Curious Challenge
The pond
For days he had followed the shadow of the sky. Dark lines that broke through the silver haze and streaked over the land. It must have fallen. The land had trembled and the mountains smoked. The omens were bad.
Jurutu walked alone over the wet ground, pushing through broad leaves of green and violet. Far from the lands of the Mogowa, he ventured deep into the jungle. It was not just what he saw, but what he heard the pulled him further. A voice that hissed, and spoke, a language he did not know, but still seeped into him. It led him over wet and rooted mud, and further to where rocks streaked with white and grey broke the land and jutted high.
Surmounting one, he came to view a wide pond. The water clear and green, the rocks beneath shown in wavering semblances beneath the motions of its surface. And deep within, where clear water began to murk, a stone of brightest red, burning like the fire of the sky on a hazeless day.
He was not alone. A hunter, naked as he, and painted in the red and ocher stripes of a Tigiri stood down in the basin with a spear of glinting obsidian aimed at the depths. Jurutu held only a knife of the same black stone, but it remained at his waist. Being of the people of jade and blue jasper leaf, his body was marked with the colors of his tribe. He would be an outsider to the hunter. Not welcome.
He would leave, but the voice beckoned him. Its source, he knew, came from below. "Save me," it said.
Jurutu looked down with eyes wide. There was more in the pond. A creature swam in it, a long serpent-like fish, with scales of glistening black, its length twice that of he and the hunter. "Save me," the voice called again.
Jurutu slid down the rocks, moving along the low drops and wide slope to approach the pond. In the distance he heard the hunter thrust in his spear and pull it back, growling. At the water's edge he stood and looked on him, and the hunter looked back.
Below the wet surface, the voice returned, and was melodic. "He means to kill me," it said.
Jurutu looked down. The serpent just strides away, undulating to keep in place. It body black as darkest glass, its eyes bright like silver stones. And then it shifted; changing and rising from the surface, it took shape. Slender curves and wide hips; a woman--a goddess of deepest black, with a hand inviting, and eyes wanting. "I am trapped," she said. "The land has dried, and the water does not flow. I cannot leave."
He knew the Goddess at once, Rikiamanu of water and life.
The hunter screamed at him. "Do not," he shouted. "She is poison, she is death." He ran around the pond, coming to stand only paces away with his spear low. "Stab the heart," he said, pointing into the pond. "Kill the creature."
"You would slay a goddess?" Jurutu asked.
"He would kill me," she pleaded. "Kill him, and I will reward you with such life as men do not know."
"Wickedness and lies," said the hunter.
"Save me," she said.
Jurutu felt his head clouded. He looked on her and saw only beauty, only desire. And the hunter, he was a sharp toothed monster, an Ongonshu. "No," he said. "I will free her."
The hunter clenched his jaw and bared his teeth. "Fool," he growled. He rushed forward with his spear, threatening to pierce it into the form of the woman--into Rikiamanu.
Jurutu could not let him. The Goddess was life. He pulled his knife from his belt and flung himself at the hunter. The spear shifted, and the knife rose high, both glinting in the light, both plunging in. Jurutu pierced through; he crashed into the hunter, knocking him back to the water, and falling with him to the silt. His knife stabbing in again and again, turning the clear water red as loka berries.
When he stood again, the spear was impaled though him, and the hunter was gone. He coughed, his own red life wetting his lips. Grasping the spear he, held it firm and hardened himself to his fate. But the goddess… she drifted near, and spoke to soothe… Her hands caressed him, holding his head as her body pressed near.
"Sweet warrior," she said. "Let us embrace, and join. I shall take away your pain, and bring you to new life."
He did not resist. To look into her eyes, to feel her pressed against him, he was enchanted--beguiled. She pulled him in closer. Let her black inky body slide against his, enshrouding him, engulfing him. Her body merged with his. Black flesh en-wrapped and spread over his, like an ooze that opened and swallowed him in, covering him whole. But he did not feel it, or any pain at all. The spear was gone from his side, his thoughts solely on the comfort of her, his mind clouded to the world of water and life.
He looked up. He saw her no more, instead, his vision held only the water rising above him as he drifted down. A heart beat, a soft rhythmic thrum as all he knew turned dark. Her voice still spoke. "We are one," she said. "We shall become strong. We shall rule them all."
Jurutu felt himself screaming, but his thoughts did not know why. They were one. Not he and Rikiamanu, but he and something greater. He and something in shadow.
Ban's Weekly Challenge
Write a scene about a jewelry vendor at a market (in the world you are currently working on).
Street Fare
"You, Sir, look like you are searching," said the merchant behind his stall.
Mirathue scoffed--street fare, in a colored tent, with wares open to all passers by. Colored stones--of what use could they be? In the ports of Morheim, none would even offer such trinkets. Gold and jewels were of no use for those of the garrison realms. Men of the north had little use for trinkets in sparkling colors. Iron and steel or he had nothing he could want...
"You do seek," said the merchant, his eyes brown even in their whites, his thin beard curling up, his flesh, a swarthy russet brown. "I can see it in your face. I can see it inside of you. Something is lost to the dark, something is lost and you cannot find."
Mirathue stopped to look on the man. He was small, and bore no signs of wealth, or of special knowledge, only a low street merchant, and likely a thief also by the style of his dress. "You know me by my fairer skin, and Tieran garb," said Mirathue. "You've nothing I want."
"But I do," said the merchant, holding up a dark stone, near black. "The Eye of Ebon. To look through it is to see the light."
"You lie," said Mirathue becoming affronted. "I was there. I saw it destroyed. It will never return."
"Never?" said the man with a wry smile. "Do you not want to try it, and see?"
