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Amberwood Vignettes
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Amberwood Vignettes
Amberwood Vignettes
Well, this is a thing that occured to me a long time ago and I took it through several renovations before settling on the idea of an ensemble cast with short passages from each characters' point of view. I'll give you the lowdown:
Amberwood is basically a prison located in a fantasy world. It has an entire society inside it, completely separated from the outside except for the supply trains that get stuff in and out (Yes. I said 'trains'. This place is enormous.) It is located in a country called Ecraney, with Irga to the north, Candis to the south, and Leutra to the west. Leutra is currently in a state of civil war with Stroya over water rights (they live in a desert). Magic totally exists, as do gryphons, gargoyles, dragons, and various other magical creatures.
The Leutran Civil War and Broc:
Broc leaned up against the canvas wall of the tent, shivering slightly.
Her mother had mandated that they not make a fire until they crossed
the border into Stroyan territory, but that didn’t make the desert
nights any warmer. Right now she could hear the gentle snoring of her
younger brother and sister as they slept, oblivious to the panic
coursing through the veins of their parents.
She, herself, was supposed to be asleep as well, but the unfamiliar
night sounds resonating outside the flimsy canvas walls kept her from
fully relaxing. There were crickets, louder than they were meant to be,
and the sound of a small animal shuffling through the cool sands. The
irregular rhythms of her mother and father’s conversation only barely
reached her tired ears. They had been walking for days now, and she had
not been able to catch a second of sleep on any night.
A new sound added itself to the nighttime desert symphony - the scuff
of shoes. Whispers of orders. Silhouettes of men were projected onto the
taut cloth.
There are so many of them, Broc
thought. From what she could see of the fuzzy shapes, there were a lot
of them - she could count at least fifteen before the shadows blurred
together in her vision. The cut of their uniforms told her they were not
of Stroya.
Broc shrank down inside her blanket, whimpering. Leutrans. They’d been discovered.
Her father had noticed them, and reached for the old sword he kept by
the doorway of the tent. Her mother reached out to make him sit down so
as not to draw attention to the camp, but it was no use. He opened the
tent flap and ducked outside. Broc reached to her side for her knife.
The other hand she raised to her ear as she whispered a simple
incantation to enhance her hearing.
“Excuse me, sirs!” There was a clatter from the Leutran party, and a silhouette moved towards the tent. "Excuse me, but-"
“Who goes there?”
“Just a family making their way out of Stroya,” he bluffed. “Please, we mean no harm.”
“Heh. That’s what they all say,” the shadow snorted. “Must be the
uniform. What’s in the tent?” He gestured in their direction.
“My wife and children. We don’t mean any harm!” her father repeated.
The shadow grabbed him by the shoulder. “Don’t think less of us if we
don’t make sure. How do we know you ain’t Stroyan spies?” He pushed the
man towards a group of soldiers. “Pat him down.”
Broc’s fingers curled around the bone handle of the knife.
“You do, General.” Another voice spoke up. A very familiar voice that raised the short hairs on the back of her neck.
“Wendel?" Her brother had left months ago for Leutra. Broc hadn’t seen him since.
She’d assumed he had joined the military and been placed somewhere in
the middle of the action - that was what he wanted, anyway. Her brother
was the only one who could blow their cover, and he definitely had a
reason to.
We’re dead.
“This man is not loyal. In fact, he and his family are traveling to Stroya to join their forces.” Wendel drawled, clearly enjoying his power.
The general crossed his arms, but one of his hands strayed to the sword
hanging at his side. “And how do you know this, Cusou?”
“He’s my father.”
Broc didn’t hear much past that short, damning sentence. She dashed out
the door of the tent, knife in hand. Her mother followed her, eyes wide
with fear. “Brocta! What are you doing?”
She threw the knife. It ripped through the air, turning end over end
until its progress was arrested by the armored forearm of a minor
officer, who smiled benignly.
“Someone wants to meet their Maker today.” He removed his glove to
reveal a heavily tattooed left hand that became surrounded by a thin web
of bluish-white light.
