200 Drabbles

[Eurydice]

((Thank you, Sarah, for (a) pointing me to the table of one-word prompts, and (b) suggesting the choose-a-word-by-dice-roll strategy. Will be posting these in chunks.))


164. Enthralled

There was a lot of blood in the human body, Loki pondered as, enthralled, he watched the wash of red pooling by the man in front of him. It was almost hypnotic.

Any idiot past school age knew that appearances were not reality. Any idiot with a bit of training could spout nonsense about the nature of what seems versus what is. But few, perhaps excepting professional healers, gave much thought to the most basic surface versus actuality that constituted a living body. People weren’t faces or hands or anything that made first impressions.

People were blood that poured out.

***

78. Mundane ((I’m cheating a little and going with the Babylon 5 definition of “mundane,” because it suits me))

Mr. Bhest was, by most people’s standards, not a very nice individual.

Whenever it happened, though, that someone he pursued tried to pull some variation on that tired old line-- how could he do this to a fellow Elan, a brother psionic?-- he anchored himself on what he knew was true: not all of Anaura’s children could hear the whispers of the mind, and those who could not listen so were in constant danger from those who could. It was these innocents he served in his work, however unpleasant and unscrupulous it seemed to an outside eye.

That was enough.

***

29. Intense

Dustyn hit the mud face-first, sliding a meter or two away from where the explosion had thrown him. Above his head, he could hear arcanely guided projectiles whistling back and forth, shrieks and groans thundering on both sides. Scrambling up, looking back to see where he’d stood a moment ago, he noted an irregular, circular indentation, venting steam and residual magic. The poor fool who had been standing next to him a moment ago hadn’t cleared the blast radius in time.

He exhaled a throaty laugh. It was moments like this one that let a man know he was alive.

***

32. Almost

This isn’t real, he tells himself; the elf maid beside him is a rescue job, the kin of an employer. What they’ve just shared (“Uncle doesn’t have to know about it,” she whispered) was an act of gratitude on her part, curiosity, willful rebellion, perhaps. It isn’t love, certainly.

But after an eternity of forcing himself to forget his past, toughen his defenses against any onslaught, she, tender and strange, leaves him feeling something close to happy. He’s disarmed, with her now, at peace. He knows this isn’t real, but for the next few minutes, he is content to pretend.

***

153. Dead

No escaping death had been her mantra, in hunting down the evildoers that she could. The last thing they would see coming out of the night was her dark armor. They would not escape death.

Conversely, many were the nights that, in the moments before dreaming, Athene would see her numberless dead arrayed before her, watching her insistently, constantly reminding her that she could not escape them. No escaping death.

They would stand by her, on such nights, pale and bloody and rotting, empty-eyed gazes locked on her as she slipped into sleep. It was an unsettling but necessary evil.

[Eurydice]

148. Fly

In dreams, he flew.

One might call this hardly noteworthy, when considering the numerous shapes he took on himself during the day—the obedient messenger hawk, the massive eagle mount, the fierce draconic protector—but it felt somehow different, this flight, unfettered and simple, flight as it was meant to be. He wished he could narrow it down more than that, define what made his flying in dreams different, and some nights, he imagined that he could figure it out, but upon waking, it always faded, swiftly as the stars before the rising sun.

He so looked forward to dreaming.

***

135. Numb

Dameon never feels the flames licking his face as he throws back his head, laughing. The floor in front of him, spotless, imperial white when he entered, is littered with ash and death, and it’s beautiful.

He’s no stranger to the joys of revenge; it’s sweeter than the taste of the finest liquor in his throat, finer than the touch of the fairest maid in his bed. He drinks it in.

The girl’s voice sounds, warning him that someone’s coming; he turns to retreat towards the tunnel, unfeeling to the flames on his skin but savoring the tang of revenge.

***

183. Tarnished

Nash stared out over the water, to where his sister returned to her ship, thinking on how he used to admire her so fervently, her skill and craft.

He wasn’t sure where, in the great scheme of things, that had changed, nor was he sure whether it was a change in his sister or his perception of her. Somewhere along the way, though, something about their relationship had shifted, tainted. He would miss her regardless, doing what he planned to do, and he wished he’d been able to say goodbye.

