A Writing Journey

Posts tagged ‘fiction’

Serial Saturday – Onaemi 7

In my thoughts, I conjured that city, where there was a special place for me. I imagined a city of pink stone like the one’s Auntie had taken me too when she was trying to find my home. Pink stone and dirt streets that were wreathed in bright green summer garlands. There would be other Whisper children, playing and exploring and learning and so eager to welcome me into their home. My former guardians had said that I might go to the Citadel, but I wondered now if that was such a good idea. After all, they’d made it sound as if I had to pass tests to be allowed there, but Soliri was promising me a special place of my own. That he’d killed them and taken me I’d not forgotten, but perhaps they had been the evil ones.

We passed three nights in that small town. I pretended, all that time, that I was his daughter, and mute. It was easier for me to listen, and to daydream, if I did not have to speak to anyone. Not that I had much chance. Soliri rented out a private room and brought all my meals there. I missed Flier’s company, but I knew she was happy and well in the stables. I was true to my word and did not try to run away or tell anyone that Soliri had taken me away from someone else, not so much because of the threat of death hanging over me than because I’d been with him for weeks, and thought perhaps he might become something similar to what Auntie had been to me.

Even as I thought such thoughts I knew they would not be. He was taking me to a special place.

He was away much of the time we were in the town. He would leave and bring back sacks of provisions. From this I inferred that we would not stop in another town before we reached the coast. I was at once disappointed and relieved, for it meant we would travel more safely, but I enjoyed the luxury of the inn. I wondered, distantly, why I could hear the whispers of the dead wood that made up the place. I heard trees often, but wood was killed trees. Perhaps it was only that I was a Whisper, and the planks and panels were like ghosts that were not magicked into silence.

When at last we left, it was with laden saddlebags. Flier was not pleased to go back out into the snow, but she greeted me with affection nonetheless. Soliri was taciturn and Flier did not try to greet him as he saddled her. The three of us rode out onto the snowy road, but quickly turned from the worn path to break our own ground through frozen over snow. South and west we went. The little town disappeared over a rise. We were on our way.

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Serial Saturday – Onaemi 6

First of all, I apologize for the lapse in posts. I was on vacation and honestly thought I had scheduled posts to get me through until I came home. Guess not! But no worries, I am returned and will keep posting!

***

I thought I might freeze  to death that night. I had only my coat, my boots, and my clothes. No blanket did Soliri grant me. No comfort against the night. Whether or not he froze as I did, I could not have said. But as I lay huddled and shivering, he slept. He woke before morning came, and brusquely lifted me to my feet. There was no care in his movements or his eyes. He mounted his horse, me in his arms again, and we were off.

Clouds still hung heavy above us, the threat of more snow fully known to all three of us. The horse did not like the thought of more cold stuff piling around it, and I soothed as best I could. In return, the horse granted me her name – Flier. She broke a trail through the snow at the behest of Soliri, and we were cold together.

There was nothing for miles but snow and sky. I saw no other travelers, no cities, not even a lone cottage bolstered with a cookfire against the deep winter. I was utterly alone with Soliri. Flier, feeling my distress, refused to live up to her name. She was sluggish, obstinate, and uncooperative. Such a sweet girl, that horse. She was the one who told me that we traversed the Ghost Plain – the resting ground of spirits who could not continue their journey, but were banned by magic from completing their earthly tasks.

This knowledge sat heavy in my heart. I never understood the cruelty of humans against animals – and could less understand the cruelty of humans against humans. I could not even speak with the ghosts, though occasionally I felt their presence. The magic that bound them to our realm also blocked them from my companionship.

For days we plodded through the Ghost Plain. I knew by the sun as it broke the clouds that we were headed south. Not back to Auntie’s cottage, though. Even when we emerged from the Ghost Plains and I could once again hear the sleeping whispers of the earth and animals, I did not recognize the hills. I had known that already, of course. Auntie had never spoken of the Ghost Plains.

