The Modern Magic Thief - A NaNoWriMo project

[Talanic]

I have made no canon decision on Shakespeare; right now, assume that he just happened to have sources and made his own stories up from there.

 

Once the editing phase begins, a lot of this is going to change, as my wife's degree included a focus on fairy tales and Arthurian legend.  She'll be helping me make it a bit more authentic.

 

November 27th, early afternoon: 510 words.

 

It took almost twenty minutes before Scheherazade and Momotaro announced that whatever it was, it was here. I didn't feel anything this time, which I took to be a good sign – neither an icy grip in my gut nor a fluttering heart rate.

 

The command group had allowed me a place by Scheherazade's side, which I found more comforting than the kevlar jacket that now covered my ruined shirt. Video feed closest to the forest cut out with no warning, but further-back cameras continued to transmit as the forest started to turn green again.

 

I was tempted to dash to the storefront, see it happen directly, but I restrained myself. It was clear, though; brown leaves in the forest were rapidly giving way to living ones.

 

They sent in a surveillance drone, which made a high pass over the woods, revealing the spreading circle and dropping misgivings into my gut. The trees weren't turning green again; new growth was overtaking them, eating the remains of the old forest and replacing it with something new, deeper, and wilder.

 

It looked distressingly familiar, but I left it up to Scheherazade; for all I knew, other things followed the same modus operandi.

 

“Probably,” Scheherazade said. “But which ones and why now?” She raised her voice. “Looks like probably creatures of Faerie. Can you get us a visual?”

 

The drone dipped lower, but the vegetation in the forest was too thick – and moving too much as it grew. The drone's operator pulled it back outside the tree line to keep watch as the green spread towards the edge.

 

The new growth paused for a moment at the tree line, then changed character, becoming thick summer grasses instead of forests. Considerate, I supposed – it would have been an unholy hassle if the intruders had started growing trees on the road.

 

We could see them – finally. Twelve of them, moving in a rough circle. Zooming in the camera showed that some were scattering seeds, but five of them maintained a rigid formation, remaining equidistant to each other in a strict pentagon.

 

I couldn't see it through the video – it wasn't configured to pick up magical auras, if it was even possible – but I suspected that if I could see them in person, they'd be joined by lines of power.

 

“Elves,” Scheherazade announced. “Tell Momotaro that it's elves. He knows what to do.”

 

The drone's feed suddenly lurched and fell to the ground in front of the elves; they clustered around it, speaking to one another rapidly, but the drone was a camera only; no sound.

 

They fanned out, quickly finding one of the other cameras. The one who found it called out to the others.

 

“Kin! This tiny eye is a tiny ear as well!” It leaned in towards the lens as if studying a new toy. “Tiny eye and tiny ear, who see and hear for someone else, can you tell them that we are here looking for our missing brother?”

 

Uh-oh.

 

[Talanic]

November 27th, evening.  985 words.  I may or may not have another update for tonight; will write what I can and probably roll it into tomorrow morning's total.

 

 

Events moved far more rapidly than I was comfortable with. Scheherazade and I had to explain the elf's invasion of Shamasun's home, the threat it posed to me and my defeat of it.

 

“So. Right now,” the Captain said, “These elves are not guilty of anything more concrete than intrusion on American soil, and are not forbidden from being there by any extant treaty. They may or may not have been party to acts that were hostile towards you” – he gestured towards me and Scheherazade – “But not necessarily hostile towards my country or government.”

 

“Um. Actually, I am an American citizen.”

 

“And you were tricked into participating in a plot against a third party, the authority of which has declared you innocent of wrongdoing. Duly noted.” He shook his head. “I was excited for a while when you said there were monsters to shoot. Now these things might be diplomats, and it's never the right time to shoot those.”

 

He glowered, thinking. “If they demand her extradition, I intend to refuse on the grounds that we have no formal treaty with them. The question I have is, if they try force, do we have the capacity to stop them?”

 

Scheherazade shook her head slowly. “I can't be sure. It depends on if we have any more backup arriving, and how well we can prepare for their arrival.”

 

I joined the troops in their preparations, requisitioning from a nearby hardware store for supplies. Momotaro started by laying down a line of salt, which was then covered with sand bags. Scheherazade stood by to test the line before the stack got too tall, and confirmed that the salt line hadn't been broken by the stacking of the bags. Lastly, they peppered the ground in front of the bags with handfuls of iron nails. It was the strongest anti-Faerie defense that could be cobbled together at short notice.

 

I helped by carrying out sandbags for a short while, before Scheherazade got into the nail supply; after that, she had me take a box of two-inch nails and make rings out of them. It was a strange feeling – that I could take metal and shape it as if it were putty. I just held the nail between two fingers and used my other hand to wrap it around, then stretched it so it would fit a larger hand.

 

The rings were passed to Momo, who spoke some form of charm over them, then distributed them to the troops. I hoped they worked, because the gravity of the situation was starting to hit me. So was the blame.

 

Everything that had gone wrong – absolutely everything – could be laid at my feet. If I hadn't settled on such a childish, irresponsible hobby, I'dve never brought the elf to Shamasun's home. It wouldn't have come, I wouldn't have killed it, I would still be mortal and the Nuckelavee wouldn't have invaded my home.

 

At least a dozen commuters on the road would still be alive. It could all be traced to my one reckless hobby. Maybe I should just give myself up to the elves.

 

There was a chuckle inside of my mind, and I felt hoofbeats receding as every hair on my body stood on end. And there was that.

 

I'd inadvertently turned one of the rings into a mold of my own handprint, just through squeezing too hard. I could focus on the job or I could think about the doom I likely deserved.

 

When the preparations were complete, the command group reconvened for one last meeting. Scheherazade and Momotaro took the front.

 

“Bad news and more bad news,” Scheherazade said. “The lesser is that our sorcerer got evacuated by the police before the Guard managed to reach him; he's about fifteen miles of clogged traffic away. Stian will not be accompanying us for this.”

 

“The worse news,” Momotaro said, “Is that we found the Nuckelavee's army. Now that there's no overflow blocking my attempts to open portals away, I was able to make contact with my friends. They're under siege at what we call the Bulwark – a defensive structure that has protected the mortal realm from intrusion for several hundred years. The Nuckelavee's army is unlikely to make it here, but the Bulwark has been damaged and our friends have their hands full. Everyone else we know of is engaged in handling that problem, and will not be available to assist if things go sour here.”

 

“That said,” Scheherazade said, “We are ceding command of the situation to you, Captain. We've done nearly all we can.”

 

“Nearly all?” The Captain asked.

 

“I have one trick up my sleeve, but it's not the kind of trick I want to use here and now,” Momotaro said. “I'm not pulling it out unless everything has gone so firmly to Dis that it can't make things worse. It's like how you could call your air force and demand that they carpet bomb your location.”

 

That got a raised eyebrow. “Fair enough. Now what is it?”

 

“Won't let an old man have his fun, eh?” Momotaro grumbled as he produced a flat sheet of paper with several Japanese characters painted on it. “If I tear this, it summons a monster, bound to serve me. A fairly beefy one, but it's still outgunned here.”

 

“And what does it look like, so my men don't shoot it?”

 

Momotaro laughed. “Oh, no, Captain. If I actually let this thing loose, it'll be because there are no living mortals within a mile of the site. If it gets loose and your men are there, they absolutely should shoot it.”

 

“I'm...not sure that's comforting.”

 

Right now, I wasn't sure that anything could be comforting. The elves were almost on us.

 

 

Hope everyone who celebrated it had a happy Thanksgiving.

[A Joe in the Bush]

Do to the nature of this story, the fact that the Godzilla threshold has been brought up means that Godzilla (or his equivalent in this case) Will be summoned. I can't wait. Please don't disappoint me in this.

[Talanic]

November 28th, afternoon. 1527 words.

 

 

As I stood with the diplomatic party, I wanted it all to be over, one way or another.

 

The elves approached at a leisurely pace. Of the twelve, five were still maintaining formation – and I could clearly see the wash of magic between them – and four were scattering handfuls of seeds, which sprouted in their path. None of them were armored, and so they lacked the androgyny of the one I had defeated; there were five males and seven females, though they were all wearing fine clothing, festooned with fresh flowers and weaves of living ivy, with laurels in their hair.

 

And they looked young. The one I'd fought had been ageless, but some of these elves looked like teenagers. I had no idea if that meant anything but it was strange.

 

I knew – and we'd warned the Guard – that it all could turn deadly in a moment. Leaves could turn to scale or plate, sticks to weapons. I didn't see any means by which they had managed to bring down the drone earlier; despite their innocuousness, these elves were armed.

 

But if they wanted to make threats, they were keeping it close to the chest. The ones scattering seeds were even singing softly, and they were all barefoot.

 

Twelve versus three. Scheherazade was on the left; Momotaro was on the right. The Captain took the lead and I was behind them all. He stood stoic as they approached. It was technically his show, and he had been as prepared as we could make him. His shirt – under his kevlar – was now inside out, and he sported a nail ring on his left hand, as well as nail bracelets on both wrists. Lastly, he was wearing sunglasses; we'd added strands of iron around the lenses and to both arms, pressing it against his ears. Whatever magic they brought to bear should wind up foiled by those countermeasures.

 

They walked right up to us, not directly acknowledging our presence, but the singers began to rise in volume. The five in the formation joined in and I could feel waves of power pouring out of them, rebounding and flowing back into the construct that stretched between them.

 

There was a sudden rustling, as if wind through thousands of leaves, and the elves' chant dropped back down to a drone as the space in their formation was suddenly filled with a portion of somewhere else. They stepped to the sides, stretching the lines of power that now looked dull in comparison to what blazed forth.

 

It was like the throne of God had dropped into place. I felt a powerful urge to drop to my knees and cover my face with my hands before the blinding light in front of me. The salt was obscuring the glory. I should remove the salt. I should – I should –

 

No. I regained my wits, staggering back upright in the middle of an attempted kneeling, and forced myself to look. It was hard to look straight at it – I had an understanding of what Stian had been through earlier – but I could manage. It was a throne, yes, a massive thing carved from a single giant bone, with a magnificent elf sitting upon it. The elf was radiant, stunning – the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A natural king, the proper ruler of all things.

