:: Nolori’s Babble Drabbles ::
100 Words. No More. No Less.
:: News ::
+I can’t enter my own contest, so I figured I’d open a Babble Drabble thread for myself.
+Go ahead and post comments if you’d like.
30 August 2010
+Updated Prompts
+Finished Wooden
:: Critiques ::
I’m not looking for detailed critiques (due to the word-count limit and the fact these are mainly notes to myself), but if something is painful to look at or spelled wrong, don’t hesitate to tell me!
:: Limits ::
+Babble Drabbles: 100 Words. No more. No less.
Drabble:
Gods, it was beautiful.
His blood was red. His veins were blue. His skin was an old parchment yellow. And he was mine. He was my prey. My kill. My beautiful, primal sustenance.
So ends the nightly gauntlet of pain and hope, fear and anticipation. So ends the madness. So ends the hunger. So ends the blood. So ends death.
So ends the hunt.
Then the morn did come.
My blood was red. My veins were blue. My skin was an old parchment yellow.
His body still my horrible prize. Still my decaying prey. My kill.
My horrifying, primal sustenance.
Explanation:
Brief Character Study for my character Lazarius. Didn’t turn out quite right, but it was an interesting attempt.
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:11 AM..
Reason: Formatting
Oh! Well thank you very much! I actually wasn't expecting replies here!
I'll be adding drabbles slowly. I don't want to put up my drabble until the round has been completed. The next one should be up Monday or Tuesday.
Drabble:
This hat did not fit him. It was far too large for his head and would continue to slip down over his eyes. Only his beaked nose would stop it's decent towards the floor.
He didn't belong in this monkey-tailed coat. This frock and this pomp.
The hat slipped over his eyes.
With a loud string of curses fit for a sailor and a violent rush of anger, the hat was thrust through the air. He tore at his suit; at his frock and his pomp.
This ridiculous outfit was actually quite comfortable without its sleeves and meaningless aristocratic glamour.
Explanation:
Lil' Corone does not like the monkey suits and top hats his nurse-maid(s) and oldest brother tries to get him in. That boy needs a time-out. I need to work on Corone’s past more often. =\
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:12 AM..
Reason: Formatting
Drabble
The bulbous steel cities of atomic energy existed on the periphery of life. In these leper cities lived the slaves of radiation.
He was a gargoyle of a man. He'd never spoken. He'd never moved. The inoperable door he stood near was ringing with the vibrations of the nuclear plant around him. It never appeared to bother him. He never turned away. Never flinched. Never twitched a muscle.
This enslaved stone guardian watched the ever-locked door. An overseer still prisoner in his own prison. A guard without a key.
And when those irradiated, ringing walls fell, he fell with them.
Explanation:
Oh nameless guy who I cannot decide whether to make an important character or not, how you amuse me.
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:12 AM..
Reason: Formatting
Drabble
He couldn’t be sure where they had come from; these little red shoes which shined like bright blood in the snow. He had made no notice of women or children in this battle. Had they been shot down without a shrill cry? Did their bodies lay dead in the gored piles?
He raised the frozen leather from the snow. The small shoes sat in his gloved hands. They hardly extended past his palm. What child has passed through this violent frost?
There was no reason to keep these pieces of leather, but nothing so small belonged in such frozen wastes.
Explanation:
My history teacher was talking about mercenaries when I wrote this. That’s… that’s pretty much it.
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:12 AM..
Reason: Formatting
Villain.
It was a terrible word. A word of evil. A word of despair. It was a woefully misunderstood word. But that then meant there was a relation between himself and the title 'villain'. Was that a relationship he wanted to accept? Was that a relation he had the strength to deny?
He found he hoped so, but doubted anyone had such power.
So let them cry: "Villain! Villain!" He would be a villain. He would be a villain for them until they understood his purpose.
Then the villain would become the hero.
Explanation:
Not much to say. A character of mine coming to terms with his 'villainy'. Or maybe reasoning it away? Hard to say.
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:12 AM..
Reason: Formatting
Drabble:
Children born of gods other than the Great Creator were becoming almost common. Their creation still felt a bit like an affront to his existence. He was of the first creations of the other gods. He was the first creation of Lord Volovis.
Now this.
The child of Lord Volovis and his unpleasant bride was a strange creature. It was only essence - no form, no ability to alter itself; a completely boundless soul. But unlike the moldless energy that flowed endless through the Underlands, this essence was conscious: young, innocent, fragile.
He felt the sudden need to protect this... child.
