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[snugglywuggums]

Chapter 5 — Ayre’A’khana — Nightmare, Weasel Bonding, Waking Nightmare

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If you've landed here and want to go to the start, this is the link to the beginning

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On another day like any other day in any season of any year I make my way out of the cave and douse my lantern, returning it to its designated spot after making a note about the oil level and resigning to needing to buy more. Back in the cabin I pull out my coin pouch and grimace as I realize it is quite a bit lighter than I’d remembered. I mentally knock oil off the list—after all, I can see in the dark, so going down there shouldn’t be a problem without the lamplight for a little while.

I hesitate, thinking over my list, but as I think about going into the cave in the dark, I mentally put the lamp oil back on the list, instead removing a new blanket from it. Winter is a month or more out, I can wait on it as long as I get the nails to fix the door. Thinking around in circles again, I consider if I can afford nails as well, and mark it down as being a lower priority than lamp oil as well.

Frowning at The List, I feel the hazy fog of sleepiness settling over me with a small bit of dread. I never liked to sleep so shortly after visiting my parents, but I would be no good to anyone if I fell asleep by the river later and missed a catch again.

Sighing, I opt to slide into the chair, slipping my tail through the hole in the back and leaning my head down into the crook of my elbows as my coppery hair slides down to cover my face in relative darkness, and before I know it, I’ve dozed off…

I shudder, my hands clamped over my mouth, as I watch. I’ve seen this hundreds of times, maybe even thousands. Past a point, it’s become hard to track. But I watch all the same, unable to tear my eyes away. I know it’s not real, but it is. I know it’s the past, but it feels like it’s in the present.

There’s a sickening tearing noise that’s immediately followed by a heart-wrenching crack, like a sail being torn before a mast snaps. In the dimness of the early dawn, the light in the cave is barely enough to see by. But it’s enough, isn’t it? It always is. I watch as a mighty dragon’s wings are rent asunder by beasts, by monsters…by “heroes”. The tearing of the leather stretched across great wings, an injury that would surely never heal properly even under magical care, hurts me nearly as much as the dragon who I’m watching die again.

They are backed into a corner of the cave, as far away from me as possible. I’m hidden in an illusory alcove near the front of the cavern. So tauntingly close to freedom. So damnably close to seeking help. But I cannot move, not now, not ever. I watch as the dragon draws in a breath, motes of Ignia sparking in his mouth, his core visibly heating and lighting as energy builds within their body. A Breath like unto the fires of the sun herself. In but a moment, the Breath would be unleashed, disintegrating the interlopers and changing fate. My own Breath is drawn in, caught up in the moment, and I feel small bits of Ignia forming in my breast.

“Maybe this time it’ll be different? Surely father is strong enough to ward off three adventurers and that *thing.”* I feel my objectivity slipping and my mind casting back to that day with precious little I can do to stop it. I feel the rising hope in my mind, alight like the hearth within the dragon’s chest. I know nothing can withstand the Breath of an ancient dragon like father. Wars were ended in one torrent of fire, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that this battle will be won all the same.

It feels as though time has stopped. I see the fallen form of the draconic woman in the middle distance between me and the dragon. Surely, she’s still breathing. Once ‘Ma rises and rejoins the fight, the villains will be lain low. … The villains. I gaze at them in this moment where time has frozen like a once-raging river in the dead of winter. Four of them. One tall and built like a brick storehouse carrying a sword more akin to a support beam than a blade. One reedy individual with a staff, gesturing and speaking an incantation of dark and doom. One bearing an orb in hand that glows with a sickly purple mist in the hazy halflight. And the last one. The monster. Their body is wrong. Not like any of the kyn. Something distorted. The others might as well not have even been there while that creature was on the field.

Time, it seemed, was beginning to tick forward again, and my eyes are drawn to where they always are. The spark of ignia in the throat of the dragon. Suddenly, the air pressure in the cave changes, as though the world itself were drawing a shuddering breath anticipating the forces that were being unleashed. I see the first whorls of fire, hot as the sun herself, eject from the dragon’s maw. But…they stop in place. Held by a spell. A terrible, terrible spell. The dragon’s eyes widen in shock when his breath cannot leave his mouth, but there’s little he can do. Nothing is made to contain those forces. The Ignia consumes. Everyone in our family knows that.

The dragon lurches backwards, trying to break the spell, but as he roars, no sound comes out. The cave is suddenly silent despite the thrashing dragon. All I hear is a sick cackle. That laugh rising above all else from that creature. It strides forward after the dragon falls to the ground in a silent crash, scales melting from the trapped fire within his body, leaving rivulets of molten copper growing like a spreading pool of blood on the cavern floor. The creature reaches a hand forward and grabs the spell from the air, drawing it into its sickly looking hands while it’s standing in front of the dragon’s maw.

The flames burst forward, silently seeking to devour the distorted invader, and I feel my hopes rise again. But they are dashed upon the rocks instantly. The creature holds out broken sickly arms that are filled with an amethyst miasma that leaks from cracks in its skin. The fire strikes the extended hands and is immediately sucked into its body, as though being rent from the dragon’s body by force, like a barrel uncorked with no intention of filling a glass. Its arms glow brighter and brighter. The form distorts further. Growing, shuddering, its body takes on draconic traits like mine and my familys. A mockery of a noble dragon, with gemlike purple scales adorning its mottled body.

Seeing this, the dragon loses its will to fight. Its final attack rendered worse than moot—it only served to empower his foe. I watch in horror. What can defeat a dragon? What can lay low a beast of legend in its home? Heroes, says the world. Is this heroism? I find myself dropping to my knees, keeping my hands clamped over my mouth to stay quiet, knowing instinctively that there’s nothing I can do but die in this place. Maybe that would have been preferable to what happened next. The long minutes of wind rushing as everything that made them what they are is wrenched from them and pulled into the horrid body of the monster.

At the end of an eternity, I look up to see the aftermath -- a vast sea of offwhite powder, all that remains -- and can’t help but retch, making a noise for the first time in minutes? Hours? The thing turns at the noise and stares at my hiding place. Its attendants seemingly unaware, but that thing knows where I am. And at that moment I see my death. But…it merely smiles with a maw that had grown increasingly more like my father’s own with every second. Its lips pull back in the rictus grin of a happy corpse. Tight, with countless fangs. However, instead of coming for me like it should have—like I wish it had -- it turns and stands, making a gesture to those who follow it, and walking out of the cave. But all I could see was its eyes.

Laced with purple drifting smoke, bloodshot with magical essence, intelligent, but still feral. Scheming, planning, and, most of all, hungry. It’s all I can see. Those eyes and my eventual death within them being the last thing I see.

“Ayre! I want to go fishing!” I hear a distant high-pitched voice and the thing in my dream turns to rush me as I wake. Again, I wake standing, with my spear at the ready, only to realize it’s Lilly who’s come to visit. We exchange some pleasantries, but she seems oddly distracted. I catch her glancing over her shoulder towards the river every now and again. She must be excited about this thing she saw in the river. Maybe it’s a rare fish or something. That would be nice.

I stop lightly chastising her as she expresses she needs to share something serious, her face going uncharacteristically downtrodden as she does. I change my tack, realizing she needs support and extend my arms for a hug, feeling my wings pantomime the gesture and scrape the walls as the tiny fairy bowls into my collarbone and I wrap her up in my hands. After a little while of that, I gently pick her up and lift her to the top of my head. She always likes riding atop me since I’m tall, and she says it’s an impressive perspective, but I’ve never really understood it, since she can much more freely fly to any reasonable height, but the fey are strange, so I’ve always just accepted it at face value. “Alright, Lilly, let’s go fishing and you can tell me about it.”

I grab my spear and rod and stride out while Lilly bounces around my hair and horns. She chatters endlessly about whatever comes to her mind, and there sure are a lot of things coming to her mind, as usual. It’s nice, though, it gives me something to focus on for a while while I wait for her to drop the topic she actually wants to talk about. I add little bits here and there, ask questions, answer questions, and nod or shake my head when appropriate. The latter actions seem to amuse Lilly, particularly since she is bestride my head.

We arrive at the river, where my little dock juts out into the river with a hand made stool that is slightly less wobbly than those at the cabin. I pause briefly at my barrel of bait. Popping the lid off, I toss in some food scraps and plant greens, and reach in to mix the leavings deeper into the rich black dirt. At the same time, I sift my fingers through and pull out a few worms to use for fishing bait, keeping 3 large ones and tossing back the couple of smaller worms to continue their appointed duties.

“Aw, do we have to use worms, Ayre?” Lilly groans aloud as she sees me digging in the barrel before I replace the lid.

“If you want to have any remote chance of catching anything, then yes, we do. I suppose a sparkly little fairy could be decent enough bait…” I trail off as I reach up towards the complaining fairy and make an exaggerated attempt at capturing her. Which she easily avoids and hops off my head to look at me indignantly as her wings flutter and, and she straightens her arms and legs in mock offense.

“Well…fine then! We’ll use the little wigglers this time. I could just use my magic, you know that, right?”

“Trust me, Lilly, I am quite aware, and it is still my opinion that doing so is cheating, and that that isn’t fair to the fish. You’re gonna have to believe me at some point, fishing is an art, and you can’t rush art. Half of the fun is the relaxation.” I respond simply with a hand gesture after I jab the haft of my spear into the ground. “So, all of that aside, what weighs heavy on your heart?” I ask as I sit down on my stool and affix a worm to my hook and cast. With my free hand, I gesture to a padded spot on my knee for her to come sit.

She flits over and plops on my knee weightlessly, falling cross-legged in one smooth motion and a full three hundred and sixty degree spin—ever the performer. “You remember my rival?”

“The little weasel? Yeah, last I heard about him, you’d said he nearly beat yo-” My knee is promptly punched with all the unrelenting force of a disgruntled mouse.

