least, I try not to. My eyes meet one of my surviving comrades. There’s fear in them. Looking at them, I see it grow like a cancer, multiply in a dilation of his pupil, as a object lands behind our fortification.
“Grenade!” I hear him shout over my natural filter, keeping out the sounds of explosions. We barely have time to react, scrambling to our feet to jump away. I leap just too late, flinging myself head first into a crater to my right as the explosives goes off. The shrapnel embeds itself in my body.
Maybe seconds pass. I can’t tell. The adrenaline only lasts for so long, dilates the pain for so long. It’s soon replaced by a searing pain, and awful heat. My legs and my back flare with pain, leaking blood despite his palm pressed tightly against it. Every soldier was given basic medical training, but the idea barely even registers in my head, instead replaced with agony and fear. This is it. I’m a dead man. My corpse might not even be recovered, I’ll just be left here to rot, or burnt, or God knows what. I had a feeling I might die at some point. Conscripts didn’t come back unless they were lucky. Either you died, or you never repaid your debt. Come to think of it, either way, you keep going until you die.
“Hang on there, soldier.” a thick, heavy accent permeates my senses, tearing through my fear for just a brief second. I can’t place the voice, nor the accent, but the next second all the fear that had for the shortest of times evaporated return twice fold. This wasn’t luck - this was probably a soldier of Iathen, here to finish me off before they continue their push up our ranks. My vision blurs, but when it returns, I’m greeted by a dark skinned male, crouched over me, rummaging through a pack of supplies. Instinctively I attempt to crawl away, but the pain in my back flares up immensely, leaving me to lie aimlessly, struggling for breath against oncoming death. Despite the summer day, it feels… cold.
From his bag the man turns, drawing with him some tape.
“Keep still, don’t struggle.” he rips off a strip, wraps it around my leg, before approaching me. Only there do I see the medics band around his arm.
“Hah… medic, huh?”
“That’s right, gotta have someone to get you back alive.” I can’t help but laugh. I still can’t place his accent, but with it I can barely take what he says seriously; gallows humour, maybe, but I welcome it, “It looks bad, but trust me - Imma’ get you back safe, okay?”
“Your accent…” ignoring what he says, I can’t help but ask, “...where are you from?” to that, he laughs too.
“Where d’ya think? Vestal - only place get this stupid fuckin’ voice.” I look at him quizzically, as he turns back to his pack.
“Why… why are you here?” Vestal - a war torn state. Their government felt to a religious extremist group, and ever since it’s been the forefront of gruesome conflicts. Some would argue the new government is better than the dictatorship before it, but such arguments debates aren’t common place.
“Tryin’a get my family out of the shithole, that’s what. You get permanent citizenship for military service, including your family.”
“You’re a conscript..? Like me?” I say as he turns back, carrying a small syringe, smiling.
“All the more reason to get you back alive then, eh?” I can’t help but smile back, “This is Morphine, I’m gonna get you back to base - alive.” I nod, “So tell me, Mr. Conscript… what’d you do?”
I hesitate to say anything, as he slides the syringe into my arm. But that smile, and his laugh… I can’t help but find myself in company. If I’m gonna survive, I might as well have a friend.
“Debt… got a loan, couldn’t repay… already been two years…”
“A loan from the government? Musta’ been a noble or something, right?” I nod, slowly, as the drug begins to kick in.
“I fucked it up pretty badly…” I feel his arms on me as he hoists me up, and we start walking.
“So… got anyone waiting for you back at home?”
“Yeah… my wife… and son… Her dad wanted to kick me out of the family, called me a useless cunt despite all I gave them… she refused to let me go… the fuck disowned her…” I catch what looked to be a frown on his face, though I can barely see it. Yet the closer it looks, the more it seems to be a smile.
“Then you have even more reason to get back alive, right? See your wife, your son? No way can I let you die here in that case, eh?” I chuckled, a numb and semi conscious laugh.
“...and you’ve gotta get your family… no dying for you, either.”
“Heh. Yeah, you said it. What’s your name, mate? Wouldn’t mind a friend here?” a friend… wouldn’t that be nice.
“Adam… Cooke…”
“I’m A’dre. ‘S good to meet you, Adam.”
And before I knew it, I was unconscious.
by @Vocab
The last days of summer are a tragedy, for those who live in the hills of Maradûn. The region is often arid for long periods of time, and it seldom rains there. The record high for the largest amount of precipitation in Maradûn in an entire year is only about six centimetres. And most of that six centimetres? It falls on Maradûn in the last days of summer, when the skies turn a brilliant greenish blue and the clouds blow in on eastern winds. Why then, is this time a tragedy? Because as much as the people who live there might wish it, Maradûn receives this blessed deluge of rainfall one in every seventeen summers.
It is for this reason that on this particular summer’s day, with the cold breeze blowing over the gently waving tufts of grass that topped Maradûn’s sand hills, that Meldie paid no mind to the skies, even in the lovely shade of cool emerald they now displayed. Meldie was much more preoccupied with the contents of the ground under her feet than what lay above in the heavens. She had recently been appointed as the Head Excarchiver, which was about as prestigious a position as the young woman could hope for. It was a task awarded to those whom could serve the tribe in no other means, but who were also ineligible for exile. This effectively, could only be Meldie, who had the collective misfortune of both being the daughter of the Patriarch, but also of being unmarriageable. This, on account of her “inhospitable” and “unreasonable” attitude.