Explanation:
Gods and their un-human creations. It's a polytheistic religion for a world I'm writing about. The inner-workings of the Underlands are pretty fun to write about.
Also: Yeah yeah, I know I posed this before the round was over. But I finish it early and I didn't want to lose it. Besides, entries are dwindling down anyway.
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:13 AM..
Reason: Formatting
Amar slowly rolled his shoulders, straining to hear the quiet turning of gear and interlocking cogs that formed his new joints. Supposedly, the tendons that connected his false muscles to his living bones were still his, but much had been said to him to ease his nerves after the operation.
Very little of it was true.
Despite what the surgeons had said, it was not a "minor change". It was not "just an enhancement". It was not "still mostly human".
It was 67% machine. It was 67% imitation of life. It was 67% lies.
"At least you're not dead." They had said with a pathetic smile and a mocking laugh.
Of course he wasn't dead. That would have made him a martyr for the cause. Public Relations couldn't let him be killed. The Cleansweep Company had no mercy with which to kill him. No, they had managed to do something far worse. They had very literally replaced his heart with their machines.
Amar watched the needles slip out of his mechanical fingers.
They had turned him into the enemy.
There had been a time when the kind of passionate fury this would have instilled in Amar would be monumental. But all he could muster now were calm thoughts of injustice. He hadn't asked for this. It had been done entirely against his will. That was why he had fought so long against the Cleansweep Company, wasn't it? Or had it been blind passion? It was hard to recall any exact details from his memory banks. He would need to ask someone nearby. Someone who knew him from before this operation.
Someone from the Company.
Logically, their information should be as good as anyone else's, shouldn't it? Something didn't quite... feel right about that. But feelings were wholly unreliable in the face of logic.
67% machine.
There was no more room for passion.
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:50 AM..
Reason: BB Code Error
Drabble:
By the time Bartholomew had stopped running, he had very literally come up to a crossroads. In the desert-like waste that was Black Valley there really wasn't anything separating the two roads save a few rocks, which could be climbed quite easily. Or, rather, they would have been had he not been breathing so hard. His gills stretched out as far as they could, making all his flexible skin rise and fall with them. The great leaf-life gills along his arms and legs pushed past the loose slits in his clothing. As ridiculous as his clothes had made him appear in human society, he was very quickly reminded why to be thankful for them. The tightly woven threads humans made their clothes with may have suffocated him long before now.
The Cleaners appeared to have lost his trial in the valley's thick Fog, but so long as they were in the same general area Bart would not feel safe. Granted, neither of the two roads led anywhere that could really be considered a 'safe-house' from hunters as dangerous as them. One led deeper into the valley, where it might be easier to make certain the Cleaners had lost him. But it would mean navigating the deepest Fog Black Valley had to offer - a difficult feat even for a shelly. The other road would lead to the current shelly encampment. There was safety in numbers, sometimes, but did he really want to risk leading the Cleaners right to them?
By the time he had caught his breath, and his gills had stopped flapping up and down in quite so humorous a manner, he'd made his choice.
He turned back to face the mechanical monsters - the third road. It was not really the intelligent thing to do. Neither was it the courageous thing. There was a fine line between courageous and stupid; Bart knew he was dancing along it. The deadly needles the Cleaners were so well known for had yet to pierce a shelly's skin, and he was almost as agile as them. That hardly evened the odds, but if he could get them to crash upon the rocks... Yes. Yes, that might work.
The rocks held great trapped bubbles of Fog inside them. The Cleaners were strong enough to break them in two without trying. If he could only trick them into breaking the rocks, getting a face full of that toxic smoke, overloading their intake valves...
Bart gave a short prayer to a God he wasn't even certain was there to hear. The Cleaners came running through the Fog - their white chases glistening with condensation.
Last edited by Nolori; 12-09-2009 at 03:51 AM..
Reason: Formatting
Drabble:
Darius pulled his thick woolen coat around him tighter as he walked into the drafty temple. Somehow the inside of the building had managed to be colder than the outside. This was not uncommon, nor entirely unexpected in a temple of Cleatha, but how the architects had managed such a building was something he had never understood. Usually, this instilled a need to learn in him, but today he was far too cold to care. And today there were more important things to worry about than architecture.
Darius was used to people starring as he passed by them in the streets, but bowing to anyone who was not a god within temple walls was strictly prohibited. Usually this bothered Darius; royalty was royalty both inside and outside the holy walls. Today, however, Darius was relieved to have the rule in place. It was far easier to pretend he didn’t notice all the watchful eyes of the wealthy merchants and their heavy set wives than to acknowledge their bows. For the time being, Darius simply wanted to be left in peace. He knelt before the slender statue of Cleatha.
