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taleweaver-ramblings · 6 months

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Inklings Challenge 2023: The Last Immortal of Evitra

'Tis the deadline day for the Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge), and I have not finished my story, but today is also Ren Faire day, and I will therefore not be able to finish today . . . but it's a long story that I'll have to post in multiple parts anyway, so have part one now, and I'll post the rest over the next week.

Also, in classic Taleweaver fashion, this is a fairy tale retelling. Which fairy tale should be fairly obvious. It is not, however, a romance.

Unedited; please be nice about typos.

~~~~~

The Last Immortal of Evitra, Part 1

Anatole Bérenger Judicaël Télesphore Corentin, lord of Blackrose Manor, last immortal of Evitra, woke to the sound of a child crying.

He let out a quiet growl as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. He’d dozed off in his study, it seemed. The last he remembered, the sun had been just at the top edge of the tall windows. Now it was gone, and the whole room was drenched in black shadows — though, of course, shadows had hidden nothing from him for the last four hundred years.

Anatole stirred and stretched, tracing the sound down the threads of magic that carried it. The child wasn’t within the manor house itself, thankfully, but it was concerningly close. Behind the stables, if Anatole read the magic aright. What it was doing there, he could guess, and the thought made him growl again. It had been a long, long time since small boys dared their friends to creep up to his home and spend ten minutes within his gates. If the practice was starting up again . . . well. It might require him to go down to the town again for the first time in decades.

Unless, of course, he could put a stop to it now. Anatole took his cloak from its hook by the door and swept it around his shoulders. Then he stalked from his study, through the halls to a side door, and out into the night.

By the time he found the child, it had stopped crying and moved inside the stables. There were no horses there anymore, nor even any hay — Anatole had no need for such things these days. But in the back, in a corner of the very last stall, there was a small boy, curled up and shivering with his eyes shut and hands balled into the ragged sleeves of his much-mended shirt.

Anatole stepped into the stall, making sure to leave space in the doorway, and growled again, low and menacing. “Boy. Leave my home or face the consequences.”

The boy startled, and his eyes flew open. Anatole knew well what the boy saw. His cursed form was a work of art, he had to admit — curving horns and red eyes and sharp fangs and claws all sharp and distinct and gleaming even without light, and the rest of him a hulking beast of shadows with just enough substance to resolve into one’s worst nightmares. It was a form to make the bravest of men turn and run.

But rather than fleeing, the boy pressed himself more firmly into his corner. “No. I’m not scared of you, demon.” His voice strongly suggested otherwise. “Oúte o thánatos, oúte i zoí, oúte ángeloi, oúte igemoníes, oúte oi dynámas —”

“Oúte oi dynámeis,” Anatole snapped. “If you’re going to threaten demons with the Holy Writ, boy, you’d better say it correctly. Fortunately for you, I am not a demon. But I am a monster.” He bared his teeth further and growled again. “Now, begone. Go home.”

“Don’t have a home.” The boy’s hands scrabbled on the floor as if searching for a crack or crevice to hold onto. “You’ve got the whole house and all the land. You can spare a corner for the night.”

“If you have no home, then get yourself to the orphanage. I understand that’s what it’s there for.” Anatole pointed out the door. “Go.”

“Won’t.” The boy, finding no handholds, crossed his arms and shut his eyes. “Go away, monster. You’re probably a bad dream anyway.”

How dare the boy defy him! How dare he!

Anatole felt the enchantments woven into every inch of the estate swell in response to his wrath. They didn’t anticipate his need the way they once would have — the curse ensured that — but they would answer swift enough if he called upon them. He could have this boy ejected and back on the road in moments, and in the morning he could add another layer of spellwork to more effectively discourage trespassers.

But it was full night, the town was well over a mile away, and there were wolves in these woods. Sending the boy out on his own would be a shade too close to outright murder for Anatole’s taste. So, with a sigh, he reached down, grabbed the boy, and slung him over his shoulder. Then he turned and trudged back towards the main house.

The boy thrashed and struggled to get free. “Let me go! Put me down, monster!”

“No.” Anatole shoved open the side door, stepped through, and then paused to lock it behind them. “If you’re spending the night on my estate, you’ll do it where I can keep an eye on you.”

The boy continued to wriggle and protest as Anatole made his way swiftly to one of the smaller guest chambers. There, with much relief, he dropped the boy onto the couch. No dust rose — cleaning spells were child’s play, and Anatole had spent his first week of isolation laying multiple in every room. But somehow, the cushions still managed to let off an air of long disuse.

Anatole took a step back. “You’ll sleep here and then leave in the morning.” Now that he’d brought the boy inside, the long-practiced rules of hospitality gripped him like an instinct. “Are you hungry?”

The boy eyed him with suspicion, but gave a tight little nod. Anatole shut his eyes, probing his awareness of the house to check what he had to offer. Apples, cold turkey left from his dinner, cheese — that would do. A few commands and a plate appeared on the low table beside the couch, along with a sturdy mug of water. Anatole opened his eyes again. “Eat.”

The boy poked at the apple suspiciously — rude of him, as Anatole had even gone to the trouble of having it sliced. “Is this fairy food?”

“I have no interest in trapping you in my home.” Anatole resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I summoned it by magic, but the food is real.”

The boy picked up an apple slice, tasted it, and seemed to approve. “Are you planning to eat me?”

“There’s not enough meat on your bones to be worth the effort.” Anatole turned. “Eat, sleep, and be gone in the morning. I will come to this room at ten o’clock, and if you are not gone, I will remove you myself — and should you return, I may rethink eating you.” He waited to hear no further protests, but rather stalked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. As an afterthought, he locked it, laying a small spell so it would unlock again only after the boy had slept, and sent a command through the estate to close and lock all other doors and to only let them open at his own touch, or if they were necessary to let the boy out in the morning. With that, he made his way to his own bed and fell into a light slumber.

At half-past seven the next morning, he roused as he sensed the boy scurrying out the same side door they’d entered through the night before. Anatole remained awake until he felt the boy vanish off the edge of the estate. Then, satisfied, he drifted back into deeper sleep. He had done his duty; no one could argue that. And now the boy was gone and, with any luck, the threat of being eaten would be enough to keep others away for another hundred years or so.

~~~

Three days passed peacefully, and the fourth dawned cold, grey, and threatening either rain or snow. Anatole had decided some centuries ago that, on such days, resisting the urge to hibernate like the bear he somewhat resembled was far more trouble than it was worth. So, he spent most of the day in the library, alternately napping and listening as a speaker-spell read a book to him, stirring only when hunger made it necessary to summon a meal.

He was just waking from one of these naps when he felt a clumsy tug on the estate’s magic. Immediately, he shook himself, reaching out to see who or what dared try to use his power.

Once again, there was a child at the other end of the disturbance. The same one as before, if Anatole wasn’t mistaken. And there was another with him, smaller than he. Anatole growled, extracting himself from his blankets. Apparently, he’d been too kind to the boy last time. He would not make the same mistake again.

Outside, the sky had resolved into a storm of wind and driving rain and occasional flashes of lightning. Anatole trudged onward all the same, following the periodic tugs in his web of enchantment. A curse and a pox on the boy for choosing this day of all days to come back! And he was further from the main house this time, all the way out in the gamekeeper’s cottage — even longer disused than the rest of the estate’s outbuildings.

The door was locked, but it opened at his touch. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he swept inside, drawing himself up to his full height so he nearly touched the ceiling. “I told you not to return.”

The boy — indeed the same one as last time — looked up with wide eyes. He scrambled to his feet, darting in front of the other child. “What d’you care? You’ve got all this space and no one to live in it. We’re not hurting anything. I didn’t come anywhere near your house this time.”

“I care very much when someone trespasses on my property and tries to use my power for his own.” Anatole peered past the boy at the second child: a little girl, perhaps half the boy’s age, yellow-haired and thin-cheeked. “And you should know better than to wander into a monster’s den.”

“There’s monsters everywhere. You aren’t special.” The boy glanced behind him, and his shoulders sagged a little. “One night, Seigneur, please. Then we’ll leave. I promise. We’ll leave and we won’t come back.”

Anatole considered — but the rain and wind outside left him no choice. “I will hold you to that promise.” He turned. “Come.”

The two followed, straggling along behind him, the boy carrying a small bundle on his shoulder and helping the girl along with his free hand. However, after ten minutes, in which Anatole had to stop and wait five separate times for the children to catch up, he turned and simply scooped up both, ignoring their panicked protests. They were light as feathers, both of them — lighter than they ought to be, but perhaps that was merely the greater strength of his current form. Or perhaps he was misremembering. It had been many, many centuries since he’d had reason to carry a child.

He didn’t set the two back down until he’d reached the small guest room where he’d let the boy stay last time. There, he deposited both children onto the couch and once again summoned a platter of food: two bowls of the thick rabbit stew he’d started earlier that day for his dinner, cold flatbread rounds left from lunch, soft cheese, and juicy pears. This time, he very deliberately chose to materialize it on the table by the fireplace. “The food will stay warm until you eat it, at which point you will take care not to make a mess. You will remain in this room, the adjoining one, or the connected bathing chamber until after dawn tomorrow, and you will leave no later than ten o’clock. At no point will you disturb me. Is this understood?”

The girl just stared, but the boy nodded. “I understand. We’ll do as you say.”

“Good.” Anatole stalked from the room — but, to his surprise, the boy followed him out. “What did I say to you a moment ago?”

