Folded this bit into the ongoing collection of ongoing projects, which are ongoing.
>>To the rambling, flailing hub<<
>>To the rambling, flailing hub<<
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TOPIC | (editing in progress) Literary flailing
Folded this bit into the ongoing collection of ongoing projects, which are ongoing.
>>To the rambling, flailing hub<<
>>To the rambling, flailing hub<<
The wind shreds across the barren lowlands as the night-sentry lines up its sights. Three klicks north, one east. Two hours to landfall.
Behind the sheltering mounds of the Achean foothills, the townspeople shutter their windows against the cold. Rumors pass the eaves. Biggest storm in a decade, they say. Best lock up tight, they say. The old ones grin toothlessly and nod, whispering advice. A wind like this brings more than rain. The streets are poorly-cobbled and the houses ramshackle, the people pulled together from mud and sinew and good, honest work. There is no welcome sign, no name to put on it. The world ends in hazy darkness just a few miles out.
One hour to landfall. The last light is extinguished, and all is silent save the wailing of the wind.
Landfall.
An hour past.
The night-sentry searches through the rubble, its glittering limbs heaving and contracting until, with a suddenness that defies its size, it hooks some small bundle into itself. Starlight glints off scattered cobblestone, off collapsed houses, off bodies reduced to flesh and blood. Funny things, mountain storms.
It glides down the road, whistling merrily as the stones sizzle beneath it.
Behind the sheltering mounds of the Achean foothills, the townspeople shutter their windows against the cold. Rumors pass the eaves. Biggest storm in a decade, they say. Best lock up tight, they say. The old ones grin toothlessly and nod, whispering advice. A wind like this brings more than rain. The streets are poorly-cobbled and the houses ramshackle, the people pulled together from mud and sinew and good, honest work. There is no welcome sign, no name to put on it. The world ends in hazy darkness just a few miles out.
One hour to landfall. The last light is extinguished, and all is silent save the wailing of the wind.
Landfall.
An hour past.
The night-sentry searches through the rubble, its glittering limbs heaving and contracting until, with a suddenness that defies its size, it hooks some small bundle into itself. Starlight glints off scattered cobblestone, off collapsed houses, off bodies reduced to flesh and blood. Funny things, mountain storms.
It glides down the road, whistling merrily as the stones sizzle beneath it.
The wind shreds across the barren lowlands as the night-sentry lines up its sights. Three klicks north, one east. Two hours to landfall.
Behind the sheltering mounds of the Achean foothills, the townspeople shutter their windows against the cold. Rumors pass the eaves. Biggest storm in a decade, they say. Best lock up tight, they say. The old ones grin toothlessly and nod, whispering advice. A wind like this brings more than rain. The streets are poorly-cobbled and the houses ramshackle, the people pulled together from mud and sinew and good, honest work. There is no welcome sign, no name to put on it. The world ends in hazy darkness just a few miles out.
One hour to landfall. The last light is extinguished, and all is silent save the wailing of the wind.
Landfall.
An hour past.
The night-sentry searches through the rubble, its glittering limbs heaving and contracting until, with a suddenness that defies its size, it hooks some small bundle into itself. Starlight glints off scattered cobblestone, off collapsed houses, off bodies reduced to flesh and blood. Funny things, mountain storms.
It glides down the road, whistling merrily as the stones sizzle beneath it.
Behind the sheltering mounds of the Achean foothills, the townspeople shutter their windows against the cold. Rumors pass the eaves. Biggest storm in a decade, they say. Best lock up tight, they say. The old ones grin toothlessly and nod, whispering advice. A wind like this brings more than rain. The streets are poorly-cobbled and the houses ramshackle, the people pulled together from mud and sinew and good, honest work. There is no welcome sign, no name to put on it. The world ends in hazy darkness just a few miles out.
One hour to landfall. The last light is extinguished, and all is silent save the wailing of the wind.
Landfall.
An hour past.
The night-sentry searches through the rubble, its glittering limbs heaving and contracting until, with a suddenness that defies its size, it hooks some small bundle into itself. Starlight glints off scattered cobblestone, off collapsed houses, off bodies reduced to flesh and blood. Funny things, mountain storms.
