|
|
Post by Kaez on Sept 9, 2016 3:14:30 GMT -5
|
|
|
|
Post by Injin on Sept 15, 2016 1:39:37 GMT -5
Duty, Tradition, and Loss
The air was thin.
Thick enough, however, for flight to be still possible. As the winged steed pushed itself along the sky and feathers spread to catch the most of the wind that was above even the tallest tree, a single set of eyes looked down. The avian mount scans the horizon before it, set upon a goal in the distance, all the while the rider views the tremendous distance from them and the ground.
A short shudder.
There was still much distance to cover. The first stop had been brief for the messenger. There was but one Kami that their lord needed to get a message to and but one item that was to be payment for the rider. A lantern. A gift from the Kami who would not explain what it would be used for. The jade receptacle fluttered back and forth on the harness of the bird, pushed not by wind, but the speed of movement itself. Yet still it remained secure.
The light inside flickered curiously at the height it stood upon. Lay upon. No eyes to scan and determine distance, it buzzed contentedly before flitting to and fro, a dance reminiscent of water, not fire. Confidently, the flame climbed the inside of the metal and glass enclosure and stretches up at its carriers, taking in the feeling and form that it could sense. Satisfied, it slowly slunk back down to its wick, burning again a safe distance from view. In that frame, it became a bit warmer.
It was cold so far up. A danger, to be sure, for any other fliers, yet despite this potential for tragedy the travelers flew away from the slowly setting sun.
And so they set on.
-------------------------------------
Awakening.
Land again appeared as a gift before the pair as the steed began to tire. It had been a long journey, far longer than any they had taken before. No stops could be made, no hopping between tropical isles. The next message, arriving just as they left the land whereupon the sun was just emerging from the sea, was urgent. One day was all that could be spared to reach these lands.
And so one day was nearly coming to its end. Once known as the Island of Flowers, this land, not an island at all, stretched far, far further than even the land on the other side of the sea. The eternity of the horizon beckoned, but the rider knew that there was one place that it must arrive at. No time for exploration today. No time for folly.
The landing was anything but gentle. A flush of leaves, the scattering of feathers, and a clangor of metal hitting the ground told the story well enough. The lantern, hung from the harness, clanged but once before rider and steed turned their bodies as one away, worry and anxiety escaping from their eyes as they finally stopped. No soft landing was possible for the one-footed bird.
Arrival.
The Palace of the Sunlit King. The grounds here were formerly dry, parched lands. When the Sunlit King had arrived, it was so. He blessed the ground where mortals walked and the land became less dry, more temperate. So the legends went.
Well-kept, the grounds were thick with leaves and foliage, yet in the distance dilapidated buildings lay scattered among what should otherwise be a cared for park. Beyond the bounds of the Palace, normalcy reigned, but within these grounds a certain uneasy truce between modernity and decaying opulence lay clear before the pair. As did the glowing visage of the Sunlit King.
An outreached hand, clenched with paper.
Contact.
Message received.
-----------------------------
Fresh air, again.
Despite the beauty and wonder surrounding the Palace of the Sunlit King, the area around it had a reputation for toxicity. Heat. Death. Yet they had arrived from a safe passage birthed by the sea itself to get there.
In ages long past, the journey to the Palace was one taken in reverence, not necessity. Words needed to be brought to the Sunlit King, the father of all steeds like rider’s own, but now there was an added burden. He was unnecessary for the function of her people in this ear, but he still deserved, craved the same respect. If not from them, from the East where he had once called home.
The air while lessening in difficulty to breathe it in, gave way to an unfathomable warmth. Behind them soon loomed the specter of the afterlife, burning a hole in their shadows to leave a scorched reckoning behind them. Her companion, still not quite rested from the sojourn across the sea, began to falter.
The movements of the rider were soft and small. Her arm was not quite long enough to undo the bandage from the bird’s beak, but it was of length to stroke the coloration just before the flier’s eyes. They were almost there. Safety for the night, some cavern or ledge where they could make camp. A little farther, brave one, she said with her hands.
Her steed understood.
She always did.
Night fell swiftly. The roost lent to them by the Earth jutted out to the Heavens, but its reach was too short. The tops of the forest were not the nest awaiting the mothers, but they were still their beacons in the midst of a dry, deserted plain.
An aimed descent, this time. Landing at an angle where leaves jumped away in their wake, the duo skittered across like a pebble, until they reached their goal.
Just outside the cedar they landed against, the mount leaned lightly against the bark. Hopping off, the rider checked for any cuts or scrapes. Clean. The rider propped herself beneath the bird as she carried her part of the way into their home for the night, the rest of the journey punctuated by short bursts of fluttering wings.
For now, this was their sanctum. A hollow in the ground, formed by the hungering feet of the tree, was barren save for them. A mortal spider, perhaps, had lived here once, but naught but mild desiccated leaves remained of any residence of living sort.
A word and a shift of the fingers and none else would enter of its own will. Glyphs could save a life and spare them from unnecessary interruptions and trouble. As such, they could only be used sparingly. Mortal things were constantly trying to find a place to sleep and tended to see other occupants as potential prey or something to attack. The rider, unbound from the wings of her steed, just wanted to sleep.
