Fab Four Fables: A Merchant in Oria – Part One

A new month means a new round of the Fab Four Fables. This month I had the honor of starting the story, and anyone who knows me knew that I would select either Fantasy of Sci-Fi for the genre. At the end of my story I will pass the baton on to another member of the Fab Four to continue the story. And, if you are new, the Fab Four is made of myself, Eric, Shannon, and SAM. So, without further introduction, here is A Merchant in Oria:

Genre: Fantasy

    Kheldar had grown up hearing legends about the magnificence and glory of the eastern Dwarven kingdoms. They had captured his heart and his imagination since he was a toddler, paying close attention every time his father told the stories about his adventures there. His siblings always preferred tales of warriors battling dragons and other monstrous beasts, but Kheldar was different. Which probably explained why now, twenty years later, he was following in his father’s footsteps as a traveling merchant while his brothers were all knights in the king’s court.

He had tried for years to get enough trade to take him down the Great Silk Road, but the economic demand for his goods kept him bustling around the southwestern reaches of the continent. Kheldar knew that, in time, his occupation would allow him to see the beautiful kingdoms and cities across the world. But he had still been impatient to see the dwarves. And now he was on his way, traveling down the Great Silk Road, with a wagon full of wood and cloth and spices to trade for gems and ore.

His oxen were getting worn down from the years. He had inherited them from his father, just like he had inherited the wagon and tarps. He hoped this would be the trip that would pay for some much-desired upgrades. Hand-me-downs were great for apprenticing and establishing himself as a novice merchant, but if he wanted to really hit the big time he needed to look the part. He heard the dwarves were overly generous with their payments when they took to the merchant. He had no doubt he could charm the lot of them.

The band of merchants he started his travels with had all left along the way; they were still seeking profits closer to home. And they would find some profit in their trade, but he knew that they wouldn’t be capable of fathoming the riches he’ll have loaded for his return trip. He might need to trade in the oxen long before he made it back home. These ones wouldn’t be able to handle the load, at least not for more than a day or two. Kheldar grinned when he remembered the warnings that Aang, the oldest of the merchants, tried to pass along to him. Kheldar knew they weren’t true, because his father never included that in his stories about the dwarves. There was no way they murdered humans in the streets. That sort of activity sounded characteristic of the troll tribes in the northern mountains, not a civilized kingdom of blacksmiths and jewelers.

Besides, the dwarves honored the merchant’s code of protection that was put into effect during his grandfather’s lifetime. They wouldn’t dare kill him and risk starting a war.

*    *    *    *    *

Three days later, exhausted and covered in a combination of earthy elements, the kingdom of Oria came into view. His energy came crashing back into his mind and body at the sight of the magnificent kingdom, but his oxen failed to share his enthusiasm. They meandered along the road, stopping a few times to rip up some fresh grass to chew, at an unbearably slow pace.

It was just as splendid as he had always dreamed: castle spires and entire neighborhoods were chiseled into the surrounding mountains, encircling a large area. Groups of dwarven workers passed in and out of open mine shafts, digging for fresh gems and ores. The pounding of hammers against anvils rang through the air, reaching his ears miles before he reached the city gate. The only thing he hadn’t imagined was the massive pillar of charcoal smoke hovering in the air, seemingly bereft of movement.

For some reason the presence of the smoke bothered him because it contradicted the image his father had presented to him. Did he simply fail to mention that detail, or was this a new addition since his father’s last trip? Kheldar tried to shrug it off as they rolled into the city limits.
Dwarves on either side of him stopped and stared as his oxen plodded along the road. Clearly they weren’t used to visitors. Kheldar flashed his youthful, charming smile and waved to them in an attempt to win them over and warm their demeanor. It didn’t have the effect he expected; their faces darkened with sinister scowls and they crossed their arms. He continued to present a positive image as he rode deeper into Oria, trying to ignore the poor reception. He noticed the occasional house or building that had a sign on the door saying “Humans not welcome”. Could Aang have been right about the dwarves?

After a while Kheldar realized the inevitable: he would need to ask someone directions to the merchant’s guild. He dismounted from his wagon and walked over to one of the local’s houses. The top of the door reached up to his chest. The house was so low to the ground that he could see the dust and debris collected on the roof of the building. He hunched down to knock on the door and ask the citizen for directions.

