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brambleandquill · 2 days ago

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Magic in the Wind: Part 2

A cozy romantasy following Leida and Dorrin as they navigate a crumbling world and magic that has long been dormant.

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[Or just read it below!]

Return to Part 1 here.

Part 2

The sky is an overripe peach bursting with pinks and oranges as Leida makes her way down the path toward the outskirts where both her cottage and Marjorie’s are tucked away. The minutes pass in peace as Leida tries to bat away thoughts of the stranger, until the sound of footsteps pounding in the dirt behind her shakes her from her concentration. With a groan, Leida turns around, already knowing who she’ll see when she does.

“Why are you following me?” Leida calls. She already knows the answer, but part of her wants him to consider the optics of chasing a woman down at night. As the stranger gets closer, he slows his pace to a walk. She half expects him to be out of breath, but he’s as fresh as he was in the tavern. Leida takes in his height as he stops in front of her, crossing his arms. He’s tall, which Leida finds refreshing. It isn’t often people surpass her height so significantly, yet he manages to look down the bridge of his nose at her with frustration, and she finds that she can appreciate her view. Even so, the entitlement grated on her nerves.

Perhaps sensing that Leida isn’t one to back down, he shifts his focus to the basket. “Piku, please forgive me.”

“If you care about her, how could you leave her alone in the woods? I found her all tangled up in the brush,” Leida says, her voice creeping up in volume with every word. His eyebrows shoot up at this revelation, catching Leida off guard.

”I didn’t know,” he whispered. “We were separated. I was looking for her.”

”In the tavern? Right.” It’s Leida’s turn to cross her arms and look disgusted. He had almost convinced her, but his actions weren’t those of someone worried sick.

The stranger chuckles then and runs a hand through his long curls. “Best place to go when you want information. Especially when you don’t know where you are.” He turns his gaze to Leida fully, then. There’s a flash of emotion in his eyes, then gone again as he fixes his features into a mask of indifference once again. “People talk in taverns, and you don’t even have to ask questions.”

“And you expected people to be gossiping about a bird?” Leida snorts, and Piku chirrups from the basket as if personally offended. “Sorry, Piku, you’re a very noteworthy bird.”

Piku settles down at that, satisfied. Leida looks back at the stranger, who wears a look of wonder, as if he can’t quite believe the scene before him.

“Well, yes?”

“Yes?”

The stranger clears his throat. “She's not a bird, not really, and this form isn’t, uh…”

”Go on,” Leida prods at his reluctance to speak.

“Piku is a wind sprite, and this is far from her true form,” the stranger says matter-of-factly, and Leida’s eyes widen in shock. “I expected her to make more of an impression on the locals, and clearly, I was wrong. She seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Leida isn’t sure whether to laugh, to drop her basket and run, or to believe him. Wind sprites are all but legend, and barely even that if she’s being honest. It had been hundreds of years since things like that were rumored to exist, if they ever had. And instead of dwelling on it, Leida’s mind races right past the shock to fixate on his final statement, fixing him with her glare. “Well, sorry to disappoint.”

The stranger’s stare is blank for a moment, and then he throws back his head and barks out a laugh as loud and sharp as a thunderclap. Then, he pulls down his ruana from around his face so that Leida can see him properly for the first time. She feels her stomach drop at the sight of his wolfish grin. The jerk is gorgeous, she thinks.

He holds out a hand, then. “I’m Dorrin, and you, Leida, are far more than I bargained for.”

Leida gapes at his casual use of her name until she remembers that he probably heard her name back at the tavern. Composing herself, she places her hand in his. A jolt of electricity sings through her, and then they’re not touching anymore. Leida sits in that stunned silence for a moment, then pulls herself together.

“Well, Dorrin, I’ve got places to be,” she says, then turns on her heel and continues on her merry way down the path with her heart hammering in her chest. Why she kept wringing him out to dry like that, she didn’t know. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Behind her, there’s a soft silence where a gasp might live, and then the sound of feet scurrying to catch up. This time, Leida isn’t surprised. She knows he will follow.

In the silence between them hang so many unanswered questions, least of all the revelation about Piku. She figured he bumped his head or something. A good night’s rest might help with that, and maybe in the morning she could get some real answers. There was so much she wanted to ask, Leida realized. How did he get here? Where is he going? And what in the realms was the deal with Piku?

Leida knew it was true that Piku was the least bird-like bird she knew—not that she knew many birds in her lifetime—but there was simply no other thing she could be. Leida tries to look at her little hitchhiker with fresh eyes and finds she can’t imagine her any other way. Yet Dorrin seems to think she would be the talk of the town.