“No! Don’t touch her!” her father howled. “Leave my children alone, and
I’ll go without a fight. On my honor.” He hung his head.
The general smiled unpleasantly. “You lost your honor when you sided
with Stroya.” He lowered his hand to point directly at Broc. “Kill them
all.”
Wendel stood by, his face impassive.
--
Note: This was indeed written in past tense. *shrugs* What can I say? I'm sooooo changeable! Actually, so are most of the others, barring Hector's, because Hector writes trashy romance novels in his spare time. If you want more, I'll post more, and I promise I'll get to them actually being in Amberwood eventually.
Or never mind, here's Hector's:
Hector Tries to Get Everybody to Love Bonsai Trees as He Does
I pride myself on my ability to befuddle. In that field, I am unmatched
and quite impressive. During my time served in Amberwood, I have been
able to convince that buffoon who is the official head that I am a
deep-cover Triari agent here to make sure this continue as planned for
some great design ordained by the higher-ups. A few well-placed bribes
later and here I am, king of the proverbial hill.
If the whim takes me I could depose the head of state himself. Fortunately for him, the whim does not take
me, as leading nations is quite boring and rather unsafe for one’s
health. I would much prefer to sit in the comfortable, if a bit cramped,
office and work on one of my newest passions - that of the pen.
Although I take great pride in my pieces, some discretion is necessary
when attempting publishing. As such, my work takes to the readers’
market under an assumed name.
I am scribbling away in a battered notebook of mine when I am treated
to an unexpected knock at the door. Quickly stowing my pen and paper, I
call boredly, “Come in.”
The door swings open to reveal a tall, but young girl with flaming red
hair. Mickey. “Hector, we’ve got a problem with one of the newcomers.
Broc keeps trying to turn him inside-out for some reason or another.”
“Bring them to me,” I reply airily. Mickey nods slowly, and leaves, her
face a mask of apprehension. It is quite apparent that she does not
fancy bringing the two offenders to my office.
To pass the time until she returns, I open my notebook and jot down a
few sentences. This novel I plan to call “Piracy”, or something of the
sort, to helpfully describe one of the aspects of this epic romance
between two who are very different.
“-I told you, I’m not gonna sit by an’ watch this little prick do
whatever he damn well pleases while I’m stuck in the detention block for
sneezin’ the wrong way!” argues one of the offenders, a short girl with blond hair cut close to her head. There is a burgeoning bruise on
her left cheek, and I notice a cut by her chin as well.
The recipient of the blame is a man I don’t recognize. It is likely
that he’s new, and I make a mental note to actually see the new arrivals
when they come in the future. He doesn’t respond to Brocta’s attack, but simply
frowns and nods in my direction.
I nod back graciously. It seems we have an understanding. "Sit down," I tell both of them, gesturing towards the two chairs in front of my desk. "Report."
Mickey snaps to attention, raising a fist in the Amberwood salute. "I found the offenders, Brocta Cusuo and... uh, Fraxinus Silverand, fighting in corridor 381C. Damage was sustained by both parties."
I stroke a leaf of the bonsai tree on the corner of my desk throughtfully, not saying anything. My gaze darts from Broc to the man whose name is Fraxinus. He probably abbreviates his name to Frax, I conjecture. He would not be the type to carry around such an unwieldy name without making it more accessible for those who know him. "So tell me," I say conversationally. "What do you know about Amberwood?"
Frax pipes up immediately. "It's awfully drafty, did you know there's a hole in the third-floor corridor's outside wall that's as big as my head? You should probably get that seen to." His accent is distinctly Irgan.
"Ah, shut your gaping airhole," Broc replies nastily. "Nobody cares how your pansy skin can't take the cold."
"I asked what you know about it," I reply mildly. "But yes, I do know about the hole. Mickey, you may want to assign someone to fixing it." She nods. I reach into a desk drawer and withdraw a pair of gleaming silver scissors. Gesturing with them at both Broc and Frax, I continue, "I don't particularly care who started it or what it was about. Such squabbles are for children."