“I need to ask you something, sir.” The boy held his head up, dropping his tone. “If you eat one of us, make it me. Not Aimée. I’m the one who brought her here. And can you make sure she goes somewhere aside from the orphanage when you send her away?”

Anatole cast a cold glance at the boy. “The two of you together wouldn’t make as much meat as the rabbit I put in tonight’s stew. You may attend to the girl’s fate yourself when you both leave in the morning.”

“Thank you, Seigneur.” There was a bitter note in the boy’s voice, no doubt at the fact that he had to express gratitude for not being eaten. “We’ll not disturb you.”

He disappeared back into the room, and Anatole strode hastily away, working a belated drying-spell to pull the water from his cloak, clothes, and form. One night more. Then these two would be out of his hair and, with any luck, far, far away.

#story: unfinished #inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #(couldn't figure out how to work in both this time)#theme: food #theme: shelter #I actually have more written #but this is the cleanest break #and I want to leave myself a buffer

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honey-makes-mogai · 2 months

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[Image ID: 2 MOGAI flags with ten horizontal stripes. From top to bottom the colors in order are: blue, green-blue, seafoam green, yellow, white, black, yellow, seafoam green, green-blue, blue. The white and black stripes are thinner than the rest, which are all equally sized. In the middle of the first flag is a symbol resembling a 5 pointed star, the lines making each point turn into a spiral as they reach the next point. The symbol is off white outlined in black with a semi transparent off white circle behind it. In the middle of the second flag is a can of Aussie Lemonade Monster Energy outlined in white. /End ID]

MonsterEnergyAussieLemonadeJuicestelic / AussieLemonadestelic -

[PT: MonsterEnergyAussieLemonadeJuicestelic / AussieLemonadestelic -]

A constelic term for those who stel Monster Energy Juice Aussie Lemonade!

[Image ID: 2 MOGAI flags with ten horizontal stripes. From top to bottom the colors in order are: dark dull pink, pink, light pink, dull gray-pink, white, black, dull gray-pink, light pink, pink, dull dark pink. The white and black stripes are thinner than the rest, which are all equally sized. In the middle of the first flag is a symbol resembling a 5 pointed star, the lines making each point turn into a spiral as they reach the next point. The symbol is off white outlined in black with a semi transparent off white circle behind it. In the middle of the second flag is a can of Pipeline Punch Monster Energy outlined in white. /End ID]

MonsterEnergyPipelinePunchJuicestelic / PipelinePunchstelic -

[PT: MonsterEnergyPipelinePunchJuicestelic / PipelinePunchstelic -]

A constelic term for those who stel Monster Energy Juice Pipeline Punch!

[Image ID: 2 MOGAI flags with ten horizontal stripes. From top to bottom the colors in order are: tan, beige, blue, red, white, black, red, blue, beige, tan. The white and black stripes are thinner than the rest, which are all equally sized. In the middle of the first flag is a symbol resembling a 5 pointed star, the lines making each point turn into a spiral as they reach the next point. The symbol is off white outlined in black with a semi transparent off white circle behind it. In the middle of the second flag is a can of Pacific Punch Monster Energy outlined in white. /End ID]

MonsterEnergyPacificPunchJuicestelic / PacificPunchstelic -

[PT: MonsterEnergyPacificPunchJuicestelic / PacificPunchstelic -]

A constelic term for those who stel Monster Energy Juice Pacific Punch!

Tagging: @radiomogai @constelicflags @obscurian @the-mogai-archives

[Banner ID: A pastel yellow banner with a sunflower on either side. In brown text with a white outline, it says "- Please let me know if this has been coined before! -" /End ID.] [DNI transcript: "-DNI- Basic criteria, anti-mogai, proshippers, ableists, aphobes, racists, zoophiles, rpf shippers, fandom discourse, under 13, transid/transx". /End transcript.]

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thecutestgrotto · 6 days

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Oranges and Orange Blossoms

#theme: oranges #theme: food #theme: nature #theme: fruit #color: orange #dividers #post dividers #graphic design

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thegreenleavesofspring · 7 months

