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 Posted: Wed May 29, 2013 5:04 pm
 Do I have to tell the story of a thousand rainy days since we first met?-- "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic", The Police Here stands the one novel that I have had the patience to deal with. My unimpressive masterpiece. The thread will be spruced up as the months go on, I'm sure, but I desperately need opinions that don't come from the mouths of my best friends. It's an unconventional project, so if ya'll have the time to look it over, please share your experience with it. Many thanks. Synopsis:Days are peaceful. The land is without enemy, and the peoples on either side of the river go about their day to day lives. Most maintain their existence in a stable place, those who have settled and have family to provide for. There are, of course, those who wander from town to town as they please, the merchants and the adventure-seekers. In a world distrustful of magic, the sorceress is such a person. She never lingers, and she never answers questions. The woman floats about with a riddle in her eyes and an unsettling smile on her lips, and none are to know what lies beyond them. Novel Playlist
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Posted: Wed May 29, 2013 5:06 pm
Schedule:The Fallen-- The Dreamer-- The Runaway--6/15 The Sly--6/22 Noah--6/23 The Outlaw--6/29 The Mourner--7/1 The Vulnerable--7/6 Noah--7/7 The Lover--7/9 The Performer--7/15 The Mage--7/20 Noah--7/27 The Traitor--8/1 The Careless--8/3 The Watchdog--8/5 Noah--8/10 The Despondent--8/17 The Innocent--8/19 The Threatened--8/24 Noah--8/26 The Old Friend--8/27 The Exile--8/28 The End--8/30
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Posted: Wed May 29, 2013 5:16 pm
The Fallen
The rain thundered against the roof of the inn. It was not the gentle pitter-patter of a sun shower, but the roar of a vengeful storm. Wind lashed the exterior of the small building while rain beat the windows. The darkness outside was complete, the thick clouds blacking out even the faintest of lights from above. The occasional brilliant flash of lightning lit the room, far more effective than the few strategically placed lanterns, but only briefly. The flames in the lanterns burned meekly. Their flickering light produced shadows that danced along the floor, though the few inhabitants of the inn were still as statues. The room housed five people in all. There was the innkeeper, a heavy-set woman with streaks of gray in her dark hair, who stood behind the bar looking worriedly out the window. She shook her head at the storm, serving up a drink when beckoned by one of those who were sitting at the bar. Three individuals were perched on the old wooden stools. A young couple, bundled in traveling cloaks, smiled at each other with shining eyes, creating a picture of bliss as the storm continued to rage outside. Beside them slouched a man clearly determined to drown himself in his ale. He stared down into his mug, sickened by the pair beside him. He suspected that the woman was with child--her lover's hand was conspicuously placed on her belly, which bulged tellingly in spite of her small frame. Any other day he may have smiled at them. He might have taken delight in observing their joy. Any other day he may have congratulated the couple, perhaps spared a coin or two for them, but not that night. The storm outside seemed to the man a pale reflection of the storm that brewed within himself.
The fifth sat apart. Sitting by the window, staring into the rain with an envious eye, was a figure clad in shimmering robes of dark blue. She wore white-blond curls that stopped just shy of her hips, and she had not moved in hours. While the downtrodden man at the bar suffered, soaking wet and shivering, the blond woman had not endured a single drop of rain. She must have arrived before the storm, the man thought. He thought of another curly-haired woman who was warm and dry, probably still pacing the halls of their home. He could see Amaia in his mind’s eye with her arms still wrapped tightly around herself, her head shaking back and forth, the rage and hurt in her gray eyes. Imagining her was enough to drive him away from the happy couple, clutching his mug in both his hands as he turned away. The lovers took no notice. They were far too occupied in the act of staring into each other’s eyes. Not knowing where else to go, the man brought his mug to the small table by the window and sat beside the blond. He kept his head down. He didn't want the woman to think he was looking for a conversation. From what he could tell, however, the woman did not acknowledge his presence. That was alright with him.
He lifted his head after a moment, looking out the window to stare out into the tempest. He could perceive dark shapes in the distance that he knew were trees bending in the wind. The shapes whipped back and forth madly, being pushed hard one way for a moment, righting themselves for an instant, then once again being forced down by the gusts. He began to worry that the trees might snap. Lightning flashed, startling him, and left an afterimage in his eyes long after it had vanished. He could barely see the rain fall in the darkness, though it was impossible not to know it was there. The man watched the trees, allowing a few minutes to pass without event. No one in the inn spoke. Occasionally the innkeeper would cough, or the pregnant woman would giggle. The woman next to him did not utter a sound, and neither did she move a muscle. He couldn't even hear her breathing over the din of the driving downpour. Though he was initially grateful for the woman's silence, it began to bother him. The man’s curiosity got the better of him before long, and finally he glanced at her.
She did not react. He assumed that meant she did not notice him looking. Her eyes remained fixed on the rain. They were bright blue--unnaturally so. They were the same shade of blue, he observed, as lightning. Slightly disturbed by the unsettling color of her eyes, the man swiftly averted his gaze. He had seen enough of her face to know that she was beautiful. She had fair skin that was without blemish. Good bone structure, he'd noted. High cheekbones. The gentle curve of her jawline came to a daintily pointed chin. He thought he had caught a glimpse of elven ears beneath her curls, and she looked elven enough, but he remained unsure. A lovely face, no doubt. But her eyes.
In his peripheral vision he saw her turn to face him. He bowed his head to stare down at his ale once again, silently denying having looked at her. Though he couldn't see her, he was sure he felt her gaze burning his flesh. He shivered, and told himself it was from the cold. Seconds felt like minutes. It wasn't possible for her to still be staring, was it? He took a breath and slowly turned his gaze toward her. She was staring right into his eyes.
He looked away quickly, grateful that he had managed not to jump from how badly she had startled him. He coughed. He adjusted his collar. He took a long drink from his mug. He coughed again. This woman had him shaken. He dared to look again, and there she was still, electric blue eyes wide and locked on him, and wearing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. He recognized it instantly as a false smile, one that he had often seen from his wife. Yet the smile from the blond seemed far more controlled than those he was accustomed to. It was measured, practiced. That along with her wide eyes created a picture of madness that chilled him far more than his wet clothes. Once more he turned away, eyes on the storm. "Gloomy weather," he mumbled quietly, wishing that the woman would just go away.
"Why?" The woman had a high, cheerful voice that was not unpleasant, but did nothing to calm the man.
He sighed, glaring at the trees as they flailed in the wind. "Why what?" He purposely sounded impatient, hoping she would take a hint. He wanted her gone--wanted the woman with eyes of lightning and curls like his wife's to get swept up in the storm and be blown far, far away somewhere he would never have to see her again. Amaia had probably wished the same fate on him when she kicked him out.
The woman laughed softly at his lack of understanding. "Why is the weather gloomy?"
The man looked at her again, barely believing his ears. Incredulously, he gestured to the window and the dramatic view of the storm. "It's raining," he answered simply, annoyance evident in his tone.
She only laughed again. "And what's so sad about rain?" At last she turned away and focused on the scene outside. Lightning lit up the sky once more, curling over the trees but never touching the ground.
He narrowed his eyes at the woman. He could not begin to grasp the point to all of her questions; they were so stupid, so obvious...and yet he struggled for an answer. He, too, looked back out at the rain. He studied it, sensing her mocking smile as the seconds ticked by. The answer was so plain that it was difficult to see. The fault of her, not his perception, he told himself to protect his pride.
"It's the dark," he finally said. "The gloom, clearly."
The woman hummed at his response, a little "Mmm-hmmm" as if she was considering his answer. She tapped the window. "But nights are dark, too. Do you find all nights to be gloomy-as-in-sad, not just gloomy-as-in-dark?" She didn't turn, but instead gave the man a sideways glance and a smirk.