Elijah was sick. Elijah was very sick. And every man, woman and child in court would blame Darius. He had spent a long time walking a fine line between legal and illegal, honor and shame, loyalty and betrayal. He had yet to be caught or tried for anything, which had only encouraged him further. It hadn’t been something he was particularly proud of, but in order to set things right on the throne it had all seemed necessary. If Elijah died from this illness - it was really a matter of ‘when’ now - it would probably put Darius on the throne, although immediate line of succession hadn’t quite been worked out in recent years. Darius was the obvious choice, but he was no longer in Nolan’s favor and Nolan had his power-hungry fingers in everything.
But if Elijah died, when he died, Darius would have the best chance at the throne since before Elijah was born. When Elijah died, Darius would finally win.
That hurt the most.
Partially, and not unselfishly, because it very simply meant that everything Darius had done and risked both life and honor for meant absolutely nothing. No amount of scheming and plotting and planning would result in the throne without death. Even death would have been acceptable – at this point Darius wondered what happened to the boy at the lake who had wanted everyone to stop killing each other – had it not been Elijah.
It also hurt that he had been so thrust out of court life, all but nominally, that he wouldn’t have known about Elijah’s sickness had it not been for Elijah himself. And the dying Elijah would be the only one who did not blame Darius for his coming end.
But as Darius knelt before Cleatha, well aware of the many judgmental eyes following his every slight movement, he decided that the worst of all of this was that he could not decide whether to pray for his throne or his half-brother’s life.
Drabble:
Uldo had been sitting in the browning tent with the shackles chaffing his large wrists for what must have been ages. But Time seemed to have very little meaning since he'd gotten into the Great Divide and even after he'd been taken out, the normal concept of Time still hadn't regained its meaning. The sun rose. The sun set. If he was still alive, then it was fair enough to assume Time had passed. There wasn't much more to it than that.
It was much the same in the prison tent as it had been in the ravine.
At some point, the canvas door was opened with a rustle of cloth and rope. Uldo didn’t bother to look up. If it was able to open the door with a flourish like that, then it wasn’t an animal. If it wasn’t an animal then he didn’t need to bother defending himself. The other men would kill him whenever they thought the Time was right for it and it was no use defending himself against them. When an animal realizes it is going to die, it finds a place hidden from the world and lays down to let Time take it. This place wasn’t as hidden as Uldo would have liked, but it didn’t change the fact that he was laying down.
The men who entered the room made no hostile movement. The thinnest of them, with black whiskers that were graying rapidly in streaks, examined Uldo critically. The thin man made a sound with his throat to signify his presence. Uldo ignored it. If this man was some new commander or captain to his regiment –was it a regiment? Uldo could hardly recall such meaningless terms – Uldo found he didn’t much care. He was going to die either way. With honor or without made little difference to the final outcome.
“Uldo of Turice?” The man with the black and gray beard, “I am told you are sentenced to die at dawn.”
Uldo remained quiet.
“Do you have any idea who you’re ignoring?”
Uldo’s eyes rose up slowly to see the man fully. His face was… familiar, but beyond naming. Uldo wondered if the ravine had taken that too.
“I am Nolan of Vici.”
That name did strike up the flame of memory in his mind and, very suddenly, life as Uldo had known it before the Great Divide came flooding back.
“Head Advisor to King Manlio.” Nolan continued, “I have a proposition for you.”
Drabble:
Glyndhall stayed by the water whenever possible. The sound of running water comforted him. As a child, he had fallen asleep to the sound of lapping waves on the incoming tide and the smell of salt coming through the shuttered windows. It was something he had never paid much attention to. It was not until his first night in the guild that he realized how important it had been to him. He hadn't been able to sleep for the first few days without it. Only complete exhaustion had given him any rest at all. The shadow of the mountains had provided no comfort. The rain didn't make it to the guild often. There were no waves to lull him to sleep. No smell of salt to make him think of home.
He had gotten used to it eventually, but in that time he had come to cherish the sound of running water.
Since becoming a high apprentice he spent a lot of time outside the guild walls. Along the mountainside there was the river and in the forest there were numerous small streams. Glyndhall followed them for as long as he could whenever he traveled. The sounds of the water and the life around it comforted him in the darkness of the deep mountain shadows and the tall trees.
It was in the deep shadows of the mountain side, along the shore of the great river, that Glyndhall laid down his bedroll. He had never much cared for sleeping out in the wilds, but there was really nothing to be done about. The sounds of the water and life would lull him to sleep, as dangerous as that was likely to be by himself, and for a day at least he could pretend he was home.