 

At the same time, I still saw him as just an elf on a fancy chair. There was a strange split in my mind; half of it was already this creature's adoring slave and the other half was sane enough to resent the hell out of it. Glamour. Of course it was Glamour. But I knew it was more than that.

 

“Oberon,” Scheherazade whispered to the Captain, who nodded.

 

“King of the Fairies,” the Captain called out. “I am Captain Petersen of the National Guard of the United States of America. What is the reason for your visit?”

 

Oberon's eyes flicked about, then settled on Scheherazade.

 

“Sherry, my dear. Are these mortals getting in your way? I could put them away for you.”

 

“I'm not yours, Brenn. And it's their show; I'm just here to advise.”

 

“Really? You're treating them like people now? What a change,” Oberon said, shifting towards Captain Petersen. “Five days ago, one of my sons ran away from home. I've been looking for him ever since. When I sensed that a Prince of Dis had invaded the mortal realm, why, that's just as rare as a prince of Faerie running away. I thought it could be a coincidence but likely was not, and that you could use my help.”

 

“We have the situation well in hand, and none of my personnel have had contact with any members of the Faerie nobility before your arrival,” the Captain said.

 

The young elves began a low chant, and Scheherazade started slightly. I don't think anyone else noticed her reaction; Oberon certainly didn't.

 

“I beg to disagree, Captain. I can smell it on the girl behind you. She took my son's life, took his magic, and I came to retrieve it. Step forward, girl.”

 

I couldn't help myself; I did it, forcing my way between Momotaro and the Captain.

 

“Tell me what happened, child.”

 

The words rushed out of me. “Your son tricked and attacked me. I killed him.” I felt the urge to tack something on, so I continued. “Underestimating me is dangerous. You'd be wise to note that.”

 

He laughed, and half of my mind adored him for it. The other half was just about ready to set him on fire. The elven chant intensified as Oberon responded.

 

“It seems fair, young maiden. I will not be the fool that he was. I can feel the truth in your words; all is forgiven. But the gifts you now bear, the powers that lie within you – they do not belong on the mortal realm. You cannot learn to use them here. Join these others, your new brothers and sisters. Come with me, be welcomed as my new daughter, and take your rightful place in the Faerie court.”

 

It was as if the two parts of my mind went to war. Acceptance caught in my throat, collided with defiance and choked me. I dropped to my knees, my head pounding, tears streaming down my face. The Captain was shouting something but I couldn't hear anything but Oberon's words, echoing endlessly in my mind, and I knew then, beyond a doubt, that he was the one who had me enchanted; I couldn't disobey his orders.

 

And yet, I hadn't obeyed yet. Something was wrong – perhaps it hadn't translated properly? I forced my gaze up to see that two of the younger elves, one on either side of the group, where Oberon couldn't see them, were shaking their heads as their hands flitted in arcane gestures. Oberon's own face was smug, but the satisfaction was slowly draining away to annoyance.

 

“You must do this,” he said. “Come. Renounce the mortal realm. Be my daughter and serve me.”

 

No, a voice in my mind growled. Stuck in here is bad enough; I will not be an elf's lackey! I straightened up, took a deep breath, and screamed – but it was the scream of the Nuckelavee, and it rang out far past when I should have run out of breath. I raised my right hand without thinking and grabbed at strands of magic, which flared and crackled in my grasp.

 

The scream died down as I tightened my hold on the magic. I took another breath and the words poured out. “I. Will. Not. Be. Your. Slave.” I said, my voice raw.

 

My hand burned and froze as the strands lashed out at me, but I found something solid in my grasp and pulled. A spear froze into my hand.

 

Oberon's face had just enough time to twist in shock as his children lost the flows of power and his throne faded back into Faerie. He was gone, but the threat remained; I raised the spear and shrieked at the elves.

 

Suddenly Momotaro was on top of me, pinning me down and wrestling the weapon away. My world was suddenly agony as things caught up with me, and I caught a glimpse of my hand; every piece of skin that had touched the spear was gone.

 

Bit by bit, cut by cut. The grim voice sang in my mind. I will have what I want, one way or another.

 

Scheherazade was there, and her blade was out. She held it above my throat, hesitating.

 

“Do it,” I said.

 

“I really don't want to,” she said, “But I don't think I have a choice.” She knelt beside me and took my hand, then guided it up to the pommel of the sword. “This weapon has the most powerful defensive enchantments I've ever created, and it's yours now. Its name is A Song at Midnight. May it serve you well.”

 

[Talanic]

November 28th, night.  828 words.  I no longer fear that I won't finish NaNoWriMo; unless something bad happens I should have it down.

 

 

A sword.

 

My sword.

 

What the hell was that going to do me? The enemy was inside my skull. I could feel the hoofbeats pounding past, hear the Nuckelavee's laughter. It had already started the process; who was I to stop it?

 

I slipped back into the dream of Dis. The Nuckelavee reared up in front of me and I turned to run, but the ground was mud; I slipped and fell. I wasn't going to give up that easily; I forced myself back to my feet. The monster was nowhere to be seen – I wasn't optimistic enough to think that it was gone – and the forest was eerily quiet.

 

That, I thought, was Dis for you. It never did anything in any way that wasn't unsettling. The tree branches always looked like grasping hands when seen fleetingly, and shadows seemed to shift with barely-glimpsed movement. I had barely been there – hadn't actually been there – but I was already getting so utterly sick of Dis.

 

I closed my eyes and focused. This was just a dream, and although it was under the Nuckelavee's influence, it was in my head. How did this work? What was it that I needed?

 

And why could I feel a weight in my hand?

 

I opened my eyes. A Song at Midnight rested in my palm. I didn't know how to use it, but it – or a memory of it – had come in answer to my need. Scheherazade had known something after all.

 

I heard the hoofbeats again, but I had a measure of control now. I took five strides ahead and scooted around a tree, focusing on an expectation of finding a river. Sure enough, I found one; a raging torrent that I should have been able to hear from half a mile away, but it hadn't been in this dream until I'd called it.

 

I nodded and turned around, focusing on my apartment. That failed. This time, at least. But I knew the Nuckelavee wouldn't cross the rivers of Dis, so I had limited its ability to ambush me.

 

This was purely a mental exercise, but it appeared to be limited to only things of Dis. Were these places pulled from the Nuckelavee's memories?

 

I focused on something I didn't know. What would be something that the Nuckelavee valued? For all its bluster, things don't live on just hunger. It was intelligent; there might be some trace of sentiment in there.

 

I felt a resistance as I tried to move, and I growled. “Two can play this game, you over-exfoliated bastard.” There was something out there that the Nuckelavee wanted to hide – or perhaps, even, to protect.

 

The scene shifted, but it was so rapid that I couldn't see what happened before I was yanked back to where I'd begun. The Nuckelavee was there, and it struck me across the face with a skinless fist before I could react. I tumbled to the ground, somehow managing to avoid cutting myself, but sprang back up. No Nuckelavee.

 

“Not getting away that easy,” I said. “Get. Back. Here.” It wavered into being as if I was forcing it to coalesce – and I thought I was. I pointed, and its hindquarters sank into the mud, trapped.

 

“This. This is for the lives you took today,” I said, and slashed it across the gut. It scowled at me as the wound began to knit, but I raised a hand. “No. You're not some unstoppable god of evil. You're an echo of a monster that lost a fight. Nothing more.”

 

It reared up and screamed as the injury stopped healing and began to ooze thick, red blood. I gave it another slash, this time across an arm. “This is for trying to kill me.” Another slash, cutting the muscles of its jaw. “That's for making me think I was cursed. And that,” I yelled as I cut one of its forelegs off, “Is for the cats at the shelter!”

 

It collapsed, panting, finally in pain. I lined the blade up with its neck, and paused.

 

“And this is for saving me from Oberon,” I said as I lowered A Song at Midnight. “Make no mistake. I want you out of my head. You can fade away into mist at any time and never come back, but...I don't want to be an elf's puppet either. So if you have to stick around...you can. But put some skin on, for God's sake!”

 

The Nuckelavee wavered for a moment, then reformed, whole – and with skin that shone pale in the dim light of Dis and a long mane of thick, brown hair that merged with a coat of brown fur on its equine half.

 

It stared at me in shock as I waved the blade at it. “That'll do. But I have real life things to do. So, ta!”

 

[A Joe in the Bush]

Just checking in. I'm still reading this. Sam has been sold for me. Se's a great, well developed character. I liked the whole Mental Conflict between Oberon's Cmpulsion and the Nuckelavee.

 

How exactly do you pronounce Nuckelavee? I've been saying Nu-ckle-vee, but I don't think that's right.

[Talanic]

I pronounced it somewhere between NUCK-la-vee or NACK-la-ve.  I think pronunciation is a little hazy with it; it's considered by some to be the origin of calling the devil 'Old Nick' as well.

 

Scheherazade gets pronounced "Sha-hair-a-ZOD".  I promised my wife that there would be no "Kneel before Scheherazade!" moment in the writing, though.  

 

Interlude: Pandemonium. 567 words.

 

EDIT:  Wait, wait.  I mentioned the tribute but didn't specify it.  Need to add to this.

EDIT2: Updated.

 

 

 I, acting on behalf of the Mortal Realm and with the informed consent of all governments which have participated in the conflict between the inhabitants of Pandemonium and the Mortal Realm, hereby submit the provisions of the surrender of all inhabitants of the Mortal Realm and the acceptance of the terms as outlined below. I include my humble thanks at your graces' mercy at accepting this document and agreeing that all inhabitants of Pandemonium and the Mortal Realm shall be bound by the conditions within.

 

I offer this surrender to the assembled leaders of the Weird, Strange, Yokai, Oni, Unled, Chaotics, Tsukumogami, Outlanders and Obake, hereafter referred to as the Outlanders.