Not all his nights depressed him. They had not all been like this. Some of them had been filled with wonder; star-gazing in his boyhood. Some had been adventurous; the antics of his teenaged years. Some had been perfect...He recalled nights spent with his wife back when their love was new. The scent of her hair, the soft caress of her skin against his, the hushed sounds of her excited breaths. He shook his head.
The woman's hand fell, tapping the table. She beat a definite rhythm, one that was familiar to the man, though he could not name it. "So what is it, then? What is it about rain?" Thunder rumbled, shaking the walls of the inn. The beat she was tapping did not falter. The man focused. He forced himself to see the nearly invisible raindrops. Millions of them, all dropping to the earth together, flooding the streams and fields. He looked up at the clouds. It was a long way for the water to fall, all those raindrops plummeting down from the heavens. He nodded. As he spoke again, he lowered his voice. "It's the fall," he said, pronouncing the words slowly. "Rain falls out of grace. It falls from the heavens."
"Ah..." she said, nodding. A moment of silence passed, then she hummed again. The man felt sure he had discovered the tragedy. There was nothing more devastating than a fall. Falling out of trust. Falling out of love. Helplessly sailing down only to crash hard to the ground. Indeed, he thought, there could be nothing more upsetting. He watched the woman shake her head. "No," she said simply, "not quite."
The man shut his eyes. "Excuse me?" He put his hand on the table, producing a sound much louder than her tapping. Her finger stopped, floating above the table, frozen. She turned to him and cocked her head to the side, blinking in confusion as a dog would. When he said nothing else, she laughed.
"It's okay that the rain falls," she chirped optimistically. "When the sun comes out, the rain rises. So," she grinned, "it's okay in the end, you see?"
The man could not help but notice once more the falseness of her expressions. Her positive attitude was forced, faked from the tone of her voice to the disarming, innocent smile. He was reminded of why he was so disturbed by her in the first place. Her eyes were again aimed in his direction. He thought about her words, and in spite of the lies her expression told, he found her words rang true. Rain fell. Yet the flooded streams and the puddles on the ground would warm and disappear. The water would be brought back to the clouds. "Forgiveness," he mumbled to himself.
The blond chimed in softly, "Redemption," and she sighed. Her attention left him, returning to the window just as lightning struck somewhere beyond the trees. The color lit up her face for a moment, and reflected in her eyes. In that instant, the man swore he saw her smile fall. Within the time between raindrops it returned, just as if it had never left. "No, the rain is happy," she affirmed. "It always gets forgiven."
The man took a drink from his mug as he contemplated it. "Storms aren't all that gloomy, then, are they?"
She stood, still staring into the night. "Oh, they are," she said. "It's the lightning that's sad," she crossed behind him and by the time the man lifted his head to look at her she was walking out the door. He stared for a moment, even considered going after her, but ultimately decided against it.
He swallowed the last of his ale. Perhaps he would go home after the storm calmed, beg Amaia’s forgiveness. It would not hurt to try. He gazed out the window. It seemed that the storm was beginning to pass. Out in the field, he saw what appeared to be a redheaded woman in bright green robes, out walking in the rain. As strange as the sight was, stranger still was that, as he looked closer, he saw that her robes and hair were not disturbed by the wind. He watched her vanish into the trees. He caught his last glimpse of her by the flash of a lightning strike.
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Posted: Wed May 29, 2013 5:26 pm
The Dreamer
Daisy Berger left the broom leaning against the doorframe. The sun was gaining height above the horizon, but the breeze kept the summer heat at bay. From the branches the warblers whistled out their sweet songs. Daisy could see them from her window, bright yellow feathers beside the jade leaves, both against the pure blue sky. The only clouds overhead were white wisps. In short, it was hardly a day on which one should be sweeping. It was a day for grand ideas and adventure.
Unfortunately, adventure was in short supply. The town of Moyra was so small that a stranger could stroll into town, see everything there was to see in under an hour, and leave thoroughly unimpressed. It had been a one-horse town, but Old Frank died before the snow thawed that spring. Moyra had sprung up at the bottom of the Copper Hills four generations prior, and there was not another town within three days travel. The mountains marked the center of the region, nearly equal distance from the Swaddling River to the west and the Attamara Ocean to the east. Moyra was nestled in one of the flowering vales, far off of any trade route or road. Daisy had lived her whole life without meeting a single soul from outside Moyra. That day she walked out to the edge of town, dodging questions from her neighbors such as, “Shouldn’t you be workin’?” and “Does your mother know you’re out?” Daisy found a crate pushed up against Doctor Willem’s house and made herself comfortable there. She did not expect anything to happen that day. Nothing ever seemed to happen in that town. Days stretched by occupied by never-ending chores and a constant longing for anything else. After a lifetime in Moyra the girl had ceased to hope for a change. She especially didn't expect anything as magnificent as the woman she watched exit the bakery with a loaf of fresh bread.
She entered the village at noon. The sun shone on her short black hair and reflected off of it so that her hair shone like her robes. The robes were simple, elegant, holding various shades of green that seemed to shift as the woman walked, the fabric waving and shimmering as she made her way through the heart of the town.
The quiet little town practically squirmed at the sight of her. No one bothered the woman as she strolled down the street eating her newly acquired lunch. Some stopped what they were doing to watch her or mutter to their neighbor, but the woman either did not notice, or else she chose not to care. She walked with a spring in her step and a smile on her face. She breathed deeply, face turned up to the sky. Her uneventful trek through town was interrupted when Daisy called out to her. The woman turned to see her, the young girl sitting cross-legged on a wooden box. Daisy had her long brown hair kept in a braid, and in her lap was a notebook, containing both words she wrote and pictures she drew. Daisy knew she did not look like much, but she had to get the woman’s attention. "Excuse me," she said, "but are you a traveler?"
The woman smiled. "More of a wanderer," she admitted.
Daisy's eyes widened. "What's the difference?"
"Travelers tend to have a destination," the woman said, waving her hand as if to dismiss the importance of destinations, "which I do not." She took another bite from her bread.
Daisy leaned forward, catching every word that effortlessly tumbled from the stranger's lips. The girl jumped off the crate very suddenly, her notebook falling from her lap and onto the ground. Hurriedly she said, "Oh, I'm sorry, where are my manners?" She blushed, which seemed to amuse the self-proclaimed wanderer. "Hi," she said, thrusting out her hand, "I'm Daisy." Her nervous grin took up most of her face, her eager eyes locked on the woman. The stranger laughed, her gaze falling to the book left in the dirt. Daisy quickly abandoned her offer of a handshake to pick up her book. She was a little surprised at herself that she had let it fall. That sketchbook was her life. Every dream she'd ever had, every goal she'd made, it was there. The notebook was her greatest treasure, and she usually kept it closely guarded.
"Daisy, huh?" The woman's amusement could still be heard in her voice. It made Daisy feel self-conscious. "I like it. They are a simple flower, easily identifiable, though they look like many others. Quaint," the woman said before she took another bite of her bread. Daisy felt herself shrink. Simple. That was the exact opposite of what she wanted to be. "I love flower names," the woman continued, reaching into her robes with her free hand. "I love flowers, so, naturally," the woman spoke as she pulled an object from within her robes. It took Daisy a moment to recognize what it was.
She blinked. "Is that a toad?" Daisy asked, stunned. The toad blinked back at her. "You carry that around with you?"
The woman laughed and placed the toad on her shoulder. It sat there contentedly. "She's my friend, she goes everywhere with me." She waved her hand dismissively again. "I named her Marigold, after the flower, of course," she gestured proudly to the amphibian as she spoke. Daisy squinted at it. Marigold did not appear to be anything special. Marigold just looked like a toad.