The door opened and a stout dwarf stood beneath the frame. Thick black hair hung down below the shoulders and their beard dangled over their belly. Muscles bulged beneath a beige cloth tunic and calloused hands clenched into fists. Kheldar stammered slightly, squirming under the intense glare of the dwarf.

“Um, excuse me, sir-” Kheldar said. Before he could continue the dwarf slammed a fist into his jaw, leveling him on his back.

“I’m not a sir,” the dwarf said, spitting on Kheldar before she slammed the door shut.

*     *    *    *    *

THE RULES:

1. No one will be privy to the story until it is posted.

2.The next person won’t know who they are until they are tagged, when the post goes live.

3. The person publishing the most recent part must adhere to the following:

• choose the next person to write the story
• keep the title and stay within the genre provided
• provide an image of their choice at the top of their post that relates to their piece
• the story must continue as a whole and not combined with any other prompt or meme

4. There is no word count or time limit.

And so now comes the unveiling of my choice to have…Eric write the next portion of this story.

Hunted

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. Dirt and sweat coated our bodies, our clothes were torn, and most of us suffered from intense hunger pangs. It had been weeks since we ate a decent meal. Groups of us huddled together, seeking warmth from the collective gathering of our bodies. We were still alive, although we are starting to feel like the walking dead. Every siren, every gun shot, and every loud cry placed our senses on alert.

We were condemned to die by those in power. They have corrupted those around us, turning them against us. We have wept while families and friends were shot or stabbed in front of us. Those were the lucky ones. Others were burned alive, the stench of melting flesh mixing with the acrid sulfur aroma of the raging inferno. A select few have been crucified, dying slow and torturous deaths to send a message to the rest of us.

In the face of adversity we have come together, strengthened by a common bond. We have been forced to take cover, to flee across rugged terrain, being hunted and tormented by a nation we love. Our sanctuaries have been torn down or converted into pagan temples. The great structures and achievements of this civilized nation have crumbled under the weight of lawlessness and the self-gratification embraced by our peers. The justice system has become a mockery, used to parade us in front of the public eye while remaining oblivious to the corruption rampant in the cities.

They blame us for all their troubles. They believe that exterminating us will solve all of their problems, and for too long we have sat idle. We watched as they eroded the sanctity of our core principles, eventually eliminating them completely from society. We remained passive while they removed our weapons of defense from our homes, leaving them only in the hands of criminals who obtain them through the black market. We enabled them to encourage the majority to believe they were entitled to have their needs met by others, placing the burden on those laboring to make a living.

We have sat by through it all and done nothing to change it. Instead of fighting back we have fled, choosing to be hunted and slaughtered like animals. Our right to live has been revoked by our society. We are dead men and women, even though we still breathe.

We are not sinners, we are Samaritans.

We are not the godless, but the godly.

We are not hunted because we are criminals, but because we are Christians.

And it is time we take a stand and reclaim our right to live our lives.

——————————–

This post came from the Master Class prompt this week, which was the first line from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale: We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. Even though I didn’t get the post done in time to link up for the week, I figured I would allow the idea I had to be written anyway. As always, feedback is welcomed and encouraged.

Fab Four Fables – Dying to See You, Part Trois

Photo courtesy of http://damewallis.wordpress.com/

This is the third part in a story series known as the Fab Four Fables. The rules are listed at the end of the post. Catch up on the story by reading part 1, written by SAM, and then part 2, written by Shannon.

He smiled at her again, his shining eyes reflective of something that Hazel couldn’t quite identify. Amusement? Joy? Hunger? In spite of the mild warnings voiced in her mind, she brushed the unease of the moment aside and returned his smile. After all, this was the moment she had waited for. She could still picture him coming home sharply at six, arriving for the still-hot dinner and being welcomed by their children as he pulled into the driveway. The fantasy was still alive and well.

“I have been looking forward to meeting you as well, mister…?” she trailed off, giving him the chance to reveal his name at last and complete the scene replaying in her mind. He seemed not to catch on to her subtle hint, instead turning toward the hostess and asking for a private table. The eyes of the hostess lit up when she looked down to see the bill he slipped into her hand. Hazel wondered when he managed to do that without her noticing. It had the desired effect, though, as the hostess snagged a pair of maroon menus and led them to a quite table in the back.