“That part doesn’t matter! He cheated anyways, there was sun in my eyes!” Lilly quickly fires off a few excuses and I merely raise my brow ridges quizzically, “Agh, fine… Look, I accidentally hurt him today and I feel terrible about it. I tried to do an interesting parry with my shield when he tried to bite me, and I broke one of his teeth…” She trails off and casts her eyes downwards, looking like the single most kicked puppy in the entire world for a moment.

“A broken tooth can be pretty serious for a wild animal. Makes it hard to eat and defend itself. Did you wind up putting it out of its misery?” There’s a tug on the line that distracts me as I speak, causing me to miss both setting the hook and most of Lilly’s response.

“‘Out of its misery’?! What’s wrong with you, Ayre? I healed him. I hadn’t realized how old he had gotten, and when I healed his tooth I saw how badly rotten all of his teeth were. I couldn’t just leave him like that, for all of those reasons you oh-so-kindly pointed out. So…”

“… So?” I ask into the void she leaves for too long.

She pauses for a moment before spurting out everything in one breath, “I bound the stoat to my essence and named him Sir Henry Slinks, and he got a lot younger but was still asleep when I had to leave, and I know I’m gonna get in big trouble when I go home and Caiominh is going to scold me and I know he was just a weasel, but he meant a lot to me and-” I hold up a hand at that point to try to forestall what was clearly about to turn into a much longer diatribe.

“It doesn’t sound like he was ‘just a weasel’, then. You were honest in the second half of that one, though. He meant a lot to you, and you helped him. I’d be lying if I said I fully understood the full breadth of what you did with him, but it sounds like you helped someone dear to you, and if your so-called ‘Guardian’ has a problem with it, he can leave his precious forest and take it up with me.” I say sternly.

“I guess you’re right. He was suffering, and I couldn’t stand by and let that happ- Hey! What’s that?” Lilly abruptly jumps to her feet and into the air for a better vantage point and I follow swiftly, eyes scanning the area for threats before I finally settle on the direction Lilly is pointing and see…a person floating around the bend, face down, about 5 feet upstream from a piece of driftwood. Taking a moment to process the sight, I find myself in motion before I’ve fully decided to be. My rod clattering to the wooden dock, I’m airborne, diving headfirst into the water in a shallow dive. Kicking my legs and undulating my wings, I move against the current with ease to reach the person quickly and surface beneath them. No point in wasting time checking their status here, so I immediately drag them towards the shore by their garments. Garments which are in a pretty dire state already. They’re basically five scraps of fabric away from being in the nude.

Quickly hauling the person, realizing he’s a human man now that I can actually see him, onto the shore, I roll him on his side and lean down to listen to his chest, and hear some slight wet sounds of very slight breathing and a very irregular heartbeat. He’s swallowed water and I can’t tell if it’s in his lungs, but it sounds pretty deep. My mind races about what to do before recalling a book I’d read last year. I quickly roll him onto his back, and tilt his head to the side and overlap my hands on his chest, just above the abdomen and press a few times before leaning over and closing my mouth over his, breathing a deep breath into his lungs. I watch his chest rise with it, and then return to making additional chest compressions and alternating with breaths a few more times.

After a few stressful minutes, he suddenly sputters up some fluid, so I quickly roll him onto his side and let him clear his lungs. And as I step back to assess the situation, I take him in more completely—tattered traveler’s garb, belt knife, what remains of a decent looking bow and…his…arm…

My eyes lock open as I stare at the arm, my brain diving back in time to seeing a purple, mist leaking, cracked, arm drawing my father's last Breath from his lungs. Distantly, I hear Lilly say something, but I can’t understand it. My blood pumps harder and harder in my head, the sound of rushing air and my beating heart fills my ears and I struggle to breathe as my vision tunnels on the arm. That arm. That thing. The monster. Slowly, I reach up to his head, and pull an eyelid open, and see bloodshot eyes looking at me across the darkness of the cavern. Before I can consciously think, I find myself standing over the fallen creature with my spear in both arms, poised to plunge it into its torso and end the nightmare that’s plagued me for so long.

Chapter

[snugglywuggums]

Chapter 4 — Lilidh O’Ceilidh — Submarine Fascination, Someone in Need, A Ferocious Dragon at the Cave Mouth

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If you've landed here and want to go to the start, this is the link to the beginning

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By the time I arrive at the river, it’s nearing midday, with the autumn sun high in the sky overhead. I take in the scene. The river here is somewhat lazy, though farther upstream it’s borderline rapids. I flit over to the shore, land on a rocky outcrop, and drop onto my belly on the warm stone. I bask there for a little while, watching the fish drift by—some fighting the current, some riding it. All sizes, some in schools, countless colors. I’ve always loved watching the fish. I see the world they live in as something as different from the world outside my home as my home is from the world itself. Distinct, but fully realized in its own way. I’ve always really wanted to talk to a fish, but the opportunity has never presented itself. Someday, maybe.

As I watch a large-mouthed red fish chase a school of silver darts, I hear a loud splash from further upriver. On reflex, I cast my invisibility spell. Much as I talk the talk, I know there’s danger in the area, and not all of the mortal kyn are kind towards the Fairfolk - so father says - so I’m ready to protect myself at a moment’s notice. I slide down the opposite side of the rock from the noise and peer around it. This section of the river is fed from a small waterfall—a 20-foot drop from an iron veined limestone cliff face. At the base of the waterfall, I see something rather concerning.

At a glance, I could swear it’s a… person. I watch them for a few seconds, trying to resolve more of the situation in my mind's eye, but my breath catches in my throat as I look closer. It's a person caught in the undertow of the waterfall, rolling in place, seemingly not struggling. “They must be unconscious. Should I do something? Playing with animals is one thing, but the mortal kyn are dangerous. What if they grab me in a panic? What if they grab me on purpose? Then I’d just drown alongside them.” My mind runs in tight little circles for a few moments, entirely stunned into inaction by the sight before me.

I close my eyes hard, weighing my options. “Maybe I could fly to Ayre? No… she’s too far away; they’d have long drowned by the time I got back to her. Agh! Make a decision, Lilly!” I scold myself. “Are you really about to let someone drown because you’re afraid? What kind of story would that be? One nobody would want to hear, surely.” My inner thoughts continue to bludgeon me, taunting me with my own claims to seek adventure and heroics. “Will you prove yourself a coward?

“No. No, I will not.” I steel myself and kick off the rock to gain some speed toward the waterfall where the mortal is tumbling. I cast my eyes around, looking for something I can use. I’ve already used a fair bit of my magickal capacity, and I’m running low—at least until I've spent a while at home to recover. Flitting around the water’s edge, I search for wood or a vine, and eventually find a piece of long-dried driftwood. While it’s quite a bit larger than me, the fact that it’s so dry means I can lift it with some effort. I haul it up, beating my wings furiously to gain height with the log.

Flying over the churning waters, I wait for a moment when I can drop the log so it’ll hopefully end up underneath the person, or give them something to grab onto—anything. Seeing the right moment, right as they tumble end over end, I drop the log. And… I wish I could say that it scoops perfectly beneath them and saves them in one fell swoop, but… I drop it squarely on their head with a hollow thud that’s barely audible over the crashing water.

At that point, I panic. I can’t afford to put it off any longer. I perform no elaborate casting of dust; I just speak one of the court’s incantations aloud:

*Stretch and shift, my shape and size, let me see through mortal eyes*****!

And then promptly plug my nose. The moment the last word is uttered, I feel my perspective shift and warp as the world becomes smaller(or maybe I become larger, magic theory has never been my strong suit). There’s an unfortunate tearing sound as my dress rips along seams that aren’t prepared for this degree of rapid growth, but it stays mostly intact as I drop into the water, my wings no longer able to hold my increased weight.

I land with all the grace of a dancer… who’s tripped and fallen into the mud, sending up a very impressive splash. Kicking my legs against the crashing waters, I’m lucky that the person is wholly unconscious—they won’t drown me by accident—but I can’t tell if that means they’re dead or just knocked out from the impact. I come up beneath them, wrapping my arms under theirs and around their chest, and start kicking hard toward the gentler waters. After a few stressful moments of struggling to move heavy, dead weight, I gain purchase in the water and pull free of the undertow, drifting toward the shore with my charge.

I pull them onto the soft, sandy shore and set them on their side. Only then do I take in their appearance: a young human man, maybe around my age in his twenties. Sodden and unkempt brown hair, what appears to be hunter’s garb—badly damaged to the point of uselessness, as though he fell through a tree made of knives or something. Looking closer, I see he’s been recently wounded… like, a lot. A lot. I don't think humans could normally live through this kind of punishment - they aren't the hardiest of the mortal kyn. Most of his torso and legs look like they’re healing from countless deep cuts. Despite all that, he appears to be breathing. “Made of pretty stern stuff, I guess, huh? What do I do here? In the books, this is where the savior would pump on their chest and breathe air into their lungs, but he seems to be breathing. But people usually wake up to the breathing thing since it’s basically a kiss, and it’s all very scenic and romantic. I could try that? Maybe shock him awake? He is kind of cute; that would make for a good scene…”

I roll him to his other side and feel my voice catch as I mutter to myself about first aid for a human. His arm is… purple. Purple crystal, even! It's quite pretty, honestly. I lift his hand in mine and feel a tingle shoot up my arm and into my heart, but it passes quickly. I spot a ring on that hand that shimmers like quicksilver, peeking out from the purple-hued, scar-ridden skin. It feels vaguely familiar, but I can’t immediately think of where from. Looking closer, I notice the arm is leaking a sickly purple mist that actively discolors the sand beneath it. Where it was lying, the reddish and rusty sand is now a stark, unnatural white. “Well, I’m pretty sure that’s not normal. I’ve not met any humans before, but I definitely don’t remember any books talking about purple limbs. Who, or maybe better asked, what, are you?” I ask the clearly unconscious man, getting no response. Very inconsiderate of him, all things considered.