Meldie scoffed at that, at she thrust the shovel deep into the earth. She was a gem, and anybody who couldn’t see that was blind. And much more to the point, she had no interest in kowtowing to any stupid old man her father picked out for her to marry. In the end, it was simple enough to incense every eligible man her father threw at her until there were none left. Of course, every person in the clan had to do their part, which meant that she was relegated to excarchivation. The menial task consisted of what was in essence busy work. Meldie would dig holes, ostensibly looking for treasures, despite the fact that she had never found any. The elders in the clan insisted that excarchivers had unearthed some of the most valuable secrets and lost artifacts in the clan’s possession.
“That’s a load of rubbish,” Meldie grumbled, her face locked into a petulant pouting expression.
“I love it when you look like that,” Caraw said, his voice filled with amusement. He had been walking up this particular sand hill in search of solitude and found something better. The Patriarch’s daughter, playing at being an exarchiver and digging around in the dirt.
“Go sit on an aurochs’ horn, Caraw.” Meldie hissed, stabbing down more angrily at the shovel. The last thing she wanted was for this creep to see her toiling in her exarchiver’s robes, which were far too loose in the front to keep the wearer cool during the hottest part of the day.
“I would do as you ask, your Ladyship, if only the comfortable perch you suggest wouldn’t startle our poor beasts of burden to death. You of all people must know how much we need them in these dry spells of ours. How else would we find groundwater, if not by their guidance?” Caraw said, his voice dripping with condescension. It was true, he was enjoying the view that Meldie’s loose robes afforded him, but a better part of his bitterness came from having genuinely wished for a place to be alone. None of the clan were allowed to wander very far away from the central pavilion, lest they fall afoul of Maradûn’s many perilous environmental features.
Meldie spat in his direction and continued on with digging her hole. Caraw sniffed at her, and walked to the edge of the sand hill, taking a seat on his perch to look out over the clan’s living grounds. The sand hills formed over long periods of time, the direction of the winds curling the hills over to form large crests atop which grasses often grew sparsely. To look eastward in Maradûn was to face a vast horizon of frozen waves, not dissimilar to the great seas of water that some of the eldest clansmen swore lay far to the west and the north.
Caraw, despite trying to focus on counting the pointy tips of the tents, found himself turning back towards Meldie’s hunched form. She was struggling to dig now that she had gotten below the initial layer of sand and topsoil. Meldie was breathing heavily despite herself and she squeaked in terror when she felt rough hands reach around her to grab the shovel.
“Here, see. You have to kick the edge of it down into the earth with the bottom of your foot, to break through.” Caraw muttered, his voice quietly terse. Meldie felt herself shaking between his arms like one of the flags her father flew from his pavilion tent. Battered and quivering in a strong wind, or in her case, the strong arms of Caraw as he pressed down on the shovel to lift up a chunk of earth. Just as suddenly, Caraw let go of the shovel and turned back away. He scanned the skies, and opened his mouth to say something when-
“Thank you, Caraw.” Meldie’s voice sounded so soft that Caraw had to swallow before he could face her. When he turned around to meet her gaze, she had already turned away to her hole, employing the technique he had shown her. The man, only a year older than Meldie, threw his hands in the air and sat back on the edge of the sand hill.
His hair was tousled by a light wind, that tasted of sharp cold, of the kind that bit into his cheek. The soft thumps, and shearing tugs of the shovel into the earth were all that he heard, aside from Meldie’s shortness of breath. She could feel her lungs burning, with the lifting and the stomping giving her some sense that she could stomp and wrench her problems out of her life.
Clang!
Caraw and Meldie both flinched at the same time, their thoughts broken up by the discordant noise which broke the silence they had surrendered to. The pair of them forgot their squabbles, and both bent down into the hole to peer at what the excarchiver had uncovered. A small dull grey surface was poking out of the very bottom of the hole. Dirt-filled lines in the metal seemed to hint at a kind of written language, though the symbols meant nothing to either Meldie or Caraw, and soon enough the young man had leapt out of the hole.
“Get out of there and give me the shovel!”
“No! Why would I give you the shovel? It’s my find! I’ll dig it out myself.”
“You stupid…” Caraw pressed both palms to his face, screwing them into his eyes in frustration. “I’ll get it out of there in half the time, easily.” Meldie shook her head, and offered him no response. It didn’t matter that her bones ached, and her arms and back were on fire. She had picked this spot to dig, and it had been her shovel that had clanged so beautifully on a find. She would not allow somebody else to claim this prize in her stead.
When no response was forthcoming, Caraw took a deep breath and stretched. His back cracked satisfyingly as he did so, and without realizing immediately he saw how dark the sky had grown. The heavens were full to bursting with clouds, and these bore the dark shades of gray and black that Caraw had never seen in his life. He stood and stared for a time, dumbfounded.
“Meldie…” Caraw’s voice called, his tone serious to his own mind, but Meldie heard only a pleading whine.
“No, you stupid boy. I will not allow you to take this from me!”
“Meldie!” She shook her head. That boy sure was a better pretender than she had given him credit f- “LOOK UP!”
She looked up, Caraw’s scream demonstrating a sincerity she doubted he could fake. Meldie raised her eyes skyward and when she did, the first raindrops in Maradûn fell upon her upturned face. The first raindrops that Maradûn had received in twenty-six years. Caraw meanwhile, was looking down on the clan’s pavilion grounds. Dozens of people were rushing about to and fro, bringing out any containers they could find to use. People had their water skins attached to funnels, and all their cutlery, and several people had even taken the waste troughs of the aurochs and emptied them in haste, though Caraw cringed to think of how they were meant to make use of water tainted by such filthy means of acquisition.