And rest they did in the cedar-lined peak. Below, down the hill, human life slept as well in their metal shells, looking up into the sky and wondering if they were truly alone in the universe. If they would only look down.
Between rider and steed lay the jade lantern, briskly burning through its wick. The simple cloth adorning it was shed to allow the heat within to rise. The hollow, a cold and nearly dead place, felt alive and warm. Tapping the side of the lantern with one hand, the rider held her stomach with the other. A single tear, memories of an earlier time, harkened her hand back to wipe her face clean. When the job was done. She could cry then.
The steed eyed the flame within the jeweled fixture and huffed, furrowing through its feathers and preening as broken or old feathers fluttered out into the warren. Eventually satisfied, the bird nuzzled its beak into the dirt and snorted, removing some loose earth. They slowly fell into needed sleep.
---------------------------------
The next morning went by swiftly. Set back into the harness, the jade lantern glowed contently and pushed itself against the glass.
Forward.
Before they could proceed, however, the harness needed to be tightened. Secured. No risk could be taken; no scar should be open for perusal. Rubbing the crested chest of the bird, the rider felt the rough skin beneath the feathers. Chirping at the intrusion, the bird tilted its head curiously, beckoning with its entire head toward the coin. The rider moved swiftly, yanking the coin from its hold on the wall and securing it once again to guard the one vulnerability, unforgotten, that needed shielding.
Cooing appraisingly, the steed pushed its chest against the inner workings of the hollow and nodded to itself. That’ll do.
The rider and her steed were once again aloft a minute later, soaring above the trees which guarded their sleep.
The day ahead was a much shorter journey than the ride to the Sunlit Palace. The flame inside of the lantern peered at the sandy dunes beneath them as they traveled northeast. These lands had long been abandoned by the Fae. The air itself was stale and lifeless as they arrived.
The Barren Landing. A curse had taken this part of the wilds years ago, to the point that mortals as well had been slowly driven away. The wells had dried, the crops had failed, and the curse set locusts on those who stayed. There lay only one resident of this besotted clearing, laying beyond the broken buildings and shattered port.
Beached upon the shore, invisible to all but those with any flame before them, lay the oracle of the Empty Valley. The Husk-Dry Whale.
Slowly opening its eyes, the creature peered ominously down at the rider, its eyes unmoving once settled on its target.
A deep rumbling breath shook itself out of the oracle, its eyes glimmering with tears as it beheld the rider.
To the massive creature on this forgotten beach, the rider looked as if she would never see the goal that she sought. Too small, too weak. Too tired. She had failed the one task that she couldn’t risk failing and now she was here.
The steed took umbrage to that. Beak gnashing, its wings fluttering aggressively as it approached the oracle unbidden. The jade flame within the lantern shook at the movement, the wick holding the precious gift in place snapping at the movement.
Everything stopped.
Moving quickly, the rider hopped off her steed, bringing with her a thin piece of oil coated wire, and undid the top of the lantern. Not yet. The flame was not ready for whatever it would be needed for. No hesitation could be afforded.
Eying the struggle from afar, the Whale lay and stared. Its eyes drawn to the flame, it understood better. Not too small, not too weak. Tired, yes, but there was but one path left to success.
As the wick was slowly driven back into place, the hand of the rider burned to quench the jade flame’s hunger. Burning into her hand a heat from inside out, nerves died and nails splintered until keystone of the lantern was reattached.
Normalcy.
Sighing in relief, the rider looked softly her companion. The avian steed looked away as she viewed them, her face tilted up as it burned a darker yellow.
The rider, seeing the eyes of her steed, reached out with her singed hand and stroked the bird’s beak. Both closed their eyes, breathed, and turned to the oracle. There was work to be done.
The Whale told them of a land far to the south. A well, a deep cistern of a holy purpose. To bring forth what had been lost. For a price.
Joy lit on the face of the rider. Walking slowly toward the Whale, she pressed her clean hand against its dry body and pressed her forehead against it. The Whale breathed in a musky whiff of air and looked just a bit livelier in this moment, its eyes closed with contentment. The delivery had been made.
Detaching herself, the messenger moved slowly toward the lake. Her hand thrust down into the water and glowed, the water flowing into the open wound. There was not much energy in this land, but there was enough to seal the burn at least partially. She tested the hand, clenching and unclenching before she felt satisfied that nothing more could be done. Tenderly, she rose to her feet and approached her steed once more.
It was time to go.
---------------------------------------
The sky was almost empty from this height.
Far above the occasional copse of trees, the two surged through the open air. A renewed energy guided their actions, hope. No message needed to be delivered save for their own. The message that time for them, things that they had lost, could be found, somehow, once more.
While the rider focused on the lands ahead, the steed dreamed. A nest back home, in lands of green, had been where the two of them had lived. A far away and departed gander for her, the steed fluttered momentarily at the thought. A worried glance drove the steed to spurn the thought of a former paramour, temporarily. Other business was at stake.
Steed and rider lived as one, as they always had. Yes, they had been of greater numbers once, but their mission, even when dwindling to a single trusting partnership, was as paramount as it always had been.