 

As of the receipt of this document, all hostilities between the Realms of Pandemonium and the Mortal Realm are to cease immediately. Organized hostilities launched from one realm into the other are therefore to be punished by the forfeiture of one peach tart, baked by Yamamoto Seiko of Inuyama, Japan, or a descendent thereof, to Momotaro or a designated alternate thereof. The forfeiture must be paid for with legal currency of the Mortal Realm at a price to be negotiated by the baker. Should the line of Ms. Yamamoto have gone extinct, a suitable replacement may be named at the time of forfeiture by Momotaro or designated alternate.

 

The Outlanders are responsible for policing the transgressions of their people, things, inanimate objects, kinetically charged concepts and mobile locations. Invasion of the Mortal Realm is acceptable for the acceptance of specifically designated tribute, sightseeing, and participation in various rituals. Consumption of mortals via physical, intellectual, or spiritual means is hereby prohibited without a license. Licenses to consume mortals are to be issued at the sole discretion of Momotaro or any authorized agent thereof. The penalty for consumption of a mortal without a license is to be determined on an individual basis at the discretion of Momotaro.

 

 Tribute to be provided from the inhabitants of the Mortal Realm to those of Pandemonium will take the form of offerings, to be found at shrines, outside of homes, and by the side of graves. Grave offerings are only to be collected by Outlanders who have a connection to the deceased mortal residing in the specific grave. Other offerings are to be collected as situation allows. The inhabitants of the mortal realm, as a whole, are to provide no fewer than one meal per day to the inhabitants of Pandemonium. A meal is to consist of one cup of cooked rice and a shot of sake, or its equivalent in nutrition and intoxicating qualities. Tribute is submitted by mortals by being left in the aforementioned locations, burnt as a sacrifice, or poured out on the ground. It is the sole responsibility of the mortals to leave the tribute out; all responsibility related to collection of the tribute, including any complications related to difficulty in acquiring said tribute, belongs soley to the inhabitants of Pandemonium. Payment in advance is permitted.

 

The Outlanders are also required to submit a message to one Kintaro, champion of the Mortal Realm, the text of which is as follows: “It worked. Pay up.”

 

Further addenda to the treaty can be added at the sole discretion of Momotaro, and will remain fully binding until such date as he declares that they are not.

 

Hereby signed, the pi of ¾ day by the reckoning of Pandemonium,

 

Momotaro

 

∞

 

Edited November 29, 2014 by Talanic

[A Joe in the Bush]

 I can't quite, what? Peach tart? Is this an Actual treaty in world, or a Joke?

[Talanic]

I figured I might have to explain...

 

Momotaro deals with the residents of Pandemonium so much that he figured out how to fool them into no longer being a threat.  They don't follow any rules of logic - so he went to them with a treaty he'd written, saying, "Hey, guys, I surrender.  Be generous in your victory, okay?"

 

From that treaty, which has enough absurdity to get the creatures of Pandemonium nodding and agreeing, Momotaro got them to appoint him as the final arbiter for any interaction between them and the mortal realm.  If they screw up, they have to go to one of his friends and buy him a snack at any price, no matter how exorbitant.  If he messes up, he has to do the same, but it's his friend setting the price - and he still gets to eat the snack.

 

Additionally, he's the only one who gets to decide which of the monsters of Pandemonium get to eat people.  Fun fact: No creature that actually does eat people has ever actually acquired a license.

 

And yes, that means I probably have to make it clearer.  Or place the interlude after the treaty winds up referenced in the normal flow of the story.

Edited November 29, 2014 by Talanic

[A Joe in the Bush]

Oh, Ok. That makes sense now. And it's still hilarious.

[Talanic]

November 29th, evening.  948 words.  

 

 

I woke up, my hand burning on the hilt of the sword – my sword. I shivered in the hot summer sun, then met Scheherazade's worried gaze and nodded.

 

I was breathing heavily, but I felt better. I didn't know for sure if my victory was permanent or not, and I suspected that leaving the Nuckelavee alive inside my head was a good idea, but it was done.

 

I sat up to find that the elves were still singing, something low and soothing. They were also at gunpoint; the Guardsmen had tensed at my scream and collapse, but their discipline had held, and nobody had fired. Yet.

 

“I'm okay,” I croaked.

 

“What was that?” Captain Petersen demanded.

 

“I – ”

 

“Mystical backlash,” Scheherazade interrupted. “A resonance with the creature she killed earlier, set off by a bad-faith attempt by Oberon to abduct her to Faerie.” She looked up at the other elves. “But these ones...they were singing a counter-charm, to help her resist. Why?”

 

“Shhh,” one of the elves said – a girl with brilliant red hair, like strands of rubies, and deep green eyes. “I must speak, quickly and to the girl, though the others may hear. First I must tell you to come to Faerie, that our father is kind and noble and forgiving, that infinite joys and delights await you if you will but walk away from your world – that and nothing more. And now that I have said this, if he requires me to tell him what I said to you, I can tell him that I said that.”

 

“A deception, born of necessity,” she said, but she was accompanied by at least three of the others in a harmony that I'd not expected. She continued alone. “Our father is cruel and demanding, and we are bound to his will. He will brook no dissent, and we are magically compelled to obey him.”

 

“You are bound by the same spells, transferred to you from the brother who was most like our father,” they chorused, before the emerald-eyed girl continued. “We cannot free you any more than we can free ourselves, but while we must return to Oberon, you are still free.”

 

“He has made his children his slaves,” they chanted. “No more than weapons in his hands.”

 

“In truth, our father has not forgiven you, for you have taken power that he considered his. He will try again until you are dead or in his service. We don't know how to stop him, but we think there is a way.”

 

“We cannot help,” the group sang. “He would sense our magic upon you, command us to betray you.”

 

“Indeed, if you encounter us again, do not assume that we have kept ahead of our father,” she said. “Presume us your enemies in the course of your quest. It will be safer. You have already become more powerful than us, but need to find mastery of those powers.”

 

“And you will need help,” they chanted. “Seek the queen of the dead.”

 

“Our divination suggests that she may be able to set you on the path, but we don't know what she will tell you. It is safer if we don't know what the plan will be. There is another, but we cannot even speak her name without attracting the wrath of our father; you will have to seek that one on your own. And be careful, should you seek the help of his enemies.”

 

“Killing him is not the way,” the singers warned. “He has bound us to destruction on his death.”

 

“If he dies, we must take revenge, and then unload his vengeance upon the realms. If he cannot rule Faerie, he would force us to make it into another Dis, a scourge upon anyone who ever stood against him. You would also be bound by this compulsion.”

 

They bowed as one before the ruby-haired girl turned to the Captain. “I am sorry for the disturbance today and would gladly seek to reopen negotiations for normal relations between your lands and Faerie. That and nothing more. But I'm sure you understand what I mean by that.” She smiled sadly. “Our people are not to be trusted. We are raised to jealousy and deceit. Make no treaty with Faerie, for it will be abused. I can't guarantee that we can change that, even if we one day break free of our father and seize power. It is the nature of elves – and we fear it may hold true even for us, who are of many natures.”

 

The Captain nodded back. “I appreciate your candor.”

 

“Appreciate all you will, but don't trust,” she said. “We are people of great passions and little restraint. I take it that the champions' policy of secrecy tumbles down today?”

 

Scheherazade shrugged. “It was a good idea for a long time, but I think it became a habit. Then it became something that got harder to get rid of the longer it sat. So yes – we're going to go public.”

 

The girl bowed. “I wish you the best of luck. Farewell.” The group turned, perfectly coordinated, as if they had practiced.

 

“Wait,” I said. “I didn't get your name.”

 

The ruby-haired girl turned, alone. “And you will not this day, for I haven't crafted it yet. Perhaps we shall be fortunate enough to tell each other who we are when we've both found out?”

 

And with that, they left. We let them go.

 

[Talanic]

FINAL DAY.  780 words here.  I hate to leave with a scene half done, but...

 

 

 

 

The Guard didn't stand down immediately, and I couldn't blame them. Too much had happened, and too much of it weird, for them to assume that things were truly over.

 

My part in things, however, was finished, as I was whisked off to the medical staff to have my hand treated. To my surprise, that's where I found Hewn. He still looked like he'd been hit with a wrecking ball, but it looked like all his pieces were there.

 

“Oh look,” he said, a bit of sarcasm tinging his voice. “A casualty, and this one's one of mine. But I suppose you experts want to deal with it?”

 

“Sure can.” The medic responded. There was some venom there; what had it taken for someone to get on Hewn's bad side? “Can we see what's wrong, miss?”

 

My hand was still locked on the sword's hilt, although Scheherazade had helped me work it into its scabbard and fasten it to my belt. It took some effort to pry them free; the medic regarded the sword with some misgivings.

 

“Do you have to wear that in here?”

 

“Yep, she does,” Hewn said. “That's curse burn, there. Normally wouldn't heal at all, but the wards on the sword will take care of that.”

 

“Uh huh,” the medic responded. “Looks like an abrasion to me. All the way down to the tendons...not bleeding as much as I'd expect, though. Since I've gotten the call that hostilities are over, I'm going to clean it and bandage it for now, and we'll get you to a hospital.”

 

“Clean it, sure, and check thoroughly for any kind of shrapnel. Have the patient mystically scan the injury as well. If there are no fragments remaining, it'll be healed in about fifteen minutes,” Hewn said. “With the power she's wielding, it's not going to be an issue.”

 

“Shush. It's my patient – and are you even a doctor?”

 

“Not from any school, no. But I've been treating magical injuries on various breeds of not-quite-human for thousands of years. Let her keep the sword, clean the injury, scan it, let it breathe, done.”

 

The medic looked to me, clearly frustrated. “How was this injury sustained?”

 

I scrambled for words. “I grabbed a spear of pure, frozen entropy, conjured by an ancient demon that was possessing me at the time.”

 

He gaped at me. “So I'd be looking for shards of entropy in your injury? What...?”

 

“Nah,” Hewn said. “Those melt pretty quickly; they'd be in her bloodstream. Check for hypothermia; if she's good, she's golden.”

 

A minute later, the medic had a thermometer in my mouth and was taking my pulse. “Good, and good. Just one more.” He pulled out a blood pressure cuff, and Hewn opened his mouth for a moment before closing it with a smile.