As they walk, the silence turns from comfortable to suffocating as Leida wills him to offer up something, anything about himself. To diffuse the tension with an explanation. After all, he’s the stranger in her town.

”Where are we headed?” When he finally speaks, Dorrin is nonchalant. Leida glares at him, and if looks could cut, Dorrin would need prompt medical attention. But although he looked straight ahead, he wore the grin of a man who knows he’s being an imp.

”We are not going anywhere. I am going to the bakery to drop off a delivery, then I’m going home. You are free to leave whenever you wish,” Leida says, with a wave of her hand.

“I can’t,” he says simply.

“What do you mean? How did you get here, anyway?” Leida has stopped walking, the bakery just within view. Dorrin stops, too, glancing at the bakery then back to Leida.

“I don’t know, exactly.”

”You don’t know?” She punctuates each word, confusion written all over her features. “You’re telling me you just appeared on this floating island?”

Dorrin shrugs, and it’s the most awkward gesture Leida has seen him make. It’s unnatural for someone with the soft elegance he carries himself with. ”The last thing I remember is flying with Piku when something tore us apart, then waking up here without her.”

This time, Leida couldn’t suppress her laughter. “Okay, now I know you’re messing with me. Good one. Now what’s the truth?”

Dorrin shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, flying. I don’t know what else to tell you. Everything from before that is…fuzzy.”

”Fuzzy?” Leida frowns. “Are you saying you have amnesia?”

Dorrin looks at the ground, taking a long inhale before he looks up and holds Leida’s gaze. “Yes, I’m telling you that I don’t know who I am, or where I’m from. All I can remember is my name, and that Piku is my friend.”

The levity Leida was feeling before evaporates as she takes in the weight of what Dorrin is telling her. She knows by the tone of his voice that he isn’t joking, and shame prickles at her skin for making light of it before.

”I’m so sorry,” Leida says. Piku, for her part, seems to have taken notice of his words, peering over the edge of the basket. And at Dorrin’s declaration of friendship, she trills the most beautiful sound, and shoots into the sky, exploding in size. With her wings outstretched, she’s a marvel to behold as she soars above Leida and Dorrin’s heads. Piku is blue and white and transparent, she’s wind and she’s water and feathers.

Leida sinks to her knees as she watches Piku shift and take new shapes as she twists through the air. As she catches the fading light, she is prisms of color, and then she is nothing, and then she is everything once again. With a trill and an arcing loop, Piku comes back to the ground, and Leida takes in the full scope of her. She’s something in between physical and not, and while some parts of her shift and move under scrutiny, she maintains the general appearance of a bird like she had before, although now practically horse-sized.

“Piku?” Leida whispers.

She cranes her now long, elegant neck toward Leida and trills, clearly pleased with herself. It’s an invitation, she realizes, and Leida rises shakily to her feet. Dorrin, for his part, is grinning wide like a proud father, and he scratches Piku’s neck beneath her beak. As Leida approaches, he nods encouragingly, and she holds a hand out limply. Piku, for her part, huffs. One could almost say the sprite rolled her eyes, and then she dipped her head low, pushing it up and under Leida’s hand quite forcefully.

“Oh!” Leida gasps, and then she begins to scratch Piku’s head with more enthusiasm.

”There’s my girl,” Dorrin laughs, and Leida can’t help but turn a bright shade of red. It dawns on her a moment later that he’s speaking to Piku, and she wishes she could crawl into a hole right then and there. It’s only the waning light that soothes her mind.

”So you can fly?” Leida asks, breathless.

Piku bobs her head at the same time that Dorrin says, “Piku can, I’m just along for the ride.”

”Very funny,” Leida says to Dorrin, then turns back to Piku. “You are a marvel, I’ve never seen anything like you.”

Piku’s skin ripples at the compliment, and Leida swears she almost glows, eliciting another delighted laugh. Then, her mind is in the clouds, imagining what it would be like to soar on Piku’s back and explore the Floating Isles like no one yet had.

“Truly?” Dorrin asks. “Creatures like Piku are unheard of?”

”Dorrin,” Leida says, and she’s not sure if she imagines him tensing up. “Sprites and fae and other creatures are a myth. Well, until now I thought…”

She expects him to say something, but Dorrin seems lost in his own thoughts. Leida reminds herself that for him, there’s nothing before today.

“How’d you know to go to a tavern, anyway?”

The question jostles Dorrin from his thoughts, and confusion rewrites his features. “What?”