For every steed there needed to be a rider. Yet, as time passed, not every rider needed a steed. The rider’s people, the Fae, had begun to change. Societies evolved, but the bonds that had been formed in the early mythic existence that held the foundation of their partnership remained. Until it didn’t, for most. Steeds could be created without needing to bond them to the rider. As efficiency trumped tradition, so too did technology trump biology. And so, the avian steeds dwindled until but one clutch of one lineage of riders remained.
That clutch had been broken. Destroyed. One little child, playing clutch-guard only for it to become all too real before she knew what was happening. Her light snuffed out. A leg lost, an insecurity gained, the rider and steed were a pair as ever before and remained since.
Gliding along the streams of air parallel to the coastline to the west, the pair got closer and closer to their goal. Even as the rider shut her eyes, thoughts of the container, now brim with fire was enough to have her fall asleep with a smile.
The mount continued their journey forward, cooing quietly in satisfaction to the smile on her rider’s face. They would near their destination’s edge in a few hours, but her partner needed sleep. Far more than she did at the moment. After that burn, her rider would need more than a nap to recover. The steed could sense what had been given to the flame. It was a necessary price to be paid, yet one that would take a heavy toll if they succeeded.
Hours passed. They were almost there. The air felt heavier here, taking more strength for the steed to stay aloft. Shaking her body about just enough to wake her rider, the bird chittered and tweeted, bucking a bit after a lackluster response.
Awaken.
----------------------------------
Landing softly was always a problem. Skidding to a stop on the sandy shore, the two of them looked down to the harness. The flame was still lit and the lantern still contained the jade green heat within. Nothing had been compromised in the crash.
The rider leapt from the saddle and landed prosthetic first into the sand. Wobbling her leg, she unstuck it from the silicate and wrapped an arm around her steed’s neck.
Understanding, the larger creature fluttered her wings every few lengths, the two of them getting close enough to the more solid limestone ground for them to stand comfortably. They had a league or so to go until they reached their goal, but they had made it this far.
A quick hop and the rider was back on her steed, flying through the trees toward their destination. The forest, foreign and gnarled in ways that neither of them knew how to navigate, sent them in many directions before the bird landed on a broken branch jutting out of soft earth.
They were lost.
The bird peered its head around, looking for something. Any way forward. The flame in the lantern pushed against the glass, nudging the case east as if in desperation. Peering at the duo, no, trio, a small tree frog turned its head curiously. Eyes sharpening at the view, the mount fluttered its wings, trying to get the frog’s curiosity, too.
The frog leapt across the boundary from the tree it had sat upon to the large stick where the bird was perched and croaked at the group. The rider smiled. Opening her mouth to speak, the Fae woman was cut off as the bird impatiently cheeped at the frog. A quick ribbit and a pointed finger to the south, just as the sun shifted over the clearing they’d landed in, caused the pair to nod as one. Something to go by.
The rider tapped the wing of her mount and the two were off, the lantern clanging against the metal coin as they buzzed through the jungle.
Equatoriale beckoned.
Legends told of Equatoriale as the place where all things were equal. The past and the future. The good and the bad. Life. Death.
The temple lay before them, glimmering in the sunlight. No Fae had been here in recent years, nor had any mortal. Men who trod these grounds had long since died, plague or warrior ending any hope of visitation. Untapped, unused, and mostly forgotten, Equitoriale had been, until now, unseen for an era and a half.
And now they had arrived inside of its Well. Descending down, the group splashed through the first layer, glimpses of hatchlings and children daring them to stop and stay with them. Views of a future yet to be determined. A second layer, showing both the pride of the rider, her progeny gallivanting around a small treehouse with a plush bird while awaiting her mother’s return while another point of view, eyes of the men who took that away. The third layer. The corpses of the rider’s child and the smashed eggshells of the steed. All the while, as they dived deeper into the waters of the Well, the flame of the lantern furiously burned and brightened their way.
Thud.
Crashing through the bottom of the well, they flew through the water further still and emerged on the other side, briefly flung into the air before landing on the loam enshrining the other side. They’d reached the bottom.
The flame, previously burning brightly, softened and shrunk. It filled the bottom of the lantern like melted wax, its surface bubbling and shifting toward the rider. It was time to fulfill the purpose of the flame. The Enkindler, the rider thought idly, uncapping the lantern as she removed it from the harness. Maker of Life. A taker as well, but of what the rider did not know.
The steed, weak from the journey, cheeped and eyed the Enkindling Flame. Turning her head toward her rider, she dragged herself closer to it, waiting until she was a beak’s length from the melted flame to look back over her rider’s visage. Her friend.
The rider nodded, licking her lips and letting loose a nervous smile before looking into the bird’s eyes. They had one chance at this.
Ripping off the bandage from her steed’s beak, the rider watched as her steed’s head swiveled back and yanked a fully grown and healthy tail feather, wincing in pain at the movement. The bird dropped the feather before her rider, looking expectantly as she wrapped the small bandage and plumage onto her burnt hand. Once more, the rider plunged her hand into the flame, this time removing the wick and touching both a finger and the broken shaft of the feather into the keystone.