 

“Blood pressure...” The medic pumped up the cuff, then listened, frowning. I locked gazes with Hewn, who clearly knew something, but even I could feel that the test wasn't working the way it usually did. The medic repeated the test in silence, then threw away the cuff, rifled in his pack and grabbed a different one. “Blood pressure...three hundred over three hundred?”

 

“It isn't really, but the nature of the cuff causes her powers to kick in. Her body sees the pressure as something to fight, and it's a fight her body will always win.”

 

The medic gulped, looking a little wild-eyed, but Hewn patted him on the shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Just follow the steps I told you, keep her here for monitoring, and I'll bet you five bucks that her hand's cleared up by the end of fifteen minutes. And if you're willing to listen, I'll start teaching you what else you need to know.”

 

I listened, off and on, as Hewn started exhorting to the increasingly-attentive medic about the physiology of the various creatures of the realms. Every five minutes, they checked on my hand; true to Hewn's words, it was healing up.

 

“I don't get how it's closing like that. Are we seeing accelerated cell growth? What's going on?”

 

“Beats me,” Hewn said. “One of our biggest problems of late has always seemed to me that we never really had a scientist on the team. We suffered a lot of attrition in the early centuries because we just didn't know what would and wouldn't work, and we've been coasting by on a lot of traditions. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that a lot of what we believe is faulty.”

 

[Talanic]

Afternoon.  814 words.  49365 done.  635 left.  Also amusing is that we're close to 1,000 views.

 

 

 

“For example,” he continued. “I first studied medicine under Asclepius.”

 

That got a sharp look from the medic. “He was real?”

 

“Most stories are real in some way, if you look long enough. The world's big, and there's more worlds than you know of. But yes, he was a real person – he just wasn't what you'd consider human. He was an Olympian, which is pretty close, but it means he could use magic. Well, he learned as much about medicine and anatomy as he had the tools to at the time. It was mostly hard-won knowledge from many centuries of treating injuries and illnesses. But he was one of the early ones to start asking, 'Why does this man recover from this illness while that one dies?'” He didn't have fancy microscopes or anything of the sort, so he dreamed up a theory of the four humors. You know that one?”

 

The medic nodded. “The idea that the body runs on only four fluids, and the interplay between them makes you sick or healthy. We've known better for a long time, but yes.”

 

“That's just it,” Hewn said. “Asclepius was a powerful sorcerer by the time he thought that up, and he bonded his power to the idea – to the point that, if you'd lived at the same time that he did and went to have him treat your injuries, your body would start to run on four humors as soon as you got close to him. You'd go back to normal as soon as you were away, of course...”

 

“But...then he'd get results that wouldn't work for anyone else!”

 

“Exactly our problem,” the statue said. “Magic sometimes tells science to go sit in a corner.”

 

“I'm...I'm getting a headache,” the medic said.

 

“Probably too much yellow bile.”

 

Not long after that, we were interrupted by Officer Mitchell, who handed his phone to me.

 

A woman's voice was on the line. “Hello? Are you the owner...or friend...of this wolf?”

 

“Remy!” I hadn't had the chance to check up on him. “Is he okay?”

 

“He's under right now, and he's not going to be walking about for a few days, at least, but he should recover. If he hadn't been talking when the officer brought him in, I wouldn't have believed it. Is he really a werewolf?” She sounded eager.

 

“...More or less, yes. He's a wolf who can turn human. Not cursed, not infectious.”

 

“Oh.” She sounded carefully neutral, though I thought I heard a trace of disappointment. “Is he...”

 

“I just met him today, and we fought a monster together, but I don't speak French so I haven't understood a word he said.”

 

“All right. Well, he's at Shoreside Animal Hospital. Give us a call later and we'll talk discharge. This has been really weird for us; we're not even sure how to bill it.”

 

Bill it. I couldn't help but laugh before thanking her and hanging up. I offered Officer Mitchell his phone back.

 

“Thanks. I'll let my friends know he's okay.”

 

“No problem, miss,” he said. “It's been a rough week. And it's not every day you find out you're not as zombie-prepared as you've joked. They got right back up when they didn't even have heads.”

 

“Could you...when you identify them. I'd like to know who they were. Before.”

 

He nodded. “I'll need permission from their next-of-kin but I'll get their names to you. We'll see about a special service for everyone who died here. But don't you be blaming yourself – they were gone before you got there.”

 

True, but I was at least part of the reason their funerals would be closed coffin.

 

I was cut off from that train of thought by a buzz from my pocket. I handed the officer his phone back and checked mine. I'd just received a text from Carol.

 

It was a picture. My stomach dropped to my knees as I saw that it was of me, although I hardly recognized myself.

 

I was clutching a manhole cover, raising it over my head to smash the Nuckelavee with it. My hair – though not very long – was streaming behind me, ruffled with exertion. My clothing was torn and showing off a good deal more of me than I'm used to, but it was my face that was the striking bit. I had an expression that sat in a midpoint between glory and terror. I was stunning.

 

And if I'd ever entertained any kind of notion that I'd be keeping a secret identity, it was gone now.

 

Carol texted me again. “There are others on the news,” it read, followed by another: “Why am I in Milwaukee? How did I get here?”

 

Edited November 30, 2014 by Talanic

[A Joe in the Bush]

It's to the point that I go to upvote you work, only to find that I already have, without even realizing. That's never happened before. I like that you're tying up loose ends, but it's also worrying me.

 

Are you going to keep posting here?

[Talanic]

FINAL DAY: Evening.  659 words.  50,040 words in the month of November.

 

 

I started to get more messages, but I couldn't deal with them right then. I had a call that I had to make. I dialed Todd and he picked up immediately.

 

“Sis? You okay?”

 

I wasn't as ready for the conversation as I'd expected, but I forced out a “Yeah.”

 

“Thank God – is what we're seeing on the news real? Some kind of monster chasing you down the street?”

 

“Yeah.” Why was I so speechless? I made myself ask a question. “What did you see?”

 

“I'm not even sure. Home video, mostly. It looks like you outrunning something big, fast and bloody. There's a few pictures that even look like you're fighting it. The news channels are showing it all with an 'as-received' disclaimer, saying they don't know who made it or how, trying to cover themselves in case it's a hoax, but they've got crews trying to get into town and there's some kind of military blockade.”

 

“It's safe now. Dealt with,” I said, trying to clarify. “Look, a lot of things are going to change starting today. And I told you I'd tell you. I'm – ” I hesitated. It was insane, now that I thought about it. Utter madness, but the easiest way to sum it up was probably the best. “I'm a superhero. As of last weekend. The people I met in that old house...they had magic. Have magic. Real magic. Before I knew it, I had it too, but it's all going wrong. The monster was a demon, trying to kill me for my power, but I killed it, and now it's...” I couldn't tell him that it was in my head. That I'd save for Scheherazade and Stian. “They've kept it all a secret for like, five thousand years and I blow it in five days.”

 

“So it's all real, then. All the crazy things coming out from the city.”

 

“All of it and then some. I'm in a room with Bigfoot right now.”

 

“No rust?”

 

“Yeah. He's actually a greek statue, not actually hairy – it's complicated.”

 

I heard the medic swear and saw him look down at Hewn's feet and couldn't suppress a grin.

 

“But yeah,” I said. “There's a good chance I might live for thousands of years and I'm not sure what I'm going to do about that.”

 

“Pay off your student loans and don't get a credit card. Best advice I can give for long-term. And you might want to start saving for retirement in a few centuries.”

 

“Ha. Ha.” Did I even still have a job? With the attention my presence would bring, could Carol afford to keep me employed? Or was I about to have to run off on a grand quest?

 

“Actually, doesn't that skeptics association have a million dollar prize to offer for anyone who can prove the supernatural exists?”

 

That had my full attention. “Where would I have to go?”

 

“You'll have to look it up yourself. Powers, eh? What kind?”

 

“Strength and a healing factor so far.”

 

“We talking Hulk and Wolverine?”

 

“Neither so good. I can bench press a car but I couldn't throw one. Well, maybe a Smartcar.”

 

“I could probably throw a Smartcar,” he said, but I could see Stian approaching the medical station, staff in hand and a purpose in his stride.

 

“Look, I have to go. The trouble's over but...”

 

“Trouble's over, but the trouble's never over,” he said.

 

“Exactly,” I said, as Stian pushed his way in. “Tell everyone I'm okay. Love you. Bye.”

 

“Is she discharged?” Stian asked of the medic, who took one more look at my hands and nodded. “Good.” He grabbed me and beckoned Hewn towards him. “We need to get to the hotel room. As fast as possible.”

 

 

And in answer to your question...

 

 

First, I have to finish Myth Taken (the title just fits too well), which isn't ending today.  But I do have to slow down; NaNoWriMo taught me some of my limits, taking a toll on my health and sanity.  

 

I need to finish it, spend some time recovering, and then throwing some effort into editing and improving the work.  I may also try some submissions to agents, as well as ABNA 2015 (Amazon's publication contest).  

 

I also need to try to get a better job than delivering pizzas.  It looks like I may have some expensive dental work coming up and I need something with benefits.

 

After that...Book 2: Wild Court.  Tentative title, as Monkey Wrench was the original title of THIS work.  

 

Fun facts:

 

Hewn was supposed to be the villain for the original story outline, but the moment I named him, I knew him, and he wasn't that sort of fellow.

 

As soon as I thought about Scheherazade having a weapon, I knew its name was A Song at Midnight.  I don't know why.

 

^^^^ Not story, but something to read.  Color added to distinguish it from my signature, as I think it might be missed.

Edited December 1, 2014 by Talanic

[BreathTaker]

*Slow claps* I hope this isn't the last post, but if it is I still can't wait for you to finish this so we can read the whole thing.

[Talanic]

Day 31: 1224 words.  

 

 

He made good on that statement, and soon had me in a car on the way, along with a pair of Guardsmen. He made them drive, and talked in front of them as if they knew what was going on; I think he was kind of relieved that he no longer had to keep it secret.

 

“So. Sherry said something about what happened, and I can see for myself that something's changed – your aura is about a third as strong as it was this morning,” he said, “But I want it in your own words. What did you see, and what did you do?”