”Your memory,” Leida says, “It can’t all be gone, you have some common sense.”

“Wow, I’m touched by your generous assessment,” Dorrin chuckles. “I suppose you’re right, though. There are still some things I know. I just can’t remember my life, who I am, beyond my name.”

He says this like it’s no problem, but Leida can sense the pain underneath the statement. She couldn’t imagine losing who you were and where you were from. Burda—her people—were everything to her.

“I’m so sorry, Dorrin.”

Dorrin clears his throat and nods, looking anywhere but at Leida. “Don’t worry about me. It’s getting dark, and you have places to be, right?”

Leida purses her lips, but nods. “Sure, now you care about my schedule.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth, threatening to take over. He gestures around them. “Light’s practically gone now, I shouldn’t keep you.”

”Right,” Leida says, as she rocks on her heels. “And what about you?”

”What about me?”

”What will you do tonight, you dolt?” Leida smacks him lightly on the forearm. “You can’t go flying off into the darkness, I won’t allow it.”

From behind Leida, Piku seems to nod in agreement, offering an affirmative chirp. Dorrin looks from Leida to the wind sprite, and he sags in mock defeat.

To be continued...

#writeblr #my writing #original fiction #cozy fantasy #romantasy #indie author #serial fiction #dorrin and leida #magic in the wind

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brambleandquill · 2 days ago

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Ope, it's me

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brambleandquill · 2 days ago

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Homophobic family who’s asking me when can they read my books

Me writing about lesbian werewolves, gay sirens and transgender witches

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brambleandquill · 2 days ago

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Pour one out for the stories that we create in that magical time between being awake and being asleep. The stories we continue in our sleeps, but that we forget when morning dawns.

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brambleandquill · 2 days ago

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Nightmares Call Her

This is a short story I wrote recently for a mutual's prompt on Substack, and I'm really proud of it.

Abnout 2.5k words

Vibes: Eldritch horror, dark academia, a dash of fantasy.

[Or you can read the story below, if you don't feel like going to Substack.]

Another drop of water burst upon the inmate’s brow, already chapped and reddened from the endless drip. Her eye twitched, but beyond that, she could not allow herself to care, or else she might scream. Screams already haunted her dreams; she didn’t want to drag them into her waking thoughts, too.

Her eyes had long ago adjusted to the dark, though she could not say for certain how long that had been. Only that it was too long, and she did not belong here. In the somber dark, she could see that she was surrounded by death—damp walls practically made of bone, and she, just another of those faceless and forgotten. It was only a matter of time, the woman thought, until she was but bones and tattered clothes, too.

The inmate twisted the hard iron shackle around her wrist and crawled across the cold ground toward the rusted bars of her cell. She hadn’t seen anyone since the day she was thrown into the catacombs, but that didn’t staunch her hope that someone, anyone, might stumble down into the depths and free her. It wasn’t uncommon for a midnight reveler or two to engage in illicit trysts or drunken debauchery among the dead.

“Heeeeeeelp,” the woman rasped, knocking her shackles on the iron grate. She could hear the faint echoes of her call, then nothing. Silence. Just more blasted silence.

“Help, please,” she called again, adding whatever oomph she could muster to her plea. When only silence answered, again, the woman slumped back against the wall. It was getting harder to resist the siren song of sleep, and when she closed her eyes, he was there.

She wanted to fight, to kick, and scratch and claw her way into waking just to avoid him, but sleep was stronger with her body so weak. And now, she was in his realm once more. This dream-space was darker than the catacombs, features harder to make out, and she had no way of knowing the entity’s true size, only that he was monstrous and sickly green. His tenebrous form was fleshy and endless, and his face—if it could be considered a face—distorted beyond words. He made her heart race, and she found herself wanting to pluck out her eyes rather than behold him any longer. Yet he had trapped her within her mind, and there was no escape.

“Ahhhh, Celessssste,” he sighed, his voice like gas escaping mud, garbled and wet. When he spoke, he was heralded by a chorus of tortured screams, a promise of what would follow in his wake. His form shifted and pulsed in the shadows, and Celeste shrank further into herself. “It seems you are still alone out there, but here we are in my realm, together again.”

”Better I rot out there,” Celeste choked out. Somehow, even in her mind—was this even her mind?—words took a toll on her. She didn’t have much fight left in her.

“Curious,” the entity mused. “Would you not miss this life you have?”

A tentacle slithered from the dark to touch her non-corporeal dream-self where her third eye might reside, her body convulsing. The world went white, and then exploded into color as her most cherished memories played out.