Daisy looked from the toad to its owner. "And what's your name, miss?"
"Iris,"
Iris. That flower was far from simple. Brightly colored, oddly shaped, an iris was beautiful and alluring, Daisy thought. Not like her own namesake. She sighed and pulled her book to her chest.
"Well, aren't we just a patch of posies, then?" The woman said with another laugh. Daisy frowned. Iris didn't acknowledge the young girl's falling spirits, looking away to pet the toad. "Interesting town I seem to have found myself in," she mused. This recaptured young Daisy's attention.
"Interestin’? Moyra?" she said, shades of disgust and disbelief coloring her outburst. She stared at the strange woman with her mouth gaping. "How can you say that?"
The woman shrugged. Marigold shifted unhappily at the gesture, but did not otherwise complain. "Well, for one,” Iris said, “you are seated in a lovely area. Vast flowering fields all around…” She paused to inhale deeply. "The smell of them just fills the air."
Daisy shook her head. "Most of the time I can't smell it."
"What a pity you can't appreciate it," Iris said, eying the girl.
"Well," she answered, "I got used to it. It's hard to notice somethin’ you're around all the time."
Iris laughed. "Try harder, then."
Daisy bit her lip, reminding herself not to speak rudely to the woman. She still had so much to ask. She would never forgive herself if she let this woman go without asking her everything, every question she ever wrote down, waiting for this day to finally come. Just because the woman was not everything she hoped did not mean that the encounter was worthless. Odd as she was, the woman was still her window into the outside world, and all of the glorious adventures that waited for her there. Before she thought to ask any of her questions, however, Iris began to speak again.
"Furthermore, this town has an interesting reaction to strangers," she was saying, looking around at the people on the street. Few were in the immediate area, but most of the main road could be seen from where the pair stood. A few people had stopped in couples or small groups to watch Iris and Daisy. Others who passed closer by the two purposely ignored them. A tension hung about the town. The cause did not need to be questioned.
With a sigh, Daisy said, "They hate anythin’ new." She gestured at the village with her book. "They would rather stay here and have everythin’ be borin’ and perfect forever." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at them all. They were the simple ones, she thought, to have no dreams of anything better.
When Daisy looked back at Iris, she was feeding her last bit of bread to her toad. "And what's so wrong with that?" Iris questioned her. "Since when is contentment a crime?"
Daisy frowned. "Well, you're not just wastin’ away in one place, are you? Isn't there anythin’ to say for ambition?"
There was a pause, then Iris laughed again. "There is something to say for it. But there is something to say for contentment as well. I can't say I don't understand your impatience with them, though."
"I just need to get out," Daisy sighed. "I need to get out and see the world, and be anywhere but here."
Iris narrowed her eyes at the girl. Daisy felt that she was being judged. "And how old are you?" she asked.
"Thirteen," Daisy said, avoiding the woman's gaze. "In three months," she added more quietly.
"That's young even for a human."
Daisy did not look up, but she clutched her sketchbook angrily in her hands. "I'm smart for my age," she protested, but was frustrated to hear her voice come out as a childish whine. That was another reason why she was so eager to leave. Everyone always treated her like a kid, but she knew she was smarter than half of the adults in the town. The adventurer she had been waiting to meet was treating her the same way. She couldn't talk to anyone about her goals without being laughed at, and this newcomer was no different. She had imagined a wonderful traveler riding into town one day, one who would tell her that everyone else was wrong, and--in her wildest fantasies--he would take her along with him in his adventures. Iris, incredible as she had seemed, was just more of the same.
The woman seemed to pick up on Daisy's distress, and took a step closer to her with an extended hand. "What did you want to hear?" she asked. Daisy still refused to look at her.
"Forget it," she mumbled. "I thought you were goin’ to tell me about the world, not tell me to stay home and listen to my mother and eat my vegetables,"
"Well, you ought to."
Daisy sighed, unable to hide her disgust. "You didn't. Why am I any different?"
The young girl looked up once more, only to be surprised to see the woman frowning. "You have a choice," she said, and it sounded as if the woman had more to say, but she stopped there. Daisy only stared. After another moment Iris took a breath and said, "You need to enjoy the simple times while you have them. Enjoy what you have, because you're making yourself suffer now for nothing," She said while she gestured around at the town. "Like I said, you live in a lovely area. Why should you leave it so soon? You are still young. Stop and appreciate your youth for a moment while you still can."
"You're not much older than me," Daisy argued. As far as Daisy could see, the woman could be no older than twenty. Her sister was older than that, and she was still home, and only had one child.
The woman sighed. "I'm also an elf, we don't age the same way."
That was right, Daisy remembered. She had read about elves. "So then how old are you?" Her eyes swept over the woman's face, searching for any sign. Not a wrinkle, not a scar.
Iris laughed. "It is improper to ask a lady her age," she jokingly scolded. Joke though it was, Daisy blushed all the same.
"Right," she said quietly.
"Either way," Iris continued, "I'm older than I am."
Daisy blinked. "That doesn't make any sense," she whined. The woman was teasing her.
Iris waved her hand as she had before, seemingly dismissing sense as a whole. "Age is a number, my dear. What does it speak of experience?"
"Exactly!" Daisy cried, at once enthusiastic again. "I'm so much smarter and more ready than other girls my age, I can go out if I say I can! I just need to prepare, and whenever I choose, I can go," she said, quickly at first, but she slowed as she continued, "I just need to wait maybe a few more years...When I'm sixteen for sure, I'll be gone!"
"Sixteen," the woman said sadly, shaking her head and following it with a tsk sound. "You're taking my words and turning them against me, girl."
Daisy stomped a foot. "But it's true! You're right, you just don't want me to be!"
Iris rolled her eyes and shrugged once more. This time Marigold let out a soft croak of irritation. She pet the toad's head apologetically before speaking. "Alright, so say you leave when you're sixteen. You plan to leave this perfectly nice village and go where exactly?"
"Over the mountains," Daisy declared. "Across the field there, over those mountains, and to whatever lies beyond."
She spoke with great pride, reciting the most common line from her sketchbook. She often wrote it over drawings of the Copper Hills, or of the field full of geraniums and wildflowers. That was what she usually did, sitting out at the edge of town. She had been staring over the field, sketching her gateway to freedom. That gateway, though she saw it every day, she could still find beautiful because it was full of purpose. She pointed, directing the woman's gaze.
Iris looked, and her eyes widened. "To the mountains?" Surprise and something else Daisy couldn't name were in the woman's voice. Awe, Daisy hoped. She still wanted to impress her, in spite of the disappointment Iris had been.
"Yes," she said, "and beyond that."
"The mountains."
Daisy looked at the woman. She was staring at them so strangely. "Yes," she said again, slowly. The woman's gaze was fixed on the peaks, but it was as if she wasn't really seeing them. As soon as Daisy began to worry if the woman was alright, she turned away very suddenly, a bright smile upon her face.
"I grew up near mountains, too," she said happily. "Different ones, of course. On the other side of the river."
Daisy nodded. Iris must have been referring to the Pavenridge Mountains. She had read of the lands across the river where the elves lived, and intended to visit there someday. The Swaddling River divided the land, and while both humans and elves lived on both sides, the west was where most of the elves lived. The books had described the elven lands as rich and fertile, flowering fields bursting with color, rolling hills of vivid greens, and mountain ranges that stretched so long that they had never been mapped. Daisy imagined them to look like the area her village was in, except much prettier.
"Is that why you're here?" Daisy asked. "Because it reminds you of home?"
The woman's eyes drifted back to the mountains. "Perhaps," she said softly. Daisy turned as well, and watched the geraniums and grasses sway gently in the breeze. The day was so clear and the sun so strong that she could see individual trees on the mountainside.