"I would sooner kill you than let you have such a thing." Mirathue let his hand slide onto his sword and shift it more to the front.
"What's he saying," said a new voice. Janthro, his long time companion, a toothless brawler, strong and thin. He strode up beside him with menace to his tone.
"He says he has the Ebon Eye."
"Bah," said Janthro. "It is gone."
"Perhaps another," said the merchant. He pulled from beneath a cloth a new stone. Reddish and orange like fire, shaped as a raindrop still in fall. "A tear of Varnesta," he cooed.
"A tear of who?" said Janthro, growing angrier. "What is this? Varnesta has never cried."
"Oh, but she has," said the merchant. "Just once. You know the legends, don't you?" He looked to the older and more lined face of Mirathue, and smiled wide as if he knew more than he could.
Mirathue looked on him with a scowl. "How can you know of such things? Who are your gods? You can not have such thing. Varnesta has never visited you."
"But I hold it still. A tear that keeps the spirits away. Could it not be here? Can you know where I have travelled?"
"There are no spirits," said Janthro. "At least, none that follow us. He's been told about us. That is all."
The Merchant frowned. "Perhaps an amethyst," he said. "This one bears all remembrance." He held up the pale purple stone, a shimmering light twinkled within. "With this, you could know all that you seek. The memories of Kings lie in its depths. Even those of the old races--the races before even the silver Sharal."
"He's a liar," said Janthro, turning away in disgust. "No one can have such things. Let's leave, before some of these street rats pick our pockets."
Mirathue scrunched his face and nodded to agree. "Why do I waste my time here? She's not here, nothing is here. This whole useless land has nothing to find."
"A liar?" said the merchant, smiling wide and flipping the stone into the air only to catch it again, and slide it down below his table. Maybe another...Maybe the stone that whispers, the tanzanite heart? What you seek hides in the dark, but this stone alone can feel her heart, and know her thoughts. She cannot hide if you have this? It alone can draw you to her."
"How can you know who we seek?" said Mirathue. "You cannot know such things. No stone can find her."
"This one can."
"Bah," said Janthro.
"What you seek is far from here, and in many places. Without her heart, she drifts, and cannot be found. You must know it, or you cannot find her. Hold it, and feel it beat within you."
The stone waited before his grasp. Strange as it seemed, Mirathue reached out his hand. The whole of him disbelieving, but as he touched it, he did feel it throb and grow warm, and his vision faded, and briefly, he thought he could even scent her on the air. "Impossible," he said.
The merchant only grinned. "Do you believe me now?"
Mirathue scented again, but the smell had changed. He smelled only old fish and bitter weeds. He turned and saw the last of his party. Silver flesh and hair, and bedraggled clothing about her undernourished form--Aishe, of the Sharal. One they rescued from a swamp only a few weeks ago. She held a dead rat in her hand and let it dangle from its tail.
"Witch," said Janthro, giving a growl.
She stepped up between them both and batted them back with her hand. She looked at the wares for only an instant and pointed to just one simple stone, one that could have been pulled from the muck on any road they had traveled. "That one," she said.
"That one?" said Mirathue. "Why that one?"
"It's the stone of two fools, buy it and let's go." She turned quickly and walked away, humming an unknown tune under her breath.
Mirathue looked back to the merchant, and then to his companion.
"I hate her," said Janthro.
Mirathue could only sigh.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 2
Write a scene wherein a guard/policeman/equivalent discusses a local banditry/piracy problem.
Lutians
Wind blew steady, filling the lone sail of an out of place Tieran scout ship. Far from home, with her oars pulled in, the low sleek vessel broke over the soft swells, water spraying only occasionally over the bow, bringing the cold, wet mist, and the salty smell of brine. The day clear, the light of Mirneth as bright as ever for those of the northern climes, even from the bow, Arulen of Tol, could see all the way to the horizons edge where the silver mist of the world finally obscured, and the bright blue water dipped. They were not alone.
Far in the distance, another ship grew from the world mist, its prow facing towards them. It would come nearer, and here, in the Wild Coasts, it could only mean one thing...
"Pirates," called one from high on the mast.
"Pirates," said Arulen, as if to mock. "Of course they are pirates."
"What think you?" said Dongo, their guide. His flesh more bronzed from life on the sea, his clothing not the red and gold of the others on the boat, but loose and white and dirty brown. His voice carried the foreign intonation of one of the south. "We make ready for fight?"
"They wont come for us," said Arulen. "We are a small ship, and we are Tieran. Even in the Wild Coasts, they still fear the Wardai."
"You a Wardai," said Dongo.
Arulen only glared at him.
"Is good," said Dongo. "They will much with fear."
"Look," said Arulen, pointing out the east. "Look there." Out beyond the glint of Mirneth upon the water, where gulls sang out and swooped near the land, another vessel. This one larger, with two sails, and the Green and Silver pennants of the Kingdom of Lutz. "A Kingdom vessel. Those pirates will not come near us."
"Oh...Lutians," said Dongo. "They not help us. They take money. No fight with pirates."
"Are you ill?" said Arulen. "They are a Kingdom vessel. Our allies against the dark. They are with us in this. They would not dare turn away."
"They will turn, you will see."
Arulen shook his head and scoffed. "You think the Kingdoms are so weak. Straight ahead," he called out. "What we seek is still far, and these pirates will turn away."
Dongo made a low moan full of disbelief.
Ahead the Pirate ship grew larger. Clearly of the Wild Coasts with tattered colors of red and white not flown by any of the ruled lands, she sat twice as high upon the water, and she had broken into oars to row against the wind.
"She's coming," said the lookout.
"She'll turn," said Arulen, standing tall and holding the haft of his sword defiantly. Men on the boat grew wary, the took up their shields and weapons as all of them watched. Arulen did not want to give orders to fight, but...he would not ungive them.