There she was, in the library she had loved, surrounded by old, dust-riddled tomes. Light shone through the old stained glass, dappling the pages with jeweled hues. Her lips twisted in amusement as her professor hummed a jaunty tune behind her, spinning one of the castle mouser cats in an airy approximation of a waltz.

She was in the castle courtyard, comparing her notes and translations against her professor’s own. His long, looping script made her writing look like chicken scratch. The professor sat beside her on the bench, carving up an apple to share between the two of them.

She was in bed, her hair wild about her and a candlestick in hand as she read a note she had read a hundred times over, the words, “It’s always been you,” scrawled elegantly across the page. The library cat purred loudly beside her, loath to be out of eyesight.

Celeste saw herself entwined with the professor under a willow tree, the sunshine warming their damp skin. He had carved their initials into the tree trunk like he was a smitten young lad, and she had let him, because it made her feel young, too.

All of her best memories, the things she longed for, were right there, sweet as sugar on her tongue. It had been a good life, she thought, as her vision faded once more to black, and then she faced the horror once more. The briny taste of snot and tears wet her cracked lips.

”I don’t have that life anymore,” Celeste croaked. “I can’t.”

The monster’s tentacle retracted back into the shadows, returning to that nebulous mass. “But you could have it again, Celeste.”

Celeste shook her head, a sob on her lips. She couldn’t; it wouldn’t bring her life back. That life had ended the day she translated that gruesome ritual. It had knocked something loose in the professor—her lover—and his ambition morphed into some unholy hunger. He was scholar turned fiend, determined to release unspeakable horrors if it would just give him more time, more knowledge.

Celeste knew now what had lurked in the professor’s dreams to change him so, because now that horror haunted her. And horror that he was, this infernal entity knew how to entice.

”You would die down here?” The monster's voice rumbled like deafening thunder, and Celeste clapped her hands over her ears with a soundless scream. It did not muffle the sound.

“No,” Celeste cried, tears welling in her eyes. “NO.”

“Good.” If such a being could laugh, Celeste suspected that the grotesque and unearthly noise he made might be a chuckle of pleasure. Then, Celeste was awake and in her cell once more. The darkness was just darkness. Her hands were still cupped over her ears as they had been in that dream realm, and when she pulled them away, they were dark and wet with blood.

The professor had been the one to start the ritual, one that would tear a hole between this realm and the realm of dreams. That veil was already thin; it was how the entity spoke to the professor—lulled him. In those final days, he had raved about all the secrets of the world that would belong to him. He wanted Celeste at his side, to give her the world, but the world wasn’t what she wanted.

It was the king who had stopped the ritual when Celeste couldn’t—a sword through the heart can stop many things. And now here she was, collecting dust in the catacombs. But the ritual was already in motion; it would take more than one death to stop it.

She could do it—finish the ritual. If she did, she would be free. But at what cost? She couldn’t fathom what the entity was capable of, but she knew it was not benevolent.

Celeste could also sever it; bind the entity to his plane once more, unable even to haunt dreams. That was the secret the monster did not suspect.

See, the ritual wasn’t just about the runes or the incantations, as her research had unearthed. Not in the cosmic scheme of it all. Though much of it was beyond mortal comprehension, one thing was clear. The ritual was not a singular path, but a network of possibilities, built upon sacrifice and desire—those ineffable things only the most desperate can conjure from nothing.

Celeste had nothing.

#my writing #writers of tumblr #writeblr #eldritch horror fiction #short story #fantasy fiction #dark academia short story #original fiction

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brambleandquill · 23 days ago

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THATS MY BEST FRIENDDDDDD

“An average small town school teacher finds a mysterious coin containing a strange secret. Numb from being passed from tyrant kings, entitled royalty and con-artist merchants, a centuries old wish granting demon is surprised to wake up to an odd woman who asks him what he wants for a change.”

✨Webtoon Canvas Link✨

IT’S UP!!! and also has a more official title now!!!!

Special Thanks to Elizabeth “Lulu” from @brambleandquill for the title name and editing help 💕 please go follow them!!!

If you like and have been following Lilly & Everett’s story here on tumblr or over on tiktok PLEASE go support their comic on Webtoon!

And, as always, you can support me directly on ✨ko-fi✨

#run don’t walk #webtoon #look at my friend omg

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brambleandquill · 23 days ago

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Dear everyone who is currently working on a Thing, whatever that Thing may be,

Good luck with the Thing. You can do the Thing. You will do the Thing. You just have to do the Thing.