"I have always loved them," Daisy said after a while. "Even though sometimes I feel like they're trappin’ me here. I'm afraid that they're so huge I'll never manage to make it over. Still, they seem so invitin’, like they're callin’ me to them."
She caught the woman shiver out of the corner of her eye. Iris had her arms wrapped around herself, though the day was warm. "Is somethin’ wrong?" Daisy asked.
Iris shook her head. "Ah, no, girl," she said so quietly that Daisy could barely hear. "Just thinking. The mountains I grew up with were cold," she frowned. "So cold. The farthest thing from inviting. In fact they loomed over my village like a threat, like a constant danger." The woman tore her eyes away from the mountains, and stared right into Daisy's eyes. It made the girl take a step away.
"Listen," the woman said, expression intense and unsmiling. "You stay here, you learn to look at what you have before you lose it, do you hear me?" Daisy nodded without thinking. "You have so much here for you but you can't even see it. Try looking in front of your nose instead of over those mountains into some distant land. Do you understand?" Daisy nodded again, feeling very uncomfortable. The woman was reminding Daisy of her lecturing mother after she had done something wrong. Still, she kept nodding.
"I'm not sure that you do," the woman said, "but you had better figure it out before you have to learn the hard way." And with that, she turned to walk away.
"Wait!" Daisy called, following. Iris stopped and turned sharply. She could see the toad struggle to stay on her master's shoulder. Iris' eyes were hard, mouth in a tight line. Daisy looked down at the dust on her shoes. "Where are you goin’?" she asked quietly, somewhat frightened of the stranger.
She peeked back up to look at the woman. Iris was not looking down at the girl, but out, once more staring at the mountains with that odd look in her eyes. "Away from those," she said. Daisy turned to look again at her beloved mountains, and when she turned back, the wandering woman was gone. A gust of wind blew through the town, oddly cold for the season, bringing tidings of an early autumn and the scent of wildflowers into the village.
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Posted: Mon Jun 10, 2013 4:21 pm
The Runaway
“Where are you off to, youngling?” asked the upside-down woman as she dangled from the tree.
Todd looked up at her and replied, simply, “I’m running away from home.”
The woman glanced around. “Well,” she said, “it seems like awful weather to run away in.”
Dark clouds peered over the horizon and covered the late afternoon sun. There would be at least an hour before the storm hit. Early winter made snow or rain equally likely that afternoon. Todd had not taken much notice of the sky as he ran between trees, roaring like a lion with one breath and mewling like a kitten in the next.
“I’ll be okay,” the child promised, head tilted back so her could see her. She had her knees hooked around a high branch, and all of her long dark hair hung straight down and nearly grazed the ground. Her dress was blue and white and “nice”, the type of clothing his mother would scold him for climbing trees in. “Do you have a mother?” he asked the woman.
She responded with a laugh. For some reason adults always thought he was funny. “Don’t you?” she said, raising her eyebrows. Maybe she was lowering her eyebrows, since they were getting closer to the ground.
He nodded.
“Does she know that you’re out?”
Again, Todd nodded. “She told me to be home before dinner,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” said the woman. She pulled herself back up so that she was sitting on the tree branch. Because all of the leaves had already fallen off Todd could still see her through the bare twigs. “So why are you running away?”
Todd shrugged. “I’m bored.”
On the ground was a white stone. Todd pushed his bangs out of his eyes and stared at the rock for a while, trying to decide if it was good enough for his collection. He already kept two other rocks that were the same color, but those were flat. The stone at his feet was round. Well, pretty round.
“Bored?” the woman asked. Todd remembered that he was supposed to look at people when they spoke to him, so his gaze returned to the strange woman. “You’ve got a whole playground out here! What with this forest, and the river only a few days walk from here…”
“Ma and Da won’t play with me anymore,” he said, pouting a little.
A slow smile took root across the stranger’s face. “Ah, I see now,” she said with a nod, “you’re feeling ignored?”
Todd’s eyes followed the rock as it jumped off the path. He had kicked it to watch it fly. It was not a bad rock, but he had a brown one that was rounder at home.
The woman landed on her feet with a light thud. “You’re half-human, aren’t you?” When Todd turned back to her she was squinting at him, and she wore a slight frown. His father gave him the same look sometimes.
“Da’s an elf,” Todd confirmed, tilting his head forward to hide the tips of his ears with his hair. His mother would always say how cute they were, and that would make him blush. When Todd blushed his ears turned red, and that would only make his mother talk about them more. The only thing that could save him then was his father coming to his rescue.
Her eyebrows lifted again. “Your father?” She bit her lip and glanced down the road. “Where is it that you live, youngling?”
Todd pointed behind him. “That way.”
“Uh-huh…”
“Do you know Da?” Todd asked.
Startled, the woman looked down at him. “Pardon?”
“You’re an elf too. Do you know Da?”
She chuckled. “That’s not quite how it works.” With a roll of her eyes she added, “At least I certainly hope I don’t know your father.”
“Why?”
The woman sighed. “I don’t get along terribly well with my people,” she said.
Todd blinked at her without understanding.
“It doesn’t matter,” the woman waved her hand as she spoke. “What does matter,” she said, pointing at Todd as she left the path to kneel in the bushes, “is what you plan on doing on your own.” Twigs snapped under the stranger’s weight as she leaned into the cage of sticks.
“Lost something?”
She shook her head. “No, she’s not lost,” said the woman, “I’m just not sure where she is…”
“She?”
“My toad,” she replied. Without warning she sat up, glaring at Todd. “And don’t change the subject. What are you going to do all alone out here?”
A grin overtook Todd’s features. “You have a toad?” he asked loudly.
The stranger pinched the bridge of her nose, and though she seemed at first to be losing her patience, her shoulders shook as she began to laugh again.
“What, youngling,” she said, failing to keep her voice steady, “are you planning to do?”
Todd considered the question for a moment. He shrugged. “Stuff.”
With one hand covering her mouth, the woman inhaled deeply through her nose and shook her head. “All right. How far from home are you?”
“Not far,” he said. “An hour away I think.”
She nodded. “That’s good. Well, what ‘stuff’ have you been doing for the past hour?” While she asked the question she stood and brushed invisible dirt from her dress.
“Playing,” he answered.
“By yourself?”
Todd eyed the woman warily, beginning to feel that she was tricking him into something. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the word.
What was left of the stranger’s smile faded. “It is dreadfully lonesome out here, you know. If you are looking for someone to play with you’re better off staying home.”
Todd had nothing to say to that. He looked down, a little embarrassed, but still attempting to come up with a response. After a moment, to his surprise, he felt someone run their fingers through his hair.
He lifted his head quickly, meeting a pair of deep green eyes. Her dark eyebrows were tensed in concentration and her lips had once again formed into a tight frown. Being so close to the woman gave Todd an odd feeling—a sense that something was wrong. Looking at her was like looking at a doll. The woman did not seem real.
“Your hair has been in your eyes this whole time,” she said in a near whisper. Todd only stared at her. “You resemble an old friend of mine quite a bit.”
“I do?”
She withdrew her hand, and his bangs fell back over his brow. “He was about your age when I last saw him.” The woman sighed as she stood and stepped back. A wall of grinning teeth concealed her frown again.
Todd tilted his head to one side. “Why are you so sad?” he asked.
She laughed. “I’m not sad, youngling,” she said. “I am simply old and alone.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
An expression that was nearly a glare came across the woman’s face. Her attention was stolen away, however, by a soft croak. “Marigold, where have you hidden yourself?” she asked, turning in place with her gaze on the ground.
Wind from the coming storm caused Todd to shiver. He knew then why his mother had been so insistent he bring his coat. The sun’s dive was accelerating, and Todd saw that between the clouds and the dwindling daylight that his playtime was over.