Frax's gaze darts towards the scissors and back to my face. He looks a bit edgy when I pull the potted tree closer to myself.
"A bonsai tree is a work of art. Over a period of years, one may grow a beautiful tree with nothing more than a pot, some dirt, seeds, and a pair of scissors. This practice is a very interesting one. But there comes a time when you find that the world is not conforming to specific guidelines." I gesture towards a leaf that is growing at a haphazard angle, throwing off the balance of the tiny oak tree. "Such aberrations must be removed to preserve the well-being of the picture." Settling the sharp blades of the scissors around the offending leaf, I snip it from its branch. The leaf, now released, drifts softly to the desk.
Broc breaks the silence that has settled over the room. "So you're gonna snip us?" Her tone is sarcastic, but there is a note of anxiety in her voice.
I turn my attention to another leaf that is in need of pruning. "No, of course not," I reply in a way that is sure to convey the opposite. "I am simply stating that if I catch wind of any disorder again, there will be dire consequences."
I wait until the door is closed before pushing the bonsai tree away and returning the scissors to their drawer. I wait until I can no longer hear their voices before I bring out my notebook and continue scribbling down the story in spiked, impatient letters.
--
So that's two of them, Broc and Hector. Frax is important, he'll show up later if I feel like posting he and Eri's great coup at Edoi.
Yava says akei! Okay, she wants me to keep going.
--L
submitted by L
(February 18, 2013 - 1:17 pm)
(February 18, 2013 - 1:17 pm)
I agree with Yava!
(February 18, 2013 - 5:42 pm)
TOP. Wow, I love it. Please continue!
(February 18, 2013 - 6:21 pm)
I was hoping for a bit more feedback before I posted something else, but I just finished something on a new character whom I lurve. Sorry it's super long.
The Cursing of Sol Hadley and Other Big Mistakes:
Sol blinked in the bright sunlight. Above her, the forest canopy
spread, scratching at the sky and turning the filtered sunlight a muted
green. Birds twittered back and forth at each other, filling the air
with a glorious cacophony of chirps interspersed in song.
However enchanting the forest was, however, Sol didn’t have a bargain
to strike with it. This did apply to the occupant of the rundown
treehouse dominating an old grove of oaks.
To call the treehouse “large” was akin to calling the bubonic plague
“unpleasant”. The side of the house seemed to stretch for miles, and no
two sections of the house were the same. Sol could see turrets,
buttresses, verandas, and many other forms of architecture she couldn’t
name. There was even a staircase spiraling down around a gnarled tree
trunk.
This mage’s got a lot of time on his hands, she
thought incredulously as she corrected her course for the nearest
method of entrance to the treehouse. It was a simple rope ladder that
hung from a roughly-cut doorway ten feet above her head, but it looked
sound enough. Sol had become used to risking a few bones for a job.
“Hello?” she called as she reached the top of the ladder.
There was a screech, followed by a crash, and Sol saw an old man
scuttle into view. His bald head was covered by an oddly-shaped hat, and
something blue was dripping from his fingers. “Should know better than
to bother me when I’m working,” he muttered to himself. “What do they
want this time?” He stopped short when he Sol came into his view. “Now
who are you and what do you want with old Karov?”
Sol glanced at the man, Karov. He had to be the mage. No one else
could keep themselves hidden away like an old man in a treehouse. Also,
the glowing blue fluid still flecked over his dusty robes may have given
him away. “I need a spell,” she announced, unafraid.
“Do you now? I don’t know of anyone who could help you, unfortunately.” Karov suddenly adopted a conniving expression.
Sol raised a slim blond eyebrow. “You’re a terrible liar. I just hope
you’re not such a terrible mage.” Crossing her arms, she repeated,
louder this time, “I need a spell.”