Best wishes,

Someone who is also doing a Thing

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brambleandquill · 24 days ago

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Just reposting for those awake during the day or whatever ✨🫶 (Story below!)

Part One

A cloud curls around Leida’s ankle with a gentle squeeze as she winds her way down the craggy path to the bakery. It’s a sensation she’s come to adore in the last 97 days. The morning air is thick with stratus clouds, and Leida has come to know them not as the nuisance she once thought, but a sweet, dewy release from the harsh sun. There are few things in this strange new reality more refreshing than basking in the grass on a hazy day. As it turns out, a lot can change in 97 days.

Just beyond the path, a shadow in the mist reveals a woman a few decades Leida’s senior, with full, round hips and a smiling, round face to match. She waits by her modest stone cottage, swinging the door wide with a flourish as Leida approaches. “Well, well, there’s my favorite delivery girl, bursting through the mist like Phennica herself!”

The young woman squeezes the older one’s shoulder, following her into the warmth. “Marjorie, please. I’m hardly a goddess,” she replies. “Least of all a warrior one.”

Marjorie shrugs, but there’s a twinkle in her eye that says she lives to tease. “Eh, we all have our strengths.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Leida’s mouth. Marjorie had always believed in the possibilities of Leida’s life more than she did, much to her great annoyance. And yet without that encouragement, Leida wasn’t sure where she’d be at all. When she thanked her stars at night, Marjorie was among the brightest constellations.

Inside the modest bakery, the scent of freshly baked bread rushes over Leida like a tidal wave. The warmth of it is like home, and she closes her eyes to savor that familiarity. Having life quite literally uprooted makes the familiar seem all the more precious. She sets her basket down on the worn oak table beside the hearth and melts into her favorite armchair. As she does, the slight ache that was building in Leida’s low back eases up, and a sigh escapes her lips.

While the distance from her home to the bakery is but a stone’s throw, her aches know no difference. They’re a constant companion she must deal with as they arise. But taking umbrage in a chair always seems to ward the pain away, if only for a short while.

Beside Leida, Marjorie stokes the flames of the hearth, then shuffles back to the kitchen. When she returns, it’s with two large trays in hand, both piled high with warm, golden goodness.

“Any hand pies today?”

Marjorie snorts. “It’s Luan, isn’t it? ’Course I’ve got them.”

Leida smiles, grateful for their usual banter. She had known before she asked that hand pies were on the menu, as they are every week. But it’s a small comfort not just to know, but to have that knowing acknowledged. It was the kind of reassurance Leida often needed as a child—to be told that the world she knew wouldn’t disappear when she closed her eyes. Marjorie was predictable, safe, and reliable, no matter what else was happening. Her commitments were as good as gold. So if Luan was hand pie day, not even the village being ripped from the ground could stop her. And Leida knew first-hand that it hadn’t.

In the days since the great Quake, Marjorie had been the backbone of their small village, Burda. Under her attentive eye, no one went hungry, and no one was without shelter. Her kitchen had made it through unscathed, and so it became one of the few hubs to keep mouths fed. For weeks, Marjorie and a few of the other villagers talented with a hearth spent long hours at the fire baking bread or watching the perpetual stew to make sure it kept. And all around the dining table, people would laugh and grieve and share stories into the night so that the world didn’t feel so dark. The community had never been more united, and Marjorie was the backbone of it all.

“Just checking,” Leida whispers, fixing her gaze in the distance. She doesn’t see the way Marjorie’s eyes soften, as just for a moment, the older woman catches a glimpse of the scared and shaking girl from many years ago. Then, the Leida of now sits before her once more, confident and assured. With no words to fill that tender moment, Marjorie scoops up Leida’s basket and begins to load it with hand pies, bread loaves, and a few odds and ends. These deliveries aren’t merely a courtesy, but survival. Leida brings tonics to the sick, takes stock of villagers who may need a bit of extra support, and more. The baked goods are just a way of keeping morale up and ensuring that everyone feels cared for under this little emergency system.

It’s been 97 days, but that’s not nearly enough to rebuild a life. When Burda was ripped from the ground, most farmers lost pieces of their fields or discovered them floating half a mile away. Cattle and livestock were lost in droves. To survive, the town had cut out meat from their diets altogether, just to make the eggs and milk stretch farther. It wouldn’t do to butcher the cow with no way to rebuild the herd.