The ship grew closer still, if they wished to run, they were running out of sea to turn in.
Arulen looked off to the East, the Lutian ship also grew larger, it was coming their way. They must have seen them. A Kingdom vessel with two sails and more than one deck. Were the pirates simply fools? They would be smashed if they dared.
"Here she comes," said Arulen. "The pirates must see her. They have no choice but to flee."
But the Lutian vessel turned again, facing south, and then again to the southeast. She was turning away, she was not coming close. She only slowed and looked to wait.
"She is a Kingdom vessel," said Arulen, his anger growling out.
"See, I tell you," said Dongo. "They not help."
The pirate vessel closed. The men turned and looked for an order. Arulen seethed, and his knuckles went white against his sword.
"Damn Lutians," he said.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 3
Write a scene about a chase through a busy street/road/waterway/canal.
Night Journey
HUNCHED AND DARK shapes moved before the light of red fires. Groll warriors and sentries that looked out onto the plain. They carried spears and held them ready.
Behind, the wolves came. Three turned onto five that Laurent could count, but it would not matter. His horse plunged fearfully over the low ground, tearing through the low lying mists and racing towards a camp where fires burned and Groll warriors were sure to be. Stefanus rode ahead of all of them, his scout horse faster than the heavier destriers Laurent and his companions rode.
The wolves too were fast, but so long as the path was straight, they could stay ahead of them. Still the growls and barking of beasts twice at least the size of a normal wolf were terrifying on their own.
Laurent still held his sword, its blade still wet from the last time it bit, but his Mare struggled against the bite she had taken at the creek. He could not help that.
Ahead, a number of Groll forms moved in a line, their spears dropping to set. Beyond them, another score of camps could be seen in the dark, and more beyond that, he could not know. They could not risk the spears. If they were made to slow, or worse, became stopped, they would all die this night.
"Around them," Laurent shouted out. His voice carrying in the dark. Vorg, who rode just in front looked back, and kicked his mount harder. Ahead Stefanus, and Althus rode close together. They closed quickly. In their hands a long hammer, and a cutting blade. The distance narrowed, even as wolves slowly faded back from their heels.
The Groll had set and braced, and Stefanus rode straight at them, but they would not break. At the last instant, he turned to avoid them. Althus split the other way. The Groll line moved, and then Vorg drove into them, crashing through with his heavy war mount, and swinging his mace like a sledge. Groll bodies were thrown at the impact.
Laurent came in next, his sword cutting in, a Groll blade swiping back. He felt the connection and the blade sliding through, and he felt as well the thump against his mare's breast. Curse them all, he thought, but he was through. Before him, the Groll camp, where hunched forms looked on, and weapons were coming free. But from behind...
Wolves snarled in the dark, and Groll defenders screamed out. The savagery of fangs and thrashing bodies crashing into the Groll as they turned to chase Laurent and his band. They could not know. They could not help but be overwhelmed. Giant creatures making only the softest of noise on the low ground broke into their line and ripped into their flesh.
And in the confusion, chaos.
Laurent would not stop. He followed Vorg as they burst through the camp. Vorg's destrier broke through the fire, scattering embers and ash in a wide spray, as Laurent followed behind, and struck his blade into those who turned swing a blow at his larger companion. An instant more, and he was racing again in the dark. The camp behind him, and the dark ahead. But more fires remained lit on the plain, and wolves could not rescue them from the battles ahead.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 4
Write a scene about the latest flying contraption to be used/demonstrated/invented in your world.
Never to fly
HER GAIT, SLOW, her motions showing pain, a lone woman moved towards the piled rocks of a low well. With effort, she dropped in the bucket, and then pulled the rope that would raise it again. Her posture spoke of a ruined side, the well, of scant possessions, a cave beyond, her seclusion. Dressed in a tanned hide that exposed her shoulders and back to the wind, and choosing to go with bare feet, she shifted in her stance as if there were a strain, but the wooden bucket rose and she let it sit, full and wet on the shallow edge.
The light of Mirneth beat down. In this land, so far from the cold of Norvaine, few things grew. A land of dirt and sand, dry plants and red rock. It was all she wanted.
Trees scattered in the plain beneath, and in the valley between the giant rocks, and even on the level surface of the plateau where she waited, and made her home. Few ever came--fewer still to see her.
The footfalls of hunters broke through the silence. They must not know where they were. They moved through brush and low trees, their bronzed and painted skin moving in the spaces between. A few strides more and they broke into the open ground where they could be seen, and she could not hide.
Six hunters in all; she stared at them.
"I know you," said one. "You're the Witch. The one that came with the Bear Killer."
The woman looked back at him, and scoffed. All of them looking on her like they were the scared sheep. She could not bear the sight of them. She let out a growl and snapped her hand forward, and the whole lot of them drew back with eyes wide. She laughed. "I am she," she said. "The Witch. Now leave before I eat you."
One sniffed in the air. "You don't frighten me," he said. "How is it you have water?"
Still small, she stood to her full height and looked about. She had so little, and yet water was too much? "I am the Witch," she said. "I have many things. Many things that you would say have come from bad spirits."
"I am Jogo," he said, beating his chest with his fist. "I come looking for the Bear Killer. He visits you."
"Not for a long while."
"But there are rumors you can fly on the wind, that you can find him. They say you are a Spirit Woman. A Shaminka."
The woman laughed out loud. "You would trust me?" she said. "You think I fly and read bones. My ways are not for you. Why should I seek him for you?"
"They have come again," said the hunter. "The beast men from the north. He is strongest of the Bear People. I would talk to him of joining against these invaders. Our two tribes together. The Sky Bird and the Bear, the Thunder and the Ripper of Trees, together."