Meldie’s face was a blend of freshwater and salt, her tears tasting strong on her lips where she licked them. It had been so long that both of her parents believed the rains had finally abandoned Maradûn for good and all. She had never thought to see the rains, especially after her seventeenth birthday had come and gone three summers ago. Now though, the heavens burst open with all the pent-up flood of water that had seemed to have been gathered up in the quarter century since their last visit.
The sand hills turned to mud and soon the whole of Maradûn had turned darker than a moonless night. Thunder and lightning echoed and flashed high above, while the open air felt akin to swimming in a river, such was the power and amount of rain pounding the ground. Caraw stumbled away from the edge of the sandhill, turning as he did to see a glowing light, incongruous in the suffocating wetness. Meldie was seated on the edge of her whole, and she too seemed hunched over the water that had pooled there in mere seconds. Of course when the rain had begun to really fall, she could not possibly keep her face turned to the sky, but the glowing piece of metal which remained partially buried was mesmerizing.
Caraw joined her in sitting on the edge of the pool, but the glow itself merely served to accentuate the sheen of Meldie’s skin and the very revealing nature her robes took on, even accounting for their cut, by way of being soaked through. His eyes wandered over her, and as they did, Caraw shivered in the warm rain. He sucked in a breath and coughed wetly, his lungs taking in some water as well as air. A cold kind of fear took over him then. He couldn’t see the rest of the clan now, through the impenetrable walls of water surrounding their little light in the darkness. They were utterly alone.
None of the stories either of them had heard described the summer rains as they now appeared, where they seemed fit to drown the world and everything in it. Meldie felt the same unease growing sense of horror at the sheer power of the forces of nature working against them. Before she could object, Caraw had rounded the edge of the hole and inched close to her side, wrapping her again in his arms. There was none of the tension and fear she had felt before when he showed her how to dig. Now he was a shelter to hide in to keep the fear away, and she gladly did so, resting against his chest while he tried to see through the rain.
The glow grew in its brightness, and Meldie turned her face into Caraw’s chest. It didn’t help, somehow the light found its way into her eyes. Caraw was having a similar problem, and he couldn’t find a way to shield his vision from the glow. A loudness filled their ears and their skin tingled. The clanging sound of the shovel on the metal artifact rang and rang and rung one last time. The two young people were whisked away from Maradûn, to a place distant in space and time. Clan Ruthlû paid no mind to the disappearance of these two, as they had to deal with the worst blow to the clan in generations. Thus it was that nobody was present to watch the shining artifact slowly obscure itself under layer upon layer of wet topsoil and mud.
The real tragedy of those last days of summer, was that nobody ever noticed how frequently excarchivers went missing in Maradûn, and that none ever came back. The rain stole them up and away from the homeland in the hills, and cast them into new worlds, always alone and without anybody to guide them. Until now.
Caraw landed with a thump on his chest, soaked through and coughing up copious amounts of water. His eyes were still burning and he pawed around blindly for something to gain his bearings. His hand slapped wetly against something soft and round, that was also profoundly wet but also seemed vaguely familiar. Meldie screamed when she felt something grab her breast and began flailing her arms in every direction, just as blind as Caraw was, and she slammed her fist into Caraw’s ear when she did so.
Caraw yelped, rolling over in a panic, and clutching his throbbing ear. The two of them continued to roll about, trying the understand what had just happened while they waited for their vision to clear. Caraw cleared his throat hesitantly.
“Meldie? That was uh, I mean, did I just…” The young man waited for a reply, and found the silence to be worse than if she were screaming at him. Meldie, for her part, had turned redder than a rûthfruit, and was sincerely hoping Caraw was a blind as she was. She felt gingerly in front of her, her fingers brushing through what felt like a shorter variety of the rough grass that topped the sand hills, until her fingers brushed against another hand, which was Caraw’s, at which point they both recovered
their sense of sight.
Immediately, Meldie wished that she’d never regained her senses, because the both of them were naked as the day they had been born. She screwed her eyes shut, but then cracked one open to see that Caraw was plainly staring at her. That made her face blush even more fiercely, but she opened both of her eyes and glared at the man.
“You stupid pervert!”
“Don’t act like you’re not curious as well!” Caraw retorted, knowing full well that they had both never exactly seen somebody else so exposed. In Clan Ruthlû, in Maradûn, one had to cover oneself in many layers of fabric to protect from the elements, the raging suns, and of course to preserve modesty for marriage. Caraw knew that some of the other men his age had already been married, or otherwise stolen glances of women while they were bathing. Meldie assumed that Caraw had naturally been one of those who had peeked, and she couldn’t possibly know how protective his mother was.
“So what if I am curious, idiot? Look around!” Meldie pointed out their surroundings, as they were sitting in a grove of trees covered in broad leaves, many of which spanned the breadth of a man’s torso. Meldie got up, and shoving down her shyness, tore a few leaves down and began to tear in specific places, her face knit in concentration.
“What are you doing?” Caraw asked.
“I’m making clothes, idiot. Didn’t they ever teach you how to do that, idiot?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Make me.” Meldie snapped, working the threads of grass she could tear from the ground into the makeshift slots she had made.
“There we are,” she murmured, throwing on the leaf-dress she had made. It wasn’t terribly comfortable, practical, or modest, but it covered the important parts. Caraw examined her handiwork with interest, and he had a question in his eyes. He wanted to ask her to make him something to cover himself, but he was reticent after noting her behaviour just before. Instead of opening his mouth, Caraw sat down with crossed legs and set to making a basic grass rope. It took him several attempts to get the thread going, but eventually he got the hang of it. Fairly soon he had a very limited loincloth in the form of a bound leaf for both his front and his back, leaving him bare chested.