Several denials and one heated argument later, Sol sat on a rough
wooden bench in front of an even rougher stone basin. The basin was
filled with all manner of disgusting things - fruit remains, mud,
something that looked like mud but was most likely something else, and what looked suspiciously like a putrefying mink corpse.
“Um.” She tried not to breathe through her nose, but found that the stench settled on her tongue as well. “What is this?”
Karov looked at her out of the corner of one eye in a way that
seemed as if he was actually viewing her head-on. “What is this?” he
repeated. “What is this?! Why, this is only the thing saving the entirety of Reiskaven from ripping itself apart from the drastic imbalance in the world!”
“And what would that be?” she replied coolly.
The mage upended several bottles of blue liquid into the basin. “The
Ringwald-Sporak imbalance, of course!” There it sparked, and the scent
surrounding them multiplied in strength.
Sol tried not to choke. “So you’re telling me that this stinkhole is here because there isn’t enough raspberry jam in the world?”
“Quite
the contrary, actually,” he replied. “There is simply too much
raspberry jam.” Shoving the basin to the side, he brought out a stool
for himself and another tall pot, which he set on the floor between
them. “So what is it you need?”
Pulling
a folded-up piece of paper from inside her vest, Sol handed it to him
and said, “Something that’ll get me and two others in and out of here
without being seen. Emphasis on that last part.”
Karov studied the sketch of the building on the inside, occasionally making a
contemplative noise or sighing. “Interesting,” he said finally. “Very
interesting. You wish to attack the vault at Edoi? Why would you want to
do that?”
Sol was ready for this. She swung a small drawstring bag of thiyas around her finger. “Extra for confidentiality.”
He raised an eyebrow. “This is interesting,” he muttered, stroking a nonexistent beard. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She
thought about arguing, but immediately changed her mind when she caught
sight of the large and wickedly sharp knife Karov pulled out of a
case. It flew before him in a silver blur, slicing invisible materials
and making a deadly-sounding shing
whenever it passed through the orange object he was cutting. The only
way she knew it was orange was from the wafer-thin slices that were
drifting down from the silver blade into the basin. She didn’t know
where he had gotten the orange thing, and didn’t particularly care. Her
business was to do the deeds and not ask questions. The mage’s business
was to give her the spell so she could do the deed.
The
orange wafers now covered the bottom of the pot, and Karov was
pouring a greenish-yellow liquid over them so they hissed and bubbled.
He struck a match on the corner of his stool, and dropped it in. The
flame caught. Purple tongues of fire licked up the side of the
container, the smoke of which smelled faintly of old books and vanilla.
Karov stared into the heart of the flame for a long while that stretched into
an interminable and thoroughly uncomfortable silence.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” he asked finally.
Sol grunted in affirmation. I guess it is pretty. Sort of. “How long’s this going to take? I don’t have all day.”
“Depends on if it wants to take all day or not,” the mage replied cryptically.
She felt like bashing her head against the wall. Is a straight answer too much for you to handle?! she screamed internally. Can’t I have a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ and not a ‘bleeping raspberries and gryphons’?
“You have to have patience!” Karov went on, correctly judging her
frustrated expression. “Magic is an art that takes time. It will not be
hurried along by you or me. Such meddling could be disastrous.” He was
surprisingly calm as he stirred the strange mixture, a complete contrast
to the eccentric old man who despaired of the amount of jam in Candis.
Sol sat back on the rough bench. Casting her eyes around the room
lazily, she noticed some things she hadn’t before. On a shelf beside her
head, she could see a squat red bottle, made of finely-cut glass. The
stopper was a cylinder of brass. It looked as if it would fit in the
palm of her hand. Next to it sat a slim bottle made of clear crystal.
Within it, a lightning storm seemed to rage - sparks ranging in color
from blue to white flickered across the glass while a cloud of gray
gases collected in the top.
“What’s that?” she asked conversationally, pointing at the two bottles.
Karov turned to look at the shelf. “Oh, you must mean the King of
Storms.” He gestured at the clear bottle. “One of my proudest
creations.”