From a hilltop we spotted an inn. Flier filled my head with happy chattering about hay and warmth. Soliri had to reign her in before she charged headlong down the hill and to the road. She whined to me and I told her to be patient. Soliri frightened me with his temper. He did not dismount as he spoke to me. I felt for Flier, for as her patience waned and she tugged at the reigns again, Soliri was more forceful in making her heed him. As for what he said to me – he said that we were going to the town, and that while we were there I was to pretend to be his daughter. He ordered that I would not try to run away from him, nor try to tell anyone that he had taken me from my guardians without my will.

I asked him why I should listen, and instead of responding with threat he said that not all people were fond of Whispers. He said that we were in a country (which I did not know what that was) where Whispers could be killed for heresy against their god. I asked him, again, why. This time why they would think I was a Whisper. He said a startling thing to me: that he would have known I was a Whisper even without my guard, because golden fire burned in my eyes. But my eyes were blue. So I’d seen many times. After my own silence, I finally asked him why we should go into a country where they’d kill me. He said that in a city on the coast, there was a special place for me, where he would become very rich. Then he reminded me of his orders, and I agreed to heed him.

Serial Saturday – Onaemi 5

winter.:

EarthSky Facebook page, by Timothy Boocock

Fierce wind whipped us as we plunged through the storm. The blood on my coat was frozen. The arm around me never loosened its grip. The run of the horse was not smooth, but jarring and I felt sick. Only the sting of wind and ice kept me in the moment. I could hear the cries of the tormented horse, crying from it’s mind to mine, asking me to please, please let it rest. I tried to answer it, to tell it that all would be well, but I did not know how without the man hearing me too. And so I sat in silence.

At last the man slowed the poor beast, and though the wind still thrashed around us, the snow lightened, and far above the clouds were starting to drift apart. I threw up, covering the man’s arm, my front, and the horse’s neck. The man swore and pulled the horse to a stop. He pushed me to the ground and for a moment I felt the sickening sensation of snakes in my stomach and then hit the ground, air whooshing out of me. I rolled as he dismounted. He shook the sick off of his arm and glared at me. Anger rolled off of him. I scrambled away backwards, fearing his rage. He snatched me and told me that I was not to try to run away, because if I did then I would die. I wondered: would he kill me or the storm? I did not ask it though.

He wiped down the horse, who was effusing gratitude for the rest and little weight on her back, and then he turned to me. He told me I should try to clean myself with the snow because he wasn’t going to do it for me. I scrambled to obey and as I did, I watched him from the corner of my eye. I did not like the look of him. He was graceful in the way a hunting cat i graceful – watchful, lithe, and ready to strike. I knew he was a killer, and I knew he’d taken me – for what purpose I could not fathom, but he had not hurt me. He had pushed me off the horse though, and that made me just as wary as as that he’d killed. And he was big, so much bigger than Auntie, bigger than Shuri, Naha, and Abrisin.

When I was as clean as I could make myself, he lifted me back onto the horse and we were off again, but this time it was a steady trot instead of an all-out gallop. I was grateful for that, and did not feel sick that time. It had been a long time since I’d slept, and I started nodding off, only to be jarred awake each time by my falling head. I shook myself and sat up straighter. I did not want to fall asleep in the man’s grasp, if for no other reason than my fear that he would push me from the horse to wake me. He was not a gentle soul.

Eventually the night was clear, though still windy, and the moonlight shone down on us. I did not recognize the landscape, and felt sick for home. We stopped by a road shelter – three walls and roof with a dirt floor that had been sheltered from the snow. The man dismounted and took me with him. The horse joined us in the shelter and the man gave us both food – some sort of meal for the horse and bread with dry cheese for me. He ate as well, eyes never leaving me.

I asked him what his name us. He told me that I could call him Soliri, but I didn’t believe that that was his real name. I asked him what he had taken me for, and he said I was a Whisper, and people bought Whispers. Then he told me to be quiet, and go to sleep, because he was tired and if he was tired then so must I be.