Meldie left him to his foolish fumbling with foliage while she began scouting the area around the grove. She had no idea how they had gotten where they were, or where it was that they were. Hopelessly lost in a forest with nobody to help them, it appeared she would have to rely on the pervert despite her wishes. She was returning to the grove when something tapped her shoulder. Meldie screamed and jumped simultaneously, scrambling back into the clearing with a crash.
Caraw leapt up to Meldie’s side, and saw a broken tree branch swinging gently in the brush just beyond the grove. He stood over his female companion and smirked widely, looking down on her where she lay, panting.
“Fearless Meldie, enemy of twigs! Who’s the idiot now?”
“You, idiot. I don’t want to see all of that.” Caraw promptly stepped back a few paces, examining his loin-leaf with consternation.
“Come on idiot, we have work to do.” Meldie told Caraw, fighting to suppress a grin as she said so. They had to prepare a fire soon, if they wanted to at least make it through the night without being eaten by whatever monstrous things might be lurking
nearby.
The fire they prepared was a meagre thing, but in the gloomy haze of evening, the two young people huddled close to one another, and despite what came before in the dusty hills of their youth, an entire world lay before them alien and unknown. Left to what little they had left, in each other, Caraw and Meldie clung together. There in the shadows of the grove, the beginnings of a bond had begun to take shape. Even as foreign eyes were drawn from miles around to the light of an unshielded campfire, and a reign of a much different and more deadly kind, was on the cusp of falling...
It is for this reason that on this particular summer’s day, with the cold breeze blowing over the gently waving tufts of grass that topped Maradûn’s sand hills, that Meldie paid no mind to the skies, even in the lovely shade of cool emerald they now displayed. Meldie was much more preoccupied with the contents of the ground under her feet than what lay above in the heavens. She had recently been appointed as the Head Excarchiver, which was about as prestigious a position as the young woman could hope for. It was a task awarded to those whom could serve the tribe in no other means, but who were also ineligible for exile. This effectively, could only be Meldie, who had the collective misfortune of both being the daughter of the Patriarch, but also of being unmarriageable. This, on account of her “inhospitable” and “unreasonable” attitude.
Meldie scoffed at that, at she thrust the shovel deep into the earth. She was a gem, and anybody who couldn’t see that was blind. And much more to the point, she had no interest in kowtowing to any stupid old man her father picked out for her to marry. In the end, it was simple enough to incense every eligible man her father threw at her until there were none left. Of course, every person in the clan had to do their part, which meant that she was relegated to excarchivation. The menial task consisted of what was in essence busy work. Meldie would dig holes, ostensibly looking for treasures, despite the fact that she had never found any. The elders in the clan insisted that excarchivers had unearthed some of the most valuable secrets and lost artifacts in the clan’s possession.
“That’s a load of rubbish,” Meldie grumbled, her face locked into a petulant pouting expression.
“I love it when you look like that,” Caraw said, his voice filled with amusement. He had been walking up this particular sand hill in search of solitude and found something better. The Patriarch’s daughter, playing at being an exarchiver and digging around in the dirt.
“Go sit on an aurochs’ horn, Caraw.” Meldie hissed, stabbing down more angrily at the shovel. The last thing she wanted was for this creep to see her toiling in her exarchiver’s robes, which were far too loose in the front to keep the wearer cool during the hottest part of the day.
“I would do as you ask, your Ladyship, if only the comfortable perch you suggest wouldn’t startle our poor beasts of burden to death. You of all people must know how much we need them in these dry spells of ours. How else would we find groundwater, if not by their guidance?” Caraw said, his voice dripping with condescension. It was true, he was enjoying the view that Meldie’s loose robes afforded him, but a better part of his bitterness came from having genuinely wished for a place to be alone. None of the clan were allowed to wander very far away from the central pavilion, lest they fall afoul of Maradûn’s many perilous environmental features.
Meldie spat in his direction and continued on with digging her hole. Caraw sniffed at her, and walked to the edge of the sand hill, taking a seat on his perch to look out over the clan’s living grounds. The sand hills formed over long periods of time, the direction of the winds curling the hills over to form large crests atop which grasses often grew sparsely. To look eastward in Maradûn was to face a vast horizon of frozen waves, not dissimilar to the great seas of water that some of the eldest clansmen swore lay far to the west and the north.
Caraw, despite trying to focus on counting the pointy tips of the tents, found himself turning back towards Meldie’s hunched form. She was struggling to dig now that she had gotten below the initial layer of sand and topsoil. Meldie was breathing heavily despite herself and she squeaked in terror when she felt rough hands reach around her to grab the shovel.
“Here, see. You have to kick the edge of it down into the earth with the bottom of your foot, to break through.” Caraw muttered, his voice quietly terse. Meldie felt herself shaking between his arms like one of the flags her father flew from his pavilion tent. Battered and quivering in a strong wind, or in her case, the strong arms of Caraw as he pressed down on the shovel to lift up a chunk of earth. Just as suddenly, Caraw let go of the shovel and turned back away. He scanned the skies, and opened his mouth to say something when-
“Thank you, Caraw.” Meldie’s voice sounded so soft that Caraw had to swallow before he could face her. When he turned around to meet her gaze, she had already turned away to her hole, employing the technique he had shown her. The man, only a year older than Meldie, threw his hands in the air and sat back on the edge of the sand hill.
His hair was tousled by a light wind, that tasted of sharp cold, of the kind that bit into his cheek. The soft thumps, and shearing tugs of the shovel into the earth were all that he heard, aside from Meldie’s shortness of breath. She could feel her lungs burning, with the lifting and the stomping giving her some sense that she could stomp and wrench her problems out of her life.