But it wouldn’t have made any difference. He knew that.

***

84. Romantic

Their love had never been the least bit graceful.

Everything about it had always been either reserved and restrained or unbound and awkward.

Kethaniya gazed at the knight kneeling by her feet, remembering the quiet, serious, close to broken man that she had seen and comforted when they first had met; passing the years side by side, they had fought and grown so much since then. Luckless, loving, sincere, he gazed back at her, self-conscious but content to stay there and wait, favored in the light of her angelic face.

“Yes,” she said, gentle laughter in her eyes, “I will.”

[Eurydice]

95. Soul

Mandos watches, Mandos sees,
The souls that waft on every breeze;
If girls and boys are bad, he’ll know
And send the buggers down below!

So goes the children’s rhyme. There is probably no great “down below,” nor any real guarantee for something much better than ceasing to exist. But Mandos is revered by all on Anaura, just the same, revered and feared greatly, for when Mandos ceases to regard you favorably, then your soul is forfeit, lost to light.

And then it’s off to down below, wherever that may be.

There is always some small wisdom in children’s rhymes.

***

159. Brave

Shirin is a little scardy cat; her sisters always say so as they run off with the hunting parties, roughhousing, tussling. Silly Shrin, scared of shadows.

They leave her to tend to the house, day by day, because she’s so puny. The Amalya girls are always tough and brave, and Shirin is the freak exception to the rule. She sweeps and cooks and cleans, her wispy blonde hair floating out from under the spotless white kerchief on her head.

It’s hours before the earth shadow comes, creeps up and takes hold, hot breath down her neck, but he always comes.

***

168. Change

Caius Leonatus, the order proclaimed him, an elite assassin in the service of Prince Regent Galadhon. And she had killed him.

At her feet, Wildeor circled and pawed. Need to go, he cast at her. Now.

Kiri nodded; the Regent’s men were mostly gone by now, but he’d redirect them to her if she didn’t get a move on soon. Sore, exhausted, she stood, absently rubbing at her cramped legs. Halfway across the estate, Kaisa and Elea still lay, but she had no time for grave digging.

That was the last she thought, before something changed, twisted in her bloodstream.

***

47. Pain

Vrael felt a sharp crack ring through his shoulder as the bitch dragon flung him into the rocky outcropping. His hot blood seeped out onto the rough stone behind him as he grunted in pain.

The dragon glowered after him triumphantly, before turning her attention back to the rest of the men, flailing at her soft underbelly.

Wheezing, catching his breath, Vrael spat and glared at the dragon, watching it sweep a clawed hand and send another group of men to crush against the far wall. That’s right, he thought, you go ahead and laugh. The fun’s just beginning, love.

***

28. Passion

The Duchess impatiently drummed her fingers on the bookcase. “You’re sure, to the letter?”

The scholar stood peering at the tablet, a look of faint obsession in his eyes. Ghent passionately worshiped knowledge, loved it, needed it. “Well, my Infernal’s a little rusty, but I’m fairly certain…”

“I don’t want ‘fairly certain,’ I want certain. Is this translation accurate?”

He squirmed uncomfortably. “Milady, there’s always some question of—”

Exasperated, she took him by the shoulders and slammed him against the shelf. “Is. This. Right?”

He let out a little yelp as pages crunched behind his weight. “Th-th-the books, milady!”

[Eurydice]

38. Red

She saw blood, cells, plasma, flowing in her vision, an endless field of crimson so dark that it seemed black. Unbearable pounding hammered in her head.

The rhythm was a familiar one, but it seemed wrong that she was hearing it, somehow, deeply wrong and confusing. Perhaps she should just ignore it, go back to sleep, but no, she liked figuring out crafty puzzles, and she would figure out this one, figure out why it seemed so wrong that she should hear a heartbeat.

Her own heartbeat, she realized with a chill. And it was wrong, because she was dead.

***

83. Comedy

William Nethain didn’t often giggle. It hardly seemed the appropriate form of expressing pleasure, for one in his position. Maniacal laughter was generally the norm. Still, he saw fit to indulge in the former, from time to time.

The dark wizard hanging by bleeding wrists, dangling over the pit of acid, screamed incoherently as William lowered him yet again. There were bubbles of green fluid, and when William withdrew the man, most of calves had been eaten into. His screams formed an anguished word: Why?