I watched him lay down, no pillow or blanket, thoughts whirling in my head. I had been called a Whisper before, and it was time I learned what it meant.

#FirstLineFriday

Are we getting used to this yet? For new visitors, a brief explanation of what FirstLineFriday is:

  • Create a post on your blog entitled #FirstLineFriday, hashtag and all.
  • Explain the rules (like this).
  • Post the first one or two lines of a story idea, work-in-progress, or a completed or published work.
  • Ask your readers for feedback.
  • Urge others to try #FirstLineFriday on their own blogs (tagging is optional).

     They always told her never to leave the Safe Waters because here the Path was still pure, untainted by hate for her kind, and the night sky burned with stars of gold and green, bleeding through from another time and place.

Thoughts? Comments? Questions or ideas?

Take care,

Emily

Intermediate Worldbuilding

Okay, so last week we had a post for beginning worldbuilding that outlined a few of the most important steps for worldbuilding. Those steps were: make maps, think about religion, and decide how people look. This time we are going to go a couple of steps further. For those of you who want to continue past the first three steps (or those of you who are wondering how to proceed or just want some extra ideas), here are two more steps to take your world to the next level.

1. Language.

This doesn’t mean you have to go all Tolkien on us and go study linguistics to make your own fully-fledged language (though if that’s your thing DO IT!). Rather, look at the names of characters and places that you’ve come up with. Say them out loud. What do they sound like? If you’ve got one nation your focusing on, chances are most names are going to have a really similar cadence or feel to them. I’m not saying that everything has to sound the same (because really, we don’t want that), but look at the rhythm and flow of your names. For instance: in Quest for Salvation I have the following city names: Ruslaht, Ohmlaur, and Talahm. Say those out loud. There’s a similarity, and they are all very clearly from one nation. But Frewantin (another city) is obviously from a different part of the world, by the sound of the name alone.

So what about character names? You can keep it simple, like with city names, and have names that just sound like they go together. Or you can take it a step further and create a system for names. For instance, in my novel there is a system for imperial family names; male names start with consonants, female names with vowels, and all imperial names end with the “ay” sound. In addition, names throughout the nation have certain sounds that are more prominent than others (such as “ie” “o” and “n”). You can get as creative as you want with things like this, and it will be sure to give your story that extra layer. Just be sure to write your rules down, and follow them consistently!

One last note: not all countries have to have similar language sounds. In fact, the further apart they are the more different they should be. You  could always have slight differences between neighbors that become huge differences between the nations on either end of the line. Example: if you have a common tongue that people from most or all nations can speak, they will still have names (cities and people and sometimes even special items) in their own language. So someone named Sandrilion can still interact with someone named Crystal, but be from different places.

2. Politics.

It’s important to know what your political system is in your story world, even if you never mention it directly. That’s because whatever is happening at the top has a huge effect on what happens at the bottom. For instance, if there is a political coup and the king is overthrown by his great-niece the duchess of Winderburn, there’s going to be some backlash. People who supported the king are going to have to fall in line fast, or be smart about taking the new queen down. And maybe some pro-king folks will take it on themselves to raid villages in Winderburn, which causes hardship for the farmers there, who suddenly can’t get crops to the trade depot that your character runs, and she has debts from sending her son to a prestigious academy in the capital that has actually been shut down by the new queen, so not only does she have to pay that back to the folks who loaned her the money and her son is back with her so she has to feed him again, but now her trade depot can’t make a profit because the farms are being raided.

Get the idea? Even little political changes can have a big impact on your characters. It’s a trope in mediocre fantasy that “the poor people don’t care what’s going on with the rich,” (and vice versa) but to make your story ring true, the poor should always care, because everything always effects them – you just have to pay a little more attention.

I hope these two worldbuilding tips help take your world and story to the next level. If you have comments or questions, don’t hesitate to leave them below!