 

“Well. After I killed the Nuckelavee – ”

 

He coughed, interrupting me. “I'm sorry. I just never expected to hear those words said by anyone. That damned thing has been a scourge on everyone for as long as we've been aware of Dis. It hasn't made it into the mortal realm very frequently – or at least, people haven't seen it here and lived to tell of it – but it's been a plague on the realms. But back up for me – how did you kill it?”

 

I recounted the fight to him, and he looked thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, there are a few records that stand out in the fact that they're missing. It never fought my great-Uncle Thor, or the Dagda. I'll bet it avoided thundergods in general. Maybe with professional data analysis we'dve put that together, but in its absence, we had no chance.”

 

I shrugged; I'd had only a few sentences to work with, and I'd managed to kill the thing. I couldn't help but feel a little bit of a swollen ego.

 

“After it was dead, it burned up, and the smoke came at me.”

 

“Burned?” His sudden look of confusion scared me.

 

“I thought it was normal. I was unconscious when I killed the elf, so this was my first real kill. Does that not happen all the time?”

 

“Never that I've heard of. Monsters are often pulled back into Dis when they die, but not always. I haven't heard of something that burned up. But go on.”

 

“It pulled me into Dis, but it was just a dream. The Nuckelavee taunted me...” At the look on his face, I fell silent.

 

“No more,” he said. “We do the scry, we see what we need to. Any more might taint my expectations, lead to a false positive.”

 

The hotel was still abandoned; while I'm certain that many people had stayed despite the evacuation order, apparently none of the hotel staff had been unreasonably dedicated to their jobs. We stationed the guards outside the room and set up the scry.

 

My hands were shaking as I stepped into place, and I stilled them by clutching my weapon's hilt. “Why am I feeling so nervous?” I muttered.

 

Stian was quiet for a second. “I think it's because you're alone with a mentor figure after defeating evil in a major battle. If this were one of a number of fiction novels, I'd start referring to the Nuckelavee as my 'dark master' or something like that, then try to kill you.”

 

I started to relax; he'd hit it on the head. “Heh. Good thing I'm not in one of those novels, eh?”

 

“I dunno,” he said. “Hogwarts always sounded fun to me.”

 

The worlds spun around me as he performed the examination. “If there's something of the Nuckelavee in you, I don't see it,” he said. “Your power has increased significantly – about what we'd expect from absorbing its energies – but I can't find any lingering essence of Dis around you. At the same time, something's changed...” He trailed off. “I think your new sword there is throwing off the scry, but we're not removing it from your grasp. Doesn't seem like a good idea. I can't seem to see all of the enchantment...”

 

He frowned suddenly. “Sherry said you cast a spell. Something the Nuckelavee did before.”

 

“Yes, when I was talking to Oberon. He gave me an order, but it rebelled – said it wouldn't be his slave, conjured an ice spear with my hand. Hewn said I suffered curse burns from it, but the sword helped me get it in check and healed the burns.”

 

“Hmm. Thinking,” Stian said. He was quiet for a long time, and I began to grow uncomfortable. When he finally spoke, he was hesitant. “We're in uncharted territory, about eight times over at this point. Nobody's ever killed a Prince of Dis. The enchantment on you, the sheer amount of power you started with and how much you absorbed from the Nuckelavee...if you'd offered this situation to me as a thought experiment last week, I'dve thought you were messing with me. I can't tell you what's going on in your mind, but Sherry's instincts were right; the sword helped, and you'd best keep it with you – and learn how to use it.”

 

“Fencing lessons, here we come.”

 

“Fencing? You think...ah. No, let me teach you,” he said. “Hold out your hand and want the weapon to be drawn.”

 

It sounded odd, but I'd gotten used to odd requests a few days ago at this point. A moment later, A Song at Midnight was firmly in my grip, ready for action.

 

I blinked. I hadn't drawn it; it had gone from fully-sheathed to ready on its own, settling into my open hand.

 

“It'll only work if the weapon's close, so don't try throwing it or anything, but it'll leap into your hand if it has the room and you have the need. That's just one of the most basic enchantments I know Sherry put on that weapon. You'll have to ask her to teach you more.”

 

I wished the blade into the scabbard, but nothing happened. “Only works for drawing it?” I sheathed the weapon carefully as the worlds fell away and the hotel room returned. I wasn't used to owning a sword at all, yet.

 

“Yup. Anyway, as I was saying, I think that whatever happened in front of Oberon, it actually damaged the enchantment on you, and I think I know how. If you'd care to test?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Call a strand, then.” He smiled at my look of confusion. “It's the most natural thing in the world. Just call a strand of light, this time. Reach out and take it.”

 

I went through the motions. Reach, grasp...nothing.

 

“Try again, concentrating a little more on the type of strand. You want light.”

 

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried again. Reach, grasp...something snagged on my index finger, right at the last knuckle. I opened my eyes.

 

There it was. A mystical strand, like I'd seen Stian and Remy weave several times by now. It wasn't whipping around or sparking; in fact, it had a faint, pleasant warmth to it.

 

“That's what I thought,” Stian said, satisfied. “Strange things happen around you, Lady Sam. Not only did whatever occurred break Oberon's restriction against using the magic of the Wild without permission...it appeared to stabilize that aspect of your power.”

 

[Talanic]

12/4 - 420 words.  Starting to get tired of resting on my laurels and looking to avoid losing the momentum I've built up.

 

 

“I thought that was going to take a year,” I said, winding the strand around my finger. It kept on coming at a constant tension, but if I released any slack on it, it was pulled back into the ether.

 

“Usually, it does. A year. Two years. Six months. Again, it's one of the things that we haven't studied half as much as I'd like.”

 

“So.” I stared at the thread. I'd never been into sewing, or anything related to it. “How do I do things with it?”

 

“I don't think we have the time for a real lesson today – we should get to Sherry. Now that we know you're safe, there's a lot else to talk about.”

 

I wasn't entirely sure I was safe, but he was right; at the very least, I had the Nuckelavee under control. We grabbed our Guards for conveyance back to headquarters.

 

In the car, I turned to Stian. “Seriously. I feel like I let out a thousand-year-old secret.”

 

“Two thousand, actually. But it couldn't be kept forever,” he said. “It started from good intentions but I think the world's outgrown the need for it by now.”

 

One of the Guardsmen turned to us. “Why did you keep it secret? I mean, why all that effort?”

 

“First off, I, personally, did not,” Stian said. “I was born into the system and I'm not a combatant. Second, those who did keep it secret didn't expend as much effort as you think. Most people who encountered the weird kept silent, or were thought crazy – if the Heroes managed to save them. Others disappeared; sometimes entire villages, just swept away, blamed on famine or plague by those who found the ruins later. The Heroes didn't silence those who saw strange things; they set themselves up as gatekeepers and let the mortal realm turn its back on the things that it wasn't ready to know about.

 

“But as for why they kept the secret, and why I think it's okay to let it out now, is about the growth of society as a whole. People have never been good at thinking as things in any other way than 'us' and 'them'. The Heroes saw what happened when the 'them' involved had special powers that the mortals couldn't explain and understood that mortals would only see them in one of three ways: as old stories, as gods, or as monsters. They chose the first option.”

 

[Talanic]

Just an update.

 

So far I've worked out one more chapter that I'm probably scrubbing entirely due to redundancy and pacing; its events will probably occur, just as a 'and last night, this happened' kind of thing.  

 

I've gone through a couple pages of editing, and now I have a question: would it be kosher for me to post my edited pages?  I'd include thoughts on the changes I'm making and would be interested in what others might have to say.

[A Joe in the Bush]

I'd like that. It would hepl us to understand where you're going as well as how you write.

[Talanic]

Sorry it took me so long to come back - I really enjoy this, but there's been some things going on.  I'll put that at the end.  

 

Also, for clarity of reading, would it be better to have my notes immediately after a sentence, or kept until after paragraph or section ends?  Right now I'm mixing and matching.  Also, I'll give a clear indication when I'm editing things.

 

If I ask a question in those notes, it's half to myself, but if you come up with a good answer, I'd love to hear it.

 

Edits: Section 1, Part 1: Stuck in Story

 

 

I could start this story anywhere, but things only got really weird when the knife sank into my shadow and I found that I was pinned to the spot. It was at that point that I started to grasp how strange my life was about to become. Original sentence is awkward.

 

But that's too far forward. Consider that bit a promise that things get weird in a little while, okay? I didn't maintain this conversational style throughout the text; will probably remove. Up to that point, I had been exploring, but I'd expected the grand adventures to be all in my own head.  I had a free weekend. I was twenty-three and single, and my friends weren't, so it was a perfect recipe for me doing something I knew was stupid. Since I prefer not to endanger myself or others, and I live in a small town in the American Midwest, that meant a little jaunt into my old hobby. Small changes.  I have no idea where I'd been going with the - normally, at least - interjection.

I like to explore. As a kid I'd gone spelunking a few times and found it neat, but not quite to my taste. I prefer abandoned structures; old farmhouses, boarded-up factories, anything I can get into unnoticed without damaging anything. I get in, I sketch things – with a few embellishments, sometimes – I explore, and I leave. If I don't intend to go back, I'll find an out-of-the-way corner and leave a little souvenir – a coin from my Grandfather's collection. He was amused by the idea of making the collection hard to reassemble, and left it to me as a private joke between us.  No problems here, to my eyes, but I have to remember this.  If Sam were to drop a coin or two into a dragon's hoard much later down the line, she won't comment on why she's doing it - but the reader will know.

I know there's a larger internet community about that kind of exploration, somewhere, but I've never really looked into it. I'm not into it for glory, I just enjoy making stories about the places I'm intruding on. I suspect I'd have a lot more choice of target if I lived in Europe. Nothing here that I'd sneak into is really that old. 

Most buildings like the one I was after that day wind up with a local reputation. The neighborhood haunted shack, for example. Not this time. It was exactly as I'd heard from Todd – a building out in the forest. Old timbers. Sturdy-looking door. Now, there are no old-growth forests in my home state – everything got clear cut before environmental concerns were a thing – so I knew that this house (well, I assumed it was a house) once sat in a clearing. It had to – I could easily see that the timbers it had been built from were too large to be brought through the woods that surrounded it. Notes for consistency: the house is unknown.  Don't refer to it as a local legend later.