William flashed a grin. “Well. Wanton violence is just my way of saying, ‘I care.’”

***

23. Sick

There was a fresh bandage at his throat. It left him feeling slightly less ill.

The wound in Hound’s throat had started healing nicely, but somewhere along the line, the damned thing had gotten itself infected, and the medic had insisted that he stay put for some time.

It wasn’t just the lumpy cot that bothered him, nor the sounds of action outside accompanied by stories of what was happening; Hound just didn’t like staying still this long. Speed was his element; he longed to return to it.

Nothing to be done, though. He lay very still, and he waited.

***

184. Moon

On certain nights, before the old moon wanes completely, if you are in the right spot, you might spot a black cat with silvery eyes, staring up at the velvet sky.

This is Shruken, the night mother.

If you see her, this dark creature, this bleak shadow, hurry quickly away, without looking back. Shruken rarely curses the lowly mortals directly, but it is far more terrible to sit in her favor for a brief time and try to survive having it withdrawn. Shruken gives tokens to those who amuse her, but when she turns her back again, it is forever.

***

74. Learn

It was like a game, she thought as she ambled through the bazaar: a game, to see how much she could collect about these new people, how quickly. Liv was always fast to pick up on details about behavior; it had been a game then, too. Now, of course, the stakes of the game were slightly higher. She had to blend in here, if she wanted to survive a free woman.

She stopped by a stall where two ladies were arguing loudly. Pretending interest in an adjacent stall, she silently listened, raptly taking in every nuance of accent and intonation.

***

60. Nature

Angelica skipped and hopped along the snowy path, hampered only slightly by the thick white bearskin on her back, the blood on it just barely dried. She had not been outside in a very long time.

A little thrush fluttered across their path, landing on a skeletal tree, head cocked. Angelica smiled and pointed at it; it burst into amber flames, shooting up into the air.

“If you don’t mind,” the burning man said, frowning slightly, “we’re trying to keep a low profile here.”

Angelica nodded pleasantly and went back to skipping. It was very nice to be outside again.

[Eurydice]

138. Destruction

Insurmountable, ineffable rage roiled in him as he stared out at the bleak field of slaughter before him. He was a prince, to be king, one day. How could he look his people in the eye if he could not keep them safe, none, not even his own family?

In the finely tuned instrument of Kirdan’s mind, something snapped; he lifted his sword and charged. The odds mattered not; all that mattered was vision burned into his head, his subjects, his family, his sweet wife, unjustly slaughtered, and he would fight for all their sakes until cold death claimed him.

***

106. Coffee

Breakfast was a mushy lump of eggs and a hot mug of bitter drink. Elanor poked at it and scowled.

The guard outside her cell grinned. “Your father expressly said no silverware. For me own safety. You understand.”

She waited for him to turn his back and flicked a little mass of egg, smirking in satisfaction as it hit the back of his neck, eliciting a sharp curse. Sipping slowly from the mug—watery, she noted with a grimace—she wondered how the hell she was going to get out of this before her father had her hanged that night.

***

147. Land

Soft footfalls padded slowly upward into the burning sunlight. It was a monstrous sunny afternoon, and the scouts shielded their eyes, muttering sharply at the intrusion of the yellow light.

They were, perhaps, half a mile from the edge of civilization, and most of the local traffic was coming from the opposite side of town. This would suffice.

Their leader turned to the others, her eyes narrow. “Let’s get our charges up here so that we can be done with this business,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

Her compatriots nodded, and they descended once more into the sweet, blessed black.

[Eurydice]

118. Envy

The two men stepped into her office, and the Duchess inclined her head fractionally. “Ghent. Dustyn.”

That was all it took.

Ghent resisted the urge to stare at his friend, whom he’d only brought along because of a common destination after. But that look and those two words and the subdued spark of memories from both the man next to him and the lady at the desk were more than enough to clue him in. He didn’t even know what he would have done in his friend’s stead, but it was enough, that moment.

He looked down slightly and sat.

***

39. Yellow

Gavin strained every nerve he could muster, but it was no good; the enemy razed home in front of him, his friend holding him back as the flames did their dance of death. He should have been able to do more, do something.