"You are of the Bird," she said. "Why not ask your totem for flight? Why not seek your visions there?"
"We have come seeking the Bear," said the hunter. "Our shaman danced before the fire and bore the wings of the Great Spirit. His vision sent us here, to find him...and we have found you."
"I have seen enough of war," said the woman. "Last I knew, he was to the west, where the river flows and the trees are thick."
"You will not help us?" said the hunter. "You will not fly and look about for him?"
"Look at me," she said. She turned her shoulder in the light so they could see the burns that scarred her and ruined her back. "My body is broken, and I have no wings. I cannot fly."
"But you have a spirit woman's blood," said the hunter. His face twisting into a sneer, and then his spear lowering. "We are many, and you are alone. We may still have our visions with your blood."
The woman looked on him coldly, and felt only sadness in her heart. So many lands, so many who wished for violence. "I am a worn woman who wishes only for a drink," she said. "You may join me at the well, and drink with me, or I may burn out your eyes." In her open hand, a light ebbed, dim but growing brighter, enough that they could see, and draw back.
"Which would you choose?"
The hunter frowned and grew wary. "Witch," he said.
"I know not where he is," she said. "But your way is to the west."
The hunter gave a scowl and turned his spear away. "You are not welcome in this land," he said. "The spirits will turn on you." They drew back from her, with their faces bearing caution and suspicion, but they would not come near. Turning west, they began to leave.
"You do not wish for any water?" she said, and then she began to laugh and to drink.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 5
Write a scene about an obscure holiday and how those who know it celebrate it.
Waking Day
A thousand reports, a thousand voices...all about the war. Was this what it meant to be Queen? To spend each moment in worry, each thought in darkness. So many looked on her wanting to see in her the valiance and defiance of themselves in her continence and stride. But she was not a warrior. She was barely even a Queen. The troubles of so many tore at her. Ate at her joy.
Gavaine...Must he be away at war? Could he not have stayed a little longer?
She walked along the marble halls, her soft shoes quiet against the stone; a silent contrast to the hard boots of advisers and guardsmen who bustled about around her. She did not show it, she wanted scream.
"Majesty," they would say as she walked by, or, "Queen Jienne." Each bowing low, each making a space. She would not show them frailty, she would not show them weakness, but at each utterance she wanted all the more to be alone.
The Steward spied her. Somehow Renaud always knew. He smiled at her, and his voice soothed comforting. "Majesty, I will handle matters here. If you wish to take repose in a more quiet area, I happen to know the drawing room that overlooks the garden is sufficiently empty."
"You are a blessing," she said.
Renaud bowed, his elderly frame dipping only so low. "But of course Majesty. It is my pleasure..."
She hurried in her step, regretting the lack of grace with which she left him. A few turns down the more private halls, and the noise stopped. Beyond a tall door, she slipped in and closed it fast. Leaning against it, with her hands up near her chest, she breathed fast, and then slowed to a long steady inhale.
But then she was not alone. The Princesse Morianne, her adoptive daughter...the King's adoptive daughter...waited near the window dropping white and yellow flower petals along the sill, and then more again around the baseboard. She barely knew her as well...Renaud must have known.
She watched the girl continue. Such a strange child. She was not much of a Princesse, just as she, herself, was not much of a Queen. "What are you doing?" Jienne said to the child.
Morianne stood up straighter and smiled, her wheat colored hair lacking braids, her dress, less formal than she should wear. She could not be a stranger contrast to Jienne's own regal posture and dark features. "Don't you know?" she said.
"No," said Jienne. "I don't know."
"It's Waking Day," the child said. "At least, I think it is."
"Waking Day?"
"Yes," said Morianne. "To wake the Dragon. If Mirneth goes north, the great sleeping dragon may wake and paint the sky with green and purple fire. Everyone watches. It means it will be a warm season. And there is a big feast, and I get to set the flowers. There is a split in the mountain where Mirneth's great fire rises, and everyone knows, this is the day that he goes to visit."
"Oh," said Jienne. "I had not heard."
"I saw the light last night. I think the dragon is awake. It means everyone will be happy."
"That would be nice," said Jienne. "We should all have a Waking day."
"It was on Waking day when they came," said Morianne. "I just didn't want to forget."
"Oh," said Jienne. "I didn't know." She as well had forgotten. The war had affected them all.
"Nobody does," Morianne said. "Nobody remembers."
Jienne said nothing. All the words she could think to say seemed somehow wrong, and the somberness of the room seemed more fitting. But...she knew she must try. After a long moment, she went fully into the room and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs that faced the windows. Morianne went back to laying flowers and humming gently to herself. She watched the girl at her task, but her heart grew heavy and broke deeper the more she watched, until, at last, she must speak. "Morianne," she said.
The child stopped and went still, but said nothing. She made no motion at all.
"Morianne," Jienne said again. "I want you know, you are not alone." Her voice cracked, and she wrestled with her own emotions, they swelled at her from within. Wiping a tear, she breathed slow and deep until she gained more composure. "I want you to know that whatever happens, I will take care of you. I was not your mother, but I will be your mother now. I will not let those bad things happen again."
Morianne turned to look back at her, with suspicion in her gaze. "I think the King is a nice man," she said.
"I think so too," said Jienne, tears returning to her eyes.
"On Waking Day, no one is supposed to cry."
Jienne gave a laugh, in spite of herself. "Well, maybe, just this once, we can make an exception."
Morianne nodded, and her own tears began to fall. Jienne went to her and held her until they both grew strong together.
Another happy Waking Day.
Questions or comments? PM Box
Read my stories: The Eye of Ebon <--for sale on Amazon!