Clang!
Caraw and Meldie both flinched at the same time, their thoughts broken up by the discordant noise which broke the silence they had surrendered to. The pair of them forgot their squabbles, and both bent down into the hole to peer at what the excarchiver had uncovered. A small dull grey surface was poking out of the very bottom of the hole. Dirt-filled lines in the metal seemed to hint at a kind of written language, though the symbols meant nothing to either Meldie or Caraw, and soon enough the young man had leapt out of the hole.
“Get out of there and give me the shovel!”
“No! Why would I give you the shovel? It’s my find! I’ll dig it out myself.”
“You stupid…” Caraw pressed both palms to his face, screwing them into his eyes in frustration. “I’ll get it out of there in half the time, easily.” Meldie shook her head, and offered him no response. It didn’t matter that her bones ached, and her arms and back were on fire. She had picked this spot to dig, and it had been her shovel that had clanged so beautifully on a find. She would not allow somebody else to claim this prize in her stead.
When no response was forthcoming, Caraw took a deep breath and stretched. His back cracked satisfyingly as he did so, and without realizing immediately he saw how dark the sky had grown. The heavens were full to bursting with clouds, and these bore the dark shades of gray and black that Caraw had never seen in his life. He stood and stared for a time, dumbfounded.
“Meldie…” Caraw’s voice called, his tone serious to his own mind, but Meldie heard only a pleading whine.
“No, you stupid boy. I will not allow you to take this from me!”
“Meldie!” She shook her head. That boy sure was a better pretender than she had given him credit f- “LOOK UP!”
She looked up, Caraw’s scream demonstrating a sincerity she doubted he could fake. Meldie raised her eyes skyward and when she did, the first raindrops in Maradûn fell upon her upturned face. The first raindrops that Maradûn had received in twenty-six years. Caraw meanwhile, was looking down on the clan’s pavilion grounds. Dozens of people were rushing about to and fro, bringing out any containers they could find to use. People had their water skins attached to funnels, and all their cutlery, and several people had even taken the waste troughs of the aurochs and emptied them in haste, though Caraw cringed to think of how they were meant to make use of water tainted by such filthy means of acquisition.
Meldie’s face was a blend of freshwater and salt, her tears tasting strong on her lips where she licked them. It had been so long that both of her parents believed the rains had finally abandoned Maradûn for good and all. She had never thought to see the rains, especially after her seventeenth birthday had come and gone three summers ago. Now though, the heavens burst open with all the pent-up flood of water that had seemed to have been gathered up in the quarter century since their last visit.
The sand hills turned to mud and soon the whole of Maradûn had turned darker than a moonless night. Thunder and lightning echoed and flashed high above, while the open air felt akin to swimming in a river, such was the power and amount of rain pounding the ground. Caraw stumbled away from the edge of the sandhill, turning as he did to see a glowing light, incongruous in the suffocating wetness. Meldie was seated on the edge of her whole, and she too seemed hunched over the water that had pooled there in mere seconds. Of course when the rain had begun to really fall, she could not possibly keep her face turned to the sky, but the glowing piece of metal which remained partially buried was mesmerizing.
Caraw joined her in sitting on the edge of the pool, but the glow itself merely served to accentuate the sheen of Meldie’s skin and the very revealing nature her robes took on, even accounting for their cut, by way of being soaked through. His eyes wandered over her, and as they did, Caraw shivered in the warm rain. He sucked in a breath and coughed wetly, his lungs taking in some water as well as air. A cold kind of fear took over him then. He couldn’t see the rest of the clan now, through the impenetrable walls of water surrounding their little light in the darkness. They were utterly alone.
None of the stories either of them had heard described the summer rains as they now appeared, where they seemed fit to drown the world and everything in it. Meldie felt the same unease growing sense of horror at the sheer power of the forces of nature working against them. Before she could object, Caraw had rounded the edge of the hole and inched close to her side, wrapping her again in his arms. There was none of the tension and fear she had felt before when he showed her how to dig. Now he was a shelter to hide in to keep the fear away, and she gladly did so, resting against his chest while he tried to see through the rain.
The glow grew in its brightness, and Meldie turned her face into Caraw’s chest. It didn’t help, somehow the light found its way into her eyes. Caraw was having a similar problem, and he couldn’t find a way to shield his vision from the glow. A loudness filled their ears and their skin tingled. The clanging sound of the shovel on the metal artifact rang and rang and rung one last time. The two young people were whisked away from Maradûn, to a place distant in space and time. Clan Ruthlû paid no mind to the disappearance of these two, as they had to deal with the worst blow to the clan in generations. Thus it was that nobody was present to watch the shining artifact slowly obscure itself under layer upon layer of wet topsoil and mud.
The real tragedy of those last days of summer, was that nobody ever noticed how frequently excarchivers went missing in Maradûn, and that none ever came back. The rain stole them up and away from the homeland in the hills, and cast them into new worlds, always alone and without anybody to guide them. Until now.
Caraw landed with a thump on his chest, soaked through and coughing up copious amounts of water. His eyes were still burning and he pawed around blindly for something to gain his bearings. His hand slapped wetly against something soft and round, that was also profoundly wet but also seemed vaguely familiar. Meldie screamed when she felt something grab her breast and began flailing her arms in every direction, just as blind as Caraw was, and she slammed her fist into Caraw’s ear when she did so.