Hazel stood in awe at the elegant lace tablecloth, her eyes soaking in the intricate, romantic designs. A silver candelabra stood in the center of the table, the flickering light casting shadows on the chairs. Two maroon napkins, folded in the shape of a swan, towered protectively over their sets of polished silverware. Somewhere in the background the melodious chords of a harp rang in the air, adding enchantment with elegance. Hazel pictured them sitting together at the table, gray streaking his hair, celebrating the anniversary of the day they met. It was the perfect spot.

He held her chair out for her, smiling. Hazel blushed and went to sit down, but froze midway through. She saw it again, that cold and sepulchral glimmer, flashing in his eyes as she sat down. A voice of reason rang in her head, urging her to leave now. The signs along the way flashed in her head, forcing the daydream fantasies to dissipate like her breaths on a cold winter morning.

With some effort she calmed the alarms, giggling in embarrassment as she sat in the chair. Her hostess rolled her eyes before letting them know that Antoine would be their server tonight, leaving the two of them alone at the table. The glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by a warmth that complimented his disarming smile. In that moment Hazel felt as though she could melt into his arms and find comfort and security. But even then the voice persisted, a whisper drowned by the crashing waves in her mind.

He asked questions about her, wanting to know what she did at home and at work, what she liked and what she disliked. Hazel answered each question without hesitation, rattling off the answers and embellishing generously to keep him interested. When she finished telling him a mostly false tale about how she saved her neighbor’s life, she realized that she still knew nothing about him. Every time she tried to get some sort of detail from him, he deflected the focus back on her.

The first few times she was flattered, but now it was getting irritating. Every time he shifted the conversation back to her, the voice got louder. The warning signs flashed in her mind with increased intensity. She was determined to get something out of him, even if it meant threatening to leave.

“So what was the name of your cat, Hazel?” he asked in a syrupy voice, smiling as he leaned in closer.

“My cat is named,” Hazel started, but cut herself short. “His name isn’t important. Here I am babbling about myself and I still don’t know your name.”

He frowns, his face growing darker with the change in expression. The warning signs scream at her, but his frown quickly departs. His smile suppresses the voice in her mind once more. “How rude of me,” he said as though he meant to tell her all along, “my name is Brock Hurston.”

Immediately the fantasy burst back into her mind. She was Mrs. Hazel Hurston, and he was her Brock. Her stone to lean upon in hard times, sheltering her from harm and raising their children together. She reached to take a sip of her red wine, pausing briefly to wonder when she ordered red wine. She shrugged it aside and lifted the glass to her plush lips.

And then the worst thing imaginable happened. She spilled some wine on her shirt. She leaped to her feet, spilling more on the white tablecloth in the process. Her cheeks changed color to match the wine stain on her clothes, and she excused herself to the bathroom.

She wished she hadn’t ditched her sweater earlier. She could hear the laughter of fate ringing in her ears as she rushed from the table. Her composure was gone, and her dignity with it as well. She locked herself in a stall and fought back tears of embarrassment. This wasn’t how this day was supposed to go.

In the silence of the stall, the oddities of the day replayed in her mind. Nothing had gone her way today, apart from how handsome and courteous Brock was. Except for those momentary flashes of…something in his eyes.

And somehow his name seemed familiar, but she couldn’t imagine where she might have seen it.

The warnings in her mind pounded through her thoughts, demanding to be heard. She tried to brush them aside, but they refused to leave this time. They could not be dismissed without the distracting presence of Brock.

Where had she seen that name?

She took a deep breath and shook her head, biting her bottom lip. She has suffered through worse first dates in her life. None of them were dreamy as Brock Hurston, though.

If she could only figure out why his name resonated with her memory, perhaps she could enjoy the rest of the date in peace.

She got up and left her stall, stopping to wash her hands and dab at the stain with a moist paper towel. Every part of her was screaming for her to leave. Now, before he noticed she was gone too long. But that seemed like a childish thing to do, and Hazel was going to prove that she was neither clumsy nor childish.

Brock. Hurston. Brock Hurston. Hurston Brock. Something still seemed off.

She opened the door. She looked to her left, her body urging her to go. She started to turn when a voice broke through.

“You aren’t planning on standing me up,” Brock said with a grim smile, “are you, Hazel?” She thought she saw the chilling look in his eyes again, but when she blinked it was gone. She stammered, trying unsuccessfully to indicate she thought she left a jacket in the car.

Brock Hurston. Suddenly she remembered…

Her face flushed and her stammering increased. She remembered where she saw that name, and in that moment she started to wish she had never come.