“What does it do?”
“It releases its inner lightning when the stopper is pulled,” the mage
replied simply. “Depending on the amount of stopper left in the bottle,
it will be harsh and destructive or simply harsh.”
Sol was instantly full of questions, but she held her tongue, save for
one. “How much does it cost?” She worded it as mildly as she could.
Karov didn’t miss her meaning. “Quite a bit more than you could
afford, I’m sure. Even if you could, the King of Storms is not for sale.
It serves a different purpose here.”
Who’s this geezer to say what I can and can’t afford? she
thought. It was true, though. She barely had enough money for the spell
itself and the mage’s silence. “Fine,” she spat. “Just tell me when-”
But she never quite had the time to ask. A wailing screech from the pot
cut her off. The flames had gone out and the mixture inside had turned
into a pale pink fluid that clung to the rough stone and smelled faintly
of lantern oil. The noise was coming from a bubble near the edge that
had popped and was venting hot, wet air.
Karov picked up a copper ladle and spooned some of the pink stuff
into a wobbly-looking brown bottle. He stoppered it with a simple cork
and handed it to Sol. It was warm to the touch.
Slipping it into a pouch at her belt, Sol stood up and brushed off her
sleeves. “What does it do, how long should it last, and can it be
reused?” she rattled off. Too many times had a job almost failed because
the spell wore off too early.
“It is a chemical agent that will temporarily melt a hole in a wall,”
the mage stated. “The size and time the hole lasts depends on how much
you use and the material the wall is made of.”
Sol nodded curtly, and handed him the small bag of thiyas. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.” She turned as if to leave.
“Just remember, a little goes a long way.”
She
didn’t even turn around, but exited the treehouse as quickly as
possible, hoping the mage with his poor eyesight wouldn’t notice the
slim bottle of crystal she held tucked inside her sleeve until it was
much too late.
The
ground was spongy under her feet and quite welcome after the hard wood
floors of the treehouse. Sol struck out on her course underneath the
monstrous elevated building. It was best to stay unseeable for as long
as possible. She dared not to look at the mysterious King of Storms
until she was out of range, but it itched at her and nagged her with its
beautiful destructive power. I have to look at it. I have to use it.
Finally
it was too much. Sol ripped the bottle out of her sleeve and examined
it. Her fingers danced of their own volition to the stopper, hesitated
for barely an instant, and pulled. The crystal stopper left the bottle’s
neck entirely with a small pop.
Instantly
the air was full of the sound of thunder. Sol staggered backwards,
startled by the sudden, resonating rumble. She could taste ozone on her
tongue. White light filled her vision as her limbs began to tingle.
She felt herself hit the ground and then knew no more.
--
“Sol?” The voice pierced her mind, temporarily clearing the dense fog.
She tried to raise a hand to her forehead, but a gentle arm stayed her from moving. “Wh-what happened?”
Snort. “What happened? I
wasn’t even there. All I know is Quinna found you passed out underneath
that mage’s treehouse mumbling about raspberry jam and looking like you
had swallowed a lightning toad.”
“Who are you?” she asked groggily. The voice was so familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it with her head all in a muddle.
A new voice chimed in. “I’m Quinna. This is Yvan. You do remember us, don’t you?”
“Sort
of. Old teammates, right?” There was a small noise of affirmation and
Sol cracked her eyes open. “Oh, Levon. How long was I out?” The light in
the small, crowded room was dim, in high contrast to the bright
sunlight she had left. Two people sat next to her - a woman with
severely cropped, dark brown hair and a man with a raised scar across
his nose.
Quinna looked to Yvan for help. “Almost three weeks.”
Yvan tallied up the days on his fingers. “About seventeen days since we found you.”
There
was an immediate and extremely uncharacteristic response from Sol. She
immediately fell back onto the bed, immobilized from abject terror. An
unexplainable fear clutched at her heart with iron claws.
She began to hyperventilate. “No, no, no, no, no... not seventeen days. Say eighteen. Say eighteen!” Sol clenched her fists so hard she felt a slight trickle from beneath her fingers.