The building was in a ravine, a three-mile hike from the nearest road according to satellite maps. Since Todd told me about the house's existence I'd poked about to find an owner (so at least my apologies could be personalized if I got caught sneaking about) and had found nothing. It wasn't public land – it was as if it didn't even exist. And no legal dead zone.

I was ready to about-face immediately if I came across any kind of squatter or survivalist; my suspicion was someone with connections in local government had built themselves a secret getaway cabin in the woods. Then everyone who knew what was going on had died or forgotten about it and it wound up a ripe-to-be-explored ruin. I am not much of an outdoorsy person, and neither is Sam, but she's the type to try to prepare; I'm trying to write her as a fair deal more practically-minded than I am.  How else would she be trying to prepare for such an outing?

I'm not really good with architecture. It looked like some kind of extra-large log cabin, with a shingled wooden roof. No windows that I could see. The shingles made me suspect it couldn't have been neglected for that long, but there were no trails. In fact, there was quite a thicket outside. A place this far out wouldn't be plumbed; anyone inside would have to leave to use an outhouse or privy or something. No, it was clearly abandoned.  They could have a septic tank, but...

I had to squeeze through the thicket, taking rather a lot longer to clear than I'd like. That's one of the reasons I like to limit my explorations to man-made structures; they are by definition made for humans to pass through; nature has no similar considerations.

The door was actually a set of iron-bound double doors straight out of a video game. The lock was easy – and well-maintained, which was unusual to me. I eased the door open – I kinda like squeaky hinges – and for a moment I saw the dark-but-mundane interior that I had expected.

The moment I stepped in, everything lurched. I was no longer standing at the threshold of an old house in Wisconsin. Something hit me in the back – my backpack took the hit but I was still flung prone in a brightly-lit room. I skidded – briefly and painfully – across a hardwood floor, like polished mahogany floorboards, and heard both the slam of the door behind me and a huge-but-unseen bell.

This had not been in the cards for today. I regained my feet, slowly turning around to take in my surroundings, still not quite understanding what I was seeing yet. The room I was in now was bigger than the entire building that I had been about to enter. There was a grand staircase ahead of me, like a palace staircase or one of those wannabe-palace Southern mansions. Taxidermied trophies hung from the walls, and for a moment my eyes just skipped over them – I have relatives who are very into hunting but it never really held my interest. I did a proper double-take a moment later.

There were antlers hung from the wall, but they were longer than I am tall, and they accompanied creatures that I was sure had never walked the Earth, but it was te closest two heads, one on either side of the room, that caught my attention and held it.

The head wasn't really shaped like a horse's head, but I could see the resemblance; definitely some form of relative, but not a particularly close one. I'd never seen a living member of the species displayed in front of me, but I knew what it was – the single spiral horn in the middle of the head was a definite giveaway. Rewritten for clarity and flow.

My shock was broken when when I saw a knife drop at me from the upper level, hitting the ground in front of me, point-down. I reacted with remarkable aplomb, screaming only once and avoiding soiling myself, but my belated attempt to dodge drew me up short. As I said earlier, the knife had struck my shadow, buried itself in it, in fact, and when I jumped away, I felt a fierce tug back towards the knife. My shadow was unnaturally stretched out, as if pinned in place.  I hate how often I have to say 'my shadow' but there's really no other word for it that doesn't sound like I was abusing a thesaurus.

Not yet having thought enough to realize how much I should be panicking, I looked up to see if another knife was coming. The man looking down from above was short and heavily muscled. He was naked (at least his shoulders were – he was on the upper level) but that didn't disturb me as much as the fact that he was apparently made of stone. Granite, I thought.

He nodded, then spoke. “Intruder.  Thief or assassin, it doesn't matter.  You will wait here for the master's return.” Hewn's dialogue - especially the early stuff - will need the most work. I think this is better - an indication that Hewn doesn't just throw knives at shadows arbitrarily, that he feels that Sam came to threaten this house.  

 

 

 

So, what's been going on?  Five months ago, my dentist (well, the hygienist) diagnosed me with periodontal disease and recommended a $2,000 (plus more for painkillers and antibiotics) planing and scaling procedure.  That's a bill I can't pay; they offered me financing but my car had just failed, necessitating the purchase of another; i was carrying as much debt as was safe, so I put it off, living in dread of losing my teeth.

 

A month ago, I had a checkup, where the hygienist reported that the disease was progressing and I was going to be in bigger trouble if I let it sit.  She scheduled the procedure for February; my tax return would get eaten by it, but I'd at least be able to do it.  She also performed a polish and fluoride rinse to stave things off.

 

Two weeks ago, I did some more research on everything.  Polishes and fluoride rinses have nothing to do with periodontal disease, and the average cost of planing and scaling is $250.  That's per quadrant of the mouth, so it could reach $1,000 if my entire mouth was rotten, but honestly I was also suspicious by that point, as I had no symptoms - no bleeding from my gums during flossing (except by one tooth that I'd had a procedure on in February), no looseness, no discharge, no swelling - other than the ones that the hygienist had identified, which were conveniently ones that I didn't have the tools to check myself.

 

Yesterday, I met with a specialist for an official second opinion.  I do not have periodontal disease.  I have a couple minor spots of gingivitis and he'd like to see me in six months, but I am in no danger of having my teeth fall out.  He even took x-rays and showed that no bone loss was occurring - all of this in direct contradiction to what my dentist told me.

 

I'm somewhat upset, but no longer terrified, and have to consider what course of action to take regarding my former dentist.

[Talanic]

Official end, as of 12/16.  Sorry it took so long.  I think it's a good leave-off point for the story between books.

 

My next big goal is to finish editing.  I had a second post of that mostly ready a few days ago, but the browser went down and I lost my comments.  Will try again.

 

 

The rest of the day spiraled down a drain into a series of interviews – or interrogations, I wasn't sure which to qualify them as. I spent hours answering questions for the police and the military. They made it clear that I was free to leave if I had to, but they desperately preferred that I stay.

 

I answered as completely as I could, but a few hours in I suddenly became desperately tired. They summoned a medic to check me out one more time, asked Scheherazade if there was anything to worry about, and shortly afterward I was taken off to the hospital for observation and recovery, where I fell asleep almost immediately.

 

I woke to Hewn standing sentinel at my bedside, holding A Song at Midnight sheathed where I could reach it if I needed. His cracks had sealed up, but he could stand with a stony stillness that no human being could match. He could easily have fit in a gallery with classical statuary. As soon as I moved, that spell broke and it was him again.

 

“Hey, Sam. Feeling better?”

 

I sat up and assessed myself. No IV, just a heart rate monitor. “I'm fine, I think. Hungry, though.”

 

“Good. I'll just tell them you're awake. When you're ready.”

 

I nodded and settled back. After the last twenty-four hours, a moment to recoup felt nice. And wasn't that what I was in the hospital for, anyways?

 

I couldn't really relax. “Hewn?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What's going to happen now? I mean...I don't even know what I mean.”

 

“Times are going to change,” he said. “Not that big of a deal. They've changed before, they'll change again.”

 

“All right,” I said. “Maybe more specific then. What happens with me?”

 

“Can mostly guess there. I think the other Heroes are going to find you – and the things you've discovered – very interesting indeed. You have a quest, and Oberon's got some kind of scheme; they won't be able to resist helping out. It's like candy to them.” He grinned. “Regarding the mortal realm? Again, guesses. I think that you've just become one of the most famous people on the planet, and that the mortal realm is going to have to figure out where you fit in. If you fit in.”

 

“What if I don't? What if I don't wind up working out with the Heroes and my home doesn't wind up wanting me anymore?”

 

He laughed. “The Heroes aren't what you think – I think. They're not some exclusive club, not an army or an organization at all. They're a bunch of people who've come to realize that they have forever together, so they share what works with each other. Not all Heroes like each other, but forever's a long time – some of the fastest friendships started out as rivalries. My advice is that you listen; that alone is rare enough that they'll love you, fast. And if the mortal realm rejects you, it will be the poorer for doing so.”

 

[Talanic]

Sorry it took so long to get back on my feet.  Nothing big happened or anything, I've just been busy and my writing fell by the wayside.  I was looking forward to the yearly ABNA contest, which wound up cancelled this year in favor of the new Kindle Scout program.

 

Long story short, I need to edit this story and acquire a book cover.  If I do so, I can submit to Kindle Scout.  It could be a good thing, and competition is light right now (only twelve other fantasy/sci fi entries), so I'd like to try it.  Obviously, time is of the essence, so my dawdling is coming back to bite me.

 

I am considering starting a new thread for the posting / discussion of edits, but it's probably not necessary.  Here's the first big section, largely rewritten, taken from the top:

 

I could start this story anywhere, but things only got really weird when the knife sank into my shadow and I found that I was pinned to the spot. It was at that point that I started to grasp how strange my life was about to become.

But that's too far forward. Consider that bit a promise that things get weird in a little while, okay? Up to that point, I had been exploring, but I'd expected the grand adventures to be all in my own head. I had a free weekend. I was twenty-three and single, and my friends weren't, so it was a perfect recipe for me doing something I knew was stupid. Since I prefer not to endanger myself or others, and I live in a small town in the American Midwest, that meant a little jaunt into my old hobby.

I like to explore. As a kid I'd gone spelunking a few times and found it neat, but not quite to my taste. I prefer abandoned structures; old farmhouses, boarded-up factories, anything I can get into unnoticed without damaging anything. I get in, I sketch things – with a few embellishments, sometimes – I explore, and I leave. If I don't intend to go back, I'll find an out-of-the-way corner and leave a little souvenir – a coin from my Grandfather's collection. He was amused by the idea of making the collection hard to reassemble, and left it to me as a private joke between us.

I know there's a larger internet community about that kind of exploration, somewhere, but I've never really looked into it. I'm not into it for glory, I just enjoy making stories about the places I'm intruding on. I suspect I'd have a lot more choice of target if I lived in Europe. Nothing here that I'd sneak into is really that old.