A toad jumped onto the road behind the well-dressed stranger. She whirled and exclaimed, “There you are!” before kneeling to scoop the creature into her hands. She brought the toad up to her face and, rather than kissing it, nudged it gently with her nose. “You can’t leave me yet, dear,” the woman scolded. Marigold blinked at her.
“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Todd asked.
The woman looked up from her pet. “Pardon?” she said again.
Todd smiled. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. Come to dinner!” He clapped his hands, excited by his idea.
“I thought you were running away?”
“I was,” Todd said, “but I promised to be home for dinner.”
The woman placed the toad on her shoulder and said, “And you were planning on returning home the whole time?”
“I ran away,” Todd stated, nodding. “But I love them, so I’m going back.”
“Of course,” the woman said with a light chuckle. With a glance at the sky she added, “We should get moving. I’ll walk you back.”
Todd happily led the way down the road. “Are you staying for dinner?” he asked again hopefully.
“No, I’m afraid not,” she said, shaking her head.
Disappointment tore at Todd’s chest. “Why?”
The woman reached out to ruffle his hair. “Because you do look far too much like that friend of mine, youngling.”
He did not understand her answer, but he nodded anyway. Producing a wide grin, he looked up at the woman and hopped a few times enthusiastically.
“Will you play lion catcher with me?”
“How do you play—“
Todd sprinted ahead, stopped, and spun to face her with hands raised like claws and a fierce snarl on his lips. He let loose a growl, loud and frightening as he could manage, and ran down the path, laughing loudly. When he checked over his shoulder to see her chasing after him with arms extended, he squealed with delight and continued towards home.
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Posted: Mon Jun 17, 2013 8:32 pm
The Sly
Durem Square was crowded to the point that it was difficult to move through the streets without brushing shoulders with strangers. The melting snows were the signal for merchants to return to the north, and return they did. Breeders, slavers, and farmers passed beneath the impressive stone arches that marked the entrance to Sowenfield. Between the first blossom of spring and the last leaf of autumn the city crawled with activity. Under the warmth of the early summer sun that shone unimpeded by clouds people took to the streets as if a festival was being held. Scents of baked goods and perfumes mingled with those of unwashed flesh and animal dung. Children ran underfoot while friends and peddlers alike shouted over the chatter. Sowenfield was once more living up to its reputation as being one of the liveliest centers in east, a haven for both the honest and the not-so-honest businessmen.
It was a thief’s wonderland. Faris smirked as he surveyed the square from his hidden corner amidst the vegetable stands, nearly laughing at the bounty before him. The poor mingled with the wealthy, but those with gold were easily distinguished in the masses. They stood with confidence, and the crowd parted before their sure steps. Those with the money had fear of neither hunger nor the cold as the peasants did, and they believed that made them gods. They certainly dressed the part. What a rich man spent on shoes would feed a family of six for weeks, and what he carried easy-picking in his pockets would feed Faris for just as long.
Miriam sold her eggplants next to where Faris knelt. She bent over to fetch a new box from beneath her makeshift counter, allowing the thief an ideal view of her round rump. Faris whistled appreciatively. Miriam turned to glare at him, but he had only smiles for her. He thought the woman ought not to treat him with such distaste. To be a widow at the age of thirty-three meant that she was no longer in her youthful prime, and she had two children to care for. Faris would hope a woman in such a situation would not dismiss favorable attention so hastily.
“Get you gone, Faris Sterling. I want none of your trouble today,” she said, turning away from him so that her twin raven braids flipped over her shoulders. Miriam was a large-figured woman, stern, and strong enough to break Faris in half if she had the mind to do it. Her voice was harsh, her gaze unforgiving, and she did not wear her size well. Nonetheless, Faris loved the woman.
He bowed theatrically, removing his cap. “Beggin’ your pardons, madam,” he said, staring up at her with his most charming grin. Faris was well aware of his strengths, and his good looks were high among them. His ruddy-brown hair he wore several inches too long, and three days’ worth of stubble shadowed his cheeks, but his eyes could still make a woman swoon. He had eyes so blue as to be the envy of the sky, and he was not above using them to his advantage.
Unfortunately for him, two years of exposure had diminished their power over Miriam. The woman’s glare did not give. “Don’t go giving me any of that. I’ve got work to do, so you’d best be scootin’ on,” she regarded him with disdain, “you good for nothing old rascal.”
“Old?” Faris laughed. “You still have three years on me, Miri.” Most would assume Faris was still in his mid-twenties, but Miriam was often accused of being in her forties. Unkind years had aged his darling--but left him unscathed.
Miriam stomped one heavy boot on the cobblestone and pointed into the center of the square. “Leave,” she commanded.
Faris spread his hands before him. “What, dear? You don’t love me no more?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
The man sighed and turned to the sky with a shake of his head. “Alas, I feel I am not wanted,” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Miriam’s expression did not change. “I won’t harass you. I’ll go.” Faris bowed his head sullenly and stepped forward. As he moved to pass Miriam he spun on his heels, hooked his arm around her and kissed her frowning lips with great passion.
The kiss was brief, as the woman forced her hands between them and shoved hard against his chest. Faris stumbled away, nearly falling backward into a cabbage stand, though he managed to steady himself on his feet once more. He muttered a quick apology to the cabbage vendor, but he had to fight to suppress his laughter. Miriam’s face was redder than the tomatoes sitting in the next stall over.
“So,” Faris said, grinning at her again, “we’re still on for dinner tonight, ain’t we love?”
“Of course,” she answered, gritting her teeth in fury. “But for now, you best get going out of my sight or I’ll—“ Miriam smacked the side of his skull with her open hand. Apparently, Faris thought, he had not left quickly enough.
Dodging another attack, Faris ducked beneath her arm and backed into the crowd, waving his hands over his head. “I love you!”
“Get!”
He turned around, chuckling, and disappeared into the masses. Faris thanked his seemingly never-ending luck that he had found Miriam. If he was going to be honest, she found him. Three years prior, near the end of autumn, Faris was caught with the pearls of a woman who knew many young, strong men willing to not only retrieve the necklace, but to give Faris “a bit of what was coming to him”. They chased him into an alley, surrounded him, and beat him. Faris bled on the cold ground, trying to figure out a way out, all the while wondering if the boys were going to kill him. They might have if Miriam had not opened her door and shouted at them all to stay off of her property. Faris would never forget the image of his savior standing above him—an angel holding a lantern in one hand, and a tattered old broom in the other. Miriam dragged his half-dead body inside while the men crept off into the night, sneering over their shoulders.
Her husband had died of a fever only a week before Faris collapsed on her doorstep. Faris enjoyed saying that he and Miriam came together when they were each at their lowest. Miriam enjoyed saying that was the only reason they were a couple—only the most desperate woman would take in a street rat like Faris Sterling, and only a dying man would think to call fat old Miriam Maddox beautiful.
Once Faris made his way to the center of Durem Square he set his mind to his work. A gentleman in silks pushed past him and almost on reflex Faris’ reached into the man’s pocket, plucking his coin purse from within. The gentleman took no notice, and the thief casually merged into the crowd as he concealed his new treasure inside his bag. Even the purse was silk, he thought, unable to keep himself from grinning. Faris could barely wait to see how much gold waited for him inside.
Effortlessly, Faris picked new targets out of the mass. He always laughed at how the wealthy advertised themselves to those of his trade. One would assume that a small degree of modesty would pay—especially in Sowenfield—but if the high and mighty were eager to make their status known then Faris would not be heard making complaints. Scattered throughout the crowd were fine jewels and glittering embroidery, feathered hats and polished canes, and one woman that stole the thief’s attention.