Many homes caved in from the impact of the Quake, too. While Leida thanked the stars each night that no one had been crushed, it tested the strength of the village like nothing had before. Those homes that didn’t crumble became shelters for those who had lost it all. Leida’s cottage had also survived the worst of things, like Marjorie’s, and so she had welcomed one of the village’s Elder couples into her home. Seneca and Darlene may have been old, yet Leida found them to be the silliest wise-women she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Their banter alone kept her entertained well into many evenings when she probably should have been resting.

Although their home had recently been rebuilt, Leida couldn’t bear to see them go. She was pleased to find that the couple wasn’t rushing to leave, either. Leida knew she’d be swinging back through the bakery at the end of the day just to swipe a few more hand pies, the couple’s favorite treat. She smiled just thinking about their reaction.

“Well, then, you’re all packed up, love!” Marjorie hefts the brown wicker basket back onto the table. It’s lined with a faded red cloth and adorned with small trinkets—a broken thimble, a rusted pendant, ribbons, and other treasures she had found on her many deliveries. They all had a story attached, and Leida loved to tell them. Springing to her feet, Leida grabs the basket and plants a kiss on Marjorie’s cheek with a wet smack.

“See you in the evening!” she calls, heading out the door.

While not as cloudy as the early morning, the path toward the village proper is still covered in a light haze. Despite Burda’s small size, the walk into town is still a considerable way, farther than most are willing to go when they’ve got their own affairs to attend. It provides Leida with ample time to dream about the kingdom beyond. While there’s been some communication from the outside, enough to know that most of Pravak now resides in the skies, exploration beyond is limited.

Major communications are delivered by messenger birds, and it’s been some time since the last one, when the King declared his intentions to see the Floating Isles, as they had been dubbed, united. Until then, villages like Burda were meant to survive on their own means. Leida couldn’t blame the King, but she couldn’t help but wonder how the rest of Pravak fared.

A flash of movement off the path snaps Leida from her musing. It’s a big, rustling bush that appears so comically conspicuous she’s tempted to laugh. Then there’s a frantic flap of a wing, and Leida knows it’s not some peeping Tom or unskilled highwayman, but a trapped animal.

Without a second thought, Leida sets her basket down and approaches the bush with slow, quiet steps.

“Shhhh, let me take a look,” she coos, as the bird continues to thrash. It isn’t until she extends her hand toward the bush that the little bird seems to take notice, fixing one small black eye on the human before it. “I want to help you.”

Leida speaks with all the confidence of one fluent in bird, despite knowing that the little creature can’t understand her. She just hopes that her words carry the intent behind them and help to soothe the bird’s frantic emotions. And, miraculously, when she reaches out again, the bird stops thrashing. Leida parts the leaves around the bird and peers closer, now able to see the delicate net around her neck and wings.

With some gentle clucking and cooing, Leida keeps the bird subdued enough to unwrap the net. Although she does try to peck her fingers more than once, Leida lets it slide. The moment the bird is unfettered, Leida expects her to take flight, but instead, the bird cocks her head and peers more intently at her rescuer.

“You’re free, little one,” Leida tells her, as if maybe the creature had simply not realized. Yet there the bird stayed, firmly in her palm. The more Leida looked at her, the more unsure she became. It was strange, but the longer she looked at the little creature, the more she felt like her gaze was trying to piece something together that didn’t quite make sense. Then her eyes would slip away, and the image would become fixed again. Did birds come in this shade of blue? she wondered.

Dwelling on it didn’t help, so Leida instead moved to set the bird down and say her goodbyes, yet the bird clung to her like she had a mind to stay. But she couldn’t hold the thing all day, so she stroked it gently from beak to tail, then set it into the basket with her things. The bird chirruped in approval and nested into the linen that lay across the top of the basket. She’ll fly away if she wants to, Leida thinks.

”Looks like you’re doing chores with me, then.”

There’s another chirrup, and Leida is back on the path to town. Approaching the town center, the sky starts to change. There are more rocks suspended in the air here—floating boulders, really. No one is quite sure what makes everything float or why some sections break apart and fly higher. Everyone has wondered, yet so few talk about it, not wanting to think about what that could mean for the longevity of the Isles. Better to throw oneself into fixing homes and bolstering the food supply.

Ahead is a modest smattering of homes and buildings in various states. While most buildings have now been rebuilt with whatever folks could scrounge up, a few homes are patched up and messy, and others are lost causes altogether until the King can find a way to move supplies across the Floating Isles.