Drabble:
There was little Boudewijn loved more than his morning constitutional. Everything seemed to glow in the morning light as the sun pushed away the night's shadows. These morning walks were ideal in their utter solitude. When he had been a scholar, in the years before the drink, his constitutionals had been in the early evenings - when the Ancients’ tendrils crept up from the cracks in the earth. Their tendrils had cradled him in those years and brought his mind close to theirs.
Those had been dark days.
Those had been euphoric days.
Boudewijn was glad they were gone. He no longer cared for shadows or mysteries. All he wanted now was solitude and the light of the coming day.
"Doctor Agthoven?"
If Boudewijn's knees had worked any better he would have jumped clear into the air. His nerves were disappointingly frayed, even now. Was it too early to begin drinking? He was in company, after all. But...
"May I join you?" Miss Wicks asked quietly. It seemed that she did not want to disturb the morning either.
"Of course." Boudewijn replied before he thought about his answer. No, you may not. This is my solitude. Please. "The path is wide enough for two."
Wicks turned out to be a near silent companion. Every now and again one of the two would make a casual remark on something they passed and after a short affirmation of understanding from the other, they would continue their walk with only the breath of wind to listen to. Boudewijn was not content with that either. Not now that Wick was beside him. Humanity was a loud, social creature. The demons were the quiet ones - their voices gave them away.
But the Wicks girl was one of the paranaturals, wasn't she? Thrust into the world of the Ancients by an accident of birth. Or was it the purpose of her birth? Had she been selected by some dead or dying Ancient as revenge upon another? Despite her stern face, she was just a child. A child whose Ancient abilities had found her in the maw of death. Perhaps these abilities gave her the demonic tendency towards silence as well.
Ach. He was forming theories again. It was too early for theory. There was not enough alcohol for it.
"Why do you keep stopping?" Wicks asked, breaking Boudewijn's train of thought.
He looked over to her questioningly, making sure to turn his gaze on her golden hair rather than her eyes.
"Do I? My apologies. I'm not used to sharing my walks."
"It's no issue. I'm only curious."
Boudewijn felt sympathy for her. Curiosity was a terrible, wonderful feeling. It was a joy to release, to find answers. It was a dear shame that releasing curiosity was such a dangerous thing.
"I have a fondness for the changing leaves." Boudewijn answered, "Red is, as silly as the notion is, my favourite colour."
Wicks didn't press it further than that, which Boudewijn was grateful for. Whatever thoughts she had on the exchange were her own, and he was more than willing to let them stay that way. Perhaps she thought that this was nothing more than innocent enjoyment in the reflection of light.
Innocent. Him. What a novel concept. He had been innocent as a child, as all children were, but his studies had killed that innocence. The Ancients had killed that innocence. He gave Wicks a sidelong glance, wondering if her paranatural abilities had killed her innocence as well. That theory quickly dissolved. She was still curious. She was still innocent.
There was suddenly far more at stake on this trip to Afrika than the impossible mission they had been sent on.
Innocence was at stake.
Drabble:
Ah Kin spent much of his time staring out over the water. When the sky was clear and the fog and mist and burned away on the horizon, he could see the faint outline of one of his Father's islands. Ever since he had come to this place, he had wanted nothing more than to go back into his Father's house. To sleep in the mat bed his Father provided. To eat the food his Father had brought to them.
More than anything, he wanted to know, as he had when he was young, that his Father was truly his Father.
Ah Kin wasn't so sure anymore. If Chiotl had considered Ah Kin a faithful son, would He have thrust Ah Kin out of Sommorson? If Chiotl was a Father to Ah Kin as He was to the other scalebacks, would Ah Kin be sitting atop this foothill of this Greatland country, pinning for home? It was hard to know. Father Chiotl showed his love in strange ways sometimes. No matter how long Ah Kin spent staring out to his old home and praying to his Father, he could make no sense of it.
Maybe Father Chiotl couldn't hear him from here. Maybe once he crossed the ocean, past the swamps of his Father and the deserts of the Scorpion, the gods of the land and sea could no longer hear his mournful songs.
The Greatlanders subscribed to a theory of the afterlife that included a place where the souls of people that the gods disliked were banished for eternity. Ah Kin did not believe in this and when he had first heard it from the Greatland traders. Now, he wondered if he would be sent there when he died. If his Father had forgotten him, or abandoned him, the Greatland gods would certainly hold no love for him. It would be better by far for his soul to vanish into the darkness of the empty sky than to be shunned forever by the gods, whichever gods they may be.