The pond
For days he had followed the shadow of the sky. Dark lines that broke through the silver haze and streaked over the land. It must have fallen. The land had trembled and the mountains smoked. The omens were bad.
Jurutu walked alone over the wet ground, pushing through broad leaves of green and violet. Far from the lands of the Mogowa, he ventured deep into the jungle. It was not just what he saw, but what he heard the pulled him further. A voice that hissed, and spoke, a language he did not know, but still seeped into him. It led him over wet and rooted mud, and further to where rocks streaked with white and grey broke the land and jutted high.
Surmounting one, he came to view a wide pond. The water clear and green, the rocks beneath shown in wavering semblances beneath the motions of its surface. And deep within, where clear water began to murk, a stone of brightest red, burning like the fire of the sky on a hazeless day.
He was not alone. A hunter, naked as he, and painted in the red and ocher stripes of a Tigiri stood down in the basin with a spear of glinting obsidian aimed at the depths. Jurutu held only a knife of the same black stone, but it remained at his waist. Being of the people of jade and blue jasper leaf, his body was marked with the colors of his tribe. He would be an outsider to the hunter. Not welcome.
He would leave, but the voice beckoned him. Its source, he knew, came from below. "Save me," it said.
Jurutu looked down with eyes wide. There was more in the pond. A creature swam in it, a long serpent-like fish, with scales of glistening black, its length twice that of he and the hunter. "Save me," the voice called again.
Jurutu slid down the rocks, moving along the low drops and wide slope to approach the pond. In the distance he heard the hunter thrust in his spear and pull it back, growling. At the water's edge he stood and looked on him, and the hunter looked back.
Below the wet surface, the voice returned, and was melodic. "He means to kill me," it said.
Jurutu looked down. The serpent just strides away, undulating to keep in place. It body black as darkest glass, its eyes bright like silver stones. And then it shifted; changing and rising from the surface, it took shape. Slender curves and wide hips; a woman--a goddess of deepest black, with a hand inviting, and eyes wanting. "I am trapped," she said. "The land has dried, and the water does not flow. I cannot leave."
He knew the Goddess at once, Rikiamanu of water and life.
The hunter screamed at him. "Do not," he shouted. "She is poison, she is death." He ran around the pond, coming to stand only paces away with his spear low. "Stab the heart," he said, pointing into the pond. "Kill the creature."
"You would slay a goddess?" Jurutu asked.
"He would kill me," she pleaded. "Kill him, and I will reward you with such life as men do not know."
"Wickedness and lies," said the hunter.
"Save me," she said.
Jurutu felt his head clouded. He looked on her and saw only beauty, only desire. And the hunter, he was a sharp toothed monster, an Ongonshu. "No," he said. "I will free her."
The hunter clenched his jaw and bared his teeth. "Fool," he growled. He rushed forward with his spear, threatening to pierce it into the form of the woman--into Rikiamanu.
Jurutu could not let him. The Goddess was life. He pulled his knife from his belt and flung himself at the hunter. The spear shifted, and the knife rose high, both glinting in the light, both plunging in. Jurutu pierced through; he crashed into the hunter, knocking him back to the water, and falling with him to the silt. His knife stabbing in again and again, turning the clear water red as loka berries.
When he stood again, the spear was impaled though him, and the hunter was gone. He coughed, his own red life wetting his lips. Grasping the spear he, held it firm and hardened himself to his fate. But the goddess… she drifted near, and spoke to soothe… Her hands caressed him, holding his head as her body pressed near.
"Sweet warrior," she said. "Let us embrace, and join. I shall take away your pain, and bring you to new life."
He did not resist. To look into her eyes, to feel her pressed against him, he was enchanted--beguiled. She pulled him in closer. Let her black inky body slide against his, enshrouding him, engulfing him. Her body merged with his. Black flesh en-wrapped and spread over his, like an ooze that opened and swallowed him in, covering him whole. But he did not feel it, or any pain at all. The spear was gone from his side, his thoughts solely on the comfort of her, his mind clouded to the world of water and life.
He looked up. He saw her no more, instead, his vision held only the water rising above him as he drifted down. A heart beat, a soft rhythmic thrum as all he knew turned dark. Her voice still spoke. "We are one," she said. "We shall become strong. We shall rule them all."
Jurutu felt himself screaming, but his thoughts did not know why. They were one. Not he and Rikiamanu, but he and something greater. He and something in shadow.
Ban's Weekly Challenge
Write a scene about a jewelry vendor at a market (in the world you are currently working on).
Street Fare
"You, Sir, look like you are searching," said the merchant behind his stall.
Mirathue scoffed--street fare, in a colored tent, with wares open to all passers by. Colored stones--of what use could they be? In the ports of Morheim, none would even offer such trinkets. Gold and jewels were of no use for those of the garrison realms. Men of the north had little use for trinkets in sparkling colors. Iron and steel or he had nothing he could want...
"You do seek," said the merchant, his eyes brown even in their whites, his thin beard curling up, his flesh, a swarthy russet brown. "I can see it in your face. I can see it inside of you. Something is lost to the dark, something is lost and you cannot find."
Mirathue stopped to look on the man. He was small, and bore no signs of wealth, or of special knowledge, only a low street merchant, and likely a thief also by the style of his dress. "You know me by my fairer skin, and Tieran garb," said Mirathue. "You've nothing I want."
"But I do," said the merchant, holding up a dark stone, near black. "The Eye of Ebon. To look through it is to see the light."
"You lie," said Mirathue becoming affronted. "I was there. I saw it destroyed. It will never return."
"Never?" said the man with a wry smile. "Do you not want to try it, and see?"
"I would sooner kill you than let you have such a thing." Mirathue let his hand slide onto his sword and shift it more to the front.