“Eighteen days! You’ve been out for eighteen days!” Yvan cried, startled.
The iron claws released her. “Levon,” she exhaled. “Have I been doing this a lot?” She had the distinct feeling that she had.
Yvan
grimaced behind the hand that was massaging the bridge of his nose.
“Uh... yes, actually. Every time we mention that number.”
“Wonderful,” Sol said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “So what about the raid?”
Quinna raised a slim black eyebrow. “The raid?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Yeah, we can’t just-”
Yvan leveled his sharp blue gaze at her. “Sol, we were busted. The
only reason we’re not rotting in Amberwood right now is because I had
the foresight to set up the getaway service. You’re welcome.”
Sol
fell back onto the bed. “I’m gonna get that stupid mage if it’s the
last thing I do. I really mean it.” She tensed up for a second, then
added, “I will.”
--
Sorry if the italicizing didn't work out, I've been trying to figure out how to preserve it when copied from Docs. Also, this happened way in the past, according to storytime. Sol is 42 now and has an adorable daughter named Livva. She also works for the Candisian government. Superspy Triari agent-y thing... yeah. She's cool. Quinna and Yvan pop up later, too. They're still cool.
(February 18, 2013 - 8:30 pm)
All three pieces are, in my opinion, written very well. I think my favorite part was Broc's. Please keep writing!
(February 19, 2013 - 10:28 am)
Feed me feeeeeeedbaaaaaaack.....
I should probably note at this time that I'm actually writing these for a column in Writers' Ink, an authors' and artists' magazine at my school. It's a weekly thing, and I come out with a new one every weekend. Some people really like it, but I haven't been receiving much feedback (hence my posting them here). I've only been doing it for about a month, so it makes sense, but I really would appreciate feedback.
That said! Here is last week's piece, a really short one about Frax and Eri.
Frax and Eri Attempt to Steal a Macguffin:
Eri tapped his foot impatiently. “What is taking you so long?” he growled.
“This takes time,” Frax explained around a lockpick as he fished inside
the keyhole with two others. “If we want to get in, get the gem, and
get out without being seen, this is the best way.” The picks scraped at
the inside of the lock. “Almost there...”
“Stand aside, Frax.” Eri stepped back and raised his hands.
“What?” He turned around. “No! That’ll only make noise and we can’t afford any more attention than we’ve already gotten.”
Eri shook his head. “Move.”
The tattoos dancing across his palms and flowing over his wrists began
to glow with a golden light that pulsed in rhythm to his heartbeat. A
pinpoint of light forced its way out of his palm and shot toward the
keyhole, where it sank into the metal with a soft ding!
It was followed by more, until there was a ribbon of light stretching
from Eri’s hand to the keyhole and the stagnant corridor air was filled
with the maddening sounds of magic altering reality. Frax covered his
ears and squeezed his eyes shut, but the visions of white light were
still projected on the back of his eyelids in a haze of sparks.
The lock clacked loudly and sprang open with an ungodly screech. Frax
leaped to catch it from slamming into the stone wall of the corridor as
he blinked back spots.
“Darn it, Eriyev!” he hissed, propping the door open with a stone. “You
always have to make a big show of everything. You stand guard while I
lift the Siber.” Not waiting for an answer, he ducked through the
doorway and raced down the corridor.
Eri scowled at his twin brother’s retreating back, but positioned
himself so he could see in both directions down the corridor. There was
no use arguing with Fraxinus when he put his mind to something.
Frax ran on his toes, trying to make as little noise as possible. According to Yvan, there was the vault door, then a left turn (he skidded around the corner) and a slight drop (he grunted as his feet found purchase on the stone floor almost a meter below where it was previously) and then the room. This
last thought was followed by a gasp of surprise as Frax entered the
vault where the Siber Levanistere, along with countless other treasures,
resided.