Ah Kin had spent most of his time like this, thinking on the Greatland heavens and hells and whether he would be apart of them or not. These gods were not his gods. But perhaps that did not matter. After all, his god would not longer have him as a son.
Drabble:
Seti spent most of his time worrying. What he was worrying about varied depending on what was around, but one anxiety always hung around in his mind, beating against his skull as though fitting to explode from his mind. You need to keep calm.
It took more effort to keep his abilities in check than it did to use them. Using them accurately took even more effort, but allowing them to work in any fashion was as simple as taking his hand away from the lid of a steam filled pot. The energy would burst out, without any concern for friend or foe. The effort he spent just forcing himself to appear normal did quite the opposite of its intended purpose. Seti often had dark circles under his eyes, a sickly color, and slow movements, while the people around him were quick in step and in word. He couldn't remember all the questions he'd been asked about his health, but they had eventually all stopped coming.
Seti wasn't sick after all. At least not with anything that could be cured.
But tonight he was in one those rare, and blissful, situations where this lifetime of worry eased. The summer solstice festival was being celebrated in the village. It had begun in its center, with every intention of staying there, but, as per every year, had expanded into the alleyways and surrounding sands. Seti was never part of these celebrations, in any social meaning of the term. He had taken a seat atop one of the rolling dunes sometime in the morning and, apart from his various wanderings in the day, had stayed there. The sun had finally set on the lengthening days and Seti had wrapped his shawl around his shoulders.
The music grew louder in the growing darkness, as though the light of hundred wavering candles encouraged it to go on. Seti had a great love for music. It felt as though that invisible force could carry his heavily dampened soul into the beautiful unknown.
Tonight, it would.
Seti was far enough away from the village and so engrossed in those melodic sounds that he let the lid of that steaming pot go. Energy exploded around him. The sands soared into the air in a haphazard pattern. Seti put the shawl over his eyes to keep the sand from it. He did not need his sight to hear the song.
The sand began to move in a rhythmic motion, swaying from left to right with the beat of the deep drums. As the music progressed and all the voices of the village grew into one great song, the dune grew up around Seti. Larger and larger as though trying to make a physical testament to all those voices. It twisted and twirled in the air with the beat of the many drums.
Seti didn't care. It was such a wonderful, free feeling not to be holding so tightly onto that power. He didn't care if the village saw - he would have been surprised if they had not noticed it in the festivals previous. There were powerful spirits in the sand and they could attribute this feat to them.
Seti would. Seti did.
When the song ended and Seti took the shawl away from his eyes, he could see the dune had been sorely malformed. There was still a layer cackling and swirling around him, but the great sand storm that the music had created was dead. It laid in odd patches and small hills all about him. He gave a short prayer in hopes the spirits would not be too upset with this.
It was only twice a year, after all.
Drabble:
Danteal tried not to let his mind wander at any time. Whenever it was left to its own devices it would rush back to the mountainside caverns that held this home. He had plenty of happy memories of the place, but he did not think of any of them on instinct. Instead, he would linger on the silent exile he had been forced into by the beast hidden in the deep underground roads. He had never gotten a good look at the creature and, as such, had been unable to describe the face and reason of his failure. All there had been was a flickering form of some unnamable abomination, glowing, pupil-less eyes and that voice. The voice that had bored its way into his mind, spoken beautiful words among the sounds of writhing maggots. The voice that had lulled him into sleep among gnawed corpses.
The voice that had destroyed his life, honor and very soul.
Danteal had thought he would find a new clan among the fortress of Girdiya Bratstvole. He had thought that it would be far enough away that his old soul, the one lost to the voice, would vanish into oblivion and he would be capable of creating a new one. Thus far, it had not proved to be the case. The base of the mountain was not far enough from its peak. On a clear day, he could still see the sloped mountain side where his home resided.
His old home. It was just another village now. It did not hold any home for him. It did not hold any soul. He had lost any piece of that land he had held within him.
He had never even had it to begin with.
This was why he couldn't let his mind wander as Runan's seemed to constantly be. This was why he could not head up into the mountains despite it being the place of his birth. He would need to find his soul here, at this fortress. If it were denied to him twice, he was not sure his body would be capable of housing a soul. It could not be denied to him. He would not allow it to be.
He would find his soul here. He would shape it here. He would become a warrior here.