Across the square a woman beamed, her laugh lost somewhere in the din of the market. She had sharp elven features that left a bad taste in Faris’ mouth, and eyes to rival his own--blue enough that he could see their color even from where he stood. She wore a slim gown with green trimmings that gave her the illusion of being draped in ivy. Faris’ eyebrows lifted in interest. As the elf spun elegantly in place and left the edge of the crowd, Faris swiftly made his way to her. There was no doubt of her wealth, and her purse would make a fine pay for a day’s work.
Her smiling face bobbed in and out of the thief’s view. Some people moved politely out of his way, while others paid no mind and plowed through the square with a set forward gaze. Knowing how to navigate a crowd was a necessary skill for a thief. Faris calmly strolled in the elf’s direction, closing the distance between them by shifting his weight and weaving around the market’s consumers. He hummed quietly to himself in excitement as he drew nearer to his intended prize. She was within arm’s reach, staring obliviously up into the clouds. A tall woman passed between Faris and the elf, and within that instant of broken visual contact, the elf was gone.
Faris whirled, but the woman had vanished. Odd, the man thought, how she was so prominent in one moment and lost in the next, but Faris supposed that was the nature of large cities. He swore under his breath for the loss of his target, but it took him mere seconds to find a new victim. Parading across the square was another individual—Faris assumed it was a woman--with no concept of humility, clad in hooded robes of a vainglorious violet. Things always had a way of working out in his favor, Faris thought with a smile as he moved to pursue the robed figure.
She moved with a determined gait, and following her tested the thief’s skills. He had no intention of losing a second woman that day. Though Faris brushed past and bumped into several people in his chase, the robed figure managed to move with far more poise. The crowd parted before her path. Faris scoffed at them. The way some folk would fall to their knees in worship of wealth and the wealthy always disgusted him. He slipped a large ring from an older man’s right hand as he passed by to improve his mood.
The woman glanced briefly at a cart of expensive fabrics. Faris hoped for a moment that she might stop there and give him his chance, but she moved on, headed into an alley at the edge of the square. The thief swore beneath his breath. He could not follow her there and expect to gain anything of it. In the alley there would be no way to hide himself. She would know he was there, and the only way to get anything off of her then would be to attack her and take it by force. That was a thing Faris Sterling simply would not do. He quickened his pace, but the woman turned the corner long before he reached her.
With a sigh, Faris leaned his back against the brick wall to the left of the alley entrance. Losing the robed woman was a disappointment, but it was not as if he was short of options. At the height of the trade season he wanted for nothing. Misplacing two targets in a row did dent his pride somewhat. He liked to believe he was better than that. As he pushed off the wall to return to the square another elf crossed in front of him. The beads sewn into her gown glinted in the sunlight.
Once again, the hunt was on.
Faris risked following this woman more closely, but so much like the last she was not delayed by the rabble in her path. Though Faris was mere paces behind the elf, pedestrians wandered between the thief and his mark, and soon that woman was lost as well. Fortune remaining in his favor, another richly dressed woman strode past him walking in the opposite direction. Frustration growing, Faris darted between shoppers, keen in his pursuit. In keeping with the pattern of the day, he failed to maintain sight of her, either. He marched out of the crowd to rest by the potion stands. He had taught Miriam’s son to calm himself when he was angry—might as well take his own advice. Becoming emotional would only make him sloppy. The man stopped himself from shouting out with rage, and instead shut his eyes. He took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes he saw a veil of orange hair on a slim frame edging around the square. She removed lace gloves that matched her delicate-looking gown and placed them inside an embroidered purse on her hip. Nothing prevented him from snatching it off her waist except for a thin silver rope. A low chuckle moved from between lips slightly parted by his grin.
Nonchalant steps carried him closer to her. The careless girl did not even lay a hand on her purse to protect it. Faris did not worry even as she passed the more dense sections of the crowd, for the cover it provided him with was only necessary for targets that showed a base level of concern for their possessions.
The girl tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing elven points. Faris raised his eyebrows. So far northeast it was strange to see so many elves in one place, especially if they were not travelling as a group. The suspicious occurrence made Faris wary, and he slowed to increase the distance between them. He watched the woman approach the tall stone fountain that marked the point when the square began to narrow into the city streets. Once white, the blocks carved with images of birds had faded into a dingy shade of gray. The elf produced a copper coin from her purse and tossed it into the water. Faris could see no splash from where he stood. Turning her eyes up to the malicious-looking crow at the top of the fountain, the woman frowned. Faris advanced, his gaze fixed on the decorated bag while its owner walked around the fountain. There was still a decent space between the two when the elf crossed behind the central statue, and for but an instant she left Faris’ sight. The redhead did not appear on the other side—instead a ghost of a woman appeared, an elf with fair skin, hair of ivory, and cream-colored satin robes.
Faris nearly stumbled, and stood in place to gape at the vision before him. The elf glanced his way, caught his eye, and smiled. Then, with a wave and a wink, she turned to depart.
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Posted: Mon Jun 24, 2013 6:13 pm
Noah
The storm that had been brewing all day came to fruition at sunset. On the horizon the sun glared harshly, huge and blazing, while above it the sky was covered with clouds. The sun dyed them, leaving an eerie yellow sky hanging above the wood. It was a dull yellow, greyed by the rainclouds and bright from the disappearing sun. The thin river reflected the sky and it ran down the hills glittering like gold. The world was cast with unnatural shadows and hues, looking as though it were at once bathed in sunlight and shrouded in darkness.
Though the clouds to the east were aglow, those to the west were outside the reach of the sun. Turning away from the sulfur-colored sky one would see a gathering of black clouds, blue streaks of lightning flashing across them rapidly. The storm was more lightning than rain, even at its peak.
The weather left the townspeople unnerved. The streets were empty--silent save for the rumbling of thunder and the slow pattering of raindrops in the dirt. The local tavern, The Cackling Kettle, buzzed with tension, but most conversations were hushed. The bizarre light shone through the windows, reaching indoors to spread its strange, dark illumination, though mercifully it was fading with the departure of the sun.
Noah entered into the warmth of the tavern with his cloak only slightly dampened from the rain. The scents of tobacco pipes and spilled alcohol awaited him. He lowered his hood, ran his fingers quickly through his hair, and looked around. The tavern was relatively empty, considering its size. The hour usually saw more business for a tavern as large as The Cackling Kettle. The weather could easily enough be blamed for that, though the die-hard drunks still sat at the far end of the bar, marked by the glasses already surrounding them. Apart from the men at the bar ritualistically draining mugs of ale there were only a few patrons occupying the tables. Most of them appeared to be travelers who, like himself, stopped to take shelter from the fearsome storm. Small groups sat in quiet conversation, casting wary glances out the windows with each rumbling growl of the thunder and each dazzling flash of lightning.
A laugh brought the man's attention back to the bar. The laugh was not loud, but rang noticeably above the low murmurs otherwise filling the air, drawing his eye to the two women seated together. Both were elves, he could see that much from the first glance. One was wearing a flowing dress that was a vibrant shade of pink, with ribbons hanging off the sleeves identifying the woman as a dancer. Another look around the room found her companions at the corner table, all dressed as brightly as she, some keeping instruments by their seats. The performers seemed worse for wear, all dotted with mud and wearing veils of exhaustion. One of the players slept where he sat. The dancer at the bar was the liveliest of them all, though she swayed tellingly on her barstool perch. The tattered hem of her dress was caked with mud, and Noah thought he spied a bandage around her ankle.