It glides down the road, whistling merrily as the stones sizzle beneath it.
The man pinched his nose and sighed. The beings around the table shifted, glancing towards the exit. The walls was so thickly forested with maps, the air so cluttered with yarn and clipped parchment, that the room had taken a semblance of life. It breathed and it rustled. A thousand places were picked out in its dry hide: the faded blues of the seashore and violent reds of the Far Downs, the sickly greens and yellows of the alien lands to the north. There was enchantment in the air of the most businesslike sort, and some of the pages refused to lie flat. A particularly mountainous region was currently threatening the eye of one attendant (though he dare not flinch away from the sharply inked peaks) even as its black-on-tan glaciers made progress down their vales. High above their heads, a few shades circled hungrily. The man leaned forward.
"I don't think I quite understood that the first time. You say you dropped a storm on them?"
The mage across the table winced and nodded. "Seemed like a good way to hide the evidence, sir. The mountain weather is unpredictable. No one would question it."
"Yes, yes, alright. You earned your gold chit for creativity. But tell me, what became of the body? We do need that."
"That's the thing, sir. We saw, um, a thing...saw something headed away. It took us a little bit to reach the town, sir. Since we had to stay so far off to cast, sir. Spell like that takes a lot of effort and mages, and it's...it's a little dangerous up close. Sir."
The man at the head of the table grinned. It was a tremendously ordinary grin that occupied a tremendously ordinary face. Perhaps it was a bit deeply-set, lined with a few extra laughs or scowls, but ultimately ordinary. The mage recoiled.
"Dangerous indeed. Obviously, you attacked this 'thing' of yours and recovered the corpse."
"N-no."
"And why not?"
"It...it vanished, or faded away, or something. Without leaving residual magic. We checked."
The man laughed, and the laugh was a little less ordinary. Others chimed in with nervous tittering.
"You know, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. And do you know how I know you're honest, boy?"
The mage's mouth was dry. He shook his head.
"Because this tale of yours would be a stupid lie. A corpse just ups and vanishes, and you blame an unstoppable, untraceable third party? A lie like that would be suicide."
Without looking away from the young mage, the man gestured the rest towards the door. The room emptied. A few of those leaving cast back some pitying glances but, perhaps fearing they'd be spotted, did not tarry. The lights flickered and dimmed.
"Now tell me again, mage. From the top."
"I don't think I quite understood that the first time. You say you dropped a storm on them?"
The mage across the table winced and nodded. "Seemed like a good way to hide the evidence, sir. The mountain weather is unpredictable. No one would question it."
"Yes, yes, alright. You earned your gold chit for creativity. But tell me, what became of the body? We do need that."
"That's the thing, sir. We saw, um, a thing...saw something headed away. It took us a little bit to reach the town, sir. Since we had to stay so far off to cast, sir. Spell like that takes a lot of effort and mages, and it's...it's a little dangerous up close. Sir."
The man at the head of the table grinned. It was a tremendously ordinary grin that occupied a tremendously ordinary face. Perhaps it was a bit deeply-set, lined with a few extra laughs or scowls, but ultimately ordinary. The mage recoiled.
"Dangerous indeed. Obviously, you attacked this 'thing' of yours and recovered the corpse."
"N-no."
"And why not?"
"It...it vanished, or faded away, or something. Without leaving residual magic. We checked."
The man laughed, and the laugh was a little less ordinary. Others chimed in with nervous tittering.
"You know, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. And do you know how I know you're honest, boy?"
The mage's mouth was dry. He shook his head.
"Because this tale of yours would be a stupid lie. A corpse just ups and vanishes, and you blame an unstoppable, untraceable third party? A lie like that would be suicide."
Without looking away from the young mage, the man gestured the rest towards the door. The room emptied. A few of those leaving cast back some pitying glances but, perhaps fearing they'd be spotted, did not tarry. The lights flickered and dimmed.
"Now tell me again, mage. From the top."