"What's he saying," said a new voice. Janthro, his long time companion, a toothless brawler, strong and thin. He strode up beside him with menace to his tone.
"He says he has the Ebon Eye."
"Bah," said Janthro. "It is gone."
"Perhaps another," said the merchant. He pulled from beneath a cloth a new stone. Reddish and orange like fire, shaped as a raindrop still in fall. "A tear of Varnesta," he cooed.
"A tear of who?" said Janthro, growing angrier. "What is this? Varnesta has never cried."
"Oh, but she has," said the merchant. "Just once. You know the legends, don't you?" He looked to the older and more lined face of Mirathue, and smiled wide as if he knew more than he could.
Mirathue looked on him with a scowl. "How can you know of such things? Who are your gods? You can not have such thing. Varnesta has never visited you."
"But I hold it still. A tear that keeps the spirits away. Could it not be here? Can you know where I have travelled?"
"There are no spirits," said Janthro. "At least, none that follow us. He's been told about us. That is all."
The Merchant frowned. "Perhaps an amethyst," he said. "This one bears all remembrance." He held up the pale purple stone, a shimmering light twinkled within. "With this, you could know all that you seek. The memories of Kings lie in its depths. Even those of the old races--the races before even the silver Sharal."
"He's a liar," said Janthro, turning away in disgust. "No one can have such things. Let's leave, before some of these street rats pick our pockets."
Mirathue scrunched his face and nodded to agree. "Why do I waste my time here? She's not here, nothing is here. This whole useless land has nothing to find."
"A liar?" said the merchant, smiling wide and flipping the stone into the air only to catch it again, and slide it down below his table. Maybe another...Maybe the stone that whispers, the tanzanite heart? What you seek hides in the dark, but this stone alone can feel her heart, and know her thoughts. She cannot hide if you have this? It alone can draw you to her."
"How can you know who we seek?" said Mirathue. "You cannot know such things. No stone can find her."
"This one can."
"Bah," said Janthro.
"What you seek is far from here, and in many places. Without her heart, she drifts, and cannot be found. You must know it, or you cannot find her. Hold it, and feel it beat within you."
The stone waited before his grasp. Strange as it seemed, Mirathue reached out his hand. The whole of him disbelieving, but as he touched it, he did feel it throb and grow warm, and his vision faded, and briefly, he thought he could even scent her on the air. "Impossible," he said.
The merchant only grinned. "Do you believe me now?"
Mirathue scented again, but the smell had changed. He smelled only old fish and bitter weeds. He turned and saw the last of his party. Silver flesh and hair, and bedraggled clothing about her undernourished form--Aishe, of the Sharal. One they rescued from a swamp only a few weeks ago. She held a dead rat in her hand and let it dangle from its tail.
"Witch," said Janthro, giving a growl.
She stepped up between them both and batted them back with her hand. She looked at the wares for only an instant and pointed to just one simple stone, one that could have been pulled from the muck on any road they had traveled. "That one," she said.
"That one?" said Mirathue. "Why that one?"
"It's the stone of two fools, buy it and let's go." She turned quickly and walked away, humming an unknown tune under her breath.
Mirathue looked back to the merchant, and then to his companion.
"I hate her," said Janthro.
Mirathue could only sigh.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 2
Write a scene wherein a guard/policeman/equivalent discusses a local banditry/piracy problem.
Lutians
Wind blew steady, filling the lone sail of an out of place Tieran scout ship. Far from home, with her oars pulled in, the low sleek vessel broke over the soft swells, water spraying only occasionally over the bow, bringing the cold, wet mist, and the salty smell of brine. The day clear, the light of Mirneth as bright as ever for those of the northern climes, even from the bow, Arulen of Tol, could see all the way to the horizons edge where the silver mist of the world finally obscured, and the bright blue water dipped. They were not alone.
Far in the distance, another ship grew from the world mist, its prow facing towards them. It would come nearer, and here, in the Wild Coasts, it could only mean one thing...
"Pirates," called one from high on the mast.
"Pirates," said Arulen, as if to mock. "Of course they are pirates."
"What think you?" said Dongo, their guide. His flesh more bronzed from life on the sea, his clothing not the red and gold of the others on the boat, but loose and white and dirty brown. His voice carried the foreign intonation of one of the south. "We make ready for fight?"
"They wont come for us," said Arulen. "We are a small ship, and we are Tieran. Even in the Wild Coasts, they still fear the Wardai."
"You a Wardai," said Dongo.
Arulen only glared at him.
"Is good," said Dongo. "They will much with fear."
"Look," said Arulen, pointing out the east. "Look there." Out beyond the glint of Mirneth upon the water, where gulls sang out and swooped near the land, another vessel. This one larger, with two sails, and the Green and Silver pennants of the Kingdom of Lutz. "A Kingdom vessel. Those pirates will not come near us."
"Oh...Lutians," said Dongo. "They not help us. They take money. No fight with pirates."
"Are you ill?" said Arulen. "They are a Kingdom vessel. Our allies against the dark. They are with us in this. They would not dare turn away."
"They will turn, you will see."
Arulen shook his head and scoffed. "You think the Kingdoms are so weak. Straight ahead," he called out. "What we seek is still far, and these pirates will turn away."
Dongo made a low moan full of disbelief.
Ahead the Pirate ship grew larger. Clearly of the Wild Coasts with tattered colors of red and white not flown by any of the ruled lands, she sat twice as high upon the water, and she had broken into oars to row against the wind.
"She's coming," said the lookout.
"She'll turn," said Arulen, standing tall and holding the haft of his sword defiantly. Men on the boat grew wary, the took up their shields and weapons as all of them watched. Arulen did not want to give orders to fight, but...he would not ungive them.
