I shudder to think how long it has been since I've posted any fiction. I also shudder to admit to how many half started stories are strewn throughout my comp books. The good news is that I am writing. The bad news is that I have done a deplorable job of posting. But then nothing has been as good as that first post.
So in short: I have my long term NaNoWriMo project in mind for this year. I am still struggling with some life issues that are in the way of everything else. But on the upside.... the fodder for the writing is growing at a pace good enough to keep me writing for a month.
yea!
So there will be updates this year.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Rapid short breaths, sweat dripping down her back and off her nose and vision blurred by matted hair, she bolted upright in bed. Disoriented in the darkness, she scanned the shadows surrounding her. A curtain drifted on a late fall breeze as it filtered moonlight diffused by overcast skies. What was that noise? And the slight creak that followed? Where was the cat? Cat?
There had been no cat in her dream. The dark terror of sleep began to fade into the dark reality of early morning. The deep indigo shadows began to take familiar shapes. The coat rack where her robe hung, her gramma's rocking chair and the Suessian stack of books by her dresser seemed less sinister as she slowly woke. A scent both familiar and wrong blew in on the damp breeze. Wet dog.
She flew out of bed to the window desperately scanning the ground outside for signs of paw prints. All of her fears player her nerves like a poorly tuned violin. Visions of childhood campfire stories and the menace in her dreams flooded her mind. It was too dark to see anything. But her nose told her all she needed to know. The scent was strong enough she could have tasted it in the pea soup fog rolling by. Realizing that hanging out the window was suicide if the snarling dream were real, she pushed off the sill to retreat to the safety of her room. She pushed to hard and smasked her head on the undierside of the sash.
"Shit! Damn and..." she clutched her head. No blood.
Meoooow?
She turned on the cat that had leapt to the center of the bed. "By Riker's beard!"
She heard a snortling chuckle so soft she thought she'd imagined it. Stiffening, she glanced over her shoulder while pretending that she had not heard what she heard. "Is that better Princess Better than People?"
Muwow.
"Glad to hear it." She spun to close the window. The shash fell with a bang. She jumped back. The phone in the hall began to ring. She jumped again.
Meew
"The unflappable Molly Brown." She said to the cat. "One of these days you're going to lose that calm demeanor and I'm going to pee my pants laughing.
"Hey,
There had been no cat in her dream. The dark terror of sleep began to fade into the dark reality of early morning. The deep indigo shadows began to take familiar shapes. The coat rack where her robe hung, her gramma's rocking chair and the Suessian stack of books by her dresser seemed less sinister as she slowly woke. A scent both familiar and wrong blew in on the damp breeze. Wet dog.
She flew out of bed to the window desperately scanning the ground outside for signs of paw prints. All of her fears player her nerves like a poorly tuned violin. Visions of childhood campfire stories and the menace in her dreams flooded her mind. It was too dark to see anything. But her nose told her all she needed to know. The scent was strong enough she could have tasted it in the pea soup fog rolling by. Realizing that hanging out the window was suicide if the snarling dream were real, she pushed off the sill to retreat to the safety of her room. She pushed to hard and smasked her head on the undierside of the sash.
"Shit! Damn and..." she clutched her head. No blood.
Meoooow?
She turned on the cat that had leapt to the center of the bed. "By Riker's beard!"
She heard a snortling chuckle so soft she thought she'd imagined it. Stiffening, she glanced over her shoulder while pretending that she had not heard what she heard. "Is that better Princess Better than People?"
Muwow.
"Glad to hear it." She spun to close the window. The shash fell with a bang. She jumped back. The phone in the hall began to ring. She jumped again.
Meew
"The unflappable Molly Brown." She said to the cat. "One of these days you're going to lose that calm demeanor and I'm going to pee my pants laughing.
"Hey,
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
NaNo 09
Well we are 3 days into the new NaNo season and i am not wanting to write. WTF?! i was all excited about it last year, spent months researching details for what I wanted to write and now.... boys!