The man pinched his nose and sighed. The beings around the table shifted, glancing towards the exit. The walls was so thickly forested with maps, the air so cluttered with yarn and clipped parchment, that the room had taken a semblance of life. It breathed and it rustled. A thousand places were picked out in its dry hide: the faded blues of the seashore and violent reds of the Far Downs, the sickly greens and yellows of the alien lands to the north. There was enchantment in the air of the most businesslike sort, and some of the pages refused to lie flat. A particularly mountainous region was currently threatening the eye of one attendant (though he dare not flinch away from the sharply inked peaks) even as its black-on-tan glaciers made progress down their vales. High above their heads, a few shades circled hungrily. The man leaned forward.
"I don't think I quite understood that the first time. You say you dropped a storm on them?"
The mage across the table winced and nodded. "Seemed like a good way to hide the evidence, sir. The mountain weather is unpredictable. No one would question it."
"Yes, yes, alright. You earned your gold chit for creativity. But tell me, what became of the body? We do need that."
"That's the thing, sir. We saw, um, a thing...saw something headed away. It took us a little bit to reach the town, sir. Since we had to stay so far off to cast, sir. Spell like that takes a lot of effort and mages, and it's...it's a little dangerous up close. Sir."
The man at the head of the table grinned. It was a tremendously ordinary grin that occupied a tremendously ordinary face. Perhaps it was a bit deeply-set, lined with a few extra laughs or scowls, but ultimately ordinary. The mage recoiled.
"Dangerous indeed. Obviously, you attacked this 'thing' of yours and recovered the corpse."
"N-no."
"And why not?"
"It...it vanished, or faded away, or something. Without leaving residual magic. We checked."
The man laughed, and the laugh was a little less ordinary. Others chimed in with nervous tittering.
"You know, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. And do you know how I know you're honest, boy?"
The mage's mouth was dry. He shook his head.
"Because this tale of yours would be a stupid lie. A corpse just ups and vanishes, and you blame an unstoppable, untraceable third party? A lie like that would be suicide."
Without looking away from the young mage, the man gestured the rest towards the door. The room emptied. A few of those leaving cast back some pitying glances but, perhaps fearing they'd be spotted, did not tarry. The lights flickered and dimmed.
"Now tell me again, mage. From the top."
"I don't think I quite understood that the first time. You say you dropped a storm on them?"
The mage across the table winced and nodded. "Seemed like a good way to hide the evidence, sir. The mountain weather is unpredictable. No one would question it."
"Yes, yes, alright. You earned your gold chit for creativity. But tell me, what became of the body? We do need that."
"That's the thing, sir. We saw, um, a thing...saw something headed away. It took us a little bit to reach the town, sir. Since we had to stay so far off to cast, sir. Spell like that takes a lot of effort and mages, and it's...it's a little dangerous up close. Sir."
The man at the head of the table grinned. It was a tremendously ordinary grin that occupied a tremendously ordinary face. Perhaps it was a bit deeply-set, lined with a few extra laughs or scowls, but ultimately ordinary. The mage recoiled.
"Dangerous indeed. Obviously, you attacked this 'thing' of yours and recovered the corpse."
"N-no."
"And why not?"
"It...it vanished, or faded away, or something. Without leaving residual magic. We checked."
The man laughed, and the laugh was a little less ordinary. Others chimed in with nervous tittering.
"You know, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. And do you know how I know you're honest, boy?"
The mage's mouth was dry. He shook his head.
"Because this tale of yours would be a stupid lie. A corpse just ups and vanishes, and you blame an unstoppable, untraceable third party? A lie like that would be suicide."
Without looking away from the young mage, the man gestured the rest towards the door. The room emptied. A few of those leaving cast back some pitying glances but, perhaps fearing they'd be spotted, did not tarry. The lights flickered and dimmed.
"Now tell me again, mage. From the top."