Caraw yelped, rolling over in a panic, and clutching his throbbing ear. The two of them continued to roll about, trying the understand what had just happened while they waited for their vision to clear. Caraw cleared his throat hesitantly.
“Meldie? That was uh, I mean, did I just…” The young man waited for a reply, and found the silence to be worse than if she were screaming at him. Meldie, for her part, had turned redder than a rûthfruit, and was sincerely hoping Caraw was a blind as she was. She felt gingerly in front of her, her fingers brushing through what felt like a shorter variety of the rough grass that topped the sand hills, until her fingers brushed against another hand, which was Caraw’s, at which point they both recovered
their sense of sight.
Immediately, Meldie wished that she’d never regained her senses, because the both of them were naked as the day they had been born. She screwed her eyes shut, but then cracked one open to see that Caraw was plainly staring at her. That made her face blush even more fiercely, but she opened both of her eyes and glared at the man.
“You stupid pervert!”
“Don’t act like you’re not curious as well!” Caraw retorted, knowing full well that they had both never exactly seen somebody else so exposed. In Clan Ruthlû, in Maradûn, one had to cover oneself in many layers of fabric to protect from the elements, the raging suns, and of course to preserve modesty for marriage. Caraw knew that some of the other men his age had already been married, or otherwise stolen glances of women while they were bathing. Meldie assumed that Caraw had naturally been one of those who had peeked, and she couldn’t possibly know how protective his mother was.
“So what if I am curious, idiot? Look around!” Meldie pointed out their surroundings, as they were sitting in a grove of trees covered in broad leaves, many of which spanned the breadth of a man’s torso. Meldie got up, and shoving down her shyness, tore a few leaves down and began to tear in specific places, her face knit in concentration.
“What are you doing?” Caraw asked.
“I’m making clothes, idiot. Didn’t they ever teach you how to do that, idiot?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Make me.” Meldie snapped, working the threads of grass she could tear from the ground into the makeshift slots she had made.
“There we are,” she murmured, throwing on the leaf-dress she had made. It wasn’t terribly comfortable, practical, or modest, but it covered the important parts. Caraw examined her handiwork with interest, and he had a question in his eyes. He wanted to ask her to make him something to cover himself, but he was reticent after noting her behaviour just before. Instead of opening his mouth, Caraw sat down with crossed legs and set to making a basic grass rope. It took him several attempts to get the thread going, but eventually he got the hang of it. Fairly soon he had a very limited loincloth in the form of a bound leaf for both his front and his back, leaving him bare chested.
Meldie left him to his foolish fumbling with foliage while she began scouting the area around the grove. She had no idea how they had gotten where they were, or where it was that they were. Hopelessly lost in a forest with nobody to help them, it appeared she would have to rely on the pervert despite her wishes. She was returning to the grove when something tapped her shoulder. Meldie screamed and jumped simultaneously, scrambling back into the clearing with a crash.
Caraw leapt up to Meldie’s side, and saw a broken tree branch swinging gently in the brush just beyond the grove. He stood over his female companion and smirked widely, looking down on her where she lay, panting.
“Fearless Meldie, enemy of twigs! Who’s the idiot now?”
“You, idiot. I don’t want to see all of that.” Caraw promptly stepped back a few paces, examining his loin-leaf with consternation.
“Come on idiot, we have work to do.” Meldie told Caraw, fighting to suppress a grin as she said so. They had to prepare a fire soon, if they wanted to at least make it through the night without being eaten by whatever monstrous things might be lurking
nearby.
The fire they prepared was a meagre thing, but in the gloomy haze of evening, the two young people huddled close to one another, and despite what came before in the dusty hills of their youth, an entire world lay before them alien and unknown. Left to what little they had left, in each other, Caraw and Meldie clung together. There in the shadows of the grove, the beginnings of a bond had begun to take shape. Even as foreign eyes were drawn from miles around to the light of an unshielded campfire, and a reign of a much different and more deadly kind, was on the cusp of falling...
by @Kalleth
Sophie sipped her hot chocolate pensively, letting the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof soak in. Outside, the grey sky seemed to hold a tone of somber acceptance as it carried on in its monotonous work of watering the earth.
I wonder where Plu is, Sophie thought, her mug warm in her hands as she glanced behind to the living room. From the edge of the patio door, her eyes skimmed over the empty armchair—on which Pluvius often sat, staring out the window—and vacant couch—where Sophie had seen him on many a rainy day, cuddled up amongst the cushions—and she wondered where he was napping today.
He ought to always stay where I can easily spot him, she thought wryly, bringing her mug up as her attention turned back to the showers outside. The rain stirred up thoughts of times past, its gentle, ebbing rhythms helping to unwind the long reel of memories inside her head. It helped that many of her memories related to rain; Oregon was a state of showers followed by rainstorms, which Sophie hadn’t thought to question as a child.
As she watched the showers now, the pair of bright pink rain boots she’d worn to her first day of kindergarten—courtesy of her well-meaning mother—came to mind. Protecting her from toe to kneecap but no more, they’d made her early puddle-splashing exploits possible, invariably landing her soaked when her raincoat and umbrella failed to compete in the face of her enthusiastic leaps and bounds. She’d loved the boots, despite how much they made her stand out amongst her classmates, and she now looked back on the time as a fond memory.
Plu, though, hates the rain, Sophie thought in amusement. And rightfully so—keeping him from heading out ought to be a crime.
Whenever it was due to rain, Sophie could always count on finding Pluvius waiting for her indoors, staring out the window with thinly-veiled annoyance. Fifth sense or not, he always knew when the rain would come, and Sophie had soon learned to trust his judgement more than the weather forecast.