Flames covered both the bird and the rider, emerald cinders crackling off the two as they both cried out in pain. Yet the Fae and bird did not relent, the flames burning brighter.
Brighter.
Until those living flames suddenly were snuffed out.
Crumbling, the left hand of the rider turned to dust, all the while ash began to cake the steed’s yellow plumage. A thick ebon color crawled across the surface of the steed’s coat, until the yellow feathers became purely black, all other coloring remaining the same. In the place of the missing foot, a fleshy, yet wooden claw emerged from the stump.
Tears welling in the rider’s eyes, she clutched at the sand with her remaining hand. This wasn’t right. The sacrifice had been made, yet the children hadn’t been returned. Her child. Her steed’s clutch. Still gone. Rivulets of grief and pain ran down her face, all the while her avian companion nuzzled her beak against her back. Soft expressions met, both soaked with the waters of the Well and the feelings dripping from their eyes They saw the grief in each other and cried.
A tug at her jacket.
The two slowly turned their heads to see a small girl holding an egg.
“Momma?”
|
|
|
|
Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on Sept 15, 2016 16:43:08 GMT -5
A Matter of Utmost Import
Mixie held on tight to the reigns, an exuberant smile stretching across her face while the wind whipped and snapped her crimson, shoulder-length hair. Feathers fluttered all about her and she could feel the muscles of her mighty steed contracting and releasing with each furious wingbeat.
She closed her eyes and reveled in the feeling; the freedom that can only be felt by defying gravity and taking flight. She tightened her grip on her mount with her thighs and leaned back, spreading her arms wide to feel the wind on her entire body. Oh, how she loved flying. It was the best part her job, hands down. She let the hot mid-day air wash across her for a few more seconds opening her eyes just in time to narrowly dodge an insect the size of her first hurtling toward her.
Mixie leaned to the side suddenly, pulling the canary beneath her off balance and teetering to the right. Her hands shot to the pommel and took hold, white-knuckled as the bird careened into a sloppy barrel roll before regaining its balance allowing her to reorient.
“That was close,” she called out over the sound of the wind rushing past her ears, “Nearly took my head off.”
The bird cheeped ominously.
“What do you mean?” she answered. No sooner had Mixie asked than she knew. Her eyes widened in fear. Gnats, not unlike the one which had almost removed her from the saddle a moment ago, danced their random dance in a great swarming cloud directly in her path.
The canary chirped a determined chirp.
“No, Orly!” she called out, “The odds of successfully navigating a swarm of swamp bugs is approximately 3,720 to one.”
Orly piped defiantly.
“I said, ‘No.’ Now take us down.” Mixie dug her spurs into the canary’s sides and the songbird entered a reluctant dive. She kept vigilant watch on the swarm, eyes peeled for outliers, as it passed overhead. Once clear she spotted a branch stretched out across the boggy swamp below. “There,” she pointed, “Set us on that branch. I need to check the packs after your little display back there.”
Orly was silent but did as he was told, coming to light on a twisted branch just barely above the lingering fog which blanketed the Murk. The branch bobbed in the breeze accompanied by the rattle of baubles and knick-knacks affixed to the saddle harness.
“Ugh,” Mixie turned in the saddle, covering her nose and mouth with one arm while she thumbed through a clutch of papers and documents with her free hand, “Smells awful here.”
Orly agreed, the scent of decay and rot floating upward from the bubbling stew of grime and despair below leading him to bury his head beneath a wing.
“Here,” Mixie offered.
The bird peaked out from beneath citron feathers with a curious tweet. Mixie held in her hand a sizable meal-worm. Orly squeaked in delight and snatched it from her grasp, swallowing the wriggling critter immediately.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said, patting his head and rubbing at the base of his ear cavity.
He cooed in acceptance of her apology.
“Okay, then,” She said, unfolding a map she’d retrieved from her rucksack, “We should be close.” As if on command the faint sound of voices piqued her attention; she and Orly simultaneously turning and ear toward the sound. There, deep in the fog not far in the distance a warm glow emanated faintly from a hole in an old rotten log. The Murk, in general, was an unwelcoming place. A bad neighborhood, filled with snakes and vermin. The kind of place the lowest of pond scum could hide out because they knew no one would go looking for them.
“Looks like that’s the place,” She gulped down the lump in her throat. “Set us down on top.”
With a quaver of dismay, Orly took flight and covered the dozen or so wing-beats necessary to reach the log. He came to rest uneasily.
“Alright, Orly, just wait here.” Mixie dismounted, her boots squelched into the waterlogged wood beneath. “I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her rucksack and papers.
Orly pranced about and twittered nervously on the soggy log.
Mixie tried not to notice, tried not to let his nerves become her anxiety. She made her way to a hole in the logs exterior. A well-worn staircase had been carved into the wood. Her fingers crept to the long thorn she kept on her belt. She’d never had to use it in a fight before, hopefully today wouldn’t be any different.
Making her way slowly down the staircase, the echo of voices and laughter drifted up from the depths. Everyone sounded like they were having a good time. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all, she told herself. The butterflies in her stomach subsided some and she descended into the interior more confidently.