The man dried his hands against his shirt as the grotesque rainbow of the Enclave parted around him. A minotaur argued with a smith over the price of horseshoes. Two automatons with heads like rams wrestled and kicked one another in a circle of onlookers, while a pile of wilted flowers breathed motes of light into their faces. The air shimmered with the humming of happy banshees, steel-birds with their sword-beaks dancing lightly through the notes, the song mingling with the scents of mealtime and sweat and hair and industry. It all spun about him like a madcap clockwork. And he stepped through its midst, smiling from the corner of his mouth, feeling the paths and stories that wound through his monstrous city. He'd developed an instinct for it over the years, for feeling the shifts of mood and conversation that marked the start of trouble.
A victor emerged from the circle. It kicked its opponent's chassis to the side and challenged a member of the crowd. His smile widened.
The man admired the patchwork walls and alleys, a thousand and one architectural styles meshing and melding with varying success. In some spots, the tumorous growth of homes and business had blocked the sky completely. He'd send a prison-crew down to add some struts, maybe shore up the windows while they were up there. It was important to remind the citizens just whose mercy sheltered them. He could tell by the quieting of the crowd behind that they'd noticed him, and had suddenly remembered they had places to be. His smile faded a little, but he shook it off, strode onwards through the winding streets.
A victor emerged from the circle. It kicked its opponent's chassis to the side and challenged a member of the crowd. His smile widened.
The man admired the patchwork walls and alleys, a thousand and one architectural styles meshing and melding with varying success. In some spots, the tumorous growth of homes and business had blocked the sky completely. He'd send a prison-crew down to add some struts, maybe shore up the windows while they were up there. It was important to remind the citizens just whose mercy sheltered them. He could tell by the quieting of the crowd behind that they'd noticed him, and had suddenly remembered they had places to be. His smile faded a little, but he shook it off, strode onwards through the winding streets.
The man dried his hands against his shirt as the grotesque rainbow of the Enclave parted around him. A minotaur argued with a smith over the price of horseshoes. Two automatons with heads like rams wrestled and kicked one another in a circle of onlookers, while a pile of wilted flowers breathed motes of light into their faces. The air shimmered with the humming of happy banshees, steel-birds with their sword-beaks dancing lightly through the notes, the song mingling with the scents of mealtime and sweat and hair and industry. It all spun about him like a madcap clockwork. And he stepped through its midst, smiling from the corner of his mouth, feeling the paths and stories that wound through his monstrous city. He'd developed an instinct for it over the years, for feeling the shifts of mood and conversation that marked the start of trouble.
A victor emerged from the circle. It kicked its opponent's chassis to the side and challenged a member of the crowd. His smile widened.
The man admired the patchwork walls and alleys, a thousand and one architectural styles meshing and melding with varying success. In some spots, the tumorous growth of homes and business had blocked the sky completely. He'd send a prison-crew down to add some struts, maybe shore up the windows while they were up there. It was important to remind the citizens just whose mercy sheltered them. He could tell by the quieting of the crowd behind that they'd noticed him, and had suddenly remembered they had places to be. His smile faded a little, but he shook it off, strode onwards through the winding streets.
A victor emerged from the circle. It kicked its opponent's chassis to the side and challenged a member of the crowd. His smile widened.
The man admired the patchwork walls and alleys, a thousand and one architectural styles meshing and melding with varying success. In some spots, the tumorous growth of homes and business had blocked the sky completely. He'd send a prison-crew down to add some struts, maybe shore up the windows while they were up there. It was important to remind the citizens just whose mercy sheltered them. He could tell by the quieting of the crowd behind that they'd noticed him, and had suddenly remembered they had places to be. His smile faded a little, but he shook it off, strode onwards through the winding streets.
Two left turns, a right, left again, knock thrice at the eaves and whistle. He studied the building, dark green and peeling, walls buckling with the weight of a half-dozen additions. Faded murals of sea creatures danced along the eaves. They seemed to stare down on him with their scuffed eyes, judging him, taking in the sight of the man on the stoop and his silly knocks and noises. But times like these bred caution, and it was cautious folk he met with. A little hatch slid open, and a pair of violently blue eyes squinted up.
"Password?" The voice was gruff and rasping.
"Come off it, Gregoire, you know me."
"I know who you might be pretending to be."
"Ah!" said the man, with a little laugh. "I hope no one's that stupid."