I think that this makes a good case for gender segregated learning. The opposite sex is distracting to say the very least. I am having such a good time making friends and finding out what my type is that I can't concentrate on writing. Huh? Oh, yes, I am almost 40 (thanks for asking) and I don't know what my type is. How would I know what my type is if I have spent the majority of my life with my nose in a book and my mind wrapped around an art concept or character development? I lived in a virtual world long before the market made the technology accessible to the general public.
This phase of exploration is the stage my sister lived in all throughout highschool. I scoffed at her all the time because she was in constant peril of having her grades slip below an impossibly high self impoed standard. She was always tired. When she was "on" she was fun. But anyone who knew her well enough could see the stress in her eyes. Because when she was "off" she was dead to the world or a crabbutt. I never wanted to be like that. I didn't understand why she couldn't always be herself and get everything done. School, homework, work, hanging with Heather and attendening requisite social activites in addition to dealing with us shlubs at home seemed to me to be quite a bit much to deal with in any given week let alone each day. The spectre of failure always hung over her head. I couldn't deal with that.
And so I chose not too. I focused on my art and my writing, the few friends that I had and slowly expanded my social scene in 10th grade by enteringthe realm of DragonLance. That is not to say that I had zero experience with boys in high school. I had plenty. From the core group of guys I learned about personality types: compassion, caring, sharing, the possession of passionate interests, honor, integrity... all great qualities to have in a guy. And I did have a crush on one of them. But I don't know if that meant that he was my type or that I simply enjoyed the company. And with a great Art teacher and study halls a plenty for my writing I was too absorbed to bother to find out. I did discover the kind of boy I didn't want in a fellow artist who seemed to have no idea of a social boundary at the time. Je went with what he wanted and did not bother to find out my feelings on the subject. he can be excused on the grounds of logic. He was full of "if then" statements.
If we liked to draw and create together then we should spend time doing other things together.
If we liked to talk on the phone then we should talk in person.
If we sought each other out between classes and at lunch then we should want to spend time outside of class.
If we wanted to kiss me then he should kiss me.
The last was true because of this: If we like the same things and have so much in common then she should want me like I want her.
Grampa's first rule: Never assume anything. I always ask to be certain of my facts before I do something. He did not. So the kiss he planted on me went badly. The fact that he could not see he was in error mde the error worse. We did not speak again until well after our lives in the real world were underway. And I associate all persons of his characteristics with him and the residual outrage I experienced so by default his type is not my type.
So since I still don;t know my type I am looking. And what I am finding is that the artist in me is going to get me into trouble. I haven't yet found a consistency in the men that I am going out with. There is one type that I find continually drawn to with no luck in that arena. But that is hardly a definitive answer to my question. So I quest on.
And the writing suffers.
I think that this makes a good case for gender segregated learning. The opposite sex is distracting to say the very least. I am having such a good time making friends and finding out what my type is that I can't concentrate on writing. Huh? Oh, yes, I am almost 40 (thanks for asking) and I don't know what my type is. How would I know what my type is if I have spent the majority of my life with my nose in a book and my mind wrapped around an art concept or character development? I lived in a virtual world long before the market made the technology accessible to the general public.
This phase of exploration is the stage my sister lived in all throughout highschool. I scoffed at her all the time because she was in constant peril of having her grades slip below an impossibly high self impoed standard. She was always tired. When she was "on" she was fun. But anyone who knew her well enough could see the stress in her eyes. Because when she was "off" she was dead to the world or a crabbutt. I never wanted to be like that. I didn't understand why she couldn't always be herself and get everything done. School, homework, work, hanging with Heather and attendening requisite social activites in addition to dealing with us shlubs at home seemed to me to be quite a bit much to deal with in any given week let alone each day. The spectre of failure always hung over her head. I couldn't deal with that.
And so I chose not too. I focused on my art and my writing, the few friends that I had and slowly expanded my social scene in 10th grade by enteringthe realm of DragonLance. That is not to say that I had zero experience with boys in high school. I had plenty. From the core group of guys I learned about personality types: compassion, caring, sharing, the possession of passionate interests, honor, integrity... all great qualities to have in a guy. And I did have a crush on one of them. But I don't know if that meant that he was my type or that I simply enjoyed the company. And with a great Art teacher and study halls a plenty for my writing I was too absorbed to bother to find out. I did discover the kind of boy I didn't want in a fellow artist who seemed to have no idea of a social boundary at the time. Je went with what he wanted and did not bother to find out my feelings on the subject. he can be excused on the grounds of logic. He was full of "if then" statements.