I rack my brain because he seems fine overall—against all logic and reason. “Maybe it’s a curse!” I bounce with excitement at the idea. “Maybe you’re a cursed hero, and you… fell in the river and hit your head? Oh, no. That would mean I disrupted your story. You’re probably supposed to float down the river until you wake up and pull yourself out or get rescued by another of the mortal kyn?” An idea blossoms in my mind as I race to think of how to limit my involvement from this point on—after all, it isn’t the duty of the Court of Tale and Song to play a role in the stories we write or encourage. “A good author will never self-insert!” My father’s words ring in my mind. “But your story is probably going to be interesting, so I want to at least see how it starts…” I trail off as I look around the clearing.

I wander over to the treeline and grab a fair-sized piece of deadwood, testing its buoyancy. Satisfied, I pull the young man into the water again and drape his arms over the sides of the log, positioning his head so it stays out of the water. I cast a simple charm on the log to stick it to him and make it extra buoyant. Shaking off some fleeting dizziness after expending my essence on these tasks, I give him a soft push, sending him out into the lazily drifting river. The currents naturally drag him toward the center, and he starts to float away.

With an exhausted sigh and part one of my plan done, I relax the magic I used to change my size, reverting to my much, much more energy-efficient natural form—that of a 4-inch-tall, bewinged fairy. There’s a pop, flash, and a scattering of dust, and when the light clears, I’m floating at my previous form’s chest height, wings beating quickly to keep me aloft. In a small concession to comfort, I incant a simple rhyme to dry myself off. “Time to go!” I heartily announce and race down along the shore, swiftly passing the floating man, still entirely unconscious and stuck firmly to the slightly enchanted log.

I fly as fast as I can for the better part of an hour before arriving at my destination: a somewhat shoddily (Sorry, Ayre) constructed cabin off to the side of the massive mouth of a cave. The cabin has a simple earthen roof with dense and garish fey grasses growing atop it, and rough-hewn planks framed by hand-felled, debarked logs make up the frame. A simple door is propped up next to its intended doorframe, next to a series of three windows, one for each room within the cabin. It’s only just past noon, so she’s surely still asleep. That’s easily remedied.

“Ayre! I want to go fishing!” I shout aloud as I approach the cabin and clamber onto one of the windowsills. Looking inside, I see Ayre! She is without question my closest friend and the person I've spent more of my life talking to than anyone else. . She’s asleep at her table again, head in her hands, having apparently been whittling something into the wee hours of the night. But on hearing my exclamation, she bounces to her feet with her spear jumping to her hand. She strikes a very impressive, imposing and even… improsive(meaning something so impressive that it inspires prose) figure with it as she sleepily looks around, her metallic coppery hair swishing around her head and grating slightly against the patches of scales across her skin. Her thick tail and broad wings swing around, narrowly avoiding knocking into various bits of handmade furniture as she spins. She finally finishes her rotation and spots me and lets out a deep sigh.

“Why do you always announce yourself like that? You know it scares me half out of my scales when you do it.” She looks up at me with heavily lidded and very tired eyes, repeating the usual mantra we go through each time I visit. Today seems like one of the bad days, she looks absolutely exhausted with eyes sunken and looking dampened, so I resolve to make her smile.

“Well, I can’t roar, and that’s how dragons are supposed to announce themselves, right? So I just do the next best thing!” I respond in the customary fashion. “May I come in?”

“As if the answer would ever be anything but ‘yes’, but I know how important these things are to you, so…’ My home is yours to enter this day, given freely and without expectation of payment or an owed favor.” She claps her hands after setting her spear down, clasping her hands about each opposite wrist and bowing clumsily in an approximation of a fae ritual.

“I accept your hospitality, and offer this gift for the dragon's hoard.” I call my gift from my personal storage: a fruit from the faelands, a Hearthfruit. Juicy, bright red, and with a spicy odor that would send most mortals running from the mere scent. It weighs heavy in both my hands, but Ayre reaches out to take it with a big, jagged, toothy grin. They’re her favorite. Being such a concentrated source of fire essence, she has claimed that they keep her feeling energized for the entire day, and I’ve seen proof of it many times.

“You know me so well, Lilly.” She starts to say a more direct ‘thanks’, but avoids doing so, knowing some amount of fey tradition about the concept of saying thanks and the implication of debts after the long years of the fae watching over her. “So, you want to go fishing? Don’t you usually have an issue with that? ‘Oh Ayre, we shouldn’t fish, it’s just so cruel! How would you like it if someone threw you in the river and held you down for 30 seconds before tossing you on the shore or, even worse, eating you?’” She parrots, making a singsong mockery of my voice. It's particularly offensive because I normally think her somewhat-deeper, husky, voice is very pleasant.

“I don’t sound like that! Your bumpkin accent doesn’t do the sheer regality of my presence justice.” I stick my tongue out at her as she takes a big wet bite out of the fruit and chews for a while before swallowing. I see the light building in her mouth as she chews, watching it grow brighter after she swallows, clearly illuminating its trail down her throat until the light disappears behind her leather-reinforced shirt. “But, to answer your rather imprudent question: I saw a fascinating creature in the water on my way here, and I was hoping you could catch it, so I could try to talk to it!”

“Lilly, how many times do we have to go over this? The animals outside the lands of the Fairfolk can’t talk unless you’re using some very, very specific magicks, and even the-” I hold up a hand to forestall her explanation.

“Fine, fine. I’ve had a bad day today and thought sitting with you by the water would be a nice way to try to feel better. Is that a better answer?” It’s not a lie, the fae don't, can't, and won't lie. I am still feeling really torn up over what happened with Sir Henry Slinks and want to get it off my chest. Ayre always understands stuff, so she’s my first stop for everything.

Ayre’s face softens from her joking scolding, and she extends her arms for a hug, her coppery wings at her back passively mirroring her arm movements and spreading as wide as they can within the space. I flit forward and hug at the base of her collar, arms coming nowhere near wrapping around her by an order of magnitude, but she delicately clasps her scales and clawed hands around my back in what we had long-established was the best approximation of a hug we could manage with the size difference since I seldom changed sizes outside the faelands were fae essence is far more sparse to the point of effective nonexistence. It’s perfect, as always. Her hands are always so warm, and I simply feel safe around her.

“Alright, Lilly, let’s go fishing and you can tell me about it.” Ayre lifts me onto the top of her head, so I can hold on between her pair of skull-framing bone-white horns jutting up and back away from her head. Idly, I think of the same thing I always do: I really want to see Ayre headbutt someone with her horns at some point. She hefts her spear in one hand, and a homemade fishing rod and bucket in the other, and the two of us set off on the couple-minute walk to the river, making idle chit-chat along the way.

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Chapter

[snugglywuggums]

Chapter 3 — Ayre’A’khana — A Rude Awakening, Return to Normalcy, A Daily Farewell

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If you've landed here and want to go to the start, this is the link to the beginning

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I wake with a start, already rising with my spear in hand, manifested like a miracle from on high. My chest is heaving, and I feel the sooty aftertaste of the Breath in the back of my throat. Glancing around, I realize I’ve fallen asleep at the table again, and from the looks of things, I’ve unleashed a small bit of the Breath in my sleep, burning a ragged hole in the table that will need to be repaired… again. I quickly dash some water onto the surface to stop it from smoldering, having kept a bucket nearby for such occasions.

Most of my life, I’ve never been able to manifest the Breath the way one of my kyn should. It fails to ignite or catches in my throat, and I’ve never figured out why. All the elemental serpents should be able to use the Breath to a greater or lesser extent as far as my understanding goes. But not me. Just lucky like that, I guess.

Casting spells using Ignia? Absolutely. Conjuring firebolts and setting small fires is well within my abilities, but it's always come at cost of drawing on my personal natural reserves. Someone like me should have a gate, and I do! But mine has never awakened, so using Ignia always leaves me at a terrible deficit -- something especially bad because of my being Ignia.

With as little to go on as I have, I've largely just had to chalk it up to a mystery. Someday I might meet another of my kind, but it’s not something I’m holding out hope for -- I don’t foresee anyone wandering out here into the woods to teach me how to manifest my Breath anytime soon.

I set about organizing the room, righting the chair I had slept in and subsequently knocked over when I stood. My tail pushes through the carved section in the chairback to lift it upright again. The hole allows me to sit comfortably and, in situations like this, makes correcting things a good bit easier without needing to bend over.

It's roughly hewn, like most things in here, but imperfect as it is, I'm still proud of the effort I put into it. Sliding it forward, I move to stack some lightly scorched papers with a disgruntled shake of my head, but in a fit of emotion on seeing the remnants of the Breath on them, I ball them up and toss them in the corner.

Immediately regretting the impetuous decision, I walk over to pick them up. Paper isn’t cheap, and Lilly is kind enough to get me some occasionally. I take a few deep breaths and uncrumple them to stack them far less neatly on the table. With them pressed as flat as possible I put one of my tomes, a first aid book, atop them to help flatten them.

That task done, I adjust my bedding, all still orderly after a lonely night sitting unused. Idly, I wonder if the bed ever feels jealous of the number of nights I spend in the chair… Lilly always says there's a spark of life in all things, but it's always seemed like overly poetic ramblings to me.

I step back afterward and take in the room. Everything within was made by my hands over long years, from the wobbly table to the bookshelf with a slight lean to the left to the woven thatch carpet. And while they’re all imperfect in their own ways, they each give me a sense of pride and a slight smile.

The feeling almost offsets my discomfort at my brash outburst. I’ve been doing that more and more lately -- having sudden outbursts emotionally -- and I’m really not sure why. It’s been getting worse, too. I worry I’m going to snap at Lilly at some point over something undeserving. The very last thing I would ever want is to stop her coming by for any length of time.