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The Time Sea

@inklings-challenge I hope this fits the requirements because I have bullied this into its final form.

~~~~

Gritty sand beneath her, and she dragged herself higher up the strand, the waves lapping greedily at her sodden dress. Tiny rippling wavelets washing up to pull out again with a dizzying feeling of the ground itself rushing from beneath her. She shivered there awhile, barely conscious of the lightning limning the roaring sea behind her in silver, painting the cliff above her white. The thunder blended with the noise of the waves, none of it touching her consciousness as she drifted.

The heavy black of night slithered into the dark grey of a stormy dawn. She came back to herself, shivering violently in her wet dress. The waves that had deposited her on this shore retreated down the sand, now. Her fingers were numb, hair clinging to her face like seaweed between sand grains. She brushed ineffectively at her face with shaking hands and blanched fingers. Hypothermia, her mind supplied helpfully, and then, get up and walk, it will help warm you up and you may find shelter.

She stood and looked at the cliff rising above her. It was a very small cliff, as cliffs went; only five or six times her height. The thought of trying to scale it in yards of drenched material and with numb fingers made her quail.

The storm had not passed over, though the rain had ceased for the moment; a sudden crack and roll of thunder made her jump. She glanced out at the tide – starting to come in again, now, but not quickly; she had a few moments – and backed up to look up at the top of the cliff.

Lightning flashed very helpfully in that precise moment, drawing her eye up towards the castle crouched atop the hill above the cliff. It seemed a very vampire’s lair, all sharp spires and sheer black stone and cramped window slits with no light in them and flying buttresses spiderwebbing between the towers. She rather fancied she saw bats dancing around the top of the tallest tower as tiny black specks.

It was the least inviting building imagination could conjure, but she was of a very practical turn of mind, and even the least inviting building with all its imagined horrors would be less dreadful than waiting on this narrow strip of cliff-bottom beach to be sucked back into the hungry waves behind her, or dying slowly of cold.

The castle’s inhabitants, it seemed, enjoyed trips to the beach, at times, for a thorough exploration of the bottom of the cliff revealed a narrow twisting path up the rock-face. Perhaps, she thought to herself as she hoisted her bundle of skirts – all shape lost in the ocean to a formless mass of heavy cloth, crusted stiff with salt – they came down on finer days than this, when all was sunny and the sea was calm and glass-green. Or perhaps, she thought humorously, they were vampires indeed, and descended only on the full moons to dance gruesome dances upon the strand.

The castle was further away than it had appeared from the beach, and rain started sheeting down just as she attained the grass at the top of the cliff. She heaved a deep despondent sigh, her hair slicking down around her face and shoulders all over again, shivering uncontrollably now, and started her forward slog, clutching her stomach to try and keep warm. Thunder shook the skies and ground around her, rattling through her bones. Lightning shot white and violet and indigo from sky to ground, and she peered forward at the castle each time, orienting herself off those jagged spires. A pebbled path ran from castle to cliff, but now it ran with water, a miniature rapid rushing along and tugging at her feet.

She was too tired to fight the current, slight as it was, and stepped off into the grass beside the path. The water rose to her ankles as she splashed through puddles, washing the salt and grime of the ocean from her feet and replacing it with tiny blades of grass and fragments of leaves and one very startled frog that rode on her arch for two steps before leaping away with a disgruntled cro-oak.

Her stomach had ceased its growling complaints and her mind was nearly as numb as her extremities by the time she fetched up against the rough stone and wood of the castle. She took a stumbling step back from the unyielding wall and looked around and realized that the path had widened into a drive and swooped right up to a broad shallow front step and a niche with imposing double doors. An unlit torch was set in an iron bracket to the side of it; if it had ever blazed with fire the wind and rain had long since snuffed it.

She considered sheltering in the door nook for all of half a second before another gust of wind sent her stumbling forward a step. Her mind made up, she mounted the stairs, wadded her hand inside a length of her voluminous sleeve, and lifted the massive iron knocker.

It fell with a boom that echoed through the house and faded into the thunder a half-second behind it. But the door was not even latched; the weight and momentum of the knocker pushed it ajar a few inches. She took a hitching breath and peeked in through the crack and then pushed the door open a little farther and slipped inside, leaning back against the rough wood on her hands to close it as she took in the hall.

It was long and narrow and soared to heights she could not see in the dark; the lightning coming in the windows insufficient to show the ceiling. At the far end of the hall – a mile away, it seemed – a tiny fire glowed in a massive fireplace that entirely dwarfed it. Open, doorless entryways to other rooms gaped cavernous to either side, black and opaque as pitch. The walls were bare and carved into sharp pillar motifs, climbing high out of sight. Everything was sharp and spiky and looked deeply uncomfortable and unhomelike, but there was a fire at the end of the hall and she was so cold…

Her footsteps echoed across the bare floor – marble perhaps; it was hard to tell in this dimness – rising all the way to the distant unseen ceiling and reverberating off all the walls over and over before whispering away into silence. But she did not let it stop her; she lightened her footfalls as much as she could and hurried over to the fire, whimpering in gratitude as she held her hands into the hearth itself to stick them over the anemic flames.

A bang from behind her startled her badly – she jumped and turned, scanning the hall. A staircase she had hitherto not seen, set back where the wall had fallen away – she had not seen it in her rush to get to the fire – rose to split into opposite directions. A thin wavering light hovered on the balcony of the second floor (she supposed it was the second floor) – a torch, held aloft in a hand cast deep into shadow. A tall figure held it; she caught a glimpse of a large hooked nose and robes the color of blood beneath silver-streaked auburn hair, two black eyes glittering like moonlight on a forest pool deep beneath craggy brows.

“Welcome, traveler,” the figure rumbled; a man’s deep voice. She shivered, staring up at him, caught in – not fear, precisely. He did not sound hostile or threatening. Unease, perhaps. Awe. Mind-numbing exhaustion.

When she did not respond he continued, “A room is being prepared for you. I… did not expect visitors tonight. Perhaps I should have,” he added lower, as if to himself, but the vast chamber caught his voice and carried it to her clearly. “My hospitality is not what it would usually be. Nonetheless, you will find water for washing, and food, and a change of clothes – though they may not be precisely what you are used to, they will serve for tonight.”

She found her voice at last, tongue heavy and throat sore with salt; her voice came out in an unfamiliar rasp. “Thank you, kind sir.”

His robes shifted; she caught a glimpse of a pale strong hand as he waved it dismissively. “It is my job. When you are ready, ascend these stairs and come down here where I am standing. There is a torch in the bracket beside your room.”

The promise of a wash and warm dry clothes and food was enough to send her scrambling for the stairs upon the instant. But she paused a moment at the top, looking up at the massive diamond-paned windows that rose before her. She had not seen them from the beach, nor approached from an angle that permitted view of them. But now she stood a moment, gazing out upon the storm-lashed ocean, the sun hidden behind frothing masses of grey-black cloud. Arcs of lightning speared down from the heavens to the water below, showing for just a minute waves high as buildings and hills and black as tar, shining like obsidian for fractions of a second.

She shivered, so very grateful to no longer be adrift in that furious sea, and turned to go up the staircase to her left. There was no sign of her host, now, but his torch had been left, as he promised, outside an iron-chased door.

It looked more like a dungeon door than a guest’s bedchamber, but she did not take time to worry about it, pushing the door open. A gasp of utter relief from her chapped lips – a fire, much larger than the one below, roared in the cozy little fireplace. The stone floor here was covered with a thick sheepskin, and a giant brass tub sat waiting and steaming before the hearth. Covered dishes sat on a small table in the middle of the room with a single chair drawn up; a four-poster bed stood against the far wall, buried under layers of quilts and blankets. A small heap of folded clothes lay atop it, and a single fluffy towel.

Part of her wished to take forever in the heavenly hot water, but cramping pains in her stomach alerted her that this would not be a good idea. She stepped out and wrapped herself in the towel – warming by the fire during her bath, soft as a summer cloud and almost as white – moving as close as was safe to the fireplace for a few moments. Her shivering had finally subsided in the bath, but she still basked in the heat, her skin prickling as it slowly warmed back up.

The food was simple and heavy – stew with beef and potatoes, some kind of green leafy vegetable, rolls split in the top with pats of butter pushed in to melt into the bread. A large mug of tea sat beside the plate and bowl. She scarcely paused to give thanks before falling on the food, devouring it down to crumbs and smears of gravy.

For all she knew, the master of this castle was indeed a vampire. But he had yet to offer her harm, and indeed had been very kindly and welcoming to the waif that had blown in his front door. The sheer exhaustion weighing on her now annihilated any reasonable caution. With no concern that it was, beyond the storm, still broad day, she hied herself right into that inviting bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was broad daylight when she woke up again, too, the storm passed at last. She lay a minute, looking out at the azure-washed sky. Not a cloud to be seen anymore, but only an endless blue as deep as the ocean beneath it.

Out from beneath the heavy blankets – a drab dark green, but warm and cozy and slightly scratchy – and over to the window. The surf still ran high, the waves topped with foam as though the clouds had fallen from the sky to the sea. She stared, oddly mesmerized, for far too long, until hunger pangs reminded her that it would perhaps be prudent to seek breakfast.

She turned. The table had been cleared of its dishes, a single folded piece of strange parchment left in its place. She opened it and stared blankly at the script within; nothing she recognized.

She shook her head and set it aside, lifting the dress hung carefully over the back of the chair. It was nearly as strange as the writing on the odd parchment, with thin sleeves that clung to the arms and a bodice that laced almost up to the neck and a severe lack of ornamentation. But it was a delicate rose-pink that pleased her much more than the deep purple of her own dress, and it swept modestly all the way to the floor. Perhaps even more importantly, it was easy enough to get into without assistance.

The castle was nearly as intimidating by daylight as by thundering dim, severely plain without any relieving decorations. Dark blue-grey walls and black marble floors swallowed light, returning only a reluctant polished shine. But the vast windows at the stairs had an even better view of sea and sky and horizon than her own window had had, and she found herself arrested once more by the eternally shifting palette of blues and greens and greys.