Most buildings like the one I was after that day wind up with a local reputation. The neighborhood haunted shack, for example. Not this time. It was exactly as I'd heard from Todd – a building out in the forest. Old timbers. Sturdy-looking door. Now, there are no old-growth forests in my home state – everything got clear cut before environmental concerns were a thing – so I knew that this house (well, I assumed it was a house) once sat in a clearing. It had to – I could easily see that the timbers it had been built from were too large to be brought through the woods that surrounded it.

The building was in a ravine, a three-mile hike from the nearest road according to satellite maps. Since Todd had told me about the house's existence I'd poked about to find an owner (so at least my apologies could be personalized if I got caught sneaking about) and had found nothing. It wasn't public land – it was as if it didn't even exist.

I was ready to about-face immediately if I came across any kind of squatter or survivalist; my suspicion was that, decades ago, someone with connections in local government had built themselves a secret getaway cabin in the woods. Then everyone who knew what was going on had died or forgotten about it and it had wound up a ripe-to-be-explored ruin.

I'm not really good with architecture. It looked like some kind of extra-large log cabin, with a shingled wooden roof. No windows that I could see. The shingles made me suspect it couldn't have been neglected for that long, but there were no trails. In fact, there was quite a thicket outside. A place this far out wouldn't be plumbed; anyone inside would have to leave to use an outhouse or privy or something. No, it was clearly abandoned.

I had to squeeze through the thicket, taking a lot longer to clear than I'd like. That's one of the reasons I like to limit my explorations to man-made structures; they are by definition made for humans to pass through. Nature has no similar considerations.

The door was actually a set of iron-bound double doors straight out of a video game. The lock was easy – and well-maintained, which was unusual to me. I eased the door open – I kinda like squeaky hinges – and for a moment I saw the dark-but-mundane interior that I had expected.

The moment I stepped in, everything lurched. I was no longer standing at the threshold of an old house in Wisconsin. Something hit me in the back – my backpack took the hit but I was still flung prone in a brightly-lit room. I skidded – briefly and painfully – across a hardwood floor, like polished mahogany floorboards, and heard both the slam of the door behind me and a huge-but-unseen bell.

This had not been in the cards for today. I regained my feet, slowly turning around to take in my surroundings, still not quite understanding what I was seeing yet. The room I was in now was bigger than the entire building that I had been about to enter. There was a grand staircase ahead of me, like a palace staircase or one of those pseudo-palace Southern mansions. Taxidermied trophies hung from the walls, and for a moment my eyes just skipped over them – I have relatives who are very into hunting but it never really held my interest. I did a proper double-take a moment later.

There were antlers hung from the wall, but they were longer than I am tall, and they accompanied creatures that I was sure had never walked the Earth, but it was the closest two heads, one on either side of the room, that caught my attention and held it.

The heads weren't really shaped like horses' heads, but I could see the resemblance; definitely some form of relative, but not a particularly close one. I'd never seen a living member of the species displayed in front of me, but I knew what it was – the single spiral horn in the middle of the head was unmistakeable.

I snapped out of my state of shock when when I saw a knife drop at me from the upper level, hitting the ground in front of me, point-down. I reacted with remarkable aplomb, screaming only once and keeping my pants dry, but my belated attempt to dodge stopped short. As I said earlier, the knife had struck my shadow, buried itself in it, in fact, and when I jumped away, I felt a fierce tug back towards the knife. My shadow was unnaturally stretched out, as if pinned in place.

Not yet having thought enough to realize how much I should be panicking, I looked up to see if another knife was coming. I couldn't see any obvious source for the attack – nobody looking down from the upper levels or knife-throwing gadgets. As far as I knew, it had appeared from nowhere and flung itself at my shadow.

First major change: Hewn no longer threw the knife.  Having the security system require him to stand around and wait seems silly to me.

“Hold on! I'm on my way!” The voice came from far-off, but I could hear heavy footsteps approaching rapidly. Very heavy footsteps.

A pair of hands reached the rail on the highest level and were quickly joined by a bald head. The man looking down from above was short and heavily muscled. He was naked (at least his shoulders were – I couldn't see much more of him from my current angle) but that didn't disturb me as much as the fact that he was apparently made of stone. Granite, I thought.

“Bad timing, intruder.” he said. “The Master is out right now, but don't worry – the soul knife will keep you in place until his return.”

This next section is largely rewritten to change the nature of Hewn's dialogue, lay down foundations of later events/background, and improve flow.  I hope it works better.

I'll admit it. I very nearly shut down entirely, then and there. I stammered a bit before rebounding. “I'm not a – No. Wait. What master? Where am I?” I asked.

The stone man had disappeared over the railing, but his voice carried back to me. “The master is Shamasun, son of Enkidu, but you have to know that already. His home is never found by accident. If you had a grievance or needed his help, you would have sought him at the Bulwark, but instead you intrude on his sanctuary. Nobody ever does that to hand him a fruit basket.”

He came down the stairs, carrying something. I edged as far away from him as I could – my pinned shadow limited that to about six feet – as the object proved to be a folding chair, which he set up next to me. The granite man was wearing pants – black jeans with a thick belt and wide pockets – which hung loose over oversized, bare feet.

“Too bad,” he said. “He likes fruit baskets. Feel free to sit. You may be my prisoner but that doesn't mean we can't be civilized.”

For three whole seconds, we just stood, facing each other as I processed what was going on as capably as I could. Finally I raised my hand and beckoned him closer.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” I asked as he approached.

He looked me up and down, then shrugged. “It's fine. You can't hurt me.” This close, I could see the flecks in the stone that comprised him and the pattern that it imparted to his movements. He didn't look like a machine or a doll, but like a man with an inorganic exterior – along with what little I could see of his interior, including his eyes, which looked like marble, with emerald irises and onyx pupils.

I reached out a finger and poked him in the belly. He was cold, polished stone that was somehow moving. I couldn't help it. I chuckled. The granite man cocked his head to one side with a quizzical look on his face, but it only set me off more. Soon I was laughing out loud, unable to stop.

“Nobody's ever reacted quite like that before,” he said. “What's so funny?”

“You – ” I had to gasp before forcing it out. “You have chiseled abs.”

He smiled and laughed once. Cold stone, perhaps, but there was a genuine warmth to the smile. “It's not that funny, really,” he said.

“No.” I was still fighting giggles, but I managed to explain. “It's not that funny. But this is too weird. There's unicorns mounted on the wall, I've no idea where I am, you're a living statue or something...I'm so far out of my depth that I can either laugh or cry.”

He rubbed his chin. “I'd expect someone trying to invade Shamasun's home to know about me. I'm not exactly a new addition.”

I looked him straight in the eye and gave it to him as directly as I could manage. “I've never heard of Shamasun. I don't know who you are, where I am, or how I got here.”

He matched my gaze and frowned. “Where are you from, that you don't know of Shamasun?”

“Dickensville. Wisconsin. I found this cabin out in the woods and I wanted to explore it, but the door brought me here instead.”

His brow furrowed in thought. “Wisconsin? Wisconsin. That's in Canada, right?”

It was my turn to gape at him. “No. Canada's to the north.”

He nodded. “Oh yeah. Who's the reigning king?”

“King? We don't have kings!”

“Then who passed the law of gravity?”

“What? Isaac Newton discovered gravity, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I'm reasonably sure you're actually from the mortal realm now. An outsider would probably have gotten one or more of those wrong.”

I broke into a relieved grin. “You believe me?”

“To a point. You're either really well-prepared, in which case I'm surprised you didn't make it past our second line of defenses,” he said, gesturing at the knife, “Or you are what you claim to be. Which is odd, because it's been over a thousand years since a mortal managed to get in here on accident. If you're completely without magic, the door shouldn't have taken you out of the mortal realm.”

I chose my words carefully. “So far as I am aware, I have never encountered magic of any sort before today. ”

He shrugged. “We'll get to the bottom of things when Shamasun gets home. If you're telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about; we'll get you home, safe and sound. If you're lying to me, it won't be quite as pleasant – so please be honest.”

I held up my right hand. “I've been honest, I swear. I know nothing about magic or you or this house, or how I could enter.”

He nodded. “Good enough for me, for now.” He extended one hand. “I'm called Hewn.”

I took the hand and shook. “Sam.”

“Well, Sam, nice to meet you. I hope you are telling the truth – I could use some more company. And it'd be a fun mystery – how did a mortal wind up breaching our defenses?”

Hewn has nothing to fear; very little can hurt him, so he's less confrontational than in the original writing.

I shrugged, but he continued. “The easiest answer would be that you aren't exactly a mortal. If your recent ancestry was from one of the other realms, it would explain everything – and if you were kept away from magic, you might have only a few faint sparks. Just enough to trigger when you reached the threshold. It'd be unusual, but possible.”

“If I'm not human, it's news to me. Can you tell?”

“Not for sure. I'm made of too much magic to get a good view of it, myself – and it's all used to keep me alive and functioning. I could make a few guesses, though.”

“Guess away.”

“Between looks and accent I'd guess you to be American of mixed European ancestry – as I'd expect, since you said you came in through the door in Wisconsin. So we'll start with some obvious ones.” He ticked off his fingers. “Elven blood. That's probably easiest for me to test and the least pleasant for you – just see if you have a catastrophic reaction to iron poisoning. It's the most common among people who don't know it, but you look more Scandinavian, so if we're going with the Faerie realm I'd guess troll, more likely. Troll blood tends to show through, though, so if you were part troll, you'd probably have seen signs of it in one of your parents. Aesir blood's less and less common since the whole Ragnarok debacle made them persona non grata in the mortal realm. You don't look like you've been touched by the Weird either, so I'd still have to say late-generation troll or elf is the most likely. Apart from you being a champion, but I'd be able to tell. But...” He squinted. “I think I can see just the tiniest aura. Looks lucky. Maybe leprechaun? Tribe of elves, if you didn't know...”

He paced around behind me, then stopped. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Would you mind handing me that backpack?”

My faint escape plan was in that backpack, but I didn't think it would do me much good. I slipped it off my shoulders and offered it. He carried it away, set it down, then paced back and forth between me and the pack several times.