Sighing, I step outside to grab one of my buckets from a small pile of them as well as my spear, and turn around to look at my cabin. It’s hand-constructed like everything else… and it shows. I note some of the garish fae grasses on the roof have wilted and will need to be reseeded. One of the rough-hewn boards framing the doorway is bending outward due to the high humidity. And finally, I’d simply taken the door off a few days ago because it fell over, and I couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it at the time.

Check, check, check, check, and check. I add them to my ever-evolving to-do list. A monster of my own creation that accompanies every waking minute of the day, and sometimes even in my dreams at night! With a grumble in the back of my throat thinking about The List, I turn and walk over to my well. I draw up a clay vessel and fill my bucket with it before turning to water the garden.

Deceptively small, my garden is fenced in with rough posts tied together with twine and reinforced with braided vines at random points. All along the posts are luminescent flowering vines that Lilly seeded around that will not go away, no matter how many times I rip them up by the taproot. Sure, they’re very pretty, but they also seemingly intentionally grow to encompass the gate, locking it closed even within the same day that I clear them out. Left untended, the damnable things inevitably ensconce the entire fence top to bottom, a fact I discovered when I got sick once and couldn’t tend to them for all of three days. They seemed to be taunting me the entire time, growing taller than the fence itself, which, given the source, is entirely feasible. Clearing three days of growth took the better part of an entire week!

Absurd.

At least they make for good tea.

Within the sturdy and flower-and-vine-reinforced walls are a variety of colorful fae crops that are specifically cultivated to grow quickly, using local essence to speed them along. The downside of that property is that with the prevalence of Mineralis(Most commonly known as metal essence) in the area, much of my food often has strange amounts of the tastes of random types of metal. It’s never strong enough to be unpleasant, but it’s variable enough that I’ve never been able to get used to it.

The names of them are also honestly ridiculous -- each one is given a name by the local Court of Tale and Song who gave me them according to the personal interests of the fae who cultivated them -- a fact that has seen these otherwise useful crops be named things like “The Third Treatise on Passion”, “The Vegetable At Roads End”, and “Juicy Crunchy Bluey Gooey” instead of the simpler names I’ve given them. Lilly says names like “Embergourd” lack refinement or artistry. I say that it’s a gourd full of Ignia essence, and as such embergourd is fitting. We’ll never agree on it, I think.

The routine stabilizes me, helping me feel more in control after the earlier outburst. By the time I’ve finished my upkeep chores the sun is rising above the dense Mineralis forest. The tall and orderly branches of the essence-derived trees growing in nearly identical patterns of repeating fractals of branches and leaves. The bark and leaves are imbued with various types of metals that hue them in reds, blues, oranges, grays, and myriad other colors of metals I both know and don't. My favorite is one with a rich blue hue to its bark and leaves. I think it’s probably related to cobalt, but my books on metallurgy spends very little time talking about colors with the exception of how they change as metals heat.

Looking around, my crops are watered and some harvested, some work done on making replacement boards, my water barrel refilled, weapons and garb maintained. All things are where they should be.

I gaze at the cave mouth, easily 50 feet across, and start to walk toward it. It's the final part of my daily routine that will free me up to do…probably nothing for the rest of the day. Maybe I'll work on my cellar some more…

My thoughts are sharply interrupted when I feel a sudden change in the air pressure behind me as I pass by my well. A snap of magic in the air.

I wheel around bringing my spear up to defend and see the creature leaping at me. My spear snaps into poisition to stop the leaping jaws by slamming into its open mouth. Its leap is stopped, mostly, and it starts to try to bite down through my weapon while its rear claws try to slice at me to no avail because of the size difference. All the while in the struggle, the back of its throat glows ominously, red essence building up in its gullet.

It so dangling from my spear, I hear the wood straining while power builds. I'd really rather not make another new haft, and this thing has already ruined my routine right at the most important part of it, so I twist and release one half of my haft, letting the monster slide free to go tumbling across the path and towards my little farming plot.

It lets me get a good look at it without it snarling and snapping at my face. It's a vaguely feline monster that looks to be nothing but muscle, if it had muscles built solely out of steel wire that were left out in the rain for a few weeks. In place of eyes, it has opalescent orbs with shimmer metal and fire contained within.

An evolved glimmermaw. A simple predatory monster. Basic ambush predator, relies on its oversized jaws and overdeveloped muscles to overpower larger monsters and beasts. Or me, I guess, if I hadn't fought these things so much growing up. This one is exceptionally large, though.

Which explains it being about twice the size of the average one and having apparent access to something other than just Mineralis essence. And because the world likes to taunt me, it appears to have evolved off of Ignia essence. Realizing that it has access to my essence lights a proverbial fire in my chest and I issue back a snarl at the creature; my anger rising at it having the audacity to attack me on my way to see my parents.

I stalk backwards at the same rate that it closes with me — now being more obviously careful after it failed its ambush. I just want to put my back to the stone wall, but can't risk turning around to close the distance faster. It's common enough that these travel in pairs or small packs and this example has to have other friends nearby.

To prepare, I start calling upon Aero essence from the world around me, drawing in a deep breath and causing green motes to manifest around me to get pulled into my body. Magical power ready to be expended while I scan around for its pack.

It feels the Aero and backs off fractionally — so I shape and release a quick, simple, spell. It's all I really know how to use, but I use these basic spellshapes often so it comes easily.

[Wind Spear] [Projection | Aero]

I lunge at the monster as green motes leave my body, manifesting my will onto my spear. At maximum extension — still well short of the monster — the tip of my spear bursts, launching a narrow needle of concentrated air pressure at it.

It tries to twist away, but the attacks scrapes along the side of its body, ripping through some of the wirey hide on that side, can making it loose a angry snarl to match my own.

It doesn't charge like it should, though. Instead it hops back and throws its oversized head back to loose a metallic screech that sends a shooting pain straight to my brain that dazes me momentarily.

Just long enough for its partner to capitalize on my distraction as it reveals itself from behind a pile of split wood nearby. Instead of leaping high, it throws itself at my ankle and clamps down. This one is no larger than an average dog, not a small deer like the other, so it struggles to actually chomp through my scales.

Having failed its opening attack, it rips its head side to side to wrench my leg out from under me, sending me momentarily off balance until I flap my wings to stablizie and use the extra force to twist, slamming my tail into its flank as hard as I can.

The impact tears it away, taking shred of my favorite pants with it. Which will need to be fixed. Which expands my list. Further ruining my routine for today.

I right myself and draw Ignia from deep within, feeling a chill spread through my body as I tug on my vital self for more power and fuel for my spells.

"I'm so tired of you monsters upsetting my life!" I snarl through a tight jaw as I stride forward to kick the recovering smaller glimmermaw in the ribs with everything I have. My heavy toed boots strike its flank with a burst of Ignia at the point of impact and its side craters inwards. The little furnace inside it that powers it cracks and vents excess Mineralis around my leg, hardening my scales and boot and stiffening that leg for a few moments.

The hiss of power escaping draws the attention of the other one. Monsters don't have feelings. They aren't smart or sapient the way that people are. They coalesce from excess essence collecting. So when it charges me following my killing its companion it's not out of a sense of loss or anger.

No. The monster I killed just released a ton of free essence into the air and it really likes that. The fact that I'm standing near it means I'm just a threat and a challenge to it getting the stuff.

[Puncture] [Touch | Ignia(Consumption)]

It predictably launches itself at me, so I sweep one leg back to brace and set my haft against the ground. If it notices its death coming, it doesn't react, though.

It skewers itself on my spear, but the combination of the damage at the opening of the fight and the greater weight of the evolved monster is enough to snap the haft and drop unceremoniously to the pathway.

It crumples to the ground, the front half of my spear lodged deep within its body as it lands — totally inert after its core was punctured, causing it to vent a ton of Ignia essence. My essence. It shouldn't have it. There's only one place around here that's concentrated enough to cause one of these to evolve.

Anger rising further, I kick the body with everything I have, cracking its carapace in a few places and ripping away the metal pieces with the force. I stand there for a moment, seething, before loosing another frustrated snarl and rip my spear free of its body as it starts to break down after sustaining so much damage.

In an hour or two, both will have dissipated and I won't have to see them anymore, but in a fit of lingering rage, I pick up the thief and hurl it into the nearby woods before reigning myself in again with several deep breaths.

Now I'm cold. If those stupid monsters hadn't come and ruined my pattern I wouldn't have needed to defend myself with Ignia. But no! It's not enough to take what isn't theirs. They also have to ruin everything by just existing and making it my drekking problem!

Everything boils over and I am left just feeling tired. But I have to finish my routine.

Turning away and back towards the cave with a heavy sigh, I place what remains of my spear in a rack I made from deadfall near the entrance and head deeper within. It immediately angles downward, and I start to descend into relative darkness. While I can see decently well in the dark, I’ve never been a fan of being in the dark for any length of time, so I grab a copper and glass oil lantern and quickly ignite it before heading onward.

The cavern is… well… cavernous. At no point does it narrow, having been shaped deliberately by the touch of magicks in decades past by my Ma’. The openness allows me to freely stretch my wings wide as I walk, ensuring that the muscles aren’t stiffening from limited use. Much as I’d like to use them more, but I honestly have no reason to. If a nearby village should see me flying around, it could raise a fuss and get me visited by well-meaning heroes, and I’d rather not. So I stay ground borne. Safer that way. I generally prefer to not think of the other reasons.

After walking a while by the flickering lantern light, I make it to my destination. A chamber wide enough that my lantern’s glow cannot reach from one side to the other, that is a nearly perfect dome. I make my rounds around the outer limits. Passing by the dreams of a young girl scrawled on the wall, I eventually complete my walk and end up in the center of the room, standing on the only section of stone that isn’t magickally smoothed. It is coarse and irregular, with small bits of shininess sparkling in the shakey light of the lantern. A shakiness that I would definitely attribute to a failing of the lanterns construction and nothing else. The bits sparkle the same color as the lantern itself, and it flickers with an almost uncertain quality to it, reflecting my own inner thoughts, maybe.