If we liked to draw and create together then we should spend time doing other things together.
If we liked to talk on the phone then we should talk in person.
If we sought each other out between classes and at lunch then we should want to spend time outside of class.
If we wanted to kiss me then he should kiss me.
The last was true because of this: If we like the same things and have so much in common then she should want me like I want her.
Grampa's first rule: Never assume anything. I always ask to be certain of my facts before I do something. He did not. So the kiss he planted on me went badly. The fact that he could not see he was in error mde the error worse. We did not speak again until well after our lives in the real world were underway. And I associate all persons of his characteristics with him and the residual outrage I experienced so by default his type is not my type.
So since I still don;t know my type I am looking. And what I am finding is that the artist in me is going to get me into trouble. I haven't yet found a consistency in the men that I am going out with. There is one type that I find continually drawn to with no luck in that arena. But that is hardly a definitive answer to my question. So I quest on.
And the writing suffers.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Today's goal is 300 words
The night I left my country I dreamt of the wolf.
We fled when the fires started. The fortress that had been our home, our prison for generations glowed in the heat of rebellion. Anger and hatred lit the torches, marched their feet to the gates to a chorus clamoring for retribution. There on the drawbridge across the dry moat demands made by fathers and brothers for the release of a people enslaved by one who once had called himself Salvation were met with indifference. Illumined by torchlight, he stood above them, Lord of the Castle, Lord of the Wald and the Dark Lord of Hell itself. Implacable. Immoveable. No beseechement touched him. None in his family had ever relented. Once our people reached these lands, we were theirs. Those of us who watched in hope for freedom or at least for the staus of human to be granted to us felt a cold fear pour over us. The nights were always cold but this was not the same. This chill was wet with an unnatural breath. The longer we stood there waiting the more we began to dread. A whisper came from the back of the crowd, barely audible. "He won't do it. He will punish us this time. He will kill us." The whispering grew as the tension on the bridge tightened; perhaps the men felt the same thing.
Fog curled around our feet like snakes in a pit. The clear starlit skies grew cloudy. A great winged lizard emerged from the clouds and seemed to swallow the full moon whole before melting into a shapeless form. Someone fainted. The Dragul raised his arms abruptly. "Silence!" He demanded. His voice reverbarated across the courtyard, all was silenced under his frightful gaze. The cold snapped small twigs in the trees above our heads. The snow owls populating the woodland obeyed his command, nothing alive made a sound.
The Dragul's stearn countenance softened as though he were chastising errant children. "My people, my children, have I not cared for you these generations? You do not sleep in the dirt as animals. You do not fight battles that alone belong to me unlike those sheep in English Europe... and yet," He paused looking at the faces as though he were committing them to blessed memory, "and yet, you stand before this fortress that has harbored you from the Turks," his voice grew more impassioned, "buffered you from his European appeasers who would sell you back to him though they have not right to trade flesh." Palms to the parapet, he leaned forward, "This has been your home for generations, a home I have brought you to and given you... and this..." He crossed one hand oveer his heart while the other swept over their heads, "This is how you repay me?" He bellowed rage.
En masse the men took one hasty step backwards.
The Dragul's voice was soft again. "Paid with treachery? With the demands of idlers?" His expression demonstrated sorrow.
But it was insincere. I had seen this tactic before; tried to get out of the crowd of women in the village proper. But I was engulfed.
"Children, I brought you from Ottoman slavery, little better than what you had suffered at the hands of the Babylonians and yet you stand here and demand to be let into the wild wicked world because I ask only of you that which I would ask of a child born of my loins." He beat his chest with closed fist. "Such selfishness. Such ingratitude. You ask me freedom dear children... you know not of what you seek." His face suddenly hardened. I knew what would come would be a horror I'd not witnessed before. "Then freedom you shall have!"