It was William, William who said that they must wait, William who said that they couldn’t charge headlong into this kind of danger, but deep in his gut, Gavin felt a sick strain of guilt writhing, taunting him. He was supposed to serve, protect. He should have done something, anything. He felt like a fraud, a coward.

***

113. Glory

Hail to the dream lord, for his power is great.

His is the kingdom, not only of love, light, and truth, but also of hate, darkness, futile lies. He is the master of infinite possibility.

His slightest touch plants doubt and madness in the hearts of great ones, starts wars, cuts off paths to the future and allows new ones to be born. He is the guardian of cryptic prophecies, crippling insecurities, secrets unspoken even to our conscious selves. Glory and honor to him, for in the half of our lives we spend asleep, he is undisputed king.

All hail.

***

190. Eat

Lost in thought for most of her meal, Amirah becomes aware of the onlookers.

It’s no new sensation, but it truly puzzles her nonetheless. People gawk and stare, as if they had never seen a woman before. She lifts a forkful of rice to her lips, fractionally aware of the gazes following her slight, subtle movements, as if studying prey for signs of suddenly bolting. It’s truly ridiculous, but what can she do?

Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, Amirah stands, not in the least self conscious, and exits, the eyes of every man in the joint still on her.

***

36. Time

Hoards of the undead lay slaughtered, having perished on the just blade of Alexius. It was his duty, his calling, to rid the world of their filth.

Their kind have walked the earth with the aid of cocky necromancers, misbegotten spells, desperate to stop the threat of death, reverse the wheels of time and let the dead walk once more, as if mortal again.

But Alexius will be there to stop them, every weapon of his arsenal at the ready. The world, in its infinite wisdom, will know what it’s doing, taking and giving life. The time will be free.

[Eurydice]

35. Forgotten

Lokiagar knew how people saw him, generally—that half memorable figure that followed the Duchess, closer than her own shadow, the one who checked a room for traps, checked the food for poison. He was visible to others as long as it took him to do his job, and the moment after, he had disappeared. Another moment, and he might not have been there at all—just a flicker of movement, a sly grin, a thin, dark shadow.

He quite preferred it that way. It was much easier to be dangerous when the people around you had forgotten your existence.

***

112. Hour

Time had ceased to move as it should have done. Valas could only move forward, onward, away from her death at some indeterminate point in the past.

Thick pain filled him entirely.

There was an end point before him, and that was all he knew. There should have been logistics to figure out, something in his sharp mind that would cut through the grief—careful plans, some plan of attack that he might pursue.

He had none. It was only an hour since he’d left the town where she lay dead, and he had already forgotten what it looked like.

***

100. Wisdom

The scimitar’s blade, lashing out in a swift, sudden arc, was laughably predictable. The tall, gray man scarcely had to move at all to avoid it.

It really wasn’t the poor kid’s fault, of course, Hound thought, as he used the fellow’s excessive momentum to send him sprawling once more, pinned to the ground with the butt of his spear. He probably thought he was being clever. He thought he could trip up the old man who called himself a bounty hunter.

Hound had seen it all before, a hundred times. There were no new tricks, just clumsy new practitioners.

***

63. Games

Val’istar watched the trio of men through distant mirrors.

It seemed excessive to call them “pawns.”

Their interests had just happened to line up in a curious way with his own. That was all.

He would play them, of course. He had to ensure that they delivered.

He would manipulate, with the right mental prod, the right dream that would nudge them along the path he asked them to take.

Calling the weave to him, he began to craft a dream for the gaunt red-head, an assurance that he would heed the dream lord.

“Pawns” had such a negative connotation.

***

152. Alone

A woman of Belar’lyn’s birth and breeding had to know better than to let her feelings show too obviously. It was too potentially inconvenient; one learned to cope.

From a distance, she watched Valas fence with the sickly elf woman that he had brought across the Turin border. Elegant, graceful, dexterous rapiers came together and drew apart as the opponents tested each other, their precise steel like dancers’ limbs. Their minds were empty of all thought, save their blades and each other. Unbidden, unconscious to it, they moved with glorious synergy.

Belar’lyn looked away, her face perfect calm, seeing red.