“Well,” he said, “The good news is, I don't think you're an invader anymore. Whatever magic was with you is in that bag. So I think we can assume you're telling the truth now. You're human, not here to hurt me or the master. You're not an enemy – you're a lost traveler, a guest, and I have been remiss in my hospitality.” He gave me a sheepish smile. “Sam. You are welcome in this house. I must apologize - I'm afraid nailing your soul to the floor wasn't the proper duty of a host. And worse, neither you nor I can actually get you loose – because the knife pinned you inside a home, only the master of the house can pull it out.

“I wish I could tell you when he was coming back,” Hewn said as he set up a small table next to the chair. “But when you came in, you tripped the defenses and severed our connection to the outside realms for the next few minutes; I can't even call him with this cell phone. Shamasun can override the lockdown but he doesn't even know it happened yet. He's in the sewers of Detroit, trying to track down a font of Dis and shut it down. You know how it goes.”

Their defenses shut down the entrance after the first intruder, ensuring that if their enemies find a back door, they don't get swamped by a whole army.  

“Not really.”

He smiled. “Sorry. I haven't really had a mortal here since...Bartholomew? Think that was his name. Nice fellow. His golem talked me into letting him cut through on his way out of central Europe.”

“Let me guess. 1930's?”

“No, no. Some time back in the 1600's. A good time to be in here. Not so good to be most anywhere else, really.”

“Huh.” I mentally fumbled through a list of questions before settling on one. “So what are you, anyway?”

“I'm unique,” he said. “When the Olympian League brought down Cronus, Shamasun carved me from his still-beating heart. At the time, he was just trying to keep Cronus dead; I was more or less an accident. I've been with him ever since – about three thousand years. Close to four, now that I think about it.”

The 'What is Hewn' talk gets delayed to after he trusts Sam a little.  

“And what is he? Your master, I mean.”

“Well. For one, I don't usually call him Master unless I'm being formal. Or intimidating. But he's a champion. A hero of the ancient ways.” He bustled about as he spoke, climbing the stairs and rummaging about where I couldn't see.

“Which means?”

“A lot of things. Slayer of monsters. Defender of of the mortal realm. An explorer whose trips don't always stay on the same planet, whether he realized it at the time or not.”

“Okay.” I mulled it over for a second before continuing. “But that still doesn't tell me what he is. He's four thousand years old; he can't be human.”

“I'm four thousand. He's closer to five; didn't start keeping track for a while. And human might be a broader category than you think,” Hewn said. “He was born a mortal, at least. But...things happened. And I'm afraid we have a little problem.”

“What's that?”

“By laws more ancient than I am, as your host, I should offer you food, drink, and a bath, if you need it. That last one, I'm offering but I'm pretty sure we'll skip, considering the circumstances. Water, I can provide no problem – purest water you've ever had. The cistern fills with frost from the river Sylgr. Purer than any water that flows in the mortal realm. It's food that's the problem. See, I don't eat.”

“Can't, or don't?”

“Don't. I like to, but I don't need to. So Shamasun and I don't keep a stocked kitchen when he's out on missions. He usually brings back enough for himself when he's staying in-house for a few days, but sometimes he's gone for months. We can't keep the place stocked – and while I'd order some food, I'm afraid that we're still cut off from the mortal realm for at least four hours. And on top of that, I'm broke.”

I glanced around the hall around me. It was larger than my entire apartment. “Broke?”

“Yup. I know, I know, size of the house is impressive, but it's a pocket realm. Between worlds, space and time are looser concepts, and the better-off heroes would rather live somewhere where they can get electricity. This place is a bit of a relic – it can only be accessed the way Shamasun allows, so we store things here.”

Pocket realm, not threshold realm anymore.  Originally it was just built on a gateway into other realms; now it's a private bubble of reality.

“What kind of things?” That had grabbed my attention, but Hewn was still caught up in the food situation.

“Life's getting more expensive these days, and the boss and I made some bad investments. Great Depression, Betamax, stuff like that. I'm afraid I'm failing in my duties as a host.”

“I actually packed some food. I don't need any. Will that help?”

He nodded slowly. “It'll have to do. I'm very sorry. The etiquette of xenia was drilled into me since before I really had the hang of talking.”

I retrieved and unzipped my backpack. Inside I had a water bottle, a sealed bottle of soda, half a dozen granola bars and a sandwich. I hesitated for a moment, then offered Hewn a granola bar. “I don't know xenia, but if you want, you can have one.”

He hesitated, but I pressed it at him. “I'll get sick of these before we run out of them.”

Hewn smiled and took it, but set it down on the table. “May I see that backpack? Now that xenia has been addressed, it's proper for me to see about what got you sucked in here.”

I handed it over, then conspicuously took a bite from the sandwich. Hewn looked satisfied, then started to rifle through the pockets. He stopped on the outermost pocket, then pulled forth a coin.

“This'd be it,” he said. “Lucky coin.” He held it forth for me to see. It was one of Grampa's coins. It looked like nothing more than an old half-dollar coin from 1937, with Lady Liberty on it. He regarded it as if it were some kind of beetle. “Look closely at it where I'm touching it. Actually, this will help.” He retrieved my flashlight and illuminated the coin from behind as he circled it with his fingers.

I squinted. Light was coming through between his fingers and the coin. My eyes were telling me that he was both touching and not touching the coin at the same time.

“It's not what you see,” he explained. “It's faerie make. Glamored to look like something unremarkable from your world. If we just sprinkle it with some salt...gimme a moment.”

He rushed off and returned with a pinch between his fingers. On contact, the coin vanished, replaced immediately by what looked like a clay disc that was slightly larger than the half-dollar had been.

“That's what it really is.”

I took the disc and studied it, enraptured. Something of my own had been made by creatures of myth. The side facing me bore an intricate design of an immense palace. Despite having nothing to compare it with I had a sense that it was far larger, far grander than any building on Earth. The other side held the face of a sleeping man – but not a man, no, just subtly different. An elf.

I flipped the coin back to the palace and showed it to Hewn. “What is this place?”

“Don't really know firsthand. It's a palace of Faerie, which means it's not meant for people like you or me to visit and come back from. Not sane, at least. Faerie's not a nice place.”

“I know. I've read Terry Pratchett.”

“Who?”

I gave him a flat look. “You like to read?”

“Sure.”

“Then when I'm able to move about again, I'm going to bring you my collection and you'll be going on a magical journey the likes of which you've never seen before.” He laughed out loud as I turned the coin back over. “And who's this? Oh!” The sleeping elf's eyes were open and he was looking out from the clay with a sharp, hungry smile. “It moves!”

Suddenly Hewn was moving with a speed I'd never expected as he grabbed the coin and flung himself – and it – away from me.

[Talanic]

Hey.  Life sidetracked me from writing for a while but I'm working on Myth Taken again.  I'm trying to add more to Sam's normal life - the lack of which feels like one of the story's major weaknesses.  This extension occurs on Sunday night after Sam has returned home, but before Hewn's arrival at night.

 

I particularly need critique for this chapter.  The game in question is fictional and I'm uncertain if it's interesting enough (and comprehensible enough) to merit inclusion.  I think it is appropriate in some senses - I want it to be clear that gaming is something that Sam has a passion for - but at the same time, it's not especially important to the plot so far. 

 

 

I thought about getting to bed early, but it wasn’t going to happen and I knew it; my world had changed too drastically and I would only wind up lying awake.  Instead, I launched the beta of Derelict.

I scanned the patch notes as the game updated itself - unusual for the weekend, but I supposed the company was getting towards the crunch time of a real release.  Most of it was server optimization, but a few annoying bugs had been squashed.  A few of them, I’d reported, although I surely hadn’t been the only one; nothing I’d found had been particularly obscure.

I scanned my friends list and found six people online, three of whom I didn’t really remember adding but must have played with at some point in the past.  One, however, was Sophie - and she was in the tail end of a match.

I hopped into observer mode and grimaced.  Derelict was a MOBA game, a fast-paced battle in which two or more teams of players controlled a team of salvagers fighting to claim an alien warship, battling the ship’s defenses almost as much as each other.  The objective was ultimately to destroy the enemy’s clone pods, but Sophie’s team was in rough shape; their foe had managed to suborn the warship’s computer, leaving her side under siege from the ship’s defenses as well as the enemy salvage drones.

Sophie was playing as some form of burly mecha-pirate; I wasn’t up on the lore for him, but his peg leg doubled as a heavy laser cannon if Sophie was willing to stay immobile for a time.  She was leading her team in kills, but had clearly been the focus of the enemy’s attention as well; her clone tank was currently in refresh, indicating that her character had been killed recently and would need time to bring her back if she died again.

At any point, her team could concede the match by undocking from the warship.  Instead, she was leading them in the defense of the engine room, where her team’s engineer was trying to wrest control of the warship’s systems away from their foes.

As I watched, the enemy managed to roll a xenopod in through the vents, flooding the room with vicious biting creatures - not enough to take Sophie down, but just enough to distract her team until the enemy could hop in and sabotage the engine.  By the time they realized what was wrong, it was too late; the chamber was irradiated badly enough that Sophie was waiting for another clone to pop out of the tank.  She’d died too frequently; there would be a full two minute wait before she could defend her ship.

Instead, she triggered a realspawn.  The cloning tank split open and her character’s original emerged from where he had been controlling his copies.  The original was stronger than his clones, but if she lost this version, it was game over for her.  On the other hand, if she held on long enough, she could send her pirate back into the tank and resume the cloning process.

Her allies, however, had given up; none of them joined her in realspawn.  While she mounted a savage defense of her salvage ship, her defeat was just a matter of time.

The end came in the form of a grenade.  Her pirate was prone, aiming his leg-cannon; by the time he could move again, the grenade went off, killing him instantly.

If her team had the gumption to win after her sacrifice, it would still be her victory, but they clearly didn’t have any fight left in them.  I sent her a message.

 

 

[A Joe in the Bush]

That sounds like a fun game. It's definitely an interesting read, and it's short enough that no one will begrudge it's inclusion in the story.

 

Plotwise though, it doesn't seem to serve a purpose. Will something tie into this later? Some ability Sophie will have or something?