It was the dancer who had laughed. She was leaning toward the other woman, leading with her chest. The low-cut dress ensured the other woman an excellent view of the dancer's cleavage. Speaking to the dancer was a woman with long dark curls wearing an expensive looking robe made from a golden fabric. She did not appear nearly as drunk as the dancer, though she also held a drink in her hands. Noah studied their smiles, coy and teasing, and their half-lidded, seductive gazes. Elves, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes. He made his way over to the bar, smiling at the women as he passed, though they took no notice of him, the both of them engrossed in conversation. He gave the bartender a wave as he sat and ordered some cheap ale. He put his bag on the floor, and the sound it made echoed like the thunder outside. Sitting beside the robed woman, he could hear the conversation between them.
"It seems the both of us have seen quite a bit of the world," the robed woman was saying, her voice low and enticing.
The dancer laughed again, more softly this time. "Well, ‘tis what it is--goes with the job," she said with a sigh. "I admit that I've grown weary of it. There's so little comfort to find on the road..."
The woman in gold put her glass down. "Oh, there is," she assured the dancer. "One only needs to know where to look."
There was a silence between the two. All the cards had been laid on the table. Intentions could not be questioned. He expected at any moment they would sneak off to one of the rooms upstairs. Good for them, he thought. He knew there would be nothing more to their casual meeting, nothing more than fleeting moments of pleasure, but such comforts were prized when the road was hard.
The dancer laughed after a moment and swept a stray lock of hair away from her face. "So," she said, "Golda, where are you from originally?"
The woman in the golden robes sounded surprised. "Hm?"
"Where are you from? I don't meet many other elves in my travels." The dancer leaned forward, grinning. There was a true eagerness in her eyes, a sparkle of interest. Noah took a sip from his ale, listening. Elves could be found anywhere, but weren't as common this far east. Most of the people with pointed ears that side of the Swaddling River were performers or merchants, and even then, many of those were half-elves. The women beside him were full-blooded elves, the man knew. He had learned to tell the difference. Those of pure elven descent were marked by the pronounced slant in their eyes, and always had more delicate features than half-elves.
The robed woman’s curls would have thrown him off, but there was no mistaking those cheekbones for anything other than a pure elf. Despite their delicate appearance, Noah had known enough elves in his lifetime to recognize that they could be hard as nails when need be, and they were not a people to be underestimated.
The woman called Golda took another swallow from her drink and shook her head. "Oh, all over. I do not call any place home, I'm afraid," she said, a slight grin played across her lips. Noah almost laughed. How many times had he heard that said, and at how many bars? A line most effective in winning a woman's sympathies, he'd been told. He had tested it himself, once, and it did not fail him. Still, the dancer pursued her questioning. Noah had no doubt she was as familiar with the line as he.
"Yes, but where were you born? Where did you grow up?"
Golda shrugged. "It was many years ago, I can hardly be expected to remember my own birth, can I?" Her tone remained bright, but there was an edge to her reply. The conversation seemed to have taken an undesirable turn for her. "I don't linger long enough in any place to remember its name. I simply wander as I wish," she said. The dancer frowned.
"I never liked the word 'wander'," the dancer said. "It always brings 'wandering souls' to mind, all directionless, misplaced...Surely you have a destination, or some goal? I travel for audiences, searching for coin wherever it may be." Her eyes narrowed. "You must have some reason to travel, you can't simply wander." Her tone was not argumentative, but rather concerned.
The dancer looked the other woman over, perhaps wondering if she had discovered one of those wandering souls she had mentioned.
"Ah, my dear," Golda laughed, "but I do,"
The dancer shook her head and opened her mouth to refute the other's words, but Noah spoke before she did.
"Not all who wander are lost," he said, smiling a little. He could not help himself.
The two women turned to him, suddenly aware of his presence. The robed woman was smiling, but the dancer was not. "Are those your words, sir?" Golda asked, her eyes sparkling with interest like emeralds in the sunlight. Thunder rumbled above them.
The man shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not," he said with a soft chuckle.
"It's from a poem I once heard." Golda nodded and turned back to the other woman, though she had not seemed disappointed. The dancer brought her attention back to the other elf. Noah wondered if he should feel badly for interrupting the couple. Neither of them seemed to mind too much, but teachings from his early childhood, lessons in manners, nagged him at the back of his mind. He tried to remember whose teachings they had been. His mother's? A possibility, though he could barely recall her face, much less her voice. He took a long drink and let himself sink into his mind, losing himself in whatever memories he did have of them. Vague images, feelings of warmth, security, fear...All very far off, so long ago that he could not be certain if they were actual memories or things he had imagined based on stories he was told. Regardless, it was all he had of home. Even without truly knowing his parents, he loved them, and he had to hold on to those images of the ones he loved, real or not.
A moment later, he was back in reality. The dancer was speaking again. "...suppose it would be rude to ask you about your home without talking about mine," she was saying, once again all charm and smiles. "It has been a long time, but I still remember home so vividly. Playing in the woods, chasing each other through the streets, running home for supper," she laughed. "I miss it. There little town about a day west of the river--we used to go there sometimes, meet with merchants. Not too many peddlers bothered to come to us, our town was so small. It was always such an adventure. Maybe that's where I got my love of travel from." While the dancer spoke, the robed woman was silent, but she nodded throughout as if she could relate.
The dancer laughed again as she took another sip from her drink. "Oh, it was a wonderful childhood, all in all. So many friends. All the village children played together. Like I said, it was small, but it only made it all the better. Everyone knew everyone. It was like family. You always had someone to watch your back,"
"Or spy on you," Golda interjected. The man glanced at her. Like before, her tone was pleasant enough, but with a sense of something beneath.
The dancer did not seem to take notice. She laughed and waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, of course, there was always gossip. Who was stealing recipes, who was courting the young widow, which of the children had broken a vase, but nothing vicious," she said, smiling. "Oh, and I remember the holy days best of all. Everyone gathering for the professions of purity, the spiced breads…"
The robed woman straightened up. "Your village was one of The Cherished?"
It wasn't interest of curiosity in her voice this time, but poorly concealed alarm. It must have been the wine that dulled the dancer's senses, because she still took no notice.
"Yes, it was. Did you live near Doran’s Valley?"
Golda turned in her seat to face the man with a large grin. "What did you say you name was?" She asked him very suddenly. Behind her, the dancer blinked in slow confusion.
"Uh," the man said, "I didn't."
"Then where are my manners? I never asked," she said with a laugh. "Mine's Luanna Thornbrook."
The dancer looked suddenly insulted. "What?"
Noah glanced at the dancer, then back to the robed woman. "I thought you were called Golda," he said uncertainly.
"That's what you told me!"
The robed woman ignored the dancer entirely. "I am called many things, and I'm not particularly attached to any one of them," she stated before draining the last of her wine. Behind her, the dancer stood. She leaned heavily to one side, sparing her injured ankle, wobbling from the drink. She was glaring at the woman with many names.
"I'm not fond of games, Golda, or whoever you are," she warned, fire in her eyes. "If there is one thing in this world I will not stand, it's being toyed with. I've had enough of that, and I'll have no more of it."
The seated elf did not turn. "You are life's plaything," she said, her tone low and grim, while her countenance remained pleasant. "So you'd best become accustomed to such games. Have you never played chess, my dear?"
The dancer shook her head. "I live my life as I please," she sharply stated, "not as the world directs me."
A laugh came from the seated woman, surprising Noah. "Ah, and that is why you say you travel." She finally turned to face the dancer. "You are determined to forge your own way and fight the winds of this raging storm until you exhaust yourself. I have accepted the nature of things and I let the breeze guide me," she said simply, still cheerily. "And you will continue to resist, I take it?"
"I will," the dancer hissed, her narrowed gaze fixed upon the strange woman.
"Do not approach me again," she said with great finality before limping away, abandoning her drink where it sat at the bar. The woman with many names merely shrugged in response and turned once more to the traveler. Again she asked for his name.
"Noah," he managed to say, shocked and more than a little unsettled. The walls of the inn shook with the force of the thunder.
The woman nodded. "So are you a traveler or a wanderer, Noah?" Her eyes shone once more with innocent curiosity, eyes of a deep blue that gave
Noah the feeling of standing before a vast ocean. Alone at the shore of such deep mystery, one could not help but feel intimidated. He knew it was more than just the shade of her eyes that replicated the effect. He also knew how he usually reacted when presented with such enigmas, and that this woman was no different.
He shook his head with a sudden, but gentle laugh. "Oh no," he said. "I think I have right to a few questions first." He was hardly worried about appearing bold in front of such a person. Though he had been momentarily thrown off by her behavior, he had never been one to let a good riddle pass him by.
The woman laughed as well. "Feel free," she told him, spreading her hands in front of her, welcoming his inquiries. "But don't expect that you have the right to all the answers."
"Fair enough," he said, looking her over with equal parts suspicion and amusement. "What was that about?" He asked with a gesture to the dancer.
She shrugged. "Nothing new," she said. Noah got the feeling he would be getting nothing more from her, so he continued.
"Are either of those names your real name?"
The elf grinned. "Could be."
"Alright then," he said, narrowing his eyes a bit. "Why?"
"Why not?" She leaned forward, met his eyes, and took a sip from her wine.
This was a game to her, he realized, nothing more than chess. There was a challenge in her gaze, but what the challenge was, he could not tell.
The woman drained her glass. He watched as she did so, flicking her wrist and swallowing quite a bit of wine in one fluid motion, somehow making it look graceful. "Why not?" he repeated, a slight smile on his face. Whatever game she was playing, he was enjoying it. "Because most people don't operate the way you seem to. The world has rules, or so I've been told."
She laughed as she gestured for the bartender yet again. He absently wondered just how drunk the woman was intent on becoming this evening.
"You've been told? Interesting. So have I, but do you remember by whom?"
She shrugged, Noah guessed in her admission that she could not recall who had told her. The point she was trying to make, he knew, was to suggest the idiocy of a society which behaved like school of fish, following no leader, yet following all the same. Regardless of her point, he had an answer.
"My mother," he said casually. He grinned at her raised eyebrows.
The bartender placed a new bottle of wine on the counter. "Another glass, please," she requested. The bartender did so, removing the dancer's abandoned drink and placing a fresh cup next to the woman's. Both were filled, and she pushed the new glass toward him. He was learning the rules as he went. He finished his ale and took the offered glass, and the elf began to speak again. "Did she lay them out like a book, step by step, or vaguely? Don't kick the animals, eat your greens, all of that?"
Noah shook his head. "I don't remember," he said.
"Really?"
He took another sip to give himself a moment. "It was a lie that I told you," he confessed. "I don't remember my mother."
She nodded. "I see," she said. He expected some look of victory, but saw nothing of the sort. Neither did he see pity. He expected a question as well, but there was no sign of that either. She only tapped the bar, her smile returning. "It's not good to lie. One of those rules, or so I've heard."
He found himself laughing. "Right, of course. I suppose I have no place to say anything about you, now, do I?" He sipped the wine. It was better than the ale he had been drinking. Was her ploy now to get him drunk since she had lost her other catch? He found that he did not care if it was.
"Exactly," she said. "You wouldn't want to seem the hypocrite." She drank from her own glass, still smirking at him as she did so. "Keeping up appearances, another one of those pesky rules,"
"Or so I've heard," he finished for her.
She laughed. "Indeed. Or so I've heard."
“Speaking of appearances,” Noah said, lifting a brow at her, “how did you manage to curl your hair?”
The elf touched her hair. “A lady has her secrets. Wouldn’t you like to know?”
The man looked her over for a moment. She was nicely dressed for one the road, as he'd noted before. Not even mud to mar her boots. A woman of such standing should have no trouble locating a fancy hair oil or two. He wondered if she would be paying for the drinks, considering she seemed to have some degree of wealth. It was refreshing, he thought, to meet someone with money who apparently chose to travel on her own. He supposed she could just as easily be bored and looking for amusement. It would explain her game, among other things. "So what appearance are you keeping up?" he asked her.
"Oh, what you see is what you get. Perhaps tomorrow I'll be bearded," she joked, but Noah was not sure he understood the humor. Rather than question, he drank from his wine again. "I believe you meant to ask," she continued, "what is a pretty little elf like yourself doing in a tavern like this?"
She winked at him, and he laughed loudly.
"No," he said as he calmed, "no, but I'll ask it now. What brings you here?"
He gestured to the windows. "The wind? It is quite strong today," he remarked.
She nodded and looked as though she were considering the idea. "I had noticed," she said. "I am never entirely sure what brings me to one town or another. This tavern was on the way, I suppose," she said.
"Needed to take shelter from the storm?"
She tilted her head at him, eyebrows kitting in confusion, before lifting in understanding. "Oh, no, dear," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I was thirsty."
Noah laughed again, even if he wasn't sure why he found it funny. "Lonely, too?" He said, glancing to where the dancer was. "A subtle flirt you are not."
The woman shrugged. "Why be subtle? It is so much easier to just say things, is it not?"
"Well, you lose quite a bit of the art and romance by being blunt," Noah said. "Like you're one to talk about being up front about things. You have given nothing but vague answers, and I still do not know your name."
"More than fair," she conceded. "As I said, however, it is easier to simply say things, but where do you get in life if you always take the easy path?"
He picked up his glass. "I don't know," he said, and looked down to find that his wine was nearly gone. It surprised him, but still he finished it off and let the woman wave for the bartender again. He noted that she had only taken small sips from her wine. "It can't be safe for a woman to travel alone like you do," he said after a moment. Though she did not look like she had been on the road long, she sounded the part of the weary wanderer.
"I can take care of myself," she assured him. "You are in just as much danger as I am, but you still travel alone, don't you?"
Noah nodded. He took one last sip from his wine and set the glass down with finality. He was done drinking for the night, he decided. "I do. I find it easier that way most of the time," he answered, not feeling like elaborating.
She nodded in agreement.
"'Tis," she said, "yet there are days I'd like a little company."
"Would today be one such day?" he asked. "Is that why you were after the dancer?"
She waved her hand again. "No, that's a different sort of company. She already has a group to travel with," she said. She took a last sip of wine before pushing it away, only half empty. "I ask again, sir, are you a wanderer or a traveler?"
"What does it matter?"
"Well," she said, reaching inside her sleeve and producing a small purse. "I would like to know whether or not you have a destination." She placed a few coins on the bar. Noah took out his own purse to give a coin for his ale.
He thought on the question before answering. "Not really, no. Not this time,"
The elf stood. "Good," she said. "Then perhaps you'd care you accompany me to nowhere special?"
Noah looked out the window again and saw that the storm had only gotten worse, rain coming down harder than before. "In this weather?" he asked.
She smiled an odd little smile. "Only if you follow," she said, turning to leave.
Noah found himself going after her, heaving his large pack over his shoulder, trailing behind her and leaving the tavern.
She stood out in the open, exposed to the rain. She faced him, arms outstretched, appearing as if she was waiting for something. "What?" he said.
It took him a few seconds to realize that she was waiting for him to notice that she wasn't getting wet. Not a single drop of rain touched her. Her robes were not even stirred by the wind. Only one thing explained that.
So that was why she had been so quick to change the subject when the other woman had mentioned that she had grown up in one of The Cherished Villages. Magic was not well liked by anyone, less so by elves, yet no one liked magic less than The Cherished. It was not surprising that the sorceress would want to avoid her.
"Will you still come?" she asked.
Noah hesitated, but only for a second. He pulled his hood over his head, stepped out into the rain, and followed the sorceress down the road.
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