Looking back to the mountains, to a past molded by failure, would do him no good. And when he became a warrior he would be able to carry his strength back up that great mountain and face the voice again. Then the voice's face would be revealed and its body killed. Danteal would never have a soul from those mountains, but perhaps he could still have honor.
His mind had been allowed to wander enough. Danteal put an end to it quickly after that.
Runan rarely exhibited his keen sense of timing, but when he did Danteal was forced to admit it was well-placed indeed.
"You haven't berated me all afternoon." Runan said as he entered the armory. "I really ought not to be complaining, but I thought maybe I'd been unfair in neglecting to give you the opportunity."
"Is that why you're here?" Danteal asked.
"Probably not." Runan admitted, "But if I told you the real reason I wouldn't have as many chances to engage you in the duel of insults."
Danteal snorted. "Are you as insufferable to everyone?"
"You're the only one to ever tell me so. What are you up to, then?"
Danteal was glad to put his mind back to the task at hand.
Drabble:
Gaius hadn't honestly expected his plan to follow through quite so seamlessly. With only the odd stitch of his siblings actually caring for the girl, Gaius could already consider the execution of his machination a success. The rabble of creatures he was forced to call a family was dead. The bleeding girl was in a half-conscious world somewhere between here and his study. He'd left her in his room when he left, but she had no doubt tried to escape. She had certainly been getting more foolish as she spent more time here.
But Danae was of no concern.
Gaius opened the large door to the outside of the mansion. He wondered briefly what the sun and breeze would feel like after so long among the walls of the house. For the first time in many years, he almost regretted his inability to feel such things. The rusty squeaking of the door had attracted the last of Isolde's remaining beastly pets. Gaius was about to wave his hand at them, to dismiss them violently from his presence, when they suddenly did so on their own.
The creatures were hurled into the air without Gaius' needing to do anything at all. The simple intention was quite enough to do what he needed. Was the sudden influx of Danae's power seeping into him? Had his own power been so increased?
Not only was this going seamlessly, it was going far better than he could have hoped for.
The gardens were in their typical state of disarray. Gaius could imagine that, after the grandiose show of force his siblings had tried to put on, the gardens were in an even worse state than usual. He had no frame of reference beyond memories so old that his blood still flowed in them. This was absolutely no state for the gardens of his estate. It had certainly been a great many years since he had cared what impression it gave to potential visitors and any other people who might venture onto the property. But for as long as Gaius could remember, this was never really his estate. It had been his mother's father's. Then Cato’s. Then it had been the property of The Sentinel.
Today it became his. As it was always meant to be.
In honor of that, Gaius thought it only fitting that the estate be restored to its former glory. It only took a thought.
Hedges, long since emptied into thorny brambles, were cut down to size. The dirt paths that had formed into mounds were flattened. Scores and marks in the earth were filled. The excess was thrust into the sea.
What Gaius could not do was bring any of it back to life. All the death and decay of the mansion and its grounds remained intact. It seemed he did not yet have all the power promised to him, but that would come in time.
It was only a short time now.
It was rather a pity that he could not bring the brush back to life, the malleability of the living green would be much easier to trudge through than the stiff carcasses of twigs. Out of instinct, he made to move his wrist in the direction in which he meant to bend them away. Instead, with his rather unpleasant thoughts, the brush flew away in grand explosions of power. They came out of the ground, completely uprooted, and sang through the air like a thousand needles. He walked through the masses of brush unharmed. If even the absent sentience of the land knew to avoid him, perhaps The Sentinel would be as good.
Gaius doubted He would be.
"Are you done sleeping, Father?" Gaius asked the still air, "I have come to claim my house, you understand. I have claimed it from Cato. I have claimed it from my brothers and sister. I will claim it from my dear niece very soon. All I have left to do is to claim it from you.
"Will you come to give me that opportunity, Father? Or must I bring you out?"
It remained quiet for some minutes. The Sentinel had been silent since Aed died. Gaius had given only a moment's thought to the theory that perhaps his siblings had somehow, collectively, been The Sentinel. There was the slightest bit of hope in that idea, if only because it meant that he had gotten through the worst of it.
That this would mean his entire childhood was a collection well knitted together lies did not matter.
His childhood would be a collection of lies either way.
The trees began to bend and moan in their places, as though a great wind blew through them. It seemed his hopeful theory had been wrong.
It didn't rightly surprise him.
The trees began to come up at the roots, much like the brush had been doing previously. But rather than bend away from him, they came at him with terrific speed. It required the use of his magikal motions, but deflecting the trees away from him was no great task. Was The Sentinel so weakened now that this was all He was capable of doing?