And that’s where we differ, Sophie thought, smiling as she adjusted the mug in her hands
While it was clear that Pluvius hated wet weather, Sophie would easily say she loved it—storm, shower, drizzle, downpour. The only time her opinion would change was when she didn’t have an umbrella with her; being soaked was only welcome if she’d planned for it.
When she’d lost her umbrella in second grade, Sophie had been forced to wait ten minutes in the pouring rain as the bus pulled up. The ride home did little to dry her off, and—much to her mother’s horror—she’d arrived drenched from tip to toe. Though she hadn’t fallen sick, the feeling of being toweled off by her fussing mother, of plastered hair and sticky clothes slowly lifting away from her person, stayed with her. Even now she could recall how she’d felt at the time: cold, wet, and miserably close to tears.
Needless to say, she quickly learned to keep her umbrella close—which earned her a few snide remarks from amused classmates she didn't care much for. The case of her disappearing umbrella, however, remained a mystery to this day, though it didn’t take much imagination to guess how she’d managed to lose it in second grade.
Still, Sophie would argue that the rain brought with it both the best and the worst moments. The day she’d broken her arm in fourth grade after a fall from the playground slide, for example, was a low day, and the day she’d graduated from elementary school—showers or not—a high one. In fact, she’d met Pluvius on a rainy day as well, way back when she was only a nervous, stuttering fifth grader whose voice barely rose above a frail tremolo. She’d argued with her mother that day, running out into the slippery streets in desperate anger, no destination in mind but forwards. Childishly unimaginative as she was, her fifth grade self had been taken by the idea of seeking shelter under the slide in the neighborhood park, but when she arrived on scene, she found the spot already taken. In her planned hiding spot was a curious cardboard box containing a blue blanket and a single, silent sliver of cold, shivering fur.
Thinking back, Sophie realized that her first reaction to her dear Pluvius was, in fact, anger; how dare the measly creature and its tattered box squander her safe haven, thwart her carefully laid plans? But whatever her initial impression of the tiny creature, when she finally bent down to investigate further, she found waiting for her a being wholly innocent and helpless, pitifully mewling from the corner it’d huddled itself into.
It was anything but love at first sight at the time, but Sophie had no better reason for the sequence of events that followed. And, with each time she’d recalled the memory, she was more and more convinced that the reason she’d come up with was the correct one.
Having completely forgotten about her plans to hide away under the slide, Sophie had shed her raincoat, draping it over the box before picking the whole contraption up and sprinting homewards. In those moments—which Sophie could still recall clear as day, adrenaline sharpening her memory with vivid color and clarity—she’d felt, over any discomfort or fatigue, a sense of panicked responsibility. Not helping the creature she’d found hadn’t even occurred to her; in fact, it wouldn’t occur to her until long after she’d woken up from her fever and found the creature sleeping soundly in her arms, little rumbling purrs running absentmindedly through its frail chest. And it was from that moment on—not earlier, and not later—that Sophie decided firmly that it had been love at first sight.
Her memories were skewed by hindsight romanticisms, she was sure, but such was the only way she could express the pure affection she felt for Pluvius. Oh, how lovable he was, how soft, how wonderfully well-timed in his entrance into her life. In the face of her love for Pluvius, going to school suddenly didn’t seem so bad. The names she might get called, the furious teasing that bordered on insult she might have to endure—they were painful, but she’d risen above it all. She’d managed, despite her trembly hands and shaky voice, to do something right. No longer would her peers’ accusations and taunts her pierce at her soul, for if Pluvius could transform from frightfully fragile to large, pompous, and proud, so could she. As he filled out, Sophie followed suit, finding her voice and conquering her stutter. As his coat grew longer, she replaced her anxiety with snowballing confidence, learned to ball her fists and smile through her freckles. As he grew more luminous, more present, Sophie grew to stand straighter, laugh louder, and before she knew it she was bound to college, a real girl at last, ready to take on the world and all it was made of.
It’d physically hurt to leave Pluvius behind, yes, and though the video calls did little to help—Pluvius looking wildly around for her when the mic produced her voice in staticy imitation, thoroughly confused by what he couldn’t understand to see—he was waiting for her when she got back, a bit less lustrous but no less loving, all purrs and adororant nudges. It was for him that she’d willingly suffered nips and scratches during nail trims, adapted to avoid dark colored clothing and use an indoor voice. In return, he’d patiently helped her prep for her interviews, aided her in celebrating her first job that paved the way to her new apartment, of which Sophie’s first requirement was that it allow pets.
Thinking of it all brought a smile to her lips, and she set aside her mug to reach over for an umbrella, opening it up before stepping into the yard. The rain pelleted down at her with full, heavy droplets of sound as she walked towards the blooming harebell at the head of the garden. She stopped in front of it, bending down to gently caress a leaf.
“Thank you, Plu.”
I wonder where Plu is, Sophie thought, her mug warm in her hands as she glanced behind to the living room. From the edge of the patio door, her eyes skimmed over the empty armchair—on which Pluvius often sat, staring out the window—and vacant couch—where Sophie had seen him on many a rainy day, cuddled up amongst the cushions—and she wondered where he was napping today.
He ought to always stay where I can easily spot him, she thought wryly, bringing her mug up as her attention turned back to the showers outside. The rain stirred up thoughts of times past, its gentle, ebbing rhythms helping to unwind the long reel of memories inside her head. It helped that many of her memories related to rain; Oregon was a state of showers followed by rainstorms, which Sophie hadn’t thought to question as a child.