Within and near the center, there are two pillars of rounded river rocks -- cairns. All smooth to the touch and in many colors. While they’re fundamentally similar, I made sure to personalize the selections of stones to suit Ma’ or Pa’ respectively -- Pa’s are more wide, flat, stones with a focus on reds while Ma’s are taller and thinner with a color focus on yellow. Each stack starts with a simple granite foundation stone and steadily stacks upward with smaller and prettier rocks until the apex, whereupon each stack is topped with a faestone—a multicolored gemstone that is said to reflect the mood of the viewer. The damn things must be broken, though, as no matter what mood I’m in when I come down here, they’re blue. Always blue. I keep wanting them to be red or orange. I’ll even take green! Just anything different from this subdued, dull, blue. But they never are.

I narrow my eyes at the stones before kneeling to adjust the cairns to ensure they are steady. Never once in the last fifteen years have they fallen over or been stacked in a way that could be unstable, and I intend to keep it that way.

I set my lantern down nearby and kneel. The ground and air in here is always hot irrespective of the temperature outside. It’s a fact that’s always put me at ease -- I view it as something of them still being here for a sort of embrace that can’t be taken away. Pulling out a polishing cloth and some wax I’d bought in town a few months back, I set about polishing the stones to keep their exteriors lustrous. While doing so, I begin to quietly speak, my own voice softly bouncing off the walls to give me the subtle impression I’m not alone in this space. Yet another of the small comforts I find here.

“Ma, Pa, I know it’s not really a surprise, but I had that dream again. Think I probably caught maybe 4 hours of sleep last night because of it. Stayed up later than I should have — I know, I know, but it’s not like I have anything else going on — and then woke up early because of…” I trail off, picturing the eyes in my head with a shudder. I glance around as I wrap my arms about my chest, holding myself tight with my wings drawing in for good measure. “Anyways, the cabin is holding up well enough, and I’ve started to lay the groundwork for a simple cellar, so I can keep some of my grain fresher longer. I think it’ll be a nice improvement, and it’ll be a great place to go hide out in when things get too hot!” I say with a slight smile, but it dies immediately when I notice the speckles of copper on the floor. I stand slowly after replacing the last (still doggedly blue) faestone.

“At any rate, I’ll come by tomorrow. I’ve got some work to do today. I was considering taking a trek into town and stocking up on some supplies, but maybe I’ll just nap instead. Committing to the couple days of travel sounds like a lot.” I yawn at the thought and turn to walk out. I pass by a small alcove between some standing stones shimmering with the slight haze of a lasting enchantment in the air and stare at it for a moment before shaking my head and moving on, more dour as I leave than when I entered. Chapter 4 link

[snugglywuggums]

Chapter 2 — Lilidh O’Ceilidh — A Wayward Princess, A Wretched Rival, A Bond Wrought in Battle

Perspective 2, electric boogooloo, this time a flighty fairy flying through the forest to find her fancy.

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If you've landed here and want to go to the start, this is the link to the beginning

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“The toad prince, bedecked with baubles aplenty, approaches with a courtly bow. ‘Ribbit’, he says to the fair lady all alone at the boisterous ball…” I pause in my declaration, contemplating. I watch the toad before me as it stares blankly at a particularly well bloomed lily pad. After a moment of thinking to myself, “Wait, do toads “ribbit”? Or is that just frogs? What even is the difference anyways? Agh! I’ve lost the script now.” A sonorous croak bleats from the toad in my general direction, clearly voicing his displeasure with my faux pas, “Fine, Mister Toad, if you’re going to be a prima donna about this, I’ll come back later with a revised script. But you’d better be ready!”

I hop off the toadstool I’ve been balancing on(A bright red affair, stark white spots coating its cap, quite pretty!) and begin to hum a tune aloud; one of my favorites, The Trials of the Theatrical Traveler. It's a delightful little tale of one of my fathers earliest endeavors where he would travel with a close friend, ridding the world of evils big and small.

Progressing onwards, I peer back over my shoulder to check if I’m being followed. I spy in the distance the shimmer indicating the border of fae lands but no other signs of life, and smile to myself mischievously.

“Gave ya the slip, old man! You’ll never think to look for me out here!” I stick out my tongue indignantly before turning back around and smiling to myself. Us Fairfolk aren’t supposed to leave the homeland—the elders and high court say it’s too dangerous out here for most of us, but I’ve never taken that seriously. Who would attack such a little thing as me? The animals out there were bland and mundane—not like the interesting essentia-fueled beasts of the homeland, so even should one decide to be aggressive, I could handle it! The elders are worried over nothing…

I light upon the stem of a wildflower, pretty, purple, and fragrant, and draw in a deep breath, reveling in its smell. The plants out here are also quite different from those at home. That one smells of earthen soil, a subtle pollen, and…maybe berries? Definitely berries. A similar flower at home would smell of sugared sweets, sumptuous and savory. It would give you a burst of energy on scent, and might even fool you into staying a while if you’re not paying attention! Flowers like conversation no different than anyone else and always have the most interesting stories to tell - even if they may be a bit flowery at times. Eager storytellers seldom notice quite how purple their prose is!

I shake my head then, breaking my momentary reverie as a small blue bird with wings flapping faster than I can track arrives and buries its face into one of the flowers I’m hanging off. I watch with interest until it pulls its head back, now entirely covered in pollen. It turns to face me, still hovering on its impossibly rapid wingbeats, considering me for a moment. I reach out a hand, and attempt to gently pat its head, but it abruptly flies away, leaving me feeling somewhat miffed! “Spurn me, will you, blue bird? Don’t you know who I am? I am Lilidh O’Ceilidh! The one destined to be the greatest playwright in the whole world, and I’m going to write such mean things about you!” I shake my fist at the departing bird with a performative scowl. “Ah well. Nothing to be done about it, some people just have no manners. Maybe that’s why the Fairfolk never leave home. These beasts out here are both mundane and terribly rude.”

With a mild huff, I spread my wings with a spray of dust that shimmers into a pattern reminiscent of a musical stanza in my wake, each dust mote chiming pleasantly as they collide with one another or a nearby surface. With several wingbeats I propel myself to just below the lowest branches of this stand of trees and begin to glide along, drifting, diving, and dancing around branches and leaves as I move farther from home and toward my destination—The River Song. It’s about ten minutes of concentrated flight, but concentrating was never my strong suit, and it isn’t long before I come to a sudden halt in my flight in another puff of dust.

I see it then, my nemesis! My rival! My Arch Rivalsis! Nemeval? I need to workshop it.

The long, lanky, beast of beasts. It has a lithe body that extends to be easily eight times my height in length, vicious claws and fangs, and a propensity for changing its coloration to blend in with its environment. Right now taking on earthy brown hues(though with the season changing the first spackles of white are beginning to shine through) as it lies in wait for me to fly over its carefully lain trap, none the wiser. But I’ve known this was a possibility, it was one of its favored tactics. This creature is the one thing out here with the audacity to attack me outright. Our rivalry goes back years and while those years haven’t visibly aged me even a day, this monster had grown ever smarter, larger, and stronger.

Once I had felt we might make amends—I’d even tried to offer it a gift of ambrosia once, but it had leapt at me instead - making me drop the leaf containing the priceless fluid! Unbelievable!

Ever since that day, we’ve been circling one another, laying traps and ambushes, dueling in the glades. Neither of us ever quite managing the upper hand, though. Perfectly matched, as all rivals must be. I often wondered if it would come to my aid in my time of direst need, not allowing me to fall to anything besides its own terrifying, vicious, claws.

“Time will tell, you devious creature, but today, the ambusher will become the ambushee! … Ambushed?” Frustrated at the words, I toss a handful of dust into the air, saying a brief incantation.

Silent shadows shroud my shape, see me slip from sight and sense.

A glamour falls over me to render me nigh invisible. The dust clings to my wings and dress, and with each mote, I grow more and more transparent, until something would need to make a concerted effort to be able to spot me if I stood still.

But I won’t be standing still. I lower myself to the ground and call my weapons to hand, conjured from my magicks and called from home. They appear, hovering and very gently spinning and bobbing in place until I reach for the rapier and buckler. The rapier is an enchanted needle from the bobbin of the best seamstress in the land, granted to me as a gift when I had my twentieth nameday. The entire rapier had been meticulously carved from the bone of a great and terrible dragon from tip to hilt and gleamed like metal in this midday sun. The shield, on the other hand, was a symbol of office, a golden plate upon which the tales of the royal family were embossed in exacting detail in text so small as to be illegible to the naked eye. At least, that’s what I’ve been told all the squiggles are, I’d never committed myself to studying them like I was told I should. I am and always will be far, far, more concerned with telling new tales, singing fresh songs, and adventuring abroad!

The weapons jump readily to my hands, the rapier diving into my open left palm with a spinning flourish, and the buckler spinning over and sitting just above the skin of my arm, like it was trained to do. Each disappears the moment they enter the field of my spell, and I begin to creep along to blindside the creature.

From down here, it looks ever bigger than it had when I was flying. It’s maybe ten, nay! Twenty times my size and I can see its ravening maw, dripping saliva anticipating its next meal. As I sneak to its left side, the side I’ve long since learned it struggles to fight from due to an injury, I see its poisonous claws, dripping with ichor that is simultaneously poison, venom, toxin and a bunch of other terrible things! Many a near-death experience had been had at their tender ministrations.

But not today! With a flourish, I come to my ready stance, with my elbow bent at a steep angle, and my wrist pointed outwards to hold the blade out directly away from my body, and my shield arm behind my back. I open my mouth to speak my challenge (It would be crass to attack out of the blue, after all), but realize there’s no way the monster would have seen my oh-so impressive twirl and been suitably awed and intimidated since I was invisible! That just wouldn’t do. With an uttered phrase, I dispel my glamour with a shimmer and spray of golden dust and a gentle chiming ring on the air.