Gaius' thoughts on the matter were cut short by the rising of The Sentinel. At first, Gaius was hardly certain anything was there at all. All he could focus on was the semi-solid core of the creature. Its torso was like that of a gray, curled man. Its two Gargaylian legs were attached seamlessly to it. From its core, Gaius could follow its vanishing shape outward to its six wings. All but two were tattered to ribbons. The two that were still strong and whole looked powerful enough to knock the house clear off of its foundation.
It would have had little need for magik if its wings had been full.
Gaius
The Sentinel reached out its decaying wings to him. At the end of each was a vaguely hand shaped appendage, which had small hooks on the palm as though to attach to whatever it held onto. You betray me, Gaius?
Its head came closer to Gaius. Its face was shaped like that of a wolf, though its nose turned up as though it were a bat. Insectoid armor ran along its face and down its back. It had whip like appendages coming out of its head like that of a lion. They twitched and snapped like animals all their own. Though they, too, seemed to vanish and reappear as they twitched further and closer to the creature's core. You betray me?
"You are no longer my Father."
The Sentinel made a laughing sound, though Gaius could find no answer as to how it made the noise. You killed him many years ago. You shall not be so fortunate with me.
Aed opened his heavy eyelids. His first impression was that he was very cold. His second was the great light coming from the fire in the kiln.
The third was the gash in his stomach that reached well into his ribcage. It ought not to be there. He knew that having a gash that size, of any size really, was not… right. It seemed normal that it was there, though the fog in his mind would not reveal why.
What was not normal was the fact that he was in his studio. The last thing he remembered was being in the Great Hall. His siblings were there. They were worried. He was worried. They were scared. He was scared.
But they were scared of him.
But why? Why would they be scared of him? Besides Peredur, he’d been the quietest of the bunch. He’d been the one tucked away in his studio working on his art. But amidst the fog in his mind that much was clear – he was the one they were scared of.
It should have been Gaius, really. Gaius hadn’t been right in the head as far back as Aed could remember. But, then, Gaius had been in the hall too. He had been talking to Corone. Corone had been talking to Aed. Corone had… had…
Aed looked down at the gash in his stomach.
Corone had pulled out his sword.
"It'll save you."
The heat of his blood spilling out over his stomach had faded. All the heat from... anything resembling life had faded. But that didn't end the phantom pain. Even without the ability to feel as he had known it in life, he could not help himself but to continually imagine the steel sliding into his abdomen. Aed tentatively put his fingers into the wound. He was still surprised it didn't hurt.
All that was there was dried blood, which had caked onto the skin. It was almost as though his body had tried to scab over the wound with its last vestiges of life. He found the idea morbidly amusing and let the dried blood stain his abdomen.
Drabble:
Boudewijn's hands were shaking violently as he gripped the neck of the brown bottle. They were chittering again. The insects, the demons, were behind his eyes. They were crying blood, metallic and salted and red. And oh how they lamented their beautiful blood, spilling out into the space between his memory and his thoughts. Their sadness was in song - a lovely song that swelled and died through his ears.
Whenever Boudewijn opened his mouth, that mournful lamentation escaped his lips. There were no words to the cry, only a pitiful howl that echoed through the mansion. Boudewijn's voice could not evoke the deep levels of sorrow those daemonic creatures inside his mind held. But what did they have to cry about? Surely there was nothing for the Ancients to lament. They had won. Oh, they had always won. They had won long ago, before humanity realized there was a war to fight.
So what was the purpose of the howling tears? Could they be his? No! No, those bleeding insects behind his eyes were not creations of his imagination! He had not been so tainted and destroyed by the Ancients! They had not broken his mind so severely that he had created his own daemonic creatures!
Drabble:
Apello hadn't come here to pray, but it seemed that he had resorted to it anyway. The priests had each handed him off to someone closer to Arkans, until the Father Hunter had to be found. Apello had been stuck in the prayer room for some time now. The room still smelled heavily of ashes and sacrificial creatures. Furs hung on the walls, draped over the ancient weapons mounted there. It was as though the creatures, though they had been killed by those blades and bows, still held power over both them and their owners. It was a humbling thought.
Perhaps that was why he had turned to prayer. Apello had not prayed often in his life. His mother had been quite staunch against asking the gods for anything, and she had instilled that belief into her sons' minds. But there had been nowhere else to turn. Apello was either being talked to by Arkans or going mad. Maybe both. Apello had to ask himself what Orion would do. Try and solve the problem or hide from it? Orion had never been one to hide from anything. He was pratical before anything else.