After an oddly long climb she reached the anteroom. A great hollow opened up before her. In contrast to the decay outside, the inside of the log was a relatively well-kept establishment. Along the walls rats and voles sat nibbling away at various foodstuffs while a bevy of other faerie-folk, most of them Brownies like herself, were saddled up to the bar laughing and drinking. None but the bartender had noticed her enter and he, a veritable shrew of a faerie, seemed inclined to ignore her completely.
“Excuse me.” Mixie tested the room. Her high pitched voice sounded comical against the backdrop of tough guys and thugs. No response. She tried again, louder this time. One of the rats looked up from its meal, but otherwise the reception was the same.
Flustered, Mixie found an acorn mug on nearby vacant table. Snatching it up she reared back to throw it across the room—
“Hey!” the bartender interrupted her tantrum. The rest of the room quieted immediately and turned to face her; frozen in motion, arm cocked to hurl the vessel. “If you break that, you’re going to have to pay for it.”
Mixie stood for a second, paralyzed before the array of gazes and stares. Finally, with a nervous smile, she lowered the mug.
“Golly, girlie” the bartender continued in an exaggerated tone, “Maybe if you came up here and said something instead of shouting across the room someone might hear you.”
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Mixie confessed. She went to put the mug down.
“Naw, bring that up here,” the bartender insisted. Some of the other patrons had gone back to their conversations. “What can I do for you?”
She made her way to the bar, careful not to step on any of the tangle of tails crisscrossing the floor. The bartender, now that she was closer and could see him better, while not a literal shrew certainly bore a striking resemblance. His one, un-bandaged, eye was locked in a permanent squint, long whiskers danced upon his jowls when he spoke and his nose seemed in constant motion as though he had an itch he refused to scratch. Mixie set the mug on the bar and climbed up onto the stool, hoisting her rucksack to her shoulder and retrieving some papers. The stool was too tall for her and her feet dangled in midair.
“I’m looking for a Boggan.” She said, “Azmodius the Wise?” She squinted at the document in the dim light. “Is that right?”
The bartender seemed taken aback. He snatched the mug off of the counter and made a hasty retreat.
“What?” Mixie asked of the general assembly, “Is that not right?”
“What do you want with Azmodius?” the Brownie next to her asked, turning to address her directly. His left hand was wrapped and missing three fingers.
“Well, uh,” she stuttered, “That’s actually of a personal nature.” She smiled nervously, “I’m not really at liberty to discuss it. Rest assured though, it’s a matter of the utmost import.”
“Hmph.” the rugged faerie replied and turned away.
“Well,” Mixie grew bolder and tapped him on the shoulder, “Well, is he here? Can I speak with him? I was told he frequents this establishment. Should I wait?”
She heard a thump, thump, thumping sound as a second patron approached. He used a crutch and walked with a limp. “Listen, girl,” he said, helping her down from the stool. “Azmodius hasn’t been seen around here for quite a while.”
A couple others mumbled under their breath. She heard the word “incident.”
The limping Brownie escorted her back to the staircase with the brand of subtle implication that can only be utilized effectively by those who’ve grown long in the tooth. “Well, do you know where I can find him?” She pleaded.
“No.”
Mixie was already on the third stair somehow, “Why do they call him ‘the Wise?’” A last point of curiosity before whatever passive-aggressive spell the elder had woven drove her completely outside.
He leaned a little harder on his crutch as though suddenly tired, “Because nobody argues with him.”
What did that mean? Mixies mind twisted the answer over and over in her head and before she knew it she was at the top of the stairs, standing next to her faithful steed.
Orly cheeped jubilantly.
“Yes, yes,” she patted his neck and scratched the scruff above his nostrils, “I think we’re at a dead end though.” She put her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, “I can’t think here, Orly. It smells so bad.”
The bird chirped and scratched at his head with his foot.
“Yeah, I’ll give you a good preening later. Who knows what you’ve picked up here.” She hopped into the saddle, “In the meantime, let’s find somewhere a little less smelly and think this through.” Mixie produced another meal-worm which Orly gobbled up immediately and was about to dig her heels in, about to give the command to fly when she spotted something climbing out of the stairwell.
She bid Orly hop up onto a knot on the log for a better vantage point. From there she saw the bright green skin and blazing red eyes of a small tree frog emerge from the hole. It croaked its high-pitched, urgent croak and Mixie delayed her escape as the frog approached. The amphibian crawled up onto the knot and sat adjacent to the bird chirping and croaking frantically.
“Whoa, hey,” Mixie held her hands up before her, “Just, hang on. Slow down, I can’t understand you.”
The frog relented.
“Okay, now, you say you know where to find Azmodius?” She asked, a hint of disbelief in her voice.
The frog nodded and barked.
“Well, great.” She clapped and waited.
The frog just stared at her, a low ribbit emanated slowly from its throat.
Mixie sighed and pulled another meal-worm from her saddlebag, “Sorry, Orly, this is the last one.” She tossed it into the air.
The treefrog’s tongue shot out like a dart, snatching the worm in mid-arc and pulling back into his waiting mouth. He chewed once then swallowed, pushing it down with a heavy blink of his eyes.
“So, where can I find this Azmodius?” She prompted.