Take care,

Emily

 

Serial Saturday – Onaemi 4

deeplovephotography:“ flickr | facebook | society6 ”

aldrtree.tumblr.com

Those first weeks with the strangers were excruciating. I walked between them, snow soaking into my boots and chilling my feet. My body did not want to heal from the torment I’d put it through. The food the strangers ate was tasteless.

They called themselves Naha, Shuri, and Abrisin. Naha was the eldest, or so I assumed, for she directed the others and they followed her bidding. She had spoken to Auntie, made the deal with her to sell me. Shuri was the man. He was in charge of our food, and I wondered if that was why it tasted so bad. But he did keep us fed, and he often took special note of how I reacted to the dishes, and tried to change them so they would be better. Abrisin was in charge of my care. She was a gentle soul, and when we stopped each evening she made sure I had a cozy nest near the fire.

And so we went, travelling deeper into the cold. North, they called it. There were no birds or animals that I could see, though Shuri pointed out their tracks. I could not even hear them in my head over the whispers of my traveling companions. Their lives were so loud that I wondered how they could ever travel in silence, which frequently we did.

I was not in their care for long. There was a storm one night that threatened to bury us in our camp, so Naha decided that we would press on to the town they knew was near. We’d not stayed in a village or town since setting out from Auntie’s. In the town, we arrived at an inn. The innkeeper told Naha that the rooms were full, on account of the festival of fire. He said that we were welcome to stay in the common room, for reduced price. I think Naha was ready to brave the storm in search of another inn, and certainly we would have followed her, but she looked down at me, weary and shivering, and agreed to the innkeeper’s terms.

The common room was full with people in a similar situation to ours. Some of them looked as we did – weary travelers who just needed a place to stay for the night. Others looked fierce, as if this was their first time among civilized folk. Naha ushered us to a corner out of the way, and Abrisin settled me in a cocoon of blankets. She smiled down at me, stroking my hair, and told me that all would make sense when I made it to the Citadel. And then Shuri warned someone not to come any closer.

I think those memories I chose to lose, for there are only flashes of what happened. Warm blood on my face, Abrisin’s back as she stood to protect me, her weight as she fell on me. And then someone dragging me out of my nest, and a grinning face with a cracked front tooth.

The innkeeper did nothing as they drug me from the place. The other travelers did nothing. Perhaps they thought that since I did not scream or cry, I was in no danger. I was too afraid to scream or cry or even fight. Perhaps I thought it the way of things, to be passed from one keeper to the next. The big man who had me in his grasp was wild. His hair tangled with itself and the beads strung through it. A gold ring shone from his ear. His fingernails were torn and dirty.

Out in the storm he loaded me up on a horse and swung himself up after me. I’d never been on a horse. When he spurred the beast into movement, I clutched the arm around me, terrified of falling. We rode out into the night. The storm closed around us.

Beginning Worldbuilding in 3 Steps

A friend of mine recently said “I hate worldbuilding, that’s why I only write fanfiction these days.” I’ve heard the sentiment before, and it shocks me every time. Worldbuilding is my favorite part of writing. I love diving into something that isn’t even real yet and figuring it out, deciding how the people live, how things are done. There is a lot that goes into worldbuilding, and all at various stages of how much you want to accomplish, or how much you need for the story (trust me, it’s always more than you think, but if you have the basics, the rest will come while you write).

So what does one need, to start worldbuilding? I have A NUMBER OF TIPS for you in this post. I will say, before we get too far, that not every story needs tons of worldbuilding. If you are writing a fiction or fantasy that takes place in this world, you may have a specific place in mind so you don’t have to build one. But you may have to take more time developing the magic system or history of were-creatures. As with all writing tips, use them or don’t at your own discretion.