She stood, lost a moment in time, as she watched the ocean, before turning and descending the stairs. A table had been set up before the massive fireplace with its comically small fire, and a hearty if simple breakfast laid out across it. Two chairs were pulled up before the table, and she assumed her mysterious host would be joining her.

She sat down, resolutely ignoring the tempting smells wafting up from the food spread across the table. Her stomach growled and she dug her fists into her gut to silence it, looking around at the stark hall and the sunlight sliding across the floor rather than the meal spread out.

The silence was oppressive. There was not even a clock to show the time passing, only the black stone walls and black marble floors and the bright yellow sunlight creeping back towards the near wall and the slowly cooling food.

The bang of a door upstairs startled her badly and she jumped before twisting in her chair to look over at the staircase. Her mysterious host was joining her at last, it seemed, his footfalls heavy and brisk as he descended the stairs towards her. “Good morning, lady.”

She rose at his approach. “Good morning, my lord.”

She studied him now, in the bright morning light. Grey-streaked auburn hair and a great curved nose, deep lines chiseled in his face around a heavy brow and kind dark eyes. He was truly absurdly tall, towering over her head and shoulders, a shapeless mass of deep wine-red cloak. It was quite impossible to judge his age; he looked perhaps middle-aged, save that there was some indefinable ancient air that hung over his shoulders like his garments.

He stood examining the table with a faint frown that looked rather forbidding on his heavy-featured face. “Did you not receive my note, lady?”

“I… could not read it,” she admitted, brushing nervous fingers down the thick material of her borrowed dress.

He turned that intense frowning regard on her person and she stilled. “Untaught,” he asked slowly, “or the script was unfamiliar to you?”

“It was… unfamiliar to me.”

He studied her a moment longer before sweeping a long hand, bones and sinews standing out beneath the skin, towards the table. “Please, sit and eat.”

He sat opposed to her and for awhile they both broke their fasts in silence. Only as their concentration lapsed into dallying did he brush his lips with an old ivory napkin and query, “And the dress. Was it also unfamiliar to you?”

She looked down at herself. In the bright morning light, it was truly lovely. But… “Yes, my lord, it also is unfamiliar.”

“My goodness,” the man murmured to himself. “I must be slipping. I have not misjudged an origin in… quite some time.” For some reason this last comment made him smile grimly.

She plucked up her courage. “My lord, I beg you to forgive my impertinence,” she began.

He gestured again, the craggy face settling into kindly lines. “I am no lord,” he interrupted. “You may call me… the Keeper, if you wish. Ask whatever you will, child.”

She squared her shoulders. “Where is this place, pray, sir? And do you live here all alone?”

“I do.” He reached languidly for his tea cup. “I am the Keeper of this castle, and of the shore below. The ocean below us is the Time Sea – people who are lost to the ocean are brought to my shores. It is my job to assess their original location and time, and send them home.”

This seemed entirely reasonable, but she had a concern. “And how do you do that?”

He smiled slightly. “Well, I am afraid you will have to cross the Time Sea again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The boat was small and unprepossessing and she regarded with with deep wariness and distrust. Her dress was remarkably clean – the Keeper had put it in something he called a Washing Machine, deep in the depths of the castle – and returned to its old familiar shape. She lifted the bundle of her skirts, took a deep breath, and stepped into the rocking little shell of wood.

“And this will bear me home?” she asked nervously.

The Keeper brushed long slender fingers over the gold-embossed runes carved into the rim of the boat, the wood around them stained the same black that was between the stars at night. “It will bear you where I have told it to bear you, and I have told it to bear you home.”

Hours spent in a library taller than the hall downstairs, the maze between the shelves miles long, the domed arch of the ceiling made almost entirely of glass so that sunlight would pour in no matter the time of day. Maps and books spread out across the heavy oaken tables, dusty tomes that weighed as much as she did and were nearly as tall. Gadgets and gewgaws in crystal cases and on shelves and sitting upright on the thick forest-floor green carpet, gold and brass and silver and many other metals she did not recognize, amazing and incomprehensible. A map of the heavens all along wall that one could study for ten years and not examine all of it.

She wandered in awe-struck exploration while the Keeper consulted his books and his maps and his gizmos. It was, perhaps, hours that they were in that wondrous library, or maybe days; time seemed to pass differently here.

She could have spent ten years there without losing interest.

But amber light was stretching towards the far wall, the sun plunging towards its own brilliantly multi-hued setting, when at last the Keeper stood upright. “I believe I have found your time and place,” he announced. “It may be less fearsome for you to cross the Time Sea by daylight, so you will depart tomorrow – such as it is.”

The food that night was the food of her home – the sleep-clothes laid out for her were the old familiar type she wore every night. Her own dress awaited her the next morning, laid out carefully across the chair. The same breakfast on the table in the hall that she ate every morning.

It felt like having a piece of home with her here in this strange place.

It was jarring.

She sat very carefully. The rocking of the tiny boat made her uneasy, an instinct hissing that it would tip and dump her out again, that those waves were dreadfully large and rough.

“Are you ready?” the Keeper asked where he crouched on the slick wet boulder, holding her boat securely.

Her heart quailed, anxiety seeping up her throat like bile. “Yes.”

“Then may the Lord of All Creation return you safe home.” He shoved her tiny vessel out into the ocean and she suppressed the urge to clutch the sides by clutching her skirts instead, swallowing a nervous shriek.

“Farewell!” he called behind her, and she dared to carefully twist and look back. He stood still on his pile of rock some yards into the ocean. His shapeless robe wet to the thighs and clinging, even as spray and sea-wind alike whipped his hair. The spires of his dark castle behind him stabbing the sky, their secrets well-hidden behind the thick stone.

She rode the waves, the swells cradling her fragile boat like a mother cradling the soft head of her newborn, watching until the very tallest tower-peak sank out of sight. She sighed softly and settled into facing front again. For a long second, she was surrounded entirely by ever-shifting blue-green water, before another wave caught and lifted her high towards the cloud-daubed heavens above.

A strip of pricklingly familiar coastline ahead of her – docks and quays and shops and houses and ships and sailors and darting urchins and dogs. She gazed at it a moment in wonder and awe but no surprise at all.

The wave dropped her into a trough that propelled her forward quickly enough that she swayed back with a startled squeak. Another wave rose beneath her and crested and slung her forward like a stone from a boy’s sling, her boat overturning and vanishing under the waves behind her.

She thrashed amid bubbles rushing through the emerald water. Garbled shouts came to her submerged ears as she struggled to reach the surface. A hand seized the back of her dress and she was yanked up into open air, and then over the rough side of a crude wooden boat to land in a slippery pile of fish. Two bearded grizzled men stared down at her in considerable astonishment. “Where’d ye come from, missy?” the older one demanded. “An’ how’d ye get way out here?”

She blinked up at them. She had not realized how much she had missed the familiar accents of her people over the last two days. “My ship was wrecked in a storm.”

“The storm last night?” the younger, taller man asked, nodding. “The flotsam has been coming in today. But where have you been all this time?”

“All this time,” she murmured to herself. A dark pointy castle rose in her mind’s eye. “I was lost in the Sea of Time. But I am home now.”

#inklingschallenge #team Tolkien #genre: time travel #genre: secondary world #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: clothing #theme: shelter #finished #further tags:#fantasy #castle #ocean

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araekniarchive · 2 years

Note

hello i adore your work so much!! i hope you’re having a lovely day. i’d like to request a web-weave on the intersection between love and fruit (like peeling oranges for someone or sharing a peach etc.)

Chaia Heller, After Language

Anne Carson, Decreation

Elvis Presley, I Slipped, I Stumbled, I Fell

William Adolphe Bouguereau, Les Oranges (detail)

Wikipedia definition of the Albanian word for ‘grape’, rrush

Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Richard Siken, Scheherazade

A vandalised Wikipedia article on mandarins (via @goopy-amethyst)

Nana Mouskouri, Love Tastes Like Strawberries

Lady Lamb, Bird Balloons

Ross Gay, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude

Denis Sarazhin

Danusha Laméris, Small Kindnesses

Christopher Citro, Our Beautiful Life When It’s Filled with Shrieks

Haley Heynderickx, Jo

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horrormogai · 7 months

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🍬 Candybowlic 🍬

[PT: Candybowlic]

Created by @/gendercoining on October 1st, 2020

[PT: Created by @/gendercoining on October 1st, 2020]

"a gender that feels like picking out candy your favorite candies from a candy bowl on a halloween night !!" - Original Definition

Flag Color Meanings ::

[PT: Flag Color Meanings]

Red :: Resembles candy apples and fruity sweets

Orange :: Resembles caramel and nougat

Green :: Resembles gummy and chewy candy

Purple :: Resembles lolipops, pixie stix, and pure sugar candy

Brown :: Resembles chocolate of all kinds

Black :: Resembles the night of Halloween, the candy bowl itself, and the Halloween spirit

Archived Post :: Here [link]

This is simply an archiving of a previously existing term, as I could not find the new blog of the OG coiner, if you see this and would like me to take it down, please let me know! All tags are simply for reach and archiving.

Tagging :: @idem-obscura @radiomogai @mogai-snacktime

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gailyinthedark · 6 months

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@inklings-challenge this is very late and extremely silly, but I wanted to poke fun at my life and also give a thank you to @siena-sevenwits and @gerbiloftriumph for boosting my mood during my own jello-related tribulations!

Translation

Humans were absurdly large. Hulking, even. No creature needed to take up so much space. They spread out, too, limbs and digits all over the place, not folded close to the body for efficiency in creeping.

This one didn’t look so well, even for a human. It lay limply on the bed (five goblins could fit in a bed that size, but humans were disinclined to sleep piled up) and by the smoky light of the oil lantern its face was an unappealing shade of beige-grey, its hair greasy. (Why have nerveless filaments on one’s head instead of a nice set of floppy ears, sensitive to sound and temperature and the shapes of underground spaces? It made no sense.)

“Hungry?” asked Borf, indicating the covered tray in his hands.

“Is it that orange stuff?” asked the human, as if its hunger or lack thereof depended on the answer. Which was ridiculous, but Borf decided to humour it. He pulled off the cloth with a flourish. The contents of the tray glowed amber in the oil-light, transparent and jiggling slightly.

The human looked iller.

“I think I’ll wait,” it murmured.

“It’s the same for supper,” said Borf helpfully. “And breakfast.”