As she watched the showers now, the pair of bright pink rain boots she’d worn to her first day of kindergarten—courtesy of her well-meaning mother—came to mind. Protecting her from toe to kneecap but no more, they’d made her early puddle-splashing exploits possible, invariably landing her soaked when her raincoat and umbrella failed to compete in the face of her enthusiastic leaps and bounds. She’d loved the boots, despite how much they made her stand out amongst her classmates, and she now looked back on the time as a fond memory.
Plu, though, hates the rain, Sophie thought in amusement. And rightfully so—keeping him from heading out ought to be a crime.
Whenever it was due to rain, Sophie could always count on finding Pluvius waiting for her indoors, staring out the window with thinly-veiled annoyance. Fifth sense or not, he always knew when the rain would come, and Sophie had soon learned to trust his judgement more than the weather forecast.
And that’s where we differ, Sophie thought, smiling as she adjusted the mug in her hands
While it was clear that Pluvius hated wet weather, Sophie would easily say she loved it—storm, shower, drizzle, downpour. The only time her opinion would change was when she didn’t have an umbrella with her; being soaked was only welcome if she’d planned for it.
When she’d lost her umbrella in second grade, Sophie had been forced to wait ten minutes in the pouring rain as the bus pulled up. The ride home did little to dry her off, and—much to her mother’s horror—she’d arrived drenched from tip to toe. Though she hadn’t fallen sick, the feeling of being toweled off by her fussing mother, of plastered hair and sticky clothes slowly lifting away from her person, stayed with her. Even now she could recall how she’d felt at the time: cold, wet, and miserably close to tears.
Needless to say, she quickly learned to keep her umbrella close—which earned her a few snide remarks from amused classmates she didn't care much for. The case of her disappearing umbrella, however, remained a mystery to this day, though it didn’t take much imagination to guess how she’d managed to lose it in second grade.
Still, Sophie would argue that the rain brought with it both the best and the worst moments. The day she’d broken her arm in fourth grade after a fall from the playground slide, for example, was a low day, and the day she’d graduated from elementary school—showers or not—a high one. In fact, she’d met Pluvius on a rainy day as well, way back when she was only a nervous, stuttering fifth grader whose voice barely rose above a frail tremolo. She’d argued with her mother that day, running out into the slippery streets in desperate anger, no destination in mind but forwards. Childishly unimaginative as she was, her fifth grade self had been taken by the idea of seeking shelter under the slide in the neighborhood park, but when she arrived on scene, she found the spot already taken. In her planned hiding spot was a curious cardboard box containing a blue blanket and a single, silent sliver of cold, shivering fur.
Thinking back, Sophie realized that her first reaction to her dear Pluvius was, in fact, anger; how dare the measly creature and its tattered box squander her safe haven, thwart her carefully laid plans? But whatever her initial impression of the tiny creature, when she finally bent down to investigate further, she found waiting for her a being wholly innocent and helpless, pitifully mewling from the corner it’d huddled itself into.
It was anything but love at first sight at the time, but Sophie had no better reason for the sequence of events that followed. And, with each time she’d recalled the memory, she was more and more convinced that the reason she’d come up with was the correct one.
Having completely forgotten about her plans to hide away under the slide, Sophie had shed her raincoat, draping it over the box before picking the whole contraption up and sprinting homewards. In those moments—which Sophie could still recall clear as day, adrenaline sharpening her memory with vivid color and clarity—she’d felt, over any discomfort or fatigue, a sense of panicked responsibility. Not helping the creature she’d found hadn’t even occurred to her; in fact, it wouldn’t occur to her until long after she’d woken up from her fever and found the creature sleeping soundly in her arms, little rumbling purrs running absentmindedly through its frail chest. And it was from that moment on—not earlier, and not later—that Sophie decided firmly that it had been love at first sight.
Her memories were skewed by hindsight romanticisms, she was sure, but such was the only way she could express the pure affection she felt for Pluvius. Oh, how lovable he was, how soft, how wonderfully well-timed in his entrance into her life. In the face of her love for Pluvius, going to school suddenly didn’t seem so bad. The names she might get called, the furious teasing that bordered on insult she might have to endure—they were painful, but she’d risen above it all. She’d managed, despite her trembly hands and shaky voice, to do something right. No longer would her peers’ accusations and taunts her pierce at her soul, for if Pluvius could transform from frightfully fragile to large, pompous, and proud, so could she. As he filled out, Sophie followed suit, finding her voice and conquering her stutter. As his coat grew longer, she replaced her anxiety with snowballing confidence, learned to ball her fists and smile through her freckles. As he grew more luminous, more present, Sophie grew to stand straighter, laugh louder, and before she knew it she was bound to college, a real girl at last, ready to take on the world and all it was made of.
It’d physically hurt to leave Pluvius behind, yes, and though the video calls did little to help—Pluvius looking wildly around for her when the mic produced her voice in staticy imitation, thoroughly confused by what he couldn’t understand to see—he was waiting for her when she got back, a bit less lustrous but no less loving, all purrs and adororant nudges. It was for him that she’d willingly suffered nips and scratches during nail trims, adapted to avoid dark colored clothing and use an indoor voice. In return, he’d patiently helped her prep for her interviews, aided her in celebrating her first job that paved the way to her new apartment, of which Sophie’s first requirement was that it allow pets.
Thinking of it all brought a smile to her lips, and she set aside her mug to reach over for an umbrella, opening it up before stepping into the yard. The rain pelleted down at her with full, heavy droplets of sound as she walked towards the blooming harebell at the head of the garden. She stopped in front of it, bending down to gently caress a leaf.
“Thank you, Plu.”
by @Dusksong
1x Thank