The ship grew closer still, if they wished to run, they were running out of sea to turn in.
Arulen looked off to the East, the Lutian ship also grew larger, it was coming their way. They must have seen them. A Kingdom vessel with two sails and more than one deck. Were the pirates simply fools? They would be smashed if they dared.
"Here she comes," said Arulen. "The pirates must see her. They have no choice but to flee."
But the Lutian vessel turned again, facing south, and then again to the southeast. She was turning away, she was not coming close. She only slowed and looked to wait.
"She is a Kingdom vessel," said Arulen, his anger growling out.
"See, I tell you," said Dongo. "They not help."
The pirate vessel closed. The men turned and looked for an order. Arulen seethed, and his knuckles went white against his sword.
"Damn Lutians," he said.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 3
Write a scene about a chase through a busy street/road/waterway/canal.
Night Journey
HUNCHED AND DARK shapes moved before the light of red fires. Groll warriors and sentries that looked out onto the plain. They carried spears and held them ready.
Behind, the wolves came. Three turned onto five that Laurent could count, but it would not matter. His horse plunged fearfully over the low ground, tearing through the low lying mists and racing towards a camp where fires burned and Groll warriors were sure to be. Stefanus rode ahead of all of them, his scout horse faster than the heavier destriers Laurent and his companions rode.
The wolves too were fast, but so long as the path was straight, they could stay ahead of them. Still the growls and barking of beasts twice at least the size of a normal wolf were terrifying on their own.
Laurent still held his sword, its blade still wet from the last time it bit, but his Mare struggled against the bite she had taken at the creek. He could not help that.
Ahead, a number of Groll forms moved in a line, their spears dropping to set. Beyond them, another score of camps could be seen in the dark, and more beyond that, he could not know. They could not risk the spears. If they were made to slow, or worse, became stopped, they would all die this night.
"Around them," Laurent shouted out. His voice carrying in the dark. Vorg, who rode just in front looked back, and kicked his mount harder. Ahead Stefanus, and Althus rode close together. They closed quickly. In their hands a long hammer, and a cutting blade. The distance narrowed, even as wolves slowly faded back from their heels.
The Groll had set and braced, and Stefanus rode straight at them, but they would not break. At the last instant, he turned to avoid them. Althus split the other way. The Groll line moved, and then Vorg drove into them, crashing through with his heavy war mount, and swinging his mace like a sledge. Groll bodies were thrown at the impact.
Laurent came in next, his sword cutting in, a Groll blade swiping back. He felt the connection and the blade sliding through, and he felt as well the thump against his mare's breast. Curse them all, he thought, but he was through. Before him, the Groll camp, where hunched forms looked on, and weapons were coming free. But from behind...
Wolves snarled in the dark, and Groll defenders screamed out. The savagery of fangs and thrashing bodies crashing into the Groll as they turned to chase Laurent and his band. They could not know. They could not help but be overwhelmed. Giant creatures making only the softest of noise on the low ground broke into their line and ripped into their flesh.
And in the confusion, chaos.
Laurent would not stop. He followed Vorg as they burst through the camp. Vorg's destrier broke through the fire, scattering embers and ash in a wide spray, as Laurent followed behind, and struck his blade into those who turned swing a blow at his larger companion. An instant more, and he was racing again in the dark. The camp behind him, and the dark ahead. But more fires remained lit on the plain, and wolves could not rescue them from the battles ahead.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 4
Write a scene about the latest flying contraption to be used/demonstrated/invented in your world.
Never to fly
HER GAIT, SLOW, her motions showing pain, a lone woman moved towards the piled rocks of a low well. With effort, she dropped in the bucket, and then pulled the rope that would raise it again. Her posture spoke of a ruined side, the well, of scant possessions, a cave beyond, her seclusion. Dressed in a tanned hide that exposed her shoulders and back to the wind, and choosing to go with bare feet, she shifted in her stance as if there were a strain, but the wooden bucket rose and she let it sit, full and wet on the shallow edge.
The light of Mirneth beat down. In this land, so far from the cold of Norvaine, few things grew. A land of dirt and sand, dry plants and red rock. It was all she wanted.
Trees scattered in the plain beneath, and in the valley between the giant rocks, and even on the level surface of the plateau where she waited, and made her home. Few ever came--fewer still to see her.
The footfalls of hunters broke through the silence. They must not know where they were. They moved through brush and low trees, their bronzed and painted skin moving in the spaces between. A few strides more and they broke into the open ground where they could be seen, and she could not hide.
Six hunters in all; she stared at them.
"I know you," said one. "You're the Witch. The one that came with the Bear Killer."
The woman looked back at him, and scoffed. All of them looking on her like they were the scared sheep. She could not bear the sight of them. She let out a growl and snapped her hand forward, and the whole lot of them drew back with eyes wide. She laughed. "I am she," she said. "The Witch. Now leave before I eat you."
One sniffed in the air. "You don't frighten me," he said. "How is it you have water?"
Still small, she stood to her full height and looked about. She had so little, and yet water was too much? "I am the Witch," she said. "I have many things. Many things that you would say have come from bad spirits."
"I am Jogo," he said, beating his chest with his fist. "I come looking for the Bear Killer. He visits you."
"Not for a long while."
"But there are rumors you can fly on the wind, that you can find him. They say you are a Spirit Woman. A Shaminka."
The woman laughed out loud. "You would trust me?" she said. "You think I fly and read bones. My ways are not for you. Why should I seek him for you?"
"They have come again," said the hunter. "The beast men from the north. He is strongest of the Bear People. I would talk to him of joining against these invaders. Our two tribes together. The Sky Bird and the Bear, the Thunder and the Ripper of Trees, together."