—————-

This was my installment in our second round of the Fab Four Fables. For those who don’t know, the Fab Four consists myself, SAM, Shannon, and Eric. For this round SAM started us off and then tagged Shannon, who ended her piece by tagging me.

This awesome Fab Four Fable image is courtesy of SAM.

THE RULES:

1. No one will be privy to the story until it is posted.

2.The next person won’t know who they are until they are tagged, when the post goes live.

3. The person publishing the most recent part must adhere to the following:

• choose the next person to write the story
• keep the title and stay within the genre provided
• provide an image of their choice at the top of their post that relates to their piece
• the story must continue as a whole and not combined with any other prompt or meme

4. There is no word count or time limit.

And since I have been elected to be third again, I am left to tag Eric for the final part. Which will be awesome, like all of his writing.

Memoirs from the Kitchen Sink

I write this sitting in the Kitchen Sink. I know, it is a terrible name for a star cruiser but it was the best I could negotiate. The captain originally wanted to name it Toilet Bowl. I don’t know what his obsession is with those humanoid antiques, but at least I was able to salvage a small amount of dignity for our crew.

It gets lonely out here sometimes. Okay, it really gets lonely a lot. Wouldn’t you feel that way if you were flying for months at a time from place to place, with no contact outside of your captain and crew? It doesn’t take long before everyone settles in to their boring routines and the conversation grows bland. In an attempt to regain some sanity, I have decided to keep a chronicle of some of our voyages.

I suppose the place to start would be where it all began, back on my home planet of Triborak III. I didn’t want to fly out in space. I always wanted to raise pthoolas and farm the land, like my father. The captain says that pthoolas remind him of the sheep on his planet, although he says they don’t live off bone marrow and that they have white wool instead of fluorescent pinks and yellows. Those must be odd looking creatures. Anyway, my dad didn’t want me to be stuck toiling in his profession. He had always dreamed of seeing other planets and flying in the stars, so he placed me in the flight academy at a young age.

And that was where I met the captain. He was a humanoid refugee from the Milky Way galaxy, one of the last survivors from the Earth apocalypse. He always had the sort of personality that drew others to him. When you got to know the guy a little better, one of two things seemed to occur. Either you really liked the guy and became best friends, like me, or you wanted to punch him in the face. Unfortunately for the captain, most girls chose the latter option.

I could tell early on that he was destined for greatness. He had two passions in his life at the academy: flying and learning the history of his home planet. The first has led to many fantastic adventures aboard the Kitchen Sink, saving our hides more often than there are stars in the skies. The other led to countless laughs, like the time he made roller blades to travel around the ship. Let’s just say zero gravity didn’t go well with that invention from his home planet.

The captain barely graduated from the Academy, thanks to his high marks in flying and his ability to convince others to let him look at their assignments. He conned me on more than one occasion, and looking back I’m glad he did. In spite of the long stretches of idleness and boredom (which usually lead to overeating), my life so far has been a good one. Maybe my father did know best when he forced me into the Academy.

Of course, I usually think that during these slow times, when I can reflect on our adventures. But if you were to ask me in the middle of being chased by Zebrulean bandit raiders or being lowered into a pit of flesh-eating slugs, I might give a different answer. But somehow the two of us seem to come out of every adventure with our lives, no matter how close the call. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the rest of our ship’s crew.

At first we thought it was our own carelessness and bad luck that we usually returned from a mission alone. We spent several years being cautious, looking out for the crew members every step of the way, but they still found unexpected ways to meet their untimely death. Then we tried going to several specialists, hoping to untangle the curse on the Kitchen Sink’s crew. That didn’t work, either. Those crews managed to die in record time.

So now it has become a sort of a game for the captain. It is rare to find anyone who is accustomed to the old Earth customs, and the majority of new hires come aboard willing to do anything the captain asks to try and win his favor. I will never forget the crew that he convinced to wear underwear outside of their spacesuits. We had many laughs at the expense of that team.

Our current crew is being forced to talk in an old dialect from earth. The captain calls it Middle English, which is really just a bunch of saying “thee, thou, and thy” when talking to each other. Tonight there is to be a joust in the mess hall. He even imported Krullian armored harts for the event. Their presence definitely is making the crew nervous.

When we made our stop the captain also brought me these archaic tools. He heard me say once that we should chronicle our greatest adventures, and this is apparently how his people used to do it. I must say that it seems to be a lot more work than recording a digipod, but he insists that this is the only method I’m allowed to use.