Tip #1: Make maps.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you may know about my obsession with maps. I draw maps for all of my stories (heck – I draw maps for my ideas and the ideas that haven’t even become ideas yet). This is one of the most important parts of worldbuilding, so you can get oriented and know what’s where. Think about it: have you ever read a book and come across a passage that jars you directionally? For instance, if I’m reading a book and it says they are going east, but then says the rising sun is behind them? Or even not having a discrepancy like that, and just assuming the layout of the world is one way, but in the author’s mind it is the complete opposite? Maps help with this. Maps will help you, the writer, avoid mistakes like the one illustrated above, and they will help readers have a clear vision of your world.

So make maps. Not just of countries and continents, but cities and buildings and important places in your story. You don’t have to include everything in the end, but if you know it, you’ll be able to write more clearly about it.

Tip #2: Think about religion.

Okay, I know a lot of people aren’t religious. I’m not very religious. But we can’t deny that religion plays a huge roll in our world. If you are creating a world from scratch, there are going to be creation myths, legends, and maybe even texts that someone decides is the key for how to live life. Some of these are going to evolve into religions. Because people want something to believe in, whether they are characters in a book, or real people. If you don’t want to have any religions in your book, there should be a good reason for their absence. Not one that you necessarily have to share, but it will inform your writing if it is there. And if there are religions, but you don’t want to make it a focus, maybe your main character is not religious. Or maybe it becomes a source of conflict between the hero and their travelling companion. One suggestion: don’t be preachy. It’s okay for one character to preach at another, but don’t preach to your reader. They won’t thank you for it.

Tip #3: Decide how the people look.

I’m not just talking physical features, though that’s important too. I’m talking about how they dress, how they move. The climate will play a part in this – people in colder regions are typically shorter and stouter while people in warmer areas are thinner and taller. (This is about heat conservation in northern regions, or keeping cool in warmer regions. It’s biological. If you have someone move from a warm region to a cool region, their kids are still going be taller, typically.) Not only height and girth, but in cold places people are more bundled, making for less graceful movements. Clothes are very important to worldbuilding – and not for description purposes (let’s face it, it sucks to spend paragraphs upon paragraphs trying to memorize details of someone’s attire). But if you think about why they wear certain things, you’ve hit a gold mine. If most people in a country wear leather armor, you can assume they are warlike. If they wear fine silks and flowing robes, maybe it is because they are excellent traders and have become very wealthy. Of course, in every culture and country there is wide variation depending on class, occupation, and even religious beliefs.

Okay. So these three steps are going to get you started. Of course there is so much more to think about, but if, like my friend, worldbuilding is not your forte, or is simply new to you, these steps will get you started in the write direction. (I know, written puns never do so well.)

What is your favorite worldbuilding tip?

Take care,

Emily

Serial Saturday – Onaemi 3

Midwinter Dream..Love the snow and how quite it is when the snow falls outside. Then on the inside,a warm fire in the fireplace, the smell of cooking and baking. AAAAAHHHHH YES!!!:

From Pinterest, originally pinned from midwinter-dream.tumbler.com

My convalescence was, I realized, a fabrication. It took time for this realization to strike, a whole other season of hot, but once it took hold I would not let it go. If I asked Auntie about it she told me I was ill, not like the sun-sick I’d been before, but ill with nature. This made no sense to me. I could feel nature pulsing outside of the cottage, feel it calling me, telling me stories. I could hear the birds whisper sweet nothings to each other, I could hear the ants warn each other of water spilling into their hills. They all mattered so much, and I wanted to find them, love them, cherish them.

When the crisp air came again, Auntie went to the villages. Before she’d taken me with her. Now she told me to stay home, rest, and work on my letters. For the first time, I defied her. When she left, so did I. I went into the hills and talked to the animals, the insects, the plants. I coaxed dying flowers back to blooming, I kept long grasses from giving in to their exhaustion. I had missed a whole season with them, I did not want to let them all go not.