Apello hoped that was the right answer. He prayed it was. He certainly couldn't have asked Orion, after all. That would mean admitting to his brother that he was probably going mad. Orion was practical before anything else. What would a practical man do with a mad man? Throw him out to the wilds. Toss him away for the city to have.
Apello would have rather died.
Which was probably going to be a likely solution to all of this if the night-spasms kept up. They were getting steadily worse until even the alcohol-induced emptiness was beginning to wane in effect. His mind felt fit to burst. The painful contortions in his body were beginning to carry over into the waking world. His eyes felt as though they were being forced into sockets that were far too small. Apello had originally attributed it to some sickness, perhaps an allergic reaction to something, but it had lasted far too long and only came after the dreams of unexplainable light and sound.
The Father Hunter came into the room and drew Apello's attention away from his half-prayer contemplation. The large man was old, though he showed no signs of withering in his age besides graying hair. His body was still strong and robust. He still walked with an air of power and pride that silently demanded admiration. He had a great cloak of bear-fur that draped down his back and ended just before the floor. The man's eyes were yellow like that of a beast, though they showed every bit of intelligence man was capable of.
"You dream of gods." The Father Hunter said. It was not a question. It was not an invitation to speculation on the nature of man or the gods. It was a fact.
"Few do." He continued, "Those that do are often aided by maddening scents or drinks. In that madness, they are sometimes capable of interpreting the gods' meanings. But to dream of gods with no aid or want is a rare curse."
Curse. It was not a word Apello had been expecting, but he couldn't deny its truth. There was too much pain involved for it to be a blessing.
"The gods do not use words. They do not communicate in any mortal conception of the word. Even the Fae and Daemons, brought to the world almost as immortal and unearthly as the gods themselves, can very rarely understand them unimpeded. Those that do are cursed as you are. To have a human, so far from the old immortal lands, hear their words... It is nearly unheard of."
"Nearly." Apello repeated, "There's someone else? Are they here? Can I meet them?"
"She has been here, yes. No longer. She comes and goes, preferring to spend her time at sea rather than on land. If you stay, I can see to it you are informed of her arrival when she next-"
Apello cut the Father off, "No. No, I can't stay. Orion will... No. No, I have to go."
The Father Hunter did not look at all surprised about this.
"As you wish. I do have some advice for you, if you will take it."
Apello nodded.
"I do not know if you consider yourself an artist or a poet or anything of the sort, but whatever you are capable of doing, translate your dream after you've woken. Soon enough you will have created something of a... reference guide for yourself. There is an old art of it among the Holy races, though I am unable to impart any of that knowledge to you."
"I hunt." Apello replied indignantly.
"As Arkans knows, I am sure." The Father replied, "You will have to find a way to relate his meanings to the waking world, then."
"It's all light and sound." Apello said, putting a hand to his head, "I don't know how to..."
"Put your pen to paper or your knife to wood and let your hands do what they will. Your mind knows a great many things you do not realize. Trust it."
Apello's eyes drifted back to the furs that lined the walls. The Father Hunter said something else, probably a farewell or blessing or something similarly traditional that Apello did not fully hear. The empty holes that had once held the eyes of the creature seemed to stare back at him through their nothingness. But, like the Father, it held intelligence. Unlike the Father, its intelligence was above and beyond man's, as though Arkans himself was watching.
The eyes made Apello nervous, but he could not bring himself to look away. Much like the light from his dreams, he had no control over what his mind took in. He whished that he could understand what those empty eyes were saying.
Perhaps the Father was right. Perhaps, deep down in some forgotten part of his mind, Arkans had given him the answer.
Drabble:
The inn held a warm glow as its fire lifted into the sky. The reds and oranges overwhelmed the blues of the sky above it. It expanded up like a great bird stretching its wings. The wings embraced the inn; far more comforting than any open sky. Aeron wondered if Meredith was still inside. Maybe the flames would warm her heart as it had warmed his. Maybe the red and orange would finally be in her voice and in her heart as it had been in his. Then the flames would be one with everything. Nothing more beautiful could exist.
Drabble:
“Breast and wings! Breast and wings!”
The words echoed above the roar of the grinding metal rail line. The steel girders that supported the decaying city rattled under the pressure of the sound. The residents hardly noticed. The incessant noise, the swirl of blood and feathers, the smell of the dead birds hanging from the butcher’s window – none mattered. Anything that resembled what was once known as beauty – the serene silence or the arch of a swan’s body floating on the lake – was dead. The city was beyond saving. Its people were simply parasites, living greedily off of its remains.