It was as stunning as it was terrifying. Frax felt diminished by the
absolute size of the room, as well as repulsed by its contents.The walls
were hung with tapestries depicting gruesome victories over monstrous
opponents, while a frieze stretching above them described in glowing
detail the numbers slaughtered during the iron-fisted rule of Rystandon
the Proud. He walked slowly through the stacks of ancient Ecranian
armor, marveling at how preserved it looked. It was as if there was a
diligent team of unseen workers who kept the room and all the artifacts
inside in pristine condition.
A chill went down his spine, and Frax turned to find himself
face-to-face with the stuffed head of a bear mounted on a wooden plaque.
Its mouth was open wide in a fiendish roar. He turned away from it,
slightly disgusted, and continued through the vault.
The faint glow was the only clue he had to where the Siber was located.
The faint, golden yellow glow pulsed from the jewel set in the handle
over the entire length of the sword, growing brighter as he approached.
His fingers itched to touch the silver blade, but he held himself back.
Something this valuable had to have all manner of spell traps and hidden
alarms all over it.
Frax rolled up his sleeves and gritted his teeth. Crouching down in
front of the oaken chest that the Siber rested upon, he scrutinized the
polished wood for any discrepancy that might show the way toward the
inside, and the control center for any traps. Frax sighed. He wasn’t
nearly as good at this as Eri was.
Eri. That idiot’s impatience had probably alerted every guard in the palacia. Frax scowled. Why can’t I do that kind of stuff? he
grumbled to himself as his poor excuse for fingernails were caught in a
hairline crack. He slid the thin blade of his knife through the crack a
short way, and twisted it.
The door swung open with more than a little resistance. Inside, a
colony of detector ants roamed the sides of the chest in intricate
patterns, on guard for the slightest disturbance.
Frax involuntarily jerked his hand away from an ant that ventured its
head into the newly-created gap. They couldn’t sense motion, but any
pressure changes would not go unnoticed. He smiled evilly. Time for me to earn my keep.
He stretched out his hand into the center of the chest. Instantly the
ants were alert, their strange chirping noises resonating in the silent
room. Frax balled his hand into a fist and brought it down hard on the
bottom of the chest. For a second, nothing happened.
Then, in an action so slight and so swift that no one would notice
unless they searched for it, he swept every living being from the
surface of the wood. An ant fell to the ground and clinked against the
varnish, frozen in place. Its generally amber-colored exoskeleton was
now a harsh gray. If one looked close enough, they could see that the
once-living ant had become one made of stone.
Frax had grabbed the Siber and dashed for the exit before the first
responders had appeared on the scene. The only clue to his having been
there, save for the obvious absence of the Siber, were the ants,
scattered across the floor and stone through and through.
(February 20, 2013 - 7:06 pm)
Let it be said that I love this. Let it be said.
(February 21, 2013 - 8:25 pm)
pokety pokety pokety
(February 23, 2013 - 12:35 pm)
Please, people! I need to know if this is good or not, and what I should change to keep my audience interested!
Fine. Update: I've gotten word from the teacher who presides over Ink that I should probably shorten each installment, but I have so much worldbuilding that needs to happen and so many characters that I need to talk about and make interesting and GAH. HELP.
(February 24, 2013 - 4:54 pm)
I haven't read about Sol yet, will do so next, but about Broc. I like it quite well. It was well laid out, very descriptive. But, may I say, personally, I would tone down the language a bit. Just saying. But other than that, I found really nothing to critque. I thougth it was very good! Keep writing!
(February 26, 2013 - 6:10 pm)
You have no idea how much I have to tone things down for it to be acceptable here. It's not really my fault... *weeps* My characters like swearing and I know it's not okay.
(February 26, 2013 - 6:51 pm)
I'd really like to hear more about Mickey. Who is she, what 's her backstory? You know, in case you're stressed for ideas (which you might not be).
(February 28, 2013 - 3:01 pm)
That I can do.
Mickey
The first time the girl with a name too long for her small frame had to run from the authorities, she was ten years old, dragging her three- and eight-year-old sisters behind her in a streak of hot, wild panic.