The Dragul threw his arms wide into the air and shouted but one word... " ". A horrible metal on metal sound came from the drawbridge before the unmistakeable crack of splintering wood. The drawbridge collapsed under the weight of the village men. Man and torch fell into the dry moat which unfortuntely was not completely dry. A sound like air being sucked from a large tube stopped the women from running. Then the screaming began and suddenly the torch glow began to spread around the castle. The moat was alight.That broke the spell Dragul had cast; some women ran for the moat as though they could save their men. Others ran for their homes as if they could hide from his wrath in the huts that barely kept the Wizard Winter from their feet. The rest of us took to the woods. We ran for our lives. When that fire consumed its human course it would feast upon the old fortress. Captor and captive alike would burn in a fire set by man's foolishness but fueled by the devil.
There have been in the past, seven revolts. This, the eighth would be the final rebellion... for no flame would spare flesh. The men who fell to the bottom of the moat were lost. The women who sought to spare them were lost as well. From these he would feast. Those who ran to their homes to hide, waiting for the chance to appease thier terrible master would be further enslaved. We who ran from these cursed woods would be hunted to be certain. But we had a chance to escape, to regroup, to fight again. We had to live to fight again. The new castle, high in the nearly impassable craggs of mount , was not as invulnerable s the Dragul had thought. To live, to escape and seize the opportunity to avenge the dead and release ourselves from his power is the life mission of every romi born under his dark star.
These thoughts kept me moving into the dark dense forrest even though all I wanted was to corral and comfort what remained of my people. But it was too late for the foolish who would not learn from our past mistakes. Once I had found my way through the village and came to the open courtyard, a forrest of another kind, I was again reminded that dragul and the Devil are brothers. 10,000 spikes were planted here when we came from the Ottoman. The iron spikes are weathered and brittle from decades in the elements. At one time, these artificial trees wore human foliage until the carrion crows stripped them clean. tattered clothing and dusty bones crumbled at each base were all that remained of those trees. This is the scene that turned back the last Turk when he saw his Ottoman colours there. The sight cowed the less bold European Lords who wanted to annex this sinister kingdom, the Teutonic Lords in LAuenstein mocked his ingenuity but never came back. As formidable a statement, this field of broken souls did not prevent the Dragon form losing his kingdom to treachery and rebellion. When he began to set his own people on the spikes and we began to outnumber them, they petitioned him for the only mercy he could be trusted to give. And he began to set us upon the spikes.
Those of us who built his grand castle in the peaks could not tloerate him any longer. Near the front of the macbre barrier, along the edge of teh encroaching forrest, I found the freshest corpse. My father, our unofficial leader, hangs here as an example. While the dragon thinks this symbol encourages obedience, within my own heart it breeds contempt. Never before had I dared to take anything from my father for fear that I would become a target. I know that if I take anything now, He will know I live. He will send his minions after me as well as the others. But with this in my possession, I will be first target. terrifying screams rise from the darkenss behind me. The dragon did not wait to hunt those foolish enough to stay in the vilage.
I say a quick prayer committing my soul and my father's to whatever god would give us mercy. I hear branches snapping around me and more screams from the village. Carelessly I grab the medallion hanging around my fathers skeletal neck. The metal is not so weak from the elements to come away easily. I yank. Father's remains slide to the ground in a clattering heap. Tears well keeping pace with the bile that threatens to choke me. there is no time. I feel the ground vibrating with the approach of a greater evil than I have seen yet with my own eyes. There have only been unverified stories; stories I do not wish to verify now. I shove the medallion between my breasts and corset for safe keeping. Before dashing into the woods, I pick up y fathers sword that lay in the dust at the base of his post. It is heavier than I remember. The blade can't be very sharp. it will have to do, for without it I am defenseless against what ever thing he has sent for me. Bolting into the woods, I remember too late how dense these trees grow.
The ground pitches sharp rocks up between trunks just before falling into narrow but deep crevices among gnalred and tangled roots. It amazes anyone that the Ottoman was able to get the the gates of this kingdom. it will amaze me if i do not lose my life to the treacherous terrain. These trees apparently grow on air. There can not be enough soil to root in, yet they are here. As I scramble up a craggy rock wall that has risen behind some trees, I here a sound that chills my blood. Despite inhospitable terrain, these trees are old and large, small but as though made from iron. And behind me, they were snapping from a force I could not imagine. Using both trees and knotty rock to acsend the wall, I found myself atop a ten foot ridge which, on the other side, plummetted into ravine nearly as deep as the castle tower was tall.