It instantly snakes around, its long, long, body moving like a serpent at the roots of an eldtree to look at me as I re-do my flourish before its now attentive eyes. It seems thoroughly impressed and rears back in surprise as I speak. “Hear me now! Today is your last day on the Lady’s green earth! And I will be the one to put yo- Hey! I wasn’t done!” I abruptly spin to the side as it dives at me, seeing easy prey and clearly having no appreciation for theatrics. That is why he’s my rivalsis. He’s a dangerous nihilist with no appreciation for tale and song!

I feel its bulky, muscular, body scrape past me as I spin away. It quickly reorients itself, but not fast enough as I dive for the opening, driving my rapier clear through its side in what would surely be a telling blow. At the last moment, it wiggles (Really! Wiggles!) out of the way and then dances back a few strides to create some space, making use of its entirely unfair reach advantage on me to swipe at me a few times. I deftly knock aside the blows from its savage claws with shield and sword, and it snarls a frustrated cry and dives at me, aiming to engulf me whole in its cavernous maw.

Where I’m positioned against a pair of trees, I realize I’ve been outmaneuvered and there’s nowhere to go. My counter ambush has failed and he knows it. He saw this opportunity coming and will capitalize on it. As he dives, I see a single chance. Fleeting, but a chance, so I have to take it. I call my shield forward and into its jaws as it goes to clamp down around me, only to hear a sickening crack, but not from my own bones, nor from the shield buckling.

With a plaintive cry, my rival falls backwards, making a mewling noise of pain and distress. As he writhes on the ground, I see what happened. In my attempt to prevent it from closing its maw around me, I had broken its tooth!

My stomach drops and my face pales, “Oh, n-no no, no, that wasn’t supposed to happen! It was just supposed to hold your mouth open, so I could reposition!” I run forward to the agonized stoat, dismissing my weapon and raising my hands to cast a handful of dust forward with a flutter of my wings and begin to speak another incantation,

Soothe, sweet stoat, sleep sound and still, slumber soft, 'til sun does spill!

The dust settles around the pained creature, and it swiftly drifts off to sleep. Having no natural resistances to Elysian essence, fae essentia, the effect takes hold quickly and renders it calm and pain free. A simple spell for pain relief and sleep.

“I’m so sorry, dear friend. I’ll fix this, no rivalry should end in such an inglorious way,” I say, internally scolding myself for harming the weasel while I was merely playing. “Immature! Stupid! I’m so dumb! This wasn’t even a fair fight.” I chastise myself glumly as I walk over and kneel next to the lightly bloodied tooth with a deep frown. Hefting the thing in both hands, I stand and walk back over to the now soundly sleeping creature, setting the tooth down next to its head.

I gently caress its soft fur, speckled with gray, and a spike of disgust rises in me as I remember that I've heard that the mortal kyn hunt creatures like him for their pelts. I run my fingers through its fur soothingly and it seems to wiggle appreciatively. Reaching for its lips, I try to open its mouth, but its head is too heavy for me to lift. My shield manifests once more at my call and I bid it help me. It carefully pries open the stoat's mouth and lifts its head, the floating motions looking almost as forlorn as I feel. But there’s a duty to be done, and a debt to be paid. I reach inside its mouth and conjure a small orb of light, seeing that the tooth has cracked cleanly in half down to the root. With a grimace, and remembering a toothache I once was given as part of a scene, I inspect the rest of its mouth and see the other teeth aren’t looking great either, as though decayed by age.

“Oh, you sweet thing, you were getting old, weren’t you? I’m sorry that I never realized…” I trail off but shake my head to regain focus. “I always considered you a dear friend despite our many battles, and I was never aware enough to realize you were slowing down. I’ll do what I can to help.” I hold the heavy tooth in place and begin a healing incantation.

Spirits of soil, sky, and stream, save this one's smile!

A warmth radiates from my wings to my heart and out to my hands holding the tooth. Channeling Elysian essence through my hands, I watch as light flashes at the points of contact, where new material rapidly grows to fill small gaps. The light spreads through its mouth, turning the aged, worn teeth into sharp, pristine white fangs, as they had been in their prime so few years ago.

I slump backward into the dirt afterward, feeling dizzy from the effort. I barely even register that falling there will surely dirty my dress. With my head swimming, I can’t bring myself to care. Despondent after hurting a helpless creature, I wrestle with what to do. After a few moments, my head clears, and I’m struck with an idea. An idea I know the elders, my guardian, and my father would surely take issue with… but they aren’t here, and I will write my own story!

I climb forward onto my knees, dismissing my shield servant, which is still propping open the mouth, and place my hands on either side of the stoat’s head. I begin speaking a ritual I’ve known since birth,

For you, Sir Stoat, I extend my bond, that you might live among the Fairfolk and feel our hospitality in the verdant lands of the Court of Tale and Song. I name you…

I hesitate, for despite my storytelling skills, names have never been my forte. Pausing, I feel the energy of home reaching out to me at my behest.

I name you… Henry Slinks, Sir Henry Slinks

I finish, placing a kiss on the stoat’s forehead. All the energy that had been building within me, suffusing me like the first warm sunrise after a long winter, releases on contact, transferring into the stoat and granting it a small mote of fae whimsy within its soul, supplanting some of its natural essence. The amount replaced will grow over time, but how it will affect the creature is unpredictable. Such is the nature of the essence of whimsy and creativity.

I rock back on my knees and watch the energy pulse through the creature as it slumbers. Patches of its gray fur return to a more lustrous brown before my eyes. It brings me a smile for a few moments as I witness the process.

This binding is something special, something no fae should do more than a few times in their life, and only with those, they’ve formed lasting stories with. Stories told over a long time, with anticipation of many more to come. Entering the Court of Tale and Song is no mean feat, but I’m happy to use my power to help this creature who gladly dueled me over the years. With this blessing, he might come to understand what it meant to me.

I stand, knowing the sleep spell will last awhile and that he’ll be reasonably safe here under the brush where we fought. So I leave, heading toward the river full of mixed emotions, already dreading the talking-to I’ll surely receive when I return home.

Chapter 3 Now featuring a dragon who is doing quite well, she would assure you.

[snugglywuggums]

First post on the site, figured I'd upload some of my stories here for giggles in their rougher drafts before they wind up getting posted to other more focused sites when I finally have cover art for my books.

Thus far, books one and two are entirely done, with book 3 coming up on the halfway point. It's aiming to be comprised of seven total books and tell two sides of the same events -- they are written to stand on their own as tales, but reading both sides will provide additional context into the world and events at large without spoiling either side. test

This first story is multi-perspective, flipping back and forth between three characters as time goes on, all within the same party.

The (Highly trope-ey)short blurb is thus A story following the adventures of someone stricken by a terrible curse that's robbed him of his memories and given him destructive urges, a fae princess who desires nothing more than to see the world and tell the grandest tale that's ever been told, and (possibly) the last fire dragon who has lived on the edge of fae territory since her parents died when she was a child.

It's intended to be a story of whimsy, dealing with the importance of understanding ones own emotions and place in the world, the nature of what it means to be a monster or outsider, and found family. And, importantly, some of the characters might kiss at some point.

I try to avoid it being trauma porn, but the characters have damage, and are trying to get through it. Except for the amnesiac. He's the suffering lodestone for the world — luckily, he winds up with ride or dies who won't let him fall too far.

Without further ado:

Stolen Fates

Calamity

Chapter 1 — Unknown — An Unnatural Hunger, Golden Eyes, A Long Fall

[Foreword: Reading guidance. Instances of full lines of text in italics are internalized thoughts. Italics are sometimes used for emphasis in other locations, but typically only single words.] ---------------

[Start(We'll see how my formatting adapts, this might be a goddamn nightmare.]  ---------------

The memory of what happened is fleeing, like so many others. Of all of the ones that leave, though, I think it's the one I don't mind going. It's a memory of terror, pain, and confusion. But...something drives me to try to hold onto it. A cloying need in the back of my mind to know. So I focus, trying to capture glimpses of it, grabbing at the wind itself as it rushes away.

My perspective drifts as I watch, reviewing the memory from two perspectives. Both sides experienced at once in a disorienting haze that I slip into readily.

-

A mighty thud followed by the sound of a bone, or bones, snapping erupts when my back slams into the tree — no pain follows, though. When I land in a heap about fifteen feet down onto the forest floor I realize that I cannot shift myself. My legs just won’t move. Everything below my waist just feels cold and numb in a way that’s hard to make sense of. 

The memory stands amongst many flooding through my mind. All telling a similar story with the same ending. Notes cribbed from one another openly and blatantly. This one feels…different so I try to focus on it to the exclusion of the others. 

There’s nothing for it. I pull myself into a sitting position against the tree to face the creature that’s been savaging me. There’s no question about the outcome here — not really. At the start I was scared, but I think I’m past that now. The beating has taken place over such a length of time that I’ve had time to come to terms with it. It's playing with its food. Nothing but malice like any monster. 

This me, if I am me, fought back. So few of me seem to have either the ability or the wherewithal to. But no matter what, whether I fight back in my memories, I still lose to myself. Both sides of every memory, experienced at the same time, every time. Dying. Killing. Dying. Killing.

But maybe I can stop it? I’ve been trying to survive this entire time. That’s simply not going to happen, so what if I at least try to make the world a little bit better on the way out? Maybe if I’m lucky I can take something from it on the way.

The thoughts I have are hungry or scared. Eventually, hungry and scared. The me that hunts is hungry. The me that dies is scared. But at some point, both of me Become simply…me. Hungry and scared, interlocking, interweaving. But as I fade into myself, the scared flees, as scared is wont to do, leaving me only with my hunger. The hunger that persists even as the me starts to leave. Leaving behind nothing else but that hunger. A desire for more.