The second time Mitchaine Wendolyn Colton was to meet the Triari, it was her who was chasing them. During the six years between the two events, the scared little girl with hair like a flame had grown in ways they couldn’t imagine, as did Fey and Lizza.
“Mickey!” Fey’s whisper carries down the darkened alley. “What are you doing?” Her blond head pops out from between two crates to watch her older sister leap from the roof of a nearby shop into the darkened alley, two figures following her with blades drawn.
“Fey, I thought I told you to stay away from here,” Mickey exhales, more annoyed at her presence than concerned about those on her tail. She sidesteps a swing and elbows the attacker in the solar plexus. She follows it up with a quick jab to the windpipe, and he falls to the ground, winded. “Go home,” Mickey says, pointing down the opposite alley.
Fey does so - a little streak of blond hair and a soft patter of bare feet against the cobbled street announcing her exit. Mickey turns to the last assailant with a kick that knocks the knife out of his hand. She punches him in the gut with such force that the insignia announcing him as a member of the Triari, the relentless police force of Reiskaven, tears almost clean off his uniform.
“A spinning kick, Mickey?” asked a voice from the opposite rooftop. “Really?”
Mickey narrows her eyes. “Get down here, Lizza.”
A figure drops from the sky to land rather clumsily at her feet. “Aw, come on, Mick, I was just watching-”
“Just watching?” Mickey cuts her off. “Just watching? I sent Fey back to the fort! Where were you?” She sounds hurt. Moreover, she sounds worried.
Lizza’s blue eyes grow huge. “Wait, you did what?”
“I sent her back to the fort-” Mickey gasps. “No. They got it, didn’t they.” She turns, and sprints down the alley after her youngest sister. She calls her name, but there is no answer.
Mickey doubles over at the mouth of the alley, gasping for breath. She’s made for evasion, not running. She doesn’t have the kind of stamina that Fey does, or Lizza, who continues right past her.
When they arrive, panting, at their temporary fort, it is only to find it completely demolished. A few weeks earlier, they had boarded up the windows of an abandoned shop and called it home. It was modest, certainly, but it was roomy and well-situated and, most importantly, out of the way of prying Triari eyes. Now it is a burned shell. There is nothing left inside it but ashes.
Lizza kicks at a pile of the clumpy gray stuff. A larger chunk breaks apart to reveal a nest of glowing coals. The damage is fresh.
“They took her.” Mickey’s voice is an octave higher than usual.
“Mickey...” Lizza reaches for her sister’s hand. Their fingers interlace. Nails dig into the soft flesh on the back of Lizza’s hand, and she knows she is doing the same.
“And we’re going to get her back.” She drops her sister’s hand and walks to the mouth of the alley where she can see the rapidly-rising sun peeking over the hills.
Lizza follows her sister. “But how? I mean...” The question dies on her tongue when she sees Mickey’s expression. The usually even-tempered face is a mask of fury.
Mickey whirls on her sister. “Fey is annoying, yes. Fey is ridiculous, yes. But Fey is our sister. Fey is family. Family does not desert family. We are going to get her back. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if I die, or get chucked into Amberwood. We are going after Fey.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything else,” Lizza whispers in as calming a voice as she can muster. “But we need to plan this out. Remember the last time you went off half-cocked? Not. Pretty. That isn’t going to happen again.”
Mickey sags a little. She sighs, and embraces her little sister. “I don’t know what to do.” Her voice is very small.
Lizza hugs her back. “Well, I’ve got an idea.”
(March 1, 2013 - 9:38 pm)
I like this part a lot! Please continue!
(March 9, 2013 - 3:15 pm)
Aah! It bolded-ed-ed!
That wasn't supposed to happen.
Yava has summed up my thoughts right now with an obscene word.
That's puzzling, L, because I've tried to unbold it, but it doesn't work. . . .
Admin
(March 9, 2013 - 10:23 pm)