More trees snapped behind me. There was no where to go but down. Turn and fight the unknown foe or flee down a ravine that would likely claim my life... not good options. Gripping my father's sword, feeling its weight and it's strength, I know that I can not weild it among these trees. The medallion, heavy against my flesh, may be magic. There is too much at stake to rely upon maybe. Tightening my grip on the tree i have been using for balance atop the rocky perch, i turn toward the ravine. Despite the gloomy darkness, I can see some shadowy outlines of trees. If i propell myself downward and can catch hold of them I can descend quicker than picking my way along a route that may feel safer than it is. Another tree snaps behind me; I don't have time to wait.
Launching myself from the crag, I hear a nerve shattering howl; rock clatters against rock and tree; something scrapes what little smooth rock can be found. I have almost taken flight, the first patch of ground i hoped to make contact with was further than anticipated. I fear i am lost to the netherworld. My hair is caught, my flight stopped painfully but successfully. The sword nearly slips from my grip. As I am brought back to relative saftey, the backs of my legs scrape against rock and exposed roots. Another howl... perhaps of triumph... pierces my senses. That which howls holds me in its grasp. With my hair fisted in its grasp, I am powerless to do more than dangle like a marionette. My own weight, slight as it is, paralyzes me. I feel roots beginning to tear as my senses fade into a dark fog. Without warning, it turns me and stares down its long doglike muzzle at me. A scream is frozen half way down my throat as our eyes lock. I smell its drool and dank fur. This is a thing of legend and nightmare come to life. And my life is its to do with as it pleases.
Before I succumb to terror, it threw me back into the woods from whence I came. Crashing into a tree trunk, my breath leaves me as my fathers sword falls with a metallic ring ont othe forrest floor. It leaps at me with a scream before rearing back and clawing the air above its head. Something has frustrated it. that is the last impression I have of the living legend before my eyes close. In my near death, i dreamt of the wolf.
Never have I seen such a thing. Never had I believed that such a creature could exist. After all, how could a wolf be a man? Or a man be a wolf? Yet, there it had been... teeth, claw and fur, standing on two feet with a human grip. It's exesitance demands on e accept the stories of a creture created by the Dragul to subjugate the massess, obeying his every command. it is his hunter, his army, his playtoy. It is a thing of nightmares. Of Hell itself. Somewhere, in a cold room of stone and steel the Dragul wove a spell to bring to life a monster...
We fled when the fires started. The fortress that had been our home, our prison for generations glowed in the heat of rebellion. Anger and hatred lit the torches, marched their feet to the gates to a chorus clamoring for retribution. There on the drawbridge across the dry moat demands made by fathers and brothers for the release of a people enslaved by one who once had called himself Salvation were met with indifference. Illumined by torchlight, he stood above them, Lord of the Castle, Lord of the Wald and the Dark Lord of Hell itself. Implacable. Immoveable. No beseechement touched him. None in his family had ever relented. Once our people reached these lands, we were theirs. Those of us who watched in hope for freedom or at least for the staus of human to be granted to us felt a cold fear pour over us. The nights were always cold but this was not the same. This chill was wet with an unnatural breath. The longer we stood there waiting the more we began to dread. A whisper came from the back of the crowd, barely audible. "He won't do it. He will punish us this time. He will kill us." The whispering grew as the tension on the bridge tightened; perhaps the men felt the same thing.
Fog curled around our feet like snakes in a pit. The clear starlit skies grew cloudy. A great winged lizard emerged from the clouds and seemed to swallow the full moon whole before melting into a shapeless form. Someone fainted. The Dragul raised his arms abruptly. "Silence!" He demanded. His voice reverbarated across the courtyard, all was silenced under his frightful gaze. The cold snapped small twigs in the trees above our heads. The snow owls populating the woodland obeyed his command, nothing alive made a sound.