The crew is calling for me to come and join them for the start of the first ever Kitchen Sink jousting tournament. I suppose I should go and share in the merriment. Anything to get them to stop saying “thou art making us tardy with thy lack of haste”. Here comes the captain, grinning like crazy. I guess this is

- END ENTRY 001 -

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This is my entry in the return of the Master Class writing prompt. This was a fun one, and it has been great seeing an influx of new people taking part in it already. This is certainly something I could return to in the future, depending on motivation and the overall reception this gets.

This prompt was to use the first sentence of Dodie Smith’s book “I Capture the Castle”. The line is I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. Come and join us for the Master Class and share your own story from that prompt.

Unraveling Dead Ends

“It has been a week and we still haven’t managed to find it,” Ava said as she threw a knife into a wooden panel. She had been doing that frequently the past few days, as was evident from the numerous gashes in the wood. She tossed another knife and looked over at Edgar, her weariness and frustration written in her verdant eyes.

“Our hunt hasn’t been fruitless,” Edgar replied without looking up from the map he was studying. His hair was in disarray and his once-smooth face was covered with the blond beginnings of a beard.

“We’ve been following dead-end trails,” Ava snapped, tossing the next knife with greater force. The impact sent the panel toppling to the ground, causing Edgar to look up momentarily from his map. “I’m tired of being led around like a tame warg. He knows we’re here and that we’re tracking him, and he is toying around with us.”

“He thinks he is toying with us,” Edgar corrected, using a compass to draw another circle around a spot on the map.

“We’re wasting our time with him. We should just move on and choose an easier target. There are dozens of wanted posters in this part of Talesin, most of them worth more than this doppelganger.”

Edgar ignored her outburst, focusing on his map with increased fervor. After a few moments of silence, Ava strode over and propped the wooden panel back up. She was trying to free her last knife from the wood when Edgar jumped to his feet. He looked up at her, excitement dancing in his eyes. “I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Ava said in a monotone voice as she sheathed her knife.

“Where the doppelganger is hiding out at. He thought he was leading us on a string of wild chases, but his overconfidence will lead to his demise.”

“I don’t understand,” Ava said as she crossed over to the table where he had been working. “We’ve followed four different trails to four separate parts of town. None of them had anything in common.”

“Maybe not at first glance, but there is definitely a pattern. Take a look at this,” Edgar said, motioning to the lines and circles drawn on his map.

“That looks like a jumbled mess. Kind of like the time you tried to take on that trio of Gnolls in Lockheed.”

“I was trying to save your careless hide,” Edgar replied, his turning a light shade of crimson.

“I had them right where I wanted them.”

“You wanted to be chained to a spit, roasting over a fire?”

“I was lulling them into a false sense of security.”

“Why can’t you just admit you were in trouble and thank me for coming to the rescue?”

“Moving on,” Ava said quickly, biting her lip as she looked down at the map. “What did this mess on the map tell you?”

“Fine,” Edgar sighed, shaking his head at her display of stubbornness. “We’ve tracked the doppelganger to these four points in the city,” he said as he pointed to the four red dots marked on the map. “None of them appear to have any relation to the other.”

“We’ve already covered that before, Edgar.”

“Yes, but that was simply considering their surroundings. But through the process of trilateration I could trace back toward a single area from each of those four points.”

“Try what?”

“Trilateration. It is the process of determining absolute or-”

“Forget I asked,” Ava cut him off. “Where is he hiding?”

Edgar pointed to a spot somewhat near the center of the four red dots. It is an old part of the town, one that most travelers avoided completely. Even the daring tried not to venture there unless it was vital. Ava shook her head and slammed her fist down on the table, causing everything on it to shift slightly.

“You are certain?” Ava asked him.

“Positive. I ran the calculations several times with the same results. He is there.”

“You realize we might not even make it to where this doppelganger is hiding, right?”

“I know,” Edgar said, forcing a smile, “but I’m pretty sure we’re both crazy enough to go in there.”

“This adventure might make the trio of gnolls seem like a stroll through the meadow in comparison.”

“Rest up,” Edgar said, rolling up the map. “Tonight we’re going after the doppelganger. And first we’ll need to navigate through to the heart of the Den of Thieves.”

*      *      *

This is another installment in the Monster Hunter series, which follows Ava as she tracks and hunts various monsters. She is currently in the midst of tracking down a doppelganger in this second story. Her first saw her tracking down an ogre, spanning across four posts. This one is, by far, longer than the first one. Hopefully you are enjoying reading these as much as I have been enjoying writing them.