The frog stared at her with what approached a smile on his wide face. It chirruped a few times in rapid succession and pointed.
“The Twilit Hollow? Really?” Mixie was reluctant to believe. “That’s so far. That’s beyond the Great Meadow.”
The treefrog shrugged its emerald shoulders and hopped off disappearing once more into the stairwell.
With a sigh of resignation, Mixie took up the reins, “Alright, Orly, you heard him.”
The bird flapped once half-heartedly.
“We’ll stop for more worms once we get out of the Murk.” She nudged him forward.
Orly peeped a suspicious peep.
“Yes, I promise. Now c’mon, we’re losing daylight.”
Without another sound, the canary hopped off the old hollow log and took to the air.
Several hours and one pit stop to dig for worms passed before the pair reached the edge of the Great Meadow. Mixie looked out with trepidation at a sea of pale-green grass as far as she could see. In the distance a family of deer grazed passively, back-lit by the setting sun. Such a peaceful scene it presented it was almost hard to believe the Great Meadow harbored such dangers.
Crossing the Meadow wouldn’t be like the forest. It couldn’t be leisurely or relaxing; hopping from tree to tree, taking in the sights, stopping for rest whenever she felt like it. There were no trees in the Meadow. No place to hide should danger present itself. Mixie scanned the tree-line opposite her position mentally plotting the safest course. The tall grass could hide any number of dangers, so staying low was a risky proposition. Still, a lone canary crossing the Meadow at higher altitudes would make a tempting target for a hawk or falcon.
“Talk about a rock and a hard place.” She muttered out loud. There was always the option of going around, but she simply didn’t have the time.
A Boggan being so far from the swamp was strange. Was he on the run? If so, once the sun was down he’d be on the move again. His kind melt in the sun, and it was showing no signs of slowing its descent. She couldn’t fly in the dark. If she couldn’t reach him first she might never find him.
“Okay, Orly,” Mixie pulled a pair of flight goggles from here pack and fixed them over her eyes. The crystalline lenses amplifying the dying light enough to make it incrementally easier to see, “We’re going to go hard and fast. Straight across.”
Orly chirped in protest.
“I know,” she patted his neck, “I don’t like it either.” Mixie began unloading the unnecessary contents of her pack and untied the decorative baubles from the hardness.
The canary warbled an unpleasant sound as the worms they’d just dug fell from the pack to the ground and wriggled their way into the soil below.
“Sorry, buddy, we need to lighten the load. We’ll find more.” She hoped. Mixie climbed into the saddle fixing her heels into the stirrups. “Ready? Let’s earn those stripes.” Mixie cracked the reins, “Fly!”
Orly did as commanded leaping boldly from his perch and folded into a controlled dive leveling out just above the tall of the grass. Mixie leaned into his body creating a more aerodynamic figure. She could feel the bird’s heartbeat pumping furiously, his neck outstretched, tail-feathers clenched together; he flew like an arrow unwavering but for the slight shifts left or right to avoid abnormally high blades of grass.
Mixie wasn’t sure she liked how low they were. But she trusted Orly’s instincts; she knew the canary was virtually flying blind in this light. She knew he relied on her to keep them on course and on the lookout. The least she could do was trust in his judgement. Still, she was used to being able to pick out details of the world below but now the ground screamed past her eyes, the grasses were a blur. If a fox or a cat lurked below, there wasn’t a chance she’d spot it in time.
But that wasn’t her job. She broke her attention away from the world below and focused on the path ahead. The tree line was close; they were nearly there. She scanned the branches looking for a perch on which to light. Her heart beat nearly in time with that of her trusty charger as she picked one out and nudged the reins easing him in that direction.
Mixie didn’t know if it was the change of course that caught its attention or if it had been watching since the entered the Meadow, but something among the trees shifted. A great dark shape loomed in the distance growing larger, approaching rapidly on silent wings with talons that gleamed in the dying sunlight. An owl, it’s eyes huge and menacing.
It was more reflex than decision which caused Mixie to tug at the reins with all her might. Orly’s tail fanned and he leaned back, braking their flight. The owl hadn’t expected the sudden change in course. The lethal talons missed their mark but the beasts considerable bulk slammed into the pair. For the briefest moment Mixie’s face was buried in the soft down of the owl’s stealthy plumage and then she was falling, spinning off into the night. Her foot was still in the stirrup, she hadn’t been dismounted, but Orly failed to correct. She caught a glimpse of his closed eye just before they hit the ground.
It wasn’t an elegant landing. Despite a feeble attempt to roll with the impact, Mixie felt every stick and stone in her path. Her body settled to a stop just outside the tree line; looking up she could see the branches. A glancing blow, they hadn’t collided directly with the owl. The duo had managed to retain enough forward momentum to nearly span the remaining distance. Mixie crawled to her feet hastily limping to her downed mount.
“Orly! Orly, get up, we’re almost there.” Orly lay motionless, a twisted wreck of broken feathers and scratched flesh. “Orly! C’mon, get up.” She wedged her body beneath his and lifted, trying to get the bird to his feet. Mixie marveled at how light he was, but his body simply slumped to the side. She felt her heart torn in two, one half sinking directly into her stomach, the other lumping itself in her throat. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, she felt tears welling in her eyes and tore the googles from her head.
