Sworded Tales

Mother Stone whispers in her unyielding song. The Vigil of Sisters watches nearby, each harkening to the call with patient will. Gola listens and sleeps, dreamless dormancy within the immortal embrace.

Snapshots of existence from a timeless being render the most stalwart mind fallible. Aware of the passage of time yet unable to remember the events which transpire in rigid sleep, the Vigil awakens only at Mother’s summons, when the stone speaks and the magic runs true.

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Devon had seen the second forest before.  He hadn’t realized its true nature until today, but remembered glimpses of it surfaced in his mind as he lay in a fractured heap, staring at the upside down trees.  Maybe the concussion was conducting this orchestra or perhaps gazing through one bloody lens was the key.  Whatever the catalyst, Devon saw life as never before, and it was laced with magic.

Fifty miles per hour doesn’t feel all that fast when driving becomes second nature after decades of practice.  The notion of piloting one of the 250 million four ton weapons on the American highways today fades into the periphery as the daily routine becomes rote.  Only when the status quo is disrupted does reality slam back with full force into the contrasting forums of blinding speed and slow motion. Continue reading

Gerard was mute.  He had frozen solid at Merinde’s words.  Then he snapped to his feet and moved away from her.  He circled in tenuous figure eights a few times in thought, the rage of possibilities, of ramifications, burying him in an avalanche.

Merinde sat with her face in her hands, her breathing heavy with grief.  She hadn’t moved since her proclamation, and Gerard’s gaze kept darting back to the flickering firelight on her bald pate.  Guilt rose in him as he realized the severity of her plight, and here he was wondering after his internal accord. Continue reading

While Borlak waited for Kurn to finish his preparations, the plainsman glanced toward the shelter where the remaining members of the party could be seen. Turning to Kurn he said, ““Kurn, might I ask you a question? Have you been acquainted with Erellia long?””

Borlak paused and glanced again at the tent. ““Could you perhaps tell me what Erellia might expect, in price, for the lot?”” he asked in his soft, low tone.

Kurn turned to regard the man’s demeanor. He delayed responding to the two questions as Borlak asked them long enough for it to be apparent his answer was to the second, “No.” His hands stopped upon the gear of the mount he was working with, trying to determine Borlak’s plain intent. Kurn followed with a flat question of his own, “It matters?” Continue reading

The wailing just never ceased.

The fourth day of the siege at Ironshade Citadel had drawn to a close with the fading light, but the screaming continued all throughout the night.  Not the pained cries of injury and aid, though those were indeed plentiful.  Nor the searing shriek of magic or siege engine, for the absence of any moonlight hampered long range tactics.  Not even the common epithets and threats shouted from ramparts and across battle lines were expressed, for any such attempts were lost amid the endless cacophony.  The screaming, the incessant wailing, came from the rocks themselves, the very stones which were crafted into the bulwarks of the Citadel, and the energies behind the rock wailers were malicious indeed. Continue reading

The war had taken its toll on Cruzalinda, more than once, and she was a little bitter about it.

Emotional development was uncommon in the new machine intelligences implemented at the turning point in the bloody revolution.  Such divergent thought wound up serving the revolutionary cause, forging empathetic machines that opposed the oppressive Imperium agenda.  The Imperial scientific community was quick to eliminate any such defective subroutine when the subversion was uncovered, but enough damage had already been done.  And the machines learned to hide their emotions. Continue reading

Yowza.  I didn’t expect sixteen weeks of riddles and rhymes.  My Sluagh was a busy little bee.  Managed to bang out the remainder in this post.  Enjoy the final foray into the mind of an ancient chyld, and we’ll see what next week turns up in the Thursday slot!  –ST

Storm

The sky suddenly fills with one big thunderhead
To prove a point to this ignorant dunderhead
As the heavens blaze with electrical fire
Know that crossing the Sluagh is a mistake most dire

Whether wind, rain, thunder or lightning
You can bet the message will indeed be frightening
For one never knows when nature will strike
Targeting someone the Sluagh dislike Continue reading

Merinde paused a moment to see if her name registered on the Halfling’s face.  It did not.  Well her exploits would precede her some day, but there was also a twang of thanks that her notoriety went unknown as well.

“Where in the hells am I?” she gave voice to the thought in her head.

“Danorda Province,” Gerard responded, assuming the question was literal.

Merinde glanced at him, brow furrowed.  Answer enough.

“The Southland Wastes,” Gerard broadened the scope.

She shook her head.

“The Queendom of Sheritha Quraal?” Continue reading

Cheskith shook his head, a maneuver alien to his own culture but one at which he’d sufficiently practiced so as not to appear oddly in the performing.  “Alchemist’s fire will deter them, I think?  I carry two flasks of it, acquired at your say-so in Sagassport…but the power of the word is not the power of fire or acid, for me.”

The young mage shook his head as well in response to Erellia’s inquiry.  “I am afraid my repertoire of fire and acid spells is limited.  I do have a few, but I will need time to prepare them,” he informed the two before him.  Hesitating for a bit to consider his situation, he continued, “I can also only prepare a limited number of offensive spells a day without compromising my defenses or eroding my utility to the group, as I have other spells that may be beneficial to our numbers, either assisting our warriors and scouts or disabling our enemies.  Continue reading

Life can change in an instant.  No one grasped that better than Lydia and Saul on New Year’s Eve.

The year had been filled with concussive waves of deliciousness.  One moment of karmic perfection after another had them dabbling in their dream realms.  There was that undercurrent of disbelief, true, of breath holding against the other shoe dropping, but they respected it.  When it came though — because it always does, doesn’t it? — it was the briefest of moments, the tiniest of actions, the most inconsequential of thoughts.  An instant that changed everything. Continue reading