Feedback is certainly welcome. Have suggestions for the next monster Ava could hunt?  Leave me a comment below!

Previous: Museum of Monster History  |  Monster Hunter Main Page

On the Eve of Battle

[An army is encamped on vast field. Hundreds of knights and warriors huddle around the campfires scattered throughout the camp, many drinking ale and swapping stories. Along the front line of the camp, three sober men sit around a campfire. They can see the army of their enemy camped a few miles away, spreading across the horizon as far as they can see.]

[Enter Pierre the archer, Marcus the swordsman, and Tristan the pikeman.]

PIERRE: Three weeks of hard marching over hills and across rivers. And for what?

MARCUS: To bring glory and honor to our liege, King Edmond.

PIERRE: To die, is more likely. Look at that army over there.

TRISTAN: I don’t like our odds.

MARCUS: This is war. Casualties are expected in order to bring about peace.

PIERRE: The last three wars were supposed to bring peace to our kingdom. How many more must die before we realize that peace is just a fairy tale?

MARCUS: Better to die fighting for your loved ones’ future than to sit idle while barbarians invade our borders.

TRISTAN: Aye, but how did they get to be so many? [Tristan rubs his hands together, holding them out over the fire.]

PIERRE: This was supposed to be a small skirmish with a band of barbarians.

MARCUS: Our orders are the same, no matter the size of their force. We attack at dawn and push them back.

PIERRE: [Scowling at Marcus] Or die trying.

TRISTAN: At least the marching is done. I don’t know if I could have walked another day across this terrain.

MARCUS: Winter is coming. The wind has gotten colder with each night. It won’t be long before snow coats the ground.

TRISTAN: I pray it holds off until we return home.

PIERRE: If we are lucky enough to survive the morning. Which I doubt.

MARCUS: If we aren’t, at least we will be taking some of them down with us. [Marcus unsheathes his sword and begins to polish it with an oily, tattered rag]

PIERRE: I’ve heard that they have giants from across the sea in their army.

TRISTAN: [Laughing] That is a rumor if I ever heard one. Anyone six feet tall becomes a giant by the time it reaches our ears.

MARCUS: I once fought a man who stood nearly eight feet tall. [Pierre and Tristan's eyebrows raise in astonishment]

PIERRE: How did you kill him?

MARCUS: I cut off his legs right above the knee. Once he was down to my size, it was an easy fight.

PIERRE: What about the black powder from the orient that creates an inferno?

TRISTAN: I’ve seen that before. It is some sort of small explosive that the oriental alchemists make.

MARCUS: Can it wipe out our army?

TRISTAN: They would need a fleet of ships filled with the stuff for that to happen. [Pierre sighs in relief]

[All three men sit in silence. Marcus continues to polish his sword, Tristan pokes the embers in the fire with a stick, and Pierre stares up at the cloudy night sky]

PIERRE: [Hesitant] Could I ask you guys something?

[Tristan and Marcus stop what they are doing and look at Pierre]

TRISTAN: Aye, lad. Ask away.

PIERRE: If I don’t make it, could you deliver this for me? [Pierre pulls a small letter from his tunic and holds it up] To my wife, back home in Locksleer.

MARCUS: [Taking the letter from Pierre] It shall be done.

TRISTAN: [Pulling a letter from his own tunic] Would you deliver this one to my wife? You’ll find her in Tiras Mirth.

MARCUS: [Pulling out a letter of his own from his armor as Pierre takes Tristan's letter] Mine too? It is a long ride to Camlen, but I would rest easier knowing she received word.

[Tristan takes the letter from Marcus. The three sit in silence again, resuming their activities. A brief time passes and Marcus looks over to the enemy camp, noticing a commotion stirring]

MARCUS: What is going on over there? [Pierre and Tristan turn to look at the camp]

PIERRE: Looks like one of their fires got out of control.

TRISTAN: Not just one fire, from the looks of it.

MARCUS: [Rising to his feet] Their camp is under attack!

PIERRE: Look, their force is scattering.

TRISTAN: [Grabbing his pike while rising to his feet] We can’t let them regroup.

PIERRE: [Slipping his quiver across his back] This might be our change to end this invasion.

MARCUS: To arms, lads. For our king! [Charges.] [Exit.