Much of the season passed so, until I came home late, or perhaps Auntie came home early. She yelled and screamed, so angry that I’d disobeyed her. She took me back to the little stone room within a room. The man who’d been there was gone now and the stones told me he was dead. Auntie didn’t know what else to do and she put me in the little room and left me there.

I wanted out. Out of the room, out of my mind, out of my skin. The world was going on without me. I needed to sing the grasses to sleep, bid farewell to the migrating birds and soothe the butterflies as they died. But I was concealed in stone, and I could not feel them, could not connect to them. And so I clawed my flesh, I beat my fists against the stone, I screamed and cried and ripped at my hair. Auntie brought me food, but did not bring me company or peace. I begged her to let me out, but she said she couldn’t let me lose myself. She didn’t know I already was, trapped in stone like that.

And then, one day when the earth was sleeping, she came and was not alone. There were three of them, two women and a man. They smelled of sheep and horses, but with another scent as well, a tang of metal, a wisp of smoke. They were appalled. I was bloody and broken from my months in captivity. Auntie cried for me, and cried for herself. She’d failed me, she said, and the Whisper Man had died and she didn’t know what to do, or if I was dangerous. One of the women hugged her and told her she had done her best, but humans were not equipped to deal with Whispers. The man was disgusted with my Auntie. The other woman was focused on me. She brought me out, wiped blood from my face and hands, wrapped me in a blanket. Onaemi, she called me, my first true name.

I marveled at the sounds of sleeping earth, sounds that had been held away from me by the stone. I heard the snow softly sighing, and hibernating animals dreaming. I heard the mournful song of the dragon fill my mind and my heart ached for it.

Auntie cried herself out, and dumped coins into the man’s hand. They told her that I would be better off, that perhaps, if the Whisper Council approved, I might go to the Citadel. She said whatever they could do to make me well, she would welcome. Her eyes rimmed red, she watched them lead me away.

Serial Saturday – Onaemi 2

 

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Photo by me, at bird sanctuary.

If you haven’t read part one, check here first. Enjoy and have a lovely day!

Auntie was a good woman. From the moment I was her Niece, she stopped treating me as if I did not understand, she stopped talking in whispers over my head. The moment I was her Niece, she began to teach me. I was not a good learner. My mind was to full of sky and wind. If she tried to teach me inside, I would be daydreaming out the window and door. If she tried to teach me outside, I would fill her with questions about the clouds, grasses, and winged things.

She stopped trying to teach me, and let my learning take it’s own path. Maybe I could not read like the children in the villages, but I could identify every butterfly and moth, every bird and beetle. I could tell her which days would be rained, and which would be clear. Seasons passed. I saw the changing of colors, felt the air turn crisp and comforting. Then the death of the land, when the crisp air became sharp and the earth was covered in white rain. She taught me about snow, and about how the earth was sleeping, not dead. Then the air turned soft again, and the earth woke with buds and blossoms. From hot to cold to hot again.

The other children did not like me. Said I was strange and unfriendly. I did not intend to be either, but my interests diverged from theirs so wholly that there was no bridging the gap. So Auntie was my teacher, but in friendships I was lacking. So she brought me an injured bird, and told me to tend it.

From crisp to soft I tended that bird, all through the sleeping months. When blossoms came again I took the bird, clasped firmly but not unkind in my hands and marched into the hills. There I set the bird free. She flew, a beautiful thing, and I watched her until she faded from my sight. I stayed in the hills, listening to the hum of new bees, and stumbled on a broken egg.

It was the size of my torso then, chipped and empty and clean. So clean, I knew, that it was not a fresh egg. I tapped it and it did not shatter. The shell glistened and shone, though it was not a bright color like a robin’s egg. It was brown, mottled, and cast a sheen that dazzled me into almost forgetting it was their. I could not take the whole thing to show Auntie, so I broke a corner off and knotted it in the hem of my shirt.