It stalks forward — the worst creature I know to exist on this blessed world of ours. Twice as tall as me even while hunched over nearly in half to menace down at me. The figure feels like a vague mockery of femininity, stretched and twisted and cast in lambent, internally radiant amethyst. Long, lanky, with limbs too thin, fingers with too many joints, each ending in crystal blades. Blades that have opened me up from neck to navel too many times to count. Defiantly, I look up at the monster, the Calamity from scripture, and shout something meaningless while it regards me curiously.

Why doesn’t it die? Why is it different?

Suddenly something snakes around my ankle with crushing force. I hear the cracks but no pain comes with the noise. I’m merely lifted like a favorite toy, casually. With ease I'm brought up to the side of its head alongside its set of three scrutinizing sapphire eyes, hanging upside down as blood leaks down from my guts and over my face, obscuring my vision incessantly. I can do something here. My knife.

My knife.

In a swift motion borne of desperation and spite, I rip my knife from my belt and ram it home into the largest of the sets of eyes alongside its monstrously elongated and smooth crystalline head. I drag it back towards me, using what little leverage I have to rend the monster asunder.

My minds and heads are suffused with such thorough and blinding pain that I can’t think. The pain comes through as overwhelming data. Not actual pain, though the outcome is the same. I stumble away from myself with a shout, a screech, a cry.

Good, I hurt it badly. Maybe I’ll have nicked something important or blinded it forever on that side of its horrible, horrible head. 

When I land on the ground with a heavy thud, a cool sensation runs through my body, stemming from my right arm. I raise it while the creature staggers away from me and see the quicksilver ring glowing a comforting green on my ring finger. The feeling concentrates in my lower back and I feel something reconnect. Sudden agony screams up my leg and into my mind from an ankle that is beyond shattered. I writhe on the ground, wheezing, trying and failing to focus.

A tendril reaches up at my behest, pulling the intruding object from my vision. Information about the offending weapon floods into my mind. The craftsman who made it —someone who needs to be taken, they are clearly of skill — the material composition, essential irregularities. It is a quality knife, and one of significance to someone. Someone who just stabbed me with it. I stalk forward and lift the creature from the ground by its right arm, ensuring to break it just as many times as possible, in as many places as possible. It’s a waste of energy, but a token one to test this one's limits — its suitability.

Agony fills my mind with starbursts, but the cool presence from the ring on my hand dulls it immediately, allowing me some modicum of focus through the sensations. I see a glint for a moment and realize the creature is flipping my knife around like a toy in one of its countless amethyst tendrils as its bores into me with inhuman eyes. Eyes that are reforming as I watch. Regrowing as if no damage had ever been done to them at all. I realize the futility of the situation. Despite my best efforts, I never had a chance. Anything more was delusional. The realization sets in and the creatures lips peel back into a grin, baring a jagged wall of pristine crystalline teeth, each longer than my forearm.

With a single flick the quality knife that means something buries itself into the creature’s throat, right at the base of its neck. Its eyes go wide as it sputters and gurgles as the rich, vital Victus and Sanguis essence pours from its body in spurts that slow to pumps that slow to a dribble. Maybe not a waste though. An opportunity.

I’m dropped again. But I don’t feel anything this time. Even trying my hardest, I can’t move my head at all, like something is physically blocking my neck from moving. Maybe it’s the source of this cold and fuzzy feeling in my mind. As my eyes are starting to close, I see a flash of movement. My right arm, being raised and my hand being delicately closed around something.

---------------

[Memory Rend]

 [Forced Imbument | Akasha] 

Selectively destroy a target's memories and knowledge, rendering it into pure Akasha.

---------------

With a surge of conciousness returning, I open my eyes, the last vestiges of the cascade of memories leaving with the crashing return of reality. A reality that is stark and sharp. Rendered in black and white. Areas of essence richness, and essence void. The two states that matter.

All around me, I see vessels…bodies? Bodies. Bodies that have collapsed partially or wholly into a featureless white dust that stands out even in this strange sight of mine. The more whole ones look as if they’ve been ravaged by something terrible. Rent asunder, with so much essence spilled in waste, never to be recovered. 

The more complete vessels evoke a sense of…something in me. Something terribly dark that sticks to the fringe of my awareness. It's cold and tight and as I try to focus on anything but I feel dampness pooling around my eyes for some reason. Eventually I succeed in redirecting my thoughts back to my main concern. I’m apparently in an area nearly devoid of essence: Far too much darkness in my vision, and no sources of power worth considering seeking. All of my memories were of being sated. I want that. I want to be sated of curiosity and essence.

In order to do that, I need to leave. This place makes me feel….bad, and it’s devoid of what I need. So I’ll leave.

I rise, and as I do so, I feel some vestiges of objectivity fleeing my mind. The stark rendering of the world into concentrations of essence starts to break down, bringing more of reality back into familiar shades over the span of ten or so seconds. This reveals my situation more clearly to me: I’m standing in the center of a town. Or…what was once a town. Corpses are scattered and drained to uselessness. Buildings are burning and sending vast columns of essence into the sky alongside plumes of smoke. And I’m in the center of a town square next to an intermittently firing fountain.

I feel something cool running up my right arm and some fog in my mind disappearing alongside it. Dispelling yet more of my objectivity. Bringing in wasteful emotions in its place. But when I lift my arm, it reveals something wrong.

My arm looks cast in a purple crystal. Covered in fissures and cracks that lead all the way down to what appears to be bone made of the same material. Periodically, small bursts of purple mist and ichor emit from deep within the fissures to diffuse into the air or splash onto the ground. Wherever the emissions contact any other materials they are steadily eaten away at until nothing remains than a featureless, essence devoid, white powder.

My hand, I realize, has been clenched this entire time. Opening my palm up, I see a small crystal sphere with tiny wisps of shiny purple smoke within. As if on cue, when I go to close my hand again, it shatters abruptly. But…it’s another distraction. It didn’t and doesn’t have what I need.

I make to step forward but, unbidden, I hear words from the oily smoke all around me in this place. A voice that trembles at first but hardens towards the end.

Beware the amethyst mist, born of the Seed of Calamity that corrupts all it touches, No longer a mortal, now a monstrous harbinger spreading only darkness and despair, The Calamity comes.

My steps arrest themselves. The words are familiar but I can’t place why and not being able to understand that gives me serious pause. The distracting sensation of knowing I should know something but not knowing it anyways floods my mind — only to be broken when a vessel steps out of the smoke ahead of me.

No…a woman, I think. Feminine, at least. She’s wearing badly damaged, but quality, armor. Black leather reinforced with dark plates at key locations in the gorget, stomach, wrists, and thighs. It’s barely holding together, making it look like she almost certainly has been in a terrible fight: an assumption that is further enhanced by her haggard, if determined, expression, a missing pantleg and sleeve, and a clumsily splinted arm pinned to her left side. What skin is revealed is an almost porcelain white with countless visible scars leading up to intensely luminous golden eyes with vertical slits in place of more “normal” pupils. Her head is framed by up-and-rearward sweeping black horns poking from shock-white hair nearly matching her skin tone Finally, to either side of her head, sit tall and sharply pointed ears.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t be allowed to leave here.” Her voice rings cold as she raises a weapon to a ready position. A knife held in a deadly stable grip and seems to have some sort of golden essence swirling around the blade like stardust matching the color of her eyes.

“What have I done? Why must I die for it? I don’t understand.” My own voice comes out flat and without inflection, feeling unfamiliar even through my own lips. The essence dusting around her suddenly falters at the same time that her stern expression does, some of it falling to the ground and dissipating swiftly. “She isn’t certain. Does she know why I must die? Maybe it’s a misunderstanding.”

“Y-you killed all of these people. This entire village is in ruin because of you. Do not try to trick me, the Calamity has arrived, and under the Watcher’s gaze, I shall lay it low!” She lowers her voice, speaking under her breath and shaping an incantation of some kind. Her essence mists out with her breath, returning to wreathe the knife in a sharp halo of gold as her eyes spark into a harsher light, pupils narrowing down to a barely perceptible slit..

[Watcher, I imbue thy killing might unto this tool. Watch my action, and hear my word, I pledge the death of the Calamity]

The essence she expends manifesting the spell is anomalous. It doesn’t share a color basis with anything I can think of immediately, and seems to come from nowhere, manifesting from thin air. In fact, as I focus, the aura bleeding off of her is almost exclusively Aero — however she got hurt likely involved her using an unsafe amount of it.

"You’re very badly essence imbalanced. I would rather not fight, and you’re just risking your safety." Maybe showing concern will help ease her concerns?

“I’ll hear nothing else out of you!” She rushes me with the killing blade extended.

“It’s antithetical. Anathema. Bane. But she’s too slow, she can’t get past my guard. I don’t want to hurt her, she’s confused and scared. I’ll stop her instead.“ I drop into a stance, planting one foot behind me, and raising my hands to protect myself. She lunges, far too slow, dominated by emotion, her essence burning bright once more. The motions she lunges at me with feel indescribably familiar. One of my memories I saw was a nearly identical situation, and as I focus on it, the memory lays over my vision. It sits on the fringes of my awareness as I move myself fluidly with the remembered motions with professional precision — the steps playing out in my mind like a mantra I’ve spoken my entire life.

A quick sidestep, left arm extended. Grab the wrist and tug. While they’re unbalanced, strike the rear of the elbow. A standard nonlethal disarming technique I’ve performed dozens of times and practiced hundreds. But this memory ends abruptly immediately following the elbow strike when I die, so I improvise the end.

The acts come out in a blur of practiced motion, and the impact against her elbow elicits a shocked yelp of pain as it hyperextends and knocks the knife flipping out of her hand. In one smooth motion, I shove her along her path with my left and snag the handle with my right, avoiding the mistake I made in the memory that got me killed by the monster I had been fighting then by keeping her beyond arms reach.

The moment my right-hand touches the strange essence wrapping the blade, I feel it pour into me and it hurts. It hurts more than anything I can think of. Blinding, searing pain from inside my body. Information screams into my skull. Indescribable white noise floods my every sense. Hearing, tasting, smelling and seeing nothing but static. For a few moments, I struggle to even think. I move the knife to my other hand in a daze, not wanting to give up a weapon. The moment it leaves my right hand, I feel relief from the painful sensory overload. I stare at the knife in my hand for a moment, trying and failing to comprehend it

The knife darkens in my grip as the light leaves it, its energy clearly expended. I have seen it before. This specific knife. I don't understand why, but I know it. Calling on another memory for guidance, I slip it into a fitting sheath on my belt with a smooth motion and turn to face the woman. “I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to kill you.” My voice coldly intones distantly. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what this is. Can’t you help me?” I feel a sense of desperation growing inside myself that I don’t like. That desperation is cloying at my self control. I know I can just end this and save myself the hassle she’s giving me but the thought just feels so viscerally wrong that it’s hard to even think about.

She stares at me, eyes wide. Her aura going cold and inert for a moment before she shakes her head, and it flashes back to burning gold. “This is a test of faith… and I will not fail.” She says aloud, reaching with her good arm down to her side, pulling out a slim knife. When she rips it free, I see a droplet of something drip off it, a concentrated energy source. She stands, and takes a handful of dancing steps backwards, creating space between us. She incants again,

[Sight of the Watcher, guide my hand!]

Her wrist flicks forward, and I try to search my memories again, but it’s coming too fast. All I manage to do is daze myself as dozens of useless, but similar, memories overlay one another — blurring everything before me with hazes of motion that’s nearly impossible to decipher.

The knife flips end over end as the golden white energy wreathes it. I reach out to grab it from the air as it flies towards me, but at the last moment, as though struck with a hammer midair, it redirects itself, avoiding my grasp by a hair's breadth. For a brief second, I see it pass my hand before realizing what’s about to happen. I start to twist my body, but am too slow.

The knife impacts and plunges into my left arm effortlessly, its golden sheathe flaying everything before it before breaking apart and burying itself into my shoulder. Nearly instantly, I feel a searing burn course into my body in time with my heartbeat. It’s agonizingly painful, but it brings a sort of pleasing relief shortly after it starts to course through my body.

I reach up and rip the knife out with my right hand on reflex. The moment I grip it, I see the fluid dripping from an internal reservoir dry up, leaving behind a featureless white powder. A second later, the knife itself collapses into the same inert dust filtering between my fingers as knowledge regarding both floods into my mind and the essence from within them floods into my body alongside their destruction. 

---------------

Aetherbane ToxinFames, Puritas An alchemical distillation used to inflict significant damage to or disable monsters that rely on essence based attacks. Original formula recorded by Alistair Blackthorn for usage by the Order of the Eternal Vigil to combat Calamities.

Throwing Knife (Essence Reservoir)Mineralis, Instrumentum, Vacuous A simple throwing knife designed for delivering bane-targeting essence distillates to targets at a distance. Especially useful as it can be loaded and reloaded with any essence or distillation with a simple command. Current model designed by Vigil Armsmaster, Theron Drakallo.

---------------

The knowledge I glean scratches an itch I wasn’t even aware existed, but the possibilities for the anti-magical toxin come to mind immediately — to combat itself and any remnants of whatever essence was on the earlier knife.

I focus on that knowledge, the feel and shape of the essence distillation and try to will it into my blood in a productive way. Quickly, a burning rush like a heavy fever washes through my body. I feel it sweeping through, collecting foreign essence that shouldn’t belong and coursing it to my arm where it quickly drips out and onto the ground: primarily looking like mixed purple and red ichor. As it does I feel a good degree more emotion come to the forefront of my mind, and with it, fear.

“Why? I’ve avoided hurting you. I don’t want to fight!” My voice sounds more familiar now, each word carrying more feeling and pain than the last, as whatever essence was trapped inside me continues to be taken away or destroyed. “I didn’t do this, at least…not on purpose, if I did do it…” I trail off as my head swims, my body trying to combat the essentia poison in my veins to a mixed success. She draws another throwing knife, repeating her chant. “I can’t stop her knives. It’s late and dark, maybe I can escape into the forest?” I take a knee, feigning a worse wound than I actually have, and she forestalls her throw to get closer.

“Just…stop resisting. Please, if there’s still someone in there that’s listening, just lay down and let me end your suffering. You’ll be taken into the embrace of the Watcher and saved from this fate.” She inches closer, cautiously, weapon poised. The knife in her hand hisses and buzzes with essential energy that I have to fight every urge to not shy away from. Something instinctual within me recognizes it as antithetical to my being.

I hang my head, ostensibly going along with her command. She gets within arms reach on my left. “I’m truly sorry this happened to you. I will find out what I can about this place and ensure they aren’t forgotten. You didn’t deserve this, nobody does.” Her voice comes heavy with regret, sadness pinned to every syllable, but all underlined by resolve. She raises her knife in a reverse grip to plunge it into my neck.

Sensing my opportunity, I jump to a standing position, driving my shoulder into her stomach on the way up. As she rocks backwards with a wheeze of air rushing out of her, I start to run, eventually settling into a dead sprint away from the center of town. I hear her curse as I break away from her.

“Stop! If you leave-” she starts to shout before cursing again. “Drek!” I look over my shoulder briefly and see her drawing a brace of five knives into her good hand and incanting another Imbuement into her knives. The essence expended is incredible to witness. It has to be coming from something apart from her, her body can’t contain that much. Momentarily distracted, I lose track of the threat in the situation as she looses her volley. Five knives arc into the air, sheathed in white-gold light, tumbling at far too high an arc to hope to catch me. The moment that thought crosses my mind, the knives stop moving in the air and all orient to point directly at me. Eyes widening with fear, I push myself, arms pumping into a faster sprint, building speed as I tear past the gate. As my strides grow in speed, eventually settling into an almost wolflike lope across the open terrain of the road, I catch a glimpse of my right hand. Hidden beneath the purple haze, I see a ring on my finger, gleaming golden, and I feel my steps fall more evenly, more surely. The feeling is sublime, and I embrace it greedily.

The woman's voice cracks in the air in an unfamiliar tongue, being heard clearly despite the distance.

“Xun,” The first knife launches with a burst of force blurring through the air at me. I follow my instincts, and try to keep my pace, dashing into a small copse of trees and hear the first knife penetrate an entire tree to clatter harmlessly to the ground. I glance back and see the hole it tore in the tree. And continue to run. I see her starting to chase me, actually managing to gain on me, her entire body being wrapped in golden essence so bright I can barely make out her silhouette. Her remaining 4 knives following along behind and above her like loyal hunting dogs, she shouts the next series of words aloud, each word punctuated by the sonic crack of the knives taking off. “Kra, Jin, Vax, Tor” Each syllable announces a new threat to my life, and with 4 of them spearing towards me, I realize there’s no way I can possibly dodge them all on open ground. Abruptly, I kick off a tree to redirect myself, carrying on off the road as I hear the whizzing of the knives taking a wider turn to chase me with the woman not far behind them.

The knives don’t seem to be trying to bury themselves in me anymore, instead doing near passes to slice my arms and legs, not allowing me to grab them. In no time at all, I feel my wounds should be lethal. But I keep regenerating just quickly enough to stay up as I run, while she repeatedly incants to return the knives to her side to redirect them.

For what feels like hours, we play a game of cat and mouse through the forest as it increases in density. I’ve long since lost track of where we are in relation to anything. But I see a tough cluster of bushes and undergrowth in my way, without enough time to veer, so I cover my face with one arm and hurl myself through it. Immediately on passing through, however, I realize my error. The forest does not continue. Instead I'm faced with a cliff face and chasm. I drop to the ground and dig my hands into the dirt to slow myself as I roll my way to the edge of a ravine. Stopping just in time, I stand up, turning to face my assailant as she bursts through the bush as well, but stops far more gracefully, her 5 attendant knives stock still in the air, arrayed above her in a semicircle like a halo of my imminent death. 

She pants, “How can you run this long? You should’ve been tapped out miles ago. But…that doesn’t matter. End of the road.” Her face hardens as she composes herself with a deep breath, steadying as she braces for a presumably final incantation. I see she has some rivulets of blood pouring from her mouth from overuse of her strange essence.

“Please, I’m begging you. I don’t know what’s going on. If I was whatever you think I am, would I be running from you? Would I be begging for my life? You treat me like a mindless monster, but I don’t even know who I am, let alone what I am. I ask you again, please reconsider. This doesn’t have to end this wa-” My voice catches as the first of the knives rockets forward, burying itself in the center left of my chest. The world around me darkens as my vision tunnels. All I can see is the golden eyes, so full of hate, and the stars of golden light escorting her.

Is it hate? Maybe. It might be fear or sadness. Staring at her eyes, they speak volumes that I don’t have context enough to read.

Her voice is distant as I feel the more of the poison take hold. “I’m sorry, but this is the way things have to be to save lives.” She says the four remaining syllables, counting, I recognize distantly. But in the moment of her apology, I decide to take a risk, and dive backwards off the cliffside and into the ravine. Impossibly far, but coming so fast. I hear her curse again as I look down and see a distant river at the bottom of the ravine.

As I fall, I flip over just in time to see the knives cresting the edge, speeding towards me, ready to join their fellow already lodged in my shoulder. Terror grips me as I think of death rushing to meet me from both sides, but mercifully, the water comes first.

I hit the river, angled, with my back taking the brunt of the impact, but I’m still moving far too fast, and the river isn’t that deep. The pain of striking the water is sharp, but it's nothing compared to the blinding pain that follows as my head slams into the stony riverbed. My consciousness begins to slip away just as I see the knives strike the water. They lose too much speed to threaten me and are swept away with me by the fast-moving current.

Limp and barely aware, I’m carried along by the river, the last thing I hear being a string of curses from above as my grip on the world fades entirely. Chapter 2(This time there's a spunky fairy involved, if that's the sort of thing that gets you interested. She might even fight something)!