TRISTAN: For peace! [Charges.] [Exit.

PIERRE: For our families! [Charges.] [Exeunt.

————————-

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Julia Mae at http://www.juliamaestaley.com gave me this prompt: A short drama set in a locale that is exotic to you. I decided to take a stab at writing a short play in order to work on some dialogue. It is definitely the thing I dislike most about writing (I could write action scenes forever!) which is why I thought it would be a good choice for this prompt. Hopefully it didn’t turn out as bad as I think!

I gave kgwaite at http://writinginthemarginsburstingattheseams.blogspot.com/ this prompt: Writing Prompt: Snow

Fab Four Fables: Embracing the Darkness

This is the third part in a four-part story written by the Fab Four bloggers from the Master Class. Check out the first part, written by Eric at Sinistral Scribblings, and the second part, written by SAM at My Write Side, before reading this.

*     *     *

Photo courtesy of SAM at My Write Side.

I can’t bring myself to accept the future presented. As I look into her familiar face, pain laces through my emotional barriers. Things I had tried to forget burst to the surface of my mind. I turn away from her face.

My shoes stomp along the paved road as I race away from the rock. The mist follows, keeping pace with my steps. The trees along the sides sway in spite of the absence of wind. My lungs burn as I gasp desperately for air. My stride slows and the mist swallows me.

Shift.

This is the face of my future. I know I must embrace it, but it still pains me to look into her azure eyes and see the torment reflected in them. I take one step toward the rock and the face becomes a mask of horror. I turn to run away again.

My shoes stomp along the paved road as I race away from the rock. The mist follows, keeping pace with my steps.

I know how this story ends. The burning sensation ripples through the muscles in my legs. Searing pain shoots through my shins with every step I take along the endless road. My surroundings become blurred into obscurity.

I turn to the right and run off the road. The mist follows, snaking and swirling behind the path I have chosen.

The wind begins to blow, kicking leaves into the air around me and obscuring my vision. Branches from trees reach out and scratch my arms and legs as I outrun the mist.

My feet dig into the dirt as I skid to a halt. Massive redwoods tower in front of me, blocking my way on all three sides. The only path remaining is to turn back.

I face the mist as it consumes me.

Shift.

This is the face of my future, a face from my past. I can’t flee from it, nor embrace it. I stand dejected and tormented, frozen in place.

The mist swallows me as my mind fades into darkness.

Shift.

This is the face of my future. A future I can’t escape from. A past I can’t hide from. I open my arms and fall into the stone, embracing the darkness within.

I open my eyes to see the stone is gone. Her face has departed. The mist remains behind me but no longer advances while I stand. Looking around I find that I am still within the forest. In front of me is a small house built into the trees. My future.

Windows frame all sides of the house, light flooding into the rooms. The exterior is crafted from a variety of woods that blend together to add character to the structure. A hemp rope hangs from the rail of the porch, providing the only way to the house. Seeing no viable options around me, I begin to climb.

The mist crowds around the bottom of the rope as I struggle to make my way up to the house. The rope cuts into my palms as I climb and the effort sends pain lancing through my arms. My grip slips and I fall into the mist below.

Shift.

In front of me is a small house built into the trees. The rope hangs from the rail of the porch, taunting me as it sways in the wind. I come over to it and begin my ascent.

The mist fills in the ground below me as I pull myself up, hand over hand, toward the house. The effort is exhausting and my body screams for relief.

I ignore the pain and press on.

I pull myself onto the porch and lay there a moment, gasping for breath. My eyes threaten to close and the darkness settles in around the corners of my vision.

My arms quake with the effort of getting up. My legs wobble as though I am standing on the deck of a swaying ship. In the window she stares at me. In every window she is there.

My future and my past.

I cannot escape it. I must go on.

*     *     *

As mentioned above, this is part three of a four part story. Eric Storch, Shannon Potts, SAM and I decided to collaborate on a story based on a picture provided by Eric. We gave ourselves a few simple rules to follow:

1 – No one will be privy to the story until it’s time to write their part.

2- The next person won’t know who they are until a post is published (the person writing the post chooses the next person after the post is published).

3- The person who published the most recent part not only chooses who is next, but must also provide a new and original visual prompt.

4- The story must continue as a whole.

5- There is no time or word count limit.

Even though there is only one writer left to contribute, I am honored to choose Shannon from The Squeaky Wheel blog to write part four. Here is the photo prompt for Shannon to use: