The Velociraptor Chronicles part I

So. My creative writing class. Fun! Only my teacher prefers such somber, depressing literature. And gives us the most bizarre prompts to write about. Also, he seems to make a point of not calling upon me to read my resulting literary work (he calls on 2-3 people per class period to read something they have written. 5 weeks have gone by and I haven't been selected yet). So I decided that my goal in this class is to somehow incorporate velociraptors into everything I write from his interesting prompts.

This one was from the Photo Prompt: a Depression-era photo of a woman in threadbare clothing and a cardboard suitcase sticking her head into a taxi cab window, her back to the camera. This was the resulting work of genius.

“I can’t! I won’t!” cried the taxi driver as the woman leered over him, through the window of his car.

               “I’m afraid you have no choice,” she said, bringing her reptilian face closer. Her hat and thick hair framed the scaly snout that protruded from under it, her sharp teeth forming a horrifying smile. Her eyes were like headlights, bulbous and yellow, parted by black slits which the driver could only assume were her pupils.
               Hesitantly, haltingly the man obeyed, reaching for the documents that lay in his glove compartment. He kept looking over her shoulder at passers-by, hoping that someone would see through her innocuous disguise, but to all the world, the velociraptor leaning her head through his window was a simple poor woman with a cardboard suitcase.
               Velociraptor. He remembered being taught about those in his government training. Six foot four beasts that hunt in packs. Their claws could tear open nearly any prey within seconds, and their insatiable hunger for meat was surpassed only by their insatiable hunger for power. And, oh yes, their disguises had grown ever so clever in recent years. They could walk through a street filled with innocent people, and none would see them for who they were, unless one were to notice their obvious dinosaur faces. Granted, this was New York City, where looking someone in the eye was almost a criminal offence, so they walked the streets as if invisible.
               This one gave him no chance to avoid recognizing her for what she was. The long, leathery tongue flicked out towards him, as if to determine what flavor he might be.
               “The documents, if you please,” she reminded him through that seemingly endless row of teeth.
               The man finally gave in, and handed her the manila envelope which contained everything.
               Everything. The blueprints, the reports, the memos, everything.
               Three clawed fingers reached out from within her coat to receive the precious tribute, and the hideous smile, it seemed, widened.
               “There,” she said, “Was that really so hard? Now, Agent 2, I suppose I should be on my way. Send my regards to whatever fool it is who now sits in your superior’s office in the Pentagon.” The horrid head retreated away from him, those reptile eyes never wavering from his face, until it was entirely outside of his car. “Best of luck explaining all of this to them,” she added, and was off, shoes clicking on the cracked asphalt, snout held high, a hint of a satisfied grin still etched on her face.
               The man buried his face in his hands. He had failed. Headquarters would be attacked this very evening, he knew it. The fledgling experiment that of the President would fail. He and the rest of the FBI were about to meet their doom this evening – the ‘raptors were now one step ahead.
               “No,” he said aloud. He looked up, and it seemed a cloud lifted from his vision. He could still warn them. There was still time.

*             *             *

               “I know, Agent 2.”
               The words hit him harder than a fist. A flood of either embarrassment or relief – or perhaps both – washed over him.
               “You do?” He asked, and remembering himself, added, “Mr. President.”

This was also Far Too Much Fun

The intro is totally Harry Potter. Wanna know why? Because this totally started out as a Harry Potter fanfiction. No joke. I wrote a Harry Potter fanfiction.

Kind of. None of the original characters were in it. I never got very far with it. But it was totally the same universe.....except that I decided to put it in the future. Because....you know....haven't you ever wondered what the wizarding world would be like in the future, with Muggles getting more and more technologically advanced every year and pretty much taking over the world, bit by bit? Come on. Don't tell me you never wondered.

Well, anyways, I actually enjoyed writing this. I tried to make it less fanfiction-y - like, Toggle was originally a house-elf (cough). And Esther was originally a Squib. She still kind of is, but not, because this isn't HP. Stop laughing. It's undignified.

Lazarus Peter Johann Savatt was an unusual man in many ways. For one thing, he was blind, which gave him cause to wear round black spectacles that gave everyone the spooks, and walked with an old-fashioned redwood cane that bore an intricately sculpted design of mermaids set in the gold cap at its top.

For another, he spoke in the oddest way. He certainly had a strong accent of some sort – the difficulty was discerning which. It wasn’t English, American, French, Scottish, Chinese, Swahili, Indian, Spanish…….. nothing that the citizens could think of seemed to match. Some of the few who speculated on the matter and had done some traveling in their time commented that it sounded like it had a bit of everything mixed in. To save headache, however, many decided that it was just an unusual speech impediment.

Yet another thing was that he kept mostly to himself. He was very friendly with his neighbors, of course, and polite to strangers, but apart from a greeting and perhaps some small talk, he did not associate much with society. He stayed in his house much of the time, coming out only to stroll down the road and head to the main city, cane in hand.

He also dressed strangely, in neatly pressed suits with long calf-length coats, and had a fondness for bizarre and colorful fabrics (which most attributed to his being blind), as well as pointy, high-heeled maroon leather boots with gold buckles.

Yet the strangest and most unsettling thing of all was that he had a strange aversion to high technology. His house was not fully computerized, as was standard, and from what people had seen of the inside, there was no television, computer, light-switch – some questioned whether his house even had electricity. The only evidence of energy usage was the lamp on his porch, which was always brightly lit at night.

Well, no one could really accuse him of being a lunatic, so for the most part he was left alone. He didn’t do any harm to anyone, and he seemed like a nice enough person in spite of his oddities. So, having their own lives to live, his fellow citizens went on with their existence with only a curious glance in his direction.

*

On one particular evening in March, when most of the residents of Outer New Reddington were asleep in their beds, the streets were very quiet, and empty – save for the tall young woman walking down its length with a purposeful stride.

If someone had seen her, they would have furrowed their brows and said that she reminded them of Mr. Savatt. She had the same arched sort of brow he did, and the same pointed chin, except that hers was softened a bit. That was where the similarities ended, though – where Savatt’s hair was thick, dark and curly (usually combed back and gelled smoothly over his scalp), hers was auburn and cut severely short, barely an inch long; where his eyes were a pale, milky blue, hers were a dark hazel; and where he was usually of a calm, placid temperament, her eyes sparked fiery determination, and her movements were brisk and impatient. She wore loud, clashing fabrics, and a strange assortment of clothes, but otherwise seemed far more normal than he did. Forgetting, of course, that she was currently walking down a deserted street in the middle of the night.

Arriving at Mr. Savatt’s porch, she marched up the steps and, rearranging the bags she carried, knocked on the door.

A high-pitched, rather aggravated voice spoke: “Who is this?”

“You know bloody well who I am,” the woman said, speaking in the same indiscernible accent or possible speech impediment that had puzzled the neighbors for so many years. “Let me in.”

“Master Lazarus is not receiving visitors,” the voice said. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Toggle, for the love of all that is good and holy, open the door.” The woman growled.

There was a pause. And then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, allowing the young women entry into the house.

She stepped over the threshold slowly, looking around with a curious expression at the house’s interior. “How long have you been staying here?” she asked abruptly.

A little man – about three feet tall – closed the door, and turned to look at the woman with suppressed irritation. He was dressed in a very fine red tunic and trousers, with pointed slippers on his feet, an Arabian flavor to his features, and a very dignified set to his shoulders.

“Two years, madam.” he answered shortly.

“Longest yet.” The woman murmured. She looked up at the ceiling again, noting now the constellations painted on the ceiling. “The night sky, as seen from Alexandria.” she said, mostly to herself. She swallowed, and renewed her determination. “Where is he? I need to speak with him.” She said to Toggle.

Toggle’s mouth tightened. “Master Lazarus is busy at the moment – if you would care to wait, the parlor is just this way.”

“No, that won’t be necessary, Togal.”

Master Lazarus Savatt stepped out from a shadowy doorway, looking suitably mysterious with his black lenses and his long, mud-stained purple coat. He smiled, reaching out to touch the young woman’s face. “Esther. My, it’s been….” He raised his eyebrows, his hand sliding over her rigid face to feel her nose. “Good heavens, you’ve grown! I swear, your nose feels longer.”

“Shut up.” the woman said impatiently, pushing away his hand. His smile widened. “Stop that.” She snapped, now somewhat sulkily. “I’m twenty-six years old, Laz. Twenty-six. Not twelve.”

He laughed at that – far too heartily, for Esther’s taste. Her mouth tightened, but she made no remark.

“W-well, then,” Savatt regained his composure, clearing his throat. “Let us repair to the parlor, shall we? Togal,” he said to the little man, “would you mind whipping up some of that special tea I’ve been saving? And while you’re about that, would you also mind adjusting the heat on the antidote in the laboratory? I believe there is a small chance that I might have left it too long.”

Toggle bowed, and briskly went about his tasks. Savatt smiled again. “So, Esther,” he said, walking in the direction of the parlor, the woman trailing behind, “Tell me, how long has it been, exactly, since you’ve darkened my doorstep? I’m having a bit of difficulty remembering. Ten years? Twelve?”

Esther’s mouth tightened. “Thirteen.”

“Oh, so you’ve been keeping track, then, have you?” Savatt said, lifting and waving his cane in the air. The dark room was immediately illuminated with a merry golden light, emanating from several spheres attached to the ceiling.

“Don’t start.” she said, somewhat wearily. Savatt sat down on the exceptionally comfortable-looking couch near the fireplace, and patted the space next to him. Esther hesitated, and then reluctantly took the indicated space.

Okay, Okay! So this is ISN'T actually a real literary post. But this was all I could really contribute. Story-wise, this IS the de-coated, dangerous version of the monk I did that little fact sheet about. Those clawed gauntlets he is currently brandishing are the 'guraem' gauntlets mentioned in the descriptions, if you care to remember.

I guess, to justify this post, I should also explain where I'm going with this. With my resources the way they are, I can't actually draw and publish this comic, but I can still develop and write it. That's the basic idea, anyways. So I'll be posting pictures and maybe even sketchy comic pages every now and again. I'll still be posting 'real' writing here, but I think that writing a comic also qualifies.

Let me tell you a little bit about what my idea for this comic is, and give me some feedback:

The story is set on a planet that was literally broken up long ago - what's left are four main islands, each housing their own seperate nation, with a scattering of tiny little islands surrounding them called the 'Free Islands'. Each of the four islands are connected by a Great Chain, and it is through this Chain that trade and negotiation is possible.

Zardool is the longest island, and also the wealthiest and most technologically and academically advanced, as education is held in very high esteem.

Krogoa is the largest island, and the most heavily forested, where the culture is very pacifistic and centered on family and community.

Bardosa is the most arid and desolate island, and thus the least productive agriculturally - the people are tough and hard-working, and they rely greatly on their religion to govern their land and maintain order.

Ssardeel is the second-largest island, and widely considered to be the most beautiful - the culture is centered on the arts, and it is also where 'magic blood' is thickest and most powerful.

This is all situated in a universe where space is not the airless vacuum it is in our universe - living organisms with lungs can breathe outside of their relevant atmosphere without any equipment. This has made interplanetary travel possible for many centuries (please don't question the science. It's magic. Shazaam.), and contact with alien civilizations is nothing new. There is even an alternative version of Earth floating around somewhere, but we'll get to that later.

Soooooo....yeah. That's the foundation for my comic. Will I ever make it real? Maybe. When I know what I'm doing. And have time......do dodo dodo dooooo......

A little more of Aelwys; some history

  “Indeed,” Edyl replied calmly, “That is true. I don't know much about it at all, I admit, but word in the taverns and in the seaports is abuzz with talk of this other Oracle. Some curious folk notice our flight to Ceadlund and hear about this pretender to the Holy Throne, and feel something big is about to happen. Some folk fear the Sovereign, and begin to lose faith in the Oracle that works so closely with his Highness.”

“Why, that's blasphemy!” cried Aelwys, cheeks burning. She had never heard such talk back in Hammon, and she was ashamed to hear it here.

“That's exactly why the soldier-priests aren't keen to let anyone who isn't Wygar by birth to leave for Ceadlund,” said Edyl.

“Surely they can't think that Mother and I—”

“They do, Aelwys,” came Mother's voice from the bed. She was now sitting up, looking regal as ever, and listening intently to their conversation, “They do.”

“But why?” She asked, flustered.

“There is much you need to know,” said Mother, “But now is not the time. All will be explained when we arrive in Ceadlund. Until then, know that our lives were in danger in Hammon. We didn't flee to defy the Oracle, you understand?”

“I do,” she replied.

“Good,” said Mother, “Now you should have some of last night's cider and something to eat.”

After Aelwys had a cup of the now-tepid cider, though no less delicious, and a few pieces of bread before her, she ventured to ask what had become of the others who had been inside the night before.

“Some have gone on to Llynceth,” said Edyl, “And others are foraging for berries and herbs. I should advise you to do the same,” he added, “For the forest at the foot of the mountains is rich in fruits these days, as no one dares venture there any more. It's much safer during the day. Other food will be hard to come by on the road, except for the last safehouse before Llynceth.”

“How many hours of sunlight have we got left?” asked Mother.

“Perhaps four or five,” guessed Edyl.

“Then I'll go and gather berries,” Mother said, as she hopped out of her bed and picked up her bag.

“I'll go, too,” said Aelwys, but Mother shook her head.

“No,” she said, “You stay here. The soldier-priests are looking for two false Wygar women traveling together. I'll be back within an hour or so.” Mother pulled the cloak over her shoulders and drew the hood over her head, and set out.

The afternoon passed without incident, and at Edyl's encouragement, Aelwys joined Collin, one of the younger Wygar boys, and they set about to patrol the immediate area. She stepped out to view their surroundings in the light of day, and was surprised at how pleasant it all seemed. The horrors of the night prior seemed little more than nightmares in the wake of the sunlight which poured down on them between the sparse clouds that thinly veiled the sky. The barnacled wreck lay half-decayed along the foot of a small cliff, draped in patches of moss which hung like tattered banners. Clusters of tall pines hid it from view of the main road, though there was an old trail that veered off the road and wound its way to the wreck, and Aelwys could only assume that this was the trail they had taken the night before. Beyond the path the rocky earth fell away, and beyond the edge of the chasm, the crashing waves heralded the sea that lay below. Behind, the road negotiated between the pine forest that crowned the inland hills and the ever-sheerer cliff that held the ocean at bay, up to the stone bridge where the first hidebehind appeared. Ahead, the road forked around either side of a jagged stone hill, which thrust heavenward like a great thumb; to the left it veered through a denser cluster of pines, and to the right it wove along the cliff. Several other hills were visible behind the first, and it was seemed that the two roads might not meet again for some distance.

Young Collin explained excitedly to Aelwys that the left road was old and neglected, and the hamlet that lay that way was full of peculiar people who did not trade much or even speak to many outsiders. The Wygars had some doings with them from time to time, but their lot preferred to remain locked inside their great stone walls amongst the hills, especially in recent times.

“How did the ship ground herself all the way up here?” Aelwys asked Collin, who seemed to take great pride in his familiarity with the lore of the haunted cliffs.

“Dear lass,” said he, “Have you not heard the stories of the war between the two Sovereigns?” The manner in which he spoke was almost comical, as though he were a charming lord and she were a fluttering admirer.

“I cannot say I have,” she confessed, suppressing a smile, “Was it long ago?”

“Very,” the boy answered gleefully, “So very long ago! A great long time ago, there came an armada from across the sea, led by a man who dared call himself King of this land!”

“The audacity!” she laughed. His eyes were wide and his face grew grim.

“Aye, that's what it was! Audacity. So the battle began! We Wygars were better-liked back then, and we also fought! The Sovereign used our learnings of alchemy to fight the Usurper and his ilk! In that day, when we Wygars were respected by other folk, we held libraries and even a university where the arts of alchemy were taught and cherished. Some great work of alchemy was used to scatter the Usurper's armada! Some vessels sank to the bosom of the ocean, others disappeared altogether, and this vessel – she was tossed like a child's toy to her sandy grave upon this very land.”

Collin fell silent and watched her anxiously with a broad grin on his face, as if awaiting applause. Aelwys sat agape, both amazed by the story and by the uncannily impressive language that issued from the boy's mouth.

“How do you know all of this?” she asked.

“My father taught me!” he said excitedly. “We learn the stories of our fathers exactly as our fathers tell them! I learned almost every word of that one. I couldn't remember some of the words, but I tried to make up some new ones. Did you like it?”

“Very much,” said Aelwys honestly, “Your people have incredible stories!”

“Most other folk don't think so,” he replied, “But I'm quite happy that you do! Wait.”

They paused. They could hear a new sound above the steady rhythm of the sea pounding herself against the stony cliff, though the sound was very unclear. Still the sun shown through the clouds, and the afternoon appeared peaceful, yet as the sound grew clearer, a great chill seized Aelwys' spine. Heavy hoofbeats. Both she and Collin stared down the road toward Hammon, and saw in the distance a great plume of dust announcing the approach of many riders.

Historical Fiction in One Paragraph

Um, yes. I wrote this when I was fifteen, and fresh from a year of studying way too much Revolutionary War. The British soldiers sort of intrigued me, probably because they didn't have nearly as many stories about the British as they did the Americans. I never went anywhere with this, and it's probably a good thing I didn't, because I didn't do a lot of research and would probably have messed it up pretty badly. Anyways, dug this up out of Microsoft word and thought it was cute enough to put up. Sorry for the blabbing. I am slightly embarrassed about this story for some reason.

I first saw him walking through the big cemetery near our house. He wasn’t hard to miss – his coat was an eye-watering scarlet, a spot of vivid color that made everything around him look bland and colorless in comparison. It was too red to really be real.

This incredibly noticeable quality was what really caught my curiosity – that, and the fact that no one else seemed to see him. The street wasn’t all that crowded, and he was the only person in the cemetery.

I was looking for a good excuse to skip out on school – nothing was happening that day, and I wanted to be as far away from Mr. Kantz as possible after what happened yesterday – and so I gladly took this one. I broke off from the sidewalk and crossed the narrow street, and felt the hard cement turn to neatly trimmed grass underneath my grungy sneaker-clad feet. He wasn’t walking very fast – a sort of shamble, really, just dragging his feet slowly through the grass – so it didn’t take much effort to catch up to him. He didn’t notice me coming up close behind him. He didn’t seem to be taking much notice of anything, to tell the truth.

Looking at his clothes, I labeled him as one of the historical reenactment people. There were a lot of them that worked here in Boston, clad in Revolutionary War getup. It was the wrong time of year for them to be out wandering the streets, though – they kept to the museums and historical sites when it wasn’t the 4^th of July – but I guessed that since he was out in the old cemetery, he was doing some museum work or something. I never had much to do with them. In the eight years that I’ve lived here, I’d been smothered so painfully with Boston’s history that I tried to avoid even attending the 4^th of July celebrations when they rolled around.

He was very tall – I’d pin him at about 6’ 5” or more. His hair, as per 18^th century custom, was long and tied back in ponytail. He wasn’t wearing a wig, and his hair wasn’t powdered – it was black as black could get. You hear about blue-black hair – you never actually expect to look at the back of someone’s head and see a blue sheen when the sun hits it. He carried a very scratched-up looking musket propped against his shoulder, and the blade glinted in the sun, a little too shiny and sharp.

I was done with watching – time to do some bugging.

“Hey.”

The guy’s head jerked around. His pale eyes bugged out when they saw me.

“What’re you doing out here? Geneology, or what?” I asked.

He didn’t reply. He just whipped around and started walking more quickly.

“Hey, wait!” I shouted.

Weird story idea

 At first, he was aware only of existing.

He thought it the strangest thing to imagine not existing. Where would he be? Or, more accurately, where wouldn't he be? What is it like to not think, feel, smell, touch, know, see, or want anything? It gave him a headache to try to conceive not existing. He relaxed somewhat and sat down, massaging his temples. The headache didn't seem to go away.

Why not? Shouldn't it go away? But then it occurred to him that he couldn't recall having had a headache before. How should he know how long a headache ought to last? Or that massaging his temples might make it better? He groaned and massaged with greater furor. The floorboards were hard and uncomfortable to sit on, and so he stood again, which admittedly did little to alleviate the pain in his head.

Where was he, anyhow? Inside, presumably. Floorboards don't just lay around in forests or deserts, or anywhere but inside places. Or do they? It didn't seem right to him that they would, so he supposed they must not. Whatever forests and deserts are. He had an inkling, though he couldn't recall having ever seen one. The thought then began to form that he had better open his eyes if he wished to learn where he was.

He opened his eyes to find everything terribly dark. That wasn't very helpful. More helpful to him, actually, was a scent he started to realize he had actually been smelling since, well, since he had become aware of himself. However long ago that had been. It was a smell that could perhaps be called sweet, and made him think of thoughts he couldn't quite place. People, places, and feelings that seemed like they ought to be familiar to him. Oh, please, why was the headache necessary?

The smell was definitely a lead, though. It tickled his memory, and the more he dwelt on it, a feeling seemed to spread within him, starting just below his sternum, a sweet, excited feeling. Interesting. A person, he thought – the smell definitely brought his mind to a person.

The more he blinked in the murkiness, the more he was able to make out. First he could see a rectangle only slightly more orange than black. He stared at this rectangle until he realized that he was looking at a window. He was inside a room of some kind. A kind that had floorboards.

With time, his eyes adjusted more and more to the light, and he was able to see a form close to the window. Just an outline at first, a blacker black inside a less black black. Black was quickly becoming his least-favorite color. Perhaps it always had been. How long had he existed, he wondered. Had he always existed and just not been aware? He knew it couldn't have been more than a few moments since he could remember anything, but those few moments seemed like an eternity. After all, it was the only life he could remember living.

The form became more defined. He realized over time that he was looking at someone asleep in a bed. His heart leapt. Somehow he knew this person. This was the person the smell made him think of. The feeling that had spread continued to ripple through him, growing more exciting and causing him more happiness than he had ever known, for what it was worth. He walked over to the bed and knelt by it, looking into the face of the person. It was a girl – the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

His mind was split between recognizing her and trying to remember who she was. He had seen her before, he was sure, except for the fact that he couldn't remember anything up till a few minutes ago. Had he seen anyone before, though, he was sure it would have been her.

“Alice,” the name escaped his lips and shattered the silence in the room, giving him quite a start. Though he hadn't spoken in much above a whisper, it was the first sound he was cognizant of hearing, and was therefore the loudest thing he had heard before.

He watched, his body frozen and his heart racing, afraid of whatever it was that happened when girls awoke up to find people in their rooms. The girl stirred in her sleep, but didn't wake. All good and well, then. He tried to relax, but found he couldn't. For some reason, a part of him wanted her to wake up. He wanted to talk to her again. Or for the first time. Whichever it was, he wanted to talk to her. Something about her seem to hold him captive, and his heart was still pounding.

“You love her,” came a voice from above his shoulder. He really did jump this time, and spun around with a yell. The voice that addressed him came from a person, apparently of the female persuasion. It wasn't immediately apparent, as her face was shrouded by a white mask over a black veil. This would have perhaps been alarming, if he had known that masked and veiled people opt on the alarming side in today's society, but instead her odd apparel came off as an interesting contrast from Alice, who was the only other person he had met. Apart from the odd head-wear, she wore a thick-looking covering, checkered diagonally, which was fastened shut by a long row of double-breasted buttons from the collar down to the floor.

“You startled me,” he said off-hand, and then remembered in horror that Alice was supposed to be sleeping. He turned to find her undisturbed.

“Oh, she won't wake up,” said the woman-person, “But anyway, you love her.”

“I guess I do,” he said, thinking. “I don't know if I've ever loved anyone before, so it's hard to say.”

“Well, you see,” she replied, “You, as you know yourself, are new to this world. You came into existence some hours ago.” He frowned. This was most disconcerting news. The whole concept of oblivion came flooding back, and with it his headache, which seemed to have come back with a nasty vengeance, rather put off at having been forgotten about.

“What does that even mean?” was all he was able to ask, sitting down on the floor again and massaging his temples harder than ever. He wasn't sure it would actually help, but it felt better to be doing something about the pain rather than taking it like a war hero.

“Let me show you,” she said, and she walked over to where the girl lay sleeping. In an instant, he was back on his feet – the woman-person was too close to Alice for his comfort. He instantly determined that no one was to come that close to her except for himself. This rule was to come into effect immediately. He opened his mouth to tell the woman-person so, but she was already away from the bed, now with a piece of paper in her gloved hand, which protruded from a slit in the cape she wore. She gave the piece of paper to him, and said,

“Read this.”

He looked at it, and though the room was dark, he could see letters on the paper, as if they were on fire, burning red and, if it could be said of letters, passionately.

The first letters spelled out DRAKE.

The rest of it seemed wholly unrelated to these five letters. They spoke of strong features, first and foremost, and handsome ones at that. They spoke of kindness, politeness, cleanliness, of handsomeness again, and then of perfection. They then took a weaker stance on the perfection aspect, admitting a few human faults that were most likely present (although the letters took care to explain that their writer hadn't yet observed these), but then they spoke of a willingness to overlook said faults due to intelligence, respect for women, and a hard work ethic. They ended with a suggestion that perhaps the subject of the writing might perhaps become romantically entwined with the author, and that they might pursue a future together. Finally, the fire in the letters died, and they were no longer visible in the darkness. He stood aghast.

“What's this?” he asked.

“That's a love poem,” she said.

“What does that have to do with the letters DRAKE?”

“That's your name.”

It was like a slap to the face, only pleasant. It was now so clear, he felt stupid for having not made the connection before.

“She wrote this poem about me!” He said excitedly. “That means she loves me back, then, doesn't it?”

“After a fashion,” said the woman-person, “She loves a boy named Drake. She wrote a poem about him. Around the time she finished writing is when you came into existence. You are her poem.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“I am her poem,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He contemplated this new information for a moment. In his vague understanding of the world, he didn't really think too much of poems as living, breathing things like himself. He held up the paper.

“Isn't this her poem?” he asked.

“No,” said the woman/person, “That is a piece of paper with ink sloppily arranged on it. You are what that piece of paper represents.”

“I don't quite follow,” he said.

“I don't expect you to,” came the reply, “Alice described you as smart, but not a metaphysicist.”

“That's not even a word,” he retorted.

“Is so, and don't you dare contradict me.”

They sat in another awkward silence for a moment while he tried to consider what to say next. Finally, he said,

“Okay.”

Another awkward silence.

“So,” he continued, “If I am her poem, then who are you? How do you know so much about it?”

“Knowledge is power,” she said, “and the tome that represents me is hidden away somewhere safe. No one person should have that much power.”

“You're that powerful?” he asked, out of curiosity rather than cheekiness, though her mask seemed to regard him coolly at this. Something flickered in the darkness behind the eye-holes in her mask, but as quickly as he had seen it, it was gone. She reached across the room.

Her arms were far too long. One stretched from where she stood over to the window, which shattered at her touch. The other stretched toward the door of the room, which her gloved hand opened, and continued stretching indefinitely, her masked gaze never faltering a nanometer. After a moment, her arms retracted to back within her cape, and the shattered window reassembled itself.

“I'm quite fond of you, Drake,” she said, which, though kind of her to say, did little to settle his now upset nerves, “And as such I just gave this entire house a great big hug. You were inside the house at the time, so consider it an impersonal expression of affection. But don't test my limits. I have few.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” he said.

“Humility aside, however,” she said in a light tone, “you are the newest addition to my realm. I just thought I'd welcome you personally before I left you to your own devices.”

More of Aelwys and Mother... part... what, 6?

This is up to page 11 in the Word document... from just a bit before I left off last time...

“I'm taking you to a safehouse,” said the man as they walked ever more swiftly, “We set up several in the past few weeks to make easier the journey to Ceadlund. These things cannot reach us there.”

“Cannot reach us, those things!” Came another nasty voice from beneath the drop of the cliff to their right, “Cannot reach us in the safehouse!”

“We will have to leave the path to get there,” the man warned, “But we musn't stray too far; we are being hunted.”

“Can those things hurt us?” Aelwys asked, her voice quivering.

“Yes,” the man said simply. There were no more questions. Aelwys wished she could close her eyes and run until she were safe, but she knew that she could not. She would have to endure this.

“We aren't far,” the Wygar said, “But we are being closed in on. We can no longer risk walking without a light. We must signal those at the safehouse.”

His left hand darted again into his pouch and produced a curious item which proved to be a small candle lantern as he took the velvet cloth from it. He also produced one of the small rods Aelwys had seen Mother use, and with it he lit the candle, which burned with surprising warmth and brightness. The moonlight was now fragile and became darkness compared to the bright lantern that now blazed as it hung from the chain in the Wygar's hand. As they walked, he swung the lantern back and forth, the lantern slowly gaining speed and breadth in its swinging, until it made a full turn, when the man caught it by the top and held it still. Aelwys was amazed that it did not go out.

Aelwys continued to keep a wary eye for moving shadows, but it was too hard to tell from the writhing shadows the lantern cast on their surroundings. Her heart pounded at every flicker of the flame that caused the shadows to leap, and every now and again she thought she could catch snatches of words from further behind them.

“Help... please... safehouse... cannot reach us...”

In the distance ahead, out of the dimness that now engulfed them, there appeared a light. It, too, began to swing back and forth, and made the same full circle.

“Friends are waiting for us,” said the man, “Let us not keep them waiting for long.”

“Not keep them waiting...”

They walked with all the haste they could muster without breaking into a run, Aelwys' heart throbbing so loudly in her ears that she could hardly make out the snatches of voices behind and around them, the light before them growing brighter and larger as they drew near.

Something cold brushed Aelwys' hand, winning a shriek from her. She spun around to find the empty landscape watching her, nothing discernible in the murkiness. She could have sworn it felt like a hand trying to grab her own. She turned back around and quickly caught up with Mother and the Wygar, walking as closely to Mother as she could get. After what must have been only a few minutes but what felt like hours, the light from the further lantern and the Wygar's merged into one circle. The lantern hung unattended from a groove in a rough wooden shaft thrust into the ground, before what appeared to be the remains of a ship.

“Take the lantern,” said the Wygar man to Mother, “and the shaft with it.” Mother did so, and they approached the mossy hull, near a spot where there was a large hole in the barnacle-encrusted boards. The man rapped on the wood in an odd pattern, and after a moment, a strange sort of door opened from within the hole, and a Wygar woman appeared, beckoning them to follow her back inside. In they went, Aelwys first and the Wygar man last, until they all found themselves inside a large, warm room.

It was very oddly-shaped, with six or seven corners, but comfortably furnished and well-lit. A fire blazed beneath a small cauldron, in a crude-looking fireplace that haphazardly occupied one of the smaller sections of the wall. There were beds stacked atop one another up to the roof, three or four high, such that the room could sleep twelve or more people, and two couches flanked an old table in the center of the room. In several of the beds lay people, most of them Wygars, marked by their kinky blond hair and the thick woolen cloaks they wrapped themselves in. Two small children slept on a blanket in front of the fire, a bit of forgotten bread clutched in the nearest child's hand. The scent of spices and apples emanated from the cauldron, tantalizing Aelwys' nose.

This was the safehouse. She let out a sigh to express the relief that washed over her, followed by a wave of exhaustion that lured her to the nearest couch, upon which she collapsed, without any regard whatsoever to manners or etiquette, in an unceremonious heap, and fell fast asleep.

She did not know how long she had slept, but when she awoke, the room was considerably darker than before. The fire in the fireplace had been extinguished, and there were only candles alight within, the waxy smoke escaping through gaps between the planks that made up the ceiling. Pale light shone through these gaps, suggesting daylight without. She saw that the door through which they had come was open, and that it was made of sturdy planks and fitted with several thick deadbolts, quite different from the frail, decayed-looking construction of the ceiling and the some of the walls. It looked to have been built with haste, but careful to offer protection to those within. Few of those who had been asleep the night before were inside, except for the Wygar man who had taken them to this place, and Mother, who slept on the couch opposite Aelwys. The man was sharpening his sword with a smooth stone, when he noted that she had awoken. His broad features wrinkled into a smile, the warmth of which was somewhat driven away by his darkened face paint about his eyes.

“Good morning,” he said genially.

“Good morning, sir,” she replied, now somewhat abashed by her lack of composure the night before, “Though I beg your pardon. We didn't even ask your name last night.”

“Edyl Causyth, at your service,” he said with a slight bow of his head, “and I can hardly blame you for not asking. The hidebehinds aren't the worst things that roams in the night, but they are the most common, and they spook even the soldier-priests and magistrates with their companies of armed men.”

“Hidebehinds?” asked Aelwys, “Is that what was hunting us?”

“It's what we call them,” said Edyl, “No one has ever seen one. Not straight on, as you see me, at any rate. Nasty things, that try to lure travelers off the road and into the shadows, where they attack in packs.”

“So the Sovereign's men weren't telling lies,” she remarked, “Demons really do haunt the night.” Edyl gave a small laugh, and shook his head.

“They tell enough truth to suit their purposes,” he said, “But they bring as much trouble with them as protection. Yes, the further away you stray from the beaches and the ocean, the more dangerous the wilderness can be. The most we encounter here are simple hidebehinds – if a fellow isn't careful, he could join those foul things for supper – although the true danger lies beyond the mountains to the south and to the east.”

“Why do you call them hidebehinds?” she couldn't help but ask him.

“Did you notice how whenever you think you see one in the corner of your eye, there's never anything there when you turn your head?” The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she recalled this.

“Yes,” she said with a shudder.

“Dreadfully afraid of being seen for some reason,” Edyl said, “And it'd be my guess that one by one, they're weak and cowardly. They are hungry, though, and so they hunt in packs, and use cunning to separate parties and draw them away. I don't know how much of our speech they understand, and I don't care to find out. Just don't pay any heed to any voice you hear coaxing you to help or accept help or anything of the sort. You remember this, now, Aelwys, and don't ever leave the path or your company.” Aelwys looked at him queerly.

“How do you know my name?” She asked. He hadn't asked her, and so she hadn't told him.

“Your Mother told me,” he said simply, “And that her name is Aesydora. She's a strong woman; she'll get you both to Llynceth, and no doubts. Once again, never leave your company or the path while you're still on land. Those things won't so much as touch you unless you do something foolish like that.” It felt like the pit of Aelwys' stomach sink like a pit of quick-sand.

“But one of them did touch me,” she said, holding up her hand, “Just there, along the edge of my hand.” Edyl was silent, staring at her hand as though it were some nasty thing from underneath a stone. After a moment, he said,

“They must be getting hungrier.” He sat silent for another moment, then continued, “I couldn't say how much longer we can keep this safehouse open. My wife and I watch it and patrol the outlying paths for lost travelers like yourselves. Many of the Wygar clans are on the move. We have called a Dire Counsel in Ceadlund, across the northern sea. Never before have we congregated together on another shore, but between the Sovereign and the hauntings that grow worse each month, it must be so. To prepare for this, we have set up several safehouses of this sort along the trail, each a day's journey away from the last, until Llynceth and her neighbouring villages. The last of us are supposed to set sail in three weeks' time.”

“But aren't you afraid that the Sovereign's men will notice so many Wygars?”

“Thus far, they seem glad to be rid of us. Trouble arises when they feel we are bringing away those who are not of our clan, people like yourself and your mother. You see, there is a rumor that there is a new Oracle near Ceadlund.”

“A new Oracle?” said Aelwys, incredulously, “Impossible! The Oracle has dwelt in the great Imperial city for millenia! He was the one who taught us to beware of the demons in the night, and how to ward them away from our houses, was he not?”

“Indeed,” Edyl replied calmly, “That is true. I don't know much about it at all, I admit, but word in the taverns and in the seaports is abuzz with talk of this other Oracle. Some curious folk notice our flight to Ceadlund and hear about this pretender to the Holy Throne, and feel something big is about to happen. Some folk fear the Sovereign, and begin to lose faith in the Oracle that works so closely with his Highness.”

“Why, that's blasphemy!” cried Aelwys, cheeks burning. She had never heard such talk back in Hammon, and she was ashamed to hear it here.

“That's exactly why the soldier-priests aren't keen to let anyone who isn't Wygar by birth to leave for Ceadlund,” said Edyl.

“Surely they can't think that Mother and I—”

“They do, Aelwys,” came Mother's voice from the bed. She was now sitting up, looking regal as ever, and listening intently to their conversation, “They do.”