“Blast,” said the human. Its voice was slightly higher in pitch than Borf’s own, which meant it was likely a she. “I hate that stuff.”

“They wouldn’t let me bring you the fermented fishtail soup,” said Borf. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” said the human, and sniffed loudly.

There was a chart of human sounds and their meanings in the refectory cavern. Borf reviewed it in his head. The sniffing sound meant either the human’s nasal passages were irritated or they were experiencing sorrow.

“Is it rhinitis?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t be in the hospital for that.”

“Right,” muttered Borf. It was hard to keep track of the different races and what might kill or merely inconvenience a given one, and he was only a porter, not a medic.

“You’re sad then,” he stated tentatively, checking his mental chart again.

“I'm fine," said the human. “Sorry. You can put the tray here if you like.”

She shoved at the pillows until she was sitting up. The goblin maneuvered the tray to rest on her lap. She poked at the blob and sniffed again. Borf turned to go, thinking of one occasion when, as a little goblet, he’d been caught out of the caverns overnight and had to sleep under a tree without the usual heap of other goblin-children to keep him company. His ears had been fairly purple with sorrow.

“Ah,” he said suddenly, turning back to see the human surveying a spoonful of orange goo with a disconsolate expression.

“What?” she asked, seeming glad of the distraction.

“Human ears are useless,” said Borf, and hopped back into the room and clambered up on the foot of the absurdly enormous bed. “So inexpressive. They should do something about it.”

“I’ll let them know,” said the human in question. “When I get out of here. It smells like parsley. Is it meant to do that?”

“They could try earrings in appropriate colours. Try not to think about the smell.”

She grimaced again, but the sniffing seemed to have stopped, which Borf guessed to be a good sign. He settled in, toes splayed on the blanket, elbows near his ankles, floppy ears resting comfortably on his knees.

“Tell me,” he said, as the human bravely swallowed a bite, “what is the evolutionary purpose of hair?”

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #theme: visit the sick #theme: food #theme: goblins #theme: hospitals #story: complete #genre: secondary world

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lover-of-the-starkindler · 6 months

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Look to the Birds of the Air

Inklings Challenge 2023 Team Chesterton: Intrusive Fantasy

A quiet day for mother and son may be more than it seems

Look to the Birds of the Air @inklings-challenge

by Meltintalle

It was a quiet day. A cloudy day, with the world muffled in a soft gray cloak, and tiny bits of moisture flecking the grass. Thousands of worlds were reflected in miniature, each alike and yet unique. Mary brushed a branch on her way back from the mailbox, scattering the droplets to reform anew elsewhere. Her son skipped at her side carrying the nature magazine he'd been watching for since the arrival of the previous one but his eye was caught by a wave of migratory birds shifting positions on a nearby maple tree. Their soft chatter was kin to waves in the shore, an everswelling roll of sound.

Mary lingered in the doorway a moment, caught by the mood of the slow fog, then closed the door and returned to her world of bills to pay and phone calls to make. She caught herself looking out the window and wondering if there was a world somewhere where she would be doing some heroic deed instead.

A clatter from the kitchen shattered her daydream.

"What are you doing?" she asked, finding her son chasing a spoon across the floor. His magazine was open on the table and surrounded by a motley selection of ingredients.

"I have to feed the troops," he explained, emerging triumphant from behind the table leg.

Peanut butter, crackers, and sunflower seeds would have to multiply in an unnatural fashion, and besides…

"What troops?"

He pointed out the kitchen window toward the maple tree where the birds were tucked together for warmth. "Don't you see them? They patrolled here all summer and now they're on to their next posting."

"An army, is it?" asked Mary.

"Oh, yes. We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret."

"I see." Mary looked down at the magazine with a bemused smile. She saw the connection between the project on the glossy spread and the peanut butter, but the army of birds was less easily explained.

"Did you know they migrated?" asked her son, round face serious and concentrated on his task.

"Every year."

"It's amazing. All those miles. I couldn't do it."

True enough. Some days he could barely sit through the ride to his grandmother's house. "Maybe if you were part of a troop–like the birds?"

His eyes gleamed with the new idea as he dropped generous dollops of peanut butter to be mixed with the other ingredients. "Maybe."

Satisfied no further silverware would be dropped, Mary returned to her to-do list. In the other world perhaps feeding the birds was an important endeavor, but here it was a few seeds and a picture.

It was twilight when the bird food was ready, and Mary helped her son carry the tray outside. The cloud cover had torn, scattering glowing pewter across the horizon. Wet grass clung to her feet and Mary watched a wave of birds rise and spiral across the sunset.

Maybe it was more than a few seeds. Maybe it was a child, happily occupied for a few hours.

We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret.

Maybe, she told herself. Maybe it was true.

#inklingschallenge #inklingschallenge2023 #team chesterton #theme: food #genre: intrusive fantasy #story: complete

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bookshelf-in-progress · 6 months

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The Sylph in the Storm

This story was what I originally planned to submit for this year's @inklings-challenge--a scene from my fantasy universe that's like a fairy tale version of Anne of Green Gables. I haven't finished it yet, and what I have is very rough, but I'd like to give you a taste of what I have so far.

I've lived on the Island all my life--my father was keeper of the Mary's Vale lighthouse, and I kept house for my brother when he assumed the role--and I've seen many strange things. Some of them the ordinary adventures of lighthouse life--storms and shipwrecks and sharks. Some of them are more magical--not many humans can say they've raised a mermaid from infancy.

I loved Amy from the moment I found her, but raising a mermaid had its difficulties. When Amy turned twelve, she became as truculent as any human child of that age, with the added difficulty of an increased fascination with the sea. I tried to give her as much freedom as was good for her, but Amy always tried to take more than her due.

It was an unusually warm day in late October, 1892, when the crisis came. I was irritable because I'd spent the morning chasing the pixies out of the pantry--they'd gotten into the sugar again--when Amy came traipsing up out of the ocean, rainbows glimmering on her pearlescent skin. I'd let her go for a swim before breakfast--mermaids do need to keep moist--and it was now well after noon.

"Where have you been?" I asked in a low tone.

Amy stopped in surprise. "You said I could swim!"

"For an hour. It's after noon. I don't have time to care for this house, and the lighthouse, and the meals, and chase you all over the face of the earth."

"I came back!"

"You knew you were dawdling. I give you clothing and meals and a roof over your head. It's not too much to demand a little help in return."

"If I'm so much trouble, you should have left me on that beach."

That got my blood up, and to my shame, I shouted, "Perhaps I should have!"

Amy stood as if I'd struck her.

I regretted the words immediately. I tried to apologize. "Amy, I--"

But Amy was already running down the path to the shore. I tried to chase after her, calling her name, but in moments, she was on the shore and she dove beneath the waves, swimming to the east just as fast as she could.

I called after her, to no avail, and at last, I trudged up the winding stairs back to the lighthouse. We'd both spoken in anger, and our tempers would cool with time.

I went to the gardens and pulled out dead vines with vigor, pouring out my fury through my work. My emotions ran high--fury one moment, remorse the next. I swung from planning the lectures I would give upon her return to crafting apologies.

But the garden cleared, the sun sank lower, and still there was no sign of Amy.

At the sight of storm clouds gathering on the horizon, I grew frantic. I called on my aunt down the shore, but she hadn't seen Amy. When I came back to the house, I found Captain Avery had come by to help Edmund with the light, and I raced toward him, frantic as I babbled out the story of Amy's flight.

"Can we take out the boat?" I asked.

"All we'd do is wreck ourselves, and for no good purpose," the captain said. "There's no telling if she is still at sea, or where she went if she did."

"She could dive below the waters where we couldn't see her," Aunt pointed out.

The truth stretched out before me--vast and hopeless. Amy could be anywhere--curled up somewhere in the Island, lost in the Atlantic--and I could do nothing to help.

"Is there nothing we can do?" I cried.

Rain burst from the clouds above--a cold drizzle, blown about by the gusting wind.

Aunt led me toward the house. "We can wait," she said. "And pray."

A cup of tea steamed before me as I sat at the kitchen table. Aunt urged me to change my wet clothes, to sit in front of the fire, to warm myself with the tea, but I couldn't move. All I could hear was the howling storm--driving rain, angry winds, the blaring horn at the lighthouse, thunder that sounded like the end of the world. All I could see was my mermaid girl, washed up and broken on a lonely shore somewhere.

It was after just such a storm that I'd found Amy, nearly twelve years before--a tiny wet bundle wrapped in seaweed. Her mother had been several paces down the shore, singing out her daughter's name with the last of her strength, and begging my help with her dying breaths. Was this how I'd repaid her hope in me? Driven her daughter out to sea to be destroyed in a storm as she'd been?

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looked up to see the bearded face of the captain looking down upon me, much as my father had once upon a time. "You're singing," he said.

With astonishment, I found that I was--a flowing tune so familiar that it sprang to my lips without thought. "Amy's name," I explained.

The explanation was unnecessary. It was the captain who'd explained it to me, in those early days when he helped me to care for the baby merrow. Every mer's full name was a song--names upon names detailing family histories, connections to other clans, great deeds of long ago ancestors. The captain knew a fair amount of the merrow tongue, and we'd puzzled together over the meaning of the tune that had stuck in my memory after just one hearing. Amy had a family, a lineage, that we knew nothing about. Now, all she had was us.

The lines on Captain Avery's weathered face were deeper than ever. If Amy had a grandfather, the Captain filled the role. He had helped me keep her alive in those early days, and, I realized, he loved her as deeply as I did, worried as deeply as ever I could, even if his face didn't show it.

"She'll be well," the captain said. "Amy's got a good weather eye. She'll have come ashore before the storm hit, or gone below where the sea is calmer."

I shook my head, trying to banish the image of Amy's broken body. "But what if she didn't?" I asked.

"There are always miracles. I've seen them before."

I stared into my tea, trying not to snap. This was no time for the captain's stories of sylphs and sea kings.

"We can't count on that."

"No, but we can pray."

I tried to. Truly, I did. But I could find no words, no hope, to penetrate the gray despair of my mind, the roiling power of the raging storm. For what felt like a week, I sat there, misery seeping between the seconds and stretching out time to unbearable lengths.

I was dimly aware of Aunt tending to the fire in the parlor, and Captain Avery going to the tower to offer assistance to Edmund, and coming back soaking wet, but nothing truly roused me from my misery until I heard a strange voice from outside.