“Get up!” She shouted, her throat straining to make words “Stupid bird, get up! I need you!” The tears were flowing freely. “I can’t do this without you…”
Her lamentations were interrupted by a haunting screech ripping through the night. Mixie looked up through a veil of tears to see the gargantuan figure of the owl pushing its way through the tall grass. It’s moon face turned and spotted Orly’s motionless form.
“No!” Mixie leapt to her feet, “No! You leave him alone.” She picked up the nearest stone and hurled it at the beast. It bounced harmlessly off of the owl’s breast. The behemoth stomped its way in her direction, vicious talons tearing up the dirt with each comically high kick of its armored legs.
She drew the thorn from her belt, and placed herself between the creature and her best friend, squaring off. She held the weapon menacingly before her, waving her free hand in the air and shouting trying to make herself appear bigger and stronger. Placing her claim on the kill. The owl was having none of it, spreading it wings to their fullest and hopping at her claws first.
Mixie rolled out of the way, scooping up another stone as she did and pitched it at the creature. It struck again with its talons and missed, digging into the earth next to her. Mixie jabbed with the thorn but couldn’t break the tough scales. If nothing else she had succeeded in getting the owls attention. It attacked again, and again, but Mixie was quick and the bird of prey was clumsy on the ground. She deftly dodged blow after blow, knowing that it would only take one to bring an end to this confrontation. But still she ducked and weaved biding her time, waiting for the opportune moment.
Finally, after it felt like her bruised body was ready to give up and succumb, it came. The owl leaned in to try and grasp her with its beak. The Brownie pounced, deftly turning the strike aside and jabbed her thorn into the monsters massive, bulging eye.
She released the weapon and the owl let out screech like nothing she’d ever heard. It didn’t waste time continuing the fight; finally acquiescing to her claims of dominance. The owl took to the night air in a panicked flutter of wings and disappeared.
Mixie stood for a moment, disarmed and vulnerable her heart still racing from the fight, before returning to Orly’s side. The sun was down, the chase was over, and she didn’t have the energy or desire to pursue it any further. The Bownie sat own next to her friend’s body and leaned back into the down. He was still warm.
He was still warm!
Mixie turned her head the left and buried the side of her face in the feathers. Yes! A heartbeat. Despite her body’s protests she sprung to her feet and rushed around to his face. “Orly? C’mon buddy, wake up.” She rubbed his neck with one hand and scratched the base of his earhole with the other. A subdued coo escaped his beak. A leg twitched.
Mixie laughed out loud as Orly slowly came back to life. In time he was on his feet, shaking off the encounter, preening and straightening bent and broken feathers. She felt the tears returning, she couldn’t help herself.
She rushed in and hugged him, “Stupid bird.” She said, lovingly, “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”
Orly twittered.
“How hurt are you?” she asked, spreading and inspecting his wings, “Can you fly?”
He cheeped an affirmative.
She was inspecting his tail feathers when an unfamiliar voice broke into her celebration.
“Very impressive, Little One,” it said. A Boggan, tall and dark and dripping with sludge and filth emerged from beneath a twisted root nearby. It smiled a twisted smile, revealing sharp jagged stone teeth.
Orly danced and chirped excitedly. Mixie put her had on his neck to calm him, “I know.” She muttered quietly into his ear.
“Who?” she started, louder, moving toward her pack, “Who are you? Why didn’t you help me?”
“I wanted to see how you’d fair,” he answered matter-of-factly, “I am Azmodius. I could use someone like you.” He was approaching now, slowly.
Mixie withdrew a small scroll-case from her battered rucksack. “Azmodius the Wise?” she asked, cautiously. She tried to be nonchalant about climbing into the saddle. Azmodius was approaching more quickly now.
He chuckled and ominous chuckle and reached for her reins, “Yes.” He purred.
“Great!” Mixie hurled the scroll case him, hitting him in the face. Hard. “You’ve been served.”
Azmodius stumbled backward, not expecting the attack.
“Fly, Orly!” His wings were already in motion. “Stick to the trees.” Mixie looked behind her as they rose into the night air; at Azmodius the Wise growing smaller in the distance. “Let’s go home.”
|
|
|
|
Post by Kaez on Sept 19, 2016 1:58:46 GMT -5
Alex
The opening is confusing. You made an effort to use flowery language here, metaphor and thick description. That's a noble endeavor, but I actually -don't- entirely know what's happening. And not in a way that makes me curious, but in a way that makes me a little confused. It doesn't help that you change tense twice in the first few paragraphs, but most of all I'm referring to Kami and the lantern and exactly who is flying and what they look like and where they're going. The plot itself is lost at the start. Some clunky language like "but the rider knew that there was one place that it must arrive at," seems to be intentionally obtuse, intentionally hiding the details of what's happening, but that's a very risky maneuver and doesn't pay off. Others like "the air while lessening in difficulty to breathe it in," or, "burning a hole in their shadows to leave a scorched reckoning behind them," just seem like poor sentences. You're making a real effort here to use poetic language, but I'm not sure that all of these words mean what you think they mean. Some of the phrasing here, some of the word choices, just seem out of place. That said, the way you punctuate your longer sentences with much shorter ones or even single-word sentences is great and I think you capture the correct pacing of poetic writing. You just use some words and descriptions that you shouldn't.