Once in town, Leida’s usual trek sees her at a few family homes delivering loaves of bread and sweet treats, herbal remedies, and the occasional letter. She accepts a few new deliveries, too—gifts of eggs to bring back to Marjorie for her baking, or notes to pass along to the next person. The old farmer turns an endearing shade of red when he asks Leida if she’ll return a necklace to the widow along the way. The thing Leida’s learned about deliveries is that you don’t ask questions, and you don’t judge. Helps people to trust you more, and leads to some interesting insights about your neighbors, even if you keep them to yourself.

Among the usual whispers and wonderings a delivery person might hear on their trek are little tidbits like who fancies who, or which kid was caught peeking in windows, but today’s something nearly stops Leida in her tracks. There’s a stranger in town.

“It’s not possible,” Leida says to Jelena–one of the town busy-bodies–as she’s fixing to leave. The older woman shrugs so noncommittally that Leida thinks that must be the end of it, and yet the stranger’s presence is all she hears about after that. It’s all her neighbors can seem to talk about, shy of the old farmer and the besotted widow. From house to house, the stranger’s lore grows—how he just appeared in the tavern as if by magic and how no one has seen his full face. More still, no one can seem to discern how he appeared on our rock at all. It wasn’t as if he’d been hiding out for the last 97 days. And if a stranger could make it to Burda, then perhaps those in Burda could travel beyond. And travel meant trade. Trade meant survival.

When Leida reaches the tavern, curiosity is practically dragging her by the hair. She isn’t sure whether he’ll live up to the tall tales that have been spun in a matter of hours, or if she’ll just leave with more fuel to fan the flames. The interaction promised excitement, regardless. Yet as she nears the building, it’s clear that half of town is as eager to lay eyes on the stranger as she is.

For a moment, Leida thinks she won’t be able to squeeze through the press of bodies clamoring for a seat or a look at the man, but as people see her, they step aside. While there are days that delivering can feel unrewarding, Ledia’s heart warms at the gesture from her fellow Burdans. No one stands between her and a delivery when it could mean the difference between survival and death.

Inside, the tavern is sweltering, bodies trapping the heat from the day and making it nearly unbearable. While summers couldn’t be considered cool, temperatures were certainly mild. It was the gatherings you had to look out for. Leida fans herself with a hand and scans the room. To the people of Burda’s credit, they’re not all gawking at the stranger. People attempt to engage in their own conversations, happy enough to be in the presence of a mystery. In small towns, when everybody collects information, you’re bound to see the full picture eventually. As for accuracy… who can say?

Leida spots him at a counter seat, nursing a big tankard of what the town's finest and only wheat ale. Despite being the subject of many curious glances, he’s being given a wide berth. Leida, usually so sure of herself, hesitates to approach him outright. What would she say? No, better to leave him alone, she thinks. Doubtless, he’s been subjected to a few direct approaches, and the villagers hadn’t cracked him yet. Leida didn’t need to be the next person to embarrass herself. Better to make her last delivery and dash. Marjorie would be waiting for her, as would Seneca and Darlene.

The tavern wasn’t among Leida’s usual stops, but with all the excitement, there were more than a few notes for the proprietor of the tavern, no doubt about the mystery man at the counter. If Leida had to guess, they were bids for information from those who couldn’t make it out to see for themselves.

At the bar, a large, barrel-chested man in his 50s slaps two meaty hands on the countertop and smiles widely. “Leida, my dear. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just a few letters,” Leida grins. While Humboldt’s stature is large and imposing, there’s no friendlier face in all of Pravak. Leida, most of all, adores Humboldt like a father. He had found her on the outskirts of town when she was only a child, and like a duck imprints on their mother, she had taken a shine to him. Though it wasn’t long after that, Marjorie stepped in, deciding that Leida could use a woman’s touch in her life. Perhaps it had been the tangled hair and scraped knees that gave Marjorie such an impression, but Leida was glad all the same—she became blessed with not one, but two parents that year. Seeing the man now, she was suddenly ashamed that she had not stopped by in some time.

As if reading her thoughts, Humboldt grunts, and a look passes over his face. “Well, y’know you don’t need a delivery to come say hi to yer old man, y’hear?”

Leida’s cheeks flush, and she dips her head to hide the shame. As if she could hide anything from Humboldt. You don’t run a tavern without becoming observant, and very little went past Humboldt’s notice. While Leida hadn’t actively avoided her adoptive father, things had become tense between him and Marjorie for some time, even before the Quake. Leida hadn’t wanted to be more in the middle of it than she already was.

“I’m sorry. Truly.” When she finally meets his gaze, his eyes soften and crinkle at the corners, and he clasps her small hand in his large one.