There was a deep sigh behind the door and the sound of latches sliding open. "I know it's you by the pride. Fatal flaw, that." The door shuddered open as the man continued to chuckle.
"And I know it's you, Gregoire, by the honesty. Good man as ever. Is the old mother in?"
There was a sound of glass and metal clattering from deeper within. The whole place reeked of soap and incense, and its hallways sprawled into dreary darkness. The hangings on the windows and the overhangs above stifled what sunlight reached the street. Someone knocked open a door, spilling light into the gloom.
"Impertinent young scamp! You know darned well I'm not even a decade older. Hold your horses, hold your horses!"
Gregoire gestured to an overstuffed chair. The man took it gratefully, and they chatted as old friends do. The woman that joined them had brewed some tea. They accepted it with thanks, poured each other cups after a bygone style, split the plate of dry biscuits with little more talk than "no, after you." Business was a long time coming. Finally, the man broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Matilda, but I need your help. We're short a corpse."
The woman sighed and placed down her empty teacup. "Should have known, should have known. You've gotten careless, young boy. Time was you'd have a surplus of 'em, not a lack."
"If I didn't care for the particulars, I'd be up to my armpits. But you know full well what I'm talking about. If I've not got it, I can't track our little phenomenon, and if I can't track it--" he paused, steeling himself, "--there's trouble brewing; trouble for all of us."
She sighed and mindlessly stirred her empty cup. Liquid rose to meet her spoon. She took a sip, her thin cheeks glowing amber as it slipped down her throat. "You know I don't like to do the heavy stuff, boy."
"We've got funds earmarked."
"I don't do it for pay. Bad luck. Cranky spirits. Whatever you want to call it. I'll do it, but I won't like it." The cup refilled again, this time casting a pale green glow on her chin. She sighed and shook her head.
"Password?" The voice was gruff and rasping.
"Come off it, Gregoire, you know me."
"I know who you might be pretending to be."
"Ah!" said the man, with a little laugh. "I hope no one's that stupid."
There was a deep sigh behind the door and the sound of latches sliding open. "I know it's you by the pride. Fatal flaw, that." The door shuddered open as the man continued to chuckle.
"And I know it's you, Gregoire, by the honesty. Good man as ever. Is the old mother in?"
There was a sound of glass and metal clattering from deeper within. The whole place reeked of soap and incense, and its hallways sprawled into dreary darkness. The hangings on the windows and the overhangs above stifled what sunlight reached the street. Someone knocked open a door, spilling light into the gloom.
"Impertinent young scamp! You know darned well I'm not even a decade older. Hold your horses, hold your horses!"
Gregoire gestured to an overstuffed chair. The man took it gratefully, and they chatted as old friends do. The woman that joined them had brewed some tea. They accepted it with thanks, poured each other cups after a bygone style, split the plate of dry biscuits with little more talk than "no, after you." Business was a long time coming. Finally, the man broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Matilda, but I need your help. We're short a corpse."
The woman sighed and placed down her empty teacup. "Should have known, should have known. You've gotten careless, young boy. Time was you'd have a surplus of 'em, not a lack."
"If I didn't care for the particulars, I'd be up to my armpits. But you know full well what I'm talking about. If I've not got it, I can't track our little phenomenon, and if I can't track it--" he paused, steeling himself, "--there's trouble brewing; trouble for all of us."
She sighed and mindlessly stirred her empty cup. Liquid rose to meet her spoon. She took a sip, her thin cheeks glowing amber as it slipped down her throat. "You know I don't like to do the heavy stuff, boy."
"We've got funds earmarked."
"I don't do it for pay. Bad luck. Cranky spirits. Whatever you want to call it. I'll do it, but I won't like it." The cup refilled again, this time casting a pale green glow on her chin. She sighed and shook her head.
Two left turns, a right, left again, knock thrice at the eaves and whistle. He studied the building, dark green and peeling, walls buckling with the weight of a half-dozen additions. Faded murals of sea creatures danced along the eaves. They seemed to stare down on him with their scuffed eyes, judging him, taking in the sight of the man on the stoop and his silly knocks and noises. But times like these bred caution, and it was cautious folk he met with. A little hatch slid open, and a pair of violently blue eyes squinted up.