"You are of the Bird," she said. "Why not ask your totem for flight? Why not seek your visions there?"
"We have come seeking the Bear," said the hunter. "Our shaman danced before the fire and bore the wings of the Great Spirit. His vision sent us here, to find him...and we have found you."
"I have seen enough of war," said the woman. "Last I knew, he was to the west, where the river flows and the trees are thick."
"You will not help us?" said the hunter. "You will not fly and look about for him?"
"Look at me," she said. She turned her shoulder in the light so they could see the burns that scarred her and ruined her back. "My body is broken, and I have no wings. I cannot fly."
"But you have a spirit woman's blood," said the hunter. His face twisting into a sneer, and then his spear lowering. "We are many, and you are alone. We may still have our visions with your blood."
The woman looked on him coldly, and felt only sadness in her heart. So many lands, so many who wished for violence. "I am a worn woman who wishes only for a drink," she said. "You may join me at the well, and drink with me, or I may burn out your eyes." In her open hand, a light ebbed, dim but growing brighter, enough that they could see, and draw back.
"Which would you choose?"
The hunter frowned and grew wary. "Witch," he said.
"I know not where he is," she said. "But your way is to the west."
The hunter gave a scowl and turned his spear away. "You are not welcome in this land," he said. "The spirits will turn on you." They drew back from her, with their faces bearing caution and suspicion, but they would not come near. Turning west, they began to leave.
"You do not wish for any water?" she said, and then she began to laugh and to drink.
Ban's Weekly Challenge 5
Write a scene about an obscure holiday and how those who know it celebrate it.
Waking Day
A thousand reports, a thousand voices...all about the war. Was this what it meant to be Queen? To spend each moment in worry, each thought in darkness. So many looked on her wanting to see in her the valiance and defiance of themselves in her continence and stride. But she was not a warrior. She was barely even a Queen. The troubles of so many tore at her. Ate at her joy.
Gavaine...Must he be away at war? Could he not have stayed a little longer?
She walked along the marble halls, her soft shoes quiet against the stone; a silent contrast to the hard boots of advisers and guardsmen who bustled about around her. She did not show it, she wanted scream.
"Majesty," they would say as she walked by, or, "Queen Jienne." Each bowing low, each making a space. She would not show them frailty, she would not show them weakness, but at each utterance she wanted all the more to be alone.
The Steward spied her. Somehow Renaud always knew. He smiled at her, and his voice soothed comforting. "Majesty, I will handle matters here. If you wish to take repose in a more quiet area, I happen to know the drawing room that overlooks the garden is sufficiently empty."
"You are a blessing," she said.
Renaud bowed, his elderly frame dipping only so low. "But of course Majesty. It is my pleasure..."
She hurried in her step, regretting the lack of grace with which she left him. A few turns down the more private halls, and the noise stopped. Beyond a tall door, she slipped in and closed it fast. Leaning against it, with her hands up near her chest, she breathed fast, and then slowed to a long steady inhale.
But then she was not alone. The Princesse Morianne, her adoptive daughter...the King's adoptive daughter...waited near the window dropping white and yellow flower petals along the sill, and then more again around the baseboard. She barely knew her as well...Renaud must have known.
She watched the girl continue. Such a strange child. She was not much of a Princesse, just as she, herself, was not much of a Queen. "What are you doing?" Jienne said to the child.
Morianne stood up straighter and smiled, her wheat colored hair lacking braids, her dress, less formal than she should wear. She could not be a stranger contrast to Jienne's own regal posture and dark features. "Don't you know?" she said.
"No," said Jienne. "I don't know."
"It's Waking Day," the child said. "At least, I think it is."
"Waking Day?"
"Yes," said Morianne. "To wake the Dragon. If Mirneth goes north, the great sleeping dragon may wake and paint the sky with green and purple fire. Everyone watches. It means it will be a warm season. And there is a big feast, and I get to set the flowers. There is a split in the mountain where Mirneth's great fire rises, and everyone knows, this is the day that he goes to visit."
"Oh," said Jienne. "I had not heard."
"I saw the light last night. I think the dragon is awake. It means everyone will be happy."
"That would be nice," said Jienne. "We should all have a Waking day."
"It was on Waking day when they came," said Morianne. "I just didn't want to forget."
"Oh," said Jienne. "I didn't know." She as well had forgotten. The war had affected them all.
"Nobody does," Morianne said. "Nobody remembers."
Jienne said nothing. All the words she could think to say seemed somehow wrong, and the somberness of the room seemed more fitting. But...she knew she must try. After a long moment, she went fully into the room and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs that faced the windows. Morianne went back to laying flowers and humming gently to herself. She watched the girl at her task, but her heart grew heavy and broke deeper the more she watched, until, at last, she must speak. "Morianne," she said.
The child stopped and went still, but said nothing. She made no motion at all.
"Morianne," Jienne said again. "I want you know, you are not alone." Her voice cracked, and she wrestled with her own emotions, they swelled at her from within. Wiping a tear, she breathed slow and deep until she gained more composure. "I want you to know that whatever happens, I will take care of you. I was not your mother, but I will be your mother now. I will not let those bad things happen again."
Morianne turned to look back at her, with suspicion in her gaze. "I think the King is a nice man," she said.
"I think so too," said Jienne, tears returning to her eyes.
"On Waking Day, no one is supposed to cry."
Jienne gave a laugh, in spite of herself. "Well, maybe, just this once, we can make an exception."
Morianne nodded, and her own tears began to fall. Jienne went to her and held her until they both grew strong together.
Another happy Waking Day.
Questions or comments? PM Box
Read my stories: The Eye of Ebon <--for sale on Amazon!