"Ahoy!"

Aunt and I both jumped.

"Edmund?" I asked.

"Couldn't be," Aunt said.

Captain Avery shook his head. "He'd never leave the light in a storm like this."

"Ahoy!" cried the voice that was most definitely not Edmund's. "Anybody home?"

I rushed to the kitchen door and flung it open. A strange young man stood on the threshold. I could barely see him in the darkness of the storm, but there in his arms was my mermaid girl--safe and whole and sound asleep.

"I believe," the man said, "that she belongs to you."

"Amy!" I breathed.

"I found her on the shores of Selkie Island," the man said.

At least, I thought he did, but I assumed I'd misheard. In the time since she'd left, Amy could barely have swum to Selkie Island. It was impossible that this man could already have brought her back--especially in such a storm.

I welcomed him into the house and rushed him into the parlor, glad that Aunt already had a fire blazing in the little hearth. I made a nest of blankets on the floor and urged the man to lay her down. He moved through the room with such speed and grace, as if she--or he--weighed nothing at all.

I stepped back to give him space, and he moved between me and the fire. Then the firelight revealed what the night had hidden. Though the man stood as tall and real and human as any of us, the light shone through him.

Amy had been rescued by a sylph.

I fell back against the wall, dizzy with shock. I felt as if I'd fallen into one of the captain's fireside tales. A sylph, a spirit of the air--one of the most powerful creatures in the universe, so rare that even on the Island, some people doubted their existence--stood within my little lighthouse parlor.

No one breathed, no one moved. We all just stared, struck motionless by awe and fear, because this solution, miraculous as it was, meant that Amy had been in far more danger than even I had feared.

Sylphs are like the wind, the legends say, unheard and unseen, rushing about the world to do as much good as they can in the three hundred years allotted them. Direct intervention is rare. It takes too much time, too much energy, when a simple, passing bit of magic will help humans solve the problem on their own. The sylph could have hurried the storm along, or moved a few trees to shelter Amy until she could swim home, or let us know where we could find her when the storm ended. But he had come to her direct aid. He had taken form to bring her home. How badly had Amy been hurt, that she couldn't wait an hour or two for aid?

Aunt was the first to speak. "Was she hurt very badly, sir?"

The sylph ran his fingers gently through Amy's red hair. His hand seemed as solid as a flesh one. “Broken in a few places,” he said. “It seems as though she'd misjudged some currents and been dashed upon the bathing rocks. She wasn't in pain long—I reached her after a few moments."

My throat tightened. "Is she...?" I knelt at her side and examined her in a panic.

The sylph stilled me with a hand on my shoulder. "I healed her injuries. She needs only rest now."

Amy was whole--pure and perfect. Even the scar on her leg--from when she'd fallen from that tree last summer--had faded to perfect skin.

I looked into the sylph's face. I'd never seen such kind eyes. "I don't know how to thank--"

From the lighthouse, the foghorn sounded, drowning out the last of my words.

The sylph jumped, looked toward the lighthouse, and suddenly the sound faded away, as if it were coming from far out at sea.

The sylph answered my look of astonishment by saying, "She needs rest."

I stroked Amy's hair and nodded. What had she suffered, while she'd been away? What had driven her the miles and miles to Selkie Island's shore?

“Sarah,” the Captain said suddenly, “could you pour some tea for our guest?"

Tea? For a sylph? I didn't understand how he could consume anything, but the Captain knew about these sorts of things. And when faced with the question of what one did with a sylph in the parlor, tea seemed as sensible an answer as anything else.

The sylph stood and tried to decline. "That's very kind, but you needn't..."

The Captain's face was as firm as it ever could have been when he'd commanded a ship. “You've form enough to take food, and you're tired enough to need it.”

“I can't take repayment...”

“Good,” the Captain replied, “because none of us have any hope of repaying you. But you need to allow us our gratitude, and you'll need nourishment before you can do much else.”

The sylph humbly nodded his head. "Very well."

"Sarah," the Captain said, looking at me. "Tea. And whatever food you can find."

I brough the sylph a fresh cup of tea from the kitchen, then offered him a seat in the softest chair in the lighthouse. He accepted the seat--not sinking into the cushions at all--and sipped the tea, then asked the captain, "Met sylphs before, have you?"

“I'm a sailor,” Captain Avery replied.

The sylph nodded as if that explained all, and I suppose it did. A ship's home was among the winds on the open sea, and so was a sylph's. And if the stories are trues--I was beginning to suspect they were--sylphs were more likely to intervene for those who are far from any human help.

We hadn't much food in the lighthouse, but between the two of us, Mrs. Avery and I managed a to put a respectable spread--thick slices of bread, boiled eggs, the remains of two kinds of cake, my prize-winning pickles--on the small parlor table. The sylph watched with eager astonishment, like a child at a circus, unwilling to miss a single delight.

When I set out three jars of jam, his face lit up with delight. He seized a teaspoon, placed it in the nearest jar, and had a spoonful of blackberry preserves in his mouth before he caught himself.

He set down the spoon and gave me a questioning gaze. "May I?"

I smiled. "Take as much as you like."

The sylph spooned three dollops of jam into his tea and one into his mouth.

When the food was spread, I settled on the floor next to Amy, who still slept peacefully.

"She will be well," the sylph assured me, and it sounded like the voice of pure truth. "Will you join me?" he asked. "I prefer not to eat alone."

How could I resist such an invitation? I tucked some blankets around Amy, pulled in some kitchen chairs, and invited Aunt and the captain to sit. Then, unbelievable as it sounds, we all dined with a sylph. It felt like a dream; if the captain and Aunt didn't remember it, I may have been able to convince myself it was.

Despite his light, transparent form, the sylph was able to eat and drink like any creature. When the food entered his mouth, it disappeared from sight, just as it did for us opaque creatures. He didn't chew much, but he imitated the motion, as he seemed to understand it was the proper thing to do. And he could certainly taste—he savored each bite, and delighted in flavors. He combined flavors with extreme creativity—butter in his tea, ham atop slices of cake, salt and pepper on buttered bread, jam on anything he could spread it on—and found satisfaction with everything.

As we ate, the sylph spoke of his travels--marvels in the Orient, the Pacific, great cities, vast deserts, both poles. Yet he never chattered, never boasted. He seemed happier to hear someone else speak, delighting in hearing about the ordinary details of our lives. He listened more fully than any creature I've ever known, giving his full attention to each word, even if he was also spreading jam on a boiled egg at the time.

That was the paradox of the sylph. When he listened, he seemed so calm and wise that I was certain he must be one of the oldest sylphs in the world. Yet, as he ate jam by the spoonful or marveled at the light of the fire, he seemed to be the youngest person in the room. Such a combination of wisdom and innocence is impossible to describe, but a joy to experience. Neither wisdom nor innocence allows for pettiness, cruelty or anything small-minded, only for joy and wonder, respect and understanding.

The spread, though small, filled all four of us nearly to bursting, and I filled a plate for Amy, in case she woke hungry. Even in such happy circumstances, I wouldn't be completely easy until Amy woke.

The sylph was speaking to the captain about the progress of the storm, when suddenly his eyes flickered, and he turned his gaze toward Amy. He burst into a smile. "You're awake!"

Slowly, Amy rose from her nest of blankets on the floor, her red hair tangled in a cloud around her head. She blinked sleepily and looked around the room.

"Amy!" I cried in joy. I rushed to her side. "How are you feeling?"

She didn't even look at me. Her eyes went straight to the sylph. "How did I get here?" she asked.

“I brought you,” said the sylph.

Quick as lightning, Amy rose from the floor. Faster than any of us could comprehend, she stood, approached the sylph, and then slapped him across the face.

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: food #theme: shelter #story: unfinished

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kanerallels · 6 months

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The Waystation

Finally finished my story for @inklings-challenge, and I figured I'd post it today!! (I'm also gonna tag @laughingphoenixleader cause she showed interest when I mentioned it to her!)

Link to my playlist for it here, just for fun! I'm in love with the profile pic @accidental-spice made for it, so feel free to admire that at the very least

Our tale begins on one of the main roads in the region. Bricked with gray-brown stone, it strode through the forest with a confidence that didn’t stop for anything, let alone a tiny dirt path that split off from it, winding through the whispering trees in a far more subdued manner.

Most that passed didn’t even notice the side path, too busy on their errands and quests to stop. But there were some who stopped, who’s gaze wandered to the side for just a heartbeat long enough that they spotted the path. There were even a few who came looking for this path in particular— but they are not who this tale is about.

This tale is about a chilly autumn day, the kind where the sun only occasionally dares to peek from behind the clouds, with golden and red leaves spilling across the path and mounding up along the edges. It is about a girl wearing a cloak riddled with holes and stained with travel. The wind fluttered the ragged edges as she walked along the main road. Her face was weary and set with a determination that was almost as worn out as the cloak she wore.

But she kept walking, and would not have stopped if she hadn’t tripped over an uneven stone. Flying forward, she went face down in a pile of leaves with a gasp and a tiny yelp of pain.

She didn’t get up right away, but instead let out a long, long sigh, and didn’t move. If one were close enough, one could hear the sounds of sniffling, like someone very, very close to tears fighting off the beginning of them.

There was no telling how long she would have stayed there if not for a brisk breeze. Rattling the branches above, it sent the leaves around her swirling into frothing crimson and ochre waves. And finally, with a burst, it yanked her cloak away from her. One of the two ties, already badly worn, came free, and the battered garment went flying into a nearby bush.

Jerking upright with an undignified scramble, the girl looked around, her face twisted with frustration and misery. She spotted the cloak, and pushed herself to her feet, moving off the road and towards it.

And then she saw it. The tiny, unassuming path, winding through the woods and away from the main road.

Hand closing around the fabric of the cloak, the girl stared down the path a little uncertainly. There was no sign of anyone down it— well, any humans. As she watched, a squirrel scuttled across the path and up one of the nearby trees, sending a spray of leaves in his wake.

For a moment longer she looked. And then the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of woodsmoke and something so savory and delicious that the girl’s stomach growled audibly. She flushed with embarrassment, despite being alone— other than the squirrel, of course, who paid her no mind.

Picking up her cloak, she pulled it around her shoulders, shooting another longing glance towards the path. Another burst of wind brought an even stronger whiff of the smell, and she wavered.