"Password?" The voice was gruff and rasping.
"Come off it, Gregoire, you know me."
"I know who you might be pretending to be."
"Ah!" said the man, with a little laugh. "I hope no one's that stupid."
There was a deep sigh behind the door and the sound of latches sliding open. "I know it's you by the pride. Fatal flaw, that." The door shuddered open as the man continued to chuckle.
"And I know it's you, Gregoire, by the honesty. Good man as ever. Is the old mother in?"
There was a sound of glass and metal clattering from deeper within. The whole place reeked of soap and incense, and its hallways sprawled into dreary darkness. The hangings on the windows and the overhangs above stifled what sunlight reached the street. Someone knocked open a door, spilling light into the gloom.
"Impertinent young scamp! You know darned well I'm not even a decade older. Hold your horses, hold your horses!"
Gregoire gestured to an overstuffed chair. The man took it gratefully, and they chatted as old friends do. The woman that joined them had brewed some tea. They accepted it with thanks, poured each other cups after a bygone style, split the plate of dry biscuits with little more talk than "no, after you." Business was a long time coming. Finally, the man broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Matilda, but I need your help. We're short a corpse."
The woman sighed and placed down her empty teacup. "Should have known, should have known. You've gotten careless, young boy. Time was you'd have a surplus of 'em, not a lack."
"If I didn't care for the particulars, I'd be up to my armpits. But you know full well what I'm talking about. If I've not got it, I can't track our little phenomenon, and if I can't track it--" he paused, steeling himself, "--there's trouble brewing; trouble for all of us."
She sighed and mindlessly stirred her empty cup. Liquid rose to meet her spoon. She took a sip, her thin cheeks glowing amber as it slipped down her throat. "You know I don't like to do the heavy stuff, boy."
"We've got funds earmarked."
"I don't do it for pay. Bad luck. Cranky spirits. Whatever you want to call it. I'll do it, but I won't like it." The cup refilled again, this time casting a pale green glow on her chin. She sighed and shook her head.
"Password?" The voice was gruff and rasping.
"Come off it, Gregoire, you know me."
"I know who you might be pretending to be."
"Ah!" said the man, with a little laugh. "I hope no one's that stupid."
There was a deep sigh behind the door and the sound of latches sliding open. "I know it's you by the pride. Fatal flaw, that." The door shuddered open as the man continued to chuckle.
"And I know it's you, Gregoire, by the honesty. Good man as ever. Is the old mother in?"
There was a sound of glass and metal clattering from deeper within. The whole place reeked of soap and incense, and its hallways sprawled into dreary darkness. The hangings on the windows and the overhangs above stifled what sunlight reached the street. Someone knocked open a door, spilling light into the gloom.
"Impertinent young scamp! You know darned well I'm not even a decade older. Hold your horses, hold your horses!"
Gregoire gestured to an overstuffed chair. The man took it gratefully, and they chatted as old friends do. The woman that joined them had brewed some tea. They accepted it with thanks, poured each other cups after a bygone style, split the plate of dry biscuits with little more talk than "no, after you." Business was a long time coming. Finally, the man broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Matilda, but I need your help. We're short a corpse."
The woman sighed and placed down her empty teacup. "Should have known, should have known. You've gotten careless, young boy. Time was you'd have a surplus of 'em, not a lack."
"If I didn't care for the particulars, I'd be up to my armpits. But you know full well what I'm talking about. If I've not got it, I can't track our little phenomenon, and if I can't track it--" he paused, steeling himself, "--there's trouble brewing; trouble for all of us."
She sighed and mindlessly stirred her empty cup. Liquid rose to meet her spoon. She took a sip, her thin cheeks glowing amber as it slipped down her throat. "You know I don't like to do the heavy stuff, boy."
"We've got funds earmarked."
"I don't do it for pay. Bad luck. Cranky spirits. Whatever you want to call it. I'll do it, but I won't like it." The cup refilled again, this time casting a pale green glow on her chin. She sighed and shook her head.