The lantern as a sort of semi-sentient character in its own right is really cool, and I think foregoing dialogue was 100% the right choice. Your writing is at its best when its got minimal dialogue. It forces you to describe things and you've got a knack for description. That said, the lack of really understanding the plot... doesn't get fixed. By the time she's with the whale, I still don't know what's happening, and that's the point of no return, really. I understand that she's carrying this flame, and that it's an important task. But why is she melancholy? What had she failed at? Who is this whale? Who is the king? Where is she going and why? I'm sure if you look at your own story, you'll see the answers to these questions. But I'm telling you that as a fairly careful reader, I don't have them. The basic plot of the story needs to be -very clear-. And in your attempt to be colorful and poetic, an attempt which is definitely at least partially successful, you've sacrificed the plot.
But you make something of a recovery after that. The switch to the focus on the steed and a little backstory on it was great. That was the highlight of the story up to that point, and it was the first self-contained section which seemed entirely clear to me and finally made me feel somewhat connected to these two characters. And you ride that wave through to the end, and though I never really understood the whole world this story was taking place in, I sympathized with the characters at the end, their children returned to them.
This story was miles better than your last one, and you showed off some serious writing chops here. You took a risk with your language choice, and while it didn't always pay off, it was -way- better than if you'd tried to take your usual, dialogue-heavy approach. Unfortunately, I think you swung the pendulum too far and you ended up sacrificing clarity, and your attempt to contain all sorts of worldbuilding within the story was too ambitious. If this had been a simpler plot, if it had been all about these two characters on a personal journey, I think it would've been much better for it. The Barren Lands, the Sunlit King, etc. If those had all been steps along a single, cohesive journey for our protagonists - and maybe you intended them to be but they just didn't read that way - this story would've been great.
I want to make very clear my praises for your writing here. You took to heart my critique. I just think you bounced too far in the other direction. Find a balance. Write like this - but ground it. You've shown that you can make beautiful paragraphs, but now attach those paragraphs to a more thoughtful plot. Don't focus so much on trying to worldbuild while you're at it. Try to avoid proper names of things, like Equatoriale and the Palace of the Sunlit King and all that. There wasn't a need for that here. It only detracted. Narrow your scope a bit next time around while keeping this kind of quality of writing and you'll produce something really wonderful.
***
Adam
The thematic quality of this story is awesome. From the get-go, the way you describe the little quirks of the bird (whom I will be calling 'the bird' and not O RLY?) are wonderful. The gnats, the little staircase, her thorn, the acorn mug, the sort of 'world in miniature' is really the perfect encapsulation of the vibe that I got from the picture. This is a world in which a small meadow is a dangerous environment, in which an owl is a serious, credible threat. That's awesome. You've also, as usual, got a knack for portraying complex characters. The barkeep in this story, who exists for only about a minute of reading time, has a more interesting personality than the protagonists of most of the other stories I've read.
That said, I thought the crash and the fight with the owl was... slightly anticlimactic. It didn't have the jazz and intensity of a good fight. It didn't make me excited. I didn't really feel the credible threat. Maybe some more detailed descriptions of the visuals, of the feelings... just something to really bring the fear home. The story regains its quality with, "He was still warm!" The lighthearted charm is spot-on. And then, before you know it... it's over.
I liked the, "You've been served." It was cute, and appropriate. And I honestly can't sing enough praise to the atmosphere you created for this story. I think you nailed the picture prompt. But I definitely didn't feel like you did half as much with this story as you could have. Something about the pacing and the plot structure made the ending really seem to just come out of nowhere. The gnats, then the log, then the owl, then the resolution. They didn't feel like they were the beginning, middle, and end of a cohesive story. As just one example: the mealworms. The mealworms come up several times, they're a recurring element, and they don't really.. go anywhere. The fight with the owl doesn't really add much to the story. The final encounter with Azmodius, even after the mysterious build-up to him in the log, is so quick and we get so little flavor for who he is, that it doesn't feel satisfying. I wanted some resolution to all the little things you added along the way. Why'd the frog help? What happened with Azmodius and the folks in the log? What kind of character is he really? Who exactly does the protagonist work for?
You painted a beautiful little world, but I think you could've done a lot better with telling your story. You told a lot of beautiful little anecdotes, a lot of nice little scenes, but you didn't make me walk away feeling like I read a great, complete story. I'll remember this for its great aesthetic, for the imagery inside the log, for example, but I won't remember the story that was told.
***
So. This is really weird. This is a weird situation. I think Adam, the quality of your writing, especially in the beginning of this story, is undeniably great. And I don't want to explicitly hold you and Alex to different standards. But while Alex's story also has faults, I think it shows more overall effort and ambition. Compared to everything I've read of Alex's, that was a 9/10 entry. Compared to everything I've read of Adam's, that was a 7/10 story. And even if, just to be perfectly frank, Adam's 7/10 is as good as Alex's 9/10, I've got to tip the scales to Alex.
|
|