“Maybe,” she whispered to herself. “Maybe I can just go look— just to see what it is.”

Slowly, she stepped out onto the smaller, narrower path, heading away from the main road. Holding her cloak closed with one hand, she started walking, the drifts of leaves at her feet crunching pleasantly.

The woods around her glowed with color. Autumn was in full swing, and every tree was ablaze with scarlet and copper and gold, bare branches threading between the fiery masses. The path and the grassy banks on either side were covered in the leaves. Here and there the dying brown grass appeared from beneath it, tiny spikes of green still living in spots.

The musty but pleasant smell of the fallen leaves floated up on the breeze, not quite overpowering the smell the girl was following. She pulled her cloak a little closer, shivering at the crisp, cool air. Her limbs ached, and it was an effort to take every step. But curiosity pushed her onwards.

Following a bend in the path, she came to an abrupt stop, eyes widening at the sight before her. Settled in the middle of the forest, shrouded with trees, was a small cottage.

The peaked, grass thatched roof pointed towards the sky, speckled with bright fallen leaves. A chimney sat on one side, steady plumes of gray smoke smelling of pine floating out and up through the branches. The walls were painted a cheerfully bright shade of yellow, and the girl knew almost instantly that this was the source of the wonderful smell she’d been following.

She hesitated for a moment, staring at it, wondering what she should do. And then, before she could make her decision, the door swung open.

Out stepped a tall man, with messy gray-brown hair. His gaze landed on the girl, and she almost stepped back, nervousness spreading through her.

But then he smiled— a warm, open smile that seemed to glow on his face like the last rays of the sun on a chilly autumn day. “Hello there, miss,” he said. “I take it my fire caught your attention.”

“I— I’m sorry,” the girl stammered. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “It was quite expected. I was wondering when I’d see my next visitor, in fact.”

“What do you mean, next visitor?” the girl asked shyly.

Gesturing towards the cottage, the man said, “This is a waystation. People find it when they need it, and with all I’ve heard from the rest of the world of late, I knew I’d have a visitor soon. Would you like to come in? Dinner is almost ready.”

The girl hesitated, knowing it was most likely unwise. Even in fantasy worlds, not all people had one’s best interest at heart, and it probably wasn’t wise to go into the house of a random stranger.

But her travels had not been kind to her, and the house looked warm and inviting. So she stepped forward, heading after the man into the house.

As the door swung shut behind them, the girl looked around with wide eyes. The house was nothing fancy— they’d stepped into a wide room that seemed to be both a dining room and a parlor. A large table sat to her left, surrounded by several chairs, although it was mostly blocked from view by an immense couch that sat facing the fireplace, which was crackling pleasantly. Four arm chairs filled the rest of the space, a pair flanking each side of the couch.

Off to her right was a kitchen area, with a stove and oven emanating warmth and delicious smells. Dried herbs hung from hooks around and near the window, interspersed with a few frying pans. The counter nearby was scattered with bowls and implements. Clearly she’d caught the man right in the middle of making dinner.

“May I take your cloak?” the man asked, and the girl nodded quickly. She flushed a little as she handed him the tattered garment, but he didn’t seem to pay it much attention as he hung it up on the rack next to him. “Please, have a seat,” he said. “I’ll have dinner ready in a few minutes— and bless me, where are my manners? I’m Donnie, and you are, miss?”

“Claire,” she said, taking a few hesitant steps into the parlor. After a moment of wavering, she sank into the couch. The soft cushions seemed to swallow her up, and the warmth of the fire washed over her. Closing her eyes, she let out a little sigh of relief that felt a little too similar to a sob.

But she wouldn’t start crying, she told herself. Not now. Instead, she took a few steadying breaths as Donnie, who was working in the kitchen, spoke up. “I assume this is your first encounter with a waystation, Miss Claire?”

“This has been my first encounter with a lot of things,” Claire admitted, and he let out an understanding noise

“You’re a portal hopper, then?”

“I… don’t think so? I came here by accident,” she told him. “One minute I was walking through the woods, then I heard this strange sound, and when I tried to follow it, I ended up… here. In this world.”

She shot a glance at him, to where he was stirring the pot sitting out the stove. Nodding sympathetically, Donnie said, “I’ve heard stories like it before. You’re trying to find your way home?”

“Trying.” Claire’s voice wobbled a little, and she cleared her throat before continuing. “But… I’m supposed to do something first. Deliver something to… to someone.” Flushing self consciously, she said, “I can’t say who or what. I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary,” Donnie assured her, adding a few spices to the pot before him. Scooping up a spoonful of what seemed to be soup, he tasted it before responding. “Missions like that will need a bit of secrecy now and then. Waystations aren’t about interrogating you anyhow.”

As he went to one of the nearby cupboards and started rummaging through it, Claire asked, “What are waystations about, then? If I can ask, sir.”

“Oh, I’m no sir,” Donnie said, taking out a pair of bowls painted deep orange. “But I’ll answer your question nonetheless. Waystations are here to help travelers and wayfarers when they need it most. Anyone who comes to my door is tired and broken-down, in need of help. They’re on their last legs and need a hot drink, a bite to eat, and a word of encouragement or wisdom before we send them on their way.”

“How do they find you?” Claire asked.

“Same way you did, miss,” Donnie said matter of factly. “They needed us, and there we were. Waystations draw in the people who need them most when they need them most.”

Ladling soup into the two bowls, he added, “That, or they’re door to door salesmen. I usually get them a bite to eat too, though. Ready for a bit of soup?”

Reluctant as she was to stir herself from her position next to the fire, Claire’s hunger drove her to her feet and over to the table, where Donnie set a bowl and spoon before her.

“Let me know if you want any bread to go with that,” he told her, setting his own place at the end of the table nearest to Claire’s chair. “I believe we have a bit of that around here somewhere.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Claire said politely, taking her seat and picking up her spoon. Taking a bite, she closed her eyes reflexively at the warm, rich flavor of cream and salt and potatoes and onions and cheese all swirling together. Tiny pieces of bacon had been sprinkled over the top of the soup, adding a savory crunch, and Claire could almost cry with joy at the combination. Hungrily, she applied herself to the bowl.

By the time she finished it, she was properly warm for the first time in days. As she dragged her spoon along the bottom, collecting the dregs to make sure she’d truly finished it, Donnie chuckled. “You needed that, didn’t you, miss?”

“I did,” Claire admitted. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Do you want some more?”

“I— I wouldn’t want to impose—”

Smiling, Donnie picked up her bowl and headed for the pot. “Not at all. It’s just me around here at the moment, until my wife gets home.”

“Oh— you have a wife?” Claire asked, surprised. Now that she said the words aloud, she spotted the ring on Donnie’s left hand.

“I do,” he said, his smile turning soft and fond as he slid her the filled up bowl. “Her name’s Lara. She’s off doing the other half of our work. Waystations are sometimes about waiting, and sometimes they’re about going out to find the people who need help, and helping them out there. Some people can’t afford to wait.”

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “You must miss her.”

Nodding, Donnie said, “I do, a little. But she’ll be back before the first snow falls, and with many a tale to share.”

“Are you worried about her?” Claire asked as she started on her bowl of soup. This time, she went a little slower, savoring each bite.

Donnie looked thoughtful as he stirred his bowl of soup. “A little— the way anyone would be. But before we did this work, we fought side by side, and I’ve never known such a formidable warrior. She’ll come home safe soon, and with plenty of stories, too.”

Taking a bite of his soup, he swallowed before adding, “Besides, we each take our own turn out there. She just gets restless when the leaves start to turn.”

The two of them ate in surprisingly comfortable silence for a while, until Claire’s bowl was empty again. Setting down her spoon, she said, “Thank you very much, sir. For the food.”

“Of course, miss,” Donnie said. “If you’ve got room for it, I have an apple cider loaf cake in the oven that’ll be out shortly.”

“That sounds lovely,” Claire said gratefully. As Donnie collected her bowl and spoon, heading for the sink, she hesitated before saying, “Why are you doing this? I mean, you don’t have to help me. I’m a random stranger who just showed up at your house.”

Setting down the bowls, Donnie turned to face her. “Because,” he said, “it’s what we do. There are plenty of people who turn their backs on those who need help. Those who work in waystations are called to be different. To change the way the world works, if you will.”

“But why? Who calls them?”

“That’s a little more complicated,” Donnie said thoughtfully, “and I’m not sure I could answer it properly. But know this much— the waystations were created, same as us. They help people because they were meant to, to give people hope and peace. Their creator surely has the same intentions.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Claire said, memories of her past journey flickering through her mind.

“Good,” Donnie said, a look of approval crossing his face. “I can tell your journey’s been hard on you, if you don’t mind me saying so, miss. But you haven’t lost hope, and that’s what matters. Hope is more important than anything else— except maybe love. It’ll keep you going in the darkest night, and warm you when you need it most. Don’t forget that, alright?”

Claire nodded obediently, and Donnie smiled. “Good. Now, let’s check on that cake.”

Grabbing a pair of oven mitts, he tugged them on before opening the oven. It let out a wave of sweet and cinnamony smells as he pulled out a bread pan lined with crisp brown paper. Setting it down on the counter, he tugged off his mitts, and gingerly grasped the edges of the paper, using it to pull the brown loaf free of the pan.

As he set it on a nearby rack, Claire asked, “Um, is there anything I can do to help?”

Glancing at her, Donnie said, “With this? I’ve got it handled— thank you, though, miss. You’re very kind to offer. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes before it’s ready!”

As Claire looked on, he fetched a considerable amount of butter from the container nearby and put it into a small bowl. After putting that into the still warm oven, he began mixing together cinnamon and white sugar.

When he finished that, he pulled the butter, now melted, out of the oven, and began spreading it over the loaf, soaking it with the salty butter. Claire felt her mouth begin to water as he finished, then started to sprinkle the top and sides with hefty amounts of cinnamon sugar.

“The perfect dessert for a fall day like this,” he told her, dusting off his hands to shake loose grains of sugar. “May I interest you in a slice?”

“Yes, please,” Claire said gratefully, and he cut two slices, one for each of them, and they both settled down to eat it. The loaf cake was lightly sweet and warm, the sugar forming a delicious crust around the top.

By the time she’d finished, Claire was full, in the most satisfying, warm way where you’ve eaten just enough to make you a little sleepy, but happy. The cold misery of the outdoors had been all but forgotten, and Claire found herself more at ease than she had been in days.