The Dragul's stearn countenance softened as though he were chastising errant children. "My people, my children, have I not cared for you these generations? You do not sleep in the dirt as animals. You do not fight battles that alone belong to me unlike those sheep in English Europe... and yet," He paused looking at the faces as though he were committing them to blessed memory, "and yet, you stand before this fortress that has harbored you from the Turks," his voice grew more impassioned, "buffered you from his European appeasers who would sell you back to him though they have not right to trade flesh." Palms to the parapet, he leaned forward, "This has been your home for generations, a home I have brought you to and given you... and this..." He crossed one hand oveer his heart while the other swept over their heads, "This is how you repay me?" He bellowed rage.
En masse the men took one hasty step backwards.
The Dragul's voice was soft again. "Paid with treachery? With the demands of idlers?" His expression demonstrated sorrow.
But it was insincere. I had seen this tactic before; tried to get out of the crowd of women in the village proper. But I was engulfed.
"Children, I brought you from Ottoman slavery, little better than what you had suffered at the hands of the Babylonians and yet you stand here and demand to be let into the wild wicked world because I ask only of you that which I would ask of a child born of my loins." He beat his chest with closed fist. "Such selfishness. Such ingratitude. You ask me freedom dear children... you know not of what you seek." His face suddenly hardened. I knew what would come would be a horror I'd not witnessed before. "Then freedom you shall have!"
The Dragul threw his arms wide into the air and shouted but one word... " ". A horrible metal on metal sound came from the drawbridge before the unmistakeable crack of splintering wood. The drawbridge collapsed under the weight of the village men. Man and torch fell into the dry moat which unfortuntely was not completely dry. A sound like air being sucked from a large tube stopped the women from running. Then the screaming began and suddenly the torch glow began to spread around the castle. The moat was alight.That broke the spell Dragul had cast; some women ran for the moat as though they could save their men. Others ran for their homes as if they could hide from his wrath in the huts that barely kept the Wizard Winter from their feet. The rest of us took to the woods. We ran for our lives. When that fire consumed its human course it would feast upon the old fortress. Captor and captive alike would burn in a fire set by man's foolishness but fueled by the devil.
There have been in the past, seven revolts. This, the eighth would be the final rebellion... for no flame would spare flesh. The men who fell to the bottom of the moat were lost. The women who sought to spare them were lost as well. From these he would feast. Those who ran to their homes to hide, waiting for the chance to appease thier terrible master would be further enslaved. We who ran from these cursed woods would be hunted to be certain. But we had a chance to escape, to regroup, to fight again. We had to live to fight again. The new castle, high in the nearly impassable craggs of mount , was not as invulnerable s the Dragul had thought. To live, to escape and seize the opportunity to avenge the dead and release ourselves from his power is the life mission of every romi born under his dark star.
These thoughts kept me moving into the dark dense forrest even though all I wanted was to corral and comfort what remained of my people. But it was too late for the foolish who would not learn from our past mistakes. Once I had found my way through the village and came to the open courtyard, a forrest of another kind, I was again reminded that dragul and the Devil are brothers. 10,000 spikes were planted here when we came from the Ottoman. The iron spikes are weathered and brittle from decades in the elements. At one time, these artificial trees wore human foliage until the carrion crows stripped them clean. tattered clothing and dusty bones crumbled at each base were all that remained of those trees. This is the scene that turned back the last Turk when he saw his Ottoman colours there. The sight cowed the less bold European Lords who wanted to annex this sinister kingdom, the Teutonic Lords in LAuenstein mocked his ingenuity but never came back. As formidable a statement, this field of broken souls did not prevent the Dragon form losing his kingdom to treachery and rebellion. When he began to set his own people on the spikes and we began to outnumber them, they petitioned him for the only mercy he could be trusted to give. And he began to set us upon the spikes.
Those of us who built his grand castle in the peaks could not tloerate him any longer. Near the front of the macbre barrier, along the edge of teh encroaching forrest, I found the freshest corpse. My father, our unofficial leader, hangs here as an example. While the dragon thinks this symbol encourages obedience, within my own heart it breeds contempt. Never before had I dared to take anything from my father for fear that I would become a target. I know that if I take anything now, He will know I live. He will send his minions after me as well as the others. But with this in my possession, I will be first target. terrifying screams rise from the darkenss behind me. The dragon did not wait to hunt those foolish enough to stay in the vilage.