Wind buffeted me and when I looked up, I saw a great bird – a dragon, I later learned – with scales and leathery wings. It called, trumpeted, howled. The sound washed through me and I knew it mourned, knew it’s baby had been snatched away, it’s mate killed. I reached for the dragon, telling it in silent words that I’d felt it’s pain. For a breath of time it turned it’s gaze on me, great black eyes boring into my soul. And then the dragon shot high into the sky and disappeared.

I ran all the way home, my mind abuzz with the voices of nature all around me. They broadcasted their lives, tiny though they were, and to me each of them became the most important creature in the world.

Auntie took one look at me and cursed, a habit she’d long since broken. I don’t know why she cursed. When I showed her the bit of egg, she took it from me gently, wrapped it up, and put it on top of the mantle. She told me that I needed to stay inside for a time, and when I asked her why, she told me I was ill. I didn’t feel ill, but I listened to her, because she had taught me so many things, this too she must know.

Serial Saturday – Onaemi 1

Welcome to Serial Saturdays, a place where a story comes to life. These are short stories that come together in a whole. Each story will be labeled with the name and the “episode” number. Enjoy, and hope to see you every Saturday!

.:

I was different from the other children. I didn’t know that the night was abandoned on a doorstep. That night is fogged in my mind. I must have been a tot, for the memories are there, though dim. The colors are muted by darkness, the air feels like nothing around me. If I close my eyes and focus, I can feel a hand slip away from mind and a breath of wind against my face. The door opened and a woman exclaimed over me. Her face was hidden so high above, beyond a plump middle bound with a sturdy apron.

She took me to the nearest village the next day. She set me on a blanket while she talked to other tall men and women. They walked away, shaking their heads and averting their eyes. Hot air surged around me. The sun stung my eyes and my skin turned bright red. Dust clogged my nose. I tugged on her skirt and she patted my head. When we went home I carried the blanket for her while she carried the basket she’d brought.

I was ill that second day. Sun-sick, she called it. An ailment that children usually only got from being in the sun for weeks on end. My skin was blistered and sore. She hauled water into the cottage for me, and soaked my sores while humming. She sighed often, and caressed my hair as if she knew me.

When we went out again, she made me wear a hat and stationed me in the shade of a market wall. It was a different village, but the people were the same. They shook their heads, they sighed, they patted the woman on her shoulder. Some of them glanced at me, as if I were a curiosity. I saw children playing, but had no desire to join them. They had no cares or worries.

The Woman took me to three more nearby villages in the next week. From snips of conversations I understood she was looking for someone. Another woman. A mother. Perhaps my mother, but if I’d had one she had left me. That I knew for certain. I heard the adults whisper about a killing in the hills, and she wondered who could do such a thing. Another long day, hot day ended when we arrived to her cottage.

Wind swept over me and I looked up at the touch. A shadow-shape was already high in the sky again. The woman ushered me into her home, a wary glance cast up. She muttered about dragons, about the dangers they brought. She fed me and put me to bed. I don’t remember that she ever spoke directly to me, but around and over and about me. I was content to follow her, to let her discuss me.

She took me somewhere new the next day. Not a village, but a quiet stone room, with a smaller room inside. It was dark, but there was a hole in the ceiling to let a shaft of light in. It smelled like dirt and smoke. A tall man met us, and took me into the inner room. He lit a fire and asked me to tell him what I saw in the flames. I looked, I saw. I don’t know that I spoke, but I told him and he said not to tell anyone else, but to keep the fire-sight my own and uncorrupted. He took me out to the woman, he told her to take me home, to keep me safe, and to bring me back if she needed to. Their whispers floated through and past me without my understanding.

The woman took me home. She had me stand in the middle of the room and took my measurements. Then she stooped down to look me in the eyes. She told me I was home, and she named me Niece.

***

Thanks for reading, fellow adventurers! I hope you enjoyed. Please let me know what you think, and please come back next time!

The picture was found via Pinterest, and the link to it’s site was broken. Thus if you are the owner or know who the owner is, please let me know!

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