“Thank you,” she told Donnie. “For everything. I— I should probably get going.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay the night,” Donnie said, and Claire cast a longing look at the warm couch next to the fire.

But she shook her head. “I can’t. I have to keep going— if I don’t do this, no one will.”

Nodding seriously, Donnie said, “And right there, you’ve hit upon the most important part about the waystations. They’re for people who are doing what no one else will. Well, if you can’t stay, wait here a moment.”

Hurrying into the kitchen, he filled a metal container with soup. That, along with a few wrapped up slices of the cake, some bread, and a few other packets, went into a satchel, which he handed to Claire. “That should keep you for a little while,” he said, handing her a flask of water. “Now, then, let’s do something about that cloak of yours.”

Holding up a hand, he disappeared down a hallway. A few moments later, he came back around the corner, holding a blue cloak. “It’s Lara’s,” he told her, holding it out. “But she won’t mind if you take it.”

“Oh— oh, I couldn’t,” Claire stammered. “If it’s hers—”

“She has others. And she’d want me to do everything I could to help you, trust me,” Donnie told her. “The least we can do is give you something to stay a little warmer.”

So Claire accepted the cloak— a sturdy, warm garment woven of wool. It would keep the rain out and the warmth in, and she already knew it would be better than her old threadbare one. Pulling it around her shoulders, she smiled at Donnie. “Thank you. For everything.”

His returning smile was as warm as the fire. “You’re welcome, miss. One last thing before you go. May I give you the waystation’s blessing? It doesn’t seem like much, but it’ll steer you on paths to those who’ll feed you and give you a safe place to stay, and give you light when you need it most.”

“Alright,” Claire said, and was surprised when Donnie reached out, placing a hand on her head.

The words he spoke were in an unfamiliar language, odd and rhythmic to her ears. But they sank in, lifting her heart just a little as he spoke. Removing his hand, Donnie gave her a nod. “Safe travels, miss. Keep your eyes on the path ahead of you, and never forget that hope will warm you when there’s no fire.”

“Thank you,” Claire said, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. But the food and the words, little though she understood them, gave her just enough energy to step towards the door and pull it open, stepping out into the cold day.

The sun was far lower in the sky, shrouded by clouds— it wouldn’t be long before it was dark. Squaring her shoulders, Claire cast one last look over her shoulder at the cottage behind her, Donnie standing in the doorway. He raised a hand in farewell, and Claire did the same.

Then she turned and headed back the way she’d come, towards the bigger path.

As she walked, the first few flakes of snow began to fall.

#inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #(much though i loved the idea of space travel)#theme: food #theme: clothing #story: complete #i really really hope i did this right! i'm not as familiar with the acts of mercy #but i get the gist of it and i think i translated it well #hazel's inklings experience #original writing #i picture this as like. a snapshot in the middle of a journey #there's more to the story but we don't get to see it #and that's okay!#writing stories is a kind of magic too

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saradika-graphics · 4 months

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Hey there!! I've looked around your blog but the closest I found was the Alice in Wonderland dividers but really I'd prefer cute pastel bakery dividers and/or blank (wordless I guess would be a more accurate description?) headers if at all possible and if you have the free time! I'd really really appreciate it!!! Thank you so much!! I really really love your work!!! @paffuto-pastry is my side blog and the one I'm asking for dividers/headers for! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

Ooh yes! This sounds so cute, I would love to make some! 🥖🧁🍰🎂🍓 thank you so much for sending this in and for your kind words - I really hope you like these, too! 💖

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

#fic dividers #dividers #tumblr dividers #aesthetic dividers #type: dividers #theme: food #theme: cafe #color: pastel

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ripple-reader · 6 months

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the rainlord

My entry for the Inklings Challenge! Well, the first draft, anyway. Although I guess it's technically complete and I might just tweak some things around? Might still try to get a different prompt done but it's probably too close to the deadline already...

---what a beautiful soul.

Ah, right. What you came for, little mage-in-training.

Your affinity is water.

Who--- what are you? Why are you in chains?

That… is not so important. So I may see those like you, little one.

and that I may help them---

Underneath the shade of a tree, the dreamer stirred awake. His mind bleary, the details from the vision already swiftly escaping him, he blinked open his blue eyes. He realized, as he reached to rub them, to get his unruly white hair away from them, that there were tears on them. A memory--- or something important.

He did not have too many of those--- or rather, they were beyond his reach, for now. Ever since that day he woke upon the ruins--- for a given amount of wakefulness--- he had been missing details of his past, although they did tend to crop up in his dreams, like just now.

"Oi! You finally awake?"

He found himself smiling despite his grogginess, his eyes turning towards the source of the familiar voice. It was the young woman who was his companion, looking as she always did, in her traveling gear that was much like his, a host of brown that blended with the dirt of the road, durable shirts and trousers and boots. With a few blinks he found her cherubic face, her short brown hair and bright brown eyes regarding his sleepy form with amusement.

"Hey, Ashe." he greeted, lamely. Slowly, his faculties came back to him. "Oh. Are we leaving already?"

"Well, that's the plan." she said, in a tone that mixed amusement and exasperation. "You didn't tire yourself out too much while I was away, did you?"

"Oh, I just helped here and there, much like you were doing." he lightly replied. "They were saying I was a guest and I shouldn't be helping so much, so in the end I ended up napping." he chuckled.

"Mrm." Ashe made a noise of agreement. "I helped them hunt for food and forage for plants and mushrooms and then the grandma at the inn ended up loading a lot of it for us when we go. They're very sneaky."

"They're very kind. Very warm." he said. He straightened from his slouch and then slowly stood up.

"Meanwhile, this weather is too hot." Ashe observed drily--- although the comment had a tone of concern--- a concern that they had ever since they stopped upon this farming village for rest.

The place was stricken with drought. From here, one could see the fields that the townsfolk tended to, the grains having grown… but were, in the pitiless gaze of the sun, starting to wilt. The ground was flaking and cracking into sand.

And even yet, for the two of them, who were mere strangers, they shared of their limited food, their limited drink.

"I've done a little bit of… filling their wells." he confessed. "But I don't know if that would be enough. And anything more…"

He paused.

"I… know that we should be cautious. Many people are on the lookout for… people like us." he continued. "Something as big as… what I'm thinking… if I can even do it… it would probably alert them. And then… they might be reckless in seeking us out."

Ashe considered his words. "Well, we can't be certain about a lot of things." she began. "But you're talking to the wrong person, I'm the reckless one here, remember?" she jested. "What's certain, though, is that they'd probably run out of their stores if nothing happens. And if what you bring down is big enough, if it covers so much area, they won't be able to pinpoint where it comes from, right?"

That… is not so important. So I may see those like you, little one.

and that I may help them---

With that, it was his turn to laugh. "You really have a gift for getting straight to the point. Although you're giving me an even harder hurdle to clear, huh?"

Ashe smiled back. "Then let's say our goodbyes and get ready our parting gift."

They proceeded to do just that. It took some more time--- while it seemed at first glance that the villagers were busy in their day-to-day life, everyone was ready to stop what they were doing to talk to them, and much like the grandma at the inn, some of them had gifts for them as well. They were… truly kind. He wondered if he could truly repay the favor.

Soon they were on the road. A good distance away, and yet the fields were still visible, past the brush and the trees.

"This might be a good spot. Keep watch for me, Ashe?"

"Sure, sleeping beauty."

He chuckled at the jibe, and sat on the ground.

What did he have from his past? What did he carry in his mind, in his flesh, in his bones? Just a name--- Rhyme--- and just a couple of strange abilities--- abilities he was informed were called magic. To hear, to feel, the feelings of others--- although that was not so important at the moment, with only the watchful, excited presence of Ashe to observe--- although it did help press the point for him just how sincere the villagers were. And the second---

Your affinity is water.

Water was an integral part of humanity, and even most other beings that dwelled in this world, but it felt even more integral for him. He could feel very little of it in his immediate vicinity, and yet he could feel… that he could pull it. From somewhere, from far away. It was like his body was also water, and like called to like.

He did not know the spells, or the rites--- or at least he did not remember them, at the moment. But still--- still, he thought he could try. For those who had welcomed them so easily, who had given of themselves, he will attempt to give a bit of himself.

He closed his eyes. He tensed, and he pulled.

For a moment, it seemed, nothing was happening, and the only moisture was the sweat on his skin. But he kept at it, pulling with all his might. He prayed to the Almighty, although his amnesia made it so that he knew little of the faith. He pulled, from an ocean somewhere, from clouds far away.

Oh, my Lord. I need an amount commensurate to my gratefulness.

Something began to collect, to congregate, to swirl. He could feel it in his metaphorical fingers--- it was starting to build, like a growing flow, a torrent--- no, he needed more. His body throbbed and strained. He kept pulling.

Absentmindedly he noted Ashe's gasp, but he dared not forfeit his concentration.

A torrent was not enough. A stream was not enough. A brook was not enough. What he needed… was a river. A fleet of gathering clouds. He heaved. He gasped. He shook.

Something like thunder rumbled in the distance.

What I need… is a flood. A storm.

He could not ignore it anymore. The wind was picking up, playing with his hair. A smell like dew, like petrichor, tickled his nose. More than that, his spirit throbbed and sang.

"Rhyme! It's working! Look!"

He opened his eyes.

The sky that had been mercilessly clear before was filled with a vast curtain of thick gray clouds. He wondered how it must have looked to Ashe, to see the clouds come, but well, he wasn't still sure how to pull this off. Already he was feeling tired, and he wasn't even done yet.

"You do know that I'm trying to focus here." he jabbed, but he was grinning. This was… this was the most he had ever tried to do, and it was looking good. There were still a lot of unknowns--- how all sorts of people would respond to this--- but right now, this was certain.

It was going to rain.

"I suppose we'll be using our cloaks again after so long." he joked.

He raised his palm towards the sky, tightened it into a fist, and pulled it down. In response, lightning danced and thunder rumbled, and the weeping of the sky commenced.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #theme: drink #theme: food #story: complete

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