I say a quick prayer committing my soul and my father's to whatever god would give us mercy. I hear branches snapping around me and more screams from the village. Carelessly I grab the medallion hanging around my fathers skeletal neck. The metal is not so weak from the elements to come away easily. I yank. Father's remains slide to the ground in a clattering heap. Tears well keeping pace with the bile that threatens to choke me. there is no time. I feel the ground vibrating with the approach of a greater evil than I have seen yet with my own eyes. There have only been unverified stories; stories I do not wish to verify now. I shove the medallion between my breasts and corset for safe keeping. Before dashing into the woods, I pick up y fathers sword that lay in the dust at the base of his post. It is heavier than I remember. The blade can't be very sharp. it will have to do, for without it I am defenseless against what ever thing he has sent for me. Bolting into the woods, I remember too late how dense these trees grow.
The ground pitches sharp rocks up between trunks just before falling into narrow but deep crevices among gnalred and tangled roots. It amazes anyone that the Ottoman was able to get the the gates of this kingdom. it will amaze me if i do not lose my life to the treacherous terrain. These trees apparently grow on air. There can not be enough soil to root in, yet they are here. As I scramble up a craggy rock wall that has risen behind some trees, I here a sound that chills my blood. Despite inhospitable terrain, these trees are old and large, small but as though made from iron. And behind me, they were snapping from a force I could not imagine. Using both trees and knotty rock to acsend the wall, I found myself atop a ten foot ridge which, on the other side, plummetted into ravine nearly as deep as the castle tower was tall.
More trees snapped behind me. There was no where to go but down. Turn and fight the unknown foe or flee down a ravine that would likely claim my life... not good options. Gripping my father's sword, feeling its weight and it's strength, I know that I can not weild it among these trees. The medallion, heavy against my flesh, may be magic. There is too much at stake to rely upon maybe. Tightening my grip on the tree i have been using for balance atop the rocky perch, i turn toward the ravine. Despite the gloomy darkness, I can see some shadowy outlines of trees. If i propell myself downward and can catch hold of them I can descend quicker than picking my way along a route that may feel safer than it is. Another tree snaps behind me; I don't have time to wait.
Launching myself from the crag, I hear a nerve shattering howl; rock clatters against rock and tree; something scrapes what little smooth rock can be found. I have almost taken flight, the first patch of ground i hoped to make contact with was further than anticipated. I fear i am lost to the netherworld. My hair is caught, my flight stopped painfully but successfully. The sword nearly slips from my grip. As I am brought back to relative saftey, the backs of my legs scrape against rock and exposed roots. Another howl... perhaps of triumph... pierces my senses. That which howls holds me in its grasp. With my hair fisted in its grasp, I am powerless to do more than dangle like a marionette. My own weight, slight as it is, paralyzes me. I feel roots beginning to tear as my senses fade into a dark fog. Without warning, it turns me and stares down its long doglike muzzle at me. A scream is frozen half way down my throat as our eyes lock. I smell its drool and dank fur. This is a thing of legend and nightmare come to life. And my life is its to do with as it pleases.
Before I succumb to terror, it threw me back into the woods from whence I came. Crashing into a tree trunk, my breath leaves me as my fathers sword falls with a metallic ring ont othe forrest floor. It leaps at me with a scream before rearing back and clawing the air above its head. Something has frustrated it. that is the last impression I have of the living legend before my eyes close. In my near death, i dreamt of the wolf.
Never have I seen such a thing. Never had I believed that such a creature could exist. After all, how could a wolf be a man? Or a man be a wolf? Yet, there it had been... teeth, claw and fur, standing on two feet with a human grip. It's exesitance demands on e accept the stories of a creture created by the Dragul to subjugate the massess, obeying his every command. it is his hunter, his army, his playtoy. It is a thing of nightmares. Of Hell itself. Somewhere, in a cold room of stone and steel the Dragul wove a spell to bring to life a monster...
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