“Well, then. All’s forgiven, dear.” Then, he claps his hands and dashes off, only to return a moment later with a full tankard and a bowl of some kind of vegetable stew. “On the house, can’t have you leaving hungry.”

The sight of the stew makes Leida’s stomach gurgle. She had taken a moment at midday for respite and a small snack of bread and soft cheese she had made herself, but that was some time ago. Leida casts Humboldt a grateful look, accepting the peace offering. While she doesn’t wish to linger long, the sky outside has not yet begun to be painted in the hues of evening, so there’s still some daylight to be had. If she hurries, she’ll still make most of the trek in the fading light.

As she takes a seat, she catches the stranger’s gaze, then flicks her attention back to Humboldt. Her old man shrugs and opens his mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it. As much as Leida wishes to press him on it, it’s not like they can talk about the man while he’s sitting right there. So, she turns her attention back to the stew, which is just a hodge-podge of whatever has been available. Short on time, Leida slurps the stew down, wishing she could savor it longer, when she remembers the letters for her father.

As she reaches into her basket, Leida’s fingers brush the strange hitchhiker she’s collected, who ruffles her feathers and gives an indignant squeak. Leida clucks her tongue in return and picks her up with one hand, grabbing the letters with the other, which she slaps on the counter and slides toward Humboldt. Then, she turns her attention back to the sweet little creature.

“Hey little one, you’re still with me, eh?” She holds the small bird against her chest, stroking the downy blue fluff from her head to tail. She trills happily when Leida suddenly feels the weight of someone’s gaze on her. When Leida turns, it’s the stranger, his gaze fixed on her, a question in his gaze. The lower half of his face is obscured by his ruana, but his eyes are a striking shade of green, and his shaggy curls tumble down to where she supposes his chin would be. When he sees the small creature against Leida’s chest, his eyes go wide.

“Where did you find her?” The stranger’s voice is low and lilting, like a chime in the wind. He reaches out a hand, palm up and waiting, but it takes a moment for Leida to process what he’s asking. He wants the bird. She eyes him warily.

“What’s it to you?” The stranger flinches as if struck, and Leida breaks their gaze to look down at the little creature nestled against her. The poor thing’s eyes are squeezed shut, but at the sudden scrutiny, she pops one eye open and trains it on the stranger, then closes it again and lets out a huff. If Leida didn’t know any better, she’d say the bird was exasperated, but that didn’t seem like a normal bird emotion.

“She’s my companion,” the stranger says flatly. But while his voice belies little emotion, Leida can see in his eyes that there’s real concern there. The bird turns herself about in Leida’s palm, back to the stranger, sealing the deal.

“Well, I don’t think she agrees.” Leida stands, and so does the stranger.

“Piku, please,” the stranger implores. “I’m sorry.”

”She doesn’t want to speak to you.” Even as she speaks the words, Leida knows they’re silly. Birds don’t speak, and certainly can’t have conversations, yet this bird—Piku—doesn’t behave like any bird Leida has met. Without another glance at the stranger, Leida grabs her basket and turns for the door.

“Wait, please!” The stranger shouts, but he does not seem to follow, Leida notes. When she pushes through the doors, all of Leida’s previous bluster deflates. It’s not like her to be so curt with anyone, but the thought of handing Piku over to some man that she clearly doesn’t like wasn’t sitting well with her. He didn’t seem dangerous to Leida, but that doesn’t mean she would place an animal’s life in his hands just because he asked. Especially not in the condition she found Piku, what sort of pet owner was he?

Yet, he didn’t call Piku his pet, did he? Leida thinks. He called Piku his companion. Still, it didn’t signify to Leida. He’d have to do better than that for her to trust him.

”Don’t worry, Piku,” Leida says to the little bird, now tucked away in her basket once more. “You can stay with me for as long as you’d like.”

Go to Part 2

Magic in the Wind Pt. 1

I've been writing a ton lately... more than I have in years, actually. I'm starting to feel like myself again, instead of a fraud, so that's cool.

This story is one I'm excited to share, about two characters I've quickly fallen in love with. I'm sharing it in parts because I have no idea how long this will be, but I hope you'll stick around if you like: romantasy vibes, pining, disaster bi men, sunshine girls who are grumpy with their affection, and more???

Idk I hope you like it k byeeee

#read my stuff pls k thanks byeee #writeblr #writers of tumblr #writerscommunity #romantasy #fantasy books #cozy fantasy #indie author #serial fiction #magic in the wind #dorrin and leida

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